25283	----	None 
11290	----	Note: Images of the original pages are available through the Florida Board of Education, Division of Colleges and Universities, PALMM Project, 2001. (Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1850-1869.) See http://purl.fcla.edu/fcla/dl/UF00001806.jpg or http://purl.fcla.edu/fcla/dl/UF00001806.pdf EMILIE THE PEACEMAKER. BY MRS. THOMAS GELDART. AUTHOR OF "TRUTH IS EVERYTHING;" "NURSERY GUIDE;" "STORIES OF ENGLAND AND HER FORTY COUNTIES;" AND "THOUGHTS FOR HOME." MDCCCLI. Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.... Matt v. 9. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION CHAPTER II. THE SOFT ANSWER CHAPTER III. THE LESSON AT THE COTTAGE CHAPTER IV. THE HOLIDAYS CHAPTER V. EDITH'S TRIALS CHAPTER VI. EMILIE'S TRIALS CHAPTER VII. BETTER THINGS CHAPTER VIII. GOOD FOR EVIL CHAPTER IX. FRED A PEACEMAKER CHAPTER X. EDITH'S VISIT TO JOE CHAPTER XI. JOE'S CHRISTMAS CHAPTER XII. THE CHRISTMAS TREE CHAPTER XIII. THE NEW HOME CHAPTER XIV. THE LAST CHAPTER FIRST. INTRODUCTION. One bright afternoon, or rather evening, in May, two girls, with basket in hand, were seen leaving the little seaport town in which they resided, for the professed purpose of primrose gathering, but in reality to enjoy the pure air of the first summer-like evening of a season, which had been unusually cold and backward. Their way lay through bowery lanes scented with sweet brier and hawthorn, and every now and then glorious were the views of the beautiful ocean, which lay calmly reposing and smiling beneath the setting sun. "How unlike that stormy, dark, and noisy sea of but a week ago!" so said the friends to each other, as they listened to its distant musical murmur, and heard the waves break gently on the shingly beach. Although we have called them friends, there was a considerable difference in their ages. That tall and pleasing, though plain, girl in black, was the governess of the younger. Her name was Emilie Schomberg. The little rosy, dark-eyed, and merry girl, her pupil, we shall call Edith Parker. She had scarcely numbered twelve Mays, and was at the age when primrosing and violeting have not lost their charms, and when spring is the most welcome, and the dearest of all the four seasons. Emilie Schomberg, as her name may lead you to infer, was a German. She spoke English, however, so well, that you would scarcely have supposed her to be a foreigner, and having resided in England for some years, had been accustomed to the frequent use of that language. Emilie Schomberg was the daily governess of little Edith. Little she was always called, for she was the youngest of the family, and at eleven years of age, if the truth must be told of her, was a good deal of a baby. Several schemes of education had been tried for this same little Edith,--schools and governesses and masters,--but Emilie Schomberg, who now came to her for a few hours every other day, had obtained greater influence over her than any former instructor; and in addition to the German, French, and music, which she undertook to teach, she instructed Edith in a few things not really within her province, but nevertheless of some importance; of these you shall judge. The search for primroses was not a silent search--Edith is the first speaker. "Yes, Emilie, but it was very provoking, after I had finished my lessons so nicely, and got done in time to walk out with you, to have mamma fancy I had a cold, when I had nothing of the kind. I almost wish some one would turn really ill, and then she would not fancy I was so, quite so often." "Oh, hush, Edith dear! you are talking nonsense, and you are saying what you cannot mean. I don't like to hear you so pert to that kind mamma of yours, whenever she thinks it right to contradict you." "Emilie, I cannot help saying, and you know yourself, though you call her kind, that mamma is cross, very cross sometimes. Yes, I know she is very fond of me and all that, but still she _is_ cross, and it is no use denying it. Oh, dear, I wish I was you. You never seem to have anything to put you out. I never see you look as if you had been crying or vexed, but I have so many many things to vex me at home." Emilie smiled. "As to my having nothing to put me out, you may be right, and you may be wrong, dear. There is never any excuse for being what you call _put out_, by which I understand cross and pettish, but I am rather amused, too, at your fixing on a daily governess, as a person the least likely in the world to have trials of temper and patience." "Yes, I dare say I vex you sometimes, but"--"Well, not to speak of you, dear, whom I love very much, though you are not perfect, I have other pupils, and do you suppose, that amongst so many as I have to teach at Miss Humphrey's school, for instance, there is not one self-willed, not one impertinent, not one idle, not one dull scholar? My dear, there never was a person, you may be sure of that, who had nothing to be tried, or, as you say, put out with. But not to talk of my troubles, and I have not many I will confess, except that great one, Edith, which, may you be many years before you know, (the loss of a father;) not to talk of that, what are your troubles? Your mamma is cross sometimes, that is to say, she does not always give you all you ask for, crosses you now and then, is that all?" "Oh no Emilie, there are Mary and Ellinor, they never seem to like me to be with them, they are so full of their own plans and secrets. Whenever I go into the room, there is such a hush and mystery. The fact is, they treat me like a baby. Oh, it is a great misfortune to be the youngest child! but of all my troubles, Fred is the greatest. John teases me sometimes, but he is nothing to Fred. Emilie, you don't know what that boy is; but you will see, when you come to stay with me in the holidays, and you shall say then if you think I have nothing to put me out." The very recollection of her wrongs appeared to irritate the little lady, and she put on a pout, which made her look anything but kind and amiable. The primroses which she had so much desired, were not quite to her mind, they were not nearly so fine as those that John and Fred had brought home. Now she was tired of the dusty road, and she would go home by the beach. So saying, Edith turned resolutely towards a stile, which led across some fields to the sea shore, and not all Emilie's entreaties could divert her from her purpose. "Edith, dear! we shall be late, very late! as it is we have been out too long, come back, pray do;" but Edith was resolute, and ran on. Emilie, who knew her pupil's self-will over a German lesson, although she had little experience of her temper in other matters, was beginning to despair of persuading her, and spoke yet more earnestly and firmly, though still kindly and gently, but in vain. Edith had jumped over the stile, and was on her way to the cliff, when her course was arrested by an old sailor, who was sitting on a bench near the gangway leading to the shore. He had heard the conversation between the governess and her headstrong pupil, as he smoked his pipe on this favourite seat, and playfully caught hold of the skirt of the young lady's frock, as she passed, to Edith's great indignation. "Now, Miss, I could not, no, that I could'nt, refuse any one who asked me so pretty as that lady did you. If she had been angry, and commanded you back, why bad begets bad, and tit for tat you know, and I should not so much have wondered: but, Miss, you should not vex her. No, don't be angry with an old man, I have seen so much of the evils of young folks taking their own way. Look here, young lady," said the weather beaten sailor, as he pointed to a piece of crape round his hat; "this comes of being fond of one's own way." Edith was arrested, and approached the stile, on the other side of which Emilie Schomberg still leant, listening to the fisherman's talk with her pupil. "You see, Miss," said he, "I have brought her round, she were a little contrary at first, but the squall is over, and she is going home your way. Oh, a capital good rule, that of your's, Miss!" "What," said Emilie smiling, "Why, that 'soft answer,' that kind way. I see a good deal of the ways of nurses with children, ah, and of governesses, and mothers, and fathers too, as I sit about on the sea shore, mending my nets. I ain't fit for much else now, you see, Miss, though I have seen a deal of service, and as I sit sometimes watching the little ones playing on the sand, and with the shingle, I keep my ears open, for I can't bear to see children grieved, and sometimes I put in a word to the nurse maids. Bless me! to see how some of 'em whip up the children in the midst of their play. Neither with your leave, nor by your leave; 'here, come along, you dirty, naughty boy, here's a wet frock! Come, this minute, you tiresome child, it's dinner time.' Now that ain't what I call fair play, Miss. I say you ought to speak civil, even to a child; and then, the crying, and the shaking, and the pulling up the gangway. Many and many is the little squaller I go and pacify, and carry as well as I can up the cliff: but I beg pardon, Miss, hope I don't offend. Only I was afraid, Miss there was a little awkward, and would give you trouble." "Indeed," said Emilie, "I am much obliged to you; where do you live?" "I live," said the old man, "I may say, a great part of my life, under the sky, in summer time, but I lodge with my son, and he lives between this and Brooke. In winter time, since the rheumatics has got hold of me, I am drawn to the fire side, but my son's wife, she don't take after him, bless him. She's a bit of a spirit, and when she talks more than I like, why I wish myself at sea again, for an angry woman's tongue is worse than a storm at sea, any day; if it was'nt for the children, bless 'em, I should not live with 'em, but I am very partial to them." "Well, we must say good night, now," said Emilie, "or we shall be late home; I dare say we shall see you on the shore some day; good night." "Good night to you, ma'am; good night, young lady; be friends, won't you?" Edith's hand was given, but it was not pleasant to be conquered, and she was a little sullen on the way home. They parted at the door of Edith's house. Edith went in, to join a cheerful family in a comfortable and commodious room; Emilie, to a scantily furnished, and shabbily genteel apartment, let to her and a maiden aunt by a straw bonnet maker in the town. We will peep at her supper table, and see if Miss Edith were quite right in supposing that Emilie Schomberg had nothing to put her out. CHAPTER SECOND. THE SOFT ANSWER. An old lady was seated by a little ricketty round table, knitting; knitting very fast. Surely she did not always knit so fast, Germans are great knitters it is true, but the needles made quite a noise--click, click, click--against one another. The table was covered with a snow-white cloth. By her side was a loaf called by bakers and housekeepers, crusty; the term might apply either to the loaf or the old lady's temper. A little piece of cheese stood on a clean plate, and a crab on another, a little pat of butter on a third, and this, with a jug of water, formed the preparation for the evening meal of the aunt and niece. Emilie went up to her aunt, gaily, with her bunch of primroses in her hand, and addressing her in the German language, begged her pardon for keeping supper waiting. The old lady knitted faster than ever, dropped a stitch, picked it up, looked out of the window, and cleared up, not her temper, but her throat; click, click went the needles, and Emilie looked concerned. "Aunt, dear," she said, "shall we sit down to supper?" "My appetite is gone, Emilie, I thank you." "I am really sorry, aunt, but you know you are so kind, you wish me to take plenty of exercise, and I was detained to-night. Miss Parker and I stayed chattering to an old sailor. It was very thoughtless, pray excuse me. But now aunt, dear, see this fine crab, you like crabs; old Peter Varley sent it to you, the old man you knitted the guernsey for in the winter." No,--old Miss Schomberg was not to be brought round. Crabs were very heavy things at night, very indigestible things, she wondered at Emilie thinking she could eat them, so subject as she was to spasms, too. Indeed she could eat no supper. She was very dull and not well, so Emilie sat down to her solitary meal. She did not go on worrying her aunt to eat, but she watched for a suitable opening, for the first indication indeed, of the clearing up for which she hoped, and though it must be confessed some such thoughts as "how cross and unreasonable aunt is," did pass through her mind, she gave them no utterance. Emilie's mind was under good discipline, she had learned to forbear in love, and for the exercise of this virtue, she had abundant opportunity. Poor Emilie! she had not always been a governess, subject to the trials of tuition; she had not always lived in a little lodging without the comforts and joys of family and social intercourse. Her father had failed in business, in Frankfort, and when Emilie was about ten years of age, he had come over to England, and had gained his living there by teaching his native language. He had been dead about a twelve-month, and Emilie, at the age of twenty-one, found herself alone in the world, in England at least, with the exception of the old German aunt, to whom I have introduced you, and who had come over with her brother, from love to him and his motherless child. She had a very small independence, and when left an orphan, the kind old aunt, for kind she was, in spite of some little infirmities of temper, persisted in sharing with her her board and lodging, till Emilie, who was too active and right minded to desire to depend on her for support, sought employment as a teacher. The seaport town of L----, in the south of England, whither Emilie and her father had gone in the vain hope of restoring his broken health, offered many advantages to our young German mistress. She had had a good solid education. Her father, who was a scholar, had taught her, and had taught her well, so that besides her own language, she was able to teach Latin and French, and to instruct, as the advertisements say, "in the usual branches of English education." She was musical, had a fine ear and correct taste, and accordingly met with pupils without much difficulty. In the summer months especially she was fully employed. Families who came for relaxation were, nevertheless, glad to have their daughters taught for a few hours in the week; and you may suppose that Emilie Schomberg did not lead an idle life. For remuneration she fared, as alas teachers do fare, but ill. The sum which many a gentleman freely gives to his butler or valet, is thought exorbitant, nay, is rarely given to a governess, and Emilie, as a daily governess, was but poorly paid. The expenses of her father's long illness and funeral were heavy, and she was only just out of debt; therefore, with the honesty and independence of spirit that marked her, she lived carefully and frugally at the little rooms of Miss Webster, the straw bonnet maker, in High Street. From what I have told you already, you will easily perceive that Emilie was accustomed to command her temper; she had been trained to do this early in life. Her father, who foresaw for his child a life dependent on her character and exertion, a life of labour in teaching and governing others, taught Emilie to govern herself. Never was an only child less spoiled than she; but she was ruled in love. She knew but one law, that of kindness, and it made her a good subject. Many were the sensible lessons that the good man gave her, as leaning on her strong arm he used to pace up and down the grassy slopes which bordered the sea shore. "Look, Emilie," he would say, "look at that governess marshalling her scholars out. Do they look happy? think you that they obey that stern mistress out of _love_? Listen, she calls to them to keep their ranks and not to talk so loud. What unhappy faces among them! Emilie, my child, you may keep school some day; oh, take care and gain the love of the young ones, I don't believe there is any other successful government, so I have found it." "With me, ah yes, papa!" "With you, my child, and with all my scholars; I had little experience as a teacher, when first it pleased God to make me dependent on my own exertions as such, but I found out the secret. Gain your pupils' love, Emilie, and a silken thread will draw them; without that love, cords will not drag, scourges will scarcely drive them." Emilie found this advice of her father's rather hard to follow now and then. Her first essay in teaching was in Mrs. Parker's family. Edith was to "be finished." And now poor Emilie found that there was more to teach Edith than German and French, and that there was more difficulty in teaching her to keep her temper than her voice in tune. Edith was affectionate, but self-willed and irritable. Her mamma's treatment had not tended to improve her in this respect. Mrs. Parker had bad health, and said she had bad spirits. She was a kind, generous, and affectionate woman, but was always in trouble. In trouble with her chimneys because they smoked; in trouble with her maids who did not obey her; and worst of all in trouble with herself; for she had good sense and good principle, but she had let her temper go too long undisciplined, and it was apt to break forth sometimes against those she loved, and would cause her many bitter tears and self-upbraidings. She took an interest in the poor German master, for she was a benevolent woman, and cheered his dying bed by promising to assist his daughter. She even offered to take her into her family; but this could not be thought of. Good aunt Agnes had left her country for the sake of Emilie--Emilie would not desert her aunt now. The scene at the supper table was not an uncommon one, but Emilie was frequently more successful in winning aunt Agnes to a smile than on this occasion. "Perhaps I tried too much; perhaps I did not try enough, perhaps I tried in the wrong way," thought Emilie, as she received her aunt's cold kiss, and took up her bed room candle to retire for the night. When aunt Agnes said good night, it was so very distantly, so very unkindly, that an angry demand for explanation almost rose to Emilie's lips, and though she did not utter it, she said her good night coldly and stiffly too, and thus they parted. But when Emilie opened the Bible that night, her eye rested on the words, "Be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you," then Emilie could not rest. She did not forgive her aunt; she felt that she did not; but Emilie was _human_, and human nature is proud. "I did nothing to offend her," reasoned pride, "it was only because I was out a little late, and I said I was sorry and I tried to bring her round. Ah well, it will all be right to-morrow; it is no use to think of it now," and she prepared to kneel down to pray. Just then her eye rested on her father's likeness; she remembered how he used to say, when she was a child and lisped her little prayer at his knee, "Emilie, have you any unkind thoughts to any one? Do you feel at peace with all? for God says, 'When thou bringest thy gift before the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, _first_ be reconciled to thy brother, and _then_ go and offer thy gift.'" On one or two occasions had Emilie arisen, her tender conscience thus appealed to, and thrown her arms round her nurse's or her aunt's neck, to beg their forgiveness for some little offence committed by her and forgotten perhaps by them, and would then kneel down and offer up her evening prayer. So Emilie hushed pride's voice, and opening her door, crossed the little passage to her aunt's sleeping room, and putting her arm round her neck fondly said, "Dear aunt!" It was enough, the good old lady hugged her lovingly. "Ah, Emilie dear, I am a cross old woman, and thou art a dear good child. Bless thee!" In half an hour after the inmates of the little lodging in High Street were sound asleep, at peace with one another, and at peace with God. CHAPTER THIRD. THE LESSON AT THE COTTAGE. Edith was very busily searching for corallines and sea weeds, a few days after the evening walk recorded in our first chapter. She was alone, for her two sisters had appeared more than usually confidential and unwilling for her company, and her dear teacher was engaged that afternoon at the Young Ladies' Seminary, so she tried to make herself happy in her solitary ramble. A boat came in at this moment, and the pleasant shout of the boatmen's voices, and the grating of the little craft as it landed on the pebbly shore, attracted the young lady's notice, and she stood for a few moments to watch the proceedings. Amongst those on shore, who had come to lend a hand in pulling the boat in, Edith thought that she recognised a face, and on a little closer inspection she saw it was old Joe Murray, who had stopped her course to the beach a few evenings before. She did not wish to encounter Joe, so slipping behind the blue jacketed crowd, she walked quickly forwards, but Joe followed her. "Young lady," he said, "if you are looking for corallines, you can't do better than ask your papa some fine afternoon, to drive you as far as Sheldon, and you'll find a sight of fine weeds there, as I know, for my boy, my poor boy I lost, I mean," said he, again touching the rusty crape on his hat, "my boy was very curious in those things, and had quite a museum of 'em at home." How could Edith stand against such an attack? It was plain that the old man wanted to make peace with her, and, cheerfully thanking him, she was moving on, but the old boots grinding the shingle, were again heard behind her, and turning round, she saw Joe at her heels. "Miss, I don't know as I ought to have stopped you that night. I am a poor old fisherman, and you are a young lady, but I meant no harm, and for the moment only did it in a joke." "Oh, dear," said Edith, "don't think any more about it, I was very cross that night, and you were quite right, I should have got Miss Schomberg into sad trouble if I had gone that way. As it was, I was out too late. Have you lost a son lately, said Edith, I heard you say you had just now? Was he drowned?" inquired the child, kindly looking up into Joe's face. "Yes Miss, he was drowned," said Joe, "he came by his death very sadly. Will you please, Miss, to come home with me, and I will shew you his curiosities, and if you please to take a fancy to any, I'm sure you are very welcome. I don't know any good it does me to turn 'em over, and look at them as I do times and often, but somehow when we lose them we love, we hoard up all they loved. He had a little dog, poor Bob had, a little yapping thing, and I never took to the animal, 'twas always getting into mischief, and gnawing the nets, and stealing my fish, and I used often to say, 'Bob, my boy, I love you but not your dog. No, that saying won't hold good now. I can't love that dog of yours. Sell it, boy--give it away--get rid of it some how.' All in good part, you know, Miss, for I never had any words with him about it. And now Bob is gone--do you know, Miss, I love that dumb thing with the sort of love I should love his child, if he had left me one. If any one huffs Rover, (I ain't a very huffish man,) but I can tell you I shew them I don't like it, I let the creature lay at my feet at night, and I feed him myself and fondle him for the sake of him who loved him so. And you may depend Miss, the dog knows his young master is gone, and the way he is gone too, for I could not bring him on the shore for a long while, but he would set up such a howl as would rend your heart to hear. And that made me love the poor thing I can tell you." "But how did it happen?" softly asked Edith. "Why Miss it ain't at all an extraordinary way in which he met his death. It was in this way. He was very fond of me, poor boy, but he liked his way better than my way too often. And may be I humoured him a little too much. He was my Benjamin, you must know Miss, for his mother died soon after he was born. Sure enough I made an idol of the lad, and we read somewhere in the Bible, Miss, that 'the idols he will utterly abolish.' But I don't like looking at the sorrow that way neither. I would rather think that 'whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.' Well, Miss, like father like son. My boy loved the sea, as was natural he should, but he was too venturesome; I used often to say, 'Bob, the oldest sailor living can't rule the waves and winds, and if you are such a mad cap as to go out sailing in such equally weather on this coast, as sure as you are alive you will repent it.' He and some young chaps hereabouts, got such a wonderful notion of sailing, and though I have sailed many and many a mile, in large vessels and small, I always hold to it that it is ticklish work for the young and giddy. Why sometimes you are on the sea, Miss, ah, as calm as it is now--all in peace and safety--a squall comes, and before you know what you are about you are capsized. I had told him this, and he knew it, Miss, but he got a good many idle acquaintances, as I told you, and they tempted him often to do bold reckless things such as boys call brave." "It was one morning at the end of September, Bob says to me, 'Father, we are going to keep my birthday; I am sixteen to-day,' and so he was, bless him, sixteen the very day he died. 'We are going to keep my birthday,' says he, 'Newton, and Somers, and Franklin, and I, we are all going to Witton,' that is the next town, Miss, as you may know, 'we are going to have a sail there, and dine at grandmother's, and home again at night, eh Father.' 'Bob,' says I, 'I can't give my consent; that ticklish sailing boat of young Woods' requires wiser heads and steadier hands than your's to manage. You know my opinion of sailing, and you won't grieve me, I hope, by going.' I might have told him, but I did not, that I did not like the lads he was going with, but I knew that would only make him angry, and do no good just as his heart was set upon a frolic with them, so I said nought of that, but I tried to win him, (that's my way with the young ones,) though I failed this time; go he would, and he would have gone, let me have been as angry as you please. But I have this comfort, that no sharp words passed my lips that day, and no bitter ones his. I saw he was set on the frolic, and I hoped no harm would come of it. How I watched the sky that day, Miss, no mortal knows; how I started when I saw a sea gull skim across the waves! how I listened for the least sound of a squall! Snap was just as fidgetty seemingly, and we kept stealing down to the beach, long before it was likely they should be back. As I stood watching there in the evening, where I knew they would land, I saw young Newton's mother; she pulled me by my sleeve, anxious like, and said, 'What do you think of the weather Joe?' 'Why, Missis,' said I, 'there is an ugly look about the sky, but I don't wish to frighten you; please God they'll soon be home, for Bob promised to be home early.'" "Well, Miss, there we stood, the waves washing our feet, till it grew dark, and then I could stand it no longer. I said to the poor mother, 'keep a good heart,' but I had little hope myself, God knows, and off I made for Witton. Well, they had not been there, I found the grandmother had seen nothing of them. They were picked up a day or so after, all four of them washed up by the morning tide; their boat had drifted no one knows where, and no one knows how it happened; but I suppose they were driven out by the fresh breeze that sprung up, and not knowing how to manage the sails, they were capsized." "There they all lay. Miss, in the churchyard. It was a solemn sight, I can tell you, to see those four coffins, side by side, in the church. They were all strong hearty lads, and all under seventeen. I go and sit on his grave sometimes, and spell over all I said, and all he said that day; and glad enough I am, that I can remember neither cross word nor cross look. Ah, my lady, I should remember it if it had been so. We think we are good fathers and good friends to them we love while they are alive, but as soon as we lose 'em, all the kindness we ever did them seems little enough, while all the bad feelings we had, and sharp words we spoke, come up to condemn us." By this time they had reached the fisherman's cottage; it was prettily situated, as houses on the south coast often are, under the shadow of a fine over-hanging cliff. Masses of rock, clad with emerald green, were scattered here and there, and the thriving plants in the little garden, gave evidence of the mildness of the air in those parts, though close upon the sea. The cottage was very low, but white and cheerful looking outside, and as clean and trim within as a notable and stirring woman could make it. Joe's daughter-in-law, the same described by Joe the other evening as the woman of a high spirit, was to-day absent on an errand to the town; and Edith, who loved children, stopped at the threshold to notice two or three little curly-headed prattlers, who were playing together at grotto making, an amusement which cost grandfather many a half-penny. Some dispute seemed to have arisen at the moment of their entrance between the young builders, for a good-humoured, plain-looking girl, of twelve, the nursemaid of the baby, and the care-taker of four other little ones, was trying to pacify the aggrieved. In vain--little Susy was in a great passion, and with her tiny foot kicked over the grotto, the result of several hours' labour; first, in searching on the shore for shells and pebbles, and secondly, in its erection. Then arose such a shriek and tumult amongst the children, as those only can conceive who know what a noise disappointed little creatures, from three to seven years old, can make. They all set upon Susy, "naughty, mischievous, tiresome," were among the words. The quiet looking girl, who had been trying to settle the dispute, now interfered again. She led Susy away gently, but firmly, into another part of the garden, where spying her grandfather, she took the unwilling and ashamed little girl for him to deal with, and ran hack to the crying children and ruined grotto. "Oh, hush! dears, pray hush," said Sarah, beginning to pick up the shells, "we will soon build it up again." This they all declared impossible, and cried afresh, but Sarah persevered, and quietly went on piling up the shells, till at last one little mourner took up her coarse pinafore and wiping her eyes, said, "Sarah does it very nicely." The grotto rose beautifully, and at last they were all quiet and happy again; all but poor Susy, who, seeing herself excluded, kept up a terrible whine. "I wonder if Susan is sorry," said Sarah. "Not she, not she, don't ask her here again," said they all. "Why not," said the grandfather, who having walked about with Susy awhile, and talked gravely to her, appeared to have brought about a change in her temper? "Why because she will knock it down again the first time any thing puts her out." "Won't you try her?" said Sarah, pleadingly; but they still said "No! no!" "Don't you mind the day, Dick," said Sarah, "when you pulled grandfather's new net all into the mud, and tangled his twine, and spoilt him a whole day's work?" "Yes," said Dick. "Ah, and don't you mind, too, when he went out in the boat next day, and you asked to go with him, just as if nothing had happened, and you had done no harm, he said, 'ah, Dick, if I were to mind what _revenge_ says, I would not take you with me; you have injured me very much, but I'll mind what _love_ says, and that tells me to return good for evil?'" "Yes," says Dick. "Do you think you could have hurt any thing of grandfather's after that?" "No," said Dick, "but I did not do it in a rage, as Susy did." "You did mischief, though," said Sarah; "but I want Susy to give over going into these rages. I want to cure her. Beating her does no good, mother says that herself; wont you all try and help to cure Susy?" These children were not angels. I am writing of children as they are you know, and though they yielded, it was rather sullenly, and little Susan was given to understand that she was not a very welcome addition. Susy kept very close to Sarah, sobbing and heaving, till the children seeing her subdued, made more room for her, and her smile returned. Now the law of kindness prevailed, and when the time came to run down to the shore for some more shells, to replace those that had been broken, Susy, at Sarah's hint, ran first and fastest, and brought her little pinafore fullest of all. Edith watched all this, and her good old mentor was willing that she should. "I suppose you have taught them this way of settling disputes," said Edith to Joe. "I, oh no, Miss, I can't take all the credit. Sarah, there, she has taken to me very much since my Bob died, and she said to me the day of his funeral, when her heart was soft and tender-like, 'Grandfather, tell me what I can do to comfort you.' 'Oh, child,' says I, 'my grief is too deep for you to touch, but you are a kind girl, I'll tell you what to do to-night. Leave me alone, and, oh, try and make the children quiet, for my head aches as bad as my heart. Sally.'" "Then Sarah tried that day and the next, but found it hard work; the boys quarrelled and fought, and the little once scratched and cried, and their mother came and beat one or two of the worst, but all did no good. There was no peace till bed time; still I encouraged her and told her, you know, about 'a soft answer turning away wrath,' and since that time, she has less often given railing for railing; and has not huffed and worried them, as elder sisters are apt to do. She is a good girl, is Sarah, but here comes the Missis home from market." "The Missis" certainly did not look very sweet, and her heavy load had heated her. She did not welcome Edith pleasantly, which, the old man observing, led her away to a little room he occupied at the back of the cottage, and showed her the corallines. Edith saw plainly that though the poor father offered her any of them she liked to take, he suffered in parting with them, so calling Dick and Mary, she asked if they would hunt for some for her, like those in grandfather's stores. They consented joyfully, and Edith promising often to come and see the old man, ran down the cliff briskly, and hastened home. She thought a good deal as she walked, and asked herself if she should have had the patience and the gentleness of that poor cottage girl; if she should have soothed Susy, and comforted Dick and Mary; if she should have troubled herself to kneel down in the broiling sun and build up a few trumpery shells into a grotto, to be upset and destroyed presently. She came to the conclusion that for good, pleasant, prettily behaved children, she might have done so, but for shrieking, passionate, quarrelsome little things as they appeared to her then, she certainly should not. She felt humbled at the contrast between herself and Sarah; and when she arrived at home, for the first time, perhaps, in her life, she patiently bore her mamma's reproaches for being so late, and for the impropriety of walking away from her sisters, no one knew where. She was not yet quite skilled enough in the art of peace, to give the "soft answer;" but her silence and quietness turned away Mrs. Parker's wrath, and after dinner, Edith prepared herself for the visit of her dear Emilie. CHAPTER FOURTH. THE HOLIDAYS. Mrs. Parker and her two elder daughters were going to pay a visit to town this summer, and as Edith was not thought old enough to accompany them, Mrs. Parker resolved to ask Emilie to take charge of her. The only difficulty was how to dispose of aunt Agnes; aunt Agnes wishing them to believe that she did not mind being alone, but all the while minding it very much. At last it occurred to Emilie that perhaps Mrs. Crosse, at the farm in Edenthorpe, a few miles off, would, if she knew of the difficulty, ask aunt Agnes there for a few weeks. Mrs. Crosse and aunt Agnes got on so wonderfully well together, and as she had often been invited, the only thing now was to get her in the mind to go. This was effected in due time, and Mr. Crosse came up to the lodgings for her and her little box, in his horse and gig, on the very evening that Emilie was to go the Parkers', to be installed as housekeeper and governess in the lady's absence. Edith had come to see the dear old aunt off; and now re-entered the lodgings to help Emilie to collect her things, and to settle with Miss Webster for the lodgings, before her departure. Miss Webster had met with a tenant for six weeks, and was in very good spirits, and very willing to take care of the Schombergs' goods, which, to tell the truth, were not likely to oppress her either in number or value, with the exception of one cherished article, one relic of former days--a good semi-grand piano, which M. Schomberg had purchased for his daughter, about a year before his death. Miss Webster looked very much confused as Emilie bade her good-bye, and said--"Miss Schomberg, you have not, I see, left your piano unlocked." "No," said Emilie, "certainly I have not; I did not suppose----" "Why," replied Miss Webster, "the lodgers, seeing a piano, will be sure to ask for the key, Miss, and to be sure you wo'nt object." Emilie hesitated. Did she remember the time when Miss Webster, indignant at Emilie for being a fortnight behind-hand in her weekly rent, refused to lend a sofa for her dying father, without extra pay? Did she recall the ill-made slops, the wretched attendance to which this selfish woman treated them during the pressure of poverty and distress? Emilie was human, and she remembered all. She knew, moreover, that Miss Webster would make a gain of her instrument, and that it might suffer from six weeks' rough use. She stood twisting some straw plait that lay on the counter, in her fingers, and then coolly saying she would consider of it, walked out of the shop with Edith, her bosom swelling with conflicting feelings. The slight had been to her _father_--to her dear dead father--she could not love Miss Webster, nor respect her--she could not oblige her. She felt so now, however, and despised the meanness of the lodging-house keeper, in making the request. Edith was by her side in good spirits, though she was to miss the London journey. Not every young lady would be so content to remain all the holiday-time with the governess; but Edith loved her governess. Happy governess, to be loved by her pupil! Mrs. Parker received Emilie very kindly: she was satisfied that her dear child would be happy in her absence, and she knew enough of Emilie, she said, to believe that she would see that Mr. Parker had his meals regularly and nicely served, and that the servants did not rob or run away, or the boys put their dirty feet on the sofa, or bright fender tops, or lead Edith into mischief; in short, the things that Emilie was to see to were so numerous, that it would have required more eyes than she possessed, and far more vigilance and experience than she lay claim to, to fulfill all Mrs. Parker's desires. Amidst all the talking and novelty of her new situation, however, Emilie was absent and thoughtful; she was dispirited, and yet she was not subject to low spirits either. There was a cause. She had a tender conscience--a conscience with which she was in the habit of conversing, and conscience kept whispering to her the words--"What things soever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye also to them." In vain she tried to silence this monitor, and at last she asked to withdraw for a few minutes, and scribbled a hasty note to Miss Webster; the first she wrote was as follows:-- "Dear Miss W.--I enclose the key of the pianoforte. I should have acceded to your request, only I remembered standing on that very spot, by that very counter, a year ago, petitioning hard for the loan of a sofa for my dying father, who, in his feverish and restless state, longed to leave the bed for awhile. I remembered that, and I could not feel as if I could oblige you; but I have thought better of it, and beg you will use the piano." "Yours truly, "EMILIE SCHOMBERG." She read the note before folding it, however; and somehow it did not satisfy her. She crumpled it up, took a turn or two in the room, and then wrote the following:-- "Dear Miss Webster--I am sorry that I for a moment hesitated to lend you my piano. It was selfish, and I hope you will excuse the incivility. I enclose the key, and as your lodgers do not come in until to-morrow, I hope the delay will not have inconvenienced you. "Believe me, yours truly, "EMILIE SCHOMBERG." Having sealed her little note, she asked Mrs. Parker's permission to send it into High Street, and Emilie Schomberg was herself again. You will see, by-and-bye, how Emilie returned Miss Webster's selfishness in a matter yet more important than the loan of the piano. It would have been meeting evil with evil had she retaliated the mean conduct of her landlady. She would undoubtedly have done so, had she yielded to the impulses of her nature; but "how then could I have prayed," said Emilie, "forgive me my trespasses as I forgive them that trespass against me." The travellers set off early in the morning, and now began the holiday of both governess and pupil. They loved one another so well that the prospect of six weeks' close companionship was irksome to neither; but Emilie had not a holiday of it altogether. Miss Edith was exacting and petulant at times, even with those she loved, and she loved none better than Emilie. Fred, the tormenting brother of whom Edith had spoken in her list of troubles in our first chapter, was undeniably troublesome; and the three maid-servants set themselves from the very first to resist the governess's temporary authority; so we are wrong in calling these Emilie's holidays. She had not, indeed, undertaken the charge very willingly; but Mrs. Parker had befriended her in extremity, and she loved Edith dearly, notwithstanding much in her that was not loveable, so she armed herself for the conflict, and cheerfully and humbly commenced her new duties. Fred and his elder brother John were at home for the holidays; they were high-spirited lads of fourteen and fifteen years of age, and were particularly fond of teasing both their elder sisters and little Edith; a taste, by-the-bye, by no means peculiar to the Master Parkers, but one which we cannot admire, nevertheless. The two boys, with Emilie and Edith, were on their way to pay aunt Agnes a little visit, having received from Mrs. Crosse, at the farm, a request for the honour of the young lady's company as well as that of her brothers. John and Frederick were to walk, and Emily and Edith were to go in the little pony gig. As they were leaving the town, Edith caught sight of John coming out of a shop which was a favourite resort of most of the young people and visitors of the town of L----. It was professedly a stationer's and bookseller's, and was kept by Mrs. Cox, a widow woman, who sold balls, fishing tackle, books, boats, miniature spades, barrows, garden tools, patent medicines, &c., and who had lately increased her importance, in the eyes of the young gentlemen, by the announcement that various pyrotechnical wonders were to be obtained at her shop. There are few boys who have not at some time of their boyhood had a mania for pyrotechnics--in plain English, _fire-works_--and there are few parents, and parents' neighbours, who can say that they relish the smell of gunpowder on their premises. Mr. Parker had a particular aversion to amusements of the kind. He was an enemy to fishing, to cricketing, to boating; he was a very quiet, gentlemanly, dignified sort of man, and, although a kind father, had perhaps set up rather too high a standard of quietness and order and sedateness for his children. It is a curious fact, but one which it would be rather difficult to disprove, that children not unfrequently are the very opposites of their parents, in qualities such as I have described. Possibly they may not have been inculcated quite in the right manner; but that is not our business here. Edith guessed what her brothers were after, and told her suspicious to Emilie; but not until they were within sight of the farm-house. John and Fred, who had been a short cut across the fields, were in high glee awaiting their arrival, and assisted Edith and her friend to alight more politely than usual. Aunt Agnes was in ecstasies of delight to see her dear Emilie, and she caressed Edith most lovingly also. Edith liked the old lady, who had a fund of fairy tales, such as the German language is rich in. Often would Edith go and sit by the old lady as she knitted, and listen to the story of the "Flying Trunk," or the "Two Swans," with untiring interest; and old ladies of a garrulous turn like good listeners. So aunt Agnes called Edith a charming girl, and Edith, who had seldom seen aunt Agnes otherwise than conversable and pleasant, thought her a very nice old lady. Mrs. Crosse was extremely polite; and in the bustle of greeting, and putting up the pony, and aunt Agnes' questions, the fire-work affair was almost forgotten. When they all met at tea, the farmer, who had almost as great a horror of gunpowder as Mr. Parker--and in the vicinity of barns and stacks, with greater reason--declared he smelt a smell which he never tolerated in his house, and asked his boys if they had any about them. They denied it, but it was evident they knew something of the matter; and now Emilie's concern was very great. After tea she took John by the arm, and looking into his face, said, "I am going to be very intrusive, Sir; I am not your governess, and I have no right to control you, but I wish to be your friend, and may I advise you? Don't take those fire-works out on Mr. Crosse's premises, you have no idea the mischief you might do. You could not have brought them to a worse place. Be persuaded, pray do, to give it up." John, thus appealed to, laughed heartily at Miss Schomberg's fears, said something not very complimentary about Miss S. speaking one word for the farmer's stack, and two for her own nerves, and made his escape to join his brother, and the two young farmers, who were delighted at the prospect of a frolic. What was to be done? The lads were gone out, and doubtless would send up their rockets and let off their squibs somewhere on the farm, which was a very extensive one. The very idea of fire-works would put aunt Agnes into a terrible state of alarm, so Emilie held her peace. To tell the farmer would, she knew, irritate him fearfully; and yet no time was to be lost. She was older than any of the party, and it was in reliance on her discretion that the visit had been permitted. She appealed to Edith, but Edith, who either had a little fancy to see the fire-works, or, who feared her brothers' ridicule, or who thought Emilie took too much upon herself, gave her no help in the matter. "Well, Edith," said Emilie, when the farmer's wife left the room to make some preparation for a sumptuous supper, "I have made up my mind what to do. I will not stay here if your brothers are to run any foolish risks with those fire-works. I will go home at once, and tell your papa, he will be in time to stop it; or I will apprise Mr. Crosse, and he can take what steps he pleases." "Well, you will have a fine life of it, Miss Schomberg, if you tell any tales, I can tell you," said Edith, pettishly, "and it really is no business of yours. They are not under your care if I am. Oh, let them be. Fred said he should let them off on the Langdale hills, far enough away from the farm." But Emilie was firm. She tied on her bonnet, and determined to make one more effort--it should be with Fred this time. She followed the track of the lads, having first inquired of a farm-boy which road they had taken, and as they had loitered, and she walked very fast, she soon overtook them. They were seated on a bank by the road-side, when she got up to them, and John was just displaying his treasures, squibs to make Miss Edith jump, Catherine wheels, roman candles, sky-rockets, and blue lights and crackers. The farmer's sons, Jerry and Tom, grinned delightedly. Emilie stood for a few moments irresolute; the boys were rude, and looked so daring--what should she say? "Young gentlemen," she began; they all took off their hats in mock deference. "A woman preaching, I declare." "Go on. Madam, hear! hear! hear!" said the young Crosses. "Young gentlemen," continued Emilie, with emphasis, "it is to _you_ I am speaking. I am determined that those fire-works shall not be let off, if I can prevent it, on Mr. Crosse's premises. If you will not give up your intention, I shall walk to L--, and inform your father, and you know very well how displeased he will be." "Who says we are going to let them off on Mr. Crosse's premises?" said Fred, fiercely. "You are very interfering Miss Schomberg, will you go back to your our own business, and to little Edith." "I will go to L----, master Fred," said Emilie, firmly, but kindly. "I shall be sorry to get you into trouble, and I would rather not take the walk, but I shall certainly do what I say if you persist." The boys looked doubtfully at one another. Fred seemed a little disposed to yield, but to be conquered by his sister's governess was very humiliating. However, they knew from Edith's account that Emilie, though kind, was firm; and, therefore, after a little further altercation, they agreed not to send up the fire-works that night, but they promised her at the same time that she should not hear the last of it. They returned to the farm much out of humour, and having hidden them in the box of the pony gig, came in just in time for supper. The ride home was a silent one; Edith saw that her brothers were put out, and began to think she did not like Emilie Schomberg to live with at all. Emilie had done right, but she had a hard battle to fight; all were against her. No one likes to be contradicted, or as Fred said, to be managed. Emilie, however, went steadily on, speaking the truth, but speaking it in love, and acting always "as seeing Him who is invisible." CHAPTER FIFTH. EDITH'S TRIALS. "Now, Emilie, what do you think of my life?" said Edith, one day after she and Fred had had one of their usual squabbles. "What do you think of Fred _now_?" "I think, Edith, dear, that I would try and win him over to love and affection, and not thwart and irritate him as you do. Have you forgotten old Joe's maxim, 'a soft answer turneth away wrath?' but your grievous words too often stir up strife. You told me the other day, dear, how much the conduct of Sarah Murray pleased you; now you may act towards John and Fred as Sarah did to little Susy." Edith shook her head. "It is not in me, Emilie, I am afraid." "No, dear," said Emilie, "you are right, it is not _in_ you." "Well then what is the use of telling me to do things impossible?" "I did not say impossible, Edith, did I?" "No, but you say it is not in me to be gentle and all that, and I dare say it is not; but you don't get much the better thought of, gentle as you are. Miss Schomberg. John and Fred don't behave better to you than they do to me, so far as I see." "Edith, dear, you set out wrong in your attempts to do right," said Emily, kindly. "It is not _in_ you; it is not _in_ any one by nature to be always gentle and kind. It is not in me I know. I was once a very petulant child, being an only one, and it was but by very slow process that I learned to govern myself, and I am learning it still." At this moment Fred came in, bearing in one hand a quantity of paper, and in another a book with directions for balloon making. "Now Edith, you are a clever young lady," he began. "Oh, yes," said Edith, wrathfully, "When it suits you, you can flatter." "No, but Edith, don't be cross, come! I want you to do me a service. I want you to cut me out this tissue paper into the shape of this pattern. I am going to send up a balloon to-morrow, and I can't cut it out, will you do it for me?" "Yes, yes," said Emilie, "we will do it together. Oh, come that is a nice job, Edith dear, I can help you in that," and Emilie cleared away her own work quick as thought, and asked Fred for particular directions how it was to be done, all this time trying to hide Edith's unwillingness to oblige her brother, and making it appear that Edith and she were of one mind to help him. Fred, who since the fire-work affair had treated Emilie somewhat rudely, and had on many occasions annoyed her considerably, looked in astonishment at Miss Schomberg. She saw his surprise and understood it. "Fred," said she frankly, "I know what you are thinking of, but let us be friends. Give me the gratification of helping you to this pleasure, since I hindered you of the other. You won't be too proud, will you, to have my help?" Fred coloured. "Miss Schomberg," said he, "I don't deserve it of you, I beg your pardon;" and thus they were reconciled. Oh, it is not often in great things that we are called upon to show that we love our neighbour as ourselves. It is in the daily, hourly, exercise of little domestic virtues, that they who truly love God may be distinguished from those who love him not. It was not because Emilie was naturally amiable or naturally good that she was thus able to show this loving and forgiving spirit. She loved God, and love to him actuated her; she thus adorned the doctrine of her Saviour in all things. Young reader there is no such thing as a religion of words and feelings alone, it must be a religion of _acts_; a life of warfare against the sins that most easily beset you; a mortification of selfishness and pride, and a humble acknowledgment, when you have done your _very best_, that you are only unprofitable servants. Had you heard Emilie communing with her own heart, you would have heard no self gratulation. She was far from perfect even in the sight of man; in the sight of God she knew that in many things she offended. It is not a perfect character that I would present to you in Emilie Schomberg; but one who with all the weakness and imperfection of human nature, made the will of God her rule and delight. This is not natural, it is the habit of mind of those only who are created anew, new creatures in Christ Jesus. This you may be sure Emilie did not fail to teach her pupil; but a great many such lessons may be received into the head without one finding an entrance to the heart, and Edith was in the not very uncommon habit of looking on her faults in the light of misfortunes, just as any one might regard a deformed limb or a painful disorder. She was, indeed, too much accustomed to talk of her faults, and was a great deal too easy about them. "My dear," Emilie would say after her confessions, "I do not believe you see how sinful these things are, or surely you would not so very, very, often commit them." This was the real state of the case; and it may be said of all those who are in the habit of mere confessions, that they do not believe things to be so very bad, because they do not understand how very good and holy is the God against whom they sin. Edith had this to learn; books could not teach her this. She who taught her all else so well, could not teach her this; it was to be learned from a higher source still. Well, you are thinking, some of you, that this is a prosy chapter, but you must not skip it. It is just what Emily Schomberg would have said to you, if you had been pupils of hers. The end of reading is not, or ought not to be, mere amusement; so read a grave page now and then with attention and thoughtfulness. CHAPTER SIXTH. EMILIE'S TRIALS. The truth must be told of Emilie; she was not clever with her hands, and she was, nevertheless, a little too confident in her power of execution, so willing and anxious was she to serve you. The directions Fred gave her were far from clear; and after the paper was all cut and was to be pasted together, sorrowful to say, it would not do at all. Fred, in spite of his late apology was very angry, and seizing the scissors said he should know better another time than to ask Miss Schomberg to do what she did not understand. "You have wasted my paper, too," said the boy, "and my time in waiting for what I could better have done myself." Emilie was very sorry, and she said so; but a balloon could not exactly be made out of her sorrow, and nothing short of a balloon would pacify Fred, that was plain. "Must it be ready for to-morrow?" she asked. "Yes, it _must_," he said. Three other boys were going to send up balloons. It was the Queen's coronation day, and he had promised to take a fourth balloon to the party; and the rehearsal of all this stirred up Fred's ire afresh, and he looked any thing but kind at Miss Schomberg. What was to be done? Edith suggested driving to the next market town to buy one; but her papa wanted the pony gig, so they could only sally forth to Mrs. Cox's for some more tissue paper, and begin the work again. This was very provoking to Edith. "To have spent all the morning and now to be going to spend all the afternoon over a trumpery balloon, which you can't make after all, Miss Schomberg, is very tiresome, and I wanted to go to old Joe Murray's to-day and see if the children have picked me up any corallines." "I am very sorry, dear, my carelessness should punish you; but don't disturb me by grumbling and I will try and get done before tea, and then we will go together." This time Emilie was more successful; she took pains to understand what was to be done, and the gores of her balloon fitted beautifully. "Now Edith, dear, ring for some paste," said Emilie, just as the clock struck four; Margaret answered the bell. Margaret was the housemaid, and so far from endeavouring in her capacity to overcome evil with good, she was perpetually making mischief and increasing any evil there might be, either in kitchen or parlour, by her mode of delivering a message. She would be sure to add her mite to any blame that she might hear, in her report to the kitchen, and thus, without being herself a bad or violent temper, was continually fomenting strife, and adding fuel to the fire of the cook, who was of a very choleric turn. The request for paste was civilly made and received, but Emilie unfortunately called Margaret back to say, "Oh, ask cook, please, to make it stiffer than she did the last that we had for the kite; that did not prove quite strong." Margaret took the message down and informed cook that "Miss Schomberg did not think she knew how to make paste." "Then let her come and make it herself," said cook. "She wants to be cook I think; she had better come. I sha'nt make it. What is it for?" "Oh," said Margaret, "she is after some foreign filagree work of hers, that's all." "Well, I'm busy now and I am not going to put myself out about it, she must wait." Emilie did wait the due time, but as the paste did not come she went down for it. "Is the paste ready, cook?" she asked. "No, Miss Schomberg," was the short reply, and cook went on assiduously washing up her plates. "Will you be so kind as to make it, cook, for I want it particularly that it may have as much time as possible to dry." "Perhaps you will make it yourself then," was the gracious rejoinder. Emilie was not above making a little paste, and as she saw that something had put cook out, she willingly consented; but she did not know where to get either flour or saucepan, and cook and Margaret kept making signs and laughing, so that it was not very pleasant. She grew quite hot, as she had to ask first for a spoon, then for a saucepan, then for the flour and water; at last she modestly turned round and said, "Cook, I really do not quite know how to make a little paste. I am ashamed to say it, but I have lived so long in lodgings that I see nothing of what is done in the kitchen. Will you tell or show me? I am very ignorant." Her kind civil tone quite changed cook's, and she said, "Oh, Miss, I'll make it, only you see, you shouldn't have said I didn't know how." Emilie explained, and the cook was pacified, and gave Miss Schomberg a good deal of gratuitous information during the process. How she did not like her place, and should not stay, and how she disliked her mistress, and plenty more--to which Emilie listened politely, but did not make much reply. She plainly perceived that cook wanted a very forbearing mistress, but she could not exactly tell her so. She merely said in her quaint quiet way, that every one had something to bear, and the paste being made, she left the kitchen. "Well, I must say, Miss Schomberg has a nice way of speaking, which gets over you some how," said cook, "I wish I had her temper." More than one in the kitchen mentally echoed that wish of cook's. The balloon went on beautifully, and was completed by seven o'clock. Fred was delighted when he came in to tea, and John no less so. All the rude speeches were forgotten, and Emilie was as sympathetic in her joy as an elder sister could have been. "I don't know what you will do without Miss Schomberg," said Mr. Parker, as he sipped his tea. "She had better come and live with us," said Fred, "and keep us all in order. I'm sure I should have no objection." Emilie felt quite paid for the little self-denial she had exercised, when she found that her greatest enemy, he who had declared he would "plague her to death, and pay her off for not letting them send up their fire-works," was really conquered by that powerful weapon, _love_. Fred had thought more than he chose to acknowledge of Emilie's kindness; he could not forget it. It was so different to the treatment he had met with from his associates generally. It made him ask what could be the reason of Emilie's conduct. She had nothing to get by it, that was certain, and Fred made up his mind to have some talk with Miss Schomberg on the subject the first time they were alone. He had some trials at school with a boy who was bent on annoying him, and trying to stir up his temper; perhaps the peacemaker might tell him how to deal with this lad. Fred was an impetuous boy, and now began to like Miss Schomberg as warmly as he had previously disliked her. On their way to old Joe's house that night, Emilie thought she would call in on Miss Webster, not having parted from her very warmly on the first night of the holidays. A fortnight of these holidays had passed away, and Emilie began to long for her quiet evenings, and to see dear aunt Agnes again. She looked quite affectionately up to the little sitting room window, where her geraniums stood, and even thought kindly of Miss Webster herself, to whom it was not quite so easy to feel genial. She entered the shop. The apprentice sate there at work, busily trimming a fine rice straw bonnet for the lodger within. She looked up joyously at Emilie's approach. She thought how often that kind German face had been to her like a sunbeam on a dull path; how often her musical voice had spoken words of counsel, and comfort, and sympathy, to her in her hard life. How she had pressed her hand when she (the apprentice) came home one night and told her, "My poor mother is dead," and how she had said, "We are both orphans now, Lucy. We can feel for one another." How she had taught her by example, often, and by word sometimes, not to answer again if any thing annoyed or irritated her, and in short how much Lucy had missed the young lady only Lucy could say. Emilie inquired for her mistress, but the words were scarcely out of her lips, than she said, "Oh, Miss, she's so bad! She has scalt her foot, and is quite laid up, and the lodgers are very angry. They say they don't get properly attended to and so they mean to go. Dear me, there is such a commotion, but her foot is very had, poor thing, and I have to mind the shop, or I would wait upon her more; and the girl is very inattentive and saucy, so that I don't see what we are to do. Will you go and see Miss Webster, Miss?" Emilie cheerfully consented, leaving Edith with Lucy to learn straw plaiting, if she liked, and to listen to her artless talk. Lucy had less veneration for the name of Queen Victoria than for that of Schomberg. Emilie was to her the very perfection of human nature, and accordingly she sang her praises loud and long. On the sofa, the very sofa for which M. Schomberg had so longed, lay Miss Webster, the expression of her face manifesting the greatest pain. The servant girl had just brought up her mistress's tea, a cold, slopped, miserable looking mess. A slice of thick bread and butter, half soaked in the spilled beverage, was on a plate, and that a dirty one; and the tray which held the meal was offered to the poor sick woman so carelessly, that the contents were nearly shot into her lap. It was easy to see that love formed no part of Betsey's service of her mistress, and that she rendered every attention grudgingly and ill. Emilie went up cordially to Miss Webster, and was not prepared for the repulsive reception with which she met. She wondered what she could have said or done, except, indeed, in the refusal of the instrument, and that was atoned for. Emilie might have known, however, that nothing makes our manners so distant and cold to another, as the knowledge that we have injured or offended him. Miss Webster, in receiving Emilie's advances, truly was experiencing the truth of the scripture saying, that coals of fire should be heaped on her head. Poor Miss Webster! "There! set down the tray, you may go, and don't let me see you in that filthy cap again, not fit to be touched with a pair of tongs; and don't go up to Mrs. Newson in that slipshod fashion, don't Betsey; and when you have taken up tea come here, I have an errand for you to go. Shut the door gently. Oh, dear! dear, these servants!" This was so continually the lament of Miss Webster, that Emilie would not have noticed it, but that she appeared so miserable, and she therefore kindly said, "I am afraid Betsey does not wait on you nicely, Miss Webster, she is so very young. I had no idea of this accident, how did it happen?" How it happened took Miss Webster some time to tell. It happened in no very unusual manner, and the effect was a scalt foot, which she forthwith shewed Miss Schomberg. There was no doubt that it was a very bad foot, and Emilie saw that it needed a good nurse more than a good doctor. Mr. Parker was a medical man, and Emilie knew she should have no difficulty in obtaining that kind of assistance for her. But the nursing! Miss Webster was feverish and uneasy, and in such suffering that something must be done. At the sight of her pain all was forgotten, but that she was a fellow-creature, helpless and forsaken, and that she must be helped. All this time any one coming in might have imagined that Emilie had been the cause of the disaster, so affronted was Miss Webster's manner, and so pettishly did she reject all her visitor's suggestions as preposterous and impossible. "Will you give up your walk to-night, Edith," said Emilie on her return to the shop, "Poor Miss Webster is in such pain I cannot leave her, and if you would run home and ask your papa to step in and see her, and say she has scalt her foot badly, I would thank you very much." Emilie spoke earnestly, so earnestly that Edith asked if she were grown very fond of that "sour old maid all of a sudden." "Very fond! No Edith; but it does not, or ought not to require us to be very fond of people to do our duty to them." "Well, I don't see what duty you owe to that mean creature, and I see no reason why I should lose my walk again to-night. You treat people you don't love better than those you do it seems; or else your professions of loving me mean nothing. All day long you have been after Fred's balloon, and now I suppose mean to be all night long after Miss Webster's foot." Emilie made no reply; she could only have reproached Edith for selfishness and temper at least equal to Miss Webster's, but telling Lucy she should soon return, hastened to Mr. Parker's house, followed by Edith; he was soon at the patient's side, and as Emilie foretold, it was a case more for an attentive nurse than a skilful doctor. He promised to send her an application, but, "Miss Schomberg," said he, "sleep is what she wants; she tells me she has had no rest since the accident occurred. What is to be done?" "Can you not send for a neighbour, Miss Webster, or some one to attend to your household, and to nurse you too. If you worry yourself in this way you will be quite ill." Poor Miss Webster was ill, she knew it; and having neither neighbour nor friend within reach, she did what was very natural in her case, she took up her handkerchief and began to cry. "Oh, come, Miss Webster," said Emilie, cheerfully, "I will get you to bed, and Lucy shall come when the shop is closed, and to-morrow I will get aunt Agnes to come and nurse you. Keep up your spirits." "Ah, it is very well to talk of keeping up spirits, and as to your aunt Agnes, there never was any love lost between us. No thank you, Miss Schomberg, no thank you. If I may just trouble you to help me to the side of my bed, I can get in, and do very well alone. _Good_ night." Emilie stood looking pitifully at her. "I hope I don't keep you, Miss Schomberg, pray don't stay, you cannot help me," and here Miss Webster rose, but the agony of putting her foot to the ground was so great that she could not restrain a cry, and Emilie, who saw that the poor sufferer was like a child in helplessness, and like a child, moreover, in petulance, calmly but resolutely declared her intention of remaining until Lucy could leave the shop. Having helped her landlady into bed, she ran down-stairs to try and appease the indignant lodgers, who protested, and with truth, that they had rung, rung, rung, and no one answered the bell; that they wanted tea, that Miss Webster had undertaken to wait on them, that they were _not_ waited on, and that accordingly they would seek other lodgings on the morrow, they would, &c., &c. "Miss Webster, ma'am, is very ill to-night. She has a young careless servant girl, and is, I assure you, very much distressed that you should be put out thus. I will bring up your tea, ma'am, in five minutes, if you will allow me. It is very disagreeable for you, but I am sure if you could see the poor woman, ma'am, you would pity her." Mrs. Harmer did pity her only from Emilie's simple account of her state, and declared she was very sorry she had seemed angry, but the girl did not say her mistress was ill, only that she was lying down, which appeared very disrespectful and inattentive, when they had been waiting two hours for tea. The shop was by this time cleared up, and Lucy was able to attend to the lodgers. Whilst Emilie having applied the rags soaked in the lotion which had arrived, proceeded to get Miss Webster a warm and neatly served cup of tea. It would have been very cheering to hear a pleasant "thank you;" but Miss Webster received all these attentions with stiff and almost silent displeasure. Do not blame her too severely, a hard struggle was going on; but the law of kindness is at work, and it will not fail. CHAPTER SEVENTH. BETTER THINGS. "Ah, if Miss Schomberg had asked me to wait on _her_, how gladly would I have done it, night after night, day after day, and should have thought myself well paid with a smile; but to sit up all night with a person, who cares no more for me, than I for her, and that is nothing! and then to have to get down to-morrow and attend to the shop, all the same as if I had slept well, is no joke. Oh, dear me! how sleepy I am, two o'clock! I was to change those rags at two; I really scarcely dare attempt it, she seems so irritable now." So soliloquized Lucy, who, kindhearted as she was, could not be expected to take quite so much delight in nursing her cross mistress, who never befriended her, as she would have done a kinder, gentler person; but Lucy read her Bible, and she had been trying, though not so long as Emilie, nor always so successfully it must be owned, to live as though she read it. "Miss Webster, ma'am, the doctor said those rags were to be changed every two hours. May I do it for you? I can't do it as well as Miss Schomberg, but I will do my very best not to hurt you." "I want sleep child," said Miss Webster, "I want _sleep_, leave me alone." "You can't sleep in such pain, ma'am," said poor Lucy, quite at her wits ends. "Don't you think, I must know that as well as you? There! there's that rush light gone out, and you never put any water in the tin; a pretty nurse you make, now I shall have that smell in my nose all night. You must have set it in a draught. What business has a rush light to go out in a couple of hours? I wonder." Lucy put the obnoxious night shade out of the room, and went back to the bedside. For a long time she was unsuccessful, but at last Miss Webster consented to have her foot dressed, and even cheered her young nurse by the acknowledgment that she did it very well, considering; and thus the night wore away. Quite early Emilie was at her post, and was grieved to see that Miss Webster still looked haggard and suffering, and as if she had not slept. In answer to her inquiries, Lucy said that she had no rest all night. "Rest! and how can I rest, Miss Schomberg? I can't afford to lose my lodgers, and lose them I shall." "Only try and keep quiet," said Emilie, "and I will see that they do not suffer from want of attendance. _You_ cannot help them, do consent to leave all thought, all management, to those who can think and manage. May aunt Agnes come and nurse you, and attend to the housekeeping?" "Yes," was reluctantly, and not very graciously uttered. "Well then, Lucy will have time to attend to you. I would gladly nurse you myself, but you know I may not neglect Miss Parker; now take this draught, and try and sleep." "Miss Schomberg," said the poor woman, "you won't lack friends to nurse you on a sick bed; I have none." "Miss Webster, if I were to be laid on a sick bed, and were to lose aunt Agnes, I should be alone in a country that is not my own country, without money and without friends; but we may both of us have a friend who sticketh closer than a brother, think of him, ma'am, now, and ask him to make your bed in your sickness." She took the feverish hand of the patient as she said this, who, bursting into a flood of tears, replied, "Ah, Miss Schomberg! I don't deserve it of you, and that is the truth; but keep my hand, it feels like a friend's, hold it, will you, and I think I shall sleep a little while;" and Emilie stood and held her hand, stood till she was faint and weary, and then withdrawing it as gently as ever mother unloosed an infant's hold, she withdrew, shaded the light from the sleeper's eyes, and stole out of the room, leaving the sufferer at ease, and in one of those heavy sleeps which exhaustion and illness often produce. Her visit to the kitchen was most discouraging. Betsey was only just down, and the kettle did not boil, nor were any preparations made for the lodgers' breakfast, to which it only wanted an hour. Emilie could have found it in her heart to scold the lazy, selfish girl, who had enjoyed a sound sleep all night, whilst Lucy had gone unrefreshed to her daily duties, but she forebore. "Scolding never does answer," thought Emilie, "and I won't begin to-day, but I must try and reform this girl at all events, by some means, and that shall be done at once." "Come, Betsey," said Emilie pleasantly, "now, we shall see what sort of a manager you will be; you must do all you can to make things tidy and comfortable for the lodgers. Is their room swept and dusted?" "Oh, deary me, Miss, what time have I had for that, I should like to know?" "Well now, get every thing ready for their breakfast, and pray don't bang doors or make a great clatter with the china, as you set the table. Every sound is heard in this small house, and your mistress has had no sleep all night." "Well, she'll be doubly cross to day, then, I'll be bound. Howsoever, I shall only stay my month, and it don't much matter what I do, she never gives a servant a good character, and I don't expect it." "No, and you will not deserve it if you are inattentive and unfeeling now. It is not doing as you would be done by, either. Do now, Betsey, forget, for a few days, that Miss Webster ever scolded or found fault with you. If you want to love any one just do him a kindness, and you don't know how fast love springs up in the heart; you would be much happier, Betsey, I am sure. Come _try_, you are not a cross girl, and you don't mean to be unkind now. I shall expect to hear from Lucy, when I come again, how well you have managed together." Fred went to Mr. Crosse's after breakfast, in the pony gig, for aunt Agnes, who, at a summons from Emilie, was quite willing to come and see after Miss Webster's household. She soon put mutters into a better train, both in kitchen and parlour, so that the pacified lodgers consented to remain. And though neither Lucy nor Betsey altogether liked aunt Agnes, they found her quite an improvement on Miss Webster. It is not our object to follow Miss Webster through her domestic troubles nor through the tedious process of the convalescence of a scalt foot. We will rather follow Edith into her chamber, and see how she is trying to learn the arts of the Peacemaker there. Edith's head is bent over a book, a torn book, and her countenance is flushed and heated. She is out of breath, too, and her hair is hanging disordered about her pretty face; not pretty now, however; it is an angry face--and an angry face is never pretty. Has she been quarrelling with Fred again? yes, even so. Fred would not give up Hans Andersen's Tales, which Emilie had just given Edith, and which she was reading busily, when some one came to see her about a new bonnet, so she left the book on the table, and in the mean time Fred came in, snatched it up, and was soon deep in the feats of the "Flying Trunk." Then came the little lady back and demanded the book, not very pleasantly, if the truth must be told. Fred meant to give it up, but he meant to tease his sister first, and Edith, who had no patience to wait, snatched at the book. Fred of course resisted, and it was not until the book had been nearly parted from its cover, and some damage had ensued to the dress and hair of both parties that Edith regained possession; not _peaceable_ possession, however, for both of the children's spirits were ruffled. Edith flew to her room almost as fast as if she had been on the "Flying Trunk," in the Fairy Tale. When there, she could not read, and in displeasure with herself and with every one, dashed the little volume away and cried long and bitterly. Edith had not been an insensible spectator of the constantly and self-denying gentle conduct of Emilie. Her example, far more than her precepts, had affected her powerfully, but she had much to contend with, and it seemed to her as if at the very times she meant to be kind and gentle something occurred to put her out. "I _will_ try, oh, I will try," said Edith again and again, "but it is such hard work."--Yes, Edith, hard enough, and work which even Emilie can scarcely help you in. You wrestle against a powerful and a cruel enemy, and you need great and powerful aid; but you have read your Bible Edith, and again and again has Emilie said to you, "of yourself you can do nothing." Edith had had a long conversation on this very subject only that morning with her friend, as they were walking on the sea shore, and under the influence of the calm lovely summer's sky, and within the sound of Emilie's clear persuasive voice, it did not seem a hard matter to Edith to love and to be loving. She could love Fred, she could even bear a rough pull of the hair from him, she could stand a little teasing from John, who found fault with a new muslin frock she wore at dinner, and we all know it is not pleasant to have our dress found fault with; but this attack of Fred's about the book, was _not_ to be borne, not by Edith, at least, and thus she sobbed and cried in her own room, thinking herself the most miserable of creatures, and very indignant that Emilie did not come to comfort her; "but she is gone out after that tiresome old woman, with her scalt foot, I dare say," said Edith, "and she would only tell me I was wrong if she were here--oh dear! oh dear me!" and here she sobbed again. Solitude is a wonderfully calming, composing thing; Emilie knew that, and she did quite right to leave Edith alone. It was time she should listen seriously to a voice which seldom made itself heard, but conscience was resolute to-day, and did not spare Edith. It told her all the truth, (you may trust conscience for that,) it told her that the very reason why she failed in her efforts to do right was because she had a wrong _motive_; and that was, love of the approbation of her fellow creatures, and not real love to God. She would have quarrelled with any one else who dared to tell her this; but it was of no use quarrelling with conscience. Conscience had it all its own way to-day, and went on answering every objection so quietly, and to the point, that by degrees Edith grew quiet and subdued; and what do you think she did? She took up a little Bible that lay on her table, and began to read it. She could not pray as yet. She did not feel kind enough for that. Emilie had often said to her that she should be at peace with every one before she lifted up her heart to the "God of peace." She turned over the leaves and tried to find the chapter, which she knew very well, about the king who took account of his servants, and who forgave the man the great debt of ten thousand talents; and then when that man went out and found his servant who owed him but one hundred pence, he took him by the throat, and said, "Pay me that thou owest." In vain did the man beseech for patience, he that had only just been forgiven ten thousand talents could not have pity on the man who owed him but one hundred pence. Often had Edith read this chapter, and very just was her indignation against the hard-hearted servant, who, with his king's lesson of mercy and forgiveness fresh in his memory, could not practise the same to one who owed him infinitely less than he had done his master; and yet here was little Edith who could not forgive Fred his injuries, when, nevertheless, God was willing to forgive hers. Had Fred injured her as she had injured God? surely not; and yet she might now kneel down and receive at once the forgiveness of all her _great_ sins. Nay, more: she had been receiving mercy and patience at the hands of her Heavenly Father many years. She had neglected Him, done many things contrary to his law, owed him, indeed, the ten thousand talents, and yet she was spared. She had a great deal of revenge in her heart still, however; and she could not, reason as she would, try as she would, read as she would, get it out, so she sunk down on her knees, and lifted up her heart very sincerely, to ask God to take it away. She had often said her prayers, and had found no difficulty in that, but now it seemed quite different. She could find no words, she could only feel. Well, that was enough. He who saw in secret, saw her heart, and knew how it felt. She felt she needed forgiveness, and that she could only have it by asking it of Him who had power to forgive sins. She took her great debt to Jesus, and he cancelled it; she hoped she was forgiven, and now, oh! how ready she felt to forgive Fred. How small a sum seemed his hundred pence--his little acts of annoyances compared with her many sins against God. Now she felt and understood the meaning of the Saviour's lesson to Peter. She had entered the same school as Peter, and though a slow she was a sincere learner. She is in the right way now to learn the true law of kindness. None but the _Saviour,_ who was love itself, could teach her this. If any earthly teacher could have done so, surely Emilie would have succeeded. She went down to tea softened and sad, for she felt very humble. The consideration of her great unlikeness to the character of Jesus, affected her. "When he was reviled he reviled not again; when he suffered he threatened not;" and this thought made her feel more than any sermon or lecture or reproof she ever had in her life, how she needed to be changed, her whole self changed; not her old bad nature _patched_ up, but her whole heart made _new_. She did not say much at tea; she did not formally apologise to Fred for her conduct to him. He looked very cross, so perhaps it was wiser to act rather than to speak; but she handed him the bread and butter, and buttered him a piece of toast, and in many little quiet ways told him she wished to be friends with him. John began at her frock again. She could not laugh, (she was not in a laughing humour,) but she said she would not wear it any more, during his holidays, if he disliked it so _very_ much. The greatest trial to her temper was the being told she looked cross. Emilie, who could see the sun of peace behind the cloud, was half angry herself at this speech, and said to Mr. Parker, "If she looks cross she is not cross, Sir, but I think she is not in very good spirits. Every one looks a little sad sometimes;" and Mr. Porker, happily, being called out to a patient at that moment, gave Edith opportunity to swallow her grief. After tea the boys prepared to accompany their sister and her governess in the usual evening walk. Edith did not desire their company, but she did not say so; and they all went out very silent for them. On their road to the beach they met a man who had a cage of canaries to sell, the very things that Fred had desired so long, and to purchase which he had saved his money. Edith had no taste for noisy canaries; few great talkers have, for they do interrupt conversation must undeniably, but Fred thought it would be most delightful to have them, and as he had a breeding cage which had belonged to one of his elder sisters years before, he asked the price and began to make his bargain. The birds were bought and the man dispatched to the house with them, with orders to call for payment at nine o'clock, before Fred remembered that he did not exactly know where he should keep them. In the sitting room it would be quite out of the question he knew, for the noise would distract his mother. Papa was not likely to admit canaries into his study for consultations; and Fred knew only of one likely or possible place, but the door to that was closed, unless he could find a door to Edith's heart, and he had just quarrelled with Edith; what a pity! To make it up with her, however, just to gain his point, he was too proud to do, and was therefore gloomy and uncivil. "Where are you going to keep your canaries Fred?" asked his sister. "In the cage," said Fred, shortly and tartly. "Yes; but in what room?" "In my bed-room," said Fred. "Oh, I dare say! will you though?" said John, who as he shared his brother's apartment had some right to have a voice in the matter. "I am not going to be woke at daylight every morning by your canaries. And such an unwholesome plan; I am sure papa and mamma won't let you. What a pity you bought the birds! you can't keep them in our small house. Get off your bargain, I would if I were you. Besides, who will take care of them all the week? they will want feeding other days besides Saturdays, I suppose." Fred looked annoyed, and dropped behind the party. Edith whispered to Emilie, "Go you on with John, I want to talk to Fred." "Fred, dear," said she, "will you keep your birds in my little room, where my old toys are? I will clear a place, and I shan't mind their singing, _do_ Fred. I have often hindered your pleasures, now let me have the comfort of making it up a little to you, and I will feed them and clean them while you are at school in the week." "You may change your mind Edith, and you know if my birds are in your room, I shall have to be there a good deal; and they will make a rare noise sometimes, and some one must take care of them all the week--I can only attend to them on Saturdays, you know." "Yes, I have been thinking of all that, and I expect I shall sometimes _wish_ to change my mind, but I shall not do it. I am very selfish I know, but I mean to try to be better, Fred. Take my little room, do." Fred was a proud boy, and would rather have had to thank any one than Edith just then; but nevertheless he accepted her offer, and thanked his little sister, though not quite so kindly as he might have done, and that is the truth. There is a grace in accepting as well as in giving. Edith had given up what she had much prized, the independence of a little room, (it was but a little one,) a little room all to herself; but she did so because she felt love springing up in her heart. She acted in obedience to the dictates of the law of kindness, and she felt lighter and happier than she had done for a long time. Fred was by degrees quite cheered, and amused his companions by his droll talk for some way. Spying, however, one of his school-fellows on the rocks at a distance, he and John, joined him abruptly, and thus Emilie and Edith were left alone. Sincerity is never loquacious, never egotistic. If you don't understand these words I will tell you what I mean. A person really in earnest; and sincere, does not talk much of earnestness and sincerity, still loss of himself. Edith could not tell Emilie of her new resolutions, of her mental conflict, but she was so loving and affectionate in her manner to her friend, that I think Emilie understood; at any rate, she saw that Edith was very pleasant, and very gentle that night, and loved her more than ever. She saw and felt there was a change come over her. They walked far, and on their return found the canaries arrived, and Fred very busy in putting them up in their new abode. He had rather unceremoniously moved Edith's bookcase and boxes, to make room for the bird cages. She did say, "I think you might have asked my leave," but she instantly recalled it. "Oh, never mind; what pretty little things, I shall like to have them with me." It really was a trial to Edith to see all her neat arrangements upset, and to find how very coolly Fred did it, too. She sighed and thought, "Ah, I shall not be mistress here now I see!" but Fred was gone down stairs for some water and seed, and did not hear her laments. He was very full of his scheme for canary breeding at supper, and Emilie was quite as full of sympathy in his joy as Fred desired; she took a real interest in the matter. Her father, she said, had given much attention to canary breeding, for the Germans were noted for their management of canaries; she could help him, she thought, if he would accept her help. So they were very merry over the affair at supper time, and Mr. Parker, in his quiet way, enjoyed it too. Suddenly, however, the merriment received a check. Margaret, who had been to look at the birds, came in with the intelligence that Muff, the pet cat of Miss Edith, was sitting in the dusk, watching the canaries with no friendly eye, and that she had even made a dart at the cage; and she prophesied that the birds would not be safe long. A bird of ill omen was Margaret always; she thought the worst and feared the worst of every one, man or animal. "Why, it is easy to keep the door of the cage shut," John remarked, but to keep puss out of her old haunts was not possible. Muff was not a kitten, but a venerable cat, who had belonged to Edith's elder sister, and was given to Edith, the day that sister married, as a very precious gift; and Edith loved that grey cat, loved her dearly. She always sat in the same place in that dear little room. Edith had only that day made her a new red leather collar, and Muff looked very smart in it. "Muff won't hurt the birds, Fred dear," said Edith, "she is not like a common cat." Whatever points of dissimilarity there might he between Muff and the cat race in general, in this particular she quite resembled them; she loved birds, and would not be very nice as to the manner of obtaining them. What was to be done? Fred had all manner of projects in his head for teaching the canaries to fly out and in the cage, to bathe, to perch on his finger, etc.; but if, whenever any one chanced to leave the door of the room open, Muff were to bounce in, why there was an end to all such schemes. In short, Muff would get the birds by fair means or foul, there was no doubt of that, and Fred was desperate. I cannot tell how many times Muff was called "a nasty cat," "a tiresome cat," "a vicious cat," and little Edith's heart was full, for she did not believe any evil of her favourite; and to hear her so maligned, seemed like a personal insult; but she bore it patiently. She asked Emilie at bed time what she should do about Muff; she had so long been accustomed to her seat by the sunny window in Edith's room, that to try and tempt her from it she knew would be vain. Emilie agreed with her, but hoped Muff would practise self-denial. Before Edith lay down to rest that night, she again thought over all that she had done through the day; again knelt down and asked for help to overcome that which was sinful within her, and then lay down to sleep. Edith was but a child, and she could not forget Muff; she thought, and very truly, that there was a general wish to displace her Muff. Not one in the house would be sorry to see Muff sent away she know, and Margaret at supper time seemed so pleased to report of Muff's designs. This thought made her love Muff all the more, but then there were Fred's birds. It would be very sad if any of them should be lost through her cat; what should she do? She wished to win Fred to love and gentleness. Should she part with Muff? Miss Schomberg (aunt Agnes that is) had expressed a wish for a nice quiet cat, and this, her beauty, would just suit her. "Shall I take Muff to High-Street to-morrow? I will," were her last thoughts, but the resolution cost her something, and Edith's pillow was wet with tears. When she arose the next morning she felt as we are all apt to feel after the excitement of new and sudden resolves, rather flat; and the sight of Muff sitting near a laurel bush in the garden, enjoying the morning sun, quite unnerved her. "Part with Muff! No, I cannot; and I don't believe any one would do such a thing for such a boy as Fred. I cannot part with Muff, that's certain. Fred had better give up his birds, and so I shall tell him." All this is very natural, but what is very natural is often very wrong, and Edith did not fuel that calm happiness which she had done the night before. When she received Emilie's morning kiss, she said, "Well, Miss Schomberg, I thought last night I had made up my mind to part with Muff, but I really cannot! I do love her so!" "It would be a great trial to you, I should think," said Emilie, "and one that no one could _ask_ of you, but if she had a good master, do you think you should mind it so very much? You would only have your own sorrow to think of, and really it would be a kindness if those poor birds are to be kept. The cat terrifies them by springing at the wires, and if they were sitting they would certainly be frightened off their nests." Edith looked perplexed; "What shall I do Emilie? I _do_ wish to please Fred, I do wish to do as I would be done by; I really want to get rid of my selfish nature, and yet it will keep coming back." "Watch as well as pray, dear," said Emilie affectionately, "and you will conquer at last." They went down to breakfast together. "Watch and pray." That word "watch," was R word in season to Edith, she had _prayed_ but had well nigh forgotten to _watch_. She could not eat her meal, however, her heart was full with the greatness of the sacrifice before her. Do not laugh at the word _great_ sacrifice. It was very great to Edith; she loved with all her heart; and to part with what we love, be it a dog, a cat, a bird, or any inanimate possession, is a great pang. After breakfast she went into the little room where Muff usually eat, and taking hold of the favourite, hugged and kissed her lovingly, then carrying her down stairs to the kitchen, asked cook for a large basket, and with a little help from Margaret, tied her down and safely confined her; then giving the precious load to her father's errand boy, trotted into the town, and stopped not till she reached Miss Webster's door. Her early visit rather astonished aunt Agnes, who was at that moment busily engaged in dressing Miss Webster's foot, and at the announcement of Betsey--"Please Ma'am little Miss Parker is called and has brought you a cat," she jumped so that she spilled Miss Webster's lotion. "A cat! a cat!" echoed the ladies. "I will have no cats here Miss Schomberg, if you please," said the irritable Mistress. "I always did hate cats, there is no end to the mischief they do. I never did keep one, and never mean to do." Miss Schomberg went down stairs into Miss Webster's little parlour, and there saw Edith untying her beloved Muff. "Well aday! my child, what brings you here? all alone too. Surely Emilie isn't ill, oh dear me something must be amiss." "Oh no, Miss Schomberg, no, only I heard you say you would like a cat, and Fred has got some new birds and I mayn't keep Muff, and so will you take her and be kind to her?" "My dear child," said aunt Agnes in a bewilderment, "I would take her gladly but Miss Webster has a bird you know, and is so awfully neat and particular, oh, it won't do; you must not bring her here, and I _must_ go back and finish Miss Webster's foot. She is very poorly to-day. Oh how glad I shall be when my Emilie comes back! Good bye, take the cat, dear, away, pray do;" and, so saying, aunt Agnes bustled off, leaving poor Edith more troubled and perplexed with Muff than ever. CHAPTER EIGHTH. GOOD FOR EVIL. Old Joe Murray was seated on the beach, nearer the town than his house stood, watching the groups of busy children, digging and playing in the sand, now helping them in their play, and now giving his hint to the nurses around him, when Edith tapped him on the shoulder. There was something so unusually serious, not _cross_, in Edith's countenance, that Joe looked at her inquiringly. "There, set down the basket, Nockells, and run back quick, tell papa I kept you; I am afraid you will get into disgrace." "Mayn't I drown Puss?" said Nockells. "No! you cruel boy, _no!_" said Edith, vehemently. "_You_ shall not have the pleasure, no one shall do it who would take a pleasure in it." "What is the matter Miss?" asked Joe, as soon as Nockells turned away. "The matter, oh Joe! I want Muff drowned; my cat I mean, my dear cat;" and then she told her tale up to the point of Miss Webster's refusing to admit Muff as a lodger, and cried most bitterly as she said, "and I won't have her ill-treated, so I will drown her, will you do it for me Joe, please do now, or my courage will be gone? but I won't stay to look at it, so good-bye," said she, and slipping a shilling into Joe's hand, ran home with the news to Fred, that the cat was by this time at the bottom of the tea, and his canaries were safe for ever from her claws. Fred was not a hard-hearted boy, and his sister's tale really grieved him. He kissed her several times over, as he said he now wished he had never bought the birds, that they had caused Edith nothing but trouble and that he was very sorry. "I am not sorry, Fred dear, at least I am only sorry for being forced to drown Muff. I like to give you my room, and I like to give up my cat to you, and I shall not cry any more about it, so don't be unhappy." "And all this for me," said Fred; "I who teased you so yesterday afternoon, and always am teasing you, I think!" How pleased Emilie looked! She did not praise Edith, but she gave her such a look of genuine approval as was a rich reward to her little pupil. "_This_ is the way. Edith dear, to overcome evil with good; go on, _watch_ and pray, and you will subdue Fred in time as well as your own evil tempers." How easy all this looks to read about! How swift the transition from bad to good! Who has not felt, in reading Rosamond and Frank, a kind of envy that they so soon overcame their errors, so soon conquered their bad habits and evil dispositions? Dear young reader, it is _not_ easy to subdue self; it is not easy to practise this law of kindness, love, and forbearance; it is not easy to live peaceably with all men, but believe me, it is not impossible. He who giveth liberally and upbraideth not, will give you grace, and wisdom, and help to do this if you ask it. The promise is, "Ask and ye shall receive." Edith In her helplessness naked strength of God and it was given. That which was given to her He will not withhold from you. Only try Him. For the comfort of those who may not have such a friend as Emilie, we would remind our readers that the actual work of Edith's change, for such it was, was that which no friend however wise and however good could effect. There is no doubt but that to her example Edith owed much. It led her to _think_ and to _compare_, and was part of the means used by the all-wise God, to instruct this little girl; but if you have not Emilie for a friend, you may all have the God, whom Emilie served, for a friend. You may all read in the Bible which she studied, and in which she learned, from God's love to man, how we should love each other. She read there, "If God so loved us, we ought also to love one another." The holidays drew to a close. The return of the mother and sisters was at hand. Emilie was not without her fears for Edith at this time, but she trusted in the help which she knew Edith would have if she sought it, and was thus encouraged. The right understanding between her brothers and herself she was rejoiced to see daily increasing. It was not that there was nothing to ruffle the two most easily ruffled spirits. Fred was not considerate, and would constantly recur to his old habit of tensing Edith. Edith was easily teased, and would rather order and advise Fred, which was sure to bring on a breeze; but they were far less vindictive, less aggravating than formerly. They were learning to bear and forbear. Edith had the most to bear, for although Fred was impressed by her kind and altered conduct, and could never forget the generous act of sacrifice when she parted with Muff to gratify him, he was as yet more actuated by impulse than principle, and nothing but principle, Christian principle I mean, will enable us to be kind and gentle, and unselfish _habitually_, not by fits and starts, but every day. Joe Murray was sitting at his door smoking his pipe, and watching his little grandchildren as they played together (this time harmoniously) in the garden. They were not building a grotto, they were dancing, and jumping, and laughing, in the full merriment of good healthy happy children. Emilie and Edith greeted Joe as an old friend, and Joe seemed delighted to see them. The two children, who had been commissioned to search for corallines, rushed up to Edith with a basket full of a heterogeneous collection, and amongst a great deal of little value there were some beautiful specimens of the very things Edith wanted. She thanked the little Murrays sincerely, and then looked at Emilie. Should she pay them? the look asked. It was evident the children had no idea of such a thing, and felt fully repaid by Edith's pleasure. Edith only wanted to know if it would take from that pleasure to receive money. She had been learning of late to study what people liked, and wished to do so now. Emilie did not understand her look, and so Edith followed her own course. "Thank you, oh, thank you," she said. "It was very kind of you to collect me so many, they please me very much. I wish I knew of something that you would like as well as I like these, and if I can, I will give it to you, or ask mamma to help me." The boy not being troubled with bashfulness, immediately said, that of all things he should like a regular rigged boat, a ship, "a little-un" that would swim. The girl put her finger in her mouth and said "she didn't know." "Are you going to have a boat?" said every little voice, "oh, what fun we shall have." "Yes," said our peace-making friend, Sarah. "You know that if Dick gets any thing it is the same as if you all did. He is such a kind boy, Miss, he plays with the little ones, and gives up to them so nicely, you'd be surprised." "I am glad of that," said Emilie, "it will be such a pleasure to Miss Edith to give pleasure to them all--but come, Jenny, you have not fixed yet what you will have." Jenny said she did not want to be paid, but she had thought, perhaps Miss Parker might give them something, and if Miss Parker did not think it too much, she should like a shilling better than any thing. Every one looked inquiringly, except Sarah. Sarah was but the uneducated daughter of a poor fisherman, but she studied human nature as it lay before her in the different characters of her brothers and sisters, and she guessed the workings of Jenny's mind. "What do you want a shilling for?" said the mother sharply, who had joined the group. "You ought not to have asked for anything, what bad manners you have! The weeds cost you nothing, and you ought to be much obliged to Miss Parker for accepting them." "I wanted the shilling very much," persisted Jenny, as Edith pressed it into her hand, and off she ran, as though to hide her treasure. But Edith had caught sight of something, and forgot shilling and every thing else in that glimpse. Her own dear old Muff sleeping on the hearth of the kitchen which she had not yet entered. I shall not tell you all the endearments she used to puss, they would look ridiculous on paper; they made even those who heard them smile, but she was so overjoyed that there was some excuse for her. Mrs. Murray rather damped her joy at once by saying, "Oh, she's a sad thief, Miss. She steals the fish terribly. I suppose you can't take her back, Miss?" "Ah, Joe," said Edith sorrowfully, "you see, you had better have drowned her." "So I think," said Mrs. Murray. "No, no, no," cried Jane, coming forwards. "I have a shilling now, and Barker the carrier will take her for that all the way to Southampton, where aunt Martha lives, and aunt Martha loves cats, and will take care of Muff; she shan't be drowned, Miss," said Jenny, kindly. The mother looked surprised, and they all admired Jenny's kind intentions. Emilie slipped another shilling into her hand as they went away, and said "You will find a use for it." "Good night Jenny, and thank you," said poor Edith, with a sigh, for she had already looked forward to many joyful meetings with Muff--her newly-found treasure. But as old Joe, who followed them down the cliff said, there was no end to the trouble Muff caused, what with stealing fish, and upsettings and breakings; and she would be happier at aunt Martha's, where there was neither fish nor child, and more room to walk about in than Muff enjoyed here. "But how kind of Jenny," said Edith, "how thoughtful for Muff!" "No, Miss, 't aint for Muff exactly," said Joe, "though she pitied you, as they all did, in thinking of drowning the cat; but bless the dear children, they are all trying in their way, I do believe; to please their mother, and to win her to be more happy and gentle like. You see she has had a hard struggle with them, so many as there are, and so little to do with; and that and bad health have soured her temper like; but she'll come to. Oh Miss Edith, take my word for it, if ever you have to live where folks are cross and snappish, be _you_ good-humoured. A little of the leaven of sweetness and good temper lightens a whole lump of crossness and bad humour. One bright Spirit in a family will keep the sun shining in _one_ spot; it can't then be _all_ dark, you see, and if there's ever such a little spot of sunshine, there must be some light in the house, which may spread before long, Miss." "Goodnight, Joe," and "Good night, ladies," passed, and the friends were left alone--alone upon the quiet beach. The sun had set, for it was late; the tide was ebbing, and now left the girls a beautiful smooth path of sand for some little distance, on which the sound of their light steps was scarcely heard, as they rapidly walked towards home. "Who would think, Edith, that our six weeks' holiday would be at an end to-morrow?" said Emilie. "I don't know, Emilie, I feel it much longer." "_Do_ you? then you have not been so happy as I hoped to have made you, dear; I have been a great deal occupied with other things, but it could scarcely be helped." "No, Emilie, I have not been happy a great part of the holidays, but I am happy now; happier at least, and it was no fault of yours at any time. I know now why I was so discontented with my condition, and why I thought I had more to try me than anybody else. I feel that I was in fault; that I _am_ in fault, I should say; but, oh Emilie, I am trying, trying hard, to--" and here, Edith, softened by the remembrance that soon she and her friend must part, burst into tears. "And you have succeeded, succeeded nobly, Edith, my darling. I have watched you, and but that I feared to interfere, I would have noticed your victories to you. I may do so now." "My _victories_, Emilie! Are you making fun of me? I feel to have been so very irritable of late.--My _victories!_" "Just because, dear, you take notice of your irritability as you did not use to do, and because you have constantly before your eyes that great pattern in whom was no sin." "Emilie, I will tell you something--your patience, your example, has done me a great deal of good, I hope; but there is one thing in your kind of advice, which does me more good than all. You have talked more of the love of God than of any other part of his character, and the words which first struck me very much, when I first began to wish that I were different, were those you told me one Sunday evening, some time ago. 'Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and gave his Son a ransom for sinners.' There seemed such a contrast between my conduct to God, and His to me; and then it has made me, I hope, a little more, (a _very_ little, you know,) I am not boasting, Emilie, am I? it has made me a _little_ more willing to look over things which used to vex me so. What are Fred's worst doings to me, compared with my _best_ to God?" Thus they talked, and now, indeed, did the friends love one another; and heartily did each, by her bedside that night, thank God for his gospel, which tells of his love to man, the greatest illustration truly of the law of kindness. CHAPTER NINTH. FRED A PEACEMAKER. "Talk not of wasted affection, affection never is wasted.... its waters returning back to their spring, like the rain shall fill them full of refreshment"--_H. W. Longfellow_. "Well Fred," said Emilie at the supper table, from which Mr. Parker was absent, "I go away to-morrow and we part better friends than we met, I think, don't we?" "Oh yes, Miss Schomberg, we are all better friends, and it is all your doing." "My doing, oh no! Fred, that _is_ flattery. I have not made Edith so gentle and so good as she has of late been to you. _I_ never advised her to give up that little room to you nor to send poor Muff away." "_Didn't_ you? well, now I always thought you did; I always kid that to you, and so I don't believe I have half thanked Edith as I ought." "Indeed you might have done." "Well, I hope I shall not get quarrelsome at school again, but I wish I was in a large school. I fancy I should be much happier. Only being us five at Mr. Barton's, we are so thrown together, somehow we can't help falling out and interfering with each other sometimes. Now there is young White, I never can agree with him, it is _impossible_." "Dear me!" said Emilie, without contradicting him, "why?" "He treats me so very ill; not openly and above-board, as we say, but in such a nasty sneaking way, he is always trying to injure me. He knows sometimes I fall asleep after I am called. Well, he dresses so quietly, (I sleep in his room, I wish I didn't,) he steals down stairs and then laughs with such triumph when I come down late and get a lecture or a fine for it. If I am very busy over an exercise out of school hours, he comes and talks to me, or reads some entertaining book close to my ears, aloud to one of the boys, to hinder my doing it properly, but that is not half his nasty ways. Could _you love_ such a boy Miss Schomberg?" "Well, I would try to make him more loveable, Fred, and then I might perhaps love him," said Emilie. "Ah, Emilie, your 'overcome evil with good' rule would fail there _I_ can tell you; you may laugh." "No, I won't laugh, I am going to be serious. You will allow me to preach a short sermon to-night, the last for some time, you know, and mine shall be but a text, or a very little more, and then 'good night.' Will you try to love that boy for a few weeks? _really_ try, and see if he does not turn out better than you expect. If he do not, I will promise you that you will be the better for it. Love is never wasted, but remember, Fred, it is wicked and sad to hate one another, and it comes to be a serious matter, for 'If any man love not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen.' Good night." "Good night, Miss Schomberg, you have taught me to like you," and oh, how I did dislike you once! thought Fred, but he did not say so. Miss Webster's foot got well at last, but it was a long time about it. The lodgers went away at the end of the six weeks, and aunt Agnes and Emilie were quietly settled in their little apartments again. The piano was a little out of tune, but Emilie expected as much, and now after her six weeks' holiday, so called, she prepared to begin her life of daily teaching. Her kindness to Miss Webster was for some time to all appearance thrown away, but no, that cannot be--kindness and love can never be wasted. They bless him that gives, if not him that takes the offering. By and bye, however, a few indications of the working of the good system appeared. Miss Webster would offer to come and sit and chat with aunt Agnes when Emilie was teaching or walking; and aunt Agnes in return taught Miss Webster knitting stitches and crochet work. Miss Webster would clean Emilie's straw bonnet, and when asked for the bill, she would say that it came to nothing; and would now and then send up a little offering of fruit or fish, when she thought her lodgers' table was not well supplied. Little acts in themselves, but great when we consider that they were those of an habitually cold and selfish person. She did not express love; but she showed the softening influence of affection, and Emilie at least understood and appreciated it. Fred had perhaps the hardest work of all the actors on this little stage; he thought so at least. Joe White was an unamiable and, as Fred expressed it, a sneaking boy. He had never been accustomed to have his social affections cultivated in childhood, and consequently, he grew up into boyhood without any heart as it is called. Good Mr. Barton was quite puzzled with him. He said there was no making any impression on him, and that Mr. Barton could make none was very evident. Who shall make it? Even Fred; for he is going to try Emilie's receipt for the cure of the complaint under which Master White laboured, a kind of moral ossification of the heart. Will he succeed? We shall see. Perhaps, had Joe White at this time fallen down and broken his leg, or demanded in any way a _great_ sacrifice of personal comfort from his school-fellow, he would have found it easier to return good for his evil, than in the daily, hourly, calls for the exercise of forgiveness and forbearance which occurred at school. Oh, how many will do _great_ things in the way of gifts or service, who will not do the little acts of kindness and self denial which common life demands. Many a person has built hospitals or alms houses, and has been ready to give great gifts to the poor and hungry, who has been found at home miserably deficient in domestic virtues. Dear children, cultivate these. You have, very few of you, opportunities for great sacrifices. They occur rarely in real life, and it would be well if the relations of fictitious life abounded less in them; but you may, all of you, find occasions to speak a gentle word, to give a kind smile, to resign a pursuit which annoys or vexes another, to cure a bad habit, to give up a desired pleasure. You may, all of you, practice the injunction, to live not unto yourselves. Fred, I say, found it a hard matter to carry out Emilie's plan towards Joe White, who came back from home more evilly disposed than ever, and all the boys agreed he was a perfect nuisance. "I would try and make him loveable." Those words of Emilie's often recurred to Fred as he heard the boys say how they disliked Joe White worse and worse. So Fred tried first by going up to him very gravely one day, and saying how they all disliked him, and how he hoped he would mend; but that did not do at all. Fred found the twine of his kite all entangled next day, and John said he saw White playing with it soon after Fred had spoken to him. "I'd go and serve him out; just you go and tangle his twine, and see how he likes it," said John. "I will--but no! I won't," Bald Fred, "that's evil for evil, and that is what I am not going to do. I mean to leave that plan off." An opportunity soon occurred for returning good for evil Miss Barton had a donkey, and this donkey, whose proper abode was the paddock, sometimes broke bounds, and regaled itself on the plants in the young gentlemen's gardens, in a manner highly provoking to those who had any taste for flowers. If Joe White had any love for anything, it was for flowers. Now, there is something so pure and beautiful in flowers; called by that good philanthropist Wilberforce, the "smiles of God," that I think there must be a little tender spot in that heart which truly loves flowers. Joe tended his as a parent would a child. His garden was his child, and certainly it did his culture credit. Fred liked a garden too, and these boys' gardens were side by side. They were the admiration of the whole family, so neatly raked, so free from stones or weeds, so gay with flowers of the best kind. They were rival gardens, but undoubtedly White's was in the best order. John and Fred always went home on a Saturday, as Mr. Barton's house was not far from L----. Joe was a boarder entirely, his home was at a distance, and to this Fred Parker ascribed the superiority of his garden. He was able to devote the whole of Saturday, which was a holiday, to its culture. Well, the donkey of which I spoke, one day took a special fancy to the boys' gardens; and it so happened, that he was beginning to apply himself to nibble the tops of Joe's dahlias, which were just budding. Joe was that day confined to the house with a severe cold, and little did he think as he lay in bed, sipping Mrs. Barton's gruel and tea, of the scenes that were being enacted in his own dear garden. Fred fortunately spied the donkey, and though there had been lately a little emulation between them, who should grow the finest dahlias, he at once carried out the principle of returning good for evil, drove the donkey off, even though his course lay over his own flower beds, and then set to work to repair the damage done. A few minutes more, and all Joe's dahlias would have been sacrificed. Fred saved them, raked the border neatly, tied up the plants, and restored all to order again; and who can tell but those who thus act, the pleasure, the comfort of Fred's heart? Why, not the first prize at the horticultural show for the first dahlia in the country, would have given him half the joy; and a still nobler sacrifice he made--he did not tell of his good deeds. Now, Fred began to realise the pleasures of forbearance and kindness indeed. There could not have been a better way of reaching young White's heart than through his garden. Fred's was a fortunate commencement. He never boasted of the act, but one of the boys told Mr. Barton, who did not fail to remind Joe of it at a suitable time, and that time was when White presented his master with a splendid bouquet of dahlias for his supper table, when he was going to have a party of friends. The boys, who were treated like members of the family, were invited to join that party, and then did Mr. Barton narrate the scene of the donkey's invasion, of which, however, the guests did not perceive the point; but those for whom it was intended understood it all. At bed time that night, Joe White begged his school-fellow's pardon for entangling his kite twine, and went to bed very humble and grateful, and with a little love and kindness dawning, which made his rest sweeter and his dreams happier. Thus Fred began his lessons of love; it was thus he endeavoured to make Joe lovable, and congratulated himself on his first successful attempt. He did not speak in the very words of the Poet, but his sentiments were the same, as he talked to John of his victory. "There is a golden chord of sympathy, Fix'd in the harp of every human soul, Which by the breath of kindness when 'tis swept, Wakes angel-melodies in savage hearts; Inflicts sore chastisements for treasured wrongs, And melts away the ice of hate to streams of love; Nor aught but _kindness_ can that fine chord touch." Joe Murray was quite right in telling Edith that a little of the leaven of kindness and love went a great way in a family. No man can live to himself, that is to say, no man's acts can affect himself only. Had Fred set an example of revenge and retaliation, other boys would have no doubt acted in like manner on the first occasion of irritation. Now they all helped to reform Joe White, and did not return evil for evil, as had been their custom. Fred was the oldest but one of the little community, and had always been looked up to as a clever boy, up to all kinds of spore and diversion. He was the leader of their plays and amusements, and but for the occasional outbreaks of his violent temper would have been a great favourite. As it was, the boys liked him, and his master was undoubtedly very fond of Fred Parker. He was an honest truthful boy though impetuous and headstrong. Permission was given the lads, who as we have said were six in number, to walk out one fine September afternoon without the guardianship of their master. They were to gather blackberries, highly esteemed by Mrs. Barton for preserves, and it was the great delight of the boys to supply her every year with this fruit. Blackberrying is a very amusing thing to country children. It is less so perhaps in its consequences to the nurse, or sempstress, who has to repair the terrible rents which merciless brambles make, but of that children, boys especially, think little or nothing. On they went, each provided with a basket and a long crome stick, for the purpose of drawing distant clusters over ditches or from some height within the reach of the gatherer. At first they jumped and ran and sang in all the merriment of independence. The very consciousness of life, health, and freedom was sufficient enjoyment, and there was no end to their fun and their frolics until they came to the spot where the blackberries grew in the greatest abundance. Then they began to gather and eat and fill their baskets in good earnest. The most energetic amongst them was Fred, and he had opportunities enough this afternoon for practising kindness and self-denial, for White was in one of his bad moods, and pushed before Fred whenever he saw a fine and easily to be obtained cluster of fruit; and once, (Fred thought purposely,) upset his basket, which stood upon the pathway, all in the dust. Still Fred bore all this very well, and set about the gathering with renewed ardour, though one or two of the party called out, "Give it him, Parker; toss his out and see how he likes it." No, Fred had begun to taste the sweet fruits of kindness, he would not turn aside to pluck the bitter fruits of revenge and passion. So he gave no heed to the matter, only leaving the coast clear for White whenever he could, and helping a little boy whom White had pushed aside to fill his basket. Without any particular adventures, and with only the usual number of scratches and falls, and only the common depth of dye in lips and fingers, the boys sat down to rest beneath the shade of some fine trees, which skirted a beautiful wood. "I say," said John Parker, "let us turn in here, we shall find shade enough, and I had rather sit on the grass and moss than on this bank. Come along, we have only to climb the hedge." "But that would be trespassing," said one conscientious boy, who went by the name of Simon Pure, because he never would join in any sport he thought wrong, and used to recall the master's prohibitions rather oftener to his forgetful companions than they liked. "Trespassing! a fig for trespassing," said John Parker, clearing away all impediments, and bestriding the narrow ditch, planted a foot firmly on the opposite bank. "You may get something not so sweet as a fig for trespassing, John, though," said his brother Fred, who came up at this moment. "Man-traps and spring-guns are fictions my lad," said Philip Harcourt, a boy of much the same turn as John, not easily persuaded any way; "Now for it, over Parker; be quick, man," and over he jumped. Then followed Harcourt, White, and another little boy, whose name was Arthur, leaving Fred and Simon Pure in the middle of the road. The wood was, undoubtedly, a very delightful place, and more than one fine pheasant rustled amongst the underwood, and the squirrels leaped from bough to bough, whilst the music of the birds was charming. Fred, himself, was tempted as he peeped over the gap, and stood irresolute. The plantation was far enough from the residence of the owner, nor was it likely that they could do much mischief beyond frightening the game, and as it was not sitting time, Fred himself argued it could do no harm, but little Riches, the boy called Pure, who was a great admirer of Fred, especially since the affair of the Dahlias, begged him not to go; "Mr. Barton, you know, has such a great dislike to our trespassing," said Riches, "and if we stay here resolutely they will be sure to come back." "Don't preach to me," was the rather unexpected reply, for Fred was not _perfect_ yet, though he had gained a victory or two over his temper of late. "I didn't mean to preach, but I do wish the boys would come home, it is growing late; and with our heavy baskets we shall only just get in in time." "Halloo!" shouted Fred, getting on the bank. "Come back, won't you, or we shall be too late; come, John, you are the eldest, come along." But his call was drowned in the sound of their voices, which were echoing through the weeds, much to the annoyance, no doubt, of the stately pheasants who were not accustomed to human sounds like these. They were not at any great distance, and Fred could just distinguish parts of their conversation. John and Harcourt were urging White, a delicate boy, and no climber, to mount a high tree in the wood, to enjoy they said the glorious sea-view; but in reality to make themselves merry at his expense, being certain that if he managed to scramble up he would have some difficulty in getting down, and would get a terrible fright at least. White stood at the bottom of the tree, looking at his companions as they rode on one of the higher branches of a fine spruce fir. "Don't venture! White," shouted Fred as loudly as he could shout, "don't attempt it! They only want to make game of you, and you'll never get down if you manage to get up. Take my advice now, don't try." "Mind your own business," and a large sod of earth was the reply. The sod struck the boy on the face, and his nose bled profusely. "There," said young Riches, "what a cowardly trick! Oh! I think White the meanest spirited boy I ever saw. He wouldn't have flung that sod at you if you had been within arm's length of him; well, I do dislike that White." "I'll give it to him," said Fred, as he vaulted over the fence, but immediately words, which Emilie had once repeated to him when they were talking about offensive and defensive warfare, came into his mind, and he stopped short. Those words were:--"If any man smite thee on thy right cheek turn to him the other also," and Fred was in the road again. "Well," said Riches, "we have done and said all we can, let us be going home, their disobeying orders is no excuse for us, so come along Parker--won't you? They have a watch, and their blackberries won't run away, I suppose." "Can't we manage between us, though, to carry some of them?" said Fred. "This large basket is not nearly full, let us empty one of them into it. There, now we have only left them two. I've got White's load. I've half a mind to set it down, but no I won't though. You will carry John's, Won't you, that's lighter, and between them they may carry the other." They went on a few steps when they both turned to listen. "I thought," said Fred, "I heard my name called. It could only be fancy, though. Yet, hush! There it is! quite plain," and so it was. John called to him loudly to stop, and at that moment such a scream was heard echoing through the woods, as sent the wood pigeons flying terrified about, and started the hares from their hiding places. "Stop, oh stop, Fred, White can't get down," said John, breathless, "and I believe he will fall, if he hasn't already, he says he is giddy. Pray come back and see if you can't help him, you are such a famous climber." Fred could not refuse, and in less than five minutes he was on the spot, but it was too late. The branch had given way, and the boy lay at the foot of the tree senseless, to all appearance dead. There was no blood, no outward sign of injury, but--his face! Fred did not forget for many years afterwards, its dreadful, terrified, ghastly expression. What was to be done? They were so horror-struck that for a few minutes they stood in perfect silence, so powerfully were they convinced that the lad had ceased to breathe, that they remained solemn and still as in the presence of death. To all minds death has great solemnities; to the young, when it strikes one of their own age and number, especially. "Come," said Fred, turning to Riches, "come, we must not leave him here to die, poor fellow. Take off his neck-handkerchief, Harcourt, and run you, Riches, to the stream close by, where we first sat down, and get some water. Get it in your cap, man, you have nothing else to put it in. Quick! quick!" "Joe! Joe!" said John, "only speak, only look, Joe, if you can, we are so frightened."--No answer. "Joe!" said Fred, and he tried to raise him. No assistance and no resistance; Joe fell back passive on the arm of his friend, yes, friend--they were no longer enemies you know. Had Fred returned evil for evil, had he rushed on him as he first intended when he received the sod from White, he would not have felt as he now did. The boys, who, out of mischief, to use the mildest word, tempted him to climb to a height, beyond that which even they themselves could have accomplished, were not to be envied in _their_ feelings. Poor fellows, and yet they only did what many a reckless, mischievous school boy has done and is doing every day; they only meant to tease him a bit, to pay him off for being so spiteful all the way, and so cross to Fred when he spoke. But it was no use trying to still the voice which spoke loudly within them, which told them that they had acted with heartless cruelty, and that their conduct had, perhaps, cost a fellow-creature his life. "Will you wait with him whilst I run to L---- for papa?" said Fred. "What alone?" they cried. "Alone! why there are four of you, will be at least when Riches comes back." "Oh no! no! do you stay Fred, you are the only one that knows what you are after." "Well, which of you will go then? It is near two miles, and you must run, for his _life_--mind that." No one stirred, and Riches at this moment coming up with the water, Fred told him in few words what he meant to do, and bade him go and stand by the poor lad. That was all that could be done, and "Riches don't be hard on them; their consciences are telling them all you could tell them. Don't lecture them, I mean; you would not like it yourself." Off ran Fred, and to his great joy, spying a cart, with one of farmer Crosse's men in it, he hailed it, told his tale, and thus they were at L---- in a very short space of time. Terrified indeed was Mrs. Parker at the sight of her son driving furiously up in farmer Crosse's spring-cart, and his black eye and swelled face did not tend to pacify her on nearer inspection. The father, a little more used to be called out in a hurry, and to prepare for emergencies, was not so alarmed, but had self-possession enough to remember what would be needed, and to collect various articles for the patient's use. The journey to the wood was speedily accomplished, but the poor lads who were keeping watch, often said afterwards that it seemed to them almost a lifetime, such was the crowd of fearful and wretched thoughts and forebodings, such the anxiety, and hopelessness of their situation. There in the silence of the wood lay their young companion, stretched lifeless, and they were the cause. The least rustle amongst the leaves they mistook for a movement of the sufferer; but he moved not. How did they watch Mr. Parker's face as he knelt down and applied his fingers to the boy's wrist first, and then to his heart! With what intense anxiety did they watch the preparations for applying remedies and restoratives! "Was he, was he dead, _quite_ dead?" they asked. No, not dead, but the doctor shook his head seriously, and their exclamations of joy and relief were soon checked. Not to follow them through the process of restoring animation, we will say that he was carefully removed to Mr. Barton's house, and tenderly watched by his kind wife. He had been stunned by the fall, but this was not the extent of the mischief. It was found upon examination that the spine had received irreparable injury, and that if poor White lived, which was doubtful, it would be as a helpless cripple. Who can tell the reflections of those boys? Who can estimate the misery of hearts which had thus returned evil for evil? It was a sore lesson, but one which of itself could yield no good fruit. It was a great grief to Fred that his presence, in the excitable state of the sufferer, seemed to do him harm. He would have liked to sit by him, and share in the duties of his nursing, but whenever Fred approached, White became restless and uneasy, and continually alluded, even in his delirium, to the sod he had thrown, and to other points of his ungrateful malicious conduct to his school-fellow. This feeling, however, in time wore away, and many an hour did Fred take from play to go and sit by poor Joe's couch. He had no mother to come and watch beside that couch, no kind gentle sister, no loving father. He was an orphan, taken care of by an uncle and aunt, who had no experience in training children, and were accustomed to view young persons in the light of evils, which it was unfortunately necessary to _bear_ until the _fault_ of youth should have passed away. Will you not then cease to wonder that Joe seemed to have so little heart? Affection needs to be cultivated; his uncle thought that in sending him to school and giving him a good education, he was doing his duty by the boy. His aunt considered that if in the holidays she let him rove about as he pleased, saw to the repairs of his clothes, sent him back fitted out comfortably, with a little pocket money and a little _advice_, she had done _her_ duty by the child. But poor Joe! No kind mother ever stole to his bedside to whisper warnings and gentle reproof if the conduct of the day had been wrong; no knee ever bent to ask for grace and blessing on that orphan boy; no sympathy was ever expressed in one of his joys or griefs; no voice encouraged him in self-denial; no heart rejoiced in his little victories over temper and pride. Now, instead of blaming and disliking, will you not pity and love the unlovable and neglected lad? He had not been long under Mr. Barton's care, and after all, what could a schoolmaster do in twelve months, to remedy the evils which had been growing up for twelve years? He did his best, but the result was very little, and perhaps the most useful lesson Joe ever had was that which Fred gave him about the Dahlias. CHAPTER TENTH. EDITH'S VISIT TO JOE. Fred and Edith were sitting in the Canary room one Saturday afternoon, shortly after the event recorded in the last chapter; Edith listening with an earnest interest to the oft-repeated tale of the fall in the wood. "How glad you must have felt, Fred, when you thought he was dead, that you had not returned his unkindness." "Glad! Edith, I cannot tell you how glad; but glad is'nt the word, either. On my knees that night, and often since, I have thanked God who helped me to check the temper that arose. Those words out of the Bible did it: 'If any man smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.' Emilie told me that text one day, and I said I did'nt think I could ever do that, but I was helped somehow; but come, Edith, let us go and see Emilie Schomberg, I have'nt seen her since all this happened, though you have. How beautifully you keep my cages Edith! I think you are very clever; the birds get on better than they did with me. Is there any one you would like to give a bird to, dear? For I am sure you ought to share the pleasures, you have plenty of the trouble of my canaries." "Oh, I have pleasure enough, and their songs always seem like rejoicings over our reconciliation that day ever so long ago; you remember, don't you, Fred? but I should like a bird _very_ much to give to Miss Schomberg; she seems low-spirited, and says she is often very lonely. A bird would be nice company for her, shall we take her one?" "It would be rather a troublesome gift without a cage, Edith, but I have money enough, I think, and I will buy a cage, and then she shall have her bird." "We will hang it up to greet her on Sunday morning, shall we?" Thus the brother and sister set out, and it was a beautiful sight to their mother, who dearly loved them, to see the two who once were so quarrelsome and disunited now walking together in _love_. Emilie was not at home, and they stood uncertain which way to walk, when Fred said, "Edith, I want some one to teach poor Joe love; will you go with me and see him? You taught me to love you, and I think Joe would be happier if he could see some one he could take a fancy to. Papa said he might see one at a time now, and poor fellow, I do pity him so. Will you go? It is a fine fresh afternoon, let us go to Mr. Barton's." The October sky was clear and the air bracing, and side by side walked Fred and Edith on their errand of mercy to poor neglected Joe, their young hearts a little saddened by the remembrance of his sufferings, "Is not his aunt coming?" asked Edith. "No! actually she is not," replied Fred. "She says in her letter she could not stand the fatigue of the journey, and that her physicians order her to try the waters of Bath and Cheltenham. Unfeeling creature!" Thus they chatted till they arrived at Mr. Barton's house. Mrs. Barton received them very kindly. "Oh, Miss Parker, she said, my heart aches for that poor lad upstairs, and yet with all this trial, and the wonderful providential escape he has had, would you believe it? his heart seems very little affected. He is not softened that I can see. I told him to day how thankful he ought to be that God did not cut him off in all his sins, and he answered that they who tempted him into danger would have the most to answer for." Ah, Mrs. Barton, it is not the way to people's hearts usually to find fault and upbraid them. There was much truth in what you said to Joe, but truth sometimes irritates by the way and time in which it is spoken, and it seems in this case that the _kind_ of truth you told did not exactly suit the state of the boy's mind. Edith did not say this of course to the good lady, whose intentions were excellent, but who was rather too much disposed to be severe on young persona, and certainly Joe had tried her in many ways. "I will go and see whether Joe would like to see Edith may I, madam, asked Fred?" Permission was given. "My sister is here, Joe, you have often heard me mention her, would you like to see her?" "Oh, I don't know, my back is so bad. Oh dear me, and your father tells me I am to lie flat in this way, months. What am I to do all through the Christmas holidays too? Oh! dear, dear me. Well, yes, she may come up." With this not very gracious invitation little Edith stepped upstairs, and being of a very tender nature, no sooner did she see poor Joe's suffering state than she began to cry. They were tears of such genuine sympathy, such exquisite tenderness, that they touched Joe. He did not withdraw the hand she held, and felt even sorry when she herself took hers away. "How sorry I am for you!" said Edith, when she could speak, "but may I come and read to you sometimes, and wait upon you when there is no one else? I think I could amuse you a little, and it might pass the time away. I only mean when you have no one better, you know." Joe's permission was not very cordial, he was so afraid of girls' _flummery_, as he called it "She plays backgammon and chess, Joe, and I can promise you she reads beautifully." "Well, I will come on Monday," said Edith, gaily, "and send me away if you don't want me; but dear me, do you like this light on your eyes? I'll ask mamma for a piece of green baize to pin up. Good bye." As she was going out of the room Joe called her back. "I have such a favour to ask of you, Miss Parker. Don't bring that preaching German lady here of whom I have heard Fred speak; I don't mind you, but I cannot bear so much preaching. Mrs. Barton and her together would craze me." Edith promised, but she felt disappointed. She had hoped that Emilie might have gained an entrance, and she knew that Emilie would have found out the way to his heart, if she could once have got into his presence; but she concealed her disappointment having made the required promise, and ran after her brother. "I don't like going where I am so plainly not wanted, Fred," said she on their way home, "Oh, what a sad thing poor White's temper is for himself and every one about him." "Yes Edith, but _we_ are not always sweet-tempered, and you must remember that poor White has no mother and no father, no one in short to love." Edith found at first that it required more judgment than she possessed to make her visit to Joe White either pleasant or useful. Illness had increased his irritability, and so far from submitting patiently to the confinement and restriction imposed, he was quite fuming with impatience to be allowed to sit up and amuse himself at least. How ingenious is affection in contriving alleviations! Here Joe sadly wanted some one whose wits were quickened by love. Mrs. Barton nursed him admirably; he was kept very neat and nice, and his room always had a clean tidy appearance; but it lacked the little tokens of love which oft-times turn the sick chamber into a kind of paradise. No flowers, no little contrivances for amusement, no delicate article of food to tempt his sickly appetite. Poor Joe! Edith soon saw this, and yet it needs experience in illness to adapt one's self to sick nursing. Besides she was afraid, she did not like to offer books and flowers, and these visits were quite dreaded by her. "Will you not go and see Joe, Emilie?" asked Edith, one day of her friend, as she was recounting the difficulties in her way. "You get at people's hearts much better than ever I could do." "My dear child," said Emilie, "did not Joe say that he begged you never would bring the preaching German to see him? oh no, dear, I cannot force my company on him. Besides you have not tried long enough, kindness does not work miracles; try a little longer Edith, and be patient with Joe as God is with us. How often we turn away from Him when He offers to be reconciled to us. Think of that, dear." "Fred is very patient and persevering; I often wonder, Miss Schomberg, that John, who really did cause the accident, seems to think less about Joe than Fred, who had not any thing to do with it." "It is not at all astonishing, Edith. It requires that our actions should be brought to the light of God's Word to see them in their true condition. An impenitent murderer thinks less of his crime than a true penitent, who has been moral all his life, thinks of his great sin of ingratitude and ungodliness." CHAPTER ELEVENTH. JOE'S CHRISTMAS. Christmas was at hand; Christmas with its holidays, its greetings, its festive meetings, its gifts, its bells, and its rejoicings. That season when mothers prepare for the return of their children from school, and are wont to listen amidst storms of wind and snow for the carriage wheels; when little brothers and sisters strain their eyes to catch the first glimpse of the dear ones' approach along the snowy track; when the fire blazes within, and lamps are lit up to welcome them home; and hope and expectation and glad heart beatings are the lot of so many--of many, not of all. Christmas was come, but it brought no hope, no gladness, no mirth to poor White, either present or in prospect. The music and the bells of Christmas, the skating, the pony riding, the racing, the brisk walk, the home endearments were not for Joe--poor Joe. No mother longed for his return, no brother or little sister pressed to the hall door to get the first look or the first word; no father welcomed Joe back to the hearth-warmth of home sweet home. Poor orphan boy! Joe's uncle and aunt wrote him a kind letter, quite agreed in Mr. Parker's opinion that a journey into Lincolnshire was, in the state of his back and general health, out of the question, were fully satisfied that he was under the best care, both medical and magisterial, (they had never seen either doctor or master, and had only known of Mr. Barton through an advertisement,) and sent him a handsome present of pocket money, with the information that they were going to the South of France for the winter. Joe bore the news of their departure very coolly, and carelessly pocketed the money, knowing as he did that he had a handsome property in his uncle's hands, and no one would have supposed from any exhibition of feeling that he manifested, that he had any feeling or any care about the matter. Once, indeed, when a fly came to the door to convey Harcourt to the railway, and he saw from the window of his room the happy school-boy jumping with glee into the vehicle, and heard him say to Mr. Barton, "Oh yes, Sir, I shall be met!" he turned to Fred who sate by him and said, "No one is expecting _me_, no one in the whole world is thinking of me now, Parker." Fred told his mother of this speech, a speech so full of bitter truth that it made Mrs. Parker, kind creature as she was, shed tears, and she asked her husband if young White could not be removed to pass the Christmas holidays with them. The distance was not great, and they could borrow Mr. Darford's carriage, and perhaps it might do him good. Mr. Parker agreed, and the removal was effected. For some days it seemed doubtful whether the change would be either for poor White's mental happiness or bodily improvement. The exertion, and the motion and excitement together, wrought powerfully on his nervous frame, and he was more distressed, and irritable than ever. He could not sleep, he ate scarcely any thing, he rarely spoke, and more than once Mrs. Parker regretted that the proposal had been made. In vain Edith brought him plants from the little greenhouse, fine camellias, pots of snow-drops, and lovely anemones. They seemed rather to awaken painful than pleasing remembrances and associations, and once even when he had lain long looking at a white camellia he burst into tears. It is a great trial of temper, a great test of the sincerity of our purpose, when the means we use to please and gratify seem to have just the contrary effect. In the sick room especially, where kind acts, and gentle words, and patient forbearance are so constantly demanded, it is difficult to refrain from expressions of disappointment when all our endeavours fail; when those we wish to please and comfort, obstinately refuse to be pleased and comforted. Often did Fred and Edith hold counsel as to what would give Joe pleasure, but he was as reserved and gloomy as ever, and his heart seemed inaccessible to kindness and affection. Besides, there were continual subjects of annoyance which they could scarcely prevent, with all the forethought and care in the world. The boys were very thoughtful, for boys; Mrs. Parker had it is true warned them not to talk of their out-of-door pleasures and amusements to or before Joe, and they were generally careful; but sometimes they would, in the gladness of their young hearts, break out into praises of the fine walk they had just had on the cliff, or the glorious skating on the pond, of the beauty of the pony, and of undiscovered walks and rides in the neighbourhood. Once, in particular, Emilie, who was spending the afternoon with the Parkers, was struck with the expression of agony that arose to Joe's face from a very trifling circumstance. They were all talking with some young companion of what they would be when they grew up, and one of them appealing to Joe, he quickly said, "oh, a sailor--I care for nobody at home and nobody cares for me, so I shall go to sea." "To sea!" the boy repeated in wonder. "And why not?" said Joe, petulantly, "where's the great wonder of that?" There was a silence all through the little party; no one seemed willing to remind the poor lad of that which he, for a moment, seemed to forget--his helpless crippled state. It was only Emilie who noticed his look of hopelessness; she sat near him and heard his stifled sigh, and oh, how her heart ached for the poor lad! This conversation and some remarks that the boy made, led Mr. and Mrs. Parker seriously to think that he entertained hopes of recovery, and they were of opinion that it would be kinder to undeceive him, than to allow him to hope for that which could never he. Mr. Parker began to talk to him about it one day, very kindly, after an examination of his back, when White said, abruptly, "I don't doubt you are very skilful. Sir, and all that, but I should like to see some other doctor. I have money enough to pay his fee, and uncle said I was to have no expense spared in getting me the best advice. Sir J. ---- comes here at Christmas, I know, to see his father, and I should like to see him and consult him, Sir, may I?" Mr. Parker of course could make no objection, and a day was fixed for the consultation. It was a very unsatisfactory one and at once crushed all Joe's hopes. The result was communicated to him as gently and kindly as possible. Mrs. Parker was a mother, and her sympathy for poor Joe was more lasting than that of the younger branches of the family. She went to him on the Sunday evening following the physician's visit to tell him the whole truth, and she often said afterwards how she dreaded the task. Joe lay on the sofa before the dining room window, watching the blue sea sit a distance, and thinking with all the ardour of youthful longing of the time when his back should be well, and he should be a voyager in one of those beautiful ships. He should have no regrets, and no friends to regret him; then he groaned at the pain and inconvenience and privation of his present state, and panted for restoration. Mrs. Parker entered and eat down by him. "Is Sir J. C---- gone, Ma'am?" "Yes, he has been gone some minutes." "What does he say?" asked the lad earnestly. "He said very little to me, nothing indeed, only all that fudge I am always hearing--'rest, patience,' and so on." "He thinks it a very serious case, my dear; he says that the recumbent posture is very important." "But for how long, Ma'am? I would lie twelve months patiently enough if I hoped then to be allowed to walk about, and to be able to do as other boys do." "Sir J. C---- thinks, Joe, that you never will recover. I am grieved to tell you so, but it is the truth, and we think it best you should know it. Your spine is so injured that it is impossible you should ever recover; but you may have many enjoyments, though not able to be active like other boys. You must keep up your spirits; it is the will of God and you must submit." Poor Mrs. Parker having disburdened her mind of a great load, and performed her dreaded task, left the room, telling her husband that the boy bore it very well, indeed, he did not seem to feel it much. The bell being already out for church, she called the young people to accompany her thither, leaving one maid-servant and the errand boy at home, and poor Joe to meditate on his newly-acquired information that he would be a cripple for life. Edith looked in and asked softly, "shall I stay?" but the "No" was so very decided, and so very stern that she did not repeat the question, so they all went off together, a cheerful family party. The errand boy betook himself to a chair in the kitchen, where he was soon sound asleep, and the maid-servant to the back gate to gossip with a sailor; so Joe was left alone with a hand-bell on the table, plenty of books if he liked to read them, and as far as outward comforts went with nothing to complain of. "And here I am a cripple for life," ejaculated the poor fellow, when the sound of their voices died away and the bell ceased; "and, oh, may that life be a short one! I wish, oh, I wish, I were dead! who would care to hear this? no one--I wish from my heart I were dead;" and here the boy sobbed till his poor weak frame was convulsed with agony, and he felt as if his heart (for he had a heart) would break. In his wretchedness he longed for affection, he longed for some one who would really care for him, "but _no one_ cares for me," groaned the lad, "no one, and I wish I might die to night." Ah, Joe, may God change you _very_ much before he grants that wish! After he had sobbed a while, he began to think more calmly, but his thoughts were thoughts of revenge and hatred. "_John_ has been the cause of it all." Then he thought again, "they may well make all this fuss over me, when their son caused all my misery; let them do what they will they will never make it up to me, but they only tolerate me I can see, I know I am in the way; they don't ask me here because they care for me, not they, it's only out of pity;" and here, rolling his head from side to side, sobbed and cried afresh. "What would I give for some one to love me, for some one to wait on me because they loved me! but here I am to lie all my life, a helpless, hopeless, cripple; oh dear! oh dear! my heart _will_ break. Those horrid bells! will they never have done?" * * * * * At the very moment when poor Joe was thinking that no one on earth cared for him, that not a heart was the sadder for his sorrow, a kind heart not far off was feeling very much for him. "I shall not go to church to-night, aunt Agnes," said Emilie Schomberg, "I shall go and hear what Sir J.C.'s opinion of poor Joe White is. I cannot get that poor fellow out of my mind." "No, poor boy, it is a sad case," said aunt Agnes, "but why it should keep you from church, my dear, I don't see. _I_ shall go." So they trotted off, Emilie promising to leave aunt Agnes safe at the church door, where she met the Parkers just about to enter. "Oh Emilie," said little Edith, "poor Joe! we have had Sir J.C.'s opinion, and it is quite as had if not worse than papa's, there is so much disease and such great injury done. He is all alone, Emilie, do go and sit with him." "It is just what I wish to do, dear, but do you think he will let me?" "Yes, oh yes, try at least," said Edith, and they parted. When Emilie rang at the bell Joe was in the midst of his sorrow, but thinking it might only be a summons for Mr. Parker, he did not take much notice of it until the door opened and the preaching German lady, as he called Emilie, entered the room. When she saw his swollen eyes and flushed face, she wished that she had not intruded, but she went frankly up to him, and began talking as indifferently as possible, to give him time to recover himself, said how very cold it was, stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze, and then relapsed into silence. The silence was broken at times by heavy sighs, however--they were from poor Joe. Emilie now went to the piano, and in her clear voice sang softly that beautiful anthem, "I will arise and go to my Father." It was not the first time that Joe had shown something like emotion at the sound of music; now it softened and composed him. "I should like to hear that again," he said, in a voice so unlike his own that Emilie was surprised. She sang it and some others that she thought he would like, and then said, "I hope I have not tired you, but I am afraid you are in pain." "I am," said Joe, in his old gruff uncivil voice, "in great pain." "Can I do any thing for you?" asked Emilie, modestly. "No _nothing_, nothing can be done! I shall have to lie on my back as long as I live, and never walk or stand or do any thing like other boys--but I hope I shan't live long, that's all." Emilie did not attempt to persuade him that it would not be as bad as he thought--that he would adapt himself to his situation, and in time grow reconciled to it. She knew that his mind was in no state to receive such consolation, that it rather needed full and entire sympathy, and this she could and did most sincerely offer. "I am _very_ sorry for you," she said quietly, "_very_ sorry," and she approached a little nearer to his couch, and looked at him so compassionately that Joe believed her. "Don't you think that fellow John ought to be ashamed of himself, and I don't believe he ever thinks of it," said Joe, recurring to his old feeling of revenge and hatred. "Perhaps he thinks of it more than you imagine," said Emilie, "but don't fancy that no one cares about you, that is the way to be very unhappy." "It is _true_," said Joe, sadly. "God cares for you," however, replied Emily softly. "Oh, if I could think that, it would be a comfort," Miss Schomberg, "and I do need comfort; I do, I do indeed, groaned the boy." Emilie's tears fell fast. No words of sympathy however touching, no advice however wise and good, no act however kind could have melted Joe as the tears of that true-hearted girl. He felt confidence in their sincerity, but that any one should feel for _him_, should shed tears for him, was so new, so softening an idea, that he was subdued. Not another word passed on the subject. Emilie returned to the piano, and soon had the joy of seeing Joe in a tranquil sleep; she shaded the lamp that it might not awake him, covered his poor cold feet with her warm tartan, and with a soft touch lifted the thick hair from his burning forehead, and stood looking at him with such intense interest, suck earnest prayerful benevolence, that it might have been an angel visit to that poor sufferer's pillow, so soothing was it in its influence. He half opened his eyes, saw that look, felt that touch, and tears stole down his cheeks; tears not of anger, nor discontent, but of something like gratitude that after all _one_ person in the world cared for him. His sleep was short, and when he awoke, he said abruptly to Emilie, "I want to feel less angry against John," Miss Schomberg, "but I don't know how. It was such a cruel trick, such a cowardly trick, and I cannot forgive him." "I don't want to preach," said Emily, smiling, "but perhaps if you would read a little in this book you would find help in the very difficult duty of forgiving men their trespasses." "Ah, the Bible, but I find that dull reading; it always makes me low spirited, I always associate it with lectures from uncle and Mr. Barton. When I did wrong I was plied up with texts." Emilie did not know what answer to make to this speech. At last she said, "Do you remember the account of the Saviour's crucifixion, how, when in agony worse than yours, he said, 'Father forgive them.' May I read it to you?" He did not object, and Emilie read that history which has softened many hearts as hard as Joe's. He made but little remark as Emilie closed the book, nor did she add to that which she had been reading by any comment, but; bidding him a kind good night, went to meet Aunt Agnes at the church door, and conduct her safely home. There is a turning point in most persons' lives, either for good or evil. Joe White was able long afterwards to recall that miserable Sunday evening, with its storm of agitation and revenge, and then its lull of peace and love. He who said, "Peace, be still," to the tempestuous ocean, spoke those words to Joe's troubled spirit, and the boy was willing to listen and to learn. Would a long lecture on the sinfulness and impropriety of his revengeful and hardened state have had the same effect on Joe, as Emilie's hopeful, gentle, almost silent sympathy? We think not. "I would try and make him lovable," so said and so acted Emilie Schomberg, and for that effort had the orphan cause to thank her through time and eternity. Joe was not of an open communicative turn, he was accustomed to keep his feelings and thoughts very much to himself, and he therefore did not tell either Fred or Edith of his conversation with Emilie, but when they came to bid him good night, he spoke softly to them, and when John came to his couch he did not offer one finger and turn away his face, as he had been in the habit of doing, but said, "Good night," freely, almost kindly. The work went on slowly but surely, still he held back forgiveness to John, and while he did this, he could not be happy, he could not himself feel that he was forgiven. "I do forgive him, at least I wish him no ill, Miss Schomberg," he said in one of his conversations with Emilie. "I don't suppose I need be very fond of him. Am I required to be that?" "What does the Bible say, Joe? 'If thine enemy hunger feed him, if he thirst give him drink.' '_I_ say unto you,' Christ says, '_Love_ your enemies.' He does not say don't hate them, he means _Love_ them. Do you think you have more to forgive John than Jesus had to forgive those who hung him on the cross?" "It seems to me, Miss Schomberg, so different that example is far above me. I cannot be like Him you know." "Yet Joe there have been instances of persons who have followed his example in their way and degree, and who have been taught by Him, and helped by Him to forgive their fellow-creatures." "But it is not in human nature to do it, I know, at least is not in mine." "But try and settle it in your mind, Joe, that John did not mean to injure you, that had he had the least idea that you would fall he would never have tempted you to climb. If you look upon it as accidental on your part, and thoughtlessness on his, it will feel easier to forgive him perhaps, and I am sure you may. You are quite wrong in supposing that John does not think of it. He told Edith only yesterday that he never could forgive himself for tempting you to climb, and that he did not wonder at your cold and distant way to him. Poor fellow! it would make him much happier if you would treat him as though you forgave him, which you cannot do unless you _from your heart_ forgive him." CHAPTER TWELFTH. THE CHRISTMAS TREE. The conversation last recorded, between Emilie and Joe, took place a few days before Christmas. Every one noticed that Joe was more silent and thoughtful than usual, but he was not so morose; he received the little attentions of his friend more gratefully, and was especially fond of having Emilie talk to him, sing to him, or read to him. Emilie and her aunt were spending a few days at the Parkers' house, and it seemed to add very much to Joe's comfort. This Emilie was like a spirit of peace pervading the whole family. She was so sure to win Edith to obey her mamma, to stop John if he went a little too far in his jokes with his sister, to do sundry little services for Mrs. Parker, and to make herself such an agreeable companion to Emma, and Caroline, that they all agreed they wished that they had her always with them. Edith confessed to Emilie one day that she thought Emma and Caroline wonderfully improved, and as to her mamma, how very seldom she was cross now. "We are very apt to think other persons in fault when we ourselves are cross and irritable, this may have been the case here, Edith, may it not?" "Well! perhaps so, but I am sure I am much happier than I was, Emilie." "'_Great peace_ have they that love God's law,' my dear, 'and nothing shall offend them.' What a gospel of peace it is Edith, is it not?" The great work in hand, just now, was the Christmas tree. These Christmas trees are becoming very common in our English homes, and the idea, like many more beautiful, bright, domestic thoughts, is borrowed from the Germans. You may be sure that Emilie and aunt Agnes were quite up to the preparations for this Christmas tree, and so much the more welcome were they as Christmas guests. "I have plenty of money," said Joe, "but I don't know, somehow, what sort of present to make, Miss Schomberg, yet I think I might pay for all the wax lights and ornaments, and the filagree work you talk of." "A capital thought," said Emilie, and she took his purse, promising to lay out what was needful to the best advantage. Joe helped Emilie and the Miss Parkers very efficiently as he lay "useless," he said, but they thought otherwise, and gave him many little jobs of pasting, gumming, etc. It was a beautiful tree, I assure you; but Joe had a great deal of mysterious talk with Emilie, apart from the rest, which, however, we must not divulge until Christmas eve. A little box came from London on the morning of the day, directed to Joe. Edith was very curious to know its contents; so was Fred, so was John; Emilie only smiled. "Joe, won't you unpack that box now, to gratify us all?" said Mr. Parker, as Joe put the box on one side, nodded to Emilie, and began his breakfast. No, Joe could not oblige him. Evening came at last, and the Christmas tree was found to bear rich fruit. From many a little sparkling pendant branch hung offerings for Joe; poor Joe, who thought no one in the world cared for him. He lay on his reclining chair looking happier and brighter than usual, but as the gifts poured into his lap, gifts so evidently the offspring of tenderness and affection, so numerous, and so adapted to his condition, his countenance assumed a more serious and thoughtful cast. Every cue gave him something. There is no recounting the useful and pretty, if not costly, articles that Joe became possessor of. A beautiful tartan wrapper for his feet, from Mrs. Parker; a reading desk and book from Mr. Parker; a microscope from John and Fred; a telescope from Emilie and Edith; some beautiful knitted socks from aunt Agnes; a pair of Edith and Fred's very best canaries. When his gifts were arranged on his new table, a beautifully made table, ordered for him by Mr. Parker, and exactly adapted to his prostrate condition, and Joe saw every one's looks directed towards him lovingly, and finally received a lovely white camellia blossom from Edith's hand, he turned his face aside upon the sofa pillow and buried it in his hands. What could be the matter with him? asked Mrs. Parker, tenderly. Had any one said any thing to wound or vex him? "Oh no! no! no!" What was it then? was he overcome with the heat of the room? "No, oh no!" but might he be wheeled into the dining room, he asked? Mr. Parker consented, of course, but aunt Agnes was sure he was ill. "Take him some salvolatile, Emilie, at once." "No aunt," said Emilie, "he will be better without that, he is only overcome." "And is not that just the very thing I was saying, Emilie, child, give him some camphor julep then; camphor julep is a very reviving thing doctor! Mr. Parker, won't you give him something to revive him." "I think," said Emilie, who understood his emotion and guessed its cause, "I think he will be better alone. His spirits are weak, owing to illness, I would not disturb him." "Come," said Mrs. Parker, "let us look at the tree, its treasures are not half exhausted." Wonderful to say, although Joe had given his purse to Emilie for the adornment of the tree, there still were presents for every one from him; and what was yet more surprising to those who knew that Joe had not naturally much delicacy of feeling or much consideration for others, each present was exactly the thing that each person liked and wished for. But John was the most astonished with his share; it was a beautiful case of mathematical instruments, such a case as all L---- and all the county of Hampshire together could not produce; a case which Joe had bought for himself in London, and on which he greatly prided himself. John had seen and admired it, and Joe gave this prized, cherished case to John--his enemy John. "It must be intended for you Fred," said John, after a minute's consideration; "but no, here is my name on it." Margaret, at this moment, brought in a little note from Joe for John, who, when he had read it, coloured and said, "Papa, perhaps you will read it aloud, I cannot." It was as follows:-- DEAR JOHN, I have been, as you must have seen, very unhappy and very cross since my accident; I have had my heart filled with thoughts of malice and revenge, and to _you_. I have not felt as though I could forgive you, and I have often told Emilie and Edith this; but they have not known how wickedly I have felt to you, nor how much I now need to ask your forgiveness for thoughts which, in my helpless state, were as bad as actions. Often, as I saw you run out in the snow to slide or skate, I have wished (don't hate me for it) that you might fall and break your leg or your arm, that you might know a little of what I suffered. Thank God, all that is passed away, and I now do not write so much to say I forgive you, for I believe from my heart you only meant to tease me a little, not to hurt me, but to ask you to pardon me for thoughts far worse and more evil than your thoughtless mischief to me. Will you all believe me, too, when I say that I would not take my past, lonely, miserable feelings back again, to be the healthiest, most active boy on earth. Emilie has been a good friend to me, may God bless her, and bless you all for your patience and kindness to. JOS. WHITE. Pray do not ask me to come back to you to night, I cannot indeed. I am not unhappy, but since my illness my spirits are weak, and I can bear very little; your kindness has been too much. J.W. The contents of the little box were now displayed. It was the only costly present on that Christmas tree, full as it was, and rich in love. The present was a little silver inkstand, with a dove in the centre, bearing not an olive branch, but a little scroll in its beak, with these words, which Emilie had suggested, and being a favourite German proverb of hers. I will give it in her own language, in which by the bye it was engraved. She had written the letter containing the order for the plate to a fellow-countryman of hers, in London, and had forgotten to specify that the motto must be in English; but never mind, she translated it for them, and I will translate it for you. "Friede ernährt, unfriede verzehrt." "In peace we bloom, in discord we consume." The inkstand was for Mr. and Mrs. Parker, and the slip of paper said it was from their grateful friend, Joe White. That was the secret. Emilie had kept it well; they rather laughed at her for not translating the motto, but no matter, she had taught them all a German phrase by the mistake. Where was she gone? she had slipped away from the merry party, and was by Joe's couch. Joe's heart was very full, full with the newly-awakened sense that he loved and that he was loved; full of earnest resolves to become less selfish, less thankless, less irritable. He knew his lot now, knew all that lay before him, the privations, the restrictions, the weakness, and the sufferings. He knew that he could never hope again to share in the many joys of boyhood and youth; that he must lay aside his cricket ball, his hoop, his kite, in short all his active amusements, and consign himself to the couch through the winter, spring, summer, autumn, and winter again. He felt this very bitterly; and when all the gifts were lavished upon him, he thought, "Oh, for my health and strength again, and I would gladly give up _all_ these gifts, nay, I would joyfully be a beggar." But when he was alone, in the view of all I have written and more, he felt that he could forgive John, that in short he must ask John to forgive him, and this conviction came not suddenly and by chance, but as the result of honest sober consideration, of his own sincere communings with conscience. Still he felt very desolate, still he could scarcely believe in Emilie's assurance, "You may have God for your friend," and something of this he told Miss Schomberg, when she came to sit by him for awhile. She had but little faith in her own eloquence, we have said, and she felt now more than ever how dangerous it would be to deceive him, so she did not lull him into false peace, but she soothed him with the promise of Him who loves us not because of our worthiness, but who has compassion on us out of his free mercy. Herein is love indeed, thought poor Joe, and he meditated long upon it, so long that his heart began to feel something of its power, and he sank to sleep that night happier and calmer than he had ever slept before, wondering in his last conscious moments that God should love _him_. Poor Joel he had much to struggle with; for if indulgence and over-weening affection ruin their thousands, neglect and heartlessness ruin tens of thousands. The heart not used to exercise the affection, becomes as it were paralyzed, and so he found it. He could not love as he ought, he could not be grateful as he knew he ought to be, and he found himself continually receiving acts of kindness, as matters of course, and without suitable feeling of kindness and gratitude in return; but the more he knew of himself the more he felt of his own unworthiness, the more gratefully he acknowledged and appreciated the love of others to him. The ungrateful are always proud. The humble, those who know how undeserving they are, are always grateful. CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. THE NEW HOME. Let us pass by twelve months, and see how the law of kindness is working then. Mrs. Parker is certainly happier, less troubled than she was two years ago; Edith is a better and more dutiful child, and the sisters are far more sociable with her than formerly. The dove of peace has taken up its abode in the Parker family. How is it in High Street? Emilie and aunt Agnes are not there, but Miss Webster is still going on with her straw bonnet trade and her lodging letting, and she is really as good tempered as we can expect of a person whose temper has been bad so very long, and who has for so many years been accustomed to view her fellow creatures suspiciously and unkindly. But Emilie is gone, and are you not curious to know where? I will tell you; she is gone back to Germany--she and her aunt Agnes are both gone to Frankfort to live. The fact is, that Emilie is married. She was engaged to a young Professor of languages, at the very time when the Christmas tree was raised last year in Mr. Parker's drawing room. He formed one of the party, indeed, and, but that I am such a very bad hand at describing love affairs, I might have mentioned it then; besides, this is not a _love story_ exactly, though there is a great deal about _love_ in it. Lewes Franks had come over to England with letters of recommendation from one or two respectable English families at Frankfort, and was anxious to return with two or three English pupils, and commence a school in that town. His name was well known to Mr. Parker, who gladly promised to consign his two sons, John and Fred to his care, but recommended young Franks to get married. This Franks was not loth to do when he saw Emilie Schomberg, and after rather a short courtship, and quite a matter of fact one, they married and went over to Germany, accompanied by John, Fred, and Joe White. Mr. Barton, after the sad accident in the plantation, had so little relish for school keeping, that he very gladly resigned his pupils to young Franks, who, if he had little experience in tuition, was admirably qualified to train the young by a natural gentleness and kindness of disposition, and sincere and stedfast christian principle. Edith longed to accompany them, but that was not to be thought of, and so she consoled herself by writing long letters to Emilie, which contained plenty of L---- news. I will transcribe one for you. The following was dated a few months after the departure of the party, not the first though, you may be sure. L----, Dec, 18-- DEAREST EMILIE, I am thinking so much of you to-night that I must write to tell you so. I wish letters only cost one penny to Frankfort, and I would write to you every day. I want so to know how you are spending your Christmas at Frankfort. We shall have no Christmas tree this year. We all agreed that it would be a melancholy attempt at mirth now you are gone, and dear Fred and John and poor Joe. I fancy you will have one though, and oh, I wish I was with you to see it, but mamma is often very poorly now, and likes me to be with her, and I know I am in the right place, so I won't wish to be elsewhere. Papa is very much from home now, he has so many patients at a distance, and sometimes he takes me long rides with him, which is a great pleasure. One of his patients is just dead, you will be sorry to hear who I mean--Poor old Joe Murray! He took cold in November, going out with his Life Boat, one very stormy night, to a ship in distress off L---- sands, the wind and rain were very violent, and he was too long in his wet clothes, but he saved with his own arm two of the crew; two boys about the age of his own poor Bob. Every one says it was a noble act; they were just ready to sink, and the boat in another moment would have gone off without them. His own life was in great danger, but be said he remembered your, or rather the Saviour's, "Golden Rule," and could not hesitate. Think of remembering that in a November storm in the raging sea! He plunged in and dragged first one and then another into the boat. These boys were brothers, and it was their first voyage. They told Joe that they had gone to sea out of opposition to their father, who contradicted their desires in every thing, but that now they had had quite enough of it, and should return; but I must not tell you all their story, or my letter will he too long. Joe, as I told you, caught cold, and though he was kindly nursed and Sarah waited on him beautifully, he got worse and worse. I often went to see him, and he was very fond of my reading in the Bible to him; but one day last week he was taken with inflammation of the chest, and died in a few hours. Papa says he might have lived years, but for that cold, he was such a healthy man. I feel very sorry he is gone. I can't help crying when I think of it, for I remember he was very useful to me that May evening when we were primrose gathering. Do you recollect that evening, Emilie? Ah, I have much to thank you for. What a selfish, wilful, irritable girl I was! So I am now at times, my evil thoughts and feelings cling so close to me, and I have no longer you, dear Emilie, to warn and to encourage me, but I have Jesus still. He Is a good Friend to me, a better even than you have been. I owe you a great deal Emilie; you taught me to love, you showed me the sin of temper, and the beauty of peace and love. I go and see Miss Webster sometimes, as you wish; she is getting very much more sociable than she was, and does not give quite such short answers. She often speaks of you, and says you were a good friend to her; that is a great deal for her to say, is it not? How happy you must be to have every one love you! I am glad to say that Fred's canaries are well, but they don't _agree_ at all times. There is no teaching canaries to love one another, so all I can do is to separate the fighters; but I love those birds, I love them for Fred's sake, and I love them for the remembrances they awaken of our first days of peace and union. My love to Joe, poor Joe! Do write and tell me how he goes on, does he walk at all? Ever dear Emilie, Your affectionate EDITH. There were letters to John and Fred in the same packet, and I think you will like to hear one of Fred's to his sister, giving an account of the Christmas festivities at Frankfort. DEAR EDITH, I am very busy to-day, but I must give you a few lines to tell you how delighted your letters made us. We are very happy here, but _home_ is the place after all, and it is one of our good Master's most constant themes. He is always talking to us about home, and encouraging us to talk of and think of it. Emilie seems like a sister to us, and she enters into all our feelings as well us you could do yourself. Well, you will want to know something about our Christmas doings at school. They have been glorious I can tell you--such a Christmas tree! Such a lot of presents in our _shoes_ on Christmas morning; such dinings and suppings, and musical parties! You must know every one sings here, the servants go singing about the house like nightingales, or sweeter than nightingales to my mind, like our dear "Kanarien Vogel." You ask for Joe, he is very patient, and kind and good to us all, he and John are capital friends; and oh, Edith, it would do your heart good to see how John devotes himself to the poor fellow. He waits upon him like a servant, but it is all _love_ service. Joe can scarcely bear him out of his sight. Herr Franks was asked the other day, by a gentleman who came to sup with us, if they were brothers. John watches all Joe's looks, and is so careful that nothing may be said to wound him, or to remind him of his great affliction more than needs be. It was a beautiful sight on New Year's Eve to see Joe's boxes that he has carved. He has become very clever at that work, and there was an article of his carving for every one, but the best was for Emilie, and she _deserted_ it. Oh, how he loves Emilie! If he is beginning to feel in one of his old cross moods, he says that Emilie's face, or Emilie's voice disperses it all, and well it may; Emilie has sweetened sourer tempers than Joe White's. But now comes a sorrowful part of my letter. Joe is very unwell, he has a cough, (he was never strong you know,) and the doctor says he is very much afraid his lungs are diseased. He certainly gets thinner and weaker, and he said to me to-day what I must tell you. He spoke of his longings to travel (to go to Australia was always his fancy.) "And now, Fred," he said, "I never think of going _there_, I am thinking of a longer journey _still_." "A longer journey, Joe!" I said, "Well, you have got the travelling mania on you yet, I see." He looked so sad, that I said, "What do you mean Joe?" He replied, "Fred, I think nothing of journeys and voyages in this world now. I am thinking of a pilgrimage to the land where all our wandering's will have an end. I longed, oh Fred, you know how I longed to go to foreign lands, but I long now as I never longed before to go to _Heaven_." I begged him not to talk of dying, but he said it did not make him low spirited. Emilie and he talked of it often. Ah Edith! that boy is more fit for heaven than any of us who a year or two ago thought him scarcely fit to be our companion, but as Emilie said the other day, God often causes the very afflictions that he sends to become his choicest mercies. So it has been with poor White, I am sure. I find I have nearly filled my letter about Joe, but we all think a great deal of him. Don't you remember Emilie's saying, "I would try to make him lovable." He is lovable now, I assure you. I am sorry our canaries quarrel, but that is no fault of yours. We have only two school-fellows at present, but Herr Franks does not wish for a large school; he says he likes to be always with us, and to be our companion, which if there were more of us he could not so well manage. We have one trouble, and that is in the temper of this newly arrived German boy, but we are going to try and make him lovable. He is a good way off it _yet_. I must leave John to tell you about the many things I have forgotten, and I will write soon. We have a cat here whom we call _Muff_, after your old pet. Her name often reminds me of your sacrifice for me. Ah! my dear little sister, you heaped coals of fire on my head that day. Truly you were not overcome of evil, you overcame evil with good. Dear love to all at home. Your ever affectionate brother, FRED PARKER. CHAPTER FOURTEENTH. THE LAST. "Hush, dears! hush!" said a gentle voice, pointing to a shaded window. "He is asleep now, and we must have the window open for air this sultry evening. I would not rake that bed to-night, John, I think." "It is _his_ garden, Emilie." "Yes, I know"--and she sighed.-- "It _is_ his garden, and his eye always sees the least weed and the least untidiness. He will be sure to notice it when he is drawn out to-morrow." "John there may be no to-morrow for Joe, he is altered very much to-day, and it is evident to me he is sinking fast. He won't come down again, I think." "May I go and sit by him, Emilie?" said the boy, quietly gathering up his tools and preparing to leave his employment. "Yes, but be very still." It was a striking contrast; that fine, florid, healthy boy, whose frame was gaining vigour and manliness daily, whose blight eye had scarcely ever been dimmed by illness or pain, and that pale, deformed, weary sleeper. So Emilie thought as she took her seat by the open window and watched them both. The roses and the carnations that John had brought to his friend were quietly laid on the table as he caught the first glimpse of the dying boy. There was that in the action which convinced Emilie that John was aware of his friend's state and they quietly sat down to watch him. The stars came out one by one, the dew was falling, the birds were all hurrying home, children were asleep in their happy beds; many glad voices mingled by open casements and social supper tables, some few lingered out of doors to enjoy the beauties of that quiet August night, the last on earth of one, at least, of God's creatures. They watched on. "I have been asleep, Emilie, a beautiful sleep, I was dreaming of my mother; I awoke, and it was you. John, _you_ there too! Good, patient, watchful John. Leave me a moment, quite alone with John, will you, Emilie? Moments are a great deal to me now." The friends were left alone, their talk was of death and eternity, on the solemn realities of which one of them was about to enter, and carefully as John had shielded Joe, tenderly as he had watched over him hitherto, he must now leave him to pass the stream alone--yet not alone. Emilie soon returned; it was to see him die. It was not much that he could say, and much was not needed. The agony of breathing those last breaths was very great. He had lived long near to God, and in the dark valley his Saviour was still near to him. He was at peace--at peace in the dying conflict; it was only death now with whom he had to contend. Being justified by faith, he had peace with God through the Lord Jesus Christ. His last words were whispered in the ear of that good elder sister, our true-hearted, loving Emilie. "Bless you, dear Emilie, God _will_ bless you, for 'Blessed are the peacemakers.'" * * * * * NORWICK: PRINTED BY JOSIAH FLETCHER NEW WORKS AND NEW EDITIONS Published by Arthur Hall, Virtue & Co. 25, PATERNOSTER ROW. * * * * * Third Edition, in post 8vo. with numerous illustrations, price 8s. bound in cloth, or 17s. morocco antique, NINEVEH AND PERSEPOLIS: An Historical Sketch of Ancient Assyria and Persia, with an Account of the recent Researches in those Countries, By W.S.W. VAUX, M.A., of the British Museum. NOTICES OF THE PRESS, ETC. 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19889	----	NAUGHTY MISS BUNNY. [Illustration: THE BUTLER SURPRISES BUNNY.] NAUGHTY MISS BUNNY A STORY FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. BY CLARA MULHOLLAND Author of "The Little Bog-trotters," &c. [Illustration: Logo] LONDON BLACKIE & SON, LIMITED, 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C. GLASGOW AND DUBLIN CONTENTS. Chap. Page I. ONLY FOR FUN, 9 II. PLEASANT NEWS FOR BUNNY, 27 III. BUNNY GETS UP EARLY, 37 IV. BUNNY GETS A FRIGHT, 49 V. THE LITTLE INDIAN, 59 VI. BUNNY FORGETS AGAIN, 69 VII. IN MISS KERR'S ROOM, 83 VIII. BUNNY TRIES TO SHOW OFF, 99 IX. MISS KERR PROMISES A PRIZE, 125 X. ON OLIVER'S MOUNT, 138 XI. WAS IT CRUEL? 152 XII. THE FIREWORKS, 167 XIII. QUIET TIMES, 179 XIV. BUNNY'S IMPROVEMENT. HOME AGAIN, 185 ILLUSTRATIONS. Page THE BUTLER SURPRISES BUNNY, _Frontispiece_ 19 BUNNY WELCOMES HER FATHER, 50 FRANCIS SAVES BUNNY, 115 [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] NAUGHTY MISS BUNNY. CHAPTER I. ONLY FOR FUN. "How nice!" cried Bunny. "Mama has sent for Miss Kerr, so I can do exactly as I like for a little while. I am very glad papa brought us up here, for it is so pretty and so cool, and these gardens are so lovely;" and she gazed about her at the garden and the lawn and then at the distant sea that lay just beyond them, sparkling and dancing in the sunshine. "If I had no governess," continued the little girl, "and no lessons, and no nasty nurse to say, 'Sit still, Miss Bunny,' and 'Don't make dirty your frock, Miss Bunny,' I think I should be jolly--yes, that's papa's word, jolly. But, oh dear, big people are so happy, for they can do what they like, but _chindrel_ must do everything they are told." And quite forgetting her pretty white frock and dainty sash, and the many orders she had received not on any account to soil them, she lay back comfortably upon the grass. Bunny, whose real name was Ethel Dashwood, was six years old, and was one of the spoilt "_chindrel_," as she called children. If she had had brothers and sisters, very likely Bunny would have been kept in better order, but as she was quite alone no one could bear to correct her, and so she became very hard to manage indeed. Her papa indulged her, and thought she could do nothing wrong, whilst her mama was so delicate that she was very seldom able to look after her little girl, and left her to the care of a kind-hearted, but foolish old nurse, who allowed her to have her own way in everything and never for an instant thought of finding fault with her. This was all very well so long as Bunny was no more than a baby, but when she came to be six years old Mr. Dashwood suddenly found that her little girl was much too naughty, so she resolved to make a change in the nursery, that would, she hoped, have a good effect in every way. First of all old nurse was sent away, and a trim French maid, with a quick sharp manner, was engaged to take her place. Bunny was sorry to part with nurse, who had always been kind to her, but Sophie was so amusing, spoke such funny English, and sang such merry songs that the little girl soon ceased to fret, and became quite pleased with her new maid. The change of nurses Bunny bore in a quiet way that surprised everyone in the house; but when her mother told her that she had arranged with a young lady to come and live with them and be her governess, the little girl burst into a passion, and stamping her foot declared she would have no one to teach her, that she would say no lessons, and that her mama was very unkind to think of such a thing. Mrs. Dashwood was greatly shocked, and unable to understand such naughtiness, rang the bell and ordered Sophie to take the child away, and Bunny was carried off weeping bitterly. But this fit of anger only made her mama more anxious to have some one to look after her daughter, and in a few days the governess arrived, and Bunny was set down to learn to read and write. This was a great change for the neglected child, and had her teacher been a sensible person Bunny would doubtless have become a good little girl in time. But unfortunately the governess was very foolish, and thought it much easier to allow her pupil to have her own way than to take the trouble to make her do what was right, and so instead of doing the child good she did her harm, and Bunny became more and more naughty every day. This was in June, and as London grew very hot and dusty, Mrs. Dashwood declared they must all go away to the country, and her husband, who wished them to have a nice holiday, went off at once and took a beautiful house at Scarborough. Bunny was enchanted, and made up her mind to have great fun at the seaside, and as the very day before they left town, her governess was obliged to leave in a great hurry on account of a death in her family, the little girl made up her mind that she was going to have perfect freedom to do exactly what she liked and to play every day upon the sea-beach. Sophie did not trouble her much except when she was cross, and so Bunny set off to Scarborough in very high spirits. The house her papa had taken for them was a pretty rambling old place, standing on a height just above the sea, and surrounded by spreading trees and large gardens full of sweet-scented flowers. A most charming spot indeed, and to the little girl from hot dusty London it seemed a perfect paradise. The first days in the country passed away very happily, and Bunny was not as wild as might have been expected by those who knew her, when one day, as she ran through the hall, she stopped in astonishment before a large trunk, and cried out to the butler, who was standing near, "Who does that belong to, Ashton? Has a visitor come to stay with us?" "A visitor, miss? No, a new governess, miss--she's just gone in to speak to your mama;" and he hurried away to his pantry. "Nasty thing!" cried Bunny, stamping her foot and growing very red and angry. Just when I thought I was going to be happy all by myself! But I'll be so naughty, and so troublesome, that she'll soon go away. I'll be ten times as hard to manage as I was before. She'll not get hold of me to-night any way, and scampering off into the garden she hid herself among the trees. But the new governess, Miss Kerr, was a very different person from the last, and resolved to do her best to make her little pupil a good well-behaved child. She was a kind, warm-hearted girl, who had a great many small brothers and sisters of her own, and she never doubted that in a short time Bunny would become as good and obedient as they were. She soon found, however, that the task was not as easy as she had fancied, and when she had been a few days at Holly Lodge she began to fear that it would be a very long time before her lectures and advice would have the smallest effect upon the wayward little child. She had now been a whole week in charge of the girl, and she feared that Bunny would never learn to love her. About half an hour before our story begins, Bunny and her governess had been seated on the lawn together. Mrs. Dashwood sent to ask Miss Kerr to go to her for a few moments, and that young lady had hastened into the house, leaving her little charge upon the grass with her book. "Do not stir from here till I return, Bunny," she said; "you can go over that little lesson again, and I shall not be long." But as time went on and she did not return the child grew restless, and feeling very tired of sitting still, began to look about to see what there was for her to do. "Governesses are great bothers," she grumbled to herself as she rolled about on the grass. "And now as Miss Kerr does not seem to be coming back, I think I will have a climb up that tree--it looks so easy I'm sure I could go up ever so high. There's nobody looking, so I'll just see if I can go right away up--as high as that little bird up there." Bunny was very quick in her movements, and a minute later her white frock and blue sash were fluttering about among the leaves and branches of a fine old tree that grew in the middle of the lawn. "Oh, dear! How lovely it would be to be a bird--cheep, cheep! If I only had wings I should just feel like one this minute, perched up so high," she said with a merry laugh, as she jumped and wriggled about on the branch. But she quite forgot that the nursery window overlooked the lawn, and that Sophie was sure to be sitting there at her work. In a moment, however, this fact was recalled to her mind by the sound of a wild shriek from the terrified maid. "Mademoiselle! Miss Bunny, you want to kill yourself, or tear your sweet frock. Ah! naughty child, get down this instants, or I will tell monsieur your papa." This was the one threat that had any power to move Miss Bunny, so down she scrambled and ran away as fast as she could over the grass. There was still no sign of Miss Kerr, so the child wandered about, wondering what was keeping her governess, and wishing she had something to do, when all at once her eyes fell on a beautiful rose-tree, almost weighed down with the quantity of its flowers, and she flew at it in delight and began to pull off the lovely blossoms and pin one of them into the front of her frock. But like most foolish children she broke them off so short that there was no stalk left with which to fasten them, and so the poor rose fell upon the ground, and the little girl impatiently snatched at another and dragged it ruthlessly from the branch. This went on for some time, and would probably have gone on until not a flower remained upon the bush, had not Sophie again made herself heard from the nursery window. "Miss Bunny, how can you derange the beautiful roses?" she cried indignantly. "There will be not one left to give to your papa when he comes home, and you know he loves those sweet flowers so much." "Oh, I am so sorry," cried Bunny. "But there are some dear little buds, and I will just leave them for papa. Who knows perhaps they may be roses by to-morrow evening!" and away she flitted like a white-winged butterfly in search of some other sweet flowers that she might make her own, without fear of further interruption from sharp-tongued Sophie. At last, when she had such a large bouquet that her little hands could scarcely hold it, she wearied of her occupation, and stepping softly to the drawing-room window, she peeped in just to see what Miss Kerr and her mama could be doing that kept them shut up there for so long together. "I'll take mama these flowers," she said to herself, "and I am sure they will make her headache better. I'll just tap gently at the window and Miss Kerr will let me in, and I'll be so good and quiet that mama will not mind me being with her while she talks." Bunny waited for some minutes, hoping to be admitted to the room, but no notice was taken of her knocking--for the ladies were too much absorbed in their own affairs to trouble themselves about her. Mrs. Dashwood lay on the sofa, and her face had a flushed anxious expression, as she listened to Miss Kerr, who was seated on a stool by her side, and seemed to be talking very earnestly, but her voice was low, and as the window was shut Bunny could not hear a word she said. "Oh dear, what a lot Miss Kerr has got to say!" cried the little girl impatiently. "She seems as if she had forgotten all about me. I am tired of being out here all alone, so I'll just run in and play with my dollies." Now the nearest way into the house was up a flight of steps and in by the dining-room window, which was like a large glass door, and always lay open in the most tempting manner possible. So up these steps went Miss Bunny, her hands full of flowers and her mind bent on mischief, if she could only meet with anything to do that would amuse her and give her some fun. [Illustration: THE BUTLER SURPRISES BUNNY.] The room into which she stepped was a very pretty one. It was very nearly round, with many high windows looking out upon the pleasant grounds and blue sparkling sea. Upon the walls were pictures of fine thoroughbred horses, some of them with their little foals beside them, others with a surly-looking old dog or a tiny kitten, their favourite stable companion and friend. Bunny loved these pictures and had given the horses pet names of her own, by which she insisted on calling them, although their own well-known names were printed under them, for they were all horses that had won a great number of races during their lives, and so had become celebrated. The round table in the middle of the room was laid ready for dinner, and looked very inviting with its prettily arranged flowers, handsome silver, and shining glass. "Dear me, how nice it all looks!" said Bunny, as she marched round the table on tip-toe. "One, two, three, four places. Why, it must be for company. Well, I hope there will be somebody nice to talk to me. I must get Sophie to put on my pretty new frock. But oh, dear, what fun it would be just to put a tiny, little drop of water into every glass! Wouldn't old Ashton wonder--just when he thinks everything is nice for dinner? I will! I'll do it! It will be such fun! Oh, I'd like to see his face; won't he be horribly angry?" Throwing her flowers on the floor, Bunny sprang to the side-board, and seizing a water-jug she climbed up on each chair in turn and poured a few drops of water into every glass all round the dinner-table. Just as she came to the last wine-glass and held the jug ready to let the water fall into it, the door opened suddenly and the solemn-looking old butler entered the room. "Miss Bunny!" he exclaimed, and he looked so stern and angry that the little girl felt frightened, and dropping the jug, scrambled off the chair, seized her flowers, and ran out of his sight as fast as she could. "I only did it for fun, Ashton," she called back from the door. "It is clean water, so it won't do any harm." "Harm, indeed!" grumbled Ashton; "just as I thought I had everything done until dinner time. Now I must begin and rub up all this glass again;" and he began at once to remove the glasses from the table. "Little himp that she is, that Miss Bunny! A perfect himp, and if I had the governessing of her for sometime I'd--I'd--bah! there's that bell again! Some folks is in a mighty hurry," and full of anger and indignation against the little girl whom he could not punish for her naughty trick, Ashton hurried to the hall door, longing for something upon which he could vent his wrath. Bunny was skipping merrily in the hall, and the pretty roses that she had gathered with so much pleasure lay scattered on the ground. This sight did not tend to put the butler in a better temper, but he made no remark, and passing by the little girl without a word he opened the hall door with a jerk. A poor boy with a thin pinched face stood upon the step. "If you please, sir, will you give me a bit of bread, for I am very hungry?" he said in an imploring voice, as he gazed up into the butler's face. "There's nothing for you. How dare you come here with your wretched lies?" cried Ashton fiercely, and he shut the door with a bang. "That's not true, Ashton," cried Bunny darting forward and opening the door again. "Wait, little boy, and I will get you something!" and before the astonished butler knew where he was, she had rushed into the dining-room, and came back carrying a large loaf and a pat of butter that she had found upon the side-board. "You must not give that away, Miss Bunny," cried the man; "that is in my charge, and I cannot allow you to give it to a beggar;" and he tried to drag the bread from her hands. "You nasty man! I will give it to him if I like," she screamed. "My papa always lets me do what I like, and you are only a servant--and I will give it;" and she struggled to get away from him. "I only put the water in your glasses for fun--but I'm very glad I did it--and I wish I had put dirty water in--and I wish--let me go--I'll tell papa, and he'll be very angry and--" "Bunny," said a soft reproachful voice, "my dear child, what is the matter?" and Miss Kerr laid her hand gently upon the little girl's shoulder. "That nasty Ashton won't let me give this loaf to a poor boy who is there begging," cried Bunny; "he's very hungry and I want--" "Ashton is quite right, Bunny," said Miss Kerr gently; "give him back the loaf, dear. It is not yours, so you have no right to give it away. Have you no money of your own to give the boy?" "No, I have not," cried Bunny bursting into tears, "and I am sure papa would not mind my giving the loaf away--he never does. Ashton's a nasty, cross old thing;" and she flung the loaf on the floor. "Ashton is only doing his duty, Bunny, and you must not speak in that way." "Well, I wish he wouldn't do his duty then," sobbed the little girl; "it's a great shame of him to do his duty, when I tell him not." "Come, now, dear, dry your eyes and give this to the poor boy," said Miss Kerr kindly; "see, I will lend you threepence to give to him, and when your papa gives you some pocket-money you can repay me. The boy will like the money better than the bread, I daresay, and you will feel that you are giving something that is really your own." "Oh, thank you, thank you!" cried Bunny with delight, her tears drying up in an instant. "You are good! You are kind!" and throwing her arms round Miss Kerr's neck she kissed her over and over again; then seizing the pennies she flew to the door, and handing them to the boy said in a subdued voice: "Here, boy, a good lady gave me these pennies for you. I am a greedy little girl and spend all my own money on sweets, but I'll save up and pay Miss Kerr back very soon." "That is enough, Bunny," said the governess, taking the child by the hand. "I have something to tell you, dear, so come with me now." "Very well, I will come," answered Bunny quite meekly, and shutting the door, she followed Miss Kerr down the hall. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER II. PLEASANT NEWS FOR BUNNY. "And now, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, as she led the little girl into the library and took her on her knee, "I am afraid you have been a very naughty child. I do not like to scold you, you know, but when children are told to stay in one place they should do so, and not run about all over the house in the way you seem to have been doing." "But you were so long away," replied Bunny, "and I was tired sitting there all by myself. Sophie kept screaming at me not to touch the flowers, so I had nothing to do." "And what about the lesson? Did you learn that?" "No, I didn't, it was so stupid," said Bunny, "I got quite tired of it, and all the letters went wrong, so I thought I would go to the nursery and play with my toys, and then when I went into the dining-room there was nobody there, and I thought it would be great fun to tease old Ashton, so I jumped on the chairs and poured water into all the glasses, and he was so angry; and oh it was fun to see his face when he cried out, 'Miss Bunny!'" and carried away with delight at the recollection of her naughty trick, the little girl clapped her hands and laughed long and merrily. "But, my dear child, do you not know that that was extremely naughty conduct?" said Miss Kerr gravely. "It is very wicked to make anyone angry, and it was very unkind of you to play such a trick upon Ashton. How would you like if he were to spoil your toys or break your dolls for you?" "Oh, I shouldn't like it at all," answered Bunny; "I'd be awfully cross, and I'd get papa to send him away. That would be a good way to punish him, I know." "Well, Bunny, you think you could punish him but he has no way of punishing you, so you should always be very careful not to annoy or trouble him. Besides, my child, we should never do anything to other people that we know we would not like them to do to us. God wishes us to be good and kind to everyone about us, remember, and to be unkind is to disobey Him." "Oh, then, I'm very sorry that I was so naughty," cried Bunny, "for Sophie told me this morning that God has been good and kind to me always, for she says He gave me all the nice things I have, and my papa and mama, so I should not like to vex Him when He has been so kind to me." "If my little Bunny will just remember that, whenever she feels inclined to be naughty she will soon find it easy to be good, and she will be a much happier child, for then she will know that she is pleasing God who has been good to her." "Oh, I will try, dear Miss Kerr, indeed I will," said the little girl; "I'll be good and kind to God, and you, and papa, and mama, because you are all so good to me;" and she laid her soft cheek against Miss Kerr's face. "That is right, darling," said the governess with a smile; "and now that I have given you a little lecture, and you have promised to be good, I have a piece of news to tell you that will, I am sure, give you great pleasure;" and she smoothed the child's fair hair with her hand. "Good news! Oh, dear Miss Kerr, do tell me what it is," cried the little girl eagerly. "Well, I have been having a long talk with your mama, Bunny, and--" "Oh, yes, I know that. I saw you talk, talk, talk, only I couldn't hear what you were saying, because the window was shut." "No, I suppose not, dear, but listen. Your mama says you have an uncle in India who has a little son of seven years old--" "Oh, I know that, Miss Kerr! Why, that's no news! Of course I know about Uncle Jim and Cousin Mervyn. I never saw them though, but still I know they are in India, an awfully hot place it is, Sophie says." "Yes, so it is. But would you like to see this Cousin Mervyn, do you think?" "Oh, I'd just love to see him--but is he black? Sophie says the people in those countries are black. Oh, I shouldn't like a black cousin, Miss Kerr, indeed I should not," cried Bunny in a piteous voice. "You little goose, he's not black at all," cried Miss Kerr, laughing at the little girl's look of consternation; "I have never seen him, but his papa is supposed to be like your mama, so I daresay he will have fair hair, blue eyes, and pink cheeks something very like your own." "Oh, I'm glad he is like that, for indeed I could not bear a black cousin. Once I had a black doll given to me for a present, and I screamed and screamed till nurse put it away out of the nursery." "It is certainly very lucky that your cousin is not black, for it would never do to scream at him, would it?" said Miss Kerr, "for he has arrived in London and is coming here with your papa to-morrow evening." "Oh, I am glad! Oh, I am glad!" sang Bunny, dancing round the room on the points of her toes. "What fun it will be to have a little cousin to play with! Will he stay long, Miss Kerr?" "Yes, a long time, Bunny," answered the governess. "It is too hot in India for him to stay there any longer--indeed they think he has stayed there too long already, and your mama has promised to take care of him until he is old enough to go to school." "Oh, that will be a nice long visit," said the little girl; "he'll be staying with us just as if it was home, and he was my own brother." "Yes, dear, just so. He will be like your brother, I am sure; and he is to have his lessons with you. I am to teach you both." "Yes, and I'll lend him my pony and I'll let him play with my kittens. And oh, Miss Kerr, I'll give him tea out of my own little tea-set; and we'll have such fun." "Yes, dear, it will be very nice, and I hope that little Bunny will be a good child and not make her cousin naughty and teach him mischievous tricks." "Oh, I'll be good, indeed, dear Miss Kerr. I won't want to be naughty so much when I have someone to play with, for it's always when I feel lonely that I want to play tricks on people." "Is that so really, you poor mite? Well, you will not be lonely any more, Bunny, and I hope you will try hard and learn to read soon. When children can read they do not want a companion so much, because they can read pretty stories about other children and so amuse themselves for hours together." "Oh, I don't want to read stories one bit," said Bunny with a pout. "Sophie and mama read lots of stories to me, so it doesn't matter whether I can read them for myself or not." "And what will you do when you grow up, Bunny? Don't you think you would feel very much ashamed if you could not read when you had grown to be a tall lady?" "Oh, no one would ever know, for I am sure people never ask grown-up ladies if they can read. Do they, now? No one ever asks you or mama if you know how to read." "No, people never ask us if we can read, certainly, Bunny," answered Miss Kerr laughing, "but they would soon find out if we did not, I can tell you. People who cannot read seldom learn those things that everyone should know, and so they are ignorant and stupid. Surely you would not like Mervyn to beat you at his lessons, would you?" "Oh, but he's older than me," said Bunny, "and, of course, he knows a great deal more than me, and----" "Than _I_, Bunny, say he is older than _I_ am," corrected Miss Kerr. "Yes, he is older, but I do not think he knows more than you do. His papa says he has never been taught anything but his letters, and he can hardly speak English." "Oh, dear! Does he only speak French then?" said Bunny with a look of alarm. "No, Hindustanee. That is the Indian language, you know, and as he always had a native nurse he does not know English very perfectly. But we will soon teach him, won't we, dear?" "Oh, yes, it will be fun, and I'll try very hard to learn to read well before he does! It will be nice to have a cousin, won't it? I wonder what he's like. But I'm sure he'll be nice. I know he will. Don't you think he'll be nice, Miss Kerr?" "Yes, dear, I think it is very likely, but you will know all about him to-morrow." "Oh, I wish to-morrow would come, quick, quick!" cried Bunny; "the days and the hours go over so slowly, and I do want to see that little Indian." "Poor little boy! I daresay he will be very tired and shy when he arrives. It is a sad thing to leave father and friends and come among strangers, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, and there were tears in her eyes as she gazed out over the garden. "Dear Miss Kerr, why should you feel sorry for Mervyn? I'm so glad that he is coming here," said Bunny softly, and she put her little hand into Miss Kerr's. "Why should you cry for him? We will be very kind to him, you and I, and papa and mama." "Yes, darling, of course," answered Miss Kerr stroking the little hand. "But I was not thinking of Mervyn, but of someone I know, who had to leave her dear home, her father and mother, and brothers and sisters, to go be governess to a wild little girl, who did not care to learn her lessons and did not love her at all." "Why, that's like me and you! But I do love you; oh, I do love you!" cried the child, and she flung her arms round Miss Kerr's neck. "You are so good and kind, and I am sorry you had to leave your little brothers and sisters, and I won't be wild, and I'll love you very much." "If you do, Bunny, you will make me very happy, and I think you will soon be a very good little girl," and Miss Kerr kissed the eager face over and over again. "But run away now and get ready for tea. I have some letters to write for the post, and I shall just have time if you run off at once." "Very well," said Bunny jumping off Miss Kerr's knee. "I must go to tell Sophie the news." And away she ran, calling, "Sophie, Sophie," as she went up the stairs. "She has a good little heart, and will become a fine character in time, if she is properly managed," said Miss Kerr to herself as the child left the room. "But she has been terribly spoilt and neglected. If the boy from India is as great a pickle as Miss Bunny, I shall have my hands very full indeed," and with something between a sigh and a laugh, Miss Kerr seated herself at the table and began to write her letters. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER III. BUNNY GETS UP EARLY. For a long time after she went to bed that night, Bunny could not go to sleep, and lay tossing about from side to side, wishing over and over again that it was morning, that she might get up and put all her toys and books in order, so that they should look as nice as possible when she came to show them to the new cousin. At last she dropped off into a sound sleep, and did not wake again until the sun was shining brightly into her room. She jumped up and looked about to see if Sophie had gone to get her bath ready. But the maid lay fast asleep in her bed at the other side of the room, and poor Bunny felt sure she would not get up for a very long time yet. She felt ready to cry at the thoughts of lying there for so long doing nothing, whilst the sun was shining so brightly over the sea and dancing so merrily up and down the nursery walls. Suddenly, however, a happy idea presented itself to her mind, and she sprang out of her crib with a soft well-pleased little laugh. "It will be such fun," she whispered to herself, "and Sophie will get such a start when she sees the crib empty! But I must go about very gently or she might wake up and send me back to bed." So the little girl slipped very quietly about the room, and struggled bravely with buttons and tapes, as she did her best to dress herself without the assistance of her maid. "They're all upside down and tied in big knots," she said ruefully, "but Sophie will just have to do them all over again when she gets up. Oh, dear, where are my boots, I wonder? I can't see them anywhere about. Well, I must go out in these, I suppose;" and sitting down on the floor she put on a pair of dainty Queen Anne shoes, with satin bows and steel stars, that she had worn the evening before when she went down to the drawing-room to see her mama. At this moment Sophie turned round with a loud snore, and Bunny gave a start of alarm, as she looked quickly towards the bed. If Sophie awoke and saw what she was doing, all her fun would surely be spoiled, and she would be sent back to her crib in disgrace. Very cautiously then she got up off the floor, seized her hat that lay on the chest of drawers, and opening the door as softly as possible, flew along the corridor and away down the stairs. Not a servant was to be seen about, for it was not yet seven o'clock, and so Bunny passed on without any interruption into the dining-room, and stood on tip-toe at the side-board looking anxiously to see if there was anything there for her to eat. But there was not even a crust to be seen. "Nasty old Ashton!" she cried, "he might have left a few pieces of bread for me; but he wouldn't, I'm sure, even if he had known I was coming. I must get something for my dear pony, now that I am up, so I'll go off to the larder and see what I can find there." So away went Bunny in high glee at her clever thought; but when she arrived at the larder door she found it locked, and she was about to turn away sad and disappointed when a sudden jingling of keys was heard in the passage, the kitchen door opened, and Mrs. Brown, the cook, appeared upon the scene. "Miss Bunny, dear, what brings you here at such an hour? And law but you are dressed queer! But, indeed, them Frenchies are little good with their new-fangled ways. It's nurse that used to dress you smart, deary, and as for Sophie, she beats all;" and the good woman held up her hands in dismay at the child's untidy appearance. "Oh, Sophie didn't dress me at all!" cried Bunny. "She doesn't even know I'm up, for she's fast asleep. But I was so tired lying there listening to Sophie snoring that I thought I would get up and go out. I want to take my pony a piece of bread, so please give me some for him and some for myself, Mrs. Brown, for I'm very hungry." "Bless your heart, of course I will," cried the good-natured woman, as she unlocked the door, and cutting two large slices of bread and butter, handed them to the little girl. "Oh, thank you," said Bunny; "Frisk will like this, I am sure. Good morning, Mrs. Brown, and mind you don't tell Sophie where I am, if she comes to look for me." "Don't be afraid, deary, I won't give her any news of you. I don't admire her and her stuck-up French airs, so she won't get much out of me." But Bunny did not wait to hear the end of the good woman's speech against poor Sophie; she had got all she wanted, so away she ran to pay her morning visit to her little pony. When Frisk heard the stable door opening and a footstep approaching his stall, he whisked his tail and twisted his head as well as he could, to see who was coming to visit him at such an early hour. And when he found it was his little mistress, and heard her voice at his ear he neighed with delight, and rubbed his velvety nose up and down her frock. "Dear old Frisk," she cried, patting his neck, "there's a little cousin coming all the way from India to stay with us. Sophie is not glad, but I am, and Miss Kerr is, and you must be glad too, old man. And he's not black at all, Frisk, oh, no, and it is very, very silly of you to think so, sir. You must be good to him, dear little pony, and give him nice rides, and then he'll love you, just as I do, and we'll all be friends together. So now eat this, little Frisk," she continued, and breaking off a piece of the bread, she held it up to the pony's nose. But suddenly Bunny gave a little shriek, and drew her hand quickly away; for without intending it, Frisk had actually bitten his kind little mistress. The bread she offered him was so small, and his mouth was so big, that the child's fingers got rather far in among his teeth, and when Frisk's white grinders came down upon the dainty offered him, they met rather sharply upon poor Bunny's thumb. The skin was slightly cut, and as a little stream of blood ran down her finger the child grew frightened and began to cry. "Oh, Frisk, Frisk, why did you bite? I never thought you would do such a thing," she cried reproachfully. "I never, never knew you do such a thing before;" and sinking down on the straw by his side, she tried to stop the blood by rolling her finger tightly up in the corner of her pinafore. "Just when I wanted to tell the new cousin that you were a good, kind pony, you go and bite me--oh dear, oh dear, I am very sorry, Frisk, I am indeed." But in spite of the little girl's sorrowful lecture, Frisk did not in the least know that he had done anything wrong, and poking his soft nose into Bunny's lap, he carried off the remaining piece of bread and ate it with much relish. "You artful old thing," cried Bunny, delighted with his cleverness, and smiling through her tears, "if you hadn't bit me I'd have said you were the best and dearest little pony alive;" and forgetting her anger at him for hurting her, she jumped up and patted and kissed his soft silky nose. "Where is Mademoiselle Bunny? Ah! that child will be the death of me. Jean, have you seen Meess Bunny anywhere about?" cried Sophie, just outside the stable door; and the little girl knew that her hour was come and that she was going to get a good scolding. "Oh, Miss Bunny is in there, talking to Frisk, Mamzelle Sophie," answered the groom. "Little naughty one! Ah, these English children are so dreadful!" cried Sophie, and in a moment Bunny was dragged out from her seat on the straw and carried away to the nursery. "Oh!" she screamed as soon as they were inside the door, "what is that I see on your dress, mademoiselle? Blood, I declare! Oh, what will your mama say? She will send away that beast of a pony I am sure, and then you will not make such early walks to the stable." "Oh, Sophie, Sophie, don't tell! don't tell!" cried Bunny, "Frisk did not mean to hurt me I am sure, and it's nearly well now. Look, it has stopped bleeding already, so don't tell mama, pray don't," and the little girl raised her eyes full of tears to the maid's face. "Well, I won't tell if you will promise me never to slip out of your bed and away out of the house again as you have done just now." "Oh, I never will, I never will, Sophie!" cried Bunny, "but do say you won't tell. I couldn't bear to see Frisk sent away." "Well, well, don't cry any more," said Sophie good-naturedly. "Be a good enfant, and I will say not anything about it." "Oh! you dear, darling Sophie, I'll be so good, so good!" cried the little girl, "I'll be so good that you'll never have to scold me any more." "Ma foi, what a change that will be!" cried Sophie, "if you get so good as all that I will send for the doctor." "For the doctor!" exclaimed Bunny in surprise. "Why would you send for him?" "Good gracious, mademoiselle, because I will surely think you are ill if you get to be an angel like that; but I am very certain I shall have to scold you many times before this evening comes." "Very likely, Sophie, but still I'm good now," said Bunny with a merry little laugh, and as the maid gave the last touch to her hair, the last pull to her sash, she ran out of the nursery and away to her mama with whom she always had her breakfast. Bunny was in a wild state of excitement all that day, and Sophie and Miss Kerr found it very hard to keep her in order and prevent her disturbing her mama, who was not well, and could not bear much noise. "Oh, dear, how long the day is! How long the day is!" she cried over and over again. "I don't think evening will ever come, Miss Kerr, I don't, indeed." "It will come fast enough, Bunny dear, if you will only have patience. Try and forget that you are expecting anything to happen." "I wish I could! I wish I could! But I do so wish to see what Mervyn is like." "You impatient little goose, do try and think of something else and time will go over much faster. But I tell you what, Bun," said Miss Kerr, when they had finished their early dinner, "we will go and take a good run on the sands and that will pass the afternoon very nicely for us." "But they might come when we are away, and that would be dreadful." "No, they won't, because they can't," said Miss Kerr with a smile. "The train does not come in until seven, and it is only three now, so you see we have plenty of time for a nice walk." [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER IV. BUNNY GETS A FRIGHT. "Do be quick, Sophie," cried Bunny as she rushed into the nursery after her walk upon the sands, "Miss Kerr says it is half-past five, and papa and Mervyn will be here at seven, so do be quick and dress me as fast as ever you can, for I want to be down in the hall, ready to jump out at them the minute they come to the door." "Indeed," said Sophie without moving from her chair at the window. "What haste we are in, certainly. But you may just keep still, Miss Bunny, for I am not going to touch you for one half hour. What is the use for me to dress you now, when long before seven you would be so black as a sweep again, I know." "Oh, what a bother!" cried Bunny, stamping her foot and flinging her pretty white hat upon the floor. "You are a nasty thing, and I wish you had not come to be my maid at all, for you never do anything I ask you to do. I wish dear old nurse was back with me again, she used to be so nice, and always did whatever I wanted." "Old nurse was an old silly," answered Sophie, stitching away at her work. "She neg-lect you and make you so naughty, and it is for me to keep you in order and make you good." "Well, I won't be kept in order, and I won't be made good--not one bit," cried Bunny bursting into tears. "It's very unkind of you not to dress me in time to see my papa, and he'll be very angry with you." [Illustration: BUNNY WELCOMES HER FATHER.] "Come, Miss Bunny, don't be a silly baby," said Sophie, "I'll dress you soon enough, do not fear that. You had so much best go and make tidy that doll's house, for the little cousin will be ashamed to see it in so much of disorder." "I don't want to tidy my doll's house, and I don't care whether Mervyn likes it or not, not a bit!" said Bunny, and taking off one little glove she threw it into the very furthest corner of the room, and then rolling the other into a ball she threw it at Sophie's head as she sat bending over her work. But the maid did not take the slightest notice of the young lady, and without another word went quietly on with her sewing. When Bunny saw that Sophie was really determined not to dress her for some time, she sat down on the floor in silence, and leaning her head up against the side of her crib, kicked about for some minutes in a very ill-tempered way indeed. After a while she grew tired of this conduct, which to her great surprise did not seem to make Sophie the least bit angry, and not knowing what to do with herself she sat staring about the room with a very sulky expression on her little face. But by degrees the tears dried up, the cross look disappeared, and jumping suddenly to her feet, she trotted off to the other end of the room. Pulling open the wide door of the doll's house, she set to work very industriously to put it in order. She brushed the carpets, dusted the chairs, shook out the dolls' dresses and set them out in the drawing-room as if they were waiting to receive their visitors. "Now it's tidy, Sophie," she cried with a bright little smile. "Mervyn will think it a very nice doll's house. Won't he?" "Yes, my dear enfant, I am sure he will," said Sophie kindly, "and now as you have been good and quiet for so long, I will begin to dress you if you like." "Oh, that is a dear good Sophie. I am so afraid that I shall not be ready when papa comes." "You will be ready, never fear," said Sophie, and taking off the child's frock, she began to wash her face and hands. "You hurt, Sophie, you hurt," cried Bunny pettishly, as the maid combed out her long fair hair. "Bah, no I don't hurt you, mademoiselle, except when you pull your head aside. But in truth it is hard to comb your hair properly when you move and fidget about. You are very difficult to manage to-day." "I tell you, you do hurt me--you pull as hard as anything," cried Bunny growing very red. "Very well, miss, if you are in such humour," cried Sophie, "you may just stand there till you get back to your temper again. I'm going into the next room to get your frock, and I hope that when I come back you will be quiet and let me dress your hair like a little lady," and the maid flounced out of the nursery, leaving Bunny standing before the glass in her short white petticoat, with one shoe off and the other on, her hair hanging in disorder about her shoulders, and her face puckered up in dismay at Sophie's sudden and unexpected departure. "Oh, why was I so cross about my hair?" she cried. "Papa and Mervyn will be here directly, and just look at the state I am in. What shall I do? What shall I do? Sophie, I'll be good. Do come back, and get me ready to go down." But Sophie did not answer, nor did she return, and poor Bunny sat down on the edge of her crib, and in spite of all the efforts she made to keep them back, the big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. Suddenly the sound of wheels was heard upon the gravel below, and brushing away her tears, the little girl started to her feet and ran over to the window. A cab covered with luggage was coming in at the big gate, and in a minute she saw her papa nodding gaily up to his little Bunny, with a bright well-pleased smile upon his dear face. Without a moment's thought as to the state she was in, or of what her papa or the little boy from India might think of her in such a condition, Bunny dropped the blind, and with a joyful cry of "Papa, papa, my own dear papa," she rushed out of the nursery and away down the stairs. "My little darling! My sweet little Bun," exclaimed Mr. Dashwood, as the small wild-looking figure came running along the hall and jumped into his arms. "Why, dear, why did you come out of the nursery before you were dressed?" he said, as he smoothed back the ruffled hair and kissed the hot cheeks of the excited child. "You are in a strange state to receive visitors, Bunny dear, and I am afraid cousin Mervyn will be shocked at my wild girl, for he is a very tidy little man, I can tell you. Mervyn, this is your cousin Ethel, commonly called Bunny, I hope you will be very good friends," and he put out his hand to a pale gentle-looking boy of about seven years old, who was clinging shyly to the skirts of an Indian Ayah, as though afraid to let her go from beside him for an instant. When Bunny raised her head from her papa's shoulder to look at her new cousin, her eyes suddenly lighted upon the grinning black face of the strange foreign-looking woman, and with one wild yell of terror she turned away, and buried her little face in her father's coat. "Oh, send that dreadful thing away!" she cried, "I'm not half so naughty as I used to be! And I have promised Miss Kerr to be so good! Oh, papa, papa, don't give your little Bunny to that dreadful black woman." "My darling, that is Mervyn's nurse, and he loves her very dearly. See how he clings to her and begs her to stay with him! Just look how kind she is to him!" "Oh, no, no, papa, she's a bogie, I am sure," cried the child, clinging to him more nervously than ever. "Sophie always tells me a bogie will come for me if I am naughty, and I was naughty just now because Sophie pulled my hair, and I was cross, and cried and stamped my foot and--" "My poor foolish little girl, she is not a bogie, but a good kind woman--her face is black, but she can't help that. It was very wrong of Sophie to frighten you about bogies, very wrong--there is no such thing in the world." "Ah, monsieur, monsieur, I'm so sorry Meess Bunny has been so naughty to run down to you in such a state," cried Sophie running into the hall with a very angry look on her face. "I just left her for a minute to get her frock, and when I came back she was gone." "Oh, Sophie, Sophie, don't scold me, please," cried Bunny, "I'll go back to the nursery, and let you dress me now. Oh, take me away quick, for if I see that dreadful face, I shall scream again, I know I shall;" and with one little hand over her eyes that she might not see the terrible creature again, Bunny flung herself into Sophie's arms and was carried off upstairs to have her toilet completed for dinner. "Poor little monkey!" said Mr. Dashwood laughing, "I never thought she would be so easily frightened. Ashton, take the nurse down to the housekeeper's room, and tell the servants to look after her, and give her her dinner. Come, Mervyn, my little man, I want to take you to see your aunt." "Yes, uncle," answered the little boy in a shy nervous voice, and looking up into the Ayah's face to see what she wished him to do. "Go at once," she said in Hindustanee, and then Mervyn went up to his uncle, and putting his little hand into his, allowed him to lead him down the passage to the drawing-room. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER V. THE LITTLE INDIAN. Mrs Dashwood lay on the sofa in the drawing-room, and Miss Kerr sat beside her reading aloud. The two children, Bunny and Mervyn, were seated side by side upon a large white woolly rug in the bow-window, and they whispered together in very low tones lest they should disturb the ladies by their noise. Bunny was nursing a pretty black kitten, with a red ribbon round its neck, whilst Mervyn sat with his little hands clasped over his knees, looking out at the blue sparkling sea, with a well-pleased expression on his thin pale face. "What a lovely cool place England is!" he whispered; "it feels so comfortable and nice here, and that sea is so beautiful to look at." "Yes, to look at," answered Bunny, nodding her head; "but, oh! Mervyn, wouldn't you feel afraid to go into it, and have your face stuck right under the water, and held there till you had no breath, and--" "Oh, that would be horrible!" cried Mervyn with a frightened look; "my papa would be angry if I were put into the sea in that way. Oh! I will write and tell him if--" "Well, I know he wrote to say that bathing would be very good for you," said Bunny, "and mama told Miss Kerr this very morning she was sure it would be. But I tell you, Mervyn, it's only Sophie that is so rough and nasty. One day I went to bathe with Miss Kerr, and it was lovely! She told me when she was going to dip me, and she let me play at the edge, and I took dolly in and I dipped her, and it was such fun." "Well, then, I will ask Miss Kerr always to bathe me," replied Mervyn; "I should die, I am sure, if I were pushed under the water and could not get my breath." "Oh! I was often and often pushed down that way by Sophie, and I didn't die at all; but I kicked and screamed most dreadfully," cried Bunny; "but then, mama says I am very strong, and Sophie said last night that you were a misserble creature, so thin and white." "Sophie is very rude!" exclaimed Mervyn with a slight flush; "I am not a miserable creature; I can't help being white; everyone is in India, because it's so hot." "That is funny!" cried the little girl, "for Sophie said all Indians were black, and I thought you would have a little black face like Pussy here, only Miss Kerr told me you would be as white as me; but you're whiter, much whiter," and she laid her small plump pink hand on Mervyn's thin white one. "I don't like your Sophie," cried Mervyn impatiently; "she talks in such a queer way, and she's not half so nice as my dear old Indian nurse. I do wish she had been able to stay in England with me." "Oh, I think she was a horrid fright!" cried Bunny, "with her nasty black face and her dreadful flappy wild dress, and I'm sure nobody could understand a word she said." "I could," said Mervyn with a sigh, "and I liked talking Hindustanee much better than English." "But it sounds so silly!" cried Bunny; "I think it's a great pity people shouldn't always speak English everywhere, for that would be so plain and easy." "Well, I would much rather everyone would speak Hindustanee, for that would be much nicer." "Oh, dear! I don't think so," said Bunny; "and I think you speak English very well." "Do you?" said Mervyn, smiling; "papa did not; and do you know, I can't always think of the right words for things." "Oh! just ask me and I will tell you," replied Bunny jauntily, "for I never have to think for my words at all." "Bunny, dear," said Mrs. Dashwood from her sofa, "I think you have nursed that kitten quite long enough; the poor little thing looks very tired. Put it into its basket like a good child." "Very well, mama," answered Bunny, and, jumping up, she ran over to a corner of the room where stood a pretty round basket, which was always used as a snug bed for Miss Puss. Bunny dropped her pet gently in upon the soft cushion, and after much stroking and tucking up, she stole away on tip-toe to her mother's side. But Pussy was in a playful mood, and as soon as the little girl's back was turned she sprang lightly out of her bed and went scampering gaily round the room. "Naughty, naughty puss!" cried Bunny laughing, and off she went in pursuit of the runaway. "Bunny, dear Bunny, I can't bear that noise," cried Mrs. Dashwood, as her little daughter tumbled over a footstool and knocked down a chair. "I can't bear it indeed, dear child, so I think you had better go out. Sophie will take you for a walk, as I want Miss Kerr to read to me." "Oh, mama! I like Miss Kerr much better than Sophie," cried Bunny, "and so does Mervyn. Do let Miss Kerr come." "But, Bunny, dear," said Miss Kerr, "you would not like poor mama to have no one to read to her, would you? It is so dull for her all day on the sofa by herself. You would not ask me to leave her, would you?" "Oh! no, no, dear, darling mama, I will not ask Miss Kerr to come, not for a minute!" cried Bunny as, kneeling beside the sofa, she threw her arms round her mother's neck and kissed her vehemently. "I could not bear to think of you being lonely, mamey dear. But do let us stay here now, and go out in the afternoon with Miss Kerr. Mervyn can't bear Sophie." "I am sorry for that, my little man," said Mrs. Dashwood, drawing the boy towards her; "Sophie is sharp and quick, but she is very good-natured, I think, so I hope you will try and like her." "Oh! yes, aunt," answered Mervyn, flushing, "I only meant that I would rather have my own dear nurse, and that I was very sorry she had been sent away to India again." "She was not sent away, dear," answered Mrs. Dashwood; "she went by her own wish. She was fond of you, Mervyn, but she did not like to live in England, so she hurried back to India as soon as she could. It will be better for you to learn English well, and try to pick up a little French from Sophie, than to be always talking with an Indian, my child. But the first thing you have to do, Mervyn, is to get fat and rosy like Bunny here. And you must grow tall, dear boy, for you are very, very small for your age; you must grow as fast as you can or this little girl will soon be the tallest," and Mrs. Dashwood pinched her daughter's plump cheek. "Oh! but mama, dear, he can't make himself grow," remarked Bunny, as she stood up to measure herself with her cousin. "He has not got a key to wind up the works of himself, so he must just wait small till he begins to grow big." "You are sharp enough, Miss Pert," said her mother, laughing. "I wish you would learn to be more steady and to remember what is said to you." "Oh! I can remember," cried Bunny gaily; "I've got a splendid memory, haven't I, Miss Kerr?" "Yes, I think you have, dear," said Miss Kerr gravely; "but I am afraid you do not always remember at the right time. Eh! Bunny?" "No, I don't," said the little girl, hanging her head; "I quite forgot when I got up and went to feed Frisk. But I don't think God minded that much; it was not much harm." "God is always displeased at disobedience, Bunny," said Mrs. Dashwood very seriously. "The first thing God expects of a little child is that she should be obedient, and so my Bunny must try and remember things that she is not allowed to do, and then be very careful not to do them." "Yes, mama, I will try," said Bunny in a subdued voice. "That is right, dear, and I hope little Mervyn will do the same." "Yes, aunt, I will indeed; papa told me to be very good until he came home, and I mean to be," he said, drawing himself up in a determined manner. "Well, then, I am sure you will do Bunny good and help her to remember. But now run away like good children and tell Sophie to take you out for a walk. It is a lovely morning, and a run on the sands will give you an appetite for your dinner." "Very well, mama," cried Bunny gaily, and away she darted out of the room singing and shouting at the top of her voice. "Good morning, aunt," said Mervyn gently, and he followed his little cousin in a slow dignified manner, turning quietly to shut the drawing-room door behind him. "What a harum-scarum that Bunny is!" said Mrs. Dashwood with a sigh. "It is very hard to make an impression on her." "Yes, it is certainly, at least for more than a few minutes at a time," answered Miss Kerr; "she is always so ready to be good, no matter what she has done, that it is not easy to scold her much. But she is a good-hearted child, and I am sure in a short time you will see a great change in her." "I hope so, indeed," said Mrs. Dashwood, "for she is a constant worry at present and extremely hard to manage." [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER VI. BUNNY FORGETS AGAIN. Out of the gate and down the road went the two little cousins hand in hand, whilst close behind them walked Sophie, holding up a big umbrella, and carrying a yellow-covered novel under her arm. On they went; the little ones laughing and talking pleasantly together, until they came to the entrance of the Spa, a gay promenade which the fashionables of the place were in the habit of frequenting in the morning to inhale the sea breezes, listen to sweet music and meet their friends. Sophie liked the Spa, for there she saw much to delight and amuse her, whilst on the sands she always felt dull and weary. But Bunny's ideas and those of her maid were not at all the same, for the little girl loved the sands, and could spend hours there digging and building castles of all shapes and sizes. Every day there was an angry dispute between the nurse and child as to where they should spend their time between breakfast and dinner; sometimes one came off victorious and sometimes the other. This morning, as usual, Bunny was quite determined to go on the sands, and Sophie was equally resolved to go down to the Spa. "Mama said we were to go on the sands, Sophie, and I hate that old Spa," cried Bunny, making a rush towards the steps that led down to the sands; "I've got my spade, and so has Mervyn, and it's very unkind of you not to come there when it looks so nice and we both want to go." "You'll just please to come where I tell you, mademoiselle," said Sophie, making a dive at the little girl, and dragging her through the turnstile and on to the bridge that led into the Cliff grounds. "Don't you think you go to play any of your bad tricks on me. It is enough difficult minding two of you in here without running all over the sands for you." "Never mind, Bunny," said Mervyn gently, as they walked along together, "Miss Kerr will come on the sands with us after dinner, perhaps, and then we will have fine fun." "Yes, indeed," answered the little girl with a toss of her head, and speaking in a loud voice so that the maid might hear her; "Miss Kerr always does what I ask her to do, but Sophie is a regular cross-patch." "Sit down here, mademoiselle, and try to behave like a lady," cried Sophie, as she seated herself upon a bench at the top of the cliff, overlooking the promenade and sea. "Oh, I don't want to sit down, I want to walk," cried Bunny tearfully; "why, we have just come out." "Of course you want to do exactly what I tell you not to do," said Sophie angrily; "sit down, both of you, when I tell you," and she lifted first one and then the other, and placed them very roughly upon the bench. In a few minutes a friend of Sophie's approached them, and after some pressing she took a seat beside the maid, and the two children were pushed away by themselves to the other end of the bench. "How long an age it is since I've seen you, Kitty!" cried Sophie, smiling pleasantly upon the new-comer. "Yes, it is a long time," answered her friend, "and I've lots of news for you. I've heard of a place--but it might be dangerous to say much just now," and she glanced at the children. "Oh, they will not pay attention," cried Sophie, "but it's easy to get rid of them if you like. Meess Bunny, you can run and play up and down for a little with your cousin. But do not go very far." "That is nice!" exclaimed Bunny gaily; "thank you, Sophie, very much," and jumping off the seat, she took Mervyn by the hand and dragged him away for a race down the hill. "What is that, Bunny? What is that?" cried Mervyn suddenly, and he pointed his finger towards the far end of the Spa. "It's like a train, at least one carriage of a train, and it's running so fast up the side of the cliff, and, oh dear! I declare there is another one just the same coming down past it." "That is the lift, Mervyn; doesn't it look very funny hanging all down like that? Do you know, I went in it once with papa and it was lovely. It went along so smooth and so fast." "I would like so much to go in it," said Mervyn, "I wonder if uncle will take me some day." "Yes, I am sure he will, and me too," cried Bunny, skipping gaily along. "But I tell you what, Mervyn, wouldn't it be fun to go off now, all by ourselves." "Now!" exclaimed Mervyn in surprise, "and what would Sophie say?" "Oh, she will never know," said Bunny. "We'll go up in the lift and run down those paths among the trees ever so fast, and get back to her before she knows we have gone away at all. She always has so much to say to that friend of hers." "Yes, but don't you have to pay to go up in the lift?" asked Mervyn, "and I have no money. Have you?" "Of course we must pay, but it's only a penny each, I know," answered Bunny, "and I have got twopence in my pocket that papa gave me this morning. I was going to give it to Miss Kerr, but I won't now." "To Miss Kerr! Why should you give her your money?" "Oh, that's a secret of mine. But I don't mind telling you, Mervyn, only you must not tell anyone, will you now? Promise you won't, like a good boy." "I promise," answered Mervyn earnestly; "I would not tell anyone for the world." "Well, one day Miss Kerr lent me three pennies to give to a poor boy, and I said I would pay her back very soon." "Then I would not spend the pennies," said Mervyn decidedly; "keep them, Bunny, and give them to Miss Kerr when we go home." "Oh, no; I would much rather go in the lift," cried Bunny. "Miss Kerr won't mind, for she said I need not be in a hurry to pay it." "Still I think it would be better," began Mervyn solemnly, "to pay Miss--" "Oh, bother! Never mind thinking, but come along, or we will not have time to go up in the lift before Sophie wants to go home for her dinner." "I should like to go up in it very much," said Mervyn weakly, and casting longing looks at the distant lift, "but, indeed, Bunny--" "Oh, you are silly!" cried the little girl. "Come on quick or we sha'n't have time," and grasping his hand, she hurried him down the steps, with just one backward glance to make sure that Sophie was still safe upon her bench. The maid's face was turned away towards her friend, who seemed to be telling a very interesting story; they were both completely occupied and quite unaware of what was going on about them. "We shall have plenty of time!" said Bunny growing bold at the sight of the back of Sophie's head. "So come along, Mervyn, and see what the lift is like." There was a great crowd of ladies and gentlemen walking up and down the promenade, and it took the children a long time to make their way as far as the band-stand, and even then they were at some distance from the wonderful lift that had attracted the little stranger so much. As they hurried along, pushing their way right and left through the people, the band began to play the "Blue Danube Waltzes," and Mervyn stopped short in delight. "Oh, what a lovely waltz!" he cried. "Bunny dear, do let us stay here and listen to it. I'd much rather hear the music than go up in the lift, I would, indeed." "Oh! no, no," cried Bunny, "I'm tired of that old band, it's a stupid old thing! We can come and listen to it to-morrow if you like; but do come on now, you can't think how nice it is flying up the cliff in the lift; besides, I am quite sure that we sha'n't get a chance to go another day." "Oh, very well, if you want to go so much; but really, Bunny, I would far rather stay and hear the music," said Mervyn, "I would indeed." "Bother the music! Do come, like a good boy," cried the little girl impatiently, and catching him by the hand she dragged him away through the gate that led to the lift. There was a great crowd of people of all kinds waiting to go up in the lift, for it was getting near luncheon hour at the hotels, and many were anxious to be in good time for that pleasant meal. Our little friends, Bunny and Mervyn, were so small that they were a good deal knocked about by the crowd, and the lift went off several times before they managed to push themselves anywhere near the front. At last the conductor noticed the two mites, and stepping forward in a kindly way, he took them by the hand, helped them into the carriage, and seating them side by side, remarked with a smile: "You're a funny pair to be sure! Where is your nurse?" "She's on the Spa, at least on a bench just at the top of the steps," said Bunny gaily as she arranged her short skirts about her on the seat. "My cousin is a stranger here, so I have brought him to see what the lift is like." "Indeed!" said the man with a laugh. "What a kind little lady you are to be sure;" and then, as the carriage was full, he banged the door and away they went. "Isn't it nice, Mervyn? Aren't you glad I brought you?" asked Bunny in a patronizing tone. "It is much nicer in here than sitting up on that bench. Isn't it?" "Yes, I suppose it is," answered Mervyn doubtfully, "but oh, Bunny, I don't much like it! I have a sort of feeling as if I were in a ship, and it makes me giddy to look out--indeed it does." "Don't look out then," said Bunny decisively. "But really, Mervyn, I think it's lovely--it's so--Oh, dear what is that?" she cried in alarm, as with a harsh grating noise the lift they were in, came to a sudden stand-still, and the descending one shot quickly past them. "Something gone wrong, I expect," grumbled an old gentleman beside her; "ah, they have to let us go down again! What an awful nuisance!" "Oh, please, sir, is there going to be an accident?" cried Bunny in a voice of terror, and growing very pale. "My cousin is just come from India, and I am sure he will be frightened," and she put her little arm round Mervyn as if to protect him from danger. "No, no, there is not going to be any accident, my little girl," answered the old gentleman with a kind smile. "Don't be afraid, we'll go up again in a minute; but I must say the small cousin from India doesn't look half so much frightened as you do," and he patted her on the back. "There, now, off we go, you see, and we'll be at the top in a minute." "Oh, I am so glad we are out of that horrid thing! and, Bunny, I am sure we should never have gone into it," cried Mervyn, as they at last stepped out of the lift and ran quickly along the cliff towards the entrance to the Spa grounds. "Just think, there might have been an accident and we might have been killed! Oh, it would have been so dreadful if such a thing had happened." "Yes, it would," answered Bunny, "and Sophie will be angry, for we have been away such a long time. And oh, Mervyn, now I remember, mama told me that I should never leave my nurse when I was out with her, and I quite forgot, and there, I have been disobedient again! I am so sorry." "Oh, Bunny, Bunny! why don't you try and remember?" cried Mervyn reproachfully, "and we promised aunt to be so good just before we came out," and tears of sorrow stood in the little boy's eyes. "Never mind, Mervyn, dear," said Bunny kissing him, "it was my fault. Don't cry--you were not naughty at all. It was all because I forgot again. Oh, dear, I am afraid Miss Kerr will be angry with me. But come along quick, there is Sophie. See, she is looking about everywhere for us." The two children trotted along at a brisk pace down the steep winding path that led through the pretty ornamental grounds with which the cliff, overhanging the Spa, was tastefully laid out. The trees were high and shady, so the little creatures were not visible from below as they ran quickly on their way. But soon they came to a part where there was not even a bush to hide them from view, and as Sophie walked up and down in despair, her eyes wandering about wildly in every direction, she suddenly caught sight of Bunny's white hat and blue sash, and with a shriek of rage, she bounded up the path, and taking hold of them by the shoulders shook them angrily as she cried in a hoarse voice: "Ah, you wicked bad ones, I thought you were lost! I thought the kidnappers had taken you away for ever." "Oh, we are too big for that!" cried Bunny, "and you need not be in such a rage, Sophie, we only went up in the lift, as Mervyn wanted to see what it was like;" and she walked past the maid with a scornful toss of her little head. "I am very sorry, Sophie, indeed I am," said Mervyn gently; "I did not know we had so far to go. I am sorry you thought we were lost." "Ah! much I care whether you are sorry or not," cried the angry maid. "It will be like Mademoiselle Bunny's sorrow--it will last one minute--and then off to some more naughty things," and with a push and a slap Sophie drove the two children on before her, over the bridge and away home to Holly Lodge. "And now," she cried as they reached the hall door, "I will march you both up to Miss Kerr, and see what she will do with you. Some punishment should be given to you, and I don't know what to do." "Oh, very well!" said Bunny, "we'll go and tell Miss Kerr ourselves. You need not come with us, we don't want you at all. Come along, Mervyn;" and taking the little boy by the hand, she dragged him up the stairs after her. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER VII. IN MISS KERR'S ROOM. When the two children reached Miss Kerr's bed-room, they found the door shut, and feeling quite certain that she was there, they knocked gently, and then stood very still upon the mat, expecting every moment to hear her voice calling to them to go in. "Dear Miss Kerr," said Bunny at last, as, growing impatient at the delay, she put her little mouth to the key-hole and tried very hard to make herself heard within the room, "Mervyn and I want to tell you something, so please, please, open the door and let us in." But to her surprise she received no answer, and becoming more and more cross and impatient, she rattled the handle as noisily as possible in order to attract Miss Kerr's attention. "I can't make out why she doesn't speak to us," said Mervyn in a whisper. "I think she must be asleep." "Asleep!" exclaimed Bunny indignantly. "She isn't a baby, and she isn't ill, so why should she be asleep at this time of the day?" "Well, in India people sleep in the day when they're not a bit ill, just because it's hot--so why shouldn't they here?" "What a lot of sillies they must be in India then!" cried Bunny contemptuously. "Why, I have not been asleep in the day for years--not since I was quite small," and she rattled away more noisily than ever at the door-handle. "Miss Kerr is not there, children," said a housemaid who passed along the passage at that moment, "she has been in the drawing-room all the morning." "Has she?" said Bunny, "oh, then, I tell you what, Mervyn, we'll just go in and wait for her. She will be sure to come up in a few minutes to wash her hands before dinner, and then we'll tell her." "Oh, but there is Sophie calling to us to get ready ourselves. She will be awfully angry if we don't go," said Mervyn. "Listen how she is screaming." "Never mind her, the nasty, cross old thing!" cried Bunny, opening the bed-room door. "Come in, Mervyn, come in! There is Sophie--do be quick, or she will catch us and drag us off with her--and then she'll tell Miss Kerr before we do. Come in, come in," and once more she hurried her cousin along with her, against his own will and inclination. "But, Bunny, I do think we ought to go to Sophie, I do indeed," said Mervyn; "listen, she is asking the housemaid if she has seen us anywhere. And oh, she is coming here to look for us--she will be awfully cross! Do let us go into the nursery quietly and take off our things and get ready for dinner." "Well, you are a silly, Mervyn! That would spoil all the fun. But I know what I'll do--I'll lock the door, and then Sophie will not be able to get us. I can easily open it for Miss Kerr when she comes up," cried Bunny; and before Mervyn could say a word to prevent her, the little girl turned the key in the lock, and, clapping her hands with delight, danced up and down the room singing at the top of her voice: "What a good plan! What a good plan! And the dinner is in the frying pan!" "Indeed, then I wish it was here," grumbled Mervyn, "I'm awfully hungry, and it would be much better to go down to dinner now, and tell Miss Kerr afterwards, or at dinner-time, Bunny, indeed it would." "Yes, and let Sophie hear her scolding us," cried the little girl. "I am hungry too, I can tell you, Mervyn; but Miss Kerr won't be long, I am sure. Hasn't she got a pretty room? and doesn't the sea and the bridge look nice from the window?" "Well enough," answered Mervyn crossly, as he rolled about in an arm-chair that stood away in the furthest corner. "But oh, it is silly to be sticking up here when the dinner is ready down-stairs--oh, I smell it, and it does smell nice! and I am so hungry, and it's very stupid of you to keep me shut up here." "Well, I thought you were sorry and wanted to tell Miss Kerr so," said Bunny complacently, as she shook out her frock and admired herself in the long glass. "It's very greedy to talk so much about your dinner." "Is it?" grumbled Mervyn. "Well, I don't care! I'm sure you're just as bad twisting about and looking at yourself in the glass, for that's being vain, and I'd rather be greedy than vain, so I would, Bunny." "Would you? Oh, that's because you're a boy. Boys are greedy, but it's vulgar to be greedy--Sophie says it is, but it's different to be vain, I--" "Mademoiselle Bunny, come out this minute. Ah, what a little naughty one you are! and that cousin of yours he is a wicked bad boy--he leads you into the mischiefs of all kinds. Come out, I say, the dinner is ready and Miss Kerr is waiting for you;" and Sophie rattled the handle and hammered at the door till the whole passage was filled with the noise and the other servants came running from all parts of the house to see what could be the matter. "What is wrong, Sophie?" asked Miss Kerr, as she too hurried upstairs wondering what was going on in the corridor. "Why are you making such a dreadful noise?" "Ah! ma foi! Noise, Miss Kerr! What can I do but make a noise, when those two children have locked themselves into your room, and will not come out for their dinner. Is it then a wonder that I make a noise?" and she began once more to bang the door as if she would like to break it in. "That was Miss Kerr's voice, Bunny," whispered Mervyn; "do open the door and let us go out to her now." "Is it really? I only heard Sophie. Miss Kerr," she called, "are you there?" "Yes, Bunny, I am here. Come out, child, come to your dinner. You must be starving, both of you." "Yes, we are," answered Bunny, "and we will go out if you will send Sophie away. Mervyn and I want to tell you something." "Ah! what a naughty child!" cried Sophie. "Meess Kerr, they have both been so very difficult, so wicked! They have run away, they have gone in the lift, they have just escaped being seized by kidnappers and--" "That's a great story, Sophie," cried Bunny through the door, "for there was not a single kidnapper near us; was there, Mervyn?" "No, there wasn't," said Mervyn, "not one, Sophie, there wasn't really." "Now!" shouted Bunny triumphantly, "you see you are quite wrong, Sophie." "Open the door, Bunny, this minute," said Miss Kerr decidedly, "I am surprised that you should behave in such a naughty way, just when I thought you were going to be a good girl." "I'll open it now, indeed I will," cried Bunny, "and please, please don't be angry with us. We are so sorry we ran away from Sophie, indeed we are, and that is the reason we came up here, just to tell you so." All the time the child was talking she was also working away at the key, trying her very best to open the door. But no matter how she turned or pulled it, round it would not go, and at last, hot and tired with so many violent efforts, she begged Mervyn to try if he could make it turn. "No, Bunny, I can't," said the boy sadly, after working patiently at the key for some time. "It's no use, I can't do it at all." "Oh dear, oh dear!" cried Bunny in a miserable voice, "what shall we do? Miss Kerr, dear, we can't open the door, it's locked quite fast." "Take the key out of the lock and push it under the door, and I will try and open it from this side," said Miss Kerr; "it was really very naughty of you to lock yourselves up in such a way. But be quick and give me the key." After a good deal of pulling and tugging, Bunny at last managed to get the key out of the lock, and kneeling on the floor she tried with all the strength of her tiny hands to push it out under the door. But the key was too large or the door fitted too closely, and the little girl gave a cry of alarm as she found that it was quite impossible to get it out into the passage. "Oh, Mervyn, dear, it won't go out! Oh! Miss Kerr, what shall we do?" she cried, bursting into tears; "if we can't open the door what shall we do?" "And I am so hungry," said Mervyn in a doleful tone. "How nasty it will be to be stuck in here for ever! Oh, pray open the door! Oh! pray open the door, Miss Kerr." "Throw the key out of the window, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, "and I will go round and pick it up, and let you out in a minute." "Oh! the window is shut. The window is shut," cried the two children in despair, "and we cannot reach to open it. What shall we do? What shall we do?" "Good gracious!" exclaimed Miss Kerr, "who can have shut the window?" "I am sorry to say I did, miss," said the housemaid. "The wind was so strong upon the window that was open, that I shut it, intending to open the middle one, but I forgot all about it when I was leaving the room." "It is extremely awkward, and has helped to give the poor children a great fright," said Miss Kerr. "Go and bring me the keys of all the doors, Sarah, and I will try if any of them will fit the lock. Don't be uneasy, Bunny; don't cry, little Mervyn. We will get you out some way or other, you may be quite sure, so don't be afraid. I have sent for some keys to try if they will open the door, so don't fret. Ah! here they are." One after the other the keys were taken and tried, but not one was of the slightest use. One was too large, and another too small, and Miss Kerr felt really grieved for the poor little prisoners, whose sobs were distinctly heard through the door. "What can I do?" she said. "It is really very hard on them to be shut in there for such a long, long time! And they are so hungry too." "Send for a man to pick the lock, miss," said Sarah. "Ashton will get some one from one of the shops." "But that will take such a time!" cried Miss Kerr; "it is a long way to the town, and the children want their dinner so badly. No, I must think of some quicker plan than that. Ah, now I know one!" she exclaimed with a sudden smile; "it is a pity, but it can't be helped! Bunny, dear, will you take the poker, break a pane of glass with it, and throw the key out upon the grass. Be very careful not to cut your fingers." "I'll do it!" cried Mervyn, jumping up out of the chair, where he had been rolling about disconsolately. "I'd just like to break a window, and I'm taller than you, Bunny; do let me, like a good girl." "No, no; Miss Kerr told me to do it," cried Bunny, "and I should like to break a pane too;" and seizing the poker she sent it crash through the glass. "Oh, what fun! What a rare smash!" exclaimed Mervyn in delight. "I will throw the key out;" and he darted across the room, picked up the key, and flung it with all his strength at the window. But he did not aim straight, and instead of flying into the garden the key merely shattered the glass a little more, and fell back again on to the floor. "You stupid boy! What a bad shot!" cried Bunny, and taking it up between her finger and thumb she stepped on a chair, and dropped it down cleverly upon the grass, just at Miss Kerr's feet. "That is right," said the governess with a smile, as she stooped to pick up the key; "and now don't you think it would be a good punishment for all your naughtiness to keep you both locked up there for the rest of the afternoon?" "Oh, no, no, pray do not do that, Miss Kerr, we are so sorry and so hungry!" and the two little faces, as they were pressed against the window, looked so utterly miserable and woebegone, that the kind-hearted governess could not bear to carry out her threat of punishment, but hurried away as fast as possible to let the poor children out. When the door was at last opened and they were told to come forth, Mervyn hung back and did not dare to raise his eyes to Miss Kerr's face. Bunny, on the contrary, greeted her with a cry of joy, and springing into her arms, kissed her heartily over and over again. "I'm so glad to get out! I'm so glad to get out! Oh, I was afraid we should have to stay in here all day by ourselves." "Well, I hope this will be a lesson to you never to shut yourself into a room again, Bunny," said Miss Kerr severely. "It was a very foolish thing to do, and I cannot say that I am very sorry that you got a little fright, for I really think you deserved to suffer something for your naughtiness. But tell me, little man," she said to Mervyn, "are you not glad to get out too? You don't look so cheerful over it as Bunny does." "I am very glad to get out. But I--I--wanted to tell you," he said with much difficulty, and clasping his little hands tightly together. "I want--to tell you--that I am very sorry I was disobedient and ran away from Sophie." "I am glad to hear you say you are sorry, dear," answered Miss Kerr. "I am sure you mean it Mervyn, and that I may trust you not to be disobedient again." "Yes, you may trust me, indeed you may," the boy cried with a bright smile, "I will really try to be good, and make Bunny remember if I can." "Naughty little Bun! Why do you always forget as you do?" said Miss Kerr gently. "I did think you were going to be good to-day, and just see how you have disappointed me!" "I'm very sorry," murmured Bunny, hanging her head. "I did want to be good, and I promise you I won't be naughty again. I'll always stay as close up to Sophie as ever I can when we go out, I will indeed." "Very well, then, I will not say any more about the matter. Run away now, like good children, and get ready for dinner. And Bunny, dear, if Sophie is a little cross, be gentle and polite with her, for you have tormented and tried her temper very much, you know." "Oh, I will be ever so nice and kind to her, dear, dear Miss Kerr," cried Bunny as she gave the governess a bear-like hug and another loving kiss. "I'll be awfully polite;" and laughing merrily she jumped off her perch on Miss Kerr's knee, and ran down the passage to the nursery, waving her hat and singing at the top of her voice. "Poor little giddy-pate!" said Miss Kerr with a sigh. "I wonder how long she will keep all those splendid promises. But why don't you go off and get ready for dinner too, Mervyn?" she asked in surprise as she saw the little boy lingering at the door in a shy uncertain manner. "Run along, dear, at once." "Will you--give me a kiss?" said Mervyn with a deep blush. "I want to know that you have really forgiven me." "Of course I have, dear boy," answered Miss Kerr, and she put her arm round him and kissed him affectionately. "I have quite forgiven you, Mervyn, and I feel sure that you are going to be a very good boy." "I am going to try very hard to be good," replied the boy solemnly, "and as Bunny is so small perhaps I may make her do the same." "Very likely, Mervyn, dear, for good example is sure to have a strong effect upon little Bunny, who is more thoughtless than really naughty. But run off now, dear, and get your hands washed as quickly as possible. The dinner will not be fit to eat if we keep it waiting any longer." "That is true," said Mervyn with a bright happy smile. "We have kept it waiting a dreadfully long time, and we are all just dying with hunger, I'm sure;" and he too went off singing to the nursery. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER VIII. BUNNY TRIES TO SHOW OFF. For some time after this there was a marked improvement in little Bunny's behaviour, and everyone in the house was delighted with the change, and rejoiced over it in a very open manner. "It is perfectly wonderful!" said Mrs. Dashwood; "our little troublesome is becoming quite a well-behaved young person. I feel very grateful to you, Miss Kerr, for I believe it is all owing to your tender care and kind good-nature that the child is improving so much." "I don't think I have so much to do with the change as little Mervyn," answered Miss Kerr with a smile. "I have lectured poor Bunny very often, it is true, but I think a good obedient little friend does a child more real good than all the scoldings and lectures in the world." "Yes, I daresay it is an excellent thing," replied Mrs. Dashwood; "but still I think your lectures and sermons have improved my poor darling a great deal. She was very ignorant when you came to look after her." "Yes, she was," said Miss Kerr; "she did not know much, poor child, and what was worse, did not care to learn anything. But lately she has begun to get on very nicely. And there, again, you see it is Mervyn who has done her good, for her whole ambition is to do everything better than he does it." "The little rogue!" exclaimed Mrs. Dashwood laughing. "Well, it is a good thing to have found a way to make her work. Where is she now, I wonder?" "Mr. Dashwood took her off with him to the stables. Mervyn went too, as it seems there is a pleasant surprise awaiting them there. They both went off laden with bread for Frisk." "I think I can guess what the surprise is," said Mrs. Dashwood with a smile; "I--" "Oh, mama, mama! we are glad! we are glad!" cried Bunny bursting suddenly into the room, followed by Mervyn with a radiant look of happiness on his little white face. "What do you think? Guess what has happened. Just guess what papa has given Mervyn." "Dear aunt, it was so kind of uncle to buy me such a--" "Let her guess--let her guess, Mervyn. Don't tell her what he bought you. Miss Kerr, what did papa buy for him? Something living, something with a tail, something with a nose, a dear velvety nose and a soft silky coat," cried Bunny, as she danced up and down the drawing-room in high glee. "A kitten," said Miss Kerr gravely. "A kitten! oh, the idea!" exclaimed Bunny, "as if people bought kittens." "Something far nicer!" said Mervyn in a voice full of pleasure. "I'll tell her, Bunny, something to ride--" "No, no, don't tell, don't tell!" cried the little girl, laying her hand quickly over his mouth. "Mama, guess, guess." "A pony, Bun, a little brown pony," said Mrs. Dashwood, smiling brightly upon the eager excited children. "You dear clever mamey, that's just what it is," exclaimed Bunny, giving her mother an affectionate hug. "And Mervyn's so pleased, and I am so glad, and oh, it will be so nice going out to ride together!" and jumping up sideways on the arm of the sofa the little girl began to work herself about as if she were really on Frisk's back and trotting along a country road. "My dear Bunny, please don't," cried Mrs. Dashwood, as she felt the sofa upon which she was lying, shaken up and down by the child's vigorous antics. "Please don't, dear, you hurt me very much." "Oh, I am so sorry!" cried Bunny bounding quickly down from her perch, and holding her face up for a pardoning kiss. "But won't it be nice, mama? Frisk is so glad to have a friend in the stable with him, and it will be fun for me to have Mervyn to ride with." "Yes, it will be very nice, dear. But, Bunny, you talk so much that Mervyn never gets saying a word. Tell me, my dear, do you really like your pony?" "Oh, yes, aunt, I am delighted with him, he is so pretty. It was very good of uncle to buy him for me." "And you will not be afraid to ride him, I hope," she said with a smile. "No, I think not, at least not if we go along quietly. But Bunny says she will make Frisk go awfully fast, and then my pony will run after him, and that she is sure I shall be frightened and hold on by the mane and--" "Bunny, Bunny, you must not say such naughty things," cried Mrs. Dashwood shaking her finger at the mischievous child. "But don't mind her, Mervyn. She does not ride at all so splendidly herself. The groom or her papa always holds Frisk by a leading rein, so it would be quite impossible for her to go on as fast as she likes; so do not mind her." "Oh, I don't feel a bit afraid if some one holds my pony by a rein," said Mervyn bravely; "not one bit; I think it will be lovely riding along together." "That is right," said Mrs. Dashwood. "I am sure you will be a clever horseman, for your papa was when he was a boy." "And so he is now, aunt. He has a beautiful horse, and he looks splendid on it when he goes off to ride," cried Mervyn, smiling brightly at the recollection; "I used to think he looked grander than any of the other officers." "Poor little man," said his aunt gently, as she smoothed back the hair from his brow. "You are very fond of your papa, Mervyn, and do you know, I think you will be like him when you grow big and strong." "I want to be like him in every way," said Mervyn, "and I mean to be an officer when I grow up." "And go away to that nasty, hot India," cried Bunny; "oh, I'd be so lonely if you went away again--please don't, Mervyn, please don't." "What is Mervyn not to do, my little woman?" asked Mr. Dashwood, who entered the room at this moment. "He's not to go back to India again, because I should be so lonely without him," cried Bunny catching hold of her papa's hand and laying her little cheek against it; "you won't let him go, papa, will you, dear?" "No, indeed, I couldn't think of such a thing. But I am sure he won't want to go when he hears that his papa is coming home for Christmas; eh, my boy?" "That is good news, uncle," cried Mervyn joyfully; "I never thought he would come so soon. Not much fear of my wanting to go to India when he comes home." "So I thought," said Mr. Dashwood. "And now, children, when are we to have our first ride?" "Now, now; to-day, to-day," cried Bunny; "dear papa, let us go off at once!" "Very well, my dear. I thought you would like to go soon, so I told John to get the ponies and horses ready in half an hour. You had better run and get on your habit--that is, if Miss Kerr will let you both off with your afternoon lessons. What do you think, Miss Kerr, do they deserve a ride?" "Yes, I think they do, for they have both been very good," answered the governess with a smile; "besides, I really don't think they look studiously inclined--they are very much excited." "I couldn't learn a lesson if I tried ever so," cried Bunny, "I really couldn't, so I am glad you are going to let us off. Good-bye, Miss Kerr; good-bye, mama I sha'n't be long, papa, dear;" and away she flew in breathless haste to the nursery. Sophie had received a message informing her that her young lady was going out for a ride, and when Bunny went up to be dressed she found her pretty brown habit and neat felt hat laid all ready for her on the bed. "That is a dear good Sophie," she cried, and she was in such good humour that she allowed the maid to brush her hair and put on her habit without uttering a single cross word or complaint. "Thank you very much, that will do nicely," she said politely, as Sophie put the last finishing touch to her curls; then taking her little whip with the pretty silver top from the maid's hand, she gathered up her skirts and ran quickly down to the hall-door. "What a pleasure it is to dress her when she is so good and polite as that!" said Sophie to herself as she watched the little figure running away from her down the passage. "What a pity it is that children are so often naughty and troublesome!" When Bunny arrived in the hall she found her papa and Mervyn quite ready to start for their ride. "Oh, how nice Brownie looks!" cried the little girl in delight, as her cousin was lifted on to his new pony; "but I don't think he is as handsome as you, old Frisk. Is he, papa?" "I don't know, I am sure, dear," answered her papa, laughing; "but I suppose you like Frisk best because he is your own." "Yes, I suppose I do," said Bunny, and placing her little foot on her papa's hand she sprang nimbly to her saddle. "Good-bye, Miss Kerr, good-bye." Mr. Dashwood mounted his horse, the groom jumped on his, and the whole party rode gaily up the avenue and out of the gate. "I declare Mervyn sits very well, papa," said Bunny in a patronizing manner, as she looked back at her cousin, who was following them with the servant. "Yes, of course he sits well; why shouldn't he?" asked Mr. Dashwood; "he wants a few lessons and then he will ride very well, I am sure." "Yes, I daresay," said Bunny; "but he never rode before, you know, except just little short rides on Frisk, and he'd be awfully afraid to go without the leading rein, I know." "Yes, and quite right too," said her father; "it's only children who ride very well who should be allowed to go without a leading rein, and especially on a country road. Supposing the pony took it into his head to bolt--what do you think would happen then?" "Oh, he could be pulled up quite tight by his rein. I wouldn't be a bit afraid to ride all by myself." "Wouldn't you, indeed, Miss Vanity. Well, I would rather not trust you," said Mr. Dashwood laughing; "I think it is very likely you would find Master Frisk rather too much for you without a leading rein, my dear child." "No, I shouldn't," answered Bunny, bending over her pony and patting his neck; "Frisk and I are such friends he would be sure to do what I told him. Wouldn't you, Friskie?" "Don't trust him or your own power too much, Miss Bunny," replied her father with a smile. "But who is that coming down the road towards us? I think I ought to know him." "Why, papa, it's Mr. Davis, that nice old gentleman who gave me the box of sweets; don't you remember? I'm sure it is." "Yes, so it is," said Mr. Dashwood; "what sharp eyes you have, little woman! You and Mervyn had better ride on with John, as I want to say a word to Mr. Davis." "Very well, papa, but don't be long, pray," said the little girl; "it's so much nicer talking to you than to John." "No, I sha'n't be very long, dear. Good morning, Mr. Davis," said Mr. Dashwood to a tall fine-looking old gentleman who at this moment rode up to them on a beautiful chestnut horse; "I am very glad to see you. This little girl of mine knew you a long way off." "Ha! Miss Bunny and I are great friends," answered Mr. Davis with a smile, as he bent forward to shake her warmly by the hand. "Those pretty eyes of yours are a deal sharper than mine, my dear, for I had not the faintest idea who it was that was coming along the road. But I am glad I met you, Dashwood, as I want to say a few words to you about--" and he lowered his voice to a whisper. "Very well," said Mr. Dashwood; "I'll send these little people on with the groom, and ride down the road a short way with you. John," he called to the servant, "take Miss Bunny's rein and go on up the hill with the children, turn in at Lady Edith's Drive, and I will overtake you in a few minutes." "Yes, sir," said the groom, touching his hat respectfully, and riding forward he took the rein from his master's hand. "Ride quietly along and I will be back to you very soon, Bunny," said Mr. Dashwood, and then he turned his horse round and walked it leisurely down the road again with Mr. Davis. "Oh, what a pretty place!" cried Mervyn, as the riding party trotted along through a gate and into a cool shady avenue, with tall stately trees growing closely together on every side. "This is Lady Edith's Drive," said Bunny; "I think it is the prettiest place about Scarborough. It is so cool and pleasant, and then it is so quiet." "Why is it called Lady Edith's Drive?" asked Mervyn. "I don't know," answered Bunny. "Do you, John?" "Well, no, Miss," said John; "I can't exactly say as I do. I suppose some Lady Edith used to drive here very often." "I suppose so, indeed," said Bunny, laughing merrily at this explanation. "I don't think that tells us much, John," said Mervyn; "anyone might know that." "Yes, sir, very likely, sir," replied the groom; "but I never asks no questions. If I'm told a place is called by a name, I never asks why or wherefore, but just takes it as the name that it's to be called by." "Well, I think you are very foolish then," said Mervyn; "I like asking questions, and it's a very good way to learn about things, I can tell you." "I daresay it is, sir, for a young gentleman like you, sir. But you see the people about me don't know no more nor I do, so what's the use of asking them what's this an' what's that, an' showin' them I don't know nothin' myself." "I never thought of that," said Mervyn, "but I don't think it matters about showing that you don't know. Miss Kerr says no one should be ashamed to ask a question about a thing they don't understand." "John, John," cried Bunny suddenly as she pulled very hard at the leading rein in order to attract the groom's attention, "I want to ask you something. Stoop down that I may whisper it into your ear." The man did as she requested; but when he had heard what she wanted him to do he shook his head in a very determined manner, saying, "I couldn't on no account, Miss. Your pa would be as angry as anything." "No, he wouldn't, John. I told him I could manage Frisk myself, and he only laughed. Do let me--just for a few minutes. I'll go along quite quietly, you'll see I will. I want to show Mervyn that I can ride better than he does, and that I am not afraid to go without a leading rein." "Well, it's very quiet here, so I suppose it could not be much harm," said the man, yielding a little at her pleading voice; "I really don't think it could be any harm;" and he turned in his saddle and looked carefully up and down the drive. "Harm!" exclaimed Bunny, "of course it could do no harm. Oh! pray take off the rein, John," and she looked up into his face in a most imploring manner. "Well, you are a funny little lady, to be sure," he answered with a good-natured laugh, and, bending forward, he unfastened the leading rein and put it into his pocket. "Thank you, John," said the child, sitting up proudly on her pony. "It feels ever so much nicer without it; it's so silly to be always led along by a rein like a baby. Mervyn, I am riding all by myself. Wouldn't you like to ride without a leading rein?" she shouted across at her cousin, who was trotting along quietly at the other side of the groom; "it's twice as nice to feel that you can go just as you like." "I feel just as nice as I am, Bunny, thank you," said Mervyn; "I would rather have the rein, thank you." "I can't hear what you say, so I think I'll go round beside you, Mervyn," she cried gaily; and, raising her whip, she brought it down heavily upon poor Frisk's back, and tried to make him go round beside Brownie. But Frisk was not accustomed to such treatment, and tossed his head and whisked up his tail, but absolutely refused to go to the other side of John's horse, no matter what she did to him. "You naughty pony," she cried, "you must do what I tell you," and she tugged violently at his mouth, and gave him another sharp blow with her whip. This was more than the pony could bear; and before his little mistress knew where she was, he pricked up his ears, and with an angry toss of his head galloped away down the road as fast as he could. "Stop, Miss Bunny, for goodness sake stop," shouted the groom; "you must not go so fast; come back here at once." [Illustration: FRANCIS SAVES BUNNY.] "I can't stop--I can't!" shrieked the little girl in a voice of terror. "Oh! he's running away--he's running away;" and, completely overcome with fright, poor Bunny dropped her reins, and, catching hold of the pony's mane, held on to him with all her strength. "What a fool I was to let her go!" cried the groom; "what on earth will my master say to me? Goodness, the silly child has let go her reins; she'll be off--she'll be off;" and, spurring up his horse, he rode after the runaway, hoping to overtake him and put a stop to his mad race. But the noise of the horses as they clattered down the road after him seemed only to excite Master Frisk, and on he went faster than ever. As the pony reached the end of the drive, and poor little Bunny had become so weak and faint from terror that she was in great danger of being thrown to the ground, a young lad of about sixteen jumped up from the grass where he had been seated, and, dashing forward, seized Frisk by the head and brought him to a sudden stand-still. "Poor little girl," said the boy kindly, as he lifted Bunny from her saddle and laid her gently on the grass. "What a fright you have had! How did this beggar come to run away? He looks quiet enough." "I whipped him," answered Bunny in a shaky voice; "and oh! I thought I was going to fall," and she put her hand to her head as if she still felt giddy. "You were certainly very nearly off," said the boy; "but what a fool that groom of yours was to let a kid like you ride without a leading rein; he shouldn't have done such a thing." "Oh! but I begged him so hard that he let me go," said Bunny; "he didn't want to let me, and--" "Miss Bunny, I'm ashamed of you," cried John, riding up beside her. "You promised you'd ride quite quiet beside me, and you broke your word. I'm very thankful to you, sir, I'm sure," he continued, turning to the young stranger. "In another minute this little lady might have been thrown on her head and been killed on the spot." "Oh, dear! oh, dear! it wasn't my fault," cried Bunny, bursting into tears; "I only mean't to go round beside Mervyn, and Frisk ran away and--" "Don't cry, dear," said the strange lad kindly; "you must not say another word to her, my man," he continued, turning to the groom; "she is rather shaken with her fright, and it's best to leave her alone. Take hold of this pony and I will go and get your young lady some fresh water; that will do her good." "Very well, sir," said John, pulling the leading rein once more from his pocket, and fastening it on to Frisk's bridle with an angry jerk. "It's not my place to scold, Miss Bunny, but a young lady should keep her word, and not get a servant into trouble." "But I didn't mean to break my word, John, indeed I didn't," sobbed Bunny. "Oh! why did papa leave us? oh, dear! oh, dear!" "Drink this, you poor little mite," said her new friend as he held a flask full of fresh water to her lips. "It will do you ever so much good. I will bathe your face for you, and then you will see how comfortable you will feel, but you must not cry any more." "Thank you so much," said Bunny, drinking off the water; "it is very cool and nice." "Yes," the boy answered, "it is very refreshing, but this will do you more good, I am sure;" and, removing her hat, he took a neatly-folded, perfectly clean handkerchief from his pocket, shook it out, and, dipping it into the water, bathed the child's face as tenderly as a girl might have done. "You are very kind," said Bunny, as she raised her big blue eyes to his face; "you are a nice good boy," and she raised her face to give him a kiss. "That's right," he said smiling; "you are beginning to look more cheerful," and, stooping, he kissed her gently on the forehead. At this moment the sound of horses' feet was heard coming along the road, and Mr. Dashwood soon appeared, riding quickly towards them. "What is the matter?" he cried in alarm, as, drawing up sharply, he sprang from his horse and rushed to his little girl's side. "Oh! papa, papa!" cried the child, running into her father's arms, "your poor Bunny was nearly killed, only this nice boy stopped Frisk and took me off his back." "My poor darling!" cried Mr. Dashwood, lifting her gently from the ground, and smoothing back her ruffled hair, "I am very thankful to God that you are not hurt. Thank you, too, my lad, for your kind and ready assistance," he said to the young stranger, grasping him warmly by the hand, "and now tell me, sir," he cried with a stern look, as he turned to the groom, "how it is that the child whom I left in your care came to be in such danger." "If you please, sir, Miss Bunny asked--" began John very nervously. "Yes, papa, I--it was all my fault," interrupted the little girl; "don't scold John. I wanted to show Mervyn that I could ride better than he does, and as I could not do so properly with John holding me by the rein, I begged him to let me go, and I promised to ride quietly; but I whipped Frisk, and he ran off so fast that I got frightened, and--" "It was very wrong of you, John, to allow the child to ride without a rein, and I am really angry and vexed that you should not have taken more care of her when she was left in your charge." "Indeed, sir, I am very sorry, and it shall never happen again," said John. "I hope not," said Mr. Dashwood; "and as for you, Bunny, I am very much surprised that you should have been so naughty. You know I told you you could not manage Frisk without a leading rein." "Yes, I know you did, dear papa," said Bunny, as she rubbed her little face up and down against her father's cheek, "but don't scold us any more. We are all very sorry, aren't we, John?" "Very, Miss," answered the groom; "I'd rather have died than let any harm come to you, an' I hope master will forgive me for lettin' you have your own way about the rein." "I forgive you this time, John," said Mr. Dashwood; "but remember for the future you are to keep Miss Bunny well to your side when you take her out to ride on her pony." "Yes, sir, surely I will," answered the man earnestly; "I will never do what Miss Bunny asks me to do again, never while I live." "And now, my dear fellow," said Mr. Dashwood, turning to the young stranger and shaking him once more by the hand, "I cannot tell you how grateful I feel to you. May I be permitted to ask your name?" "My name is Francis Collins; but indeed I did not do much," the boy answered modestly. "You have done me a very great service, Master Francis, and one that I can never repay you," said Mr. Dashwood earnestly. "Do you live anywhere about here?" "No, sir; I live in London," replied the lad; "my father is in India with his regiment, and I am staying up here for a time with my aunt." "Is your father a captain? and is he in India now?" asked Mervyn shyly. "Yes, little man," answered young Collins with a smile, "he is a captain in the 45th, and is now stationed at Jublepoore." "Why, Captain Collins is papa's great friend, and of course he was my friend too; and Mrs. Collins was so good and kind to me. Oh, I did love her so much!" cried Mervyn, looking up into the lad's face. "Are you the Frank she used to talk to me about?" "Yes, I am the Frank, her only child," said the boy sadly; "poor mother! it's a whole year and a half since I saw her last;" and tears came into his eyes as he spoke. "I have often heard my brother-in-law speak of your father, my dear boy, and I am very glad to have made your acquaintance," said Mr. Dashwood as he seated his little daughter upon her pony. "Where are you staying?" "I am living with my aunt at a quiet hotel on the West Cliff." "I am very glad to hear it," said Mr. Dashwood, "for you will be able to come over and see us. Our name is Dashwood, and we are staying at Holly Lodge, a house standing in its own grounds and facing the sea, yonder on the South Cliff. Anyone will point it out to you; so be sure and pay us a visit some day soon." "Yes, thank you, I certainly will," the boy replied with a bright smile; "I must have a talk with this little chap, Mr. Dashwood, and find out all I can about my father and mother from him. By the by I suppose you are the Mervyn Hastings she told me she missed so much." "Yes, I am Mervyn Hastings; and oh, did she miss me?" cried the little fellow eagerly. "Most dreadfully! And I don't wonder, for you seem to be a capital little fellow," said Frank Collins, patting Mervyn on the shoulder. "Come over and lunch at the children's dinner to-morrow at two o'clock, and then you and Mervyn can have a long talk together," said Mr. Dashwood as he sprang to his horse. "It is rather late now, so these youngsters must get home as quickly as they can. Remember we shall all be delighted to see you, if you can spare time for visiting." "Oh, do come, do come," said Mervyn, earnestly. "Mama will be so glad to see you," cried Bunny, "so do come, please." "Thank you all very much," answered the lad brightly; "I will be sure to be at Holly Lodge by two o'clock. Good-bye, Mr. Dashwood; good-bye, Miss Bunny; good-bye, little Mervyn;" and Frank lifted his hat politely as the riding party turned and rode away from him down the drive towards Scarborough. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER IX. MISS KERR PROMISES A PRIZE. The next morning was very wet, and as it was quite impossible for the children to go out, Miss Kerr insisted on their going into the library to learn their lessons. Bunny pouted and declared that her papa did not wish them to sit still all day over their books, and that it would be much nicer to run about the house and play at "Hide and seek." "Yes, it would be pleasanter for you, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, "but you forget that 'Hide and seek' is a very noisy game, and that your mama's head is aching so much that she could not bear the noise you would be sure to make. Come now, be good children, and try to learn your lessons as well as you possibly can." "I hate lessons! and so does Mervyn," cried the little girl in a cross voice. "Don't you, Mervyn?" "No, I don't," answered the boy; "I will go if you like, Miss Kerr, for I want to learn how to write soon, that I may be able to send papa a letter." "You are a good boy, Mervyn," said the governess with a smile as she took him by the hand, "and I promise you that I will soon let you write a little letter to your papa. Come, Bun, dear, you are not going to be naughty, I am sure. Come along and we'll have such a nice quiet morning over our books;" and she held out her other hand to the little girl. "Well, if I am good, will you read us a story after we have said our lessons?" bargained Miss Bunny; "I just love to hear you read stories." "Yes, I will read you a very nice story if you are good, and I have a pretty box of chocolate here that I will give to the child who studies the hardest and keeps silence the longest." "Oh, how nice! Oh, how jolly!" cried Bunny, clapping her hands in delight. "I'll learn my lessons awfully hard;" and away she ran down the passage to the library, pulled her spelling-book out of the drawer, and perching herself on a chair at the table began to shout out the words at the top of her voice. "My dear Bunny, how do you think Mervyn can learn his lessons if you scream yours out in that way?" said Miss Kerr laughing; "repeat those words quietly to yourself whilst I show your cousin what he is to do." "I don't know very much, Miss Kerr," said Mervyn shyly as he took the book from her hand; "papa says I am a dreadful dunce, but I only began to learn last year." "Never mind that, my dear boy. If you give your attention to your book and feel anxious to learn, you will soon get on. Spell over these words for me and let me see what you can do." Mervyn did as he was told, and with much difficulty he managed to spell down half a column of very easy words. "Oh, I can do better than that! I can do better than that!" cried Bunny, wriggling about on her chair; "why, I could spell those words in a minute. Listen--h-o-u-s-e, d-a-y, m-o-u-s-e." "Hush! Bunny, I cannot allow you to go on like that," said Miss Kerr gravely; "you have learned those words over and over again, so of course you know them well. Now, Mervyn, go and read them over by yourself and I will hear you say them without the book in a few minutes. Bunny, come and say your lesson." The little girl slipped off her chair and came slowly across the room to Miss Kerr. "Be quick, Bun, stir yourself," cried the governess; "I want to hear how beautifully you can spell words that you have never seen before; come along." But Bunny still hung back with an obstinate look on her little face, that showed plainly how very unwilling she was to do as she was told. "Come, dear child, be quick, you are wasting all my time;" and Miss Kerr held out her hand for the spelling-book. Bunny handed it to her, and then dragging one foot slowly after the other, she at last stood by Miss Kerr's side. "Take your finger out of your mouth, Bunny," said the governess, as she laid the book before the child and pointed to the place. "Now begin, B--" "If you please, Miss Kerr," said Ashton, opening the door. "Mrs. Dashwood wants to see you very particular, miss, in the drawing-room. She said as she wouldn't keep you long, but you was to go to her at once." "Very well, I will go now, Ashton," said Miss Kerr; "and now, children, I hope you will be good while I am away. Bunny, you can go over those words by yourself. See here is the box of chocolate. I will put it in the middle of the table so that you may see what you have to work for;" and placing a pretty cardboard box upon a pile of books so that the children might see the gay picture on the lid, she smiled kindly upon them both, and hurried out of the room. For a few moments after they were left alone the little people were very silent and quiet; but soon Bunny raised her head, yawned noisily, and pushing her book away began to amuse herself by looking about the room. "I shall get the prize," said Mervyn, "you are not learning your lesson, you know." "No more are you," cried Bunny; "I'll learn mine up in a minute when Miss Kerr comes back, and you're as slow as an old snail at yours;" and again she began to mimic his voice and manner of spelling. "You're very rude," cried Mervyn, getting red, "and I'll just tell Miss Kerr when she comes back." "Tell-tale! tell-tale!" sang Bunny; "much I care! If I know my lesson best I'll get the chocolate and I won't give you one bit." "You're a greedy thing! But you won't get it. I know my lesson splendidly, and you don't know yours at all, so I am sure to get the prize, I can tell you." "Ha, how grand you are, to be sure!" screamed Bunny, and stretching out her hand she tried to pull the chocolate box towards her. "You sha'n't touch it! You sha'n't touch it!" shouted Mervyn; "it isn't yours, so just leave it alone." "It isn't yours either," cried Bunny with flaming cheeks, and she fastened her little fingers more firmly than ever round the box. "I am sure to get it, so I shall keep it beside me till Miss Kerr comes back." "No, you sha'n't," answered Mervyn in an angry voice, and jumping up on his chair he sprawled over the table and tried to drag the box from Bunny's hand. "You nasty boy, let go! I'll tell Miss Kerr! I'll tell mama! You're a coward! You're a horrid--" "Who's going to be tell-tale now?" shrieked the boy. "Give it to me, I say, give it to me," and he gave a vigorous pull at the box. But the cardboard of which the chocolate box was composed was not strong enough to stand such pulling, and before the naughty children knew where they were it suddenly gave way and came to pieces in their hands. The beautiful prize was completely destroyed, and its whole contents were strewn all over the place. "Now, see what you have done!" cried Bunny, bursting into tears; "you have broken the box--oh dear, oh dear, you cross, nasty, greedy boy, I--" "I didn't do it," said Mervyn, but his voice was low and shaky, for all his anger disappeared when he saw the pretty box torn to pieces and the chocolate creams lying scattered about all over the table and floor. "Yes, you did! If you hadn't pulled so hard it would have been all right," said Bunny tearfully. "Oh, what will Miss Kerr say? I think I'll run away to the nursery and hide. I shall be afraid to let her see me--" "That would be cowardly," answered Mervyn; "I'm very sorry I pulled the box, and I'll stay here and tell her so;" and he went down on his knees and began to gather up the sweetmeats and put them into a sheet of paper. "Don't eat any, Mervyn," said Bunny, "they look awfully nice, but--" "Eat them!" exclaimed the boy indignantly, "I should think not indeed! I am not so mean as that; I wouldn't--" "Mean--is it mean?" cried Bunny, rubbing her mouth; "oh, I didn't know, and I just took one--but Miss Kerr won't mind." "Well, you are nasty! You tell me not to eat them, and then you go and take some yourself. Go away, I won't speak to you or be friends with you any more; you're a mean--" "Oh, Mervyn, Mervyn, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!" cried Bunny, flinging herself on her knees beside her cousin. "I didn't want to take the chocolate cream, but it looked so nice, and I just longed to take it and--" "Children! what are you doing?" cried Miss Kerr in astonishment as her eyes fell upon the two kneeling figures and she heard Bunny's miserable tone of voice; "why are you on the floor? Come back to the table at once." "Bunny," whispered Mervyn, "we must tell Miss Kerr now what we have done;" and springing to his feet he caught the little girl by the hand and dragged her over to the other side of the room, where the governess had seated herself, ready to begin lessons again. "We have been very naughty," he began, looking down at the floor; "we didn't learn our lessons--and--we--broke--the box--and spilt all the chocolates--but we are very sorry, indeed we are," and he raised his blue eyes full of tears to Miss Kerr's face. "Yes, we are very sorry--and--I eat a chocolate cream--but Mervyn didn't because it was mean," cried Bunny, and then, overcome with grief, she buried her face in her pinafore and sobbed aloud. "I cannot tell you how much surprised and shocked I feel at such conduct," said Miss Kerr gravely. "I really thought I could trust you for a few minutes alone. Mervyn, I am very much grieved to think that you could behave in such a naughty way. Bunny is wild and giddy, but I thought you were going to show her a good example, by being good and gentle yourself." "Yes, and I wanted to," said Mervyn, "but she called me names and then I got cross, and then--I--" "Yes, and I got cross too," cried Bunny, putting down her pinafore for a minute. "I was angry and--" "And I am afraid you both forgot that God was looking at you, and that he was greatly displeased at you for giving way to your wicked passions in such a manner. How did you come to be so naughty? Mervyn, what began it all?" The tears were rolling down the little boy's cheeks, but he dried them with his handkerchief, and choking back those that were still ready to flow, he tried to tell the story of the torn chocolate box as well as he could. "Well, I am glad you have told me all about it," said Miss Kerr, gently, "and as you both seem so sorry for your conduct, I suppose I must forgive you. But remember, dear children, that you must tell God that you are sorry, and ask him to forgive you. Pray to Him that he may help you to overcome your tempers and become good, gentle little children. I will not scold you any more, and you have punished yourselves by breaking the box and spilling the sweetmeats, for now I cannot allow you to have any of them." "Oh, I don't mind that!" cried Mervyn quickly. "If you will forgive me for being naughty, I don't want any sweets." "I do forgive you, Mervyn, but don't forget what I told you. Say a prayer to-night before you go to bed and ask God's forgiveness and help." "Yes, I will, I will," cried the boy, "and I will try and be ever so good all day to make up for being so naughty this morning." "And I'll be good too," said Bunny; "I am sorry you won't give us any sweets, for they look so nice, but still I--" "You won't ask for any! That is right, dear. I know you like sweets, Bun, but I must punish you a little, you know, so I can't give you any to-day. Come, now, I forgive you both, so let us go back to our lessons at once; and I hope you will do your best to show me that you are truly sorry, by working very hard for the next two hours." "Yes, yes, we will, indeed," cried the children together, and off they ran to get their books. "That is right! That looks like real work," said Miss Kerr, as she wrapped up the chocolate creams in paper, and locked them away in a drawer. "Come, Bunny, bring your book to me, dear." Bunny opened her spelling-book briskly, Mervyn began to read his lesson attentively, and perfect peace reigned once more. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER X. ON OLIVER'S MOUNT. The lessons were over about half-past one, and as they had been well learned and quickly said, Miss Kerr was really pleased with the children, and rewarded them for their industry and attention by reading a pretty story, that interested and amused them very much. This kept them pleasantly occupied until nearly two o'clock, and then they ran off to the nursery in high spirits, to get themselves washed and dressed for their early dinner. "I am so sorry, Miss Kerr," said Bunny, as she took her seat at the dinner-table, "I'm really dreadfully sorry that nice boy we saw yesterday has not come to have lunch with us as he promised he would." "Yes, dear, so am I, for I should like very much to see him," answered Miss Kerr, "but I daresay the rain kept him from coming." "But it's not raining one drop now," said Mervyn, "and I declare, there is the sun coming out; I do wish he would come." "Oh, but it's wet under-foot, Mervyn," remarked Bunny wisely, "and it's a bad thing to get your feet wet--Sophie screams fearfully at me if I put my toe out, even long after the rain has stopped." "Yes, when you go in your thin shoes, of course," cried Mervyn; "but big boys like Frank Collins are not afraid of wetting their feet. Are they, Miss Kerr?" "No, I don't think they are, dear," answered the governess, laughing, "I know my brothers run out in all kinds of weather." "Come in, my boy! Here they are at their dinner," said Mr. Dashwood, opening the door at this moment, and entering the room with young Collins. "Miss Kerr, this is our young friend who so bravely saved poor Bunny yesterday," he added as he presented Frank to the governess. "I am very glad to see you, Master Collins, and these children have been longing for you to come," said Miss Kerr; "it was very brave of you to stop the pony." "Brave! not at all, Miss Kerr," answered Frank with a bright honest smile that won the lady's heart at once. "I don't think the pony was really running away, and if this little girl," and he patted Bunny on the head, "had not been frightened, but had sat up properly and kept a good hold of her reins, she would have been all right." "Oh! Bunny, Bunny, you little coward," cried Miss Kerr, "and so, after all, it was you who held on by the mane, and not Mervyn, as you so gaily told him he would do yesterday." "Did she tell him that?" asked Frank as he took a seat at the table beside Mervyn. "Well, I think this little chap would be the bravest of the two in real danger. He would not be so rash, perhaps, but I think he would keep cool and not lose his head as she did." "Oh, but I was frightened," sighed Bunny. "I was sure Frisk was running away;" and she looked so very tearful that her papa kindly changed the conversation by asking his young guest how he liked staying at Scarborough. "Are there many nice walks about?" asked Mr. Dashwood, when they had all finished their lunch and were preparing to leave the table. "I mean short walks within easy distance, where these little folks could go, for instance?" "Yes, there's the old castle," said Frank, "on the West Cliff, then there's the people's Park in the valley, which of course you all know well, and Oliver's Mount, which I think the nicest walk of any." "Oliver's Mount! Oh, that is a nice place," said Bunny, who had quite recovered her gay spirits again. "Sophie says she went up there one day with some friends, and she had buns and lemonade and all kinds of things, in a little house, a funny small house, she says, that is up there on the top. Do take us up Oliver's Mount, like a dear good papa." "Yes, I know the little house Sophie means," said Frank; "it is only a small shed, you can just see it from the window, look, there it is, right away up on the top of the mount." "It looks a great height, certainly," said Mr. Dashwood. "I wonder if these little ones could manage to go such a long way." "Oh! yes, we could, we could," cried the children together. "Very well, then, I suppose we had better set off at once," said Mr. Dashwood; "you have no objection to my taking these small people, Miss Kerr?" "Not the slightest," she replied. "I was going to send them with Sophie, but I am sure they will enjoy going with you much better. Mrs. Dashwood is not well enough to go out, so I intend to read to her the best part of the afternoon." "I am glad to hear that, for I was afraid she might feel dull if we set off for a long walk," said Mr. Dashwood. "Well, run away, children, and get ready; the sooner we start the better." "It will be a long way for their little legs if we go right to the top," said Frank doubtfully. "Mervyn doesn't look very strong, and Bunny's legs are very short." "Indeed they are not," cried Bunny indignantly. "I can walk splendidly; can't I, Miss Kerr?" "Yes, dear, you are a very good walker for your age and size." "There, do you hear that?" cried Bunny, jumping off her chair and throwing her arms round her father's neck. "Do take us, do take us, dear darling old papa." "You little rogue!" cried Mr. Dashwood, "I do believe you could coax the birds off the bushes." "No, papa, indeed I couldn't," answered Bunny gravely; "I often tried, but they would not come; and I tried to put salt on their tails too, but they flew away and--" "You dear little goose, that was a great shame; they must have been very rude birds indeed, my poor Bun," said Mr. Dashwood with a hearty laugh at the child's simplicity. "You have coaxed me anyway, dear. I will take you to Oliver's Mount; and I have thought of a plan that will save your short legs and Mervyn's weak ones a good deal." "A plan! Oh! what is it? you dear, darling papa," she cried joyfully. "No, I won't tell you, little one. Run off and get dressed, and you will see what it is when you come back. Away you go!--both of you. Be quick, or Frank and I will not wait for you." Bunny and Mervyn were both very curious to know what this wonderful plan of Mr. Dashwood's could be, and chattered away about it as they were being dressed by Sophie. "To the top of Oliver's Mount!" cried the maid, holding up her hands in astonishment when the children told her where they were going. "Gracious! is it that monsieur your papa knows how far it is? You will both be too tired to return home to-night." "Then we shall sleep in that little house at the top, among the buns and the lemonade," said Mervyn. "That would be fine fun, wouldn't it, Bunny?" "I don't know about that," replied the little girl. "But do not be frightened, Sophie; papa has a fine plan, so we sha'n't be one bit tired. Come on, Mervyn," and, laughing merrily, the two children ran off together down-stairs. "Papa, papa! where is your plan?" cried Bunny, as they met her father and young Collins in the hall. "We do so want to know what your wonderful plan can be." "Here it is, then, my dear," said Mr. Dashwood, and he threw open the door, and displayed two steady-looking old donkeys standing ready saddled at the gate. "You are to ride one of those fellows, and Mervyn the other. That is my plan; isn't it a good one?" "Capital! capital! What fun! what fun!" cried the children, clapping their hands in delight. "But, papa, the donkeys will never go up the mountain," exclaimed Bunny suddenly; "Sophie says there is a big stile to get over, so how will they manage that?" "We won't ask them to go over the stile," said Frank Collins, as he lifted the little girl and seated her comfortably on the saddle. "They will carry you up the road to the foot of the Mount, and then we will leave them there to rest and eat some grass, while we go on our rambles up to the top." "Wasn't it a capital plan of papa's, Mervyn, to get us these donkeys?" asked Bunny, as she and her cousin jogged quietly along the road on the steady old animals. "These are such nice well-behaved creatures, and don't run away in a hurry like Master Frisk." "No, I should think not," answered Mervyn laughing. "Why, just look at this fellow," he cried as his donkey came to a sudden stand-still in the middle of the road. "What can we do to make him go on? Here, boy, please make him move a little," he shouted to the donkey-boy, who was loitering behind talking to a comrade. "Hey up!" screamed the lad, running up quietly from behind, and bringing his stick down heavily on the poor brute's back; "hey up, Teddy!" and away trotted the donkey at a rapid pace up the hill. When Bunny's charger saw his companion starting off so gaily, he pricked up his ears and followed him as fast as ever he could. "Your plan was a capital one, uncle," said Mervyn, as he and Bunny jumped off their donkeys and prepared themselves to climb over the stile and begin their walk up the mount together. "I suppose you feel as fresh as a couple of daisies, and not at all shaken?" said Frank Collins. "Come along and we'll have a race to the very top;" and away he ran nimbly up the side of the hill. Bunny and Mervyn struggled bravely after him, and they went so fast that they soon left Mr. Dashwood behind them, for he declared that he was too old to run, and that he would follow them at his leisure. The grass was very slippery after the rain, and the mount was very steep, and so, although the children went as fast as their little legs could carry them, yet they could not keep up with their young friend, who soon appeared a long way above them, waving a handkerchief, and cheering and shouting at the top of his voice. But at last they all reached the highest part of the mount, and, puffing and panting after their fearful exertions, they seated themselves upon a bench and gazed about them in delight. "Isn't it jolly up here, Mr. Dashwood?" said Frank. "I think it would be worth climbing ever so much higher to see such a sight, don't you?" "Yes, indeed I do," answered Mr. Dashwood; "and the air is very fine; it feels so fresh and strong. That is the old castle away over there, I suppose." "Yes; and doesn't the old part of the town, with its queer red brick houses and narrow streets, look pretty? And look at the bay in front of it, with its ships and barges. Doesn't it all look lovely in the sunlight?" "Yes, Frank, it does look pretty," cried Mervyn; "and isn't the sea a beautiful blue colour?" "And don't our donkeys look funny little gray fellows, away down there on the road?" cried Bunny. "Oh, dear! they do look far away." "Bunny would rather look at her donkey than all the beauties of the country," said Mr. Dashwood with a smile, as he took his little girl upon his knee. "But these youngsters must not be defrauded of their cakes and lemonade, Frank. Would you mind going into that wonderful shop to see if you can get some?" "Oh! they have lots of good things in there, I know," answered Frank. "I hope you will be able to eat a good supply, Bunny?" "Yes, I feel able to eat several cakes," cried Bunny; "thank you, dear papa, for thinking of them. I do love buns and lemonade. Don't you, Mervyn?" "Yes, Bunny, very much," replied her cousin. "I am afraid I shall get scolded for letting you have them," said Mr. Dashwood, as Frank appeared, carrying an armful of cakes and buns, and followed by a man with glasses and bottles of lemonade. "If you eat all these you won't be able to take anything at tea, and then Miss Kerr will be so dreadfully angry." "Oh! never mind, papa, dear," cried Bunny; "cakes and lemonade are just as good as tea, but I will eat as much as ever I can when I go home, and then no one will scold you." "That's a good, kind little woman," said her father laughing; "but finish up those cakes now as fast as you can, for I want to get back to the club for an hour before dinner." "I will just put this in my pocket for the donkey-boy, papa," said the little girl, holding up a bun which she could not manage to eat; "he was very good, and made the donkeys go so well." "I think we will go round by the road, Frank," said Mr. Dashwood, rising from the bench; "it is not quite so steep as the mount, and is very little longer." "Very well; I daresay it will be the best way to return; it will be a variety anyway," said Frank. "Mervyn, will you walk with me? I want to talk to you about India and all our friends there." "Yes, yes," said the little boy, "that is the very thing I should like." "But our donkeys--oh! are we not going home on our donkeys?" cried Bunny. "Of course we are, you little grumbler," said her father. "We are only going to walk round by the road to them instead of tumbling pell-mell down the hill again. Come along with me, and let these two boys talk over their affairs together." Then, taking his little girl by the hand, Mr. Dashwood walked quickly away with her down the hilly road. Frank and Mervyn followed them slowly arm-in-arm, and the elder boy, with a look of yearning love in his eyes, asked his small friend many anxious questions about the dear father and mother whom he had not seen for such a long time. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER XI. WAS IT CRUEL? One lovely afternoon towards the end of September Mrs. Dashwood and Miss Kerr sat together on the lawn in front of the house. They were stitching away at some pretty clothes, that were evidently intended for a large wax doll, with golden ringlets and blue eyes, that lay on a table that stood between them on the grass. Mrs. Dashwood looked pale and delicate still, but there was a well-pleased smile upon her sweet face as she sat enjoying the sea breezes. She was comfortably propped up with pillows in a large wicker chair, and her thin white fingers were busily engaged on her dainty work. The fresh country air had done her great service, and she was full of the hope that she should soon return quite strong and well to town. Bunny lay curled up in another big chair, and although she knew very well that the pretty doll was intended for her, she looked very cross and did not seem to notice what was going on about her. "Why don't you go and play, Bunny?" said Miss Kerr looking up from her work. "I do not like to see you tumbling about there with such a cross look on your face. Go and get a book--or will you have a needle and thread and try to do some sewing?" "No, thank you," answered Bunny, "I hate books and I can't sew." "But you might learn, dear," said her mother gently. "It is a great pleasure to be able to sew, Bunny. I quite enjoy doing my piece of work after being obliged to lie on the sofa for such a long time." "I don't want to learn to sew," cried Bunny. "I want to have a game. I am tired sitting here, mama. Oh, I do wish Mervyn and Frank would be quick and come back." "Well, my dear Bunny, they will soon be here," said Miss Kerr. "They promised to be back at three and it wants a quarter to three now, so you won't have very long to wait." "Oh! I'm so glad!" cried Bunny; "I've spent such a nasty dull day without them." "Well, really now!" said her mother laughing; "that's a kind thing to say. I thought my little girl liked being with me." "Oh! yes, mama, so I do," answered Bunny quickly; "but Mervyn has been away such a long time, and I do want him to come back and have a good game with me. He stayed to lunch with Frank up there at the hotel, and Miss Kerr wouldn't let me go, and oh, dear! I have been so lonely all day." "Poor little girl!" said her mother, "but Miss Kerr was quite right not to let you go, Bunny; Frank will have quite enough to do to manage Mervyn. You are very hard to keep in order, for you are very wild and--" "Oh! I'm not a bit wild now, mama; I'm as quiet as a lamb--I am indeed." "Bunny, Bunny, where are you, I say?--where are you?" called Mervyn, running up the garden walk and across the lawn. "Here I am, Mervyn, and oh! I am so glad you have come back," and the little girl rushed forward eagerly to meet her cousin. "But where is Frank? I thought he was coming back with you." "Yes, so he is. He will be here in a minute; and he has something for you, Bunny." "Something for me, Mervyn; oh! what is it?" she cried; "do tell me what it is." "He'll tell you himself--he'll tell you himself," answered Mervyn, and going down on the grass, he tumbled heels over head two or three times in succession. "You tiresome boy," cried his cousin, "do get up and tell me what Frank has for me, and where he got it, and--" "Go and ask Frank himself--there he is," shouted Mervyn, starting quickly to his feet again, as young Collins appeared suddenly at the top of the flight of steps that led from the drawing-room into the garden. His hands were both behind his back, and he laughed merrily when he saw Bunny's face of excitement and curiosity as she ran across the lawn to meet him. "You dear good Frank, Mervyn says you have something for me," she cried; "do tell me what it is. I do so want to know." "A bird, Bunny; a young thrush," said Frank gaily, as he drew a small cage from behind his back and held it up to the little girl. "I put him in here because it was the only thing I could find; but I will get you a proper big cage for him to-morrow." "Oh! never mind the cage; but let me see the bird," cried Bunny. "He is rather frightened just now, Bun, but I think he will soon sit up and begin to sing; and thrushes do sing beautifully." "He is a dear little fellow! a perfect darling! But where did you get him, Frank?" asked Bunny in delight, as she danced joyfully round her new treasure. "Did you manage to put salt on his tail?" "He hasn't got a tail, Bunny," answered Frank, laughing; "he is so young that he hasn't got one yet. I caught him quite easily in the hotel garden." "Mama, Miss Kerr, look at the lovely bird Frank has brought me," cried Bunny, running back to her mother's chair. "A bird, Frank?" said Mrs. Dashwood, looking into the cage in surprise. "What a pity it was to catch him and put him in prison, poor little creature; he looks dreadfully frightened." "In prison, mama!" cried Bunny indignantly. "Why, it's a lovely cage; and see, he has water, and hard-boiled egg, and bread sopped in water, and--" "Yes, dear, I see all those things, but still he is in prison, Bunny," said Mrs. Dashwood gently, "and I think it would have been much kinder to have left him to fly about the woods and sing his sweet songs in happy freedom." "I am afraid he will never sing again," said Miss Kerr as Frank placed the cage on the table beside her; "he looks as if he were going to die, I think; just see how he has gathered himself up into a ball, and his eyes are shut." "Oh! I hope he won't die," cried Frank; "I am sorry I caught him, Mrs. Dashwood. Shall I let him fly away again?" "No, you sha'n't, Frank; he is my bird, and you must not let him fly away," cried Bunny; "I want to keep him." "But, Bunny, your mama thinks he would be glad to get away, so I would rather let him go. Do say I may send him off." "No, no, Frank, you sha'n't; I want him; he's mine now," answered the little girl in an angry voice; "I will have him and keep him;" and making a dive across the table she seized the cage and ran away with it down the garden. "Bunny! Bunny! come back this minute," cried her mother and Miss Kerr together. "I'll soon bring her back!" exclaimed Frank, and off he went after the runaway. When Bunny heard footsteps behind her she turned her head to see who it was that was following her, and as she ran along without looking where she was going, her foot came against a stone, and down she went, cage and all, upon the gravelled path. "Oh, you cruel big boy!" she cried, bursting into tears. "Why did you come after me and make me fall in that way? I'll never speak to you again--never;" and, gathering herself up from the ground, she began to rub her knees, and brush the dust and sand off her frock. "Now, don't be silly, Bunny," said Frank, as he picked up the cage. "You are not a bit hurt--but, look here! I believe you have killed the poor bird." "Oh! no, Frank, dear! oh! I didn't do that!" sobbed the little girl, coming forward and looking wistfully into the cage. "Yes, I am afraid he is dead. He was very much frightened before," said Frank sadly, "and the shock of the fall, and all the water and things falling on him have killed him. I am so sorry. I wish, now, I had left him to sing happily in the garden, Mrs. Dashwood," he said, going back to where the ladies sat together, carrying the poor dead thrush in his hand. "You were quite right; it was a great pity to take the poor bird and put him in a cage. I will never catch a young bird again--never." "Poor little creature! I thought it would not live long," said Miss Kerr; "but, Bunny, you were very naughty to run away with it in that way; I am sure the fall helped to kill the thrush." "I didn't mean to kill it!" cried Bunny in a choking voice. "Oh! mama, I am so sorry!" and she flung herself on the ground beside her mother's chair, and buried her face in her lap. "Never mind, Bunny, dear," whispered Mervyn softly, as he stole up and put his arm round her neck. "Don't cry, dear; I am sure it would have died very soon anyway. Wouldn't it, Miss Kerr?" "Yes, dear, I think it would," said the governess gently. "But what are you going to do with the thrush, Frank?" "Oh! I suppose I must bury it," answered Frank; "I wish I had a pretty box to put it in." "I have one, I have one," cried Bunny, jumping quickly to her feet, and running off towards the house, mopping up her tears as she went along. "I've got a dear little one that will just do, Frank." "We must have a solemn funeral," said young Collins. "Who will write an epitaph to put at the head of his grave?" "An epee--what, Frank?" asked Mervyn, with a puzzled look on his little face. "What do you mean?" "An epitaph, you little simple Indian; do you not know what that means?" "No," said Mervyn gravely, "I don't think people in India ever have such things." "Don't they indeed! Bunny, what is an epitaph?" asked Frank, laughing merrily as he took a pretty bon-bon box from the little girl's hand. "I don't know, I'm sure," said Bunny; "I never heard of such a thing. What is it yourself?" "Well, you are a clever pair! Why, it's something written on a tombstone," cried Frank, and, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket, he scribbled a few words, and then proceeded to read them aloud. "Listen and learn what an epitaph is, my friends:-- "Beneath there lies a little thrush, Who should have sung on many a bush." "Capital!" said Miss Kerr, laughing merrily at this brilliant production. "Why, you are a regular poet!" "It is very good indeed, Frank," said Mrs. Dashwood with a bright smile. "Now, Mervyn, I hope you know what an epitaph is?" "Yes, I think so," said Mervyn slowly; "but no one says bush like thrush. It doesn't sound at all right." "Hallo! young Indian, are you going to find fault with my pronunciation? Isn't it splendid, Miss Bun, bun?" "I'm not bun, bun, and I think Mervyn is quite right," answered the little girl with a toss of her head. "It sounds very funny, and all that, but it isn't the proper way to say the word, I know." "Of course not, little Miss Wisehead, but we are allowed to say all kinds of things in poetry," said Frank grandly; "and I can tell you it's jolly convenient when a fellow wants a rhyme. But now that we have decided this knotty point, let us go and look for a nice place where we can bury the little fellow;" and, having placed the thrush in the box, he went off to look for a suitable burying-place. "Put him in my little garden," cried Bunny eagerly. "There are lovely flowers there, and we can make him such a nice grave." "Where is your garden, monkey?" said Frank. "I did not know you had such a thing." "Yes, I have; at least I call it mine," answered Bunny, skipping gaily along. "It's a dear little flower-bed down there by the sun-dial, and it will be such a pretty place for the poor dead bird. Do bury him there, Frank." "Very well; what pleases you pleases me," and off they went to Bunny's garden. Very carefully Frank dug up the earth, and, having placed the bird within the grave, he filled it in neatly, took a lovely geranium from a neighbouring flower-bed, and planted it just over the poor songster's head. "We must water it," cried Bunny, "or it will not grow," and away she rushed to the tool-house. Here she found the gardener's watering-pot, and, unfortunately for them all, it was more than half-full of water. "This will make the flowers grow beautifully," she cried; and before the boys had time to speak or stop her hand, she tilted up the heavy pot and sent the water flying all over their feet and legs. "Oh! Bunny, Bunny! just see what you have done," exclaimed Mervyn, beginning to cry as he felt the cold water soaking in through his stockings and shoes. "Oh, dear! what shall I do?" "You little mischief!" cried Frank, shaking himself. "What on earth made you do that?" "Oh! I wanted the flower to grow," said Bunny, bursting into tears, "and I did not mean to wet you and Mervyn at all; and look at my own pinafore and frock. Oh, dear! what will Sophie say?" "Sophie will say you are a naughty, wicked little creature," cried the maid, darting out suddenly from behind a tree. "Come in this minute and get your things changed. Monsieur Mervyn, go to the nursery at once." "I won't go! I won't go a bit!" cried Bunny, stamping her foot angrily. "The sun will dry me in a minute, and I won't go with you; so there!" "Come along, Bunny, like a good girl," said Mervyn, "let us run fast and see who will get up to the nursery first," and away he went up the path as fast as he could. "I won't go, Sophie. I want to stay with Frank," cried Bunny once more, as she caught the boy's hand and held on to it tightly. "You ought to go, dear, indeed you ought," said Frank. "See, Mervyn has gone, and you know you should always do what Sophie tells you." "No, I won't; she's a nasty thing! and it's twice as nice out here, so I won't go one bit." "Your mama and Miss Kerr have returned to the house, and you must come in and get changed your dress, mademoiselle." "I won't! I won't," shrieked Bunny, clinging more closely to Frank, and turning her back upon her nurse in a most impertinent manner. "We shall see if you do not, you bad, naughty child," cried Sophie in an angry voice, and running forward she seized the little girl in her arms, and carried her off screaming and kicking into the house. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER XII. THE FIREWORKS. A little before seven o'clock that evening the children stood at the drawing-room window. All traces of the recent struggle in the garden had been removed, and in the neat little girl in the dainty cream lace and muslin frock, with its fluttering pink ribbons, few persons would have recognized the small fury that Sophie had carried off wriggling and crying to the nursery a few hours before. But Miss Bunny had already forgotten that such a scene had ever taken place, and was making very merry over a big blue-bottle fly that she and Mervyn were doing their best to catch as it walked up and down the window-pane. Frank Collins sat at the piano playing some very lively tunes, and from time to time Bunny would pause in her pursuit of the fly and dance lightly over the floor in time to the music. "Papa, papa," she cried, as Mr. Dashwood entered the room with his wife upon his arm, "doesn't Frank make lovely tunes?" "I don't know, dear," answered her father. "Frank does not seem anxious to let me hear his music, for he has stopped short the moment I appeared." "I am afraid Mrs. Dashwood would not care for my music," answered Frank modestly. "I only play from ear." "Oh, Frank, how can you say such a thing!" cried Bunny indignantly. "Why, mama, he plays just like Miss Kerr does. He plays away up in the treble with two hands, and then he plays pum, pum, pum away down in the bass; oh, it is most beautiful! Do play again, Frank." "No, dear, not now," said Frank. "I'll play for you another time, but don't ask me now;" and he hopped the little girl up on his knee. "Well, then, ask--you know what," whispered Bunny mysteriously. "You know you said you would--you promised." "Oh, yes, of course; I very nearly forgot," said Frank, "and I suppose Sophie will soon be carrying you off to bed, it's nearly half-past seven." "Yes, she will, unless you ask that, and papa and mama say, Yes." "Mrs. Dashwood," said Frank, "it's a gala night, as they call it, on the Spa, and there are to be fireworks, so will you let these little people stay up for them? Please do." "What! to go out in the night air and into the crowd?" asked Mrs. Dashwood in a horrified voice. "My dear Frank, I could not think of allowing such a thing. It is quite impossible!" "Of course it is, Mrs. Dashwood," answered Frank. "But I did not mean them to go out at all, I--" "Oh, no, dear mama," cried Bunny eagerly, "Frank does not want us to go out, but to sit up and see them from Miss Kerr's window, that is all." "Bunny, come here, dear, I want to have a talk with you," said her mother gravely, and guessing that she was going to receive a scolding for her naughty conduct in the garden, the child stole slowly over the floor, and at last stood in rather a shamefaced manner beside her mother's chair. "Do you think, Bunny, that a little girl who screamed and kicked as you did when Sophie took you in out of the garden, deserves to be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks?" "No, mama," answered Bunny in a low voice, and two large tears trickled down her cheeks and fell on her mother's hand. "Auntie, dear, don't scold poor Bunny, for she is very sorry she was naughty, and she begged Sophie's pardon before we came down." "Well, I am glad to hear that, Mervyn," said Mrs. Dashwood, "and I hope Bunny is sorry; but I don't think she should be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks, she cannot expect it." "Why, mama, what is all this about?" said Mr. Dashwood, coming over and putting his arm round his little daughter. "Why are you scolding poor Bunny so much?" "Because I was naughty, papa," said Bunny, creeping up very close to him. "But I am very sorry, and I promise to be good." "Oh, well, don't scold her any more, dear," said her papa, stroking the little golden head, "she can't do more than promise to be a good child." "And do forgive her, and let her stay up to see the fireworks," whispered Mervyn, "it would be such fun!" "What is that you are saying, Mervyn? What dreadful plot are you hatching over there?" cried Mr. Dashwood, "why, the fireworks don't go off until nine, and your bedtime is at half-past seven, isn't it?" "Yes, I know it is, uncle, but we're not a bit sleepy, and we never saw any fireworks, and this is the last gala night before we leave Scarborough, and--" "My dear Mervyn, what a string of reasons!" cried his uncle laughing; "after such a list, I think we must surely grant your request. That is, if mama will forgive this poor culprit, and allow her to stay up." "Well, as she is sorry, and as Mervyn says it is the last night, perhaps--" "That's right! that's right!" said her husband, "and now let us go in to dinner. This animated discussion has given me quite an appetite." And as Ashton at this moment threw open the door, and announced that dinner was served, Mr. Dashwood offered his arm to his wife, and led her away to the dining-room. "What fun! what fun! to be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks," cried Bunny, and catching hold of Frank's arm she hurried him off after her papa and mama. "Now, you must sit quiet, children," said Mrs. Dashwood; "if you make a noise I shall have to send you away to the nursery." "We'll be as quiet as mice," said Bunny, and pulling Mervyn down on a large woolly mat in the middle window, she began to whisper joyfully about the treat that was in store for them before the evening was over. The first part of the dinner seemed rather long to the two little ones in their corner, but when at last the dessert was placed on the table, and Bunny was seated at her papa's elbow, and Mervyn between his aunt and his dear friend Frank, they all became so merry together, that the fireworks were for the time completely forgotten. "Oh, papa, I heard such a funny noise just now," cried Bunny suddenly, "what can it be? Listen, there it is again--whizz--whizz--" "It's the first rocket, I'm sure!" exclaimed Frank, dropping the nut-crackers, "let us go off to a window somewhere, for I am sure the fireworks are going to begin." "How jolly!" cried Mervyn. "Aunt, may we run up to Miss Kerr's room?" "Can't we see them from here?" asked Mr. Dashwood, pulling up the blind and looking out. "What a beautiful dark night it is! Better stay here, chicks, I think. See, there goes another rocket!" "Oh, that is lovely!" cried Bunny, clapping her hands. "But, papa, dear, we can see them much better from Miss Kerr's room, she has such a nice balcony, and she promised to let us go up to it if mama would allow us." "Very well, then, away you go," said her father; "but be quick, or you will lose all the fun." "Be sure and wrap yourselves up, dear children, if you go out into the balcony," said Mrs. Dashwood. "The night air is very sharp." "Oh, yes, mama, we will make ourselves as warm as toast," cried Bunny gaily. "Come, Frank, do come up to the balcony with us." "All right, little woman, jump upon my back and we'll run a race with Mervyn." Very much delighted at such an invitation, Bunny sprang from a chair on to Frank's back, and away they went galloping madly after Mervyn, up the stairs and along the passage to Miss Kerr's room. There they found Sophie waiting for them, heavily laden with cloaks and shawls in which she insisted on wrapping them up till they were nearly smothered, and shrieked wildly for just one little space through which they might manage to breathe. "Very well, you will all catch your deaths of colds," cried Sophie. "Miss Bunny, you will want the doctor to-morrow, I am quite sure;" and she flounced out of the room and banged the door after her. "Good riddance to bad rubbish!" cried Frank, laughing, as he released poor Mervyn's face from the thick shawl in which the maid had rolled him up. "She's an awful scold that Sophie." "But she's jolly kind to us sometimes," said Mervyn stoutly; "and we torment her dreadfully, don't we, Bunny?" "Yes, we do indeed," answered the little girl; "and she doesn't always scold, Master Frank." "Goodness me! don't be so indignant," cried Frank. "I meant no offence. I daresay Sophie is a regular angel." "She's not quite that," said Miss Kerr as she opened the window and let the young people out upon the balcony. "But I am glad to hear the children stand up for her, for, as Mervyn says, they do torment her, and still she is very good-natured and kind to them on the whole." "Yes, indeed she is," said Mervyn; "but oh! just look at that, isn't it exquisite?" "Lovely!" cried Frank. "It's a regular shower of golden hail! But I think I like the Roman candles best. Look, Bunny, there's one--see--those two stars--watch how they change colour--first they're red--then blue--then--" "Oh, yes, yes," cried Bunny dancing about. "There they go, right away over the sea! What lovely things fireworks are!" "It is a pity we could not have gone down on the Spa to see the set pieces," said Frank. "I believe they are most beautiful. But then the crowd is something dreadful." "Do they send the fireworks up from the Spa?" asked Mervyn; "they look just as if they were coming from the road up there in front of the Crown Hotel." "No, they are sent from a place just over the Spa, up among the trees there, but a long way below the hotel." "Oh dear! there goes a splendid rocket," cried Mervyn, "and doesn't it make a lovely noise?" "Oh! I can't bear the noise," said Bunny, putting her fingers in her ears, "it makes me jump." "Now that is really charming!" said Miss Kerr, as the whole bay with its ships and boats was suddenly illuminated by a brilliant crimson light. "How lovely everything looks in that soft, rich colour!" "Oh! and I declare you can see Oliver's Mount and the dear little cake shop," cried Bunny. "And, Mervyn, I wonder where our old donkeys are to-night," and she peered away out in the direction of the sands where the poor animals usually spent their days. "At home in their beds, my dear," said Miss Kerr laughing, "and that's where small people like you should be; it must be near ten o'clock." "Oh! not yet, not yet," cried the children; "we must stay and see the last of the fireworks!" "That is the last now, I'm sure," said Frank. "That thick yellow light comes from the grand finale, which we cannot see--ha! there goes another rocket. Hurrah! the whole thing is at an end." "Very well, my dears, you must say good-night," said Miss Kerr; "your poor little eyes are positively blinking with sleep, Bunny, dear." "No, they're not," said the little girl, "but they feel funny and won't go quite straight." "Are you getting a squint, then?" said Frank. "Come along, old lady, a few hours' sleep will make them go straight enough;" and putting one arm round Bunny and the other round Mervyn, he marched them off to the nursery, where he deposited them one after the other on their little beds. The children were really quite tired out with excitement, and the fatigue of sitting up to such an unusually late hour; so when Frank left them for the night, they did not utter a word or make a complaint. They said their prayers, were undressed at once, and, laying their weary heads upon their pillows, were soon fast asleep. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER XIII. QUIET TIMES. It is to be hoped that you see some improvement in Bunny's behaviour since you first made her acquaintance, though she was very naughty on the day when the poor thrush was killed. At all events she had been trying to be good, and when she failed, or forgot her good resolutions she was so willing to confess her faults, and was so truly sorry for them, that Miss Kerr and Mama, and even Sophie, were always ready to forgive her. Miss Kerr had quite won Bunny's heart by her constant love and gentleness, so that the child could not bear to give her pain. This made Bunny more thoughtful, and she soon learned to check her outbreaks of temper and to keep out of mischief. Mervyn, who was growing tall and strong, was very much in earnest when he had promised to try to be docile and obedient. He did not forget that should he meet his dear mother and father in London they would ask him whether he had kept his word, and he would not have told them a falsehood even if he had been ever so naughty, for he was a truthful boy, and not at all a coward. Mervyn often helped Bunny to remember her promises too; and it seemed as though after the night when they had seen the display of fireworks they had both made up their minds to go on steadily with their lessons every morning. Miss Kerr was delighted, and Sophie had really very little to do, for all the afternoon, and sometimes in the evening also, they were out on the sands, or on the hills, or seated in the garden. The reason of this was, that as Mr. Dashwood had given them notice that the holiday was coming to an end, they had implored their friend Frank Collins to come often to see them, and as he loved Mervyn and could talk to him about his dear father and mother, and listen to his descriptions of life in Madras and Calcutta, he used to come every day to take the children out. Of this Mr. Dashwood was very glad, for he was pleased that such a nice manly boy as Frank should give up so much time to these two young ones, and used to laugh at Miss Kerr and tell her that they learnt more from their young tutor Frank Collins than they did from their governess. Miss Kerr often made one of the party when they went out together and she used to like to listen to Frank too. He had been to a large school, and was now only waiting for his parents to return from India before going to another. He had read a great many books, and could remember several stories and accounts of voyages and discoveries. The children would sit under a tree or inside an old boat on the beach and listen to him as he told them of the adventures of sailors and travellers; or sometimes they went with him for a ramble in the country, and he could show them the different kinds of trees and wild flowers, and point out where the various birds built their nests. Mervyn was quite surprised one day when a lark sprang suddenly from a field of long grass and went soaring up and up in the clear sunshine till it looked only like a speck, and at last could scarcely be seen, but yet all the time kept trilling and singing its beautiful song. As it sung it floated away to some distance from the place from which it rose, and then suddenly it seemed to sink from the air and to drop amidst the grass again. "Wherever has it gone to?" said Bunny; "there are no trees here, and where can its nest be?" "Its nest is on the ground, in the long grass of the field," said Frank. "Oh then, it has just dropped into it," cried Mervyn; "couldn't we go and see?" "You wouldn't find it except you could trace the way to the spot where the bird first rose," said Frank. "Directly the artful fellow heard us coming he sprang out and started his song so that he might lead us away from the spot where the nest is, and now he has dropped in the grass a long way off to lead us still further away." "Oh _do_ let us go and look for it!" said Bunny. "I think we'd better not," said Mervyn; "remember the thrush, Bunny, and we might kill some of the little birds." "Quite right, Mervyn," said Frank Collins; "we should very likely step upon it or frighten the hen bird so much that she would leave the nest. It would be like somebody coming and driving us away from home, you know. When I was as young as you are, I used to rob the nests of their eggs, but I have left off doing so now, and even if you should ever collect eggs you should only take one from a nest and contrive not to frighten the birds. But there are young larks and not eggs in this nest, so we will let them alone to grow strong and fly out into the sunshine and sing under the blue sky, won't we, Bunny?" You may well believe that the children thought the last part of their holiday was the pleasantest of all; for beside Frank they had found another playmate, a great friend of his. His name was Captain, and he was a grand, black, curly, Newfoundland dog. Such a fine fellow was seldom to be seen, and he learnt to lie down in a patch of grass on the hill, just at the place where he could watch for Bunny and Mervyn when they went out for their afternoon walk. He would pretend to be asleep, and when they came quite close to him would spring up and begin to leap about, leading the way to the sands, and barking or rolling over and over till Frank or Mervyn threw a stick as far as ever they could into the sea that he might dash in after it and fetch it out. Captain was a splendid swimmer, and had once jumped into the sea from the end of a pier after a little girl who had fallen into the water. The child would have been drowned, but Captain seized her by the frock and held her up till a boat could put out and fetch her, and then the brave fellow turned and swam ashore. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER XIV. BUNNY'S IMPROVEMENT. HOME AGAIN. The time had arrived when the holiday at Scarborough was to come to an end. The last evening was spent on the cliff. It was while they were all sitting on the hillside looking out to sea that Frank began to talk to them about "lighthouses," those tall buildings, having a strong lantern at the top, the bright light from which can be seen far out at sea, so that sailors may know to what part of the coast they are going, and may steer their ships in such a direction as to avoid danger, or guide them into a place of safety. Then Miss Kerr told them a story about a lighthouse, and how a brave and thoughtful little girl was able to save a great ship from being dashed to pieces on the rocks. This lighthouse was at a very dangerous part of the coast, and every day the lamps had to be cleaned and fresh oil put in them, and the great metal "reflectors" that were behind the lamps and threw the light far out to sea had to be burnished. The little girl was the child of the keeper of the lighthouse, and he often took her with him to stay there. He had a companion, for in lighthouses there are mostly two men; but one day this companion slipped off the ladder up which he had to climb to light the lamps in the great lantern, and broke his leg. At the same time he struck his head and became insensible, and so the father of the little girl was obliged to leave her and to fetch a doctor. He meant to come back very soon, but the doctor was out, and in trying to find him he was away for many hours, and by the time he could get down to his boat a great storm had come on, and the waves were breaking over the shore so that he could not put out to sea again. Night was coming on, and the poor fellow paced the beach and wondered what was to be done, for it would soon be time for the lamps to be lighted, and there was nobody in the lighthouse but the helpless man and his little girl. The sailors and fishermen all came round, but it would have been a desperate venture to put out a boat in such a storm, and with the great waves roaring and leaping on a long sharp ridge of rocks quite close to where the lighthouse stood, nobody could have expected to reach it alive. At last, just as the night was coming on, the poor fellow prepared to risk his life rather than leave the ships that might be far off at sea without a guide or a warning; but six strong men dragged a large boat down to the edge of the shore where the waves were lowest, and agreed to share his danger. Their hands were on the boat ready to push her in and then scramble to their places; an old fisherman was in his seat ready to steer, when he suddenly gave a shout and pointed towards the lighthouse. There from the lantern high above the roaring waves shone the brilliant beams of the lamps, and with a hearty cheer the brave fellows drew the boat back, and shading their eyes with their hands stared as though they had never seen the familiar light before. All night long they watched, till at break of day the storm abated, the sea grew still, and far far away they could see a great three-masted ship rolling and tossing, with one of her sails blown to rags, but still keeping off the shore. The pilot had seen the lights, and so knowing how to steer had kept her away from the rocky reefs where she might have been dashed to pieces. It was not till the sun rose high and they were able to go out in their boats that the men on shore could take the doctor to the lighthouse, and then they found the little girl kneeling beside the injured man and feeding him with some cold tea which had been left in the teapot. He had come to his senses, and had tried to crawl to the ladder, when he heard her voice singing softly right up in the lantern. He contrived to drag himself along the floor of the room, and could just see a gleam from one of the lamps coming through the chinks of the wood-work. The child, when she found her father did not return, had grown afraid; but her great fear was that the lamps would not be lighted, and as the place grew dark she made up her mind to try to light them herself. She had seen her father clean the lamps, and had been with him up the ladder, holding his strong hand; and she knew too where the match was kept, for she had been shown everything about the place while she was there on those long days alone with her father till the other man came on duty in the evening. So up she went, softly singing a hymn to herself, and after steadying herself by one of the iron rods that supported the lantern, put the lighted match to the wick, and was so startled to see the great yellow glare that shone from the reflector that she nearly lost her balance. When she reached the bottom of the ladder she found her friend looking at her quite wide awake; but he could do nothing to help her, except by telling her how to manage the light, and also how to move up there in the great glass lantern of the lighthouse, so that she might reach each lamp in turn. When her father came up the steep stair, followed by a dozen of his comrades, she gave a cry of delight and was in his arms in a moment; and she was soon made such a pet of by the men there that they all wanted her to accept knives, and rings, and pocket combs, and even tobacco-boxes, because they had nothing else to offer her; but she had her father and that was quite enough for her, and as he held her to his breast she could feel his tears fall upon her head, and yet he was as brave as any man who lived upon that coast. "However could she do it?" said Bunny, who had earnestly listened to this story. "She forgot all about herself, Bunny, and thought only of other people and of the duty that was straight before her," said Frank gently. Bunny remained very serious all the rest of the evening; perhaps the story of the child lighting the lamps reminded her of the trick she had played poor old Ashton when she poured water into his wine-glasses. But as we have seen already, Bunny was improving, and her mama was indeed delighted to notice the change, and quite shared her sorrow that they were so soon to leave for London. A day or two before they had begun to pack up Mr. Dashwood brought the children glorious news. Frank Collins was to go to London and stay with them till the arrival of his mother, who was on her voyage home and would be in England in a few days. Then he was to go to school, and perhaps Mervyn would some day be sent to the same school, but of course in a lower class. This last part of it was not very cheering for poor Bunny, and she was ready to cry; but she looked at Miss Kerr's kind gentle face and saw the look of joy in Mervyn's eyes, and so she choked back her tears, and presently when Mervyn said softly, "Of course I can't help being glad, Bunny, but I shall never be anything but sorry to be parted from you;" she was ready to say, "And I shall be awfully sorry, Mervyn dear, but then when the holidays come we shall both know so much more, and--and--" Here poor Bunny broke down and hid her face in her pinafore. But the next day she had recovered her spirits, and she and Mervyn were talking over their future plans, for it would be some months before her cousin would know enough to enter even the lowest form. But one chief reason for their rapid recovery of spirits was that it would be a whole month or more before Frank himself could begin his studies, and there were promises of visits to the Zoological Gardens, the great Palm House at Kew, the old Tower of London, and other places which would remind them of the stories they had heard, and of the books which they had yet to learn to read. They had all these things to talk about when they found themselves in the train that was to carry them home, and were so full of plans and expectations that they were many miles upon the journey before they remembered that they had not waved a good-bye to their old friend Oliver's Mount, or thought of the sorrow of leaving Scarborough for smoky, noisy, old London. THE END. 
14854	----	MARTHA BY-THE-DAY By JULIE M. LIPPMANN 1912 CHAPTER I If you are one of the favored few, privileged to ride in chaises, you may find the combination of Broadway during the evening rush-hour, in a late November storm, stimulating--you may, that is, provided you have a reliable driver. If, contrariwise, you happen to be of the class whose fate it is to travel in public conveyances (and lucky if you have the price!) and the car, say, won't stop for you--why-- Claire Lang had been standing in the drenching wet at the street-crossing for fully ten minutes. The badgering crowd had been shouldering her one way, pushing her the other, until, being a stranger and not very big, she had become so bewildered that she lost her head completely, and, with the blind impulse of a hen with paresis, darted straight out, in amidst the crush of traffic, with all the chances strong in favor of her being instantly trampled under foot, or ground under wheel, and never a one to know how it had happened. An instant, and she was back again in her old place upon the curbstone. Something like the firm iron grip of a steam-derrick had fastened on her person, hoisted her neatly up, and set her as precisely down, exactly where she had started from. It took her a full second to realize what had happened. Then, quick as a flash, anger flamed up in her pale cheeks, blazed in her tired eyes. For, of course, this was an instance of "insult" described by "the family at home" as common to the experience of unprotected girls in New York City. She groped about in her mind for the formula to be applied in such cases, as recommended by Aunt Amelia. "Sir, you are no gentleman! If you were a gentleman, you would not offer an affront to a young, defenseless girl who--" The rest eluded her; she could not recall it, try as she would. In desperate resolve to do her duty anyway, she tilted back her umbrella, whereat a fine stream of water poured from the tip directly over her upturned face, and trickled cheerily down the bridge of her short nose. "Sir--" she shouted resolutely, and then she stopped, for, plainly, her oration was, in the premises, a misfit--the person beside her--the one of the mortal effrontery and immortal grip, being a--woman. A woman of masculine proportions, towering, deep-chested, large-limbed, but with a face which belied all these, for in it her sex shone forth in a motherliness unmistakable, as if the world at large were her family, and it was her business to see that it was generously provided for, along the pleasantest possible lines for all concerned. "What car?" the woman trumpeted, gazing down serenely into Claire's little wet, anxious, upturned face at her elbow. "Columbus Avenue." The stranger nodded, peering down the glistening, wet way, as if she were a skipper sighting a ship. "My car, too! First's Lexin'ton--next Broadway--then--here's ours!" Again that derrick-grip, and they stood in the heart of the maelstrom, but apparently perfectly safe, unassailable. "They won't stop," Claire wailed plaintively. "I've been waiting for ages. The car'll go by! You see if it won't!" It did, indeed, seem on the point of sliding past, as all the rest had done, but of a sudden the motorman vehemently shut off his power, and put on his brake. By some hidden, mysterious force that was in her, or the mere commanding dimensions of her frame, Claire's companion had brought him to a halt. She lifted her charge gently up on to the step, pausing herself, before she should mount the platform, to close the girl's umbrella. "Step lively! Step lively!" the conductor urged insistently, reaching for his signal-strap. The retort came calmly, deliberately, but with perfect good nature. "Not on your life, young man. I been steppin' lively all day, an' for so long's it's goin' to take this car to get to One-hundred-an'-sixteenth Street, my time ain't worth no more'n a settin' hen's." The conductor grinned in spite of himself. "Well, mine _is_," he declared, while with an authoritative finger he indicated the box into which Claire was to drop her fare. "So all the other roosters think," the woman let fall with a tolerant smile, while she diligently searched in her shabby purse for five cents. Claire, in the doorway, lingered. "Step right along in, my dear! Don't wait for me," her friend advised, closing her teeth on a dime, as she still pursued an elusive nickel. "Step right along in, and sit down anywheres, an' if there ain't nowheres to sit, why, just take a waltz-step or two in the direction o' some of them elegant gen'lemen's feet, occupyin' the places meant for ladies, an' if they don't get up for love of _you_, they'll get up for love of their shins." Still the girl did not pass on. "Fare, please!" There was a decided touch of asperity in the conductor's tone. He glared at Claire almost menacingly. Her lip trembled, the quick tears sprang to her eyes. She hesitated, swallowed hard, and then brought it out with a piteous gulp. "I _had_ my fare--'twas in my glove. It must have slipped out. It's gone--lost--and--" A tug at the signal-strap was the conductor's only comment. He was stopping the car to put her off, but before he could carry out his purpose the woman had dropped her dime into the box with a sounding click. "Fare for two!" she said, "an' if I had time, an' a place to sit, I'd turn you over acrost my knee, an' give you two, for fair, young man, for the sake of your mother who didn't learn you better manners when you was a boy!" With which she laid a kind hand upon Claire's heaving shoulder, and impelled her gently into the body of the car, already full to overflowing. For a few moments the girl had a hard struggle to control her rising sobs, but happily no one saw her working face and twitching lips, for her companion had planted herself like a great bulwark between her and the world, shutting her off, walling her 'round. Then, suddenly, she found herself placed in a hurriedly vacated seat, from which she could look up into the benevolent face inclined toward her, and say, without too much danger of breaking down in the effort: "I really _did_ have it--the money, you know. Truly, I'm not a--" "O, pooh! Don't you worry your head over a little thing like that. Such accidents is liable to occur in the best-reggerlated fam'lies. They do in mine, shoor!" "But, you see," quavered the uncertain voice, "I haven't any more. That's all I had, so I can't pay you back, and--" It was curious, but just here another passenger hastily rose, vacating the seat next Claire's, and leaving it free, whereat her companion compressed her bulky frame into it with a sigh, as of well-earned rest, and remarked comfortably, "_Now_ we can talk. You was sayin'--what was it? About that change, you know. It was all you had. You mean _by_ you, of course." Claire's pale, pinched face flushed hotly. "No, I don't," she confessed, without lifting her downcast eyes. Her companion appeared to ponder this for a moment, then quite abruptly she let it drop. "My name's Slawson," she observed. "Martha Slawson. I go out by the day. Laundry-work, housecleaning, general chores. I got a husband an' four children, to say nothing of a mother-in-law who lives with us, an' keeps an eye on things while me an' Sammy (that's Mr. Slawson) is out workin', an' lucky if it's an eye itself, for it's not a hand, I can tell you that. What's your name, if I may make so bold?" "Claire Lang. My people live in Grand Rapids--where the furniture and carpet-sweepers come from," with a wistful, faint little attempt at a smile. "My father was judge of the Supreme Court, but he had losses, and then he died, and there wasn't much of anything left, and so--" "You come to New York to make your everlastin' fortune, an' you--" Claire Lang shook her head, completing the unfinished sentence. "No, I haven't made it, that is, not yet. But I'm not discouraged. I don't mean to give up. Things look pretty dark just now, but I'm not going to let that discourage me--No, indeed! I'm going to be brave and courageous, and never say die, even if--even if--" "Turn 'round, an' pertend you're lookin' out of the winder," suggested Mrs. Slawson confidentially. "The way folks stare, you'd think the world was full of nothin' but laughin' hyeenyas. Dontcher care, my dear! Well for some of 'em, if they could shed an honest tear or two themselves, oncet in a while, instead of bein' that brazen; 'twouldn't be water at all, but Putzes Pomady it'd take to make an impression on 'em, an' don't you forget it. There! That's right! Now, no one can observe what's occurrin' in your face, an' I can talk straight into your ear, see? What I was goin' to say _is_, that bein' a mother myself an' havin' children of my own to look out for, I couldn't recommend any lady, let alone one so young an' pretty as you, to take up with strangers, here in New York City, be they male or be they female. No, certaintly not! But in this case, you can take it from me, I'm O.K. I can give the highest references. I worked for the best fam'lies in this town, ever since I was a child. You needn't be a mite afraid. I'm just a plain mother of a fam'ly an', believe _me_, you can trust me as you would trust one of your own relations, though I do say it as shouldn't, knowin' how queer _own relations_ can be and _is_, when put to it at times. So, if you happen to be in a hole, my dear, without friends or such things in the city, you feel free to turn to, or if you seem to stand in need of a word of advice, or--anything else, why, dontcher hesitate a minute. It'd be a pretty deep hole Martha Slawson couldn't see over the edge of, be sure of that, even if she did have to stand on her toes to do it. Holes is my specialty, havin' been in an' out, as you might say, all my life--particularly _in_." Judicious or not, Claire told her story. It was not a long one. Just the everyday experience of a young girl coming to a strange city, without influence, friends, or money, expecting to make her way, and finding that way beset with difficulties, blocked by obstacles. "I've done everything I could think of, honestly I have," she concluded apologetically. "I began by trying for big things; art-work in editorial offices (everybody liked my art-work in Grand Rapids!). But 'twas no use. Then I took up commercial drawing. I got what looked like a good job, but the man gave me one week's pay, and that's all I could ever collect, though I worked for him over a month. Then I tried real estate. One firm told me about a woman selling for them who cleared, oh, I don't know how-much-a-week, in commissions. Something queer must be the matter with me, I guess, for I never got rid of a single lot, though I walked my feet off. I've tried writing ads., and I've directed envelopes. I've read the Wants columns, till it seems as if everybody in the world was looking for a _job_. But I can't get anything to do. I guess God doesn't mean me to die of starvation, for you wouldn't believe how little I've had to eat all summer and fall, and yet I'm almost as strong and hearty as ever. But lately I haven't been able to make any money at all, not five cents, so I couldn't pay my board, and they--they told me at the house where I live, that I'd have to square up to-night, or I couldn't keep my room any longer. They took my trunk a week ago. I haven't had anything to wear except these clothes I have on, since, and they're pretty wet now--and--and--I've nowhere to go, and it _is_ pouring so hard, and I should have been put off the car if you hadn't--" Mrs. Slawson checked the labored flow with a hand upon the girl's knee. "Where did you say your boardin'-house is?" she inquired abruptly. "Ninety-fifth Street--West--Two-hundred-and-eighty-five-and-a-half." "Good gracious! An' we're only three blocks off there now!" "But you said," expostulated Claire helplessly, feeling herself propelled as by the hand of fate through the crowd toward the door. "You said you live on One-hundred-and-sixteenth Street." "So I do, my dear, so I do! But I've got some business to transack with a lady livin' in Ninety-fifth Street--West--Two-hunderd-an'-eighty-five-an'-a-half. Come along. 'Step lively,' as my friend, _this nice young man out here on the rear platform_, says." CHAPTER II They plodded along the flooded street in silence, Claire following after Martha Slawson like a small child, almost clutching at her skirts. It was not easy to keep pace with the long, even strides that covered so much ground, and Claire fell into a steady pony-trot that made her breath come short and quick, her heart beat fast. She dimly wondered what was going to happen, but she did not dare, or care, to ask. It was comfort enough just to feel this great embodiment of human sympathy and strength beside her, to know she was no longer alone. Before the house Martha paused a moment. "Now, my dear, there ain't goin' to be nothin' for you to do but just sit tight," she vouchsafed reassuringly. "Don't you start to butt in (if you'll pardon the liberty), no matter what I say. I'm goin' to be a perfect lady, never fear. I know my place, an' I know my dooty, an' if your boardin'-house lady knows hers, there'll be no trouble whatsomedever, so dontcher worry." She descended the three steps leading from the street-level down into the little paved courtyard below, and rang the basement bell. A moment and an inner door was unlocked, flung open, and a voice from just within the grating of the closed iron area-gate asked curtly, "Well, what's wanted?" "Is this Mrs.----? I should say, is this the lady of the house?" Martha Slawson's voice was deep, bland, prepossessing. "I'm Mrs. Daggett, yes, if that's what you mean." "That's what I mean. My name's Slawson. Mrs. Sammy Slawson, an' I come to see you on a little matter of business connected with a young lady who's been lodgin' in your house--Miss Lang." Mrs. Daggett stepped forward, and unlatched the iron gate. "Come in," she said, in a changed voice, endeavoring to infuse into her acrid manner the grace of a belated hospitality. Claire, completely hidden from view behind Martha Slawson's heroic proportions, followed in her wake like a wee, foreshortened shadow as, at Mrs. Daggett's invitation, Mrs. Slawson passed through the area gateway into the malodorous basement hall, and so to the dingy dining-room beyond. Here a group of grimy-clothed tables seemed to have alighted in sudden confusion, reminding one of a flock of pigeons huddled together in fear of the vultures soon to descend on them with greedy, all-devouring appetites. "We can just as well talk here as anywhere," announced Mrs. Daggett. "It's quarter of an hour before dinnertime, but if you'd rather go up to the parlor we can." "O, dear, no!" said Martha Slawson suavely. "_Any_ place is good enough for me. Don't trouble yourself. I'm not particular _where_ I am." Unbidden, she drew out a chair from its place beside one of the uninviting tables, and sat down on it deliberately. It creaked beneath her weight. "O--oh! Miss Lang!" said Mrs. Daggett, surprised, seeing her young lodger now, for the first time. Martha nodded. "Yes, it's Miss Lang, an' I brought her with me, through the turrbl storm, Mrs.--a--?" "Daggett," supplied the owner of the name promptly. "That's right, Daggett," repeated Martha. "I brought Miss Lang with me, Mrs. Daggett, because I couldn't believe my ears when she told me she was goin' to be--to be _turned out_, if she didn't pay up to-night, _weather_ or no. I wanted to hear the real truth of it from you, ma'am, straight, with her by." Mrs. Daggett coughed. "Well, business is business. I'm not a capitalist. I'm not keeping a boarding-house for my health, you know. I can't afford to give credit when I have to pay cash." "But, of course, you don't mean you'd ackchelly refuse the young lady shelter a night like this, if she come to you, open an' honest, an' said she hadn't the price by her just at present, but she would have it sooner or later, an' then you'd be squared every cent. You wouldn't turn her down if she said that, would you?" "Say, Mrs. Slawson, or whatever your name is," broke in Mrs. Daggett sharply, "I'm not here to be cross-questioned. When you told me you'd come on business for Miss Lang, I thought 'twas to settle what she owes. If it ain't--I'm a busy woman. I'm needed in the kitchen this minute, to see to the dishing-up. Have the goodness to come to the point. Is Miss Lang going to pay? If she is, well and good. She can keep her room. If she isn't--" The accompanying gesture was eloquent. Mrs. Slawson's chair gave forth another whine of reproach as she settled down on it with a sort of inflexible determination that defied argument. "So that's your ultomato?" she inquired calmly. "I understand you to say that if this young lady (who any one with a blind eye can see she's _quality_), I understand you to say, that if she don't pay down every cent she owes you, here an' now, you'll put her out, bag an' baggage?" "No, not bag and baggage, Mrs. Slawson," interposed the boarding-house keeper with a wry smile, bridling with the sense that she was about to say something she considered rather neat, "I am, as you might say, holding her bag and baggage--as security." "Now what do you think o' that!" ejaculated Martha Slawson. "It's quite immaterial to me what anybody thinks of it," Mrs. Daggett snapped. "And now, if that's all you've got to suggest, why, I'm sure it's all I have, and so, the sooner we end this, the sooner I'll be at liberty to attend to my dinner." Still Mrs. Slawson did not stir. "I suppose you think you're a lady," she observed without the faintest suggestion of heat. "I suppose you think you're a lady, but you certainly ain't workin' at it now. What takes my time, though, is the way you ackchelly seem to be meanin' what you say! Why, I wouldn't turn a dog out a night like this, an' you'd let a delicate young girl go into the drivin' storm, a stranger, without a place to lay her head--that is, for all _you_ know. I could bet my life, without knowin' a thing about it, that the good Lord never let you have a daughter of your own. He wouldn't trust the keepin' of a child's body, not to speak of her soul, to such as you. That is, He wouldn't if He could help Himself. But, thanks be! Miss Lang ain't dependent. She's well an' able to pay all she owes. Supposin' she _has_ been kinder strapped for a little while back, an' had to economize by comin' to such a place as this! I've knowed others, compelled to economize with three trunks alongside a hall-bedroom wall, for a while, too, an' by an' by their circumstances was such that they had money to burn. It's not for the likes of Miss Lang to try to transack business with your sort. It would soil her lips to bandy words, so I, an old fam'ly servant, an' proud of it! am settlin' up her affairs for her. Be kind enough to say how much it is you are ready to sell your claim to Christian charity for? How much is it you ain't willin' to lend to the Lord on Miss Lang's account?" She plucked up her skirts, thrust her hand, unembarrassed, into her stocking-leg, and brought forth from that safe depository a roll of well-worn _greenbacks_. Mrs. Daggett named the amount of Claire's indebtedness, and Martha Slawson proceeded to count it out in slow, deliberate syllables. She did not, however, surrender the bills at once. "I'll take a receipt," she quietly observed, and then sat back with an air of perfect imperturbability, while the boarding-house keeper nervously fussed about, searching for a scrap of paper, hunting for a pen, trying to unearth, from the most impossible hiding-places, a bottle of ink, her indignation at Martha's _cheek_ escaping her in audible mumblings. "Impudence! What right have you to come here, holding me to account? I've my own way of doing good--" Mrs. Slawson shrugged. "Your own way? I warrant you have! Nobody else'd recognize it. I'd like to bet, you don't give a penny to charity oncet in five years. Come now, do you?" "God doesn't take into account the amount one gives," announced Mrs. Daggett authoritatively. "P'raps not, but you can take it from _me_, He keeps a pretty close watch on what we have left--or I miss my guess. An' now, Miss Claire darlin', if you'll go an' get what belongin's you have, that this generous lady ain't stripped off'n you, to hold for _security_, as she calls it, we'll be goin'. An expressman will be 'round here the first thing in the mornin' for Miss Lang's trunk, an' it's up to you, Mrs. Daggett, to see it's ready for'm when he comes. Good-night to you, ma'am, an' I wish you luck." Never after could Claire recall in detail what followed. She had a dim vision of glistening pavements on which the rain dashed furiously, only to rebound with resentful force, saturating one to the skin. Of fierce blasts that seemed to lurk around every corner. Of street-lamps gleaming meaninglessly out of the murk, curiously suggesting blinking eyes set in a vacant face, and at last--at last--in blessed contrast--an open door, the sound of cheery voices, the feel of warmth and welcome, the sight of a plain, wholesome haven--rest. Martha Slawson checked her children's vociferous clamor with a word. Then her orders fell thick and fast, causing feet to run and hands to fly, causing curiosity to give instant way before the pressure of busy-ness, and a sense of cooperation to make genial the task of each. "Hush, everybody! Cora, you go make up the bed in the boarder's room. Turn the mattress, mind! An' stretch the sheets good an' smooth, like I learned you to do. Francie, you get the hot-water bottle, quick, so's I can fill it! Sammy, you go down to the cellar, an' tell Mr. Snyder your mother will be much obliged if he'll turn on a' extra spark o' steam-heat. Tell'm, Mrs. Slawson has a lady come to board with her for a spell, that's fixin' for chills or somethin', onless she can be kep' warm an' comfortable, an' the radianator in the boarder's room don't send out much heat to speak of. Talk up polite, Sammy; d'you hear me? An' be sure you don't let on Snyder might be keepin' a better fire in his furnace if he didn't begrutch the coal so. It's gospel truth, o' course, but landlords is _supposed_ to have feelin's, same as the rest of us, an' a gentle word turneth aside wrath. Sabina, now show what a big girl you are, an' fetch mother Cora's nicest nightie out o' the drawer in my beaurer--the nightie Mrs. Granville sent Cora last Christmas. Mother wants to hang it in front of the kitchen-range, so's the pretty lady can go by-bye all warm an' comfy, after she's took her supper off'n the tray, like Sabina did when she had the measles." Huge Sam Slawson, senior, overtopping his wife by fully half a head, gazed down upon his little hive, from shaggy-browed, benevolent eyes. He uttered no complaint because his dinner was delayed, and he, hungry as a bear, was made to wait till a stranger was served and fed. Instead, he wandered over to where Martha was supplementing "Ma's" ministrations at the range, and patted her approvingly on the shoulder. "Another stray lamb, mother?" he asked casually. Martha nodded. "Wait till the rush is over, an' the young uns abed an' asleep, an' I'll tell you all about it. Stray lamb! I should say as much! A little white corset-lamb, used to eat out o' your hand, with a blue ribbon round its neck. Goin' to be sent out to her death--or worse, by a sharp-fangled wolf of a boardin'-house keeper, who'd gnaw the skin off'n your bones, an' then crack the bones to get at the marrer, if you give her the chanct. I'll tell you all about it later, Sammy." CHAPTER III For days Claire lay in a state of drowsy quiet. She hardly realized the fact of her changed condition, that she was being cared for, ministered to, looked after. She had brief, waking moments when she seemed to be aware that Martha was bringing in her breakfast, or sitting beside her while she ate her dinner, but the intervening spaces, when "Ma" or Cora served, were dim, indistinct adumbrations of no more substantial quality than the vagrant dreams that ranged mistily across her relaxed brain. The thin walls of the cheaply-built flat did not protect her from the noise of the children's prattling tongues and boisterous laughter, but the walls of her consciousness closed her about, as in a muffled security, and she slept on and on, until the exhausted body was reinforced, the overtaxed nerves infused with new strength. Then, one evening, when the room in which she lay was dusky with twilight shadows, she realized that she was awake, that she was alive. She had gradually groped her way through the dim stretches lying between the region of visions and that of the actual, but the step into a full sense of reality was abrupt. She heard the sound of children's voices in the next room. So clear they were, she could distinguish every syllable. "Say, now, listen, mother! What do you do when you go out working every day?" It was Cora speaking. "I work." "Pooh, you know what I mean. What kinder work do you do?" For a moment there was no answer, then Claire recognized Martha's voice, with what was, undeniably, a chuckle tucked away in its mellow depths, where no mere, literal child would be apt to discern it. "Stenography an' typewritin'!" "Are you a stenographer an' typewriter, mother? Honest?" "Well, you can take it from me, if I was _it_ at all, I'd be it honest. What makes you think there's any doubt o' my being one? Don't I have the appearance of a high-toned young lady stenographer an' typewriter?" A pause, in which Martha's substantial steps were to be heard busily passing to and fro, as she went about her work. Her mother's reply evidently did not carry conviction to Cora's questioning mind, for a second later she was up and at it afresh. "Say, now, listen, mother--if you do stenography an' typewritin', what makes your apron so wet an' dirty, nights when you come home?" "Don't you s'pose I clean my machine before I leave? What kinder typewriter d'you think I am? To leave my machine dirty, when a good scrub-down, with a pail o' hot water, an' a stiff brush, an' Sapolio, would put it in fine shape for the next mornin'." "Mother--say, now, listen! I don't _believe_ that's the way they clean typewriters. Miss Symonds, she's the Principal's seckerterry to our school, an' she sits in the office, she cleans her machine with oil and a little fine brush, like you clean your teeth with." "What you been doin' in the Principal's office, miss, I should like to know? Been sent up to her for bad behavior, or not knowin' your lessons? Speak up now! Quick!" "My teacher, she sends me on errands, an' I got a credit-card last week an', say, mother, I don't _believe_ you're a young lady stenographer an' typewriter. You're just trying to fool me." "Well, Miss Smarty, supposin' I am. So long's I don't succeed you've no kick comin'." "Say, now listen, mother." "Hush! You'll wake the pretty lady. Besides, too many questions before dinner is apt to spoil the appetite, to say nothin' of the temper. Turn to, an' lend a hand with them potatoes. Smash 'em good first, an' then beat 'em with a fork until they're light an' creamy, an' you won't have so much gimp left for snoopin' into things that don't concern you!" "Say, now listen, mother!" "Well?" "Say, mother, something awful funny happened to me last night?" "Are you tellin' what it was?" "Something woke me up in the middle of the night, 'n' I got up out of bed, an' the clock struck four, 'n' then I knew it was mornin'. 'N' I heard a noise, 'n' I thought it was robbers, 'n' I went to the door, 'n' it was open, 'n' I went out into the hall, 'n'--" "Well?" "An' there was _you_, mother, on the stairs--kneelin'!" "Guess you had a dream, didn't you?" "No, I didn't." "What'd I be kneelin' on the stairs for, at four o'clock in the mornin', I should like to know?" "It looked like you was brushin' 'em down." "_Me_ brushin' down _Snyder's_ stairs! Well, now what do you think o' that?" Her tone of amazement, at the mere possibility, struck Cora, and there was a pause, broken at length by Martha, in a preternaturally solemn voice. "I s'pose you never tumbled to it I might be _prayin'_." Cora's eyes grew wide. "Prayin'!" she repeated in an awed whisper. "But, mother, what'd you want to go out in the hall for, to pray on the _stairs_, at four o'clock in the mornin'?" "Prayin' is a godly ack. Wheresomedever, an' _when_somedever you do it." "But, mother, I don't _believe_ you were prayin'. I heard the knockin' o' your whis'-broom. You was brushin' down the stairs." "Well, what if I was? Cleanliness is next to godliness, ain't it? Prayin' an' cleanin', it amounts to the same thing in the end--it's just a question of what you clean, outside you or _in_." "But say, now, listen, mother, you never cleaned down Mr. Snyder's stairs before. An' you been making shirtwaists for Mrs. Snyder, after you get home nights. I saw her with one of 'em on." "Cora, do you know what happened to a little girl oncet who asked too many questions?" "No." "Well, I won't tell you now. It might spoil your appetite for dinner. But you can take it from me, the end she met with would surprise you." Shortly after, Claire's door quietly opened, and Cora, with a lighted taper in her hand, tiptoed cautiously in, like a young torch-bearing _avant-courrière,_ behind whom Mrs. Slawson, laden with a wonderful tray, advanced processionally. "Light the changelier, an' then turn it low," Martha whispered. "An' then you, yourself, light out, so's the pretty lady can eat in comfort." The pretty lady, sitting up among her pillows, awake and alert, almost brought disaster upon the taper, and the tray, by exclaiming brightly, "Good-evening! I'm wide awake for good! You needn't tiptoe or hush any more. O, I feel like new! All rested and well and--_ready_ again. And I owe it, every bit, to you! You've been so _good_ to me!" It was hard on Cora to have to obey her mother's injunction to "clear out," just when the pretty lady was beginning to demonstrate her right to the title. But Martha's word in her little household was not to be disputed with impunity, and Cora slipped away reluctantly, carrying with her a dazzling vision of soft, dark hair, starry blue-gray eyes, wonderful changing expressions, and, in and over all, a smile that was like a key to unlock hearts. "My, but it's good to see you so!" said Mrs. Slawson heartily. "I was glad to have you sleep, for goodness knows you needed it, but if you'd 'a' kep' it up a day or so longer, I'd 'a' called in a doctor--shoor! Just as a kind of nacherl percaution, against your settlin' down to a permanent sleepin'-beauty ack, for, you can take it from me, I haven't the business address of any Beast, here in New York City, could be counted on to do the Prince-turn, when needed. There's plenty of beasts, worse luck! but they're on the job, for fair. No magic, lightenin'-change about _them_. They stay beasts straight through the performance." Claire laughed. "But, as it happened, I didn't need a Prince, did I? I didn't need a Prince or any one else, for I had a good fairy godmother who--O, Mrs. Slawson, I--I--can't--" "You don't have to. An' I'm not Mrs. Slawson to you. I'm just Martha, for I feel like you was my own young lady, an' if you call me Mrs. Slawson, I won't feel so, an' here--now--see if you can clear up this tray so clean it'll seem silly to wash the dishes." For a moment there was silence in the little room, while Claire tried to compose herself, and Martha pretended to be busy with the tray. Then Claire said, "I'll be very glad to call you Martha if you'll let me, and there's something I'd like to say right off, because I've been lying here quite a while thinking about it, and it's very important, indeed. It's about my future, and--" "You'll excuse my interruckting, but before you reely get your steam up, let me have a word on my own account, an' then, if you want to, you can fire away--the gun's your own. What I mean _is_--I don't believe in lyin' awake, thinkin' about the future, when a body can put in good licks o' sleep, restin' from the past. It's against my principles. I'm by the day. I work by the day, an' I live by the day. I reasoned it out so-fashion: the past is over an' done with, whatever it may be, an' you can't change it, for all you can do, so what's the use? You can bet on one thing, shoor, whatever ain't dead waste in your past is, somehow, goin' to get dished up to you in your present, or your future. You ain't goin' to get rid of it, till you've worked it into your system _for health_, as our dear old friend, Lydia Pinkham, says. As to the future, the future's like a flea--when you can put your finger on the future, it's time enough to think what you'll do with it. Folkes futures'd be all right, if they'd just pin down a little tighter to _to-day_, an' make that square up, the best they can, with what they'd oughter do. Now, as to _your_ future, there's nothin' to fret about for a minute in it. Jus' now, you're here, safe an' sound, an' here you're goin' to stay until you're well an' strong an' fed up, an' the chill o' Mrs. Daggett is out o' your body an' soul. You can take it from me, that woman is worse than any line-storm _I_ ever struck for dampenin'-down purposes, an' freeze-out, an' generl cussedness. Your business to-day--now--is to get well an' strong. Then the future'll take care of itself." "But meanwhile," Claire persisted, "I'm living on you. Eating food for which I haven't the money to pay, having loving care for which I couldn't pay, if I had all the money in the world. I guess I know how you settled my account with Mrs. Daggett. You gave her money you had been saving for the rent, and now you are working, slaving overtime, at four o'clock mornings, sweeping down the stairs, and late nights, making shirtwaists for Mrs. Snyder, to help supply what's lacking." "Just you wait till I see that Cora," observed Mrs. Slawson irrelevantly. "That's the time _her_ past will have slopped over on her present, so's she can't tell which is which. Just you wait till I see that Cora!" "No, no--_please_! Martha _dear_! It wasn't Cora! She's not to blame. I'd have known sooner or later anyway. I always reason things out for myself. Please promise not to scold Cora." "Scold Cora? Not on your life, my dear; I won't scold Cora. I'm old-fashioned in my ways with childern. I don't believe in scoldin'. It spoils their tempers, but a good _lickin'_ oncet in a while, helps 'em to remember, besides bein' good for the circulation." Claire was ready to cry. "It's all my fault," she lamented. "I was clumsy. I was tactless. And now Cora will be punished for it, and--I make nothing but trouble for you all." "There, there! For mercy sake, don't take on like that. I promise I'll let Cora go free, if you'll sit back quiet an' eat your dinner in peace. So now! That's better!" "What I was going to say, Martha dear, is, I'm quite well and strong now, and I want to set about immediately looking for something to do. I ought to be able to support myself, you know, for I'm able-bodied, and not so stupid but that I managed to graduate from college. Once, two summers ago, I tutored--I taught a young girl who was studying to take the Wellesley entrance exams. And I coached her so well she went through without a condition, and she wasn't very quick, either. I wonder if I couldn't teach?" "Shoor, you could!" "If I could get a position to teach in some school or some family, I could, maybe, live here with you--rent this room--unless you have some other use for it." "Lord, no! I _call_ it the boarder's room because this flat is really too rich for my blood, but you see I don't want the childern brought up in a bad neighborhood with low companions. Well, Sammy argued the rent was too high, till I told'm we'd let a room an' make it up that way, but what with this, an' what with that, we ain't had any boarders exceptin' now an' then some friend of himself out of a job, or one o' the girls, livin' out in the houses where I work, gettin' bounced suddent, an' in want of a bed, an' none of 'em ever paid us a cent or was asked for it." "Well, if I could get a position as teacher or governess, I'd soon be able to pay back what you've laid out for me, and more besides, and--In the houses where you work, are there any children who need a governess? Any young girls who need a tutor? That's what I wanted to ask you, Martha." Mrs. Slawson deliberated in silence for a moment. "There's the Livingstons," she mused, "but they ain't any childern. Only a childish brother-in-law. He's not quite _all there,_ as you might say. It'd be no use tryin' to learn him nothin', seein' he's so odd--seventy-odd--an' his habits like to be fixed. Then, there's the Farrands. But the girls goes to Miss Spenny's school, an' the son's at Columbia. It might upset their plans, if I was to suggest their givin' up where they're at, an' havin' you. Then there's the Grays, an' the Granvilles, an' the Thornes. Addin' 'em all together for childern, they'd come to about half a child a pair. Talk about your race suicide! They say they 'can't afford to have childern.' You can take it from me, it's the poor people are rich nowadays. _We_ can afford to have childern, all right, all right. Then there's Mrs. Sherman--She's got one boy, but he--Radcliffe Sherman--well, he's a limb! A reg'lar young villain. You couldn't manage _him_. Only Lord Ronald can manage Radcliffe Sherman, an' he--" "Lord Ronald?" questioned Claire, when Mrs. Slawson's meditation threatened to become static. "Why, he's Mrs. Sherman's brother, Mr. Frank Ronald, an' no real lord could be handsomer-lookin', or grander-behavin', or richer than him. Mrs. Sherman is a widder, or a divorcy, or somethin' stylish like that. Anyhow, I worked for her this eight years an' more--almost ever since Radcliffe was born, an' I ain't seen hide nor hair o' any Mr. Sherman yet, an' they never speak o' him, so I guess he was either too good or too bad to mention. Mr. Frank an' his mother lives with Mrs. Sherman, an' what Mr. Frank says _goes_. His word is law. She thinks the world of'm, an' well she may, for he's a thorerbred. The way he treats me, for instants. You'd think I was the grandest lady in the land. He never sees me but it's, 'How d'do, Martha?' or, 'How's the childern an' Mr. Slawson these days?' He certainly has got grand ways with'm, Mr. Frank has. An' yet, he's never free. You wouldn't dare make bold with'm. His eyes has a sort o' _keep-off-the-grass_ look gener'ly, but when he smiles down at you, friendly-like, why, you wouldn't call the queen your cousin. Radcliffe knows he can't monkey with his uncle Frank, an' when he's by, butter wouldn't melt in that young un's mouth. But other times--my! You see, Mrs. Sherman is dead easy. She told me oncet, childern ought to be brought up 'scientifically.' Lord! She said they'd ought to be let _express their souls_, whatever she means by that. I told her I thought it was safer not to trust too much to the childern's souls, but to help along some occasional with your own--the sole of your slipper. It was then she said she 'abserlootly forbid' any one to touch Radcliffe. She wanted him 'guided by love alone.' Well, that's what he's been guided with, an', you can take it from me, love's made a hash of it, as it ushally does when it ain't mixed with a little common sense. You'd oughta see that fella's anticks when his mother, an' Lord Ronald, ain't by. He'd raise the hair offn your head, if you hadn't a spear of it there to begin with. He speaks to the help as if they was dirt under his feet, an' he'd as lief lie as look at you, an' always up to some new devilment. It'd take your time to think fast enough to keep up with'm. But he ain't all bad--I don't believe no child _is_, not on your life, an' my idea is, he'd turn out O.K. if only he'd the right sort o' handlin'. Mr. Frank could do it--but when Lord Ronald is by, Radcliffe is a pet lamb--a little woolly wonder. You ast me why I call Mr. Frank Lord Ronald. I never thought of it till one time when Cora said a piece at a Sund'-School ent'tainment. I can't tell you what the piece was, for, to be perfectly honest, I was too took up, at the time, watchin' Cora's stockin', which was comin' down, right before the whole churchful. It reely didn't, but I seen the garter hangin', an' I thought it would, any minute. I remember it was somethin' about a fella called Lord Ronald, who was a reel thorerbred, just like Mr. Frank is. I recklect one of the verses went: "'Lord Ronald had the lily-white dough--' (to my way o' thinkin' it's no matter about the color, white or gold or just plain, green paper-money, so long's you've _got_ it), anyhow, that's what it said in the piece-- "'Lord Ronald had the lily-white dough, Which he gave to his cousin, Lady Clare.' Say, wasn't he generous?--'give to his cousin--Lady Clare'--an'--good gracious! O, excuse me! I didn't mean to jolt your tray like that, but I just couldn't help flyin' up, for I got an idea! True as you live, I got an idea!" CHAPTER IV It did not take long, once Claire was fairly on her feet again, to adjust herself to her new surroundings, to find her place and part in the social economy of the little family-group where she was never for a moment made to feel an alien. She appropriated a share in the work of the household at once, insisting, to Martha's dismay, upon lending a hand mornings with the older children, who were to be got off to school, and with the three-year-old Sabina, who was to stay at home. She assisted with the breakfast preparations, and then, when the busy swarm had flown for the day, she "turned to," to Ma's delight, and got the place "rid up" so it was "clean as a whistle an' neat as a pin." Ma was not what Martha approvingly called "a hustler." "Ma ain't thorer," her daughter-in-law confided to Claire, without reproach. "She means well, but, as she says, her mind ain't fixed on things below, an' when that's the case, the dirt is bound to settle. Ma thinks you can run a fam'ly, readin' the Bible an' singin' hymns. Well, p'raps you can, only I ain't never dared try. When I married Sammy he looked dretful peaky, the fack bein' he hadn't never been properly fed, an' it's took me all of the goin'-on fifteen years now, we been livin' together, to get'm filled up accordin' to his appetite, which is heavy. You see, Ma never had any time to attend to such earthly matters as cookin' a square meal--but she's settin' out to have a lot of leisure with the Lord." As for Ma, she found it pleasant to watch, from a comfortable distance, the work progressing satisfactorily, without any draft on her own energies. "Martha's a good woman, miss," she observed judicially, in her detached manner, "but she is like the lady of her name we read about in the blessed Book. When _I_ set out in life, I chose the betther part, an' now I'm old, I have the faith to believe I'll have a front seat in heaven. I've knew throuble in me day. I raised ten childern, an' I had three felons, an' God knows I think I earned a front seat in heaven." Claire's pause, before she spoke, seemed to Ma to indicate she was giving the subject the weighty consideration it deserved. "According to that, it would certainly seem so. You have rheumatism, too, haven't you?" as if that might be regarded as an added guarantee of special celestial reservation. Ma paled visibly. "No, miss. I don't never have the rheumatiz now--not so you'd notice it," she said plaintively. "Oncet I'd it thurrbl, an' me son Sammy had it, too, loikewoise, fierce. I'd uster lay in bed moanin' an' cryin' till you'd be surprised, an' me son Sammy, he was a'most as bad. Well, for a week or two, Martha, she done for us the best she cud, I s'pose, but she didn't make for to stop the pain, an' at last one night, when me son Sammy was gruntin', an' I was groanin' to beat the band, Martha, she up, all of a suddint, an' says she, she was goin' for to cure us of the rheumatiz, or know the reason why. An' she went, an' got the karrysene-can, an' she poured out two thurrbl big doses, an' she stood over me son Sammy an' I, till we swalleyed it down, an' since ever we tuk it, me an' Sammy ain't never had a retur-rn. Sometimes I have a sharp twinge o' somethin' in me leg or me arrm, but it ain't rheumatiz, an' I wouldn't like for me son Sammy's wife to be knowin' it, for the very sight of her startin' for the karrysene--if it's only to fill the lamp, is enough to make me gullup, an' I know it's the same wit' me son Sammy, though we never mention the subjeck between us." "But if your son didn't want to take the stuff," Claire said, trying to hide her amusement, "why didn't he stand up and say so? He's a man. He's much bigger and stronger than his wife. How could she make him do what he didn't want to?" The question was evidently not a new one to Ma. "That's what annywan'd naturrly think," she returned promptly. "But that's because they wouldn't be knowin' me son Sammy's wife. It ain't size, an' it ain't stren'th--it's just, well, _Martha_. There's that about her you wouldn't like to take any chances wit'. Perhaps it's the thing manny does be talkin' of these days. Perhaps it's _that_ got a holt of her. Annyhow, she says she's _in_ for't. They does be callin' it Woman Sufferrich, I'm told. In my day a dacint body'd have thought shame to be discoursin' in public to the men. They held their tongues, an' let their betthers do the colloguein', but Martha says some of the ladies she works for says, if they talk about it enough the men will give them their rights, an' let 'em vote. I'm an old woman, an' I never had much book-learnin', but I'm thinkin' one like me son Sammy's wife has all the rights she needs wit'out the votin'. She goes out worrkin', same's me son Sammy, day in, day out. She says Sammy could support _her_ good enough, but she won't raise her childern in a teniment, along wit' th' low companions. Me son Sammy, he has it harrd these days. He'd not be able to pay for such a grrand flat as this, in a dacint, quiet neighborhood, an' so Martha turrns to, an' lends a hand. An' wance, when me son Sammy was sick, an' out av a job entirely, Martha, she run the whole concern herself. She wouldn't let me son Sammy give up, or get down-hearted, like he mighta done. She said it was her _right_ to care for us all, an' him, too, bein' he was down an' out, like he was. It seems to me that's fairrly all the rights anny woman'd want--to look out for four childern, an' a man, an' a mother-in-law. But if Martha wants to vote, too, why, I'm thinkin' she will." It was particularly encouraging to Claire, just at this time, to view Martha in the light of one who did not know the meaning of the word fail, for Mrs. Slawson had assured her that if she would give up all attempt to find employment on her own account, she, Mrs. Slawson, felt she could safely promise to get her "a job that would be satisfacktry all round, only one must be a little pationate." But a week, ten days, had gone by, since Martha announced she had _an idea_, and still the idea had not materialized. Meanwhile, Claire had ample time to unpack her trunk and settle her belongings about her, so "the pretty lady's room" took on a look of real comfort, and the children never passed the door without pausing before the threshold, waiting with bated breath for some wonderful chance that would give them a "peek" into the enchanted chamber. As a matter of fact, the transformation was effected with singularly few "properties." Some good photographs tastefully framed in plain, dark wood. A Baghdad rug left over from her college days, some scraps of charming old textiles, and such few of the precious home trifles as could be safely packed in her trunk. There was a daguerreotype of her mother, done when she was a girl. "As old-fashioned as your grandmother's hoopskirt," Martha called it. A sampler wrought by some ancient great-aunt, both aunt and sampler long since yellowed and mellowed by the years. A della Robbia plaque, with its exquisite swaddled baby holding out eager arms, as if to be taken. A lacquer casket, a string of Egyptian mummy-beads--what seemed to the children an inexhaustible stock of wonderful, mysterious treasures. But the object that appeared to interest their mother more than anything else in the whole collection, was a book of unmounted photographs, snap-shots taken by Claire at college, during her travels abroad, some few, even, here in the city during those first days when she had dreamed it was easy to walk straight into an art-editorship, and no questions asked. Mrs. Slawson scrutinized the prints with an earnestness so eager that Claire was fairly touched, until she discovered that here was no aching hunger for knowledge, no ungratified yearning "for to admire and for to see, for to be'old this world so wide," but just what looked like a perfectly feminine curiosity, and nothing more. "Say, ain't it a pity you ain't any real good likeness of you?" Martha deplored. "These is so aggeravatin'. They don't show you up at all. Just a taste-like, an' then nothin' to squench the appetite." "That sounds as if I were an entrée or something," laughed Claire. "But, you see, I don't want to be _shown up_, Martha. I couldn't abear it, as my friend, Sairy Gamp, would say. When I was little, my naughty big brother used to tease me dreadfully about my looks. He invented the most embarrassing nicknames for me; he alluded to my features with every sort of disrespect. It made me horribly conscious of myself, a thing no properly-constituted kiddie ought ever to be, of course. And I've never really got over the feeling that I am a 'sawed-off,' that my nose is 'curly,' and my hair's a wig, and that the least said about the rest of me, the better. But if you'd actually like to see something my people at home consider rather good, why, here's a little tinted photograph I had done for my dear Daddy, the last Christmas he was with us. He liked it, and that's the reason I carry it about with me--because he wore it on his old-fashioned watch-chain." She put into Martha's hand a thin, flat, dull-gold locket. Mrs. Slawson opened it, and gave a quick gasp of delight--the sound of triumph escaping one who, having diligently sought, has satisfactorily found. "Like it!" Martha ejaculated. Claire deliberated a moment, watching the play of expression on Martha's mobile face. "If you like it as much as all that," she said at last, "I wish you'd take it and keep it. It seems conceited--priggish--to suppose you'd care to own it, but if you really _would_ care to--" Mrs. Slawson closed one great, finely-formed, work-hardened fist over the delicate treasure, with a sort of ecstatic grab of appropriation. "Care to own it! You betcher life! There's nothin' you could give me I'd care to own better," she said with honest feeling, then and there tying its slender ribbon about her neck, and slipping the locket inside her dress, as if it had been a precious amulet. The day following saw her started bright and early for work at the Shermans'. When she arrived at the area-gate and rang, there was no response, and though she waited a reasonable time, and then rang and rang again, nobody answered the bell. "They must be up," she said, settling down to business with a steady thumb on the electric button. "What ails the bunch o' them in the kitchen, I should like to know. It'd be a pity to disturb Eliza. She might be busy, gettin' herself an extry cup o' coffee, an' couple o' fried hams-an'-eggs, to break her fast before breakfast. But that gay young sprig of a kitchen-maid, _she_ might answer the bell an' open the door to an honest woman." The _gay young sprig_ still failing of her duty, and Martha's patience giving out at last, the _honest woman_ began to tamper with the spring-lock of the iron gate. For any one else, it would never have yielded, but it opened to Martha's hand, as with the dull submission of the conquered. Mrs. Slawson closed the gate after her with care. "I'll just step light," she said to herself, "an' steal in on 'em unbeknownst, an' give 'em as good a scare as ever they had in their lives--the whole lazy lot of 'em." But, like Mother Hubbard's cupboard, the kitchen was bare, and no soul was to be found in the laundry, the pantry or, in fact, anywhere throughout the basement region. Softly, and with some real misgiving now, Martha made her way upstairs. Here, for the first time, she distinguished the sound of a human voice breaking the early morning hush of the silent house. It was Radcliffe's voice issuing, evidently, from the dining-room, in which imposing apartment he chose to have his breakfast served in solitary grandeur every morning, what time the rest of his family still slept. Martha, pausing on her way up, peeped around the edge of the half-closed door, and then stopped short. Along the wall, ranged up in line, like soldiers facing their captain, or victims of a hold-up their captor, stood the household servants--portly Shaw the butler, Beatrice the parlor-maid, Eliza the "chef-cook"--all, down to the gay young sprig, aforesaid, who, as Martha had explained to her family in strong disapproval, "was engaged to do scullerywork, an' then didn't even know how to scull." Before them, in an attitude of command, not to say menace, stood Radcliffe, brandishing a carving-knife which, in his cruelly mischievous little hand, became a weapon full of dangerous possibilities. "Don't dare to budge, any one of you," he breathed masterfully to his cowed regiment. "Get back there, you Shaw! An', Beetrice, if you don't mind me, I'll carve your ear off. You better be afraid of me, all of you, an' mind what I say, or I'll take this dagger, an' dag the life out of you! You're all my servants--you're all my slaves! D'you hear me!" Evidently they did, and not one of them cared or dared to stir. For a second Radcliffe faced them in silence, before beginning to march Napoleonically back and forth, his savage young eye alert, his naughty hand brandishing the knife threateningly. A second, and then, suddenly, without warning, the scene changed, and Radcliffe was a squirming, wriggling little boy, shorn of his power, grasped firmly in a grip from which there was no chance of escape. "Shame on you!" exclaimed Martha indignantly, addressing the spellbound line, staring at her blankly. "Shame on you! To stand there gawkin', an' never raisin' a finger to this poor little fella, an' him just perishin' for the touch of a real mother's hand. Get out of this--the whole crowd o' you," and before the force of her righteous wrath they fled as chaff before the wind. Then, quick as the automatic click of a monstrous spring, the hitherto unknown--the supposed-to-be-impossible--befell Radcliffe Sherman. He was treated as if he had been an iron girder on which the massive clutch of a steam-lift had fastened. He was raised, lowered, laid across what seemed to be two moveless iron trestles, and then the weight as of a mighty, relentless paddle, beat down upon him once, twice, thrice--and he knew what it was to suffer. The whole thing was so utterly novel, so absolutely unexpected, that for the first instant he was positively stunned with surprise. Then the knowledge that he was being spanked, that an unspeakable indignity was happening him, made him clinch his teeth against the sobs that rose in his throat, and he bore his punishment in white-faced, shivering silence. When it was over, Martha stood him down in front of her, holding him firmly against her knees, and looked him squarely in the eyes. His colorless, quivering lips gave out no sound. "You've got off easy," observed Mrs. Slawson benevolently. "If you'd been my boy Sammy, you'd a got about twict as much an' three times as thora. As it is, I just kinder favored you--give you a lick an' a promise, as you might say, seein' it's you and you ain't used to it--_yet_. Besides, I reely like you, an' want you to be a good boy. But, if you should need any more at any other time, why, you can take it from me, I keep my hand in on Sammy, an' practice makes perfect." She released the two small, trembling hands, rose to her feet, and made as if to leave the room. Then for the first time Radcliffe spoke. "S-say," he breathed with difficulty, "s-say--are you--are you goin' to _t-tell?_" Martha paused, regarding him and his question with due concern. "Tell?" "Are y-you going to--t-tell on me, t-to ev-everybody? Are y-you going to t-tell--S-Sammy?" "Shoor I'm not! I'm a perfect lady! I always keep such little affairs with my gen'lemen friends strickly confidential. Besides--Sammy has troubles of his own." CHAPTER V All that day, Martha held herself in readiness to answer at headquarters for what she had done. "He'll shoor tell his mother, the young villyan," said Eliza. "An' then it'll be Mrs. Slawson for the grand bounce." But Mrs. Slawson did not worry. She went about her work as usual, and when, in the course of her travels, she met Radcliffe, she greeted him as if nothing had happened. "Say, did you know that Sammy has a dog?" No answer. "It's a funny kind o' dog. If you begged your head off, I'd never tell you where he come from." "Where did he come from?" "Didn't you hear me say I'd never tell you? I do' know. He just picked Sammy's father up on the street, an' follered him home, for all the world the same's he'd been a Christian." "What kind of dog is he?" "Cur-dog." "What kind's that?" "Well, a full-blooded cur-dog is somethin' rare in these parts. You wouldn't find him at an ordinary dog-show, like your mother goes to. Now, Sammy's dog is full-blooded--leastways, he will be, when he's fed up." "My mother's dog is a _pedigree-dog_. Is Sammy's that kind?" "I ain't ast him, but I shouldn't wonder." "My mother's got a paper tells all about where Fifi came from. It's in a frame." "Fifi is?" "No, the paper is. The paper says Fifi is out of a deller, sired by Star. I heard her read it off to a lady that came to see her one day. Say, Martha, what's a _deller?_" "I do' know." "Fifi has awful long ears. What kind of ears has Sammy's dog got?" "I didn't notice partic'lar, I must say. But he's got two of 'em, an' they can stand up, an' lay down, real natural-like, accordin' to taste--the dog's taste, which wouldn't be noways remarkable, if it was his tongue, but is what _I_ call extraordinary, seein' it's his _ears_. An' his tail's the same, exceptin' it has even more education still. It can wag, besides standin' up an' layin' down. Ain't that pretty smart for a pup, that prob'ly didn't have no raisin' to speak of, 'less you count raisin' on the toe of somebody's boot?" "D'you mean anybody kicked him?" "Well, he ain't said so, in so many words, but I draw my own conclusions. He's an honorable, gentlemanlike dog. He keeps his own counsel. If it so happened that he'd needed to be punished at any time, he'd bear it like a little man, an' hold his tongue. You don't catch a reel thorerbred whinin'." "I wish I could see Sammy's dog." "Well, p'raps you can. But I'll tell you confidential, I wouldn't like Flicker to 'sociate with none but the best class o' boys. I'm goin' to see he has a fine line of friends from this time on, an' if Sammy ain't what he'd oughter be, why, he just can't mix with Flicker, that's all there is _to_ it!" "Who gave him that name?" "'His sponsers in baptism--' Ho! Hear me! Recitin' the Catechism! I'm such a good 'Piscopalian I just can't help it! A little lady-friend of mine gave him that name, 'cause he flickers round so--so like a little yeller flame. Did I mention his color was yeller? That alone would show he's a true-breed cur-dog." "Say, I forgot--my mother she--she sent me down to tell you she wants to see you right away up in her sittin'-room. I guess you better go quick." Mrs. Slawson ceased plying her polishing-cloth upon the hardwood floor, sat back upon her heels, and calmly gathered her utensils together. "Say, my mother she said tell you she wanted to see you right off, for something particular. Ain't you goin' to hurry?" "Shoor I am. Certaintly." "You don't look as if you was hurrying." "When you get to be a big boy, and have a teacher to learn you knowledge, you'll find that large bodies moves slowly. I didn't have as much schoolin' as I'd like, but what I learned I remember, an' I put it into practice. That's where the use of books comes in--to be put in practice. Now, I'm a large body, an' if I tried to move fast I'd be goin' against what's printed in the books, which would be wrong. Still, if a lady sends for me post-haste, why, of course, I makes an exception an' answers in the same spirit. So long! See you later!" Radcliffe had no mind to remain behind. Something subtly fascinating in Martha seemed to draw him after her, and he followed on upstairs, swinging himself athletically along, hand over hand, upon the baluster-rail, almost at her heels. "Say, don't you wonder what it is my mother's goin' to say to you?" he demanded disingenuously. Mrs. Slawson shook her head. "Wonderin' is a habit I broke myself off of, when I wasn't knee-high to a grasshopper," she replied. "I take things as they come, not to mention as they go. Either way suits me, an' annyhow I don't wonder about 'em. If it's somethin' good, why, it'll keep. An' if it's somethin' bad, wonderin' won't make it any better. So what's the use?" "Guess I'll go on up, an' see my grandmother in her room," observed Radcliffe casually, as they reached Mrs. Sherman's door. "I won't go in here with you." "Dear me, how sorry I am!" Martha returned with feeling. "I'd kinder counted on you for--for what they calls moral support, that bein' the kind the male gender is mainly good for, these days. But, of course, if you ain't been invited, it wouldn't be genteel for you to press yourself. I can understand your feelin's. They does credit to your head an' to your heart. As I said before--so long! See you later." The door having closed her in, Radcliffe lingered aimlessly about, outside. Without, of course, being able to analyze it, he felt as if some rare source of entertainment had been withdrawn from him, leaving life flat and tasteless. He felt like being, what his mother called, "fractious," but--he remembered, as in a flash, "you never catch a thorerbred whinin'," and he snapped his jaws together with manly determination. At Martha's entrance, Mrs. Sherman glanced up languidly from the book she was reading, and inquired with pointed irony, "You didn't find it convenient to come to me directly I sent for you, did you, Martha?" Mrs. Slawson closed the door behind her gently, then stood planted like some massive caryatid supporting the frame. Something monumental in the effect of her presence made the question just flung at her seem petty, impudent, and Mrs. Sherman hastened to add more considerately, "But I sent Radcliffe with my message. No doubt he delayed." "No'm," admitted Martha, "he told me all right enough, but I was in the middle o' polishin'. It took me a minute or two to get my things collected, an' then it took me a couple more to get _me_ collected, but--better late than never, as the sayin' goes, which, by the same token, I don't believe it's always true." There was not the faintest trace of apology or extenuation in her tone or manner. If she had any misgivings as to the possibility of Radcliffe's having complained, she gave no evidence of it. "What I want to say is this," announced Mrs. Sherman autocratically, making straight for the point. "I absolutely forbid any one in my household to touch--" Martha settled herself more firmly on her feet and crossed her arms with unconscious dignity upon her bosom, bracing herself against the coming blow. "I absolutely forbid any one in my household to touch the new marble slabs and nickel fittings in my dressing-rooms with cleaning stuffs containing acids, after this. I have gone to great expense to have the house remodeled this summer, and the bathrooms have all been tiled and fitted up afresh, from beginning to end. I know that, in the past, you have used acid, gritty soaps on the basins and tubs, Martha, and my plumber tells me you mustn't do it. He says it's ruinous. He recommends kerosene oil for the bath-tubs and marble slabs. He says it will take any stain out, and is much safer than the soaps. So please use kerosene to remove the stains--" Mrs. Slawson relaxed. Without the slightest hint of incivility she interrupted cheerfully, "An' does your plumber mention what'll remove the stink--I _should_ say, _odor_, of the karrysene?" Mrs. Sherman laughed. "Dear me, no. I'm afraid that's _up to_ you, as Radcliffe says." "O, I ain't no doubt it can be done, an' even if it can't, the smell o' karrysene is healthy, an' you wouldn't mind a faint whifft of it now an' then, clingin' to you, comin' outer your bath, would you? Or if you did, you might set over against the oil-smell one o' them strong bath-powders that's like the perfumery-counter in a department-store broke loose, an' let 'em fight it out between 'em. To my way o' thinkin', it'd be a _tie_, an' no thanks to your nose." "Well, I only follow the plumber's directions. He guarantees his work and materials, but he says acids will roughen the surface of anything--enamel or marble or whatever it may be. I'm sure you'll be careful in the future, now I have spoken, and--er--how are you getting on these days? How are you and your husband and the children?" "Tolerable, thank you. Sammy, my husband, he ain't been earnin' as much as usual lately, but I says to him, when he's downhearted-like because he can't hand out the price o' the rent, 'Say, you ain't fished up much of anythin' certaintly, but count your blessin's. You ain't fell in the river either.' An' be this an' be that, we make out to get along. We never died a winter yet." "Dear me, I should think a great, strapping man ought to be able to support his family without having to depend on his wife to go out by the day." "My husband does his best," said Martha with simple dignity. "He does his best, but things goes contrairy with some, no doubt o' that." "O, the thought of the day would not bear you out there, I assure you!" Mrs. Sherman took her up quickly. "Science teaches us that our condition in life reflects our character. We get the results of what we are in our environment. You understand? In other words, each receives his desert. I hope I am clear? I mean, what he deserves." Martha smiled, a slow, calm, tolerant smile. "You are perfeckly clear," she said reassuringly. "Only I ain't been educated up to seein' things that way. Seems to me, if everybody got their dessert, as you calls it, some o' them that's feedin' so expensive now at the grand hotels wouldn't have a square meal. It's the ones that ain't _earned_ 'em, _havin'_ the square meal _and_ the dessert, that puts a good man, like my Sammy, out o' a job. But that's neither here nor there. It's all bound to come right some day--only meanwhiles, I wish livin' wasn't so high. What with good steak twenty-eight cents a pound, an' its bein' as much as your life is worth to even ast the price o' fresh vegetables, it takes some contrivin' to get along. Not to speak o' potatas twenty-five cents the half-peck, an' every last one o' my fam'ly as fond of 'em as if they was fresh from Ireland, instead o' skippin' a generation on both sides." "But, my good woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Sherman, shocked, "what _do_ you mean by talking of porterhouse steak and fresh vegetables this time of year? Oughtn't you to economize? Isn't it extravagant for you to use such expensive cuts of meat? I'm sure there are others that are cheaper--more suited to your--your income." "Certaintly there is. Chuck steak is cheap. Chuck steak's so cheap that about all it costs you is a few cents to the butcher, an' the price of the store teeth you need, after you've broke your own tryin' to chew it. But, you see, my notion is, to try to give my fam'ly the sort o' stuff that's nourishin'. Not just somethin' to _eat_, but _food_. I don't believe their stummicks realize they belong to poor folks. I'm not envyin' the rich, mind you. Dear no! I wouldn't be hired to clutter up my insides with the messes I see goin' up to the tables of some I work for. Cocktails, an' entrys, an' foody-de-gra-gra, an' suchlike. No! I believe in reel, straight nourishment. The things that builds up your bones, an' gives you red blood, an' good muscle, so's you can hold down your job, an' hold up your head. I believe in payin' for that kind o' food, if I _do_ have to work for it." Mrs. Sherman took up the book she had dropped at Martha's entrance. "You certainly are a character," she observed. "Thank you, 'm," said Martha. "O, and by the way, before you go--I want you to see that Mr. Ronald's rooms are put in perfect order to-day. I don't care to trust it to the girls, but you can have one of them to help you, if you like, provided you are sure to oversee her. You know how particular I am about my brother Frank's rooms. Be sure nothing is neglected." "Yes'm," said Martha. CHAPTER VI The next morning Eliza met her at the area-gate, showing a face of ominous sympathy, wagging a doleful head. "What'd I tell you?" she exclaimed before she had even unlatched the spring-lock. "That young villyan has a head on him old enough to be his father's, if so be he ever had one. He's deep as a well. He didn't tell his mother on ye yesterday mornin', but he done worse--the little fox! He told his uncle Frank when he got home last night. Leastways, Mr. Shaw got a message late in the evenin' from upstairs, which was, to tell Mrs. Slawson, Mr. Ronald wanted to see her after his breakfast this mornin', an' be sure she didn't forget." Mrs. Slawson received the news with a smile as of such actual welcome, that Eliza, who flattered herself she knew a thing or two about human nature, was rather upset in her calculations. "You look like you _relish_ bein' bounced," she observed tartly. "Well, if I'm goin' to get my walkin'-papers, I'd rather get 'em from Mr. Frank than from anybody else. There's never any great loss without some small gain. At least, if Mr. Frank is dischargin' me, he's noticin' I'm alive, an' that's somethin' to be thankful for." "That's _as_ you look at it!" snapped Eliza. "Mr. Frank is all right enough, but I must say I'd rather keep my place than have even him kick me out. An' you look as if his sendin' for you was to say you'd come in for a fortune." "P'raps it is," said Martha. "You never can tell." "Well, if _I_ was makin' tracks for fortunes, I wouldn't start in on Mr. Frank Ronald," Eliza observed cuttingly. "Which might be exackly where you'd slip up on it," Martha returned with a bland smile. And yet, in reality, she was by no means so composed as she appeared. She felt as might one who, moved by a great purpose, had rashly usurped the prerogative of fate and set in motion mighty forces that, if they did not make for success, might easily make for disaster. She had very definitely stuck her thumb into somebody else's pie, and if her laudable intention was to draw forth a plum, not for herself but for the other, why, that was no proof that, in the end, she might not get smartly scorched for her pains. When the summons to the dining-room actually came, Martha felt such an unsubstantiality in the region of her knee-joints, that for a moment she almost believed the bones had turned into breadcrumbs. Then energetically she shook herself into shape, spurning her momentary weakness from her, with an almost visible gesture, and marched forward to meet what awaited her. Shaw had removed the breakfast dishes from the table beside which "Lord Ronald" sat alone. It was all very imposing, the place, the particular purpose for which she had been summoned, and which was, as yet, unrevealed to her, the _person_, most of all. Martha thought that perhaps she had been a little hard on Cora, "the time she give her the tongue-lashin' for stumblin' over the first lines of her piece, that evenin' of the Sund'-School ent'tainment. It wasn't so dead easy as a body might think, to stand up to a whole churchful o' people, or even one person, when he was the kind that's as good (or as bad) as a whole churchful." Martha could see her now, as she stood then, announcing to the assembled multitude in a high, unmodulated treble: _"It was the t-time when l-lilies bub-blow"_ "an' her stockin' fixin' to come down any min'ute!" "Ah, Martha, good-morning!" At the first sound of his voice Mrs. Slawson recovered her poise. That _wouldn't-call-the-queen-your-cousin_ feeling came over her again, and she was ready to face the music, whatever tune it might play. So susceptible is the foolish spirit of mortal to those subtle, impalpable influences of atmosphere that we try to describe, in terms of inexact science, as personality, vibration, aura, magnetism. "I asked to see you, Martha, because Radcliffe tells me--" Martha's heart sank within her. So it was Radcliffe and the _grand bounce_ after all, and not--Well, it was a pity! After all her thinkin' it out, an' connivin', an' contrivin', to have nothin' come of it! To be sent off before she had time to see the thing through! "Radcliffe tells me," continued the clear, mellow voice, penetrating the mist of her meditations, "that you own a very rare, a very unusual breed of dog. I couldn't make out much from Radcliffe's description, but apparently the dog is a pedigree animal." Mrs. Slawson's shoulders, in her sudden revulsion of feeling, shook with soundless mirth. "Pedigree animal!" she repeated. "Certaintly! Shoor, he's a pedigree animal. He's had auntsisters as far back as any other dog, an' that's a fack. What's the way they put it? 'Out of' the gutter, 'sired by' Kicks. You never see a little yeller, mongol, cur-dog, sir, that's yellerer or cur-er than him. I'd bet my life his line ain't never been crossed by anythin' different, since the first pup o' them all set out to run his legs off tryin' to get rid o' the tin-can tied to his tail. But Flicker's a winner, for all that, an' he's goin' to keep my boy Sammy in order, better'n I could ever do it. You see, I just has to hint to Sammy that if he ain't proper-behaved I won't let Flicker 'sociate with'm, an' he's as good as pie. I wouldn't be without that dog, sir, now I got intimately acquainted with him, for--" "That touches the question I was intending to raise," interposed Mr. Ronald. "You managed to get Radcliffe's imagination considerably stirred about Flicker, and the result is, he has asked me to see if I can't come to an understanding with you. He wants me to buy Flicker." Martha's genial smile faded. "Why, goodness gracious, Lor--I _should_ say, _Mr._ Ronald, the poor little rascal, dog rather, ain't worth two cents. He's just a young flagrant pup, you wouldn't be bothered to notice, 'less you had the particular likin' for such things we got." "Radcliffe wants Flicker. I'll give you ten dollars for him." "I--I couldn't take it, Mr. Ronald, sir. It wouldn't be fair to you!" "Fifteen dollars." "It ain't the money--" "Twenty!" "I--I can't!" "Twenty-five dollars, Martha. Radcliffe's heart is set on the dog." A quick observer, looking attentively at Mrs. Slawson's face, could have seen something like a faint quiver disturb the firm lines of her lips and chin for a moment. A flash, and it was gone. "I'd _give_ you the dog, an' welcome, Mr. Ronald," she said presently, "but I just can't do it. The little feller, he never had a square deal before, an' because my husband an' the rest of us give it to him, he loves us to death, an' you'd think he'd bark his head off for joy when the raft o' them gets home after school. An' then, nights--(I ben workin' overtime lately, doin' outside jobs that bring me home late)--nights, when I come back, an' all in the place is abed an' asleep, an' I let myself in, in the black an' the cold, the only livin' creature to welcome me is Flicker. An' there he stands, up an' ready for me, the minute he hears my key in the lock, an' when I open the door, an' light the changelier (he don't dare let a bark out of'm, he knows better, the smart little fella!), there he stands, a-waggin' his stump of a tail like a Christian, an'--Mr. Ronald, sir--that wag ain't for sale!" For a moment something akin in both held them silent. Then Mr. Ronald slowly inclined his head. "You are quite right, Martha. I understand your feeling." Martha turned to go. She had, in fact, reached the door when she was recalled. "O--one moment, please." She came back. "My sister tells me you worked in my rooms yesterday. Was any one there with you at the time?" "No, sir. Mrs. Sherman said I might have one of the girls, but I perfer to see to your things myself." "Then you were quite alone?" "Yes, sir." "Do you know if any one else in the household had occasion to go into my rooms during the day?" "Of course I can't be pos'tive. But I don't think so, sir." "Then I wonder if this belongs to you?" He extended his hand toward her. In his palm lay a small, flat, gold locket. Something like the faintest possible electric shock passed up Mrs. Slawson's spine, and contracted the muscles about her mouth. For a second she positively grinned, then quickly her face regained its customary calm. With a clever, if slightly tardy, movement, her hand went up to her throat. "Yes, sir--shoor, it's mine! Now what do you think of that! Me losin' somethin' I think the world an' all of, an' have wore for, I do' know how long, an' never missin' it!" Mr. Ronald's eyes shot out a quick, quizzical gleam. "O, you have been accustomed to wear it?" "Yes, sir." "Mrs. Sherman tells me she never remembers to have seen you with any sort of ornament, even a gold pin. She thought the locket could not possibly belong to you." "Well, it does. An' the reason she hasn't noticed me wearin' it is, I wear it under my waist, see?" Again Mr. Ronald fixed her with his keen eyes. "I see. You wear it under your waist. Of course, that explains why she hasn't noticed it. Yet, _if_ you wear it under your waist, how came it to get out from under and be on my desk?" Martha's face did not change beneath his scrutiny. During a rather long moment she was silent, then her answer came glibly enough. "When I'm workin' I'm ap' to get het-up, an' then I sometimes undoes the neck o' my waist, an' turns it back to give me breathin'-room." Mr. Ronald accepted it gravely. "Well, it is a very pretty locket, Martha--and a very pretty face inside it. Of course, as the trinket was in my room, and as there was no name or sign on the outside to identify it, I opened it. I hope you don't mind." "Certainly not," Martha assured him. "Certainly not!" "The inscription on the inside puzzles me. 'Dear Daddy, from Claire.' Now, assuredly, you're not _dear Daddy,_ Martha." Mrs. Slawson laughed. "Not on your life, I ain't _Dear Daddy,_ sir. Dear Daddy was Judge Lang of Grand Rapids--you know, where the furnitur' an' the carpet-sweepers comes from--He died about a year ago, an' Miss Claire, knowin' how much store I set by her, an' how I'd prize her picture, she give me the locket, as you see it." "You say Grand Rapids?--the young lady, Miss Claire, as you call her, lives in Grand Rapids?" "Yes, sir." "I suppose you think I am very inquisitive, asking so many questions, but the fact is, I am extremely interested. You will see why, when I explain that several weeks ago, one day downtown, I saw a little girl--a young lady--who might have been the original of this very picture, the resemblance is so marked. But, of course, if your young lady lives in Grand Rapids, she can't be my little girl--I should say, the young woman I saw here in New York City. But if they were one and the same, they couldn't look more alike. The only difference I can see, is that the original of your picture is evidently a prosperous 'little sister of the rich,' and the original of mine--the one I've carried in my mind--is a breadwinner. She was employed in an office where I had occasion to go one day on business. The next time I happened to drop in there--a few days later--she was gone. I was sorry. That office was no place for her, but I would have been glad to find her there, that I might have placed her somewhere else, in a safer, better position. I hope she has come to no harm." Martha hung fire a moment. Then, suddenly, her chin went up, as with the impulse of a new resolve. "I'll be open an' aboveboard with you, sir," she said candidly. "The world is certaintly small, an' the way things happen is a caution. Now, who'd ever have thought that you'd 'a' seen my Miss Claire, but I truly believe you have. For after her father died she come to New York, the poor lamb! for to seek her fortune, an' her as innercent an' unsuspectin' as my Sabina, who's only three this minit. She tried her hand at a lot o' things, an' thank God an' her garden-angel for keepin' her from harm, for as delicate an' pretty as she is, she can't _help_ attractin' attention, an' you know what notions some as calls themselves gen'lemen has, in this town. Well, Miss Claire is livin' under my roof, an' you can betcher life I'm on the job--relievin' her garden-angel o' the pertectin' end o' the business. But Miss Claire's that proud an' inderpendent-like she ain't contented to be idle. She's bound to make her own livin', which, she says, it's everybody's dooty to do, some ways or other. So my eye's out, as you might say, for a place where she can teach, like she's qualified to do. Did I tell you, she's a college lady, an' has what she calls a 'degree,' which I didn't know before anythin' but Masons like himself had 'em. "You oughter see how my boy Sammy gets his lessons, after she's learned 'em to him. She's a wizard at managin' boys. My Sammy useter to be up to all sorts o' mischief. They was a time he took to playin' hookey. He'd march off mornin's with his sisters, bold as brass, an' when lunchtime come, in he'd prance, same as them, an' nobody ever doubtin' he hadn't been to his school. An' all the time, there he was playin' in the open lots with a gang o' poor little neglected dagos. I noticed him comin' in evenin's kinder dissipated-lookin', but I hadn't my wits about me enough to be onto'm, till his teacher sent me a note one day, by his sister Cora, askin' what was ailin' Sammy. That night somethin' ailed Sammy for fair. He stood up to his dinner, an' he wouldn't 'a' had a cravin' to set down to his breakfast next mornin', only Francie put a pilla in his chair. But Miss Claire, she's got him so bewitched, he'd break his heart before he'd do what she wouldn't like. The thought of her goin' away makes him sick to his stummick, the poor fella! Yet, it ain't to be supposed anybody so smart, an' so good-lookin' as her, but would be snapped up quick by them as has the sense to see the worth of her. There's no question about her gettin' a job, the only worry _I_ have is her gettin' one that will take her away from this, out of New York City, where I can't see her oncet in a while. She's the kind you'd miss, like you would a front tooth. You feel you can't get on without her, an' true for you, you can't. But, beggin' your pardon, sir, for keepin' you so long with my talkin'. If that's all, I'll get to my work." "That is all," said Mr. Ronald, "except--" He rose and handed her the locket. She took it from him with a smile of perfect good-fellowship, and passed from the room. Once outside the threshold, with the door closed upon her, she drew a long, deep breath of relief. "Well, I'm glad _that's_ over, an' I got out of it with a whole skin," she ruminated. "Lord, but I thought he had me shoor, when he took me up about how the thing got out o' me dress, with his gimlet eyes never stirrin' from my face, an' me tremblin' like an ashpan. If I hadn't 'a' had my wits about me, I do' know where I'd 'a' come out. But all's well that ends swell, as Miss Claire says, an' bless her heart, it's her as'll end swell, if what I done this day takes root, an' I believe it will." CHAPTER VII When Martha let herself into her flat that night, she was welcomed by another beside Flicker. "You _naughty_ Martha!" whispered Claire. "What do you mean by coming home so late, all tired out and worked to death! It is shameful! But here's a good cup of hot chocolate, and some big plummy buns to cheer you up. And I've got some good news for you besides. I didn't mean to tell right off, but I just can't keep in for another minute. _I've got a job!_ A fine, three-hundred-dollars-a-year-and-home-and-laundry job! And a raise, as soon as I show I'm worth it! Now, what do you think of that? Isn't it splendid? Isn't it--_bully_?" She had noiselessly guided Martha into her own room, got her things off, and seated her in a comfortable Morris chair before the lighted oil-stove, from whose pierced iron top a golden light gleamed cheerily, reflecting on the ceiling above in a curious pattern. "Be careful of the chocolate, it's burning hot. I kept it simmering till I heard you shut the vestibule door. And--O, yes! No danger in sipping it that way! But you haven't asked a single thing about my job. How I came to know of it in the first place, and how I was clever enough to get it after I'd applied! You don't look a bit pleased and excited over it, you bad Martha! And you ought to be so glad, because I won't need to spend anything _like_ all the money I'll get. I'm to have my home and laundry free, and one can't make many outside expenses in a boarding-school 'way off in Schoharie--and so I can send you a lot and a lot of dollars, till we're all squared up and smoothed out, and you won't have to work so hard any more, and--" "Say now, Miss Claire, you certaintly are the fastest thing on record. If you'd been born a train, you'd been an express, shoor-pop an' no mistake. Didn't I tell you to hold on, pationate an' uncomplainin', till I giv' you the sign? Didn't I say I had my eye on a job for you that was a job worth talkin' about? One that'd be satisfactry all around. Well, then! An' here you are, tellin' me about you goin' to the old Harry, or some such, with home an' laundry thrown in. Not on your life you ain't, Miss Claire, an' that (beggin' your pardon!) is all there is _to_ it!" "But, Martha--" "Don't let's waste no more words. The thing ain't to be thought of." "But, Martha, it's over two weeks since you said that, about having an idea about a certain job for me that was going to be so splendid. Don't you know it is? And I thought it had fallen through. I didn't like to speak about it, for fear you'd think I was hurrying you, but two weeks are two weeks, and I can't go on indefinitely staying here, and getting so deep in debt I'll never be able to get out again. And I saw this advertisement in _The Outlook._ 'Twas for a college graduate to teach High School English in a girls' boarding-school, and I went to the agency, and they were very nice, and told me to write to the Principal, and I did--told her all about myself, my experience tutoring, and all that, and this morning came the letter saying she'd engage me. I can tell you all about Schoharie, Martha. It's 'up-state' and--" "Miss Claire, child, no! It won't do. I can't consent. I can't have you throwin' away golden opportoonities to work like a toojan for them as'll stint you in the wash, an' prob'ly give you oleo-margerine instead of butter, an' cold-storage eggs that had forgot there was such a thing as a hen, long before they ever was laid away. I wasn't born yesterday, myself, an' I know how they treat the teachers in some o' them schools. The young-lady scholars, so stylish an' rich, as full of airs as a music-box, snubbin' the teacher because they're too ignorant to know how smart _she_ has to be, to get any knowledge into their stupid heads, an' the Principal always eyein' you like a minx, 'less you might be wastin' her precious time an' not earnin' the elegant sal'ry she gives you, includin' your home an' laundry. O my! I know a thing or two about them schools, an' a few other places. No, Miss Claire, dear, it won't do. An' besides, I have you bespoke for Mrs. Sherman. The last thing before I come away from the house this night, she sent for me upstairs, an' ast me didn't I know some one could engage with her for Radcliffe--to learn him his lessons, an' how to be a little lady, an' suchlike. She wants, as you might say, a trained mother for'm, while his own untrained one is out gallivantin' the streets, shoppin', an' playin' bridge, an' attendin' the horse-show. "I hemmed an' hawed an' scratched my head to see if, happen, I did know anybody suitable, an' after a while (not to seem to make you too cheap, or not to look like I was jumpin' down her throat) I told her: 'Curious enough, I do know just the one I think will please you--_if_ you can get her.' "Then she ast me a lot about you, an' I told her what I know, an' for the rest I trusted to Providence, an' in the end we made a sorter deal--so's it's all fixed you're to go there day after to-morrer, to talk to her, an' let her look you over. An' if you're the kind o' stuff she wants, she'll take a half-a-dozen yards o' you, which is the kind o' way those folks has with people they pay money to. I promised Mrs. Sherman you'd come, an' I couldn't break my word to her, now could I? I'd be like to lose my own job if I did, an' I'm sure you wouldn't ast that o' me!" "But," said Claire, troubled, "you told me Radcliffe is so unmanageable." Mrs. Slawson devoted herself to her chocolate and buns for a moment or two. "O, never you fear about Radcliffe," she announced at length. "He's a good little fella enough, as little fellas goes. When you know how to handle'm--which is _right side up_ with care. Him an' me come to an understandin' yesterday mornin', an' he's as meek an' gentle as a baa-lamb ever since. I'll undertake you'll have no trouble with Radcliffe." "Is this the wonderful plan you spoke of? Is _this_ the job you said was going to be so satisfactory all 'round?" inquired Claire, her misgivings, in connection with her prospective pupil, by no means allayed. "Well, not eggsackly. I can't say it is. _That_ job will come later. But we got to be pationate, an' not spoil it by upsettin' our kettles o' fish with boardin'-schools, an' such nonsense. Meanwhile we can put in time with Mrs. Sherman, who'll pay you well, an' won't be too skittish if you just keep a firm hand on her. This mornin' she got discoursin' about everythin' under the canopy, from nickel-plated bathroom fixin's, an' marble slobs, to that state o' life unto which it has pleased God to call me. She told me just what I'd oughter give my fam'ly to eat, an' how much I'd oughter pay for it, an'--I say, but wasn't she grand to have give me all that good advice free?" Claire laughed. "She certainly was, and now you've just _got_ to go to bed. I don't dare look at the clock, it's so late. Good-night, you _good_ Martha! And thank you, from way deep down, for all you've done for me." But long after Mrs. Slawson had disappeared, the girl sat in the solitude of her shadowy room thinking--thinking--thinking. Unable to get away from her thoughts. There was something about this plan, to which Martha had committed her, that frightened, overawed her. She felt a strange impulse to resist it, to follow her own leading, and go to the school instead. She knew her feeling was childish. Suppose Radcliffe were to be unruly, why, how could she tell that the girls in the Schoharie school might not prove even more so? The fact was, she argued, she had unconsciously allowed herself to be prejudiced against Mrs. Sherman and the boy, by Martha's whimsical accounts of them, good-natured as they were. And this strange, premonitory instinct was no premonitory instinct at all, it was just the natural reluctance of a shy nature to face a new and uncongenial situation. And yet--and yet--and yet, try as she would, she could not shake off the impression that, beyond it all, there loomed something a hidden inner sense made her hesitate to approach. Just that moment, a dim, untraceable association of ideas drew her back until she was face-to-face with a long-forgotten incident in her very-little girlhood. Once upon a time, there had been a moment when she had experienced much the same sort of feeling she had now--the feeling of wanting to cry out and run away. As a matter of fact, she _had_ cried out and run away. Why, and from what? As it came back to her, not from anything altogether terrible. On the contrary, something rather alluring, but so unfamiliar that she had shrunk back from it, protesting, resisting. What was it? Claire suddenly broke into a smothered little laugh and covered her face with her hands, before the vision of herself, squawking madly, like a startled chicken, and running away from "big" handsome, twelve-year-old Bobby Van Brandt, who had just announced to the world at large, that "he liked Claire Lang a lot, 'n' she was his best girl, 'n' he was goin' to kiss her." She had been mortally frightened, had screamed, and run away, but (so unaccountable is the heart of woman) she had never liked Bobby quite so well after that, because he had shown the white feather and hadn't carried out his purpose, in spite of her. But if she should scream and run away now, there would be none to pursue. Her foolish outburst would disturb no one. She could cry and cry, and run and run, and there would be no big Bobby Van Brandt, or any one else to hear and follow. An actual echo of the cries she had not uttered seemed to mock her foolish musing. She paused and listened. Again and again came the muffled sounds, and, at last, so distinct they seemed, she went to her door, unlatched it, and stood, listening, on the threshold. From Martha's room rose a deep rumble, as of a distant murmurous sea. "Mr. Slawson. He's awake. He must have heard the crying, too. O, it's begun again! How awful! Martha, what is it, O, what is it?" for Mrs. Slawson had appeared in her own doorway, and was standing, night-robed and ghostly, listening attentively to the intermittent signs of distress. "It's that bloomin' Dutchman, Langbein, acrost the hall. Every time he goes on a toot, he comes back an' wallops his wife for it. Go to bed, Miss Claire, child, an' don't let it worry you. It ain't _your_ funeral." Came the voice of big Sam Slawson from within his chamber: "Just what I say to _you_, my dear. It ain't your funeral. Come back, Martha, an' go to bed." "Well, that's another pair o' shoes, entirely, Sammy," whispered Martha. "This business has been goin' on long enough, an' I ain't proposin' to put up with it no longer. Such a state o' things has nothin' to recommend it. If it'd help such a poor ninny as Mrs. Langbein any to beat her, I'd say, 'Go ahead! Never mind _us!_' But you couldn't pound sense inter a softy like her, no matter what you done. In the first place, she lets that fella get away from her evenin's when, if she'd an ounce o' sense, she could keep him stickin' so close at home, a capcine plaster wouldn't be in it. Then, when he comes home, a little the worse for wear, she ups an' reproaches 'm, which, God knows, that ain't no time to argue with a man. You don't want to _argue_ with a fella when he's so. You just want to _tell_m'. Tell'm with the help of a broomstick if you want to, but _tell'_m, or leave'm alone. An' it's bad for the childern--all this is--it's bad for Cora an' Francie. What idea'll they get o' the holy estate o' matrimony, I should like to know? That the _man_ has the upper hand? That's a _nice_ notion for a girl to grow up with, nowadays. Hark! My, but he's givin' it to her good an' plenty this time! Sammy Slawson, shame on ye, man! to let a poor woman be beat like that, an' never raise a hand to save your own childern from bein' old maids. Another scream outer her, an' I'll go in myself, in the face of you." "Now, Martha, be sensible!" pleaded Sam Slawson. "You can't break into a man's house without his consent." "Can't I? Well, just you watch me close, an' you'll see if I can't." "You'll make yourself liable to the law. He's her husband, you know. She can complain to the courts, if she's got any kick comin'. But it's not _my_ business to go interferin' between husband and wife. 'What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.'" Martha wagged an energetic assent. "Shoor! That certaintly lets _you_ out. But there ain't no mention made o' _woman_ not bein' on the job, is there?" She covered the narrow width of the hall in a couple of strides, and beat her knuckles smartly against the panel of the opposite door. By this time the baluster-railing, all the way up, was festooned with white-clad tenants, bending over, looking down. "Martha," protested Sam Slawson, "you're in your nightgown! You can't go round like that! Everybody's lookin' at you!" "Say, you--Mr. Langbein in there! Open the door. It's me! Mrs. Slawson! Let me in!" was Martha's only reply. Her keen ear, pressed against the panel, heard nothing in response but an oath, following another even more ungodly sound, and then the choking misery of a woman's convulsive sobs. Mrs. Slawson set her shoulder against the door, braced herself for a mighty effort, and-- "Did you ever see the like of her?" muttered Sam, as, still busy fastening the garments he had hurriedly pulled on, he followed his wife into the Langbeins' flat, into the Langbeins' bedroom. There he saw her resolutely march up to the irate German, swing him suddenly about, and send him crashing, surprised, unresisting, to the opposite side of the room. For a second she stood regarding him scornfully. "You poor, low-lived Dutchman, you!" she brought out with deliberation. "What d'you mean layin' your hand to a woman who hasn't the stren'th or the spirit to turn to, an' lick you back? Why don't you fight a fella your own size an' sect? That's fair play! A fine man _you_ are! A fine neighbor _you_ are! Just let me hear a peep out of you, an' I'll thrash you this minit to within a inch of your life. _I_ don't need no law nor no policeman to keep the peace in any house where I live. I can keep the peace myself, if I have to lick every tenant in the place! I'm the law an' the policeman on my own account, an' if you budge from that floor till I tell you get up, I'll come over there an' set down on ye so hard, your wife won't know you from a pancake in the mornin'. I'll show you the power o' the _press!"_ Sam Slawson was no coward, but his face was pallid with consternation at Martha's hardihood. His mighty bulk, however, seeming to supplement hers, had its effect on the sobered German. He did not attempt to rise. "As to you, you poor weak sister," said Mrs. Slawson, turning to the wife, "you've had your last lickin' so long as you live in this house. Believe _me!_ I'm a hard-workin' woman, but I'm never too tired or too busy to come in an' take a round out of your old man, if he should ever dare lay finger to you again. _I_ don't mind a friendly scrap oncet in a while with a neighbor. My muscles is good for more than your fat, beer-drinkin' Dutchman's any day. Let him up an' try 'em oncet, an' he'll see. Why don't you have some style about you an' land him one, where it'll do the most good, or else--_leave_ him? But no, you wouldn't do that--I _know_ you wouldn't! Some women has to cling to somethin', no matter if they have to support it themselves." Mrs. Langbein's inarticulate sobbing had passed into a spasmodic struggle for breathless utterance. "He--don't mean--no harm, Mis' Slawson. He's all right--ven he's soper. Only--it preaks my heart ven he vips me, und I don't deserve it." "Breaks your heart? It ain't your _heart I'm_ worryin' about. If he don't break your bones you're in luck!" "Und I try to pe a goot vife to him. I tend him hand und foot." "Ye-es, I know you do," returned Martha dryly. "But suppose you just try the _foot_ in the future. See how it works." "I to my pest mit dryin' to pe a goot cook. I geep his house so glean as a bin. Vat I _don't_ do, Gott weiss, I don't know it. I ain't esk him for ein tcent already. I ain't drouble him mit pills off of de grocer oder de putcher, oder anny-von. I makes launtry efery veek for some liddle peoples, und mit mine own money I bays my pills. Ven you dell me how it iss I could make eferyting more smoother for him, I do it!" "That's eggsackly the trouble," proclaimed Mrs. Slawson conclusively. "You make 'em too smooth. You make 'em so smooth, they're ackchelly slippery. No wonder the poor fella falls down. No man wants to spend all his life skatin' round, doin' fancy-figger stunts, because his wife's a dummy. Let'm get down to hard earth, an' if he kicks, heave a rock at'm. He'll soon stand up, an' walk straight like a little man. Let _him_ lend a hand with the dooty-business, for a change. It'll take his attention off'n himself, give'm a rest from thinkin' he's an angel, an' that you hired out, when you married'm, to shout 'Glory!' every time he flaps a wing! That sort o' thing ain't healthy for men. It don't agree with their constitutions--An' now, good-night to you, an' may you have sweet dreams! Mr. Langbein, I ain't the slightest objeckshun to your gettin' up, if you want to. You know me now. I'm by the day, as you may have heard. But I can turn my hand to an odd job like this now an' then by the night, if it's necess'ry, so let me hear no more from you, sir, an' then we'll all be good friends, like we're partin' now. Good-night!" CHAPTER VIII Before setting out for his work the next morning, Sam Slawson tried to prepare Ma and Miss Lang for the more than probable appearance, during the day, of the officer of the law, he predicted Friedrich Langbein would have engaged to prosecute Martha. "He has a clear case against you, mother, no doubt o' that. You'd no business in his place at all, let alone that you assaulted an' battered him. He can make it hot for us, an' I don't doubt he will." Mrs. Slawson attended with undivided care to the breakfast needs of such of her flock as still remained to be fed. The youngsters had all vanished. "If he wants to persecute me, let him persecute me. I guess I got a tongue in my head. I can tell the judge a thing or two which, bein' prob'ly a mother himself, he'll see the sense of. Do you think I want Sammy growin' up under my very eyes, a beer-drinkin' wife-beater?--because he seen the eggsample of it set before'm by a Dutchman, when he was a boy? Such things makes an impression on the young--which they ain't sense enough to know the difference between a eggsample an' a warnin'. An' the girls, too! As I told you las' night, it's bad for the country when matrimony ain't made to look like a prize-package, no matter what it _reely_ is. What's goin' to become o' the population, I should like to know? Here's Cora now, wantin' to be a telefoam-girl when she grows up, an' there's no knowin' what Francie'll choose. But you can take it from me, they'll both of 'em drop their votes for the single life. They'll perfer to thump a machine o' their own, with twelve or fifteen _per_, comin' to 'em, rather than be the machine that's thumped, an' pay for the privilege out'n their own pockets besides." As fate would have it, the day went placidly by, in spite of Mr. Slawson's somber prognostications. No one came to disturb the even tenor of its way. Then, at eveningfall, while Martha was still absent, there was a gentle rap upon the door, and Claire, anxious to anticipate Ma, made haste to answer it, and saw a stranger standing on the threshold. It was difficult, at first, to distinguish details in the dusk of the dim hallway, but after a moment she made out the rotund figure of Mr. Langbein. She could not see his face, but his voice was more than conciliatory. "Eggscoose me, lady!" he began apologetically. "I haf for Mis' Slawson a liddle bresent here. I tink she like it. She look so goot-netchered, und I know she iss kind to bum animals. My vife, her Maltee cat vas having some liddle kittens already, a mont' ago. I tink Mis' Slawson, she lige to hef von off dem pussies, ja? Annyhow, I bring her von here, und I esk you vill gif it to her mit my tanks, und my kint regarts, und pest vishes und annyting else you tink I could do for her. You tell Mis' Slawson I lige her to esk me to do someting whenefer she needs it--yes?" "Now what do you think of that?" was Martha's only comment, when Claire related the incident, and great Sam Slawson shook with laughter till his sides ached, and a fit of coughing set in, and said it was "a caution, but Mother always did have a winning way about her with the men." "It's well I have, or I wouldn't 'a' drew you, Sammy--an' you shoor are a trump--only I wisht you'd get rid o' that cough--You had it just about long enough," Martha responded, half in mockery, half in affectionate earnest. "An' now, me lad, leave us be, me an' Miss Claire. We has things of importance to talk over. It's to-morrow at ten she's to go see Mrs. Sherman. Miss Claire, you must be lookin' your best, for the first minit the madam claps eyes to you, that'll be the decidin' minit for _you_. Have you everything you need, ready to your hand? Is all your little laces an' frills done up fresh an' tidy, so's you can choose the becomingest? Where's that lace butterfly for your neck, I like so much? I washed it as careful as could be, a couple o' weeks ago, but have you wore it since?" Claire hesitated. "I think I'll put on the simplest things I've got, Martha," she replied evasively. "Just one of my linen shirtwaists, with the stiff collar and cuffs. No fluffy ruffles at all." "But that scrap o' lace at your throat, ain't fluffy ruffles. An' stiff, starched things don't kinder become you, Miss Claire. They ain't your style. You don't wanter look like you been dressed by your worst enemy, do you? You're so little an' dainty, you got to have delicate things to go _with_ you. Say, just try that butterfly on you now. I want to see if it'll do, all right." By this time Claire knew Martha well enough to realize it was useless to attempt to temporize or evade. "I can't wear the butterfly, Martha dear," she said. "Why can't you?" "Well, now please, _please_ don't worry, but I can't wear it, because I can't find it. I dare say it'll turn up some day when I least expect, but just now, it seems to be lost." Martha looked grave. "It come out o' the wash all right, didn't it?" she inquired anxiously. "I remember distinkly leavin' it soak in the suds, so's there wouldn't be no strain-like, rubbin' it, an' the dust'd just drop out natural. But now I come to think of it, I don't recklect ironin' it. Now honest, did it come outer the wash, Miss Claire?" "No, Martha--but--" "There ain't no _but_ about it. I musta gone an' lost your pretty lace for you, an' it was reel at that!" "Never mind! It's of no consequence. Truly, please don't--" "Worry? Shoor I won't worry. What's the use worryin'? But I'll make it right, you betcher life, which is much more to the purpose. Say, I shouldn't wonder but it got into the tub someways, an' then, when I let the water out, the suckage drew it down the pipe. Believe _me,_ that's the very thing that happened, and--'I'll never see sweet Annie any more!'" "It doesn't make a particle of difference, Martha. I never liked that butterfly as much as you did, you know." "Perhaps you did an' perhaps you didn't, but all the same you're _out_ a neck-fixin', an' it's _my_ fault, an' so you're bound to let me get square, to save my face, Miss Claire. You see how it is, don't you? Well, last Christmas, Mrs. Granville she give me a lace jabbow--reel Irish mull an' Carrickmacross (that's lace from the old country, as you know as well as me). She told me all about it. Fine? It'd break your heart to think o' one o' them poor innercent colleens over there pricklin' her eyes out, makin' such grandjer for the like o' me, when no doubt she thought she was doin' it for some great dame, would be sportin' it out loud, in her auta on Fifth Avenoo. What use have I, in my business, for that kinder decoration, I should like to know! It'd only be distractin' me, gettin' in me pails when I'm scrubbin'. An' by the time Cora an' Francie is grown up, jabbows will be _out_. I'd much more use for the five-dollar-bill was folded up in the box alongside. _That_, now, was becomin' to my peculiar style o' beauty. But the jabbow! There ain't no use talkin', Miss Claire, you'll have to take it off'n my hands, I mean my chest, an' then we'll be quits on the butterfly business, an' no thanks to your nose on either side." It was useless to protest. The next morning when Claire started forth to beard the lioness in her den, she was tricked out in all the bravery of Martha's really beautiful "jabbow," and looked "as pretty as a picture, an' then some," as Mrs. Slawson confidentially assured Sam. But the heart beneath the frilly lace and mull was anything but brave. It felt, in fact, quite as white and fluttery as the _jabbow_ looked, and when Claire found herself being actually ushered into the boudoir of the august _presence_, and told to "wait please," she thought it would stop altogether for very abject fright. Martha had tried, in a sort of casual, matter-of-course way, to prepare her little lady for the trial, by dropping hints every now and then, as to the best methods of dealing with employers--the proper way to carry oneself, when one "went to live out in private fam'lies." "You see, you always been the private fam'ly yourself, Miss Claire, so it'll come kinder strange to you first-off, to look at things the other way. But it won't be so bad after you oncet get used to it. There's one thing it's good to remember. Them high-toned folks has somehow got it fixed in their minds that _the rich must not be annoyed,_ so it'll be money in your pocket, as the sayin' is, if you can do your little stunt without makin' any fuss about it, or drawin' their attention. Just saw wood an' say nothin', as my husband says. "Mrs. Sherman she told me, when I first went there, an' Radcliffe was a little baby, she 'strickly forbid anybody to touch'm.' It was on account o' what she called _germs_ or somethin'. Well, I never had no particular yearnin' to inflect him with none o' my germs, but when she was off gallivantin', an' that poor little lonesome fella used to cry, an' put out his arms to be took, I'd take'm, an' give'm the only reel mother-huggin' he ever had in his life, an' no harm to any of us--to me that give it, or him that got it, or her that was no wiser. Then, later, when he was four or five, an' around that, she got a notion he was a angel-child, an' she'd useter go about tellin' the help, an' other folks, 'he must be guided by love alone.' I remember she said oncet he'd be 'as good as a kitten for hours at a time if you only give'm a ball of twine to play with.' Well, his nurse, she give'm the ball of twine one day when she had somethin' doin' that took up all her time an' attention on her own account, an' when she come back from her outin', you couldn't walk a step in the house without breakin' your leg (the nurse she did sprain her ankle), on account o' the cat's-cradle effect the young villain had strung acrost the halls, an' from one doorknob to the other, so there wasn't an inch o' the place free. An' he'd got the tooth-paste toobs, an' squoze out the insides, an' painted over every bit o' mahogany he could find--doors, an' furnitur', an' all. You can take it from me, that house was a sight after the angel-child got through with it. The girls an' me--the whole push--was workin' like mad clearin' up after'm before the madam'd come home, an' the nurse cryin' her eyes out for the pain, an' scared stiff 'less she'd be sent packin'. Also, 'if Radcliffe asked questions, we was to answer them truthful,' was another rule. An' the puzzles he'd put to you! One day, I remember, he got me cornered with a bunch that was such fierce propositions, Solomon in all his glory couldn't 'a' give him their truthful answers. Says he--Radcliffe, not Solomon--says he: 'I want another leg.' "'You can't have it,' says I. "'Why?' says he. "'They ain't pervided,' I says. 'Little boys that's well-reggerlated, don't have but two legs.' "'Why don't they?' "'Because God thought two was enough for'm.' "'Why did God think tho?' "'You ask too many questions.' "'Well, but--juth lithen--I want to know--now lithen--doth puthy-caths lay eggth?' "'No!' "'Why don't puthy-caths lay eggth?' "'Because hens has a corner on the egg business.' "'Why have they?' "'Because they're born lucky, like Mr. Carnegie an' Mr. Rockefella.' "'Doth Mr. Carnegie an' Mr. Rockefella--' _"'No!'_ "'Why don't they?' "'Say, Radcliffe, I ain't had a hard day,' says I. 'But _you_ make me tired.' "'Why do I? Now--juth wonth more--now--now lithen wonth more--ith God a lady?'" As Claire sat waiting for Mrs. Sherman, stray scraps of recollection, such as these, flitted through her mind and helped to while the time away. Then, as she still waited, she grew gradually more composed, less unfamiliar with her surroundings, and the strange predicament in which she found herself. She could, at length, look at the door she supposed led into Mrs. Sherman's room, without such a quick contraction of the heart as caused her breath to come in labored gasps, could make some sort of sketchy outline of the part she was foreordained to take in the coming interview, and not find herself barren of resource, even if Mrs. Sherman _should_ say so-and-so, instead of so-and-so. She had waited so long, had had such ample time to get herself well in hand, that when, at last, a door opened (not Mrs. Sherman's door at all, but another), and a tall, upright masculine figure appeared in the doorway, she at once jumped to the conclusion it was Shaw, the butler, come to summon her into _the presence,_ and rose to follow, without too much inner perturbation. "Mrs. Sherman is prevented from keeping her appointment with you this morning," descended to her from an altitude far above her own. "She hopes you will excuse her. She has asked me to talk with you in her stead. You are Miss Lang, I believe? I am Mrs. Sherman's brother. My name is Ronald." CHAPTER IX It is hard to readjust all one's prearranged plans in the twinkling of an eye. Claire felt as if she had received a sudden dash of cold water square in the face. She quite gulped from the shock of it. How in the world was she to adapt herself to this brand-new set of conditions on such short notice--on no notice at all? How was she to be anything but awkwardly monosyllabic? "Sit down, please." Obediently she sat. "Martha--Mrs. Slawson--tells me, your father was Judge Lang of Michigan?" "Yes--Grand Rapids." "You are a college graduate?" "Wellesley." "You have taught before?" "I tutored a girl throughout a whole summer. Prepared her for her college entrance exams." "She passed creditably?" "She wasn't conditioned in anything." "How are you on discipline?" "I don't know." "You have had no experience? Never tried your hand at training a boy, for example?" Claire's blue-gray eyes grew suddenly audacious, and the bridge of her short nose wrinkled up delightfully in a roguish smile. "I trained my father. He was a dear old boy--the dearest in the world. He used to say he had never been brought up, until I came along. He used to say I ruled him with a rod of iron. But he was very well-behaved before I got through with him. He was quite a model boy, really." Glancing quickly up into the steadfast eyes that had, at first, seemed to her so stern as to be almost forbidding, she met an expression so mild, so full of winning kindness, that she suddenly remembered and understood what Martha had meant when she said once: "A body wouldn't call the queen her cousin when he looks at you like that!" "Your father was a credit to your bringing-up, certainly. I never had the honor of meeting Judge Lang, but I knew him by reputation. I remember to have heard some one say of him once--'He was a judge after Socrates' own heart. He heard courteously, he answered wisely, he considered soberly, he decided impartially. Added to this, he was one whom kings could not corrupt.' That is an enviable record." Claire's eyes filled with grateful moisture, but she did not allow them to overflow. She nodded rapidly once or twice in a quaint, characteristic little fashion, and then sat silent, examining the links in her silver-meshed purse, with elaborate attention. "Perhaps Mrs. Slawson has told you that my young nephew is something of a pickle." The question restored Claire at once. "I'm fond of pickles." "Good! I believe there are said to be fifty-eight varieties. Are you prepared to smack your lips over him, whichever he may be?" "Well, if I can't smack my lips, there's always the alternative of smacking _him_." Mr. Ronald laughed. "Not allowed," he announced regretfully. "My sister won't have it. Radcliffe is to be guided 'by love alone.'" "Whose love, please? His or mine?" Again Mr. Ronald laughed. "Now you've got me!" he admitted. "Perhaps a little of both. Do you think you could supply your share? I have no doubt of your being able to secure his." "I like children. We've always managed to hit it off pretty well, the kiddies and I, but, of course, I can't guarantee anything definite in connection with your little boy, because, you see, I've never been a governess before. I've only had to do with youngsters who've come a-visiting, or else the small, lower East-siders at the Settlement. But I'll promise to do my best." "'Who does the best his circumstance allows, does well, acts nobly. _Angles_ could no more,' as I wrote in my sister's autograph-album when I was a boy," announced Mr. Ronald gravely. Claire smiled over at him with appreciation. "I'd love to come and try," she said heartily. She did not realize she had lost all sensation of alarm, had forgotten her altered position, that she was no longer one whom these people would regard as their social equal. She was talking as one talks to a friend. "And if Radcliffe doesn't get on--if he doesn't improve, I should say--if you don't _like_ me, you can always send me away, you know." For a very long moment Mr. Ronald sat silent. So long a moment, indeed, that Claire, waiting in growing suspense for his answer, suddenly remembered all those things she had forgotten, and her earlier embarrassment returned with a wave of bitter self-reproach. She accused herself of having been too free. She had overstepped her privilege. It was not apparent to her that he was trying to visualize the picture she had drawn, the possibility of his _not liking her and sending her away, you know,_ and that, to his utter consternation, he found it was something he could not in the least conceive of himself as doing. That, on the contrary, the vision of her going away for any reason, of her passing out of his life, now she had once stepped into it, left him with a chill sensation in the cardiac region that was as unexpected as it was disturbing. When he spoke at last, it was with a quick, authoritative brevity that seemed to Claire to bear out her apprehension, and prove he thought she had forgotten her place, her new place as "hired help," and must be checked lest she presume on good nature and take a tone to her employers that was not to be tolerated. "You will come without fail on Monday morning." "Very well." Her manner was so studiously cold and ceremonious, so sharply in contrast with her former piquant friendliness, that Mr. Ronald looked up in surprise. "It is convenient for you to come on Monday, I hope?" "Perfectly." "I presume my sister, Mrs. Sherman, will take up with you the question of--er--compensation." "O--" quickly, with a little shudder, "that's all right!" "If it isn't all right, it shall be made so," said Mr. Ronald cordially. Claire winced. "It is quite, it is perfectly all right!" she repeated hurriedly, anxious to escape the distasteful subject, still smarting under the lash of her own self-condemnation--her own wounded pride. How could she have forgotten, even for a moment, that she was no longer in a position to deal with these people on equal terms? That now, kindness on their part meant patronage, on hers presumption. Of course, she deserved the snub she had received. But, all the same, it hurt! O, but it hurt! She knew her George Eliot well. It was a pity she did not recall and apply a certain passage in Maggie Tulliver's experience. "It did not occur to her that her irritation was due to the pleasanter emotion which preceded it, just as when we are satisfied with a sense of glowing warmth, an innocent drop of cold water may fall upon us with a sudden smart." Mr. Ronald, searching her face for some clue to the abrupt change in her voice and manner, saw her cheeks grow white, her lips and chin quiver painfully. "You are not well?" he asked, after a second of troubled groping in the dark. "O, perfectly." She recollected Martha's injunction, "Never you let on to 'em, any of your worries. The rich must not be annoyed," and pulled herself together with a determined mental grip. "It is good that, being so far away from home, you can be under the care of your old nurse," observed Mr. Ronald thoughtfully. "My old nurse," Claire mechanically repeated, preoccupied with her own painful meditations. "Martha. It is good, it certainly must be comforting to those who care for you, to know you are being looked after by so old and trusted a family servant." Claire did not reply. She was hardly conscious he was speaking. "When Martha first mentioned you to me--to Mrs. Sherman, rather--she described you as her young lady. She has a very warm feeling for you. I think she considers you in the light of personal property, like a child of her own. That's excusable--it's commendable, even, in such a case as this. I believe she said she nursed you till you were able to walk." With a shock of sudden realization, Claire waked to the fact that something was wrong somewhere--something that it was _up to_ her to make right at once. And yet, it was all so cloudy, so confused in her mind with her duty to Martha, her duty to herself, and to these people--her fear of being again kindly but firmly put back in her _place_ if she ventured the merest fraction of an inch beyond the boundary prescribed by this grandee of the autocratic bearing and "keep-off-the-grass expression," that she hesitated, and her opportunity was lost. "I think I must go now," she announced abruptly, and rose, got past him somehow, and made blindly for the door. Then there was the dim vista of the long hall stretching before her, like a path of escape, and she fled its length, and down that of the staircase. Then out at the street-door, and into the chill of the cold December noonday. When she had vanished, Francis Ronald stood a moment with eyes fixed in the direction she had taken. Then, abruptly, he seized the telephone that stood upon the table beside him, switched it to connect with the basement region, and called for Mrs. Slawson. "This is Mr. Ronald speaking. Is Martha there?" "Yes, sir. Please hold the wire, and I'll call her." "Be quick!" "Yes, sir!" A second, and Martha's voice repeated his name. "Mr. Ronald, this is Martha!" "Good! I want you to put on your things at once, and follow Miss Lang," he directed briefly. "I do not think she's sick, but as she was talking to me, I noticed she grew suddenly quite pale, and seemed troubled and anxious. Waste no time! Go at once!" The only answer was a sharp click over the wire, as Mrs. Slawson snapped the receiver into its crotch. But though Claire was not five minutes in advance of her, Martha was unable to make up the distance between them, and by the time she had mounted the stairs leading to the Elevated, and stood panting for breath on the platform, the train she had hoped to catch was to be seen disappearing around the curve at Fifty-third Street. All the way uptown she speculated as to the why and wherefore of Mr. Ronald's immediate concern about Claire. "It's kinder previous, his gettin' so stirred up over her at this stage o' the game," she pondered. "It ain't natural, or it ain't lucky. I'd much liefer have it go slower, an' be more thora. A thing like this affair I'm tryin' to menoover, is like some o' the things you cook. You want to leave 'em get good an' het-up before the stirrin' begins. If they're stirred up too soon, they're ap' to cruddle on you, an' never get that nice, smooth, thick, _gooey_ look you like to see in rich custuds, same as love-affairs. I hope she didn't go an' have a scare on, an' give 'em to think she ain't healthy. She's as sound as a nut, but if Mis' Sherman once is fixed with the notion she's subjeck to faint-spells, nothin' on earth will change her mind, an' then it'll be nit, not, nohow for Martha's little scheme. I must caution Miss Claire about showin' the white feather. No matter how weak-kneed she feels, she's just _got_ to buck up an' ack like she's a soldier. That's how--" Martha had reached her own street, and was turning the corner, when she stopped with a sensation as of a quick, fierce clutching at her heart. Evidently there had been some sort of accident, for a great crowd was gathered on the sidewalk, and beside the gutter-curbstone, just ahead of her, stood waiting an ambulance. Her healthy, normal mind did not easily jump at tragic conclusions. She did not, as a general thing, fear the worst, did not even accept it when it came, but now, somehow, a close association of ideas suggested Claire in an instant, and before ever she had stirred a step, she saw in her mind's eye the delicate little form she loved, lying injured, maybe mangled, stretched out upon the asphalt, in the midst of the curious throng. She hurried, hurried faster than any of the others who were also hurrying, and pushed her way on through the press to the very edge of the crowd. A crying woman caught wildly at her arm, as she stood for a second struggling to advance. "It's a child!--A little girl--run over by an automobile! O God help the poor mother!" the stranger sobbed hysterically. Martha freed herself from the clinging fingers and pressed forward. "A child--Miss Claire's such a little thing, no wonder they think she's a child," she murmured. "True for you, my good woman, God help the poor mother!" "You know her?" "I know Miss Claire." For some reason the crowd made way, and let her through to the very heart of it, and there--sure enough, there was Claire, but Claire crying and kneeling over an outstretched little form, lying unconscious on the pavement. "Why, it's--my Francie!" said Martha quietly. CHAPTER X Through all the days of suspense and doubt, Claire swung like a faithful little pendulum between home, the Shermans, and the hospital. Then, as hope strengthened, she was the bearer of gifts, flowers, fruit, toys from Mr. Ronald and his sister, which Martha acknowledged in her own characteristic fashion. "Tell'm the Slawson fam'ly is bound to be _in it._ It seems it's the whole style for ladies to go under a operation, an' as I ain't eggsackly got the time, Francie, she's keepin' up the tone for us. If you wanter folla the fashions these days, you got to gather your skirts about you, tight as they are, an' run. But what's a little inconvenience, compared with knowin' you're cuttin' a dash! "Tell'm I thank'm, an' tell Lor'--Mister Ronald, it's good of'm to be tryin' to get damages for Francie out o' the auta that run her down, an' if there was somethin' comin' to us to pay the doctors an' suchlike, it'd be welcome. But, somehow, I always was shy o' monkeyin' with the law. It's like to catch a body in such queer places, where you'd least expect. Before a fella knows it, he's _up_ for liable, or breaches o' promise, an' his private letters to the bosom of his fam'ly (which nowadays they're mostly ruffles), his letters to the bosom of his fam'ly is read out loud in court, an' then printed in the papers next mornin', an' everybody's laughin' at'm, because he called his wife 'My darlin' Tootsie,' which she never been accustomed to answer to anythin' but the name o' Sarah. An' it's up to him to pay the costs, when ten to one it's the other party's to blame. I guess p'raps we better leave good enough alone. If we begin to get the l'yers after us, no tellin' where we'll end. Who knows but they might find the accident injured the auto, 'stead o' Francie. If we work hard, an' they give us time, me an' Sammy can, maybe, make out to pay the doctors. But add to that, to have to buy a brand-new machine for the fella that run over Francie--that'd be sorter discouragin'." She paused, and Claire began to pull on her gloves. "By the way," said Martha, "how's things down to the Shermans'? Seems like a hunderd years since I was there. The las' time I laid eyes on Eliza, she was in excellent spirits--I seen the bottle. I wonder if she's still--very still, takin' a sly nip on the side, as she calls it, which means a sly nip off the sideboard. You can take it from me, if she don't let up, before she knows it she'll be a teetotal wrack." "I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Eliza," observed Claire, smiling. "Why, of course, you haven't, which it wouldn't be a pleasure, anyhow. But what I reely want to know is, how you makin' out with Radcliffe? I been so took up with Francie all this while, I clean forgot to ask before. Is he behavin' all right? Does he mind what you say? Does he do his lessons good?" Claire's brows drew together in a troubled little frown, as she labored over the clasp of her glove. "O, Radcliffe," she let fall carelessly. "Radcliffe's an unruly little Hessian, of course, but I suppose all boys are mischievous at times." Martha pondered. "Well, not all boys are mischievous in just the same way, thank God! This trouble o' Francie's has threw me all out in more ways than one. If everything had 'a' went as I'd expected, I'd been workin' at the Shermans' straight along these days, an' you wouldn't 'a' had a mite o' trouble with the little fella. Him an' I understands each other perfeckly, an' with me a loomin' up on the landscape, he kinder sees the sense o' walkin' a chalk-line, not kickin' up his heels too frisky. I'd calculated on being there, to sorter back you up, till you'd got uster the place, an' made 'em understand you mean business." Claire laughed, a quick, sharp little laugh. "O, I think I'm gradually making them understand I mean business," she said. "And I'm sure it is better, since I have to be there at all, that I should be there without you, independent of any help. I couldn't make Radcliffe respect my authority, if I depended on some one else to enforce it. It's just one of those cases where one has to fight one's own battle alone." "Then it _is_ a battle?" Martha inquired quietly. "O, it's a battle, 'all right,'" laughed Claire mirthlessly, and before Mrs. Slawson could probe her further, she managed to make her escape. She did not wish to burden Martha with her vexations. Martha had troubles of her own. Moreover, those that were most worrisome to Claire, Martha, in the very nature of things, would not understand. Claire's first few weeks at the Shermans' had been uneventful enough. Radcliffe had found amusement in the novelty of the situation, had deigned to play school with her, and permitted her to "make believe" she was "the teacher." He was willing to "pretend" to be her "scholar," just as he would have been willing to pretend to be the horse, if he and another boy had been playing, and the other boy had chosen to be driver for a while. But turn about is fair play, and when the days passed, and Claire showed no sign of relinquishing her claim, he grew restless, mutinous, and she had all she could do to keep him in order. Gradually it began to dawn upon him that this very little person, kind and companionable as she seemed, suffered under the delusion that he was going to obey her--that, somehow, she was going to constrain him to obey her. Of course, this was the sheerest nonsense. How could she make him do anything he didn't want to do, since his mother had told her, in his presence, that he was to be governed by love alone, and, fortunately, her lack of superior size and strength forbade her _love_ from expressing itself as, he shudderingly remembered, Martha's had done on one occasion. No, plainly he had the advantage of Miss Lang, but until she clearly understood it, there were apt to be annoyances. So, without taking the trouble to make the punishment fit the crime, he casually locked her in the sitting-room closet one morning. She had stepped inside to hang up her hat and coat as usual, and it was quite easy, swiftly, noiselessly, to close the door upon her, and turn the key. He paused a moment, choking back his nervous laughter, waiting to hear her bang on the panel, and clamor to be let out. But when she made no outcry, when, beyond one or two futile turnings of the knob, there was no further attempt on her part to free herself, he stole upstairs to the schoolroom, and made merry over his clever exploit. For a full minute after she found herself in darkness, Claire did not realize she was a prisoner. The door had swung to after her, she thought, that was all. But, when she turned the knob, and still it did not open, she began to suspect the truth. Her first impulse was to call out, but her better judgment told her it would be better to wait with what dignity she might until Radcliffe tired of his trick, or some one else came and released her. Radcliffe would tire the more quickly, she reasoned, if she did not raise a disturbance. When he saw she was not to be teased, he would come and let her out. She stood with her hot cheek pressed against the cool wood of the closet-door, waiting for him to come. And listening for his steps, she heard other steps--other steps which approached, and entered the sitting-room. She heard the voices of Mrs. Sherman and Mr. Ronald in earnest conversation. "If I thought such a thing were possible I'd send her away to-morrow," Mrs. Sherman was saying in a high-pitched, excited voice. "Why such delay? Why not to-day?" inquired Mr. Ronald ironically. "But, of course," continued his sister, ignoring his interruption, "I know there's nothing to be really afraid of." "Well, then, if you know there's nothing to be afraid of, what _are_ you afraid of?" "I'm not really afraid. I'm just talking things over. You see, she's so uncommonly pretty, and--men are men, and you're no exception." "I hope not. I don't want to be an exception." "Don't you think she's uncommonly pretty?" "No, I don't think I should call her--_pretty_," said Mr. Ronald with an emphasis his sister might well have challenged, if she had not been so preoccupied with her own thoughts that she missed its point. "Well, _I_ do. I think she's quite pretty enough to excuse, I mean, _explain_ your having a passing fancy for her." "I haven't a passing fancy for her." "Well, I'm much relieved to hear you say so, for even if it were only a passing fancy, I'd feel I ought to send her away. You never can tell how such things will develop." "You certainly can't." "And you may rest assured mother and I don't want you to ruin your life by throwing yourself away on a penniless, unknown little governess, when you might have your choice from among the best-born, wealthiest girls in town." "Miss Lang is as well-born as any one we know." "We have only her word for it." "No, her nurse, an old family servant, Martha Slawson, corroborates her--if you require corroboration." "Don't you? Would you be satisfied to pick some one off the street, as it were, and take her into your house and give her your innocent child to train?" "My innocent children being so extremely vague, I am not concerning myself as to their education. But I certainly accept Miss Lang's word, and I accept Martha's." "You're easily satisfied. Positively, Frank, I believe you _have_ a fancy for the girl, in spite of what you say. And for all our sakes, for mother's and mine and yours and--yes--even hers, it will be best for me to tell her to go." "I rather like the way you rank us. Mother and you first--then I come, and last--_even_ the poor little girl!" "Well, you may laugh if you want to, but when a child like Radcliffe notices that you're not indifferent to her, there must be some truth in it. He confided to me last night, 'Uncle Frank likes Miss Lang a lot. I guess she's his best girl! Isn't she his best girl?' I told him _certainly not_. But I lay awake most of the night, worrying about it." Mr. Ronald had evidently had enough of the interview. Claire could hear his firm steps, as he strode across the floor to the door. "I advise you to quit worrying, Catherine," he said. "It doesn't pay. Moreover, I assure you I've no _passing fancy_ (I quote your words) for Miss Lang. I hope you won't be so foolish as to dismiss her on my account. She's an excellent teacher, a good disciplinarian. It would be difficult to find another as capable as she, one who, at the same time, would put up with Radcliffe's waywardness, and your--_our_--(I'll put it picturesquely, after the manner of Martha) our indiosincrazies. Take my advice. Don't part with Miss Lang. She's the right person in the right place. Good-morning!" "Frank, Frank! Don't leave me like that. I know I've terribly annoyed you. I can't bear to feel you're provoked with me, and yet I'm only acting for your good. Please kiss me good-by. I'm going away. I won't see you for two whole days. I'm going to Tuxedo this morning to stay over night with Amy Pelham. There's a man she's terribly interested in, and she wants me to meet him, and tell her what I think of him. He's been attentive to her for ever so long, and yet he doesn't--his name is Mr. Robert--" Her words frayed off in the distance, as she hurriedly followed her brother out into the hall and downstairs. How long Claire stood huddled against the closet-door she never knew. The first thing of which she was clearly conscious was the feel of a key stealthily moved in the lock beneath her hand. Then the sounds of footsteps lightly tiptoeing away. Mechanically she turned the knob, the door yielded, and she staggered blindly out from the darkness into the sunlit room. It was deserted. If Mrs. Sherman had been there, Claire would have given way at once, letting her sense of outraged pride escape her in a torrent of tears, a storm of indignant protest. Happily, there being no one to cry to, she had time to gather herself together before going up to face Radcliffe. When she entered the schoolroom, he pretended to be studiously busied with his books, and so did not notice that she was rather a long time closing the door after her, and that she also had business with the lock of the door opposite. He really only looked up when she stationed herself behind her desk, and summoned him to recite. "I do' want to!" announced Radcliffe resolutely. "Very well," said Claire, "then we'll sit here until you do." Radcliffe grinned. It seemed to him things were all going his way, this clear, sunny morning. He began to whistle, in a breathy undertone. Claire made no protest. She simply sat and waited. Radcliffe took up his pencil, and began scrawling pictures over both sides of his slate, exulting in the squeaking sounds he produced. Still _the teacher_ did not interfere. But when, tired of his scratching, he concluded the time had arrived for his grand demonstration, his crowning declaration of independence, he rose, carelessly shoved his books aside, strode to the door, intending masterfully to leave the room, and--discovered he was securely locked and bolted in. In a flash he was across the room, tearing at the lock of the second door with frantic fingers. That, too, had been made fast. He turned upon Claire like a little fiend, his eyes flashing, his hands clenched. "You--you--you two-cent Willie!" he screamed. Claire pretended not to see or hear. In reality she was acutely conscious of every move he made, for, small as he was, his pent-in rage gave him a strength she might well fear to put to the test. It was the tug of war. The question was, who would be conqueror? Through the short hours of the winter forenoon, hours that seemed as interminable to Claire as they did to Radcliffe, the battle raged. There was no sign of capitulation on either side. In the course of the morning, and during one of Radcliffe's fiercest outbreaks, Claire took up the telephone instrument and quietly instructed Shaw to bring no luncheon-trays to the schoolroom at mid-day. "Two glasses of hot milk will be all we need," she said, whereupon Radcliffe leaped upon her, trying to wrest the transmitter from her hand, beating her with his hard little fists. "I won't drink milk! I won't! I won't!" he shouted madly. "An' I'll _kill_ you, if you won't let me have my lunch, you--you--you _mizzer'ble_ two-cent Willie!" As the day drew on, his white face grew flushed, her fevered one white, and both were haggard and lined from the struggle. Then, at about three o'clock, Mr. Ronald telephoned up to say he wished Radcliffe to go for a drive with him. Claire replied it was impossible. "Why?" came back to her over the wire. "Because he needs punishment, and I am going to see that he gets it." "And if I interfere?" "I resign at once. Even as it is--" "Do you think you are strong enough--strong enough _physically_, to fight to the finish?" "I am strong enough for anything." "I believe you. But if you should find him one too many for you, I shall be close at hand, and at a word from you I will come to the rescue." "No fear of my needing help. Good-by!" She hung up the receiver with a click of finality. Outside, the sky grew gray and threatening. Inside, the evening shadows began to gather. First they thickened in the corners of the room; then spread and spread until the whole place turned vague and dusky. The first violence of his rage was spent, but Radcliffe, sullen and unconquered still, kept up the conflict in silent rebellion. He had not drunk his milk, so neither had Claire hers. The two glasses stood untouched upon her desk, where she had placed them at noon. It was so still in the room Claire would have thought the boy had fallen asleep, worn out with his struggles, but for the quick, catching breaths that, like soundless sobs, escaped him every now and then. It had been dark a long, long time when, suddenly, a shaft of light from a just lit window opposite, struck over across to them, reflecting into the shadow, and making visible Radcliffe's little figure cowering back in the shelter of a huge leather armchair. He looked so pitifully small and appealing, that Claire longed to gather him up in her arms, but she forebore and sat still and waited. Then, at last, just as the clock of a nearby church most solemnly boomed forth eight reverberating strokes, a chastened little figure slid out of the great chair, and groped its way slowly, painfully along until it reached Claire's side. "I will--be--good!" Radcliffe whispered chokingly, so low she had to bend her head to hear. Claire laid her arms about him and he clung to her neck, trembling. CHAPTER XI It was almost ten o'clock when Claire left the house. She waited to see Radcliffe properly fed, and put to bed, before she went. She covered him up, and tucked him in as, in all his life, he had never been covered up, and tucked in, before. Then, dinnerless and faint, she slipped out into the bleak night. She was too exhausted to feel triumphant over her conquest. The only sensations she realized were a dead weariness that hung on her spirit and body like a palpable weight, and, far down in her heart, something that smouldered and burned like a live ember, ready to burst forth and blaze at a touch. She had walked but a block or two when, through her numbness, crept a dim little shadow of dread. At first it was nothing more than an inner suggestion to hasten her steps, but gradually it became a conscious impulse to outstrip something or some one behind her--some one or something whose footfalls, resounding faintly through the deserted street, kept such accurate pace with her own, that they sounded like their echo. It was not until she had quickened her steps, and found that the other's steps had quickened, too, not until she had slowed down to almost a saunter, only to discover that the one behind was lagging also, that she acknowledged to herself she was being followed. Then, from out the far reaches of her memory, came the words of Aunt Amelia's formula: "Sir, you are no gentleman. If you were a gentleman--" But straightway followed Martha's trenchant criticism. "Believe _me_, that's rot! It might go all right on the stage, for a girl to stop, an' let off some elercution while the villain still pursued her, but here in New York City it wouldn't work. Not on your life it wouldn't. Villains ain't pausin' these busy days, in their mad careers, for no recitation-stunts, I don't care how genteel you get 'em off. If they're on the job, you got to step lively, an' not linger 'round for no sweet farewells. Now, you got your little temper with you, all right, all right! If you also got a umbrella, why, just you make a _com_bine o' the two an'--aim for the bull's eye, though his nose will do just as good, specially if it's the bleedin' v'riety. No! P'licemen ain't what I'd reckmend, for bein' called to the resquer. In the first place, they ain't ap' to be there. An', besides, they wouldn't know what to do if they was. P'licemen is funny that way. "They mean well, but they get upset if anythin' 's doin' on their beat. They like things quiet. An' they don't like to _run in_ their friends, an' so, by the time you think you made 'em understand what you're drivin' at, _the villain_ has got away, an' you're like to be hauled up before the magistrate for disturbin' the peace, which, bein' so shy an' bashful before high officials, p'licemen don't like to blow in at court without somethin' to show for the way they been workin'." It all flashed across Claire's mind in an instant, like a picture thrown across a screen. Then, without pausing to consider what she meant to do, she halted, turned, and--was face to face with Francis Ronald. Before he could speak, she flashed upon him two angry eyes. "What do you mean by following me?" "It is late--too late for you to be out in the streets alone," he answered quietly. Claire laughed. "You forget I'm not a society girl. I'm a girl who works for her living. I can't carry a chaperon about with me wherever I go. I must take care of myself, and--I know how to do it. I'm not afraid." "I believe you." "Then--good-night!" "I intend to see you home." "I don't need you." "Nevertheless, I intend to see you home." "I don't--_want_ you." "Notwithstanding which--" He hailed a passing motor-taxi, gave the chauffeur Martha's street and number, after he had succeeded in extracting them from Claire, and then, in spite of protests, helped her in. For a long time she sat beside him in silence, trying to quell in herself a weak inclination to shed tears, because--because he had compelled her to do something against her will. He did not attempt any conversation, and when, at last, she spoke, it was of her own accord. "I've decided to resign my position." "Is it permitted me to know why?" "I can't stay." "That is no explanation." "I don't feel I can manage Radcliffe." "Pardon me, you know you can. You have proved it. He is your bond-slave, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer." Claire laughed, a sharp, cutting little laugh that was like a keen knife turned on herself. "O, it would have to be for poorer--'all right, all right,' as Martha says," she cried scornfully. "But it has been too hard--to-day. I can't endure any more." "You won't have to. Radcliffe is conquered, so far as you are concerned. 'Twill be plain sailing, after this." "I'd rather do something else. I'd like something different." "I did not think you were a quitter." "I'm not." "O, yes, you are, if you give up before the game is done. No good sport does that." "I've no ambition to be a good sport." "Perhaps not. But you _are_ a good sport. A thorough good sport. _And you won't give up till you've seen this thing through_." "Is that a prediction, or a--command? It sounds like a command." "It is whatever will hold you to the business you've undertaken. I want you to conquer the rest, as you've conquered Radcliffe." "The rest?" "Yes." "What do you mean by the rest?" "I mean circumstances. I mean obstacles. I mean, my mother--my sister." "I don't--understand." "Perhaps not." "And suppose (forgive me if I seem rude), suppose I don't consider _the rest_ worth conquering? Why should I? What one has to strive so for--" "Is worth the most. One has to strive for everything in this world, everything that is really worth while. One has to strive to get it, one has to strive to keep it." "Well, I don't think I care very much to-night, if I never get anything ever again in all my life to come." "Poor little tired girl!" Claire's chin went up with a jerk. "I don't need your pity, I won't have it. I am a stranger to you and to your friends. I am--" The defiant chin began to quiver. "If you were not so tired," Francis Ronald said gravely, "I'd have this thing out with you, here and now. I'd _make_ you tell me why you so wilfully misunderstand. Why you seem to take pleasure in saying things that are meant to hurt me, and must hurt you. As it is--" Claire turned on him impetuously. "I don't ask you to make allowances for me. If I do what displeases you, I give you perfect liberty to find fault. I'm not too tired to listen. But as to your _making_ me do or say anything I don't choose, why--" He shook his head. "I'm afraid you are a hopeless proposition, at least for the present. Perhaps, some time I may be able to make you understand--Forgive me! I should say, perhaps, some time you may be willing to understand." Their chauffeur drew up beside the curbstone in front of Martha's door, then sprang down from his seat to prove to his lordly-looking "fare" that he knew his business, and was deserving of as large a tip as a correct estimate of his merit might suggest. Francis Ronald took Claire's key from her, fitted it into the lock of the outer door, and opened it for her. "And you will stand by Radcliffe? You won't desert him?" he asked, as she was about to pass into the house. "I'll show you that, at least, I'm not a quitter, even if I _am_ a hopeless proposition, as you say." A faint shadow of a smile flitted across his face as, with head held proudly erect, she turned and left him. "No, you're not a quitter," he muttered to himself, "but--neither am I!" The determined set of his jaw would have rekindled that inner rebellious fire in Claire, if she had seen it. But she was seeing nothing just at that moment, save Martha, who, to her amazement, stood ready to receive her in the inner hall. "Ain't it just grand?" inquired Mrs. Slawson. "They told me yesterday, 'all things bein' equal,' they'd maybe leave us back soon, but I didn't put no stock in it, knowin' they never _is_ equal. So I just held me tongue an' waited, an' this mornin', like a bolster outer a blue sky, come the word that at noon we could go. Believe _me_, I didn't wait for no old shoes or rice to be threw after me. I got into their old amberlance-carriage, as happy as a blushin' bride bein' led to the halter, an' Francie an' me come away reji'cin'. Say, but what ails _you?_ You look sorter--sorter like a--strained relation or somethin'. What you been doin' to yourself to get so white an' holler-eyed? What kep' you so late?" "I had a tussle with Radcliffe." "Who won out?" "I did, but it took me all day." "Never mind. It'd been cheap at the price, if it had 'a' took you all week. How come the madam to give you a free hand?" "She was away." "Anybody else know what was goin' on? Any of the fam'ly?" "Yes, Mr. Ronald. He brought me home. I didn't want him to, but he did. He just _made_ me let him, and--O, Martha--I can't bear--I can't bear--" "You mean you can't bear _him?"_ Claire nodded, choking back her tears. "Now, what do you think o' that!" ejaculated Mrs. Slawson pensively. "An' he so _pop'lar_ with the ladies! Why, you'd oughter hear them stylish lady-friends o' Mrs. Sherman praisin' 'm to her face. It'd make you blush for their modesty, which they don't seem to have none, an' that's a fac'. You can take it from me, you're the only one he ever come in contract with, has such a hate on'm. I wouldn't 'a' believed it, unless I'd 'a' had it from off of your own lips. But there's no use tryin' to argue such things. Taste is different. What pleases one, pizens another. In the mean time--an' it _is_ a mean time for you, you poor, wore-out child--I've some things here, hot an' tasty, that'll encourage your stummick, no matter how it's turned on some other things. As I says to Sammy, it's a poor stummick won't warm its own bit, but all the same, there's times when somethin' steamin' does your heart as much good as it does your stummick, which, the two o' them bein' such near neighbors, no wonder we get 'em mixed up sometimes, an' think the one is starved when it's only the other." CHAPTER XII It proved altogether easier for Martha, now Francie was at home again. "You see, I can tend her an' sandwich in some work besides," Mrs. Slawson explained cheerfully. "An' Ma's a whizz at settin' by bedsides helpin' patients get up their appetites. Says she, 'Now drink this nice glass o' egg-nog, Francie, me child,' she says. 'An' if you'll drink it, I'll take one just like it meself.' An' true for you, she does. The goodness o' Ma is astonishin'." Then one day Sam Slawson came home with a tragic face. "I've lost my job, Martha!" he stated baldly. For a moment his wife stood silent under the blow, and all it entailed. Then, with an almost imperceptible squaring of her broad shoulders, she braced herself to meet it, as she herself would say, like a soldier. "Well, it's kinder hard on _you_, lad," she answered. "But there's no use grievin'. If it had to happen, it couldn't 'a' happened at a better time, for you bein' home, an' able to look after Francie, will give me a chance to go out reg'lar to my work again. An' before you know it, Francie, she'll be running about as good as new, an' you'll have another job, an' we'll be on the top o' the wave. Here's Miss Claire, bless her, payin' me seven dollars a week board, which she doesn't eat no more than a bird, an' Sammy singin' in the surplus choir, an' gettin' fifty cents a week for it, an' extra for funer'ls (it'd take your time to hear'm lamentin' because business ain't brisker in the funer'l line!). Why, _we_ ain't no call to be discouraged. You can take it from me, Sammy Slawson, when things seem to be kinder shuttin' down on ye, an' gettin' black-like, same's they lately been doin' on us, that ain't no time to be chicken-hearted. Anybody could fall down when they're knocked. That's too dead-easy! No, what we want, is buck up an' have some style about us. When things shuts down an' gets dark at the movin'-picture show, then it's time to sit up an' take notice. That means somethin's doin'--you're goin' to be showed somethin' interestin'. Well, it's the same with us. But if you lose your sand at the first go-off, an' sag down an' hide your face in your hands, well, you'll miss the show. You won't see a bloomin' thing." And Martha, sleeves rolled up, enveloped in an enormous blue-checked apron, returned to her assault on the dough she was kneading, with redoubled zeal. "Bread, mother?" asked Sam dully, letting himself down wearily into a chair by the drop-table, staring indifferently before him out of blank eyes. "Shoor! An' I put some currants in, to please the little fella. I give in, my bread is what you might call a holy terror. Ain't it the caution how I can't ever make bread fit to be eat, the best I can do? An' yet, I can't quit tryin'. You see, home-made bread, _if it's good_, is cheaper than store. Perhaps some day I'll be hittin' it right, so's when you ask me for bread I won't be givin' you a stone." She broke off abruptly, gazed a moment at her husband, then stepped to his side, and put a floury hand on his shoulder. "Say, Sam, what you lookin' so for? You ain't lost your sand just because they fired you? What's come to you, lad? Tell Martha." For a second there was no sound in the room, then the man looked up, gulped, choked down a mighty sob, and laid his head against her breast. "Martha--there's somethin' wrong with my lung. That's why they thrown me down. They had their doctor from the main office examine me--they'd noticed me coughin'--and he said I'd a spot on my lung or--something. I shouldn't stay here in the city, he said. I must go up in the mountains, away from this, where there's the good air and a chance for my lung to heal, otherwise--" Martha stroked the damp hair away from his temples with her powdery hand. "Well, well!" she said reflectively. "Now, what do you think o' that!" "O, Martha--I can't stand it! You an' the children! It's more than I can bear!" Mrs. Slawson gave the head against her breast a final pat that, to another than her husband, might have felt like a blow. "More'n you can bear? Don't flatter yourself, Sammy my lad! Not by no means it ain't. I wouldn't like to have to stand up to all I could ackchelly bear. It's God, not us, knows how much we can stand, an' when He gets in the good licks on us, He always leaves us with a little stren'th to spare--to last over for the next time. Now, I'm not a bit broke down by what you've told me. I s'pose you thought you'd have me sobbin' on your shoulder--to give you a chanct to play up, an' do the strong-husband act, comfortin' his little tremblin' wife. Well, my lad, if you ain't got on to it by now, that I'm no little, tremblin' wife, you never will. Those kind has nerves. I only got nerve. That's where I'm _singular_, see? A joke, Sammy! I made it up myself. Out of my own head, just now. But to go back to what I was sayin'--why should I sob on your shoulder? There ain't no reason for't. In the first place, even if you _have_ got a spot on your lung, what's a spot! It ain't the whole lung! An' _one_ lung ain't _both_ lungs, an' there you are! As I make it out, even grantin' the worst, you're a lung-an'-then-some to the good, so where's the use gettin' blue? There's always a way out, somehow. If we can't do one way, we'll do another. Now you just cheer up, an' don't let Ma an' the childern see you kinder got a knock-outer in the solar plexus, like Jeffries, an' before you know it, there'll be a suddent turn, an' we'll be atop o' our worries, 'stead o' their bein' atop o' us. See! Say, just you cast your eye on them loaves! Ain't they grand? Appearances may be deceitful, but if I do say it as shouldn't, my bread certainly looks elegant this time. Now, Sammy, get busy like a good fella! Go in an' amuse Francie. The poor child is perishin' for somethin' to distrack her. What with Cora an' Sammy at school, an' Miss Claire havin' the Shermans so bewitched, they keep her there all day, an' lucky for us if they leave her come home nights at all, the house is too still for a sick person. Give Francie a drink o' Hygee water to cool her lips, an' tell her a yarn-like. An', Sammy, I wisht you'd be good to yourself, an' have a shave. Them prickles o' beard reminds me o' the insides o' Mrs. Sherman's big music-box. I wonder what tune you'd play if I run your chin in. Go on, now, an' attend to Francie, like I told you to. She needs to have her mind took off'n herself." When he was gone, Martha set her loaves aside under cover to rise, never pausing a moment to take breath, before giving the kitchen a "scrub-down" that left no corner or cranny harboring a particle of dust. It was twilight when she finished, and "time to turn to an' get the dinner." Cora and Sammy had long since returned from school. Sammy had gone out again to play, and had just come back to find his mother taking her bread-pans from the oven. She regarded them with doleful gaze. "I fairly broke my own record this time for a bum bread-maker!" she muttered beneath her breath. "This batch is the worst yet." "Say--mother!" said Sammy. "Well?" "Say, mother, may I have a slice of bread? I'm awfully hungry." "Shoor you may! This here's just fresh from the oven, an' it has currants in it." "Say, mother, a feller I play with, Joe Eagan, _his_ mother's hands ain't clean. Would you think he'd like to eat the bread she makes?" "Can she make _good_ bread?" "I dunno. She give me a piece oncet, but I couldn't eat it, 'count o' seein' her fingers. I'm glad your hands are so clean, mother. Say, this bread tastes awful good!" Martha chuckled. "Well, I'm glad you like it. It might be worse, if I do say it! Only," she added to herself, "it'd have a tough time managin' it." "Say, mother, may I have another slice with butter on, an' sugar sprinkled on top, like this is, to give it to Joe Eagan? He's downstairs. I want to show him how _my_ mother can make the boss bread!" "Certainly," said Martha heartily. "By all means, give Joe Eagan a slice. I like to see you thoughtful an' generous, my son. Willin' to share your good things with your friends," and as Sammy bounded out, clutching his treasures, she winked solemnly across at her husband, who had just re-entered. "Now do you know what'll happen?" she inquired. "Sammy'll always have the notion I make the best bread ever. An' when he grows up an' marries, if his wife is a chef-cook straight out of the toniest kitchen in town, at fifty dollars a month, he'll tell her she ain't a patch on me. An' he'll say to her: 'Susan, or whatever-her-name-is, them biscuits is all right in their way, but I wisht I had a mouthful o' bread like mother used to make.' An' the poor creature'll wear the life out o' her, tryin' to please'm, an' reach my top-notch, an' never succeed, an' all the time--Say, Sammy, gather up the rest o' the stuff, like a good fella, an' shove it onto the dumb-waiter, so's it can go down with the sw--There's the whistle now! That's him callin' for the garbage." CHAPTER XIII "Hullo, Martha!" said Radcliffe. Mrs. Slawson bowed profoundly. "Hullo yourself! I ain't had the pleasure of meetin' you for quite some time past, an' yet I notice my absents ain't made no serious alteration for the worst in your appearance. You ain't fell away none, on account of my not bein' here." "Fell away from what?" asked Radcliffe. "Fell away from nothin'. That's what they call a figger o' speech. Means you ain't got thin." "Well, _you've_ got thin, haven't you, Martha? I don't 'member your cheeks had those two long lines in 'em before." "Lines?" repeated Martha, regarding herself in the mirror of an étagère she was polishing. "Them ain't _lines_. Them's dimples." Radcliffe scrutinized her critically for a moment. "They're not like Miss Lang's dimples," he observed at last. "Miss Lang's dimples look like when you blow in your milk to cool it--they're there, an' then they ain't there. She vanishes 'em in, an' she vanishes 'em out, but those lines in your face, they just stay. Only they weren't there before, when you were here." "The secret is, my dimples is the kind that takes longer to vanish 'em out when you once vanished 'em in. Mine's way-train dimples. Miss Lang's is express. But you can take it from me, dimples is faskinatin', whatever specie they are." "What's _faskinatin'?"_ "It's the thing in some things that, when it ain't in other things, you don't care a thing about 'em." "Are _you_ faskinatin'?" "That's not for me to say," said Martha, feigning coyness. "But this much I will confess, that some folks which shall be nameless, considers me so. An' they'd oughter know." "Is Miss Lang faskinatin'?" "Ask your Uncle Frank." "Why must I ask him?" "If you wanter know." "Does he know?" "Prob'ly. He's a very well-informed gen'l-man on most subjecks." "I do' want to ask my Uncle Frank anything about Miss Lang. Once I asked him somethin' about her, an' he didn't like it." "What'd you ask him?" "I asked him if she wasn't his best girl." "What'd he say?" "He said 'No!' quick, just like that--'No!' I guess he was cross with me, an' I know he didn't like it. When I asked my mother why he didn't like it, she said because Miss Lang's only my governess. An' when I told Miss Lang what my mother, she told me, Miss Lang, she didn't like it either." "Now, what do you think o' that?" ejaculated Martha. "Nobody didn't seem to like nothin' in that combination, did they? You was the only one in the whole outfit that showed any tack." "What means that--_tack?"_ "It's a little thing that you use when you want to keep things in place--keep 'em from fallin' down. There's two kinds. One you must hammer in, an' the other you mustn't." "I wisht Miss Lang _was_ my Uncle Frank's best girl. But I guess she's somebody else's." "Eh?" said Martha sharply, sitting back on her heels and twisting her polishing-cloth into a rope, as if she were wringing it out. "Now, whose best girl do you think she is, if I may make so bold?" Radcliffe settled down to business. "Yesterday Miss Lang an' me was comin' home from the Tippydrome, an' my mother she had comp'ny in the drawin'-room. An' I didn't know there was comp'ny first-off, coz Shaw he didn't tell us, an' I guess I talked kinder loud in the hall, an' my mother she heard me, an' she wasn't cross or anythin', she just called to me to come along in, an' see the comp'ny. An' I said, 'No, I won't! Not less Miss Lang comes too.' An' my mother, she said, 'Miss Lang, come too.' An' Miss Lang, she didn't wanter, but she hadter. An' the comp'ny was a gen'l'man an' a lady, an' the minit the gen'l'man, he saw Miss Lang, he jumped up outer his chair like a jumpin'-jack, an' his eyes got all kinder sparkly, an' he held out both of his hands to her, an' sorter shook her hands, till you'd think he'd shake 'em off. An' my mother, she said, 'I see you an' Miss Lang are already 'quainted, Mr. Van Brandt.' An' he laughed a lot, the way you do when you're just tickled to death, an' he said, ''Quainted? Well, I should say so! Miss Lang an' I are old, old friends!' An' he kep' lookin' at her, an' lookin' at her, the way you feel when there's somethin' on the table you like, an' you're fearful 'fraid it will be gone before it's passed to you. An' my mother she said to the other comp'ny, 'Miss Pelham, this is Radcliffe.' An' Miss Pelham, she was lookin' sideways at Miss Lang an' Mr. What's-his-name, but she pertended she was lookin' at me, an' she said (she's a Smarty-Smarty-gave-a-party, Miss Pelham is), she said, 'Radcliffe, Radcliffe? I wonder if you're any relation to Radcliffe College?' An' I said, 'No. I wonder if you are any relation to Pelham Manor?' An' while they was laughin', an' my mother she was tellin' how percoshus I am, my Uncle Frank he came in. He came in kinder quiet, like he always does, an' he stood in the door, an' Mr. What's-his-name was talkin' to Miss Lang so fast, an' lookin' at her so hard, they didn't neither of 'em notice. An' when my Uncle Frank, he noticed they didn't notice, coz they was havin' such fun by themselves, he put his mouth together like this--like when your tooth hurts, an' you bite on it to make it hurt some more, an' then he talked a lot to Miss Pelham, an' didn't smile pleasant an' happy at Mr. What's-his-name an' Miss Lang, when my mother, she interdooced 'em. An' soon Miss Lang, she took me upstairs an' she didn't look near so tickled to death as Mr. Van Brandt, he looked. An' when I asked her if she wasn't, she said: 'O' course I am. Mr. Van Brandt was a friend o' mine when I was a little girl. An' when you're a stranger in a strange land, anybody you knew when you was at home seems dear to you.' But she didn't look near so pleased as he did. She looked more like my Uncle Frank, he did before he got talkin' so much to Miss Pelham. An' now I guess the way of it is, Miss Pelham's my Uncle Frank's best girl an' Miss Lang's Mr. What's-his-name's." "Well, now! Who'd believed you could 'a' seen so much? Why, you're a reg'ler Old Sleuth the Detective, or Sherlock Holmes, or somebody like that, for discoverin' things, ain't you?" "I don't want Miss Pelham to be my Uncle Frank's best girl, an' I don't see why that other man he don't have her for his, like she was first-off, an' leave my Miss Lang alone." "It all is certainly very dark an' mysterious," said Mrs. Slawson, shaking her head. "You don't know where you're at, at all. Like when you wake up in the black night, an' hear the clock give one strike. You couldn't tell, if your life hung in the ballast, if it's half-past twelve, or one, or half-past." Radcliffe pondered this for a space, but was evidently unable to fathom its depth, for presently he let it go with a sigh, and swung off to another topic. "Say, do you know our cook, 'Liza--the one we uster have--has gone away?" "So I gathered from not havin' saw her fairy-figger hoverin' round the kitchen as I come in, an' meetin' another lady in her place--name of Augusta, Beetrice said." "Yes, sir! Augusta's the new one. I guess Augusta don't drink." "Which, you are suggesting 'Liza does?" "Well, my mother, she don't know I know, but I do. I heard Shaw tellin' 'bout it. It was 'Liza's day out, an' she went an' got 'toxicated, an' a p'liceman he took her up, an' nex' mornin' my Uncle Frank, they sent to him out of the station-house to have him _bail her out_." "My, my! She was as full as that?" "What's bail her out?" inquired Radcliffe. Mrs. Slawson considered. "When a boat gets full of water, because o' leakin' sides or heavy rains or shippin' seas, or whatever they calls it, you bail her out with a tin can or a sponge or anythin' you have by you." "Was Liza full of water?" "I was describin' _boats_," said Martha. "An' talkin' o' boats, did I tell you we got a new kitten to our house? He's a gray Maltee. His name is Nixcomeraus." "Why is his name Nix--why is his name _that_?" "Nixcomeraus? His name's Nixcomeraus because he's from the Dutchman's house. If you listen good, you'll see that's poetry-- "'Nixcomeraus from the Dutchman's house!' "I didn't make it up, but it's poetry all the same. A Dutchman gen'l'man who lives nex' door to me, made him a present to our fam'ly." "Do you like him?" "The Dutchman gen'l'man?" "No, the--the Nix--the _cat_?" "Certaintly we like him. He's a decent, self-respectin' little fella that 'tends to his own business, an' keeps good hours. An' you'd oughter see how grand him an' Flicker gets along! Talk o' a cat-and-dog existence! Why, if all the married parties I know, not to speak o' some others that ain't, hit it off as good as Flicker an' Nixcomeraus, there wouldn't be no occasion for so many ladies takin' the rest-cure at Reno." "What's Reno?" "Reno? Why, Reno's short for merino. Like I'd say, Nix for Nixcomeraus, which is a kinder woolen goods you make dresses out of. There! Did you hear the schoolroom bell? I thought I heard it ringin' a while ago, but I wasn't sure. Hurry now, an' don't keep Miss Lang waitin'. She wants you to come straight along up, so's she can learn you to be a big an' handsome gen'l'man like your Uncle Frank." When Radcliffe had left her, Martha went over in her mind the items he had guilelessly contributed to her general fund of information. Take it all in all, she was not displeased with what they seemed to indicate. "Confidence is a good thing to have, but a little wholesome doubt don't hurt the masculine gender none. I guess, if I was put to it, I could count on one hand with no fingers, the number o' gen'l'men, no matter how plain, have died because 'way down in their hearts they believed they wasn't reel _A-1 Winners._ That's one thing it takes a lot o' hard usage to convince the sect of. They may feel they ain't gettin' their doos, that they're misunderstood, an' bein' sold below cost. But that they're ackchelly shopworn, or what's called 'seconds,' or put on the _As Is_ counter because they're cracked, or broke, or otherwise slightly disfigured, but still in the ring--why, _that_ never seems to percolate through their brains, like those coffee-pots they use nowadays, that don't make no better coffee than the old kind, if you know how to do it good, in the first place. "On the other hand, ladies is dretful tryin'! They act like they're the discoverers of perpetchal emotion, an' is _on the job_ demonstratin'. You can't count on 'em for one minit to the next, which they certaintly was never born to be aromatic cash-registers. An' p'raps that's the reason, bein' natchelly so poor at figgers, they got to rely to such a extent on corsets. I'm all for women myself. I believe they're the comin' man, but I must confess, if I'm to speak the truth, it ain't for the simple, uninfected, childlike mind o' the male persuasion to foller their figaries, unless he's some of a trained acrobat. "Now, the harsh way Miss Claire has toward Mr. Ronald! You'd think he had give himself dead away to her, an' was down on his knee-pans humble as a 'Piscerpalian sayin' the Literny in Lent, grubbin' about among the dust she treads on, to touch the hem o' her garment. Whereas, in some way unbeknownst to me, an' prob'ly unbeknownst to him, he's touched her pride, which is why she's so up in arms, not meanin' his--worse luck! An' it would have all worked out right in the end, an' will yet, _if_ this new party that Radcliffe mentioned ain't Mr. Buttinsky, an' she don't foller the dictates of her _art_ an' flirt with him too outrageous, or else marry him to spite herself, which is what I mean to pervent if I can, but which, of course, it may be I can't." CHAPTER XIV "Frank," said Mrs. Sherman one Sunday morning, some weeks later, stopping her brother on his way to the door, "can you spare me a few moments? I've something very important I want to discuss with you. I want you to help me with suggestions and advice in a matter that very closely concerns some one in whom I'm greatly interested." Mr. Ronald paused. "Meaning?" he suggested. "I don't know that I ought to tell you. You see, it's--it's confidential." "Suggestions and advice are foolish things to give, Catherine. They are seldom taken, never thanked for." "Well, in this case mine have been actually solicited. And I feel I ought to do something, because, in a way, I'm more or less responsible for the--the imbroglio." Slipping her hand through his arm, she led him back into the library. "You see, it's this way. Perhaps, after all, it will be better, simpler, if I don't try to beat about the bush. Amy Pelham has been terribly devoted to Mr. Van Brandt for ever so long--oh, quite six months. And he has been rather attentive, though I can't say he struck me as very much in love. You know she asked me out to Tuxedo not long ago. She wanted me to watch him and tell her if I thought he was _serious._ Well, I watched him, but I couldn't say I thought he was _serious._ However, you never can tell. Men are so extraordinary! They sometimes masquerade so, their own mothers wouldn't know them." "Or their sisters." "What did you say?" "Nothing worth repeating. Go on with your story." "Well, then, one evening she brought him here, you remember. I'd asked him to come, when I was in Tuxedo, and he evidently wanted to do so, for he proposed to Amy that she bring him. Of course, I'd no idea he and Miss Lang had ever met before, and when I innocently ordered her in, I did it simply because Radcliffe was refractory and refused to come without her, and I couldn't have a scene before guests." "Well?" "I didn't know Mr. Van Brandt came from Grand Rapids. How should I? One never thinks of those little, provincial towns as having any _society_." "You dear insular, insolent New Yorker." "Well, you may jeer as much as you like, but that's the way one feels. I didn't know that, as Martha says, he was 'formerly born' in Michigan. I just took him for granted, as one does people one meets in our best houses. He's evidently of good stock, he has money (not a fortune, perhaps, but enough), he's handsome, and he's seen everywhere with the smartest people in town." "Well?" "Well, naturally Amy doesn't want to lose him, especially as she's really awfully fond of him and he _is_ uncommonly attractive, you know." "Well?" "It looks as if that one glimpse of Miss Lang had been enough to upset everything for Amy. He's hardly been there since." "And what does she propose to do about it?" "She doesn't know what to do about it. That's where my suggestions and advice are to come in." "I see." "Of course, we can't be certain, but from what Bob Van Brandt has dropped and from what Amy has been able to gather from other sources, from people who knew Miss Lang and him in their native burg, he was attached to her when she was no more than a kiddie. Then, when they grew up, he came East and she went abroad, and they lost sight of each other. But, as I say, that one glimpse of her was enough to ignite the old flame. You must have seen yourself how frankly, openly he showed his feeling that night." "Well?" "What is one to do about it?" "Do about what?" "Why--the whole thing! Don't you see, I'm responsible in a way. If I hadn't called Miss Lang in, Bob Van Brandt wouldn't have known she was here, and then he would have kept on with Amy. Now he's dropped her it's up to me to make it up to her somehow." "It's up to you to make _what_ up to Amy?" "How dense you are! Why, the loss of Bob Van Brandt." "But if she didn't have him, how could she lose him?" "She didn't exactly have him, but she had a fighting chance." "And she wants to fight?" "I think she'd be willing to fight, if she saw her way to winning out." "Winning out against Miss Lang?" "Yes, if you want to put it so brutally." "I see you are assuming that Miss Lang is keen about Van Brandt." "Would you wonder if she were? It would be her salvation. Of course, I don't feel about her any longer as I did once. I know _now_ she's a lady, but the fact of her poverty remains. If she married Bob Van Brandt, she'd be comfortably settled. She'd have ease and position and, oh, of course she'll marry him if he asks her." "So the whole thing resolves itself down to--" "To this--if one could only devise a way to prevent his asking her." "Am I mistaken, or did I hear you say something about putting it brutally, a few moments ago." "Well, I know it sounds rather horrid, but a desperate case needs desperate medicine." "Catherine, you have asked for suggestions and advice. My suggestion to Miss Pelham is that she gracefully step down and out. My advice to you is that you resist the temptation to meddle. If Mr. Van Brandt wishes to ask Miss Lang to marry him, he has a man's right to do so. If Miss Lang wishes to marry Mr. Van Brandt after he has asked her, she has a woman's right to do so. Any interference whatsoever would be intolerable. You can take my advice or leave it. But _if_ you leave it, if you attempt to mix in, you will regret it, for you will not be honorably playing the game." Mrs. Sherman's lips tightened. "That's all very well," she broke out impatiently. "That's the sort of advice men always give to women, and never act on themselves. It's not the masculine way to sit calmly by and let another carry off what one wants. If a man _cares,_ he fights for his rights. It's only when he isn't interested that he's passive and speaks of _honorably playing the game_. All's fair in love and war! If you were in Amy's place--if the cases were reversed--and you saw something you'd set your heart on being deliberately taken away from you, I fancy _you_ wouldn't gracefully step down and out. At least I don't see you doing it, in my mind's eye, Horatio!" "Ah, but you miss the point! There's a great difference between claiming one's own and struggling to get possession of something that is lawfully another's. If I were in Miss Pelham's place, and were _sure_ the one I loved belonged to me by divine right, I'd have her--I'd have her in spite of the devil and all his works. But the thing would be to be _sure_. And one couldn't be sure so long as another claimant hadn't had his chance to be thrown down. When he'd had his chance, and the decks were cleared--_then_--!" "Goodness, Frank! I'd no idea you could be so intense. And I'll confess I've never given you credit for so much imagination. You've been talking of what you'd do in Amy's place quite as if you actually felt it. Your performance of the determined lover is really most convincing." Francis Ronald smiled. "A man who's succeeded in _convincing_ a woman has not lived in vain," he said. "Well, I must be off, Catherine. Good luck to you and to Miss Pelham--but bad luck if either of you dares stick her mischievous finger in other people's pies." He strode out of the room and the house. Meanwhile, Martha, industriously engaged in brushing Miss Lang's hair, was gradually, delicately feeling her way toward what was, in reality, the same subject. "Well, of course, you can have Cora if you want her. She'll be only too glad o' the ride, but _do_ you think--now do you _reelly_ think it's advisable to lug a third party along when it's clear as dish-water he wants you alone by himself an' _yourself_? It's this way with men. If they set out to do a thing, they gener'ly do it. But believe _me_, if you put impederments in their way, they'll shoor do it, an' then some. Now all them flowers an' candy that's been comin' here lately so reg'ler, they means business on Mr. Van Brandt's part _if_ pleasure on yours. He's strewin' your path with roses an' pavin' it with Huyler's chocolates, so's some day in the near future he can come marchin' along it, an' walk straight up to the captain's office an' hand in his applercation for the vacancy. Now, the question is as plain as the nose on your face. Do you want him to do it first or do you want him to do it last? It's up to you to decide the time, but you can betcher life it's goin' to be some time, Cora or no Cora, _ohne oder mit_ as our Dutch friend acrost the hall says." Claire's reflection in the mirror she sat facing, showed a pair of sadly troubled eyes. "O, it's very puzzling, Martha," she said. "Somehow, life seems all topsy-turvy to me lately. So many things going wrong, so few right." "Now what, if I may make so bold, is wrong with your gettin' a first-class offer from a well-off, good-lookin' gen'l'man-friend, that's been keepin' comp'ny with you, off an' on, as you might say, ever since you was a child, which shows that his heart's in the right place an' his intentions is honorable. You know, you mustn't let the percession get by you. Life's like standin' on the curbstone watching the parade--at least, that's how it seems to young folks. They hear the music an' they see the banners an' the floats an' they think it's goin' to be a continuous performance. After a while they've got so used to the band a-playin' an' the flags a-wavin' that it gets to be an old story, an' they think that's what it'll be right along, so they don't trouble to keep their eye peeled for the fella with the water-can, which he asked 'em to watch out for him. No, they argue he's good enough in his way, but--'_Think_ o' the fella with the drum!' Or even, it might be, who knows?--the grand one with his mother's big black muff on his head, doin' stunts with his grandfather's gold-topped club, his grandpa havin' been a p'liceman with a pull in the ward. An' while they stand a-waitin' for all the grandjer they're expectin', suddenly it all goes past, an' they don't see nothin' but p'raps a milk-wagon bringin' up the rear, an' the ashfalt all strewed with rag-tag-an'-bobtail, an' there's nothin' doin' in their direction, except turn around an' go home. Now, what's the matter with Mr. Van Brandt? If you marry him you'll be all to the good. No worry about the rent, no pinchin' here an' plottin' there to keep the bills down. No goin' out by the day, rain or shine, traipsin' the street on your two feet when you're so dead tired you could lay down an' let the rest walk over you. Why, lookin' at it from any standpoint-of-view I can't see but it's a grand oppertoonity. An' you're fond of him, ain't you?" "O, yes, I'm very fond of Mr. Van Brandt. But I'm fond of him as a friend. I couldn't--couldn't--couldn't ever marry him." "What for you couldn't? It ain't as if you liked some other fella better! If you liked some other fella better, no matter how little you might think you'd ever get the refusal of'm, I'd say, _stick to the reel article: don't be put of with substitoots_. It ain't no use tryin' to fool your heart. You can monkey with your brain, an' make it believe all sorts of tommyrot, but your heart is dead on to you, an' when it once sets in hankerin' it means business." Claire nodded unseeingly to her own reflection in the glass. "Now _my_ idea is," Martha continued, "my idea is, if you got somethin' loomin', why, don't hide your face an' play it isn't there. There ain't no use standin' on the ragged edge till every tooth in your head chatters with cold an' fright. You don't make nothin' _by_ it. If you love a man like a friend or if you love a friend like a man, my advice is, take your seat in the chair, grip a-holt o' the arms, brace your feet, an'--let'er go, Gallagher! It'll be over in a minit, as the dentists say." "But suppose you had something else on your heart. Something that had nothing to do with--with that sort of thing?" Claire asked. "What sorter thing?" "Why--love. Suppose you'd done something unworthy of you. Suppose the sense of having done it made you wretched, made you want to make others wretched? What would you do--then?" "Now, my dear, don't you make no mistake. I ain't goin' to be drew into no blindman's grab-bag little game, not on your sweet life. I ain'ter goin' to risk havin' you hate me all the rest o' your nacherl life becoz, to be obligin' an' also to show what a smart boy am I, I give a verdick without all the everdence in. If you wanter tell me plain out what's frettin' you, I'll do my best accordin' to my lights, but otherwise--" "Well--" began Claire, and then followed, haltingly, stumblingly, the story of her adventure in the closet. "At first I felt nothing but the wound to my pride, the sting of what he--of what _they_ said," she concluded. "But, after a little, I began to realize there was something else. I began to see what _I_ had done. For, you know, I had deliberately listened. I needn't have listened. If I had put my hands over my ears, if I had crouched back, away from the door, and covered my head, I need not have overheard. But I pressed as close as I could to the panel, and hardly breathed, because I wanted not to miss a word. And I didn't miss a word. I heard what it was never meant I should hear, and--I'm nothing but a common--_eavesdropper_!" "Now, what do you think of that?" observed Mrs. Slawson. "Now, what do you think of that?" "I've tried once or twice to tell him--" continued Claire. "Tell who? Tell Mr. Van Brandt?" "No, Mr. Ronald." "O! You see, when you speak o' _he_ an' _him_ it might mean almost any gen'l'man. But I'll try to remember you're always referrin' to Mr. Ronald." "I've tried once or twice to tell him, for I can't bear to be untruthful. But, then, I remember I'm 'only the governess'--'the right person in the right place'--of so little account that--that he doesn't even know whether I'm pretty or not! And the words choke in my throat. I realize it wouldn't mean anything to him. He'd only probably gaze down at me, or he'd be kind in that lofty way he has--and put me in my place, as he did the first time I ever saw him. And so, I've never told him. I couldn't. But sometimes I think if I did--if I just _made_ myself do it, I could hold up my head again and not feel myself growing bitter and sharp, because something is hurting me in my conscience." "That's it!" said Martha confidently. "It's your conscience. Believe _me_, consciences is the dickens an' all for makin' a mess o' things, when they get right down to business. Now, if I was you, I wouldn't bother Mr. Ronald with my squalms o' conscience. Very prob'ly when it comes to consciences he has troubles of his own--at least, if he ain't, he's an exception an' a rare curiosity, an' Mr. Pierpont Morgan oughter buy him for the Museum. When your conscience tells you you'd oughter tell, ten to one you'd oughtn't. Give other folks a chance. What they don't know can't worry 'em. Besides, your just _tellin_' a thing don't let you out. You can't get clear so easy as that. It's up to you to work it out, so what's wrong is made _right_, an' do it _yourself_--not trust to nobody else. You can't square up by heavin' your load offn your own shoulders onto another fella's. You think you feel light coz you done your dooty, when ten to one you _done_ your friend. No! I wouldn't advise turnin' state's everdence on yourself unless it was to save another from the gallus. As it is, you can take it from me, the best thing you can do for that--conscience o' yours, is get busy in another direction. Dress yourself up as fetchin' as you can, go out motorin' with your gen'l'man friend like he ast you to, let him get his perposal offn his chest, an' then tell'm--you'll be a sister to'm." CHAPTER XV Sam Slawson had gone to the Adirondacks in January, personally conducted by Mr. Blennerhasset, Mr. Ronald's secretary, Mr. Ronald, in the most unemotional and business-like manner, having assumed all the responsibilities connected with the trip and Sam's stay at the Sanatorium. It was Claire who told Mr. Ronald of the Slawsons' difficulty. How Martha saw no way out, and still was struggling gallantly on, trying single-handed to meet all obligations at home and, in addition, send her husband away. "That's too much--even for Martha," he observed. "If I only knew how to get Sam to the mountains," Claire said in a sort of desperation. "You have just paved the way." "How?" "You have told me." "You are going to help?" "Yes." "O, how beautiful!" "I am glad that, for once, I have the good fortune to please you." Claire's happy smile faded. She turned her face away, pretending to busy herself with Radcliffe's books. "I see I have offended once more." She hesitated a moment, then faced him squarely. "There can be no question of your either pleasing or offending me, Mr. Ronald. What you are doing for Martha makes me glad, of course, but that is only because I rejoice in any good that may come to her. I would not take it upon myself to praise you for doing a generous act, or to blame you if you didn't do it." "'Cr-r-rushed again!'" observed Francis Ronald gravely, but with a lurking, quizzical light of laughter in his eyes. For an instant Claire was inclined to be resentful. Then, her sense of humor coming to the rescue, she dropped her heroics and laughed out blithely. "How jolly it must be to have a lot of money and be able to do all sorts of helpful, generous things!" she said lightly. "You think money the universal solvent?" "I think the lack of it the universal _in_solvent." "I hope you don't lay too much emphasis on it." "Why?" "Because it might lead you to do violence to your better impulses, your higher instincts." "Why should a man think he has the right to say that sort of thing to a woman? Would you consider it a compliment if I suggested that your principles were hollow--negotiable? That they were For Sale or To Let, like an empty house?" "I suppose most men would tell you they have no use for principle in their business--only principal." "And you think women--" "Generally women have both principle and interest in the business of life. That's why we look to them to keep up the moral standard. That's why we feel it to be unworthy of her when a girl makes a mercenary marriage." The indignant blood sprang to Claire's cheeks. What business had he to interfere in her affairs, to warn her against marrying Bob Van Brandt, assuming that, if she did marry him, it would be only for money. She was glad that Radcliffe bounded in just then, throwing himself upon her in his eagerness to tell her all that had befallen him during their long separation of two hours, when he had been playing on the Mall under Beetrice's unwatchful eye. In spite of Martha, Claire had just been on the point of confessing to Mr. Ronald. He had seemed so friendly, so much less formidable than at any time since that first morning. But she must have been mistaken, for here were all the old barriers up in an instant, and with them the resentful fire in her heart. Perhaps it was the memory of this conversation that made her feel so ill at ease with Robert Van Brandt. She could not understand herself. Why should she feel so uncomfortable with her old friend? She could not help being aware that he cared for her, but why did the thought of his telling her so make her feel like a culprit? Why should he not tell her? Why should she not listen? One thing she felt she knew--if he did tell her, and she refused to listen, he would give it up. He would not persist. She remembered how, as a little girl, she had looked up to him reverentially as "big Robby Van Brandt." He was a hero to her in those days, until--he had let himself be balked of what he had started out to get. If he had only persisted, _in_sisted, who knows--maybe--. She was sure that if he offered her his love and she refused to accept it, he would not, like the nursery-rhyme model, try, try again. He would give up and go away--and in her loneliness she did not want him to go away. Was she selfish? she wondered. Selfish or no, she could not bring herself to follow Martha's advice and "let'm get his perposal offn his chest." It was early in April before he managed to do it. She and Radcliffe had gone to the Park. Radcliffe was frisking about in the warm sunshine, while Claire watched him from a nearby bench, when, suddenly, Mr. Van Brandt dropped into the seat beside her. He did not approach his subject gradually. He plunged in desperately, headlong, heartlong, seeming oblivious to everything and every one save her. When, at last, he left her, she, knowing it was for always, was sorely tempted to call him back. She did care for him, in a way, and the life his love opened up to her would be very different from this. And yet-- She closed her cold fingers about Radcliffe's little warm ones, and rose to lead him across the Plaza. She did not wonder at his being so conveniently close at hand, nor at his unwonted silence all the way home. She had not realized, until now that it was snapped, how much the link between this and her old home-life had meant to her. It meant so much that tears were very near the surface all that day, and even at night, when Martha was holding forth to her brood, they were not altogether to be suppressed. "Easter comes early this year," Mrs. Slawson observed. "'M I going to have a new hat?" inquired Cora. "What for do you need a new hat, I should like to know? I s'pose you think you'll walk up Fifth Avenoo in the church parade, an' folks'll stare at you, an' nudge each other an' whisper--'Looka there! That's Miss Cora Slawson that you read so much about in the papers. That one on the right-hand side, wearin' the French _shappo_, with the white ribbon, an' the grand vinaigrette onto it. Ain't she han'some?'" "I think you're real mean to make fun of me!" pouted Cora. "I got a dollar an' a half for the Easter singin'," announced Sammy. "Coz I'm permoted an' I'm goin' to sing a solo!" "Careful you don't get your head so turned you sing outer the other side o' your mouth," cautioned Martha. "'Stead o' crowin' so much, you better make sure you know your colic." "What you goin' to do with your money?" inquired Francie, unable to conceive of possessing such vast riches. "I do' know." "Come here an' I'll tell you," said his mother. "Whisper!" At first Sammy's face did not reveal any great amount of satisfaction at the words breathed into his ear, but after a moment it fairly glowed. "Ain't that grand?" asked Martha. Sammy beamed, then went off whistling. "He's goin' to invest it in a hat for Cora as a s'prise, me addin' my mite to the fun' an' not lettin' him be any the wiser. An' Cora, she's goin' to get _him_ a pair o' shoes with her bank pennies, an' be this an' be that, the one thinks he's clothin' the other, an' is proud as Punch of it, which they're learnin' manners the same time they're bein' dressed," Martha explained to Claire later. "I wish you'd tell that to Radcliffe," Claire said. "He loves to hear about the children, and he can learn so much from listening to what is told of other kiddies' generosities and self-denials." Martha shook her head. "There's nothin' worth tellin'," she said. "An' besides, if I told'm, he might go an' tell his mother or his Uncle Frank, an' they might think I was puttin' in a bid for a Easter-egg on my own account. Radcliffe is a smart little fella! He knows a thing or two--an' sometimes three, an' don't you forget it." That Radcliffe "knew a thing or two--an' sometimes three," he proved beyond a doubt to Martha next day when, as she was busy cleaning his Uncle Frank's closet, he meandered up to her and casually observed: "Say, you know what I told you once 'bout Miss Lang bein' Mr. Van Brandt's best girl?" "Yes." "Well, she ain't!" "Why ain't she?" "I was lookin' out o' the window in my mother's sittin'-room yesterday mornin', an' when my mother an' my Uncle Frank they came up from breakfast, they didn't see me coz I was back o' the curtains. My mother she had a letter Shaw, he just gave her, and when she read it she clapped her hands together an' laughed, an' my Uncle Frank he said, 'Why such joy?' an' she said, 'The greatest news! Amy Pelham is engaged to Mr. Van Brandt!' An' my Uncle Frank, his face got dark red all at once, an' he said to my mother, 'Catherine, are you 'sponsible for that?' an' she said, 'I never lifted a finger. I give you my word of honor, Frank!' An' then my Uncle Frank he looked better. An' my mother she said, 'You see, he couldn't have cared for Miss Lang, after all--I mean, the way we thought.' An' he said, 'Why not?' An' she said, 'Coz if he had asked her, she would have taken him, for no poor little governess is going to throw away a chance like that. No sensible girl would say _no_ to Bob Van Brandt with all his 'vantages. She'd jump at him, an' you couldn't blame her.' "An' then my mother an' my Uncle Frank _they_ jumped, for I came out from behind the curtains where I'd been lookin' out, an' I said, 'She would too say _no_! My Miss Lang, she's sensible, an' one time in the Park, when Mr. Van Brandt he asked her to take him an' everything he had (that's what he said! "Take me an' everything I have, an' do what you want with me!"), Miss Lang she said, "No, Bob, I can't! I wish I could, for your sake, if you want me so--but--I can't." An' Mr. Van Brandt he felt so bad, I was sorry. When I thought Miss Lang was his best girl, I didn't like him, but I didn't want him to feel as bad as that. An' he went off all alone by himself, an' Miss Lang--'Only I couldn't tell any more, for my Uncle Frank, he said reel sharp, 'That's enough, Radcliffe!' But last night he brought me home a dandy boat I can sail on the Lake, with riggin' an' a center-board, an', O, lots o' things! An' so I guess he wasn't so very mad, after all." CHAPTER XVI "Most like it's the Spring," said Martha. It was Memorial Day. She and Miss Lang were at home, sitting together in Claire's pretty room, through the closed blinds of which the hot May sun sent tempered shafts of light. Claire regarded Mrs. Slawson steadily for a moment, seeming to make some sort of mental calculation meanwhile. "Well, if it _is_ the Spring," she observed at length with a whimsical little frown knitting her brows, "it's mighty forehanded, for it began to get in its fine work as far back as January. Ever since the time Sam went to the Sanatorium you've been losing flesh and color, Martha, and--I don't know what to do about it!" "Do about it!" repeated Mrs. Slawson. "Why, there ain't nothin' _to_ do about it, but let the good work go on. I'm in luck, if it's true what you say. Believe _me_, there's lots o' ladies in this town, is starvin' their stummicks an' everythin' else about 'em, an' payin' the doctors high besides, just to get delicate-complected, an' airy-fairy figgers, same's I'm doin' without turnin' a hand. Did you never hear o' bantin'? It's what the high-toned doctors recommend to thin down ladies who have it so comfortable they're uncomfortable. The doctors prescribes exercise for'm, an' they take it, willin' as doves, whereas if their husbands said, 'Say, old woman, while you're restin', just scrub down the cellar-stairs good--that'll take the flesh off'n you quicker'n anythin' else _I_ know!' they'd get a divorce from him so quick you couldn't see 'em for dust. No, they'd not do anythin' so low as cellar-stairs, to save their lives. You couldn't please 'em better'n to see another woman down on her marra-bones workin' for 'em, but get down themselves? Not on your sweet life, they wouldn't. They'd rather _bant_. Bantin' sounds so much more stylisher than scrubbin'." Claire smiled, but her eyes were very serious as she said, "All the same, Martha, I believe you are grieving your heart out for Sam. I've been watching you when you didn't know it, and I've seen the signs and the tokens. Your heart has the hunger-ache in it!" "Now, what do you think o' that!" exclaimed Mrs. Slawson. "What do _you_ know about hearts an' hunger-aches, I should like to know. You, an unmarried maiden-girl, without so much as the shadder or the skelegan of a beau, as far as _I_ can see. What do _you_ know about a woman hungerin' an' cravin' for her own man? You have to have reelly felt them things yourself, to know the signs of 'em in other folks." Claire's lip trembled, but she did not reply. When Martha spoke again it was as if she had replied. "O, go 'way! _You_ ain't never had a leanin' in any gen'l'man's direction, I'd be willin' to wager. An' yet, I may as well tell you, you been gettin' kinder white an' scrawny yourself lately, beggin' your pardon for bein' so bold as notice it. Mind, I ain't the faintest notion of holdin' it against you! I know better than think you been settin' your affections on anybody. There's other things _besides_ love gives you that tired feelin'. What you need is somethin' to brace you up, an' clear your blood, like Hoodses Sassperilla. Everybody feels the way you do, this time o' year. I heard a young saleslady (she wasn't a woman, mind you, she was a sales_lady_), I heard a young saleslady in the car the other mornin' complain--she was the reel dressy kind, you know, with more'n a month's pay of hair, boilin' over on the back of her head in puffs an' things--the gallus sort that, if you want to buy a yard o' good flannen off her, will sass you up an' down to your face, as fresh as if she was your own daughter--she was complainin' 'the Spring always made her feel so sorter, kinder, so awful la-anguid.'" "Martha, dear," broke in Claire irrelevantly, "I wonder if you'd mind very much if I told Mr. Ronald the truth. He thinks you were an old family servant. He thinks you nursed me till I was able to walk." Martha considered. "Well, ain't that the truth?" she asked blandly. "I lived out from the time I was twelve years old. That was in Mrs. Granville's mother's house. When I was sixteen I went to Mrs. Granville's. I was kitchen-maid there first-off, an' gradjelly she promoted me till I was first housemaid. I never left her till I got married. If that don't make me an old family servant, I'd like to know." "But he thinks you were an old family servant in _our_ house." "Well, bless your heart, that's _his_ business, not mine. How can I help what he thinks?" "Didn't you tell him, Martha dear, that you nursed me till I was able to walk?" "Shoor I did! An' it's the livin' truth. What's the matter with that? Believe _me_, you wasn't good for more than a minit or two more on your legs, when I got you into your bed that blessed night. You was clean bowled over, an' you couldn't 'a' walked another step if you'd been killed for it. Didn't I nurse you them days you was in bed, helplesslike as a baby? Didn't I nurse you till you could walk?" "Indeed you did. And that's precisely the point!" said Claire. "If Mr. Ronald--if Mrs. Sherman knew the truth, that I was poor, homeless, without a friend in New York the night you picked me up on the street, and carried me home and cared for me without knowing a thing about me, they mightn't--they _wouldn't_ have taken me into their house and given me their little boy to train. And because they wouldn't, I want to tell them. I want to square myself. I ought to have told them long ago. I want--" "You want 'em to bounce you," observed Mrs. Slawson calmly. "Well, there's always more'n one way of lookin' at things. For instance any good chambermaid, _with experience_, will tell you there's three ways of dustin'. The first is, do it thora, wipin' the rungs o' the chairs, an' the backs o' the pictures, an' under the books on the table like. The second is, just sorter flashin' your rag over the places that shows, an' the third is--pull down the shades. They're all good enough ways in their own time an' place, an' you foller them accordin' to your disposition or, if you're nacherelly particular, accordin' to the other things you got to do, in the time you got to do 'em _in_. Now, _I'm_ particular. I'm the nacherelly thora kind, but if I'm pressed, an' there's more important things up to me than the dustin', I give it a lick an' a promise, same as the next one, an' let it go at that, till the time comes I can do better. Life's too short to fuss an' fidget your soul out over trifles. It ain't always what you _want_, but what you _must_. You sometimes got to cut short at one end so's you can piece out at another, an' you can take it from me, you only pester folks by gettin' 'm down where they can't resist you, an' forcin' a lot of hard facks down their throats, which ain't the _truth_ anyhow, an' which they don't want to swaller on no account. What do they care about the machinery, so long as it turns out the thing they want? Believe _me_, it's foolishness to try to get 'em back into the works, pokin' about among the inside wheels an' springs, an' so forth. You likely get knocked senseless by some big thing-um-bob you didn't know was there. Now I know just eggsackly what's in your mind, but you're wrong. You think I told Mr. Ronald fibs. I didn't tell'm fibs. I just give'm the truth the way he'd take it, like you give people castor-oil that's too dainty to gullup it down straight. Some likes it in lemon, an' some in grobyules, but it's castor-oil all the same. He wanted to know the truth about you, an' I let him have it, the truth bein' you're as fine a lady as any in the land. If I'd happened to live in Grand Rapids at the time, I'd most likely of lived out with your grandmother, an' been an old family servant in your house like I was at Mrs. Granville's, an' I certainly would of nursed you if I'd had the chanct. It was just a case o' happenso, my _not_ havin' it. The right kind o' folks here in New York is mighty squeamish about strangers. They want recommendations--they want 'em because they want to be sure the ones they engage is O.K. That's all recommendations is for, ain't it? Now I knew the minit I clapped eye to you, that, as I say, you was as grand a lady as any in the land, an' that bein' the case, what was the use o' frettin' because I hadn't more than your sayso to prove it. But if I'd pulled a long face to Mrs. Sherman, an' told her, hesitatin'-like an' nervous, about--well, about what took place that night, she, not havin' much experience of human nature (only the other kind that's more common here in New York City), she'd have hemmed, an' hawed, an' thought she'd better not try it, seein' Radcliffe is such an angel-child an' not to be trained except by a A-I Lady." "But the truth," persisted Claire. "I tell the truth," Mrs. Slawson returned with quiet dignity. "I only don't waste time on trifles." "It is not wasting time on trifles to be exact and accurate. An architect planning a house must make every little detail _true_, else when the house goes up, it won't stand." "Don't he have to reckon nothin' on the _give_ or _not-give_ of the things he's dealin' with?" demanded Martha. "I'm only a ignorant woman, an' I ask for information. When you're dress-makin' you have to allow for the seams, an' when you're makin'--well, other things, you have to do the same thing, only spelled a little different--you have to allow for the _seems_. Most folks don't do it, an' that's where a lot o' trouble comes in, or so it appears to me." Claire twisted her ring in silence, gazing down at it the while as if the operation was, of all others, the most important and absorbing. "We may not agree, Martha dear," she said at last, "but anyway I know you're good, good, _good_, and I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world." "Shoor! I know you wouldn't! An' they ain't hurt. Not in the least. You got one kinder conscience an' I got another, that's all. Consciences is like hats. One that suits one party would make another look like a guy. You got to have your own style. You got to know what's best for you, an' then _stick to it_!" "And you won't object if I tell Mr. Ronald?" "Objeck? Certainly not! Tell'm anything you like. _I_ always was fond o' Mr. Ronald myself. I never thought he was as hard an' stern with a body as some thinks. Some thinks he's as hard as nails, but--" "O, I'm _sure_ he's not," cried Claire with unexpected loyalty. "His manner may seem a little cold and proud sometimes, but I know he's very kind and generous." "Certaintly. So do I know it," said Mrs. Slawson. "I don't say I mayn't be mistaken, but I have the highest opinion o' Lor--Mr. Ronald. I think you could trust'm do the square thing, no matter what, an' if he was kinder harsh doin' it, it's only because he expects a body to be perfect like he is himself." In the next room Sabina was shouting at the top of her lungs--"Come back to ear-ring, my voornean, my voornean!" "Ain't it a caution what lungs that child has--considerin'?" Martha reflected. "Just hear her holler! She'd wake the dead. I wonder if she's tryin' to beat that auta whoopin' it up outside. Have you ever noticed them autas nowadays? Some of them has such croupy coughs, before I know it I'm huntin' for a flannen an' a embrercation. 'Xcuse me a minit while I go answer the bell." A second later she returned. A step in advance of her was Mr. Ronald. "I am lucky to find you at home, Martha," were the first words Claire heard him say. Martha, by dint of a little unobservable maneuvering, managed to superimpose her substantial shadow upon Claire's frail one. "Yes, sir. When I get a day to lay off in, you couldn't move me outer the house with a derrick," she announced. "Miss Lang's here, too. Bein' so dim, an' comin' in outer the sunlight, perhaps you don't make out to see her." "She ain't had time yet to pull herself together," Mrs. Slawson inwardly noted. "But, Lord! I couldn't stand in front of her forever, an' even if a girl _is_ dead in love with a man (more power to her!), that's no reason she should go to the other extreme to hide it, an' pertend she's a cold storage, warranted to freeze'm stiff, like the artificial ice they're makin' these days, in the good old summertime." The first cold greetings over, Claire started to retreat in the direction of the door. "Excuse me, please--I promised Francie--She's expecting me--she's waiting--" "Pshaw now, let her wait!" said Martha. "Don't let me detain Miss Lang if she wishes to go," interposed Mr. Ronald. "My business is really with you, Martha." "Thank you, sir. But I'd like Miss Lang to stay by, all the same--that is, if you don't objeck." "As a witness? You think I need watching, eh?" "I think it does a body good to watch you, sir!" "I didn't know before, you were a flatterer, Martha. But I see you're a lineal descendant of the Blarney Stone." Claire felt herself utterly ignored. She tried again to slip away, but Martha's strong hand detained her, bore her down into the place she had just vacated. "How is Francie?" inquired Mr. Ronald, taking the chair Mrs. Slawson placed for him. "_Fine_--thank you, sir. The doctors says they never see a child get well so fast. She's grown so fat an' big, there ain't a thing belongs to her will fit her any longer, they're all shorter, an' she has to go whacks with Cora on her clo'es." "Perhaps she'd enjoy a little run out into the country this afternoon in my car. The other children, too? And--possibly--Miss Lang." "I'm sure they'd all thank you kindly, sir," began Martha, when--"I'm sorry," said Claire coldly, "I can't go." Mr. Ronald did not urge her. "It is early. We have plenty of time to discuss the ride later," he observed quietly. "Meanwhile, what I have in mind, Martha, is this: Mr. Slawson has been at the Sanatorium now for--?" "Goin' on five months," said Martha. "And the doctors think him improved?" "Well, on the whole, yes, sir. His one lung (sounds kinder Chineesy, don't it?), his one lung ain't no worse--it's better some--only he keeps losin' flesh an' that puzzles'm." "Do you think he is contented there?" "He says he is. He says it's the grand place, an' they're all as good to'm as if he was the king o' Harlem. _You_ seen to that, sir--he says. An' Sam, he's always pationate, no matter what comes, but--" "Well--_but_?" "But--only just, it ain't _home_, you know, sir!" "I see. And the doctors think he ought to stay up there? Not return home--_here_, I mean?" "That's what they say." "Have you--the means to keep him at the Sanatorium over the five months we settled for in January?" "No, sir. That is, not--not _yet_." "Would you like to borrow enough money to see him through the rest of the year?" Martha deliberated. "I may _have_ to, sir," she said at last with a visible effort. "But I don't like to borrer. I notice when folks gets the borrerin'-habit they're slow payin' back, an' then you don't get thanks for a gift or you don't get credit for a loan." This time it was Mr. Ronald who seemed to be considering. "Right!" he announced presently. "I notice you go into things rather deep, Martha." Mrs. Slawson smiled. "Well, when things _is_ deep, that's the way you got to go into them. What's on your plate you got to chew, an' if you don't like it, you can lump it, an' if you don't like to lump it, you can cut it up finer. But there it _is_, an' there it stays, till you swaller it, somehow." "Do you enjoy or resent the good things that are, or seem to be, heaped on other people's plates?" "Why, yes. Certaintly I enjoy 'em. But, after all, the things taste best that we're eatin' ourselves, don't they? An' if I had money enough like some, so's I didn't have to borrer to see my man through, why, I don't go behind the door to say I'd be glad an' grateful." "Would you take the money as a gift, Martha?" "You done far more than your share already, sir." "Then, if you won't _take_, and you'd rather not borrow, we must find another way. A rather good idea occurred to me last night. I've an uncommonly nice old place up in New Hampshire--in the mountains. It was my father's--and my grandfather's. It's been closed for many years, and I haven't given it a thought, except when the tax-bills came due, or the caretaker sent in his account. It's so far away my sister won't live there, and--it's too big and formidable for one lone man to summer in by himself. Now, why wouldn't it be a capital idea for you to pack up your goods and chattels here, and take your family right up there--make that your home? The lodge is comfortable and roomy, and I don't see why Mr. Slawson couldn't recover there as well, if not better, than where he is. I'd like to put the place in order--make some improvements, do a little remodeling. I need a trusty man to oversee the laborers, and keep an eye and close tab on the workmen I send up from town. If Mr. Slawson would act as superintendent for me, I'd pay him what such a position is worth, and you would have your house, fuel, and vegetables free. Don't try to answer now. You'd be foolish to make a decision in a hurry that you might regret later. Write to your husband. Talk it over with him. He might prefer to choose a job for himself. And remember--it's 'way out in the country. The children would have to walk some distance to school." "Give 'em exercise, along of their exercises," said Martha. "The church in the village is certainly three miles off." "My husband don't go to church as reg'lar as I might wish," Mrs. Slawson observed. "I tell'm, the reason men don't be going to church so much these days, is for fear they might hear something they believe." "You would find country life tame, perhaps, after the city." "Well, the city life ain't been that _wild_ for me that I'd miss the dizzy whirl. An' anyhow--we'd be _together_!" Martha said. "We'd be together, maybe, come our weddin'-day. The fourth o' July. We never been parted oncet, on that day, all the fifteen years we been married," she mused, "but--" "Well?" "But, come winter, an' Mis' Sherman opens the house again, an' wants Miss Claire back, who's goin' to look out for _her_?" "Why--a--as to _that_--" said Mr. Ronald, so vaguely it sounded almost supercilious to Claire. In an instant her pride rose in revolt, rebelling against the notion he might have, that she could possibly put forth any claim upon his consideration. "O, please, _please_ don't think of me, Martha," she cried vehemently. "I have entirely other plans. You mustn't give me, or my affairs, a thought, in settling your own. You must do what's best for _you_. You mustn't count for, or _on_, me in the least. I have not told you before, but I've made up my mind I must resign my position at Mrs. Sherman's, anyway. I'll write her at once. I'll tell her myself, of course, but I tell you now to show that you mustn't have me in mind, at all, in making your plans." Martha's low-pitched voice fell upon Claire's tense, nervous one with soothing calmness. "Certaintly not, Miss Claire," she said. "And you'll write to your husband and report to him what I propose," suggested Mr. Ronald, as if over Claire's head. "Shoor I will, sir!" "And if he likes the idea, my secretary will discuss the details with him later. Wages, duties--all the details." "Yes, sir." "And you may tell the children I'll leave orders that the car be sent for them some other day. I find it's not convenient, after all, for me to take them myself this afternoon. I spoke too fast in proposing it. But they'll not be disappointed. Mr. Blennerhasset will see to that. I leave town to-night to be gone--well, indefinitely. In any case, until well on into the autumn or winter. Any letter you may direct to me, care of Mr. Blennerhasset at the office, will be attended to at once. Good-by, Martha!--Miss Lang--" He was gone. When the car had shot out of sound and sight, Martha withdrew from the window, from behind the blinds of which she had been peering eagerly. "He certainly _is_ a little woolly wonder, meaning no offense," she observed with a deep-drawn sigh. "Yes, Mr. Ronald is as good as they make 'em, an' dontcher forget it!" She seated herself opposite Claire, drawing her chair quite close. "Pity you an' him is so on the outs. I'm not speakin' o' _him_, s'much, but anybody with half an eye can see _you_ got a reg'lar hate on'm. _Any one_ can see that!" A moment of silence, and then Claire flung herself, sobbing and quivering, across Martha's lap, ready to receive her. "O, _Martha_!" she choked. CHAPTER XVII "Well now, what do you think o' that! Ain't it the end o' the law? The high-handed way he has o' doin' things! Think o' the likes o' _me_ closin' up my '_town-house' _an' takin' my fam'ly (includin' Flicker an' Nixcomeraus) 'to the country-place'--for all the world like I was a lady, born an' bred.--Sammy, you sit still in your seat, an' eat the candy Mr. Blennerhasset brought you, an' quit your rubberin', or the train'll start suddently, an' give you a twist in your neck you won't get over in a hurry.... Ma, you comfortable?.... Cora an' Francie, see you behave like little ladies, or I'll attend to you later. See how quiet Sabina is--Say, Sabina, what you doin'? Now, what do you think o' that! If that child ain't droppin' off to sleep, suckin' the red plush o' the seat! For all the world like she didn't have a wink o' rest last night, or a bite or a sup this mornin'--an' she slep' the clock 'round, an' et a breakfast fit for a trooper. Say, Sabina--here, wake up! An' take your tongue off'n that beautiful cotton-backed plush, d'you hear? In the first place, the gen'l'men that owns this railroad don't want their upholsterry et by little girls, an', besides, it's makin' your mouth all red--an', second-place, the cars isn't the time to sleep--leastwise, not so early in the mornin'. Miss Claire, child, don't look so scared! You ain't committin' no crime goin' along with us, an' _he_'ll never suspicion anyhow. He's prob'ly on the boundin' biller by this time, an' Mr. Blennerhasset he don't know you from a hole in the ground. Besides, whose business is it, anyway? You ain't goin' as _his_ guest, as I told you before. You're _my_ boarder, same's you've always been, an' it's nobody's concern if you board down here or up there... "Say, ain't these flowers just grand? The box looks kinder like a young coffin, but never mind that... "A body would think all that fruit an' stuff was enough of a send-off, but Lor--_Mr_. Ronald, he don't do things by halves, does he? It wouldn't seem so surprisin' now, if he'd 'a' knew you was comin' along an' all this (Mr. Blennerhasset himself helpin' look after us, an' see us off--as if I was a little tender flower that didn't know a railroad ticket from a trunk-check), I say, it wouldn't seem so surprisin' if he'd 'a' knew _you_ was comin' along. I'd think it was on your account. What they calls _delicate attentions_. The sorter thing a gen'l'man does when he's got his eye on a young lady for his wife, an' is sorter breakin' it to her gently--kinder beckonin' with a barn-door, as the sayin' is. "But Mr. Ronald ain't the faintest notion but you've gone back to your folks in Grand Rapids, an' so all these favors is for _me_, of course. Well, I certainly take to luckshurry like a duck takes to water. I never knew it was so easy to feel comfortable. I guess I been a little hard on the wealthy in the past. Now, if _you_ should marry a rich man, I don't believe--" Claire sighed wearily. "I'll never marry anybody, Martha. And besides, a rich man wouldn't be likely to go to a cheap boarding-house for a wife, and next winter I--O, isn't it warm? Don't you _wish_ the train would start?" At last the train did start, and they were whirled out of the steaming city, over the hills and far away, through endless stretches of sunlit country, and the long, long hours of the hot summer day, until, at night, they reached their destination, and found Sam Slawson waiting there in the cool twilight to welcome them. Followed days of rarest bliss for Martha, when she could marshal out her small forces, setting each his particular task, and seeing it was done with thoroughness and despatch, so that in an inconceivably short time her new home shone with all the spotless cleanliness of the old, and added comeliness beside. "Ain't it the little palace?" she inquired, when all was finished. "I wouldn't change my lodge for the great house, grand as it is, not for anything you could offer me! Nor I wouldn't call the queen my cousin now we're all in it together. I'm feelin' that joyful I'd like to have what they calls a house-swarmin', only there ain't, by the looks of it, any neighbors much, to swarm." "No," said Ma regretfully, "I noticed there ain't no neighbors--to speak of." "Well, then, we can't speak o' them," returned Martha. "Which will save us from fallin' under God's wrath as gossips. There's never any great loss without some small gain." "But we must have some sort of jollification," Claire insisted. "Doesn't your wedding-day--the anniversary of it, I mean--come 'round about this time? You said the Fourth, didn't you?" Martha nodded. "Sam Slawson an' me'll be fifteen years married come Fourth of July," she announced. "We chose that day, because we was so poor we knew we couldn't do nothin' great in the line o' celebration ourselves, so we just kinder managed it, so's without inconveniencin' the nation any or addin' undooly to its expenses, it would do our celebratin' for us. You ain't no notion how grand it makes a body feel to be woke up at the crack o' dawn on one's weddin' mornin' with the noise o' the bombardin' in honor o' the day! I'm like to miss it this year, with only my own four young Yankees spoilin' my sleep settin' off torpeders under my nose." "You won't miss anything," said Claire reassuringly, "but you mustn't say a word to Sam. And you mustn't ask any questions yourself, for what is going to happen is to be a _wonderful_ surprise!" "You betcher life it is!" murmured Martha complacently to herself, after Claire had hastened off to confer with the children and plan a program for the great day. Ma to make the wedding-cake! Cora to recite her "piece." Francie and Sammy to be dressed as pages and bear, each, a tray spread with the gifts it was to be her own task and privilege to contrive. Sabina to hover over all as a sort of Cupid, who, if somewhat "hefty" as to avoirdupois, was in all other respects a perfect little Love. It seemed as if the intervening days were winged, so fast they flew. Claire never could have believed there was so much to be done for such a simple festival, and, of course, the entire weight fell on her shoulders, for Ma was as much of a child in such matters as any, and Martha could not be appealed to, being the _bride_, and, moreover, being away at the great house, where tremendous changes were in progress. But at last came the wonderful day, and everything was in readiness. First, a forenoon of small explosive delights for the children--then, as the day waned, a dinner eaten outdoors, picnic-fashion on the grass, under the spreading trees, beneath the shadows of the mighty mountain-tops. What difference if Ma's cake, crowning a perfect feast, had suffered a little in the frosting and its touching sentiment, traced in snowy lettering upon a bridal-white ground, _did_ read FIFTEEN YEARS OF MARRED LIFE. It is sometimes one's ill-luck to misspell a word, and though a wedding-cake is usually large and this was no exception, the space was limited, and, besides, no one but Sam senior and Miss Lang noticed it anyhow. A quizzical light in his eye, Mr. Slawson scrawled on a scrap of paper which he passed to Claire (with apologies for the liberty) the words: "She'd been nearer the truth if she'd left out the two _rr_s while she was about it, and had it: FIFTEEN YEARS OF MA'D LIFE." Then came Cora's _piece_. Her courtesy, right foot back, knees suddenly bent, right hand on left side (presumably over heart, actually over stomach), chin diving into the bony hollow of her neck--Cora's courtesy was a thing to be remembered. LADY CLARE She announced it with ceremony, and this time, Martha noticed, the recalcitrant garter held fast to its moorings. "''Twas the time when lilies blow And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe--'" _"His!"_ prompted Martha in a loud stage-whisper. _"His_--not 'a'--" Cora accepted the correction obediently, but her self-confidence was shaken. She managed to stammer, "'Give t-to--his c-cousin, L-Lady C-Clare,'" and then a storm of tears set in, drowning her utterance. "Well, what do you think o' _that_?" exclaimed Martha, amazed at the undue sensitiveness of her offspring. "Never mind, Cora! You done it grand!--as far as you went." To cover this slight mishap, Claire gave a hurried signal to the pages, who appeared forthwith in splendid form, if a little overweighted by the burdens they bore. In some strange way Claire's simple gifts had been secretly augmented until they piled up upon the trays, twin-mountains of treasure. When the first surprise was past, and the wonders examined and exclaimed over, Martha bent toward Claire, from her seat of honor on the grass. "Didn't I think to tell you Mr. Blennerhasset come up on the early train? Sammy, he drove down to the station himself to meet'm. Mr. Blennerhasset brought up all them grand things--for Mr. Ronald. Ain't he--I mean Mr. Ronald--a caution to 've remembered the day? I been so took up with things over there to the great house, I musta forgot to tell you about Mr. Blennerhasset. Ain't everything just elegant?-- "It's pretty, the way the night comes down up here. With the sharp pin-heads o' stars prickin' through, one by one. They don't seem like that in the city, do they? An' the moon's comin' up _great_!" Claire's eyes were fixed on the grassy slope ahead. "Who are those three men over there?" she asked. "What are they doing? I can't make out in the dusk anything but shadow-forms." "Sam, an' Mr. Blennerhasset, an'--an'--another fella from the neighborhood. Mr. Blennerhasset he brought up some fire-works to surprise the young uns, an' they're goin' to set 'em off. It's early yet, but the sooner it's over the sooner to sleep. An' the kids has had a excitin' day." Up shot a rocket, drawing the children's breaths skyward with it in long-drawn "A-ahs!" of perfect ecstasy. Then pin-wheels, some of which, not to belie their nature, balked obstinately, refusing to be coerced or wheedled into doing their duty. "Say, now, mother," cried Francie excitedly--"that pin-wheel--in the middle of it was a cork. When it got over spinning fast, I saw the cork." "Don't you never do that no more," cautioned Martha. "Never you see the cork. It's the _light_ you want to keep your eye on!" which, as Claire thought it over, seemed to her advice of a particularly shrewd and timely nature. She was still pondering this, and some other things, when she felt Mrs. Slawson's hand on her shoulder. "It's over now, an' I'm goin' to take the young 'uns in, an' put 'em to bed. But don't you stir. Just you sit here a while in the moonlight, an' enjoy the quiet in peace by yourself. You done a hard day's work, an' you give me an' Sammy what we won't forget in a hurry. So you just stay out here a few minits--or as long as you wanter--away from the childern's clatter, an'--God bless you!" Claire's gaze, following the great form affectionately, saw it pass into the darker shadows, then forth--out into the light that shone from the open door of the lodge. "She's _home_--and they're _together_!" Unconsciously, she spoke her grateful thought aloud. "Yes, she's _home_--and they're _together_!" The words were repeated very quietly, but there was that in the well-known voice, so close at hand, that seemed to Claire to shake the world. In an instant she was upon her feet, gazing up speechless, into Francis Ronald's baffling eyes. "You are kind to every one," he said, "but for me you have only a sting, and yet--I love you." * * * * * Martha was still busy wrestling with the pyramid of dishes left over from the feast, when at last Claire came in alone. "Did you get a chance to compose yourself, an' quiet down some under the stars?" inquired Mrs. Slawson. "It's been a noisy day, with lots doin'. I don't wonder you're so tired--your cheeks is fairly blazin' with it, an' your eyes are shinin' like lit lamps." "You knew--you knew he was here!" said Claire accusingly. "_He?_ Who? O, you mean Mr. Ronald? Didn't I think to tell you, he come up along with Mr. Blennerhasset? I been so flustrated with all the unexpected surprises of the day, it musta slipped my mind." "I've seen Mr. Ronald!" Claire said." I've spoken with him!" "Now, what do you think o' that! Wonders never cease!" "Do you know what I did?" "Search me!" "I told him--the _truth_." "We-ell?" "And--_I'm going to marry him!"_ Mrs. Slawson sat down hard upon the nearest chair, as if the happy shock had deprived her of strength to support her own weight. "No!" she fairly shouted. "_Yes!" _cried Claire. "And, O, Martha! I'm _so_ happy! And--did you ever _dream_ such a thing could possibly happen?" "Well, you certaintly have give me a start. I often thought how I'd _like_ to see Mr. Ronald your _financiay_ or your _trosso_, or whatever they call it. But, that it would really come to pass--" She paused. "O, you don't know how I dreaded next winter," Claire said, as if she were thinking aloud. "I went over it--and I went over it, in my mind--what I'd do--where I'd go--and now--_Now!_... I couldn't take that fine job you had your eye on for me, not even if it had come to something. Don't you remember? I mean, the splendid job you had the idea about, that first night I was sick. I shan't need it now, shall I, Martha?" "You got it!" said Martha. Claire's wide eyes opened wider in wonderment. She stared silently at Mrs. Slawson for a moment. Then the light began to break in upon her slowly, but with unmistakable illumination. "You--don't--mean?" she stammered. "Certaintly!" said Martha. THE END 
23778	----	[Frontispiece: There she stood] THE GOVERNESS BY JULIE M. LIPPMANN _Author of_ "MAMMA-BY-THE-DAY," etc. _Illustrated by_ CHARLES R. CHICKERING McClelland, Goodchild & Stewart Publishers ------ Toronto 1916 Copyright 1897 by THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY Copyright 1916 by THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY The Governess Contents CHAP. I NAN II NAN'S VISITOR III MR. TURNER'S PLAN IV THE GOVERNESS V GETTING ACQUAINTED VI WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS VII OPEN CONFESSION VIII NAN'S HEROINE IX HAVING HER OWN WAY X EXPERIENCES XI CHRISTMAS XII SMALL CLOUDS XIII ON THE ICE XIV CHANGES XV A TUG OF WAR XVI THE SLEIGH-RIDE XVII CONSEQUENCES XVIII "CHESTER NEWCOMB" XIX IN MISS BLAKE'S ROOM XX THROUGH DEEP WATERS XXI ANOTHER CHRISTMAS Illustrations There she stood . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ "I'll run away first!" The little governess was beside her "I have a little errand to do" "Provoking things!" The Governess CHAPTER I NAN "Hello, Nan!" "Heyo, Ruthie!" "Where are you going?" "Over to Reid's lot." "Take me?" "No, Ruthie, can't." The little child's lip began to tremble. "I think you're real mean, Nan Cutler," she complained. Nan shook her head. "Can't help it if you do," she returned, stoutly, and took a step on. "Nannie," cried the child eagerly, starting after her and clutching her by the skirt, "I didn't mean that! Truly, I didn't. I think you're just as nice as you can be. Do please let me go with you. Won't you?" Nan compressed her lips. "Now, Ruth, look here," she said after a moment, in which she stood considering, "I'd take you in a minute if I could but the truth is--oh, you're too little." "I ain't too little!" "Well, then, your mother doesn't like you to be with me, so there!" cried Nan, in a burst of reckless frankness. Ruth hung her head. She could not deny it but at sight of her companion turning to leave her she again started forward, piping shrilly, "Nannie! Nannie! She won't care this time. Honest, she won't." Nan stalked on without turning her head. The hurrying little feet followed on close behind. "Nannie! Nannie!" "See here, Ruth," exclaimed the girl, veering suddenly about and speaking with decision. "You can't come, and that's all there is about it. Your mother doesn't like me, and you ought not to disobey her. Now run back home like a good little girl." The delicate, small face upturned to hers grew hardened and set, but the child did not move. Nan gave her a friendly shove on the shoulder and turned on her way again. Immediately she heard the tap of hurrying little feet behind, like the echoing sound of her own hasty footsteps. She stopped and swung about abruptly. "Are you going to be a good little girl and go back this minute?" she demanded sternly, calling to her assistance all the dignity of her fourteen years, and turning on the poor infant a severe, unrelenting eye. The child gazed up at her reproachfully, but did not reply. Nan felt herself fast losing patience. "Of all the provoking little witches!" she exclaimed, in an underbreath of irritation. Ruth's rebuking eyes surveyed her calmly, but she made no response. "Now be good and trot along back," cajoled Nan, changing her tactics and stroking the child's soft hair caressingly. There was a visible pursing of the obstinate little lips, but no further sign of acknowledgment. Nan dropped her voice to a tone of honey-sweetness. "See here, Ruthie, if you'll go home this minute I'll give you five cents. You can buy anything you like with it at Sam's, on the way back." She plunged her hand into her pocket and drew forth a bright new nickel, and held it alluringly aloft. The azure eyes gazed at it appreciatively, but the hand was not outstretched to receive it. For a second Nan reviewed the situation in silence. Then she flung about with a movement of exasperation, and marched on stolidly, and the smaller feet hastened after her, keeping pace with difficulty, and often breaking into a little run that they might not be outstripped. A chill autumn wind was sweeping up heavily from the northeast, and the air was cold and raw. Nan shuddered as she walked, and wished Ruth were safe and sound in her own warm home, which she never should have been permitted to leave this blustering day. A score of plans for ridding herself of her troublesome little follower crowded Nan's brain. She might run and leave the youngster behind. But then Ruth would cry, and Nan could not bear to inflict pain on a little child. She might take her up in her arms and carry her bodily back to her own door. Well, and what then? Why, simply, she would get the credit of abusing the little girl. There seemed no way out of it. She stalked on grimly, and when she came to Reid's lot she promptly and dexterously climbed its fence and continued her way in silence. But the fence proved an insurmountable obstacle to Ruth. She stood outside and wailed dismally. The sound smote Nan, and made her turn around. "Ruth Newton, you deserve to be spanked!" she announced, severely. The child uttered another wail of entreaty. Nan sprang up to the cross-bar of the palings, gathered her skirts about her knees, and leaped down. "Here, let me boost you, since you will get over," she said sharply. After they were both safely on the other side Ruth's spirit rose, and she capered about in the freedom of the open space as wildly as a young colt. Nan had come for chestnuts. She announced the same presently to Ruth. Ruth shouted gleefully. "I'm going to climb the tree. You can stand underneath and pick up what I shake, only mind you don't get the burr-prickles in your fingers, for they hurt like sixty," warned Nan. The child nodded her head and pranced over the brown, stubbly ground with dancing feet, her cheeks aglow and her eyes flashing with satisfaction. She watched Nan with the liveliest interest, and when the older girl was once comfortably ensconced in the lofty branches, she executed a sort of war-dance underneath, and spread her tiny skirt to catch the rain of nuts that Nan shook down upon her from above. But presently this began to pall. "I want to come up where you are, Nannie," she called, coaxingly. "You'll have to want then," retorted Nan, carelessly munching nuts like a squirrel. "I could climb's good as anything if only I had a boost," drawled the child ruefully. Nan sprinkled a handful of shucks on her head. "I'm going to try," ventured Ruth. Nan laughed. Ruth looked around, trying to discover some means by which she might accomplish her purpose. Nan felt so sure that the child could not do what she threatened that she made no effort to dissuade her. She, herself, passed from bough to bough as nimbly as a boy, in spite of her skirts, and in a very short time was almost out of sight among the upper spreading branches. She sat astride one of these, swinging to and fro and luxuriating in her sense of freedom and adventure. Peering down occasionally she saw Ruth standing beneath her and sent repeated showers of nuts spinning through the boughs to keep the child busy. But presently Ruth disappeared. She had spied an old piece of board and she immediately flew to get it, her silly little head filled with the idea of making it serve her as a ladder. She tugged it laboriously across the stubbly field, and her short, panting breaths did not reach Nan's ear, full of the near rustle of leaves and the hum of the scudding wind. "Ahoy! below there!" she shouted nautically from above. Ruth was too busy to respond. The board was heavy, and it took all the strength of her slight arms to get it in position. "Shipmate ahoy!" repeated Nan. By this time the board had been tilted against the tree and Ruth was scrambling up the unsteady inclined plane, too absorbed and scared in her adventure to reply. She actually managed to reach the top and to stand there tiptoeing the edge uncertainly, her small fingers clasping the tree-trunk convulsively and her arms trying to grapple with it for a surer hold. But suddenly she gave a piercing scream, and Nan, peering down through the branches in instant alarm, saw Ruth lying at the foot of the tree in a pitiful little motionless heap, and knew in a moment that she had tried to do what she had threatened and had failed. It did not take Nan a minute to reach the ground. Her heart seemed to stand still with fear. She flung herself from bough to bough with reckless haste and dropped to the ground all in one breathless instant. "Ruth," she cried, bending over the little prostrate figure in an agony. "Ruth, open your eyes! Get up! Oh, please get up!" There was no answer. Nan wrung her hands in despair. The cold wind blew over the field in chilling gusts. It made her shudder, and instinctively she took a step toward her warm coat, which she had stripped off and cast aside before climbing the tree. At sight of it a new thought struck her. Ruth lying there on the frosty ground would surely take cold--perhaps die from it! In a twinkling the soft, woolly garment was wrapped securely about the child and Nan had her two stout arms around her and was half dragging, half carrying her in the direction of the distant fence. But they had not covered a dozen yards before she felt her strength begin to fail. She was lifting a dead weight, and it seemed to drag more heavily upon her every moment. Her arms pulled in their sockets and her breath came in painful gasps, and she knew that if she tried to keep on as she was it would be at the cost of increasing misery. Still she did not give up, and at last, after what seemed to her hours of agony and suspense, she actually reached the limit of the field. She laid Ruth gently upon the ground and straightened herself up to ease her aching back and regain her lost breath before taking up her burden again. But as she lifted her head her eyes fell on the high pickets before her, which seemed to confront her with as grim defiance as if they had been bayonets. How could she get Ruth over? The gate, which was at another end of the lot, was always kept padlocked, and even if she had remembered this at first and had carried the child there, she could not have undone the bolt. This was the last straw! She felt frustrated and defeated, and a low sob of complete discouragement broke from her. It was useless to dream of getting Ruth over alone. The only way that remained was to secure help, that was plain. She looked about wildly, but not a soul was in sight, and she knew in her heart that the chances were against her. The street at this point was near the city limits, and it had not been built up as yet. There would be nothing to call any one here unless it might be some boy who, like herself, had come out for chestnuts, and what use would a mere boy be? If only John Gardiner were here! John was tall and strong, and would lend a hand in a jiffy. But John also was miles away. Ruth's eyes opened for a second and then closed sleepily again. Nan's heart leaped up with new hope. "Ruth! Ruth!" she called eagerly bending over her and stroking her cheek tenderly. But her hope was short-lived. The eyelids remained shut, and the child only breathed deeper than before. Nan's own heart seemed to stop in her anxiety for Ruth. Suddenly she sprang to her feet. Surely she had heard the rattle of wheels! Ever so far and indistinct to be sure, but still unmistakably wheels, clattering over some distant cobbles. She raised her voice and shouted; then held her breath to listen. The clatter grew more distinct; it drew nearer and nearer. She clambered up the fence and stood there waving her arms and shouting as madly as if she had been a shipwrecked mariner sighting a sail. She paused a moment to listen. The rattling wheels came nearer. She shouted again and then waited, listening intently. The rattling stopped. She set up a wild howl of dismay and kept it up till her ears seemed on the point of splitting. But now the clatter of wheels had begun again and she could see a milk cart rounding the corner of the street. She gave a long, shrill whistle and leaped down and ran frantically out into the road, straight for the horse's head. It was a second or two before the astonished driver could be made to understand, but when he did, he bounded out of his cart willingly enough, vaulted over the fence and then bade Nan "stand hard" while he lifted Ruth into her arms. Her weight was nothing to the brawny fellow, and he had her safely stowed away on the seat of his cart, with Nan crouching on the floor beside her and himself clinging to the step outside, in less time than it takes to tell it. Nan gave him the street and number in a trembling gasp of gratitude. He eyed her narrowly, and then seemed to sum up his conclusion in a low, keen whistle. Her hat was hanging by its elastic on her shoulders; her hair was blown out of all order by the wind; her dress was torn and her hands were bruised and none too clean. She had no coat on, and her cheeks were flaming with cold and excitement. She was an astonishing spectacle. "Guess you're a sort of high-flyer, ain't you?" said he at last without a sign of ill-nature. Nan set her jaws and did not reply. "Oh, well, I don't want to hurt your feelings. Only you look sorter wild-like, you know, and as if your mother didn't know you was out." Nan's teeth snapped. "I haven't got any mother," she returned curtly. "She's dead." The milkman looked uncomfortable. He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other and muttered something about being sorry. Then for some time there was silence. "That's the house," announced Nan at length, jumping to the step and hanging to the rail above the dashboard. "That third one from the corner, on this side. Please let me out first. I want to run ahead and tell." Almost before he could rein in his horse she was out on the pavement. She flew to the area gate and pressed the bell with all her might. She kept her finger on it, and the cook came flying to the door, looking flushed and angry at the continuous ringing. "Well, I might o' known," she said, eying Nan with unconcealed disfavor. "Do you think a body's deaf that you ring like that?" Nan flung back her head resentfully. "Never mind what I think," she returned sharply. "Open the gate! Ruth is sick! She got hurt! Some one's bringing her in. Quick!" The gate was flung open with a bang, and the woman rushed out, clutching Ruth from the milkman's arms and carrying her into the house, muttering mingled caresses and abuse all the while; the caresses for Ruth and the abuse for Nan. The milkman turned on his heel and went his way unthanked, but by the time he got to the outer gate Nan had recollected herself, and had rushed after him, calling: "Oh, please! I want to tell you--thank you ever so much!" She was glad she had done it when she saw the gratified look on his face. When she got back to the area gate it was shut. Mary the chambermaid stood just inside it. She made no attempt to admit Nan. She simply stood there and looked her over from head to toe. "Well, you're a pretty piece!" she remarked. "None of your business if I am," retorted Nan. "Let me in. I want to see Mrs. Newton." The maid took her hand from the knob and put it on her hip. "Mrs. Newton don't want to see you, though, I guess," she returned. "By this time Bridget's told her all she wants to know." "But I must see her! I must tell her!" Nan insisted, stamping her foot. "Bridget don't know anything about it. No one does but me. Let me in, I say!" The girl laughed. "Well, I'll go upstairs and tell Mrs. Newton. Then, if she wants to see you, she can," and she went inside and closed the door, leaving Nan to stand shuddering in the cold outside. Presently she came back, carrying the coat in her hands. "Mrs. Newton says she hasn't time to see you now. She says she'll attend to you later. She says she can guess how it happened, and that if Ruth dies it'll be your fault. There, now, you know what's thought of you, and you can put it in your pipe and smoke it, you great, rough tomboy!" The gate was thrust open a little way, the coat was flung out, and the door slammed to again, and once more Nan found herself in the area way alone. Burning tears of fury sprung to her eyes. She caught up her despised coat and dashed wildly out of the gate in a perfect tempest of anger and resentment. CHAPTER II NAN'S VISITOR She knew what was coming when the bell rang. She had been expecting it all the afternoon. But in spite of that her heart beat fast and her breath came hard as she heard the familiar sound. Not that she was afraid. She had nothing to be afraid of, she assured herself defiantly, and besides, fear was one of the things she despised. Whatever else she was, she was certainly not a coward. Still she sat in her room and waited in a state of mind that was not precisely what one would call tranquil. She heard Delia mount the basement stairs and then she heard her ask the new-comer into the parlor. A moment later there was a tap upon Nan's bedroom door. "Come in," she said carelessly, and pretended to be searching for some article lost in the confusion of her upper drawer. "You're wanted in the parlor, Nan," began Delia at once. "It's a lady who says she lives on the block and she wouldn't give her name, but I think she's the one moved into Leffingwell's old house last spring--has that little girl with the long curls, you know the one I mean. Shall I help you put on another dress and braid your hair over? It's fearful mussy-lookin'. Or will I just go and say you'll be down in a minute while you do it yourself?" Nan cast a glance at her torn dress and towzled head in the mirror. "No, Delia, I'll go as I am, and if the lady doesn't like it she can--oh, well, I'll go down as I am." Delia pressed her lips together, as though trying to hold back the words of advice on the tip of her tongue. She knew it was worse than useless to try to argue with the girl. She had not lived in the house since Nan was born without learning better than to try to reason with her when she had once declared her mind. She stood beside the door, and allowed Nan to pass through it before her, without saying a word. Then she followed her quietly down stairs. At the parlor door Nan paused a moment, and Delia, who thought she was about to speak, paused too, but the girl only turned sharply into the room, pulling the door shut behind her. Once across the threshold she halted and stood irresolute. Whatever the result of this meeting might prove, depended not so much on Nan as on her visitor. Nan, though standing in awkward silence, as stiff and as straight as a soldier on parade, was ready to be influenced by whatever course her caller chose to pursue; a kind word spoken at the start would melt her at once, where a harsh one would raise in her every sort of sullen hostility and obstinate resistance. She was, as Delia often said to herself, "as hard to manage as a kicking colt." Sometimes she was wonderfully docile, but her moods were variable, and oftenest she was headstrong and wilful, with a fierce repugnance to curb, or what she considered unwarrantable interference. But it would have been difficult to convince the stranger at that moment that Nan could ever be won, or, in fact, that she had any tenderness to be appealed to. There she stood, looking as erect and impassive as a young Indian. Her brown hair was in a state of thorough disorder, and gave a sort of savage look to her sun-browned face. Her gray eyes were anything but soft at this moment; her mouth was set, and her whole attitude seemed to be one of imperturbable indifference. In reality, the girl was apprehensive and embarrassed. She set her lips to keep them from trembling. Her first impulse would have been to make a clean breast of everything, frankly and truthfully, but--something in her nature held her back. Was it obstinacy, or was it reticence? Her visitor did not wait to discover. She decided the result of the interview in the first words she spoke. "Is your name Nan Cutler?" she asked in a voice of stern authority. "Yes, it is!" acknowledged the girl, instantly on the defensive. "Then it is you who are accountable for the accident to Ruth Newton? You urged her to go with you, and when she fell--oh, you are a coward! It was detestable!" Nan made no reply, but stood the picture of inflexibility, facing her accuser squarely. "I have come to see you, not because you can undo the mischief you have done to my child, and not because I think I can affect you in the least, or make you sorry or ashamed, but simply to tell you that I intend to see that you are punished, as you deserve. I have put up with annoyance you caused me long enough. Your influence is bad. All the neighbors complain of you. You are noisy and careless, and rough and rude. When any one reprimands you, you give a pert retort, or else pretend not to hear--which is impudent. Unless we wish our children to be utterly ruined we must see that they are put beyond your influence at once. You do things that are absolutely vulgar and unbefitting a girl of your age; you must be fourteen, at least, you look older, you are certainly old enough to know better. You are not a proper playmate for our children. You are boisterous and unladylike. You--you--are a perfect hoyden!" The stranger paused for breath, while Nan surveyed her with a look of calm indifference; an air of unconcern in anything she might say or think that seemed as insolent as it was exasperating. "You are a perfect hoyden!" repeated the stern voice in rising anger. "Whatever you do is done in such a loud, violent fashion that it becomes perfectly unbearable. You play ball with boys. You climb fences and trees. You are continually flying up and down the street on your detestable roller-skates and shouting until the neighborhood seems like Bedlam, and you don't appear to have the vaguest idea that people's rights need not be infringed on in such a manner; that they have the right to peace and quiet in their own homes. Even if you would content yourself with your own disorderliness! But you are not satisfied with doing what you know must annoy others; you seem to take a malicious delight in bringing the little children under your influence and making them long to follow your example. You cannot have the first shadow of generosity or bravery in your nature, or you would not urge them to do what you know their parents would disapprove of. You teach them to disobey. My daughter never told an untruth in her life until the other day. I have no reason to doubt that you taught her to tell that untruth!" Nan's cheeks suddenly became white, but she did not open her lips. "If you cannot be restrained by your own people at home you shall be by some other means. They say your own people are respectable; how can you disgrace them so?" Nan deigned no reply, but her lip curled contemptuously. "They say your mother is dead." Again no answer. "Where is your father?" "My father is in India. He is in Bombay," announced Nan, deliberately. "Who has control of you in his absence?" "No one!" declared the girl with decision. Mrs. Newton surveyed the lank, overgrown, girlish figure with unconcealed scorn. "Do you know," she said with bitter distinctness, "that you are the most shameless, unfeeling girl I have ever beheld? Any one else would show some remorse for what she had done, but you--young as you are, you are the hardest creature I have ever known. Hard, cruel, and cold. How can you stand there and look me in the face when you know how you have injured me? Tell me, does it not touch you at all that Ruth is hurt? Do you know or care that such a fall as she has had is enough to cripple a child for life? Many children have been hopelessly crippled through far less." The mother's voice broke, and she set her lips to keep down a sob. "How much is she hurt?" whispered Nan after a moment. She was trembling all over and cold and hot by turns, and she could not command her voice. It was almost more than she could do to keep from bursting into a violent fit of sobbing from her sense of injury and shame and indignation. But she simply would not permit herself to break down. No one should be allowed to think they intimidated her. But she could not hide her anxiety about Ruth. "Is she much hurt?" she repeated. There was a shade of softening in her visitor's face. "We can't tell yet. She has had a severe fall, and the chill coming after it may have very serious consequences, but we can tell nothing yet. However, I did not come here to inform you of her condition," the voice growing stern and the face severe again. "I came to tell you that if Ruth is injured I will hold you responsible. And not only that, but I warn you that I mean to take matters into my own hands now and see that you are permitted to do no further mischief. You shall be controlled. Who has charge of your father's affairs? Who has any sort of authority over you in his absence? He must have left you in somebody's care. He can't have gone away leaving you with no one to look after you. Who is your guardian? Tell me? If you don't I shall find out for myself, you may depend." "I'm perfectly willing to tell you," declared Nan, with what seemed to be complete coolness. "It's Mr. Turner. He gives Delia the money to get me things and to keep the house. He comes here every once in a while to see me. My father has him for his lawyer. He's a friend of his. When Delia writes to him for money for me she sends the letter to 101 Blank Street. That's his office. I don't remember where his house is. Delia never writes to his house. He doesn't attend to me--that is, he isn't my guardian, but I guess he would do if you want to see some one." Nan delivered herself of this information as casually as though it had been a report of the weather. As a matter of fact she was inwardly quivering, and every moment found it more and more difficult to control herself. Never in all her life before had she been so relentlessly, harshly accused. In trying to conceal her emotion she only gave herself the appearance of rigid inflexibility. Her visitor regarded her stonily for a moment and then abruptly brushed past her toward the door. Nan made no attempt to intercept her, but suddenly the hard lines about her mouth relaxed, her eyes softened, and she held out her hands with an imploring gesture. "Won't you please tell me where Ruth is hurt?" she cried. "Won't you let me do something for her? Let me--please let me! If you'll only listen a minute I'll tell you--" But it was too late now. She was given no reply; permitted no chance to vindicate herself. Her visitor's hard lips quivered, but she uttered no syllable. In a moment she was gone. After the door had closed upon her and it was quite certain that she would not come back, Nan turned and rushed headlong, like a young savage, upstairs and into her own room. What took place there it would have been impossible to discover, for the shades were jerked fiercely down, the door sharply shut and locked, and Delia, coming up some time later, could not make out a sound within nor get a reply to her requests to be admitted, though she stood outside and pleaded for an hour. At twilight the door was opened and Nan came out quite composed, but bearing on her face the unmistakable traces of tears which, however, Delia was wise enough to let pass unremarked. "Time for dinner?" asked the girl, curtly. "No, not yet. It ain't but just six," replied the woman. "Are you hungry? I'll get you something if you are." "No, I'm not hungry. But I feel kind of queer, somehow. There's an empty feeling I have that makes me uncomfortable. But I'm not hungry. O Delia!" she burst out, vehemently, "I wish--I wish--I had my mother. A girl needs--her mother--sometimes--" "Always," declared Delia, with conviction. For a little time there was silence between them. Then Nan said, "Look here, Delia--I want to tell you something. I feel just horribly. I never felt so unhappy in all my life. That lady who was here this afternoon is Ruth Newton's mother. She came to see me because this morning Ruth fell from the tree in Reid's lot and hurt herself, and Mrs. Newton thinks I made her do it. I didn't. Honestly, I didn't. I had climbed the tree myself, and it was fun and I liked it. Ruth would come. I tried to make her stay away, but she wouldn't, and when she teased to climb the tree too, I told her not to. She's so little and young, and her mother doesn't think it's ladylike, and I said if she wouldn't come with me in the first place I'd give her five cents. But she would tag on, and later she tried to climb the tree in spite of everything. She put a board up against the trunk and got on it and then scrambled up a little way, but she didn't get far, for the board slipped, or something, and down she went--smash! I guess she must have hit herself on the edge or somewhere, for when I dropped down she was lying on the ground, and she had her eyes closed and wouldn't speak. Then I didn't know what to do. I wanted to lift her, but it was awful work. There was no one in sight. At last I managed to tug her to the fence, but, of course, I hadn't the strength to get her over that alone. I couldn't leave her and run for help, and for a long time I did nothing but scream, in the hope that some one would come along and hear. And by and by I heard wheels. It was a milk cart, and I got the man to help me get her home. I went right to the Newton's as fast as I could, but when Bridget opened the door and saw who it was she was simply furious. They wouldn't let me in, and Mrs. Newton sent down word she wouldn't see me, but she'd attend to me later, and this afternoon when she called she just called me names and things, and I couldn't explain to her, I felt so choked. She talked to me so, I couldn't say a word. You don't know. When people say such things to me something gets in my throat, and I feel like strangling and doing all sorts of things. I seem to shut right up when they go at me like that. I can't speak. I just feel like--well, you don't know what I feel like. Mrs. Newton asked me where father is, and I told her, and then she asked about Mr. Turner, for she wants to have things done to me, and I told her about him. I wouldn't have her think I wanted to get out of it. She called me names and she thinks I taught Ruth to tell untruths; she said so. She says if Ruth doesn't get well it will be my fault. O Delia! I didn't do it. Honestly I wasn't to blame. But if Ruth is going to be sick and they think I did it--I want my mother! How can I bear it without my mother?" Delia gently patted the dark head that had flung itself into her lap. Her heart ached for the girl, but her simple mind was not equal to the task of consolation in a case like this. She could not cope with its difficulties. She knew Nan was to blame for much, but she thought in her heart that Mrs. Newton had no right to vent her wrath upon the girl without first having heard her side of the story. She could not console Nan, she thought, without seeming to convict Mrs. Newton, and if she "stood up for" Mrs. Newton, Nan would think her lacking in sympathy for herself. But in the midst of her wondering, up bobbed the head from under her hand. "Mrs. Newton says I teach the children to do wrong. She says I'm a hoyden. She says I left Ruth in the cold and that I was a coward. She didn't give me time to tell her about how I tried to get Ruth home myself, and that when I couldn't, how I just howled for help. At least she didn't want to listen when I got so I could speak. She says everybody thinks I'm bad, and they want to have me attended to. She thinks I taught Ruth to tell lies. Think, Delia, lies! When she said that it was like knives! O Delia? I know you've been awfully good to me always, and taken care of me since mamma died and all, but if it is so dreadful to play ball and skate and do things like that, why did you let me in the first place? I hate to sew and do worsted work and be prim, but perhaps, if you had brought me up that way I might have got so I could stand it. Don't you think if you had begun when I was a baby I might have? I don't want to have people hate me--honestly, I don't. When they talk to me, and say I'm rowdyish because I walk fences and play ball with the boys and climb trees, I try not to show it, but it hurts me way deep down. I try to say something back so they'll think I don't care, and sometimes, if it hurts too much, I pretend not to hear, and that makes them madder than ever. They don't know how, when it's like that, I can't speak. Perhaps if you'd brought me up so, I might have liked dolls and thought it was fun to sit still and sew on baby clothes. But I don't like to, and I can't help it. Mrs. Newton thinks because I whistle and make a noise that I'm just mean and hateful and everything else. She thinks I don't care. Why, Delia! if anything happened to Ruth I'd feel exactly as if I didn't want to live another day. I--I--O Delia!" For the first time she gave way, and, hiding her head in her arms, sobbed heavily. By this time Delia had risen to a point of burning anger against her child's detractor. Her heart beat loyally for Nan, and she could scarcely restrain the words of resentment that rose to her lips, and that it would have been such unwisdom to have uttered. "Never mind, Nannie lamb!" she said. "It'll be all right in the morning. The child will be all well in the morning. You'll see she ain't so bad as they think. And to-morrow I'll go and tell them all about it. And perhaps they'll see then it's better to be slow accusin' where the guilt ain't proved. Come, come! Don't cry so! Why, Nannie, child, you haven't cried like this since you were--I can't tell how little. You never cry, Nan. You're always so brave, and never give way. You'll have a headache if you don't stop. Dry your tears, and to-morrow it'll be all right." So, little by little, she soothed the girl, and by and by Nan ate her dinner, and then, when it was later, she went to bed. But when everything was hushed and still a dark figure crept noiselessly down stairs and on into the outer darkness. Down the street it stole until it had reached a house, which, alone in all the row of darkened barrack-like dwellings, showed a dimly lit window to the night. There it halted. And there it stood, like a faithful sentinel, only deserting its post when the gray light of early morning rose slowly over the world and the city was astir once more. CHAPTER III MR. TURNER'S PLAN "I am deeply sorry," said Mr. Turner, "and can only apologize in my friend's name for any annoyance his daughter may have caused you. Of course I cannot agree with you that she annoys you purposely. A child of William Cutler could not well be other than large-hearted and generous. She may be a little undisciplined perhaps, but it shall be attended to, Madam! I assure you the matter shall be attended to." Mrs. Newton rose. She had called upon Mr. Turner to state her complaint against Nan Cutler. Now that was accomplished she would go; only she made a mental vow that if the lawyer were not as good as his word, if he did not take immediate steps toward rectifying the matter, she would follow it up herself and see that she was relieved of what, in her anger, she called "that common nuisance." Meantime Nan herself was going about with a dead load of misery on her heart. Delia had gone to the Newton's house early in the morning to inquire after the sick child's condition and to repeat Nan's story to her mother, but that lady was "not at home," and Delia understood that to mean that Mrs. Newton declined to receive either her or her explanation. She went home angry and disappointed. "I guess the little girl ain't much hurt," she announced to Nan. "She's in bed to be sure, but I guess that's more on account of her cold than anything else. She isn't going to be crippled, Nan, now don't you fret. She'll be all right. Now you see if she ain't." Nan's own flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes, the result of her yesterday's chilly adventures, worried the good woman not a little. If she had dared she would have liked to "coddle her child," but Nan was not one of the coddling kind, and would have scorned being made a baby of. She went about the house in one of her unhappy moods, restless and wretched and unable to amuse herself, and finding the hours never-endingly long. When the bell rang she welcomed the sound as a grateful diversion and ran to the balusters and hung over the railing to see who might be the new-comer. She was glad of any break in the monotony of such a miserable day. When Delia opened the door and admitted Mr. Turner, Nan's heart gave a big leap. Visions of what might be in store for her, the result of Mrs. Newton's action against her, thronged her brain and made her shudder with apprehension. What if Mr. Turner had come to say that she was to be sent to the House of Correction, or some horrid boarding-school where one don't get enough to eat and where one couldn't poke one's nose outside the door. A set expression settled on the girl's face that did not augur well for her reception of whatever plan the lawyer might have to propose. When Delia came to call her, she sighed. She saw plainly enough that Nan's "contrary fit" was on, and she wondered how much the lawyer would accomplish by his visit under the circumstances. Nan went down to him sullenly determined to stand by her guns and absolutely refuse to be committed to either a reformatory or any other establishment of a similar character. "How do you do, my dear?" was Mr. Turner's kindly greeting as the girl entered the room. Nan replied, "Very well, sir," thinking, at the same time, that she would not be disarmed by kindness nor permit herself to be cajoled into doing anything she did not wish to do. No one really had the right to order her about, and she would resolutely oppose any one who assumed such a right. But presently she found herself telling her father's friend the story of yesterday's disaster, quite simply and with entire willingness. "So," Mr. Turner said at the conclusion, "I thought that the good lady must have made a mistake. I felt pretty sure your father's daughter would never be guilty of cowardice nor of deliberately planning to destroy the peace of any one. I knew you could not be the girl Mrs. Newton described. She seemed to think you were--why, my dear, she gave me to understand that you were quite wild and lawless; that you were a bad influence in the neighborhood, and that you were so with full consciousness of what you were doing. We must explain to Mrs. Newton! We must explain!" "I don't lie!" declared Nan. "And I'm not a coward, and I don't try to make her mad or hurt her children, but I do climb trees and I do race and do figures on roller-skates, and I do do the rest of the things she says I do and that she doesn't like." "And your school?" ventured the lawyer. "I don't go any more," announced Nan. "I had a fight with one of the teachers, and so I left." Mr. Turner gazed suddenly upon the floor. "And this 'fight' with the teacher? Do you remember the cause of the disturbance?" he asked, looking up after a moment. "She struck me with her ruler. I had a rubber baby doll, it was the weeniest thing you ever saw, and she wore false puffs, Miss Fowler did, and one day, when I was at the blackboard and she was looking the other way, I just dropped the baby doll into one of the puffs that the hair-pin had come out of, and that was standing up on end, and it looked so funny on her head, the puff with the baby doll standing in it, that all the girls laughed, and then she asked me what I had done, and I told her, and she struck me. I wouldn't have said anything if she had just punished me. I knew it was wrong to pop that doll on her head, but I just couldn't help it--it looked too funny. But when she struck me! Well, I won't be struck by any one--and so I left." The lawyer meditated in silence for a moment. Then he said: "Well, my dear, I think I understand the condition of things here. Without doubt it is high time something were done. Your father, when he went away, gave me full authority to make such arrangements for you as I might feel were necessary, but until now I have rather avoided taking upon myself any responsibility. Possibly I have neglected my duty toward you. But now all that shall be changed. Don't you think if I were to send you--" Nan's eyes blazed. So it was as she had felt sure it would be! She was to be sent away! She did not wait for the sentence to be finished. "Send me to the House of Correction? I won't go, sir! I'll run away first! Or a horrid boarding-school, neither. I guess my father didn't mean me to be made unhappy, Mr. Turner; I guess he didn't mean any one to have authority to send me to awful places just because Mrs. Newton says so, away from Delia and things. You needn't send me anywhere, for I'll run away as sure as you do." [Illustration: "I'll run away first!"] "Slowly--slowly!" cautioned Mr. Turner. "You go too fast! If you had waited for me to finish my sentence you would have discovered that I meant to send you neither to the House of Correction," here his eyes twinkled with amusement, "nor to a 'horrid boarding-school.' What I was about to say was that I propose to send you a lady who will teach you here at home, who will be a friend and companion to you and whom you will be sure to love. It is rather a curious coincidence that just the other day I was talking to a lady who is anxious to procure just such a position as this with you, and I am rather inclined to think that she would be willing to come here and undertake it. At all events, I have written to her asking her to consider the plan and in a day or so I shall know her decision. If she concludes to come--if I can induce her to come--I shall feel that you are very fortunate. You will forgive me if I say that while I disagree with Mrs. Newton in most respects regarding you, I feel with her that you are somewhat--well, somewhat ungoverned and in need of just the sort of discipline that I am sure Miss--the lady I speak of can maintain." He paused a moment, but when he saw that Nan made no comment or objection he continued placidly: "You will hear from me in the course of a day or so, as soon as I receive word from the lady herself. As I said, you will be very fortunate if I can secure her services for you--more fortunate than she will be, I fear," he said to himself, catching a glimpse of Nan's set mouth and flashing eyes as he made his way to the door. Later, when he recalled her expression, he was almost inclined to hope that the lady would decide to refuse the office. He thought her acceptance of it might involve her in rather more serious difficulties than he had foreseen when he wrote to her in the first place. As a matter of fact, Nan was in a rage at the thought of a stranger coming into the house to interfere with her and Delia, to teach her what she did not want to learn, and to govern her when her sole idea of happiness was to be free and untrammeled. Even Delia resented the new-comer's intrusion. Had she managed the house for fourteen years now, ever since Mrs. Cutler's death, only to be set aside and ruled over by the first stranger who chose to imagine her position of governess to Nan gave her the right to interfere in household affairs? For of course she would interfere. Nan had drawn a vivid mental picture of the governess, which through her persistence in repetition, had begun to seem an actual description to herself and Delia. "She's tall and thin and lanky and old!" declared the girl whenever the governess, who had accepted the appointment, was mentioned. "She has horrid sharp eyes that spy out everything, and she wears glasses. She'll never laugh because she'll say 'giggling is frivolous,' that's what Miss Fowler used to say, and she'll talk arithmetic and grammar and geography the whole blessed time. She'll snoop in your closets, Delia, and into my bureau drawers, and she'll find out everything we don't want her to know. Her hair is black and shiny, and I guess she parts it in the middle and makes it come to the back of her head in a little hard knot. Oh! I know just how she looks! I can see her every time I shut my eyes--the horrid thing! Just like Miss Fowler at school! And how I'll hate her! I'll hate her just as much as I did Miss Fowler. I'll hate her more, because I can never get rid of her: she'll always be here. Don't you fix up her room a single bit, Delia. Make it look as awful as you can. Then perhaps she won't like it and'll leave. I guess after a little while she won't think it agrees with her to live here. Then we two'll be alone again, and I tell you, won't we be glad, Delia?" In her heart Delia thought they would. She did not follow Nan's advice to make the governess' room look "as awful as she could." She swept and dusted it thoroughly, and set all the furniture in place, as she had been accustomed to do for the last fourteen years, and when she had finished the place was as uninviting as even Nan could have desired. In fact, there was nothing attractive in the whole house. The furniture was all good and substantial, but Delia had a way of ranging it against the walls in a manner that made it seem stiff and uncompromising. When a piece needed repairing, and with Nan about, many a piece needed repairing often, it was stowed out of sight in the trunk-room, or the cellar, and the carpets, which had been rich and fashionable in their day, were allowed to lie now long after they had become threadbare and faded. Delia kept the handsome paintings veiled in tarlatan winter and summer, and she never removed the slip-covers from the parlor sofas and chairs, whatever the season might be. Nan did not care, because she knew nothing different, and there was no loving, artful hand to make the best of the things and turn the house into a home. Mrs. Newton had shivered as she entered the place; it seemed dark and cold and forbidding to her, and she felt the mother-want at every turn, but this had not made her any more lenient with Nan. Perhaps the governess would make no allowances either. Delia made up her mind that if things really came to the pass where Nan was being abused, she in person would "just step in and say her say, if it lost her her place." She often talked of things losing her her place when the fact was that she herself was the place: if it had not been for her the house must have been closed, and Nan sent to boarding-school. Mr. Cutler would never have trusted the care of his girl to a strange servant. "Yes, Ma'am," Delia said to herself, as she pushed the governess' bed flat up against the wall. "Yes, Ma'am! if I see her going for to abuse Nan, I'll set to and give her a piece of my mind such as she ain't likely to have got in one while, I tell you that," and she gave the bureau a vicious tweak and pulled down the shade with a resentful jerk. When Nan saw the room she was disgusted. "Why, Delia Connor! you haven't done a single thing I told you to," she cried out angrily. "I've swept and dusted it and that's all there was to do," retorted Delia. "It looks perfectly lovely," resumed Nan, stamping her foot. "Do you s'pose I want her to think we're glad to have her, and that we've prepared for her? Well, I guess not! If she once gets into as good a room as this she'll never go--she'll just hang on and on, and nothing in the world will make her budge." "What do you want me to do?" asked Delia with irritation. Nan looked at her scornfully for a moment. "Do? Why, what I told you to do! Make the room look awful--perfectly hideous. Make it so she can't help but see we don't want her here. Make it a hint--and a strong one too." Delia folded her arms deliberately. "Well, whatever you want to act like, Nan," she said, "I can tell you I ain't going to do anything unladylike, so there!" and she stalked out of the room with dignity. Nan surveyed the place in silence. What was to be done? If she removed all the furniture but the bed and the bureau and left the governess nothing to sit down on, it would only reflect discreditably upon the family's supply of household goods. If she carefully sifted back the dust Delia had just removed, it would merely prove that the people in this house were of a slovenly and careless habit, and that they were sadly in need of some one to oversee their work. Moreover, would a person as dull of feeling as this governess must be, appreciate the hint conveyed in so delicate and indirect a manner? No. She would be sure to lose the point. Nan felt it would never do to take any risk of her misunderstanding. Whatever she did must be unmistakable and absolutely direct. She racked her brain to discover just the right thing, but she was rewarded by no brilliant idea, and she felt crosser than ever by the time noon had arrived. But suddenly, at the luncheon table, she gave a wild leap from her chair and clapped her hands frantically, while Delia almost let a dish fall in her surprise at this sudden and unexpected demonstration. "For the land's sake, what is it now?" she demanded, while Nan caught her around the waist and whirled her about the room, vegetable dish and all. "I've got it! I've got it!" screamed the girl, convulsed with inward laughter. "I've got the best scheme in the world. Delia, you old duck! Oh, won't it settle her though! Won't it settle her?" But she would not reveal who was to be settled, nor how, though Delia pleaded earnestly to be enlightened and even offered to help her make caramels as a bribe. "No, thank you, Ma'am! I wouldn't have time to boil 'em. I'm going to be as busy as a beaver all the afternoon, so no matter what happens don't you disturb me," continued Nan, importantly. Delia shrewdly suspected that the scheme afoot had something to do with the governess, but she did not dare suggest it. "Oh, well, what I don't know I can't cry over," she said to herself, "and when Nan's like this, all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't stop her, so I might as well hold my tongue. But I'll say this much, I don't envy that governess her job, whoever she may be." Meanwhile Nan had gone to her own room and shut and locked the door. Her next move was to take her night-dress from its hook and slip it over her head. "Now I'm going to rehearse," she announced to her reflection in the glass. "First I must get my eyes to seem kind of wide and starey. No! not this way. They must look like licorice-drops in milk. There! that's better! All expressionless, and that kind of thing. I s'pose I might shut 'em, some somnabulists do; but then I'd be sure to trip over the furniture and stub my toes, and give the whole business away. No, I must keep my eyes open; that's certain. Then I must glide when I walk. My step must be light and ghostly and noiseless. I must be sure to have it ghostly and noiseless. Now--eyes staring--one, two, three--step ghostly and noiseless--Oh, bother! What business had that footstool in my way? If I knock things over like that I'll wake the house, and Delia would know in a minute what I was up to. There! get into the corner, you old thing! Now again! Eyes staring--step ghostly--and noiseless--voice low and mournful, but I must manage to make her understand every word. Now once more--voice low and mournful-- "Alas! alas! why did she come?--why did she come? (No, I can't say that! It sounds too much like 'Why did he die! Why did he die?' But the alas is good! That sounds real creepy and weird.) Now then--Alas! alas! This is the worst thing that ever happened to me in all my life! My dear, old home! To think that anybody who isn't wanted should come and push herself like this into my dear, old home! O father! father! come home from Bombay, and save me from this awful woman. Turn her out of the house! Make her go back where she came from! Her hated form haunts me in my sleep, and I dream all night of her as I see her in the daytime--tall--and thin--and lanky--with her hair all dragged into that ugly little knob behind at the back of her head! O father! father! her eyes are like needles! They prick me when she looks. Save me!--save me! My heart will break if some one doesn't come and rescue me from this terrible person. Take her away--take her away! Ah--I see her! I see her! Get away--get away! You awful creature! Don't you know you are causing an innocent girl to perish in her youth? Alas, she won't go! Then listen, reckless woman! and remember this warning--'the way of intruders is hard!' "There! that ends it off with a sort of threatening dreadfulness that ought to scare her stiff. After I've said that in a whisper to freeze her blood, I'll turn silently from her bedside and glide noiselessly from the room, wringing my hair and tearing my hands; no, I mean just the other way, and if that doesn't fix her, why--I'll have to go over it all again, of course, so I won't forget. Perhaps it would be a good idea to write it down and learn it off by heart." The idea in fact recommended itself so thoroughly to her that she followed her own suggestion without further delay and wrote off the entire harangue at once, making it, if possible, even more eloquent and harrowing than it had been in the original. It seemed a very long, wearisome task, to commit it all to memory, but she did not grudge the trouble. She had never attempted anything that looked like study with so much willingness. The afternoon slipped away like a dream, and as soon as dinner was over she set to work again, and by bed-time had the thing pretty well under control. Whenever she halted or stumbled she went over it all again with the most patient perseverance. "I suppose if I had stuck to things at school like this I'd have been at the head of the class," she said to herself with a whimsical sense of her own perversity. Delia was completely nonplused. She could not imagine what "that child was up to." There were no evidences anywhere of the means she was going to employ in the governess' initiation. Her room was in perfect order, and in Nan's own chamber nothing was unusually amiss. She got no satisfaction from the girl herself, who kept her lips tightly closed, except when she was mumbling over her harangue. It was terribly perplexing--and ominous. "Good land!" thought Delia in real anxiety, "I only hope she ain't going to do anything too dreadful. I declare, if it weren't that I'm so soft where Nannie is concerned I'd say I'd be glad that some one's coming who may be up to managin' her. I'm free to confess I ain't. If only her mother had lived! Or, if only my dear Miss Belle hadn't gone off to the ends of the earth--! Miss Belle could have managed her! No one could resist Miss Belle, bless her! Ah, dear me, dear me! It's fifteen years, and to think, I'll never see her face again!" CHAPTER IV THE GOVERNESS The morning of the expected governess' arrival dawned cold and dreary. Rain fell in torrents, and the streets were drenched and slippery with slush. All day Nan moped in unhappy expectation of her anticipated thralldom. At every sound of rumbling wheels before the door she would fly to the window, torturing herself with the belief that this was the hack which was conveying the tyrant-governess to the victim-pupil, and she felt a curious sort of disappointment when no such vehicle appeared and no such personage arrived, for always the rumbling wheels belonged to some grocer's cart or butcher's wagon, and by evening the invader had still not appeared. Then Nan plucked up courage. "I shouldn't wonder if she had been switched off the road," she said to Delia, inclining to be quite jolly at the mere thought of such a grateful possibility. And she pictured to herself an accommodating engine whizzing the unwelcome guest off into some remote region from which she would never see the desirability of returning. Nan wished her no ill, but she did not wish herself ill either. She ate her dinner quite contentedly, and was just going to settle down comfortably to some thrilling tale of adventure when Br--r--r! went the bell, and she knew her fate had descended upon her. She flew to the parlor and hid behind the folding-door. She heard Delia ascend the basement stairs. She heard her come along the hall, and then--it was very strange, but Nan really thought she heard her give a smothered exclamation that was instantly followed by the word of warning, "Hush!"--but she must have been mistaken, for it was only Mr. Turner who was speaking. He was asking for Nan herself. She slipped from behind the door with the hope at her heart that even now, at the last minute, the governess had "backed out." Certainly it looked as if she had, since she saw only the lawyer standing by the hat-stand. She held out her hand to him with a real smile of greeting when--he stepped aside and there stood the governess. At first Nan thought it must be some little girl, so small and slender looked the figure beside that of the tall man. The eyes beneath the rain-soaked brim of the governess' hat were soft and dark; her hair was brown, and the damp wind had blown it into innumerable little curls and tendrils about her temples, where it took on a ruddy sheen in the gas light. Her nose was delicate and short; her mouth, which was not small, was fascinating from the fact that the parting lips disclosed two rows of perfect teeth. She had two dimples that came and went as she smiled, and in her chin was a small cleft that was quivering a little, Nan noticed. She thought the governess looked as if she were going to cry. Her eyes seemed somewhat "teary round the lashes," and there was no doubt about it--her chin was quivering. "Pooh!" thought Nan. "I might have saved myself all that worry. She's as afraid as she can be. I guess I'll be able to manage her as easy as pie." But now Mr. Turner was addressing her. "Nan," he was saying, "this is Miss Blake. Can't you welcome her to her new home, my dear?" Nan hung back in awkward silence, but the new governess did not give her the opportunity to make the moment an embarrassing one. She stepped forward, and, taking the girl's hand in her own, said softly: "Mr. Turner has told me all about you. I hope we shall be very happy together." She did not attempt to kiss her. Nan murmured an indistinct "Yes'm," and shrank back against the wall. Delia stood beside the new governess with a very curious expression on her face. For a moment there was silence, and then Mr. Turner broke in upon it with: "I think it would be well if Miss Blake were to be shown to her room at once. She is drenched with the rain and must be cold and hungry. Will you be good enough, Delia, to get her something to eat while Nan takes her upstairs?" Nan started forward quickly at the note of rebuke in the lawyer's voice. "Oh, won't you come to your room?" she asked. She vaguely wondered what made Delia look so strange and act in such a dazed, uncertain fashion. She thought she must be a sad "'fraid-cat" to be overawed by such a little personage as the new governess. "Now I will say good-night," said Mr. Turner to Miss Blake, as she started to follow Nan above. "I hope," he added in an undertone, taking her hand, "that you will be happy. Don't become discouraged. Send for me whenever you need me. I am always at your service." She silently bowed her thanks. Somehow she found it difficult to speak just then. She had been tired and cold before she entered the house, but it seemed to her she had not known weariness or chill until now. She felt herself shiver as she turned away from the lawyer and heard the door close behind him. He seemed to be leaving her alone with an enemy. Nan certainly looked anything but amicable. "Here's your room," she announced, as they reached the upper landing. She flung open a door, and the new governess found herself stepping forth into utter darkness, where Nan herself was groping about for matches. The air of the place was cold and damp. It had the feel of a room that was unused. It was barren and cheerless. But in the second preceding Nan's discovery of the matches Miss Blake hoped that when the gas was lit it would seem more inviting. But it did not. It was bare and undecorated, and presented anything but an attractive appearance. The stranger drew two long pins from her hat without saying a word. Nan turned on her heel and made to leave the room. "Will you please tell me where I can find some warm water?" inquired Miss Blake. "Washstand in that little dressing-room. Left-hand faucet," announced Nan, curtly, and marched away. The governess gently closed the door. Perhaps if Nan had remained there to see she would have wondered if Miss Blake were quite in her right mind. Her behavior was certainly extraordinary. The tears rained down her cheeks, and she did not try to stop them. She just stood in the middle of the floor and gazed about at the awkwardly-placed furniture, the faded carpet, the bare walls, and the ugly mantel-piece as if she could not take her eyes from them. She turned slowly from one thing to another, and presently, in a sort of timid, hungry way, she stretched out her hand and touched each separate object with her caressing fingers, crying very hard the while and murmuring to herself in so low a voice that no one could have overheard. Even Nan must have softened to her as she stood there crying softly and smiling through her tears at this bare and unfamiliar room. Even Nan must have been moved to wonder what Miss Blake had suffered that she was so glad to get into such an uninviting shelter as this. But Nan was down stairs in the basement watching Delia prepare a dainty supper for the governess, and scowling at her as she saw to what trouble she went to make it appetizing and delicate. "There, Delia Connor!" she burst out resentfully, "you're the worst turn-coat I ever saw in my life! This very afternoon you looked black as thunder when you thought she had come, and now you are just dancing attendance on her, as if she was the best friend you ever had!" "Perhaps she is," responded Delia, placing sprigs of parsley neatly about the sliced chicken and setting the coffee-pot on the range. Nan tossed her head scornfully. "Well, I like that! I should think you'd be ashamed! A perfect stranger like her!" Delia did not answer. She was crushing ice for the olives, and as Nan spoke she bent her face over the table and pounded away in silence. But when she had finished, she lifted her head and said, amiably: "Oh, you can't tell. By the looks of her I should think she is a good-natured little body. She has the true eyes. When you see eyes like that you can mostly be sure they've an honest soul behind 'em. I shouldn't wonder if she'd be a good friend to any one who'd let her." "Huh!" sneered Nan, wrathfully, "that means, I s'pose, that you intend to let her. Never talk to me of turn-coats any more, Delia Connor!" Delia caught up a coal-hod and strode deliberately off toward the cellar stairs. When she came back she was laden down with kindlings and coal. "What you going to do with those?" demanded Nan, imperatively. "Build a fire in the library. I guess a spark'll look good to the poor little soul--coming in out of the cold and wet." This was the last straw. Nan's eyes flashed, and she tore after Delia upstairs, scolding as fast as the words would come. "The idea! The idea! A fire! 'Poor little soul!' And many's the time I've come in out of the cold and you haven't even as much as lit the gas! Oh, no; never mind me! I can come in out of the cold till every tooth in my head chatters, and you wouldn't care a straw. Why, Delia Connor, we never have that fire lit. You just know we don't! There hasn't been a fire in that grate since daddy went away! You know very well there hasn't, and now the first thing you do is to light it for that horrid governess-woman that's going to boss you 'round like anything, and make me do all sorts of hateful things. I tell you what it is, Delia Connor, you don't care a single thing about me. I know just how 'twill be. You'll help her to do anything she wants to, and you'll never stand up for me a bit. It's mean of you, Delia! It's downright mean of you. And it's just because she's got those dimples and things, and smiles at you as if you were her best friend. But she needn't think she can manage me. I'm not going to be ordered about by her, if she has got a soft voice and shiny eyes!" Nan and the fire sputtered and blazed as though they were trying to see which could outdo the other, and Delia stood by looking first at this one and then at that with a good deal less fear of the sparks from the grate than of those from Nan's eyes. She knew better than to try to pacify the girl when her temper was at such a white-heat, and she inwardly wondered what would happen if the governess should come down while it was yet at its worst. As if in answer to her question they heard the sound of an opening door above, and immediately after Miss Blake's light steps upon the stairs. Nan bit a word off square in the middle and set her lips tightly together. Delia removed the "blower" from the grate and the dancing flames leaped high up the chimney and sent a ruddy glow about the room. The only sounds to be heard were the comfortable ticking of the tall clock in the corner and the low purring of the fire behind its bars. Miss Blake came down the hall and paused on the library threshold. "Oh, how jolly!" she cried, clapping her hands like a delighted child and running forward eagerly to the hearth. "How perfectly jolly! Don't you think an open fire is the most comfortable thing in the world? And I always loved this one particularly--I mean this kind," she corrected herself quickly. Nan made no response. She sat in her father's study-chair as stiff and stolid as a lay-figure in a shop window, with her lips drawn primly over her teeth. Miss Blake was, or pretended to be, unconscious of her attitude, however, and went on talking as easily as though she had the most appreciative of listeners. "When I was a little girl I used to love to cuddle down here on the hearth-rug--I mean I used to love to cuddle down on the hearth-rug and look into the burning coals. I used to see all sorts of wonderful things in the flames. They used to tell me I'd 'singe my curly pow a-biggin' castles in the air,' but I didn't mind, did I--I mean I didn't mind," she caught herself up quickly. Delia coughed behind her hand and hurriedly left the room in order to get Miss Blake's supper, which she meant to serve upstairs for the occasion. As soon as she was gone the new governess turned toward Nan in a strange apologetic sort of way and said: "I think, if you'll excuse me, I'll just cuddle down on the rug as I used to do when--when I was a little girl. It seems so good to get back--to an open fire that it makes me quite homesick. You won't mind, will you?" Nan gave a grunt that was meant for "No," and the new governess plumped down upon the floor with her chin in her palms and her elbows on her knees, looking so much like a little girl that for a second Nan had a wild impulse to plump down beside her and inquire, by way of opening the acquaintance-- "Say, does your hair curl like that naturally--or does your mother put it up at night?" or something equally introductory and to the point. But of course she did no such thing, and when Delia reappeared she found them regarding the fire in perfect silence. At the sound of her step Miss Blake lifted her head and gave Nan a bewildering smile. "How stupid I have been! Do forgive me!" she said. "We have been having what the Germans call 'an English conversation,' haven't we? I was thinking so hard I quite forgot you--and myself. Ah, what a pretty supper! But I put you to so much trouble," and she turned on Delia two very grateful eyes, while she jumped to her feet with the lightest possible ease. Delia beamed down upon her beatifically and gave an extra touch to the dainty tray. Nan from her chair scowled darkly upon the whole performance. Delia had deserted her cause; had gone over bodily to the enemy--that was plain. But she needn't flaunt her defection in Nan's very face. Why, it was positively disgraceful the way Delia fetched and carried for this person already, and looked, all the while, as if she could hardly keep from dancing for very joy at the privilege. Well, this governess needn't think that Nan was the kind to be won over by a few smiles and some flickering dimples. When Nan said a thing she meant it and she stuck to it, too. She wasn't a turn-coat like some folks she knew. "'Alas, alas! my dear old home--! To think that anybody who isn't wanted should come and push herself like this into my dear old home! Oh, father, her eyes are like--' Good gracious! all that description part would have to be changed!" Nan pulled herself together with a visible jerk. How could she speak of "needly eyes" when those of the governess were so deep and soft and gray that they made you feel like--no, they didn't either; but they weren't needly all the same. No! That whole description part would have to be changed. Bother! Well, if it came to that she guessed she could do it! "Her hated form haunts me in my sleep, and I dream of her all night as I see her in the daytime--little and dear, with her hair all shimmery and soft and her eyes kind of kissing you softly all the time, and--" Goodness! that would never do! Why it would be crazy to call on one's father to rescue one from a person like that. Well, she'd leave out the description altogether, that's what she'd do. She-- "Did you speak?" asked the governess, in her musical voice, turning toward Nan inquiringly, and then the girl suddenly realized that she had been mumbling her thoughts aloud. "No, I didn't," she responded, with irritation. "It was too bad," she declared to herself it was, "that after all the trouble she had taken to learn the thing by heart, she should be pestered to death by having to make changes in it this way--at the last minute, too. Why wasn't Miss Blake tall and lanky and needly-eyed and a fright, she'd like to know? It was just like her, though! So contrary! To change about and upset all Nan's plans. Well, as long as there was so much fuss about the thing, she s'posed she'd give it up." "She's so little, it'll be easy enough to manage her. I guess it isn't worth while. I can just say, to-morrow or next day, 'Miss Blake, I've come to the conclusion you don't suit,' and she'll go right off. She may cry a little, but I won't mind that; and if she begs to stay, I'll say, 'Now there's no use teasing! When I once say a thing I mean it!' and that will settle her once for all." Delia was pressing the governess to take more supper when Nan again waked to what was going on about her. "Why, you don't eat any more than you used--I mean than a bird. Do take a little more chicken, do! And a cup of coffee, nice and hot, that's a good--lady!" It was really too humiliating! It was more than Nan could bear. She sprang to her feet and without a word--with nothing but a glance of withering scorn at Delia--swept out of the room and upstairs to bed. Miss Blake looked after her with strange, wondering eyes, but made no attempt to follow her. She just turned to Delia and stretched out her hands. "O Delia! Delia!" she faltered, brokenly. The woman came to her and took both the little hands in hers. "Bless you, dearie!" she cried. "That I ever lived to see the day! There, there, lamb, don't cry so, Allanah! See, I'm not crying, am I now?" sobbed she, kneeling beside the stranger and hugging her knees wildly. "Oh, but it's glad I am to see your dear face again! Now tell me all about it--how you came to know we need you so bad?" CHAPTER V GETTING ACQUAINTED Nan, in spite of the fact that she assured herself her heart was broken, fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. She slept heavily customarily but to-night her rest was fitful and troubled. She kept dreaming strange dreams that caused her to twitch in her sleep and give queer little cries of distress and moans of fretfulness. Sometimes she seemed to be trying to overtake something that was constantly eluding her. First it was a long, lank creature with piercing eyes and a knob at the back of its head which it seemed to be Nan's duty, not to say pleasure, to shoot off with a paper of needles. Then it was something she must recollect or be put to death for forgetting; some awful harangue that she had been doomed to deliver before Delia and a vast crowd of other people, all of whom were staring at her regretfully and murmuring to one another that it was a shame such a hoyden should be allowed to live; and again it was some dainty little creature with tender eyes and shining hair that Nan longed to follow but could not because of something inside her breast that held her back and would not let her call. Miss Blake did not go to her room until very late. She and Delia kept up a steady stream of conversation until long after midnight, and even then the governess would not have paused if Delia had not been struck with sudden compunction. "Dear heart alive!" she cried, scrambling to her feet hastily as the clock chimed twelve. "Here you've been wore out with tiredness and excitement and I keep you up till all hours pressin' you with questions that you ain't fit to answer, just as if we wouldn't have time an' to spare together for the rest of our lives, please Heaven! Now go to bed, dearie, so you'll be all rested and fresh in the morning." Miss Blake shook her head. "No, not all the rest of our lives together, Delia," she cried, hurriedly; "it can only be for a year at most. You said it would be a year, didn't you? Well, then, you know I could not stay after that." "Go to bed, dearie," was Delia's sole response. "And may you sleep easy and have no dreams." She took her upstairs herself, just as if the governess had been a little girl; and was not satisfied until she had brushed out the masses of shining hair and woven them into a long, ruddy braid behind. Then she smoothed the pillow lovingly and with another hearty "sleep well" went down stairs to "do up" her dishes and get the house closed for the night. When she finally stole up to her own room through the pitchy halls she was glad to see that there was no light in the governess' room and that all was darkness and silence within. "Good! She's asleep by this time, the dear!" murmured the faithful soul, and was soon snoring peacefully herself, quite worn out with the excitement of the evening. But Miss Blake was not asleep. Her eyes stared widely into the darkness and her brain was spinning with all sorts of teasing thoughts. She listened to the ticking of her watch beneath her pillow--to the muffled chime of the tall clock in the room below--to the gentle rattle of plaster inside the walls where some hidden mouse was scuttling in search of a stolen supper, and tried to soothe herself into a doze but failed and tried and failed again. Suddenly she sat bolt upright in bed. The sound she heard now was a new one, and one that caused her flesh to tingle. It was the sound of a stealthy hand upon her door. The knob turned noiselessly, the hinges gave a faint whine, and there on the threshold stood a white-robed figure, ghastly and spectral in the pallid light that fell upon it from the cloud-freed moon outside. Miss Blake did not utter a sound and the apparition glided forward with slow, measured steps until it stood beside her bed. Its eyes were staring and wide and fixed. "It's Nan!" thought Miss Blake, not daring to speak aloud. The apparition did not remove its gaze. Presently it sighed. Then it raised its head and spoke and its voice was weirdly low and mournful. "Alas, alas!" it wailed. "This is the worst thing that ever happened to me in all my life. My dear old home! To think that anybody who isn't wanted should come and push herself like this into my dear old home! What does she know of the way I feel? I can never tell her how I hate to have her here, for that would be unladylike. But oh, how I hate it! No, I must keep my lips closed and bear her persecution in silence." Two white hands were raised and wrung in a way that was truly tragic. "O father, father!" groaned the ghost, making wild grabs at its hair, "come home from Bombay and save me from this awful woman. Turn her out of the house. Make her go back where she came from. Her hated form haunts me in my sleep and I dream all night of her as I see her in the daytime." Miss Blake caught her breath in a struggling gasp of dread as to what would come next. "Tall and thin and lanky, with hair all dragged into that ugly little hard knob at the back of her head!" The ghost paused, and its uneasy hands clasped each other convulsively while it showed plainly that it was confused in its mind and struggling to grasp a thought it could not express. Miss Blake breathed a deep sigh of relief. She had really begun to suspect that it was a vision of herself that was haunting Nan in her nightmare. Of course now she knew better. For surely she was not "tall and lanky," and her hair was certainly not "dragged into an ugly little knob at the back of her head." How grateful she was it had not proved to be herself. "O father! her eyes are like needles." Miss Blake could have shouted for joy. But who could this awful bugbear be? "They prick me when she looks! Save me! Save me! my heart will break if some one doesn't come and rescue me from this terrible person. Take her away! She's coming at me with her needly eyes! Daddy! Daddy!" The uneasy spirit rocked backward and forward in the intensity of its emotion. It stretched out its arms and wagged a threatening forefinger, while it mumbled some unintelligible warning in a voice that faltered and wavered, and then frayed off to a mere wheeze that sounded suspiciously like a snore. Miss Blake would have risen if she had dared, but she dreaded the effect even the slightest shock might have upon Nan, in what she never doubted was a somnambulistic trance. But when the white-robed figure turned slowly about and retraced its steps to the threshold, she started up and noiselessly followed after to make sure that the girl arrived safely in her own bed and showed no sign of further wandering that night. Never was a passage from room to room made more deliberately, and when the bed was reached the phantom scrambled into it, dragged the blankets closely about her shoulders and with a sigh of satisfaction settled herself to slumber. The governess crept back to her own room, thoroughly chilled and shivering with nervousness. It was an hour or more before she felt herself growing drowsy, but at last she dropped asleep and slept heavily until long past the usual rising hour. Nan waked at her accustomed time, feeling tired and irritable. She found Delia in the kitchen, preparing a tempting breakfast with more than her habitual care. "Huh!" grunted the girl. "We have hot muffins every morning, don't we? And griddle-cakes! and eggs, and scallops, and fried potatoes, too! Oh, no! we're not making any fuss for the governess. Oh, no! none at all! If I were you I'd be ashamed of myself, Delia Connor!" Delia pursed her lips together and made no retort. It did not improve Nan's temper to have to wait for her breakfast until Miss Blake should appear. But Delia made no attempt to serve her, and she was too proud to ask. Happily the delay was not too serious, and the governess appeared at the dining-room door just in time to prevent the muffins from falling and Nan's temper from rising. "Good morning!" said the cheery voice. "--morning!" snapped Nan. "I overslept," continued the governess apologetically; "and I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. I beg your pardon. But I was very tired. I did not sleep over-well the first part of the night." "You're not late--or--or anything," said Nan. "I never get up till I feel like it." Miss Blake made no comment. "And how did you sleep?" she asked after a moment, her eyes laughing mischievously as though in spite of her, while her face remained quite sober. "All right," responded Nan, uncommunicatively. "No dreams?" The girl shook her head non-committally. "Now, I wonder whether I could tell you your dream," ventured the governess, the light fading a little in her eyes. Nan did not encourage her to try. "You were being pursued by some awful creature--oh, quite a gorgon, I should say!" The girl lifted her head. "This relentless creature was deaf to all your appeals, though you appealed to her touchingly, something after this style: Alas, Alas! this is the worst thing that ever happened to me in all my--" "Stop!" cried Nan, suddenly, with blazing eyes, "I didn't! I didn't! Delia listened. She told on me. You're making fun of me, and you're both of you just as mean as you can be, so there!" She started up from her chair, which she thrust behind her so roughly that it fell to the ground with a bang, and rushed toward the door in a fury of anger and mortification. Miss Blake sprang from her place and tried to detain her, crying: "Nan, Nan! What do you mean? I was only in sport! Come back, dear, and let me tell you all about it." But the girl fled past her, flinging her hand passionately away and spurning her attempt at explanation. A moment later the street door flung to with a loud slam. The quick tears sprang to the governess' eyes, but she crushed them back. "Don't mind her, dearie," said Delia, consolingly, but with an effort and a sigh. "She ain't always like this. She's sorter upset just now. She don't mean any harm, and she'll be sorry enough for what she's done come lunchtime. Now, you see." "But I don't understand," Miss Blake cried. "She said you listened and that you told me, and that we were both making fun of her. She thinks we are in league against her. What can she mean? Why, I was only repeating some nonsense she said in her sleep last night, and I thought she would be amused to hear an account of it. She came into my room and orated in the most tragic fashion. What does she mean by saying you listened and told me?" Delia shook her head. What she privately thought on the subject she would not have told Miss Blake for worlds. "If you take my advice," she ventured, "you won't mind what Nan says. She's quick as a flash, but she's got a good, big heart of her own, and it's in the right place, too. Just let her be." "Let her be?" interrupted Miss Blake, hastily, "not if this is the way she is going to be. That is not what I am here for. I am here to educate her, Delia, and I intend to do it." Delia could see that she meant what she said. There was a determined expression about her mouth that would have surprised Nan if she had seen it. But at noon, when she returned, the governess' face was as placid as ever. She and Delia were discussing the price of butter in the most intimate fashion possible, and Nan snorted audibly as she heard them agree that it was ruinously high. Delia had played a poor enough part before, "kow-towing" to the enemy the first thing, but now she had deliberately betrayed her--Nan. Had "gone back on her" in the most flagrant fashion. It was the meanest thing she had ever heard of and she'd pay Delia back, you see if she wouldn't! To listen at key-holes and then go and tell-tale! "Have you had a pleasant morning?" Miss Blake asked, affably, as Nan entered the room. She got a grudging affirmative, but nothing daunted she continued: "It is so cold now there ought to be good skating. Perhaps you and I can take a spin some day. Do you skate?" Again Nan answered "Yes," but this time there was a gleam of interest in her tone. "When my trunk comes I must show you my skates. I think them particularly fine: altogether too fine for one who skates as indifferently well as I do. I am sure you will prove a much better skater than I am. Somehow I fancy you are very proficient." "I like to skate, and I guess I can do it pretty well. My father taught me--to do figures and things. I don't know any one who can skate as well as my father!" said Nan, with pardonable pride. "I used to skate a great deal when I lived in Holland," Miss Blake observed. "There every one is so expert that I used to feel like a great bungler. Seeing others do so beautifully made me feel as though I were particularly awkward, and I really did keep in the background because I was so ashamed of my clumsy performances. Perhaps though, that was only an excuse for my not being able to do better, and one ought not to offer excuses, ought one? Is there any pond near here on which we might skate?" Nan's eyes gleamed. "Why, yes," she said. "We could go to the Park, or if you didn't want to go there, there's a sort of a pond they call the 'Steamer,' quite near here. Lots of people skate on it, and it's lovely fun. And there's a place the other side of the Boulevard, where you can coast beautifully. It's a jolly hill. We take our bobs there, and--the boys and me--and--" "I," suggested Miss Blake, casually--"the boys and I." Nan blinked her eyes. The correction, however, passed by unresented. "The folks here think it isn't nice for me to bob, and--and things. They think it's rough!" "Perhaps," ventured Miss Blake, "that may be because they have seen it done in a rough way, or by rough persons. You know a great deal depends upon how you do a thing." Again Nan blinked her eyes. She was thinking as she had the night before: "Pooh! I can manage her," while Miss Blake, quite unconscious of what was going on in her pupil's mind, continued: "I think if the weather holds, we may have some very good sport, you and I. Don't you think so? And now run upstairs and smooth your hair and wash your hands, for Delia will have luncheon ready very shortly, and one must make one's self tidy for meals, you know." And then a very singular thing occurred. Nan found herself on the stairs in obedience to the governess' command almost before she was aware, and she proceeded to make herself tidy, with no thought of refusal at all. But at luncheon came the first tug-of-war. Nan was about to repeat her performance of the morning, namely, to push her chair aside when she had finished eating and unceremoniously leave the table. "Oh, pardon me!" interposed Miss Blake, quickly. "Please remain at the table! You were excused at breakfast, but I am sure there is no necessity for your running away again. We must pay each other the respect to remain seated until we have both finished eating. You see, I am still drinking my tea, and you must allow me another of Delia's delicious cookies." It was all said very gently, but Nan recognized beneath all the kind suggestion an unmistakable tone of command. She thrust her chair back still further. "I don't want to wait!" she answered, dryly. "I hate sitting at the table after I'm through. You can eat all the cookies you like, only I don't want to wait." "Ah, but, my dear, I want you to wait," Miss Blake said. "I demand of you no more than I myself am willing to do. We must be courteous to each other, and if you had not finished eating I should most certainly remain until you had. I expect you to do no less for me." "Well, I can't help it! I don't want to stay and I--I won't!" declared Nan, with a sudden burst of defiance. "Very well," returned Miss Blake, calmly. "Of course, you are too old to be forced to act in a ladylike manner if you do not desire to do so. But, equally, I am too old to be treated with discourtesy and disrespect. If you are willing to behave in a rude manner and bear the reproach that you will deserve, why, well and good--or, rather, ill and bad! But I cannot sit at table with any but gentle mannered people. Unless you wish to behave as becomes a lady, we must take our meals apart." There was no smile now on the governess' face. Nan suddenly got the impression that perhaps it would not be quite "as easy as pie" to "manage" Miss Blake. It seemed to the girl that for the first time in her life she had encountered determination outside of her own. It challenged her from every line in the governess' little figure. For a moment she hesitated before it. Then, gathering herself together and summoning her dumb demon, she gave her shoulders a sullen shrug and left the room without a word. Miss Blake finished her luncheon as though nothing had happened. Then she rose, and, going into the kitchen, said a few words to Delia--words that caused the good woman to blink hard for a second and then exclaimed: "Yes'm. I will. It hurts me to cross the child, but I s'pose it is best. You have a brave spirit to set yourself against Nan. I wouldn't have the stren'th, let alone the will. But I s'pose you know what you can do." "Oh, yes, Delia," replied the governess, with conviction. "I know very well what I can do, but I shouldn't know if I did not have you to help me. We're both conspiring for Nan's good, and we have to work together." The rest of the afternoon Miss Blake spent in unpacking her trunk and in disposing of its contents. Beside the trunk there was a cumbersome case, a hamper, and a large crate such as is used for the shipment of bicycles. Delia gazed at it in wonderment. Did the governess use a wheel? If so, what would Mrs. Newton say? Delia trembled at the thought, and eyed the box with especial interest as it was being carried down stairs and deposited in the basement hall closet. Nan wandered in about twilight and found the house cheerfully lighted and warm and comfortable. There was a fire in the library grate, and she threw herself into a chair before it and lounged there luxuriously, while above her head the new governess was tripping to and fro, "putting her room to rights," Nan suspected. She wondered about that room. She would have liked to go up there and see if those skates had arrived, but of course she could not do that. The governess must not think she cared to see her when she wasn't forced to. No, indeed! Later Miss Blake came down stairs, and drawing her chair nearer the lamp, commenced to sew. Presently up came Delia. "Miss Blake," she said, with an emphasis Nan noticed and did not like, "your dinner is served." Nan jumped up with an exaggerated yawn. Her hair was rough and disordered, her frock was rumpled and untidy, her hands were obviously soiled. Miss Blake remarked on none of these things. She laid her bit of needle-work upon the table and quietly passed down stairs before Nan. The table was set for one, and the governess seated herself before the solitary place. Nan stood at the side of the table in stiff and silent amazement. "Where's my place, Delia?" she called, ignoring Miss Blake, except for an angry flash of her eyes. But Miss Blake was not to be ignored. "I thought you had decided to dine alone," she said. "At least, that was the impression you conveyed to me at luncheon. If you have changed your mind, Delia can easily set your place. Shall she do so?" The question was simple, but Nan knew what it involved. She was speechless with rage. Her face alternately flushed and paled, while her lips twitched spasmodically. "I--I--hate you!" she cried at last, with breathless vehemence. "You've no right here. When my father comes he'll send you right away. You see if he don't!" She flung herself in a paroxysm of anger out of the room. Miss Blake ate her dinner, it is true, but perhaps it was scarcely strange that her relish of it was not great. Every mouthful seemed to choke her. Delia saw her hand tremble as she raised her tumbler of water to her lips. "This'll make you sick, dearie, this striving with Nan. She'll never give in! Her will is that strong." But the governess shook her head. Nan ate no dinner that night, and the next day she slept late; that is, she remained in bed late. Lying there cross and unhappy, she heard sounds of voices in Miss Blake's room. Occasionally there were other sounds as well; sounds of hammering and the moving of furniture across the floor. When Nan was "good and ready" she rose and strolled down stairs with an air of nonchalance that was for Miss Blake's benefit, should she chance to see. She found the dining-room in perfect order and the kitchen deserted. No breakfast, hot and tempting, awaited her as of old. Delia was evidently upstairs, and Nan was too stubborn to call her down. She prowled about the closets and cupboards until she discovered some cold oatmeal, a bit of meat also cold, and a slice of bread. These, with a cup of chilling milk, she gulped down hastily and with a thorough disrelish. "Ugh!" she exclaimed, "how I hate it--and her!" It was a cheerless morning. The temperature had risen and a thick rain was falling. There was nothing to do out-of-doors so Nan remained within. It was Friday, and one of Delia's sweeping days. She was shut up in the draughty parlor with a mob-cap on her head "cleaning for dear life," as she expressed it. After a brief experience of the cold and discomfort of open windows and clouds of dust, Nan gave up trying to talk to Delia and wandered out of the parlor as disconsolately as she had wandered into it. By and by she heard Miss Blake's door open and close and saw the governess come forth, leave the house, and walk rapidly down the street. She turned in at the Newton's gate and disappeared behind the vestibule door. Nan had flown to the window to gaze after her. "Whatever can she want there," wondered the girl. The question bothered her. She had not been able to get direct news of Ruth's condition because she had not dared inquire again after the way she had been treated, but in a round-about manner she had heard that the child had a fever. "What fever?" she wondered. "Do people die of fever? If she dies will that be because I left her on the ground while I ran to get that milkman to help carry her home?" Miss Blake was not gone long, but it was luncheon-time when she returned. "Ah, good morning!" she said, pleasantly, to Nan, who happened to be in the hall. "I have pleasant news for you. Your little friend Ruth Newton is better, and her mamma says she would be grateful to you and me if we would come in once in a while and help her to amuse the poor child. Will you go with me to-morrow? Mrs. Newton said particularly that she hoped you would." A curious expression flitted across Nan's face. "Mrs. Newton hates me," she announced. "She doesn't want me to see Ruth." Miss Blake drew off her gloves carefully. "I have explained certain matters to Mrs. Newton, Nan," she said, "and she is quite satisfied that she was partly mistaken in her judgment of you the other day. She says that she is willing to apologize for some of her accusations, and she has written you a little note. Now, come, and we will both go down to luncheon. I see Delia is here to tell us it is served." "She takes it for granted I'll go," thought Nan, and indeed she went quite willingly, and what was more, remained respectfully seated in her place until Miss Blake gave her permission to depart by rising herself. CHAPTER VI WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS "I think, Delia," said the governess, as Nan was about to go upstairs, "if you have an ax, or something of the sort, I'll try to unbox my bicycle." Nan came to an abrupt halt. Bicycle! The word went through her with an electric thrill, and sent her blood tingling. Then she dragged herself unwillingly away. What had she to do with the bicycle of a woman she hated. "O Nan!" Miss Blake exclaimed, before the girl's lagging footsteps had carried her halfway up the staircase, "I'm sure your strong young arms can help us with this big elephant. Will you lend a hand?" Now could the governess have suspected that that was precisely what Nan had been longing to do? But she could not have lingered unless she had been given the excuse by Miss Blake herself. Had the request been made to serve as that excuse? Nan did not stop to question. She came flinging down stairs, two steps at a time, and Miss Blake and Delia smiled above her head as she bent down, wrenching and tugging with her main strength at the boards and stubborn nails, too excited to know that half the force she used would have served her better. "There! that's my bicycle!" announced Miss Blake, displaying the beautiful machine with the pride of a possessor, when the last stay had been unscrewed, and the slender wheel stood revealed in all the glory of its spotless nickel-plate and rubber tires. Nan gazed at it in speechless admiration. It had been the dream of her life to own such a machine, but she had pleaded for one in vain. Mr. Turner had explained to her that what money he held in trust for her was no more than served to pay for her running expenses. "You know your father is not a rich man," he had said, "and lately he has met with losses. He wishes you to be brought up under home influences rather than at a boarding-school among strangers. He desires you to be well educated, and naturally all this costs. Your father is willing to make many sacrifices that you may be well provided for, but he is not able to indulge you in a matter like this of the bicycle. I wish I did not have to refuse you, but I think with him, that your most important need should be supplied first, and if after that little remains for mere indulgence, you must be satisfied. By and by you will see that his course is best, if you do not see it already." But Nan had never been able to feel that it was best that she should not have a bicycle. Now that the new governess had come and had proved so "horrid," she felt it still less. "Half the money she gets would buy me a first-rate safety," she had thought often and often and often, as she groaned over her father's perversity. But here was one of the wonderful affairs actually in the house, and if it did not belong to her, what of that? What was it the governess was just saying? "I am quite sure you could use this wheel if we should shift the saddle up a bit, that is, if you care to ride. As soon as the ground is clear I will teach you if you like." Nan's face was radiant. "Oh, I know how," she said. "I've practiced lots on--on--a person's I know. Only it wasn't a--a--girl's wheel. But I can ride." Miss Blake was rubbing down the slender spokes with a piece of chamois skin. "You are welcome to use mine, then," she said simply. Nan choked out a meagre "Thank you." It was not a gracious acknowledgment, but the governess accepted it, and really felt a glow of satisfaction in having called out even so much as an acceptance of her favor from her arbitrary young charge. "Small favors thankfully received," she thought with a smile at her own humility. Nan stood leaning against the wall with her hands behind her, watching the manoeuvres of the leathern rag as it flashed up and down the nickel spokes and around and about the hubs, guided by the dexterous hand of the little governess. "Yes, I think we can pass many a jolly hour on this machine," resumed Miss Blake, "after the ground is clear of snow, and after we are clear of our lessons. We'll begin our studies on Monday, Nan. That will be commencing with the new week, and we must be very conscientious about our work before we indulge in any play." "There!" thought Nan, with a rush of antagonism, "I might have known she'd make some kind of a fuss before she'd let me use it. I guess she's sorry she promised in the first place, and wants to kind of back out of it. Oh, well, I might have known. Now she'll pile on lessons and things till there's no time for anything else. That's her way of getting out of it." But she made no comment. She stood kicking her heel against the surbase, silently watching the sparkling machine. Presently she turned and stalked upstairs without a word. Delia gave Miss Blake an apologetic glance, but the governess composedly rose, and, stowing her property safely away against the closet wall, closed the door upon it and with a kind word to the woman beside her went upstairs as though nothing had happened. She knew what was in Nan's mind. She could read it as distinctly as if the sudden wrinkles on her forehead and the quick set of her obstinate jaw had been printed text. "Poor child!" thought the governess, "how she hates study and--me. How she rebels against restraint. So she thinks I am trying to take back my word. No wonder that makes her furious." She went into her room and closed the door, but after a moment she came back and opened it again. "Nan might feel shut out," she said to herself, and so she left it standing invitingly ajar that in case the girl cared to come in she would not have to knock. She smiled to herself as she did it. She knew well enough Nan would not care to come in. "Still there might be a chance!"--she left the door open on the chance. The more Nan thought of Delia's baseness the more she inwardly raged against it. She sat in her own room with her feet over the register and munched caramels and nursed her grievance all the afternoon. Delia was miserable. She had tried by every means in her power to win at least a look from the girl, but all her attempts were repelled and she was treated with an overbearance that cut her to the quick. At last she could stand it no longer. She left her work and went upstairs "to have it out with Nan" and be done with it. She knocked repeatedly at her bedroom door, but the girl obstinately refused to utter the word of admittance. Delia was not to be daunted, however, by this, and at last, turning the knob, she walked boldly in and confronted Nan squarely. "See here, Nan," she began without waiting, "I want to know what's the matter with you that you treat me so? Me that has waited on you hand and foot and tended you night and day since you was a little baby?" The girl did not deign to raise her eyes from her book--or else they were so rapidly filling with tears that she did not dare to do so. Delia gulped. "Can't you answer a civil question?" she faltered, trying to be firm and failing utterly. Nan cast her book to the floor and sprang up to face the woman with blazing cheeks and eyes that flashed angry fire. "You'd better ask me what's the matter, Delia Connor!" she burst out in a trembling voice. "As if you didn't know! Do you s'pose I'll bear everything? It's bad enough--your being such an awful turn-coat! You went over to her side the first thing, and every time she bosses me you just stand there and let her do it and never say a word. You let her order me about like everything and never stand up for me a bit. Her--a perfect stranger! Somebody you never saw in all your life before! But that isn't the worst of it! Do you s'pose I'm going to stand your coming to my door and listening at the key-hole when I was rehearsing and then going and telling on me--telling her all I was going to do to her, I'd like to know? You just wanted to get on the right side of her, and it was the meanest thing I ever heard of in all my life. You came and peeked at me when I was rehearsing and then went and told her, and I s'pose you both laughed and had a fine time over it. You thought you were very smart, didn't you? But you got there too soon, Delia Connor, for I had made up my mind I wouldn't do it, so there! But now you've both been so mean, I don't care who knows what I was going to do. I hope you told her that I don't want her here. I hope you told her every bit of that thing I learned by heart on purpose to recite to her. I hope you repeated every word of it. It's true and I hope she knows it. I hope--" "For the land's sake, Nan, do be still," broke out Delia at last after a dozen futile attempts to stem the tide of the girl's anger. "I didn't listen nor peek nor anything, and you scream so loud she'll hear every word you say. You--now be quiet and let me speak--you walked in your sleep last night. You went into her room and said off a whole lot of balderdash to her--enough to set her against you for the rest of her life--if she ever finds out you really meant it." Nan gave Delia an imploring, frightened look. "Delia," she gasped, breathlessly, "do you--do you think she heard?" Delia shook her head. "Couldn't say for the life of me," she replied. "Her door may have been open when I came up; I didn't notice." Nan looked the picture of dismay. "Wait a minute!--I'll go see!" she whispered earnestly, and tip-toed noiselessly into the hall. A second later she returned, radiant with reassurance. "Her door is tight shut, and she's making so much noise inside her room she couldn't possibly have heard. Sounds as if she was dragging trunks around or something." "Perhaps she's packing to go 'way," suggested Delia, with a grain of malice. Nan fairly jumped with--well, if it wasn't joy it was something equally as moving in its way. "Oh, no, no!" she cried, in a sudden fever of excitement. "I don't want her to leave--like that. Just think how awful it would be to have her leave--like that! Can't you go to her and say I'm--you're good friends with her. Delia, won't you please go and tell her I didn't really mean to say off that speech at her. I learned it before she came, and I meant to recite it, but when I found that she was different--so little and kind of--different, I thought it would be mean to do it, and I gave it up. Do go and tell her, Delia, please, and oh, won't you hurry?" "Now see here, Nan," interposed the woman. "Our best plan is to wait and see what she is going to do. If she hasn't heard, it's all right, and telling her would only put the fat in the fire. On the other hand, if she has heard and is packing up to go 'way, why, it wouldn't do much good, I'm afraid, to try to stop her. With all being such a lady and so gentle in her ways, she's got a mind of her own--I can see that--and you won't be like to get her to change it. But she'll tell you good-bye before she leaves, she's too much of a lady not to, no matter how she feels, and then you can say your say, and I promise you faithful I'll back you up." Nan saw the wisdom of Delia's counsel, and tried to content herself to wait. But the suspense of every minute was awful, and she felt herself growing frenzied under the strain. After a time the commotion in the next room ceased, and all was quiet as the grave. "She's getting on her hat now," gasped Nan. "She'll go away and think I'm a heathen and all sorts of horrid things. And she hasn't got any friends or folks of her own, and no house to go to but this. And I s'pose she's awfully poor, because she wouldn't be a governess if she wasn't, and oh, dear! I don't want to have any one be a beggar, and turned out of the only roof they've got over their heads on my account. That's what makes me feel so bad, Delia. That's the only thing. If she will go on her own account I'll--I'll be glad, but--oh, she mustn't go this way!" Delia turned away her face to hide a smile. "There's nothing to do but wait," she insisted. "If I go in there and tell her, and she hasn't heard, why it would only give you away; don't you see?" Nan let herself down in her rocking-chair with a dismal drop. "O dear!" she cried, "I never saw anything like it! The way things go wrong in this house! It's just perfectly horrid! I wish I was with my father, I do so! I guess it's nicer in India than it is here, anyway; and I'm sick and tired of living cooped up in this old stuffy place. So there!" Delia dusted some imaginary dust off the table with the corner of her apron, and went down stairs to finish up her work. In the street below the huckster was yelling "Chestnuts! Fresh-roasted chestnuts!" The little charcoal oven in his push-cart sent out a shrill, continuous whistle, and Nan had an impulse to throw something at him. What business had he to come here and make such a racket that she couldn't hear what was going on in the next room. He passed slowly down the street, his call and the whistle of his oven growing fainter and fainter, and finally fading quite away as he disappeared in the distance. Nan pricked up her ears. Surely the sounds she heard were those of moving feet in the next room. Back and forth they went, now nearer, that was to the closet, now further away again, that must be to the bureau. What could the governess be doing? The lid of her trunk was dropped, and Nan could distinctly hear the click of the catches as they fell in place. There was no further doubt about it! Miss Blake was going. A moment later, and before Nan could collect her wits, the door of the next room was briskly opened and closed, and the governess, hatted and cloaked, sped quickly from the house. Nan flew to the balusters with a hasty cry upon her lips, but was just in time to see the door swing heavily to; and that was all. She flung herself down stairs two steps at a time. "There now, Delia Connor," she cried, bursting into the kitchen with such vehemence that the very tins rattled on their shelves. "There, now! What did I tell you? She's gone--Miss Blake's gone. Trunks packed--! Everything's packed! She'll send men to get them. She's gone clean off. I told you what it would be, and you wouldn't go and speak to her. And now my father will be disgraced, and Mr. Turner will blame me, and--it's all your fault, and I'll tell my father; so there!" Delia's face paled suddenly. She set her lips together tight. "It's well you have some one to lay the blame on, child!" she said shortly, and went upstairs without another word. Nan did not care to follow her into the governess' room, but stood outside and waited to hear her verdict when she should have examined the premises. "Well?" asked the girl, eagerly, as soon as she came out. "Her trunk's shut and locked, that's certain!" "Then she's gone for good!" "She's gone. There ain't a doubt about that!" "You said she would surely say good-bye, Delia Connor, you know you did. You said no matter how she felt, she was such a lady she'd be certain to say good-bye!" "Well, and I really thought so. I believe now she'd have said good-bye, if--" "If I hadn't been such a--brat? Say it right out, Delia! You mean it and you might as well say what you think," broke in the girl bitterly. Delia turned on her heel and stalked grimly down stairs. A second later she heard a rush of flying feet behind her, and the next moment two arms were locked about her neck. "Poor old Delia," cried Nan, in one of her sudden bursts of remorse. "I'm the horridest girl that ever lived! I know it as well as you do, and if you weren't the patientest thing in the world you wouldn't stand it for a minute. But don't you go away from me too, Delia! Please don't! Honest Injun, I'll try to behave! Cross my heart I will. And I tell you this much, I feel just awfully about Miss Blake. I shouldn't wonder a bit but it would snow tonight, and she hasn't a place to go and no money, and--O dear! I feel like a person that ought to be in jail!" Delia extricated herself gently from the clinging arms. "What makes you think Miss Blake's as poverty-stricken as that?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know," responded the girl. "But I just feel she is. And she is so little too. She looked so glad to get into this house that I guess she never had much of a place to stay before." "She don't dress like a person that's next-door to a beggar," mused Delia. "No, she doesn't. She has really pretty things, hasn't she? But I guess they're made over and cast-off, or something. Maybe the lady she lived with last gave them to her?" speculated Nan. "Maybe she did," said Delia. The two made their way slowly down to the kitchen. It was beginning to grow dark and the dinner must be prepared. "I never in all my life saw such little hands and feet," the girl pursued. "And she's dreadfully particular about them. There's never a speck on her fingers that she doesn't run right up and scrub them, and she wears the cunningest slippers I ever saw." "I guess she comes of nice folks," said Delia, as she began to peel the potatoes. "Wonder why she doesn't stay with them then?" put in Nan. "Perhaps they're dead." Nan pondered. Her own motherless life had given her a very tender sympathy for those whose "folks" were dead. For the first time she felt sorry for Miss Blake. She was uneasy and distressed. It made her shift about uncomfortably in her chair. "Goodness me!" she ejaculated impatiently at last, and then one of her wild impulses took possession of her and she ran frantically up into her own room and flung on her coat and hat. "The whole thing's as plain as preaching. Why didn't I think of it before?" she said to herself, with a shake of impatience. "Mr. Turner told Miss Blake if she was worried or anything to go to him. She hasn't any money, and she's left here, so of course that's where she is. I'll go and bring her back." The front door opened and shut with a bang, and Nan was out in the street alone. As she scudded down the pavement the electric lights suddenly gleamed out pale and vivid from their lofty globes, and sent wavering shadows flashing across her path. "It's pretty late and it'll be dark as a pocket in a little while," thought she; but that did not detain her, and she raced on, putting block after block between her and home in her ardor to make reparation and to lighten her heart of its weight of compunction. CHAPTER VII OPEN CONFESSION Nan knew the way to Mr. Turner's house perfectly, though she had not been able to give Mrs. Newton the street and number. She was observing and clear-headed, and could have been trusted to find her way about the entire city alone, but her father had often cautioned Delia and the girl herself against putting her power to the test, and so it happened that until now she had never been any considerable distance away from home after twilight without a companion. The way was perfectly familiar to her--but it had never seemed so interminably long. She could have taken a car, but in her haste to get off she had forgotten her pocketbook. She saw the "trolleys" fly past her in quick succession, and it seemed to her they whizzed jeeringly at her as they sped. She was by nature so fearless that even if the street had not been thronged she would not have been afraid. As it was she was only alarmed lest she would get to Mr. Turner's and find Miss Blake gone. She hurried on breathlessly, fairly skipping with impatience and wondering what explanation she could give the lawyer in case the governess had not told him the real reason of her departure. Somehow it flashed into Nan's mind that Miss Blake would not expose her. She was busied with this reflection as she turned off the broad, well-lighted thoroughfare into the dimmer side-street upon which Mr. Turner lived, and she ran up the steps of his house with the question still unsettled. It was not a moment before the door was opened to her and she was admitted to the warm, luxuriously furnished drawing-room. It was Nan's ideal of a house: "all full of curtains and soft carpets and beautiful things." She seated herself before the burning log-fire with a sensation of deep well-being--only it was a little over-shadowed by her worry about the governess. "Well, my little lady, and what brings you here at this time of day?" was Mr. Turner's greeting, as he strode across the room to meet her. "O Mr. Turner!" began Nan, bluntly, "I came to see you about Miss Blake. I want to know--I wonder if you--" "Indeed! And how is that charming lady? You must tell her I had hoped to see her before this, but I have been unusually busy, and every moment has been taken up. Now tell me, isn't it as I said? Hasn't she completely won your heart? Aha! I see she has! I see she has!" Nan flushed and stammered, and did not reply. Inwardly, she was in a turmoil. Either Miss Blake had not come here at all or the lawyer was trying to baffle her. And if Miss Blake had not come here, then where was she? A sort of dumb terror took hold of the girl and shook her from head to foot. "You see I was right," pursued the lawyer, cheerfully. "I knew you would surrender to her the first thing. Every one does. I think I never knew any one who was more universally loved. Now, how can I help you, my dear? Give you some extra pin-money to buy Miss Blake a Christmas present, eh? Is that it?" Nan caught at the suggestion eagerly as being a way out of her difficulty, and nodded a gulping assent. "Well, you needn't have traveled all this distance for such a simple matter, my dear," he assured her genially. "And after dark, too! A note would have served, you know; a note would have served. But I'm glad you like her so well, and you shall have the money at once. Your father would be delighted I am sure." It was only after Nan had been gone some time that Mr. Turner remembered with a start that she was alone and that it was night. It was too late then to overtake her, so he had to resign himself with the thought that the girl was admirably self-reliant, and that her way lay almost entirely along well-lit and busy avenues. The thought of danger did not occupy Nan for a moment. Her only fear now was for the governess. If she wasn't at Mr. Turner's, then where was she? She asked herself this question over and over again. The girl blushed as she thought of the untruth she had been guilty of in implying that the lawyer's suggestion had been her motive in coming to him. She sharpened her pace, as if to outstrip the memory of her misdeed, but it, with her other worry, seemed to pursue her, and presently her imagination so quickened at the thought that she actually fancied she heard some one behind keeping step with her. She broke into a brisk run. Clap! clap! came the sound of hastening feet behind her. With a sort of tortured courage she slackened her pace. Whatever was following her also took a slower gait. She cast a furtive look over her shoulder and gave a horrified gasp as her eyes squarely encountered two other eyes, which were fixed upon her own in an insulting leer from beneath the rim of a rakish felt hat which was worn tilted on the side of a very unprepossessing head. The eyes, bad as they were, proved the best feature in a thoroughly vicious face, and for the first time in her life Nan felt frightened--chokingly frightened. She would have rushed on, but a stealthy hand held her back. "Don't try to run away from me, little lady!" said an unsteady voice in her ear in a tone that was intended to seem engaging. "Don't try to run away from me, if you please. I wouldn't hurt you for the world, no, indeed." Nan shook herself free from the disgusting touch and hurried on without a word. Her hateful shadow kept abreast with her. "You ain't afraid of me, are you?" he asked reproachfully. Nan made no response. Her feet seemed to cling to the pavement. Every time she lifted one it was with an effort. "Oh, come now," whined the voice in her ear, "don't go on like this. I ain't going to hurt you. I'm only a poor man who would be grateful for a penny or two. By the way, where's your pocket-book?" Nan leaped suddenly aside, and as she did so she missed her footing, and a cry of pain burst from her lips. A sharp pang shot from her ankle to her knee, and when she tried to take another step she found the darting agony returned. But stop she could not. Her face grew gray and lined with misery as she dragged forward, saving her injured ankle as much as she could, but always having to torture it intolerably with every onward limp. Her persecutor caught up with her promptly, and she cast beseeching looks for deliverance on every side, which the hurrying, preoccupied crowd was too intent on its own affairs to see. If only she could see a policeman! She knew what she would do. She would make believe she was going past him and then suddenly veer about and say, "Officer, this man is annoying me!" and before he had time to realize what she had done the rowdy would be arrested. But no policeman was in sight, and her fine scheme could not be carried out. Suddenly in the midst of her agony of mind and body her heart gave a wild bound of unspeakable relief. "Miss Blake! Miss Blake!" she almost shrieked. "Nan!" The little governess was beside her in a flash, her own face almost as white and seamed as the girl's. [Illustration: The little governess was beside her.] "O Miss Blake! this man--make him go away; make some one send him away. He's annoying me--and my foot!" The governess grew if possible a shade paler. "What man?" she demanded sharply, "Where?" Nan could not speak. She indicated with a mute gesture. Miss Blake looked behind her, but if there had actually been such a man as the girl described he must certainly have taken to his heels. They were standing alone in the midst of the hurrying crowd. "O Nan!" cried the governess, not stopping to argue the question, "where have you been? Delia and I have been frantic with worry. She is out now hunting for you. She went one way and I another." Nan could not reply. The torture in her ankle grew fiercer with every movement. She shook her head silently and limped on. "You are hurt! You are in pain!" cried Miss Blake, now for the first time really realizing her condition. Nan nodded dumbly. "Take my arm; no, lean on my shoulder! There, that's better! Bear down as hard as you can and use me as your crutch! I'm strong. I won't give out." And a right good support she proved. Happily they were but a stone's throw from home, and it was not long before Nan was comfortably settled on the library lounge, luxuriously surrounded by all sorts of downy cushions and having her injured ankle bound in soothing cloths by the tenderest of hands. Delia, full of sympathy and the desire to help, was bustling about nervously, tripping over bandages and upsetting bottles of liniment, but meaning so well all the while that one could not discourage her. "It is only a strain. You have turned your ankle badly and the muscles have been wrenched, but I don't think it is an actual sprain," said Miss Blake, consolingly. "However, if the pain is still bad to-morrow, we'll have a doctor in to look at it. Do you still have Dr. Milbank, Delia?" Nan sat bolt upright with surprise. "How funny!" she cried. "However in the world did you know Dr. Milbank was our doctor? Why, we've had him for years and years. Ever since I was born and before, too. But how could you know?" Delia hurried out of the room muttering something about the dinner, and Miss Blake bent her head over the bandage she was rolling. "He lives so near," she replied haltingly. "I've seen his sign often as I passed and--and--perhaps that is why I thought he might be your physician. He's so convenient--within call. It is hard to tell what makes one jump at conclusions sometimes." Nan sank back among her cushions not half satisfied. "Dr. Pardee lives near, too. Just as near as Dr. Milbank does," she persisted. The governess made no response, and just then Delia came staggering in under the weight of a huge brass tray which she bore in her arms. Miss Blake jumped to her feet. "We're going to have a dinner-party up here to-night, Nan," she said. "Won't it be fun?" and she set to work unfolding a strange foreign-looking stand that Nan had never seen before and upon which Delia carefully placed the tray. "Why, what a dandy little table it makes!" exclaimed Nan, admiringly. "Where did it come from?" "I brought it from London, but it was made in India," explained Miss Blake. Nan's eyes softened. "Where papa is!" she murmured softly to herself. "You have lots of nice things," she added, after a moment. "These pillows are downright daisies. I s'pose they belong to you." The governess served her with soup. "They are yours whenever you care to use them," she returned in her quiet way. "It's jolly having dinner up here," said Nan, not quite knowing how to respond to such a generous offer. "Yes, isn't it?" assented the governess. "Mrs. Newton don't use her basement for a dining-room, and neither does Mr. Turner. I wish we didn't. I think it would be perfectly fine if we could have ours up here, too." "Why couldn't you?" The girl leaned forward with a look of real interest in her face. "Do you think we might?" she asked eagerly. "I don't see why not. The books might be shifted to the other room. This might be re--well, re-arranged, and I'm sure it would make a charming dining-room." "But that ugly old glass extension back there!" protested Nan in disgust. "Who wants to look at a lot of old trunks and broken-up things when one is eating? If we could only pull it down." Miss Blake considered a moment. "Why not take all the old trunks and broken-up things out entirely and make a conservatory of it. It faces the south. Plants would grow beautifully there." Nan clapped her hands. "Why, that's perfectly splendiferous," she cried. "I never should have thought of it. I say, Miss Blake, let's do it right away, will you? I love flowers." "Would you take care of them?" demanded the governess with a thoughtful look. "Uh-huh!" nodded Nan, heartily. "I guess I would!" "Very well, then," returned Miss Blake encouragingly, "I'll think about it. Perhaps Delia wouldn't consent. You know there is no dumb-waiter in the house, and if she had to carry up all the dishes at every meal, it would more than double her work." Nan's face fell. "O dear!" she complained. "What a horrid old house! Can't do a single thing with it! It would have been such fun to change everything about!" Miss Blake laughed. "Oh, if that was all your reason for wanting the improvements," she retorted. "I thought you wanted to gratify your sense of the beautiful." "Well, I do," declared Nan. "Then we'll see what can be done," and the governess set down her glass of water with a very knowing smile. After dinner was eaten and Delia had carried away the tray and Miss Blake removed the wonderful folding stand, the governess looked up suddenly and said with unusual gravity: "Nan, while I am here I hope you will never run out after dark alone again. It is dangerous. Do you understand me, my dear?" The girl's eyes dropped. Yes, she understood perfectly. When the governess spoke in that low, decided voice it would have been hard to mistake her meaning. "I had to go to-night," Nan answered, in a suddenly sullen voice. "If you had waited a few moments I could have, and most willingly would have, gone with you. Never hesitate to ask me. I am always at your service. That is what I am here for." Nan hesitated. "I--I thought you had gone away--for good," she stammered, lamely. Miss Blake flushed. "What made you think I had gone away for good?" she asked, slowly repeating the girl's words. Nan shook her head and gulped. "I was in my room," continued the governess, after a pause, "and I heard--" Nan put out both hands. "I know it! I know it!" she gasped. "But I didn't mean what I said--I didn't, honestly and truly. Before you came I learned it off, and I meant to say it, but that was before I saw you. I feel different now, and I hope--I hope--" Miss Blake's hand was laid quietly on hers. "Wait a moment, Nan. Don't go on till you know what I was going to say. You seem to be trying to explain something that perhaps you might regret later. You think I overheard something you would rather I did not know? What I was going to say is this: I was in my room this afternoon and I heard a man crying 'Chestnuts!' It carried me back to the time when I was a little girl and used to roast them in this very--" she hesitated, then added slowly, "town. So I went out to buy some, that we might have a little jollification together with nuts and apples and perhaps a cookie or two, if Delia would give them to us. That is why I went out." Nan twisted her fingers and looked down. "And I went out because you did," she faltered. "I thought you had gone away, and I went to Mr. Turner's to bring you back--if you would come. Say, now, didn't you hear what I said to Delia? I was awfully mad, and I guess I spoke out loud enough so folks on the next block could have heard. Honest now, didn't you?" Miss Blake did not answer at once, and Nan could see that a struggle of some sort was going on in her mind. When she raised her face her eyes were very grave. "Yes, Nan, I did hear!" she confessed, honestly. The girl's cheeks blazed with sudden shame. "And yet you weren't going to leave?" she said. "You were only going to do a kindness to me?" Miss Blake shook her head. "Dear Nan," she answered, smiling wistfully, "a good soldier never runs away for a mere wound. He stays on the field until he has won his battle or--until--he is mortally hurt. I do not think you will ever wish to cut me as deeply as that, and so--and so--I will stay until--the general orders me off the field. The day I hear that your father is to come back, that day I will resign my position in this house. Until then, however, you must reconcile yourself to my presence here, and I think we should both be much happier if you would try to do so at once, my dear." CHAPTER VIII NAN'S HEROINE The strain Nan had given her ankle proved more serious than either she or Miss Blake had expected. It threatened to keep her chained to the sofa for days to come, and the girl's only comfort lay in the thought that now, of course, the governess would not force the question of study, and after she was up and about again she might be able to dispose of it altogether, and save herself any more worry on that score. But Monday came, and, true to her word, Miss Blake appeared in the library after breakfast with an armful of school-books, to which she kept Nan fastened until luncheon time. It was perfectly clear that there was no escape. Miss Blake was armed with authority, and the girl knew herself to be under control. She fretted against it so persistently that if the governess had not had an enduring patience she must have despaired over and over again under the strain of Nan's sullen tempers, fierce outbreaks, and lazy moods. There were moments when the girl seemed to be fairly tractable, but there was no knowing when the whim would seize her to fall back into her old ways, so that, at the best of times, Miss Blake did not dare relax her control. Then Nan would kick her heels sulkily, and comfort herself with the thought that when her father came home all this would be put an end to. Miss Blake would go. Hadn't she said so herself? And that would finish up this studying business quick enough. She could cajole her father easily into letting her stay away from school, and then--here she would be, as happy as you please, with only those two, Delia and her dear daddy, to look after her, and no one at all would say no to anything she might choose to do. It was a blissful prospect. In the meantime there were lessons, and--Miss Blake. But after a few days Nan found that, somehow, the lessons were not so hard after all, and she never would have believed that they could be so interesting. While as for Miss Blake--Well, a woman who sits reading "Treasure Island" and such books to one for hours together can't be regarded entirely in the light of a nuisance. "I never knew geography was so nice before," Nan admitted one day after lessons were over. "I used to hate it, but now, why it's downright jolly! I never saw such beautiful pictures! Where in the world did you ever get so many?" "I took them myself!" Nan's eyes widened. "Why, have you been to all these places?" she asked, not a little awe-struck. Miss Blake confessed she had. "And you took all these photographs your own self?" persisted the girl. The governess laughed. "I'm like George Washington, Nan," she said. "I cannot tell a lie! I did them with my little--Kodak!" Nan fairly gulped. She would have said "Jiminy!" but she knew Miss Blake disapproved of "Jiminy!" and somehow, she was willing to humor her just now. "Only," went on the governess, "it isn't a little Kodak at all. It is a very fine camera indeed. Some day, if you like, I will show it to you, and then, perhaps you will be interested enough to care to learn how to take some photographs yourself." Nan bounced up and down on the sofa with delight. "Oh, won't I, though!" she exclaimed feverishly. "Just won't I!" "But mind you, my dear," warned Miss Blake. "If you once undertake it, I want you to persist. It is not to be any 'You-press-the-button-and-we-do-the-rest' affair. I want you to learn to finish up your work yourself. Do you think you will care to take so much trouble?" Nan nodded energetically. "Very well, then. So it stands. If you are willing to learn I'll gladly teach." "Who taught you?" asked the girl curiously. Miss Blake shook her head. "Just a man whom I paid for his trouble," she returned simply. "I wanted to learn, and so I went into a gallery and got some experience, and then came away and experimented on my own account. It has taken me years, and I am still working hard at it, for I believe in never being satisfied with anything less than the best one can do." Nan blinked. She herself believed in being satisfied with whatever came easiest, unless it was in the way of some sport, where she liked to excel. "How jolly it must be to travel about--all over the world," said she, musingly. "When I'm grown up I guess I'll be a governess, or a companion, or something, just as you are, and get a place with some awfully nice people who will take me everywhere. Was it nice where you were before you came here? Were there any girls? Why did you leave?" Miss Blake looked troubled, but Nan was not used to noticing other people's moods, and did not even stop to hear the replies to her own questions. "If you've been all over the world, you'll know where my father is, and can tell me about it. Oh, do, do! Show me some pictures of India, won't you please? Just think, I haven't seen my father for two years, and he won't be home until next autumn--almost a year from now. You ought to see him! He is the best man in the world--only I guess he is lonely, because my mother died when I was a baby, and he hasn't any one to keep house for him but Delia and me. Mr. Turner says he has lost a lot of money lately, too. I guess that's why he went to India. If I had been older he would have taken me. But he had to leave me here with Delia. Delia has been in our family, for, oh, ever so many years. She first came to live here when my mother was a young girl. She says it was the jolliest house you ever saw. My grandfather and grandmother were alive then, and mamma had a young friend, who was an orphan, who lived with them. They loved her just as if she had been their own child, and she and my mother were so fond of each other that--well, Delia says it was beautiful to see them together. And such times! There were parties and all sorts of things all the time till, Delia says, it was a caution. My grandfather wasn't very well off, and lots and lots of times my mother wouldn't have been able to go to the parties she was invited to, if it hadn't been for that friend of hers, who used to give her the most beautiful things--dresses, and gloves, and all she needed. She had loads of money, and every time she got anything for herself she got its mate for my mother. Don't you think that was pretty generous?" Miss Blake bit her lip. "One can't judge, Nan," she said. "If your mother shared her home with this girl and she had money and your mother had not, I think it was only right that they should share the money too. No, I do not think it was generous." Nan tossed her head. "Well, I think it was and so does Delia," she retorted hotly. "It is easy enough to give when one has plenty," pursued the governess, almost sternly. "But when one has little and one gives that--well, then it is hard and then perhaps one may be what the world calls generous, though I should call it merely grateful." Nan did not understand very clearly. She thought Miss Blake meant to disparage her mother's friend, the woman she had been brought up to think was one of the noblest beings on earth. She felt angry and hurt and almost regretted that she had confided the story to her since she made so little of her heroine's conduct. "I don't care; I think she was perfectly fine and so does Delia. My mother just loved her and I guess she knew whether she was generous or not. When she went away my mother was wild. She cried her eyes out. But she married my father soon after that, and then--well, my grandmother died and then my grandfather, and I was born and my mother died and--O dear me! it was dreadful. Delia says many and many a time she has gone down on her knees and just prayed that that girl would come back, but she has never come and she won't now, because it is years and years ago and maybe she's dead herself by this time. Do you think Delia would have prayed for Miss Severance to come back if she hadn't been the best and most generous girl in the world?" Miss Blake smiled faintly. "That settles it, Nan!" she declared. "If Delia wanted her back she must at least have tried to be good. And even trying is something, isn't it? And now, how do you think luncheon would taste?" Nan was more than ever inclined to be sulky. Her loyalty was touched. Not alone did Miss Blake fail to appreciate her heroine, but she showed quite plainly that she did not want to hear about her. "All the time I was talking she fidgeted around and looked too unhappy for anything. I guess she needn't think she's the only one in the world that can make people love her. I don't think it's very nice to be jealous of a person you never saw. Pooh! I like what she said about trying to be good. I guess Delia knows," said Nan. They ate their luncheon together in the library, and after they had finished Miss Blake excused herself and went upstairs to prepare to go out. "After being in the house all the morning one needs a change," she said, "and it would be a sin to spend all of this glorious day indoors." Nan sighed. How she longed to get away herself. But of course that was impossible, with this old troublesome ankle bothering her. If she could not step across the room, how could she hope to get into the street? O dear! When would it be well? Miss Blake was tripping about upstairs and Nan could hear her singing as she went. Delia was up there, too. When Delia walked the chandelier shook. "She follows Miss Blake about so, it's perfectly disgusting," thought the girl resentfully. "Now, I wonder what she wants in my room. I don't thank either of them for going poking about my things when I'm not there, so now! Well, I'm glad she's coming down, at any rate." The governess appeared in the library a moment later, but Nan could scarcely see her face, she was so overladen with wraps and rugs. She turned the whole assortment into a chair, and before the girl could ask a question, she found herself being bundled up and made ready for the street. "What are you doing?" she gasped out at length. "You know I can't walk." "Nobody asked you, sir!" quoted the governess, gayly. "Then what are you putting on my things for?" "Ready, Delia?" sang out Miss Blake, cheerfully. Nan heard the front door open. Then heavy steps came clumping along the hall, and in another moment she was being borne down the outer steps and set comfortably in a carriage by the good old Irish coachman, Mike, from the livery stable round the corner. "Are you comfortable?" asked Miss Blake, with her foot on the step. "Have you everything you need?" Nan nodded, and the governess, taking her place beside her, motioned to Michael, who climbed to his seat on the box, and off they drove. "There is Delia at the window! Let's wave to her!" cried Miss Blake, with one of her happy girl-hearted laughs. It seemed to Nan that she had never seen the Park look as beautiful as it did to-day. To be sure, most of the trees were bare, but the naked branches stood out delicate and clear against the blue of the violet-clouded sky and by the lake-shore the pollard willows were gray and misty, and a few russet maple trees still held their leaves against the sweeping wind. They saw numberless wheels spinning along the smooth paths, and though the governess said nothing, Nan knew she had given up this chance of a ride for her sake. Impulsively she put out her hand and laid it on Miss Blake's. "If it weren't for me you'd be on your wheel now, wouldn't you?" she asked. "Yes," came the answer, prompt as an echo. "But as it is I'm not on my wheel, and it so happens that I'm doing something that gives me much more pleasure." "If I had a bike it would make me simply furious to have to give up a ride such a day as this," said Nan. "Then isn't it rather fortunate you haven't one?" asked Miss Blake, saucily. "But seriously, Nan, why haven't you one?" Nan set her jaw. "My father can't afford it," she said proudly. The governess turned her head to look at a faraway hill, and there was an embarrassing little pause. When she faced about again Nan could see that her chin was quivering, and in a spirit of tender thoughtfulness quite new to her, she hastened to change the subject since Miss Blake felt so badly about having asked the question. "This is the lake where we skate in winter," she said. "That is, most of the girls come here. I go to the Steamer. I like it better." The governess looked at it and asked, absently, "Why?" "Oh, because its jollier there. Most of the girls I know--I don't know--that is, they don't know me; they don't like me much, and I'd rather not go where they are. John Gardiner and some other boys and I go to the Steamer and have regular contests, and it's the best sport in the world." But Miss Blake was not listening. She was thinking of other things, and only came back to a sense of what was going on about her when Nan gave a great sigh to indicate that she was tired of waiting to be entertained. The governess roused herself with a smile and an apology and began at once to chat briskly again. "Whenever you want Michael to turn you have only to say so," she said. "What do you think of going down-town and buying some jelly or something for little Ruth Newton. We could stop there on our way home, and you could send it up with your love." Nan nodded heartily. It always pleased her to give. She enjoyed, too, the thought of getting a glimpse of the shop-windows, which were already beginning to take on a look of holiday gorgeousness. So down-town they went, and Miss Blake not alone bought the jelly, but so many other things as well, that presently Nan began to have a feeling that for such a poor woman the governess was inclined to be extravagant. She told Delia so when they were alone together that evening, Miss Blake having gone upstairs to write some letters. "Oh, I guess you needn't worry," the woman said. "But you don't know how many things she bought," persisted Nan. "I'm sure she can't afford it. Just think, a woman that works for her living the way she has to! But do you know, Delia, I believe there's something mysterious about her, anyway. She seems to see right into your mind--what you're thinking about; and every once in a while she lets out a hint that the next minute she looks as if she wished she hadn't said. I've noticed it lots and lots of times, and I'm sure she's trying to hide something. What do you s'pose it is? What fun it would be if she were a princess in disguise." "Well, she ain't," Delia almost snapped. "She's just a good little woman that's trying to do her duty as far as I can make out, and if she spends money you must remember she has only herself to support." CHAPTER IX HAVING HER OWN WAY "I know just the kind I want, and I won't wear any other," said Nan, irritably. Miss Blake made no reply, and the girl sauntered off to another part of the store, and pretended to be examining a case of trimmed bonnets, which she could not see because her eyes were half-blind with rebellious tears. What right had any one to tell her what sort of a hat she ought to get! If her father was paying for it, she guessed it was nobody else's business to say anything. Miss Blake held in her hand a handsome, wide-brimmed felt hat, trimmed simply with fine ribbon and a generous bunch of quills. "It's very girlish and suitable, ma'am!" the saleswoman said, as she turned away to get another model. After a moment Nan came hurrying back to the governess' side. "Horrid old thing!" she said in a low voice, flinging her hand out with a gesture of disgust toward the despised hat. "It's stiff as a poker. Do you suppose I want to have just bunched-up bows with some spikes stuck in the middle to trim my hat! And all one color, too! I guess not!" The governess bit her lip. "Perhaps we may be able to find something more to your fancy," she said. "But plumes are expensive and perishable, and if you have too many colors your hat will look vulgar." "I hate this place anyhow," went on Nan, disdainfully. "Bigelow's! Who ever thought of going to Bigelow's?" "Your mother did," said Miss Blake, quickly. "That is, Delia says she did. And I myself know it to be one of the oldest and best firms in the city. One can always be sure that one is getting good quality for one's money here." "I never was in the place before," blurted out Nan, "and I despise their hats--every one of them. If you won't let me go to Sternberg's, where they have things I like, I won't get anything at all, so there!" She suddenly let her voice fall, for the sales-woman was back again with a fresh assortment of shapes to select from. Miss Blake placed the hat she held gently upon a table and began to examine the others carefully, Nan standing by in sullen silence. "This is a pretty one--this with the tips, don't you think so?" the governess asked, setting it on her hand and letting it revolve slowly while she regarded it critically with her head on one side. Nan gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. What she wanted was a flaring, turned-up brim, with a dash of red velvet underneath and a bird-of-paradise on top, caught in a mesh of red and yellow ribbons. She had seen something on this order in Sternberg's window, and it had struck her fancy at once. The governess hesitated, and then put down the hat she held. "Very well. We will go to Sternberg's," she said, quietly, to Nan, in an undertone which the saleswoman could not distinguish. The girl started briskly for the door. Miss Blake remained behind a moment, and then followed after. Now that she was to have her own way Nan was restored to good humor, and kept up a stream of chatter until they reached Sternberg's. "There! Isn't that a beauty?" she demanded at last, indicating the hat in the window. Miss Blake, with difficulty, concealed a shudder. "It seems to me rather showy. But tastes differ, you know. I can't say it suits me exactly. Still, if you are pleased--you are the one to wear it, not I." The hat was bought and Nan was radiant. She insisted on donning it at once, and Miss Blake tried not to let her discover how ashamed she was to be seen in the street with such a monstrous piece of millinery. Underneath her tower of gorgeousness Nan strutted like a turkey-cock. "I told Delia before we came away that we might not be home before dusk, so suppose we take luncheon down-town, and then, if you like, we will go to see Callmann. I haven't been to a sleight-of-hand performance since I was a little girl, and I always had a liking for that sort of thing." "Oh, do! Let's! Can we?" cried Nan, in a burst of grateful excitement. It was nippingly cold outside, and the warm restaurant proved a delightful contrast. It was jolly to sit in the midst of all this pleasant bustle and be served with delicate, unfamiliar dishes by waiters who stood behind the chair and deferentially called one "Miss." Miss Blake left Nan to order whatever she pleased, and they dawdled over their meal luxuriously, the color in the girl's cheeks deepening with the warmth and excitement until it almost matched the velvet in her imposing hat. Every now and then she glanced furtively at her reflection in the mirror, and the vision of that bird-of-paradise hovering over those huge butterfly bows thrilled her with a great sense of importance and self-satisfaction. More than once she saw that her hat was being noticed and commented on by the other guests, and she tried her best to seem not aware--to look modestly unconscious. But Miss Blake, when she caught some eye fixed quizzically upon their table, blushed to the roots of her hair, and felt as though it would be impossible to bear the ordeal for a moment longer. Still, she did not hurry Nan, and no one knew, the girl least of all, what agonies of mortification she was enduring. A deep-toned clock struck one full peal. "That's half-past one," said Miss Blake, looking up and comparing her watch. "When does the entertainment begin?" asked Nan. "At two, I think, or quarter after. If we ride up we have still a few minutes to spare, but if we walk it would be wise to start at once." "O let's walk," begged Nan. "It's such fun; there's so much going on. And now my foot is well, I just want to trot all the time." Though Miss Blake was a good walker and took a great deal of exercise, she always preferred to ride when she was with Nan, for the girl forged ahead at such a rate and darted in among the maze of trucks and cars and carriages so recklessly that there was actual danger as well as discomfort in trying to keep abreast with her. Still she made no objection to "trotting," and they started off at a brisk pace. "Don't you just love to be in the stores around Christmas-time?" asked Nan, watching the crowds press and surge about the doorways of some of the most popular shops. "It's so exciting and the things seem so gay and alluring." "Yes, it is very attractive--all the motion and color," replied Miss Blake, "but I don't like crowds, and when I am hemmed in at a counter and can't get away I feel stifled and smothered, and long to scream." "Why don't you scream then? I would!" exclaimed Nan, with a laugh. "I'd shriek, 'Air! Air!' and then you'd see how quick the people would let you out." Miss Blake smiled with what Nan saw was amusement at some just-remembered incident. "I was watching a huge celebration in London one spring," she said. "It was in honor of some royal birthday or something, and the streets were packed with people all eager to get a glimpse of the military parade and the notabilities who were to take part in it. From the window where I sat I could not see an inch of pavement, the crowd was so dense. At last there was a sound of martial music and the First Regiment appeared in full gala array. Oh, I assure you it was very imposing and well worth taking some trouble to see. The crowds pushed and jostled, and beyond the first line or two at the curb no one among them could get more than an occasional glimpse of a stray cockade or a floating banner. Still the people were massed solidly from the gutter to the house-steps. We were wondering where the enjoyment in this came in, and congratulating ourselves that we were not doomed to struggle and fight for space in such a huddle, when suddenly we heard a shrill scream. It was a woman's voice crying, 'Air! Air! Give me air!' In another instant the crowd pushed back a step, and quite a respectably-dressed young person staggered weakly through the line to the curb, as if to get more breathing-space. Of course she could have got this in a much easier way by going in the other direction, but you see her plan was to get a better view of the procession, and she thought that was a good method of accomplishing it. It seemed a clever trick, and she was just settling herself to enjoy her improved position, when quick as a flash an order was given: Two men unrolled one of their army stretchers; the woman was whipped up and placed upon it; the poles were seized and off they went, carrying that misguided creature with them through all the gaping, jeering crowd. The last I saw of her she was hiding her face in the coarse army blanket, probably 'crying her eyes out,' as you would say, with mortification and shame." "What a joke!" exclaimed Nan. "Poor thing! She didn't see the parade after all, and I declare she deserved to. That was the time she was in it though, with a vengeance." "Look out for this cab, Nan! Be careful. We cross here. Please don't rush so--I can't keep up with you," pleaded Miss Blake. The girl gave her shoulders an impatient shrug and drew her eyebrows together in a scowl of irritation. But her face cleared as she saw Miss Blake buying their tickets at the box-office. "Get them good and up front," she begged. "If we're way back we can't see a thing." The governess hesitated an instant; then a curious expression came over her face and she said, deliberately, "Very well, dear! Up front they shall be." The house was quite full and Nan thought it a singular piece of good fortune that there were places left just where she would have chosen to sit. "Just think of having come so late and yet being able to get the best seats in the house," she said, exultantly. Miss Blake smiled. She understood better than Nan did why the majority of the audience preferred places that were not so near the stage. Both she and the girl herself soon forgot everything else in their interest in the mysterious tricks that were being performed before their eyes. Of course they knew that all this magic could be explained, but just at the moment it appeared difficult to imagine how. A man seems really no less than a magician who can take a red billiard ball from, no one knows where, out of mid-air, apparently, and suddenly nipping off the end, transform it into two, each equally as large as the first. Presently he thinks you would like to have a third, and, presto! he draws one out from his elbow. Now a white one for a change! But it is easy enough to get a white one. He opens his mouth and there it is, held between his teeth. Then he thinks he will swallow a red one. Pop! it is gone! A moment later he takes it out of the top of his head. Nan noticed that as the performance progressed the tricks grew "curiouser and curiouser," as Alice would say, and the wizard seemed to take his audience more and more into his confidence. He no longer confined himself to the stage, but came tripping down the steps that led from the platform to the middle aisle and addressed, first this one and then that from among his spectators--only Nan again noticed that these always happened to be sitting as they were themselves, in the foremost seats. He induced a man just in front of her to come upon the stage to "assist" him in one of his "experiments," and the girl trembled lest at any moment he might demand a similar favor of her, for though she was reckless enough as a general thing, she had sufficient delicacy to dread being made conspicuous in such a place as this. "O Miss Blake," she whispered in the governess' ear, "can't we move back a little? If he should make me go up there I'd sink through the floor!" "Probably you would. No doubt he would let you down himself--through a trap-door. No, we must stay where we are and we must bear it as best we may. Perhaps he will overlook us." Nan thought of her hat and the many glances it had drawn to her in the restaurant, and for the first time she had a feeling of mistrust regarding it. Suppose it should fix his eye, with its towering bows and flaming bird-of-paradise! If it did, she would hate it forever after. But she soon forgot her anxiety in her interest in the wizard himself. Silver pieces were flung in the air and then mysteriously reappeared in the pocket of some unsuspecting member of the audience who was much surprised at seeing them straightway converted into so many gold ones under his very nose. Innocent-looking hoops turned out to possess the most remarkable faculty for resisting all attempts to link them on the part of any one of the spectators, and yet immediately assuming all manner of shapes and positions in the hands of the dexterous magician himself. At last a shallow cabinet was set upon two chairs in the centre of the stage, and after a word or two of explanation, the wizard drew first one chair and then the other from beneath it, and lo! the magic cupboard remained poised in midair, without any visible means of support whatever. "You see, ladies and gentlemen," announced the suave magician, "this cabinet is bare; precisely like Mother Hubbard's immortal cupboard. Can you see anything there? No! I thought not. Now I will place within it these bells, so; and this tambourine, so; also this empty slate. You see it is empty. It is quite a simple slate, such as any school-child would use, and its sides are entirely bare. Now I close the doors of the cabinet, so; wave my wand, so; and--" Immediately there followed the sounds of ringing bells and rattling tambourine, while in a moment all of these instruments came flying out of the top of the cabinet as if they had been vigorously flung aloft by hidden hands. The smiling magician stepped forward, opened the doors of the cabinet with a flourish, and lo! it was empty save for the slate, which proved to be covered over with scribbled characters, and which he politely handed down to persons in the audience for examination. Nan was completely bewildered and so lost to all that was going on about her that she did not realize that the wizard was tripping down the stage steps and making his way affably up the middle aisle again. It was only when he spoke once more that she woke with a great start, and then to her horror she found he was addressing her. "I am sure this young lady will not refuse me the loan of her hat for my next experiment," he began with a persuasive smile. "I assure you, Miss, I will not injure it in the least. You won't object, will you?" and he held out his hand engagingly. The girl stiffened against the back of her chair, so disconcerted that she felt actually dizzy. "Give him your hat," bade Miss Blake, quickly, as if to put an end to their really painful conspicuousness. Nan obeyed blindly. The smiling magician took it with a profound bow and held it up for all the audience to see. "Now you perceive, ladies and gentlemen," he remarked, "that there is nothing mysterious about this hat. At least I am sure the ladies do. To the gentlemen it doubtless seems very mysterious, but that is because they do not understand the art of millinery." As he spoke he made his way up the aisle and to the steps that led to the stage. "It is a beautiful hat. Very elaborate and of a most stylish shape, as you see, but not at all mysterious. Yet I mean to make it serve me in a very interesting experiment, which I think you will admit is exceedingly won--" But just here he stumbled upon one of the steps, and in trying to recover himself let Nan's cherished head-gear fall and brought his whole weight upon it, crushing it out of all recognition. "Oh, dear, dear! What have I done?" he deplored in sincerest dismay. Miss Blake's eyes fell and Nan's lips whitened. Every one was looking at them now, and the magician was making them even more conspicuous by apologizing to them over and over again in the most abject fashion. "How could I be so awkward! Such a beautiful hat and ruined through my carelessness. I have no words to describe my regret. Do forgive me! But I promised to return your property to you uninjured, did I not, Miss? So, of course, I must keep my word." He held the battered mass of ribbons and bird-of-paradise high above his head as he spoke, and then went forward and placed a pistol in the hand of his assistant on the stage. The man retired to a distance and the wizard held the hat at arm's length as if for a target. "Now, ready? Then--shoot!" A second for aim: a report; and the smiling Callmann stepped forward with the hat in his hand, quite whole again and unimpaired. A shudder ran through Nan as she heard the applause and saw her property held up to public view. She dared not turn her head to look at Miss Blake, and she hardly heard the wizard's voice as he asked to be permitted to use the hat for still another experiment, and she scarcely saw how he placed it on a table, a perfectly innocent looking table, and then proceeded to take from it a multitude of things--from a gold watch to a clucking hen. When the hen came to light the audience fairly shouted, and Nan thought she could never in the world get up courage to set that hat on her head again and walk out before the eyes of these quizzical people. "They'll laugh at me all the way," she thought moodily. "And if they ever see me in the street they'll say, 'There goes that trick hat! The one the hen came out of!' I wish it was in Jericho!" Miss Blake comforted her as best she could with little hidden pressures of the hand and whispered words of sympathy, but the rest of the performance was torture to them both, and when, at last, it was over and they were well on their way home, Nan heaved a great sigh of relief and tried to summon back her courage by declaring that "I don't care if they did laugh when that hen clucked inside it and he said he was afraid this was what might be called 'a loud hat!' It's heaps better than lots I saw on other girls, so there!" "I am glad you are satisfied with it," said Miss Blake, simply. CHAPTER X EXPERIENCES For the first time since Nan could remember, the house was full of the air of Christmas preparation. Of course she had always had presents, and she never failed to give Delia a gift, but there was no scent of mystery about the holiday celebration; no delicious odor of a hidden Christmas tree; no sense of unseen tokens; nothing to distinguish the time from an ordinary birthday anniversary. But this year everything was changed, and Nan was as much occupied with her own secrets and surprises as either Miss Blake or Delia, who whispered and dodged and smiled cunningly all day long in the most perplexing manner. But she confined her preparations to her own room, while the governess apparently needed the library and all the rest of the house, too, and Nan found herself barred out of Miss Blake's room by her own stubborn pride which still forbade her to go in without a formal invitation. She was also locked out of the library which was now being made festive for the coming holiday, so that at times she wandered about quite helplessly in a sort of forlorn state of having nowhere to turn. She had fallen into the habit of running over to the Newton's while Ruth was sick, and she proved such a tender nurse and entertaining companion that the child's mother looked forward with relief to her visits, and only wished she would come oftener. "She keeps Ruth so happy and contented. It gives me a free minute to turn 'round in, and is a real comfort." "I thought you would find her helpful," responded Miss Blake. "She loves children, and they know it and love her back again. She is very gentle with them, and I know you may trust her, for she is as true as steel." "She's a changed girl, that's the whole truth of the matter. You've simply tamed her, the young savage!" "Oh, Nan has a fine nature. All she needs is judicious training. If I were not sure of that I should despair many and many a time. She needs judicious training and a world of patience and love." Mrs. Newton dropped her work into her lap and looked up earnestly into the governess' face. "Yes, I can believe it. What a rash, head-long sort of creature you must think me! Why, I was as bad as Nan herself, to go over there and simply browbeat her as I did! Do you suppose she will ever really forgive me?" "I'm sure she has done so already. Nan is generous. She does not bear malice. She has a vast amount of pride but as yet she does not know how to use it." "I should think it would be enough to break down your health--such constant care and responsibility. It is Nan's salvation to have you with her, but do you think you can hold out?" Miss Blake pondered a moment and then nodded her head decidedly. "I will hold out," she said staunchly. "You don't know how boisterous she was, and how it shocked me! At last I grew frenzied, and when Ruth was brought in to me injured in that way, through her fault, I supposed, I lost control of myself entirely, and felt that, come what might, the girl must be attended to. There's no doubt of it, your Nan is improved, and if this neighborhood is not made miserable by her piercing war-cries, her hairbreadth adventures, and her eccentric behavior generally, it is all owing to you. But here she comes herself! Put away your work! Quick!" Nan knocked politely at the open door. "Oh, come in, dear!" said Mrs. Newton cordially, and the governess looked at her encouragingly and smiled. "Bridget told me to come right up," explained Nan. "Is Ruth out?" "No, taking a nap in the nursery. She'll be awake soon now, I'm sure. Take off your things and sit down." "Won't I be in the way?" Mrs. Newton patted her on the shoulder. "No, my dear, you won't. On the contrary, it will be very pleasant to have you here to take a cup of tea with Miss Blake and me; will you excuse me a moment while I go and call Katy to bring it up?" "I thought you were in your room," said Nan to Miss Blake as their hostess left the room. "Did you need me? Why didn't you knock? What was it you wanted me to do?" "Oh, nothing. I didn't need you--that is, there wasn't anything I wanted you to do, only--it seemed kind of lonely, and so I came over here." "And I thought you would be locked in your own room for the rest of the afternoon. How dreadfully mysterious we all are nowadays." Nan laughed. She got out of her coat with a tug and a squirm and flung it on the lounge. Then she wrenched off her hat (the Sternberg affair) and tossed it carelessly after the coat. Miss Blake bent over and straightened the untidy heap without a word. "Delia is making mince pie-lets for dinner," announced Nan. "How jolly of her!" said Miss Blake. "Huh!" exclaimed Nan. "She said you told her to." The governess smiled. Mrs. Newton came in a moment later and after her Katy with the tea-tray. Nan sprawled down on the rug in complete comfort while Miss Blake and Mrs. Newton sipped their tea and talked of all sorts of things, to which she hardly listened. She was full of her own thoughts, and somehow they were all connected with the governess. In fact, her influence seemed to pervade everything, and Nan often wondered how the house would seem without her, now that they had "sort of got used to having her around." Without a doubt she made herself useful. And somehow she managed to make people depend on her in spite of themselves. And yet she never made a fuss or exaggerated the things she did. She was always doing "little things "--little things that didn't make any show, and yet they were so kind they "sort of made you like her whether you wanted to or not." This thought came upon Nan with a start, that roused her from her musing and made her sit bolt upright with surprise. Had Miss Blake made her like her, then? After all the reproaches she had cast upon Delia was she no better than a turn-coat herself? "We had ours built in before we came into the house," Mrs. Newton was saying. "It is a vast improvement. I wouldn't be without it for the world." Nan pricked up her ears. She wondered what this desirable thing might be. "Who did the work?" Miss Blake asked. "Buchanan. And I'll say this for him, he did it well. I haven't a fault to find. I think you'd be satisfied with him." "A person doesn't like to put a piece of work like that into the hands of a man one knows nothing about," resumed Miss Blake. "I'm glad to profit by your experience. It may save me, too, a great deal of worry and no little expense." "Oh, yes," returned Mrs. Newton. "If one can economize on experience it's a great satisfaction. It's the best school I know of. But it's so expensive that it ruins some of us before we're done." "What's the best school you know of?" asked Nan, curiously. "Experience," replied Miss Blake. "Oh!" "Yes; and it's a school we all have to go to at one time or another," put in Mrs. Newton. "But we might make it a good deal easier for ourselves sometimes if we'd take hints from our friends who have graduated." "Have you graduated?" Nan asked, half in fun, turning to Miss Blake. But Mrs. Newton broke in before the governess could reply for herself. "Graduated! Well, I should think so! Why, she has carried off honors! She has taken a diploma--with a ribbon 'round it!" Miss Blake laughed. "Nothing of the sort, Nan. I've had a few lessons, that is all." "Oh, tell about some of them, won't you?" cried Nan, eagerly. "It would be lots of fun." The governess considered. "Well, yes. I will tell you of the very first lesson I can remember, if you care to hear," she answered, with a wistful smile. "I won't promise it will be 'lots of fun,' though." "Never mind! Tell it!" And Nan settled herself more comfortably against the governess' knee quite as if that person were, in reality, her prop and stay, instead of being only some one she "sort of liked in spite of herself." "I think it must have been the first real experience I ever had," began Miss Blake, musingly. "At least it is the first one I recollect. I was the littlest bit of a girl when my mother died; too young to realize it, and my father scarcely outlived her a week. He died very suddenly. They used to tell me that he died from grief. Anyway, he was sitting at his desk looking over some important papers connected with my mother's affairs, when suddenly he put his hand to his heart, gave a faint gasp--and was gone." "What an elegant way to die!" broke in Nan impulsively. Mrs. Newton gave an exclamation of real horror at her flippancy. "Oh, you know what I mean!" the girl hastened to protest. "I think it must be worlds better than being sick, or hurt in an accident, or any of those dreadful, lingering deaths." "After that I was given over into the charge of some distant connections of my father," continued the governess. "They were good, conscientious people, but they had no children of their own, and did not like other people's. I presume I was not a very captivating baby." Nan straightened up suddenly. "I bet you were, though," she interrupted. "You must have been a dot of a thing, with crinkly hair and dimples, and mites of hands and feet. I should think they would have loved you--I mean, a poor little lonely baby like you." Miss Blake smiled. "Well, however that was, Nan, I was brought up very strictly, and I assure you, I was made to mind my P's and Q's. One could not trifle with Aunt Rebecca! Well, one morning I was sitting at the foot of the staircase playing house. I can see myself now, squatting on the lowest step, my fat little legs scarcely long enough to reach the floor. I had on a checked gingham pinafore, and my hair was drawn tight behind my ears and braided into two tiny tails with red ribbons on the ends. I knew it was against the rule to play house in the hall, anywhere, in fact, but in my own little room--with the doors shut, but somehow I felt reckless that day, and when I heard Aunt Rebecca walking to and fro, just above my head, I didn't scamper off as I ordinarily would have done; I just sat still and said to myself, 'I don't care! I don't care!' It seemed to give me a lot of courage, and I wasn't a bit afraid, even when Aunt Rebecca's footsteps came nearer, and I knew she could see me from the top of the stairs. Indeed, I grew mightily brave; so brave, that after a couple of minutes I raised my voice and piped out: 'Aunt Becca! Aunt Becca!' "'Well,' answered she, 'what is it? what do you want?' "Even the severity of her voice didn't dismay me that rash morning. "'I want Lilly,' said I, airily. Lilly was my precious doll. 'She's in her little chair in my room; won't you please to pitch me Lilly?' "For a moment Aunt Rebecca hesitated. I think she must have been petrified by my audacity. But she recovered herself and turned, and without a word went to my room and got Lilly from her 'little chair.' I was as complacent as if it had been quite the usual thing for Aunt Rebecca to fetch and carry for me. Indeed, perhaps I imagined I was instituting a new order of things, and that in future she would do my errands, instead of I hers. "She came back to the head of the stairway and I looked up pleasantly, half-expecting, I suppose, that she would come down and deliver my darling dolly safely into my hands. But she didn't. If I were giving orders she would obey me to the letter. She 'pitched me Lilly.' I gave a dismal wail of dismay as I saw my dear baby come hurtling through the air, but when she landed on her blessed head, and I heard the crack of breaking china, I just abandoned myself to grief and howled desperately. Aunt Rebecca went about her business as if nothing had happened, and by and by I stole off with my ruined dolly and cried to myself in the back yard--because I had no one else to cry to." "You poor little thing!" burst out Nan, indignantly. "What a detestable woman! As if she could have expected such a baby to know!" "You're wrong, Nan!" the governess said. "It was a wholesome lesson, and I am grateful to Aunt Rebecca for having given it to me." "Well, I shouldn't think you would be," insisted the girl rebelliously. "The idea of her expecting such a mite to understand!" "Ah, but you see I did understand. And I have never forgotten it. I have never asked any one to 'pitch me Lilly' since that day--I mean never when I could go and get her myself." Nan pondered over it moodily for a moment. "And did you have to stay in that house until you were grown up?" she demanded. "Oh, no! When I was about your age I went to boarding-school, and everything was changed and different after that." "How?" "Well, I made dear, faithful friends who took me to their hearts and who made my life rich with their love. All that other hungry, empty time was over, and for many years I never knew what it was to feel sad or lonely, or to have a wish that would not have been gladly gratified if it could be." "Now they were something like!" ejaculated Nan. "Dear me! I should think you would have been sorry when you got through school." Miss Blake made no reply. She put up her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the fire, and for a second or two there was a deep hush in the room. Nan was the first to break the silence. "Goodness!" she cried, springing to her feet with a bound. "It's as dark as a pocket outside, and Delia'll think we're lost or something if we don't go home." Miss Blake surreptitiously gathered her work together and slipped it into her bag. "Yes, we must scamper," she exclaimed, as she turned to help Nan on with her coat. "Dear, dear, what a gorgeous hat!" exclaimed Mrs. Newton, as the girl set it carelessly upon her head. Nan looked sheepish. "I'm glad you like it!" she ventured clumsily. Mrs. Newton did not respond that she had not said she liked it. She busied herself with Miss Blake and her wraps, and replied merely, "It's a remarkable gay affair." Then she kissed the governess "Good-night," and saw both her and Nan safely to the door. The two hastened across the street to see which could get out of the wind first. "I beat!" panted the girl, as she stood in the vestibule and saw Miss Blake breathlessly climb the last step. "Yes, you beat! Fair and square!" admitted the governess as Delia let them in, chattering and shivering, from the chilly air. "Who'll beat now, going upstairs?" screamed Nan. Miss Blake made a dash for the first step and the two went flying up in a perfect whirl of laughter and fun. Delia had forgotten to light the gas in Nan's room and the girl stumbled about blindly, crashing into the furniture and casting off her coat and hat in her old headlong fashion, not stopping to think of all Miss Blake's warnings on the subject, but just hurrying to get down stairs and "beat" the governess in another race. "Clean hands! Smooth hair, and a neat dress for dinner!" sang out the governess gayly. Nan shrugged her shoulders in the dark and made a lunge at the mantelpiece for a match. She struck it and lit the gas, swinging off to the washstand as soon as it was done. Suddenly Miss Blake heard a shriek, a rush of feet across the floor, and then Nan's voice exclaiming "Great Scott!" in a tone that was a cross between a laugh and a cry. She did not wait a moment but hurried instantly to the girl's door. Nan was standing beside the gas fixture, and in her hand was her cherished hat--a ruined mass of smoldering felt and charred plumage. "Nan!" exclaimed Miss Blake, horrified at the sight. "I know it! Isn't it awful! I just slung it on the globe as I always do, and--and--when I lit the gas I forgot all about it, and it was ablaze in a minute. Don't say a word! I know you've told me hundreds of times not to put it there. But I forgot, and--O dear! what'll I wear on my head the rest of the winter? But it is too funny!" Miss Blake tried to look stern. "I'm heartily sorry you've lost your hat, Nan," she said, kindly, without a hint of reproach in her voice. "You were so fond of it. I'm really very sorry, dear!" Nan checked her laughter. She let the hat fall to the floor. A sudden impulse seized her, and she strode up the governess and took her by the shoulders. "You're a real dear not to say 'I told you so!'" she cried. "And you haven't jeered at me, though I know you hated the hat from the start. And now I'm going to tell you something--two things! First: I'm never going to hang up my clothes on the gas again, honestly! And second: I hated the old thing, too. The minute I bought it I hated it, and I've hated it ever since." Miss Blake looked up, and their eyes met. "Good for you, Nan," she said, standing on her tip-toes to pat the girl approvingly on the head. "Good for you! And now it's my turn to confess. Wait a minute!" She flew out of the room, and before Nan fairly knew she had gone she was back again, and in her hand was a huge milliner's box. "I couldn't help it!" she cried, half apologetically. "I got it that day, just to please myself--and now you'll wear it, won't you, dear? It's very simple, but it is of the best, and it will match your coat, you see." She untied the string, lifted the sheets of tissue-paper, and displayed what even Nan had to admit was a beautiful hat. The girl looked at it in silence for a moment; then she ducked down impulsively, and gave the governess a quick, shy kiss upon the cheek. "Thank you," she said, huskily, with a sort of gulp, and then she ran out of the room as fast as her feet would carry her. CHAPTER XI CHRISTMAS "This is to be a German Christmas," Miss Blake said, "and we're going to celebrate it on Christmas eve. Of all the different customs I've seen I like the German the best. It is so jolly and freundlich, as they say over there." So on Christmas eve the library doors were thrown open for the first time in days and days, and there stood the most glorious tree that Nan had ever seen. It was decked out with a hundred glistening things and laden down with red apples, yellow oranges, and pounds and pounds of peppermint candy, and barley-sugar figures, pretty to see and delicious to eat, to say nothing of Marzipan, to which the girl was introduced for the first time, and which she found altogether fascinating. Innumerable candles burned gayly among the spreading boughs, and at the very top hovered an angel with outspread, shimmering wings, her hands bearing a garland of glistening tinsel, and her garments ablaze with gold and silver decoration. Grown girl as she was, Nan was delighted. It was all so new and strange; so different from anything she had ever experienced before. Beside the tree were tables spread with white cloths, and upon these lay the presents, and wonderful presents they proved. Miss Blake and Delia had outdone themselves, and Nan's table was a sight to behold. It seemed to her it held everything she had ever expressed a wish for--except a bicycle, of course. A pocket-kodak from Miss Blake, a banjo from her father, skates from Delia, she had longed for just such a new pair, and innumerable other articles bearing no giver's name, but coming, every one, from the same generous source Nan knew well enough. She absolutely lost her head in the delight of possessing such an array of treasures. Her own little offerings seemed to her poor and mean in comparison with this display; but Miss Blake's eyes actually filled with grateful tears at the sight of the half-dozen linen handkerchiefs the girl had marked for her with so much trouble and at the cost of so many hours of recreation, and Delia hugged her rapturously at the sight of the gorgeous dress-pattern that Nan had selected for her "all alone by herself," and that had come out of the saving of more than a half-year's allowance of precious pocket-money. "Now, Nan!" said Miss Blake, when the first excitement had somewhat subsided, "there is one more surprise that Delia and Mr. Turner and I have planned for you, and as I expect it to arrive at any moment now, and as it is pretty big I want you to help clear away these tables to give it lots of room to move about in. We want to get everything out of the way and all the presents safely stowed aside upstairs so nothing will be broken. While we are going back and forth you may guess what it is, if you like." "A bicycle?" ventured Nan, striding upstairs with her kodak in one arm and a bundle of books in the other. "No, it's not a bicycle. Guess again. I'll give you two more," answered the governess, following after her with her load. "I know what I want next to a bicycle." "What?" "I don't like to say." "Why?" "Well, you know," hesitated the girl, "if I said what it was, and if what you've got turned out something different, you might feel disappointed because you might think I did." Miss Blake smiled. "That's a generous thought, Nan," she said; "but I give you free leave to speak out." Even now the girl hesitated, and stood awkwardly balancing herself against the baluster-rail. "Even if you wanted to you couldn't give it to me," she blurted out, at length. "Why?" repeated Miss Blake. "Because--oh, because--it wouldn't come," she cried, with a rueful laugh. "Now that sounds ominous," exclaimed the governess, as she and Nan started on their last trip. "It sounds as if you wanted a horse, or something of that sort, that might prove balky." "No, it isn't a horse. But it's balky enough, if that's all." "Then tell me why it wouldn't come?" Nan let her armful of gifts fall on her counterpane in a heap. "Oh, because--because--its mothers don't approve of me. What I want is a party, so there! and I couldn't have one because, even if my father could afford it, no one would come. Grace Ellis wouldn't, nor Mary Brewster, nor any of those girls I'd want. They turn up their noses at me because they think I don't know how to behave. Once Louie Hawes spoke to me and I liked her, but the next time I saw her she looked the other way, and I suppose some one had told her something she didn't approve of. So she wouldn't come either--no matter how much I asked her, and of course I wouldn't ask her at all. Mrs. Andrews up the street asked me to Ruth's party last winter, but I heard their girl tell Delia that she did it because she had known my mother and felt obliged to, so I wouldn't go. I couldn't after that, you know. I did go to the Buckstone twins' party, but all the other girls got off in corners and laughed and talked, and I was left out and had to shift for myself. So I went and talked to John Gardiner and Harley Morris and those, and of course we got on first-rate--we always do, for if I can't dance I can skate, and the boys got me to promise I'd go with them the next good ice, and we got talking about other things, and I never thought anything about the girls any more until Mrs. Buckstone came up and said, 'I'm sorry, my dear, to break up this pleasant group, but we can't permit you to monopolize our young gentlemen. The rest of the young ladies are waiting for partners.' Then I knew I had got myself into a scrape, for Mrs. Buckstone was dreadfully icy and the girls were furious. So you see no one would come." Miss Blake caught up a stray lock of hair at the girl's temple and tucked it back into place, smoothed the ribbon upon her "best dress" collar, and said tenderly: "Well, that will all be made right to-night, I guess. Come, take my hand, and let's fly down stairs, and be ready to receive, for you've got your wish--there's the bell!--and your party is coming in." They met the first comers on the stairs, and had to hurry past them to avoid getting caught by a second installment. After that the guests came quick and fast, and Nan had all she could do to welcome them and wonder dimly in between how things were to be started, so that everybody should have a good time. But, bless you! She might have saved herself the trouble, for Miss Blake simply set things going without any bother at all, and before Nan realized what was happening, she saw the governess and big John Gardiner leading in a lively game, while the music of a piano and some violins, which were hidden away out of sight, fell upon her delighted ear. She followed the sound, and it took her to the glass extension, which, to her astonishment, was all alight, and fragrant with flowering plants and towering palms. The "old trunks and things" that had littered the place were gone, and in their stead was all this soft greenness and bloom, while from above hung graceful lanterns, sending out a tender light that made the leaves look shadowy and waxen, and gave the spot a peculiar air of mystery and grace. She found Louie Hawes and Ruth Andrews hidden away in a snug corner behind a screening rubber-tree. They were apparently deep in conversation when she came up, but at sight of her they fell suddenly silent and looked embarrassed and ill at ease. For a moment Nan was at a loss what to do. Then, all at once, Miss Blake's rule for etiquette flashed across her mind: "When you don't know how to act, Nan, do something honest and kind, and that will be sure to be right." She told herself that perhaps after all, the girls had not been talking about her, and said to them pleasantly: "Do you like it away back here? It's rather out of the way of the games; but don't you want to play?" "Oh, yes; by and by," stammered Ruth, awkwardly. "It's awfully pretty in this conservatory, and Lu and I got in here and couldn't get away. One wants to sit still and just enjoy it. I think I never saw such dainty lanterns." The conversation seemed on the point of coming to a standstill, but Nan plunged in again, her sense of being hostess spurring her on. "I guess they're some Miss Blake brought with her from China, or somewhere. She has been around the world, and has collected any number of beautiful things. Some of them are perfectly fine." "Oh, I think she herself is one of the loveliest things!" cried Ruth, enthusiastically. "She has a darling face. One wants to kiss her, she's so dear!" "Mamma says she used to know her years ago at school," said Louie. "She says she is one of the finest characters she knows. She was delighted to have me come when Miss Blake asked me to your party." "Yes, it was awfully nice of you to think of us," put in Ruth, laboriously. Again the conversation threatened to flag. But here was Nan's opportunity to do something honest, and she did it. "Oh, don't thank me. I didn't think of you," she returned bluntly; "that is, I didn't know anything at all about the party myself until a little while ago. Miss Blake did it all. I don't know how in the world she ever happened to ask just the ones I wanted, though." Ruth and Louie exchanged glances. Then they laughed. "Well, if you didn't think of us," they said, "you wanted us, so it's nice of you all the same." That broke the ice, and it wasn't five minutes before all three were sitting together and chatting as comfortably as if they had been on the most intimate terms of friendship for years, and it was only Nan's sense of her responsibility as hostess that dragged her away at last. "Miss Blake will wonder where we are. Won't you come into the other room? Besides you can't enjoy being cooped up in this little corner when the fun is going on outside." "Oh, but we do enjoy it!" protested Ruth. "It's giving us a chance to get acquainted with you. And we want you to promise us that you'll go skating with us day after to-morrow. Please do!" "Of course we know how you skate," declared Louie, "and we'll be so proud to have such a champion in our club. Say you'll come! And don't hold it against us that we haven't asked you before." Nan's heart leaped. "Why, I'll love to," she said with a frankness equal to Louie's own, adding in a tone quite new to her, "if Miss Blake will let me." Grace Ellis and Mary Brewster lifted their eyebrows in surprise as the three girls appeared in the doorway, chatting so intimately and being so plainly on the best of terms. "Dear me!" whispered Grace, "what's come over Lu and Ruth? They actually look as if they liked her." "Don't you believe it," declared Mary sourly. "They're here at her party and they can't exactly shove her off in her own house, but it will be 'for one night only.' Now you see! They won't want her around now any more than they have before--a rowdyish thing like that." She had scarcely replaced her bitter expression by one more suited to the time and place when Louie came over to where they were, her face wreathed in smiles, and her arm flung impulsively around Nan's waist. "O girls!" she cried. "Isn't it nice? Ruth and I have made Nan promise that she'll come skating with us day after to-morrow, and she's going to join the club. Won't it put a feather in our cap to have such a member?" Mary knit her brows and Grace smiled icily. "Very nice," they responded coldly. Nan's eyes flashed, and then suddenly lowered. "Oh! I didn't give a definite promise," she returned quietly, and with unexpected dignity. "I said if Miss Blake would let me. I'm afraid she won't. I hurt my ankle not long ago, and I haven't dared exercise it much since. Probably Miss Blake will think I ought to save it for a while yet." "But you were out on Saturday," protested Ruth. "I saw you. Your ankle is only an excuse. You skate so easily, it couldn't be a strain." Grace looked at Mary with a curious expression in her eyes, but neither of them added her voice to the other girls' solicitations, and the little group stood there in what threatened to become a painful silence when Nan felt a light touch on her shoulder, and, turning around, discovered Miss Blake standing at her elbow. "O Nan!" she said, smiling brightly at the other girls, as if to excuse herself for not including them in her familiarity, "won't you please go and see if you can't entertain that poor young Joe Tracy? I've done my best, but he won't come out of his shell for all I can do, and I think your hearty, breezy way is just what he needs. He looks so forlorn, tucked away 'all alone by himself,' as you would say." She patted the girl affectionately on the shoulder as she sent her on her way, saying heartily, as she passed out of ear-shot: "I always feel perfectly secure when I can fall back on Nan to help me out with shy, sensitive people. She has such a great, warm heart that it seems to thaw their stiffness right out of them." Louie threw her arm impulsively about the governess' waist: "You're such a dear!" she cried, demonstratively; "and I'm over and over obliged to you for letting me come here and get acquainted with Nan. I think she is ever so nice, and it's a shame that we haven't known each other before." Miss Blake gave the girl a hearty smile. "Better late than never," she returned gayly. Grace Ellis reddened and Mary Brewster tilted her chin superciliously, but they both turned their eyes suddenly in the direction of the other end of the room as Ruth Andrews grasped Miss Blake's arm, and whispered excitedly: "For goodness' sake, do look over there! Nan has got Joe Tracy laughing already." Sure enough, the lad's pale, sensitive face was all aglow, and, as he listened to what the girl was saying, his eyes brightened and his mouth danced up at the corners in a laugh of genuine appreciation. Nan was gesticulating in her own graphic fashion, and the girls could easily follow her by watching her expression and her vivid pantomime. Plainly she was describing the sleight-of-hand performance to her bashful friend, and Miss Blake could readily see that she was not sparing herself in the recital. She raised her hands to her head and pretended to take off her hat, which she made a show of reluctantly surrendering to some one who received it with a profound bow. Then she suddenly leaned forward, as if stumbling on something, and the next moment she held up her hand and seemed to be regarding some article upon it with an exaggeratedly doleful expression that was such an exact imitation of the renowned wizard's that Miss Blake recognized it at once, and laughed as heartily as Joe Tracy himself. By this time the girls were thoroughly interested, and kept their eyes fixed on Nan so that they might not lose one gesture nor the slightest change of expression. "O dear! Those Buckstone girls! Why do they get in my way," lamented Louie Hawes, "I wish they wouldn't crowd round her so. First thing they know she'll notice them, and stop short off and won't tell any more." "Hush, Lu! There go John Gardiner and Harley Morris!" But Nan was in full swing now, and too absorbed in her story to be aware of the little court that had gathered around her. Joe Tracy's eyes followed her every movement with greedy interest, and when she at length imitated the flapping wings of the clucking hen he simply shouted with laughter and clapped his hands vigorously, quite lost to all but his appreciation and sense of the fun of the thing. It seemed to remind him of something similar in his own experience, for he immediately started in on a description of his own, and Nan sat listening in her turn with rapt attention. Every now and then a shout of laughter would come from the group in the distant corner, and the girls longed to go over and join in the fun. "Listen to John Gardiner 'haw-haw!'" cried Mary Brewster. "Don't the Buckstone twins give funny little giggles?" interposed Louie. "Why can't we go over and listen too?" suggested Ruth. So they all, even Grace Ellis and Mary Brewster, went softly toward the alluring corner, and were just in time to catch the end of Joe Tracy's story, which was so witty that John Gardiner swayed back and forward with delight and shook the room with his hearty laugh, and the Buckstone girls' giggle joined in like a shrill accompaniment. It had all come about so naturally that Joe Tracy did not realize that he had been orating to a roomful, and he did not seem to mind it at all when he discovered that he and Nan had had an audience. His shyness was quite gone and his face was radiant with enjoyment. The piano and violins started in again, and Miss Blake was heard inviting bulky Tom Porter to escort her down to supper. Of course, Nan had known all along that there would be something to eat, but she had not dreamed of such a spread as this. It made her eyes shine and her cheeks glow to hear such whispered words as these: "Yes, indeed! Aren't you?" "Far and away the jolliest one yet!" "Do get me some more salad, won't you, please? It's the best I ever ate!" "Up-and-down jolly time. A fellow likes to be made feel at home like this." Miss Blake, who without seeming to be watching any one, saw that every one was well supplied, kept a constant eye on Nan, and at last, on the strength of what she discovered, thought it was time to interfere. "Now sit down, my dear," she commanded softly, coming up behind the girl and touching her gently on the arm. "You are getting all tired out and having nothing to eat yourself. Every one is served and the waiters will look out for the rest. I have saved a place for you in the corner beside Louie and Ruth. So go now and rest and eat and enjoy yourself. You must not be the only one at your party who is neglected." Nan gave her a grateful look and dashed off toward Louie and Ruth who were beckoning wildly to her to come. They had so much to tell that they almost forgot their plates in their eagerness to talk. "Grace Ellis is just wild to come over here," confided Louie. "But Mary Brewster won't let her. Mary just bosses Grace about till I think it's positively disgraceful," whispered Ruth. John Gardiner sauntered up. "Got everything you want?" he asked in a manful effort to be attentive. "No!" replied Nan, promptly, with a twinkle in her eye. "I want a bicycle, please. Won't you get me one?" and she held out her plate as if to have it supplied with the desired article. The tall fellow laughed. "With pleasure," he said, and took the plate and marched off with it. "O dear! I hadn't finished my salad!" lamented Nan, looking regretfully after him. Louie managed to telegraph their dilemma to Harley Morris, who promptly responded to it by appearing with another plate of salad and a dish of sandwiches. He did not go away after Nan was served, but stayed on and led in the laugh when John Gardiner reappeared with a tiny ice cream bicycle daintily poised against a mound of jelly, which he presented to Nan with a low bow full of mock dignity, saying: "You have only to command and you are obeyed. Here is your wheel, and may it go as fast as if it were geared to a hundred." "Thank you," replied Nan, accepting the joke and the plate at the same time. "It'll go fast enough, no fear of that. Eating is never up-hill work with me, and this has nothing to do but coast, you see," and she swallowed the first mouthful down with a jolly laugh. "Look over at Mary Brewster! She's trying her best to pretend she ignores us," whispered Ruth, but not so low but that the young fellows could hear. "Is one who ignores an ignor--amus?" asked Harley Morris, grinning broadly at his own witticism. "Yes," promptly answered Louie. "And in this case especially so, for she doesn't know what she's losing." There were more games after supper, and last of all came the jolliest part of the whole evening, an old-fashioned Virginia reel, Miss Blake and John Gardiner leading and the rest following with the heartiest of zest. In and out they tripped and up and down they ran till all were fairly out of breath. Then suddenly Miss Blake seized John's hand, and away they sped toward the library, the rest following helter-skelter, where the Christmas tree stood all lighted and ablaze. "All hands round!" shouted John, as they formed a ring and pranced gayly about the fragrant tree. Then up rose the governess' cheery voice, singing the dear old Christmas carol that is always new: "Hark! the herald angels sing Glory to the new-born King; Peace on earth and mercy mild; God and sinners reconciled." And the rest joined in and made the house re-echo with their hearty chorus: "Joyful all ye nations rise, Join the triumph of the skies; With th' angelic host proclaim, Christ is born in Bethlehem!" It seemed to melt the hearts of every one there, for the voices that presently said "Good-night," were full of peace and good-will, and even Mary Brewster's had a ring of sincerity in it as she murmured: "Good-night, Miss Blake! Good-night, Nan. I've had a charming evening, and I hope we'll know each other better after this." CHAPTER XII SMALL CLOUDS It proved an ideal Christmas day. Clear and cold and spotlessly white, for the snow fell heavily all through the night, and covered everything with a mantle of glistening frost. Nan looked out of her window, and gave a gasp of delight as she saw the shimmering, rime-covered trees, with the sunshine striking full upon them and bringing out sparks of light from every branch and twig. Whatever sounds there were in the streets came to her softened and mellowed over the snow-laden ground, and as she listened she felt a great wave of inward happiness surge into her heart and make the possibilities of life seem very different to her from anything she had ever dreamed of before. The snow, the sound of chiming Christmas bells, worked upon her, and made her feel that it would be easy to be good, and that her days ought all to be like this; that she would make them so, serene and melodious, every one a festival. She heard Miss Blake stirring in the next room, and tore herself away from her dreams to begin the day well with a prompt appearance at the breakfast table. "It seems to me that if father were only here I wouldn't have a thing left in the world to wish for," she said happily, spearing a gold-brown scallop with her fork and eating it with relish. Miss Blake put down her coffee-cup just as she was carrying it to her lips, and her face wore the curious expression that Nan had so often noticed there and could never account for. But the girl was too busy with her own thoughts to regard it to-day, and the governess hastened to respond: "Then next year, please God, you will be quite entirely happy. And a year is not long to wait." "No, indeed!" broke in Nan. "Why, I never knew the time to go as quickly as it does lately. It doesn't seem any while at all since you came, and you've been here over two months. Just let's think what we'll do next Christmas, when father is home. To begin with, I'm going down to the dock with Mr. Turner, so that when the ship comes in he'll see me the first thing. Then we'll come up here, and you and Delia will be waiting to welcome him at the door, and there'll be decorations and things and--" "You forget, dear Nan," Miss Blake said, gently interrupting her, "that I shall not be here then." The girl's face fell and the light died out of her eyes. Then she brightened again suddenly. "Oh, you must, you must! Why, my father will want to see you. Of course you'll be here. You'll have to stay and meet him. You can surely do as much as that. You don't know how dear my father is! And so handsome and good! Why, if you once saw him you couldn't possibly be afraid. He's simply the kindest man in the world, and when he smiles at you, you just love him--you can't help it." Miss Blake herself smiled faintly. "I am sure he is all you say, Nan," she replied. "But listen! There go the first bells. We must hurry or we shall be late for church." The girl rose and made her way rather slowly to the stairs. Somehow she felt less light-hearted than she had done a few minutes before. What was it? She could not understand. The world had seemed all joy and sunshine to her a quarter of an hour since, and now there was a cloud over her heart that dimmed for her even the radiant prospect of her father's return. "I feel just like sitting down and having a good cry--if I ever did such a thing," she said to herself as she fastened on her new hat and tried to be glad that it was so becoming. But as she and Miss Blake walked along the streets in the midst of a crowd of happy, chatting church-goers her spirits rose, and she nodded gayly to the Buckstone girls and Harley Morris, and broke into quite a ripple of laughter as John Gardiner overtook them and asked if the wheel he had brought her the night before had proved a good one. "Oh, it was immense!" answered Nan, merrily. The services were beautiful, and Nan entered into them heart and soul, listening to the sermon with rapt attention and letting her fresh young voice swell out jubilantly in the dear, familiar carols as she had never done before. As they went out of church Miss Blake said to her softly: "You won't mind going on without me, will you, Nan? I have a little errand to do before I go home. Tell Delia I'll be back in time for dinner." [Illustration: "I have a little errand to do"] "But why can't I go with you?" demanded the girl. "Because it--it wouldn't be best. I will explain it to you later. Now I must go. Tell Delia what I said. But if I should happen to be delayed don't wait, and don't--that is, tell Delia not to worry. Good-bye!" and she was around the corner before Nan could say another word. Ruth Andrews joined her and they walked along together, falling at once into the easy terms of familiarity that had sprung up between them the night before. "O Nan!" began Ruth abruptly, "you aren't going to be such a goose as to back out of joining the skating club just because--well, because Mary Brewster's such a prig? She isn't the whole membership, not by a good deal, and the rest of us count on your coming. Why, you'll be a tremendous acquisition. And the first meet is to-morrow. Won't you come?" Nan hesitated. "It isn't because I'm a goose," she said at length. "That is, I mean--oh, I can't explain it, but really, Ruth, I'd rather not join. I wouldn't have a good time myself, and I'd only be spoiling Mary Brewster's pleasure. It's no use. I know she's not the whole club, and I really think the rest of you would like to have me, but somehow, knowing she didn't want me, would spoil the whole thing and I'd just be miserable the entire time." Ruth shook her head as if at the hopeless state of Nan's obstinacy, but she broke in again immediately with a new suggestion: "Besides, I don't think you can be at all sure she feels that way now. Why, I myself heard her telling you and Miss Blake that she hoped you and she would know each other better after this." "Well, so we do," said Nan, whimsically. "I know now for a certainty that she doesn't want me, and she knows that I won't go where I'm not wanted, and if that isn't getting acquainted with a vengeance I'd like to know what is." Ruth laughed ruefully, but broke in, with sudden inspiration: "O dear! You're as proud as a peacock, Nan Cutler. Louie will be dreadfully disappointed, for she told me to tell you she counted on you to take her out. She's never skated much, you know, and she's wobbly on her ankles. She's afraid of the teachers, and she doesn't like to ask the boys, because they hate to have a girl hanging on to them, and the rest of us have as much as we can do to attend to our own affairs." Nan's face lit up with quick pleasure. "Oh, if Louie needs me I'll come in a jiffy. If you see her, won't you tell her I'll be only too happy to teach her everything I know?" "Then we'll call for you at ten sharp to-morrow morning," announced the wily Ruth, and before Nan could change her mind she had slipped off and left her standing with her word given at her steps. "Where's Miss Blake?" asked Delia, opening the door in answer to Nan's ring and seeing her alone. "Gone off somewhere on an errand or something. I don't know. She said she'd be home for dinner, but if she wasn't, not to worry and not to wait." Delia wrung her hands. "O Nan, child, why did you let her away from you? She's gone to the Duffys; I know she has. And they've scarlet fever in the house. The milkman told me so this morning at mass. She's been going there for weeks, doing for them and carrying them money and things. The youngest of the children had been sick all the week, and now she's down with the fever. If I'd only thought to tell her this morning! But my head was so full of the breakfast and clearing up a bit after last night that I forgot. Oh, why did you let her away from you?" "How could I know?" cried Nan, almost savagely. "I never knew she went to such places! What has she got to do with the Duffys, anyhow? Why hasn't somebody stopped her from going, I should like to know? She's no business to run such risks. The first thing you know she'll catch the fever, and then--and then--" She turned her back on Delia, and the next moment was flying upstairs two steps at a time. "What are you going to do, Nan?" cried the woman. "Go after her and bring her home!" shouted the girl. But Delia barred the way when she tried to come down again. "You can't do that, Nan," she protested. "It would only make things worse. Just wait, and see if she comes home to dinner." "No; I want to go now!" persisted the girl. "But don't you see it would only worry her?" insisted Delia. Nan considered. "Well, I'll wait till dinner," she admitted; "but if she isn't here by then I'll start." She sat down by the parlor window and commenced to watch. It seemed to her that every one in town came into sight but the one she was looking for with such curious anxiety. Suddenly her heart gave a great leap. She flew to the front door and flung it wide. "She's come! She's come!" she shouted to Delia, exultantly. "Nan, Nan!" cried Miss Blake, hearing the joyous ring in her voice and seeing the glad light in her eyes. "What is the matter? Has anything happened? Has--has any one come?" As she spoke her lips grew white. "Yes! You're the matter! You've happened! You've come! I tell you I'm glad! And don't you ever go to those Duffys again, where there's scarlet fever, and you can die of it!" Miss Blake sank upon the hall-chair and held her hand to her heart. "Why, what's the matter?" gasped Nan, frightened at the sight of her white face. "Nothing, dear, nothing! I was startled--that was all." "But who startled you?" persisted the girl. "Not you. It is all over now." "You see," Nan hastened to explain, "the milkman told Delia there was scarlet fever at the Duffys, and we thought you had gone there, and it scared us to death." "But I told you to tell Delia not to worry." "Much good telling would do! Besides, you didn't tell me not to worry. Of course, she'd worry anyhow and so would I. But is it true? Have the Duffys got scarlet fever?" Miss Blake hesitated. Then she said, truthfully, "Yes, they have, Nan. Little Mary Ellen has it. But you need not be afraid. I would not come back into this house without taking every precaution." Nan cast on her an indignant look. "And you think that's what made us worry?" she asked, and turned on her heel and tramped upstairs in high displeasure. But she had scarcely got as far as the landing when she felt a hand upon her arm. "Nan, forgive me. I didn't think so--really. I know you had my safety in mind. But I have been very careful all along. And now I have a good nurse for the child, and I think she will pull through." "But promise me you won't go there any more," demanded Nan, sternly, only half mollified. "I promise gladly. They don't need me now, and it would be wicked to take an unnecessary risk." "Well, I should think so. Now, remember, you've promised. O Delia! Is dinner ready?" All through the meal Miss Blake was aware of Nan's eyes fixed upon her in a peculiarly scrutinizing gaze. She was puzzled, but asked no questions, sure that, sooner or later, the girl would disclose the reason herself. At length it came. "Does your head ache, Miss Blake?" "No, dear; why?" "Because your cheeks are pretty red, and I thought you might not be feeling very well." "Probably the brisk wind has made them so, for I feel very well indeed." "Oh!" But at twilight Miss Blake came upon her bending double over a volume of the Encyclopaedia, and a glance showed her what article the girl was studying. It was that headed "Scarlet fever." The book was shut with a clap, and Nan stalked off to replace it in the book-case without a word. She came back in a moment, however, and stood before Miss Blake like a grim young Fate, her dark eyes full of care and worry. "See here! You've got to take something. There's no use fooling with a sickness like that. Your cheeks are red, and I shouldn't wonder but your throat is sore. When you came home you kind of went to pieces on the hall chair, and I guess your head is aching this minute. I don't say you've got scarlet fever, but--it looks mighty like it, that's all. Now don't be scared. I'll take care of you. I can, you know, if I put my mind to it." Miss Blake dared not hug her, though it was precisely what she longed to do. She dared not laugh at her, either, for that would give lasting offense when Nan was so deadly in earnest. What she did was to say brightly, but in quite as off-hand and matter-of-fact way as the girl herself had spoken: "I'm sure you could. But you see I am perfectly well. Honestly, I haven't a pain nor an ache, and if my cheeks are still red it's because the skin has been frost-nipped. I give you my word of honor I will go to a doctor if I feel the slightest symptom." Her tone was so heartily sincere that Nan could not doubt her. She drew a long breath of relief, as if a heavy load had been lifted from her heart, and threw herself upon the lounge with a contented sigh. "Just think," she said. "Last night this time I didn't even know I was going to have a party, and now it's all over and done with, and Ruth and Louie want me to go skating with them to-morrow. It's been the happiest Christmas I ever spent, with the exception of the Duffy part, and I wish it could last forever." "I think some of it will," replied Miss Blake in her gentle voice, as Delia came to light the lamps. CHAPTER XIII ON THE ICE There was a great crowd on the lake. It was perfect skating weather, and every one who had skates and could use them, had come to enjoy the advantage of the first real ice of the season. The banks were thronged with onlookers, and it was a great inspiration to the expert ones to know that their performances would be watched and commended by such an audience as this. "Goodness, girls! Did you ever see such a crush?" asked Louie feverishly, hurrying her pace, as she, Nan, and Ruth neared the spot. "There won't be room to move," announced Nan, adding with a laugh, "much less to fall down in." "All the better for me! I'll put on my skates and let the crowd push me round. I'm never too sure of myself, but in a crush like this, one can't go over, so I'm saved a heap of worry!" cried Ruth with a jolly laugh. Nan's skates were on in a twinkling, and she longed with all her heart to be off and away. But the sight of poor Louie, struggling vainly with her refractory straps, kept her back. "Oh, do hurry," urged Ruth excitedly. "Did you ever see such contrary things?" gasped Louie, her cheeks crimson with cold, and the exertion of bending double in her fur jacket. "Give them to me; I'll get them on in a jiffy," and Nan was down on her knees and the skates secured before Louie had even time to thank her with a look. "Now, do come on!" cried Ruth, fairly dancing with eagerness. "Oh, wait! wait! Please wait!" pleaded Louie. "This is the first time I've been on the ice this year, and I feel so nervous I could scream." John Gardiner spun past with a nod and a flourish, but a moment later wheeled about and came skimming up to where they were standing, saying briskly: "Jolly day, isn't it? Ice in first-rate shape, too. Too many people, but after a few of them get tired out it will be all right. Don't suppose they'd care to stand aside and let us show them what skating is, eh, Nan?" Nan laughed. "Perhaps they wouldn't like the figures we'd cut. I'm not sure I would myself. Pride goes before a fall, and I'd rather be a bit humble and keep on my feet." "As though you'd ever take a tumble," cried the young fellow with great scorn. "Oh, I say, come along and let's do a turn or two, as we did on the Steamer last year. Don't you remember what a rousing cheer we got? Let's try it again." For an instant Nan's blood leaped. She liked to do daring things, and she loved applause. John Gardiner was as much at home on his skates as she was on hers, and they were singularly at ease together. Moreover, way down in her heart was a sort of lurking pride at being especially chosen by this favorite among the "fellows" and being seen with him in his attractive suit and his graceful "Norwegians" that were the envy and admiration of all the other fellows in town. It certainly was a temptation, and for a moment Nan yielded to it. Then she looked at Louie's anxious face and shook her head. "I'm heaps obliged," she said. "But I guess I'd better not to-day. It wasn't much harm at the Steamer, for there was no crowd there to speak of; but here it's so public, I'm afraid it wouldn't look well." John threw back his head and laughed. "As if you cared how things look!" he cried, frankly. Nan's cheeks reddened furiously. She looked down and drew a figure on the ice with the tip of her skate. Her confusion could not escape him, and he caught himself up instantly. "I mean, you've always been so sensible, you know. You haven't cared for tattle or nonsense. That's what's made us like you so. A fellow hasn't had to be on the continual jump for fear your hat wasn't on straight or your hair was coming down. You're as plucky as a boy, and it's like having another jolly, good fellow about when you're around. You're not going back on all that? You aren't going to turn girly-girly? You aren't going to be a Nancy, are you?" She lifted her head with a jerk. "No; I'm going to stay plain Nan," she retorted. "But I can't go out with you this morning, John--at least not now. Later I may take a turn if you're willing." He saw that there was no shaking her resolution, and turned away with a frown and a sigh. "Very well. If you won't, you won't. I'll look you up by and by, though, and maybe you'll have changed your mind by then," and he was off like a flash, his flying feet seeming scarcely to touch the ice, and his long, curved, glistening skates flashing back the sunlight from their dazzling nickel blades. Louie clutched Nan's arm. "Oh, I'm so glad you didn't go!" she said, agitatedly. "I'm all of a tremble, and I'm sure I'll slip if you don't hold on to me." So Nan held on to her, and slowly piloted her this way and that, urging her gently to strike out alone, and patiently waiting until she had the courage to try. Ruth darted hither and thither, minding it as little when she went down herself as when she was the cause of others doing so, and always skating with an awkward energy that was refreshing to behold. "O Nan!" panted Louie, "how did you learn?" "By getting up whenever I fell down," declared Nan, succinctly. Ruth came toward them with arms flying like windmills. "O girls!" she gasped; but just here her feet went from under her, and she sat squarely upon the ice with a great plump. "O girls!" she repeated, not a bit abashed and without trying to get up, "Mary Brewster and Grace are over there, and they just asked John to take them out--at least Mary did--and he said he was ever so sorry, but his 'card was full,' and they are simply furious." "Get up!" commanded Nan, with lips that would twitch in spite of her efforts to control them. "You'll catch your death of cold!" Ruth grasped her outstretched hand and struggled to her feet. "How are you getting on, Lu?" she asked, shaking the snow from her skirts. "I think I'm doing a little better. Don't you, Nan?" appealed Louie, tremulously. "Why, yes. You'll skate as well as any one after you've once gained courage," Nan returned cheerfully, and took up the slow, tedious task again of steering her laboriously this way and that, Louie meanwhile clinging to her arm and uttering little panic-stricken shrieks that irritated Nan beyond measure. No one could conceive how hard it was for the girl not to desert her clinging companion. She knew in her heart that Louie would never master the knack unless she were made to rely upon herself. As long as she could depend on Nan's support she would not make any effort to use her own energy, nor would she exert her will-power to force herself to strike out alone. The ice was in perfect condition to-day, but it would not long remain so with such a crowd cutting it to pieces, and the sun already thawing the powdered snow and threatening to do more damage to-morrow. If Nan lost her chance now she might not have another so good in weeks to come, for the weather was always uncertain and the holidays were short. Everything seemed to urge her to break loose from her self-imposed martyrdom and go her way rejoicing; the crisp air that sang in her ears and filled her with a sense of glorious exhilaration; the shimmering sunlight on the ice that seemed to scud before her and invite her to join in the race; the knowledge that she was in reality doing Louie a doubtful service by staying beside her, and, last of all, the look of disappointment in John's eyes as he shot past them at intervals, and saw that Nan was not yet ready to capitulate. A sort of war with herself was waging in her mind; her sense of duty against her preferences; her long established habits against her newly found resolutions. She had resolved to be like other girls in the future. It was like headlong, impulsive Nan to make a resolve like this, and never stop to realize that it was only the exaggeration of herself that proved objectionable; that it would be as impossible for her to be sedate and silent and serious as for a dashing dandelion to become a dainty buttercup. To her it seemed as if Miss Blake and the rest--were demanding of her just such a metamorphosis and she had been trying--she really had--to recast herself in the mold she thought they exacted. And now here came John Gardiner, surely the nicest and most mannerly young fellow she knew, and the one whom even Miss Blake was pleased to call "a perfect gentleman"--here came John Gardiner, and told her that her despised characteristics were precisely the ones that made her valuable. She shook her head. It was no use; she could not understand. "O Nan!" cried Louie, shunting along clumsily by her side and clutching her arm in desperation. "Won't you please get me over to the shore? I'm all tired out. I guess I'll go in for a bit and warm up and get rested, and then I'll come out again, may be, and take another try." Nan assented with alacrity. "You've made a pretty good beginning," she said with new encouragement in her voice. "Oh, it's always the same!" wailed Louie. "Year before last I got so I could do it quite respectably, and then last year I had to learn all over again. I really thought I'd pick it up where I left off this year, but you see how it is! The very sight of the ice when I'm on skates makes me quake." "Just force yourself to do it and you'll be surprised to see how soon you'll be skimming all over creation," advised Nan, as she unfastened her friend's skates and saw her start stiffly up the path to the Lodge. Her heart gave a bound as she realized that she was at last alone and untrammeled. She pulled her Russian cap well into place, thrust her hands deep into her pockets, and set out for the middle of the lake, her lithe young body swaying gently forward as she was carried this way and that by her gliding feet. She looked about for John, but he was nowhere to be seen, and she concluded that he had given up expecting her and had either gone home or joined other friends. Ruth was forging about after her own peculiar fashion, getting in every one's way and under every one's feet, and enjoying it all immensely. She was perfectly self-reliant, and Nan did not feel that there was any necessity of offering assistance or even companionship to such a self-sufficient, resolute maiden, and so she set about enjoying her independence with a clear conscience. A moment later she had forgotten everything but the keen delight of the delicious exercise; the fresh current of air upon her cheeks; the sense of flashing through space "without any appreciable effort; the knowledge of her mastery of the art. She had not a shadow of fear. Instead, she felt a sort of wild exultation in her own daring, and set about doing difficult feats with an added delight in the very risk of the thing. Suddenly a shadow shot toward her from the back, caught her by the arm and went flying forward, suiting his rhythm to hers in an instant. "Oh! heyo, John! I thought you'd gone home!" said Nan. "Not a bit of it. Think I'd leave the ice when it's as prime as this? Not much. What under the canopy have you been about all this time? Toting Lou Hawes around when you ought to be making the best of the rarest chance you'll get this season, maybe?" "Oh, that's all right," rejoined Nan in a matter-of-fact way. "I liked to do it--for a change. And she's a little timid." "Well now, you're free, let's have a couple of extra good turns just to make up for lost time," and he took her hand and started off on a fine, free swing, Nan gliding beside him in such perfect accord that it seemed as if one impulse moved them both. They swung apart rejoined, and swung apart again. Then, dropping her hand John gave a curving glide to the right which took him a pace ahead of her, and she, repeating his movement, but toward the left, passed easily before him on the other side, so on and on in a sort of progressive chain, until at a sign they sped backward, reversing the order in which they had come, and reached the starting point and circled round it, clasping crossed hands and chatting gayly the while. John saw that they had already attracted some attention, and it only made his pulses quicken. He also saw that Nan was oblivious to everything, but the mere delight of what she was doing, and he did not think it worth while to remind her that this was not the Steamer, and that if she wished to be inconspicuous, as she had suggested, she would better limit herself strictly to a commonplace gait. Instead he bent toward her, and said in a quick, low undertone, "I'll bet a quarter you've forgotten how to cut your name." "Oh, have I?" cried Nan, the spur pricking sharply at her pride. "Want to see me do it?" and off she went accordingly, accomplishing the difficult figure without a thought of hesitation, and returning to his side laughing and triumphant. "Now the spiral! Forward! Left foot first! Now right! Combination!" John gave the directions in a sort of tense whisper. He was mortally afraid Nan would become conscious, and see what was going on about her. But he might have spared himself the trouble. She was absolutely blind to the crowd that had gathered about them, and all the commendation she was aware of was that which he gave her in a murmured "Good!" or "Fine!" A wide circle had been cleared for them, and in it they and one or two other hardy souls were exhibiting their prowess, while the throng outside whispered and applauded and made comments on the different skaters and their respective skill and grace. "There! That's the serpentine he's doing now! Isn't it pretty?" "It must be frightfully hard to go backward like that!" "I should think he'd fall on his head!" "Look! See! She's starting off again! Doesn't she do it well?" "Who is she, anyway?" Nan had completed her figure, and was waiting at the edge of the circle for John to finish his and to come and join her. She stood well back, so that she might not interfere with the others, and thus it was that she was waked from her trance with an abrupt shock by the sound of two whispering voices, seeming almost at her ear, their murmur carried so in the chill, crystal air. "Didn't I tell you she was a bold thing?" "Sh! She'll hear you! She's right in front of us--only those men between." "No she won't, either. We're too far away. Didn't I tell you Lu's and Ruth's friendship was for one night only? I knew well enough why Lu asked her to come. Any one could see through that. She wants to learn how to skate, and this was as ready a way as any to be taught, and she jumps at the chance." "Oh, do hush! She'll hear!" "Don't care if she does. I don't know what your opinion is, but mine is that it's positively brazen of her to do such things before a crowd like this. Dragging John Gardiner into it, too! It's a disgrace!" "Sh, please! There he comes!" Nan pulled herself wearily forward a step or two to meet him. "I say, what's up? What's the matter?" he demanded anxiously, looking into her face and seeing the change it had undergone. "Nothing! Nothing!" she reassured him quickly. "I'm tired, that's all. And I didn't realize these people were watching us. Let's get out of this. I hate the way they stare. I want to go home." John took her by the elbow and steered for the bank. "Won't you find Grace and Louie first? You came with them, didn't you? They won't know what's become of you." "I don't care! I want to go home!" she repeated irritably. They sped forward silently, and in a moment had reached the shore. Nan trembled so as she tried to unfasten her skates that John pushed her hands aside and made her submit to having him assist her. "You've caught cold!" he said remorsefully, "I was a brute to keep urging you on. But I didn't dream you were tired. You looked so bright and well." "I'm not tired. I haven't caught cold!" said Nan. "Don't bother about me, please. Go back and finish up your skate!" "Thank you kindly, ma'am," rejoined he, removing his own skates. "But I've finished it up already," and he grasped her arm and tramped her off in the direction of the Park entrance with vigorous steps. "Won't Lou and Ruth wonder?" he ventured again after a moment of silence. "No! They don't care!" cried Nan, dismally. "The mischief they don't!" and John gave vent to an exclamation of disbelief. "Why, Ruth was only telling me half an hour ago how good and generous you were, and Louie caught me in the Lodge and went into regular spasms over you. You're the patientest, the generousest--everythingelse-est girl she knows. I had actually to tear myself away from her raptures when I saw that you were free of her and could take a turn with me." Nan shook her head. "No, you're wrong, John!" she said hopelessly. "They don't like me. None of them do. It's no use. I thought Christmas eve I might make them, perhaps--but I give it up. I'm too--different!" "Now, see here, Nan!" cried John, stopping suddenly in the middle of the path and confronting her squarely, "this change of base has come on you all of a sudden. You weren't in such a state before. You've seen something or heard something that's given you a turn. Say now, haven't you, honestly?" Nan gulped and nodded grimly. "I thought so. Well, now, you say you're different from the other girls, and so you are in most ways, but just at present you're doing the silliest trick I know. Going off by yourself and making people miserable all around. Do you know what a fellow would do in your place? Why, he'd go straight to the man he'd heard or seen back-biting him and he'd make him come out fair and square and own up--or shut up. 'You pays your money and you takes your choice.' That's what a fellow would do. But girls prefer to be martyrs and go about 'letting concealment prey upon their damask cheeks' and all that namby-pamby nonsense. Pshaw! I wouldn't give a rush for a girl's courage. It's all humbug." "It isn't any such thing!" cried Nan, hastening to defend her sex. "It isn't because I'm afraid that I don't go straight up to the--the person. It's because I have too much pride. I wouldn't demean myself by letting her know I care." "Oh, fudge! Pride! I like that! Care? Why, whoever she is, she can see that, anyhow, with half an eye. It's as plain as preaching. You came with Lu and Ruth, and were as gay and jolly as could be. Then, all of a sudden, you turn grumpy and want to go home, and say Lu and Ruth don't like you. The explanation of that is simple enough. You've heard some one saying something about you, or pretending to repeat something Lu and Ruth have said about you. There! Now haven't I hit the nail on the head?" Nan made no reply. "I wager I have, though," continued the young fellow, watching her closely, and drawing many of his conclusions from the evidence of her tell-tale face. "And I'd be ashamed, even if I were a girl, to let myself be worried by a thing like that. Besides, it isn't fair to Lu and Ruth. You ought to give them a chance to set themselves straight. You've no right to believe things of them till you've their own word for it that it's true. Give them a chance, and if they act queer you can throw them over." "But I can't ask them," burst out Nan. "It wasn't anything they said. It was about the way they feel, and if I give them a chance they may throw me over." John laughed. "True for you. They may. But anyway, you'd have done the just thing. Whatever they did to you, you'd have played fair." Nan thought a moment. Suddenly she turned on her heel and began to retrace her steps. "I'm going back," she said, stoutly, "to find Lu and Ruth! and--and--give them that chance." "There! Now you're behaving like an honest man," announced John, with gusto. "One can't afford to be too perpendicular." But before they had taken a dozen steps they came upon the two girls themselves, running breathlessly toward them. "O Nan!" panted Louie. "What is the matter? Are you sick? Are you hurt? We couldn't find you anywhere!" "We looked all over and got terribly nervous, and at last Mary Brewster told us you had gone home," Ruth broke in, gaspingly. "She said John had taken you, and that you kind of walked as if you were dizzy or something. We've run all the way! Do say, are you sick?" pleaded Louie. "Or hurt?" articulated Ruth. John and Nan regarded each other solemnly for a moment. Then they both broke into a peal of laughter. Nan was the first to speak. "No, I'm not sick and I wasn't hurt--the way you mean. I was a goose--that's all. I want you to forgive me." "What for?" demanded the girls, in a breath. "Why, for--for--making you run after me," replied Nan. CHAPTER XIV CHANGES "Let's go back after luncheon," suggested Ruth as they tramped homeward. The others assented heartily enough, and Nan was so eager to return to her sport that she did not wait for Delia to let her in at the upper door, but burst through the basement way, and ran against Miss Blake in the lower hall. "Oh, excuse me!" she panted. "We've had a glorious time. We're going out again. Please may I have a bite of something quick, so I can run? We want to make the most of the daylight, and Lu can almost go alone." "Certainly. Delia has everything on the table. But won't you want to run upstairs and give your face and hands a little scrub?" Nan's forehead wrinkled, and she was on the point of uttering an exclamation of disgust. But she caught herself up, and pressing her lips together hard, flew upstairs without a word of protest. She finished her luncheon in marvelously quick time. "If you wish to go you may be excused," her companion announced, as the last crumb was swallowed. A gleam of surprise lit upon Nan's face. "Thank you," she said, and went her way feeling more contented with herself than she had done in many a long day. It was late when she returned, and not finding Miss Blake in any other part of the house, she went to the governess' room and tapped on the door for admittance, a thing she had never done before, from pure perversity and a determination not to "let any person suppose she cared to see them when she didn't have to." Miss Blake herself opened the door to her and invited her to "step into her parlor," most cordially, adding: "I'm just having my afternoon tea. Won't you take a cup with me?" At first Nan could scarcely find voice to reply, so strange did she feel in this altered room. When she had last seen it it was bare and cold and comfortless, and now-- The windows were draped with inner curtains of dainty Swiss. Hangings of some soft, pale green stuff hung before them and in all the doorways. The bed was shoved into a far corner of the room, and where it had once been, against the wall, a low bookcase now stood, displaying rows of tempting books upon its well-laden shelves, and above them delicate bits of bric-à-brac. A rug covered the centre of the floor. The ugly mantel-shelf was hidden from sight by an Oriental scarf, and upon it stood all manner of odd and curious trifles. The shabby lounge was covered by a fine old rug and piled with cushions, while beside it stood the quaint stand and brass tray that Nan had feasted from when her foot was lame; only now it held a brightly burnished alcohol kettle, out of which steam was issuing in the most hospitable fashion possible. Here also were dainty cups and saucers, and here it was that Miss Blake brewed her tea after she had led her guest to a chair and helped her remove her cap and coat with all the solicitude of a veritable hostess. "Well, how has the day gone?" asked she, trying not to betray her amusement at Nan's obvious amazement. "Oh, finely! We had a jolly good time. Lu can go alone now. John and I took her out and simply made her skate. Ruth goes floundering about like a seal, and every one laughs at her, but she's so good-natured she doesn't mind, and one can't help liking her. Such a funny thing happened. "We were standing still for a minute waiting for Lu to catch her breath, and all at once we saw Ruth coming galloping toward us in her ridiculous way. A big, fat man was skating in the other direction, but nowhere near her, and we didn't notice him particularly till she veered suddenly off and crashed straight into him, without any excuse at all, just hurled into him plump, and bowled him square over. It was the most deliberate thing I ever saw. She had gone out of her way to do it, but, of course, she didn't mean to. They both went crashing down with such a thump I thought it would break the ice, and as he went over he said: 'Good gracious!' in the mildest, funniest voice you ever heard. John hurried off and helped him up, and I got Ruth on her feet again, all covered with snow, and as mortified as could be, but choking with laughter. The man looked worried, and we asked him if he was hurt. He said, 'No! Oh, no indeed!' and then he turned to Ruth with the most embarrassed sort of apologetic smile--just as if he had been to blame. "'I'm so sorry!' he stammered. 'It is the strangest thing how it could have occurred. I thought you were over there. I really thought I was in no one's way. Oh, would you mind telling me--a--what I said when I--a--fell?' "Lu was swallowing her pocket-handkerchief to keep from laughing out, and I know I was grinning. "Why, I think you said, 'Good gracious!'" said Ruth, shakily. "'Oh, thank, you!' the man cried, looking ever so much relieved. 'I thought I said 'Good gracious,' but I--I wasn't sure. I'm very glad!' and he shambled off as if he were lamed for life, poor thing, while Ruth and Lu and John and I simply rocked with laughter. And now when anything happens John says 'Good gracious!' in the mildest tone, and then goes on, 'What did I say? Oh, thank you. I thought I said "Good gracious," but I wasn't sure!'" and Nan broke into a chuckle at the mere recollection of the thing. Miss Blake laughed in sympathy, and she and Nan drank their tea and nibbled their wafers in the most amicable fashion possible, talking over, not alone the pleasant experiences, but also that which had threatened to spoil Nan's day, the remembrance of which made her shudder even now. She repeated the incident to Miss Blake, concluding with: "I don't care what they think!" "John was right," declared Miss Blake, "and you did what was brave and just. But don't give up trying to win Mary's and Grace's good opinion, Nan. I want you to be respected and loved, and you can be, if you will only be as true to yourself as you are to your friends. You were not satisfied to let Lu and Ruth rest under a false accusation this morning. Neither should you be satisfied to let yourself. Prove to Mary and Grace that you are neither bold nor brazen. Force them to see that you are kind and lovable and courageous." "Oh, dear! How can I?" despaired Nan. "Why, simply by being so," declared Miss Blake. Nan fell silent, and then, when Miss Blake was just beginning to wonder what new caprice her guest had fallen victim to, she broke out impetuously: "Oh, I say Miss Blake! it is just festive in here. I never saw anything that began to be so pretty." It was genuine praise, and Miss Blake really flushed with gratification as she replied: "Thank you, Nan. I think myself it is cozy, and I am very happy if my little nest pleases you. It is a very simple one. I am my own upholsterer and my own decorator, so I have a special reason to value any praise of my small domain. You must come often if you like it here, for I love to play hostess to so appreciative a guest!" Nan settled back among the cushions with a contented sigh. "I wish," she said presently, "I wish the rest of the house looked this way." "If you really would like to make some changes, Nan, I will do my best. What there is in the house is good and substantial, and with a little alteration could be made to serve very well." Nan looked up eagerly. "Oh, let's try and fix up the house, for father's coming home. Mr. Turner will give us some money to pay for repairs, I guess--he always does when pipes burst and things. Won't it be jolly to watch father's face when he comes in and sees it all so pretty here? Poor old papa! Mr. Turner says he may come in the fall, and so we'll have all the summer to work and plan in, and then when he's here, won't we have a jubilation, Miss Blake?" The governess stooped to pick up a pin, and she did not reply. Then she rose and carried the tea-cups and plates to the washstand, where she began rinsing them carefully. "When your father comes home I shall not be here, you know," she said simply; "but you will be very happy together, and I am sure he would enjoy a pretty home!" The radiance in Nan's face faded suddenly. The same dull pain was at her heart that she had felt and shrunk from yesterday. Only now it did not pass away, and all the evening she seemed to be haunted by a peculiar sense of impending misfortune. It was as though she had been reminded of some unhappy occasion that she had tried to forget. Every once in a while after that, when she saw Miss Blake laboriously toiling to renovate some dilapidated piece of furniture, or heard her discussing with Delia the remaining possibilities of this carpet or that pair of curtains, she felt an almost uncontrollable desire to cry out--so sharp was the sudden sting of regret that bit at her conscience--and so keen the pain that pierced her heart. Miss Blake left her to enjoy her holidays in perfect freedom, but as soon as they were spent the books were brought out again and lessons resumed as strictly as if the discipline of an entire school depended on it. But study had grown to have no terrors for Nan, and she was not at all aware of the thorough course she was being put through, because it was all accomplished in such an unobtrusive fashion. Miss Blake had a system of her own which she put into practice, and the girl followed her unconsciously with an interest that showed how wise an one it was. Latin and mathematics proved the most troublesome of the tasks, and would perhaps have led to some serious differences of opinion if Miss Blake had not confessed herself at the start "rusty" in these particular branches and suggested that they "go over them together." "I really never was very strong in either of them, and it will do me good to review," she explained. So, spurred on by the thought of competition, Nan did her best; went through the declensions with a rush, and quite outstripped her fellow-student in the matter of algebraic problems. History was always simple enough with Miss Blake to make it seem like the most dramatic of romances, and the girl discovered a fresh interest in the Roman heroes when the scenes of their exploits was so graphically described to her, and when she could build up the ancient city for herself by the aid of Miss Blake's admirable photographs of the present. "It seems to me you have done more traveling than any one I ever knew!" exclaimed the girl for the hundredth time one day. "It has been all I had to do," rejoined the governess wistfully. "For many, many years I have had nothing else. But now all that is changed, and--as it is half-past one, and I hear Delia coming up to announce luncheon, I'll dismiss my class, and declare school over for to-day." "That is always the way," mused Nan, "whenever I refer to her and try to start her telling about herself she veers off and talks of something else. Queer about her traveling so much, though. I wonder how she came to do it--when she's so poor. She never said straight out she was some one's companion, and I don't think a governess would be taken all over the globe like that." While the ice lasted Nan had many a good hour upon her skates. Miss Blake too donned hers, and at these times the tables were turned and Nan became the patient teacher, the governess the obedient pupil. "My ankles are weak," pleaded the pupil in apology for persistent failure. "Exercise 'em and they'll grow strong!" declared the intrepid instructor in peremptory tones. "It's no use, I can't reverse, Nan!" "Pooh! 'Never say can't till you've proved that the task is impossible,'" quoted Nan, with a gleam of mischief in her eyes. "You're real mean, so there!" responded Miss Blake in return with such a good imitation of her own querulous tone that the girl burst into a shout of laughter, and the two started off again to make another, perhaps futile attempt, at the difficult feat, until, by the latter part of the winter, Miss Blake acquitted herself so creditably that her teacher regarded her with pardonable pride, and declared, "There, now! You ought to be 'all primmed up with majestick pride.' You skate as well as anybody now, and you've got rid of every particle of nervousness." There were many things beside skating that the governess set herself to accomplish during these months, and Mrs. Newton often took her to task for working so hard. "You are beginning to look completely fagged. Do let the house go. What do you fret over it for? If Nan wants alterations, why not let Mr. Turner engage competent people to do the work? You have responsibility enough without planning and overseeing all these improvements." But Miss Blake only shook her obstinate little head and continued to discuss ways and means with Mr. Turner and Delia and to direct the workmen, who presently took possession of the house, and made it seem like a Bedlam into which order could never be restored. "Oh, that's fine!" cried Nan, clapping her hands when she heard of the governess' plans. "That hall closet was no good anyhow. Delia only kept her brooms and dust-cloths there, and it's just the place for a dumb-waiter. But if we turn the library into a dining-room, what are you going to do with the books?" "The best of them can be put on low shelves along the parlor walls, and we'll take the rest upstairs and make a sort of cozy study of the front room for your father." "Splendid!" cried Nan. For weeks the place was in a turmoil. Carpets were taken up, some of them never to go down again, curtains were unhung, cleaned and folded carefully away, and when the coast was clear the work of remodelling began in earnest. It seemed to Nan as if it would never come to an end, but little by little things began to assume a more promising aspect, and at length the last lingering workman dragged himself reluctantly away, and then Delia descended upon the place, armed with scrubbing-brush and pail, and waged a mighty war upon every spot of dust or paint anywhere to be found. The parlor had been freshly papered, and its walls no longer frowned gloomily down upon the inoffensive guest, but seemed to cast a faint, rosy smile at the redecorated hall and the new dining-room beyond. Miss Blake stripped away every vestige of tarletan, and let the fine oil paintings display themselves unveiled to the public eye. "We can have the windows screened if we are afraid of flies," she said as she folded away the unsightly shrouds, and Delia echoed, "Why, so we can!" in the promptest assent, and as though it had been her own idea all along. The draperies were of the simplest sort, but Nan thought them perfection. She fairly danced with delight as she fancied her father's face when he should see his altered home. He would never recognize in this attractive, tasteful room the old, gloomy parlor of former days. The furniture was drawn out of its martial line and placed here and there in inviting positions by loving, artful hands. Various pieces were banished altogether, and where this chair or that had grown shabby Miss Blake renewed its usefulness by covering it over with some odd material that harmonized nicely with the old-fashioned shape of the frame and the tone of the rest of the room. A simple fireplace had been set in the blind chimney-piece, in which were placed grandma's graceful andirons, buried so long in the attic that Nan had never seen them, while the old mantel-shelf in the library was torn out altogether and a stately new one put in its stead, and in this too was a place for wood and fire-dogs. The two French windows leading into the glass extension were transformed into doorways, and gave pleasant vistas of a blooming conservatory, into which the south sun shone genially the best part of the day. Louie and Ruth came in on a special visit of inspection when the work was all completed, and it did not detract from Nan's enjoyment to hear them say that they thought the house one of the prettiest they had ever seen. "It has such a fresh, comfortable look," exclaimed Louie. "As if you lived in every part of it and enjoyed it yourself, and wanted other people to enjoy it with you," added Ruth. "So we do," declared Nan; "that's just what we do. Isn't it, Miss Blake?" And Miss Blake nodded a smiling assent, though she knew quite well that until very lately Nan had never thought about the matter at all. She had taken her home for granted, and it never had occurred to her to try to improve it in any wise. But the governess had had more in mind than the mere indulging of the girl's fancy when she set about rearranging the place. As in most of her characteristic schemes there was "a method in her madness." Nan soon discovered that a dainty home brought its obligations with it. "Do you notice," said Miss Blake one day, "that since the household arrangements have been altered there has been a good deal more work to be done?" "Why, I don't know," rejoined Nan; "why should there be?" "Because all these bits of bric-à-brac we have set about must be dusted every day, and because throwing the parlor open, as we do, makes another room to look after. Then the plants in the conservatory should be carefully tended if we want them to live, and Delia has to take double the steps she used to take when we ate in the basement. Really, Nan, as things stand, I feel the work is going to be too hard for her." "Dear me! Whatever are we going to do?" demanded the girl anxiously. "Simply, she must have help." "You mean another servant?" "No, not that. I cannot increase the household expenses in such a way without your father's knowledge and approval. What we have done now is almost more than I dare think of. My only comfort is that it has come out of your money." Nan gave a start. "My money!" she exclaimed. "Why, I never knew I had any. Goodness! tell me about it." "There is nothing to tell. Simply, some one who owed your mother a debt and was unable to discharge it during her lifetime, has paid in a certain part of it to Mr. Turner for your benefit--or so he tells me. Both he and I thought it wise to use it in this way. The house is virtually yours, and unless you improve it from time to time it will decrease in value. We both felt that since you wished it, and since it might be looked upon in the light of protecting your property, we might safely lay out the money as we have done without first consulting your father." "Oh, I'm glad," cried Nan. "I didn't want him to know. It'll be all the bigger surprise to him when he comes home. But what are we going to do about Delia?" "That is what I want you to tell me," rejoined Miss Blake. "I?" queried the girl. "Why, I'm sure I don't know what we can do, unless we hire another girl--and you say father can't afford that." "Now, Nan, listen to me," said Miss Blake, seriously, drawing her chair to the girl's, and emphasizing her words by laying her hand upon hers and tapping it gently whenever a point was made. "Let us put the matter quite plainly, and see if we can't come to a conclusion that will both help Delia and save us the trouble of engaging another maid. One pair of hands can't do the work in this house! You admit that?" "Yes; I s'pose so," conceded Nan. "Well then, obviously, we must secure the aid of another pair--perhaps even two." "Uh-huh!" assented the girl cheerfully enough. "Not only that, we must secure the aid of another pair, if not two, at no additional expense to your father." Here Nan's head began to drop. "That's what floors me," she responded perplexedly. "The rest is easy enough to settle; but how in the world we are going to get people to work for us for nothing--" "What are those things in your lap, Nan?" asked the governess suddenly with a quick smile and an extra tap of the finger on the girl's palm. "My hands, of course." "Why shouldn't they be the pair we need? I cordially offer the use of mine." "Oh!" Nan's face was rather blank. "I hate housework," she added, and her mouth drew down at the corners in a pout of petulance. "I doubt if any one really cares for it. But it must be done, and in this case you and I must consent to do it, at least in part. Now that you have looked the facts in the face, let us say no more about it, after we have settled just what we prefer to do. I have always taken care of my own room. Will you see to yours after this?" "I s'pose so. "Then there is the dusting and the plants." "I'll take the plants," Nan hastened to declare. "And the dishes on Mondays and Tuesdays?" continued Miss Blake. There was a pause. "If there's one thing I despise it's washing dishes," cried the girl, her voice trembling with irritation. The governess looked down at her own two delicate little hands and seemed to be considering. Then she raised her head quickly, and said, without a shade of resentment in her voice: "Very well then, dear, I'll take the dishes. So here is the way it stands: You care for the plants and your own room and I'll look after my room and do the dusting and the dishes." "You'll have more to do than I," hesitated Nan. "No matter; if you do your share well, and don't neglect it, I am willing to stand by my part. Is it a bargain?" Nan nodded grimly, and they shook hands upon it. CHAPTER XV A TUG OF WAR "Is Nan in?" asked Ruth, coming to the house one day in the very teeth of a blinding snowstorm, and putting the question to Delia with a very decided note of excitement in her voice. "Yes, she's in; but she's pretty busy," replied Delia, showing the guest into the dining-room, where the bright logs were blazing cheerfully in the fireplace, and where Miss Blake, enveloped in a huge apron, was kneeling before the hearth and polishing its tiles till they shone like gems. She stopped to welcome the guest in her own hearty, informal fashion. "O Ruth! come in and sit down. I wondered who could be brave enough to face a storm like this. Why, it is almost a blizzard. Take off your things, dear, and get warmed. You won't mind my going on with my work?" "Oh, no! not at all. Please don't stop. Thank you. This is as comfortable as can be. But then, one always is comfortable here. I came to see Nan about something important. She's busy?" "Yes, in her room. But if you don't mind waiting a little I think she will soon be able to come down," responded the governess genially. "Then I'll sit here, if you don't mind," and the girl settled herself in an engulfing armchair with a sigh of satisfaction, her eyes following Miss Blake from place to place as she tripped briskly about, energetically wielding her dust cloth and whisk broom and humming contentedly as she worked. "Perhaps you won't approve of the plan that I've got in my mind, and won't let Nan go into it," ventured Ruth, presently. "I can't fancy you suggesting anything that I would so seriously disapprove of as that," returned Miss Blake, smiling kindly, but asking for no further enlightenment on the subject than her guest was inclined to give of her own accord. "Well, then, it's this: If the cold weather lasts we'll have elegant sleighing, with all this snow, and I want to hire a sleigh, just any common old thing will do, and fill it with straw, and all of us girls and boys go off on a screamingly fine sleigh-ride. If it clears we'll have a full moon, and I think it would just be the jolliest thing in the world. Now please say Nan can go. She'll love to I know, and she always makes things snap so," pleaded the girl, fixing her eyes on Miss Blake's face with a peculiar intensity of expression. The governess hesitated. "Oh, please say she can," reiterated Ruth. "My dear Ruth, I can't say anything until I know more of the matter. You say you girls and boys are to go. What girls and boys do you mean?" "Why, Lu and Grace and Mary and the Buckstone girls, of course; and John Gardiner and Harley Morris and Everett Webster, and oh! all those fellows--the ones in our set; you've met them all." "And is there to be no grown woman in the party--no chaperone?" suggested Miss Blake. Ruth looked down and began picking a thread from the thumb of her glove. "Oh, of course; mamma wouldn't let me go unless there was a chaperone," she replied after a moment, but tamely, with the ring all faded out of her voice. "No, I am sure she would not," the governess remarked dryly. "I thought of you at once," Ruth began again with an upward glance that however did not meet Miss Blake's eye. "But then we all thought that it would be too much to ask of you--to ride all those miles with a noisy crowd in the cold and night, and--so on, and so--so--just before I came here I ran into Mrs. Cole and asked her to chaperone us, and she said she would." The governess laid her duster on a chair, and unbuttoned her apron very deliberately. "Mrs. Cole," she repeated half-aloud, as if speaking to herself, and her tone had something in it that seemed to call for some sort of justification from Ruth. "You know she's just been married, and she's as full of fun as she can be. And she likes a good time immensely, and loves to be with us girls, and it won't bore her a bit to go, and it's ever so much better to have her than--than--some one who wouldn't enjoy it, you know." "Is Mr. Cole to be of the party?" Miss Blake inquired, still with that odd inflection. "Why, no," responded Ruth, twisting her handkerchief into a hard knot. "There won't be room for him. But Mrs. Cole said it didn't matter in the least. She says she often goes off and leaves him, and he has just as nice a time sitting home with his cigar and a book or something." "They have been married, I think, three months," Miss Blake commented half to herself. "Yes, about," replied Ruth. "And Mrs. Cole is just as gay and jolly as she ever was. You may think that it isn't very dignified for a married woman to--" "Oh! my dear Ruth," interrupted the governess hastily, "I am not disparaging Mrs. Cole, and I have no right to express an opinion concerning her conduct, but I think--yes, I am quite sure that I prefer Nan not to join your party." Ruth jumped from her chair with a cry of protest: "O Miss Blake! Don't say that! Think of it, we're going to drive down as far as Howe's and have a supper and it will be such fun. We want Nan awfully. She's just the best company in the world, and if she doesn't go it will be--well, it will be too bad. Do please say she may." Miss Blake shook her head somewhat sadly. "I can't say so, Ruth. There are special reasons why Nan ought not to go--reasons that I can only explain to her, but which I am sure she will understand. You other girls have your mothers, but Nan has none, and that means that she has no protector, now that her father is absent, unless I can stand in such a relation to her. Believe me, I do not voluntarily deny Nan any pleasure, but there are some instances in which I must." "But it's going to be perfectly proper," Ruth insisted, almost in tears. "You don't think my mother would let me go if it wasn't going to be perfectly proper, do you, Miss Blake?" The governess stood before the fire and rested her arm on the high mantel-shelf, tapping the fender lightly with the toe of her slipper. At Ruth's question she turned her head quickly from the flames toward the girl with a compassionate smile. "No," she hastened to declare, "I am sure your mother would not let you go to anything that she knew to be in any respect not altogether as it should be." There was just the shade of an emphasis on the word knew--just the merest breath of a pause before it. Miss Blake gazed frankly and fearlessly into the girl's eyes as she spoke, and Ruth's lids dropped suddenly as if she had been trying to look at the sun and it had blinded her. There was a pause and in it they could distinctly hear Nan's feet going to and fro on the floor above their heads, and her sharp young voice shouting the chorus of some tuneless popular air, in her own perfectly cheerful, earless fashion. "Oh, Miss Blake, please!" quavered Ruth. If she had known the governess as well as Nan did she would have known that it was worse than useless to "tease." As it was, she was aware of some force here that did not appear in her own easy-going mother, and unconsciously she bowed to it--but even as she did so she gave a last wail of entreaty from pure force of habit. "Please, Miss Blake!" "No, Ruth. I can't consent to Nan's joining you. If she goes, it will be in direct defiance of my authority and against my wish and approval. But when she hears what I have to say I do not think she will go." "Don't think who will go?" demanded an eager voice, as Nan came pelting in at the door, having flung down stairs in such a whirl that they had scarcely realized she had started before she was here. "Heyo, Ruth! When did you come? You're a dear girl to venture out a day like this! Who'll go where, 'you don't think,' Miss Blake?" Ruth rose and began dragging on her gloves. "Hello," she said, blankly, in return for the other's greeting. "Who'll go? Who'll go?" insisted Nan, tapping the floor with her foot to emphasize her impatience. Ruth looked at Miss Blake a little sullenly, and said nothing. Miss Blake looked at Nan. "You," she returned simply. "I was just saying to Ruth that I am sure you would not go anywhere against my plainly expressed wish." The girl threw back her head with an unrestrained laugh. "Oh, now, you're bragging!" she cried breezily. "Don't count too much on me. I'm a queer creature. I don't know what I'd do if I were hard put!" Ruth glanced at Miss Blake again as she buttoned her coat. The governess' face was quite placid, but there was an expression in her eyes that was quite new to the girl and that she did not care to face. "The fact of the matter is, Nan," Miss Blake explained, "Ruth has come here to invite you to join a sleighing party to be given--what night did you say, Ruth?" "The first clear one," responded the girl still sullenly. "The first clear night," resumed Miss Blake. "All your friends are going, and it would give me as much pleasure to have you join them as it would you to do so, but--under the circumstances it is impossible to do anything save--" she paused an instant, and Nan broke in impatiently: "Under what circumstances? There aren't any circumstances! A sleighing party! Why, it'll be just magnificent and gorgeous! Of course I'll go. Hurrah! Ruth, you're a dear to ask me! Go? Well, I should think so!" Ruth fastened her fur boa about her neck, and murmured something almost inaudible about having to hurry home. "Well, you can count on me," cried Nan, flinging her arm about her friend's waist and escorting her to the door. "Good-bye! Thanks heaps for asking me! Las' tag!" The front door slammed, and the girl came back to the library with her cheeks aglow and her eyes flashing. "What fun!" she exclaimed. "I know what we'll do! We'll go down to Howe's and have a supper and a jolly good time generally. Mary Brewster and Grace and Ruth had it all planned out for the next good snow, and I'd forgotten. O goody!" Miss Blake was standing as they had left her, by the fire, with her foot upon the fender and her hand upon the high mantel-shelf. Now she took them both down and turned to Nan, saying in a low, controlled voice: "Nan, I want to talk to you about this party. And you must hear me out, even if some of the things I am about to say do not please you." She kept her eyes on the girl's face as she spoke, and saw its expression change quickly from one of eager anticipation to one of growing apprehension and then again to one of dogged opposition. So vivid were these changes that she almost lost the necessary courage to go on, for she read in them that her task promised to be no easy one. "Well?" said Nan, tapping her foot impatiently, as Miss Blake did not at once continue. "Please sit down here, and I will try to say what I have to say as quickly as possible," resumed the governess, drawing a long breath. Nan obeyed, but with a decidedly impatient fling of herself upon the low ottoman Miss Blake had indicated. "As I said to Ruth," the low voice commenced, "under almost any other circumstances it would give me the greatest pleasure to know that you were to enjoy this sleighing party with the others. If Mrs. Andrews or Mrs. Hawes were going it would settle the question at once." "Or if you were," suggested Nan, with a curl other lip. Miss Blake's face paled, and for an instant she regarded Nan in a sort of surprised, hurt silence. Then she replied, steadily: "Yes, or if I were. But as it is Mrs. Cole, the case is entirely altered. Mrs. Cole is scarcely more than a girl herself, and--I say this to you, Nan, simply because I must--she has never been, to my idea, a lady-like young woman. She has always been flippant and frivolous and boisterous; anything but a good companion for a number of impulsive, impressionable girls like yourself." "Oh, pshaw!" interrupted Nan, impatiently. "There's nothing against her at all. She's lots of fun, and a body'd be a great goose that tried to suit all the old frumps in town. She said so herself, and she's married and she knows." A ghost of a smile flitted across Miss Blake's face. Nan's emphasis reflected so directly on her own condition of unauthoritative spinsterhood. "If you and the other girls have no more careful a chaperone, one who will be no more of a restraint than Mrs. Cole, I am afraid the party will prove a rather uproarious one. And I cannot help thinking that this is precisely the reason Mrs. Cole has been asked to attend you; that you might not be under any restraint. I don't for a moment think any of you girls would deliberately take advantage of your liberty, but you are full of animal spirits, and when you get in full swing it is a little hard, perhaps harder than you know, to rein yourselves in. I am afraid Ruth has not been quite candid with her mother. At all events, I am sure that if Mrs. Andrews realized the circumstances she would think twice before letting Ruth go. It is not only that I think Mrs. Cole will not prove a restraint; I am afraid she will intentionally lead you on. And if she does, I am afraid your sleigh-ride will be decidedly unconventional." "I hope we'll have a splendid time," announced Nan, setting her jaws with a snap of her teeth. But the governess went on as if she had neither seen nor heard. "It is very important, Nan, that you especially should not be identified with anything of the sort. It might injure you in such a way that the harm could never be repaired." She paused and Nan straightened herself with a jerk. "I'd like to know why it's more important for me than for the other girls? If their mothers think it's good enough for them I guess it's good enough for me, and if they can be trusted I guess I can." Miss Blake hesitated, but only for a moment. Then she went on steadily and firmly, but without the least suggestion of sternness in her voice or manner. "The reason is simply this: You have not had the advantages the other girls have had. You have had no mother; no careful, loving training from the first, and--excuse me, dear--your behavior has shown it. How could it be expected not to do so? People have criticized you, and their criticisms have been severe, unjust even. Lately you have set yourself right with most of your neighbors, but it has been hard work, and it has been only begun. It will still be hard work to keep their good opinion. If you want to hold a place in their esteem you must earn it and keep on earning it. The other girls might do with perfect safety what you could not dream of doing, because in them it would be looked on merely as a single slip; with you it would be backsliding. Do you understand me, Nan?" There was no reply, but the girl's bent head was answer enough. Miss Blake passed her hand tenderly over the roughened hair, and for a long time there was silence between them. Nan was thinking, and Miss Blake was content to let her think. The tall clock in the corner tapped out the minutes with slow, even ticks. The fire burned steadily on the hearth, and the logs settled as they burned. Outside the high wind raced madly around bleak street corners, carrying the snow before it in white, blinding clouds. The air was so full of the swirling, eddying flakes that it dimmed the light and made evening seem to have settled down long before its usual time. Every now and then there came to them from the conservatory a faint, faint breath from a blossoming daphne, as though the delicate thing were breathing out sweet gratitude for its shelter from the storm. Nan could not help responding to the quieting influence of it all. It was very, very different from the place as it used to be, and she felt the difference and the suggestiveness of it more now than she had ever done before. Suppose the change in herself was as marked as this? Every one seemed to like her nowadays. They said she was altered and improved, and if they said so, she supposed it must be true. What, then, if she were to turn about and be her old self again? What if Miss Blake were to give the house its old aspect again? Ugh! It was disheartening even to think of such a thing. But granting that she were to let things go back, she couldn't undo some of the improvements she had made? So it seemed reasonable to Nan that even if she let herself be as she had been for awhile, just to rest from the constant trying to be good, for a day or so, the really important changes must still remain; like the dumbwaiter and the wall paper and the frescoes and the woodwork. And, pshaw! Just going to this sleigh-ride wasn't going to prove that she was backsliding, anyway! Miss Blake was too particular--making an awful fuss over nothing. Mrs. Cole was all right enough. Lots of nice people knew her, and the girls always liked to have her around, she was so gay and jolly. And now that she was married, it was fun to have her chaperone them, for she never interfered, nor was wet-blankety, like mothers and people, no matter what was going on. In fact, she often urged them on and suggested things the girls themselves would never have thought of, so that wherever she was the fun promised to run high. It was too bad of Miss Blake to have put the case as she had. It simply meant that if Nan went she deliberately disobeyed her wish and defied her authority. For the first time the girl seemed to get a glimpse of the tactful, tender way in which she had been guided. She saw that this was the first instance in which she had been put under definite restraint. Always before Miss Blake had left her seemingly to decide for herself, and she had never been aware of the influence that led her in the right direction. But this was different. This was discipline, and she rose against it instantly. If she did not go on the sleigh-ride she would only be obeying Miss Blake's injunction. There was no credit or virtue in that. There might be some satisfaction in denying one's self a pleasure if one felt one were independent, and that what one did was self-abnegating and laudable. But if one acted under compulsion--! Pooh! Nan guessed Miss Blake thought she was a mere child to be ordered about like that. And yet, with all this, there was a strange unfamiliar tugging at her heart to confess herself willing to obey. She actually had to make an effort to keep from doing so. She scarcely knew how it happened, but all at once she became conscious that she had shaken herself together and that she was saying, in no very gracious voice to be sure, but still that she was saying, "Well, if you will have it your own way, you will I suppose. There! I promise you I won't go on the sleigh-ride. Now, does that satisfy you?" Miss Blake took her hand from Nan's hair so hastily that the girl lifted her head in astonishment. But the governess had neither the air of being angry nor of being wounded as she feared. She simply rose and said in quite a matter-of-fact tone as she turned toward the door: "I demanded no promise of you, Nan, and I give you back your word. Moreover, I entirely recall my injunction. Do as you please. If you decide to go you will neither be disobeying my order nor breaking your own promise. You are quite free and untrammeled, my dear." Nan sprang to her feet. "Huh!" she cried in an exasperated manner, "I know what you mean! You mean I am quite free to go and--take the consequences. That's what you mean." Miss Blake paused but made no reply. "But suppose there aren't any consequences?" pursued Nan, biting her lip and scowling darkly from between her knitted brows. Miss Blake turned her head. "There are always consequences," she said over her shoulder in a voice that was very low and serious. CHAPTER XVI THE SLEIGH-RIDE The storm lasted for three days and then came a term of perfect weather. Under foot the snow was packed hard and tight into a compact mass over a bed of ice, and overhead the sun shone out from a cloudless sky, while the air was so keen that it kept the mercury very close to the zero mark even at midday. "How is this for high?" demanded Ruth exultantly, as she and Nan met toward the end of the week, the first time they had seen each other since that stormy day when the subject of the sleigh-ride had first been broached to Miss Blake. "The weather, you mean? Oh, perfectly fine!" responded Nan. Ruth drew a step nearer to her. "It's all arranged for to-night. Not a soul has refused; every one we've asked is going, and the sleigh is a regular old ark. We've got everything our own way. Mike, from the stables, is as solid as a brick wall. The horses are perfectly safe and we're going to have footstoves to keep our toes warm. Mrs. Cole has telephoned down to Howe's to have our supper ready, and we're going to have a simply stunning time." Nan tried to smile, but failed, and Ruth was too full of her own affairs to notice. "We're going to start at eight sharp. First we thought we'd pick up the party as we went along, but Mrs. Cole said it would waste too much time, so we're all going to meet at her house. I've so much on my mind my head's spinning. Be sure you're on hand at eight. We're not going to wait for any one." "O Ruth!" faltered Nan, flinging out a detaining hand as the girl was about to go. "I'm not going. Didn't I tell you?" Ruth stopped short and gazed at her in bewilderment. "Not going! What on earth do you mean?" "I can't go; that's all," stammered Nan, flushing hotly at the seeming weakness of the confession. Ruth stared at her blankly. "Well, I like that!" she enunciated at length. "Why, I told you, didn't I?" asked Nan. "Told me what? That you weren't going? Well, I should say not. Miss Blake said you couldn't but you said flat down you would, and, of course, I believed you. Don't you remember the last words you said as I went away that day were that I could count on you? And so, of course, I counted." Nan stood and regarded the snow at her feet in silence. "It's right-down mean to back out at the last minute when the party's all made up and the couples all arranged and you've given your word. We've been awfully careful whom we've asked, because we only wanted a certain kind--not alone a certain number. Of course, we could get lots of girls to take your place and jump at the chance; but we prefer you, and you'd given your promise." Nan ground the snow under her foot until it squeaked. "I thought you were sick, or something, when you didn't come around," went on Ruth, sternly. "I never imagined for a minute it was because you meant to flunk and leave us in the lurch like this. If I'd thought that I wouldn't have gone to all the trouble I did to save you a place next to John Gardiner when Mary Brewster was fighting tooth and nail to get it." The pinched snow squeaked again under Nan's grinding heel, this time louder than before. "It's all nonsense, Miss Blake's not wanting you to go," pursued Ruth. "Everything is as proper as pie, and if the boys get to carrying on a little too much Mrs. Cole will settle them in no time. She's real determined when she makes up her mind. What under the sun does Miss Blake think we are going to do? But that's no matter now. You gave me your word, and you've no right to go back on it. Besides, it'll set us all topsy-turvey with our accounts, for if you don't go of course you won't turn in your share of the tax, and we couldn't ask any one at the last minute just to come as a make-shift and expect her to pay for the privilege. The end of it will be the rest of us will have to make it up, and if you think that's fair I don't!" "I'll gladly pay my dues," returned Nan, more meekly than Ruth had ever heard her speak. "You can ask any one you choose as my substitute, and say anything you please to explain my not going, and I'll stand by you." This began to sound serious, and Ruth felt it was time to clinch her argument. "If you go out Louie Hawes will, too. Her mother said she'd let Lu go if Miss Blake would let you, but that if Miss Blake objected she thought it would be best not to have Lu join. She said she made Lu's going entirely conditional on yours. So, you see, if you back out you'll not alone be breaking your promise, but you'll be breaking up the party and making a mess of it all round. I told Mrs. Hawes you were going, and Lu's heart is set on it. If she has to stay back now, at the last minute like this, it will disappoint her dreadfully, and I wouldn't blame her if she never spoke to you again." Nan felt that she had been driven into a corner, and that there was but one way out of it. In spite of her strong desire to go with the girls, she had determined to stick to her resolve to stay behind. She had hardly known why she had tried to avoid them all these days. But now she knew. It was because she was afraid they would shake her resolution. Once she would have called herself cowardly for trying to spare herself such temptation, but now she knew better; she saw she had been simply wise. It would not have been brave, but merely reckless, to have done otherwise. She had known ever since Miss Blake spoke that she was free to do as she pleased. That she was held by no promise; that she was compelled by no stronger claim than Miss Blake's disapproval, which might be, after all, only a groundless personal prejudice, she thought. She hardly realized why she felt bound to obey. And now along came Ruth to prove that there were other claims outside Miss Blake's. She remembered perfectly having said that Ruth could count on her. Here was a very definite promise, although it had been made in half-ignorance, and she understood clearly that Ruth meant to make her keep it. Then, again, she was directly responsible for Louie's disappointment, and this seemed to her, as Ruth had intended it should seem, a compelling conclusion. If she had been older her reasoning would not have stopped here, but, as it was, she perceived only two sides to the question, and this that Ruth had just presented seemed infinitely more convincing than the one Miss Blake had tried to make clear to her. Ruth's logic she could understand; the governess' seemed vague and incomprehensible. In one case she had been coerced into making a promise from which she had later been absolved; in the other she had given her word of her own free will, and she was being stoutly held to it. There were other influences at work, but Nan did not know it. She honestly believed she was waiving all considerations but those with which her duty was concerned, and she thought she had done so when she broke out with a sort of impatient groan: "Oh, dear! I never saw such a tangle!" "Well," returned Ruth grimly, "I don't know anything about that, but whatever it may be, I've got the strong end of the line and I mean to hold it. You've just got to go and that's all there is to it." Nan gave a rueful laugh. She more than half-liked to have Ruth leave her no alternative. It somehow made her seem less responsible to herself. If the decision were taken out of her hands she could not be held accountable and--the enjoyment would be there all the same. "I wish you'd let me off, Ruth," she protested weakly, as a sort of last sop to her conscience. Ruth saw that she had prevailed and gave her head a triumphant toss. "Well, I won't, so there! And what's more I can't stand here wasting time like this another minute. I have a hundred things to do before eight o'clock, so good-bye! Be sure you're on time for we won't wait a second, and if you don't arrive none of us will ever speak to you again, so there!" Nan stood dumbly stubbing her toe into a little mound of snow quite a minute after Ruth had left her. She had not even glanced up when, in response to her friend's last declaration, she had said, "Very well; I'll be on hand," and her voice had sounded so flat and lifeless that Ruth thought it better to hasten off before the words could be recalled. When Nan spoke in that half-hearted tone Ruth had no faith in her strength of purpose. She walked home in a doubtful frame of mind, wondering if, after all, the promise would be kept. But Nan had no such misgivings. She knew perfectly well that she was "in for it" now, but, strange to say, she felt no exultation in the prospect. "Oh, dear!" she snapped out peevishly, with a last vicious dig of her heel into the snow, "every bit of enjoyment is taken out of it, I never saw anything so provoking, in the whole of my life. If Miss Blake only hadn't been so mean, I might have been spared all this fret and bother and been just as jolly as any of them. But how can a person have a good time when they know there's some one at home pulling a long face and making one feel as if one were breaking all the laws. It's just too bad, that's what it is." But Miss Blake neither "pulled a long face" nor by any other means tried to impress Nan with a sense of her disapproval. She took her decision quietly, and made no comment upon it one way or the other. But when it neared dressing time, and the girl had gone to her room to prepare, she tapped gently for admittance and came in, bearing in her hand a coquettish sealskin hood which she generously offered to Nan, saying: "It's bitterly cold, and I know you won't want to tie a comforter about your ears. If you will wear this I shall be only too happy to lend it to you. See, the cape is so full and deep your chest and back can't get chilled, and it is not at all clumsy, as so many of them are. Try it on. I think it will be becoming and I know it will keep you warm." Nan was at a loss for words. Miss Blake had none of the air of heaping coals of fire on her head, but just for a second the girl suspected her of it and hung back reluctantly. Then she looked into the frank, honest eyes and all her suspicion vanished. "You're--you're awfully kind," she stammered, hastily. "Try it on," repeated Miss Blake, cordially. Nan took the soft, warm thing by its rich brown ribbons and, setting it snugly on her head, tied the strings into a big broad bow beneath her chin. "It's not so unbecoming!" commented the governess, observing Nan critically with her head on one side. Nan looked in the mirror. What she saw there was the reflection of a flushed, excited face with keen, young eyes that were just now unusually large and bright. Sundry riotous tendrils of hair had escaped from their restraining combs and were flying loose at the temples, and, framing all, was a circle of dusky, flattering fur which lent a look of softness and roundness to the firm, square chin and rose above the brow in a quaint, coquettish peak which was vastly graceful and becoming. "O Miss Blake!" cried Nan, her eyes flashing with pleasure, "isn't it the darlingest thing? And as warm as toast! I'll be ever and ever so careful of it. You're awfully good to lend it to me. But I really think I oughtn't to take it. Something might happen; it might get lost." "Don't give it another thought," Miss Blake said, kindly. "Just wear it and keep warm and comfortable. You must take the gloves, too. They will keep your fingers cozy." So Nan set out looking like a young Russian in her borrowed furs and feeling what satisfaction she might in the consciousness that she was appearing, if not behaving, at her best. She found most of the party already assembled at Mrs. Cole's and as the door was opened to her, a loud chorus of shouting laughter met her ears and she was laid hold of by a dozen hands and dragged forward under the gaslight. "Pooh!" shrieked the chorus again. "This one's easy enough! Nan Cutler! first guess," and she was released as hurriedly as she had been set upon, while the entire company fell upon a later comer and tried to discover the identity of the muffled, veiled individual before she had either spoken or recovered from the unexpected onslaught. "Well, Nan," cried Harley Morris, jovially, "you're the only girl who isn't muffled out of all recognition. We've had a dandy time trying to identify some of them." "I never saw you look so well," declared Louie Hawes, generously, with her eyes glued to the fascinating peak. "Nor I," broke in Mary Brewster. "Really, I didn't know you at first. That hood is as disguising to you as our veils are to us." Nan flushed, but made no response. Harley Morris gave a low whistle and strolled off to join John Gardiner, who was standing before the fire talking with grave-faced Mr. Cole, and as he went she heard him murmur under his breath: "Sweet remark! Oh, these dear girl friends!" It instantly changed her feeling from momentary resentment toward Mary to pity for her. All at once Mrs. Cole's shrill treble was heard high above the hum and murmur of the other voices, crying: "Now, girls and boys, time's almost up! It any of the party's missing, he or she will be left behind! Prompt's the word." Then, stepping over to her husband, she tapped him lightly on the shoulder and said: "There now, Tom, I'm glad we're going, for you're looking as solemn as an owl. Cheer up and have a lovely time with your book and that jolly fire, and don't forget to go to bed at nine o'clock like a good little boy." Mary Brewster laughed, and most of the others joined in her merriment. But Mr. Cole looked so troubled and stern that Nan, who was gazing at him from the corners of her eyes, saw no reason to laugh at his wife's sally, but felt a much greater inclination to cry for pity of him and his anxious face. Suddenly she was roused from her musing by John Gardiner's voice close at her ear. "Nan!" he said. "Oh, heyo, John!" "I want to tell you something," he went on, nervously, in a hesitating whisper. "From the looks of her, Mrs. Cole means to carry things with a high hand to-night. Hope we won't come to grief. Sometimes the motto is 'everything goes,' and then it isn't so easy to hold back and stand for the things you ought to. I depend on you, Nan, to keep a level head, for some of us'll have to act as ballast or we'll all go under." Nan's face glowed with gratification. "All right, John," she responded staunchly, and then, Mrs. Cole giving the signal, in an instant the roomful seemed to fling itself helter-skelter to the hall-door, fastening boas and mufflers as it went, all eager and breathless to be off. There was a deal of laughing and exclaiming, shrieking and protesting as the girls were bundled, one after another, into the sleigh. "Is this you, Lu?" "Yes. O dear! I have lost my veil. No, here it is, dragged under my chin." "I thought I was to sit next to you, Nan!" "Oh, that's all right, Mary's there, and it's too late to change now. No matter." John Gardiner leaped up. "I say there, Mike, hold your horses for a second. Would you mind moving down a place, Mary? Thanks! Mrs. Cole said I was to sit next to Nan, and as we are all under her orders to-night I'm bound to obey. There! this is what I call festive! 'A thorn between two roses,' eh?" and he settled himself comfortably between the two girls with a great, hearty laugh and a final "Ready!" at which word the horses started into a brisk trot. Their bells broke into a silver chime; the sleigh swept smoothly over the glaze of snow, and the evening's fun began. Some one had brought a tin horn, and this was blown with such a vim that conversation was impossible. But remarks and retorts were shouted from one side to the other, and the tamest of them brought forth peals of laughter. The heaven above them was densely black, and out of it flashed innumerable stars like sparks white-hot and quivering with inward fire. But the wind that swept across the sky was so cold that it made it seem to contract and retreat and leave the shivering world an inconceivable depth below. Swathed and bundled as they were, the girls very soon began to feel the deadly chill in the icy air. "Nan's shivering like an ash-pan!" John cried out suddenly. "Has anybody got an extra shawl or something they can lend her?" "Hush!" returned the girl, trying to control her trembling, "it's nothing; I'm all right." "Pity she can't keep warm with John Gardiner beside her!" Mrs. Cole suggested. In the shadow Nan's teeth came together with a snap of disgust. She saw now what it was in Mrs. Cole that offended Miss Blake. She had never noticed it before, but it had been there, and she knew it. John made no retort, while the others laughed and applauded. "Here, Nan!" spoke up some one at the other end of the sleigh, "here's a cigarette. Take it and warm yourself before its genial blaze," and it was passed along from hand to hand, its ruddy point glinting out in the shadow as it went along. When it came to Mary, instead of handing it on at once, she held it a moment, then suddenly raised it to her lips. "Hey, there! Turn off the draught!" cried its owner merrily at sight of the newly-glowing tip. "Shut down the damper!" shouted some one else. "I dare you to smoke it!" laughed Mrs. Cole. Mary deliberately took a long puff. Nan leaned back behind John and laid her gloved hand impulsively on Mary's shoulder. "O Mary!" she protested in a whisper. "Don't. Please! It'll make you sick." But the girl was not to be thwarted. She shook off Nan's hand impatiently. "Mind your own business!" she replied, and took another puff. On they swept through the icy air, across the snow-covered country, amid the white night. The horn blew; the voices sang and shouted, and finally the sleigh swung up before the hospitable road-house, where every window was alight and their steaming supper awaited them. It was harder to get out of the sleigh than it had been to get in it, for joints that at first had been limber and strong were now stiff and cramped from cold and disuse, and the girls made a sorry show, limping and halting from the sleigh to the house. When Nan first gained the ground she could hardly stand, but a little vigorous exercise soon sent the blood tingling through her veins again and unknotted her muscles, and she was about to run gayly up the path when she felt a hand upon her shoulder, and looking round saw Mary Brewster beside her, her face ghastly and drawn in the pallid moonlight and her chin quivering weakly in a manner that Nan saw at once was not the effect of the cold. "Lean on my shoulder and I'll get you up to the house in a jiff," she said, in a low whisper. Mary clung to her, wavering and faint, without a word, and in the confusion no one noticed her plight. Nan had fairly to drag her up the steps, and then again up the staircase to the room the woman of the place had showed them when Nan had drawn her aside and told her of their dilemma. "It's the cold!" gasped Mary, crying abjectly between her spasms of misery. "No such thing!" returned Nan stoutly. "It's that villainous cigarette. But never mind now. There! Don't think of anything but getting better. I'll stroke your head for you. It must be aching terribly." So she soothed and comforted the girl as best she could, and the kind mistress of the house came up every now and then with offers of help and reports of how the supper was progressing below, and after a while Mary grew quieter and could do something beside moan and cry and wring her hands over her own wretchedness. "Nan," she whispered presently in a conscious-smitten voice, "I want you to leave me and go down stairs. You've given up the best part of the fun for me, but you shan't lose it all. Please go down!" Nan shook her head. "No, you don't, ma'am!" she declared cheerfully, and Mary was too exhausted to argue the question. She felt deliciously drowsy and the freedom from pain made her tearfully happy. Vague, dreamy thoughts were wandering through her brain, and one of them was that Nan had been very kind to her. She had not deserved it. She had been mean to Nan. She admitted it. She ought to beg her forgiveness. It was so good to be out of pain that she was willing to do anything to prove her gratitude. She opened her eyes and saw Nan bending over her with a face full of sympathy. She put up her hands and drew the face down to hers, her lip trembling like a little child's. "Kiss me, Nan!" Nan kissed her. "I want you to forgive me. I've been hateful to you and you've been generous and kind and--I love you for it. I'd like to be your friend--if you'd let me, after the way I've treated you." Nan kissed her again. "Never mind that now. We'll begin all over, and I guess I can behave a little better myself. Now go to sleep and get a good nap before it's time to go home." CHAPTER XVII CONSEQUENCES As soon as she saw that Mary had fallen soundly asleep Nan rose and slipped noiselessly down stairs. She had no trouble in finding the supper-room, for she had only to follow the echoing sounds to be led directly to the door. She stood a moment on the threshold before she laid her hand upon the knob. It seemed to her she had never heard such a hub-bub, but as she listened she seemed to hear, over and above it all, Miss Blake's soft voice saying quietly: "If you and the other girls have no more careful a chaperone than Mrs. Cole, I am afraid your party will prove a rather uproarious one." "Rather uproarious!" Nan smiled, as she repeated the words to herself. Then she turned the knob and pushed open the door. The clamor surged louder than ever, and for a second seemed almost to stun her. Dishes were clattering, and every one seemed doing his or her best to add to the tumult and confusion. No one noticed Nan standing dumbly in the doorway, and it was only when some one's eye fell upon her as she took a step or two forward that there was a cry of "Hullo! Here's Nan!" and she was pulled to the table, forced into a chair, and plied with all sorts of dishes and questions, until she put her hands to her ears and begged for mercy. "Here's some salad! Take this!" "The jelly's most gone and what's left of it is melted. But you're welcome to it such as it is and what there is of it." "Where have you been all this time?" "We've been calling you every sort of a name for being so rude as to stay away from the supper." "Oh, Nan had her good reason," shouted Mrs. Cole, pushing back her chair and springing to her feet. "Come, girls and boys!" she cried shrilly, "it's getting late. If we want to dance we'd better be about it." Of course that led to a general uprising, and in a moment the whole tableful was swarming toward the parlor. "How do you like it, Nan?" asked John Gardiner, quizzically, coming and leaning toward her to whisper the question in her ear, as they stood at one side waiting for the music to begin. "Like it!" repeated Nan, "I think Mrs. Cole's simply--well, I'm sorry she was ever asked to come. It would all have been so different if we had had Mrs. Andrews or Mrs. Hawes or--just imagine Miss Blake acting as she has to-night!" "I can't imagine it!" returned John, emphatically, "and worse yet, Mike is in no condition to drive us home. He's been drinking. I went out to see if the horses were all right and being fed, you know, and there I heard about it. Mike simply mustn't drive." Nan pressed her hands together and gave a stifled groan. "That's what I wanted to tell you," continued John, hurriedly. "It isn't safe to let him try and I'm going to take his place myself. I don't know how long I can stand it, for it's colder than ever and I haven't any driving gloves, but I'll do the best I can and perhaps some of the other fellows will lend a hand." Nan thought a minute. "I tell you what," she declared at last, "I'm going to do part of the driving myself. I'll sit up front and when you give out I'll lend a hand and we'll get through somehow. I've Miss Blake's gloves and they are as warm as toast." The anxious look faded a little from John's face, and in spite of himself he showed he was relieved. "I may not have to give up at all," he said at length; "but if I do there's not a fellow in the whole lot I'd rather trust the reins to than you. Come! They're making a move. Get your things on as quick as you can and be where I can see you so we can take our places without making too much talk." In a twinkling Nan had flown upstairs, roused Mary and helped her to get ready and was hooded and cloaked and standing in the hall-way. The others came up one by one and presently the big door was opened and they trooped through it out into the waiting sleigh. John gave Nan a hand and she sprang quickly to the place beside him on the driver's seat. They started. It proved a very different matter sitting on that unsheltered box facing the wind to cuddling, as they had done before, among the warm straw with their faces shielded from the current by the high protecting sides of the sleigh, and after a very little while Nan had to set her teeth to keep from crying out for the pain in her stinging cheeks. Back of them the rest of the party shouted and tootled and yodeled as cheerfully as ever. Every one wanted to know what had become of Mike, and as nobody could tell but John and Nan, and they wouldn't, the questions went unanswered, and by and by the subject was dropped and only occasional spiteful jokes made by Mrs. Cole at the expense of John's driving and Nan's sitting beside him while he did it. Happily the horses knew the way home and were eager to get there, so they did not have to be urged or guided. But it was necessary to hold a tight rein, and John's hands soon began to feel tortured and twisted with the strain upon them biting through their numbness like screws of pain. He shook his head determinedly when Nan offered to relieve him, and at last she had to wrench the reins from him in order to take her share of duty and give him a chance to recover a little. So, taking turns faithfully like good comrades, and exchanging never a word, they got the sleigh and its load safely into town at last, and not one of the gay, irresponsible party knew how difficult an achievement it had been. Miss Blake herself opened the door to Nan and let her in. One glance at her, as she stood huddled and quivering with cold in the vestibule, was enough. Not a question was asked. She was led gently into the warm dining-room, her hood and cloak taken from her and her frozen hands briskly chafed, while on Miss Blake's tea-stand stood her little brass kettle, bubbling and purring merrily above its alcohol flame, and hinting broadly at soothing cups of something "grateful and comforting." Nan let herself be waited upon in a sort of half dream. The agony in her hands had been so great that it had taken all her strength to bear it, and now it was going she felt weak and babyish. "O dear!" she broke down at last, with a gulp of relief. "It's been an awful evening! Mrs. Cole was detestable. Do you know what she did?" and then came out the whole story pell-mell: all told in Nan's blunt, uncompromising way, and giving Miss Blake a better idea than anything else could have done of just how right she had been in opposing the girl's going under such chaperon age. She was too wise to say "I told you so," and she was too sincere to try to gloss over the probable result of the episode. She looked grave and thoughtful when Nan had finished her account, and her voice was very serious as she said: "What the consequences to the others may be I don't know; I dread to think. But I feel that at least you and John and Mary have seen things as they are, and will profit by your experience. You remember the talk we had at Mrs. Newton's before the holidays? She said 'Experience is an expensive school, and only fools can afford to go to it,' or something like that; you are no fool, Nan. I think you will see more and more plainly, as time goes on, that there are some things that we cannot afford to do. We cannot afford to buy a momentary pleasure at the price of a lifetime of regret, and we cannot afford to spend even one day of our life in unscrupulous company. It costs too much. We think we have a very keen business sense, we men and women, but we allow ourselves to be cheated every day we live in a way that would disgust us if we were dealing in dollars and cents. Self-respect is more valuable than momentary enjoyment, yet those boys and girls sold one for the other to-night. "As for you, I think you made a good exchange, Nan, when you gave up your supper for Mary's sake. Love is a reliable bank, dear, and you can't make too many deposits in it. It always pays compound interest, and the best of it is, it never fails." Nan's lips opened as if she were about to speak, but she closed them again, and sat looking into the fire very seriously and silently for some time. Then the lips parted again, and this time the words came, though even now with an effort: "I guess you'll think it's no credit to me that I'm sorry I went. But I am sorry, and I would be if it had been the best time in the world. I didn't want to go, really, after you said you'd--rather I wouldn't. I didn't, honestly. It won't do either of us any good for me to say now that I wish I had done as you wanted me to. But I do wish it. I've hated myself all along for acting as I did. Now don't let's say anything more about it--but--but--I wanted you to know how I feel." There was an ominous catch in her voice that warned Miss Blake not to pursue the subject. Nan could humble herself to apologize, but to follow the abasement up by shedding tears on it was too much for her dignity, and she fought against it stolidly. But the governess knew her well enough by this time to feel assured that what she said was true, and she accepted the clumsy, halting "amende" as gratefully as if it had been the most graceful of acknowledgments. "Dear me," she broke in, in quite a matter-of-fact way. "Do you know that the small hours are getting to be large hours, and we are sitting here as unconcernedly as if it were just after dinner. Come, let us both get upstairs and to bed as fast as our feet can carry us," and she promptly set the example by extinguishing the lamp and helping Nan to shoulder her armful of wraps. "Oh, by the way," she said, as they readied the upper hall, and the girl was about to make return of the hood, "you may keep it if you will. Accept it and the gloves, with my love, as a sort of recompense for what other things you have missed this evening." Nan was too overcome by the richness of the gift to make any response at all for a moment. Then she blurted out awkwardly, though in a very grateful voice: "You're so good to me it makes me--ashamed. You're always giving me things. It isn't right. You give away everything you have." Miss Blake lifted her chin and laughed gayly over the cleft in it. "No, I don't," she returned, tip-toeing to drop the gloves, like a blessing, on the girl's head. "I have one or two things which I keep all for myself. But if I like to give presents, do you know what it's a sign of? It's a sign I'm poor. Poor people are always possessed by a passion for giving presents. It's true! I've always noticed it! Good-night!" And that was the last Nan heard about the affair from Miss Blake. Unfortunately--or fortunately--it was not the last she heard of it from others, by any means. It was a long, long time before it was allowed to drop. In the first place, Michael was discharged from the stables, and this led to a vast amount of discussion, for the poor fellow, who was temperate by nature, was thrown out of employment in midwinter, and his predicament seemed a pitiable one to those who really understood the facts in the case. Miss Blake, when she heard of the affair, had bidden John Gardiner bring the man to her. She heard his story, and then sent him off with a few kindly, encouraging words, and the poor fellow felt comforted in spite of the facts that she had given him neither money nor any definite promise of help. When he had gone she sat for some time thinking busily, her chin in her palms and her elbows propped on the desk in front of her. She was still for so long that John and Nan stole off after a while and tried experiments with the kodak on some back-yard views, and when they came back to Miss Blake's room to ask her opinion on some point of focus they found the place deserted and the governess gone. The next day Mike was discovered sitting smilingly enthroned in his accustomed place on the lofty box of the livery "broom-carriage," and he vouchsafed the information to congratulating friends that: "Ut's another chanct Oi hav, though how Oi come boy ut ye'll niver know anny moar than Oi do mesilf, for Misther Allen was that set agin me he wuddn't hear a wurrud Oi'd sa'. But Oi have another chanct and ut's mesilf 'll see till ut, ut lasts me me loife-toime." "O dear!" complained Ruth to Nan, "I never want to hear the name of sleigh-ride again so long as I live. Everywhere I go, they say so significantly: 'We hear you had a very gay time the other night! Well, well! such things wouldn't have been tolerated when I was young!' and then they make some cutting remark about Mrs. Cole, and I'm afraid it's not going to be very pleasant for her after this, for none of our fathers and mothers want to have anything more to do with her. They say her example has been so bad. And one can't have a bit of fun nowadays, for we're all being kept on short rations to pay up for the other night." But as the weeks passed the gossip died away and then every one breathed freer again. Latterly Nan was filling her part of the household contract with considerably less ill-will than she had shown at the beginning, but even now there were occasional lamentations when the day was especially enticing, and her spirits rose and soared above the pettiness of bed-making and the degradation of dusting. It took her about twice as long to get through with her share of the work as it took Miss Blake, and she could never console herself with the thought that it was because the governess shirked. Occasionally she let her own tasks go "with a lick and a promise," as Delia described it, bat when she saw the thoroughness with which Miss Blake did even the least important thing she had the grace to be ashamed and to determine on a better course in the future. But before she really settled down to a stricter habit of conscientiousness something happened that gave her more of an impulse than a course of lectures would have done. The winter had been a long and unusually severe one, but by March it seemed reasonable to suppose that its backbone was broken. Nan had preferred the care of the conservatory to the duller and less interesting work of dish-washing, and Miss Blake, in letting her take her choice, had only exacted the promise that her charge was not to be neglected. Nan had, as we know, given her hand upon it, and so the matter stood. The governess never "nagged" her about her duties; she took it for granted that the girl would honorably keep her word. And indeed for some time she was tolerably thorough, watering the plants and loosening the soil about their roots; sponging the leaves of the rubber trees and palms and picking off all the shriveled leaves and faded petals from the flowering shrubs and keeping the temperature at as nearly the right degree as was possible with such varying weather and their simple device for heating the place. But she found it was much more of a tax than she had first supposed. At the start plants had seemed so much more inviting than dishes that she had appropriated the care of them at once, and now that she discovered what her selection really involved she felt almost aggrieved, and was inclined to be cross when she saw Miss Blake's tasks finished for the day while her own was scarcely more than begun. "Provoking things!" she would declare as she dashed a double spray of water on the rubber trees that did not need it, and gave but a mere sprinkle to the blossoming azalias that did: "if I'd known what a nuisance you were I can tell you I never would have taken you! Here! will you come off, or won't you?" and she would give some wilted blossom a vicious jerk that would set the entire plant shaking in its pot as though it were trembling with distress at the rough treatment it was receiving. If Miss Blake heard her she gave no sign. Sometimes when they passed a florist's window she would stop and look wistfully in at the bewildering display, and Nan would know that she was longing to go in and buy some especially fascinating orchid or unusually rare crysanthemum. But she would not yield to her impulse, for on one occasion the girl had said with a shrug of impatience: "For goodness' sake don't get any more. It's all I can do to attend to the bothersome things now. I wish they were all in Hong Kong--every one of them." [Illustration: "Provoking things!"] So since then there had been no further additions to the conservatory, and Miss Blake had to check her horticultural ardor or confine it to her window-sill upstairs. But the plants throve in spite of their ungracious nursing, and when she was not irritated by them Nan was very proud of the fine showing they made. "I think that double, white azalia is one of most beautiful things I ever saw: so pure and delicate!" said Mary Brewster to Miss Blake, hanging over it in honest admiration one leaden-skied day when she come to carry Nan off to her house to dinner and was waiting while the girl went upstairs to get ready. "Yes," replied the governess, "I love it! But then, I love all the dear things--even those poor woolly-leaved little primroses that have almost less charm for me than any flowers I know. I'm so glad they are all doing so well. I can't bear to bring a plant into the house and then have it die. It seems almost like murder. But now I must run away. I have an appointment with my dentist at three. It is very good of you to ask Nan to dinner to-night, and I'm doubly glad it happens as it does, for she would have to dine alone if she stayed at home, for I have to go out of town on business and cannot get back tonight. Delia will call for Nan at nine o'clock. Good-bye, and have a pleasant evening!" and she caught up her satchel and was off in a twinkling. But after she had let herself out of the front door she came back and called Nan to the head of the stairs. "It's bitterly cold," she said. "I had no idea it was so severe! Be sure you wrap up warmly, Nan, and don't forget your gloves and leggings when you come home. Oh, and the plants! You'll not fail to look after them when you get in--the last thing before you go to bed? I think it will freeze to-night, and they will need extra heat. Now, good-bye again, and God bless you!" Nan waved her a vigorous adieu with the towel she held in her hand, and this time the governess was off in earnest. The two girls followed her out not long after, and went laughing and chatting down the street. "I've asked Grace and Lu and Ruth to come in after dinner, and we're going to have a candy-pull. I didn't ask John, but I told him what was up, and he said he and Harley and Everett had been wanting to call for some time, and as I'd be sure to be in, he thought they might as well do it to-night. I told him he'd have to 'call' loud, for we'd be in the kitchen, and probably wouldn't hear him, and he said he'd see to it that we did; so I suppose we'll have them too." Among them all it proved a gay evening, and seemed unusually so, for of late jollifications had been rare. As Ruth said, "they were all kept on short rations to pay up for the other night." It appeared to Nan when Delia arrived that she had made a mistake in the hour, and had appeared at eight instead of nine; but as it happened Delia purposely delayed in order that her girl might have an extra sixty minutes, and when she pointed to the clock, whose short hand pointed to ten, Nan could only shake her head, and say: "Well, I suppose so--but it doesn't seem as if it could be." It was so cold that Delia had brought an additional wrap for her, and the girl was glad to avail herself of it when she felt the nip of the freezing air. "Why, it's much worse than it was this afternoon," she said. "If this is spring, I'd just as lief have winter. I tell you what it is, Delia, it won't take me long to tumble into bed. I'm frozen stiff already. I hope you locked up before you came out, so all we'll have to do will be to go upstairs. I hate to putter about in the cold." It seemed strange to go to bed without Miss Blake's cheery "Good-night!" ringing in her ears. It was the first time the governess had spent a night away from home since she first came to the house, almost six months ago, and Nan devoutly hoped there wouldn't be a repetition of the performance in another half-year. Her empty room gave one "les homeseeks." In order to forget it and to escape the cold, Nan cut short her preparations for the night and got into bed with as little delay as possible. She cuddled comfortably between her smooth sheets and soft blankets and in a moment was soundly asleep. When she waked the next morning it was with a vague feeling of responsibility, as though she had gone to sleep with a weight of some calamity on her heart. As she dressed she tried to recall it but there was nothing in yesterday's experience to depress her and she ran down to breakfast determined to shake off the haunting impression. But all through the meal it clung to her and she could not get rid of it. To be especially virtuous in Miss Blake's absence and show her that she was "dependable," she took the dish-washing upon herself and got through with it speedily. Then up to her room to set that in order, and then down to the conservatory to attend to the plants. It was just as this juncture that Delia heard a wild cry of distress ring through the house. She ran upstairs in a fright and found Nan standing at the threshold of the conservatory door gazing in and wringing her hands. The sight that met her eyes was a pitiful one. There was not one plant among them all that had outlived the night. The leaves of all were frozen black. CHAPTER XVIII "CHESTER NEWCOMB" "Oh, do you think I could?" demanded Nan, eagerly. Miss Blake considered a moment. "I don't see any reason why it might not be arranged." "It's right by the sea and Ruth says they never fuss about clothes down there. Just anything will do." The governess smiled. "Nevertheless I think you will need a couple of changes. I have sometimes been asked to visit country houses where 'anything would do,' and I've generally found that it all depends on what one understands by 'anything.'" "I can wear a shirt-waist in the morning and in the afternoon I can wear a--a--another one," announced Nan. Miss Blake laughed. "You poor child," she said, "I do believe you haven't much beside for the summer." "You see," broke in Nan, shamefacedly, "Delia didn't know anything about styles and I didn't--care, and so we sort of let clothes go. It isn't because father wouldn't want me to have nice things." Miss Blake took her up quickly. "I know it is not. And now we must set to work at once to get you properly provided, for you are old enough now to 'care,' not necessarily about styles, but certainly about making a creditable appearance, and I want you to have a suitable wardrobe so that you may always keep yourself tidy." It seemed to Nan that the wardrobe Miss Blake proceeded to provide for her was something more than merely "tidy." The frocks were simple, it is true, but very dainty and tasteful, and in her new interest in them and the way they were made she quite forgot to complain at the extra inch or two which the governess caused to be added to the length of the skirts. There had been some stormy scenes when the winter dresses were being made, Nan insisting that she would not wear "such horrid dangling things that were forever getting in her way." She wanted her skirts made short, and if she couldn't have her skirts made short, etc. The skirts had not been made short, and these were even longer. Clad in them Nan looked very tall and womanly, and Delia realized for the first time that her "baby" had ceased to be a little girl. So at last the preparations were completed and the girl started off to spend a fortnight with Ruth at the Andrews' beautiful summer home by the sea. Then came gay times. Early morning dips in the surf; clam-bakes on the beach; long, lazy hours spent on the veranda, when the day was too warm for exercise, and when it was cooler, fine spins along the hard, white sand, for miles beside the shimmering sea. Nan grew as brown as an Indian, for she scorned shade-hats, and oftenest had nothing on her head at all but her own thick thatch of riotous brown hair. Ruth's brother taught Nan to swim, and she entered into it with so much zest that to his surprise he found his only difficulty lay in trying to restrain her. Nothing seemed to daunt her, and whatever any one else did she immediately wanted to try. "The fact of the matter is," young Mr. Andrews declared one day, "you ought to have been a boy. You'd make a capital fellow." "I know it," admitted Nan, frankly. "I love boys' sports and pranks, and to think that all my life I've just got to 'sit on a cushion and sew up a seam.' It's perfectly awful." "Fancy!" exclaimed Miss Webster, a fellow-guest, and a young lady whom, by the way, Nan regarded with a good deal of disdain, because she seemed what John Gardiner called "girly-girly," and was flirtatious. "Fancy! Why, I wouldn't be a man for anything in the world! Just think what hideous clothes they wear." "Thank you, Miss Webster," retorted Mr. Andrews with mock solemnity. "Oh, I didn't mean you," she returned with an emphasis and a soft glance of the eyes. "You really dress extremely well. I adore your neck-ties and your boots are dreams." Helen Andrews tried to hide a scowl of irritation. Alice Webster was her friend, and she disliked having her display herself in her worst light. She knew her to be a warm-hearted, honorable girl whose gravest fault, which, after all, might be only a foible, was her tendency to turn coquettish when she was in the society of gentlemen. Ruth rose and beckoned Nan to follow her. "Isn't she a lunatic?" she demanded, as soon as they were out of ear-shot. "Perfect idiot!" responded Nan. "I should think your brother would just duck her in the water some fine day when she's making those sheep's eyes at him. I would if I were in his place." "Oh, he doesn't care. He thinks she's lots of fun. Besides, he's going away to-morrow, and won't see her again unless Helen makes her stay longer." "What'll she do for some one to make eyes at?" "Don't know. Helen generally has a lot of company, but just now there seems to be a famine in the land!" Suddenly Nan stood stock still. "What's the matter?" demanded Ruth. Nan waited a moment, and then bent over and whispered something in her ear. "Magnificent! We'll do it!" cried Ruth, clapping her hands, and breaking into a peal of laughter. "Not to-night--while your brother is here!" protested Nan. "Of course not. To-morrow though, sure. Carl will be gone and the coast clear, and meanwhile we'll drill." For the remainder of the day the girls were absorbed in something which took them to their room and kept them there, and they only appeared when dinner was announced, and the family already seated at the table. "Well, Miss Nan," Carl Andrews exclaimed, "I wish you were a boy, and I'd take you up into the mountains with me and teach you how to handle a gun." "What fun!" cried Nan. "Yes, it would be great sport, and I warrant you'd like camp-life, too. It's just the sort of thing that you'd enjoy. Only I'm afraid it would agree with you so well that you would grow an inch a week, and considering you are a girl you'd better not get any taller." "O dear! Don't say that," groaned Nan, "for I probably shall grow lots more as it is. You see I'm not quite sixteen yet. Do people ever get their growth before they are sixteen, Mrs. Andrews?" "Oh, sometimes," replied the lady kindly. "I scarcely think you will grow any more, my dear. But I wouldn't worry about it in any case if I were you." "But I don't want to tower over everybody," wailed the girl. "Just think, I'm head and shoulders above Miss Blake now!" "But Miss Blake is a 'pocket Venus!' Just as high as one's heart," said Carl Andrews. "I took her home the other night and she barely reached to my shoulder." "Then you and Nan must be about the same height!" said Helen. Nan made a grimace. "Good rye grows high!" quoted Miss Webster, good-naturedly. And then the elder Mr. Andrews, who was a little deaf, began to talk about the crops, probably thinking they had been discussing grain, since he heard the word "rye." Early the next morning Carl Andrews started off, and the family waved him a vigorous good-bye from the veranda steps, and after he had gone the different members of the household went about their own particular business, and did not meet again until luncheon-time. It proved an unusually warm day, and when evening came the young people were glad to sit quietly on the veranda in the dark and enjoy the heartening breeze that swept up from the sea. Mr. and Mrs. Andrews had gone, as was their custom, out driving immediately after dinner, and so the four girls were left to themselves. They were just laughing over Ruth's description of one of Nan's exploits when the maid appeared bearing a letter on a salver. "For Miss Cutler," she said, and handed it to Nan. The girl excused herself and hastened indoors to read it. A moment later she called to Ruth. "It may be news from home," surmised Helen. "I hope it's nothing serious. Her father is away; has been for two years or more. I believe they expect him home this fall," and then she and Alice fell to talking of other things and Helen was just wishing Carl could see her friend in this mood, and know how womanly and sensible she could be when suddenly they both stopped talking at the sight of a man's figure coming up the long pathway from the outer road. "Who can it be?" whispered Helen. "A tramp?" suggested Miss Webster. "No. A tramp wouldn't come straight up to the house. It must be a caller; possibly a friend of Carl's," murmured Helen. The stranger came directly toward the veranda, but at the steps he paused a moment as though embarrassed at sight of the two girls unexpectedly rising to meet him from out of the shadow. "Is Mr. Andrews in?" he asked, in a low, shy voice, and Helen said she was sorry, but neither her father nor brother were at home. To which did he refer? "To Mr. Carl Andrews," and then it was explained that he and Mr. Carl Andrews were great chums. They-- "Won't you take a seat," asked Helen, hospitably, and he accepted at once while she introduced Miss Webster and herself and he gave his name as Chester Newcomb. "Oh, yes; I've often heard Carl speak of you," declared Helen, and then she had to excuse herself to answer Ruth who was calling to her vociferously from upstairs. "I'm afraid Nan has had bad news," she said, anxiously. "Excuse me, please. I'll go and see what she wants and be back directly." Mr. Newcomb and Miss Webster fell at once into an easy chat. That is, Miss Webster did. She rattled on in her least attractive manner, and became so absorbed that she only noticed how long Helen had been absent when Mr. Newcomb rose to go and she had not yet returned. "Pray don't call her," he entreated. "She probably is very much engaged. I--I am spending a couple of weeks here and shall be charmed to come again if I may." Miss Webster could only in turn assure him that she--that Helen and she would also be charmed, and then he bowed himself off, striding down the path with a free, somewhat boyish swing, and disappearing at length in the shadow of the shrubbery. He came frequently after that and the girls began to chaff Miss Webster about her "conquest" for he never seemed to care to come when the rest were about, but chose such times for his calls when he and Alice could stroll in the garden after dusk or sit and watch the sea and the stars from the shadow of the broad veranda. It was very romantic and Miss Webster wore a dreamy, rapt expression nowadays that sent Nan and Ruth off into fits of laughter when they were out of the range of her eyes and ears. "What a pity it is he can't be here to see?" gasped Ruth. "Oh, he sees enough, never you fear," Nan assured her. "When one casts sheep's eyes like that they hit even in the dark! Poor thing! She is such a goose. Last night when he told her he was going to-morrow she grew quite tragic and--" "O Nan! How could you listen?" cried Ruth in a shocked voice but immediately after going into another spasm of laughter. "She quotes Shakespeare at him," gasped Nan, convulsed with mirth, and not a bit abashed. "You ought to hear. It's rich!" "Well, we must see that the coast is clear to-night for I s'pose she will be particularly touching, and Helen is getting awfully hard to manage. It wouldn't do to interrupt them at the last minute just when he was getting pathetic maybe. I wonder what he'll do?" "He'll be real dignified," declared Nan, solemnly. "You wait. He'll be eloquent even if he is 'only a boy' as she says." So the two girls disappeared utterly after dinner, and when Mr. Newcomb arrived he found Miss Webster quite alone, for Helen also was nowhere to be seen. "She hasn't been very well lately," Miss Webster explained. "She looks terribly pale and anxious and I'm afraid she has something on her mind. Her headaches worry me!" and then she fell back into her poor, little artificial manner again and sighed and looked sentimental and was altogether "idiotic" as Nan would have said, and their two low-pitched voices could be heard murmuring away in the stillness until poor Helen, who was really half sick with a nervous headache upstairs, could have cried with irritation and pain. She sat up on the bed when Ruth came into the room, and attacked her at once. "I can't stand it another minute. It's driving me wild!" "Hush! It's only to-night. This is the last time. Don't make a scene!" pleaded Ruth. "I'll never get over it," wailed Helen. "It simply is the most detestable thing I ever knew. In our own house too! If this weren't the last time I--" What she would do was never discovered for just at that moment a shrill scream ran through the night, followed by the exclamation in a familiar voice: "Great Scott! My wig!" And Ruth and Helen rushed below to find Miss Webster in a state of collapse on one of the veranda settees and Nan standing over her, clad in complete male attire, and fanning her frantically with a curly, blonde wig which she wrenched by force from the trellis where it had inadvertently caught. "I was just leaning back and being beautiful, and it got hooked on a wire or something, and when I went to get up it stayed there and gave me away!" she promptly explained. Then there was a scene. Miss Webster wept! Nan lamented! Ruth laughed, and Helen scolded, and no one heard a word any one else was saying. But after a time every one grew calmer. "O Helen! I've made such a fool of myself," cried Alice abjectly. "How can you ever respect me again?" "Respect you? Think of me!" sobbed Helen. "Can you ever forgive me for knowing it all this time and letting it go on? Nan, you wretched girl, come here this minute and beg Miss Webster's pardon. Ruth Andrews, this is your work, Miss! See what you have done, and in your own house, too!" But at this time Alice surprised them all. She put a gentle hand on Helen's arm and said quite simply, and with a touching dignity: "Please don't ask anybody to beg my pardon. I deserved the lesson! The girls needn't say a word. I--I--I am a goose, but I'll really try to be better, and the kindest thing they can do is never to refer to it again." The rare tears sprang to Nan's eyes, and she grasped Miss Webster's hand in a grip that hurt. "You're downright fine!" she said, "and I'll never forget you as long as I live." And then she had to beat a hasty retreat to escape Mr. Andrews and his wife, who were just driving up to the door. But the secret leaked out, and she and Ruth were reprimanded sharply by Mrs. Andrews who, for once in her life, turned severe and called them sternly to account, and it was Alice Webster herself who interceded for them, and begged that everything be forgiven and forgotten. They were her devoted slaves after that, and Nan, whose fortnight had been extended, at the Andrews' request, to a month, took especial delight in fetching and carrying for her to the close of her stay, and in every possible manner making her feel how sincerely she regarded and respected her. As for Miss Webster, she seemed like another girl. In fact, Carl Andrews declared that he had never known what a "good sort" she was and said he was mighty glad they had prevailed upon her to stay. He never knew why the mere mention of his friend, Chester Newcomb's name should cause such a convulsion in the household, and when that gentleman finally arrived, and the family met him for the first time, it certainly seemed strange that they should all redden and stammer as if they had been "awkward nursery children appearing at dinner." Nan especially could not be induced to have anything to say when he was near, and when Carl discovered this he took a mischievous delight in forcing her into his company and watching her try to "squirm" out of it again. Miss Webster took pity on her and in the simplest, most natural way came to her rescue whenever she was being victimized, and by and by it became apparent even to Carl himself that "Ches and Miss Webster hit it off first-rate." But at last Nan's visit really drew to a close, and, in spite of her reluctance at leaving these good friends, she felt satisfied to go home--she did not stop to ask herself why. Town seemed very stuffy and tame after the freedom of the country and the sea, but when Miss Blake asked her if she would like to go away again she replied: "Not alone," and then blushed shamefacedly and tried to change the subject. While she was gone the governess had committed an extravagance. She had bought a new bicycle. "What under the sun did you do that for?" demanded Nan. "Your other was a beauty and as good as new." "But it wasn't new," suggested Miss Blake, lamely. "Pooh!" sniffed Nan. "I wanted this year's model." "Oh, very well! If you can be as particular as all that! How much did they allow you on the other machine? I hope you made a good bargain," said Nan. "I didn't let them have the other machine," hesitated Miss Blake. "It didn't seem worth while. Besides I may want to use it myself sometimes. Won't you come down and see the new one?" Of course Nan did not delay, and she went into raptures over the beautiful wheel, praising it generously as she examined every point with the eye of a connoisseur. "But it seems to me a pretty high frame!" she speculated, standing off and taking it in from a distance. "I wanted a high frame," responded Miss Blake. "Seems to me pretty well up in the air for you, even with the saddle down," insisted Nan, doubtfully. "You try it," suggested the governess. "If it suits you it will certainly be too high for me." "It does suit me," announced Nan, balancing herself by a hand against the wall. "You'd better send it back and get a lower frame." But Miss Blake shook her head. "No, I like this and I'm going to keep it. But of course if it is too high I can't use it, and so--so--I'm afraid you'll have to, Nan. You won't mind, will you? I mean getting your birthday present this way ahead of time? I thought if we waited you'd lose the whole summer." Nan flung herself from the wheel in a rapture of surprise. It seemed too good to be true. She could not believe it. Miss Blake had her thanks more in the girl's radiant delight than in the mere words she spoke, though these were genuine enough and full enough of gratitude. All through the long season after that, whenever the heat was not too intense, Nan and her wheel could have been seen flashing through the Park or taking a well-earned rest in the cool shadow of the Dairy porch, where a sip of water seemed sweeter than ambrosia and a fugitive breeze more aromatic than any zephyr from Araby the blest. Sometimes she and Miss Blake took longer trips into the country, and then the governess had to be constant in her warnings to her against her reckless fashion of riding. Again and again she spoke, and Nan always meant to take heed and then always forgot, and fell back into her old way once more. "I can't resist such a coast as that was," she would plead. "And if I got off for every old man who thinks he has the right to the road I'd be dismounting all the while." "I beg you not to take such risks," Miss Blake would rejoin. "It simply spoils my ride for me, Nan, to see you so reckless. Such head-long wheeling has nothing to recommend it. It is neither expert nor admirable. When you fling along so blindly you are merely doing a foolish, heedless thing and running serious risks. I am sure you will come to grief some day." "Don't you worry! I am as much at home in my saddle as I would be in a rocking-chair. See me ride without touching the handle-bars!" And presently she would lose all recollection of her good resolve, and go hurling on at a break-neck speed in the van of some skittish horse, or slowly zig-zag ahead in the path of some stolid coachman, causing him to anathematize all wheelmen in general and this especially provoking specimen in particular, while her watching companion held her breath in trembling alarm. At last Miss Blake told Nan decidedly that unless she were willing to ride properly she must give it up altogether. "I cannot stand this strain any longer," she said, in real distress. She and Mrs. Newton and the girl herself were taking their first ride in company since the early summer. Now it was autumn, and the leaves were turning. Mrs. Newton had just come back from the country, and Nan was eager to display her skill, which she felt had improved not a little since their neighbor's departure. The fresh wind, keen and bracing as it came from the sea, filled her with a sense of new strength and energy, and she felt the effect of the invigorating atmosphere in her blood. A scent of burning leaves was in the air, and the indescribable suggestion of coming winter gayety. To-day the road was crowded with carriages. They thronged the fashionable drive, and lent it a peculiarly animated aspect. Equestrians and wheelmen were also out in full force, and the presence of so many people set Nan's blood tingling with excitement. She tossed her head back, as the governess uttered her decision, with the impatience of a mettlesome horse. "Now remember!" warned Miss Blake. Perhaps it was just this extra little warning that proved too much for Nan's overcharged, headstrong spirit--or perhaps she did not hear in the midst of the noise of hoofs and wheels about them. They were spinning noiselessly along the outer edge of the driveway leading from the Park entrance to the cycle path, when suddenly Nan gave a quick run forward and then made a swift dart for the other side, weaving perilously in and out among the horses and moving vehicles, dexterously dodging, veering, and turning until Miss Blake's heart throbbed thickly from dread and her pulses beat heavily in her temples. "I must overtake her," she cried to her companion. "She will be killed! I must save her!" Even as she spoke her breath caught in a short gasp, and she turned suddenly rigid and ashen white. Coming up the road at full speed was a horse, whose driver, sitting close over its haunches in his narrow sulky, was racing his animal against one similarly driven and urging it on to its utmost pace for winning honor. At his approach a clear path was made for him by the turning right and left of the throng--by all save Nan. She heard a man's voice shout hoarsely to her. The oncoming horse had the speed of a racer. A spirit of mad defiance possessed her. She steered straight as an arrow before her. Then, like a flash, she veered, dodging from under the horse's very nose. She had accomplished her feat very cleverly. But alas, for Nan! Even as she sped on, full of the exquisite thrill of exultation in her own prowess she heard behind her the sound of a dull, fear-thickened cry. Then a sudden confusion of voices and the cessation of rolling wheels. She stopped and turned. The onward sweep of the mass of vehicles had been instantaneously checked. The road was clear for some rods before her and in the centre of this open space lay--a broken bicycle. A little group of men crowded close about some central object on the ground. Women were wringing their hands and weeping hysterically, and one woman--it was Mrs. Newton--was crying wildly, "Let me go to her! Let me go!" The circle of men upon the ground made way, and then Nan saw what it was around which they knelt. She gave a quick, fierce cry of pain. The little governess lay quite still and motionless. Her eyes were closed; her face was white as marble. All her bright hair was lying loose about her temples--and it was streaked with blood. CHAPTER XIX IN MISS BLAKE'S ROOM Nan never forgot that scene. It seemed to her afterward, that even in the midst of the horror that almost stupefied her and made her blind, it had been indelibly photographed upon her brain to the merest detail with torturing distinctness. She could see Mrs. Newton's drawn, livid face, and the stern, set expression of the men who gathered about in knots here and there discussing the accident in whispers, or arranging the best means of getting back to town. A doctor, who happened to be near at hand, had sprung forward at the first moment of alarm, and he and a strange, kind-faced woman were together bending over the prostrate form between them, while over all arched the high dome of the blue October sky, beyond them stretched the level road, narrowing in the distance to a point that seemed to pierce the sea, and on either side spread the branches of bordering maple trees, each shining brilliant and gorgeous In the autumn sunlight. Presently, in response to a demand from the doctor, a low-hung carriage drew out from the ranks of waiting vehicles, and into it was lifted, oh, so carefully! the inert form of the governess, and her head laid upon Mrs. Newton's lap. Nan pressed close to the wheels. "Can't I go with her?" she whispered. Her companion gazed at her blankly for a moment. Then she seemed to realize the question, and answered it. "No," she replied. "Get my machine, and--and hers, and see that some one carries them back for us--some man will do it." Then without another word she turned her head away, and slowly, slowly the carriage moved and began its snail's-pace journey townward. Nan looked helplessly about her. "Won't some one take the bicycles home?" she pleaded. She never knew who performed the office. She never cared. She gave some stranger her address without the slightest interest as to whether he was trustworthy or no, and then, mounting her own machine, she sped home as fast as the wheels would turn. Thus it was that when the dreary little cavalcade reached home at last everything was in readiness for its reception. There was no difficulty nor delay in getting upstairs, and in an incredibly short time the place had assumed the air of hushed solemnity that always seems to overhang the spot where illness is. Nan crouched outside the threshold of the sick-room and listened to the low sounds within with a feeling of overwhelming guilt at her heart. She dared not go in. At last the door was opened, and the physician stepped forward. He saw Nan cowering in the gloom. "What is this?" he asked kindly. Nan dragged herself up painfully, as though her limbs had been made of lead. "Have I--have I--killed her?" she managed to gasp. The doctor bent on her a pitying look. "Killed her?" he repeated. "I do not know what you mean. Do you mean will she die? No, my child, not if we can help it--and God grant we may. But it may be long, very long, before she is well. She has been badly hurt, poor little soul!" Then followed a term of harrowing suspense. Nights when Nan thought the sun had forgotten how to rise--so long they seemed and never ending. The fever that followed the first season of lethargy raged fierce and hot for many a day, and the delirium that accompanied it was difficult to quell. It seemed at times as though it must burn the patient's very life away. It was during these days that Nan learned how much she had caused her friend to suffer. What, in her moments of consciousness, she had never permitted to pass her lips, now in these hours of delirium she dwelt on and repeated over and over. It was of Nan, always of Nan that she spoke. Nan must have this; Nan must not do that. It was her duty to protect Nan and guard her. She followed the girl in perilous journeys; she tried to guide her from dangerous courses. She betrayed her anxious care for her in every word she uttered. And then sometimes she would say something that Nan could not comprehend. "Florence's child!" she would murmur. "Florence's child!" and then she would catch herself back with a sudden look of fear as though she had betrayed a secret. "My mother's name was Florence," Nan would say brokenly. "But I don't know what she means. She never knew my mother." At last came a change, and then Nan was excluded from the room. "You might excite her, and she must be carefully guarded against any chance of that," the doctor said in explanation. But Nan was almost too happy to care. The first sound of the low, sweet voice speaking intelligently sent a thrill of passionate gratitude to her heart. How she and Delia plotted and planned for the invalid. How Nan made the room to fairly blossom with the flowers that daily came pouring in from all manner of strange and unexpected sources. "I never knew she had such lots of friends," the girl said one day to Delia. The woman looked down at her with a flash of superior understanding in her eyes. "She's a wise one," she said. "She goes her own way, and it's little she asks of any one and it's less she says. But what she does ain't little, I can tell you, Nan. I know of many a thing she's done for those who, if they haven't got money, have the grateful hearts in them to remember kindness and to love the one that shows it to them. Some day you'll know her for what she is, and then you'll never strive against her any more and you'll love her as many another has done before you." The girl gazed straight into the woman's eyes. "I love her now, Delia," she said. "I've loved her from the first minute--only I didn't know it some of the time and the rest I was a horrid--little--beast, so there!" Oh, the happy days that Nan spent in that quiet room above stairs. How she grew to love it! The sunshine coming through the curtains and making great patches of mellow light upon the floor seemed more bright here than anywhere else. If it rained, this place was less dreary than any other, and in sun or storm it was the only spot that Nan felt had the power to quell her wayward mood when it rose against her will and urged her back to her hoydenish exploits once more. Miss Blake, lying back against her snowy pillows, had a look of such inexpressible sweetness to Nan that often and often the girl would fling herself beside the bed with her arms about the fragile figure, crying: "Oh, you dear, you dear! how I love you!" and then the other, with a very happy smile would invariably answer, "And I you, Nan." It was all understood between them now. Pardon had been humbly asked and freely granted, and there was now only the remaining regret of impending separation; the dread of the parting that was to come. At one time they had thought that it would occur within a few weeks' time, and the joy that Nan felt in her father's return was overshadowed by the grief she experienced in the coming loss of her friend. But now the date of Mr. Cutler's home-coming had been postponed. He would leave Bombay as he had at first intended, but business would detain him in London, and he could not expect to reach home until that was completed--so Mr. Turner said. Thus Nan had to reconcile herself to her disappointment and the indefiniteness of her father's return, in the thought that if her meeting with him was deferred, why, so was her parting from Miss Blake. The weeks that passed before the governess was fairly convalescent had brought them well into November. They had been busy, helpful weeks for Nan. In her thought for her friend's comfort she had unconsciously learned a lesson in gentleness and patience that nothing else could have taught her. Her voice grew lower, her step lighter, and the touch of her fingers more delicate. All this could never have been accomplished in such a short space by ordinary means, but Love is a magical teacher and he instructed her in his art. As the dear invalid grew stronger Nan tried to beguile the long hours by reading aloud to her from her favorite authors, sage philosophers, wise poets, and tender tale-tellers. Sometimes she did not at all comprehend the meaning of the pages she read, but Miss Blake was always ready to give her "a lift" over the hardest places, and to her surprise she grew really to love these serious books, and to get an insight into the beauty of their character. Once in awhile she would take up the daily paper to give her friend an idea of "what was going on in the world," seriously reading discussions about this "bill" or that "question" with absolutely no conception of what the whole thing was about. One day, it was during the last of November, she sat before the fire in the governess' room feeling especially contented and placidly happy. Miss Blake, safely ensconced among her cushions, was cozily sipping a cup of bouillon. The room was very still. Suddenly Nan jumped to her feet, and, clasping her hands high over her head, said, with a luxurious sort of yawn: "Oh--my! How I'm liking it nowadays. Things are so sort of sweet and cozy. Do you s'pose it's too good to last? Do you s'pose it has anything to do with my trying to be good and not letting my 'angry passions rise'?" The governess nodded her head, but made no other reply and after an instant Nan slipped to the floor again, and, sitting Turk-fashion beside her companion's knee, considered how possible it would have been for Miss Blake to have taken that occasion to lecture her on the past error of her ways. But she had learned that it was not the governess' way to preach. That nod was as eloquent as a sermon to Nan, and she understood it perfectly. "Shall I read you something from 'The Tribune'?" she asked, after a moment's musing. And she took up the paper and began searching for the editorial page. When she had found it she set about reading the first leader that came to hand, quite regardless of whether it would prove interesting to her auditor or not. The fact that it was unintelligible to her seemed a sort of guarantee, in her mind, that it would be interesting to Miss Blake. She read on and on until both her breath and the column itself came to a stop. "You poor child," said the governess affectionately. "Don't read another word of that. How stupid it must be for you. Here, take this book of dear Mary Wilkins. We can both of us understand her, and she will do us both good. You need not victimize yourself a moment longer, dear Nannie." But Nan, radiant with good humor, felt a sort of glory in just such self-victimizing. She searched through the page for further unintelligible text. All at once she paused and read a few lines to herself. Then she burst into a laugh. "Here's something about a man who has such a funny name. It's James Murty, alias Dan Divver, alias Shaughnessy. What a last name--Shaughnessy! And why was he called alias twice over, Miss Blake? I didn't know one could have the same name more than once. It seems awfully expensive--I mean extravagant." Miss Blake laughed. "You are thinking of Elias, Nan. This man's name is not Elias. Alias is pronounced differently, and is not a name at all, but a word signifying otherwise, or otherwise called. It means that the man has gone under those different titles. And I don't think I care to hear what it has to say about the gentleman, dear. He probably isn't just the sort of person whose exploits would make fair reading." "Is he bad?" asked Nan. "I should gather, from his names, that his existence had been somewhat checkered," replied the governess with a twinkle in her eye. "Is it wicked to go under other names than your own?" Miss Blake flushed as she bent forward to place her empty cup upon the table by her side. She was far from strong yet; the slightest exertion brought the blood to her cheeks. "Not necessarily," she said. "But as a general rule people whose lives have been simple and upright do not need to live under an assumed name. Of course there might be exceptional cases--and there is a difference between an alias and an incognito." "What's an incognito?" questioned Nan. "Why, if a person of rank or importance travels through a country and wishes to escape publicity, he often does so incognito--that is, unknown. He will drop his official title and take his family name or part of his family name with a simple prefix. For instance, a king might care to be known as the Duke of So-and-so; a Duke as Mr. ----, whatever his surname chanced to be. That would not be wicked and it would not be an alias. And sometimes people who are not nobles find it desirable to remain unrecognized for a time. Take it for granted that I was not, in reality, a governess at all; I mean that I was not forced by circumstances to take such a position, but that I for some reason chose to assume it. That I cared to come here and be with you because I had known and loved your parents long ago and wished to do my best for their child. Then suppose I did not care to disclose my identity to--to--people because of--well, no matter--I simply came here giving you but part of my name--not the whole, why it might not be a wise course, but it certainly could not be called a wicked." "Oh, how I wish you had," cried Nan. "It would be splendid fun. Just like a princess in disguise and things. Say you aren't a governess and that your name isn't Blake. Oh, please do. It'll be just like fairy-stories if you will." "How can I, dear, when I am and it is?" replied the governess, slowly. "I am no princess in disguise, I assure you. I am simply a very prosaic little woman and your devoted friend. I don't think I could possibly discover anything at all resembling a fairy-tale in my life. But some time, perhaps, when you are older, and when--I mean, if we meet again, I will tell you all there is to tell about myself--that is, if you care to listen. It will not be exciting--but you might care to know it." "Oh, I would, I would!" the girl exclaimed heartily. "But I hate to have you talk of 'if we meet again.' Why, we must, Miss Blake. Don't you know I couldn't live and know I wasn't to see you any more? It's like the most awful thing that could happen to have you go way at all, and the only way I can bear it is thinking of how we'll see each other often and often. Why, my father will be so thankful to you for taking such care of me! I guess he won't know what to do. And when you see him and find how good he is, you won't be afraid a bit. You'll just as lief stay here as not. He's the best, the dearest--oh, you couldn't help but like my father." A soft hand patted her head in loving appreciation, but not one word said the governess, and the two sat together in silence for some time thinking rather sober thoughts, until the sound of the door-bell broke in upon the stillness and brought Nan to her feet and sent her flying to the balusters to peep over and discover who the late caller might be. "It's Mr. Turner, and he asked for you," she said, coming back into the room and bending to gather up the scattered news sheets that strewed the floor. "He looked as solemn as an owl, and he asked for you in a voice that made me feel ever so queer--it was so trembly." "He may be cold," suggested Miss Blake. She rose and settled the pillows upon the divan. She would have to receive her guest up here. She was not yet permitted to venture below. She and Nan stood ready to receive him as he entered the room, and after the first greetings the girl was about to sit down beside her friend when the lawyer said abruptly: "My dear, I must ask you to permit me to talk to Miss Blake alone to-day. I have some private business to transact with her. You will pardon me for asking you to leave us." Nan rose immediately with a smile of good-natured understanding, but as she turned to leave the room she saw that the face of the governess was deathly white, and she ran back to her, crying: "What is it; oh, what is it? Are you faint? Let me get you something." She was in a sudden bewilderment of alarm. Miss Blake gently put her aside, saying calmly, "Why, nothing is the matter, Nan. Nothing at all, my dear. I am strong and well now, you know. Quite strong and well. You must not make Mr. Turner think I am ill, else he will go away again, and I shall not know what he has to say to me. I am quite able to hear--whatever it is. So go away, dear." The girl obeyed, and the next moment the door had closed behind her, and only the sound of her voice from without, singing in happy reassurance, broke the stillness of the room where the lawyer and the governess stood facing each other silently. CHAPTER XX THROUGH DEEP WATERS Mr. Turner was the first to speak. "Sit down," he said kindly. "You must not stand." Miss Blake sank into her place upon the divan, but she did not lean back. She sat stiffly upright, nervously locking and unlocking her fingers in her lap and compressing her lips tightly, but asking no questions--saying no word. The lawyer drew a chair beside her and slowly, deliberately seated himself in it. "You remember," he began at length, in a hesitating sort of way, "that I told you some time ago that I had some reason to fear that affairs were not prospering at Bombay. I wish to come to the point at once; to spare you all suspense. I am afraid Mr. Cutler is in some serious difficulty, and--" He paused. The governess leaned forward, and her breath came quickly. "Go on," she whispered. "For some time past his letters have been most unsatisfactory. He has seemed depressed and discouraged. What word I have received from him during the past few months has been of such a character as to lead one to form the gravest suspicions. His letters have been short and hurried--written, evidently, under great mental strain. And latterly they have ceased altogether. For the last two months, ever since you have been ill, I have heard literally nothing from him. His plan was to leave Bombay in September. That he kept to his original purpose I have no reason to doubt. He was on the steamer, or, at least, his name was on its passenger list. Of course while you were so ill I could say nothing to you of this--besides I had only my suspicions then. But as time passed, and no communication from him reached me I grew apprehensive. Within the last two weeks I have sent numberless dispatches to him to his London address, but not one of them has received a reply--in fact, no one of them has been delivered to him. The people there do not know where he is. I have cabled to Bombay, thinking he might have been detained there unexpectedly, but that, too, has proved of no avail. The Bombay house know nothing of his whereabouts. He left them as he intended to do in September, and since then they have heard from him as little as I." Miss Blake's eager eyes seemed to search the lawyer through and through. He shifted uneasily in his place. "It is very difficult to go on," he said, with a nervous, constrained cough. "Quick! Quick!" whispered the governess. "Tell me everything now--this minute. Tell me! Tell me!" "There is little more to tell," said Mr. Turner sadly. "This afternoon I received a wire from his London banker, and it seems--that--he, William Cutler, is--is--dead." There was a low cry. Miss Blake had leaped to her feet at his words, and now she was swaying forward as though too faint to stand. The lawyer sprang forward to save her from falling, but she pushed him away with both hands almost savagely. "No, no!" she gasped. "I am strong. I am strong. But--God pity us! My poor little Nan--and--oh, my poor little Nan!" She sank back upon the divan and buried her face in her outstretched arms. The lawyer rose and went to the window. Outside the wind blew drearily. The bare trees showed but dimly through the gathering dusk. It was a bleak, cold outlook. Presently down the street came a man with a lighted torch and set the gas-flames to flickering in every lamp along his way. Mr. Turner watched him until he had passed out of sight--then he turned about and came back to the sofa once more. Miss Blake had raised her head and sat staring blankly before her, dry-eyed, but with an expression far sadder than tears; the dull, lifeless look of helpless misery that has not yet been touched with submission. "Shall I leave you now?" asked the lawyer softly. "Perhaps you would rather be alone. I can come again--whenever you wish. Perhaps it would be better for me to come again when you are stronger--better able to bear it." She turned her large eyes upon him in a sort of mute supplication. All the light had gone out of them now. Mr. Turner reseated himself and continued: "He died in a hospital in London of a malignant fever. No one saw him. He was buried within twenty-four hours, I presume according to the law in such cases. Of course, I have no particulars, only the barest outline of facts. Undoubtedly I shall receive a letter by the next steamer, giving details. It is all desperately sad--heart-breakingly sad. Poor fellow! So young and to die alone among strangers." Miss Blake stretched out her hands supplicatingly. "Don't," she pleaded. "Shall I tell Nan?" Mr. Turner asked after a moment. "Perhaps it would be better if I should. You have undergone enough." "No, no!" she cried. "No one must tell her but myself. But first I must talk to you about--about--you know when I came here I had reasons for wishing her not to know who I was. Now I will tell her. There is no more need to withhold anything. Delia always knew--from the first--but she never told Nan and she never would have told. But that is all over now. There is no need for secrecy any more. And I will stay with her. I will keep her with me always. She has no one else now, and I--I--I am free to do as I please. If--if he has left her unprovided for, why, that shall make no difference to her. I have plenty and she shall share it with me. She shall never feel the care or want of anything that I can supply. Ah, Mr. Turner, I am glad I came. It has been hard, but I am glad I came." She broke down completely. Her frail figure shook with shuddering sobs. But she was not a woman to give way long, and in a moment she regained her self-control. "I must have time to think," she said. "Everything seems so changed and strange. I scarcely know where I stand. The suddenness of it has been so horrible. I suppose he must have been ill for a long time--too ill to write. And by and by when they took him to the hospital he must have been unconscious, and so they could not communicate with his friends. That would account for it all, his not writing nor receiving the dispatches--and his friends not knowing where he was." Mr. Turner nodded. Then he rose. "I will leave you now," he said. "You are completely worn out. If you will take my advice you will defer telling Nan until tomorrow. I fear the strain will prove too great for you." She smiled faintly. "Oh, no," she replied. "I am stronger than you think. But the child shall not be told tonight. I will leave her in peace for one night longer. I will let her get one more good night's rest. Then to-morrow, when she is refreshed and strengthened by her sleep she can learn it all." The lawyer held out his hand. "This has been one of the hardest trials of my life," he said. "But you have helped me by your bravery and fortitude. I thank you from my heart. Good night!" and in a moment he was gone. That evening Miss Blake bade Delia take Nan to the Andrews'. She wrote a short note to Ruth's mother in which she begged her to keep the girl through the evening and make her as happy as she could. She briefly stated the reason for her request. Nan knew that something was being kept from her but she never suspected what. She fancied it must be connected with Miss Blake's private affairs, and she asked no questions. When she reached the Andrews' her exuberant spirits reasserted themselves and she spent a gay evening with Ruth, Mrs. Andrews leading in the fun and seeing that no one passed a dull moment. They played all sorts of games, and then finally Bridget appeared with the crowning delight, a tray upon which a tempting array of good things was set forth. How Nan enjoyed it! She often thought afterward what a happy evening it was. At ten o'clock Delia called for her and she went home through the still night, thinking all sorts of merry thoughts. Miss Blake listened with apparent interest to her description of her evening's jollification, and when she had finished gave her an especially tender good-night kiss, saying: "God bless you, my Nan. Sleep well, dear, and let us both pray for strength to bear God's will." The next morning after breakfast Nan discovered why Miss Blake had bade her especially to pray for strength. Poor child! She felt so utterly weak and helpless in her misery. At first she could scarcely realize what had befallen her and she kept insisting, "It isn't my father that has died. It is some one else. How can I feel that he isn't alive? He can't be dead! He isn't! He isn't! Why, only yesterday I was expecting he would soon be home. It's some other man who hasn't got a daughter that loves him so." But by and by she grew desperate in her wretchedness and then it took all Miss Blake's influence to restrain her from really wearing herself out in the abandon of her grief. But by evening the house was quiet. Nan's loud sobbing had ceased and she lay quite still and exhausted, stretched upon the divan in Miss Blake's room, with her throbbing head in the governess' lap. A tender hand stroked her disheveled hair, a tender voice spoke words of comfort to her, and she was soothed and solaced by both. "Shall I tell you a story, Nan?" asked Miss Blake at length. The girl gave a silent nod of assent. "Well, once upon a time," began the governess in a gentle monotone, "there lived two girls and they were friends. They loved each other dearly. One was tall and fair and beautiful, and the other was small and dark, and if people ever thought her even pretty it was because love lighted their kind eyes and made it seem that what they looked upon was sweet. "The first girl had father and mother and a happy home. The second was an orphan, having nothing to remind her of the parents she had lost when she was a baby but the fortune they had left her. She never knew what love meant until she met her beautiful friend. Then she learned. Oh, how those two girls loved each other! When Florence, the beautiful one, found that Isabel had no home she pleaded with her parents to take her into theirs, and they not only took her to their home but to their hearts as well. And so she and her dear friend grew up together like sisters, and the little lonely girl was not lonely any more, but very, very happy among those she loved. Well, time went on, and by and by when the two girls had become quite young women, the first more beautiful than ever, the other a little less plain, maybe, something happened that, in the end, caused them to be separated forever. "God sent into their lives the self-same experience and into their hearts the self-same thought. It was a beautiful experience and a beautiful thought, but if it was to mean happiness for one, it must be at the cost of grief to the other. Perhaps it was because they both knew this that neither of them told her secret. But presently it was decided which was to have the happiness. It came to the one who expected it least--who had the least right to expect it. It came to Isabel, and for a moment she thought she might accept it. But it was only for a moment. Then she knew that she must relinquish it. It would have been base, would it not, my Nan, to have defrauded the friend who had done so much for her? And so she, Isabel, left the house that had been her home for so many years, and quite solitary and alone sailed across the sea to the other side of the world, and there she stayed for--well, over a dozen years, my dear. "It was soon after she went away that your mother--I mean Florence--was married. Isabel heard of it and was glad. And later, when she learned that a dear little daughter had been born to Florence, she was happier still. But then came sad news. Oh, such sad news! The beautiful young mother died, died and left her little baby girl behind her with only the poor father to take care of it. "Then, after that, Isabel heard nothing more for a long, long time, for Florence's good parents were dead and her husband and Isabel were--well, not at enmity, Nan, but not at peace together. It was all owing to a misunderstanding, but that did not alter it. They were not friends and Isabel was too proud to write and ask him whether all went well with him and the little daughter or whether she might perhaps help to care for the child. And so years passed and then one day Isabel felt that she could remain away from America no longer. All the time there had been a great longing in her heart to return, but she had tried to smother it and tell herself that she had no Fatherland; that America was no more to her than any of the strange countries she had lived in; that her acquaintances abroad were as much to her as her friends at home. But, as I say, by and by she could resist her desire no longer, and so one day she set sail for America--I think it must have been after she had been absent for quite fourteen years--and oh! how her heart beat when she saw the dear land once more. Well, I must make my story short, Nan, so I will not tell you how it came about that she first heard that Florence's little daughter had grown into a tall girl; that she was living in the old house where Isabel had spent so many happy years; that her father had gone to some far Eastern country and left her in the charge of a faithful servant of her mother's who had loved them all in days gone by. But she learned all this and more beside and then something told her that it was her duty to go to Florence's child and care for her and show her as well as she might how to be a noble, true, and lovely woman, as her mother had been before her. So she went to the little girl as governess and at first the child was opposed to her, but by and by she--I really think she grew to love her almost as much as the governess loved the child. And all this time the father never knew who was caring for his girl because in the letters that went to him the governess was spoken of by but part of her name. She chose to live incognito, you know what that is, Nan, because she feared if he knew who was serving his child as governess he would write to her in his proud fashion and say: "No; I need no one to care for my daughter for love. Whomever I employ I will pay. You are a wealthy woman. You need not work for money. My few poor dollars are nothing to you. Besides--" "And then I think, Nan, he would have referred to the old disagreement and it would all have been very painful, and she would have had to go away and been lonely ever after and have left undone her duty to Florence's child. So she lived quietly in the old house with the little girl and the servant and all went well for a year and then--well, then, dear Nan, I think I need not tell what happened then. But, oh, my dear, you are my own little girl--Florence's child and I loved her, ah! I loved her so. For her sake you are mine now. Never say that you are 'all alone' again. I have taken you as a sacred trust. Come to me, Nan, for I am lonely too, I am lonely too." CHAPTER XXI ANOTHER CHRISTMAS It was Christmas eve. Nan was sitting before the dining-room fire curled up in a huge arm chair thinking. Her pale face had grown wonderfully sweet during the last few weeks; the curves about her mouth had softened; her eyes had lost their keen sparkle and gained a softer light instead. She seemed to have undergone a complete transformation, and any one seeing the headstrong hoyden of the year before would have found it difficult to recognize her in this gentle-mannered girl with her serene brow and patient eyes, to whom suffering had taught so hard a lesson. Her black dress and her parted hair gave her a wonderfully meek look. But Nan was not meek. She was merely controlled. The same hot passions still rose in her breast, but she tried to restrain them now. This evening she was thinking over all that had happened during the past year; especially she was trying to project her thoughts into the future, and to imagine what would occur in the years to come. She had not yet become accustomed to the idea of life without her father. It seemed to her that he must be alive, and she often waked up in the night from such a vivid dream of him that it seemed as though he really stood beside her, and that she might feel his hand if she stretched forth her own in the dark. It was difficult to reconcile herself to living without the hope of his return; it was hard to convince herself that she must never look forward to receiving a letter from him again. But she knew it must be accomplished, and the effort would help to make a noble woman of her. As she sat there in the dim room, with only the fire to light it, she wondered whether anything could make of her as noble a woman as was her "Aunt Isabel." In her heart she felt not. Aunt Isabel was simply perfect in the girl's sight, and if she could ever have been brought to doubt her perfection, why, there was Delia to prove it with her emphatic: "No, ma'am! There ain't no one in this world like her. She is the best, the generousest, the most self-sacrificin' soul on earth--that she is, and I've known her ever since she was a child. If any one was to ask me the name of the woman I've most call to honor an' love, I'd say 'twas Isabel Blake Severance an' never stop a minute to think it over." And both Nan and Delia had long ago decided that while other women might be more beautiful, no one could have softer, sunnier hair than Aunt Isabel, nor truer, tenderer eyes, nor a prettier nose nor a sweeter mouth. And Nan was quite confident that if one hunted the whole globe over one could not find dimples more entirely winning nor hands whose touch was so absolutely soothing and soft. But Miss Severance could never be brought to admit these important facts, though Nan often sought to convince her of their truth. She was too busy a woman to have time to think whether she were beautiful or not. "Good is the thing," she would say, in her brisk fashion. "If I can look in the glass and see the reflection of a good woman there, I have no right to regret that she is not a beautiful one." Just now she was upstairs, busied with some matter of mysterious importance from which Nan was excluded. She and Delia had been shut into her room all the afternoon. Nan had ample time and opportunity for the manufacture of her own Christmas gifts, Aunt Isabel being so much occupied, behind closed door, with hers. For quite a time now Nan had been forced to station herself in the regions below stairs, where she would hear the bell if it rang, so that Delia might be free to give all her attention to Miss Severance. Evidently great things were in operation above. Nan wondered what it could all be about. Christmas had lost much of its joyousness this year, but still there was a little flavor of merriment left. Aunt Isabel had no sympathy with the hark-from-the-tombs-a-doleful-sound attitude. She thought it was one's duty to be as cheery and hopeful as possible, and not to add to the misery of the world at large by forcing it to witness one's private grief. She and Nan had their hours of tender mourning and sincere regret, but it was always Miss Severance's desire that no unwholesome brooding should be indulged in by either of them. So the girl tried to restrain the tears that would rise at the thought of these saddened holidays, and endeavored to bring her mind to bear on more happy subjects. She thought of her plans for the next day; she made a mental recount of the gifts she had prepared, and then, somehow against her will, her memory took her back to that morning when she had heard of her father's death and listened to Miss Severance's story, and she lived over again those intense moments when it almost seemed to her her mother had been restored to her in this rare friend. The simple history had a peculiar fascination for the girl, and she liked to think that it was here, in these very rooms, that it all had been enacted. She liked to look into those books of Miss Severance's that had her mother's name upon the fly-leaf, and she liked to think that they were given to "Bell with Florence's fond love." Miss Severance had several photographs of her mother as a girl that Nan had never seen, and she was fond of looking them over and exclaiming at the "old-fashioned" frocks and quaintly arranged hair, and wondering whether this happy-looking girl ever discovered the sacrifice her friend had made for her. One day Nan asked Miss Severance as much, but Aunt Isabel had shaken her head gravely and said: "No, Nan, she never did. And don't think of that part of the story, my dear. It was no more than I ought to have done. You must not make a piece of heroism of it. I only told it to you because unless I had, it would have been difficult to explain why I left her and went so far away." "Aunt Isabel," Nan said, "won't you tell me just what it was you gave up?" But Miss Severance shook her head. What the girl could not at all comprehend was the fact of any one's being "not at peace" with Aunt Isabel. Aunt Isabel, who never was unjust nor unkind, nor anything but generous and good to every one. She thought if she could have spoken to her father she could have convinced him that he was mistaken about Aunt Isabel. But that was impossible now. Her father--again the hot tears came surging up, and her breast began to heave. Suddenly she started. What was that? She jumped to her feet. Somebody was turning the knob of the street door and fitting a key in the lock. At first it was her impulse to cry out, but she mastered herself and ran quickly through the parlor and stood bravely on the threshold waiting for the door to open and admit the intruder. Her heart beat like a trip-hammer in her side, and the pulses in her wrists and temples throbbed painfully. She saw the door move inward, she felt the rush of cold outer air upon her face, and then-- In a moment she was locked in two strong arms, her head was pressed against a dear, broad chest, and she was crying "Father! Father!" in a perfect ecstasy of rapture and a tempest of tears. For a few moments neither of them said a single word. They just clung to each other and wept--the strong man as well as the slender girl. They seemed to lose all other thought in the joy of the meeting. Then somehow they found themselves in the library, and Nan, still sobbing for very happiness, was listening to her father as he told her how, for many months, he had been ill, but had tried to fight it off and overcome it, because he was so anxious to get home, and he could not bear to think he might be prevented. Then, just before his ship sailed, and after he had enrolled himself among the list of passengers, and bidden good-bye to those he knew, he was stricken down and for weeks lay unconscious, between life and death, as utterly unbefriended as though he had been in the midst of a wilderness. How he came to recover he never knew, but it seemed as though his great longing for home gave him strength to battle through the dreadful fever. Then, almost too feeble to stand, he was taken to the ship and borne to England, his body weak from suffering, but his heart strong with hope. The voyage was a severe one, and before he reached London he had a relapse, so that when they entered port he had to be carried ashore, and, too ill to know or care what happened to him, was taken to a lodging-house and nursed back to health once more by the keeper herself, whose son was the steward of the ship on which he had crossed. "You can fancy, Nannie, that I had only one thought all that time--to get back to you. The first move I was able to make was to the ship, and I sailed without having seen or spoken to a soul I knew in London. Then on board I met a friend, who told me of the report of my death, and I knew that you must have heard it. The people at the bank would communicate with Turner, I felt sure. Ah, what days those were! It seemed as though we should never reach land. But we got in to-day, and you can imagine that I have not lost one moment in coming to you, sweetheart. But how my girl has changed. Grown so tall and womanly. I'm afraid I've lost my little Wildfire. But the girl I've found in her stead is a hundred times dearer." Then Nan clung to him again and they were very happy, feeling how good God was, and how very blessed it felt to be together. For a while they both stopped talking and sat quite still, holding hands, while each heart offered up a prayer of gratitude. They did not hear an upper door open, nor did they notice a light footstep in the hall above. But at the sound of a gentle voice calling "Nan!" they both started up, and the girl's grasp of her father's hand tightened, for she felt him suddenly start and tremble. She tried to answer but could not for the joy she felt and the quick fear of this other loss she would have to suffer now. "Nan!" Still the girl could not reply, though she tried, and her father's face had grown rigid and white, as though it were carved in marble. Then down the stairs and through the hall came Aunt Isabel, stopping at the threshold of the dining-room door for a moment to accustom her eyes to the dimness within. There she stood--the bright light from the hall lamp falling full upon her head and the ruddy glow of the fire illuminating her face. Nan caught up her father's hand, for she felt him suddenly shrink and falter. The little figure in the doorway neither stirred or moved. For an instant there was perfect silence in the room, and then Nan saw her father stride forward with a look of the most wonderful happiness upon his face, and heard him utter one word in a tone that set her heart to beating. "Bell!" And somehow then she knew it all. In one brief flash she read the whole story, and she saw that it was to be completed at last, and that the loss she had feared she would not know at all, but something infinitely happier and more sweet. THE END 
20525	----	file was produced from images generously made available by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions (www.canadiana.org)) [Transcriber's Note: The form of this e-text is predicated upon an assumption about the editorial practices that obtained in Canadian publishing around the year 1874. It is presumed that the authoress had the opportunity to review pre-publication galley proofs and make any changes or corrections she deemed appropriate, and that the published book is therefore an accurate reflection of her wishes and intentions.] ISABEL LEICESTER, A ROMANCE, by MAUDE ALMA. "Twist ye, twine ye, even so, Mingled threads of joy and woe, Hope and fear, peace and strife, In the cord of human life." HAMILTON: SPECTATOR PRINTING HOUSE. 1874. ISABEL LEICESTER. CHAPTER I. In a spacious apartment superbly furnished, and surrounded by every luxury that could please the most fastidious taste, sat Isabel Leicester, attired in deep mourning, with her head resting upon her hand, her face almost as white as the handkerchief she held. Isabel's Father had failed in business, and the misfortune had so preyed upon his mind, that he sank under it and died. The funeral had taken place that day, and she was to leave the house on the day following--the house where she was born and had always lived, except when at school. The servants had all been discharged but two, who were to leave next day. A friend had offered Isabel a home until she could procure a situation as a governess, which that friend Mrs. Arnold was endeavouring to obtain for her, in the family of a lady who had been one of Mrs. Arnold's school-fellows. Mrs. Arnold was the widow of a clergyman, with a very limited income, and Isabel was unwilling to trespass upon the kindness of one whose means she knew to be so small. But she had no alternative at the time and trusted that it would not be long before she would be able to procure the situation she had in view, or some other. The tea remained untasted on the table, for Isabel was absorbed by the melancholy thoughts that filled her heart. She tried to feel resigned, but her pride was wounded at the idea of becoming a 'governess.' She had been the spoiled petted daughter of a wealthy merchant of the city of New York, whose chief delight had been to indulge her in every way. But still Mr. Leicester had been a truly good and christian man, and had taught his daughter not to set her affections on earthly things, and to remember that wealth was given to us for the benefit of others, as well as for our own enjoyment. And he was rewarded as she grew up to find that her chief aim was to do good to the many poor families whose necessities came to her knowledge. Great also was his satisfaction to find that after two seasons in New York, where she had been the Belle, she was still the same loving, unassuming, pure-minded girl she had ever been, tho' the admiration and attention her beauty and accomplishments had excited, had she been less carefully trained, might have rendered her haughty and vain. During her Father's illness, when her time and thoughts were occupied with attending upon him, and in anxiety for his recovery she had thought and felt that the loss of property was an evil of little moment, and tried to persuade her Father not to think so much about the reverse, urging that he could get some employment, and they would still live very happily together in a cottage. But now that he was gone, and she had no one left to look too, her lonely and self-dependant position was felt severely, and the tears she could not restrain, fell unheeded. The fire sank low, and finally went out, and still Isabel sat thinking of the miserable prospect the future presented. At last she rose with a shudder, and rang for the tea-things to be removed, then retiring to her own room, she threw herself upon the bed in an agony of grief. She had remained there some time, when she felt a kind hand laid upon her shoulder, and turning her head she saw the old housekeeper, Mrs. Stewart, with a cup of hot tea. "Come my dear young lady," said she, while the tears streamed down her aged cheeks, "You must take this, it will never do for you to go without your tea." "I know you attach great virtue to a cup of tea" replied Isabel, "so to please you I will take it." "Oh dear, dear," muttered the old woman as she descended the stairs, "how pale and ill she looks, and no wonder poor lamb, if she goes on like this she will be laid up. Oh, how I wish Mrs. Mornington had not gone to Europe. Poor child, poor child." After Mrs. Stewart had left her, Isabel knelt down and prayed for strength to do her duty, however trying she might find it, and for the holy spirit to comfort her in affliction, after which she retired to rest, and was soon in a calm sleep. Next morning she arose much refreshed, and having sought divine aid and protection, she commenced to arrange for her departure. Her Father's creditors knowing him to be a man of strict integrity, and that his failure was not attributable to any want of prudence on his part, had kindly arranged that she should retain whatever she particularly wished. This was a great gratification to Isabel, tho' she was too honorable to take an undue advantage of this benevolent intention, indeed she was almost too conscientious upon this point. The task before her was a sad one, and although she strove very hard she could not restrain her tears as she made her selections. She was soon joined by Mrs. Arnold, who told her she had come to help her to pack, and that she should not leave until Isabel accompanied her. "Come" she said, kissing her affectionately, "the sooner this painful task is over my love the better. I have good news for you. I have heard from Mrs. Arlington, and she says that she shall be most happy to obtain the services of any one recommended by me. The salary I find is only two hundred dollars a year, it is indeed less than I expected, but you must remember that this is your first engagement, no doubt if you remain there a year or two, you will be able to obtain a much more remunerative one." This announcement of Mrs. Arnold's brought to Isabel's mind in full force all the annoyances to which she would be subjected in her new position, and clasping her hands, she gave way to uncontrollable emotion. "I do not wonder, dear, at your being disappointed, after what you have been used to, two hundred dollars must seem a very paltry sum. I dare say you gave nearly as much to your maid Harris, but my dear, as a governess your requirements will be less, so with the wardrobe you now possess, you will be able to manage very nicely." "Oh, Mrs. Arnold, I was not thinking about the salary, I am sure I can make that do very well," sobbed Isabel. "You are very kind indeed to trouble yourself so much about me." "You need not go to Elm Grove at present, my love, you are quite welcome to stay with me until you get over your loss a little, and feel better able to conform to circumstances," said Mrs. Arnold kindly. Isabel made an effort to respond gratefully to her kind friend, and expressed a hope that she would shortly be able to undertake the duties of her new situation. "I have no doubt you will be very comfortable at Elm Grove, it is a lovely place. Of course it will seem strange at first, but people soon get used to a place you know if they only try. I am very happy now, but I am sure at one time, I thought I never should be again," continued Mrs. Arnold, "but we will say no more on that subject now, we must get on with our work." And she began to give advice about what Isabel should take, and said that whatever she did not like to take with her to her new home, she could leave at her house. Fortunately the housekeeper then came to ask if she should pack. "Certainly," exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, "the very person I wanted," and off they went to Isabel's great relief. Being left to herself, Isabel soon concluded her selection, and ordering Mary to take them to be packed, she went into the library to get a little rest, and time to think, tho' the latter she could scarcely do, as her temples throbbed violently. Laying her head on the old familiar couch, she endeavoured to calm the tumult of her feelings, the bright sunshine, and the merry sound of the sleigh bells outside, only made her feel her desolation more acutely. "Luncheon is ready dear, and the packing all done," said Mrs. Arnold, throwing herself in an easy chair. "You have indeed been quick," replied Isabel, heartily wishing they had been longer. "It is all due to Mrs. Stewart, she is really the most clever person at packing I ever saw, tho' poor soul she was nearly blinded with tears. Come love, we must have luncheon now, and after that we will send for a sleigh." "Indeed, dear Mrs. Arnold, I cannot go until evening, I am sure Mr. Macdermott will be here presently, for he knows that I am going to-day." "Ah, I know, you want to be alone to muse of things in your dreamy way, but my love, it is better not to do so, it only makes things harder to bear. Try to banish disagreeable subjects as much as possible, that is my maxim. But I cannot refuse you anything just now, so after luncheon I will go home, and will come back for you in the evening." Soon after Mrs. Arnold's departure, Mr. Macdermott the clergyman, called as Isabel had expected, and his sympathy, and advice, tended greatly to soothe the pain she felt at leaving the home she loved so well. He said that Mrs. Macdermott was still too ill to visit her, but that if she felt able she would try to see her at Mrs. Arnold's. He told her also that he had that morning received a letter from Louis, in which he desired to be kindly remembered. Mr. Macdermott remarked the rich crimson that suffused her cheeks, at the mention of his nephew's name, but the remotest idea of their engagement never entered his mind. He remained with her about an hour, then after enquiring if he could be of any service to her, he took his leave. At last the dreaded hour arrived, and Mrs. Arnold with it. After bidding the housekeeper and Mary a kind farewell, (they had both been with her a great many years,) Isabel accompanied her friend to Rose Cottage. CHAPTER II. The setting sun shed its bright tints over the snow which lay thick upon the ground, making it glisten like diamonds, the cold was intense, and a bitter wind howled through the leafless trees, when the train arrived at M----, and Isabel almost benumbed with cold, procured a conveyance from the station to the Rock Hotel, where Mrs. Arlington had promised to send for her. On arriving at the hotel, she found the sleigh waiting punctual to the time appointed. Isabel would gladly have partaken of some refreshment, but Mrs. Arnold had informed her, that Mrs. Arlington was very particular, and to have kept the horses standing, Isabel felt would have offended her, which she was very anxious to avoid although she was shivering with cold. It was a long drive of twelve miles to Elm Grove, but the horses went at a great speed, and in less than an hour they arrived at their destination. As they drew up at the door, it was opened by a footman, and a woman who seemed to be an upper servant met her in the hall, and conducted her to her room. "I suppose you would like some tea Miss," she said "I will order it while you are taking off your things, and then I will show you the school-room. Mrs. Arlington and the young ladies are dressing for a ball, so they cannot see you to-night." When Norris had left the room, Isabel sat down with a sigh, and looked about to see what kind of accommodation she was to have. It was a nice sized room, with a bay window having an eastern aspect, at which the wind was now howling with great violence. It was neatly, but plainly furnished, the fire had burnt low, and the room was cold. She took off her things as quickly as possible, and sincerely hoped that the school-room would be more comfortable. Norris soon returned, and Isabel desiring her to have more fuel put upon the fire descended to the school-room, which she found very bright and pleasant looking, the large fire and lamp making it look quite attractive. The tea was on the table, and Norris after saying "if you want anything Miss, please ring for Susan," left the room. Isabel was very glad to have some refreshment after her cold drive, and when she rang to have the things removed, the bell was answered by a neat, pleasant looking girl, who had such a sunny face that it did one good to look at her, and presently a sweet little girl of about seven years old came running into the room, and going up to Isabel, said "you are our new governess are you not. I think I shall like you very much, but I can't stay now, for Eliza is waiting to put me to bed, but I did so want to see you to-night. Good night!" and throwing her arms round Isabel's neck, she gave her a hearty kiss, and disappeared as quickly as she came. When Isabel returned to her room she had no cause to complain of the fire which was piled to the top of the grate. When she awoke next morning it seemed very strange to be where she had not the least idea what any of the family were like. After dressing and arranging some of her things, she sat down to contemplate her situation, which she found anything but pleasant, so she determined to descend to the school-room. The door was open, and as she approached she overheard little Amy saying "she is the prettiest lady I ever saw, only she looks so pale and sad." Isabel found three little girls in the room, of whom Amy was the youngest. Amy greeted her in the same cordial manner she had done on the preceding evening, the other two rose saying "good morning Miss Leicester," but when she stooped to kiss them, Alice sulkily put up her face, and Rose laughed. "Fancy, Miss Manning kissing us" she whispered to her sister. "Hush!" returned Alice, "she will hear." Isabel spoke kindly to them, but Alice only returned unwilling, and Rose pert answers, so the breakfast was a dull unpleasant affair, and Isabel perceived they regarded the governess in the light of an enemy; even little Amy became shy and uneasy. After breakfast Rose informed her that they always had half an hour before school for a run out of doors. As they were departing little Amy ran back, and coming close up to Isabel whispered "don't cry Miss Leicester, I love you, indeed I do," for Amy had noticed the tears that would come in spite of her efforts to repress them. Isabel drew the child to her, and kissing her pretty upturned face, told her to go with the others. Amy had scarcely gone, when Mrs. Arlington entered. She was tall and stately, rather cold and haughty, and very dignified and patronizing in her manner. She hoped Miss Leicester had been made comfortable, and was sure that she would like the children. She then informed her that the school hours were from nine until four, with an hour for dinner, then she would have to take them for a walk, after that her time was her own. She would take her meals with the children, but she would be happy to have her come into the drawing-room occasionally in the evening. She said that her own time was so much occupied with her elder daughters, that she was forced to leave the children entirely to the governess, but, that as Mrs. Arnold had so strongly recommended her she felt sure she should be satisfied, then bidding Miss Leicester a polite good morning, she swept majestically from the room. Poor Isabel, she had not expected quite so much dignity, and was excessively annoyed. "Take the children for walks," that was a thing she had not thought of, and she did not relish the idea and as to going into the drawing-room, she could very well dispense with that. She was not aware that Mrs. Arlington intended her accomplished young governess to help to amuse her guests. Excessively annoyed, Isabel repaired to her own room to calm her ruffled feelings. At nine o'clock she went to the school-room and found her pupils there already, also a very pretty girl of about seventeen, whom they were coaxing to tell them about the ball. As Isabel entered the room, Amy exclaimed, "Miss Leicester this is Emily!" Then Emily laughed merrily, and held out her hand saying, "I hope we shall be good friends Miss Leicester, I'm sorry we were out last night." "Oh! Emily, I'm sure you wanted very much to go to the ball, and you just now said that you enjoyed yourself exceedingly," said Alice gravely. "I didn't mean that you silly child, returned Emily, but I am intruding upon school hours I fear, so if you will allow me Miss Leicester I will come for a chat before dinner." Isabel bowed assent and Emily retired, rather annoyed that her advances had not met with a warmer reception. Shortly after Emily's departure, a tall and very elegant looking girl of about twenty entered the room, and bowing condescendingly to Isabel, said, "have the goodness to try these songs Miss Leicester, I wish to know if there are any pretty ones among them, I would not trouble you only I am so excessively tired" she added, taking the most comfortable seat the room afforded; this was done in the most easy manner possible, precluding of course the idea that it was by design. Miss Arlington upon entering any room, immediately perceived the nicest place, and having seen, at once took possession with an easy indifference, as if totally unconscious that she was monopolizing the best place. Isabel complied with her request, tho' not best pleased with the interruption. "You sing very nicely Miss Leicester," Miss Arlington said patronizingly. Isabel's lip curled contemptuously, she presumed so when the crowded room had been hushed to perfect silence whenever she approached the piano, and when she ceased singing, the murmured praise and applause on all sides had sent the hot blood to her cheeks, and this not once or twice, but scores of times--she needed not to be told that she sang nicely. "She sings much better than you do Grace," said Rose pertly. "Don't be rude, Rose," replied Grace, haughtily, "Miss Leicester will have some trouble with you I imagine," then thanking Isabel, she left the room excessively annoyed with Rose. The lessons proceeded, and Isabel thought that Alice and Rose must alter their manners greatly before she could take any interest in teaching them. It was evident that they had not been treated kindly by their last governess. Alice sulked so much, and Rose was so pert, that Isabel found it difficult to keep her temper, and when tea was over, her head ached so severely, and she felt so tired and miserable, that she retired to her room, and locking herself in gave way to irrepressible emotion, while she thought that she should indeed be unhappy in her new position. Presently some one knocked at the door, but vexed at the interruption, and not wishing to be seen giving way to her feelings, Isabel took no notice. As the knocking continued unanswered, a soft voice pleaded for admittance. On opening the door, she found it was Emily, and not Amy, as she expected. "I hope you will excuse me," she said, "but not finding you in the school-room I came after you, as I knew that I should not have any other opportunity this evening." Isabel was very much confused, but Emily sat down by her side, telling her how very much she felt for her, and how she hoped she would consider her a friend. "Mrs. Arnold wrote and told me all about you" she said, "and dear Isabel I will do all in my power to make you happy." But Isabel only sobbed, "I can never be happy again--never." "You must not say that, you must not think so," exclaimed Emily. "You must come into the drawing-room with us, and that will cheer you up a bit. I know you will like papa. Elm Grove looks dreary now, but in summer it is delightful. Then, I always get up early and go for a ramble before breakfast, if I can only get any one to go with me, and I feel sure you will go with me next summer. I think I shall breakfast with you, I can't wait for mama's late breakfast, but I would sooner have gone without altogether, than have taken it with Miss Manning. I only left school you know a few weeks ago, and I like a little fun. I know I make the children very outrageous sometimes, but then, you know I could not behave at all like a fashionable young lady in the evening, if I did not get rid of some of my wild spirits before hand. By-the-bye," she cried, laughing, "I believe you will have to teach me manners, Miss Massie pronounced me quite incorrigible, my sister is a perfect model according to her idea, but I could never be like Grace, I think mamma has given up all thought of it." "I don't know about teaching you manners, but I must try what I can do with Alice and Rose, they are sadly deficient even in politeness." "Ah, you have found that out already have you," cried Emily laughing. Isabel colored, and murmured something about forgetting who she was speaking to. "O you needn't mind, I like people who say what they think" said Emily, "besides that is just what papa says about them, but you must own that Amy is a nice little thing, I don't think she could be rude or unkind." "Yes Amy is a sweet child." "It will not be quite so dull here next week, for Everard is coming home. I do wish so much for you to see him, he is my idea of perfection as far as attainable in human nature. Oh! he's so handsome, and such a dear nice fellow, I'm sure you will like him." "Perhaps you are not an impartial judge, I may not be able to see his perfections so clearly." "You can't help seeing them, they are as clear as daylight," returned Emily, warmly. "What do you think he asked me in his last letter--to tell him what sort of a gorgon the new governess was, so as I wrote to-day, I said she was beyond all description, and not to be compared with Miss Manning, so if he does not imagine something awful its very strange, (Isabel did not look well pleased) I hope you wont mind; it was such a nice opportunity for a trick, but it is time I dressed for dinner, dear me how tiresome, and away she bounded. What a funny girl, thought Isabel, I wonder if I shall like her, at all events she means to be kind. CHAPTER III. Isabel was not happy in her new home, it was no easy task to teach such unruly girls as Alice and Rose, whose chief object was to get as much fun as possible at the expense of their governess, but she trusted in time to be able to bring them to better order by the exercise of firmness and kindness combined. With Amy, however it was quite different, she seemed never so happy as when with Isabel. It was Sunday afternoon, the children did not seem to know how to employ themselves, but sat sullenly each with a book, tho' it was very evident that they were not reading. Indeed, Isabel had seen by their manners all day, that they had not been accustomed to have Sunday made pleasant. "Come here Amy dear," said Isabel, "would you like me to read to you." "Yes please, for it makes my head ache to read all the afternoon." So Isabel read a portion of scripture and several nice little hymns. Very soon as she had expected, Alice and Rose, drew near. Then she read them part of the 'chief's daughter,' and after that she played several sacred pieces and sang a hymn to the tune tranquility. The children all gathered round her asking her to teach them to sing it. She promised to do so if they would learn the words, which they immediately commenced to do. After tea they had a most unexpected and very welcome visitor. "Oh! Everard, when did you come home," they all exclaimed. "While you were at church," he returned. "What a shame you didn't come to see us before," said Alice reproachfully. "O then, I suppose it was you who shut the door when we were singing this afternoon," interposed Rose, "why didn't you come in." "I did not wish to disturb you" he answered, "but why don't some of you have the politeness to introduce me to your new governess." Isabel colored deeply as he used the distasteful appellation, and bent lower over her book, and when Rose said, Mr. Everard Arlington, Miss Leicester," her bow was more haughty and dignified than she was aware of. He seated himself at the window with Amy on his knee, while the others stood one on either side. Isabel heard a great deal being said about Miss Leicester in an under tone, and was about to leave the room, when Everard interposed, saying "I shall go, unless you stay Miss Leicester, I'm not going to turn you out of the room." "Indeed I would rather go," said Isabel. "Indeed I would rather you stayed." returned Everard. "I do not wish to be any restraint on the children, it would be better for me to go." "Well," said Everard putting his hand on the door, "I may as well have it out with you at once, as I did with Miss Manning, I am very fond of my little sisters, and often come to see them here." "I have no objection, only let me go." "But that is just what I don't want you to do, and I always have my own way at Elm Grove. You must not run away whenever I come, or I shall think you consider me an intruder." "Never mind what I think," said Isabel looking up, about to insist upon going, for she was very indignant at his behaviour, but the face she beheld quite disarmed her wrath. Such a calm, kind, earnest expression in the mild blue eyes, such a winning smile played round the handsome mouth, a more prepossessing countenance Isabel had never seen, there was something about it irresistibly attractive. "What is it you wish me to do," she asked as her eyes met his. "Stay where you are, and do just the same as if I was not here he said, and not run off as if I was going to eat you." "Then don't talk about me," she returned stiffly. "I'm sure. I never said a word about you." "But the children did," she replied coloring deeply as she returned to her seat. "Please Everard wont you read to us?" asked Amy. When he had finished, Amy asked Isabel if she would play the hymn she promised. "Not to-night dear," replied Isabel. "Oh please, Miss Leicester," coaxed Rose. "If I am the cause of their disappointment I will go, but indeed I should like to join," said Everard. "As you please" said Isabel, ashamed of being so much out of temper. "You know you promised, Miss Leicester," interposed Alice, gravely. "So I did, dear," returned Isabel, going to the piano: and she was quite repaid, as they all sang very sweetly, and quite correctly. "Good night," said Everard, when the hymn was ended. "Forgive me, Miss Leicester if I seemed rude, I did not intend to be." Isabel was distressed to find how much the children had been neglected; true they were tolerably proficient in their studies, but in all religious instruction they were miserably deficient. Left entirely to the care of Miss Manning, who was a very frivolous, worldly minded woman, they were led, (tho' perhaps unintentionally) to regard all religious subjects as dry and tedious, and to be avoided as much as possible. Isabel determined to try and remedy this evil by the exercise of patient gentleness, and by striving to make religious instruction a pleasure and a privilege. No easy task did this appear considering the dispositions she had to deal with, nor was it without a struggle that she put aside her own wishes and devoted her Sunday afternoons to this purpose. She certainly did not meet with much encouragement at first; again and again did the question recur to her mind, what good am I doing, why should I deprive myself of so many pleasant hours for the benefit of these thankless children; but the selfish thought was conquered, and she persevered. On week days also, she had morning prayer and read a portion of scripture, then they sung a hymn, always taking for the week the one they learnt on the Sunday afternoon. Nor was her perseverance unavailing, for the children became interested, and requested her to have evening service as they termed it, which of course Isabel was only too glad to do. After a while their morning numbers were increased, as Emily and her papa joined them, and so on until at last without any special arrangement they all assembled in the school-room every morning as a matter of course. Isabel was very different from what Mrs. Arlington had expected, so refined in her manners and tastes, so totally unfitted to combat with all the mortifications of a governess's career. True, she had expected a rather superior person, when Mrs. Arnold wrote that Miss Leicester was the indulged daughter of a wealthy merchant, who on account of her father's losses and subsequent death, was forced to gain her living by teaching. Still, she was not prepared to find her new governess such a lovely and sweet tempered girl, and Isabel had not been long at Elm Grove, before Mrs. Arlington found that she was becoming quite attached to her. And as Mr. Arlington found that her father was the same Mr. Leicester from whom he had formerly experienced great kindness, they decided Isabel should teach the children, and receive her salary, but that in all other respects she should be as one of the family, and Isabel was very glad of the change. CHAPTER IV. The winter was past, and it was now June--bright, sunny June--and Elm Grove was decked in its richest hues. Down from the house sloped a beautiful lawn, studded with shrubs, and adorned with flower-beds of different sizes and shapes; while in the centre there was a pond and fountain, with a weeping willow shading the sunny side, which gave an appearance of coolness quite refreshing. Beyond was the shrubbery and fruit garden; and to the left the meadow, bounded by a coppice. The house was of the gothic order: on the right side of it was a beautiful conservatory, filled with the choicest plants; on the left a colonnade and terrace, shaded by a group of acacia trees. In front a piazza and large portico, around which honeysuckle, clematis and roses, shed their sweet perfume. The grounds were tastefully laid out, with due regard to shade; and a grove of elm trees completely hid the house from the avenue: so that in approaching it from the main road, the house seemed still in the distance--even out of sight--until, on taking a half turn round a thick clump of elms, one would unexpectedly come out right in front of the house, almost at the door. It was, as Emily had said, a delightful place. The children had greatly improved under Isabel's care. Emily was quite like a sister, and even Miss Arlington treated her as an equal. Isabel knew that governesses were not usually so fortunate as to meet with such nice people, and appreciated their kindness accordingly. The walks, too, that she had so much dreaded, had become a pleasure,--not a disagreeable duty. Emily usually joined them, and not unfrequently Everard also. He performed almost impossibilities to get Isabel wild-flowers, of which, Rose had informed him, she was exceedingly fond. These, to his great annoyance, were always carefully deposited in a glass on the dining-room table; for Isabel had remarked in his manner toward her more than mere politeness, and endeavored as much as possible to check his growing attentions. But all his acts of kindness were done with so much tact and consideration, as to leave her no alternative, and oblige her to receive them. Neither was there anything in his behaviour or conversation that she could complain of, or that others would remark. All this made it very difficult for her to know how to act, as she did not wish to hurt his feelings by unnecessary particularity, or by the assumption of unusual formality lead him to suspect the true cause; and thus perhaps lay herself open to the possibility of being supposed to have imagined him to be in love with her, without due cause. Isabel knew that she was not deceived; she knew also that she must be very careful to conceal that she was so well aware of the state of his feelings towards her. "The Morningtons are coming to stay at Ashton Park: are you not glad, Emmy?" said Everard, as he joined Isabel, Emily, and the children, in their ramble, one bright day in the midsummer holidays. "Glad, I should think so!" returned Emily; "but when do they come?" "Very soon, I believe; and I expect we shall have jolly times. Harry's so full of life, and that merry little Lucy is the spirit of fun. May will be here shortly. And the Harringtons have friends with them, so we shall be able to get up some nice picnics." "But is not Ada coming?" asked Emily. "Why, of course she is," returned Everard; "but if you have not heard the 'latest,' I shall not enlighten you sister mine." "O Everard! I'm all curiosity," cried Emily, opening her blue eyes very wide. "You mean that Ada is engaged to Mr. Ashton," said Isabel. "Yes; but how on earth did you know it?" he returned. "Do you know the Morningtons?" asked Emily. "Have you known them long?" "Longer than you have, I fancy," replied Isabel. "I have known them as long as I can remember. Ada and I had the same room at school. She is my dearest and most intimate friend." "I suppose you know Harry and the rest very well?" "O yes, we were quite like brothers and sisters," "When are they expected?" asked Emily. "They may be there already, for all I know. It was last Sunday Sir John told papa they were coming." At this moment Charles Ashton, with Ada and Lucy Mornington, emerged from a bridle path through the woods that separated Elm Grove from Ashton Park. Greetings were warmly exchanged, and then amid a cross-fire of questions and small talk, they proceeded to the house, where they found Mrs. Mornington and Lady Ashton. The latter insisted upon the young ladies and Everard returning with them to spend a few days at the Park. Isabel declined to accompany them. At which, Lucy fairly shed tears, and every one seemed so much annoyed, that she finally consented. Her position of friend and governess combined, when alone, was pleasant enough; but with strangers, of course, she was still only Mrs. Arlington's governess, and was treated accordingly. That is, when it was known; as people at first did not usually suppose that the beautiful and attractive Miss Leicester was only the governess. And Isabel was sometimes amused, as well as annoyed, to find people who had been very friendly, cool off perceptibly. This she attributed to the circumstance that she was 'only the governess.' Lady Ashton, especially, had been very anxious to be introduced to that "charming Miss Leicester;" and Isabel had afterwards heard her saying to a friend: "Well! you surprise me! So she is 'only the governess,' and yet has the air of a princess. I'm sure I thought she was 'somebody.' But then, you know, there are persons who don't seem to know their proper place." All this had made Isabel cold and reserved in company; for her high spirit could ill brook the slights and patronising airs of those who in other days would have been glad of her acquaintance. Thus Isabel was deemed haughty and cold; few, if any, perceiving that this cold reserve was assumed to hide how deeply these things wounded her too sensitive feelings. So it was with more pain than pleasure that she made one of the party to Ashton Park, having a presentiment that vexation and annoyance would be the result; as she was quite sure that it was only to please Ada, that Lady Ashton had included her in the invitation. Nor did it tend to disperse these gloomy apprehensions, when Isabel found that the room assigned her was at the extreme end of the corridor, scantily, even meanly furnished, and had apparently been long unoccupied, as, although it was now June, there was something damp, chilly, and uncomfortable about it. During the whole of this visit, she was destined to suffer from annoyances of one kind or another. If there was a spooney, or country cousin, among the guests, Lady Ashton would be sure to bring him to Miss Leicester, and whisper her to amuse him if possible, and she would greatly oblige. So that Isabel scarcely ever enjoyed herself. Or just as some expedition was being arranged, Lady Ashton would, by employing Isabel about her flowers, or some other trivial thing, contrive to keep her from making one of the party. Isabel, though intensely disgusted, was too proud to remonstrate. And even when Charles, once or twice, interfered to prevent her being kept at home, she felt almost inclined to refuse, so annoyed and angry did Lady Ashton appear. True, she might have had some enjoyment from the society of Harry and Everard. But so surely as Lady Ashton observed either of them in conversation with her, she invariably wanted to introduce them to some 'charming young ladies.' And she took good care that Isabel should not join any of the riding parties. Once Arthur Barrington had particularly requested her to do so, and even offered his own horse (as Lady Ashton had assured them that every horse that could carry a lady had already been appropriated), but his aunt interposed: "O my dear Arthur, if you would only be so good as to lend it to poor little Mary Cleavers! Of course I would not have ventured to suggest your giving up your horse; but as you are willing to do so, I must put in a claim for poor little Mary, who is almost breaking her heart at the idea of staying at home. And Miss Leicester is so good-natured, that I am sure she will not object." "Excuse me, aunt, but"--began Arthur. "Here! Mary, dear," cried Lady Ashton; and before Arthur could finish the sentence, his aunt had informed Mary that he had kindly promised his horse. Mary turned, and overwhelmed the astonished Arthur with her profuse thanks. "Confound it," muttered Arthur (who was too much a gentleman to contradict his aunt and make a scene); then bowing politely to Miss Cleaver, he turned to Isabel, saying, "Will you come for a row on the lake, Miss Leicester, as our riding to-day is now out of the question, as my aunt has monopolized 'Archer' so unceremoniously. I feel assured that Miss Lucy will join us, as she is not one of the riding party." Isabel assented, and Arthur went in search of Lucy. Lady Ashton followed him, and remonstrated: "You know you were to be one of the riding party, Arthur." "Impossible, my dear aunt. After what has passed, I can't do less than devote my time this morning to the service of Miss Leicester." "Nonsense; she is 'only a governess.'" "So much the more would she feel any slight." "You talk absurdly," she returned with a sneer. "You can't take her alone, Arthur. I will not allow it." "My dear aunt, I am much too prudent for that. Lucy Mornington goes with us." "But who will ride with Mary?" "Oh, you must get her a cavalier, as you did a horse, I suppose," he returned carelessly. At all events, I am not at her service, even though no other be found;" and he passed on toward Lucy, regardless of his aunt's displeasure. And he carried the day in spite of her, for she put in practice several little schemes to prevent Isabel going. But Lady Ashton was defeated; and Isabel remembered this morning as the only really pleasant time during her stay at the Park. Lady Ashton was greatly perplexed as to how to procure a beau for Mary, and, as a last resource, pressed Sir John into service; but as he was a very quiet, stately old gentleman, the ride, to poor Mary's great chagrin, was a very formal affair. On the last evening of her stay at Ashton Park, Isabel was admiring the beautiful sunset from her window, and as she stood lost in reverie, someone entered hastily and fastened the door. Turning to see who the intruder might be, she beheld a very beautiful girl, apparently about fourteen years of age, her large eyes flashing with anger, while her short, quick breathing, told of excitement and disquietude. "I have had such a dance to get here without observation," she panted forth. "Please let me stay a little while." And before Isabel could recover from her momentary surprise, Louisa had thrown herself into her arms, exclaiming, "I knew that you were kind and good, or I would not have come, and I felt sure that you would pity me." All anger was now gone from the eager, earnest face, raised imploringly, and Isabel's sympathy was aroused by the weary, sad expression of her countenance. "Who are you; what makes you unhappy; and why do you seek my sympathy?" asked Isabel. "I am Lady Ashton's grand-daughter, Louisa Aubray," she replied. "You don't know what a life I lead, boxed up with old Grumps, and strictly forbidden all other parts of the house. I have been here two years, and during all that time I have not had any pleasure or liberty, except once or twice when I took French leave, when I was sure of not being found out. Ah, you don't know how miserable I am! no one cares for poor Louisa;" and burying her face in her hands, she cried bitterly. "I sometimes watch the company going to dinner, and that was how I came to see you; and I liked you the best of them all, and I wished so much to speak to you. So I managed to find out which was your room; but it was only to-day that I could get here, unknown to Miss Crosse. Won't you please tell me which of those young ladies Uncle Charles is going to marry. I want so much to know; because Uncle Charles is nice, and I like him. He is the only one here that ever was the least bit kind to me. As for grandpapa and grandmamma, I know they hate me; and Eliza says, that the reason grandpapa can't bear the sight of me, is because I am like papa. Oh, I know that dear mamma would not have been so glad when they promised to take care of me, if she had known how unkind they would be." "But how can I help you, dear?" inquired Isabel. "Why, I thought if I told you, you would be sorry for me, and persuade grandmamma to send me to school; for then, at least, I should have someone to speak to. I don't mind study,--only old Miss Crosse is so unkind. I think perhaps she might, if you were to coax her very much--do please," said Louisa, warmly. Isabel smiled at the idea that she should be thought to have any influence with Lady Ashton. "You err greatly, dear child, in thinking that I have any power to help you. I can only advise you to try and bear your present trials, and wait patiently for better times," she said. "Ah, it's all very well for you to tell me this. You have all you can wish, and everything nice, so it is easy to give advice; but you wouldn't like it, I can tell you." "I don't expect you to like it, Louisa. I only want you to make the best of what can't be helped." "Oh, but it might be helped, if you would only try," urged Louisa. "It is getting late," returned Isabel, "and I must now dress for dinner; but if you like you may remain here while I do so, and I will tell you about a young lady that I know, and then perhaps you will not be so annoyed with me for giving you the advice I have." "Thanks," returned Louisa, "I should like it very much." "This young lady's parents were very rich, and indulged her in every way. Her mother died when she was only eight years old. Her father had her taught every accomplishment, and instructed in almost every branch of learning. And she lived in a beautiful house, surrounded by every luxury, until the age of nineteen, when her father died; and as he lost all his property shortly before, she was forced to gain her living as a governess. Think what she must have suffered, who never in her life had had a harsh or unkind word, and scarcely ever had a wish ungratified; but had been spoilt and petted at home, and courted and flattered abroad. Think what it must have been to go alone and friendless among strangers; to earn, by the irksome task of teaching, no more a year than she had been accustomed to receive in a birthday present or Xmas gift. She was fortunate enough to meet with very kind people, who made her as comfortable as it was possible for her to be under the circumstances. But still she found her position a very trying one, and was often placed in very unpleasant circumstances, and sometimes met with great mortifications. And that young lady, Louisa,--is myself." "Oh! I'm sorry, so sorry," exclaimed Louisa. "And I thought you so happy, and so much to be envied. And I'm sorry also for what I said about it being so easy to give advice. But why don't you marry some rich gentleman? and then, you know, you needn't be a governess any more. I would." "I didn't say that I was unhappy, Louisa, and I try not to let these things trouble me so much, for I know it is wrong to care so much about them, but I can't help it. I have not told you this to excite your pity; but that you may know that others have their daily trials as well as yourself. Do not think, dear child, that I do not compassionate your sad lot; only try to remember the comforts which you do enjoy, notwithstanding the ills you are called upon to endure. Think how much worse your fate might have been, if your grandparents had refused to provide for you; and be sure if you have patience, and do what is right, in due time you will have your reward." Louisa was now weeping violently. "Ah, you don't, you can't know, what it is to live as I do. And I felt so sure that--you--could help me; but you can't, I know now, for grandmamma wouldn't listen to 'a governess.' She is so bitter against anyone that teaches, because of papa. But I can't, and won't, stand this miserable life much longer--I will not!" she continued passionately, as with compressed lips and clenched hands she started to her feet, while the angry flashing eyes and determined countenance told of strong will and firm resolution. "If I was a boy," she said, "I would run away and go to sea; but I am only a girl, and there is so little that a girl can do. But I will find some way to escape before long, if things continue like this--that I will!" and she stamped her foot impatiently upon the ground. Isabel could scarcely believe that the passionate girl before her was indeed the same child who had sat at her side so meekly not a moment before. She no longer paid any attention to Louisa's complaints. Her thoughts were far away with the only one in whom she had ever seen this sudden transition from persuasive gentleness to stormy anger; for the proud, passionate girl brought him vividly to her mind, though the wide ocean rolled between them. She saw again the proud curling lip, and the dark expressive eyes, which one moment would beam on her in love, and the next flash with angry light and stern displeasure; the haughty mien and proud defiance, blended with a strange fascinating gentleness, that had won her heart. The time was present to her imagination, when with passionate entreaty he had urged upon her the necessity for a secret marriage, and in fondest accents implored her not to refuse, as he was positive that her father would never consent to their union; and his fearful burst of passion when she most entirely, though tearfully, refused to accede to his request. Even now she trembled as she recalled the angry terms in which he reproached her, and the indignant manner in which he had expressed his conviction that she did not love him; and that all henceforth was at an end between them. How he left her in great wrath; but soon after returned, and in the most humble manner deplored his cruelty and hateful temper, and in gentlest strains implored her forgiveness. But her musings were rather abruptly terminated by Louisa exclaiming: "Oh! tell me what is the matter. Your hand is quite cold, and you are trembling all over. What have I done? what shall I do?" she continued, wringing her hands in despair. "I cannot talk to you any more now, Louisa dear," replied Isabel, "but I will tell Ada about you, and perhaps she may be able to help you; but you really must not get into such dreadful passions. I can't have you stay any longer, as I wish to be alone." "But why do you tremble and look so pale?" asked Louisa, mournfully. "Is it so dreadful to be a governess?" "I was not thinking of that dear," answered Isabel, kissing her "good-night. Mind you try to be a good girl." So Louisa was dismissed, fully persuaded in her own mind that she had nearly frightened Isabel to death by her passionate behaviour. After waiting a moderate time to recover herself, Isabel joined the others in the drawing-room. Fortunately, they went to dinner almost immediately, as she felt anything but inclined to make herself agreeable; and as Lady Ashton, as usual, was kind enough to furnish her with a companion who appeared to be a quiet, inoffensive individual, she treated him with polite indifference. She was deceived, however, in her opinion regarding Mr. Lascelles. The man was an 'ass,' and a 'magpie,' and appeared to like nothing better than to hear his own voice. However, this suited Isabel tolerably on this occasion, as an 'indeed,' or 'really,' was all that was needed by way of reply; and he was forced sometimes to stop to enable him to eat, and this kept him from being oppressive. But as he found her so good a listener, there was no getting rid of him; for when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing-room, he devoted himself entirely to Miss Leicester--to Lucy's intense amusement. At last Ada grew compassionate, and got Charles to ask Isabel to sing, and to introduce Mr. Lascelles to Miss Cleaver. It was a tedious evening, and Isabel was heartily glad that they were to return to Elm Grove. Life there was at all events endurable, which the life she had spent for the last week was certainly not. She was sick and tired of hearing the oft-repeated question and answer, "Who is that young lady?"--"Oh, the governess at Elm Grove;" and most emphatically determined that she would never stay at the Park again, let who might be offended. Neither could she help drawing comparisons between this and her former life, nor deny that she felt it severely. But the warm welcome she received from the children on her return to the Grove, went far towards dispersing these gloomy thoughts. CHAPTER V. A pic-nic was decided upon for Emily's birthday--the fourth of August. It was a lovely day, and every thing seemed propitious. And a merrier party seldom started on a pleasure excursion, than the one which now was assembled under the trees at Elm Grove. The guests were Sir John and Lady Ashton, Charles, and the Morningtons, Lilly and Peter Rosecrain, May Arlington (a cousin), the Harringtons and the Hon. Arthur Barrington, the latter had not arrived, but had promised to meet them at their destination. Emily was in ecstasy, and the children quite wild with delight. All Isabel's endeavors to keep them in order were useless, and Lucy announced, that every one must be allowed to do just as he or she pleased, or there would be no fun. Lucy volunteered to go with the children if they could procure a driver. "Any one would do, excepting Mr. Everard Arlington, as of course the children would be too much in awe of him, as he could be awefully grave." Peter immediately offered his services, unless he was too stern and sedate. This caused a laugh, as Peter was renowned for fun. The place chosen for the pic-nic was a delightful spot, (quite romantic Emily declared) situated at the bottom of a beautiful ravine, within a short distance of a splendid water fall yclept the "old roar," the dashing spray of its gurgling waters making quite refreshing music. "Now Emily, you are queen to-day, and all that you say is law," cried the laughing Lucy, when they arrived at their destination. "Now master Bob, be on your P's and Q's, and find a nice place to spread the royal feast." "I think that you are making yourself queen on this occasion and no mistake," returned the saucy Bob. "Well, I am prime minister you know, so make haste and obey my commands." "Self constituted I fancy," returned Bob with a shrug. "May I ask what important office is to be assigned me on this festive occasion," asked Peter. "That of queen's jester, of course," replied Lucy gravely. "You do me too much honor Miss Lucy," he said, bowing with mock humility. "I'm quite aware of that," answered Lucy demurely. A desirable place was soon found in a shady nook, and the repast was spread, to which it is almost needless to add they all did ample justice. Just as they sat down, Arthur made his appearance, bringing Louisa Aubray with him. If a look could have done it Lady Ashton would have annihilated him, so fearfully angry was she at his daring to bring her grand daughter in this manner, upon his own responsibility. "I found Louisa very disconsolate and unhappy, and I thought a little recreation would be good for her, Aunty. I feel sure that Mrs. Arlington will excuse the liberty I have taken," he added with a smile and bow. "Pray don't mention it, replied Mrs. Arlington thus appealed to, I am only too happy to have Miss Aubray join us. Alice my dear, make room for Miss Aubray." Louisa sat with her large mournful eyes cast down, tho' occasionally she threw furtive glances at her grandmother's darkened countenance, and seemed to be doing anything but enjoying herself. And no wonder poor child, for she was sure of a terrible scolding sooner or later. Arthur paid attention to the ladies generally, with whom he was a great favorite. Louisa ate her dinner almost in silence, tho' Alice did her best to draw her out. But poor girl, she was calculating the chances of being left alone with her angry grandmother when they dispersed after dinner, and almost wished she had not yielded to Arthur's persuasions, as he had apparently deserted her. But he was much too considerate and kind hearted for that, he had brought her there to enjoy herself, and it would not be his fault if she didn't. They began dispersing by twos and threes to explore the beauties of the place, and Louisa's heart sank within her, as she saw their numbers diminishing fast, and that Arthur too had disappeared. The children asked Isabel to come and see Rose's bower, and after a short consultation, Alice invited Louisa to join them, but Lady Ashton interposed. "I had much rather you remained with me my dear," she said curtly. And Louisa reseated herself with a great sigh as the others started on their ramble. For the children had much too great an awe of Lady Ashton, to attempt to intercede on Louisa's behalf, and if the truth must be told, they didn't much care for her company. So Louisa was left alone with the elders, who were not in such haste to move after their repast as the young people. "Come Louisa, let us follow the example of the rest," said Arthur reappearing. "I have ordered Louisa to remain here, interposed Lady Ashton sternly." "Oh! Aunt," remonstrated Arthur. "I don't approve of her coming at all, but as she is here she--" "May as well enjoy herself," put in Arthur. "Arthur," ejaculated Lady Ashton, in her most freezing tone. "But Aunt," you see that she is the only young lady left, and you wouldn't be so cruel as to condemn me to wander alone through these picturesque ravines." "You can stay here, and amuse us old people," returned Lady Ashton grimly. Arthur shrugged his shoulders and elevated his eye-brows, by way of reply. "Oh! that is too much to expect," interposed Mrs. Arlington kindly, "I think you should relent Josephine." "But you know that I refused to let her go with Miss Leicester and the children." "Oh! did you," interrupted Arthur, "that was too bad." "Come Louisa, we will try and find them," and off he marched her from under Lady Ashton's very nose, as Louisa felt bold with Arthur to back her, and she knew that she could not increase the weight of censure already incured--she also longed to get out of her grandmother's presence on any terms. Rose's bower (so called from Rose having been the first to discover it) was some distance up the winding path. It was a nice little nook, thickly shaded on all sides, having a small aperture in the west, and was completely covered with wild flowers of every description. The ascent was very difficult, for they had quite to force their way through the underwood. They arrived at last, tired and breathless, but the wild secluded beauty of the spot quite repaid them for their trouble. Isabel was in raptures, and expressed her admiration in no measured terms to the delighted children. "Oh! Everard, how did you find us," exclaimed Alice, as that gentleman made his appearance, "I thought no one knew of this place but ourselves." "Oh I followed just to see to what unheard of spot you were taking Miss Leicester," replied Everard good-naturedly. "Then you might have joined us, and not have crept after us in that mean way." said Rose angrily. "Rose, my dear Rose, you must not speak in that way." interposed Isabel authoritatively. "Oh Rose, don't you like Everard to come," asked Amy reproachfully. "I don't like him to come in that way." returned Rose. "Wouldn't you like to gather some of those black berries," asked Everard, after they had rested a while. "O yes," they all exclaimed, "what beauties," and off they scampered. Isabel was about to follow, but Everard interposed, "Stay, Miss Leicester, I have long sought an opportunity to address you, and can no longer delay--I must speak--" Isabel would have made her escape, but that Everard stood between her and the only available opening. She knew that he was about to propose, and would gladly have prevented it if possible, but as it was, there was no reprieve--he would do it. How signally had she failed, notwithstanding all her efforts, for she could not but feel, that she had not succeeded in making clear to him, her own ideas on the subject, or this would not have been. How sorry she was now, that she had allowed the fear of being unnecessarily cool to influence her conduct,--yet at the same time, she could not accuse herself of having given him any encouragement. Yet, how far was he from anticipating a refusal, and how unprepared to receive it. She saw it, there was no doubt manifested in the eager expressive eyes, in the warm impulsive manner blended with a gentle earnestness that might have won the heart of a girl whose affections were disengaged. He looked so handsome, so loveable, that Isabel felt she might indeed have been content to take him, had not her affections been given to another, and she grieved to think of the pain she must inflict. It might have been easier if he had not looked so bright and hopeful about it, or if she could have told him of her engagement, but that was out of the question, he seemed so certain of success, so utterly unconscious of the fate that awaited him, that she could have wept, but resolutely repressing her tears, she waited with heightening color to hear the words that were to be so kindly, yet so vainly spoken. "Dearest Isabel," he said in accents soft and winning. "I have loved you ever since I first saw you on that Sunday afternoon, and all that I have seen of you since, has only increased my esteem. But of late you have been more retiring than formerly, and I have even thought that you avoided me sometimes, thinking I fear, that my attentions (to use a common phrase) meant nothing, but that is not the case, I am not one of those, who merely to gratify their own vanity, would endeavor to win affection, which they do not,--cannot return. No dearest, I love you truly, unalterably,--will you then accept my love, and give me the right and the inexpressibly pleasure to share all your joys and sorrows. Tell me dear Isabel, will you be my wife." She was trembling--almost gasping, and he would have aided her with his supporting arm, but she sank away from him sobbing "It can never, never be." "Why do you say that Isabel," he asked reproachfully, while the expression of his countenance became that of unmitigated sorrow. "Even could I return your affection," she answered more calmly, "It would not be right to accept you under the circumstances. Your parents would consider, that as their governess, I ought to know my duty better." "What difference could your being the governess make," he asked. "Every difference in their opinion." "But as I am the only son, of course they would raise no objection." "That makes it the more certain that they would do so," she replied. "Oh! Isabel" he exclaimed passionately, "do not reason in this cool way, when my whole life will be happy or miserable as you make it. I am not changeable, I shall not cease to love you while I live." "Oh! do not say that I have so much influence upon your happiness Mr. Arlington," returned Isabel much affected. "You must not think of me otherwise than as a friend, a kind friend--a dear friend if you will, but I can never be anything more." "Oh! Isabel, dear Isabel, do not refuse me thus, you do not know, indeed you do not, how true a heart you are crushing, what fervent love you are rejecting. Only let me hope that time may change your feelings." "Do not think that I undervalue the love you offer, but it is impossible--quite impossible that we can ever be more to each other than at present. I would not raise false hopes or allow you to indulge them. I do not, cannot return your affections, I can never be your wife, it is utterly impossible." "You love another Isabel, else why impossible. Perhaps, even now you are the promised bride of another, tell me if this is the case," he said tho' his voice faltered. "You are presuming Mr. Arlington, you have no right to ask this question," she replied with glowing cheeks. "Pardon me if I have offended," he said. "I think that this interview has lasted long enough--too long in fact. I will now join the children if you please." "One moment more, say that we do not part in anger." "In anger, no, we are good friends I trust," she answered, smiling very sweetly. "My dream of happiness is over," he said sadly, almost tearfully as he took her offered hand. Isabel had some difficulty in finding the children on such a wild place. When she did so, she found Arthur and Louisa with them. Louisa was looking bright and animated, very different to what she had done during dinner, and was laughing and joining in the general conversation. "We are taking Mr. Barrington and Louisa to the bower," cried Rose as they drew near. "I'm afraid we shall be rather late," answered Isabel. "But you surely wouldn't have us return without seeing this wonderful bower, after undergoing all this fatigue," inquired Arthur. "Certainly not, but I would rather be excused climbing up there again to-day. I will wait here until you come back." returned Isabel. "Where is Everard." asked Alice. "I left him at the bower," "I think I will wait with Miss Leicester," said Amy, "I'm so very tired." "Yes do," cried Rose, "for then we shall not be half so long gone." Isabel sat down on the lovely green sward, and the tired child reclined beside her. Amy was so thoroughly worn out that she lay perfectly quiet, and Isabel was left to her own reflections, and these were by no means pleasant. Her conversation with Everard had cast a gloom over her spirits, she no longer took pleasure in the ramble or in the beautiful scenery around her, all the brightness of the day was gone, and why, he was not the first rejected suitor, but she had never felt like this with regard to the others. But then she had been the rich Miss Leicester, and it was so easy to imagine that she was courted for her wealth, but in the present instance it was different. Nothing but true disinterested love could have prompted him, and she felt hurt and grieved to think that she was the object of such warm affection to one who she esteemed so highly, when her affections were already engaged. She had seen how deeply her answer pained him, yet had not dared to answer his question. Could she tell him what she had not dared to reveal to her dying father? No; tho' could she have done so, it might have made it easier for Everard to forget her. When they reached the place of rendezvous, they found the rest of the party including Everard, already assembled, and Peter was declaring that it was utterly impossible to return without having some refreshments, after the immense fatigue they had all undergone in exploring the beauties of the surrounding country. Most of the party were of the same opinion, so forthwith he and Bob Mornington proceeded to ransack the hampers, and distributed the contents in the most primitive manner imaginable, to the amusement of the company generally, and to the extreme disgust of Grace Arlington in particular. And then there was a general move to the carriages. After they arrived at Elm Grove, Lady Ashton insisted upon Louisa returning to the park at once. Several voices were raised in her behalf, but in vain, Lady Ashton was inexorable, and telling Louisa to say good bye to Mrs. Arlington, she hurried her away, and desired Sunmers the coachman to drive Miss Aubray home and return for her at twelve. Arthur followed and remonstrated. "Arthur, say no more," returned Lady Ashton decisively. "I consider you took a great liberty in bringing her, and I will not allow her to remain." "Since you are quite sure that it is best for her to go, I will drive her home, she need not go alone in the great carriage, like a naughty child sent home in disgrace," he answered laughing. "Nonsense, Arthur, don't be so absurd," said Lady Ashton tartly. "Indeed my dear Aunt, as I persuaded her to come I positively could not have her treated so unceremoniously," he replied. "Here Thomson," he called to the man who was about to take Archer to the stable, and the next moment he had handed the mistified Louisa into the chaise, leaving the astonished Lady Ashton crimson with rage. "Adieu Aunty" he cried, gathering up the ribbons, "I must trust to you to make my apologies to Mrs. Arlington, and off he drove. Lady Ashton re-entered the house, inwardly vowing vengeance against the unlucky Louisa, tho' she met Mrs. Arlington with a smile, saying, "that Arthur had begged her to apologize, as he had thought it incumbent upon him to drive his cousin home, as it was entirely his fault that she had come, and you know," she added with a little laugh, "how scrupulously polite he is to every one--." To Lady Ashton's great chagrin, this was the last that was seen of Arthur at Elm Grove that night, and she would have been still more annoyed had she known how thoroughly he and Louisa were enjoying themselves over their game of chess, notwithstanding Miss Crosse's exemplary vigilance. The evening was spent in various amusements, and the company dispersed at a late hour, all highly satisfied, and voting the pic-nic a complete success. After the guests had departed, Isabel had occasion to go into the school-room for a book, and as the beautiful harvest moon was shining so brightly, she stood a moment at the open window to enjoy the lovely prospect. Hearing some one enter the room, she turned and encountered Everard. She would have retreated, but Everard gently detained her, "promise me Miss Leicester," he said, "that what passed between us this afternoon shall make no difference to your arrangements, you will not think of leaving, for I should never forgive myself for having deprived my sisters of the benefit of your society if you do." "I could scarcely do so if I wished," she replied with a sigh. "Only say that you do not wish it," returned Everard earnestly. "I do not, you have all been so kind, so very kind to me, that I should be very sorry to leave, nor could I do so very easily as I have no home." "Dear Isabel, why not accept the home I offer you?" "Stay Mr. Arlington, say no more. You must promise not to recur to that subject again, or however unpleasant it may be to do so, I shall have no alternative, but must seek another situation." "I will make it a forbidden subject while you remain at Elm Grove if you wish it," he said doubtfully. "It must be so Mr. Arlington; good night." When Isabel entered her own room she found Emily there. "Dear Isabel," she said, after seating herself on a low stool at Isabel's feet, "what a delightful day this has been, O I'm so happy," and she hid her face in Isabel's lap. "I cannot go to Grace, so I come to you," she continued, "You are more sympathetic and seem to understand me better. Not but what Grace has always been kind enough, but I always am rather in awe of her, and you have just been the friend I always wanted. Oh! Isabel, you don't know how much good you have done me. You have taught me to think more of right and wrong, and to consider duty as well as pleasure, and to think of others as well as myself. I know now, that Miss Massie was right when she said that I was wilful and selfish, and had no consideration for others, tho' at the time she said it I thought her severe and unjust. Before you came here, I made up my mind to be kind to you, and to try to like you, (tho' I own that I thought it very improbable that I should do so in reality) but you know, my Godmother Mrs. Arnold had written me, that I must be kind to you and love you, under pain of her displeasure, but when I saw how pretty you were, I thought it would not be a difficult task. Now I have learned to love you for yourself, because you are good as well as beautiful." "Oh! stop, you little flatterer, you will make me vain," said Isabel kissing her. "If I have done you any good, I am very glad indeed," she added in a more serious tone, "I have endeavored to do my duty, but I am afraid that I have not succeeded very well." "O yes, indeed you have, but what do you think that I came here to tell you dear." Isabel confessed that it was useless to attempt to guess as the day had been such an eventful one, and offered so large a scope for the imagination. "Well if you won't guess I must tell you deary, I'm engaged to Harry Mornington." "May you be very, very happy dear Emily," said Isabel returning her embrace. Then, unable any longer to sustain the composure she had forced herself to assume, she laid her head upon Emily's shoulder and wept passionately. "What can make this affect you thus," asked the amazed and astonished Emily, greatly distressed, "Oh! Isabel is it possible that you love him, how unfortunate that I should have chosen you for my confidant, but I didn't know, I never thought, or believe me I would not have pained you thus. You said that he had always been like a brother to you, how could I know that you ever thought he would be anything more. Indeed, she added as if to vindicate Harry, "I never saw anything in his manner to lead you to suppose so." "You are quite mistaken dear Emily," interposed Isabel, as soon as she could control her sobs sufficiently to give utterance to the words "I never thought or wished that Harry should ever be more to me than the dear friend he has ever been. But I have many sources of trouble that you are not aware of dear Emily, and to-day, while others laughed, I could have wept, and would gladly have exchanged that gay scene, for the quiet of my own room. But this could not be, and I was forced to assume a serenity of feeling I was far from experiencing. Had you not been here, I should have given vent to my grief in solitude, and none would have been the wiser. As it is I must entreat that you will forgive me for (tho' unintentionally) making you suppose I do not sympathize in your happiness, but I do indeed, for I know that Harry is all that is good, and is worthy of your best affections." "Dear Isabel, will you not tell me your troubles," inquired Emily, "for ills lose half their weight by being shared with another." "I cannot tell you dear, but for the present I will forget my uneasiness in sharing your happiness." Then after a long and pleasant conversation they parted, both amazed at the late, or rather early hour which at that moment struck. "By-the-bye," said Emily, coming back after a few minutes "papa gave me this letter for you two days ago, but I quite forgot it until I saw it just now." "O you naughty, naughty girl," cried Isabel, looking very bright as she beheld the familiar epistle. "No more tears to-night I fancy, eh Isabel," said Emily saucily. "Don't sit up to read it to-night, it is so very late," she added wickedly, her eyes sparkling with mischief. All else was soon forgotten as Isabel eagerly perused the welcome letter from her own Louis, whose silence had been one source of her disquietude. But Louis accounted for his silence to her entire satisfaction, and promised to send an extra one at an early date. CHAPTER VI. Isabel was to spend this Xmas with the Morningtons, who with with the exception of Harry, were to return to Europe in February. It was very rough weather, and Isabel had much such a journey as that to Elm Grove, and was in a very similar condition to what she had been on that occasion. On her arrival at Eastwood, Ada embracing her exclaimed "Oh! here you are at last my own darling Isabel, I have been watching for you all day, papa was sadly afraid of accidents this stormy weather, and Bob kept bringing such dreadful accounts of trains being snowed up, that he nearly frightened me to death. Papa has been to the depot three times, and Harry twice, and missed you after all. But do come and warm yourself dearest, for you seem half frozen," she continued as she hurried Isabel into the cosy little breakfast-room, where the bright fire was indeed a pleasant sight on such a bitterly cold day. "We met with several disagreeable stoppages, but nothing worse" replied Isabel, her teeth chattering with cold. "I am sadly chilled with this piercing wind, Oh! this is nice" she added going to the fire, "and it is so very pleasant to be at 'Eastwood' once more." "Why here is Isabel I declare," cried the impulsive Lucy, as she bounded into the room, "how delightful, you will help me to arrange the gim-cracks on the Xmas tree, won't you my pet," said the merry girl as she threw her arms round her friend, and hugged her unmercifully. "To be sure I will, when I recover the use of my fingers," returned Isabel laughing. "Well, I don't want you to come now, for if I am a little madcap as papa says, I'm not quite so unreasonable as that," Lucy answered, seating herself upon an ottoman. "Here I am your humble servant to command what orders for your slave, most noble Isabel of Leicester. You have but to speak and I obey." "Do be sensible Lucy and let mamma know that Isabel has come," said Ada reprovingly. "I go," answered Lucy with mock gravity, "to usher my illustrious mother to the presence of the noble Isabel of Leicester." "Oh! Lucy, just the same nonsensical," laughed Isabel. "Alas, I fear that it will be the same to the end of the chapter," sighed the incorrigible Lucy as she left the room. She soon returned bringing the other members of the family with her, and Isabel received a very warm welcome. She could not help shedding tears of happiness and gratitude, when Mrs. Mornington embracing her said, "ever look upon this as your home dear child, whenever you like to come you will always find us glad to see you," and Mr. Mornington added in his kindly tone "yes, yes, always remember Isabel my dear, that while I have a roof over my head, you have still a home, and kind friends to welcome you." On being conducted to her room, she found the best was given her as of old; it was evident that her altered circumstances made no difference at Eastwood. Happy days were these which Isabel spent with her dearest friends. Bob's party went off with great _eclat_, and the perfect success of the Xmas trees was owing to Isabel's tasteful arrangement. The Ashtons arrived on New Year's Eve, for Ada was to be married on twelfth day. Lady Ashton was very much surprised to find how very partial the Morningtons were to Isabel, they consulted her on all occasions, and her advice was almost invariably taken. This annoyed Lady Ashton extremely, and she often succeeded in vexing her, and making her feel very uncomfortable. But Lady Ashton's disagreeable behaviour did not annoy Isabel so much as at Ashton Park. Here among her best friends, she could even think of herself as a governess without experiencing the same degree of mortification as formerly, but she was still very sensitive upon that point. Lady Ashton had noticed that her nephew, The Honorable Arthur Barrington was very attentive to Miss Leicester, this raised her ire, and she was determined to prevent it--she resolved to put a stop to it, so seeing him seated next Isabel at dinner, she asked her across the table how her little pupils were when she left them, and if Mrs. Arlington had granted extra holidays, as she could scarcely get back by the end of the usual Xmas vacation." Isabel grew scarlet as she replied "that they were quite well when she left them, and that she did not return until the first of February." Lady Ashton was gratified to see that she was successful so far. Isabel was no longer the same attentive listener to all Arthur's stories of marvellous adventures, (for she was both hurt and angry, as the question was evidently intended to annoy--for as Emily had come to Eastwood with the Ashtons, Lady Ashton had later intelligence from Elm Grove than she could possibly give) and Arthur finding her pre-occupied, transferred his attention to Mabel Ainsley, so that Isabel was left to the mercy of a queer old gentleman who sat next her on the other side, who was exceedingly deaf, and stuttered dreadfully. Nor did Lady Ashton's evident satisfaction tend to make her feel more at ease, so that she was heartily glad when this to her most tedious dinner was over. But she had a worse attack to endure, for when the ladies reached the drawing-room, Lady Ashton said in the most annoying tone, "I should not have mentioned your pupils if I had had any idea that you would have been so painfully affected by my doing so, at the same time rest assured my dear Miss Leicester----." "Pray don't mention it Lady Ashton," replied Isabel coldly, "any apology is quite unnecessary." "You mistake my meaning Miss Leicester," replied Lady Ashton stiffly, "I am not aware of having anything to apologize for," she added with a contemptuous little laugh, "I was about to say" she continued, "that the sooner you overcome this feeling the better. You ought not to be ashamed of earning an honest living----." "Nor am I ashamed of it," replied Isabel with dignity, "at least I hope not." "I am glad that you qualify your denial, as your crimson cheeks both now and during dinner are ample proof that I am right. But (as I was about to say, when you interrupted me so rudely) from my observations, I thought it high time that Mr. Barrington should be reminded of your position, as I know that his father would never allow him to marry a governess, of course it is no disgrace to be a governess, still, it is not from that class of persons that Arthur should choose a wife." "I'm afraid that you have taken unnecessary trouble, Lady Ashton," returned Isabel, "I am convinced that my position is of no consequence to Mr. Barrington, any more than his is to me. I assure you that you have made a great mistake." "It is nonsense for a girl in your circumstances to pretend such indifference, I am not deceived, I know that you would be only too glad to make such a match, and he is just foolish enough to take a fancy to a pretty face. But I warn you not to encourage him, as it will only end in misery to you both, as Lord Barrington would never consent." "Really, Lady Ashton, I do not know what right you have to insult me in this manner, I cannot permit it," said Isabel, and then with dignified composure she crossed the room to Ada, who was scarcely less annoyed than herself, at Lady Ashton's unprovoked attack. This little scene had afforded no little amusement to the party generally, tho' all agreed that it was too bad of Lady Ashton, and very ill-natured. Lady Ashton, however, had miscalculated the effect of the course she had pursued, for Arthur Barrington was annoyed at her interference, and being really good-natured he was even more than ever attentive to Isabel, and endeavored as much as possible to atone for his aunt's disagreeable behaviour, while Isabel (being convinced that Lady Ashton had nothing to warrant her conjecture, but her own surmises,) made no alteration in her manners. She found him a very agreeable companion, and imagined that he too found her society pleasant, as indeed he did, beautiful, accomplished, and good-natured, how could she be otherwise than attractive. But Lady Ashton's chagrin knew no bounds, and she told Isabel that she should certainly let Mrs. Arlington know how very unfit a person she was to have the care of her daughters. She had always been surprised at her having such a very young person, but she had heard that it was out of charity, but there was such a thing as carrying that much abused virtue too far. Stooping lower over her tatting, Isabel only smiled at the harmless threat, for whatever her failings might be, Mrs. Arlington was not over ready to believe evil of any one, and seldom did so without due cause. Moreover, she was not easily influenced by others, and her decisions were usually just. But the hot blood suffused her cheeks as Lady Ashton concluded. Fortunately Lucy entered the room, and then her ladyship was or appeared to be deeply engaged with her book, as having before been worsted in a combat of sharp speeches with that young lady, she by no means wished for a renewal of hostilities. Isabel was invariably made low spirited by one of Lady Ashton's ill-natured attacks, especially so to-day, as the insults she had received were particularly painful, being both unfeeling and uncalled for. However, upon retiring to her own room at night, she found upon the dressing table a letter, the contents of which soon dispersed all gloomy thoughts, and Lady Ashton's rudeness was quite forgotten. Louis, her own dear Louis, wrote that he would return in the early spring. My uncle he said, has or is about to purchase for me a practice in H----, so that I trust dearest, the period of your teaching will not be of long duration, as there will then be no cause to delay our union. I already in perspective, seem to see you my own dearest, presiding over my bright fireside in H----, the joy of my heart, and the good angel of my home. I trust that you have made no arrangement with Mrs. Arlington but such as can easily terminate upon a short notice. I would not advise your taking any steps at present, as my uncle does not say positively that the purchase is absolutely made. But at all events you may depend upon seeing me in the early spring, as I have his orders to return. The darkest hour is just before dawn. She had been so truly wretched an hour ago, and now how radiantly happy she was. Ah, with what sweet visions of a bright unclouded future did she fall asleep, to dream of her loved one far away, soon to be distant no longer. When Isabel descended to the breakfast-room next morning, she looked so bright and happy, that Lady Ashton could account for it in no other way than that Arthur had proposed, and that she had accepted him, so she taxed him with it accordingly. Arthur was excessively amused, and so archly evaded giving a direct answer, that she became the more convinced of the truth of her own surmises, and grew so wrathy that Arthur fearing that in her anger she might annoy Miss Leicester, at length assured her that she need be under no apprehension, as nothing was farther from his thoughts. CHAPTER VII. "Oh, Isabel, mama says I may stay until the first, and then we can return together, won't that be charming," said Emily, as she came into Isabel's room on the following day, holding an open letter in her hand. "You can't think how glad I am to escape the escort of that tiresome Lady Ashton." "I certainly should not imagine that she would make a very pleasant travelling companion," returned Isabel, laughing. "Don't mention it pray," exclaimed Emily, "you have no idea what I endured coming down. Poor Charles, he must have been almost worried to death, she is such a horrid tease, and the old gentleman too, is an awful fidget. I think Arthur Barrington knew what he was about, when he refused to be of our party, and went on by express. Talking of Lady Ashton, how abominably she behaves to you. I was saying so to Harry the other day, and he really seemed quite hurt about it. He said that he saw what she was at the other day at dinner, and was very much annoyed. Then I told him that was nothing to what took place afterwards, and related what she said to you in the drawing room." "Oh, Emily, how could you," exclaimed Isabel. "Ah now don't be cross with me, Isabel, darling. I really couldn't resist, it was so supremely absurd. Do you know, that that little goose, Ada, cried her eyes out about it that night, and then in again next morning." "I know that Ada was very much hurt at Lady Ashton's rudeness," replied Isabel. "I'm sure that I was as angry and annoyed as any of them, but for the life of me I can't help laughing whenever I think of it. But confess now, Isabel, are you not desperately in love with Arthur Barrington--come tell the truth." "Well, the truth is, no, most decidedly not," Isabel answered, laughing. "Ah, now, I'm quite disappointed, for I had made up my mind to that match, if only to aggravate Lady Ashton. She has no influence in that quarter, as anyone may see; and he is so decidedly 'smitten."' "What nonsense you talk, Emily." "It is not nonsense. I assure you that I mean what I say. Ah, my dear, you had better consider the matter. Second thoughts, you know, are sometimes best. He is a very nice fellow, and his father is immensely rich. You can have him if you choose: I am sharp enough to see that." "But then you see I don't choose," returned Isabel, much amused. "Besides, I think that you are quite mistaken." "Oh, you silly Isabel, how can you be so provokingly stupid? By the bye, what a little namby-pamby thing that Mabel Ainsley is. What Lucy can see in her to like, passes my comprehension." "I presume it must be because Lucy is so different, and then Mabel is so pliant, which no doubt suits, as Lucy is fond of taking the lead." "They say that likes go by contraries; but as far as my observations go, it is seldom the case," observed Emily. "A similarity of tastes and ideas is usually more attractive; but then, 'novelty's charming,' you know," responded Isabel. "I do wish that we could get up a fancy ball--a private masquerade, you know. I was speaking to Ada and Lucy about it last night. I said that I would be night, and Lucy thought you ought to be morning." "I hope they will give up the idea, as I really could not take part in it," interrupted Isabel. "Why not--what harm could there be? What makes you so fastidious, Isabel?" "It is not that, dear Emily;" but I have very painful associations connected with a private masquerade, the only one that I ever went to. That night poor papa received the sad news of his failure; and in the midst of that gay scene, I received a summons to return, as my papa was alarmingly ill, and scarcely expected to live through the night. He never recovered, though he lingered for some weeks afterwards. Can you wonder then, dear Emily, that even the idea of such a thing is painful in the extreme?" "I'm very sorry that I proposed it," returned Emily, much concerned. "I will tell Ada what you say, and we will get up some other amusement: so don't think any more about it, dear;" and giving Isabel a hasty kiss, she left her. The sixth was a bright, cloudless day--the dazzling whiteness of the frozen snow, and the deep blue of the sky, forming a beautiful contrast. The weather was cold, not intensely so, and the trees looked splendid, as their ice-covered boughs glistened and sparkled in the sunlight; and the merry jingle of the sleigh-bells was quite enlivening. The wedding was quite a grand affair, and passed off with great _eclat_. Charles and Ada were to travel for three weeks, and then join the Ashtons and Morningtons at Boston, and proceed to the old country together. The Ashtons left Eastwood shortly after the wedding, to prepare for a long absence from the Park; and from the time of Lady Ashton's departure, Isabel's visit was one of uninterrupted enjoyment. She became so cheerful and animated, that Emily declared they positively wouldn't know her again at Elm Grove. Harry was to remain at W----, to read up for the examination. He had tried very hard to prevail upon his father to let him enter Mr. Arlington's office, as in that way he could get on much better, he said, as he would see a great deal of law business, and he could easily read up in the evenings. But his father only laughed. "Love-making would play the dickens with the studies. You would be poring over your book, without knowing that it was upside down. No, no. After you have 'passed,' you shall travel for a year; and then I believe that I shall be able to get you a partnership in H---- with my old school-fellow, Harding, who is a very clever lawyer, and stands very high in his profession." "But will you allow me sufficient to enable me to marry and take my wife with me?" asked Harry. "Upon my word! that is a modest request," replied his father. Harry laughed. "When I was young, young men expected to make their way in the world a little before they talked of marrying," continued Mr. Mornington; but you ask me as coolly as possible to give you enough to enable you and your wife to travel, before you go into business at all, which I think is pretty brassy. I wonder what my father would have thought if I had made such a request. I honestly believe he would have thrashed me. But as I said, things are different now-a-days." Harry grew very red during this harangue, but wisely kept silent. "Now, I'll tell you what my father did. He called me into his study one morning. 'How old are you?' he asked. 'Fifteen, sir,' I replied proudly. 'Old enough to be better,' he retorted. 'Well, sir, as you are fifteen, I consider that you are old enough to earn your own living. I have procured you a situation in a wholesale grocery, where you will get a hundred dollars a year. Now, as you will be away from home (for the firm is in Washington), I will pay your board for the first year. After that, you will get a rise in your salary; and from that time, you will have to depend upon your own exertions, as I shall not help you any more. If you are honest and steady, you get on. But if you will get into scrapes, don't expect me to help you out." "Yes, sir," resumed Mr. Mornington, "that was the way I began the world; and by the time I was twenty-three (your age, Harry), I had acquired a good position in the firm, and a promise of a future partnership. What do you think of that?" "I think that if you had started me in the same manner, when I was fifteen, that I should have done the same," replied Harry, with spirit. "Then you think that you can't be blamed justly?" "No, sir," returned Harry, respectfully. "Well, I suppose that it has been all my own doing," resumed Mr. Mornington. "But seriously, Harry, do you wish to give up law and become one of the firm? Speak out, boy, there is no good in taking up a thing if you have no heart for it." "You mistake me altogether," interposed Harry, hastily. "I have not the least wish to give up the law." "So let it be then. And I agree to your request--provided that you 'pass' within a year." "All right--thanks," returned Harry, thinking that he had made a capital arrangement. "I suppose," added his father, "that you will have to take the girls to Elm Grove." "Unless it interferes with the bargain," Harry began-- "Ha, ha!" laughed Mr. Mornington. "You will make a good lawyer yet, I believe." "I hope so," responded Harry, lighting his cigar. On the first of February, they all set out for Boston, according to the previous arrangement. On their arrival in that city, they found that Charles and Ada had been there some days. Charles had received a telegram, saying that the elder Ashtons would only get there an hour or so before the steamer left. The girls were delighted at this intelligence, as now there was nothing to mar the happiness of the party during the few days that they would spend together. Ada and Isabel were inseparable, and it was astonishing how much Lucy and Emily had to say. Charles and Harry discussed their future plans. Mr. Mornington had a great many people to see, and a great deal of business to attend to, so that he was closely occupied, and had scarcely a word for any one during meals, which was the only time he was with them. And Mrs. Mornington's happiness seemed to consist in seeing the young people enjoy themselves. After the arrival of Sir John and Lady Ashton, with Miss Crosse and Louisa, they all went on board the steamer; and when they had seen them comfortably settled, Emily, Harry and Isabel, returned to the hotel, and the next morning continued their journey to Elm Grove, where Mr. Mornington had stipulated that Harry should stay no more than three weeks--or it would interfere with the bargain. CHAPTER VIII. The Arlingtons had a grand ball in honor of Miss Arlington's twenty-first birthday, which Rose said wasn't fair, as Everard didn't have one on his. Mrs. Arlington, always celebrated for the taste and elegance displayed at her parties, has almost surpassed all former occasions in the magnificent arrangement of everything. Isabel wore a plain white dress, and jet ornaments. A single flower adorned her hair; and the usual, rather sad expression of her countenance, was exchanged for one of greater animation. The excitement of the occasion had given an unwonted glow to her cheeks. She did, indeed, look lovely, as she stood engaged in lively conversation with Emily, while they were waiting in the drawing-room to receive the guests; and so Everard thought, who stood talking with his father, while his eyes rested admiringly upon Isabel's sweet face. After the greater part of the guests had arrived, and the dancing fairly commenced, Isabel, who had been waltzing, returned to the drawing-room. She was scarcely seated, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Louis Taschereau enter. Oh, how her heart throbbed at the unexpected meeting! Here was Louis, her own Louis, actually in the room. It was annoying, that after being parted so long, they should first meet in a crowded ball-room.--Never mind; she was only too glad to have him there. He looked so well, so bright and happy, as he made his way through the crowd, with the proud bearing and haughty mien in which she delighted. How long would it be before he reached her?--Oh, that the room were smaller, or that she had been nearer the door. It seemed an age while he was shaking hands with Mrs. Arlington. But who is that pretty girl on his arm? Could it be his cousin Marie? He has taken her to a seat, and is moving down the room. The hot blood rushed to her cheeks. Someone asked her to dance. "Oh, not yet," she replied, scarcely heeding who it was that asked her. Louis sees her, and is coming towards her. How her heart bounded, her joy and happiness was so great. She hid her glowing face behind her fan, to conceal her confusion. Another moment and he was by her side, greeting her cordially. "Oh, Louis," and she smiled upon him, O so sweetly. "You did not expect to see me to-night," he said, looking very contented and triumphant. But there was something in the expression of his face which she did not like--something that seemed to freeze up all the warmth of her feelings in an instant. Was it that he thought she was too ready to show what she felt, with so many present who might observe any unusual degree of pleasure on her part. Oh, surely not, for she had been so careful--as careful as it was in human nature to be. "Was that your cousin," she asked, "that you brought with you?" "No! that--is--my wife--" he said, with a look of triumph. "Your wife! Why, what do you mean?" she inquired, thinking he was jesting. "Just what I say," he replied. Then, with insufferable insolence, he hissed in her ear, "Louis Taschereau never forgives." "Indeed," she answered, assuming an air of indifference that surprised even herself; for she had felt the hot, indignant blood, coursing through her veins. "Really," he said, with cool effrontery, "that assumption of indifference is sublime. But I am not deceived," he continued, with a scornful laugh; "my revenge is most complete, my plans have been entirely successful," and making her a low bow, he retired. And Isabel was left to her own thoughts. But this would not do; she must not--dare not--think; she must have excitement until she could be quite alone. Fortunately, Harry now claimed her as his partner. "Oh, Harry," she said, "I am so tired of sitting here." "Why, I asked you for the last dance, and you wouldn't come," answered Harry, laughing. "I didn't think it would have lasted so long," she returned. "Do you know that Louis is here?" he inquired. "Yes." "Don't you think his wife pretty?" "Very." Harry knew that Louis had always been a favorite with Isabel, but the remotest idea of the real state of the case never for a moment occured to him. When the dance was over, they went out on the glass extension room. Presently Harry said abruptly: "Isabel, I really thought that you would have been Mrs. Taschereau." "Harry!" "I did, indeed." "Harry, don't," she said imploringly. Just then Everard and Emily came in, and at the next dance they exchanged partners. As they passed under the hall lamp, Everard remarked the extreme palor of her countenance. "You are ill, Miss Leicester," he said. You should not have remained so long in that cold place. Let me get you a glass of wine." "Oh no, thanks. I shall soon get warm with dancing." "I don't think that you should attempt this galop. You look too ill; indeed you do." "I intend to dance it, Mr. Arlington; but if you do not wish too, I can have another partner." Everard looked so sad and reproachful as she said this, that she felt sorry for the hasty words. She knew they had been harsh, and he had said nothing but what was kind--nothing to deserve anything so severe. But then she dare not sit during a single dance; she could not, would not, rest a moment. She was making a great effort to 'keep up,' and it was only by a continual struggle that she could succeed. However, Everard had no more cause for uneasiness on account of her looking ill, as they had scarcely entered the ball-room before her brilliant color had returned. Isabel was decidedly the belle of the evening; and for this, Grace Arlington never forgave her. Everard saw that Isabel's gaiety was assumed, and he would have given much to know the cause. Harry was not so keen an observer, and only thought how much she was enjoying herself, and how much he had been mistaken in thinking that she cared anything about Louis. Oh the weary, weary length of that dreadful evening. Isabel thought that it would never end. But she kept up splendidly. Once she unexpectedly found Louis her _vis a vis_--then came the master-piece of the evening. She looked superb, as with graceful dignity she glided through the quadrille. She avoided touching his hand, except when it was inevitable; but she did it so naturally, that to others it did not appear premeditated. He spoke to her, but she passed on as though she did not hear. Once again, before the dance was ended, he ventured to address her; but she replied with grave dignity, "We must meet as strangers: henceforth I shall not know you, Dr. Taschereau." Louis foamed with rage at the cool contempt conveyed in these words. He ground his teeth, and swore to be revenged. At last the guests all departed, and Harry too had taken leave (for as this was his last day at Elm Grove, he was going by the three o'clock train to keep his promise, for Harry was very strict, and would not have remained another day on any pretext). Then Isabel had to listen to the praises bestowed on her by all the Arlington family, who complimented her upon the sensation she had made, and to force herself to join in an animated conversation regarding the events of the evening; so that she was truly glad when Mr. Arlington dismissed the 'conclave,' saying that they could discuss the party next day. When Isabel gained her own room, and sat down to think of her trouble, she began to realize the full extent of her misery. She had scarcely known 'till now, how much his love had supported her through all her trials; or how the thought of one day being his, had softened the ills she had been called upon to endure since her father's death. Now she must think of him no more--he was hers no longer. But worse than this, was the pain and grief of knowing that he was unworthy of the love and admiration that she had bestowed upon him. She knew that he was proud, passionate and exacting, yet she loved him; for these very characteristics, mingled as they were with more endearing qualities, had a peculiar charm for her. How happy she had been to feel that he loved her; and oh! the pain, the agony, of knowing that he did so no longer. Why, why had he written that letter? Oh it was cruel, cruel. And then to think that it had all been planned, premeditated, with the express design of making her suffer more acutely, was bitter in the extreme. To lose his love was misery; but to know that he was deceitful, cruel and revengeful, was agony beyond endurance. She did not weep: her grief was too stony for tears. "Oh, Louis, Louis," she moaned in her agony, "what have I done, to deserve such cruel treatment?" She leaned her head upon her arm, and pressed her hand upon her throbbing temples, for the tumult of her thoughts became intolerable. She pictured to herself Louis, as she loved to see him; old scenes recurred to her mind, and the days when she had been so happy in his love--nor had a wish beyond. Even this very night, how inexpressibly happy had it made her to see him in the room. And oh, to have all her dreams of happiness crushed in a moment. Again she thought how different it might have been had he been faithful and true; but he was false--he did not love her, and what had she to live for now? A sense of oppression, which almost amounted to suffocation, distressed her, until at length a fearful sensation of choking forced her to rise to get some water; but ere she could do so, a crimson stream flowed from her mouth, down her white dress, and she fell upon the floor. CHAPTER IX. The daylight was streaming in at the window when Emily awoke, and lay thinking of the party, and rejoicing in her kind little heart that Isabel had been so happy, and had enjoyed herself so much. Then she sighed as she thought Harry was gone, but smiled again at the bright prospect she had in view, for Harry had imparted to her the nice arrangement that he had made with his father, and she did so love the idea of travelling for a year. Then again she heaved a little sigh, and hoped he would not overwork himself; but there was no cause for uneasiness on that score, for Harry was too much accustomed to take things easy, and too wise to work himself to death: and Emmy was content to believe this. But she was that sociable disposition, that she could not half enjoy anything unless she could get some one to sympathise with her. She did so long to tell her news. Late as was the hour when the party broke up, she wanted to tell Isabel; but Isabel had refused their accustomed chat, saying that it was too late, and that Mrs. Arlington would be vexed. Then she wondered if Isabel was awake, she did so long to tell her about the year's travelling. She thought she would go and see. So she got up very quietly, partially dressed, and then threw on her dressing gown, and ran up to Isabel's room; but finding the door locked, she rattled the handle slightly, and called through the key-hole, "Isabel! Isabel! are you awake? open the door." Then as she drew back, something attracted her sight, and impelled her to apply her eye to the said key-hole. She did so; and horrified beyond description at what she beheld, she shrieked aloud with terror. Her frantic cries brought her father, mother, Everard, and several of the servants, to the rescue. "Open the door! oh, open the door!" was all that she could say, wringing her hands in anguish, and pointing to it. "Speak, child," said her father, "what is the matter?" But she only cried more wildly, "open the door! open the door!" without attempting to explain. But Everard, with his firm, quiet manner, and reassuring tone, calmed her almost instantly. Mrs. Arlington did as Emily had done before her. "There is something wrong," she exclaimed, "we must get the door open." The united efforts of Everard and his father forced the door, and a more distressing sight can scarcely be imagined than that they beheld. Stretched on the floor lay Isabel, in her ball dress, the blood pouring from her mouth in a crimson stream. As soon as Everard saw this, he waited for no more, but hastened to the stable, and was soon on the road, dashing at a reckless pace, towards Dr. Heathfield's. Mrs. Arlington quietly desired Norris to remove the children, who, alarmed by Emily's cries, had crowded into the room, along with the servants. Emily also was dismissed; and ordering two of the servants to remain, she told the rest to retire, and to send Norris back again. She then turned her attention to the suffering girl, whose face wore an expression of ineffable agony; but she was at a loss how to proceed, not knowing what ought to be done, and fearing that she might do harm by injudicious treatment. In less time than could have been imagined, Everard returned with the doctor, who had great difficulty in stopping the bleeding. She had broken a blood vessel, he said, and was in a very dangerous state. He ordered perfect quiet, as the least excitement would cause a return of the bleeding, and then nothing could save her. He questioned very sharply as to what had happened, and gave as his opinion that it had been caused by some great shock, and violent emotion struggled with and suppressed, by undue excitement. Mrs. Arlington repudiated the notion, and protested against such an assumption, saying "that Miss Leicester appeared quite well when she retired to rest." "These things do not happen without cause, madam," returned the doctor; "therefore in all probability something has occurred of which you know nothing." "I am convinced that you are mistaken, Dr. Heathfield; but I will take care that your orders are strictly attended to. No one but myself and Norris shall be allowed in the room. You have no doubt of her ultimate recovery, I trust," she added. "I couldn't pretend to give an opinion at present; I can only tell you that she is in a most precarious state," he replied gravely. "Everything depends upon the prevention of the hemorrhage, a return of which would be certain death. At the same time, that is not all that we have to fear." For a long time Isabel hovered between life and death, scarcely conscious of what was passing around her. Day after day the children would linger on the stairs, whenever the doctor came, to hear his account of Miss Leicester. But he only shook his head, and said "he could not have them there. Their governess was very ill, and they must be very good children." Then they would return to the school-room, and spend, as best they might, these joyless holidays. At last the longed for answer came--"She was certainly better," and they were delighted beyond measure; but their joy was considerably damped, when he told them that they could not be permitted to see her for some time yet. Isabel's recovery was very slow, though every care and attention was bestowed upon her, and each vied with the other in showing kindness to the orphan girl. Still Isabel felt her lonely, dependent condition, acutely. Life seemed a dreary, cheerless existence; and she experienced a shrinking from the future which seemed to be before her, which was at times almost insupportable. She longed to be at rest. The prostration and langour, both mental and bodily, that accompanied this depression, was so great as to seriously retard her recovery, and almost baffled the doctor's skill. She would lie for hours without speaking or moving, apparently asleep, but only in a sort of waking dream. She took no interest in anything, and appeared quite incapable of making any effort to overcome this apathy. Emily tried her best to amuse her; but after taking pains to relate everything that she thought of interest that had occurred, Isabel would smile and thank her, in a way that proved she had not been listening. Thus week after week of her convalescence passed, while, to the doctor's surprise and disappointment, she made no further progress. After visiting his patient one afternoon, he requested a few moments' conversation with Mrs. Arlington. "My dear madam," he said, when that lady had led the way into the morning-room, "has Miss Leicester no friends, with whom she could spend a few weeks? for if she is allowed to remain in this lethargic state, she will inevitably sink. An entire change of air and scene is absolutely necessary. She requires something to rouse her in a gentle way, without excitement." "She has friends, I believe; but really, I know so little about them, that any arrangement of that sort is out of the question. All those I do know, are at present in Europe," returned Mrs. Arlington. "But we are anxious to do everything in our power to promote her recovery. If you can suggest anything, I shall be most happy to carry out your plans. I proposed her going to the sea-side, but she wouldn't hear of it, and said that she hoped she should not trouble us much longer. I remonstrated, but to no purpose--she persisted that it was utterly impossible." "That was the very thing I was going to suggest," returned the doctor; "but I trusted that the proposal would have met with a better reception. But if you will allow me, I think I might persuade her to accompany the children, as if on their account. Have I your permission to do so?" "Full permission to make any arrangements that you think beneficial, doctor," replied Mrs. Arlington. Doctor Heathfield went back to his patient. He found her alone. "What do you think of making a start to the sea-side? I think it would do you good." "Oh, indeed I could not," returned Isabel languidly. "Mrs. Arlington is very kind, but it is quite impossible." "Don't decide so hastily," replied Dr. Heathfield, taking a seat by her side. "A thing which is impossible, requires no consideration." "But I am convinced that it is not impossible," he urged, "and by obliging others, you will also benefit yourself; it is such a very small thing that is required of you, just to accompany the children to D---- for a few weeks. Indeed I think that you can scarcely refuse after all the kindness that you have received during your long illness." "I am extremely sorry to have caused so much trouble, but I assure you that I am not ungrateful." "It don't seem like it when you won't do what little you might to please," returned the doctor. "Don't say will not," Dr. Heathfield. "Ay but I must say will not, and excuse me when I add, that you greatly mistake your duty to give way to this apathy, and thus retard your recovery," he said kindly. "I do not seek to fathom your trouble, but I do know that it was excessive mental anguish that caused you to break a blood-vessel, and I would remind you that this is not the right way to brood over and nurse your grief, refusing to make any effort to do your duty. "I know it is wrong faltered Isabel with quivering lips, but I cannot take an interest in anything or find comfort, save in the thought of early death." "But that is from the morbid state of mind induced by weakness." Isabel shook her head. "And will pass off as you get stronger," he continued. "I shall never be strong again," she said. "Pooh, nonsense, I can't have you talk in that way, if you only make an effort and go with the children to D----, I think you will soon alter your opinion." "Please don't say any more, my head aches dreadfully," pleaded Isabel. "One moment and I have done," he said, "I fear that you forget your position here, the family have behaved to you with the greatest generosity, but still you must be aware that they would not continue to keep an invalid governess, and as I understand that you are entirely dependant upon your own exertions, you must see the necessity of trying the benefit of sea air, when you have the opportunity, do not take it unkindly that I have used such freedom in pressing this matter, think over it quietly, and to-morrow let me know what answer I am to give Mrs. Arlington." Then he took his leave, and his kind heart smote him, for he heard the smothered sobs of his fair patient. CHAPTER X. Mrs. Arlington never for a moment suspected the way in which Dr. Heathfield would induce Isabel to accede to his plans. In justice to her it must be said, that had she known it, she would if possible have prevented it. But in the end perhaps it was better for Isabel that she did not, though the reflections to which his remarks gave rise, were extremely painful. It needed not these cruel hints to remind her of that which had scarcely ever been absent from her thoughts since her father's death, and she shed very bitter tears, even after she retired to rest she could but weep over her unhappy lot far into the night, until at length the bright moonlight streaming in at the window, reminded her of one above, who doeth all things well, and she resolved to try and do her duty according to His appointment, however trying she might find it, trusting that as her need was, so would strength be given. She saw now why she had not been allowed to die according to her wish, even because her work was not yet accomplished. How willingly and with what pleasure had the children received what she had taught them regarding religion; how eagerly had they listened when she had explained the scriptures; with what different feelings did they now regard the sabbath as a day of holy rest, and prayer, and praise, instead of a day of weariness, dreaded and hated. Did she not remember how shocked she had been, when Amy said, that she liked all the days except sundays, and the others had expressed the same. And oh, how glad and thankful she felt when Amy not long since, one sunday afternoon had clasped her arms round her neck, and exclaimed that she liked Miss Leicester's sundays very much. All this she had been able to do through divine blessing upon her endeavors to benefit the children, and would she leave them when her work had only just begun? No, no, how wrong and selfish had she been, if all joy and happiness had fled, she still had her work before her--her duty to perform. With such thoughts as these, her tears became less bitter. Soft tear of quiet resignation followed the bitter rebellious ones she had shed so abundantly, and she resolved by steady abnegation of self, to forget the past (as much as might be) in the business and duties of the present. Then with a prayer for strength to keep this resolution, and patience to wait, and work until such time as rest should be vouchsafed her, she fell asleep. With a severe headache, and extremely weak from the trying night she had past, Isabel waited for the doctor next day, though she had determined to give him a favorable answer, she wondered much how she could go, when she felt almost unable to raise her hand to her head. She was feverish and restless, very anxious for his arrival, yet dreading it, for it seemed as though she were about by her own act, to put an end to these quiet days of rest, and dreamy reverie, which she fain would prolong. However, when Dr. Heathfield came, she managed to return his greeting with some degree of cheerfulness. "I trust you feel better to-day," he said. "No, rather worse, the dose you administered was anti-narcotic I assure you, but I have decided to accede to Mrs. Arlington's wishes. I will do my utmost for the children, but I fear that will be very little," and she smiled faintly from her pillow. "Pooh, nonsense, you are not to teach at present, we all know you can't do that," returned the doctor cheerfully, "what good would the poor children get if they were cooped up in a school-room all day, time enough for that when they come home again." Dr. Heathfield began to fear that the dose had been too strong, when he felt the feverish pulse. "You must be very quiet to-day, promise me that you will not worry yourself," he said, "I shall tell Mrs. Arlington not to let the girls tease you." "They never tease me." replied Isabel hastily. "Oh they don't, well that is fortunate," he answered, preparing some mysterious compound that he had taken from his pocket, "now if you take this" he continued, presenting the mixture, "and then take a nice little sleep, you will feel much better by the afternoon, and then if Miss Emily would read to you, it would be better than talking." "I'm afraid your patient is not so well to-day doctor," said Mrs. Arlington coming in, "she seems feverish this morning." "Oh, she has been tormenting herself, thinking that she had to teach while at D----, but I think if you keep her quiet, this feverishness will soon subside, and she is going with the children to D---- like a good sensible girl," replied the doctor. "I am very glad that you have come to that decision Isabel, as I should not think of sending the children without you," (no more she would) said Mrs. Arlington, keeping up the farce that she was the obliged party. "Emily and Norris go with you, so that you have no cause for anxiety, dear," she added, laying her cool hand upon Isabel's hot forehead. "Is your head very bad," inquired the doctor, pulling down the blind. Then as Isabel assented, he went on, "if you were to send the quiet one, (Alice I think you call her) to bathe her temples with a little lotion it would be as well." "I think it should be Norris, I don't like to trust the children," Mrs. Arlington began. "You may trust Alice," interrupted Isabel. "Very well," returned Mrs. Arlington smiling, "then Alice it shall be." Within a week, everything was arranged for their departure, Everard was to escort them to D---- and see them comfortably settled, and then proceed to H---- College. The morning they were to start, Isabel joined them at the early school-room breakfast. This was the first time that Everard had seen her since her illness, and he was inexpressibly shocked at her appearance, and remonstrated with his mother, saying, that Miss Leicester was not in a fit state to travel. "My dear Everard, I am acting entirely under the the doctor's orders." "Nevertheless it is cruel," he replied gravely. "My dear son what can I do, Dr. Heathfield says that it is absolutely necessary." "It will kill her, that is my opinion of the matter." he answered "why she can scarcely stand, I had no idea she was so awfully weak." "But what can I do," persisted Mrs. Arlington. "Wait until she gets a little stronger," urged Everard. "But the doctor assures me, that she will inevitable sink, if allowed to remain in the same low spirited state." "Why did you not have her among the rest, and then probably she might not have got so low. It is dreadful to see any one so fearfully weak," he added in a tone of grave commiseration. "I don't wonder at your being shocked at her altered appearance, but you should not blame those who have had the care of her, without due consideration. I assure you that she has had every attention," said Mrs. Arlington reproachfully. "I don't wish to blame any one," returned Everard coloring, "surely not you dear mother." "I am glad to hear it," she answered, in a somewhat injured tone. "I was sure that it only required a moment's thought to convince you, that however painful a state Miss Leicester may be in, it has been brought about by circumstances over which we have no control." Everard looked perseveringly out of the window. And his mother continued "it was at her own request that she remained so secluded. But it must not be, we have listened to her entreaties too long already, now others must act for her in the way they think best." "Then it is not her wish to go," observed Everard. "Certainly not, but the doctor almost insists upon it." "Kill or cure as I take it," he returned. "I fear that is too near the truth, unfortunately," replied his mother." "Everard remained silent, and Mrs. Arlington saying that the carriage would be round shortly, quitted the room. Then he returned to the school-room, to find Isabel fainting upon the sofa and Emily bending over her in helpless despair, Amy crying, and Alice emptying the contents of a scent bottle over Isabel, and Rose spilling the smelling salts almost into her mouth, in her anxiety to cram it to her nose. This quaint mode of treatment had the desired effect, for Isabel with a great sigh opened her eyes, and asked what was the matter. Dr. Heathfield arrived soon after this, and ordered Miss Leicester back to her room for a few hours rest, so that they were forced to wait for the next train. "She ought not to have come down to breakfast," he said, "let her have lunch in her own room, and remain there until everything is quite ready, then let her go straight to the carriage after the rest are seated, it must be managed quietly or it cannot be done." Then he called Everard aside, and cautioned him, "it is a hazardous thing to move her at all, and requires very nice management," he said. "It should not be attempted," returned Everard coldly, "she is only fit to be in bed." "The doctor smiled incredulously, keep her there and you would soon finish her, and she would be only too content to do it." "You are severe Dr. Heathfield," said Everard stiffly. "Come, Come, Everard don't get angry, you think me a brute no doubt. But if she remains here she will die, if she goes away she may recover. Now you have my honest opinion." "It seems to me little short of murder, to start her off in this state," returned Everard." "Upon my word, who is severe now Mr. Everard," retorted the doctor. I don't attempt to deny that moving her may be fatal, if not judiciously managed But if carefully and properly done, I am very sanguine as to the result. "That is a nice way of getting out of a scrape, I must say," "Oh a very nice way indeed," said Dr. Heathfield laughing. "I will come in again about one," he added addressing Mrs. Arlington, "and if I have time, I will go down to the station and see them off." "Oh, if you could doctor, it would be such a satisfaction to know that you were with them," Mrs. Arlington answered. Everard could not bring himself to see it in the same light as the doctor, but as her going seemed inevitable, he was glad that he was to have the charge of her. A little before one the doctor returned, but only to see that all was right. "He was so very busy," he said, "but had no doubt that Mr. Everard would manage very well. He could not possibly go down to the station, he had to set a man's leg two miles off in quite another direction. Everard's face was a picture, as the doctor so kindly expressed the belief that he would manage very well. Emily was so convulsed with laughter at the sight, that she was forced to stuff her handkerchief into her mouth to conceal her mirth. Everard managed everything so nicely during the journey, that Isabel never knew that he made special alteration on her account, and he assisted her on all occasions in a nice kindly matter of course manner, quite like an elder brother, that prevented any embarrassment on her part. He was also very successful in concealing the anxiety he felt on her behalf. Isabel appeared quite worn out the night they arrived at D----, Norris insisted upon perfect rest and quiet next day, saying that she should join them at tea if she seemed sufficiently rested, but Everard rebelled, and made Emily amuse her during the morning. Norris submitted without much fuss, as he was a great favorite. "I know as well as you Master Everard, that she needs to be kept more cheerful than she has been, but after all the worry and fatigue of the journey, a little quietness is good for her," said Norris, endeavoring to justify herself. "I don't deny that Norris, I only object to her being quite alone." "And you know sir, that you always get your own way," replied Norris laughing. "Usually," returned Everard, "but Norris, understand that I wish her kept quiet." "As if anyone could be quiet where Miss Emily is," said Norris reproachfully. "I'll trust Emmy," he answered laughing. "That is more nor I would Mr. Everard," she returned with the familiarity that old domestics who have been a long time in a family often acquire. For Norris had been with Mrs. Arlington ever since she was married, now some twenty-six years. After dinner, Everard, Emily and the children, went out for a ramble. On their return, Everard left them near the town, as he had to make some inquiries as to the time the train left, as he was to leave next morning, for they had been so much longer on the way than had been anticipated, consequently his stay at D---- had to be curtailed. When he returned to the cottage, he found Isabel in the old arm chair in the sitting-room, the others had not yet arrived. Isabel was looking wretchedly ill, but pronounced herself much rested. Everard gave her an animated account of their ramble, and an excellent description of the place, but she appeared to take little interest in either. "Perhaps you would rather I didn't talk, he said, as she leaned her head wearily upon her hand. "O, I don't mind," she replied in a tone of such utter indifference that Everard took a book. He did not read however, but sat shading his face with his hand, so as to enable him to contemplate the poor worn face and fragile form of her whom he loved better than life. He pictured her, as she appeared when waiting the arrival of the guests on Grace's birthday, and the contrast was painful in the extreme, neither could he account for the utter hopelessness depicted on her countenance. "Are you aware that I leave in the morning," he said, after some time had elapsed. "So soon," she inquired in surprise. "Yes, by the early train," he replied. Then I must not miss this opportunity of thanking you, for all the trouble you have taken, and for all the kindness you have shown me. Indeed I am very much obliged to you." "I am only too glad to have been of any service to you," he returned with something of the old manner. "Will you not write when you are able, if only a line, just a line, I shall be so anxious to hear." "Emily will write," she answered quietly. Everard bit his lip, he was silenced but not satisfied,--an awkward pause ensued, then the others came in full of glee to find Isabel down. The tea was a very cheerful one, and Isabel strove to appear interested, and to join in the general conversation, but the effort was too much for her, for when she rose to retire for the night, she all but fainted and alarmed them very much. When Everard came into the sitting-room next morning, he found a cheerful fire burning (for the morning was raw and misty) and breakfast on the table, although it was only half-past five o'clock, and shortly after Emily came in. "Why Emmy, this is better luck than I expected," exclaimed Everard in surprise. "You didn't think that I would let you breakfast alone did you," returned Emily proceeding to pour out the tea, "but oh, Everard, I'm so sorry that you are going away so soon, I really am quite afraid to be left alone with Isabel so weak, whatever shall I do if she gets worse." "As to being alone, why Norris is a host in herself. Besides, you must take it for granted that she will soon get all right. If there really should be cause you must not hesitate to call in the doctor, but remember Dr. Heathfield said you were not to do so, if it could be avoided, and Emmy, if there should be anything serious, mind you telegraph mamma, and if you get very much alarmed, you know that I could get here in a few hours, and I shall not mind the trouble, so make yourself easy. But at all events, I intend to run down in two or three weeks, just to see how you all get on--mind you write often Emmy." This Emmy promised to do, and bid him good bye with a bright face. D---- was a pretty little town on the sea-coast, which was much frequented in summer, but during the winter it was almost deserted. It was very quiet just now as it was so very early in the season. The house in which our party had taken up their abode, was beautifully situated upon some rising ground, about half a mile from the beach. On the right, as far as eye could reach, stretched the broad expanse of deep blue sea, with its ever varying succession of white sails and gay steamers. To the left lay verdant meadows, picturesque villas, and sloping hills, stretching far into the distance until bounded by a belt of forest, beyond which the ground rose again, capped by a rugged crag. Belonging to the house, were pretty grounds tastefully laid out, and a nice shrubbery, also a maze in which the children delighted to lose themselves. After the first few days, Isabel mended rapidly, and before long was able to join the children and Emily in their rambles, and even got down to the beach after the second week, so that Emily sent charming accounts of Isabel's progress to her mother and Everard. CHAPTER XI. "Look Louis, what a nice packet has come by express, I wonder what it can be. Oh, open it now dear Louis," she added, laying her hand coaxingly upon his shoulder, as he was about to pocket the wonderful packet. "I am dying with curiosity, to see what it contains." "It is only a business affair, nothing to interest you, little curiosity," he answered playfully. But she was not so easily satisfied, for the start of recognition as he glanced at the writing, had not escaped his wife's quick eyes. "But I do so want to know what is in it, I felt something hard like a little box, and it is such pretty writing," she said. "Perhaps the drugs I wrote for," he returned carelessly. "Drugs from a lady, Louis," she said archly. "Oh I forgot, no it can't be the drugs, but it will keep," he replied, thrusting it into his pocket. "I must teach you not to be so curious Natalie. Then laughing, she endeavored to withdraw it from his pocket, but he took the little hand in an iron grasp, saying "don't be silly Natalie." "Oh Louis, you hurt me," she pouted. "I didn't intend to do so," he returned, loosening his hold, but there was a stern, determined look in his face as he did so, which prevented her making any further attempts to satisfy her curiosity, and the large tears welled up into her eyes as he hastily left the room. That night, after Natalie had retired to rest, Louis stood leaning against the chimney-piece, gazing thoughtfully into the fire. Upon the table lay the packet, he knew well enough the moment he saw it what it contained, the letters and presents that Isabel had received from himself. Yes there they were, and he would not for worlds have Natalie see them. There they were, the letters, the trinkets, but he had expected something more--an angry note, upbraiding him for his mean conduct and requesting the return of her letters. Over this he would have rejoiced, but no, here were the letters and trinkets without note or comment, just enclosed in a blank cover, and this cool contempt annoyed him more than the bitterest expressions of angry reproach would have done. She had returned all that he had ever given her, well, what else had he expected, did he think she would have kept them? No, of course not, but then he had not thought about it, he knew now that his revenge had had a very different effect to what he had intended, she would cast off all further regard for him, perhaps she hated him, while he, trusting to her sweet disposition and deep affection for himself, had expected that she, unable to overcome her wondrous love, would pine and grieve over her great, her irreparable loss. Ah Louis, if this was your object you did not manage the affair skilfully. You also forgot that by marrying another, you were taking perhaps, the only step that could effectually prevent the object you had in view, (for this, together with the offensive manner in which it was done, supplied her with a motive which aided essentially to enable her to carry out her determination to stifle all feelings of love towards him, in fact to forget him.) He now saw the folly of the course he had adopted, she would soon forget him altogether, perhaps find another more patient and gentle, who could make her happier than he would have done, such thoughts as these were madness--perhaps she might marry another, no, he clinched his fist and vowed she should not. How had his so called revenge recoiled upon himself, he had not been aware how madly he loved her, until she was lost to him forever, and he almost cursed the filthy lucre that had lured him on until it had been his ruin. For what had he gained--he new what he had lost, the only woman that he had ever loved or could love, but what had he gained, not the satisfaction which he had expected, only a few thousand dollars and a pretty childish little wife of whom he already tired. With an angry exclamation he threw the whole packet into the fire, and then leaning his face upon his hand, before an open book, sat still and pale through the long long night, until in the gray dawn, a soft little hand upon his shoulder, and a warm kiss upon his cheek, aroused him from his reverie. CHAPTER XII. There was a large rock, about a mile to the left of the town of D----, which was surrounded by numerous small ones. This place was called the wrecker's reef, and was covered at high water, but when the tide was low, Isabel and the others often went there to get shells. They had to be careful to watch the rise of the tide, as, long before the rock was covered the retreat was cut off by the water surrounding the largest rock, like an island, this island gradually diminished, until, when the tide was in it was several feet under water, this part of the coast was very little frequented. One afternoon when they had been at D---- about three weeks or a month, having obtained the shells they wished for, they sat down on the rocks to rest, Isabel began relating a tale she had lately read, and they were all so much interested, that they had not observed that the tide was fast coming in, nor was it until the rock was quite surrounded that they did so. The terrified children clung around Isabel entreating her to save them, while Emily scarcely less alarmed, screamed aloud for help, but it was not very likely that her cries for assistance would be heard in that lonely place, and their danger became more imminent, as a stiff breeze had sprung up, and the surge round the reef was becoming very heavy, and even should they be observed, the passage from the beach to the reef was so dangerous, that only a skilful and experienced hand could possibly succeed in rescuing them from their perilous situation, so that although there was a small boat moored on the beach it did not afford them much consolation. They were constantly drenched with spray, and were quite aware that the reef would be covered with water ere long. "Oh dearest Isabel, what shall we do," asked Emily, looking ghastly white, and shaking like an aspen. "The water will wash us all away, and then we shall all be drowned," cried little Amy. "And we shall never see papa and mamma any more,' added Rose. Alice stood perfectly quiet, (after the first moment of their surprise when she had clung to Isabel with the rest) her large eyes fixed upon Isabel with an expression that spoke volumes. "I fear there is no escape," said Isabel, in as calm a tone as she could command, "we can only commend ourselves to the care of our heavenly Father, and patiently await his will. This they did, and then Isabel endeavored to calm litttle Amy, who was crying most piteously, but a shout of joy from Rose, drew her attention once more to the shore. "Here is Everard, oh here is Everard," cried Rose, clapping her hands and dancing with joy, and sure enough, there was Everard scrambling down the cliff. This was Saturday afternoon, and he had come to spend Sunday with them, but finding they were out he came in search of them, Norris, fortunately being able to tell him where they had gone. As the reef was such a short distance from land, and as a boat was moored on the beach, the children naturally concluded that they were now safe. It was not so however with Isabel, she knew the dangerous nature of this shallow water, with innumerable rocks only just beneath the surface, but still sufficiently covered to hide them from view, which made it very difficult to take a boat safely through them, even when the water was smooth, but how much more so, now that a rough swell was foaming over them. Indeed it was only by taking a zig-zag course, that any boat could be guided in safety through the labyrinth of rocks. As Everard was quite unacquainted with the perilous nature of the reef, it was well that Isabel had taken particular notice of the only passage and its curious windings, so that they were enabled to direct him how to steer, or the boat would assuredly have been knocked to pieces, and they all would inevitably have perished. But fortunately Everard was the crack oar of the college club, and the owner of the champion medal, and in spite of all difficulties managed to make his way to the reef. Isabel had watched the progress of the boat with intense anxiety, her heart beat fast, for she expected every moment that it would come to grief, and she experienced an indescribable sensation of apprehension when it grated on the rock on which they stood. "Oh, this boat won't hold us all," exclaimed Emily in dismay. "Don't leave me," entreated little Amy, "please don't." "No darling, you shall not be left," said Isabel kissing her and then lifting her into the boat. Quickly as this was done, Rose was already in; Isabel insisted upon both Emily and Alice going, though the boat was by this means very heavily laden--Alice would have remained with her, but Isabel would not allow it, as there was every prospect of the reef being entirely covered before the boat could possibly return. "But it seems so mean to leave you here alone." urged Alice. "It will not mend matters, if two are washed off instead of one," whispered Isabel, "go dear Alice while you can." "But it seems so mean," she repeated. "Come Alice," said Everard in a tone that settled the question at once, "every minute is of the greatest importance." It was agony to him to leave Isabel, but there was no help for it, the boat was now loaded down to the water's edge. He would gladly have let Alice remain, had there appeared any chance of returning in time, for he would have gained several minutes by so doing, for if the boat had been lighter he could have made better time. As it was he did not dare to risk it, for it seemed like dooming Alice to destruction needlessly. But oh, the horror of leaving Isabel when perhaps she would be washed away by the fast rising tide before he could return. This thought had also decided him to take Alice, for should Isabel be washed off he might be able to save her, but how could he hope to save two in such untoward circumstances. "Courage Miss Leicester," and the boat seemed to fly through the water with each vigorous stroke; his face wore an expression of intense anxiety as he bent to his oars. No words passed his firmly compressed lips after they left the reef, but his contracted brow and heavy breathing revealed how deeply he was suffering. In an incredibly short time they reached the beach, and Everard landed them in a very unceremonies manner, and then started once more for the rock. Notwithstanding all the exertion he had undergone, his face was as pale as death, and the cold damp stood upon his brow. There was an air of determination about him as he sprang back into the boat, that convinced Emily that he would save Isabel or perish in the attempt, and from that day she was master of his secret, but like a dear good sister as she was, she kept it in her kind little heart, though she sometimes built castles in the air. Knowing now the proper course to take, Everard propelled the boat with marvellous rapidity, it skimmed over the water like an ocean bird, at least so Rose said; yet when he reached the reef, every part on which it was possible to stand was covered with water, and it was with the greatest difficulty that Isabel contrived to cling to a pointed piece of rock which still remained above water, nor could she have done so much longer, as her strength was fast failing. It seemed to Isabel wondrous strange, that she should feel so anxious to be rescued from her perilous situation, when not so long ago she had been so desirous of death, but so it was. It was no easy matter to get the boat to this point, and had it required any more water to float it, it would have been impossible. As soon as Isabel was in the boat a joyful shout was raised by the party on shore. The return to land was slow, as the great exertion he had been forced to use was beginning to tell upon Everard. Of course Isabel was soaking wet, but fortunately a large plaid that Norris had made them take with them had been left on the beach; this they wrapt round her, and then went home as quickly as might be. "Mercy on us," exclaimed Norris, as they made their appearance, "what in the name of wonder have you been doing." "Why getting a soaking don't you see," returned Isabel, much amused at Norris's manner. "Then you will just get to bed right away Miss Leicester, for I would like to know how I am to answer to my Misses and Dr. Heathfield, if you get the consumption through your nonsense, dear me, and you were looking so well." "But Norris, if I change these wet things surely that will do." "You just get to bed, I say, for you are in my charge." Everard laughed. "Now Mr. Everard don't you be a interfering." "Oh, certainly not." "Now come along at once Miss Leicester, and I will get you some hot gruel." Isabel did as she was bid, not wishing to vex Norris who had been very kind, but she protested against the gruel, but in vain, Norris made her swallow a large basin full, which to Isabel's intense disgust had a plentiful supply of brandy in it. After this Norris consented to hear the history of their adventures, which was told by the whole five at once. "The air of D---- seems to have done wonders," said Everard when Isabel made her appearance at breakfast next morning looking quite her former self. "Yes indeed," returned Isabel with a pleasant smile, "how very stupid you must have thought us yesterday, I can't imagine how we could have been so foolish." "I suppose that you were not aware that the reef would be covered as the tide rose." "Oh yes, we knew quite well." "Well then, you were all awfully stupid, if you will excuse my saying so," returned Everard, "I gave you credit Miss Leicester for more prudence." "You may well be surprised," Isabel answered coloring, "I am afraid when Mrs. Arlington hears of it she will be of Lady Ashton's opinion, that I am not fit to have charge of her daughters." Emily laughed. "Did she say that," said Everard, "it was very impertinent of her." "She thinks herself a privileged person, you would be astonished I can tell you if you heard all that she said." "Do be quiet Emily," interrupted Isabel. But Emily kept giving provoking little hints all breakfast time, and even as they walked to church she let out little bits, until Isabel grew almost angry. Everard admired the church exceedingly, "that is just such a church as I would like," he said as they went home. "Oh Everard," exclaimed Emily, "a little bit of a church like that." "It is not so small," he returned. "Oh well, I thought you were more ambitious, if I were a clergyman I should wish to preach to a crowded assembly in a very large city church, and make a sensation." "Emily!" "Oh don't look so grave." "A man that would care about making a sensation, would not be fit to be a clergyman." "Oh Everard, I am sure it is only good clergymen that do make a sensation." "What do you call making a sensation?" he inquired. "Why, to have every body saying what a splendid preacher, and praising you up to the skies." "Of course every clergyman should aim to be a good preacher, but his sermon should be composed with the object of doing as much good as possible, the idea of getting praise by it should never enter his head." "Of course I know I never should have done for a parson, if I had been a man I should have been a----." "Lawyer," the children all shouted in a breath. "Or a midshipman," said Emily. "I wonder what Miss Leicester would have been," observed Rose. "A doctor," said Emily, "I know she would have been a doctor, wouldn't you Isabel." Isabel became scarlet, this was only a random suggestion, but it seemed so like the answer the children had given Emily, that it made her color painfully. "Oh what is the use of talking such nonsense," she replied, but her vivid color had given Emily a new idea; Isabel she whispered "do those pet letters come from a doctor," a shade passed over Isabel's face like a cloud over the sun, as the thought occured that she should get no more pet letters, as Emily chose to call them, for though she had so firmly resolved not to allow her thoughts to dwell upon the past, there were still times when she was painfully reminded of the happy days that would never return, not that she grieved for the loss of Louis, as he now stood revealed in his true character. She knew that it had been her own ideal Louis that she had loved, she had clothed him with virtue that he did not possess, and ascribed to him a nobleness of nature to which he was a stranger, and her bitter sorrow was that he should have proved so different to what she had believed him. She had already begun to think that, as he was what he was, it was all for the best, and even now she felt more of contempt than love regarding him, though nothing short of the offensive and aggravated circumstances that had taken place, could have served to quench such love as her's. Isabel avoided giving an answer to Emily's question, by drawing attention to a beautiful yacht that was now making the harbor, this did for the time, but Emily had made enough by her venture to plague Isabel sufficiently about the doctor, so much so, that Everard took occasion when they two were walking in the shrubbery to remonstrate with his sister, "Emily," he said, "can't you see that Miss Leicester is really annoyed at your nonsense, and I think that it amounts to rudeness in such a case." "Oh she don't care about it." "You are mistaken Emily." "Oh, but it is such fun, I do so like to make her color up, she looks so pretty." "But when you see that it really annoys----." "When I get into the spirit of the thing, I can't stop." interrupted Emily. "I know it," replied Everard gently, "and that is the reason that I mention it, otherwise the matter is too trivial to comment upon." The tears stood in Emily's eyes, "I did not mean any harm," she said softly, for Everard had great influence, and the secret of this influence which he had acquired over all the family was, that he was gentle yet very firm. "I did not say that there was any harm, only you should learn to stop when you see that it annoys, and surely you might abstain from such nonsense on a Sunday, it is setting the children a bad example to say the least of it." CHAPTER XIII. Isabel and the children remained the greater part of the summer at D----, but Emily returned home to join her mamma and sister, who had consented to join an expedition that had been got up among a few select friends. Upon the last afternoon of their stay at D---- they went for a ramble into a pretty little copse wood, the children were looking for berries, and Isabel sat upon a mossy bank reading. "Come Isabel, let us at least be friends," said a voice close beside her. Surprised and startled, Isabel beheld Louis Taschereau. "Let us be friends," he repeated taking a seat on the bank. "Impossible, Dr. Taschereau," said Isabel rising, "had you broken off your engagement in a straightforward manner, it might have been different, as your feelings had undergone a change, I should have been quite content to release you, but to have corresponded with me up to the very day of your marriage, and allow me by a chance meeting at an evening party to become aware of the fact for the first time, together with the effrontery with which you behaved on that occasion, are insults which I should be wanting in self respect not to resent." "My feelings have undergone no change, they cannot change, it is you alone that I have ever loved or shall love, my wife I never did, never can. Oh pity me Isabel for I am most miserably unhappy." "From my heart I pity her who is so unfortunate as to have Dr. Taschereau for a husband," she replied, "I cannot pity you, for if anything could make your conduct more contemptible, it is the fact that you have just acknowledged, that you do not love the girl that you have made your wife, though having seen the way in which you treat those you profess to love it is no great loss, and your happiness must ever be a matter of indifference to me." "Oh cruel girl, I am not so heartless, what grieves me more than even my own misery is the thought of your suffering." "Then pray do not distress yourself on my account Dr. Taschereau, whatever I may have felt it is past, for when Isabel Leicester could no longer esteem, she must cease to love." "I will not believe that you find it so easy to forget me, for that you did love me you dare not deny, it was no passing fancy, you must feel more than you are willing to own," he said angrily. "I do not wish to deny it," returned Isabel firmly, "but you out to have known me better than to think that I should continue to do so. After you were married it became my duty to forget that I had ever loved you, and to banish every thought of you. You have made your choice and now regrets are useless, even wrong, whatever she may be, she is your wife, and it is your duty and should be your pleasure to make her happy, and as you value happiness, never give her cause to doubt your love." "As you say, regrets are useless, but that thought only adds to my torture, I can only compare my present wretchedness with the happy lot which might have been mine, but for my own folly," he said sadly, "but you must help me." "How can I help you," exclaimed Isabel. "It is you alone who can, for you are the only person who ever had any influence over me, you must help to keep me right. Will you not forgive me Isabel, and let me be a friend--a brother." "Thank heaven I have no such brother," exclaimed Isabel fervently, "for I should feel very much inclined to disown him if I had. Friends we can never be Dr. Taschereau, as I told you before, whenever and wherever we meet, it must be as strangers." "As you will," he said bitterly, "but since you will not have me for your friend, you shall have me for a foe." "Think not to intimidate me with idle threats," she answered haughtily, "you have no power to harm me, and I feel assured that as your love is worthless, so in the end your hatred will prove harmless." "That is as it may be, but still I had much rather that we were friends." "If an enemy, I defy you, my friend you can never be." "As you will," he returned fiercely, "but remember if I go to the bad, with you will rest the blame," and then he disappeared through the wood. "And what is his wife about during this conversation, writing to her cousin. Let us take a peep at the letter. DEAREST MARIE.--I am happy--very happy, how could I be otherwise with my noble Louis, he is so kind, so thoughtful and considerate, he would not let me accompany him to-day, because I was so tired with the journey yesterday, so I take the opportunity thus afforded me to write to you. Oh Marie, how could you ever suppose that he married me for my money, how could you form so mean an opinion of my generous, noble, high minded Louis, you wrong him Marie, indeed you do. True, he is more reserved than is pleasant, but I presume that is because I am so childish as papa used to say. Would you believe I had a jealous fit about a packet that he received from a lady, which he refused to open when I asked him. Well he sat up very very late that night, and I took it into my stupid little head that his sitting up had something to do with the packet, and the thought so possessed me, that I got up and went softly into the library, and there he was in a brown study over some medical work. Oh Marie I felt so ashamed of my foolish fancies. CHAPTER XIV. Upon the morning after their return to Elm Grove, Isabel requested a few moments conversation with Mrs. Arlington. Desiring Isabel to follow, Mrs. Arlington led the way into the morning-room, and after expressing her great satisfaction at the beneficial results of the sea air, she said "that she hoped Miss Leicester's health was sufficiently restored to enable the children to resume their studies upon the following Monday." Isabel replied "that she was quite well, and was as anxious as Mrs. Arlington could be, that they should lose no more time." Indeed for some weeks past she had been teaching during the morning, but it was not of them that I was about to speak," she continued, "it was of myself, and I trust that you will not blame me for not doing so before I went away, as indeed it was impossible. Dr. Heathelfid was right in thinking that my illness was caused by mental suffering, it was indeed a severe shock," she added, covering her face with her hands, for it was a trial to Isabel, and it cost her a great deal this self imposed task. "Defer this communication if it distresses you," said Mrs. Arlington kindly. "Oh no, I would rather tell you," but it was not without some difficulty that Isabel continued, "sometime before my father's death, I was though, unknown to him, engaged to a medical student, I always regretted concealing our engagement from him in the first instance. I knew it was very wrong, but Louis made me promise not to tell my father, or breathe a word about our engagement to any living soul. I asked him why, but he would give no reason except that he wished it. I promised, but had I known that it was for more than a short period, I think that I should not have done so. About six months afterwards, when his uncle was about to send him to France to a relation who was a celebrated physician, he wanted me to be married privately, this I positively refused, I said that whilst my father lived I would never marry without his consent, and urged him to let me acquaint my father of our engagement. This he refused, I told him that I was sure my father would not object, but he would not listen to me, it was absurd he said, to suppose that he would let us marry if he knew of it, for he was entirely dependent upon his uncle, and had positively nothing of his own as yet, but hoped soon to rise in his profession; if we were once married he argued, my father would storm a little at first, but would soon give in, and make some arrangement that would prevent his going away, in vain I entreated to be allowed to plead our cause with my father. Louis was inexorable upon that point, he dare not he said, and used every argument to induce me to accede to his wishes and agree to his propositions; but when I resisted all entreaties he was mortally offended, and got into a terrible passion, it seems he never forgave me for thwarting him, but I was not aware of it, for after his anger had cooled down our parting was most kind. During my father's illness, my secret became an intolerable burden, oh, how bitterly I suffered for deceiving so indulgent a parent, and yet my conscience would not allow me to break my promise. I wrote to Louis imploring him to give the desired permission, and received a very kind letter, assuring me that my altered circumstances would make no difference to him, that in fact the only barrier between us was now removed, but the longed for permission was withheld, Louis did not notice that part of my letter in anyway. Shortly after this, my poor father died--died without ever having heard of our engagement, his greatest pain in parting from his darling child, being the grief he felt at leaving her so unprotected, Imagine if you can my grief and misery," said Isabel shedding bitter tears of agony and remorse at the remembrance of that dreadful time, and what it must have been to witness his anguish, as over and over again he would say "oh my child, could I but have left you to the tender care of a beloved husband, or even could I know that you were the promised wife of one who truly loved you, I could die in peace, even though he were not rich in this world's goods, but to leave you thus my darling child, to make your own way in this wicked world is almost more than I can bear." "What good" continued Isabel "could I expect after such a return for all dear papa's fond indulgence and unvaried kindness. After my father's death, I received a letter from Louis full of love and sympathy, and approving of my plans, as it would be some time before he would be in a position to marry. We continued to correspond until the night of the ball, at which Dr. and Mrs. Taschereau were among the guests, then I learned for the first time that he was faithless and unworthy. You do not know what I suffered, nor his cruel triumph, or you would not wonder that it should end as it did. I have told you all this Mrs. Arlington because I thought it my duty, and also, that should Dr. Taschereau again be your guest, you might kindly spare me the pain of meeting him." "Poor child you have suffered greatly," said Mrs. Arlington kindly. She had listened very patiently and very attentively to all Isabel had to say, but she had not said how that she already knew something of this from her own delirious talk during her illness, but she thought that it would make Isabel uncomfortable, therefore she remained silent upon that point. "You may depend that I shall not abuse your confidence" she continued, "I do not promise secrecy, but you may trust to my discretion without fear. Whenever you need advice, do not scruple to come to me, as I shall always be glad to give it," no doubt, but Isabel was the last person to ask advice, though she had the highest opinion of Mrs. Arlington. "I think you would do well Isabel, to re-consider the offer I made you to visit with my daughters." "You are very kind; but, indeed, I would rather not." "As you please, Miss Leicester; but I think you are wrong to refuse. You may be sure that the offer is disinterested on my part." (Disinterested it certainly was, as neither of the Arlington girls could compare favorably with Isabel as to beauty or accomplishments.) "I fully appreciate your kindness, Mrs. Arlington, but indeed it would be extremely unpleasant to do so," returned Isabel. "I cannot let this opportunity pass without expressing my gratitude for your great kindness during my illness, for I can never, never repay you. But I will use my best endeavors to make your children all that you can wish." "And that will quite repay me," replied Mrs. Arlington, kindly. CHAPTER XV. Upon a beautiful moonlight night, under the trees in the garden of Madame Bourges' boarding-school, near Versailles, quite secure from observation stood Arthur Barrington and Louisa Aubray, engaged in earnest conversation. "Are you happy here, dearest Louisa?" he inquired, in accents of deepest tenderness. "Happy! Ah, no, Louisa is never happy," she answered, "but lonely and unhappy--so unhappy and miserable!" "But you are not lonely now that I am here, dear Louisa." "No; but, when you are gone, it is so dreary--oh, so dreary!" "You used to think that you would be so happy at school." "Ah, yes! but I'm not. Madame is harsh, the teachers cruel, and the girls so strange: they do not love me," she cried, in a burst of passionate weeping; "nobody loves Louisa!" "Oh, Louisa, dearest Louisa, do not say so!" he exclaimed passionately; "do not say that nobody loves you, when I have come so far expressly to see if you are happy. I love you, Louisa, with all the warmth of my ardent nature, with undying affection. I want you to be mine--MINE! that I may guard you from every ill but such as I can share." "Oh! can you--will you--do this, Arthur? Will you, indeed, share all my troubles and sorrows, nor deem them, when the first full joy of love is past, unworthy of your attention--your cares, too great to admit of such trifles, claiming your consideration? If you will, and also let me share all your joys and griefs in perfect sympathy and love, then--then my dream of happiness will be fulfilled; but if, in years to come," she continued, with suppressed emotion, "you should change, and a harshness or indifference take the place of sympathy and love, Oh I would wish to die before that day!" "Dearest Louisa, can you doubt me?" "I will trust you, Arthur, but I have seen that which makes me almost doubt the existence of love and happiness. I can picture to myself the home of love and peace that I would have. Is it an impossibility; is it but an ideal dream?" "May it be a blessed reality, my darling Louisa!" he exclaimed, with ardor, as he clasped her passionately in his arms. She made no resistance, but, with her head resting upon his breast, she said, in a tone of deep earnestness: "If you loved me always, and were always kind, oh Arthur, I I could do anything--suffer anything--for your sake, and care for naught beyond our home. But, my nature is not one" she continued impetuously, "that can be slighted, crushed, and treated with unkindness or indifference, and endure it patiently. No!" she added, with suppressed passion, "a fierce flame of resentment, bitterness, perchance even hatred, would spring up and sweep all kindly feelings far away!" "Oh, Louisa, Louisa!" interrupted Arthur in a tone of tender remonstrance, "why do you speak in this dreadful manner--why do you doubt my love and constancy?" The impetuous mood was gone, and a trusting confidence succeeded it. She fixed her eyes upon his face with an expression of unutterable tenderness, as she answered, in a sweet, soft voice, "I love you, Arthur; I cannot doubt you; you are all the world to me." "Then you will leave here as soon as I can make arrangements for our marriage." "How gladly, how joyfully, I cannot tell!" she replied, smiling sweetly through her tears. "Tell me again that you love me; I do so want some one to love me! Is it true that you do, indeed, or is it only a beautiful dream? I have lived so desolate and alone that I can scarcely believe my happiness." "You may believe it, Louisa, it is no dream; my love for you is no passing fancy--it is true and sincere, and will last till life shall end," he said, kissing her tenderly. "Ha, ha!" laughed Lucy Mornington, as she came full upon the lovers, "Now I have found you out, Miss Aubray; I wondered what was up. Oh, if Madame could only see you, what a scene there would be!" she cried, dancing about and laughing immoderately." "How dare you come here?" exclaimed Louisa, her large eyes flashing angrily, while her whole frame trembled with passion. "How dare you follow and watch me, how dare you?" she repeated. "Hush, Louisa!" said Arthur, soothingly, "Lucy is never ill-natured. You have nothing to fear, for I am sure she would not be unkind; and we must not mind her laughing, as I'm afraid that either of us would have done the same if placed in the same unexpected position." Louisa now clung to Lucy, weeping violently, and imploring her in the most winning manner not to betray them to Madame. "Don't be afraid, Louisa; Lucy and I were always good friends, and, now I come to think of it, she will be a most valuable assistant. I am sure we may trust her," and he looked inquiringly at Lucy. "That, you may," answered Lucy; "but there is no earthly use in trying to keep a secret from me, as that is utterly impossible; but whatever you may have to say, you must defer to a more auspicious moment, for Mademoiselle Mondelet has missed Louisa, and she is hunting everywhere for her. So make yourself scarce, Mr. Arthur; we will enter the chapel by a secret door that I discovered in some of my marauding expeditions, and they will never imagine that we came from the garden. Come along, Louisa." "Adieu! Lucy, and many thanks for your warning, for I certainly don't want Mademoiselle to find me here. Farewell, dearest Louisa; I will be here at this time to-morrow evening," said Arthur, and then he quickly disappeared. Lucy and Louisa went into the chapel, and the former commenced playing the organ, which she often did. So that when Mademoiselle came into the chapel, by-and-bye, fuming about Louisa, Lucy replied, with the greatest coolness, "Oh, we have been here ever so long." Shortly after this, Isabel received the following epistle from Lucy: DEAREST ISABEL,--I am at school again, instead of being in London enjoying myself as I expected. I am cooped up in this abominable place. I suppose Mamma thinks me too wild. Heigho! But, never mind; Ada and Charles are going to remain three years in London, so you see I still have a chance. Ah, me! I think I should die of _ennui_ in this dismal place (which was once an abbey, or a convent, or something of the sort, I believe,) but, fortunately for me, an event has occurred which has just put new life in my drooping spirits. We have // who in the name of wonder do you think the parties were? Arthur Barrington and Louisa Aubray. Oh, what a rage Lady Ashton will be in! Don't be shocked, my pet, when I tell you that I went into the affair with all my heart and soul, and was bridesmaid at the interesting ceremony. Oh, Isabel, Arthur is so thoroughly nice that I almost envied Louisa her husband. We managed everything so beautifully that they were married and off upon their travels before Madame found out that there was anything in the wind. And the best of the fun was that Arthur brought a clergyman friend with him, and they were married in the school chapel at four o'clock in the morning. Of course this sweet little piece of fun is not known, and is never likely to be. I enjoyed the whole thing immensely. Of course they don't know that I had anything to do with the affair. Woe betide me if they did! If Louisa had had a father and mother, I would not have had anything to do with it; but, under present circumstances, I thought it was the best thing she could do. So I helped them all I could--in fact I contrived it all for them--when I once found out what they were up to. Yours, at present, in the most exuberant spirits, LUCY MORNINGTON. P.S.--The happy pair have gone to Switzerland or Italy. "Here, Emily," said Isabel, when Emily came in, "I think this will amuse you." "I think Arthur and Louisa did very wrong," she resumed, when Emily had finished reading. "Ah, well, I have not much fancy for secret marriages, but in this case it was unavoidable, if they were to marry at all," said Emily, laughing. "But I thought that second cousins couldn't marry." "They can't, I believe; but then Arthur and Louisa are no relation--for though he always calls Lady Ashton 'Aunt,' she is not his aunt in reality. Don't you know Lord Barrington's first wife was Lady Ashton's sister, and Arthur's mother was the second wife; so you see they are no relations," replied Emily. "Oh, what a rage Lady Ashton will be in!" she resumed. Don't you know that Louisa's father was Arthur's tutor. There was a dreadful quarrel between the two families about that marriage; they wouldn't speak for years, and the old folks are barely civil to each other when they meet even now. But she likes Arthur. What a good thing it is that she is going to stay away so long. But I'm sorry about Lucy; we shall miss her at Christmas." "So we shall, but May and Peter will be here, and they are a host in themselves." "But May can't be compared to Lucy; I will have her come; I will tell Harry so. She can come out with her papa and mamma, and go back in the spring. And now, my dear, guess what I came to tell you." "Rose told me your brother was to come to-day." "What a sieve Rose is," exclaimed Emily. "But I have more than that to tell. I have a letter from Harry; he is coming soon, and has passed his examination already. What do you think of that?" and she looked so triumphant and delighted. "Why, Emily, how ever could you read my letter, and discuss the news it contained, when you came on purpose to tell me? I declare, wonders never will cease." "The fact is that I was so astonished to hear about the elopement, that I almost forgot about my own letter for the time." "I suppose Harry will make a long stay now? that will be very nice." "No, he says he can only stay a week, or perhaps a fortnight. He has promised a friend to go to the Blue Mountains," pouted Emily; "I wish his friend was at Jericho." Isabel laughed. "Suppose in that case Harry had gone with him." "Don't be provoking, Isabel. But, to turn the table, how is it you never get any of those 'nice letters' now-a-days." "Don't be provoking, Emily!" said Isabel, growing very hot. "Ah, you see I always get the best of it," returned Emily, laughing. "I must go and dress, for I have to make some calls with Mamma and Grace." CHAPTER XVI. "I do not know what on earth they will do," cried Emily, tossing her hat and gloves on the sofa. "Everard is in a terrible stew about the anthem; Mary Cleaver is laid up with a bad cold and sore throat, so that there is no chance of her being able to sing to-morrow, and there is not another in the choir that could make anything of the solo--at least not anything worth listening to. Is it not provoking?--just at the last minute. Grace, now won't you take Miss Cleaver's place just for once? Do, please." "Thanks! But the idea is too absurd. Fancy my singing at a 'missionary meeting.'" "Perhaps Isabel would," interposed Rose. "The idea is too absurd," returned Emily, affectedly. "Don't be impertinent, Emily," said Grace, haughtily. "It is useless to talk of Isabel, she added, addressing Rose, "she refused before, and Everard would not be so absurd as to ask her again; he was quite pressing enough--far too much so for my taste." "I'm not so sure he won't; he will not easily give up his 'pet anthem,'" replied Emily. "Well, Isabel will not do it, you will see," answered Grace. "I'm not so sure of that, either; he usually gets his own way somehow or other." "Then how was it he did not succeed at first?" said Grace, tartly. "Oh, because Isabel made him believe that it would not be fair to Miss Cleaver." "Oh, Emily, that was not why Isabel would not, and she never said it was," exclaimed Alice; "she told Everard she had several reasons for not singing, and, she added, it would not be fair to Miss Cleaver after being in the choir so long." "And pray what might these weighty reasons be?" asked Grace. "I don't know," returned Alice. "Nor Isabel, either, I imagine," Grace answered. "What are you so perturbed about, Emily?" asked Isabel, who now joined them." "The choir are in trouble about the anthem." "How is that?" inquired Isabel. "Mary Cleaver is sick," returned Emily, "and Everard is awfully put out about it." Everard entered with a roll of music in his hand. "Where is Miss Leicester?" he asked. "She is here," Grace answered, languidly. "You will not now refuse to take the soprano in the anthem to-morrow, he said, when I tell you that it is utterly impossible for Miss Cleaver to do so, and that the anthem must be omitted unless you will sing." "I am sorry that the anthem should be a failure, but I really cannot," replied Isabel, evidently annoyed. "Oh, yes you can--just this once," he pleaded. But Isabel only shook her head. "Do you mean, Miss Leicester, that you positively will not?" he asked. "Seriously, Mr. Arlington, I do not intend to sing in the choir to-morrow." "That is your final decision?" "Yes." He sat beating his foot impatiently on the ground. "Is there no one else? Everard" asked Rose. "No one!" he answered, in a very decided tone. He tossed the music idly in his hand, though his brow contracted, and the veins in his forehead swelled like cords. They were very quiet; no one spoke. Emily enjoyed this little scene immensely, but Grace was highly disgusted that her brother should deign to urge a request which had already been denied, and that, too, by the governess; while Isabel sat, thinking how very kind Everard had always been, and how ill-natured it seemed to refuse--how much she wished to oblige--but the thing was so distasteful that she felt very averse to comply. She remembered, too, the beautiful flowers with which Alice had kept her vases constantly supplied when she was recovering from her illness; she knew full well to whom she was indebted for them, as but one person in the house dare cull the choicest flowers with such a lavish hand, "What are you waiting for, Everard?" Emily inquired, at length. "For Isabel to relent," said Grace, contemptuously. Everard rose, and stood for a moment irresolute; then, going to the piano, set up the music, and, turning to Isabel, said in a tone of deep earnestness: "Will you oblige me by just trying this, Miss Leicester?" Grace's lip curled scornfully, and Isabel reluctantly seated herself at the piano. Having once commenced, she thought of nothing but the beauty of the anthem, and sung with her whole soul--her full, rich voice filling the room with melody. Never had Isabel sung like this since she had left her happy home. When she ceased they all crowded round her, entreating her to take Miss Cleaver's place just this once. "She will--she must!" exclaimed Everard, eagerly. "You will--will you not, Isa-- Miss Leicester?" he asked persuasively. Isabel was silent. "A nice example of obliging manners you are setting your pupils," said Emily, mischievously, at the same time hugging her affectionately. "What makes my pet so naughty to-day?" "I suppose I must," said Isabel, in a tone of annoyance; "I see that I shall have no peace if I don't." "Thanks, Miss Leicester," said Everard, warmly; "I can't tell you how much--how very much--obliged I am." "I should not imagine that such a very ungracious compliance called for such excessive thanks," said Grace, sarcastically. "Don't be ill-natured, Gracie," returned her brother, laughing; "you don't know how glad I am." "But it is so very absurd, Everard, the way you rave about Isabel's singing, any one would suppose that you had never heard good singing." "Nor have I, before, ever heard such singing as Miss Leicester's," he returned. "Oh, indeed, how very complimentary we are to-day!" retorted Grace. "Such singing as Miss Leicester's!" echoed Isabel, with a gesture of contempt which set Emily laughing excessively, while Everard beat a hasty retreat. In the evening Emily and Isabel had their things on, and were chatting and laughing with the children in the school-room, before going down to the church for the practising, when Mrs. Arlington came in, saying, "I am afraid that you will all be disappointed, but Dr. Heathfield strictly prohibits Miss Leicester taking any part in the singing to-morrow." "Oh, Mamma!" exclaimed Emily. "He says that it would be highly dangerous, and that she must not attempt it." "But, Mamma, we cannot have the anthem without her." "I am very sorry, my dear, but it cannot be helped," replied her mother, and having given them the unpleasant tidings to digest as best they might, Mrs. Arlington returned to the drawing-room. "Now is not that too bad? Who in the world told Dr. Heathfield anything about it, I should like to know?" cried Emily, indignantly. "What possessed him to come here to-night, I wonder--tiresome old fellow?" "But if it would really do Isabel harm, I think it was very fortunate he came," said Alice, gravely. "Oh be quiet, Alice! you only provoke me," returned Emily. "Are you young ladies ready?" asked Everard. "Oh, Miss Leicester is not going to sing," cried Rose, saucily. "What will you do now?" "What do you mean?" he asked, looking inquiringly from one to another. "Why," said Emily, "Dr. Heathfield has forbidden anything of the kind, and was quite peppery about it." "Confound Dr. Heathfield!" he exclaimed angrily. "Is this true?" he asked, turning to Isabel. "Yes." "It is all nonsense! I shall speak to Heathfield about it." "That will do no good, Everard," interposed Emily; "He told mamma that Isabel ought not to think of doing so at present." "You did not think it would hurt you Miss Leicester," he asked. "Never for a moment." "I dare say he thinks you are going to join the choir altogether, I shall tell him that it is only the anthem to-morrow, that you intend taking part in, surely he cannot object to that." What passed between them did not transpire, but when Everard returned he said to Isabel in a tone of deep earnestness, "I should not have asked you to sing, had I known the harm it might possibly do you, indeed I would not, and though annoyed beyond measure at having to give up the anthem, I am very glad that Dr. Heathfield's opportune visit prevented you running such a risk, for had any serious consequences ensued, I alone should have been to blame." "No one would have been to blame, all being unaware of any danger," returned Isabel warmly, "but I am convinced that Dr. Heathfield is considering possibilities, though not probabilities" she added coloring, not well satisfied to be thought so badly of." "Tell us what he said, Everard," petitioned Emily. "He spoke very strongly and warned me not to urge her," Everard replied evidently unwilling to say more. "I don't believe that it could harm me," said Isabel thoughtfully, "but of course--." "You are jolly glad to get off," chimed in Rose saucily, and received a reproof from Everard. "We cannot disregard what he says," continued Isabel finishing the sentence. "Certainly not," returned Everard, and so the anthem was omitted. CHAPTER XVII. Alone in tears sits Natalie, alas she has awakened from her dream of bliss, to the sad reality that she is an unloved neglected wife, and bitter very bitter is this dreadful truth to the poor little bird far far from all who love her, for the wide ocean rolls between them, poor little humming bird formed for sunshine and happiness, how cans't thou bear this sad awakening. Ah cherished little one, with what bright hopes of love and happiness dids't thou leave a sunny home, and are they gone for ever, oh what depth of love in thy crushed and bleeding heart, striving ever to hide beneath a sunny face thy aching heart, lest it should grieve or vex the husband thou lovest so fondly, while he heedlessly repelling the loving one whose happiness depends upon his kindness, or impatiently receiving the fond caress, discerns not the breaking heart nor the secret anguish this same indifference causes; Ah Louis, Louis, should not one so bright and gentle, receive something better than impatient gestures and harsh words, which send the stream of love back with a thrilling pain to the heart, to consume it with silent agony, and her hope has proved vain, her babe, her darling babe has not accomplished what she fondly imagined, brought back her Louis's love, if indeed she ever possessed it, and it is this thought which wrings her gentle heart and causes those sobs of anguish, that make her fragile form to quiver like an aspen, as the storm of grief will have its course. If indeed he ever loved her, that he does not now is clear enough; but did he ever, why should she doubt it, she has accidentally heard the following remarks, and seen Louis pointed out as the object of them: He was engaged to a beautiful girl, but she was poor, so meeting with an heiress, he was dazzled by the prospect of wealth and married her; but the marriage had proved an unhappy one, that Mr. T---- had soon tired of his gay little wife, and now treated her with the greatest indifference and neglect, and that having married her solely for her money, he was as much as ever attached to Miss ---- and bitterly repented his folly. It may be true she sighed, for she knew in her heart that the part regarding his treatment of herself was but alas too true; but could he indeed love another, no, she would not believe it, she would dismiss the thought, but still the words rung in her ears, having married her solely for her money. Could Marie be right, but no, no, she would not, could not believe it, O Louis, Louis, how have I loved you, how I love you still, and is my love entirely unrequited? And now a new feeling springs up in her heart, bitter hatred towards her unknown rival, with beating heart and trembling lips she calls to mind the packet and Louis's embarrassment, the beautiful miniature she had seen by accident, and his evasive answers when questioned about the original, could she be the Isabel he had named her darling after, in spite of all she could urge as to her great dislike of the name. Oh that she could confide all her troubles to him and tell him all her fears, and if possible have her mind set at rest, but she dare not, for though she loved him so devotedly, she feared him too, his fierce bursts of passion frightened her. Oh I will win his love in spite of this hateful girl, I will be so gentle, so careful to please him, so mindful of his comfort (as if poor thing she had not always been so) that he shall forget her, and love his own little wife, and wearied with conflicting emotions, she laid her head upon the table and sobbed herself to sleep, and thus Louis found her at two o'clock in the morning, when he returned from attending a patient. "Good gracious! Natalie, what are you doing here," said he raising her from her uncomfortable position, "why you are quite chilled," he continued as a convulsive shudder shook her whole frame, "what ever possessed you to sit up, and the fire out, how could you be so foolish." She raised her large dark eyes to his with an expression intensely sad and entreating, and whispered "O Louis, tell me do you love me!" he could not bear the searching eagerness of that wistful gaze, and turning from her answered "can you doubt it you silly little thing, come, take the lamp and go to bed, while I get you something to stop this shivering--he turned to go. "Do not leave me, oh Louis, stay," she cried, and fell senseless on the floor. Through that night and for many long days and nights, Natalie lay in a burning fever, and in the delirium caused by it she would beseech him to love her, and again and again in the most pathetic manner entreat him not to leave her, and say, it was very wicked of him not to love her, why was it, what had she done to displease him, then murmur incoherent words about a hateful girl, beautiful but poor that he loved, but not his poor little Natalie, and then starting up with outstretched arms she would implore him to be kind to her and love her. Whether Louis felt any remorse at dooming a being so bright and fair to such a miserable existence, or whether there was not more anger than sorrow in that impenetrable calm none could tell; he was very attentive, and tried to sooth with gentle words, but woe to any of the attendants who dared to make any remark upon her in his hearing; all she said was treated indifferently as the natural result of the disease, and the nurse was commanded to be silent, when she presumed to say poor dear; whatever passed amongst themselves, in his presence they maintained a discreet silence. When Natalie recovered she was sweet and gentle as ever, but a passive lasting melancholy took the place of her former charming vivacity, henceforth life had lost its charm; with patient love she bore with Louis's variable temper, and was never known to speak a harsh word to little Isabel. CHAPTER XVIII. Swiftly passed the happy days in the beautiful villa home to which Arthur Barrington had taken his bride. But at length remorseful thoughts of his father's loneliness would intrude themselves upon Arthur's happiest hours, until he could bear it no longer; so he told Louisa the unkind way in which he had left his father, and how unhappy he was on that account, proposing that they should proceed to Barrington Park without delay. To this she readily agreed, but unfortunately their route lay through a district where a malignant fever was very prevalent, and while traversing a lone and dreary portion of this district, Arthur was attacked with this terrible disease. He strove bravely against it, and endeavored to push on to the nearest town, but that was yet forty miles distant, when Arthur became so alarmingly ill that they were forced to stop at a little hamlet and put up with the best accommodation its miserable inn afforded, which was poor indeed. There was no doctor to be had nearer than Z----, but the driver promised to procure one from there if possible. With this they were obliged to be content; but day after day passed and none came, while Arthur hourly became worse, and Louisa grew half wild with grief and fear. "If we could only get a doctor, I believe he would soon be well; but, ah! it is so dreadful to see him die for want of proper advice," murmured Louisa, glancing toward the bed where Arthur lay tossing in the terrible malaria fever, so fatal to temperaments such as his; "but he will not die, O no I cannot believe that my happiness will be of such short duration that I shall again be left in such icy desolation. Oh! Arthur, Arthur, do not leave me she sobbed, covering her face with her hands, but Arthur does not heed her, racked with burning fever he cannot even recognize her, as with patient gentleness she endeavors to alleviate his sufferings with cooling drinks, or bathes his burning brow. In vain were all the remedies that the simple people of the inn could suggest, or that Louisa's love could devise. Day by day his life ebbed away consumed by the disease, the prostration and langour following the fever being too much for his strength, thus Louisa saw that he who alone in the wide world loved or cared for her, was fast passing away; still though she could not but see it was so, she would not believe the terrible truth, but clung to the hope that a doctor might yet arrive before it was too late, and so her great bereavement came upon her with overwhelming force, when after a day of more than usual langour, during her midnight vigil, he ceased to breathe. Louisa had not known why he had clasped her hand so tightly all that night as she sat beside his couch, he was dead, and with a cry of anguish Louisa fell insensible beside the lifeless body of her husband. The moonbeams fell alike upon the inanimate forms of the living and the dead, and the morning sun rose brightly and she still lay there, none heard the midnight cry of anguish, or if heard it was unheeded, and the noisy lamentations of the girl who brought in the morning meal, greeted her as consciousness returned. The master of the inn said the funeral must take place at sunset, and Louisa shed bitter tears in the little room which was given her, while the corpse was being prepared for interment, for these precipitate funeral arrangements added greatly to Louisa's grief. Composed but deadly pale she followed Arthur's remains to the grave--his only mourner; there was no minister to be had, but Louisa could not see him buried thus, so read herself a portion of the beautiful burial service of the Episcopal Church, then amid tears and sobs she watched them pile and smooth the earth above him, and when they had finished, with a wail of agony she threw herself in a burst of passionate grief upon the damp earth, and there she lay until darkness enveloped all around, heedless of danger, of time, of everything but her deep deep grief, her misery, and her irreparable loss. And there she would have remained but for Francesca, the girl who had waited on them; Francesca had some pity for the poor lady, and with a great effort stifled her superstitious fears, and went down to the grave and led her away, whispering you will get the fever here. So Louisa returned desolate indeed to the miserable inn, not for a moment because of the fear of fever, only dreamily, scarcely knowing where she was going. Those long hours with the dead had but too surely done their work, Louisa was attacked with the same fever of which her husband died, but carelessly tended and neglected as she was, she did not die. When she was able to go out again, she would sit pensively for hours by Arthur's grave, or in passionate grief throw herself upon it and wish that she too might die. It was after one of these paroxysms of despair that Louisa remembered her promise to Arthur, that she would take his letter to his father at Barrington Park. Faithful to her word she reluctantly prepared to depart, when to her dismay she found that a cheque for a large amount had been abstracted from Arthur's desk, and further search discovered that nearly every article of value had been perloined during her illness. Their charges were so exorbitant, that it took nearly all the money she had to satisfy their demands, and when she mentioned the cheque, &c., they held up their hands in horror at the idea, that after all their kindness she should suspect them of such villiany. Weary and broken-hearted, Louisa set out on her lonely journey, and at length arrived sad and dejected at Barrington Park, having had to part with nearly all she possessed in order to prosecute her journey. After some difficulty she succeeded in gaining Lord Barrington's presence. "Well, what is it you want?" asked his lordship impatiently, but Louisa could not speak, she could only hold out Arthur's letter with a mute gesture of entreaty. "I don't want to read any of that nonsense; just tell me what you want, and be quick, as I am busy." Tell him what she wanted!--tell him that she wanted him to love and receive her as a daughter--tell him that the love he bore his son was henceforth to be transferred to the unhappy being before him--how could she tell him this? how could she tell him what she wanted? "Speak, girl, I say!" he cried, angrily. "Read this," she faltered, "it will tell you all." "I will not," he answered; "tell me, or begone!" Falling on her knees before him, she held out the letter, crying: "I am Arthur's wife. He is dead, and this is his letter, and I am here according to his wish--to his dying injuction. Take it--read it--it will tell you all." "Good gracious, the girl is mad!" he exclaimed, "mad as a March hare. Come, come! get up and go about your business, or I shall have you put in the asylum." Louisa felt choking, she could not speak; she could only stretch out her arms imploringly, still holding the letter. "There is some great mistake; my son is not dead, nor is he married, so do not think to impose upon me." "There is no mistake; Arthur is dead, and you see his widow before you," she managed to articulate. "No, no, Arthur is not dead, poor crazy girl; get up and go away," and he threw her half a sovereign, saying, as he did so, "now go away quickly, or I shall have you turned out; and mind, don't go about with your tale about being my son's wife, or I shall send the police after you. Now go." Crushed and humbled as she was by sorrow and suffering, this was more than Louisa's fiery nature could endure passively. Springing to her feet, her lips quivering with anger, while her large eyes flashed with passion, she cried, as she threw the proffered alms upon the table, in proud defiance, "Keep your alms for the first beggar you see, but do not insult me. I ask but what is right--that, as your son's wife, I should receive a home and the necessaries of life from you, his father, as he promised me. This you refuse me; but, were I to starve, I would not take your alms, thrown to me as a crazy beggar--never, never!" "Go, go!" he cried, she by her burst of passionate indignation still more confirming the idea that she was mad. "I will go," she answered, "and will never again trouble you; but know that I am no impostor--no insane person." John, who answered his master's summons, stood wonderingly at the door, and, as Louisa passed out, he opened the hall door, looking terribly mystified. "Take this," she said to him, "and if you loved your young master, give this to his father when he will receive it." Then with a full heart Louisa hastened from the park. A short distance from the gate was a small copse wood, which Louisa entered, and, throwing herself down on the grassy bank beside a stream, gave way to a storm of passionate grief. "Oh, Arthur, Arthur!" she sobbed, "how desolate is Louisa in this cold, cruel world." The storm of grief would have its way, nor did she strive to check it, but continued sobbing convulsively, and shivered with cold, though it was a balmy autumn day; the icy chill at her heart seemed to affect her body also. When at length she became more calm, she began to consider what course she should next pursue. She turned out her scanty store of money--fifteen and sixpence was the whole amount. She determined to return to the inn, where she had left the small bag (the sole remnant of the numerous trunks, etc., with which they had left ----), and remain there that night, and start next day for Brierley, the present abode of her grandfather, and try her luck in that quarter, but with small hope of success. Not for herself would she have done this, for she trembled at the thought of meeting him, but circumstances made it imperative. CHAPTER XIX. "Please maam, is baby to go for her walk this morning," asked the nurse as Louis and Natalie sat at breakfast, "Oh no Sarah," returned Natalie. "Why not, I should like to know," interposed Louis, "it is a beautiful day and will do her good, I can't see how it is that you always set your face against her going out." "Oh but Louis, you know she has a bad cold." "Well it will do her cold good, I can't think where you got the idea, that going out is bad for a cold. Take her out Sarah." "But Louis I'm afraid it will rain." "Rain, nonsense, what are you dreaming of this bright morning, take her out by all means Sarah, it will do her good." Natalie gazed uneasily at the dark storm cloud in the horizon and was anything but satisfied. "Why Natie you look as sober as a judge" said Louis as he rose to go on his morning calls, "looking out for rain eh, don't be alarmed baby is not sugar nor salt." The careless gaiety of his tone jarred unpleasantly with her anxious fears for her darling, and she sighed as she looked pensively out upon the bright landscape, with another sigh she left the window and went about her various duties, about an hour after this, Natalie was startled by a vivid flash of lightning, and deafening peal of thunder; down came the rain in torrents, oh where is baby? how anxiously she watched, peering down the street from the front door, but no sign of Izzie, and how cold the air has turned. She orders a fire to be made in the nursery, and waits impatiently for baby's return. She comes at last, "oh my baby!" Natalie exclaims as she takes in her arms the dripping child, wet to the skin, and white as a sheet, every bit of clothing soaked, saturated. Natalie can not restrain her tears as she removes them, and warms the child before the bright fire, "oh my baby, my baby, my poor little Izzie," she murmured passionately, as she soothed and caressed her pet. Baby was happy now in her fresh clothes, and nestled cosily to her mother. After the thunder shower the weather cleared and all seemed bright and joyous without, but Natalie's heart was heavy, she was still very uneasy about the child, Louis was detained from home the entire day. At night baby became so oppressed in her breathing that Natalie was quite alarmed, oh how anxiously did she listen for Louis return, as she knelt by the child's cot in agony watching her intently. "Oh if he would but come, why, why, did he send her out. Oh the agony, waiting, watching, yes that is his step at last, she sends message after message, but he comes not, he will come when he has had his dinner she is told. It wrings her heart to leave her darling, even for a moment, but it must be done. Softly she glides to where he sits, and laying her trembling hand upon his arm, says in a husky voice "Louis come now, do not wait a moment longer--baby has the croup" in an instant he was at baby's side. Natalie's ashy face and the word croup, acted like a talisman. It was croup, and a very bad attack too, he speedily did what was needful, but not without almost breaking his poor little wife's heart, by his cruel remarks, "you should be more careful of her," he said angrily "ten minutes more, and I could have done nothing for her." "Oh Louis," (he had been home now nearly a quarter of an hour.) "There must have been some gross mismanagement and fearful neglect, to bring on such an attack as this, to a child that has never been subject to croup, how she ever got into this state passes my understanding, you have been trying some of you foolish schemes I suppose." "Oh Louis, you know she was out in all that rain to-day" interposed Natalie meekly. "What was that for, I should like to know," he asked indignantly "are you tired of her already that you don't take better care of her than that?--Oh Natalie!" Natalie's pale cheek flushed at his injustice, but she made no answer, she only watched little Izzie in fear and trembling, and oh how glad and thankful she was when baby presently was sleeping quietly. But how often afterwards did she dwell upon these cruel words, and shed many bitter tears beside her sleeping darling's cot, oh baby, she would murmur, what more care could I take of you than I always do. CHAPTER XX. In his superbly furnished library sat Lord Barrington. He had just finished reading a letter that he had taken from his desk. "Strange," he murmured, "very strange, that Arthur has not come yet, nor any letter from him; I can't understand it," and he replaced the letter with a heavy sigh. He then turned to the letters on the table, which he had before cast aside, finding the wished-for one was not among them. "Ha, one from George; perhaps he may have seen him." He reads for a while, then starting from his seat exclaimed "Good Heavens! what is this?" Then reads again: Judge my amazement when I came across a rude apology for a tombstone, in a little out-of-the-way grave yard: "To the memory of Arthur, only son of Lord Barrington of Barrington, who died August 8th, 1864." As I had not the remotest idea that he was dead, but was almost daily expecting to find him. I most heartily sympathize with you---- "What can he mean?" he said, putting down the letter. "But what is this?" he cried, as his eye caught one he had overlooked before. 'Tis Arthur's hand!" With trembling hands he broke the seal (taking no note, in his agitation, of the fact that it had not been through the post), and read the almost unintelligible scrawl: DEAR FATHER:--I have charged Louisa to bring this and give it into your own hand. She will not believe that I am dying, and still clings to the hope that I will recover. But it can not be; I feel--I know--that I shall die. Oh, how I wish that I could see you again once more and ask your forgiveness, but it may not be! With my dying breath I beseech you to forgive your erring boy; it was the first, it is the last deception I ever practiced toward you. To you I ever confided my hopes and plans, and you always strove to gratify every wish. I feel now how much I wronged your generous nature, when I feared to tell you of my intended marriage. The tune seems ever before me when you asked me, even with tears, why I wished to leave you again, after I returned from America, and I answered, evasively, that I wanted to see the world. And when, in the fullness of your love, you replied "Then I will go with you," I answered angrily, "In that case I do not care to go," and pleaded for just one year. And you granted my request, and sent me forth with blessings. Oh, why did I not tell you all? I feel sure that you would have replied, "Bring your wife home, Arthur, and I will love her as a daughter, only do not leave me." Oh, father, forgive your boy! Thoughts of your loneliness would intrude at all times and mar my happiness, until I determined to return and bring my wife, trusting to your love, and was on my way home when I was attacked with this dreadful fever. Oh, how I repent that I did not mention my wife in my last letter to you! It is but a few short months since I left you, but O how long those lonely months must have been to you! Then let your sad hours be cheered by Louisa, since the sight of your boy may never gladden your heart in this world. Bestow upon her the same love and kindness you have ever shown to me. Nothing can alleviate my pain in leaving her, but the certainty I feel that you will love and cherish her for my sake. Oh make not her coming alone harder by one word or action. But as you love me, so deal with my wife. Farewell, dear father!--a last farewell! Before you receive this, I shall be sleeping in my distant grave. And oh when my poor Louisa presents it, treat her not harshly, as you hope that we shall meet again. Your affectionate and repentant son, ARTHUR. As the old man ceased reading, his head fell upon the table, and bitter tears coursed down his cheeks. "Oh, Arthur! Arthur! my boy! my only child! why, why did you leave me? How gladly would I have received your wife! But now how harshly have I treated her--how cruelly sent her forth into this heartless world, friendless and alone! But I will find her and bring her home--yes, yes, I will love her for his sake. Oh if I had only taken this when she brought it! But I will lose no time now. Oh, Arthur! Arthur!" he murmured, and he rang the bell violently. "John! John!" he said to the faithful old man who answered his summons, "stay, John, till I can speak," he cried, gasping for breath and trembling from head to foot. "My boy, my Arthur is dead!" he wailed, at length, and that person--that lady--was his widow, John. It was all true that she said, and I treated her so badly, too." "Yes," old John replied, meekly, "I thought it wor true; she didn't look like an himpostor, she didn't," and he shook his head gravely. "You must find her, John, and bring her back. Go, you have your orders; you must find her. Arthur is dead, and he has sent his wife to me, and I must take care of her--that is all I can do for him now." "Ah, that's the way with them secret marriages," soliloquized old John. "What in the world made Mr. Arthur act so, I wonder, and his governor so indulgent?" "Yes we will find her, and she shall have the green room, not Arthur's--no, not Arthur's. Love her for his sake, he says; aye that I will," murmured his lordship, as he paced the room. "Too late, old man, too late, too late." CHAPTER XXI. "I declare it's a shame," cried Emily throwing a letter on the table. "I can't think what Everard means, it's positively unkind, I shall write and tell him so," she continued endeavoring in vain to repress the tears of vexation that would not be restrained. "I would not have believed it of him, indeed I would not--what will Harry think, I should like to know." "What is the matter," asked Grace and Isabel at the same time. "Read this and you will see," she replied--Grace read-- DEAR EMILY,--You will, I know, be sorry to hear that I cannot be home for the Xmas. festivities, nor for the wedding; I am as sorry as you can possibly be, dear Emmy, but circumstances, over which I have no control, make it imperitive that I should remain away, therefore, pray forgive my absence, nor think it unkind. "It is outrageous" said Grace folding the letter carefully. "Mamma will not allow it I am certain, and I cannot imagine any reason that could prevent him coming if he chose. You had better get mamma or papa to write, people will think it so strange." "I don't care what people think, it's Harry and ourselves" replied Emily hotly, "I will write and tell him that I won't be married this Xmas. if he don't come--'there.' "How absurd" returned Grace contemptuously. "Do you mean it" inquired Isabel gravely. "Oh that is another thing" replied Emily coloring, but I shall say so, and try the effect." "It cannot be his wish to stay away" said Isabel thoughtfully. "It is the strangest thing I ever knew," replied Grace. "Isabel felt very uncomfortable, for somehow she could not help thinking that she might be the cause, (as, once, Everard had been very near the forbidden subject, saying that it was quite a punishment to be under the same roof, unless there was some change in their position, toward each other. "She was sorry that he had not said so before Isabel had replied, and that very day, told Mrs. Arlington that she wished to leave, as soon as she could meet with another governess. Mrs. Arlington asked her reasons. But Miss Leicester would give none. Then Mrs. Arlington requested that Miss Leicester would reconsider the matter, but Miss Leicester refused to do so. Then Mrs. Arlington insisted, saying that she would except her resignation, if at the end of the week she still wished it, though they would all be sorry to part with her. Everard of course heard what had taken place, and immediately made it his business to alter that young lady's determination, protesting that he had said nothing to make her pursue such a course. He forced her to admit that it was solely on his account that she was leaving, and then talked her into consenting to withdraw her resignation at the end of the week, promising to be more careful not to offend in future.) She wished very much that she could spend this Xmas. with Mrs. Arnold, but this was impossible, as she had promised Emily to be bridesmaid. "Then you don't think it would do to say that," Emily said inquiringly. "It would seem childish" returned Isabel. "And have no effect," added Grace. "Coaxing would be better you think." "Decidedly," said Isabel laughing. "The begging and praying style, might answer" returned Grace scornfully, "he always likes to be made a fuss with, and all that nonsense, if the children do but kiss him, and call him a dear kind brother and such like rubbish, he will do almost anything." Now Grace don't say the children, when you mean me, interposed Emily, I will not hear a word against Evvie, so don't be cross. I know you always were a little jealous of his partiality for me." "I am not cross, nor did I say anything against Everard," retorted Grace haughtily "and as for partiality, where is the favouritism now." "Oh well, I shall write such a letter that he can't but come." "I wish you success with all my heart," returned Grace more good naturedly, while Isabel gazed silently out of the window. * * * * * * * * "No answer to my letter yet, is it not strange said Emily as she joined Isabel in her favourite retreat, the conservatory, "what do you think about it, it makes me positively unhappy." "Shall I tell you what I think" asked Isabel passing her arm round Emily and continuing her walk. "Do please, for you can't think how disagreeable it is, when Harry asks, when Everard is coming, to have to give the same stupid answer, I expect to hear every day." "I don't think you will." "Oh Isabel." "No, I do not think he will write, but just quietly walk in one of these days!" "Do you really think so," asked Emily, her face radiant. Isabel gave an affirmative nod. "What makes you think so, Isabel?" "I don't know, but I feel sure he will," she replied, turning away her face. "Isabel." "Well, dear," said Isabel, with heightening color, still keeping her face turned away, "tell me, was it because of you that Everard would not come home." "I don't know." "Then you think, perhaps, it may be." "It is very foolish to think so." "Then you do think so," said Emily, archly. "Oh, miss, I have found you out at last. What a sly one you are. I have been watching you a long time, and thought you all unconscious how it was with a certain party who shall be nameless. Oh I'm so glad." "Glad that your brother is so unhappy?" Oh, Emily! "No; glad that he need be so no longer." "How do you mean?" "How do I mean! Why how obtuse you are, Isabel." "You run on too fast." "Oh, not much. I found out how it was on his part long ago, and I shall not be long before I tell him the result of my observations elsewhere." "Tell him what?" asked Isabel, aghast, "To go in and win," replied Emily, saucily. "Emily, Emily! what are you saying--what do you mean?" "Mean?" replied Emily, with a saucy nod, "to help on my pet scheme a little, that's all." "You never mean to say that you intend to--" "Oh, but I do, though." "Emily, if you dare!" cried Isabel, indignantly. "Ah, but I shall." "You shall not," said Isabel, grasping her arm, "you do not know what you are about." "Yes I do, perfectly well, and you will both thank me hereafter." "Stop a moment; what is it you intend to tell him?" "Only what I have found out--that all is as he wishes, so he need not be afraid." "You have not found out any such thing." "Oh, have I not though?" "Decidedly not. All you have discovered is, that I had some foolish idea that it might possibly be on my account that he was not coming home. That is all you could honestly tell him, and you will do more harm than good if you do; depend upon it, you will only make matters worse by interfering." "Well, if it is to do no good, I would rather that he did not know I had found out his secret, but keep it as I have done." "Since when?" asked Isabel. "Last spring, when we had to leave you on the rock, but of course I did not let him see it." "Then do not enlighten him now, you will only make him uncomfortable." "You are right, but come tell me since when did you know." "I have known a long time." "But does he think you know." Isabel was silent. "Come, miss, how did you find out?" "Don't, Emily," said Isabel, entreatingly. "How did you know--did he tell you?" "Is this generous?" asked Isabel, with burning cheeks." "You don't mean to say that you refused him?" said Emily, turning her blue eyes full upon Isabel, "that would be too cruel." "Be quiet, Emily," implored Isabel. "I see how it is now. Oh, Isabel, how could you?" "Remember, Emily, I have told you nothing; you have found out my secret; keep it better than you did your brother's." "Oh, Isabel, I am sure I kept that well enough." "Not so well as you must keep this. I am very, very sorry, for I feel that I have not been sufficiently watchful, or you would I not have suspected it. And he would be justly angry if he knew." "Well, under the circumstances it would make no difference to you if he was." Isabel bit her lip and was silent, then said, "Emily, dear Emily, promise me that you will try to forget this conversation, and never mention it to any one." "But Isabel when was it." "I will answer no questions on that subject" more than enough has been said already. "What a rage Grace would be in, if she knew, well, well, I have my own ideas." "Have you indeed, and pray what would Grace be in a rage about if she knew," asked a well known voice close to them. Both young ladies started and crimsoned. "You see Emmy I could not resist that letter, so here I am for a few days." "Isabel was right" cried Emily triumphantly, "she said you would come quietly in, one of these days." "What made you think so," he asked. "I felt sure of it, I cannot tell why, but I had a presentiment that you would." "May I hope that the wish was the origin of the thought," he said in a low tone, as Emily turned to caress his dog, Hector. "Certainly" she answered laughing. "I would not have Emily disappointed on any account." "Such a true prophet ought to be rewarded, don't you think so Emily," said Everard presenting Isabel with the first and only flower of a rare foreign plant. "I cannot accept it," replied Isabel, "the reward is more than the prediction was worth." "Oh no, it is not, I am sure you earned it," cried Emily clapping her hands, and running off with Hector for a romp. "Surely you will not refuse a flower" said Everard. "But why that flower." "Because it is the best." "For that very reason, I cannot accept it." "You are over scrupulous Miss Leicester." "No, only prudent." He looked hurt, "you will not refuse" he urged. "I dare not accept it." "Why." "What would they think." "If the truth,----, that the flower I valued most, I gave to the one I loved best." "Are you not venturing on forbidden grounds" asked Isabel with glowing cheeks. "Isabel you are cruel." "I do not wish to pain you." "Then accept my flower." "No, were I to do so, I could only take it to your mother saying that you wished it preserved." "Would you do so Isabel," he exclaimed reproachfully. "I should be obliged to do so, if I took it." "Is it only this one you refuse." "Or any other equally valuable and scarce." Gathering a choice little bouquet he said "you will not refuse this Isabel." "Miss Leicester if you please sir," she replied as she took the flowers, and hastened to the schoolroom. While Everard stood for a moment lost in thought, then went to pay his respects to his mother, and present the rejected flower, to the bride elect. This was the last evening they would be alone, to-morrow the guests were to arrive. Isabel did not always join them at dinner, and this evening she intended to spend in the schoolroom to finish the reports, which Mr. Arlington always liked to have when the holidays began, giving the children leave to go in the drawing-room. But the best plans cannot always be carried out. Isabel received a message from Mrs. Arlington requesting her to join them at dinner, accompanied by a threat from Harry, that if she did not they would all adjourn to the schoolroom, of course she had to comply. However the evening passed off very pleasantly, Everard was so much occupied with his mother and sisters, that with the exception of making her sing all his favourite songs, he paid even less than usual attention to Isabel. CHAPTER XXII. The children are on tiptoe of expectation, anxiously waiting the arrival of the Mornington's, and numerous other guest's. Now the wished for moment has come, what a delightful stir and confusion it has occasioned. Rose is in ecstasy, and Amy wild with glee, even the quiet Alice seemed to have caught the infection. It was to be a regular old fashioned Xmas. Eve. All sorts of games and odd things, snap dragon, charades (for which Harry and Lucy were famous) magic music, dancing, and even blindmans buff was proposed but was over-ruled by the quieter members of the party. 'Santa Claus' sent a bountiful supply of presents down the chimney that night, which caused great merriment next day. For ladies got smoking caps, and cigar-cases; while gentlemen received workboxes, thimbles, and tatting-needles. Peter got a jester's cap and bells, which he vowed was a dunce's cap intended for Rose, to that young lady's great indignation. Tom had a primer, and a present for a good boy, and May received a plain gold ring at which they all laughed very much, to May's excessive annoyance. After breakfast they all went to church, and then all who chose went to see the school children, who were enjoying themselves immensely over their Xmas. fare. Then the sleighs were had out for a glorious drive over the frozen snow, but Isabel refused to join the party, preferring to stay quietly at home. To practise anthem's with Everard, Grace said. Isabel had no such idea, but for all that they did sing some anthems with the children, as Everard, who had taken a very active part in the arrangements for the Sunday School feast, was not of course one of the sleighing party, and returned some time before them. The children sang very nicely, doing great credit to Isabel's teaching, for which she was highly complimented by Everard. "They ought to be much obliged to you, as they bid fair to surpass both Grace and Emily," he said. "Pray don't let Miss Arlington hear you say so, or she will never forgive me." "Oh never fear, she would not believe it, but I will be careful, as she is already dreadfully jealous of you." "Of me, how can she be, why should she." "She has cause enough," he replied warmly, "but she should be more magnanimous." "I don't think it possible, I cannot imagine she could be so silly." "It is plain enough to me, that she is." "I don't see it, I confess." "'Where ignorance is bliss,' he replied, with one of his usual penetrating glances. "Yours must be a very happily constituted mind to be so unconscious of all things disagreeable." "Not quite so unconscious as you imagine, but I advise you not to fish into troubled waters." "Still waters run deep, you mean," he replied. "Unfathomable," she said, and followed the children to the dining-room, for they had gone there to see if the decorations were completed. A right merry party sat down to dinner, sixty in number, all relations or old friends. Here is Tom's description of the wedding nest day, which he sent his friend: DEAR DICK,--We are having jolly times here--rare fun on Christmas-eve, I assure you. But the best of all was my brother's wedding; eight bridesmaids, all as beautiful as sunshine. (I was a best-man, of course.) The bride looked magnificent--(between you and I, Dick, he has made a very good choice)--the rain and sunshine style. I can't say I understand that kind of thing, but on such occasions it tells immensely. (I admire one of the bridesmaids amazingly, but mum's the word, mind.) But to speak of the wedding. Governor Arlington is a liberal old fellow. Champagne like water, and everything to match. Your's truly, T. M. Elm Grove was scarcely the same place to Isabel when Emily was gone. She toiled on diligently with the children, but she found teaching anything but pleasant. Often after a tedious day, when tired and weary, she would gladly have laid down to rest her aching head and throbbing temples. Mrs. Arlington would request that she would join them in the drawing-room. Isabel did not consider herself at liberty to refuse, besides she did not wish to encounter Mrs. Arlington's frowns next day; and even when they were out, and she congratulated herself upon being left in peace, Mr. Arlington (who seldom accompanied hem) would ask her to sing some songs, or play a game of chess, and of course she had to comply. This kind of life was very irksome to Isabel--so different to what she had been accustomed to. She strove bravely with her fate, but in spite of all her endeavors she often cried herself to sleep she felt so desolate and alone. She had no home: there was no hearth where she was missed, or her coming anxiously looked for. Then she would grieve bitterly over the bright home she had lost, and the happy days gone, it seemed, for ever; and then in the morning be angry with herself for her ingratitude, remembering the blessings she still enjoyed, and how much worse off she might be, and strive to be contented. A fresh cause for disquietude arose, Grace evidently was jealous of her. Grace was handsome, but she was aware that Isabel was more attractive. Grace sang well, but she also knew that Isabel sang better, her voice was richer, fuller, more melodious. She said that Isabel always wanted to show off, and would look very incredulous and neutral when Isabel's performances were praised. One gentleman in particular was very enthusiastic in his praises. "But professional people are different you know," returned Grace. "Oh indeed, I was not aware that Miss Leicester was a professional singer," he replied. "Not a professional singer, she teaches singing," said Grace thinking she was going a little too far. "Indeed, where did you make her acquaintance, may I ask, you seldom hear such a splendid voice." "Oh she is our governess," replied Grace. Turning to Isabel he said "you have a very fine voice Miss Leicester, if you were to make your debut at one of our best operas, you would make your fortune." "I have no such idea," said Isabel, the indignant tears starting to her eyes, "that is the last thing I should thing of doing, she added with a reproachful look at Grace," but Grace seemed to be enjoying the whole thing amazingly. "I do not suppose that you have thought of it or you certainly would not be a governess, with such a career open to you; with very little training you might command almost any salary." Isabel was excessively annoyed. "I assure you my dear young lady that it is worth your consideration he continued. "You mean well, no doubt, Mr. Bandolf, and I thank you for your kind intentions; but the matter requires no consideration, I could not entertain the idea for a moment" returned Isabel, and bowing coldly opened a book of prints. "You should not let pride prevent your worldly advancement," he added, which only made her more angry than ever. For all this I have to thank Miss Arlington she thought, and her feelings toward that young lady, at that moment, were not the most charitable. CHAPTER XXIII. "No I am sure it never answers at least not in most cases and in ours it would not I am convinced; but I had a pretty hard battle about it I assure you Ada." "I had no idea until now that they wished it" returned Ada. "but I am very glad you did not agree to it." (The matter under consideration was, if it were desirable that young couples should reside with the parents of either; but Charles Ashton knew his mother's disposition too well, to subject his wife to it, though he was a very good son and loved his mother. He had no wish, nor did he consider himself at liberty to place his wife in a position that he knew might make her very unhappy. Nor did he think that such an arrangement would promote domestic bliss. He was a particularly quiet easy going fellow, very averse to exertion of any kind and seldom troubled himself to oppose any arrangements, usually agreeing to any proposition for the sake of peace and quietness. But for all that he had a will of his own, and when he had once made up his mind, nothing on earth could move him. Before he married he gave the matter careful considertion, and came to the conclusion that it must never be--never Ada would be his wife, and no mortal should breathe a word against her in his hearing--therefore it must never be. Having come to this conclusion he waited until the subject should be broached by either of his parents, knowing very well that when that topic should be discussed, then would come the tug of war, and he was not at all anxious for it. It soon came however, his father proposed that he should bring his bride there, saying, "there is plenty of room for all." But Charles was not so sure of that, and feared that the house might possibly become too hot to hold them, but merely stated quietly that he had decided otherwise. Then arose a perfect storm, but he was firm. His mother asked with her handkerchief to her eyes, if she was to lose her boy altogether. While Lord Ashton requested to be informed what his plans might be. "To live in England" he answered. "What might be his objection to Ashton Park." He had nothing to say against Ashton Park, but he wished to reside in England. Very well, they would go to England, and all live together, that would be charming Lady Ashton said. "He should like them to live in England, but as to living together, that was out of the question," Charles replied. "Whereupon Lady Ashton was highly offended and very angry. Charles was quiet, but firm, all they could urge was useless, he would not hear of it.) "It might answer in Arthur's case" he returned, by the way Ada is it not strange we have never heard anything of them, poor Louisa, I suppose boarding school did not answer her expectations, as she left it so soon." "Can you wonder at it, situated as she was." "It was natural no doubt, and Arthur could be so winning, he always was a favourite with the ladies." "Oh well, he is a nice fellow you must admit." "I don't deny it, I always liked him very much, but still I think that sort of thing, is not right, but he always was impetuous, never considered anything, but just acted on the spur of the moment, and he is very soft hearted" he added laughing. "I wonder if the old gentleman knows it." "Your mother was always ambitious for him, don't you remember how afraid she was about Isabel" asked Ada. "Yes, and the daughter of his tutor does not come up to the mark." "I should think her own daughter's child might at all events." "But she never regards her in that light, never will I fear." "Somebody wishes to see you Sir, very particularly please," said Thomson. "Who is it? Thomson." "Don't know I'm sure Sir, she would not give any name, but is very anxious to see you, I said you were engaged, but she replied I that she must see you to-night, it was very important." "What sort of a person is she?" asked Ada. "A lady madam, quite a lady I should say, only in trouble, she says she knew master in America." "I must see her, I suppose, where is she." "In the study, sir." The stranger was standing by the fire-place, as he entered she made an impatient gesture for him to close the door, then threw herself at his feet passionately imploring him to help and protect her, and throwing aside her thick vail, disclosed the features of Louisa, but so altered that he was perfectly shocked and amazed. He could scarcely believe that the haggered emaciated being before him, was indeed the pretty, impulsive, fiery, Louisa, but such was the case, and anger, compassion and indignation filled his heart, as he listened to the recital of her misfortunes. As the reader is already acquainted with a portion of Louisa's story, we will not repeat it here, but only record such circumstances as have not appeared in these pages. On arriving at her grandfather's she encountered a storm of angry abuse, and was driven from the door with a stern command never to return, as she had forfeited all claims upon him, and might die in a ditch for all he cared. She managed to get about a mile from the house, and then overcome with fatigue and misery she sank down exhausted. How long she remained there she had no idea, when she recovered she was among strangers, who were very kind. She had had a brain fever, and was in the hospital When asked for the address of her friends, she replied that she had none. But afterward she remembered that her Uncle Charles had always been kind to her, and had occasionally procured her little indulgences from her stern, cold-hearted, grand-mother, and that it had been mainly through his interference that she had been sent to school. She therefore determined to seek his aid, and accept a small loan from the doctor, to enable her to do so, long and weary had the journey been, and she implored Charles not to send her away. She knew she said that it would not be for long, and entreated him to let her die in peace. Charles assured her that she should want for nothing, and commended her for coming to him, and expressed in no measured terms his disapprobation of his father's cruel conduct, but was abruptly silenced by Louisa falling senseless on the floor. His violent ringing of the bell, brought not only the servants, but Ada also, to his assistance; medical aid was quickly procured. That night her child was born, and when morning dawned, Louisa lay still and cold in that last long sleep from which no mortal could awake her. Sleep in thy marble beauty, poor little Louisa, and perhaps that sad fate may soften the hearts of thy cruel grandparent. Oh not as it has been fulfilled did the dying Evangeline understand the promise made with regard to the little Louisa. Oh how often was the stillness of the night broken by the bitter sobs of the desolate little orphan whose aching heart sought for love in vain. Then can we wonder that when this lonely one, did find one to love, that she should willingly listen to his persuasions in hopes of a happy future, rather than endure any longer such a cheerless existence. In the early morning a violent knocking at the hall door brought Thomson from his gossip with the other servants. "Is there not a lady--a widow lady, staying here?" inquired an old gentleman in an agitated voice, while the cab driver beat his arms on the pavement. "Is not this Mr. Ashton's?" he added, as Thomson hesitated. Thomson answered in the affirmative, and the old gentleman continued, "Is the lady here? Can I see your master? answer me quickly don't be so stupid." "A lady came last night but, but," stammered Thomson "she," "Is she here now, I say," he cried angrily. "Yes sir, but-- "Say no more, just tell your master I want to see him immediately, stop, take my card, here, now be quick." Poor Thomas was quite bewildered by the old gentleman's manner. I'm blest he murmured if I know what we're coming to next, Lord Barrington, what does he want I should like to know. "Why Ada, it is Lord Barrington," exclaimed Charles. "How very fortunate," returned Ada "of course he will take charge of the baby, I confess I was in a quandary for I do not relish the idea of having the care of it, poor little thing." "Nor I either, but I am not so sure that he will take it, it is much more likely he has come to row me about the whole affair." "You! Why, what had you to do with it?" "No more than you had; but I must see him at once, I suppose." "Shall I go, too?" asked Ada, timidly. "Not at present: if there is to be a storm, I do not see why you should be in it." "He is such a dreadful old man, is he not?" "Not usually; he was always very, very kind to Arthur." "Not to his wife," she replied, vainly endeavoring to repress her tears. "No, very cruel; but you must not grieve so much about it, dearest Ada." "I cannot help it, it is so terribly shocking." "But it is past, now: she is at rest, she is happy; even her lifeless remains look calm--the weary, weary look exchanged for one of peace." "True, but it is so dreadful; if we had only known before," she sobbed. "I wish we had, with all my soul," returned Charles, "but you really must not distress yourself so, or I shall have to keep the poor old gent waiting." "Go to him, Charley; I shall feel better presently." He found his Lordship impatiently pacing the room. "I am seeking my daughter-in-law; she is here, I believe," he said, after the first salutations were over. "She is here," Charles answered gravely, "at least her remains; she died last night." "Dead! dead!" repeated Lord Barrington, putting his hand to his head. "Then I have nothing left." "But the child," interposed Charles. "The child--what child?" "The babe born last night." "He did not heed the answer, but seemed overpowered by the news of Louisa's death. "Let me see Arthur's wife," he said, after a few minutes had elapsed. Charles conducted him to the darkened apartment, where he gazed in agony upon the worn, but calm features of poor Louisa. And as he thought of his harshness, and Arthur's words, "make not her coming alone harder by one word or look," his grief became so violent and excessive that Charles was quite nonplussed, and went to consult Ada as to what should be done. In accordance with their plan, Ada took the frail little piece of humanity, and, approaching Lord Barrington, as he bent in sorrow over the corpse, said softly, "You have lost Arthur, and Arthur's wife, but you still have Arthur's child," and she laid the babe in his arms. His tears fell on its tiny face, but the sight of it, and its helplessness, did him good. "Oh, Arthur! Arthur!" he moaned, why did you doubt your old father? how would I have welcomed your wife if you had brought her home at first! aye, as I now welcome this child--Arthur's child," he added, looking at it fondly. He had the corpse conveyed to Barrington, and placed in the family vault, and erected a monument--very beautiful, indeed--beside the one he had already placed there in memory of his son, inscribed: To LOUISA, the beloved wife of Arthur, only son of LORD BARRINGTON OF BARRINGTON, Aged 16 years. He also placed another in the little burying-place at Z----: In memory of ARTHUR, only son of LORD BARRINGTON, of Barrington Park, England, aged 23 years, who was suddenly attacked with a fatal fever, in a foreign land, when on his way home. When Lady Ashton arrived, shortly afterwards, and heard what had taken place, she was in a terrible fume. "Oh! my dear, what a misfortune. How unlucky for her to come here: why did you let her stay, Charles?" "Why did I let her stay? Say, rather, why did you send her away?" "Yes, why did you let her stay?" she repeated, angrily. "Why did you not let her go to the hospital?" "Or die in the street," added Charles, scarcely able to keep his temper, for he was angry and hurt to think how Louisa had been treated. "Goodness knows what people will say: no doubt all kinds of strange stories will be circulated. I feel for you, Ada, my dear; I do, indeed." "Don't be alarmed, my dear mother, as to rumors and strange stories," said Charles, handing her a newspaper, and pointing out the following: DIED.--At the residence of Charles Ashton, Esq. LOUISA, wife of the late Hon. Arthur Barrington, and grand-daughter of Sir Edward Ashton of Brierley. "Charles, how dared you?" cried his mother, reddening with anger, "your father will be excessively angry." "I cannot help that: it is the truth, is it not?" "True? of course you know it is; but, for all that, you need not have published it in that absurd manner." "I thought it best." "And you are simple enough to think that that notice will prevent absurd stories getting abroad." "As to who she might be, yes; and, as to the circumstances that brought her here, I presume you would prefer any, rather than the right ones, should be assigned." Lady Ashton was for once abashed, and her eye dropped beneath the severity of her son's gaze; but, recovering quickly, she answered, "you, at least, have nothing to do with that." "I am thankful to say I have not," he returned, "I cannot forget it, it makes me perfectly wretched; and, but that I know that Ada has her own home to go to, if anything happened to me I don't know what I should do. I shall insure my life this very day, that she may be independent. If a daughter's child could be so treated, why not a son's wife." For goodness' sake stop, Charles!" cried his mother, "don't talk so dreadfully." "I feel it bitterly, mother; indeed I do," he replied, and hastily left the room. He would not have done so, however, had he known the storm he had left Ada to be the unhappy recipient of. She was perfectly terrified at the violence of Lady Ashton's wrath, and Lady Ashton was, too, when she saw Ada lay back in her chair, pale as marble and panting for breath. "What is the matter?--speak, child," she cried, shaking her violently; but this only alarmed her the more, and she called loudly for Charles, and then remained gazing at Lady Ashton in speechless terror. "Ada! dearest Ada! what is the matter?" asked Charles, coming to the rescue; but Ada had fainted. CHAPTER XXIV. "Well, old fellow, how are you?" said Louis, as he entered Everard's room at the college. "I only just heard you were back." After they had conversed awhile, Louis said, "Pretty girl that governess your sisters have at Elm Grove; aye, only she is such a confounded flirt." "I esteem Miss Leicester very highly," returned Everard, coldly. "Take care, old fellow, for she is, without exception, the greatest coquette I ever came across. She always had crowds of admirers, many of whom she contrived to draw on until they came to 'the point,' and then laughed at them. By Jove she will make a fool of you, Everard, if you don't mind." "I assure you, Louis, that you are quite mistaken. Miss Leicester is quite a different person to what you imagine." "Ha! ha! so you may think, but I knew her intimately, and I must say that I was surprised that your mother should trust her young daughters to her care." "Be quiet, Louis; I think her as near perfection as possible." "Well, they say that love is blind--stone blind, in this case, I should say. She must have played her game well, to deceive you so thoroughly." "I am not deceived, neither has she played any game," returned Everard, with warmth. "She gives me no encouragement whatever--very far from it." "Oh, that is her new dodge, is it? Beware of her; she is a most accomplished actress." "You are mistaken," replied Everard, indignantly, "you know some one else of the same name." "Not a bit of it, my dear fellow; I saw the young minx at Elm Grove, and knew her directly. 'Beautiful, but dangerous.' I know her well." Everard's cheek flushed with anger. "Louis," said he, "I will not hear any one speak disrespectfully of Miss Leicester. I consider any insult offered to her as a personal affront; therefore, if we are to remain friends, you must say no more on that subject now or at any other time." Louis saw by Everard's countenance that he was in earnest, so answered, "as you will. I have satisfied my conscience by warning you; of course I can do no more. Won't you dine with us to-day?" "No, really, I cannot possibly; I have no time to go anywhere." "Take care you don't work too hard, and have to give up altogether. You look as if you were overdoing it. Too much of a good thing is good for nothing, you know. Come when you can--if not to-day, I shall be always glad to see you." "What object can he have in speaking thus of Isabel?" Everard asked himself when Louis was gone--his beautiful and beloved Isabel, the charm of his existence, yet the torture of his life--(for was it not torture to be forever dwelling on her perfections, only to come back to the same undeniable fact that she had refused him--that she either could not, or would not, be his)--and now to hear _her_, the personification of his own ideal, spoken of as an accomplished actress and deceitful coquette, was almost more than he could endure. Then he asked himself what he had gained by his constant and excessive study: had it caused him to forget her? no, he could not forget she seemed ever with him in all her beauty, gentleness, and truth. He would win her yet, he told himself, and then owned he was a fool to indulge such thoughts, and determined to study harder still than ever, to prevent the possibility of his thoughts recurring so often to Isabel. Nevertheless, he would believe nothing against her--nothing. CHAPTER XXV. "Louis, I wish you would look at baby before you go; I do not think she is well to-night." "What is the matter now? You are always thinking she is ill: she seemed well enough this morning." "I don't know. She is restless and uneasy; I wish you would come." "Of course I will, but I am in a great hurry just now; Mrs. Headley has sent for me, and old Mr. Growl has another attack. I must go to the people in the office now, but I will come up to baby before I start." "Had you not better see baby first? Perhaps you might forget, with so many people to attend to." "Forget? Not I. Why, Natalie, how do you think I should ever get on if I had no better memory than that?" But he did forget, and was gone when Natalie again sought him. "I thought it would be so," she sighed. Baby became more and more uneasy, and moaned and fretted in her sleep. Natalie knelt beside the bed, and tried to soothe her darling, thinking sadly of the long hours that would elapse before Louis's return, but all her efforts were in vain. Izzie did not wake or cry, but this only alarmed Natalie the more. The deadly palor of her countenance was the only sign of the anguish she suffered; outwardly, she was very calm. If she could only have done anything for her pet! but to wait, and watch, not knowing what to do, this was unendurable; and she was just debating in her own mind if she ought not to send for another doctor, as Louis might be detained all night, when she heard him come in. She pressed her cold hands upon her brow, and ordered Sarah to bring him immediately; while she rose from her knees, and breathlessly waited for his coming. "What's the matter with popsy?" he asked, cheerfully, as he entered the room, but his countenance became grave as his eye rested on the sick child. "What is this?," he inquired, "why was I not told before? Tut, tut, what have you been thinking about, Natalie," he added, as he felt the child's pulse. "I asked you to come and see her before you went out," Natalie answered, in an almost inaudible voice. "Yes, but you did not say that there was anything particularly the matter." He stooped over the child and examined her more carefully. "She is seriously ill," he said. And the words sent a thrill of pain to Natalie's aching heart. "Why do you treat me in this shameful manner?" he continued bitterly. "Why let the child go on until it is almost past recovery, and then send for me in the greatest haste?--just the same way when she had the croup. I am surprised at you Natalie; it is really quite childish." He ordered the bath to be brought immediately. Impatiently waving Natalie aside, he took the child in his arms and put her into the bath; while Natalie stood by, in speechless agony, Louis refusing to allow her to assist in any way. How cruel! To have done anything for her darling would have been an unspeakable relief. As it was, she could only stand by while he murmured, in a tone which greatly distressed her "poor little popsy," "Did they neglect papa's darling?" He would suffer no one to touch her but himself, and what assistance he did accept was from Sarah, it being into her arms he put baby while he went for the medicine she required. Poor Natalie, how this grieved her; for though she took the child from Sarah, the slight was the same. "Oh, baby, baby!" she murmured, as the burning tears fell on little Isabel's face, "what should I have left if you were taken from me?" When Louis returned, he took the child, administered the medicine, and was about to lay her in the bed. "Let me take her," whispered Natalie, in a tone of tremulous earnestness and passionate entreaty. "No, she is better here," he replied. "Oh, please, Louis!" she pleaded, but he was firm. She stood, with clasped hands, silently gazing on the babe with a strange sensation of awe and dread, and a yearning wish to do something for her. "You are not required, Natalie," Louis said, "you had better go to bed." With a gulp she restrained the rising sob, and stooped to kiss her darling. "You will only disturb her," he said, putting out his arm to prevent her doing so. Then Natalie could only steal away to her dressing-room, and there, alone in the darkness, she crept to the sofa and hid her face in the cushion, to hush the tumultuous sobs, while she breathed fervent prayers for baby's recovery. But a horrible dread surrounded her: she could not endure to be absent from her pet, and noiselessly she stole back to the nursery. She was glad that Louis did not observe her entrance, and retreated to the dimmest corner of the room, and there, in the old arm-chair, listened to baby's uneasy breathing, which caused her an agony of grief and pain. Yet she could do nothing but sit and suffer--suffer, oh, how deeply! Thus the night wore away, and Louis was not aware of her presence until, as the day dawned, he beheld the wan, wretched face of his poor little wife. Going to her side, he said, "this is wrong, Natalie; go and rest." She shook her head. "You must, indeed: you know I have to leave her to you the greater part of the day, and this is no preparation for the watchful care she will need." "She cannot need more care than I will gladly give," returned Natalie, with trembling lip. Her face wore an expression, so sad--so suffering--that Louis must, indeed, have been adamant if he had not been softened. Stroking her hair caressingly, he was about to lead her from the room with gentle force, when, grasping his hand convulsively, she said, in an almost inaudible voice, "I cannot, cannot go; have pity, Louis," she added, raising her tearful eyes to his. "For an hour or two, and then you shall take care of baby." "If--if--you would let me kiss her, I will lie down here, but I cannot leave her," she answered, almost choking. "You may do that," he said, with a disagreeable sense of the fact that he had been unkind, to use no harsher term. And he lifted a weight from Natalie's heart, as he placed a shawl over her, saying, "try to sleep, dear; you know how much depends upon you," in sweet, modulated tones of thrilling tenderness, such as Louis knew well how to use--none better, when it suited him to do so. It mattered not to little Izzie who tended her for many days; not so, however, when she began to mend, for now she would suffer none but mamma to touch her. She would scarcely bear to be put out of her arms. If Natalie attempted to lay her in the cradle, thinking she slept, instantly the tiny arms would be clasped round mamma's neck, and she would take her up again. No more could papa usurp mamma's rights; no coaxing or persuasion would induce her to allow him to take her. Only from mamma's hand would she take her medicine. On more than one occasion Natalie had to be aroused from the little sleep she allowed herself, to administer it. All this annoyed Louis beyond measure, but he did not again give way to his temper before the child, except on one occasion. He had, in the strongest terms, urged upon Natalie the importance of giving the medicine with regularity. The bottle was empty, and Natalie sent it down to be filled, but by some means it got mixed with the other medicines to be sent out, and was not returned to her. She suffered tortures for the want of it during his absence. When he returned, coming straight to baby as usual, he learned how it was, and found her worse for want of it, his indignation was extreme, and he heaped upon Natalie unjust and unmerited reproach, in harsh and bitter terms. His cruel words cut her to the heart, but her only answer was a gentle request that he would get it at once. Truly Isabel had not much to regret. CHAPTER XXVI. "What do you think?" cried Rose, bursting into the school-room. "Everard is coming home." "Oh, is he? I'm so glad," returned Alice. "Yes; mamma had a letter to-day. He is better, and is coming home for change of air and mamma's good nursing. It was not Everard who wrote the letter, but the doctor, who is coming with him as far as Markham, and papa is to meet them there." "When?" inquired Alice. "To-morrow." "And papa is away." "Oh, he will be back to-night. Why, there is a carriage; I wonder who it is," she exclaimed, running to the window. "How can you be so silly, Rose," interposed Isabel. "Oh, it is Everard," she shouted, without heeding Isabel's remonstrance, "and that must be the Doctor. Oh, I'm so glad Everard has come," and she danced about the room with glee. "Rose, what a noisy child you are!" exclaimed Isabel, going to the window with the rest; but when she saw the Doctor, she became deadly pale, and had to lean against the window frame for support, but she had ample time to recover herself, as they were all too much occupied to observe her. "How terribly ill he looks," said Rose. "And how dreadfully weak," returned Alice. "I'm sure that gentleman was at Grace's party, only I forget his name." "Oh, mamma and Grace are both out; who is to do the honors, won't you, Miss Leicester?" "Oh, no." "Do, there's a good creature," pleaded Rose. But Isabel was firm. "It will seem so queer," urged Rose. "Alice, dear, _you_ must go." Oh no, indeed, I can't; please excuse me, Miss Leicester." "Oh let _me_ go," pleaded Rose, "I shall manage far better than Alice." "You!" exclaimed Isabel, "nonsense! Alice has more thought, besides she has the advantage of two or three inches in height, at all events." Alice remonstrated. "Not another word, Alice, you have to go," said Isabel; and Alice thought she had never seen Miss Leicester so peremptory. Isabel was not afraid to trust Alice. Once fairly installed as hostess she would do very well, though shy at first. "But he seems so very ill, and I shall not know what to do," said Alice. "You must tell them they were not expected until to-morrow, to explain your mamma's absence; and I will order up some refreshments, and tell Norris to have your brother's room ready for him." Poor Alice looked quite scared at the ordeal that was before her. "Mind you manage nicely, Allie dear, and make your brother comfortable," said Isabel, kissing her. And Alice, with a great sigh, left the room. Isabel would have been content to have done "the honors," as Rose termed it, had the Doctor been any other than Louis, but under the circumstances she was determined not to do so. Though firmly resolved to abide by this decision, she did not feel very comfortable, as she thought it not improbable that Everard would send for her. Indeed, he did tell Alice to bring her, but Alice, with her usual blunt manner, answered that Miss Leicester had refused to come, and had sent her. As Isabel had foreseen, Everard soon retired to rest after his journey, and she would have been nicely in for a long _tete-a-tete_ with Louis, which she did not choose. As it was, she sent Rose to help her sister to entertain the Doctor until her mamma came home; and, taking Amy with her, Isabel retired to her own apartment, to prevent the possibility of meeting him. The absentees returned early, and Mrs. Arlington came herself to request that Miss Leicester would endeavor to make the evening pass pleasantly to the gentlemen, as she and Grace had an engagement that evening, and as it was to be the ball of the season Grace did not wish to give it up. "Pray, excuse me, Mrs. Arlington," Isabel began. "Stay, Isabel, I know what you would say. The Doctor goes with us. Everard and his father will be alone, and I think you can find a song, a book, or something to amuse them." "I will try," said Isabel, well content now that Louis was not to be of the party. "One word more, Miss Leicester," said Mrs. Arlington, dismissing Amy. "I disapprove very much of the children being sent to entertain visitors, and I hope it will not occur again." Isabel felt hurt, but merely replied, "under the circumstances it might be excused." "No, Isabel, no; I cannot see any justifiable reason. It is more than two years since Dr. Taschereau was married, and if you have not got over that affair you ought to have done so, that is all I can say." "I have, I have," exclaimed Isabel, warmly, "but still you could not expect me to meet him." "I don't see why you should not; it would have been better to have done so than, by acting as you have, lead him to suppose that you have not overcome your former attachment." "It is utterly impossible, for him to think that," returned Isabel hotly, "I told him differently long ago; no," she added indignantly, "I have not the slightest shadow of affection for him; but I cannot, will not, subject myself to his insufferable insolence. You don't know him, or you would not expect me to do so," and the hot tears welled up into her eyes. "I cannot hear my son's friend aspersed, Miss Leicester, especially when he is my guest," said Mrs. Arlington, stiffly, "at the same time I don't, of course, mean to justify his former conduct towards you; and with regard to the children, do not let it occur again. You may make yourself happy about the doctor, as he returns by the early train in the morning, for he is anxious about his little girl, who is only now recovering from a serious illness." On entering the drawing-room, Isabel found Everard on the sofa looking very pale and rather sad. "I am sorry to see you so ill," she said, "I came to give you a little music, but I'm afraid you will not be able to bear it." "On the contrary I think it would do me good; but why would you not come this afternoon?" "I am here now." "But why not before? Was it not unkind?" "It was not so intended." "Will you not give me the reason? "You must not ask me; believe that I had sufficient cause." The words were not such as he would have, but the manner was so winning that he could not choose but be satisfied. "I am here now, solely on your account, to amuse you as you like best. You must have been very ill," she said, regarding him kindly. "Yes, I am awfully weak," he returned, "it seems so strange to me, I have usually been so strong." "You will soon get strong here," replied Isabel, cheerfully. "Not if you plague me as you did this afternoon," he said reproachfully. "Don't be angry," she pleaded. "Not angry, but hurt," he said. "I couldn't help it," she answered, almost with a sob. "It did seem a chilling reception, a strange coming home, so cold, so utterly without welcome, and I had longed so much to come. "It was not my fault they were all out." "Yes, they were all out, and you wouldn't come." "You are angry," she was crying now, her face down on her hands. "I am a brute," he said. "Oh, no; but I am a naughty girl," and seating herself at the piano, she asked what he would have. She had not thought of the seeming neglect, she had not thought what he would feel at finding Alice the only one to receive him. She could not help it she told herself, perhaps so, but she had been selfish, very selfish; she was sorry, sorry that Everard should take it so hardly; but even so, did it occur again, she could not act differently. "What will you have," she asked. "You know my favorites." "Ah, that is right; I was just going to send for you," said Mr. Arlington, who now entered. "I see you know what will please him most; I don't know what we should do without you," he added warmly. "You don't know how good she has been to me, Everard, she is a good substitute for my gay party-going daughter, but for her I don't know what I should do now Emily is away." She is not good to me, thought Everard, and then a ray of hope sprung up, as he thought of her very kind manner, but no, had he not been led into thinking so before, but whenever he had touched ever so lightly on the old topic, he had been repelled. Isabel felt sad to-night, and could only sing plaintive melodies, and then felt annoyed to think that she had failed to accomplish the purpose for which she came. But she was mistaken, these songs harmonized better with his present mood than more gay ones would have done. Everard did not seem to gain strength. Isabel did her best to relieve the weariness of the long, long days: bringing the children into the library in the afternoon in order that he might share their amusement as she read aloud, and in various ways endeavored to lessen the monotony of the time. She would, perhaps, have acted more wisely had she not done so, for Isabel's was a very tender nature, and her gentle sympathy was very pleasant to Everard, but it only served to keep up the conflict between hope and fear, which was specially hurtful to him just now, when he needed perfect repose. But she thought Grace and her mother neglectful, and strove to make up for it. She often sent one of his young sisters to sit with him, but Rose was not allowed this privilege as often as the others, though on the whole she was best. Alice was too quiet, and Amy too apt to dwell on the perfections of her dear Miss Leicester, while Rose, her wild spirits subdued in the presence of her sick brother, but only sufficiently so to prevent her being oppressive, was just the cheerful companion that was good for him, her vigorous, healthy, happy-in-the-present style had a good effect. She was never at a loss for a topic for conversation, and her quick perception enabled her to detect at once when he grew tired, and then she would immediately employ herself in some quiet manner. She never sat contemplating him thoughtfully with eyes so like his own, as Alice too often did, as if she would read his very soul. There did not appear to be much of "Mamma's good nursing" to which Rose had alluded. True it was a very gay season, and Mrs. Arlington's duties were very onerous. "You know, Everard," she said, "that Grace cannot go out alone, so that my time is so much occupied, that I fear I must appear very neglectful, but you understand it is not my wish to leave you so much," and Everard assented. But when he had a relapse, then she gave up society, and was all the attentive mother. Louis was very skilful and had got him through a very severe illness, how severe they had not known till now. Mrs. Arlington sent the children into the country to be out of the way, and Isabel of course went with them. CHAPTER XXVII. Baby is quite well and happy, in fact all trace of her illness has passed away; but Natalie is worn and weary with tending her pet and bearing with Louis's hasty temper; she is pale and wan, but ever sweet tempered. "Hark, baby, there's papa." Izzie ran to meet him. He raised her in his arms and caressed her, scarcely noticing his fond little wife, who would have been made happy by a kiss or kind word. Tired and weary, but with a heart ache which was harder to bear, Natalie lay on the sofa, she was nothing to him, that was clear. "Love papa, baby, love papa," he said. Little Izzie threw her arms round his neck and kissed him, then struggled to get away, "What's the matter," he asked. "Love mamma, Izzie want's to love mamma." She ran to her mother and repeated the action. Natalie caught the child in her arms, kissing her passionately. "Izzie, my darling Izzie," she murmured, while large tears fell on the child's face. Taking up her pinefore Izzie gravely wiped her own face, and then tenderly endeavored to dry her mother's tears, whispering don't cry mamma, Izzie don't like to see mamma cry," and she nestled to her mothers side, stroking her hair and kissing her repeatedly. Nothing would have induced Izzie to leave her mother then, even had Louis attempted it, but he did not, he stood by the mantlepiece watching them, with an unpleasant sensation, that baby had no power to dry those tears. He remained there a long time, his head resting on his hand, while Natalie and baby fell asleep together. From time to time a deep, deep sigh would escape from Natalie, which was not pleasant for Louis to hear. Sarah came for baby, but he desired her to leave her there. After a while, he thought it was not best that she should be there, and went softly to the sofa and took her away. As he did so, he remarked for the first time--aye, for the first time--the worn unhappy expression of Natalie's sweet face, which did not leave it even in sleep, and stooping over her gave the kiss and kind words to his sleeping wife, which he had withheld when she might have been made happy by them. He carried the child to its nurse, then went to his surgery, busy among his drugs he could not but think of Natalie. How pale she looked, how fragile she had become, how languid and listless she seemed of late, he had noticed that, and with no pleasant feeling did he remember, that he had done so, only to chide her for being lazy. How blind he had been, he saw plainly enough that she needed change of air, she should have it, she should pay his uncle Macdermott a visit, and take Izzie with her, but what should he do without Izzie, he asked himself, but with surprising magnanimity, he refused to consider that question. He had been a little inattentive perhaps lately and owed her some amends, so Izzie should go with her. He knew very well that Natalie would never go without her, and, truth to tell, he had his misgivings as to how Izzie would behave without her mother, so, as he really thought it needful, it was as much necessity as kindness, that brought him to this decision. Natalie submitted passively to all their arrangements, but, on the evening previous to their departure, when Louis was enjoying a cigar in the library, after superintending all the preparations for the next day's start, Natalie came fondly to his side, and laying her hand softly upon his shoulder, said in a voice that trembled with emotion, "I cannot go, do not ask me, Louis, I cannot, will not leave you," and her head sank on her hand, as she again murmured "do not ask me." "Pooh, Natie, what nonsense," he answered, laughing. "No Louis, I cant, you promised that you would come for a week, so I will wait until you can take the week, and then we will go together, but not now alone, O, not alone," and she sobbed out on his shoulder the pent up anguish of her heart. He drew her to him with more kindness than he had shown for a long time. "You will not send me away," she whispered. "Now, Nattie dear, be reasonable, you know you are not strong, and I want you to get your roses back, and a week would be too short a time to benefit you much, so in four weeks time I will come for two, that will do, won't it." She shook her head, "I have a terrible dread of the journey, no Louis, I will not go, I will wait till you can come with me." Louis was not one to submit to opposition, his brow grew dark and the fierce light was kindling in his eye. She should go, once for all he would not brook this resistance. After he had decided to let Izzie go to please her, and save all fuss, was this to be the end of it? no. "It is too late to say that now," he said, "a few weeks will soon pass, and this idle fear is childish." "I should have spoken before, only I did so wish to please you if I could." "No, Natalie," he said, sternly, "you do not care whether I am pleased or not, you think of nothing but your own foolish fancies." "Don't be cross, Louis, it is because I love you so much that I want to stay, don't send me away, O Louis, don't." "Now, Natalie, you are enough to provoke a saint," he said, angrily, "cross, indeed, no wonder if I am, don't let me hear another word about it, you go to-morrow." Natalie saw that any more opposition would inevitably cause one of those fierce bursts of passion of which she ever stood in mortal dread; she glanced at his darkened countenance and was silent, but her heart was heavy. "Come, we will take a turn on the lawn the moon is so bright," he said. They walked in the moonlight, those two, husband and wife not three years, but the happy brightness had faded out of her face, and the girl not twenty walked by his side with a weary step, as if life were almost a burden. She resolutely checked her tears, and silently paced the lawn, while her thoughts wandered back to the beautiful home in the south of France, where she first met the man who had proved so different a partner to what, in her love and trust, she had fondly imagined, and then she wished so fervently that she might even yet be to him all that she had hoped. But he did not want her with him, he would be glad when she was away, oh, he did not love her, or he would not thus cruelly insist upon her going. She had it in her heart even yet to throw herself into his arms and entreat him to let her stay, but she felt that it would be useless, besides she dare not offer further resistance to his will. She looked up into his face and knew she dare not. His eyes were fixed upon her, "why Natalie," he said, laughing, "anyone would think I was an ogre to see your countenance." But it was not a pleasant laugh. Then the hardest thought that she ever had towards him, came to her mind, and she thought that he was acting very like one. Louis paused as they were about to enter the house saying, "You will not worry me any more, if you do it will be useless and only make me harsh," his manner was stern, determined and chilling in the extreme. Natalie shivered, "I will go," she replied in a choking voice, then flew up the stairs and alone in the dark gave vent to the grief that was breaking her heart. "Little fool," murmured Louis between his firmly closed teeth, "what a plague she is." CHAPTER XXVIII. "O Isabel, it is nearly time for the train to pass, do let us go and watch for it," said Rose, and they went accordingly. "Here it comes, here it comes," she shouted, and the iron horse came on snorting and panting; nearer, nearer it approaches the bridge. 'Tis on the bridge. Crash--and in an instant, it is gone; the train with its living freight is a mass of broken ruins. The screams are appalling; the sight fearful in the extreme. The children ran back to the house trembling and awed, and huddled together in a frightened group. Among the first to be taken from the _debris_ was a lady, and a little girl about two years old. Isabel offered her own room for the use of the sufferers, and some men carried them to the cottage, where kind nurse Bruce did all in her power until the doctor should arrive. Isabel took the beautiful child, who a few moments before was all life and animation, and laid it upon Bruce's bed; the poor little thing must have been killed instantly as there was no sign of suffering upon its face, but a large bruise on its temple. The doctor feared that the lady had received fatal injuries; all through the night she continued insensible, and the morning brought no change. Who she was they could not tell, but as Isabel sat watching her through the long night, she felt that she had seen her before, but where she could not recall. Late in the afternoon consciousness returned, and with a feeble moan she opened her eyes. "Where am I," she asked, "Oh, where is my little Izzie?" Isabel's only answer was a kiss. "Don't say it," she cried, grasping Isabel's hand convulsively, "O, not that, not that! but I see it is so--I see it in your face without you saying so." "O, my baby, my baby, my little Izzie!" she moaned, covering her face with her hands; and then she lay quite still, her lips moving as if in prayer. The doctor, who came in shortly after, called Isabel from the room. "Miss Leicester," he said, "she will not live many hours, we had better find out who she is and summon her friends by telegraph. We can do so by sending to W----; I tell you candidly that she is past all human aid. Poor thing, she need not grieve for her child, she will be with her soon." They returned to the room to gain the desired information. "Send for Dr. Taschereau, at H----," she replied to the doctor's question. Now Isabel knew where and when she had seen her. But it grieved her to see what a change there was in the bright sunny girl who had cast such a cloud over her path at the ball at Elm Grove. "Am I dying?" Natalie asked anxiously. "I dare not give you false hope," the doctor replied. She covered her face with her hands for a few moments. "Do you think I can live till Louis comes--Dr. Taschereau you know." "I hope so," he answered, evasively. "Make the telegram very strong; O, very strong. Say that I am dying, but be sure you don't say that baby is--you know--I can't say it," she said in a choking voice. "He will come, O, surely he will come," she murmured to herself. The doctor left promising to send immediately. "You are Isabel Leicester," Natalie said as soon as they were alone. "I am sure you are, for I have seen your picture." "That is my name," replied Isabel, smiling, while she wondered how much Natalie knew about her. "You loved Louis once?" she asked. "Yes." "You love him still?" "No; that is past." A smile of satisfaction illumined Natalie's countenance for a moment, but quickly left it. "I was always sorry for you, Natalie," Isabel said kindly. "Sorry for me, why should you be sorry for me?" she asked quickly, then pausing a moment she added, sadly, "I see you know how it is." "Ah, I know too well, I hoped, I prayed it might be otherwise." "He does not mean to be unkind," she said, "but it is a cruel thing to know that your husband does not love you When I first found out that he did not, it almost killed me. He insisted on calling our little girl Isabel, in spite of all I could say as to my dislike to the name; so I thought it was his mother's name, though he would not say. But when I found out that it was yours, I was very angry; O, you must forgive me, for I have had very hard thoughts towards you, and now I know that you did not deserve them. O, Isabel, you are too good; I could not nurse you so kindly, had I been in your place. Let me see my little Izzie," she pleaded. Isabel brought the child to its mother; it looked sweetly calm in its marble beauty. "Bury us both together in one coffin," she said, while her tears fell fast upon its icy face. Natalie complained of great pain, nothing that the doctor could do seemed to give her any relief, and she lay moaning through the night. About six o'clock in the morning there was a quick step on the stairs which did not escape the ear of the sufferer. "Oh, Louis, Louis come to me," she cried. In a moment he was at her side, and her arms clasped round his neck. "I knew you would come," she said, fondly, "I could not have died happily unless you had." He pressed her closely to him, while the hot tears fell upon her face, for he was now suffering bitterly for all his neglect and unkindness to his gentle little wife. "O Louis, I have always loved you so much, so very much!" she said, clinging more closely to him, and gazing into his face with an intensity painful to witness, then smiling sweetly, she closed her eyes and all was over. The others retired from the room, and Louis was left alone with his dead wife, and had yet to learn the fate of his child. During the time that elapsed before the funeral, Isabel carefully avoided meeting him, and hoped that he had not noticed her on the morning of his arrival. But just as he was about to leave, after that had taken place, and she was congratulating herself for having managed so nicely, a message was brought her that Dr. Taschereau wished to see her before he went. Though annoyed, Isabel did not see how she could very well refuse, so complied with the best grace she could. She found him in the sitting room, looking very pale. "I could not leave, Miss Leicester," he said, "without thanking you for your kindness to my wife. I had no right to expect it." "I merely did my duty, and do not require any thanks." "I would ask one question," he continued, with a strong effort to be calm. "Was my little girl dead when first taken up?" "Quite dead," she answered. "It is a bitter trial," he resumed, "I loved my child unutterably; the blow seems to have crushed me, I have no longer any interest in anything, I have nothing left, nothing!" Isabel was silent, she was thinking of the time when she had nothing left but him, and he had deserted her. And now it was the child he grieved for and not his dear little wife. His treatment of her, had always appeared to Isabel as his greatest fault, and her indignation was aroused as she saw, or thought she saw, that he did not feel her loss as he ought to have done. "I cannot but think," she said, "that the blow was sent in mercy to her, in whose future there could only be pain, weariness and silent suffering, and had she alone been taken, I can see that you would soon have got over it." "You have no idea of the agony and remorse I have endured or you would not be so severe; you think because you know that I did not love my wife as I should, that I do not feel her loss, but you are mistaken, her angel gentleness and patience seem forever to upbraid me for my neglect and unkindness." And unable any longer to control his feelings, he laid his head on the table, while heavy sobs convulsed his frame. His passions were strong, and it was something fearful to witness the violence of his anguish. Isabel could not see his deep grief unmoved, yet dared not attempt to comfort him. Oh how she had wronged him; how keenly he felt his loss. She would not leave him, and yet she did not wish to stay, and turned away to hide her emotion. When he grew more composed, he advanced towards her saying, "It is getting late, Miss Leicester, once more I thank you for all your kindness." "Do not think any more of my cruel words." said Isabel, the tears streaming from her eyes. "Then you do not withhold your sympathy, even from me," he returned, offering his hand. "How can I," she replied, taking, though reluctantly, the offered hand. "I am very sorry for you." "Good news, Isabel, good news!" cried Alice coming in shortly after with an open letter in her hand. "Everard is out of danger, and is recovering rapidly, so we can soon come home, Mamma says." "That is indeed good news," replied Isabel, who was really anxious to get the children home, as the late events had cast a gloom over all. Little Amy had more than once asked if Everard would die like the poor lady, and all three had cried very bitterly about the pretty little girl that was killed. In three weeks more they were back at Elm Grove. Everard was on the terrace to welcome them. He seemed very glad to see them again, but his manner towards Isabel was changed, he was cordial and kind, but still there was a difference. There was something inexplicable, and shall we say that it pained her. Why did she on retiring to her own room, shed bitter, bitter tears? She could scarcely have told, had you asked her, but so it was. Now that Everard had resolved to turn his thoughts from Isabel more resolutely than ever, as it was useless any longer to indulge the hope of one day possessing her, and had determined upon becoming a divinity student, and as soon as possible be ordained and go as a missionary to some distant land, and there amid new scenes and duties forget his dream of happiness. Isabel found that she was not indifferent regarding Everard, and often drew comparisons between her old love and the would-be missionary, much to the disparagement of the former, and thought that he was unnecessarily strict with regard to the forbidden subject. Confess now, Isabel, do you not fancy since your return, that he has discovered the alteration in your feelings and is paying you in your own coin? Believing this, and thinking also, that he has ceased to care for you, is there not a coolness gradually springing up between you? Oh, Isabel, why did you on the night before he returned to college, throw his favorite song into the fire, saying that you were tired of that old thing, and did not think that you would ever sing it again? Were you not watching him when he took one step forward as if to save it, then turned away, the color mounting to his cheek and the veins of his forehead swelling? Oh, Isabel would you not gladly, gladly have sung it all the time if he had only asked you in the old way? Ah, it will be a long, long time before he will ask you again. You did more than you intended when you burnt that song. When at his father's request you sang, did he not instantly leave the room? Yes; and confess, Isabel, that you could with difficulty conceal your vexation. Did you not long to sing it with all your heart, and bring him back again? Oh, what a farce to burn that music; and yet, when he did return, did you not show him more coolness than you had ever done before? CHAPTER XXIX. A year has passed since the events recorded in the last chapter; things have gone on much the same, Everard trying to appear indifferent, while in reality he was not so, but succeeding so well that Isabel felt almost ashamed of her preference for him, and was, also, only too successful in concealing her true feelings. She is now paying Emily a visit, though it was seldom that she could be persuaded to accept any invitation. But in justice to her old friends, it must be said that they often endeavored to do so. Ever since she came to Elm Grove she had always received abundant invitations for the holidays; but, with the exception of the Morningtons, Isabel had never been able to overcome her pride sufficiently to visit, in her present position, those she had known when in such different circumstances. Harry and Emily, after travelling about for some time, had settled in H----, not far from the college, and had insisted upon Everard spending a great deal of his time with them, as they had fitted up a nice little study for his especial use. Emily was very anxious for the ordination, and had announced her intentions to hear him preach his first sermon, let it be when and where it might, in spite of his saying that he would go where he was quite unknown. "Now, Everard, I'm going to have a party on the fifth," said Emily, "and I want you to bring some of the students, and I should like very much to have tall, handsome ones, and none of your little 'ugly mugs.' I want particularly that nice Mr. Elliott you introduced to me the other day." "I do not choose my friends merely for their appearance, and Elliott is not one of the students," returned Everard. "Never mind who he is, I want him to come." "I will ask him if he is in town; but I can't come, I am altogether too busy." "Nonsense, Everard, you only say that to vex me. I mean you to come, that's pos'. Isn't he provoking, Isabel?" "Perhaps his business is as important as it was that Christmas," said Isabel, quietly. Everard looked up quickly from his book, but Isabel was fully employed with her tatting. "What do you know about my engagements at that time?" he asked. "Oh, nothing; only, perhaps, you can as easily put aside your work as you did then." "How do you know that it was so easy?" he inquired. "Only from appearances." "Appearances are often deceitful." "Very." Again the rapid glance of inquiry, but he could make nothing of her placid countenance; and the single word "very," it must have been his own imagination that gave significance to the very decided manner in which she had uttered it, or did she, indeed, see through his assumed indifference? "You speak as though you had some experience," he said. Isabel crimsoned, for she felt very guilty. "Do you try to appear different to what you are in reality?" he inquired. "Do you?" "Why do you ask?" he said. "Why do you?" she retorted. "Isabel, Isabel! the carriage will be here in five minutes," interposed Emily, "make haste and put your things on." The fifth came in due course, and Mr. Elliott with it. "Let me introduce to you a partner," said Emily, taking him up to Isabel. "We have known each other too long to need an introduction, have we not, Isabel?" he said pleasantly. Then turning to Emily he added, "Thanks, Mrs. Mornington, for an unexpected pleasure." Everard, who was near by, heard him call her by her Christian name, and saw the warm welcome accorded him, and the evident pleasure the meeting caused Isabel. He was furiously jealous, and walked away intensely disgusted. "You are a stranger here, are you not?" asked Emily. "Oh, quite." "Then I leave you in Isabel's hands." "Could not be in better," he said, smiling, and Charley Elliott's smile was a very pleasant one. Emily was enchanted, and went to sing his praises to Everard, much to his annoyance. "Upon my word, Emily, if I were Harry I should be positively jealous." "Oh, jealousy is not Harry's _forte_; he leaves that to Mr. Everard Arlington," she said saucily, with a low curtsey and a most provokingly wise expression. "Emily!" "Don't be a goose, Evie." "Where have you been this long, long time, Isabel?" asked Elliott, "I have missed you so much." "Have you, Charley? I'm glad to hear that some one has missed me. The happy past seems almost like a dream, it seems so far away." "It was too bright to last; don't you think so, Isabel?" "Perhaps so." "Ah, those were days to remember, the excursions I had with you and Harley. But I, too, have had my troubles," he added, gravely. "Who is exempt?" she returned. "But what of Harley, foolish Harley? Whatever possessed him to go to India? But," she added, with a sigh, "it would not have availed him much to have stayed, as it turned out." "I don't know; I think he would have done more wisely to have remained." "Why he went, I never could fathom." "You never knew?" "Never. He assured me that he had good and sufficient reason, and that papa thought so, too." "I didn't think them good, or sufficient either, but he wouldn't take my advice. It was our only quarrel, and I believe I have scarcely forgiven him yet for going. It would, I am convinced, have been better for all if he had not done so," and the tears stood in the young lieutenant's eyes. Though brave as a lion, Charley Elliott had a kind and loving heart. There was a soft, warm light in the deep-blue eyes; no one could know Charley Elliott without loving him. Everard had no mean rival, if Charley was one. But he was not. He loved Isabel, it is true, with all the warmth of his ardent nature, but he loved her as he might a beautiful sister. He thought her worthy of Harley--his Harley--the pride of his boyhood, who in his eyes could do no wrong, until one day when he told him that he was going to India. Charley's grief was excessive, but his indignation arose when he learned the cause. Harley Elliott was ten years his brother's senior. He was the favorite clerk in the firm of Leicester & Co. Had Isabel to be met anywhere, and her father was unable to go, Harley was invariably sent; he was constantly at the house for one thing or another. As Isabel grew up he was frequently called upon to escort her and her young friends to places of amusement. As might be supposed, he became deeply in love with her, until at last life was almost a burden, for Harley was sensitive and high-minded to a degree: as a poor clerk, he was too proud to woo the rich merchant's daughter. He determined, therefore, to try to amass wealth in another land, and, if successful, to return and endeavor to win her; if not, to remain forever away. But Charley, a boy of sixteen, could not appreciate this course. "Stay and be brave-hearted, Harley," he said, "she will, she must, love you, and the Governor will not refuse." But all he could obtain from Harley was a promise that he would tell Mr. Leicester the true cause of his going. Charley had great hopes as to the success of this course, but Harley was not so sanguine, and Harley was right. Mr. Leicester quite approved of his going, and offered him letters of introduction to parties at Calcutta. True, he inquired if the attachment was mutual. But when Harley confessed that he had not sought to know, considering himself in honor bound not to do so in his present circumstances, he was well satisfied that it was so. He took care, also, to find out if Isabel really had a preference for Harley, lest by urging his departure he might make her unhappy. And it must be admitted that he was glad to see that she was heart whole as yet, for he wished her to make a more brilliant match. So he wished Harley success, and did all in his power to hasten his departure. Poor Charley had missed his brother sadly. He would have accompanied him but for his mother, who was not strong, and certainly could not have borne the climate. "But your troubles, Charley; you have not told me of them," said Isabel. "Is not Harley doing well?" "Yes, now; but it was some time first. I am going to see him soon. But it was my mother's death to which I alluded just now." "Oh, have you lost your mother? Poor Charley!" "Don't talk of her, Isabel, I can't bear it," and Charley brushed away a tear. Dance succeeded dance, and Isabel was still Charley's partner. "There are half-a-dozen gentlemen dying to be introduced to Miss Leicester, and you give them no chance, Mr. Elliott," said Emily. "Very well, but remember, Isabel, that we are engaged for the after-supper galop." "I'll not forget," she returned. Now it so chanced that Everard had so often been Isabel's partner for that dance, that he began to consider it a matter of course, and was highly offended when, after keeping away all the evening, he approached her, saying, "This is our dance, is it not, Miss Leicester?" and she replied, "You are too late, Mr. Arlington," and whirled off with Charley Elliott. "Why did you do that?" he asked, when Isabel was again seated. "Was I to refuse a partner in case Mr. Arlington, after keeping away all the evening, should condescend to ask me? I think you expect too much." "You knew I should come." "How could I know?" "I always do." "And do you always keep away all the evening?" He bit his lip. "Will you dance this?" "I am engaged." "The next." "Impossible, my card is quite filled up." "Never mind, you can strike out one of the names." "Why should I do so? You had the best chance; you were here from the first, but from some whim determined not to put down your name, and looked glum whenever I passed you, and now you think that I will treat one of these young men so unhandsomely. No, Mr. Arlington, I will not." "You chide me for not coming sooner. I thought you so well amused that I was not needed." "Needed, no; but still you have not been commonly civil to-night." "You are very unforgiving." "No, but I will not encourage your whims; you chose to sulk, it was no fault of mine." "As you will." "I think this dancing awfully stupid," he said to Emily, as Isabel went off with her partner, "I shall be glad when it is over." "Of course," she replied, with a most provoking laugh. "Parsons don't usually care for dancing," added Harry, in a tone equally irritating. But for Charley Elliott the evening would have been dull enough to Isabel. She would far rather have had Everard for a partner than any of those whose names were on her programme, but she believed that he had purposely avoided her all the earlier part of the evening: besides, Everard's manner towards her of late had become quite an enigma--now cold, almost haughty, then again soft, even tender, then indifferent--and Isabel resented its variableness. She was the more annoyed, as she knew that Emily was not quite in the dark. "I think Mr. Elliott is a very nice young man, don't you, Isabel?" said Emily at breakfast next morning. "Very," replied Isabel, coloring warmly as she caught Everard's penetrating glance. "A done thing, I see," laughed Harry. "How can you be so absurd, Harry?" Are you fond of sea voyages?" he continued. "I think them delightful." "Capital. Did you know that he was going to India?" "Yes." "You did? Well, really." "Oh, Harry, be quiet." "I thought you two seemed awfully good friends. Did you know him before last night?" "Certainly." "I am sure you don't agree with Everard that the party was a dreadfully slow affair?" "Oh, no; it was very pleasant." "I was very sure that Miss Leicester did not find it dull," said Everard coldly, almost scornfully. "Goosey, goosey!" said Emily, later in the day, as she came upon Everard in the music-room. "Why do you go on in this provoking way, Emily?" he said, angrily. "Because I have no patience with this stupid jealousy. If you care for her, why not try to win her in a straightforward manner; if not, why be vexed that another should?" "Why do you strive to undo that which has cost me so much? She is nothing to me; I have determined that she shall be nothing." "Then why so jealous?" "I cannot help it; you know that I cannot." "But why force yourself to give her up?" "Why, indeed," he echoed, "is it not worse than useless to cherish an attachment for one who is so perfectly indifferent?" "I do not believe that she is as indifferent and inaccessible as you imagine." "Why do you tempt me, Emily?" he returned, almost fiercely. "Let me be; the ordination will be very shortly, and I am sure of an appointment directly after." "Ah, goosey, goosey! 'Faint heart,' you know," she said, and left him--more angry with his favorite sister than he had ever been before. CHAPTER XXX. "Isabel, you said something about going home this week; now I have settled that for you. I wrote to mamma, saying that you were going to stay until after the ordination, and then we would all return together." "I declare those children will get quite unmanageable with such long holidays. When will the ordination be?" "The beginning of next month." "Dreadful! I do not think that Mrs. Arlington will consent." "Oh, yes, she will. What a state Everard is getting into about that ordination!" she continued, "and I am nearly as bad. I suppose we shall all go to see it." "I shall not," said Isabel. "Why not?" asked Emily. "I had rather not." "What a strange girl you are! I wouldn't miss it for the world. He will be so vexed, too." "Why should he?" "Of course he will." Isabel protested that she would not go; but for all that, when the time came, she could not resist the desire to be present, even at the risk of being thought changeable. She went, after the rest, and from her corner saw the whole. From where she sat she had a full view of his face--grave, earnest, calm, evidently feeling how much was implied in the ordination vows. As she returned before the others, they were quite unaware that she had been there, and she, little hypocrite, listened gravely to all Emily's descriptions. In the evening Isabel walked on the lawn in the pale moon's silvery beams, musing of all that had taken place that day, and thinking how very happy Everard must feel to-night. Suddenly that gentleman accosted her: "Why did you refuse to be present at the ordination to-day?" he asked. Isabel was silent. "How is it," he continued, "that while others were so anxious, you manifested no interest at all? It is, to say the least, unkind." "You may be sure that I wish you all prosperity in your new vocation," she said. "I would have said so before, had I thought you wished or expected it." "I did not expect," he said, almost angrily, "such a calm expression of a cold regard; I wished and expected kindly sympathy, if nothing more." "As you think I should say more, accept my sincere wishes for your happiness; and believe me when I say that the lot which you have chosen is, in my estimation, the highest to which man can aspire, and may your labors be blessed with abundant success." "Your kind wishes, though so reluctantly expressed, are not least valued," he returned, warmly. "But, Isabel, you say that you wish my happiness. My happiness, as I told you long ago, rests with you. Here I can refer to the old subject without breaking my promise, and I cannot leave for my distant mission without making one more appeal. Listen to me patiently for a few minutes. You seemed to adhere so strictly to what you said, that I considered it my duty to give you up; but it was a duty that, with all my endeavors, I was unable to perform. I sought relief in study--hard, excessive study--almost night and day. You know how that ended. My mother left me much to you, and your kindness only made matters worse. Afterwards, when you were away, I determined on the course I am now pursuing, and I persuaded myself that my heart was in the work, and so it is, but it is not yours the less. What I endure is almost insupportable--it is too hard. Often I have been obliged to appear cold and variable to conceal my real feelings, and you have despised me for it. I have seen it, Isabel. To-night I determined to seek you, and plead my cause once more; and though you have received me with indifference, even coldly, I still hope that beneath this reserve there may be some warmer feeling. "Tell me dearest," he continued, "will you not love me? Oh, Isabel, must I go alone?" She was silent. Then for an instant her eyes met his, and the love and happiness in that one glance fully satisfied him, and he clasped her passionately in his arms. "You loved me all the time, Isabel," he whispered, "only from a mistaken sense of your duty you refused me when I first spoke of my love." "Oh, no, I did not love you then; I esteemed you very much, but I was engaged to another." Then she told what is already known to the reader. "And his name?" he asked. "Louis Taschereau." "Tell me: did the thought that I loved you tend to soften the blow, when you found how unworthy he was?" Isabel was very truthful; she could not deceive him, even though those beautiful eyes were fixed upon her in earnest expectation. As we have said, she was very truthful, so answered, "I cannot flatter you so much, Everard; it afforded me no comfort whatever. Indeed I never thought of it, except when some kind attention on your part reminded me of the fact, and then the thought only caused me pain." He looked disappointed. "No," she added, "it was not until long after, that your worth and uniform kindness won my heart." They lingered on the lawn until the chill night air warned them not to remain there any longer. Entering the music-room by the window, they found Emily waiting for them. "Oh, here you are at last; Harry had to go out, and I've been all alone this half hour." Then, starting up, she seized a hand of each, exclaiming "You need not tell me, I see how it is; I am so glad, so very glad." "I saw you at the ordination this morning," said Charley Elliott, who came in during the evening, addressing Isabel, "only you were in such a fearful hurry to get away that I did not get a chance to speak." "Then you must have very good eyes, Mr. Elliott, as Isabel was not there," cried Emily, laughing. "I beg your pardon," he returned. "I was there," said Isabel quietly, though she colored hotly. "You were?" exclaimed Everard, evidently well satisfied. "I declare you--are--a queer girl," said Emily, opening her blue eyes very wide, "I'm afraid you have not the bump of firmness." "I knew you would think me changeable, but after you had all gone I began to think I should like to see it, so I followed. But I certainly did not see you, Charley." "On, no, I was very sure that you saw no one but the candidates," returned Charley, laughing. "Indeed you looked so solemn and earnest, one would almost suppose that you were one of them." "Is it true," asked Harry, on his return, "that you have agreed to start for Madagascar next month?" "Quite true," returned Everard, coolly. "I protest against it," said Harry. "And so do I," added Emily; while Charley shrugged his shoulders, and Isabel laughed. Emily was terribly anxious for Charley to depart, as she longed to tell Harry the news; which news, when Emily told it, Harry received with unmistakable satisfaction, saying he couldn't see why Everard should not settle down comfortably near home, instead of going to such an out-of-the-way place. The following week they all started for Elm Grove, and when, on their arrival Mrs. Arlington took both her hands and kissed her affectionately, Isabel knew that the news of their engagement had preceded them. They had a delightful evening, Mrs. Arlington being in a most gracious humor. Mr. Arlington shook Isabel so heartily by the hand that it ached for hours afterward. Emily was in the most exuberant spirits; Everard's happiness, from its very depth, was of a more quiet nature; while Harry was as merry and joyous as his wife; and Isabel, in her own sweet way, had a kind look and word for all. On entering the school-room, next morning, Isabel found little Amy sitting upon the floor, her head buried in the sofa cushion, sobbing as if her heart would break, her little form quivering with the violence of her emotion. "What is the matter, Amy dear?" asked Isabel, taking the trembling child in her arms. But Amy could not speak; she only clung to Isabel, and sobbed more bitterly than before. Isabel sat down with Amy on her knee, stroking the shining hair until the child should be more composed. After a time, when the violence of her grief had a little abated, Isabel kissed her and inquired the cause of her tears. "Rose says that you are going to Madagascar with Everard, and perhaps I shall never see you any more," she managed to blurt out amid her sobs. "You ought not to go, for I am sure I love you more than he does. I told him so this morning, but he only laughed and said I didn't; but I do, and I think it is very unkind of him to take you away. We know lots of young ladies; I'm sure he might marry some one else, and not take my darling Isabel to nasty Madagascar. Oh, Isabel, you must not go. Oh, please! please!" she said, coaxingly. "Oh, won't you please tell him that you have changed your mind, and would rather stay with us?" "Oh, but you know I promised, Amy." "But you shan't go; tell him you won't; there's a dear, kind pet," and she threw her arms round Isabel's neck. "But don't you think that it is very selfish of little Amy to wish that her brother should go alone to that far country, when she will have papa, mamma, and sisters?" "Oh! I wish you didn't love him one bit, and then you would stay with us." "Hush! Amy dear, you mustn't talk so." "But I can't help wishing it, and I told Everard so, and that I hoped you would change your mind. Then he said that it was very wicked of me to wish that; and he put me off his knee so quick, and walked out of the room looking so angry--no, not angry, exactly, but as if he thought, perhaps, you might." "But, Amy, if you loved any one very much, would you like it if that person didn't love you one bit?" "No," said Amy, thoughtfully. "Then is it doing as you would be done by to wish such unkind and selfish things?" "I did not think of that," replied Amy, resting her head on Isabel's shoulder, "but it seems as if you did not love me, to go away to Madagascar," she added, sadly. "Oh, Amy dear, I love you very much," said Isabel, the tears gathering in her eyes, "and it grieves me to part from you." "And then we shall have another horrid governess, like Miss Manning, and the days will all be long and miserable, like the long, long, weary day that Emily used to sing about. And what will become of all our nice Sundays?" "Poor little Amy!" said Isabel, parting back the shining curls from the sorrowful little face, and looking into the violet eyes that were fixed upon her so earnestly. "You must not think that I would leave you without first trying to fill my place with one who would love you and try to make you happy. Now, if you will stop crying, I will tell you about the young lady who, I hope, will be your governess. She is a very dear friend of mine, and I trust you will all be very kind to her, and love her very much. Her name is Gertrude Hartley." Alice and Rose now entered the school-room, and gave a very warm welcome to Isabel. "Please go on about Gertrude Hartley," pleaded Amy. Then Isabel told them how Gertrude had gone as a governess to a family who lived far back in the country, miles away from any church, and how, by her endeavors, a small but pretty one had been erected, where service was held once a month. But Gertrude had grown tired of the country, and was anxious to obtain another situation. "She will come to see you next week, and I am sure you will like her. And you know you can often talk about me, for she knows me very well. I shall write you nice long letters about that strange country, and I shall often think of my dear little sisters, for you will be my sisters then, you know." "I did not think of that," said Amy, smiling. "Oh, Isabel, I'm so sorry that you are going away. Don't you think you could persuade Everard to give up being a missionary? I'm certain he could have Attwood Church if he liked, because Dr. Herbert once asked him if he would like it. Please do, because it would be so nice." "What! and leave those heathen people still in ignorance of God? My little Rose does not think what she is wishing that Everard would give up. No, I could not wish him to do so, much less persuade him." "But he might get some one else to go," replied Rose. "No, Rose, we must each perform our own duties." "You mean that it would be like putting your hand to the plow and looking back?" "Exactly so," replied Isabel. "I did not think of it in that way, so you must not be angry with me." "I was not angry, dear, only I wanted to show you that your wish was a wrong one. What does Alice think about it?" "I think," replied Alice, "that he ought to go, and I am very glad that you are going with him, for you are so nice and so good that I am sure the little heathen children will listen to what you say, because you have such a nice way of telling things. Of course I am very sorry to lose you, but I mean to think of the good your going will be for other people, and how nice it is for Everard, and then I shall not care about it so much." "It gives me great pleasure to hear you say this, and I think that Alie can no longer be called selfish. Believe me, dear children, that the surest way to forget our own troubles is to find pleasure in the benefit and happiness of others." Everard Arlington was about to enter by the window, but paused a moment to contemplate the group before him. On a large ottoman sat Isabel, with Amy on her knee, one arm encircling Alice, who was standing thoughtfully by her side, her head resting on Isabel's shoulder, while behind was Rose, half smiles, half tears. "Oh, Everard!" cried Amy, "I won't say again that I hope Isabel will not go with you. But she says that it is not naughty to be sorry. You are not angry with me now?" she inquired, looking wistfully into his face. "No, my little Amy," he replied, smoothing the glossy curls, as he stooped as if to kiss her, but he didn't kiss Amy. CHAPTER XXXI. Mrs. Arlington was not one to do things by halves, so that when she welcomed Isabel, on her return, it was no longer as "the governess," but as her future daughter-in-law--as the bride-elect of her darling son--indeed as one of them, the Arlingtons. She was glad, as he was so determined upon being a missionary, that he was to marry before he went, but she would rather--far rather--that he should have chosen any other than "the governess," though she had nothing against Isabel--nothing. Still it was a trial to the haughty mother that her only son--the hope and pride of the family--should marry a governess. She knew that many would say she had been imprudent in having so young and pretty a governess, knowing how fond Everard was of the society of his young sisters. And, indeed, she did feel she had been wrong when she got Everard's letter announcing the engagement, and it was some little time before she could be at all satisfied with the matter. Grace was excessively annoyed, and, by her anger, tended greatly to stimulate her mother's displeasure, saying that it was quite a disgrace to the family, and that she would never receive Isabel as a sister. Fortunately her consent was never likely to be asked, as her easy-going brother, the pet of the house, had a pretty determined will, and her opinion would certainly not influence him in the matter. Indeed, now that he had Isabel's consent, he would have married her even though opposed by any number of relations; and it was with no thought of obtaining their ideas on the subject that he had written, but simply to inform them of the fact, little suspecting the commotion it would cause at Elm Grove. However, the course he pursued had the effect of reconciling his mother to the match, and it was well that it was so, or Isabel would have met with a sorry reception on her arrival. Very quickly after the letter we have mentioned, came another, such as only Everard could write--written out of a full heart, telling of his happiness, and also of his former despair, long probation, and weary waiting; how his love for Isabel had dated from that Sunday evening when he first saw her in the school-room with the children; and expressing the hope that his mother would give Isabel a place in her heart equal to that of her own children. Tears of sympathy and love fell from the mother's eyes as she read, and a happy smile played around her mouth as she refolded the letter which would be read again and again. Henceforth she was won. So, then, when Lady Ashton, who had now returned from England, came to condole with dear Mrs. Arlington upon the ill luck that had befallen the family, she found that lady quite satisfied, to her profound astonishment. However, she gave a willing ear and ready sympathy to Grace, who was quite disgusted at her mother's contentment, and returned with Lady Ashton to the Park, saying, that she was far too angry to meet them at present; and there she remained for weeks nursing her wrath against her only brother, who would so shortly leave for a distant land, not heeding the possibility, nay probability, that he might never return. Who could foresee the dangers that might be in store for him? Read the dangers and miseries to which the missionaries sent to foreign and heathen lands are only too often subjected--dangers on sea and land, and fearful cruelties at the hands of wild and savage creatures, more ferocious sometimes in their implacable fury than the beasts of prey. But even overlooking these more dreadful calamities, there is the climate, so trying to the natives of cooler countries. Nor was she just to Isabel. She would only see a beautiful, designing girl, who had succeeded in catching her brother. She was angry with Isabel, with Everard, with her mother, and, lastly, with herself, to think that she, too, had been for a short time deluded like the rest. She felt now that she positively hated Isabel. Lady Ashton did her best to fan the flame of resentment. What wonder, then, that under that lady's able management it grew day by day, until Grace really believed her silly anger to be just indignation at her brother's blind infatuation. Ah, foolish Grace! To Emily's great satisfaction, Everard preached his first sermon in the church they usually attended, and was very calm and self-possessed considering the eight eager faces in the family pew, his heightened color being the only evidence that this was the first time he had addressed a congregation from the pulpit. It happened, strangely enough, that a collection for the Missionary Society was to be taken up on this occasion, and the young deacon delivered an exceedingly eloquent discourse advocating the cause of missions, with a warmth and earnestness that carried his hearers along with him, and showed that his heart was in the work. No one who heard him could doubt his future success in the cause. Then what a happy group waited for him after service, and what approving smiles beamed upon him from loved faces when he came! "Oh, Everard! I should never go to sleep at sermon time if you always preached," cried little Amy. "It was so nice," added Rose, warmly; while the proud father wrung his son's hand in silence more eloquent than words. Then Everard disappointed a crowd of admiring friends by disappearing through a side gate and going home across the fields, even waving back his young sisters, who would have followed him. "I could not stand it," he said, on reaching home half an hour after the others, though his way had been much shorter, he having spent the interim in self-communion beneath the shade of a friendly oak. Oh! that was a happy Sunday at Elm Grove; but, like all earthly happiness, it had one cloud--Grace's strange and unkind conduct. CHAPTER XXXII. "Please, Miss Leicester, a gentleman wishes to see you," said Susan, putting her rosy face in at the school-room door, as Isabel was giving the children their last lesson. "To see _me_, Susan?" exclaimed Isabel. "Yes, Miss, he asked for you, but he would not give his name." "Very well, Susan. Who can it be?" she asked, turning to Alice. "I'm sure _I_ don't know," answered Alice, laughing, "you had better go and see." On entering the drawing-room, Isabel saw to her astonishment that it was Louis Taschereau. "This is indeed a surprise," she said, extending her hand, for in her present happiness she could not be ungracious or unkind. Encouraged by her cordial greeting, Louis began: "I thought of writing, but determined on seeking an interview, as a letter could but inadequately convey what I wished to say. I have suffered much, as you are aware, and my troubles have made me a very different man; but a gleam of light seems once more to shine on my path, and I hope yet to repair the error of my life. Can you--will you--overlook and forgive the past, and be again to me all that you once were? I know that I do not deserve it, but I will try to atone for the past if, dear Isabel, you will be my wife." "Stay, Dr. Taschereau!" interposed Isabel, "I am just about to marry a clergyman who is going abroad." Had a cannon-ball fallen at his feet, Louis could scarcely have been more dumbfounded than he was at this intelligence. He became deadly pale, and she thought he would faint. "You are ill, Dr. Taschereau. Let me ring for some wine." "Don't ring, I don't want any. Is this true?" he continued, "are you really going to marry another?" "I am, and I do not see why you should be surprised." "Why do you make me love you so? Why must your image intrude itself into every plan, and all be done as you would approve, if, after all, you are to marry another? You would not wonder at the effect of what you have told me, if you knew how the hope that you would forgive me and yet be mine, has been my only comfort a long, dreary time." "You have no right to speak in this way, Dr. Taschereau; it was I who had cause of complaint, not you. But I am very sorry that you should feel so; very sorry that you should have suffered yourself to imagine for a moment that we could ever be again to each other what we once were. And do not think that my present engagement is the cause of my saying this; for never, never, under any circumstances, could I have been your wife after what has passed. I say not this in anger or ill-will for the past, I do not regret it--I feel it was best." "Will you not tell me the name of the fortunate clergyman?" he asked. "Certainly, if you wish it; it is no secret. It is Everard Arlington." "Everard Arlington!" he exclaimed in unfeigned astonishment. "It was the knowledge of his hopeless attachment that made me hope--almost make sure--that you had not entirely ceased to love me, and might yet be mine; the more despairing he became, the higher my hopes rose." "How could you, how dared you, indulge such thoughts after what I said in the woods at D----?" exclaimed Isabel, indignantly. "If Everard had so long to believe that his attachment was unavailing, it was because Isabel Leicester would not give her hand unless her heart went with it; because I respected his affection too much to trifle with it, and not at all on your account. Believe me, that from the time I first learned that you were married, every thought of you was rigidly repelled, and it was arrant presumption in you to suppose anything else," she continued, proudly, the angry tears suffusing her eyes. The conference was here ended, to Isabel's great relief, by the entrance of Everard, who looked inquiringly at each. "How are you, old fellow?" he said (for Isabel's proud anger fled at his approach), "what brought you here so unexpectedly?" "Oh, a little private affair," he replied, looking rather uncomfortable; but there was that in Louis's eye, as he said this, that made Isabel distrust him; something that made her determined to put it out of his power to misrepresent and make mischief. True, he had said how changed he was, and spoken of the reformation his trials had made. Certainly he had been more calm under disappointment than had been his wont. But still she doubted him. She had seen that look before, and knew that it was the same false Louis, not so changed as he imagined. The dark side was only lying dormant; she could read his malicious enjoyment in that cruel smile, and knew its meaning well. Meeting his glance with one of proud defiance and quiet determination, which said, as plainly as words, "I will thwart your fine plans, Mr. Louis," she said: "You are aware that I was formerly engaged to Dr. Taschereau. His business here to-day was to endeavor to renew that engagement. I need not say how very strange and absurd this appears, as you are acquainted with the circumstances under which the former engagement terminated." "Yes, that was the 'little private affair,' but I find that you have already won the prize; allow me to congratulate you." Louis said this in a frank, pleasant manner, appearing to take his own disappointment with so much good nature, at the same time blending a certain degree of sadness in his tone as quite to deceive Everard and win his sympathy. But the thundering black look which he cast at Isabel fully convinced her that she was right. "You will dine with us, of course," said Everard, cordially. "I shall do so with pleasure," returned Louis. Isabel bit her lip. "Just to see how much he can annoy me," she thought. But if this was his object he must have been disappointed, so totally unconscious of his presence did Isabel appear, and when he addressed her personally her manner was colder than even Everard thought necessary. The heat of the rooms became very oppressive during the evening, and Isabel stepped out on the lawn to enjoy the refreshing breeze, but was soon surprized to find that Louis had followed her. "Let us at least be friends," he said. "You will remember that it was not in anger we last parted." But Isabel was silent. "You doubt me," he continued. "I do not blame you, but you are harsh, Miss Leicester." "Not harsh, but just," returned Isabel. "Friends we can never be; enemies I trust we never were." "You draw fine distinctions. May I ask what place in your estimation I am permitted to occupy?" said Louis, sarcastically. "No place whatever, Dr. Taschereau; I must ever regard you with indifference," returned Isabel, coldly. "Be it so," he replied, angrily. "You have obstinately refused all offers of reconciliation, and must therefore take the consequences." "The consequences? You speak strangely, Dr. Taschereau." I repeat: the consequences. I determined long since that you should never marry another, and my sentiments on that subject have not changed. No; I vow you shall not!" he added, with the old vindictive expression. "How dare you hold such language to me, sir?" cried Isabel, indignantly. Without answering, he drew a pistol from his pocket and would have shot her, but, changing his purpose, he turned upon Everard, who was approaching. With a cry of horror, Isabel threw herself between them, and prevented Louis from taking as good an aim as he might otherwise have done; for though the ball, in passing, grazed her shoulder, it passed Everard harmlessly and lodged in the acacia tree. With parted lips, but without the power of speech, she clung to Everard in an agony of terror for a moment, and then lay motionless in his arms. In terrible apprehension he carried the senseless girl into the house, fearing that she was seriously hurt, as the blood had saturated a large portion of her dress, which was of very thin texture. Of course the consternation into which the family was thrown by the shot, followed by the entrance of Everard with Isabel in this alarming condition, was tremendous. But happily Isabel was more terrified than hurt, Dr. Heathfield pronouncing the wound of no consequence (to Everard's intense disgust), telling her to take a glass of wine and go to bed, and she would be none the worse for her fright in the morning--in fact treated the whole thing quite lightly, and laughed at Isabel for her pale cheeks, saying that such an alabaster complexion was not at all becoming. He promised to send her something to prevent the wine making her sleep too soundly, meaning a composing draught to enable her to sleep, as he saw very little chance of her doing so without. Everard volunteered to go with him for it. On their way, Dr. Heathfield remarked that he was afraid Everard thought him very rude and unfeeling. Everard, who had been very silent, replied that he did. "Then do not think so any longer," said the Doctor, laying his hand on his companion's shoulder. "I saw how scared she was, and treated the case accordingly. You are both great favorites of mine, so I hope you will not be offended. Do you know what became of the scoundrel?" "He made for parts unknown immediately after he fired," replied Everard, sternly, while the heavy breathing showed how much it cost him to speak calmly. "It is quite a Providence that one of us is not dead at this moment, as he is a splendid marksman. I don't know which of the two the shot was intended for; if for me, she must have thrown herself between us." "She is just the girl to do it," cried the Doctor, grasping him warmly by the hand. "I have always had a very high opinion of her." "I should think so," said Everard, with a quiet smile of satisfaction. Fortunately Isabel had no idea that Everard had gone with the Doctor, or she would have been terribly anxious, for fear Louis should still be near. But guilt makes cowards of all, so Louis was now in a fearful state of mind: for he was passionate, hasty, violent and selfish, but not really bad-hearted, and jealous anger and hatred had so gained the mastery over him that he had been impelled to do that at which, in cooler moments, he would have shuddered. So now he was enduring agony, fearing lest his mad attempt at murder had been successful, yet not daring to inquire. Ah, Louis! you are now, as ever, your own worst enemy." CHAPTER XXXIII. "What makes you look so sad Everard; Isabel was not much hurt; not hurt at all I may say." "I was not thinking of her just now Emmy," he answered smiling, but the smile passed away, and left his face very sad indeed. "What is it Evvie," she asked in the old coaxing way, seating herself beside him on the seat round the old Elm tree. "I was thinking of Grace," he replied "you can't think how her keeping away pains me." "I wouldn't think of it, if I were you, it is very mean and ill-natured of her, but she will get over her huff after a while." "That would be all very well, if I were going to remain here, but you know how soon I go and----" "Oh Everard," (Emmy could not contemplate this event with composure) "Oh Everard, I can't bear you to go, and she threw her arms round his neck, weeping passionately. His sisters were not much given to tears, this one in particular, the brightest of them all, so that this genuine bust of grief was the more perplexing. He was endeavouring in vain to soothe her, when little Emmy came upon the scene, and seeing her mamma in trouble, she set up a terrific howling, and running at Everard, she seized his coat to steady herself and commenced to kick him with all the force she could muster, exclaiming "naughty, naughty, to make my mamma cry." This warlike attack upon her brother set Emily laughing, while he feigned to be desperately hurt by the tiny feet at which the round blue eyes grew wonderfully well satisfied. Isabel now joined them alarmed by the cries of her little playmate. Emmy looking very brave scrambled upon mamma's knee, from whence she darted very defiant glances at her uncle. "I think I will go to Ashton Park" said Everard. "Do you think that it will do any good" asked Emily. "I hope so, Grace is not bad hearted, only vexed, besides, I should wish to leave on good terms with the old lady." "I have no doubt that she pities you immensely." Everard laughed "I will go now" he said, "and we hope you may be successful" returned both warmly. "Good evening Lady Ashton" said Everard when he arrived at the Park; entering the drawing-room from the lawn. "Oh is that you, you poor unfortunate boy," returned her ladyship compassionately. "Pray spare your pity, for some more deserving individual," answered Everard laughing, "I think myself the most fortunate of mortals." "Don't come to me with your nonsense, you are very silly, and have behaved in a most dishonorable manner towards your family." "Will you be kind enough to state in what way," replied Everard colouring, "I confess I can't see it." "Why, in offering to that governess girl." "You are severe." "Oh I haven't patience with you; my sympathy is all with poor Grace, who feels quite disgraced by it." "She cannot think so, seriously, or if she does, she ought to be ashamed. "Hoighty, toighty, how we are coming the parson to-night." "Pshaw," exclaimed Everard impatiently. "I think she is justly angry and aggrieved. Of course in receiving so young and pretty a girl, as governess for your sisters, (for I allow that she is pretty.) "Oh you do," said Everard sarcastically. "Your mother" continued Lady Ashton "relied upon your honorable feelings, and good sense, but you have abused her confidence in a most cruel manner." The swelling veins, and heavy breathing showed how annoyed he was, and he answered warmly, "I deny having done anything wrong or dishonorable, I presume that I have a perfect right to choose for myself." "To a certain extent I grant, but you owe something to the feelings of your family." "They have no cause of complaint, Isabel is quite their equal if not superior." "In your estimation," said Lady Ashton contemptuously. "I don't care to discuss the subject" returned Everard haughtily. "Reverse the matter, how would you like it, if Grace was going to marry a tutor." "If he was a worthy person, and Grace was satisfied, I certainly should not object." "I doubt it," cried Lady Ashton angrily. Then she commenced aspersing Isabel in every way, and Everard hotly defended her. "Nasty, artful, designing girl, you will live to repent your folly yet," she said. Then Everard got in a terrible passion newly ordained though he was. But Lady Ashton was a woman, and Everard Arlington never forgot when he was in the presence of ladies, so though they most decidedly quarrelled, Everard saying some pretty severe things, he managed to keep the cooler of the two, Lady Ashton being as spiteful as only Lady Ashton could be. So instead of conciliating Grace he had only made matters worse; as he supposed; but Lady Ashton really loved her god-son, and in her heart admired him for his spirit. Everard's anger once roused was not easily appeased, so that after he left Ashton Park, he took a ten mile walk in the moonlight before he was sufficiently calm to venture home. "What is the matter" asked his mother when he did. "I have been in a tremendous passion, and am not quite cooled down yet" he answered, "good night." The upshot of all this was, that on coming home one afternoon, Everard found Lady Ashton, and Grace waiting for him. "Let bygones, be bygones," said the former taking his hand, while Grace offered hers with a dignified condescension that was truly amusing, Everard was only too glad to have a cessation of hostilities, and responded cordially to the overtures of peace. Then Lady Ashton insisted upon giving them a farewell party, she would take no denial, saying that if Everard did not come, that she would not believe that he forgave her." Grace and Emily were delighted, saying, it was the very thing, and Alice was half wild with glee at being included in the invitation, and also allowed to go. So Isabel had a new white dress for the occasion, and now that she was no longer the governess, she arrayed herself with some of the beautiful and costly jewels, which her fathers creditors had refused to take, (though they were offered them by Isabel,) which had not seen the light since she came to Elm Grove. "Oh Isabel, now you look like yourself" said Lucy, who had arrived just in time to be of the party. "How sly of you Isabel, not to let us see them before" cried Emily examining them "what beauties," and Mrs. Arlington looked very approvingly at her future daughter-in-law. "I think that you are the proudest girl I ever saw, Isabel," she said reproachfully. "Oh mamma, not proud, only sensitive," interposed Alice warmly. "I think you were wrong my dear" continued Mrs. Arlington without heeding Alice. "Please don't', pleaded Isabel the tears gathering in her eyes "I could not help feeling so, indeed I could not." "Don't blame her mamma, it does not matter now," put in Emily. "She was a stupid little goose to care so much about it; and I always said so," chimed in Lucy. "Pray who is a stupid little goose," asked Everard joining the group in the drawing-room. "Ask no questions----you know the rest" returned Lucy saucily. "Dear me, how late we shall be" cried Emily "what can make papa and Harry so long." "On arriving at the Park, an unexpected pleasure caused a great deal of excitement. On entering the dressing-room they met Ada. "Oh, when did you come." I'm so glad." "How delightful." Burst from them simultaneously, as Ada was hugged in a manner that bid fair to ruin the effect of her careful toilet. "Didn't Lucy tell you," asked Ada amazed. "Not I," cried Lucy triumphantly. "Oh Lucy." Then a thundering rap at the door from Harry, who was impatient to see his sister; made them hasten down, all in high spirits at the unlooked for meeting. Lady Ashton hardly seemed herself she was so pleasant, and even Grace did the agreeable to perfection. Lucy, lectured Everard, and condemned severely his taking Isabel to be eaten up by savages; as she persisted would be the case if he carried out his preposterous intentions. But Everard only laughed. "I cannot see how you can reconcile it to your conscience, to doom such a girl as that, to so wretched an existence, look at her, is she fit for such a hum-drum-knock-about life." "Everard cast a very admiring glance at his bride elect, but his only answer was a rather sad smile. "Oh I see I am right," she cried, "I know you think that she is more fitted for civilized society, confess now, confess, I used to think you so considerate, but now I see you are very selfish. "Perhaps I am," and he walked out on the lawn, leaving Lucy much astonished and very indignant. "Be merciful Lucy," said Charles offering his arm. "Not I," returned Lucy, "I think it awfully cool." "Then it must be very refreshing this hot evening" said Charles laughing. "Don't be provoking." I'm awfully angry." "Lucy!" "Charles!" CHAPTER XXXIV. "Oh, here you are," said Lucy when shortly after breakfast next morning she found Everard enjoying a cigar in the piazza. "You needn't think to escape by going off in that unceremonious manner last night, so you may as well listen now, for I intend to express my sentiments some time or other." "I am all attention Miss Lucy, only I hope you don't object to my cigar." "Not at all, it will make you more patient perhaps." "Shouldn't wonder, as I'm afraid from your preamble it is nothing I care to hear." "Everard!" then with a shrug. "Of course you don't." Everard laughed. "You stupid fellow, won't you be quiet and hear what I have to say." "Oh certainly." "I wish to remind you, that you need not go goodness knows how many hundred miles to find people to convert, as there are plenty nearer home." "No doubt, and also, others near home anxious to convert them." "And do you think, that no one but yourself would go to that outlandish place." "Very few, comparatively; of course there are some." "Mighty few I expect." "Then you see an additional reason, why I should." "I have not seen any yet, so of course cant't see additional ones" she answered saucily. "I tell you what you had better do, stay and convert me, and that will take you a precious long time I promise you." "Lucy!" "Oh, how grave you are, I wish you could see your face." "You forget what you are talking about, Lucy, or you would not speak so" he said gravely, "I cannot believe that you are in earnest." "Of course I don't mean half I say, I never do, I did not think you would take it so seriously." "It is a bad way to get into, Lucy." "Don't be alarmed" cried Lucy laughing, "I'm not so awfully wicked as you imagine. I know, that I am very wild, and thoughtless, and that that school did not do me any good, but for all that, I'm not quite a heathen." "Be merry and wise," he said kindly but gravely." "That is not so easy" returned Lucy with a gulp, "you may think so, you are so mild tempered; but with one, so impulsive, and high spirited as I am, it is very hard, almost impossible; that's always the way with you quiet, easy going people, you have no sympathy with us." "Oh, Lucy, how apt we are to form wrong opinions, you think me quiet, easy, gentle, I may be so, but I am also passionate, determined, and you say selfish; be that as it may, I cannot give up without a very hard struggle, not even then usually. I am unyielding. Persevering and firm, Emily would say, self-willed and obstinate, Grace would call me." "I can't believe you." "It is true." "But to resume our discussion; it is really too provoking to take Isabel off to that outlandish place." "It is settled, all the talking in the world can't make any difference," he said with the quiet smile, and languid manner, that made it so hard to believe that he was indeed what he had described. In the evening Susan brought a note to Isabel, as she and Everard were walking on the terrace. Isabel turned deadly pale on observing the handwriting, "it is from Dr. Tachereau" she exclaimed. "Let me open it" said Everard seeing her agitation. "A poisoned letter perhaps." "Oh Everard, such things only happen in story books, but if you really think so, it had better go at the back of the fire." "The fire is the right place for it no doubt, but I have a curiosity to see the inside first, some impertinence you may be sure." "Perhaps to inform us, that he will bring his pistols to the church, if we dare to venture there, said Isabel breaking the seal. She opened it, but a sickening faintness overpowered her, and she was unable to read. He had now succeeded in making her fear him, while his vindictiveness had been solely against herself, she had defied him, but now, that another was menaced she trembled for his safety. "Let me see this madman's effusion" said Everard soothingly, "Why I declare you are quite ill, take this seat and I will read for our mutual edification." Casting an anxious glance towards Isabel occasionally to ascertain if she was recovering from her agitation, he read a follow's: DEAR ISABEL,--(cool muttered Everard). What a fool I was the other night, can you, will you, forgive me. Could you know the remorse and misery I have suffered since, or the feeling of thankfulness with which I heard that I had not seriously injured either of you; I think you would. What a reward for your kindness to my poor Natalie; what a return for your sympathy in my trouble. When had you rejoiced at my misfortune, I could scarcely have been surprised. But I loved myself, and my own way, and you thwarted me twice; but enough of the past. I dare not contemplate it. Let me however say a few words in extenuation of my folly. You can never know what I endured that evening, to see the regard once bestowed on me, transferred to another, to see that I was nothing,--that I was entirely, unmistakeably forgotten,--perhaps detested; for you treated me with unnecessary coldness. All this so worked upon my unhappy temperament until nearly mad with anger and jealousy, I did that, for which I now beseech you to forgive me. I shall never see you again, as the thought of your marrying another is so hateful to me that I dare not trust myself in your presence after the dark glimpse I have had of my evil nature. I did not think I could be so wicked. Farewell, I still remain your loving, though now unloved--LOUIS. Everard deliberately tore the note into fragments, with the same expression that Dr. Heathfield had remarked, while an angry flush suffused his countenance. But there was more of pity, than of anger, in Isabel's mind, and she did not notice his displeasure. And as Rose at this moment came to call them in, to see Mrs. Arnold, of course no comment was passed on the letter; though Everard's unusual gloominess that evening, proved that he had not forgotten it. Mrs. Arnold was very fussy as usual, and told many amusing anecdotes regarding her journey, and also gave an immense amount of good advice to both Everard and Isabel, for which of course they were duly grateful. "Really my dear Mabel" said Mrs. Arnold, "I never was more glad in my life, than when I heard of this match, I was positively delighted. But you must not suppose for a moment, that I had any such idea; when I got her the situation." Isabel looked annoyed, "naughty girl" said Mrs. Arlington, and then it came out, how foolishly sensitive, (as Mrs. Arlington termed it,) Isabel had always been, regarding her position. "Never mind, dear," said Mrs. Arnold kindly, "It is all over now, but still I should have thought that you had been a governess long enough to get used to it." "Please don't pleaded Isabel, resolutely forcing back the tears which invariably came, at any allusion to the distasteful subject. And Everard, who until now had been unaware of her extreme dislike of being a governess admired her the more, that while hating her position so much, she had so determinately refused him, as long as she felt, that she did not return his affection. "How is it my dear" inquired Mrs. Arnold, who seemed destined to-night to hit upon the wrong topic, "that you have never been to visit any of your old friends, Mrs. Price, Mrs. Vernon, Miss Carding, and hosts of others, told me repeatedly, that time after time, they have sent you the most pressing invitations, all to no purpose." Isabel reddened painfully, Emily and Lucy laughed. "That is another of Isabel's 'weaknesses'." Everard looked annoyed. "Sing some of your comic songs, Harry," he said, wishing to change the subject. And Harry sung, to the great amusement of the party generally, and of Mrs. Arnold in particular. Before they separated, a moonlight excursion to the romantic dell, the scene of the memorable picnic four years ago, was arranged for the next evening, and met with universal approbation. All agreeing that the water-fall could only be seen to perfection by moonlight. CHAPTER XXXV. It had been a dull day, this last day, so that all were glad that the evening was not spent quietly at home, giving time for sad thoughts of to-morrow's parting. Thanks to Harry and Lucy, the excursion passed off more cheerfully than might have been expected, all appearing to enjoy themselves. On their return, Isabel did not join the others in the drawing-room, but went out and lingered by the fountain, in the moonlight, musing on all that had happened since she first came there, now nearly five years ago, and wondering how long it might be, and what might happen, ere she would again be there--or if, indeed, she would be there again. Ah! seek not to look into futurity, Isabel. It is well for you that you know not all that shall be ere you again sit there. Enjoy your happiness while you may, and leave the future to unfold itself. She remained there a long time thinking of many things, and was still lost in meditation when Everard joined her. "A penny for your thoughts," he said. "Oh, Everard, I want you to do something," she returned, laying her hand on his arm. "What is it, dearest?" he inquired. "I feel so unhappy about Louis. I wish so much that you would write and say that we forgive him." Everard was silent, and his face became very stern. "If you would, I should be so glad." "You ask too much," he said. "Only what is right." "Right perhaps, but hard--very hard." "Oh, do," she pleaded, raising her blue eyes to his so earnestly. "Oh, Everard, it is not the way for us to be happy, to be unforgiving. I should be so miserable: day by day watching the blue waters, knowing that I had left any one in anger or ill-feeling. Oh, Everard, you will forgive him!" She looked so lovely there in the moonlight, pleading for one who so little deserved it of her, that Everard found it hard to refuse her. "I cannot write a lie, Isabel, even to please you," he replied, in a harsh, unnatural voice. "Oh, no, not that; but I want you really to forgive him." "I do not, I cannot," and his voice was hard and cold. Isabel shuddered. Was this the Everard usually so kind and gentle? "Oh, Everard, and you a clergyman!" "Perhaps I am not fit to be one," he answered. "I have thought so sometimes lately, but I wished so much to be one that, in seeking to fulfil the wish, I may have overlooked the meetness." "If you are not, I do not know who is," she said, "but this is not like yourself; I should be less surprised if I was unforgiving and you forgave." "I hope that I do not often feel as I do now towards him. But you forget how nearly he took you from me; he whom I trusted and regarded with the warmest friendship." "It is not for his sake I ask it Everard; forgive as you would be forgiven." They walked on in silence until they reached the house. Then Everard said, "From my heart I wish I could, Isabel," and abruptly left her. Then, alone in his own room, after all had retired to rest, far into the night he fought the battle of good and evil. What was he about to do--preach and teach meekness, self-denial, and forgiveness of injuries, while he was still angry and unforgiving? What mockery! Ought he not to practice what he taught? Was theory--mere words--sufficient? No; he must, by example, give force to his teaching, or how could he hope to succeed? All this he saw clearly enough, but the difficulty still remained. He strove hard to conquer, but evil prevailed. "Forgive as you would be forgiven" rang continually in his ears, but he did not, could not, forgive. He laid down, but not to sleep, and the pale moon shone calmly and peacefully in upon him, as if mocking his disquietude. At length he threw the painful subject from him, and sank into an uneasy slumber. He awoke, next morning, with the sun beaming brightly in at the window. But dark clouds gathered round him; gloomy doubts as to his fitness for the office he had taken, and sorrow at the impossibility of his forgiving Louis. "Forgive as you would be forgiven," and again the last night's struggle was renewed, and even when they started for the church he had not conquered. Isabel saw how it was, and this was the bitter drop in her cup of happiness. Alas! in this world when is it unalloyed? A burst of music filled the church as the bridal party entered, and very lovely looked the bride, surrounded by her three little bridesmaids, while in the background stood a fourth, the merry Lucy. Bob and three youthful Arlington cousins were groomsmen, and Everard, to use Lucy's own words, was the very _beau ideal_ of what a bridegroom should be, in fact "perfect." The sun shone with almost dazzling splendor on the group, which Emily pronounced "a good omen," and again the organ pealed forth its joyous strains as they left the church, and gaily rang the marriage bells. "Everard," said Isabel, when they were in the library awaiting the arrival of the others, "write that letter now; I know you can, for you would not look so happy if you felt as you did last night." "I can write it truthfully now," he replied, smiling at her earnestness. And then, with his bride bending over his shoulder, Everard wrote such a note as only _he_ could write, expressing their entire forgiveness, and made Isabel take the pen and write "Isabel Arlington" under his signature. The others, coming in, insisted upon knowing the subject of their very important correspondence, but Everard pocketed the letter and refused to satisfy their curiosity. The breakfast was but a dull affair, notwithstanding the exuberant spirits of the young groomsmen. The parents knew that they were parting with their only son, and that it would be years before they would see him again; and the son, amid his happiness, remembered that he was leaving father, mother, sisters, perhaps never to return. Isabel, also, felt it hard to part so soon with her new sisters, who hung about her with every demonstration of affection and regret. Then such a scene in the dressing-room (from which Mrs. Arlington had mercifully contrived to keep Mrs. Arnold.) Emily, with her head buried in a sofa cushion, weeping passionately at the thought of parting with her brother, while the children all clung around Isabel in such a manner as to make it utterly impossible for her to don her travelling dress; Lucy trying to comfort Emily, and Grace scolding the children. Ada, taking pity on Isabel, reminded them that Everard was going as well as Isabel, suggesting that they should go down to him. To this they readily agreed. "I ought to go, too, only I'm afraid Everard will be vexed to see me in such a state," sobbed Emily. "I like to have you here, Emily dear," replied Isabel, "but you had better go down; you will be sorry afterwards if you don't. He feels it dreadfully, I know, poor fellow." "He looked fearfully pale during breakfast," added Ada, feelingly. "I will go," returned Emily, vainly endeavoring to check her emotion. And Grace went with her, leaving Isabel with Ada and Lucy. Isabel, who had managed to keep up tolerably well so far, now gave way to uncontrollable emotion. This second scene with the children had been quite too much for her. "Isabel! Isabel! you will never be dressed to-day," cried Ada, in despair. "Oh, let her be," returned Lucy; "they will miss the train, and have to wait for the next steamer. What a glorious stew Everard would be in! for then, of course, they would be too late for that precious Indian ship. Oh, I declare, I hope they will!" "Oh, Lucy!" and Isabel made quick work with her dressing, to Lucy's intense amusement. Everard, meanwhile, had been undergoing a terrible ordeal down stairs, and was truly glad when Isabel made her appearance. She was met now with a worse storm of grief than any previously encountered; as for Amy, she flew into the carriage after her. So they drove off, amid thundering cheers from the young groomsmen. Papa inquired if Amy intended to go to Madagascar, and on Everard's answering in the affirmative she was wild to get out, protesting that she would not. "But you can't get out until we reach the gate," said Everard. "Promise me, Isabel, dear Isabel, that you will let me out at the gate," she cried, in an agony; "pray don't let me go to nasty Madagascar; oh, please don't." So Everard, seeing that the child was really terrified, stopped the carriage, and Amy instantly jumped out in the greatest haste, without waiting for any more leave-taking, getting several thumps from the old shoes which were sent in a continued shower after the carriage until it had passed through the gate, when a deafening "tiger" made the welkin ring. * * * * * * * * Here we must bid adieu to those whose fortunes we have followed so far, hoping at some future time to hear more about them. But as we do not care to inquire particularly after Louis Taschereau, we may as well mention here that he, some time after, married a fine high-spirited girl, who was completely his match, the domineering being all on the wife's side. No tears were shed by her during his absence, and a scornful smile was the utmost that his anger or ill-temper ever elicited. So they managed to get on tolerably well, the inquiring look of the cold grey eye often checking a fit of passion. As Louis's mercenary propensities have already shown themselves, it is almost needless to add that she had what he valued more than anything else--money--which, by the way, she took good care to have settled on herself. But this he did not object to (albeit she would have done so all the same if he had), provided there was plenty of it. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * [Errata Noted by Transcriber: Since a full list of errors would be almost as long as the novel itself, most are given in tabular form only. Some counts may be incomplete. Inquisitive readers may like to look at the source code of the html version of the text, where most errors are noted in <!--remark--> form. Missing quotation mark 58 Extra quotation mark 23 Misplaced quotation mark 7 Single/double quote error 2 all quotation-mark errors 90 Missing question mark 32 Missing or incorrect period or comma 11 Missing apostrophe 8 Extra apostrophe 7 Extra parenthesis 1 punctuation errors 59 Typographical error or misspelling 36 Printing Error: drooping spirits. We have // who in the name of wonder do you think _the marking // represents a mechanical error; the text skips from the middle of one line to the middle of the next_ ] 
30974	----	JIMBO MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA · MADRAS MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO DALLAS · ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LIMITED TORONTO JIMBO A FANTASY _By_ ALGERNON BLACKWOOD MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON 1930 COPYRIGHT _First Published_ 1909 _The Caravan Library_ 1930 PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. "RABBITS" 7 II. MISS LAKE COMES--AND GOES 24 III. THE SHOCK 40 IV. ON THE EDGE OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS 49 V. INTO THE EMPTY HOUSE 54 VI. HIS COMPANION IN PRISON 69 VII. THE SPELL OF THE EMPTY HOUSE 87 VIII. THE GALLERY OF ANCIENT MEMORIES 102 IX. THE MEANS OF ESCAPE 111 X. THE PLUNGE 131 XI. THE FIRST FLIGHT 142 XII. THE FOUR WINDS 153 XIII. PLEASURES OF FLIGHT 165 XIV. AN ADVENTURE 177 XV. THE CALL OF THE BODY 193 XVI. PREPARATION 204 XVII. OFF! 219 XVIII. HOME 232 JIMBO CHAPTER I "RABBITS" Jimbo's governess ought to have known better--but she didn't. If she had, Jimbo would never have met with the adventures that subsequently came to him. Thus, in a roundabout sort of way, the child ought to have been thankful to the governess; and perhaps, in a roundabout sort of way, he was. But that comes at the far end of the story, and is doubtful at best; and in the meanwhile the child had gone through his suffering, and the governess had in some measure expiated her fault; so that at this stage it is only necessary to note that the whole business began because the Empty House happened to be really an Empty House--not the one Jimbo's family lived in, but another of which more will be known in due course. Jimbo's father was a retired Colonel, who had married late in life, and now lived all the year round in the country; and Jimbo was the youngest child but one. The Colonel, lean in body as he was sincere in mind, an excellent soldier but a poor diplomatist, loved dogs, horses, guns and riding-whips. He also really understood them. His neighbours, had they been asked, would have called him hard-headed, and so far as a soft-hearted man may deserve the title, he probably was. He rode two horses a day to hounds with the best of them, and the stiffer the country the better he liked it. Besides his guns, dogs and horses, he was also very fond of his children. It was his hobby that he understood them far better than his wife did, or than any one else did, for that matter. The proper evolution of their differing temperaments had no difficulties for him. The delicate problems of child-nature, which defy solution by nine parents out of ten, ceased to exist the moment he spread out his muscular hand in a favourite omnipotent gesture and uttered some extraordinarily foolish generality in that thunderous, good-natured voice of his. The difficulty for himself vanished when he ended up with the words, "Leave that to me, my dear; believe me, I know best!" But for all else concerned, and especially for the child under discussion, this was when the difficulty really began. Since, however, the Colonel, after this chapter, mounts his best hunter and disappears over a high hedge into space so far as our story is concerned, any further delineation of his wholesome but very ordinary type is unnecessary. One winter's evening, not very long after Christmas, the Colonel made a discovery. It alarmed him a little; for it suggested to his cocksure mind that he did not understand _all_ his children as comprehensively as he imagined. Between five o'clock tea and dinner--that magic hour when lessons were over and the big house was full of shadows and mystery--there came a timid knock at the study door. "Come in," growled the soldier in his deepest voice, and a little girl's face, wreathed in tumbling brown hair, poked itself hesitatingly through the opening. The Colonel did not like being disturbed at this hour, and everybody in the house knew it; but the spell of Christmas holidays was still somehow in the air, and the customary order was not yet fully re-established. Moreover, when he saw who the intruder was, his growl modified itself into a sort of common sternness that yet was not cleverly enough simulated to deceive the really intuitive little person who now stood inside the room. "Well, Nixie, child, what do you want now?" "Please, father, will you--we wondered if----" A chorus of whispers issued from the other side of the door: "Go on, silly!" "Out with it!" "You promised you would, Nixie." "... if you would come and play Rabbits with us?" came the words in a desperate rush, with laughter not far behind. The big man with the fierce white moustaches glared over the top of his glasses at the intruders as if amazed beyond belief at the audacity of the request. "Rabbits!" he exclaimed, as though the mere word ought to have caused an instant explosion. "Rabbits!" "Oh, _please_ do." "Rabbits at this time of night!" he repeated. "I never heard of such a thing. Why, all good rabbits are asleep in their holes by now. And you ought to be in yours too by rights, I'm sure." "We don't sleep in holes, father," said the owner of the brown hair, who was acting as leader. "And there's still a nour before bedtime, _really_," added a voice in the rear. The big man slowly put his glasses down and looked at his watch. He looked very savage, but of course it was all pretence, and the children knew it. "If he was _really_ cross he'd pretend to be nice," they whispered to each other, with merciless perception. "Well--" he began. But he who hesitates, with children, is lost. The door flung open wide, and the troop poured into the room in a medley of long black legs, flying hair and outstretched hands. They surrounded the table, swarmed upon his big knees, shut his stupid old book, tried on his glasses, kissed him, and fell to discussing the game breathlessly all at once, as though it had already begun. This, of course, ended the battle, and the big man had to play the part of the Monster Rabbit in a wonderful game of his own invention. But when, at length, it was all over, and they were gathered panting round the fire of blazing logs in the hall, the Monster Rabbit--the only one with any breath at his command--looked up and spoke. "Where's Jimbo?" he asked. "Upstairs." "Why didn't he come and play too?" "He didn't want to." "Why? What's he doing?" Several answers were forthcoming. "Nothing in p'tickler." "Talking to the furniture when I last saw him." "Just thinking, as usual, or staring in the fire." None of the answers seemed to satisfy the Monster Rabbit, for when he kissed them a little later and said good-night, he gave orders, with a graver face, for Jimbo to be sent down to the study before he went to bed. Moreover, he called him "James," which was a sure sign of parental displeasure. "James, why didn't you come and play with your brothers and sisters just now?" asked the Colonel, as a dreamy-eyed boy of about eight, with a mop of dark hair and a wistful expression, came slowly forward into the room. "I was in the middle of making pictures." "Where--what--making pictures?" "In the fire." "James," said the Colonel in a serious tone, "don't you know that you are getting too old now for that sort of thing? If you dream so much, you'll fall asleep altogether some fine day, and never wake up again. Just think what that means!" The child smiled faintly and moved up confidingly between his father's knees, staring into his eyes without the least sign of fear. But he said nothing in reply. His thoughts were far away, and it seemed as if the effort to bring them back into the study and to a consideration of his father's words was almost beyond his power. "You must run about more," pursued the soldier, rubbing his big hands together briskly, "and join your brothers and sisters in their games. Lie about in the summer and dream a bit if you like, but now it's winter, you must be more active, and make your blood circulate healthily,--er--and all that sort of thing." The words were kindly spoken, but the voice and manner rather deliberate. Jimbo began to look a little troubled, as his father watched him. "Come now, little man," he said more gently, "what's the matter, eh?" He drew the boy close to him. "Tell me all about it, and what it is you're always thinking about so much." Jimbo brought back his mind with a tremendous effort, and said, "I don't like the winter. It's so dark and full of horrid things. It's all ice and shadows, so--so I go away and think of what I like, and other places----" "Nonsense!" interrupted his father briskly; "winter's a capital time for boys. What in the world d'ye mean, I wonder?" He lifted the child on to his knee and stroked his hair, as though he were patting the flank of a horse. Jimbo took no notice of the interruption or of the caress, but went on saying what he had to say, though with eyes a little more clouded. "Winter's like going into a long black tunnel, you see. It's downhill to Christmas, of course, and then uphill all the way to the summer holidays. But the uphill part's so slow that----" "Tut, tut!" laughed the Colonel in spite of himself; "you mustn't have such thoughts. Those are a baby's notions. They're silly, silly, silly." "Do you _really_ think so, father?" continued the boy, as if politeness demanded some recognition of his father's remarks, but otherwise anxious only to say what was in his mind. "You wouldn't think them silly if you really knew. But, of course, there's no one to tell you in the stable, so you _can't_ know. You've never seen the funny big people rushing past you and laughing through their long hair when the wind blows so loud. _I_ know several of them almost to speak to, but you hear only wind. And the other things with tiny legs that skate up and down the slippery moonbeams, without ever tumbling off--they aren't silly a bit, only they don't like dogs and noise. And I've seen the furniture"--he pronounced it furchinur--"dancing about in the day-nursery when it thought it was alone, and I've heard it talking at night. I know the big cupboard's voice quite well. It's just like a drum, only rougher...." The Colonel shook his head and frowned severely, staring hard at his son. But though their eyes met, the boy hardly saw him. Far away at the other end of the dark Tunnel of the Months he saw the white summer sunshine lying over gardens full of nodding flowers. Butterflies were flitting across meadows yellow with buttercups, and he saw the fascinating rings upon the lawn where the Fairy People held their dances in the moonlight; he heard the wind call to him as it ran on along by the hedgerows, and saw the gentle pressure of its swift feet upon the standing hay; streams were murmuring under shady trees; birds were singing; and there were echoes of sweeter music still that he could not understand, but loved all the more perhaps on that account.... "Yes," announced the Colonel later that evening to his wife, spreading his hands out as he spoke. "Yes, my dear, I _have_ made a discovery, and an alarming one. You know, I'm rarely at fault where the children are concerned--and I've noted all the symptoms with unusual care. James, my dear, is an imaginative boy." He paused to note the effect of his words, but seeing none, continued: "I regret to be obliged to say it, but it's a fact beyond dispute. His head is simply full of things, and he talked to me this evening about tunnels and slippery moonlight till I very nearly lost my temper altogether. Now, the boy will never make a man unless we take him in hand properly at once. We must get him a governess, or something, without delay. Just fancy, if he grew up into a poet or one of these--these----" In his distress the soldier could only think of horse-terms, which did not seem quite the right language. He stuck altogether, and kept repeating the favourite gesture with his open hand, staring at his wife over his glasses as he did so. But the mother never argued. "He's very young still," she observed quietly, "and, as you have always said, he's not a bit like other boys, remember." "Exactly what I say. Now that your eyes are opened to the actual state of affairs, I'm satisfied." "We'll get a sensible nursery-governess at once," added the mother. "A practical one?" "Yes, dear." "Hard-headed?" "Yes." "And well educated?" "Yes." "And--er--firm with children. She'll do for the lot, then." "If possible." "And a young woman who doesn't go in for poetry, and dreaming, and all that kind of flummery." "Of course, dear." "Capital. I felt sure you would agree with me," he went on. "It'd be no end of a pity if Jimbo grew up an ass. At present he hardly knows the difference between a roadster and a racer. He's going into the army, too," he added by way of climax, "and you know, my dear, the army would never stand _that_!" "Never," said the mother quietly, and the conversation came to an end. Meanwhile, the subject of these remarks was lying wide awake upstairs in the bed with the yellow iron railing round it. His elder brother was asleep in the opposite corner of the room, snoring peacefully. He could just see the brass knobs of the bedstead as the dying firelight quivered and shone on them. The walls and ceiling were draped in shadows that altered their shapes from time to time as the coals dropped softly into the grate. Gradually the fire sank, and the room darkened. A feeling of delight and awe stole into his heart. Jimbo loved these early hours of the night before sleep came. He felt no fear of the dark; its mystery thrilled his soul; but he liked the summer dark, with its soft, warm silences better than the chill winter shadows. Presently the firelight sprang up into a brief flame and then died away altogether with an odd little gulp. He knew the sound well; he often watched the fire out, and now, as he lay in bed waiting for he knew not what, the moonlight filtered in through the baize curtains and gradually gave to the room a wholly new character. Jimbo sat up in bed and listened. The house was very still. He slipped into his red dressing-gown and crept noiselessly over to the window. For a moment he paused by his brother's bed to make sure that he really was asleep; then, evidently satisfied, he drew aside a corner of the curtain and peered out. "Oh!" he said, drawing in his breath with delight, and again "oh!" It was difficult to understand why the sea of white moonlight that covered the lawn should fill him with such joy, and at the same time bring a lump into his throat. It made him feel as if he were swelling out into something very much greater than the actual limits of his little person. And the sensation was one of mingled pain and delight, too intense for him to feel for very long. The unhappiness passed gradually away, he always noticed, and the happiness merged after a while into a sort of dreamy ecstasy in which he neither thought nor wished much, but was conscious only of one single unmanageable yearning. The huge cedars on the lawn reared themselves up like giants in silver cloaks, and the horse-chestnut--the Umbrella Tree, as the children called it--loomed with motionless branches that were frosted and shining. Beyond it, in a blue mist of moonlight and distance, lay the kitchen-garden; he could just make out the line of the high wall where the fruit-trees grew. Immediately below him the gravel of the carriage drive sparkled with frost. The bars of the windows were cold to his hands, yet he stood there for a long time with his nose flattened against the pane and his bare feet on the cane chair. He felt both happy and sad; his heart longed dreadfully for something he had not got, something that seemed out of his reach because he could not name it. No one seemed to believe all the things he _knew_ in quite the same way as he did. His brothers and sisters played up to a certain point, and then put the things aside as if they had only been assumed for the time and were not real. To him they were always real. His father's words, too, that evening had sorely puzzled him when he came to think over them afterwards: "They're a baby's notions.... They're silly, silly, silly." Were these things real or were they not? And, as he pondered, yearning dumbly, as only these little souls can yearn, the wistfulness in his heart went out to meet the moonlight in the air. Together they wove a spell that seemed to summon before him a fairy of the night, who whispered an answer into his heart: "We are real so long as you believe in us. It is your imagination that makes us real and gives us life. Please, never, never stop believing." Jimbo was not quite sure that he understood the message, but he liked it all the same, and felt comforted. So long as they believed in one another, the rest did not matter very much after all. And when at last, shivering with cold, he crept back to bed, it was only to find through the Gates of Sleep a more direct way to the things he had been thinking about, and to wander for the rest of the night, unwatched and free, through the wonders of an Enchanted Land. Jimbo, as his father had said, was an imaginative child. Most children are--more or less; and he was "more," at least, "more" than his brothers and sisters. The Colonel thought he had made a penetrating discovery, but his wife had known it always. His head, indeed, was "full of things,"--things that, unless trained into a channel where they could be controlled and properly schooled, would certainly interfere with his success in a practical world, and be a source of mingled pain and joy to him all through life. To have trained these forces, ever bursting out towards creation, in his little soul,--to have explained, interpreted, and dealt fairly by them, would perhaps have been the best and wisest way; to have suppressed them altogether, cleaned them out by the process of substitution, this might have succeeded too in less measure; but to turn them into a veritable rout of horror by the common method of "frightening the nonsense out of the boy," this was surely the very worst way of dealing with such a case, and the most cruel. Yet, this was the method adopted by the Colonel in the robust good-nature of his heart, and the utter ignorance of his soul. So it came about that three months later, when May was melting into June, Miss Ethel Lake arrived upon the scene as a result of the Colonel's blundering good intentions. She brought with her a kind disposition, a supreme ignorance of unordinary children, a large store of self-confidence--and a corded yellow tin box. CHAPTER II MISS LAKE COMES--AND GOES The conversation took place suddenly one afternoon, and no one knew anything about it except the two who took part in it: the Colonel asked the governess to try and knock the nonsense out of Jimbo's head, and the governess promised eagerly to do her very best. It was her first "place"; and by "nonsense" they both understood imagination. True enough, Jimbo's mother had given her rather different instructions as to the treatment of the boy, but she mistook the soldier's bluster for authority, and deemed it best to obey him. This was her first mistake. In reality she was not devoid of imaginative insight; it was simply that her anxiety to prove a success permitted her better judgment to be overborne by the Colonel's boisterous manner. The wisdom of the mother was greater than that of her husband. For the safe development of that tender and imaginative little boy of hers, she had been at great pains to engage a girl--a clergyman's daughter--who possessed sufficient sympathy with the poetic and dreamy nature to be of real help to him; for true help, she knew, can only come from true understanding. And Miss Lake was a good girl. She was entirely well-meaning--which is the beginning of well-doing, and her principal weakness lay in her judgment, which led her to obey the Colonel too literally. "She seems most sensible," he declared to his wife. "Yes, dear." "And practical." "I think so." "And firm and--er--wise with children." "I hope so." "Just the sort for young Jimbo," added the Colonel with decision. "I trust so; she's a little young, perhaps." "Possibly, but one can't get everything," said her husband, in his horse-and-dog voice. "A year with her should clean out that fanciful brain of his, and prepare him for school with other boys. He'll be all right once he gets to school. My dear," he added, spreading out his right hand, fingers extended, "you've made a most wise selection. I congratulate you. I'm delighted." "I'm so glad." "Capital, I repeat, capital. You're a clever little woman. I knew you'd find the right party, once I showed you how the land lay." * * * * * The Empty House, that stood in its neglected garden not far from the Park gates, was built on a point of land that entered wedgewise into the Colonel's estate. Though something of an eyesore, therefore, he could do nothing with it. To the children it had always been an object of peculiar, though not unwholesome, mystery. None of them cared to pass it on a stormy day--the wind made such odd noises in its empty corridors and rooms--and they refused point-blank to go within hailing distance of it after dark. But in Jimbo's imagination it was especially haunted, and if he had ceased to reveal to the others what he _knew_ went on under its roof, it was only because they were unable to follow him, and were inclined to greet his extravagant recitals with "Now, Jimbo, you know _perfectly_ well you're only making up." The House had been empty for many years; but, to the children, it had been empty since the beginning of the world, since what they called the "_very_ beginning." They believed--well, each child believed according to his own mind and powers, but there was at least one belief they all held in common: for it was generally accepted as an article of faith that the Indians, encamped among the shrubberies on the back lawn, secretly buried their dead behind the crumbling walls of its weedy garden--the "dead" provided by the children's battles, be it understood. Wakeful ears in the night-nursery had heard strange sounds coming from that direction when the windows were open on hot summer nights; and the gardener, supreme authority on all that happened in the night (since they believed that he sat up to watch the vegetables and fruit-trees ripen, and never went to bed at all), was evidently of the same persuasion. When appealed to for an explanation of the mournful wind-voices, he knew what was expected of him, and rose manfully to the occasion. "It's either them Redskins aburyin' wot you killed of 'em yesterday," he declared, pointing towards the Empty House with a bit of broken flower-pot, "or else it's the ones you killed last week, and who was always astealin' of my strorbriz." He looked very wise as he said this, and his wand of office--a dirty trowel--which he held in his hand, gave him tremendous dignity. "That's just what _we_ thought, and of course if you say so too, that settles it," said Nixie. "It's more'n likely, missie, leastways from wot you describes, which it is a hempty house all the same, though I can't say as I've heard no sounds, not very distinct that is, myself." The gardener may have been anxious to hedge a bit, for fear of a scolding from headquarters, but his cryptic remarks pleased the children greatly, because it showed, they thought, that they knew more than the gardener did. Thus the Empty House remained an object of somewhat dreadful delight, lending a touch of wonderland to that part of the lane where it stood, and forming the background for many an enchanting story over the nursery fire in winter-time. It appealed vividly to their imaginations, especially to Jimbo's. Its dark windows, without blinds, were sometimes full of faces that retreated the moment they were looked at. That tangled ivy did not grow over the roof so thickly for nothing; and those high elms on the western side had not been planted years ago in a semicircle without a reason. Thus, at least, the children argued, not knowing exactly what they meant, nor caring much, so long as they proved to their own satisfaction that the place was properly haunted, and therefore worthy of their attention. It was natural they should lead Miss Lake in that direction on one of their first walks together, and it was natural, too, that she should at once discover from their manner that the place was of some importance to them. "What a queer-looking old house," she remarked, when they turned the corner of the lane and it came into view. "Almost a ruin, isn't it?" The children exchanged glances. A "ruin" did not seem the right sort of word at all; and, besides, was a little disrespectful. Also, they were not sure whether the new governess ought to be told everything so soon. She had not really won their confidence yet. After a slight pause--and a children's pause is the most eloquent imaginable--Nixie, being the eldest, said in a stiff little voice: "It's the Empty House, Miss Lake. _We_ know it very well indeed." "It looks empty," observed Miss Lake briskly. "But it's not a ruin, of course," added the child, with the cold dignity of chosen spokesman. "Oh!" said the governess, quite missing the point. She was talking lightly on the surface of things, wholly ignorant of the depths beneath her feet, intuition with her having always been sternly repressed. "It's a gamekeeper's cottage, or something like that, I suppose," she said. "Oh, no; it isn't a bit." "Doesn't it belong to your father, then?" "No. It's somebody else's, you see." "Then you can't have it pulled down?" "Rather not! Of course not!" exclaimed several indignant voices at once. Miss Lake perceived for the first time that it held more than ordinary importance in their mind. "Tell me about it," she said. "What is its history, and who used to live in it?" There came another pause. The children looked into each others' faces. They gazed at the blue sky overhead; then they stared at the dusty road at their feet. But no one volunteered an answer. Miss Lake, they felt, was approaching the subject in an offensive manner. "Why are you all so mysterious about it?" she went on. "It's only a tumble-down old place, and must be very draughty to live in, even for a gamekeeper." Silence. "Come, children, don't you hear me? I'm asking you a question." A couple of startled birds flew out of the ivy with a great whirring of wings. This was followed by a faint sound of rumbling, that seemed to come from the interior of the house. Outside all was still, and the hot sunshine lay over everything. The sound was repeated. The children looked at each other with large, expectant eyes. Something in the house was moving--was coming nearer. "Have you _all_ lost your tongues?" asked the governess impatiently. "But you see," Nixie said at length, "somebody _does_ live in it now." "And who is he?" "I didn't say it was a _man_." "Whoever it is--tell me about the person," persisted Miss Lake. "There's really nothing to tell," replied the child, without looking up. "Oh, but there must be something," declared the logical young governess, "or you wouldn't object so much to its being pulled down." Nixie looked puzzled, but Jimbo came to the rescue at once. "But _you_ wouldn't understand if we did tell you," he said, in a slow, respectful voice. His tone held a touch of that indescribable scorn heard sometimes in a child's tone--the utter contempt for the stupid grown-up creature. Miss Lake noticed, and felt annoyed. She recognised that she was not getting on well with the children, and it piqued her. She remembered the Colonel's words about "knocking the nonsense out" of James' head, and she saw that her first opportunity, in fact her first real test, was at hand. "And why, pray, should I not understand?" she asked, with some sharpness. "Is the mystery so _very_ great?" For some reason the duty of spokesman now devolved unmistakably upon Jimbo; and very seriously too, he accepted the task, standing with his feet firmly planted in the road and his hands in his trousers' pockets. "You see, Miss Lake," he began gravely, "we know such a lot of Things in there, that they might not like us to tell you about them. They don't know you yet. If they did it might be different. But--but--you see, it isn't." This was rather crushing to the aspiring educator, and the Colonel's instructions gained additional point in the light of the boy's explanation. "Fiddlesticks!" she laughed, "there's probably nothing at all in there, except rats and cobwebs. 'Things,' indeed!" "I knew you wouldn't understand," said Jimbo coolly, with no sign of being offended. "How could you?" He glanced at his sisters, gaining so much support from their enigmatical faces that he added, for their especial benefit, "How could she?" "The gard'ner said so too," chimed in a younger sister, with a vague notion that their precious Empty House was being robbed of its glory. "Yes; but, James, dear, I do understand perfectly," continued Miss Lake more gently, and wisely ignoring the reference to the authority of the kitchen-garden. "Only, you see, I cannot really encourage you in such nonsense----" "It isn't nonsense," interrupted Jimbo, with heat. "But, believe me, children, it _is_ nonsense. How do you know that there's anything inside? You've never been there!" "You can know perfectly well what's inside a thing without having gone there," replied Jimbo with scorn. "At least, _we_ can." Miss Lake changed her tack a little--fatally, as it appeared afterwards. "I know at any rate," she said with decision, "that there's nothing good in there. Whatever there may be is bad, thoroughly bad, and not fit for you to play with." The other children moved away, but Jimbo stood his ground. They were all angry, disappointed, sore hurt and offended. But Jimbo suddenly began to feel something else besides anger and vexation. It was a new point of view to him that the Empty House might contain bad things as well as good, or perhaps, only bad things. His imagination seized upon the point at once and set to work vigorously to develop it. This was his way with all such things, and he could not prevent it. "Bad Things?" he repeated, looking up at the governess. "You mean Things that could hurt?" "Yes, of course," she said, noting the effect of her words and thinking how pleased the Colonel would be later, when he heard it. "Things that might run out and catch you some day when you're passing here alone, and take you back a prisoner. Then you'd be a prisoner in the Empty House all your life. Think of that!" Miss Lake mistook the boy's silence as proof that she was taking the right line. She enlarged upon this view of the matter, now she was so successfully launched, and described the _Inmate of the House_ with such wealth of detail that she felt sure her listener would never have anything to do with the place again, and that she had "knocked out" this particular bit of "nonsense" for ever and a day. But to Jimbo it was a new and horrible idea that the Empty House, haunted hitherto only by rather jolly and wonderful Red Indians, contained a Monster who might take him prisoner, and the thought made him feel afraid. The mischief had, of course, been done, and the terror in his eyes was unmistakable, when the foolish governess saw her mistake. Retreat was impossible: the boy was shaking with fear; and not all Miss Lake's genuine sympathy, or Nixie's explanations and soothings, were able to relieve his mind of its new burden. Hitherto Jimbo's imagination had loved to dwell upon the pleasant side of things invisible; but now he had been severely frightened, and his imagination took a new turn. Not only the Empty House, but all his inner world, to which it was in some sense the key, underwent a distressing change. His sense of horror had been vividly aroused. The governess would willingly have corrected her mistake, but was, of course, powerless to do so. Bitterly she regretted her tactlessness and folly. But she could do nothing, and to add to her distress, she saw that Jimbo shrank from her in a way that could not long escape the watchful eye of the mother. But, if the boy shed tears of fear that night in his bed, it must in justice be told that she, for her part, cried bitterly in her own room, not that she had endangered her "place," but that she had done a cruel injury to a child, and that she was helpless to undo it. For she loved children, though she was quite unsuited to take care of them. Her just reward, however, came swiftly upon her. A few nights later, when Jimbo and Nixie were allowed to come down to dessert, the wind was heard to make a queer moaning sound in the ivy branches that hung over the dining-room windows. Jimbo heard it too. He held his breath for a minute; then he looked round the table in a frightened way, and the next minute gave a scream and burst into tears. He ran round and buried his face in his father's arms. After the tears came the truth. It was a bad thing for Miss Ethel Lake, this little sighing of the wind and the ivy leaves, for the Djin of terror she had thoughtlessly evoked swept into the room and introduced himself to the parents without her leave. "What new nonsense is this now?" growled the soldier, leaving his walnuts and lifting the boy on to his knee. "He shouldn't come down till he's a little older, and knows how to behave." "What's the matter, darling child?" asked the mother, drying his eyes tenderly. "I heard the bad Things crying in the Empty House." "The Empty House is a mile away from here!" snorted the Colonel. "Then it's come nearer," declared the frightened boy. "Who told you there were bad things in the Empty House?" asked the mother. "Yes, who told you, indeed, I should like to know!" demanded the Colonel. And then it all came out. The Colonel's wife was very quiet, but very determined. Miss Lake went back to the clerical family whence she had come, and the children knew her no more. "I'm glad," said Nixie, expressing the verdict of the nursery. "I thought she was awfully stupid." "She wasn't a real lake at all," declared another, "she was only a sort of puddle." Jimbo, however, said little, and the Colonel likewise held his peace. But the governess, whether she was a lake or only a puddle, left her mark behind her. The Empty House was no longer harmless. It had a new lease of life. It was tenanted by some one who could never have friendly relations with children. The weeds in the old garden took on fantastic shapes; figures hid behind the doors and crept about the passages; the rooks in the high elms became birds of ill-omen; the ivy bristled upon the walls, and the trivial explanations of the gardener were no longer satisfactory. Even in bright sunshine a Shadow lay crouching upon the broken roof. At any moment it might leap into life, and with immense striding legs chase the children down to the very Park gates. There was no need to enforce the decree that the Empty House was a forbidden land. The children of their own accord declared it out of bounds, and avoided it as carefully as if all the wild animals from the Zoo were roaming its gardens, hungry and unchained. CHAPTER III THE SHOCK One immediate result of Miss Lake's indiscretion was that the children preferred to play on the other side of the garden, the side farthest from the Empty House. A spiked railing here divided them from a field in which cows disported themselves, and as bulls also sometimes were admitted to the cows, the field was strictly out of bounds. In this spiked railing, not far from the great shrubberies where the Indians increased and multiplied, there was a swinging gate. The children swung on it whenever they could. They called it Express Trains, and the fact that it was forbidden only added to their pleasure. When opened at its widest it would swing them with a rush through the air, past the pillars with a click, out into the field, and then back again into the garden. It was bad for the hinges, and it was also bad for the garden, because it was frequently left open after these carnivals, and the cows got in and trod the flowers down. The children were not afraid of the cows, but they held the bull in great horror. And these trivial things have been mentioned here because of the part they played in Jimbo's subsequent adventures. It was only ten days or so after Miss Lake's sudden departure when Jimbo managed one evening to elude the vigilance of his lawful guardians, and wandered off unnoticed among the laburnums on the front lawn. From the laburnums he passed successfully to the first laurel shrubbery, and thence he executed a clever flank movement and entered the carriage drive in the rear. The rest was easy, and he soon found himself at the Lodge gate. For some moments he peered through the iron grating, and pondered on the seductiveness of the dusty road and of the ditch beyond. To his surprise he found, presently, that the gate was moving outwards; it was yielding to his weight. One thing leads easily to another sometimes, and the open gate led easily on to the seductive road. The result was that a minute later Jimbo was chasing butterflies along the green lane, and throwing stones into the water of the ditch. It was the evening of a hot summer's day, and the butterflies were still out in force. Jimbo's delight was intense. The joy of finding himself alone where he had no right to be put everything else out of his head, and for some time he wandered on, oblivious of all but the intoxicating sense of freedom and the difficulty of choosing between so many butterflies and such a magnificently dirty ditch. At first he yielded to the seductions of the ditch. He caught a big, sleepy beetle and put it on a violet leaf, and sent it sailing out to sea; and when it landed on the farther shore he found a still bigger leaf, and sent it forth on a voyage in another direction, with a cargo of daisy petals, and a hairy caterpillar for a bo'sun's mate. But, just as the vessel was getting under way, a butterfly of amazing brilliance floated past insolently under his very nose. Leaving the beetle and the caterpillar to navigate the currents as best they could, he at once gave chase. Cap in hand, he flew after the butterfly down the lane, and a dozen times when his cap was just upon it, it sailed away sideways without the least effort and escaped him. Then, suddenly, the lane took a familiar turning; the ditch stopped abruptly; the hedge on his right fell away altogether; the butterfly danced out of sight into a field, and Jimbo found himself face to face with the one thing in the whole world that could, at that time, fill him with abject terror--the Empty House. He came to a full stop in the middle of the road and stared up at the windows. He realised for the first time that he was alone, and that it was possible for brilliant sunshine, even on a cloudless day, to become somehow lustreless and dull. The walls showed a deep red in the sunset light. The house was still as the grave. His feet were rooted to the ground, and it seemed as if he could not move a single muscle; and as he stood there, the blood ebbing quickly from his heart, the words of the governess a few days before rushed back into his mind, and turned his fear into a dreadful, all-possessing horror. In another minute the battered door would slowly open and the horrible Inmate come out to seize him. Already there was a sound of something moving within, and as he gazed, fascinated with terror, a shuddering movement ran over the ivy leaves hanging down from the roof. Then they parted in the middle, and something--he could not in his agony see what--flew out with a whirring sound into his face, and then vanished over his shoulder towards the fields. Jimbo did not pause a single second to find out what it was, or to reflect that any ordinary thrush would have made just the same sound. The shock it gave to his heart immediately loosened the muscles of his little legs, and he ran for his very life. But before he actually began to run he gave one piercing scream for help, and the person he screamed to was the very person who was unwittingly the cause of his distress. It was as though he knew instinctively that the person who had created for him the terror of the Empty House, with its horrible Inmate, was also the person who could properly banish it, and undo the mischief before it was too late. He shrieked for help to the governess, Miss Ethel Lake. Of course, there was no answer but the noise of the air whistling in his ears as his feet flew over the road in a cloud of dust; there was no friendly butcher's cart, no baker's boy, or farmer with his dog and gun; the road was deserted. There was not even the beetle or the caterpillar; he was beyond reach of help. Jimbo ran for his life, but unfortunately he ran in the wrong direction. Instead of going the way he had come, where the Lodge gates were ready to receive him not a quarter of a mile away, he fled in the opposite direction. It so happened that the lane flanked the field where the cows lived; but cows were nothing compared to a Creature from the Empty House, and even bulls seemed friendly. The boy was over the five-barred gate in a twinkling and half-way across the field before he heard a heavy, thunderous sound behind him. Either the Thing had followed him into the field, or it was the bull. As he raced, he managed to throw a glance over his shoulder and saw a huge, dark mass bearing down upon him at terrific speed. It must be the bull, he reflected--the bull grown to the size of an elephant. And it appeared to him to have two immense black wings that flapped at its sides and helped it forward, making a whirring noise like the arms of a great windmill. This sight added to his speed, but he could not last very much longer. Already his body ached all over, and the frantic effort to get breath nearly choked him. There, before him, not so very far away now, was the swinging gate. If only he could get there in time to scramble over into the garden, he would be safe. It seemed almost impossible, and behind him, meanwhile, the sound of the following creature came closer and closer; the ground seemed to tremble; he could almost feel the breath on his neck. The swinging gate was only twenty yards off; now ten; now only five. Now he had reached it--at last. He stretched out his hands to seize the top bar, and in another moment he would have been safe in the garden and within easy reach of the house. But, before he actually touched the iron rail, a sharp, stinging pain shot across his back;--he drew one final breath as he felt himself being lifted, lifted up into the air. The horns had caught him just behind the shoulders! There seemed to be no pain after the first shock. He rose high into the air, while the bushes and spiked railing he knew so well sank out of sight beneath him, dwindling curiously in size. At first he thought his head must bump against the sky, but suddenly he stopped rising, and the green earth rushed up as if it would strike him in the face. This meant he was sinking again. The gate and railing flew by underneath him, and the next second he fell with a crash upon the soft grass of the lawn--upon the other side. He had been tossed over the gate into the garden, and the bull could no longer reach him. Before he became wholly unconscious, a composite picture, vivid in its detail, engraved itself deeply, with exceeding swiftness, line by line, upon the waxen tablets of his mind. In this picture the thrush that had flown out of the ivy, the Empty House itself, and its horrible, pursuing Inmate were all somehow curiously mingled together with the black wings of the bull, and with his own sensation of rushing--flying headlong--through space, as he rose and fell in a curve from the creature's horns. And behind it he was conscious that the real author of it all was somewhere in the shadowy background, looking on as though to watch the result of her unfortunate mistake. Miss Lake, surely, was not very far away. He associated her with the horror of the Empty House as inevitably as taste and smell join together in the memory of a certain food; and the very last thought in his mind, as he sank away into the blackness of unconsciousness, was a sort of bitter surprise that the governess had not turned up to save him before it was actually too late. Moreover, a certain sense of disappointment mingled with the terror of the shock; for he was dimly aware that Miss Lake had not acted as worthily as she might have done, and had not played the game as well as might have been expected of her. And, somehow, it didn't all seem quite fair. CHAPTER IV ON THE EDGE OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS Jimbo had fallen on his head. Inside that head lay the mass of highly sensitive matter called the brain, on which were recorded, of course, the impressions of everything that had yet come to him in life. A severe shock, such as he had just sustained, was bound to throw these impressions into confusion and disorder, jumbling them up into new and strange combinations, obliterating some, and exaggerating others. Jimbo himself was helpless in the matter; he could exercise no control over their antics until the doctors had once again reduced them to order; he would have to wander, lost and lonely, through the comparative chaos of disproportioned visions, generally known as the region of delirium, until the doctor, assisted by mother nature, restored him once more to normal consciousness. For a time everything was a blank, but presently he stirred uneasily in the grass, and the pictures graven on the tablets of his mind began to come back to him line by line. Yet, with certain changes: the bull, for instance, had so far vanished into the background of his thoughts that it had practically disappeared altogether, and he recalled nothing of it but the wings--the huge, flapping wings. Of the creature to whom the wings belonged he had no recollection beyond that it was very large, and that it was chasing him from the Empty House. The pain in his shoulders had also gone; but what remained with undiminished vividness were the sensations of flight without escape, the breathless race up into the sky, and the swift, tumbling drop again through the air on to the lawn. This impression of rushing through space--short though the actual distance had been--was the dominating memory. All else was apparently oblivion. He forgot where he came from, and he forgot what he had been doing. The events leading up to the catastrophe, indeed everything connected with his existence previously as "Master James," had entirely vanished; and the slate of memory had been wiped so clean that he had forgotten even his own name! Jimbo was lying, so to speak, on the edge of unconsciousness, and for a time it seemed uncertain whether he would cross the line into the region of delirium and dreams, or fall back again into his natural world. Terror, assisted by the horns of the black bull, had tossed him into the borderland. His last scream, however, had reached the ears of the ubiquitous gardener, and help was near at hand. He heard voices that seemed to come from beyond the stars, and was aware that shadowy forms were standing over him and talking in whispers. But it was all very unreal; one minute the voices sounded up in the sky, and the next in his very ears, while the figures moved about, sometimes bending over him, sometimes retreating and melting away like shadows on a shifting screen. Suddenly a blaze of light flashed upon him, and his eyes flew open; he tumbled back for a moment into his normal world. He wasn't on the grass at all, but was lying upon his own bed in the night nursery. His mother was bending over him with a very white face, and a tall man dressed in black stood beside her, holding some kind of shining instrument in his fingers. A little behind them he saw Nixie, shading a lamp with her hand. Then the white face came close over the pillow, and a voice full of tenderness whispered, "My darling boy, don't you know me? It's mother! No one will hurt you. Speak to me, if you can, dear." She stretched out her hands, and Jimbo knew her and made an effort to answer. But it seemed to him as if his whole body had suddenly become a solid mass of iron, and he could control no part of it; his lips and his hands both refused to move. Before he could make a sign that he had understood and was trying to reply, a fierce flame rushed between them and blinded him, his eyes closed, and he dropped back again into utter darkness. The walls flew asunder and the ceiling melted into air, while the bed sank away beneath him, down, down, down into an abyss of shadows. The lamp in Nixie's hands dwindled into a star, and his mother's anxious face became a tiny patch of white in the distance, blurred out of all semblance of a human countenance. For a time the man in black seemed to hover over the bed as it sank, as though he were trying to follow it down; but it, too, presently joined the general enveloping blackness and lost its outline. The pain had blotted out everything, and the return to consciousness had been only momentary. Not all the doctors in the world could have made things otherwise. Jimbo was off on his travels at last--travels in which the chief incidents were directly traceable to the causes and details of his accident: the terror of the Empty House, the pursuit of its Inmate, the pain of the bull's horns, and, above all, the flight through the air. For everything in his subsequent adventures found its inspiration in the events described, and a singular parallel ran ever between the Jimbo upon the bed in the night-nursery and the other emancipated Jimbo wandering in the regions of unconsciousness and delirium. CHAPTER V INTO THE EMPTY HOUSE The darkness lasted a long time without a break, and when it lifted all recollection of the bedroom scene had vanished. Jimbo found himself back again on the grass. The swinging gate was just in front of him, but he did not recognise it; no suggestion of "Express Trains" came back to him as his eyes rested without remembrance upon the bars where he had so often swung, in defiance of orders, with his brothers and sisters. Recollection of his home, family, and previous life he had absolutely none; or at least, it was buried so deeply in his inner consciousness that it amounted to the same thing, and he looked out upon the garden, the gate, and the field beyond as upon an entirely new piece of the world. The stars, he saw, were nearly all gone, and a very faint light was beginning to spread from the woods beyond the field. The eastern horizon was slowly brightening, and soon the night would be gone. Jimbo was glad of this. He began to be conscious of little thrills of expectation, for with the light surely help would also come. The light always brought relief, and he already felt that strange excitement that comes with the first signs of dawn. In the distance cocks were crowing, horses began to stamp in the barns not far away, and a hundred little stirrings of life ran over the surface of the earth as the light crept slowly up the sky and dropped down again upon the world with its message of coming day. Of course, help would come by the time the sun was really up, and it was partly this certainty, and partly because he was a little too dazed to realise the seriousness of the situation, that prevented his giving way to a fit of fear and weeping. Yet a feeling of vague terror lay only a little way below the surface, and when, a few moments later, he saw that he was no longer alone, and that an odd-looking figure was creeping towards him from the shrubberies, he sprang to his feet, prepared to run unless it at once showed the most friendly intentions. This figure seemed to have come from nowhere. Apparently it had risen out of the earth. It was too large to have been concealed by the low shrubberies; yet he had not been aware of its approach, and it had appeared without making any noise. Probably it was friendly, he felt, in spite of its curious shape and the stealthy way it had come. At least, he hoped so; and if he could only have told whether it was a man or an animal he would easily have made up his mind. But the uncertain light, and the way it crouched half-hidden behind the bushes, prevented this. So he stood, poised ready to run, and yet waiting, hoping, indeed expecting every minute a sign of friendliness and help. In this way the two faced each other silently for some time, until the feeling of terror gradually stole deeper into the boy's heart and began to rob him of full power over his muscles. He wondered if he would be able to run when the time came, and whether he could run fast enough. This was how it first showed itself, this suggestion of insidious fear. Would he be able to keep up the start he had? Would it chase him? Would it run like a man or like an animal, on four legs or on two? He wished he could see more clearly what it was. He still stood his ground pluckily, facing it and waiting, but the fear, once admitted to his mind, was gaining strength, and he began to feel cold and shivery. Then suddenly the tension came to an end. In two strides the figure came up close to his side, and the same second Jimbo was lifted off his feet and borne swiftly away across the field. He felt quite unable to offer the least resistance, and at the same time he felt a sense of relief that something had happened at last. He was still not sure that the figure was unkind; only its shape filled him with a feeling that was certainly the beginning of real horror. It was the shape of a man, he thought, but of a very large and ill-constructed man; for it certainly had moved on two legs and had caught him up in a pair of tremendously strong arms. But there was something else it had besides arms, for a kind of soft cloak hung all round it and wrapped the boy from head to foot, preventing him seeing his captor properly, and at the same time filling his body with a kind of warm drowsiness that mitigated his active fear and made him rather like the sensation of being carried along so easily and so fast. But was he being carried? The pace they were going was amazing, and he moved as easily as a sailing boat, and with the same swinging motion. Could it be some animal like a horse after all? Jimbo tried to see more, but found it impossible to free himself from the folds of the enveloping substance, and meanwhile they were swinging forward at what seemed a tremendous pace over fields and ditches, through hedges, and down long lanes. The odours of earth, and dew-drenched grass, and opening flowers came to him. He heard the birds singing, and felt the cool morning air sting his cheeks as they raced along. There was no jolting or jarring, and the figure seemed to cover the ground as lightly as though it hardly touched the earth. It was certainly not a dream, he was sure of that; but the longer they went on the drowsier he became, and the less he wondered whether the figure was going to help him or to do something dreadful to him. He was now thoroughly afraid, and yet, strange contradiction, he didn't care a bit. Let the figure do what it liked; it was only a sort of nightmare person after all, and might vanish as suddenly as it had arrived. For a long time they raced forward at this great speed, and then with a bump and a crash they stopped suddenly short, and Jimbo felt himself let down upon the solid earth. He tried to free himself at once from the folds of the clinging substance that enveloped him, but, before he could do so and see what his captor was really like, he heard a door slam and felt himself pushed along what seemed to be the hallways of a house. His eyes were clear now and he could see, but the darkness had come down again so thickly that all he could discover was that the figure was urging him along the floor of a large empty hall, and that they were in a dark and empty building. Jimbo tried hard to see his captor, but the figure, dim enough in the uncertain light, always managed to hide its face and keep itself bunched up in such a way that he could never see more than a great, dark mass of a body, from which long legs and arms shot out like telescopes, draped in a sort of clinging cloak. Now that the rapid motion through the air had ceased, the boy's drowsiness passed a little, and he began to shiver with fear and to feel that the tears could not be kept back much longer. Probably in another minute he would have started to run for his life, when a new sound caught his ears and made him listen intently, while a feeling of wonder and delight caught his heart, and made him momentarily forget the figure pushing him forward from behind. Was it the wind he heard? Or was it the voices of children all singing together very low? It was a gentle, sighing sound that rose and fell with mournful modulations and seemed to come from the very centre of the building; it held, too, a strange, far-away murmur, like the surge of a faint breeze moving in the tree-tops. It might be the wind playing round the walls of the building, or it might be children singing in hushed voices. One minute he thought it was outside the house, and the next he was certain it came from somewhere in the upper part of the building. He glanced up, and fancied for one moment that he saw in the darkness a crowd of little faces peering down at him over the banisters, and that as they disappeared he heard the sound of many little feet moving, and then a door hurriedly closing. But a push from the figure behind that nearly sent him sprawling at the foot of the stairs, prevented his hearing very clearly, and the light was far too dim to let him feel sure of what he had seen. They passed quickly along deserted corridors and through winding passages. No one seemed about. The interior of the house was chilly, and the keen air nipped. After going up several flights of stairs they stopped at last in front of a door, and before Jimbo had a moment to turn and dash downstairs again past the figure, as he had meant to do, he was pushed violently forward into a room. The door slammed after him, and he heard the heavy tread of the figure as it went down the staircase again into the bottom of the house. Then he saw that the room was full of light and of small moving beings. Curiosity and astonishment now for a moment took the place of fear, and Jimbo, with a thumping heart and clenched fists, stood and stared at the scene before him. He stiffened his little legs and leaned against the wall for support, but he felt full of fight in case anything happened, and with wide-open eyes he tried to take in the whole scene at once and be ready for whatever might come. But there seemed no immediate cause for alarm, and when he realised that the beings in the room were apparently children, and only children, his rather mixed sensations of astonishment and fear gave place to an emotion of overpowering shyness. He became exceedingly embarrassed, for he was surrounded by children of all ages and sizes, staring at him just as hard as he was staring at them. The children, he began to take in, were all dressed in black; they looked frightened and unhappy; their bodies were thin and their faces very white. There was something else about them he could not quite name, but it inspired him with the same sense of horror that he had felt in the arms of the Figure who had trapped him. For he now realised definitely that he had been trapped; and he also began to realise for the first time that, though he still had the body of a little boy, his way of thinking and judging was sometimes more like that of a grown-up person. The two alternated, and the result was an odd confusion; for sometimes he felt like a child and thought like a man, while at others he felt like a man and thought like a child. Something had gone wrong, very much wrong; and, as he watched this group of silent children facing him, he knew suddenly that what was just beginning to happen to him _had happened to them long, long ago_. For they looked as if they had been a long, long time in the world, yet their bodies had not kept pace with their minds. Something had happened to stop the growth of the body, while allowing the mind to go on developing. The bodies were not stunted or deformed; they were well-formed, nice little children's bodies, but the minds within them were grown-up, and the incongruity was distressing. All this he suddenly realised in a flash, intuitively, just as though it had been most elaborately explained to him; yet he could not have put the least part of it into words or have explained what he saw and felt to another. He saw that they had the hands and figures of children, the heads of children, the unlined faces and smooth foreheads of children, but their gestures, and something in their movements, belonged to grown-up people, and the expression of their eyes in meaning and intelligence was the expression of old people and not of children. And the expression in the eyes of every one of them he saw was the expression of terror and of pain. The effect was so singular that he seemed face to face with an entirely new order of creatures: a child's features with a man's eyes; a child's figure with a woman's movements; full-grown souls cramped and cribbed in absurdly inadequate bodies and little, puny frames; the old trying uncouthly to express itself in the young. The grown-up, old portion of him had been uppermost as he stared and received these impressions, but now suddenly it passed away, and he felt as a little boy again. He glanced quickly down at his own little body in the alpaca knickerbockers and sailor blouse, and then, with a sigh of relief, looked up again at the strange group facing him. So far, at any rate, he had not changed, and there was nothing yet to suggest that he was becoming like them in appearance at least. With his back against the door he faced the roomful of children who stood there motionless and staring; and as he looked, wild feelings rushed over him and made him tremble. Who was he? Where had he come from? Where in the world had he spent the other years of his life, the forgotten years? There seemed to be no one to whom he could go for comfort, no one to answer questions; and there was such a lot he wanted to ask. He seemed to be so much older, and to know so much more than he ought to have known, and yet to have forgotten so much that he ought not to have forgotten. His loss of memory, however, was of course only partial. He had forgotten his own identity, and all the people with whom he had so far in life had to do; yet at the same time he was dimly conscious that he had just left all these people, and that some day he would find them again. It was only the surface-layers of memory that had vanished, and these had not vanished for ever, but only sunk down a little below the horizon. Then, presently, the children began to range themselves in rows between him and the opposite wall, without once taking their horrible, intelligent eyes off him as they moved. He watched them with growing dread, but at last his curiosity became so strong that it overcame everything else, and in a voice that he meant to be very brave, but that sounded hardly above a whisper, he said: "Who are you? And what's been done to you?" The answer came at once in a whisper as low as his own, though he could not distinguish who spoke: "Listen and you shall know. You, too, are now one of us." Immediately the children began a slow, impish sort of dance before him, moving almost with silent feet over the boards, yet with a sedateness and formality that had none of the unconscious grace of children. And, as they danced, they sang, but in voices so low, that it was more like the mournful sighing of wind among branches than human voices. It was the sound he had already heard outside the building. "We are the children of the whispering night, Who live eternally in dreadful fright Of stories told us in the grey twilight By--_nurserymaids_! We are the children of a winter's day; Under our breath we chant this mournful lay; We dance with phantoms and with shadows play, And have no rest. We have no joy in any children's game, For happiness to us is but a name, Since Terror kissed us with his lips of flame In wicked jest. We hear the little voices in the wind Singing of freedom we may never find, Victims of fate so cruelly unkind, We are unblest. We hear the little footsteps in the rain Running to help us, though they run in vain, Tapping in hundreds on the window-pane In vain behest. We are the children of the whispering night, Who dwell unrescued in eternal fright Of stories told us in the dim twilight By--_nurserymaids_!" The plaintive song and the dance ceased together, and before Jimbo could find any words to clothe even one of the thoughts that crowded through his mind, he saw them moving towards a door he had not hitherto noticed on the other side of the room. A moment later they had opened it and passed out, sedate, mournful, unhurried; and the boy found that in some way he could not understand the light had gone with them, and he was standing with his back against the wall in almost total darkness. Once out of the room, no sound followed them, and he crossed over and tried the handle of the door. It was locked. Then he went back and tried the other door; that, too, was locked. He was shut in. There was no longer any doubt as to the Figure's intentions; he was a prisoner, trapped like an animal in a cage. The only thought in his mind just then was an intense desire for freedom. Whatever happened he must escape. He crossed the floor to the only window in the room; it was without blinds, and he looked out. But instantly he recoiled with a fresh and overpowering sense of helplessness, for it was three storeys from the ground, and down below in the shadows he saw a paved courtyard that rendered jumping utterly out of the question. He stood for a long time, fighting down the tears, and staring as if his heart would break at the field and trees beyond. A high wall enclosed the yard, but beyond that was freedom and open space. Feelings of loneliness and helplessness, terror and dismay overwhelmed him. His eyes burned and smarted, yet, strange to say, the tears now refused to come and bring him relief. He could only stand there with his elbows on the window-sill, and watch the outline of the trees and hedges grow clearer and clearer as the light drew across the sky, and the moment of sunrise came close. But when at last he turned back into the room, he saw that he was no longer alone. Crouching against the opposite wall there was a hooded figure steadily watching him. CHAPTER VI HIS COMPANION IN PRISON Shocks of terror, as they increase in number, apparently lessen in effect; the repeated calls made upon Jimbo's soul by the emotions of fear and astonishment had numbed it; otherwise the knowledge that he was locked in the room with this mysterious creature beyond all possibility of escape must have frightened him, as the saying is, out of his skin. As it was, however, he kept his head in a wonderful manner, and simply stared at the silent intruder as hard as ever he could stare. How in the world it got in was the principal thought in his mind, and after that: what in the world was it? The dawn must have come very swiftly, or else he had been staring longer than he knew, for just then the sun topped the edge of the world and the window-sill simultaneously, and sent a welcome ray of sunshine into the dingy room. It turned the grey light to silver, and fell full upon the huddled figure crouching against the opposite wall. Jimbo caught his breath, and stared harder than ever. It was a human figure, the figure, apparently, of a man, sitting crumpled up in a very uncomfortable sort of position on his haunches. It sat perfectly still. A black cloak, with loose sleeves, and a cowl or hood that completely concealed the face, covered it from head to foot. The material of the cloak could not have been very thick, for inside the hood he caught the gleam of eyes as they roamed about the room and followed his movements. But for this glitter of the moving eyes it might have been a figure carved in wood. Was it going to sit there for ever watching him? At first he was afraid it was going to speak; then he was afraid it wasn't. It might rise suddenly and come towards him; yet the thought that it would not move at all was worse still. In this way the two faced each other for several minutes until, just as the position was becoming simply unbearable, a low whisper ran round the room: "At last! Oh! I've found him at last!" Jimbo was not quite sure of the words, though it was certainly a human voice that had spoken; but, the suspense once broken, the boy could not stand it any longer, and with a rush of desperate courage he found his voice--a very husky one--and moved a step forward. "Who are you, please, and how _did_ you get in?" he ventured with a great effort. Then he fell back against the wall, amazed at his own daring, and waited with tightly-clenched fists for an answer. But he had not to wait very long, for almost immediately the figure rose awkwardly to its feet, and came over to where he stood. Its manner of moving may best be described as shuffling; and it stretched in front of it a long cloaked arm, on which the sleeve hung, he thought, like clothes on a washing line. He breathed hard, and waited. Like many other people with strong wills and sensitive nerves, Jimbo was both brave and a coward: he hoped nothing horrid was going to happen, but he was quite ready if it should. Yet, now that the actual moment had come, he had no particular fear, and when he felt the touch of the hand on his shoulder, the words sprang naturally to his lips with a little trembling laugh, more of wonder perhaps than anything else. "You do look a horrid ... _brute_," he was going to say, but at the last moment he changed it to "_thing_," for, with the true intuition of a child, he recognised that the creature inside the cloak was a kind creature and well disposed towards him. "But how did you get in?" he added, looking up bravely into the black visage, "because the doors are both locked on the outside, and I couldn't get out?" By way of reply the figure shuffled to one side, and, taking the hand from his shoulder, pointed silently to a trap-door in the floor behind him. As he looked, he saw it was being shut down stealthily by some one beneath. "Hush!" whispered the figure, almost inaudibly. "He's watching!" "Who's watching?" he cried, curiosity taking the place of every other emotion. "I want to see." He ran forward to the spot where the trap-door now lay flush with the floor, but, before he had gone two steps, the black arms shot out and caught him. He turned, struggling, and in the scuffle that followed the cloak shrouding the figure became disarranged; the hood dropped from the face, and he found himself looking straight into the eyes, not of a man, but of a woman! "It's you!" he cried, "YOU--!" A shock ran right through his body from his head to his feet, like a current of electricity, and he caught his breath as though he had been struck. For one brief instant the sinister face of some one who had terrified him in the past came back vividly to his mind, and he shrank away in terror. But it was only for an instant, the twentieth part of an instant. Immediately, before he could even remember the name, recognition passed into darkness and his memory shut down with a snap. He was staring into the face of an utter stranger, about whom he knew nothing and had no feelings particularly one way or another. "I thought I knew you," he gasped, "but I've forgotten you again--and I thought you were going to be a man, too." "Jimbo!" cried the other, and in her voice was such unmistakable tenderness and yearning that the boy knew at once beyond doubt that she was his friend, "Jimbo!" She knelt down on the floor beside him, so that her face was on a level with his, and then opened both her arms to him. But though Jimbo was glad to have found a friend who was going to help him, he felt no particular desire to be embraced, and he stood obstinately where he was with his back to the window. The morning sunshine fell upon her features and touched the thick coils of her hair with glory. It was not, strictly speaking, a pretty face, but the look of real human tenderness there was very welcome and comforting, and in the kind brown eyes there shone a strange light that was not merely the reflection of the sunlight. The boy felt his heart warm to her as he looked, but her expression puzzled him, and he would not accept the invitation of her arms. "Won't you come to me?" she said, her arms still outstretched. "I want to know who you are, and what I'm doing here," he said. "I feel so funny--so old and so young--and all mixed up. I can't make out who I am a bit. What's that funny name you call me?" "Jimbo is your name," she said softly. "Then what's _your_ name?" he asked quickly. "My name," she repeated slowly after a pause, "is not--as nice as yours. Besides, you need not know my name--you might dislike it." "But I must have something to call you," he persisted. "But if I told you, and you disliked the name, you might dislike _me_ too," she said, still hesitating. Jimbo saw the expression of sadness in her eyes, and it won his confidence though he hardly knew why. He came up closer to her and put his puzzled little face next to hers. "I like you very much already," he whispered, "and if your name is a horrid one I'll change it for you at once. Please tell me what it is." She drew the boy to her and gave him a little hug, and he did not resist. For a long time she did not answer. He felt vaguely that something of dreadful importance hung about this revelation of her name. He repeated his question, and at length she replied, speaking in a very low voice, and with her eyes fixed intently upon his face. "My name," she said, "is Ethel Lake." "Ethel Lake," he repeated after her. The words sounded somehow familiar to him; surely he had heard that name before. Were not the words associated with something in his past that had been unpleasant? A curious sinking sensation came over him as he heard them. His companion watched him intently while he repeated the words over to himself several times, as if to make sure he had got them right. There was a moment's hesitation as he slowly went over them once again. Then he turned to her, laughing. "I like your name, Ethel Lake," he said. "It's a nice name--Miss--Miss----" Again he hesitated, while a little warning tremor ran through his mind, and he wondered for an instant why he said "Miss." But it passed as suddenly as it had come, and he finished the sentence--"Miss Lake, I shall call you." He stared into her eyes as he said it. "Then you don't remember me at all?" she cried, with a sigh of intense relief. "You've quite forgotten?" "I never saw you before, did I? How can I remember you? I don't remember any of the things I've forgotten. Are you one of them?" For reply she caught him to her breast and kissed him. "You precious little boy!" she said. "I'm so glad, oh, so glad!" "But do you remember _me_?" he asked, sorely puzzled. "Who am I? Haven't I been born yet, or something funny like that?" "If you don't remember _me_," said the other, her face happy with smiles that had evidently come only just in time to prevent tears, "there's not much good telling you who _you_ are. But your name, if you really want to know, is----" She hesitated a moment. "Be quick, Eth--Miss Lake, or you'll forget it again." She laughed rather bitterly. "Oh, I never forget. I can't!" she said. "I wish I could. Your name is James Stone, and Jimbo is 'short' for James. Now you know." She might just as well have said Bill Sykes for all the boy knew or remembered. "What a silly name!" he laughed. "But it can't be my real name, or I should know it. I never heard it before." After a moment he added, "Am I an old man? I feel just like one. I suppose I'm grown up--grown up so fast that I've forgotten what came before----" "You're not grown up, dear, at least, not exactly----" She glanced down at his alpaca knickerbockers and brown stockings; and as he followed her eyes and saw the dirty buttoned-boots there came into his mind some dim memory of where he had last put them on, and of some one who had helped him. But it all passed like a swift meteor across the dark night of his forgetfulness and was lost in mist. "You mustn't judge by these silly clothes," he laughed. "I shall change them as soon as I get--as soon as I can find----" He stopped short. No words came. A feeling of utter loneliness and despair swept suddenly over him, drenching him from head to foot. He felt lost and friendless, naked, homeless, cold. He was ever on the brink of regaining a whole lot of knowledge and experience that he had known once long ago, ever so long ago, but it always kept just out of his reach. He glanced at Miss Lake, feeling that she was his only possible comfort in a terrible situation. She met his look and drew him tenderly towards her. "Now, listen to me," she said gently, "I've something to tell you--about myself." He was all attention in a minute. "I am a discharged governess," she began, holding her breath when once the words were out. "Discharged!" he repeated vaguely. "What's that? What for?" "For frightening a child. I told a little boy awful stories that weren't true. They terrified him so much that I was sent away. That's why I'm here now. It's my punishment. I am a prisoner here until I can find him--and help him to escape----" "Oh, I say!" he exclaimed quickly, as though remembering something. But it passed, and he looked up at her half-bored, half-politely. "Escape from what?" he asked. "From here. This is the Empty House I told the stories about; _and you are the little boy I frightened_. Now, at last, I've found you, and am going to save you." She paused, watching him with eyes that never left his face for an instant. Jimbo was delighted to hear he was going to be rescued, but he felt no interest at all in her story of having frightened a little boy, who was himself. He thought it was very nice of her to take so much trouble, and he told her so, and when he went up and kissed her and thanked her, he saw to his surprise that she was crying. For the life of him he could not understand why a discharged governess whom he met, apparently, for the first time in the Empty House, should weep over him and show him so much affection. But he could think of nothing to say, so he just waited till she had finished. "You see, if I can save you," she said between her sobs, "it will be all right again, and I shall be forgiven, and shall be able to escape with you. I want you to escape, so that you can get back to life again." "Oh, then I'm dead, am I?" "Not exactly dead," she said, drying her eyes with the corner of her black hood. "You've had a funny accident, you know. If your body gets all right, so that you can go back and live in it again, then you're not dead. But if it's so badly injured that you can't work in it any more, then you are dead, and will have to stay dead. You're still joined to the body in a fashion, you see." He stared and listened, not understanding much. It all bored him. She talked without explaining, he thought. An immense sponge had passed over the slate of the past and wiped it clean beyond recall. He was utterly perplexed. "How funny you are!" he said vaguely, thinking more of her tears than her explanations. "Water won't stay in a cracked bottle," she went on, "and you can't stay in a broken body. But they're trying to mend it now, and if we can escape in time you can be an ordinary, happy little boy in the world again." "Then are you dead, too?" he asked, "or nearly dead?" "I am out of my body, like you," she answered evasively, after a moment's pause. He was still looking at her in a dazed sort of way, when she suddenly sprang to her feet and let the hood drop back over her face. "Hush!" she whispered, "he's listening again." At the same moment a sound came from beneath the floor on the other side of the room, and Jimbo saw the trap-door being slowly raised above the level of the floor. "Your number is 102," said a voice that sounded like the rushing of a river. Instantly the trap-door dropped again, and he heard heavy steps rumbling away into the interior of the house. He looked at his companion and saw her terrified face as she lifted her hood. "He always blunders along like that," she whispered, bending her head on one side to listen. "He can't see properly in the daylight. He hates sunshine, and usually only goes out after dark." She was white and trembling. "Is that the person who brought me in here this morning at such a frightful pace?" he asked, bewildered. She nodded. "He wanted to get in before it was light, so that you couldn't see his face." "Is he such a fright?" asked the boy, beginning to share her evident feeling of horror. "He _is_ Fright!" she said in an awed whisper. "But never talk about him again unless you can't help it; he always knows when he's being talked about, and he likes it, because it gives him more power." Jimbo only stared at her without comprehending. Then his mind jumped to something else he wanted badly to have explained, and he asked her about his number, and why he was called No. 102. "Oh, that's easier," she said, "102 is your number among the Frightened Children; there are 101 of them, and you are the last arrival. Haven't you seen them yet? It is also the temperature of your broken little body lying on the bed in the night nursery at home," she added, though he hardly caught her words, so low were they spoken. Jimbo then described how the children had sung and danced to him, and went on to ask a hundred questions about them. But Miss Lake would give him very little information, and said he would not have very much to do with them. Most of them had been in the House for years and years--so long that they could probably never escape at all. "They are all frightened children," she said. "Little ones scared out of their wits by silly people who meant to amuse them with stories, or to frighten them into being well behaved--nursery-maids, elder sisters, and even governesses!" "And they can never escape?" "Not unless the people who frightened them come to their rescue and _run the risk of being caught themselves_." As she spoke there rose from the depths of the house the sound of muffled voices, children's voices singing faintly together; it rose and fell exactly like the wind, and with as little tune; it was weird and magical, but so utterly mournful that the boy felt the tears start to his eyes. It drifted away, too, just as the wind does over the tops of the trees, dying into the distance; and all became still again. "It's just like the wind," he said, "and I do love the wind. It makes me feel so sad and so happy. Why is it?" The governess did not answer. "How old am I _really_?" he went on. "How can I be so old and so ignorant? I've forgotten such an awful lot of knowledge." "The fact is--well, perhaps, you won't quite understand--but you're really two ages at once. Sometimes you feel as old as your body, and sometimes as old as your soul. You're still connected with your body; so you get the sensations of both mixed up." "Then is the body younger than the soul?" "The soul--that is yourself," she answered, "is, oh, so old, awfully old, as old as the stars, and older. But the body is no older than itself--of course, how could it be?" "Of course," repeated the boy, who was not listening to a word she said. "How could it be?" "But it doesn't matter how old you are or how young you feel, as long as you don't hate me for having frightened you," she said after a pause. "That's the chief thing." He was very, very puzzled. He could not help feeling it had been rather unkind of her to frighten him so badly that he had literally been frightened out of his skin; but he couldn't remember anything about it, and she was taking so much trouble to save him now that he quite forgave her. He nestled up against her, and said of course he liked her, and she stroked his curly head and mumbled a lot of things to herself that he couldn't understand a bit. But in spite of his new-found friend the feeling of over-mastering loneliness would suddenly rush over him. She might be a protector, but she was not a _real_ companion; and he knew that somewhere or other he had left a lot of other _real_ companions whom he now missed dreadfully. He longed more than he could say for freedom; he wanted to be able to come and go as he pleased; to play about in a garden somewhere as of old; to wander over soft green lawns among laburnums and sweet-smelling lilac trees, and to be up to all his old tricks and mischief--though he could not remember in detail what they were. In a word, he wanted to escape; his whole being yearned to escape and be free again; yet here he was a wretched prisoner in a room like a prison-cell, with a sort of monster for a keeper, and a troop of horrible frightened children somewhere else in the house to keep him company. And outside there was only a hard, narrow, paved courtyard with a high wall round it. Oh, it was too terrible to think of, and his heart sank down within him till he felt as if he could do nothing else but cry. "I shall save you in time," whispered the governess, as though she read his thoughts. "You must be patient, and do what I tell you, and I promise to get you out. Only be brave, and don't ask too many questions. We shall win in the end and escape." Suddenly he looked up, with quite a new expression in his face. "But I say, Miss Cake, I'm frightfully hungry. I've had nothing to eat since--I can't remember when, but ever so long ago." "You needn't call me Miss Cake, though," she laughed. "I suppose it's because I'm so hungry." "Then you'll call me Miss Lake when you're thirsty, perhaps," she said. "But, anyhow, I'll see what I can get you. Only, you must eat as little as possible. I want you to get very thin. What you feel is not really hunger--it's only a memory of hunger, and you'll soon get used to it." He stared at her with a very distressful little face as she crossed the room making this new announcement; and just as she disappeared through the trap-door, only her head being visible, she added with great emphasis, "The thinner you get the better; because the thinner you are the lighter you are, and the lighter you are the easier it will be to escape. Remember, the thinner the better--the lighter the better--and don't ask a lot of questions about it." With that the trap-door closed over her, and Jimbo was left alone with her last strange words ringing in his ears. CHAPTER VII THE SPELL OF THE EMPTY HOUSE It was not long before Jimbo realised that the House, and everything connected with it, spelt for him one message, and one only--a message of fear. From the first day of his imprisonment the forces of his whole being shaped themselves without further ado into one intense, single, concentrated desire to _escape_. Freedom, escape into the world beyond that terrible high wall, was his only object, and Miss Lake, the governess, as its symbol, was his only hope. He asked a lot of questions and listened to a lot of answers, but all he really cared about was how he was going to escape, and when. All her other explanations were tedious, and he only half-listened to them. His faith in her was absolute, his patience unbounded; she had come to save him, and he knew that before long she would accomplish her end. He felt a blind and perfect confidence. But, meanwhile, his fear of the House, and his horror for the secret Being who meant to keep him prisoner till at length he became one of the troop of Frightened Children, increased by leaps and bounds. Presently the trap-door creaked again, and the governess reappeared; in her hand was a small white jug and a soup plate. "Thin gruel and skim milk," she explained, pouring out a substance like paste into the soup plate, and handing him a big wooden spoon. But Jimbo's hunger had somehow vanished. "It wasn't real hunger," she told him, "but only a sort of memory of being hungry. They're trying to feed your broken body now in the night-nursery, and so you feel a sort of ghostly hunger here even though you're out of the body." "It's easily satisfied, at any rate," he said, looking at the paste in the soup plate. "No one actually eats or drinks here----" "But I'm solid," he said, "am I not?" "People always think they're solid everywhere," she laughed. "It's only a question of degree; solidity _here_ means a different thing to solidity _there_." "I can get thinner though, can't I?" he asked, thinking of her remark about escape being easier the lighter he grew. She assured him there would be no difficulty about that, and after replying evasively to a lot more questions, she gathered up the dishes and once more disappeared through the trap-door. Jimbo watched her going down the ladder into the black gulf below, and wondered greatly where she went to and what she did down there; but on these points the governess had refused to satisfy his curiosity, and every time she appeared or disappeared the atmosphere of mystery came and went with her. As he stared, wondering, a sound suddenly made itself heard behind him, and on turning quickly round he saw to his great surprise that the door into the passage was open. This was more than he could resist, and in another minute, with mingled feelings of dread and delight, he was out in the passage. When he was first brought to the house, two hours before, it had been too dark to see properly, but now the sun was high in the heavens, and the light still increasing. He crept cautiously to the head of the stairs and peered over into the well of the house. It was still too dark to make things out clearly; but, as he looked, he thought something moved among the shadows below, and for a moment his heart stood still with fear. A large grey face seemed to be staring up at him out of the gloom. He clutched the banisters and felt as if he hardly had strength enough in his legs to get back to the room he had just left; but almost immediately the terror passed, for he saw that the face resolved itself into the mingling of light and shadow, and the features, after all, were of his own creation. He went on slowly and stealthily down the staircase. It was certainly an empty house. There were no carpets; the passages were cold and draughty; the paper curled from the damp walls, leaving ugly discoloured patches about; cobwebs hung in many places from the ceiling, the windows were more or less broken, and all were coated so thickly with dirt that the rain had traced little furrows from top to bottom. Shadows hung about everywhere, and Jimbo thought every minute he saw moving figures; but the figures always resolved themselves into nothing when he looked closely. He began to wonder how far it was safe to go, and why the governess had arranged for the door to be opened--for he felt sure it was she who had done this, and that it was all right for him to come out. Fright, she had said, was never about in the daylight. But, at the same time, something warned him to be ready at a moment's notice to turn and dash up the stairs again to the room where he was at least comparatively safe. So he moved along very quietly and very cautiously. He passed many rooms with the doors open--all empty and silent; some of them had tables and chairs, but no sign of occupation; the grates were black and empty, the walls blank, the windows unshuttered. Everywhere was only silence and shadows; there was no sign of the frightened children, or of where they lived; no trace of another staircase leading to the region where the governess went when she disappeared down the ladder through the trap-door--only hushed, listening, cold silence, and shadows that seemed for ever shifting from place to place as he moved past them. This illusion of people peering at him from corners, and behind doors just ajar, was very strong; yet whenever he turned his head to face them, lo, they were gone, and the shadows rushed in to fill their places. The spell of the Empty House was weaving itself slowly and surely about his heart. Yet he went on pluckily, full of a dreadful curiosity, continuing his search, and at length, after passing through another gloomy passage, he was in the act of crossing the threshold of an open door leading out into the courtyard, when he stopped short and clutched the door-posts with both hands. Some one had laughed! He turned, trying to look in every direction at once, but there was no sign of any living being. Yet the sound was close beside him; he could still hear it ringing in his ears--a mocking sort of laugh, in a harsh, guttural voice. The blood froze in his veins, and he hardly knew which way to turn, when another voice sounded, and his terror disappeared as if by magic. It was Miss Lake's voice calling to him over the banisters at the top of the house, and its tone was so cheerful that all his courage came back in a twinkling. "Go out into the yard," she called, "and play in the sunshine. But don't stay too long." Jimbo answered "All right" in a rather feeble little voice, and went on down the passage and out into the yard. The June sunshine lay hot and still over the paved court, and he looked up into the blue sky overhead. As he looked at the high wall that closed it in on three sides, he realised more than ever that he was caught in a monstrous trap from which there could be no ordinary means of escape. He could never climb over such a wall even with a ladder. He walked out a little way and noticed the rank weeds growing in patches in the corners; decay and neglect left everywhere their dismal signs; the yard, in spite of the sunlight, seemed as gloomy and cheerless as the house itself. In one corner stood several little white upright stones, each about three feet high; there seemed to be some writing on them, and he was in the act of going nearer to inspect, when a window opened and he heard some one calling to him in a loud, excited whisper: "Hst! Come in, Jimbo, at once. Quick! Run for your life!" He glanced up, quaking with fear, and saw the governess leaning out of the open window. At another window, a little beyond her, he thought a number of white little faces pressed against the glass, but he had no time to look more closely, for something in Miss Lake's voice made him turn and run into the house and up the stairs as though Fright himself were close at his heels. He flew up the three flights, and found the governess coming out on the top landing to meet him. She caught him in her arms and dashed back into the room, as if there was not a moment to be lost, slamming the door behind her. "How in the world did you get out?" she gasped, breathless as himself almost, and pale with alarm. "Another second and He'd have had you----!" "I found the door open----" "He opened it on purpose," she whispered, looking quickly round the room. "He meant you to go out." "But you called to me to play in the yard," he said. "I heard you. So of course I thought it was safe." "No," she declared, "I never called to you. That wasn't my voice. That was one of his tricks. I only this minute found the door open and you gone. Oh, Jimbo, that was a narrow escape; you must never go out of this room till--till I tell you. And never believe any of these voices you hear--you'll hear lots of them, saying all sorts of things--but unless you _see_ me, don't believe it's my voice." Jimbo promised. He was very frightened; but she would not tell him any more, saying it would only make it more difficult to escape if he knew too much in advance. He told her about the laugh, and the gravestones, and the faces at the other window, but she would not tell him what he wanted to know, and at last he gave up asking. A very deep impression had been made on his mind, however, and he began to realise, more than he had hitherto done, the horror of his prison and the power of his dreadful keeper. But when he began to look about him again, he noticed that there was a new thing in the room. The governess had left him, and was bending over it. She was doing something very busily indeed. He asked her what it was. "I'm making your bed," she said. It was, indeed, a bed, and he felt as he looked at it that there was something very familiar and friendly about the yellow framework and the little brass knobs. "I brought it up just now," she explained. "But it's not for sleeping in. It's only for you to lie down on, and also partly to deceive Him." "Why not for sleeping?" "There's no sleeping at all here," she went on calmly. "Why not?" "You can't sleep out of your body," she laughed. "Why not?" he asked again. "Your body goes to sleep, but _you_ don't," she explained. "Oh, I see." His head was whirling. "And my body--my real body----" "Is lying asleep--unconscious they call it--in the night-nursery at home. It's sound asleep. That's why you're here. It can't wake up till you go back to it, and you can't go back to it till you escape--even if it's ready for you before then. The bed is only for you to rest on, for you can _rest_ though you can't _sleep_." Jimbo stared blankly at the governess for some minutes. He was debating something in his mind, something very important, and just then it was his Older Self, and not the child, that was uppermost. Apparently it was soon decided, for he walked sedately up to her and said very gravely, with her serious eyes fixed on his face, "Miss Lake, are you _really_ Miss Lake?" "Of course I am." "You're not a trick of His, like the voices, I mean?" "No, Jimbo, I am really Miss Lake, the discharged governess who frightened you." There was profound anxiety in every word. Jimbo waited a minute, still looking steadily into her eyes. Then he put out his hand cautiously and touched her. He rose a little on tiptoe to be on a level with her face, taking a fold of her cloak in each hand. The soul-knowledge was in his eyes just then, not the mere curiosity of the child. "And are you--_dead_?" he asked, sinking his voice to a whisper. For a moment the woman's eyes wavered. She turned white and tried to move away; but the boy seized her hand and peered more closely into her face. "I mean, if we escape and I get back into my body," he whispered, "will you get back into yours too?" The governess made no reply, and shifted uneasily on her feet. But the boy would not let her go. "Please answer," he urged, still in a whisper. "Jimbo, what funny questions you ask!" she said at last, in a husky voice, but trying to smile. "But I want to know," he said. "I must know. I believe you are giving up everything just to save me--_everything_; and I don't want to be saved unless you come too. Tell me!" The colour came back to her cheeks a little, and her eyes grew moist. Again she tried to slip past him, but he prevented her. "You must tell me," he urged; "I would rather stay here with you than escape back into my body and leave you behind." Jimbo knew it was his Older Self speaking--the freed spirit rather than the broken body--but he felt the strain was very great; he could not keep it up much longer; any minute he might slip back into the child again, and lose interest, and be unequal to the task he now saw so clearly before him. "Quick!" he cried in a louder voice. "Tell me! You are giving up everything to save me, aren't you? And if I escape you will be left alone----quick, answer me! Oh, be quick, I'm slipping back----" Already he felt his thoughts becoming confused again, as the spirit merged back into the child; in another minute the boy would usurp the older self. "You see," began the governess at length, speaking very gently and sadly, "I am bound to make amends whatever happens. I must atone----" But already he found it hard to follow. "Atone," he asked, "what does '_atone_' mean?" He moved back a step, and glanced about the room. The moment of concentration had passed without bearing fruit; his thoughts began to wander again like a child's. "Anyhow, we shall escape together when the chance comes, shan't we?" he said. "Yes, darling, we shall," she said in a broken voice. "And if you do what I tell you, it will come very soon, I hope." She drew him towards her and kissed him, and though he didn't respond very heartily, he felt he liked it, and was sure that she was good, and meant to do the best possible for him. Jimbo asked nothing more for some time; he turned to the bed where he found a mattress and a blanket, but no sheets, and sat down on the edge and waited. The governess was standing by the window looking out; her back was turned to him. He heard an occasional deep sigh come from her, but he was too busy now with his own sensations to trouble much about her. Looking past her he saw the sea of green leaves dancing lazily in the sunshine. Something seemed to beckon him from beyond the high wall, and he longed to go out and play in the shade of the elms and hawthorns; for the horror of the Empty House was closing in upon him steadily but surely, and he longed for escape into a bright, unhaunted atmosphere, more than anything else in the whole world. His thoughts ran on and on in this vein, till presently he noticed that the governess was moving about the room. She crossed over and tried first one door and then the other; both were fastened. Next she lifted the trap-door and peered down into the black hole below. That, too, apparently was satisfactory. Then she came over to the bedside on tiptoe. "Jimbo, I've got something very important to ask you," she began. "All right," he said, full of curiosity. "You must answer me very exactly. Everything depends on it." "I will." She took another long look round the room, and then, in a still lower whisper, bent over him, and asked: "Have you any pain?" "Where?" he asked, remembering to be exact. "Anywhere." He thought a moment. "None, thank you." "None at all--anywhere?" she insisted. "None at all--anywhere," he said with decision. She seemed disappointed. "Never mind; it's a little soon yet, perhaps," she said. "We must have patience. It will come in time." "But I don't want any pain," he said, rather ruefully. "You can't escape till it comes." "I don't understand a bit what you mean." He began to feel alarmed at the notion of escape and pain going together. "You'll understand later, though," she said soothingly, "and it won't hurt _very_ much. The sooner the pain comes, the sooner we can try to escape. Nowhere can there be escape without it." And with that she left him, disappearing without another word into the hole below the trap, and leaving him, disconsolate yet excited, alone in the room. CHAPTER VIII THE GALLERY OF ANCIENT MEMORIES With every one, of course, the measurement of time depends largely upon the state of the emotions, but in Jimbo's case it was curiously exaggerated. This may have been because he had no standard of memory by which to test the succession of minutes; but, whatever it was, the hours passed very quickly, and the evening shadows were already darkening the room when at length he got up from the mattress and went over to the window. Outside the high elms were growing dim; soon the stars would be out in the sky. The afternoon had passed away like magic, and the governess still left him alone; he could not quite understand why she went away for such long periods. The darkness came down very swiftly, and it was night almost before he knew it. Yet he felt no drowsiness, no desire to yawn and get under sheets and blankets; sleep was evidently out of the question, and the hours slipped away so rapidly that it made little difference whether he sat up all night or whether he slept. It was his first night in the Empty House, and he wondered how many more he would spend there before escape came. He stood at the window, peering out into the growing darkness and thinking long, long thoughts. Below him yawned the black gulf of the yard, and the outline of the enclosing wall was only just visible, but beyond the elms rose far into the sky, and he could hear the wind singing softly in their branches. The sound was very sweet; it suggested freedom, and the flight of birds, and all that was wild and unrestrained. The wind could never really be a prisoner; its voice sang of open spaces and unbounded distances, of flying clouds and mountains, of mighty woods and dancing waves; above all, of wings--free, swift, and unconquerable wings. But this rushing song of wind among the leaves made him feel too sad to listen long, and he lay down upon the bed again, still thinking, thinking. The house was utterly still. Not a thing stirred within its walls. He felt lonely, and began to long for the companionship of the governess; he would have called aloud for her to come only he was afraid to break the appalling silence. He wondered where she was all this time and how she spent the long, dark hours of the sleepless nights. Were all these things really true that she told him? Was he actually out of his body, and was his name really Jimbo? His thoughts kept groping backwards, ever seeking the other companions he had lost; but, like a piece of stretched elastic too short to reach its object, they always came back with a snap just when he seemed on the point of finding them. He wanted these companions very badly indeed, but the struggling of his memory was painful, and he could not keep the effort up for very long at one time. The effort once relaxed, however, his thoughts wandered freely where they would; and there rose before his mind's eye dim suggestions of memories far more distant--ghostly scenes and faces that passed before him in endless succession, but always faded away before he could properly seize and name them. This memory, so stubborn as regards quite recent events, began to play strange tricks with him. It carried him away into a Past so remote that he could not connect it with himself at all, and it was like dreaming of scenes and events that had happened to some one else; yet, all the time, he knew quite well those things had happened to him, and to none else. It was the memory of the soul asserting itself now that the clamour of the body was low. It was an underground river coming to the surface, for odd minutes, here and there, showing its waters to the stars just long enough to catch their ghostly reflections before it rolled away underground again. Yet, swift and transitory as they were, these glimpses brought in their train sensations that were too powerful ever to have troubled his child-mind in its present body. They stirred in him the strong emotions, the ecstasies, the terrors, the yearnings of a much more distant past; whispering to him, could he but have understood, of an infinitely deeper layer of memories and experiences which, now released from the burden of the immediate years, strove to awaken into life again. The soul in that little body covered with alpaca knickerbockers and a sailor blouse seemed suddenly to have access to a storehouse of knowledge that must have taken centuries, rather than a few short years, to acquire. It was all very queer. The feeling of tremendous age grew mysteriously over him. He realised that he had been wandering for ages. He had been to the stars and also to the deeps; he had roamed over strange mountains far away from cities or inhabited places of the earth, and had lived by streams whose waves were silvered by moonlight dropping softly through whispering palm branches.... Some of these ghostly memories brought him sensations of keenest happiness--icy, silver, radiant; others swept through his heart like a cold wave, leaving behind a feeling of unutterable woe, and a sense of loneliness that almost made him cry aloud. And there came Voices too--Voices that had slept so long in the inner kingdoms of silence that they failed to rouse in him the very slightest emotion of recognition.... Worn out at length with the surging of these strange hosts through him, he got up and went to the open window again. The night was very dark and warm, but the stars had disappeared, and there was the hush and the faint odour of coming rain in the air. He smelt leaves and the earth and the moist things of the ground, the wonderful perfume of the life of the soil. The wind had dropped; all was silent as the grave; the leaves of the elm trees were motionless; no bird or insect raised its voice; everything slept; he alone was watchful, awake. Leaning over the window-sill, his thoughts searched for the governess, and he wondered anew where she was spending the dark hours. She, too, he felt sure, was wakeful somewhere, watching with him, plotting their escape together, and always mindful of his safety.... His reverie was suddenly interrupted by the flight of an immense night-bird dropping through the air just above his head. He sprang back into the room with a startled cry, as it rushed past in the darkness with a great swishing of wings. The size of the creature filled him with awe; it was so close that the wind it made lifted the hair on his forehead, and he could almost feel the feathers brush his cheeks. He strained his eyes to try and follow it, but the shadows were too deep and he could see nothing; only in the distance, growing every moment fainter, he could hear the noise of big wings threshing the air. He waited a little, wondering if another bird would follow it, or if it would presently return to its perch on the roof; and then his thoughts passed on to uncertain memories of other big birds--hawks, owls, eagles--that he had seen somewhere in places now beyond the reach of distinct recollections.... Soon the light began to dawn in the east, and he made out the shape of the elm trees and the dreadful prison wall; and with the first real touch of morning light he heard a familiar creaking sound in the room behind him, and saw the black hood of the governess rising through the trap-door in the floor. "But you've left me alone all night!" he said at once reproachfully, as she kissed him. "On purpose," she answered. "He'd get suspicious if I stayed too much with you. It's different in the daytime, when he can't see properly." "Where's he been all night, then?" asked the boy. "Last night he was out most of the time--hunting----" "Hunting!" he repeated, with excitement. "Hunting what?" "Children--frightened children," she replied, lowering her voice. "That's how he found you." It was a horrible thought--Fright hunting for victims to bring to his dreadful prison--and Jimbo shivered as he heard it. "And how did you get on all this time?" she asked, hurriedly changing the subject. "I've been remembering, that is half-remembering, an awful lot of things, and feeling, oh, so old. I never want to remember anything again," he said wearily. "You'll forget quick enough when you get back into your body, and have only the body-memories," she said, with a sigh that he did not understand. "But, now tell me," she added, in a more serious voice, "have you had any pain yet?" He shook his head. She stepped up beside him. "None _there_?" she asked, touching him lightly just behind the shoulder blades. Jimbo jumped as if he had been shot, and uttered a piercing yell. "That hurts!" he screamed. "I'm so glad," cried the governess. "That's the pains coming at last." Her face was beaming. "Coming!" he echoed, "I think they've _come_. But if they hurt as much as that, I think I'd rather not escape," he added ruefully. "The pain won't last more than a minute," she said calmly. "You must be brave and stand it. There's no escape without pain--from anything." "If there's no other way," he said pluckily, "I'll try,--but----" "You see," she went on, rather absently, "at this very moment the doctor is probing the wounds in your back where the horns went in----" But he was not listening. Her explanations always made him want either to cry or to laugh. This time he laughed, and the governess joined him, while they sat on the edge of the bed together talking of many things. He did not understand all her explanations, but it comforted him to hear them. So long as somebody understood, no matter who, he felt it was all right. In this way several days and nights passed quickly away. The pains were apparently no nearer, but as Miss Lake showed no particular anxiety about their non-arrival, he waited patiently too, dreading the moment, yet also looking forward to it exceedingly. During the day the governess spent most of the time in the room with him; but at night, when he was alone, the darkness became enchanted, the room haunted, and he passed into the long, long Gallery of Ancient Memories. CHAPTER IX THE MEANS OF ESCAPE A week passed, and Jimbo began to wonder if the pains he so much dreaded, yet so eagerly longed for, were ever coming at all. The imprisonment was telling upon him, and he grew very thin, and consequently very light. The nights, though he spent them alone, were easily borne, for he was then intensely occupied, and the time passed swiftly; the moment it was dark he stepped into the Gallery of Memories, and in a little while passed into a new world of wonder and delight. But the daytime seemed always long. He stood for hours by the window watching the trees and the sky, and what he saw always set painful currents running through his blood--unsatisfied longings, yearnings, and immense desires he never could understand. The white clouds on their swift journeys took with them something from his heart every time he looked upon them; they melted into air and blue sky, and lo! that "something" came back to him charged with all the wild freedom and magic of open spaces, distance, and rushing winds. But the change was close at hand. One night, as he was standing by the open window listening to the drip of the rain, he felt a deadly weakness steal over him; the strength went out of his legs. First he turned hot, and then he turned cold; clammy perspiration broke out all over him, and it was all he could do to crawl across the room and throw himself on to the bed. But no sooner was he stretched out on the mattress than the feelings passed entirely, and left behind them an intoxicating sense of strength and lightness. His muscles became like steel springs; his bones were strong as iron and light as cork; a wonderful vigour had suddenly come into him, and he felt as if he had just stepped from a dungeon into fresh air. He was ready to face anything in the world. But, before he had time to realise the full enjoyment of these new sensations, a stinging, blinding pain shot suddenly through his right shoulder as if a red-hot iron had pierced to the very bone. He screamed out in agony; though, even while he screamed, the pain passed. Then the same thing happened in his other shoulder. It shot through his back with equal swiftness, and was gone, leaving him lying on the bed trembling with pain. But the instant it was gone the delightful sensations of strength and lightness returned, and he felt as if his whole body were charged with some new and potent force. The pains had come at last! Jimbo had no notion how they could possibly be connected with escape, but Miss Lake--his kind and faithful friend, Miss Lake--had said that no escape was possible without them; and had promised that they should be brief. And this was true, for the entire episode had not taken a minute of time. "ESCAPE, ESCAPE!"--the words rushed through him like a flame of fire. Out of this dreadful Empty House, into the open spaces; beyond the prison wall; out where the wind and the rain could touch him; where he could feel the grass beneath his feet, and could see the whole sky at once, instead of this narrow strip through the window. His thoughts flew to the stars and the clouds.... But a strange humming of voices interrupted his flight of imagination, and he saw that the room was suddenly full of moving figures. They were passing before him with silent footsteps, across the window from door to door. How they had come in, or how they went out, he never knew; but his heart stood still for an instant as he recognised the mournful figures of the Frightened Children filing before him in a slow procession. They were singing--though it sounded more like a chorus of whispering than actual singing--and as they moved past with the measured steps of their sorrowful dance, he caught the words of the song he had heard them sing when he first came into the house:-- "We hear the little voices in the wind Singing of freedom we may never find." Jimbo put his fingers into his ears, but still the sound came through. He heard the words almost as if they were inside himself--his own thoughts singing:-- "We hear the little footsteps in the rain Running to help us, though they run in vain, Tapping in hundreds on the window-pane." The horrible procession filed past and melted away near the door. They were gone as mysteriously as they had come, and almost before he realised it. He sprang from the bed and tried the doors; both were locked. How in the world had the children got in and out? The whispering voices rose again on the night air, and this time he was sure they came from outside. He ran to the open window and thrust his head out cautiously. Sure enough, the procession was moving slowly, still with the steps of that impish dance across the courtyard stones. He could just make out the slow waving arms, the thin bodies, and the white little faces as they passed on silent feet through the darkness, and again a fragment of the song rose to his ears as he watched, and filled him with an overpowering sadness:-- "We have no joy in any children's game, For happiness to us is but a name, Since Terror kissed us with his lips of flame." Then he noticed that the group was growing smaller. Already the numbers were less. Somewhere, over there in the dark corner of the yard, the children disappeared, though it was too dark to see precisely how or where. "We dance with phantoms, and with shadows play," rose to his ears. Suddenly he remembered the little white upright stones he had seen in that corner of the yard, and understood. One by one they vanished just behind those stones. Jimbo shivered, and drew his head in. He did not like those upright stones; they made him uncomfortable and afraid. Now, however, the last child had disappeared and the song had ceased. He realised what his fate would be if the escape were not successful; he would become one of this band of Frightened Children; dwelling somewhere behind the upright stones; a terrified shadow, waiting in vain to be rescued, waiting perhaps for ever and ever. The thought brought the tears to his eyes, but he somehow managed to choke them down. He knew it was the young portion of him only that felt afraid--the body; the older self could not feel fear, and had nothing to do with tears. He lay down again upon the hard mattress and waited; and soon afterwards the first crimson streaks of sunrise appeared behind the high elms, and rooks began to caw and shake their wings in the upper branches. A little later the governess came in. Before he could move out of the way--for he disliked being embraced--she had her arms round his neck, and was covering him with kisses. He saw tears in her eyes. "You darling Jimbo!" she cried, "they've come at last." "How do you know?" he asked, surprised at her knowledge and puzzled by her display of emotion. "I heard you scream to begin with. Besides, I've been watching." "Watching?" "Yes, and listening too, every night, every single night. You've hardly been a minute out of my sight," she added. "I think it's awfully good of you," he said doubtfully, "but----" A flood of questions followed--about the upright stones, the shadowy children, where she spent the night "watching him," and a hundred other things besides. But he got little satisfaction out of her. He never did when it was Jimbo, the child, that asked; and he remained Jimbo, the child, all that day. She only told him that all was going well. The pains had come; he had grown nice and thin, and light; the children had come into his room as a hint that he belonged to their band, and other things had happened about which she would tell him later. The crisis was close at hand. That was all he could get out of her. "It won't be long now," she said excitedly. "They'll come to-night, I expect." "What will come to-night?" he asked, with querulous wonder. "Wait and see!" was all the answer he got. "Wait and see!" She told him to lie quietly on the bed and to have patience. With asking questions, and thinking, and wondering, the day passed very quickly. With the lengthening shadows his excitement began to grow. Presently Miss Lake took her departure and went off to her unknown and mysterious abode; he watched her disappear through the floor with mingled feelings, wondering what would have happened before he saw her again. She gave him a long, last look as she sank away below the boards, but it was a look that brought him fresh courage, and her eyes were happy and smiling. Tingling already with expectancy he got into the bed and lay down, his brain alive with one word--ESCAPE. From where he lay he saw the stars in the narrow strip of sky; he heard the wind whispering in the branches; he even smelt the perfume of the fields and hedges--grass, flowers, dew, and the sweet earth--the odours of freedom. The governess had, for some reason she refused to explain, taken his blouse away with her. For a long time he puzzled over this, seeking reasons and finding none. But, while in the act of stroking his bare arms, the pains of the night before suddenly returned to both shoulders at once. Fire seemed to run down his back, splitting his bones apart, and then passed even more quickly than before, leaving him with the same wonderful sensations of lightness and strength. He felt inclined to shout and run and jump, and it was only the memory of the governess's earnest caution to "lie quietly" that prevented his new emotions passing into acts. With very great effort he lay still all night long; and it was only when the room at last began to get light again that he turned on his side, preparatory to getting up. But there was something new--something different! He rested on his elbow, waiting. Something had happened to him. Cautiously he sat on the edge of the bed, and stretched out one foot and touched the floor. Excitement ran through him like a wave. There was a great change, a tremendous change; for as he stepped out gingerly on to the floor _something followed him from the bed_. It clung to his back; it touched both shoulders at once; it stroked his ribs, and tickled the skin of his arms. Half frightened, he brought the other leg over, and stood boldly upright on both feet. But the weight still clung to his back. He looked over his shoulder. Yes! it was trailing after him from the bed; it was fan-shaped, and brilliant in colour. He put out a hand and touched it; it was soft and glossy; then he took it deliberately between his fingers; it was smooth as velvet, and had numerous tiny ribs running along it. Seizing it at last with all his courage, he pulled it forward in front of him for a better view, only to discover that it would not come out beyond a certain distance, and seemed to have got caught somehow between his shoulders--just where the pains had been. A second pull, more vigorous than the first, showed that it was not caught, but _fastened_ to his skin; it divided itself, moreover, into two portions, one half coming from each shoulder. "I do believe they're feathers!" he exclaimed, his eyes almost popping out of his head. Then, with a sudden flash of comprehension, he saw it all, and understood. They were, indeed, feathers; but they were something more than feathers merely. _They were wings!_ Jimbo caught his breath and stared in silence. He felt dazed. Then bit by bit the fragments of the weird mosaic fell into their proper places, and he began to understand. Escape was to be by flight. It filled him with such a whirlwind of delight and excitement that he could scarcely keep from screaming aloud. Lost in wonder, he took a step forward, and watched with bulging eyes how the wings followed him, their tips trailing along the floor. They were a beautiful deep red, and hung down close and warm beside his body; glossy, sleek, magical. And when, later, the sun burst into the room and turned their colour into living flame, he could not resist the temptation to kiss them. He seized them, and rubbed their soft surfaces over his face. Such colours he had never seen before, and he wanted to be sure that they really belonged to him and were intended for actual use. Slowly, without using his hands, he raised them into the air. The effort was a perfectly easy muscular effort from the shoulders that came naturally, though he did not quite understand how he accomplished it. The wings rose in a fine, graceful sweep, curving over his head till the tips of the feathers met, touching the walls as they rose, and almost reaching to the ceiling. He gave a howl of delight, for this sight was more than he could manage without some outlet for his pent-up emotion; and at the same moment the trap-door shot open, and the governess came into the room with such a bang and a clatter that Jimbo knew at once her excitement was as great as his own. In her hands she carried the blouse she had taken away the night before. She held it out to him without a word. Her eyes were shining like electric lamps. In less than a second he had slipped his wings through the neatly-made slits, but before he could practise them again, Miss Lake rushed over to him, her face radiant with happiness. "Jimbo! My darling Jimbo!" she cried--and then stopped short, apparently unable to express her emotion. The next instant he was enveloped, wings and all, in a warm confusion of kisses, congratulations and folds of hood. When they became disentangled again the governess went down on her knees and made a careful examination; she pulled the wings out to their full extent and found that they stretched about four feet and a half from tip to tip. "They _are_ beauties!" she exclaimed enthusiastically, "and full grown and strong. I'm not surprised they took so long coming." "Long!" he echoed, "I thought they came awfully quickly." "Not half so quickly as they'll go," she interrupted; adding, when she saw his expression of dismay, "I mean, you'll fly like the wind with them." Jimbo was simply breathless with excitement. He wanted to jump out of the window and escape at once. The blue sky and the sunshine and the white flying clouds sent him an irresistible invitation. He could not wait a minute longer. "Quick," he cried, "I can't wait! They may go again. Show me how to use them. Oh! do show me." "I'll show you everything in time," she answered. There was something in her voice that made him pause in his excitement. He looked at her in silence for some minutes. "But how are _you_ going to escape?" he asked at length. "You haven't got"----he stopped short. The governess stepped back a few paces from him. She threw back the hood from her face. Then she lifted the long black cloak that hung like a cassock almost to her ankles and had always enveloped her hitherto. Jimbo stared. Falling from her shoulders, and folding over her hips, he saw long red feathers clinging to her; and when he dashed forward to touch them with his hands, he found they were just as sleek and smooth and glossy as his own. "And you never told me all this time?" he gasped. "It was safer not," she said. "You'd have been stroking and feeling your shoulders the whole time, and the wings might never have come at all." She spread out her wings as she spoke to their full extent; they were nearly six feet across, and the deep crimson on the under side was so exquisite, gleaming in the sunlight, that Jimbo ran in and nestled beneath the feathers, tickling his cheeks with the fluffy surface and running his fingers with childish delight along the slender red quills. "You precious child," she said, tenderly folding her wings round him and kissing the top of his head. "Always remember that I really love you; no matter what happens, remember that, and I'll save you." "And we shall escape together?" he asked, submitting for once to the caresses with a good grace. "We shall escape from the Empty House together," she replied evasively. "How far we can go after that depends--on you." "On me?" "If you love me enough--as I love you, Jimbo--we can never separate again, because love ties us together for ever. Only," she added, "it must be mutual." "I love you very much," he said, puzzled a little. "Of course I do." "If you've really forgiven me for being the cause of your coming here," she said, "we can always be together, but----" "I don't remember, but I've forgiven you--that _other you_--long ago," he said simply. "If you hadn't brought me here, I should never have met you." "That's not real forgiveness--quite," she sighed, half to herself. But Jimbo could not follow this sort of conversation for long; he was too anxious to try his wings for one thing. "Is it _very_ difficult to use them?" he asked. "Try," she said. He stood in the centre of the floor and raised them again and again. They swept up easily, meeting over his head, and the air whistled musically through them. Evidently, they had their proper muscles, for it was no great effort, and when he folded them again by his side they fell into natural curves over his arms as if they had been there all his life. The sound of the feathers threshing the air filled him with delight and made him think of the big night-bird that had flown past the window during the night. He told the governess about it, and she burst out laughing. "I was that big bird!" she said. "You!" "I perched on the roof every night to watch over you. I flew down that time because I was afraid you were trying to climb out of the window." This was indeed a proof of devotion, and Jimbo felt that he could never doubt her again; and when she went on to tell him about his wings and how to use them he listened with his very best attention and tried hard to learn and understand. "The great difficulty is that you can't practise properly," she explained. "There's no room in here, and yet you can't get out till you _fly_ out. It's the first swoop that decides all. You have to drop straight out of this window, and if you use the wings properly they will carry you in a single swoop over the wall and right up into the sky." "But if I miss----?" "You can't miss," she said with decision, "but, if you did, you would be a prisoner here for ever. HE would catch you in the yard and tear your wings off. It is just as well that you should know this at once." Jimbo shuddered as he heard her. "When can we try?" he asked anxiously. "Very soon now. The muscles must harden first, and that takes a little time. You must practise flapping your wings until you can do it easily four hundred times a minute. When you can do that it will be time for the first start. You must keep your head steady and not get giddy; the novelty of the motion--the ground rushing up into your face and the whistling of the wind--are apt to confuse at first, but it soon passes, and you must have confidence. I can only help you up to a certain point; the rest depends on you." "And the first jump?" "You'll have to make that by yourself," she said; "but you'll do it all right. You're very light, and won't go too near the ground. You see, we're like bats, and cannot rise from the earth. We can only fly by dropping from a height, and that's what makes the first plunge rather trying. But you won't fall," she added, "and remember, I shall always be within reach." "You're awfully kind to me," said Jimbo, feeling his little soul more than ever invaded by the force of her unselfish care. "I promise you I'll do my best." He climbed on to her knee and stared into her anxious face. "Then you are beginning to love me a little, aren't you?" she asked softly, putting her arms round him. "Yes," he said decidedly. "I love you very much already." Four hundred times a minute sounded a very great deal of wing-flapping; but Jimbo practised eagerly, and though at first he could only manage about twice a second, or one hundred and twenty times a minute, he found this increased very soon to a great deal more, and before long he was able to do the full four hundred, though only for a few minutes at a time. He stuck to it pluckily, getting stronger every day. The governess encouraged him as much as possible, but there was very little room for her while he was at work, and he found the best way to practise was at night when she was out of the way. She told him that a large bird moved its wings about four times a second, two up-strokes and two down-strokes; but a small bird like a partridge moved its wings so rapidly it was impossible for the eye to distinguish or count the strokes. A middle course of four hundred suited his own case best, and he bent all his energies to acquire it. He also learned that the convex outside curve of wings allowed the wind to escape over them, while the under side, being concave, held every breath. Thus the upward stroke did not simply counterbalance the downward and keep him stationary. Moreover, she showed him how the feathers underlapped each other so that the downward stroke pressed them closely together to hold the wind, whereas in the upward stroke they opened and separated, letting the air slip easily through them, thus offering less resistance to the atmosphere. By the end of a week Jimbo had practised so hard that he could keep himself off the floor in mid-air for half an hour at a time, and even then without feeling any great fatigue. His excitement became intense; and, meanwhile, in his body on the nursery bed, though he did not know it, the fever was reaching its crisis. He could think of nothing else but the joys of flying, and what the first, awful plunge would be like, and when Miss Lake came up to him one afternoon and whispered something in his ear, he was so wildly happy that he hugged her for several minutes without the slightest coaxing. "It's bright and clear," she explained, "and Fright will not come after us, for he fears the light, and can only fly on dark and gloomy nights." "So we can start----?" he stammered joyfully. "To-night," she answered, "for our first practice-flight." CHAPTER X THE PLUNGE To enter the world of wings is to enter a new state of existence. The apparent loss of weight; the ability to attain full speed in a few seconds, and to stop suddenly in a headlong rush without fear of collapse; the power to steer instantly in any direction by merely changing the angle of the body; the altered and enormous view of the green world below--looking down upon forests, seas and clouds; the easy voluptuous rhythm of rising and falling in long, swinging undulations; and a hundred other things that simply defy description and can be appreciated only by actual experience, these are some of the delights of the new world of wings and flying. And the fearful joy of very high speed, especially when the exhilaration of escape is added to it, means a condition little short of real ecstasy. Yet Jimbo's first flight, the governess had been careful to tell him, could not be the flight of final escape; for, even if the wings proved equal to a prolonged effort, escape was impossible until there was somewhere safe to escape to. So it was understood that the practice flights might be long, or might be short; the important thing, meanwhile, was to learn to fly as well as possible. For skilled flying is very different to mere headlong rushing, and both courage and perseverance are necessary to acquire it. With rare common sense Miss Lake had said very little about the possibility of failure. Having warned him about the importance of not falling, she had then stopped, and the power of suggestion had been allowed to work only in the right direction of certain success. While the boy knew that the first plunge from the window would be a moment fraught with the highest danger, his mind only recognised the mere off-chance of falling and being caught. He felt confidence in himself, and by so much, therefore, were the chances of disaster lessened. For the rest of the afternoon Jimbo saw nothing of his faithful companion; he spent the time practising and resting, and when weary of everything else, he went to the window and indulged in thrilling calculations about the exact height from the ground. A drop of three storeys into a paved courtyard with a monster waiting to catch him, and a high wall too close to allow a proper swing, was an alarming matter from any point of view. Fortunately, his mind dwelt more on the delight of prospective flight and freedom than on the chances of being caught. The yard lay hot and naked in the afternoon glare and the enclosing wall had never looked more formidable; but from his lofty perch Jimbo could see beyond into soft hayfields and smiling meadows, yellow with cowslips and buttercups. Everything that flew he watched with absorbing interest: swift blackbirds, whistling as they went, and crows, their wings purple in the sunshine. The song of the larks, invisible in the sea of blue air sent a thrill of happiness through him--he, too, might soon know something of that glad music--and even the stately flight of the butterflies, which occasionally ventured over into the yard, stirred anticipations in him of joys to come. The day waned slowly. The butterflies vanished; the rooks sailed homewards through the sunset; the wind dropped away, and the shadows of the high elms lengthened gradually and fell across the window. The mysterious hour of the dusk, when the standard of reality changes and other worlds come close and listen, began to work its subtle spell upon his soul. Imperceptibly the shadows deepened as the veil of night drew silently across the sky. A gentle breathing filled the air; trees and fields were composing themselves to sleep; stars were peeping; wings were being folded. But the boy's wings, trembling with life to the very tips of their long feathers, these were not being folded. Charged with excitement, like himself, they were gathering all their forces for the supreme effort of their first journey out into the open spaces where they might touch the secret sources of their own magical life. For a long, long time he waited; but at last the trap-door lifted and Miss Lake appeared above the floor. The moment she stood in the room he noticed that her wings came through two little slits in her gown and folded down close to the body. They almost touched the ground. "Hush!" she whispered, holding up a warning finger. She came over on tiptoe and they began to talk in low whispers. "He's on the watch; we must speak very quietly. We couldn't have a better night for it. The wind's in the south and the moon won't be up till we're well on our way." Now that the actual moment was so near the boy felt something of fear steal over him. The night seemed so vast and terrible all of a sudden--like an immense black ocean with no friendly islands where they could fold their wings and rest. "Don't waste your strength thinking," whispered the governess. "When the time comes, act quickly, that's all!" She went over to the window and peered out cautiously, after a while beckoning the child to join her. "He is there," she murmured in his ear. Jimbo could only make out an indistinct shadowy object crouching under the wall, and he was not even positive of that. "Does he know we're going?" he asked in an awed whisper. "He's there on the chance," she muttered, drawing back into the room. "When there's a possibility of any one getting frightened he's bound to be lurking about somewhere near. That's Fright all over. But he can't hurt you," she added, "because you're not going to get frightened. Besides, he can only fly when it's dark; and to-night we shall have the moon." "I'm not afraid," declared the boy in spite of a rather fluttering heart. "Are you ready?" was all she said. At last, then, the moment had come. It was actually beside him, waiting, full of mystery and wonder, with alarm not far behind. The sun was buried below the horizon of the world, and the dusk had deepened into night. Stars were shining overhead; the leaves were motionless; not a breath stirred; the earth was silent and waiting. "Yes, I'm ready," he whispered, almost inaudibly. "Then listen," she said, "and I'll tell you exactly what to do: Jump upwards from the window ledge as high as you can, and the moment you begin to drop, open your wings and strike with all your might. You'll rise at once. The thing to remember is to _rise as quickly as possible_, because the wall prevents a long, easy, sweeping rise; and, whatever happens, you must clear that wall!" "I shan't touch the ground then?" asked a faint little voice. "Of course not! You'll get near it, but the moment you use your wings you'll stop sinking, and rise up, up, up, ever so quickly." "And where to?" "To me. You'll see me waiting for you above the trees. Steering will come naturally; it's quite easy." Jimbo was already shaking with excitement. He could not help it. And he knew, in spite of all Miss Lake's care, that Fright was waiting in the yard to catch him if he fell, or sank too near the ground. "I'll go first," added the governess, "and the moment you see that I've cleared the wall you must jump after me. Only do not keep me waiting!" The girl stood for a minute in silence, arranging her wings. Her fingers were trembling a little. Suddenly she drew the boy to her and kissed him passionately. "Be brave!" she whispered, looking searchingly into his eyes, "and strike hard--you can't possibly fail." In another minute she was climbing out of the window. For one second he saw her standing on the narrow ledge with black space at her feet; the next, without even a cry, she sprang out into the darkness, and was gone. Jimbo caught his breath and ran up to see. She dropped like a stone, turning over sideways in the air, and then at once her wings opened on both sides and she righted. The darkness swallowed her up for a moment so that he could not see clearly, and only heard the threshing of the huge feathers; but it was easy to tell from the sound that she was rising. Then suddenly a black form cleared the wall and rose swiftly in a magnificent sweep into the sky, and he saw her outlined darkly against the stars above the high elm tree. She was safe. Now it was his turn. "Act quickly! Don't think!" rang in his ears. If only he could do it all as quickly as she had done it. But insidious fear had been working all the time below the surface, and his refusal to recognise it could not prevent it weakening his muscles and checking his power of decision. Fortunately something of his Older Self came to the rescue. The emotions of fear, excitement, and intense anticipation combined to call up the powers of his deeper being: the boy trembled horribly, but the old, experienced part of him sang with joy. Cautiously he began to climb out on to the window-sill; first one foot and then the other hung over the edge. He sat there, staring down into black space beneath. For a minute he hesitated; despair rushed over him in a wave; he could never take that awful jump into emptiness and darkness. It was impossible. Better be a prisoner for ever than risk so fearful a plunge. He felt cold, weak, frightened, and made a half-movement back into the room. The wings caught somehow between his legs and nearly flung him headlong into the yard. "Jimbo! I'm waiting for you!" came at that moment in a faint cry from the stars, and the sound gave him just the impetus he needed before it was too late. He could not disappoint her--his faithful friend. Such a thing was impossible. He stood upright on the ledge, his hands clutching the window-sash behind, balancing as best he could. He clenched his fists, drew a deep, long breath, and jumped upwards and forwards into the air. Up rushed the darkness with a shriek; the air whistled in his ears; he dropped at fearful speed into nothingness. At first everything was forgotten--wings, instructions, warnings, and all. He even forgot to open his wings at all, and in another second he would have been dashed upon the hard paving-stones of the courtyard where his great enemy lay waiting to seize him. But just in the nick of time he remembered, and the long hours of practice bore fruit. Out flew the great red wings in a tremendous sweep on both sides of him, and he began to strike with every atom of strength he possessed. He had dropped to within six feet of the ground; but at once the strokes began to tell, and oh, magical sensation! he felt himself rising easily, lightly, swiftly. A very slight effort of those big wings would have been sufficient to lift him out of danger, but in his terror and excitement he quite miscalculated their power, and in a single moment he was far out of reach of the dangerous yard and anything it contained. But the mad rush of it all made his head swim; he felt dizzy and confused, and, instead of clearing the wall, he landed on the top of it and clung to the crumbling coping with hands and feet, panting and breathless. The dizziness was only momentary, however. In less than a minute he was on his feet and in the act of taking his second leap into space. This time it came more easily. He dropped, and the field swung up to meet him. Soon the powerful strokes of his wings drove him at great speed upwards, and he bounded ever higher towards the stars. Overhead, the governess hovered like an immense bird, and as he rose up he caught the sound of her wings beating the air, while far beneath him, he heard with a shudder a voice like the rushing of a great river. It made him increase his pace, and in another minute he found himself among the little whirlwinds that raced about from the beating of Miss Lake's great wings. "Well done!" cried the delighted governess. "Safe at last! Now we can fly to our heart's content!" Jimbo flew up alongside, and together they dashed forward into the night. CHAPTER XI THE FIRST FLIGHT There was not much talking at first. The stress of conflicting emotions was so fierce that the words choked themselves in his throat, and the desire for utterance found its only vent in hard breathing. The intoxication of rapid motion carried him away headlong in more senses than one. At first he felt as if he never would be able to keep up; then it seemed as if he never would get down again. For with wings it is almost easier to rise than to fall, and a first flight is, before anything else, a series of vivid and audacious surprises. For a long time Jimbo was so dizzy with excitement and the novelty of the sensation that he forgot his deliverer altogether. And what a flight it was! Instead of the steady race of the carrier pigeon, or of the rooks homeward bound at evening, it was the see-saw motion of the wren's swinging journey across the lawn; only heavier, faster, and with more terrific impetus. Up and down, each time with a rise and fall of twenty feet, he careered, whistling through the summer night; at the drop of each curve, so low that the scents of dewy grass rose into his face; at the crest of it, so high that the trees and hedges often became mere blots upon the dark surface of the earth. The fields rushed by beneath him; the white roads flashed past like streaks of snow. Sometimes he shot across sheets of water and felt the cooler air strike his cheeks; sometimes over sheltered meadows, where the sunshine had slept all day and the air was still soft and warm; on and on, as easily as rain dropping from the sky, or wind rushing earthwards from between the clouds. Everything flew past him at an astonishing rate--everything but the bright stars that gazed calmly down overhead; and when he looked up and saw their steadfastness it helped to keep within bounds the fine alarm of this first excursion into the great vault of the sky. "Gently, child!" gasped Miss Lake behind him. "We shall never keep it up at this rate." "Oh! but it's so wonderful," he cried, drawing in the air loudly between his teeth, and shaking his wings rapidly like a hawk before it drops. The pace slackened a little and the girl drew up alongside. For some time they flew forward together in silence. They had been skirting the edge of a wood, when suddenly the trees fell away and Jimbo gave a scream and rose fifty feet into the air with a single bound. Straight in front of him loomed an immense, glaring disc that seemed to swim suddenly up into the sky above the trees. It hung there before his eyes and dazzled him. "It's only the moon," cried Miss Lake from below. Jimbo dropped through the air to her side again with a gasp. "I thought it was a big hole in the sky with fire rushing through," he explained breathlessly. The boy stared, full of wonder and delight, at the huge flaming circle that seemed to fill half the heavens in front of him. "Look out!" cried the governess, seizing his hand. Whish! whew! whirr! A large bird whipped past them like some winged imp of darkness, vanishing among the trees far below. There would certainly have been a collision but for the girl's energetic interference. "You must be on the look-out for these night-birds," she said. "They fly so unexpectedly, and, of course, they don't see us properly. Telegraph wires and church steeples are bad too, but then we shan't fly over cities much. Keep a good height, it's safer." They altered their course a little, flying at a different angle, so that the moon no longer dazzled them. Steering came quite easily by turning the body, and Jimbo still led the way, the governess following heavily and with a mighty business of wings and flapping. It was something to remember, the glory of that first journey through the air. Sixty miles an hour, and scarcely an effort! Skimming the long ridges of the hills and rushing through the pure air of mountain tops; threading the star-beams; bathing themselves from head to foot in an ocean of cool, clean wind; swimming on the waves of viewless currents--currents warmed only by the magic of the stars, and kissed by the burning lips of flying meteors. Far below them the moonlight touched the fields with silver and the murmur of the world rose faintly to their ears, trembling, as it were, with the inarticulate dreams of millions. Everywhere about them thrilled and sang the unspeakable power of the night. The mystery of its great heart seemed laid bare before them. It was like a wonder-journey in some Eastern fairy tale. Sometimes they passed through zones of sweeter air, perfumed with the scents of hay and wild flowers; at others, the fresh, damp odour of ploughed fields rose up to them; or, again, they went spinning over leagues of forest where the tree-tops stretched beneath them like the surface of a wide, green sea, sleeping in the moonlight. And, when they crossed open water, the stars shone reflected in their faces; and all the while the wings, whirring and purring softly through the darkness, made pleasant music in their ears. "I'm tired," declared Jimbo presently. "Then we'll go down and rest," said his breathless companion with obvious relief. She showed him how to spread his wings, sloping them towards the ground at an angle that enabled him to shoot rapidly downwards, at the same time regulating his speed by the least upward tilt. It was a glorious motion, without effort or difficulty, though the pace made it hard to keep the eyes open, and breathing became almost impossible. They dropped to within ten feet of the ground and then shot forward again. But, while the boy was watching his companion's movements, and paying too little attention to his own, there rose suddenly before him out of the ground a huge, bulky form of something--and crash--he flew headlong into it. Fortunately it was only a haystack; but the speed at which he was going lodged his head several inches under the thatch, whence he projected horizontally into space, feet, arms, and wings gyrating furiously. The governess, however, soon released him with much laughter, and they dropped down into the fallen hay upon the ground with no worse result than a shaking. "Oh, what a lark!" he cried, shaking the hay out of his feathers, and rubbing his head rather ruefully. "Except that larks are hardly night-birds," she laughed, helping him. They settled with folded wings in the shadow of the haystack; and the big moon, peeping over the edge at them, must have surely wondered to see such a funny couple, in such a place, and at such an hour. "Mushrooms!" suddenly cried the governess, springing to her feet. "There must be lots in this field. I'll go and pick some while you rest a bit." Off she went, trapesing over the field in the moonlight, her wings folded behind her, her body bent a little forward as she searched, and in ten minutes she came back with her hands full. That was undoubtedly the time to enjoy mushrooms at their best, with the dew still on their tight little jackets, and the sweet odour of the earth caught under their umbrellas. Soon they were all eaten, and Jimbo was lying back on a pile of hay, his shoulders against the wall of the stack, and his wings gathered round him like a warm cloak of feathers. He felt cosy and dozy, full of mushrooms inside and covered with hay and feathers outside. The governess had once told him that a sort of open-air sleep sometimes came after a long flight. It was, of course, not a real sleep, but a state in which everything about oneself is forgotten; no dreams, no movement, no falling asleep and waking up in the ordinary sense, but a condition of deep repose in which recuperation is very great. Jimbo would have been greatly interested, no doubt, to know that his real body on the bed had also just been receiving nourishment, and was now passing into a quieter and less feverish condition. The parallel always held true between himself and his body in the nursery, but he could not know anything about this, and only supposed that it was this open-air sleep that he felt gently stealing over him. It brought at first strange thoughts that carried him far away to other woods and other fields. While Miss Lake sat beside him eating her mushrooms, his mind was drawn off to some other little folk. But it was always stopped just short of them. He never could quite see their faces. Yet his thoughts continued their search, groping in the darkness; he felt sure he ought to be sharing his adventures with these other little persons, whoever they were; they ought to have been sitting beside him at that very moment, eating mushrooms, combing their wings, comparing the length of their feathers, and snuggling with him into the warm hay. But they obstinately hovered just outside his memory, and refused to come in and surrender themselves. He could not remember who they were, and his yearnings went unsatisfied up to the stars, as yearnings generally do, while his thoughts returned weary from their search and he yielded to the seductions of the soothing open-air sleep. The moon, meanwhile, rose higher and higher, drawing a silver veil over the stars. Upon the field the dews of midnight fell silently. A faint mist rose from the ground and covered the flowers in their dim seclusion under the hedgerows. The hours slipped away swiftly. "Come on, Jimbo, boy!" cried the governess at length. "The moon's below the hills, and we must be off!" The boy turned and stared sleepily at her from his nest in the hay. "We've got miles to go. Remember the speed we came at!" she explained, getting up and arranging her wings. Jimbo got up slowly and shook himself. "I've been miles away," he said dreamily, "miles and miles. But I'm ready to start at once." They looked about for a raised place to jump from. A ladder stood against the other side of the haystack. The governess climbed up it and Jimbo followed her drowsily. Hand in hand they sprang into the air from the edge of the thatched roof, and their wings spread out like sails to catch the wind. It smote their faces pleasantly as they plunged downwards and forwards, and the exhilarating rush of cool air banished from the boy's head the last vestige of the open-air sleep. "We must keep up a good pace," cried the governess, taking a stream and the hedge beyond in a single sweep. "There's a light in the east already." As she spoke a dog howled in a farmyard beneath them, and she shot upwards as though lifted by a sudden gust of wind. "We're too low," she shouted from above. "That dog felt us near. Come up higher. It's easier flying, and we've got a long way to go." Jimbo followed her up till they were several hundred feet above the earth and the keen air stung their cheeks. Then she led him still higher, till the meadows looked like the squares on a chess-board and the trees were like little toy shrubs. Here they rushed along at a tremendous speed, too fast to speak, their wings churning the air into little whirlwinds and eddies as they passed, whizzing, whistling, tearing through space. The fields, however, were still dim in the shadows that precede the dawn, and the stars only just beginning to fade, when they saw the dark outline of the Empty House below them, and began carefully to descend. Soon they topped the high elms, startling the rooks into noisy cawing, and then, skimming the wall, sailed stealthily on outspread wings across the yard. Cautiously dropping down to the level of the window, they crawled over the sill into the dark little room, and folded their wings. CHAPTER XII THE FOUR WINDS The governess left the boy to his own reflections almost immediately. He spent the hours thinking and resting; going over again in his mind every incident of the great flight and wondering when the real, final escape would come, and what it would be like. Thus, between the two states of excitement he forgot for a while that he was still a prisoner, and the spell of horror was lifted temporarily from his heart. The day passed quickly, and when Miss Lake appeared in the evening, she announced that there could be no flying again that night, and that she wished instead to give him important instruction for the future. There were rules, and signs, and times which he must learn carefully. The time might come when he would have to fly alone, and he must be prepared for everything. "And the first thing I have to tell you," she said, exactly as though it was a schoolroom, "is: _Never fly over the sea._ Our kind of wings quickly absorb the finer particles of water and get clogged and heavy over the sea. You finally cannot resist the drawing power of the water, and you will be dragged down and drowned. So be very careful! When you are flying high it is often difficult to know where the land ends and the sea begins, especially on moonless nights. But you can always be certain of one thing: if there are no sounds below you--hoofs, voices, wheels, wind in trees--you are over the sea." "Yes," said the child, listening with great attention. "And what else?" "The next thing is: _Don't fly too high._ Though we fly like birds, remember we are not birds, and we can fly where they can't. We can fly in the ether----" "Where's that?" he interrupted, half afraid of the sound. She stooped and kissed him, laughing at his fear. "There is nothing to be frightened about," she explained. "The air gets lighter and lighter as you go higher, till at last it stops altogether. Then there's only ether left. Birds can't fly in ether because it's too thin. We can, because----" "Is that why it was good for me to get lighter and thinner?" he interrupted again in a puzzled voice. "Partly, yes." "And what happens in the ether, please?" It still frightened him a little. "Nothing--except that if you fly too high you reach a point where the earth ceases to hold you, and you dash off into space. Weight leaves you then, and the wings move without effort. Faster and faster you rush upwards, till you lose all control of your movements, and then----" Miss Lake hesitated a moment. "And then----?" asked the fascinated child. "You may never come down again," she said slowly. "You may be sucked into anything that happens to come your way--a comet, or a shooting star, or the moon." "I should like a shooting star best," observed the boy, deeply interested. "The moon frightens me, I think. It looks so dreadfully clean." "You won't like any of them when the time comes," she laughed. "No one ever gets out again who once gets in. But you'll never be caught that way after what I've told you," she added, with decision. "I shall never want to fly as high as that, I'm sure," said Jimbo. "And now, please, what comes next?" The next thing, she went on to explain, was the _weather_, which, to all flying creatures, was of the utmost importance. Before starting for a flight he must always carefully consider the state of the sky, and the direction in which he wished to go. For this purpose he must master the meaning and character of the Four Winds and be able to recognise them in a moment. "Once you know these," she said, "you cannot possibly go wrong. To make it easier, I've put each Wind into a little simple rhyme, for you." "I'm listening," he said eagerly. "The North Wind is one of the worst and most dangerous, because it blows so much faster than you think. It's taken you ten miles before you think you've gone two. In starting with a North Wind, always fly _against_ it; then it will bring you home easily. If you fly _with_ it, you may be swept so far that the day will catch you before you can get home; and then you're as good as lost. Even birds fly warily when this wind is about. It has no lulls or resting-places in it; it blows steadily on and on, and conquers everything it comes against--everything except the mountains." "And its rhyme?" asked Jimbo, all ears. "It will show you the joy of the birds, my child, You shall know their terrible bliss; It will teach you to hide, when the night is wild, From the storm's too passionate kiss. For the Wind of the North Is a volleying forth That will lift you with springs In the heart of your wings, And may sweep you away To the edge of the day. So, beware of the Wind of the North, my child, Fly not with the Wind of the North!" "I think I like him all the same," said Jimbo. "But I'll remember always to fly against him." "The East Wind is worse still, for it hurts," continued the governess. "It stings and cuts. It's like the breath of an ice-creature; it brings hail and sleet and cold rain that beat down wings and blind the eyes. Like the North Wind, too, it is dreadfully swift and full of little whirlwinds, and may easily carry you into the light of day that would prove your destruction. Avoid it always; no hiding-place is safe from it. This is the rhyme: "It will teach you the secrets the eagles know Of the tempests' and whirlwinds' birth; And the magical weaving of rain and snow As they fall from the sky to the earth. But an Easterly wind Is for ever unkind; It will torture and twist you And never assist you, But will drive you with might To the verge of the night. So, beware of the Wind of the East, my child, Fly not with the Wind of the East." "The West Wind is really a very nice and jolly wind in itself," she went on, "but it's dangerous for a special reason: _it will carry you out to sea_. The Empty House is only a few miles from the coast, and a strong West Wind would take you there almost before you had time to get down to earth again. And there's no use struggling against a really steady West Wind, for it's simply tireless. Luckily, it rarely blows at night, but goes down with the sun. Often, too, it blows hard to the coast, and then drops suddenly, leaving you among the fogs and mists of the sea." "Rather a nice, exciting sort of wind though," remarked Jimbo, waiting for the rhyme. "So, at last, you shall know from their lightest breath To which heaven each wind belongs; And shall master their meaning for life or death By the shout of their splendid songs. Yet the Wind of the West Is a wind unblest; It is lifted and kissed By the spirits of mist; It will clasp you and flee To the wastes of the sea. So, beware of the Wind of the West, my child, Fly not with the Wind of the West!" "A jolly wind," observed Jimbo again. "But that doesn't leave much over to fly with," he added sadly. "They all seem dangerous or cruel." "Yes," she laughed, "and so they are till you can master them--then they're kind, only one that's really always safe and kind is the Wind of the South. It's a sweet, gentle wind, beloved of all that flies, and you can't possibly mistake it. You can tell it at once by the murmuring way it stirs the grasses and the tops of the trees. Its taste is soft and sweet in the mouth like wine, and there's always a faint perfume about it like gardens in summer. It is the joy of this wind that makes all flying things sing. With a South Wind you can go anywhere and no harm can come to you." "Dear old South Wind," cried Jimbo, rubbing his hands with delight. "I hope it will blow soon." "Its rhyme is very easy, too, though you will always be able to tell it without that," she added. "For this is the favourite Wind of all, Beloved of the stars and night; In the rustle of leaves you shall hear it call To the passionate joys of flight. It will carry you forth in its wonderful hair To the far-away courts of the sky, And the breath of its lips is a murmuring prayer For the safety of all who fly. For the Wind of the South Is like wine in the mouth, With its whispering showers And perfume of flowers, When it falls like a sigh From the heart of the sky." "Oh!" interrupted Jimbo, rubbing his hands, "that _is_ nice. That's _my_ wind!" "It will bear you aloft With a pressure so soft That you hardly shall guess Whose the gentle caress." "Hooray!" he cried again. "It's the kindest of weathers For our red feathers, And blows open the way To the Gardens of Play. So, fly out with the Wind of the South, my child, With the wonderful Wind of the South." "Oh, I love the South Wind already," he shouted, clapping his hands again. "I hope it will blow very, _very_ soon." "It may be rising even now," answered the governess, leading him to the window. But, as they gazed at the summer landscape lying in the fading light of the sunset, all was still and resting. The air was hushed, the leaves motionless. There was no call just then to flight from among the tree-tops, and he went back into the room disappointed. "But why can't we escape at once?" he asked again, after he had given his promise to remember all she had told him, and to be extra careful if he ever went out flying alone. "Jimbo, dear, I've told you before, it's because your body isn't ready for you yet," she answered patiently. "There's hardly any circulation in it, and if you forced your way back now the shock might stop your heart beating altogether. Then you'd be really dead, and escape would be impossible." The boy sat on the edge of the bed staring intently at her while she spoke. Something clutched at his heart. He felt his Older Self, with its greater knowledge, rising up out of the depths within him. The child struggled with the old soul for possession. "Have _you_ got any circulation?" he asked abruptly at length. "I mean, has _your_ heart stopped beating?" But the smile called up by his words froze on her lips. She crossed to the window and stood with her back to the fading light, avoiding his eyes. "My case, Jimbo, is a little different from yours," she said presently. "The important thing is to make certain about your escape. Never mind about me." "But escape without you is nothing," he said, the Older Self now wholly in possession. "I simply wouldn't go. I'd rather stay here--with you." The governess made no reply, but she turned her back to the room and leaned out of the window. Jimbo fancied he heard a sob. He felt a great big heart swelling up within his little body, and he crossed over beside her. For some minutes they stood there in silence, watching the stars that were already shining faintly in the sky. "Whatever happens," he said, nestling against her, "I shan't go from here without you. Remember that!" He was going to say a lot more, but somehow or other, when she stooped over to kiss his head--he hardly came up to her shoulder--it all ran suddenly out of his mind, and the little child dropped back into possession again. The tide of his thoughts that seemed about to rise, fast and furious, sank away completely, leaving his mind a clean-washed slate without a single image; and presently, without any more words, the governess left him and went through the trap-door into the silence and mystery of the house below. Several hours later, about the middle of the night, there came over him a most disagreeable sensation of nausea and dizziness. The ground rose and fell beneath his feet, the walls swam about sideways, and the ceiling slid off into the air. It only lasted a few minutes, however, and Jimbo knew from what she had told him that it was the Flying Sickness which always followed the first long flight. But, about the same time, another little body, lying in a night-nursery bed, was being convulsed with a similar attack; and the sickness of the little prisoner in the Empty House had its parallel, strangely enough, in the half-tenanted body miles away in a different world. CHAPTER XIII PLEASURES OF FLIGHT Since the night when Jimbo had nearly fallen into the yard and risked capture, Fright, the horrible owner of the house, had kept himself well out of the way, and had allowed himself to be neither seen nor heard. But the boy was not foolish enough to fall into the other trap, and imagine, therefore, that He did not know what was going on. Jimbo felt quite sure that He was only waiting his chance; and the governess's avoidance of the subject tended to confirm this supposition. "He's disappeared somewhere and taken the children with him," she declared when he questioned her. "And now you know almost as much as I do." "But not quite!" he laughed mischievously. "Enough, though," she replied. "We want all our energy for escape when it comes. Don't bother about anything else for the moment." During the day, when he was alone, his thoughts and fancies often terrified him; but at night, when he was rushing through the heavens, the intense delight of flying drove all minor emotions out of his consciousness, and he even forgot his one great desire--to escape. One night, however, something happened that brought it back more keenly than ever. He had been out flying alone, but had not gone far when he noticed that an easterly wind had begun to rise and was blowing steadily behind him. With the recent instructions fresh in his head, he thought it wiser to turn homewards rather than fight his way back later against a really strong wind from this quarter. Flying low along the surface of the fields so as to avoid its full force, he suddenly rose up with a good sweep and settled on the top of the wall enclosing the yard. The moonlight lay bright over everything. His approach had been very quiet. He was just about to sail across to the window when something caught his eye, and he hesitated a moment, and stared. Something was moving at the other end of the courtyard. It seemed to him that the moonlight suddenly grew pale and ghastly; the night air turned chilly; shivers began to run up and down his back. He folded his wings and watched. At the end of the yard he saw several figures moving busily to and fro in the shadow of the wall. They were very small; but close beside them all the time stood a much larger figure which seemed to be directing their movements. There was no need to look twice; it was impossible to mistake these terrible little people and their hideous overseer. Horror rushed over the boy, and a wild scream was out in the night before he could possibly prevent it. At the same moment a cloud passed over the face of the moon and the yard was shrouded in darkness. A minute later the cloud passed off; but while it was still too dark to see clearly, Jimbo was conscious of a rushing, whispering sound in the air, and something went past him at a tremendous pace into the sky. The wind stirred his hair as it passed, and a moment later he heard voices far away in the distance--up in the sky or within the house he could not tell--singing mournfully the song he now knew so well:-- We dance with phantoms and with shadows play. But when he looked down at the yard he saw that it was deserted, and the corner by the little upright stones lay in the clear moonlight, empty of figures, large or small. Shivering with fright, he flew across to the window ledge, and almost tumbled into the arms of the governess who was standing close inside. "What's the matter, child?" she asked in a voice that trembled a little. And, still shuddering, he told her how he thought he had seen the children working by the gravestones. All her efforts to calm him at first failed, but after a bit she drew his thoughts to pleasanter things, and he was not so certain after all that he had not been deceived by the cunning of the moonlight and the shadows. A long interval passed, and no further sign was given by the owner of the house or his band of frightened children. Jimbo soon lost himself again in the delights of flying and the joy of his increasing powers. Most of all he enjoyed the quiet, starlit nights before the moon was up; for the moon dazzled the eyes in the rarefied air where they flew, whereas the stars gave just enough light to steer by without making it uncomfortable. Moreover, the moon often filled him with a kind of faint terror, as of death; he could never gaze at her white face for long without feeling that something entered his heart with those silver rays--something that boded him no good. He never spoke of this to the governess; indeed, he only recognised it himself when the moon was near the full; but it lay always in the depths of his being, and he felt dimly that it would have to be reckoned with before he could really escape for good. He took no liberties when the moon was at the full. He loved to hover--for he had learned by this time that most difficult of all flying feats; to hold the body vertical and whirr the wings without rising or advancing--he loved to hover on windless nights over ponds and rivers and see the stars reflected in their still pools. Indeed, sometimes he hovered till he dropped, and only saved himself from a wetting by sweeping up in a tremendous curve along the surface of the water, and thus up into the branches of the trees where the governess sat waiting for him. And then, after a little rest, they would launch forth again and fly over fields and woods, sometimes even as far as the hills that ran down the coast of the sea itself. They usually flew at a height of about a thousand feet, and the earth passed beneath them like a great streaked shadow. But as soon as the moon was up the whole country turned into a fairyland of wonder. Her light touched the woods with a softened magic, and the fields and hedges became frosted most delicately. Beneath a thin transparency of mist the water shone with a silvery brilliance that always enabled them to distinguish it from the land at any height; while the farms and country houses were swathed in tender grey shadows through which the trees and chimneys pierced in slender lines of black. It was wonderful to watch the shadows everywhere spinning their blue veil of distance that lent even to the commonest objects something of enchantment and mystery. Those were wonderful journeys they made together into the pathways of the silent night, along the unknown courses, into that hushed centre where they could almost hear the beatings of her great heart--like winged thoughts searching the huge vault, till the boy ached with the sensations of speed and distance, and the old yellow moon seemed to stagger across the sky. Sometimes they rose very high into freezing air, so high that the earth became a dull shadow specked with light. They saw the trains running in all directions with thin threads of smoke shining in the glare of the open fire-boxes. But they seemed very tiny trains indeed, and stirred in him no recollections of the semi-annual visits to London town when he went to the dentist, and lunched with the dreaded grandmother or the stiff and fashionable aunts. And when they came down again from these perilous heights, the scents of the earth rose to meet them, the perfume of woods and fields, and the smells of the open country. There was, too, the delight, the curious delight of windy nights, when the wind smote and buffeted them, knocking them suddenly sideways, whistling through their feathers as if it wanted to tear them from their sockets; rushing furiously up underneath their wings with repeated blows; turning them round, and backwards and forwards, washing them from head to foot in a tempestuous sea of rapid and unexpected motion. It was, of course, far easier to fly with a wind than without one. The difficulty with a violent wind was to get down--not to keep up. The gusts drove up against the under-surfaces of their wings and kept them afloat, so that by merely spreading them like sails they could sweep and circle without a single stroke. Jimbo soon learned to manoeuvre so that he could turn the strength of a great wind to his own purposes, and revel in its boisterous waves and currents like a strong swimmer in a rough sea. And to listen to the wind as it swept backwards and forwards over the surface of the earth below was another pleasure; for everything it touched gave out a definite note. He soon got to know the long sad cry from the willows, and the little whispering in the tops of the poplar trees; the crisp, silvery rattle of the birches, and the deep roar from oaks and beech woods. The sound of a forest was like the shouting of the sea. But far more lovely, when they descended a little, and the wind was more gentle, were the low pipings among the reeds and the little wayward murmurs under the hedgerows. The pine trees, however, drew them most, with their weird voices, now far away, now near, rising upwards with a wind of sighs. There was a grove of these trees that trooped down to the waters of a little lake in the hills, and to this spot they often flew when the wind was low and the music likely, therefore, to be to their taste. For, even when there was no perceptible wind, these trees seemed always full of mysterious, mournful whisperings; their branches held soft music that never quite died away, even when all other trees were silent and motionless. Besides these special expeditions, they flew everywhere and anywhere. They visited the birds in their nests in lofty trees, and exchanged the time of night with wise-eyed owls staring out upon them from the ivy. They hovered up the face of great cliffs, and passed the hawks asleep on perilous ledges; skimmed over lonely marshes, frightening the water-birds paddling in and out among the reeds. They followed the windings of streams, singing among the meadows, and flew along the wet sands as they watched the moon rise out of the sea. These flights were unadulterated pleasure, and Jimbo thought he could never have enough of them. He soon began to notice, too, that the trees emanated something that affected his own condition. When he sat in their branches this was very noticeable. Currents of force passed from them into himself. And even when he flew over their crests he was aware that some woods exhaled vigorous, life-giving forces, while others tired and depleted him. Nothing was visible actually, but fine waves seemed to beat up against his eyes and thoughts, making him stronger or weaker, happy or melancholy, full of hope and courage, or listless and indifferent. These emanations of the trees--this giving-forth of their own personal forces--were, of course, very varied in strength and character. Oaks and pines were the best combination, he found, before the stress of a long flight, the former giving him steadiness, and the latter steely endurance and the power to steer in sinuous, swift curves, without taking thought or trouble. Other trees gave other powers. All gave something. It was impossible to sit among their branches without absorbing some of the subtle and exhilarating tree-life. He soon learned how to gather it all into himself, and turn it to account in his own being. "Sit quietly," the governess said. "Let the forces creep in and stir about. Do nothing yourself. Give them time to become part of yourself and mix properly with your own currents. Effort on your part prevents this, and you weaken them without gaining anything yourself." Jimbo made all sorts of experiments with trees and rocks and water and fields, learning gradually the different qualities of force they gave forth, and how to use them for himself. Nothing, he found, was really dead. And sometimes he got himself into strange difficulties in the beginning of his attempts to master and absorb these nature-forces. "Remember," the governess warned him more than once, when he was inclined to play tricks, "they are in quite a different world to ours. You cannot take liberties with them. Even a sympathetic soul like yourself only touches the fringe of their world. You exchange surface-messages with them, nothing more. Some trees have terrible forces just below the surface. They could extinguish you altogether--absorb you into themselves. Others are naturally hostile. Some are mere tricksters. Others are shifty and treacherous, like the hollies, that move about too much. The oak and the pine and the elm are friendly, and you can always trust them absolutely. But there are others----!" She held up a warning finger, and Jimbo's eyes nearly dropped out of his head. "No," she added, in reply to his questions, "you can't learn all this at once. Perhaps----" She hesitated a little. "Perhaps, if you don't escape, we should have time for all manner of adventures among the trees and other things--but then, we _are_ going to escape, so there's no good wasting time over _that_!" CHAPTER XIV AN ADVENTURE But Miss Lake did not always accompany him on these excursions into the night; sometimes he took long flights by himself, and she rather encouraged him in this, saying it would give him confidence in case he ever lost her and was obliged to find his way about alone. "But I couldn't get really lost," he said once to her. "I know the winds perfectly now and the country round for miles, and I never go out in fog----" "But these are only practice flights," she replied. "The flight of escape is a very different matter. I want you to learn all you possibly can so as to be prepared for anything." Jimbo felt vaguely uncomfortable when she talked like this. "But you'll be with me in the Escape Flight--the final one of all," he said; "and nothing ever goes wrong when you're with me." "I should like to be always with you," she answered tenderly, "but it's well to be prepared for anything, just the same." And more than this the boy could never get out of her. On one of these lonely flights, however, he made the unpleasant discovery that he was being followed. At first he only imagined there was somebody after him because of the curious vibrations of the very rarefied air in which he flew. Every time his flight slackened and the noise of his own wings grew less, there reached him from some other corner of the sky a sound like the vibrations of large wings beating the air. It seemed behind, and generally below him, but the swishing of his own feathers made it difficult to hear with distinctness, or to be certain of the direction. Evidently it was a long way off; but now and again, when he took a spurt and then sailed silently for several minutes on outstretched wings, the beating of distant, following feathers seemed unmistakably clear, and he raced on again at full speed more than terrified. Other times, however, when he tried to listen, there was no trace of this other flyer, and then his fear would disappear, and he would persuade himself that it had been imagination. So much on these flights he knew to be imagination--the sentences, voices, and laughter, for instance, that filled the air and sounded so real, yet were actually caused by the wind rushing past his ears, the rhythm of the wing-beats, and the tips of the feathers occasionally rubbing against the sides of his body. But at last one night the suspicion that he was followed became a certainty. He was flying far up in the sky, passing over some big city, when the sound rose to his ears, and he paused, sailing on stretched wings, to listen. Looking down into the immense space below, he saw, plainly outlined against the luminous patch above the city, the form of a large flying creature moving by with rapid strokes. The pulsations of its great wings made the air tremble so that he both heard and felt them. It may have been that the vapours of the city distorted the thing, just as the earth's atmosphere magnifies the rising or setting of the moon; but, even so, it was easy to see that it was something a good deal larger than himself, and with a much more powerful flight. Fortunately, it did not seem this time to be actually on his trail, for it swept by at a great pace, and was soon lost in the darkness far ahead. Perhaps it was only searching for him, and his great height had proved his safety. But in any case he was exceedingly terrified, and at once turned round, pointed his head for the earth, and shot downwards in the direction of the Empty House as fast as ever he could. But when he spoke to the governess she made light of it, and told him there was nothing to be afraid of. It might have been a flock of hurrying night-birds, she said, or an owl distorted by the city's light, or even his own reflection magnified in water. Anyhow, she felt sure it was not chasing him, and he need pay no attention to it. Jimbo felt reassured, but not quite satisfied. He knew a flying monster when he saw one; and it was only when he had been for many more flights alone, without its reappearance, that his confidence was fully restored, and he began to forget about it. Certainly these lonely flights were very much to his taste. His Older Self, with its dim hauntings of a great memory somewhere behind him, took possession then, and he was able to commune with nature in a way that the presence of the governess made impossible. With her his Older Self rarely showed itself above the surface for long; he was always the child. But, when alone, Nature became alive; he drew force from the trees and flowers, and felt that they all shared a common life together. Had he been imprisoned by some wizard of old in a tree-form, knowing of the sunset and the dawn only by the sweet messages that rustled in his branches, the wind could hardly have spoken to him with a more intimate meaning; or the life of the fields, eternally patient, have touched him more nearly with their joys and sorrows. It seemed almost as if, from his leafy cell, he had gazed before this into the shining pools with which the summer rains jewelled the meadows, sending his soul in a stream of unsatisfied yearning up to the stars. It all came back dimly when he heard the wind among the leaves, and carried him off to the woods and fields of an existence far antedating this one---- And on gentle nights, when the wind itself was half asleep and dreaming, the pine trees drew him most of all, for theirs was the song he loved above all others. He would fly round and round the little grove by the mountain lake, listening for hours together to their sighing voices. But the governess was never told of this, whatever she may have guessed; for it seemed to him a joy too deep for words, the pains and sweetness being mingled too mysteriously for him ever to express in awkward sentences. Moreover, it all passed away and was forgotten the moment the child took possession and usurped the older memory. One night, when the moon was high and the air was cool and fragrant after the heat of the day, Jimbo felt a strong desire to get off by himself for a long flight. He was full of energy, and the space-craving cried to be satisfied. For several days he had been content with slow, stupid expeditions with the governess. "I'm off alone to-night," he cried, balancing on the window ledge, "but I'll be back before dawn. Good-bye!" She kissed him, as she always did now, and with her good-bye ringing in his ears, he dropped from the window and rose rapidly over the elms and away from earth. This night, for some reason, the stars and the moon seemed to draw him, and with tireless wings he mounted up, up, up, to a height he had never reached before. The intoxication of the strong night air rose into his brain and he dashed forward ever faster, with a mad delight, into the endless space before him. Mile upon mile lay behind him as he rushed onwards, always pointing a little on the upward slope, drunk with speed. The earth faded away to a dark expanse of shadow beneath him, and he no longer was conscious of the deep murmur that usually flowed steadily upwards from its surface. He had often before risen out of reach of the earth noises, but never so far that this dull reverberating sound, combined of all the voices of the world merged together, failed to make itself heard. To-night, however, he heard nothing. The stars above his head changed from yellow to diamond white, and the cold air stung his cheeks and brought the water to his eyes. But at length the governess's warning, as he explored these forbidden regions, came back to him, and in a series of gigantic bounds that took his breath away completely, he dropped nearer to the earth again and kept on at a much lower level. The hours passed and the position of the moon began to alter noticeably. Some of the constellations that were overhead when he started were now dipping below the horizon. Never before had he ventured so far from home, and he began to realise that he had been flying much longer than he knew or intended. The speed had been terrific. The change came imperceptibly. With the discovery that his wings were not moving quite so easily as before, he became suddenly aware that this had really been the case for some little time. He was flying with greater effort, and for a long time this effort had been increasing gradually before he actually recognised the fact. Although no longer pointing towards the earth he seemed to be sinking. It became increasingly difficult to fly upwards. His wings did not seem to fail or weaken, nor was he conscious of feeling tired; but something was ever persuading him to fly lower, almost as if a million tiny threads were coaxing him downwards, drawing him gradually nearer to the world again. Whatever it was, the earth had come much closer to him in the last hour, and its familiar voices were pleasant to hear after the boundless heights he had just left. But for some reason his speed grew insensibly less and less. His wings moved apparently as fast as before, but it was harder to keep up. In spite of himself he kept sinking. The sensation was quite new, and he could not understand it. It almost seemed as though he were being _pulled_ downwards. Jimbo began to feel uneasy. He had not lost his bearings, but he was a very long way from home, and quite beyond reach of the help he was so accustomed to. With a great effort he mounted several hundred feet into the air, and tried hard to stay there. For a short time he succeeded, but he soon felt himself sinking gradually downwards again. The force drawing him was a constant force without rise or fall; and with a deadly feeling of fear the boy began to realise that he would soon have to yield to it altogether. His heart beat faster and his thoughts turned to the friend who was then far away, but who alone could save him. She, at least, could have explained it and told him what best to do. But the governess was beyond his reach. This problem he must face alone. Something, however, had to be done quickly, and Jimbo, acting more as the man than as the boy, turned and flew hurriedly forward in another direction. He hoped this might somehow counteract the force that still drew him downwards; and for a time it apparently did so, and he flew level. But the strain increased every minute, and he looked down with something of a shudder as he realised that before very long he would be obliged to yield to this deadly force--and drop! It was then for the first time he noticed a change had come over the surface of the earth below. Instead of the patchwork of field and wood and road, he saw a vast cloud stretching out, white and smooth in the moonlight. The world was hidden beneath a snowy fog, dense and impenetrable. It was no longer even possible to tell in what direction he was flying, for there was nothing to steer by. This was a new and unexpected complication, and the boy could not understand how the change had come about so quickly; the last time he had glanced down for indications to steer by, everything had been clear and easily visible. It was very beautiful, this carpet of white mist with the silver moon shining upon it, but it thrilled him now with an unpleasant sense of dread. And, still more unpleasant, was a new sound which suddenly broke in upon the stillness and turned his blood into ice. He was certain that he heard wings behind him. He was being followed, and this meant that it was impossible to turn and fly back. There was nothing now to do but fly forwards and hope to distance the huge wings; but if he was being followed by the powerful flyer he had seen a few nights before, the boy knew that he stood little chance of success, and he only did it because it seemed the one thing possible. The cloud was dense and chill as he entered it; its moisture clung to his wings and made them heavy; his muscles seemed to stiffen, and motion became more and more difficult. The wings behind him meanwhile came closer. He was flying along the surface of the mist now, his body and wings hidden, and his head just above the level. He could see along its white, even top. If he sank a few more inches it would be impossible to see at all, or even to judge where he was going. Soon it rose level with his lips, and at the same time he noticed a new smell in the air, faint at first, but growing every moment stronger. It was a fresh, sweet odour, yet it somehow added to his alarm, and stirred in him new centres of uneasiness. He tried vainly to increase his speed and distance the wings which continued to gain so steadily upon him from behind. The cloud, apparently, was not everywhere of the same density, for here and there he saw the tops of green hills below him as he flew. But he could not understand why each green hill seemed to have a little lake on its summit--a little lake in which the reflected moon stared straight up into his face. Nor could he quite make out what the sounds were which rose to his ears through the muffling of the cloud--sounds of tumultuous rushing, hissing, and tumbling. They were continuous, these sounds, and once or twice he thought he heard with them a deep, thunderous roar that almost made his heart stop beating as he listened. Was he, perhaps, over a range of high mountains, and was this the sound of the tumbling torrents? Then, suddenly, it came to him with a shock that the ordinary sounds of the earth had wholly ceased. Jimbo felt his head beginning to whirl. He grew weaker every minute; less able to offer resistance to the remorseless forces that were sucking him down. Now the mist had closed over his head, and he could no longer see the moonlight. He turned again, shaking with terror, and drove forward headlong through the clinging vapour. A sensation of choking rose in his throat; he was tired out, ready to drop with exhaustion. The wings of the following creature were now so close that he thought every minute he would be seized from behind and plunged into the abyss to his death. It was just then that he made the awful discovery that the world below him was not stationary: the _green hills were moving_. They were sweeping past with a rushing, thundering sound in regular procession; and their huge sides were streaked with white. The reflection of the moon leaped up into his face as each hill rolled hissing and gurgling by, and he knew at last with a shock of unutterable horror that it was THE SEA! He was flying over the sea, and the waters were drawing him down. The immense, green waves that rolled along through the sea fog, carrying the moon's face on their crests, foaming and gurgling as they went, were already leaping up to seize him by the feet and drag him into their depths. He dropped several feet deeper into the mist, and towards the sea, terror-stricken and blinded. Then, turning frantically, not knowing what else to do, he struck out, with his last strength, for the upper surface and the moonlight. But as he did so, turning his face towards the sky he saw a dark form hovering just above him, covering his retreat with huge outstretched wings. It was too late; he was hemmed in on all sides. At that moment a huge, rolling wave, bigger than all the rest, swept past and wet him to the knees. His heart failed him. The next wave would cover him. Already it was rushing towards him with foaming crest. He was in its shadow; he heard its thunder. Darkness rushed over him--he saw the vast sides streaked with grey and white--when suddenly, the owner of the wings plucked him in the back, mid-way between the shoulders, and lifted him bodily out of the fog, so that the wave swept by without even wetting his feet. The next minute he saw a dim, white sheet of silvery mist at his feet, and found himself far above it in the sweet, clean moonlight; and when he turned, almost dead with terror, to look upon his captor, he found himself looking straight into the eyes of--the governess. The sense of relief was so great that Jimbo simply closed his wings, and hung, a dead weight, in the air. "Use your wings!" cried the governess sharply; and, still holding him, while he began to flap feebly, she turned and flew in the direction of the land. "You!" he gasped at last. "It was you following me!" "Of course it was me! I never let you out of my sight. I've always followed you--every time you've been out alone." Jimbo was still conscious of the drawing power of the sea, but he felt that his companion was too strong for it. After fifteen minutes of fierce flight he heard the sounds of earth again, and knew that they were safe. Then the governess loosened her hold, and they flew along side by side in the direction of home. "I won't scold you, Jimbo," she said presently, "for you've suffered enough already." She was the first to break the silence, and her voice trembled a little. "But remember, the sea draws you down, just as surely as the moon draws you up. Nothing would please Him better than to see you destroyed by one or the other." Jimbo said nothing. But, when once they were safe inside the room again, he went up and cried his eyes out on her arm, while she folded him in to her heart as if he were the only thing in the whole world she had to love. CHAPTER XV THE CALL OF THE BODY One night, towards the end of the practice flights, a strange thing happened, which showed that the time for the final flight of escape was drawing near. They had been out for several hours flying through a rainstorm, the thousand little drops of which stung their faces like tiny gun-shot. About two in the morning the wind shifted and drove the clouds away as by magic; the stars came out, at first like the eyes of children still dim with crying, but later with a clear brilliance that filled Jimbo and the governess with keen pleasure. The air was washed and perfumed; the night luminous, alive, singing. All its tenderness and passion entered their hearts and filled them with the wonder of its glory. "Come down, Jimbo," said the governess, "and we'll lie in the trees and smell the air after the rain." "Yes," added the boy, whose Older Self had been whispering mysterious things to him, "and watch the stars and hear them singing." He led the way to some beech trees that lined a secluded lane, and settled himself comfortably in the top branches of the largest, while the governess soon found a resting-place beside him. It was a deserted spot, far from human habitation. Here and there through the foliage they could see little pools of rain-water reflecting the sky. The group of trees swung in the wind, dreaming great woodland dreams, and overhead the stars looked like a thousand orchards in the sky, filling the air with the radiance of their blossoms. "How brilliant they are to-night," said the governess, after watching the boy attentively for some minutes as they lay side by side in the great forked branch. "I never saw the constellations so clear." "But they have so little shape," he answered dreamily; "if we wore lights when we flew about we should make much better constellations than they do." "The Big and Little Child instead of the Big and Little Bear," she laughed, still watching him. "I'm slipping away----" he began, and then stopped suddenly. He saw the expression of his companion's eyes, which were looking him through and through with the most poignant love and yearning mingled in their gaze, and something clutched at his heart that he could not understand. "----not slipping out of the tree," he went on vaguely, "but slipping into some new place or condition. I don't understand it. Am I--going off somewhere--where you can't follow? I thought suddenly--I was losing you." The governess smiled at him sadly and said nothing. She stroked his wings and then raised them to her lips and kissed them. Jimbo watched her, and folded his other wing across into her hands; he felt unhappy, and his heart began to swell within him; but he didn't know what to say, and the Older Self began slowly to fade away again. "But the stars," he went on, "have they got things they send out too--forces, I mean, like the trees? Do they send out something that makes us feel sad, or happy, or strong, or weak?" She did not answer for some time; she lay watching his face and fondling his smooth red wings; and, presently, when she did begin to explain, Jimbo found that the child in him was then paramount again, and he could not quite follow what she said. He tried to answer properly and seem interested, but her words were very long and hard to understand, and after a time he thought she was talking to herself more than to him, and he gave up all serious effort to follow. Then he became aware that her voice had changed. The words seemed to drop down upon him from a great height. He imagined she was standing on one of those far stars he had been asking about, and was shouting at him through an immense tube of sky and darkness. The words pricked his ears like needle-points, only he no longer heard them as words, but as tiny explosions of sound, meaningless and distant. Swift flashes of light began to dance before his eyes, and suddenly from underneath the tree, a wind rose up and rushed, laughing, across his face. Darkness in a mass dropped over his eyes, and he sank backwards somewhere into another corner of space altogether. The governess, meanwhile, lay quite still, watching the limp form in the branches beside her and still holding the tips of his red wings. Presently tears stole into her eyes, and began to run down her cheeks. One deep sigh after another escaped from her lips; but the little boy, or the old soul, who was the cause of all her emotion, apparently was far away and knew nothing of it. For a long time she lay in silence, and then leaned a little nearer to him, so as to see his full face. The eyes were wide open and staring, but they were looking at nothing she could see, for the consciousness cannot be in two places at the same time, and Jimbo just then was off on a little journey of his own, a journey that was but preliminary to the great final one of all. "Jimbo," whispered the girl between her tears and sighs, "Jimbo! Where have you gone to? Tell me, are they getting ready for you at last, and am I to lose you after all? Is this the only way I can save you--by losing you?" There was no answer, no sign of movement; and the governess hid her face in her hands and cried quietly to herself, while her tears dropped down through the branches of the tree and fell into the rain-pools beneath. For Jimbo's state of oblivion in the tree was in reality a momentary return to consciousness in his body on the bed, and the repaired mechanism of the brain and muscles had summoned him back on a sort of trial visit. He remembered nothing of it afterwards, any more than one remembers the experiences of deep sleep; but the fact was that, with the descent of the darkness upon him in the branches, he had opened his eyes once again on the scene in the night-nursery bedroom where his body lay. He saw figures standing round the bed and about the room; his mother with the same white face as before, was still bending over the bed asking him if he knew her; a tall man in a long black coat moved noiselessly to and fro; and he saw a shaded lamp on a table a little to the right of the bed. Nothing seemed to have changed very much, though there had probably been time enough since he last opened his eyes for the black-coated doctor to have gone and come again for a second visit. He held an instrument in his hands that shone brightly in the lamplight. Jimbo saw this plainly and wondered what it was. He felt as if he were just waking out of a nice, deep sleep--dreamless and undisturbed. The Empty House, the Governess, Fright and the Children had all vanished from his memory, and he knew no more about wings and feathers than he did about the science of meteorology. But the bedroom scene was a mere glimpse after all; his eyes were already beginning to close again. First they shut out the figure of the doctor; then the bed-curtains; and then the nurse moved her arm, making the whole scene quiver for an instant, like some huge jelly-shape, before it dipped into profound darkness and disappeared altogether. His mother's voice ran off into a thin trickle of sound, miles and miles away, and the light from the lamp followed him with its glare for less than half a second. All had vanished. "Jimbo, dear, where have you been? Can you remember anything?" asked the soft voice beside him, as he looked first at the stars overhead, and then from the tracery of branches and leaves beneath him to the great sea of tree-tops and open country all round. But he could tell her nothing; he seemed dreamy and absent-minded, lying and staring at her as if he hardly knew who she was or what she was saying. His mind was still hovering near the border-line of the two states of consciousness, like the region between sleeping and waking, where both worlds seem unreal and wholly wonderful. He could not answer her questions, but he evidently caught some reflex of her emotions, for he leaned towards her across the branches, and said he was happy and never wanted to leave her. Then he crawled to the end of the big bough and sprang out into the air with a shout of delight. He was the child again--the flying child, wild with the excitement of tearing through the night air at fifty miles an hour. The governess soon followed him and they flew home together, taking a long turn by the sea and past the great chalk cliffs, where the sea sang loud beneath them. These lapses became with time more frequent, as well as of longer duration; and with them the boy noticed that the longing to escape became once again intense. He wanted _to get home_, wherever home was; he experienced a sort of nostalgia for the body, though he could not remember where that body lay. But when he asked the governess what this feeling meant, she only mystified him by her answers, saying that every one, in the body or out of it, felt a deep longing for their final _home_, though they might not have the least idea where it lay, or even to be able to recognise, much less to label, their longing. His normal feelings, too, were slowly returning to him. The Older Self became more and more submerged. As he approached the state of ordinary, superficial consciousness, the characteristics of that state reflected themselves more and more in his thoughts and feelings. His memory still remained a complete blank; but he somehow felt that the things, places, and people he wanted to remember, had moved much nearer to him than before. Every day brought them more within his reach. "All these forgotten things will come back to me soon, I know," he said one day to the governess, "and then I'll tell you all about them." "Perhaps you'll remember me too then," she answered, a shadow passing across her face. Jimbo clapped his hands with delight. "Oh," he cried, "I should like to remember you, because that would make you a sort of two-people governess, and I should love you twice as much." But with the gradual return to former conditions the feelings of age and experience grew dim and indefinite, his knowledge lessened, becoming obscure and confused, showing itself only in vague impressions and impulses, until at last it became quite the exception for the child-consciousness to be broken through by flashes of intuition and inspiration from the more deeply hidden memories. For one thing, the deep horror of the Empty House and its owner now returned to him with full force. Fear settled down again over the room, and lurked in the shadows over the yard. A vivid dread seized him of the _other door_ in the room--the door through which the Frightened Children had disappeared, but which had never opened since. It gradually became for him a personality in the room, a staring, silent, listening thing, always watching, always waiting. One day it would open and he would be caught! In a dozen ways like this the horror of the house entered his heart and made him long for escape with all the force of his being. But the governess, too, seemed changing; she was becoming more vague and more mysterious. Her face was always sad now, and her eyes wistful; her manner became restless and uneasy, and in many little ways the child could not fail to notice that her mind was intent upon other things. He begged her to name the day for the final flight, but she always seemed to have some good excuse for putting it off. "I feel frightened when you don't tell me what's going on," he said to her. "It's the preparations for the last flight," she answered, "the flight of escape. He'll try to prevent us going together so that you should get lost. But it's better you shouldn't know too much," she added. "Trust me and have patience." "Oh, that's what you're so afraid of," he said, "_separation_!" He was very proud indeed of the long word, and said it over several times to himself. And the governess, looking out of the window at the fading sunlight, repeated to herself more than to him the word he was so proud of. "Yes, that's what I'm so afraid of--separation; but if it means your salvation----" and her sentence remained unfinished as her eyes wandered far above the tops of the trees into the shadows of the sky. And Jimbo, drawn by the sadness of her voice, turned towards the window and noticed to his utter amazement that he could _see right through her_. He could see the branches of the trees _beyond_ her body. But the next instant she turned and was no longer transparent, and before the boy could say a word, she crossed the floor and disappeared from the room. CHAPTER XVI PREPARATION Now that he was preparing to leave it, Jimbo began to realise more fully how things in this world of delirium--so the governess sometimes called it--were all terribly out of order and confused. So long as he was wholly in it and of it, everything had seemed all right; but, as he approached his normal condition again, the disorder became more and more apparent. And the next few hours brought it home with startling clearness, and increased to fever heat the desire for final escape. It was not so much a nonsense-world--it was too alarming for that--as a world of nightmare, wherein everything was distorted. Events in it were all out of proportion; effects no longer sprang from adequate causes; things happened in a dislocated sort of way, and there was no sequence in the order of their happening. Tiny occurrences filled him with disproportionate, inconceivable horror; and great events, on the other hand, passed him scathless. The spirit of disorder--monstrous, uncouth, terrifying--reigned supreme; and Jimbo's whole desire, though inarticulate, was to escape back into order and harmony again. In contrast to all this dreadful uncertainty, the conduct of the governess stood out alone as the one thing he could count upon: she was sure and unfailing; he felt absolute confidence in her plans for his safety, and when he thought of her his mind was at rest. Come what might, she would always be there in time to help. The adventure over the sea had proved that; but, childlike, he thought chiefly of his own safety, and had ceased to care very much whether she escaped with him or not. It was the older Jimbo that preferred captivity to escape without her, whereas every minute now he was sinking deeper into the normal child state in which the intuitive flashes from the buried soul became more and more rare. Meanwhile, there was preparation going on, secret and mysterious. He could feel it. Some one else besides the governess was making plans, and the boy began to dread the moment of escape almost as much as he desired it. The alternative appalled him--to live for ever in the horror of this house, bounded by the narrow yard, watched by Fright listening ever at his elbow, and visited by the horrible Frightened Children. Even the governess herself began to inspire him with something akin to fear, as her personality grew more and more mysterious. He thought of her as she stood by the window, with the branches of the tree visible through her body, and the thought filled him with a dreadful and haunting distress. But this was only when she was absent; the moment she came into the room, and he looked into her kind eyes, the old feeling of security returned, and he felt safe and happy. Once, during the day, she came up to see him, and this time with final instructions. Jimbo listened with rapt attention. "To-night, or to-morrow night we start," she said in a quiet voice. "You must wait till you hear me calling----" "But sha'n't we start together?" he interrupted. "Not exactly," she replied. "I'm doing everything possible to put him off the scent, but it's not easy, for once Fright knows you he's always on the watch. Even if he can't prevent your escape, he'll try to send you home to your body with such a shock that you'll be only 'half there' for the rest of your life." Jimbo did not quite understand what she meant by this, and returned at once to the main point. "Then the moment you call I'm to start?" "Yes. I shall be outside somewhere. It depends on the wind and weather a little, but probably I shall be hovering above the trees. You must dash out of the window and join me the moment you hear me call. Clear the wall without sinking into the yard, and mind he doesn't tear your wings off as you fly by." "What will happen, though, if I don't find you?" he asked. "You might get lost. If he succeeds in getting me out of the way first, you're sure to get lost----" "But I've had long flights without getting lost," he objected. "Nothing to this one," she replied. "It will be tremendous. You see, Jimbo, it's not only distance; it's change of condition as well." "I don't mind what it is so long as we escape together," he said, puzzled by her words. He kept his eyes fixed on her face. It seemed to him she was changing even as he looked at her. A sort of veil lifted from her features. He fancied he could see the shape of the door through her body. "Oh, please, Miss Lake----" he began in a frightened voice, taking a step towards her. "What is the matter? You look so different!" "Nothing, dearest boy, is the matter," she replied faintly. "I feel sad at the thought of your--of our going, that's all. But that's nothing," she added more briskly, "and remember, I've told you exactly what to do; so you can't make any mistake. Now good-bye for the present." There was a smile on her face that he had never seen there before, and an expression of tenderness and love that he could not fail to understand. But even as he looked she seemed to fade away into a delicate, thin shadow as she moved slowly towards the trap-door. Jimbo stretched out his arms to touch her, for the moment of dread had passed, and he wanted to kiss her. "No!" she cried sharply. "Don't touch me, child; don't touch me!" But he was already close beside her, and in another second would have had his arms round her, when his foot stumbled over something, and he fell forward into her with his full weight. Instead of saving himself against her body, however, he fell _clean through her_! Nothing stopped him; there was no resistance; he met nothing more solid than air, and fell full length upon the floor. Before he could recover from his surprise and pick himself up, something touched him on the lips, and he heard a voice that was faint as a whisper saying, "Good-bye, darling child, and bless you." The next moment he was on his feet again and the room was empty. The governess had gone through the trap-door, and he was alone. It was all very strange and confusing, and he could not understand what was happening to her. He never for a moment realised that the change was in himself, and that as the tie between himself and his body became closer, the things of this other world he had been living in for so long must fade gradually away into shadows and emptiness. But Jimbo was a brave boy; there was nothing of the coward in him, though his sensitive temperament made him sometimes hesitate where an ordinary child with less imagination would have acted promptly. The desire to cry he thrust down and repressed, fighting his depression by the thought that within a few hours the voice might sound that should call him to the excitement of the last flight--and freedom. The rest of the daylight slipped away very quickly, and the room was full of shadows almost before he knew it. Then came the darkness. Outside, the wind rose and fell fitfully, booming in the chimney with hollow music, and sighing round the walls of the house. A few stars peeped between the branches of the elms, but masses of cloud hid most of the sky, and the air felt heavy with coming rain. He lay down on the bed and waited. At the least sound he started, thinking it might be the call from the governess. But the few sounds he did hear always resolved themselves into the moaning of the wind, and no voice came. With his eyes on the open window, trying to pierce the gloom and find the stars, he lay motionless for hours, while the night wore on and the shadows deepened. And during those long hours of darkness and silence he was conscious that a change was going on within him. Name it he could not, but somehow it made him feel that living people like himself were standing near, trying to speak, beckoning, anxious to bring him back into their own particular world. The darkness was so great that he could see only the square outline of the open window, but he felt sure that any sudden flash of light would have revealed a group of persons round his bed with arms outstretched, trying to reach him. The emotion they roused in him was not fear, for he felt sure they were kind, and eager only to help him; and the more he realised their presence, the less he thought about the governess who had been doing so much to make his escape possible. Then, too, voices began to sound somewhere in the air, but he could not tell whether they were actually in the room, or outside in the night, or only within himself--in his own head:--strange, faint voices, whispering, laughing, shouting, crying; fragments of stories, rhymes, riddles, odd names of people and places jostled one another with varying degrees of clearness, now loud, now soft, till he wondered what it all meant, and longed for the light to come. But besides all this, something else, too, was abroad that night--something he could not name or even think about without shaking with terror down at the very roots of his being. And when he thought of this, his heart called loudly for the governess, and the people hidden in the shadows of the room seemed quite useless and unable to help. Thus he hovered between the two worlds and the two memories, phantoms and realities shifting and changing places every few minutes. A little light would have saved him much suffering. If only the moon were up! Moonlight would have made all the difference. Even a moon half hidden and misty would have put the shadows farther away from him. "Dear old misty moon!" he cried half aloud to himself upon the bed, "why aren't you here to-night? My last night!" Misty Moon, Misty Moon! The words kept ringing in his head. Misty Moon, Misty Moon! They swam round in his blood in an odd, tumultuous rhythm. Every time the current of blood passed through his brain in the course of its circulation it brought the words with it, altered a little, and singing like a voice. Like a voice! Suddenly he made the discovery that it actually _was_ a voice--and not his own. It was no longer the blood singing in his veins, it was some one singing outside the window. The sound began faintly and far away, up above the trees; then it came gradually nearer, only to die away again almost to a whisper. If it was not the voice of the governess, he could only say it was a very good imitation of it. The words forming out of the empty air rose and fell with the wind, and, taking his thoughts, flung them in a stream through the dark sky towards the hidden, misty moon: "O misty moon, Dear, misty moon, The nights are long without thee; The shadows creep Across my sleep, And fold their wings about me!" And another silvery voice, that might have been the voice of a star, took it up faintly, evidently from a much greater distance: "O misty moon, Sweet, misty moon, The stars are dim behind thee; And, lo, thy beams Spin through my dreams And weave a veil to blind me!" The sound of this beautiful voice so delighted Jimbo that he sprang from his bed and rushed to the window, hoping that he might be able to hear it more clearly. But, before he got half-way across the room, he stopped short, trembling with terror. Underneath his very feet, in the depths of the house, he heard the awful voice he dreaded more than anything else. It roared out the lines with a sound like the rushing of a great river: "O misty moon, Pale misty moon, Thy songs are nightly driven, Eternally, From sky to sky, O'er the old, grey Hills of Heaven!" And after the verse Jimbo heard a great peal of laughter that seemed to shake the walls of the house, and rooted his feet to the floor. It rolled away with thundering echoes into the very bowels of the earth. He just managed to crawl back to his mattress and lie down, when another voice took up the song, but this time in accents so tender, that the child felt something within him melt into tears of joy, and he was on the verge of recognising, for the first time since his accident, the voice of his mother: "O misty moon, Shy, misty moon, Whence comes the blush that trembles In sweet disgrace O'er half thy face When Night her stars assembles?" But his memory, of course, failed him just as he seemed about to grasp it, and he was left wondering why the sound of that one voice had brought him a moment of radiant happiness in the midst of so much horror and pain. Meanwhile the answering voices went on, each time different, and in new directions. But the next verse somehow brought back to him all the terror he had felt in his flight over the sea, when the sound of the hissing waters had reached his ears through the carpet of fog: "O misty moon, Persuasive moon, Earth's tides are ever rising; By the awful grace Of thy weird white face Leap the seas to thy enticing!" Then followed the voice that had started the horrid song. This time he was sure it was not Miss Lake's voice, but only a very clever imitation of it. Moreover, it again ended in a shriek of laughter that froze his blood: "O misty moon, Deceiving moon, Thy silvery glance brings sadness; Who flies to thee, From land or sea, Shall end--his--days--in--MADNESS!" Other voices began to laugh and sing, but Jimbo stopped his ears, for he simply could not bear any more. He felt certain, too, that these strange words to the moon had all been part of a trap--a device to draw him to the window. He shuddered to think how nearly he had fallen into it, and determined to lie on the bed and wait till he heard his companion calling, and knew beyond all doubt that it was she. But the night passed away and the dawn came, and no voice had called him forth to the last flight. Hitherto, in all his experiences, there had been only one absolute certainty: the appearance of the governess with the morning light. But this time sunrise came and the clouds cleared away, and the sweet smells of field and air stole into the little room, yet without any sign of the governess. The hours passed, and she did not come, till finally he realised that she was not coming at all, and he would have to spend the whole day alone. Something had happened to prevent her, or else it was all part of her mysterious "plan." He did not know, and all he could do was to wait, and wonder, and hope. All day long he lay and waited, and all day long he was alone. The trap-door never once moved; the courtyard remained empty and deserted; there was no sound on the landing or on the stairs; no wind stirred the leaves outside, and the hot sun poured down out of a cloudless sky. He stood by the open window for hours watching the motionless branches. Everything seemed dead; not even a bird crossed his field of vision. The loneliness, the awful silence, and above all, the dread of the approaching night, were sometimes more than he seemed able to bear; and he wanted to put his head out of the window and scream, or lie down on the bed and cry his heart out. But he yielded to neither impulse; he kept a brave heart, knowing that this would be his last night in prison, and that in a few hours' time he would hear his name called out of the sky, and would dash through the window to liberty and the last wild flight. This thought gave him courage, and he kept all his energy for the great effort. Gradually, once more, the sunlight faded, and the darkness began to creep over the land. Never before had the shadows under the elms looked so fantastic, nor the bushes in the field beyond assumed such sinister shapes. The Empty House was being gradually invested; the enemy was masquerading already under cover of these very shadows. Very soon, he felt, the attack would begin, and he must be ready to act. The night came down at last with a strange suddenness, and with it the warning of the governess came back to him; he thought quakingly of the stricken children who had been caught and deprived of their wings; and then he pulled out his long red feathers and tried their strength, and gained thus fresh confidence in their power to save him when the time came. CHAPTER XVII OFF! With the full darkness a whole army of horrors crept nearer. He felt sure of this, though he could actually see nothing. The house was surrounded, the courtyard crowded. Outside, on the stairs, in the other rooms, even on the roof itself, waited dreadful things ready to catch him, to tear off his wings, to make him prisoner for ever and ever. The possibility that something had happened to the governess now became a probability. Imperceptibly the change was wrought; he could not say how or when exactly; but he now felt almost certain that the effort to keep her out of the way had succeeded. If this were true, the boy's only hope lay in his wings, and he pulled them out to their full length and kissed them passionately, speaking to the strong red feathers as if they were living little persons. "You must save me! You will save me, won't you?" he cried in his anguish. And every time he did this and looked at them he gained fresh hope and courage. The problem _where he was to fly to_ had not yet insisted on a solution, though it lay always at the back of his mind; for the final flight of escape without a guide had never been even a possibility before. Lying there alone in the darkness, waiting for the sound of the voice so longed-for, he found his thoughts turning again to the moon, and the strange words of the song that had puzzled him the night before. What in the world did it all mean? Why all this about the moon? Why was it a cruel moon, and why should it attract and persuade and entice him? He felt sure, the more he thought of it, that this had all been a device to draw him to the window--and perhaps even farther. The darkness began to terrify him; he dreaded more and more the waiting, listening things that it concealed. Oh, when would the governess call to him? When would he be able to dash through the open window and join her in the sky? He thought of the sunlight that had flooded the yard all day--so bright it seemed to have come from a sun fresh made and shining for the first time. He thought of the exquisite flowers that grew in the fields just beyond the high wall, and the night smells of the earth reached him through the window, wafted in upon a wind heavy with secrets of woods and fields. They all came from a Land of Magic that after to-night might be for ever beyond his reach, and they went straight to his heart and immediately turned something solid there into tears. But the tears did not find their natural expression, and Jimbo lay there fighting with his pain, keeping all his strength for the one great effort, and waiting for the voice that at any minute now might sound above the tree-tops. But the hours passed and the voice did not come. How he loathed the room and everything in it. The ceiling stretched like a white, staring countenance above him; the walls watched and listened; and even the mantelpiece grew into the semblance of a creature with drawn-up shoulders bending over him. The whole room, indeed, seemed to his frightened soul to run into the shape of a monstrous person whose arms were outstretched in all directions to prevent his escape. His hands never left his wings now. He stroked and fondled them, arranging the feathers smoothly and speaking to them under his breath just as though they were living things. To him they were indeed alive, and he knew when the time came they would not fail him. The fierce passion for the open spaces took possession of his soul, and his whole being began to cry out for freedom, rushing wind, the stars, and a pathless sky. Slowly the power of the great, open Night entered his heart, bringing with it a courage that enabled him to keep the terrors of the House at a distance. So far, the boy's strength had been equal to the task, but a moment was approaching when the tension would be too great to bear, and the long pent-up force would rush forth into an act. Jimbo realised this quite clearly; though he could not exactly express it in words, he felt that his real hope of escape lay in the success of that act. Meanwhile, with more than a child's wisdom, he stored up every particle of strength he had for the great moment when it should come. A light wind had risen soon after sunset, but as the night wore on it began to fail, dropping away into little silences that grew each time longer. In the heart of one of these spells of silence Jimbo presently noticed a new sound--a sound that he recognised. Far away at first, but growing in distinctness with every dropping of the wind, this new sound rose from the interior of the house below and came gradually upon him. It was voices faintly singing, and the tread of stealthy footsteps. Nearer and nearer came the sound, till at length they reached the door, and there passed into the room a wave of fine, gentle sound that woke no echo and scarcely seemed to stir the air into vibration at all. The door had opened, and a number of voices were singing softly under their breath. And after the sounds, creeping slowly like some timid animal, there came into the room a small black figure just visible in the faint starlight. It peered round the edge of the door, hesitated a moment, and then advanced with an odd rhythmical sort of motion. And after the first figure came a second, and after the second a third; and then several entered together, till a whole group of them stood on the floor between Jimbo and the open window. Then he recognised the Frightened Children and his heart sank. Even they, he saw, were arrayed against him, and took it for granted that he already belonged to them. Oh, why did not the governess come for him? Why was there no voice in the sky? He glanced with longing towards the heavens, and as the children moved past, he was almost certain that he saw the stars _through_ their bodies too. Slowly they shuffled across the floor till they formed a semicircle round the bed; and then they began a silent, impish dance that made the flesh creep. Their thin forms were dressed in black gowns like shrouds, and as they moved through the steps of the bizarre measure he saw that their legs were little more than mere skin and bone. Their faces--what he could see of them when he dared to open his eyes--were pale as ashes, and their beady little eyes shone like the facets of cut stones, flashing in all directions. And while they danced in and out amongst each other, never breaking the semicircle round the bed, they sang a low, mournful song that sounded like the wind whispering through a leafless wood. And the words stirred in him that vague yet terrible fear known to all children who have been frightened and made to feel afraid of the dark. Evidently his sensations were being merged very rapidly now into those of the little boy in the night-nursery bed. "There is Someone in the Nursery Whom we never saw before; --Why hangs the moon so red?-- And he came not by the passage, Or the window, or the door; --Why hangs the moon so red?-- And he stands there in the darkness, In the centre of the floor. --See, where the moon hangs red!-- Someone's hiding in the passage Where the door begins to swing; --Why drive the clouds so fast?-- In the corner by the staircase There's a dreadful waiting thing: --Why drive the clouds so fast?-- Past the curtain creeps a monster With a black and fluttering wing; --See, where the clouds drive fast!-- In the chilly dusk of evening; In the hush before the dawn; --Why drips the rain so cold?-- In the twilight of the garden, In the mist upon the lawn, --Why drips the rain so cold?-- Faces stare, and mouth upon us, Faces white and weird and drawn; --See, how the rain drips cold!-- Close beside us in the night-time, Waiting for us in the gloom, --O! Why sings the wind so shrill?-- In the shadows by the cupboard, In the corners of the room, --O! Why sings the wind so shrill?-- From the corridors and landings Voices call us to our doom. --O! how the wind sings shrill!"-- By this time the dreadful dancers had come much closer to him, shifting stealthily nearer to the bed under cover of their dancing, and always _between him and the window_. Suddenly their intention flashed upon him; they meant to prevent his escape! With a tremendous effort he sprang from the bed. As he did so a dozen pairs of thin, shadowy arms shot out towards him as though to seize his wings; but with an agility born of fright he dodged them, and ran swiftly into the corner by the mantelpiece. Standing with his back against the wall he faced the children, and strove to call out for help to the governess; but this time there was an entirely new difficulty in the way, for he found to his utter dismay that his voice refused to make itself heard. His mouth was dry and his tongue would hardly stir. Not a sound issued from his lips, but the children instantly moved forwards and hemmed him in between them and the wall; and to reach the window he would have to break through this semicircle of whispering, shadowy forms. Above their heads he could see the stars shining, and any moment he might hear Miss Lake's voice calling to him to come out. His heart rose with passionate longing within him, and he gathered his wings tightly about him ready for the final dash. It would take more than the Frightened Children to hold him prisoner when once he heard that voice, or even without it! Whether they were astonished at his boldness, or merely waiting their opportunity later, he could not tell; but anyhow they kept their distance for a time and made no further attempt to seize his feathers. Whispering together under their breath, sometimes singing their mournful, sighing songs, sometimes sinking their voices to a confused murmur, they moved in and out amongst each other with soundless feet like the shadows of branches swaying in the wind. Then, suddenly, they moved closer and stretched out their arms towards him, their bodies swaying rhythmically together, while their combined voices, raised just above a whisper, sang to him-- "Dare you fly out to-night, When the Moon is so strong? Though the stars are so bright, There is death in their song; You're a hostage to Fright, And to us you belong! Dare you fly out alone Through the shadows that wave, When the course is unknown And there's no one to save? You are bone of our bone, And for ever His slave!" And, following these words, came from somewhere in the air that voice like the thunder of a river. Jimbo knew only too well to whom it belonged as he listened to the rhyme of the West Wind-- "For the Wind of the West Is a wind unblest, And its dangerous breath Will entice you to death! Fly not with the Wind of the West, O child, With the terrible Wind of the West!" But the boy knew perfectly well that these efforts to stop him were all part of a trap. They were lying to him. It was not the Wind of the West at all; _it was the South Wind_! That at least he knew by the odours that were wafted in through the window. Again he tried to call to the governess, but his tongue lay stiff in his mouth and no sound came. Meanwhile the children began to draw closer, hemming him in. They moved almost imperceptibly, but he saw plainly that the circle was growing smaller and smaller. His legs began to tremble, and he felt that soon he would collapse and drop at their feet, for his strength was failing and the power to act and move was slowly leaving him. The little shadowy figures were almost touching him, when suddenly a new sound broke the stillness and set every nerve tingling in his body. Something was shuffling along the landing. He heard it outside, pushing against the door. The handle turned with a rattle, and a moment later the door slowly opened. For a second Jimbo's breath failed him, and he nearly fell in a heap upon the floor. Round the edge of the door he saw a dim huge figure come crawling into the room--creeping along the floor--and trailing behind it a pair of immense black wings that stretched along the boards. For one brief second he stared, horror-stricken, and wondering what it was. But before the whole length of the creature was in, he knew. It was Fright himself! _And he was making steadily for the window!_ The shock instantly galvanised the boy into a state of activity again. He recovered the use of all his muscles and all his faculties. His voice, released by terror, rang out in a wild shriek for help to the governess, and he dashed forward across the room in a mad rush for the window. Unless he could reach it before the other, he would be a prisoner for the rest of his life. It was now or never. The instant he moved, the children came straight at him with hands outstretched to stop him; but he passed through them as if they were smoke, and with almost a single bound sprang upon the narrow window-sill. To do this he had to clear the head and shoulders of the creature on the floor, and though he accomplished it successfully, he felt himself clutched from behind. For a second he balanced doubtfully on the window ledge. He felt himself being pulled back into the room, and he combined all his forces into one tremendous effort to rush forward. There was a ripping, tearing sound as he sprang into the air with a yell of mingled terror and exultation. His prompt action and the fierce impetus had saved him. He was free. But in the awful hand that seized him he had left behind the end feathers of his right wing. A few inches more and it would have been not merely the feathers, but the entire wing itself. He dropped to within three feet of the stones in the yard, and then, borne aloft by the kind, rushing Wind of the South, he rose in a tremendous sweep far over the tops of the high elms and out into the heart of the night. Only there was no governess's voice to guide him; and behind him, a little lower down, a black pursuing figure with huge wings flapped heavily as it followed with laborious flight through the darkness. CHAPTER XVIII HOME But it was the sound of something crashing heavily through the top branches of the elms that made the boy realise he was actually being followed; and all his efforts became concentrated into the desire to put as much distance as possible between himself and the horror of the Empty House. He heard the noise of big wings far beneath him, and his one idea was to out-distance his pursuer and then come down again to earth and rest his wings in the branches of a tree till he could devise some plan how to find the governess. So at first he raced at full speed through the air, taking no thought of direction. When he looked down, all he could see was that something vague and shadowy, shaking out a pair of enormous wings between him and the earth, move along with him. Its path was parallel with his own, but apparently it made no effort to rise up to his higher level. It thundered along far beneath him, and instinctively he raised his head and steered more and more upwards and away from the world. The gap at the end of his right wing where the feathers had been torn out seemed to make no difference in his power of flight or steering, and he went tearing through the night at a pace he had never dared to try before, and at a height he had never yet reached in any of the practice flights. He soared higher even than he knew; and perhaps this was fortunate, for the friction of the lower atmosphere might have heated him to the point of igniting, and some watcher at one of earth's windows might have suddenly seen a brilliant little meteor flash through the night and vanish into dust. At first the joy of escape was the only idea his mind seemed able to grasp; he revelled in a passionate sense of freedom, and all his energies poured themselves into one concentrated effort to fly faster, faster, faster. But after a time, when the pursuer had been apparently outflown, and he realised that escape was an accomplished fact, he began to search for the governess, calling to her, rising and falling, darting in all directions, and then hovering on outstretched wings to try and catch some sound of a friendly voice. But no answer came, either from the stars that crowded the vault above, or from the dark surface of the world below; only silence answered his cries, and his voice was swallowed up and lost in the immensity of space almost the moment it left his lips. Presently he began to realise to what an appalling distance he had risen above the world, and with anxious eyes he tried to pierce the gaping emptiness beneath him and on all sides. But this vast sea of air had nothing to reveal. The stars shone like pinholes of gold pricked in a deep black curtain; and the moon, now rising slowly, spread a veil of silver between him and the upper regions. There was not a cloud anywhere and the winds were all asleep. He was alone in space. Yet, as the swishing of his feathers slackened and the roar in his ears died away, he heard in the short pause the ominous beating of great wings somewhere in the depths beneath him, and knew that the great pursuer was still on his track. The glare of the moon now made it impossible to distinguish anything properly, and in these huge spaces, with nothing to guide the eye, it was difficult to know exactly from what direction the sound came. He was only sure of one thing--that it was far below him, and that for the present it did not seem to come much nearer. The cry for help that kept rising to his lips he suppressed, for it would only have served to guide his pursuer; and, moreover, a cry--a little thin, despairing cry--was instantly lost in these great heavens. It was less than a drop in an ocean. On and on he flew, always pointing away from the earth, and trying hard to think where he would find safety. Would this awful creature hunt him all night long into the daylight, or would he be forced back into the Empty House in sheer exhaustion? The thought gave him new impetus, and with powerful strokes he dashed onwards and upwards through the wilderness of space in which the only pathways were the little golden tracks of the starbeams. The governess would turn up somewhere; he was positive of that. She had never failed him yet. So, alone and breathless, he pursued his flight, and the higher he went the more the tremendous vault opened up into inconceivable and untold distances. His speed kept increasing; he thought he had never found flying so easy before; and the thunder of the following wings that held persistently on his track made it dangerous for him to slacken up for more than a minute here and there. The earth became a dark blot beneath him, while the moon, rising higher and higher, grew weirdly bright and close. How black the sky was; how piercing the points of starlight; how stimulating the strong, new odours of these lofty regions! He realised with a thrill of genuine awe that he had flown over the very edge of the world, and the moment the thought entered his mind it was flung back at him by a voice that seemed close to his ear one moment, and the next was miles away in the space overhead. Light thoughts, born of the stars and the moon and of his great speed, danced before his mind in fanciful array. Once he laughed aloud at them, but once only. The sound of his voice in these echoless spaces made him afraid. The speed, too, affected his vision, for at one moment thin clouds stretched across his face, and the next he was whirling through perfectly clear air again with no vestige of a cloud in sight. The same reason doubtless explained the sudden presence of sheets of light in the air that reflected the moonlight like particles of glittering ice, and then suddenly disappeared again. The terrific speed would explain a good many things, but certainly it was curious how creatures formed out of the hollow darkness, like foam before a steamer's bows, and moved noiselessly away on either side to join the army of dim life that crowded everywhere and watched his passage. For, in front and on both sides, there gathered a vast assembly of silent forms more than shadows, less than bodily shapes, that opened up a pathway as he rushed through them, and then immediately closed up their ranks again when he had passed. The air seemed packed with living creatures. Space was filled with them. They surrounded him on all sides. Yet his passage through them was like the passage of a hand through smoke; it was easy to make a pathway, but the pathway left no traces behind it. More smoke rushed in and filled the void. He could never see these things properly, face to face; they always kept just out of the line of vision, like shadows that follow a lonely walker in a wood and vanish the moment he turns to look at them over his shoulder. But ever by his side, with a steady, effortless motion, he knew they kept up with him--strange inhabitants of the airless heights, immense and misty-winged, with veiled, flaming eyes and silent feathers. He was not afraid of them; for they were neither friendly nor hostile; they were simply the beings of another world, alien and unknown. But what puzzled him more was that the light and the darkness seemed separate things, each distinctly visible. After each stroke of his wings he _saw the darkness_ sift downwards past him through the air like dust. It floated all round him in thinnest diaphanous texture--visible, not because the moonlight made it so, but because in its inmost soul it was itself luminous. It rose and fell in eddies, swirling wreaths, and undulations; inwoven with starbeams, as with golden thread, it clothed him about in circles of some magical primordial substance. Even the stars, looking down upon him from terrifying heights, seemed now draped, now undraped, as if by the sweeping of enormous wings that stirred these sheets of visible darkness into a vast system of circulation through the heavens. Everything in these oceans of upper space apparently made use of wings, or the idea of wings. Perhaps even the great earth itself, rolling from star to star, was moved by the power of gigantic, invisible wings!... Jimbo realised he had entered a forbidden region. He began to feel afraid. But the only possible expression of his fear, and its only possible relief, lay in his own wings--and he used them with redoubled energy. He dashed forward so fast that his face begun to burn, and he kept turning his head in every direction for a sign of the governess, or for some indication of where he could _escape to_. In the pauses of the wild flight he heard the thunder of the following wings below. They were still on his trail, and it seemed that they were gaining on him. He took a new angle, realising that his only chance was to fly high; and the new course took him perpendicularly away from the earth and straight towards the moon. Later, when he had out-distanced the other creature, he would drop down again to safer levels. Yet the hours passed and it never overtook him. A measured distance was steadily kept up between them as though with calculated purpose. Curious distant voices shouted from time to time all manner of sentences and rhymes in his ears, but he could neither understand nor remember them. More and more the awful stillness of the vast regions that lie between the world and the moon appalled him. Then, suddenly, a new sound reached him that at first he could not in the least understand. It reached him, however, not through the ears, but by a steady trembling of the whole surface of his body. It set him in vibration all over, and for some time he had no idea what it meant. The trembling ran deeper and deeper into his body, till at last a single, powerful, regular vibration took complete possession of his whole being, and he felt as though he was being wrapped round and absorbed by this vast and gigantic sound. He had always thought that the voice of Fright, like the roar of a river, was the loudest and deepest sound he had ever heard. Even that set his soul a-trembling. But this new, tremendous, rolling-ocean of a voice came not that way, and could not be compared to it. The voice of the other was a mere tickling of the ear compared to this awful crashing of seas and mountains and falling worlds. It must break him to pieces, he felt. Suddenly he knew what it was,--and for a second his wings failed him:--he had reached such a height that he could hear the roar of the world as it thundered along its journey through space! That was the meaning of this voice of majesty that set him all a-trembling. And before long he would probably hear, too, the voices of the planets, and the singing of the great moon. The governess had warned him about this. At the first sound of these awful voices she told him to turn instantly and drop back to the earth as fast as ever he could drop. Jimbo turned instinctively and began to fall. But, before he had dropped half a mile, he met once again the ascending sound of the wings that had followed him from the Empty House. It was no good flying straight into destruction. He summoned all his courage and turned once more towards the stars. Anything was better than being caught and held for ever by Fright, and with a wild cry for help that fell dead in the empty spaces, he renewed his unending flight towards the stars. But, meanwhile, the pursuer had distinctly gained. Appalled by the mighty thunder of the stars' voices above, and by the prospect of immediate capture if he turned back, Jimbo flew blindly on towards the moon, regardless of consequences. And below him the Pursuer came closer and closer. The strokes of its wings were no longer mere distant thuds that he heard when he paused in his own flight to listen; they were the audible swishing of feathers. It was near enough for that. Jimbo could never properly see what was following him. A shadow between him and the earth was all he could distinguish, but in the centre of that shadow there seemed to burn two glowing eyes. Two brilliant lights flashed whenever he looked down, like the lamps of a revolving lighthouse. But other things he saw, too, when he looked down, and once the earth rose close to his face so that he could have touched it with his hands. The same instant it dropped away again with a rush of whirlwinds, and became a distant shadow miles and miles below him. But before it went, he had time to see the Empty House standing within its gloomy yard, and the horror of it gave him fresh impetus. Another time when the world raced up close to his eyes he saw a scene of a different kind that stirred a passionately deep yearning within him--a house overgrown with ivy and standing among trees and gardens, with laburnums and lilacs flowering on smooth green lawns, and a clean gravel drive leading down to a big pair of iron gates. Oh, it all seemed so familiar! Perhaps in another minute the well-known figures would have appeared and spoken to him. Already he heard their voices behind the bushes. But, just before they appeared, the earth dropped back with a roar of a thousand winds, and Jimbo saw instead the shadow of the Pursuer mounting, mounting, mounting towards him. Up he shot again with terror in his heart, and all trembling with the thunder of the great star-voices above. He felt like a leaf in a hurricane, "lost, dizzy, shelterless." Voices, too, now began to be heard more frequently. They dropped upon him out of the reaches of this endless void; and with them sometimes came forms that shot past him with amazing swiftness, racing into the empty Beyond as though sucked into a vast vacuum. The very stars seemed to move. He became part of some much larger movement in which he was engulfed and merged. He could no longer think of himself as Jimbo. When he uttered his own name he saw merely a mass of wind and colour through which the great pulses of space and the planets beat tumultuously, lapping him round with the currents of a terrific motion that seemed to swallow up his own little personality entirely, while giving him something infinitely greater.... But surely these small voices, shrill and trumpet-like, did not come from the stars! these deep whispers that ran round the immense vault overhead and sounded almost familiarly in his ears-- "Give it him the moment he wakes." "Bring the ice-bag ... quick!" "Put the hot bottle to his feet IMMEDIATELY!" The voices shrieked all round him, turning suddenly into soft whispers that died away somewhere among his feathers. The soles of his feet began to glow, and he felt a gigantic hand laid upon his throat and head. Almost it seemed as if he were lying somewhere on his back, and people were bending over him, shouting and whispering. "Why hangs the moon so red?" cried a voice that was instantly drowned in a chorus of unintelligible whispering. "The black cow must be killed," whispered some one deep within the sky. "Why drips the rain so cold?" yelled one of the hideous children close behind him. And a third called with a distant laughter from behind a star-- "Why sings the wind so shrill?" "QUIET!" roared an appalling voice below, as if all the rivers of the world had suddenly turned loose into the sky. "QUIET!" Instantly a star, that had been hovering for some time on the edge of a fantastic dance, dropped down close in front of his face. It had a glaring disc, with mouth and eyes. An icy hand seemed laid on his head, and the star rushed back into its place in the sky, leaving a trail of red flame behind it. A little voice seemed to go with it, growing fainter and fainter in the distance-- "We dance with phantoms and with shadows play." But, regardless of everything, Jimbo flew onwards and upwards, terrified and helpless though he was. His thoughts turned without ceasing to the governess, and he felt sure that she would yet turn up in time to save him from being caught by the Fright that pursued, or lost among the fearful spaces that lay beyond the stars. For a long time, however, his wings had been growing more and more tired, and the prospect of being destroyed from sheer exhaustion now presented itself to the boy vaguely as a possible alternative--vaguely only, because he was no longer able to think, properly speaking, and things came to him more by way of dull feeling than anything else. It was all the more with something of a positive shock, therefore, that he realised the change. For a change had come. He was now sudden by conscious of an influx of new power--greater than anything he had ever known before in any of his flights. His wings now suddenly worked as if by magic. Never had the motion been so easy, and it became every minute easier and easier. He simply flashed along without apparent effort. An immense driving power had entered into him. He realised that he could fly for ever without getting tired. His pace increased tenfold-- increased alarmingly. The possibility of exhaustion vanished utterly. Jimbo knew now that something was wrong. This new driving power was something wholly outside himself. His wings were working far too easily. Then, suddenly, he understood: _His wings were not working at all!_ He was not being driven forward from behind; he was being drawn forward from in front. He saw it all in a flash: Miss Lake's warning long ago about the danger of flying too high; the last song of the Frightened Children, "Dare you fly out alone through the shadows that wave, when the course is unknown and there's no one to save?" the strange words sung to him about the "relentless misty moon," and the object of the dreadful Pursuer in steadily forcing him upwards and away from the earth. It all flashed across his poor little dazed mind. He understood at last. He had soared too high and had entered the sphere of the moon's attraction. "The moon is too strong, and there's death in the stars!" a voice bellowed below him like the roar of a falling mountain, shaking the sky. The child flew screaming on. There was nothing else he could do. But hardly had the roar died away when another voice was heard, a tender voice, a whispering, sympathetic voice, though from what part of the sky it came he could not tell-- "Arrange the pillows for his little head." But below him the wings of the Pursuer were mounting closer and closer. He could almost feel the mighty wind from their feathers, and hear the rush of the great body between them. It was impossible to slacken his speed even had he wished; no strength on earth could have resisted that terrible power drawing upwards towards the moon. Instinctively, however, he realised that he would rather have gone forwards than backwards. He never could have faced capture by that dreadful creature behind. All the efforts of the past weeks to escape from Fright, the owner of the Empty House, now acted upon him with a cumulative effect, and added to the suction of the moon-life. He shot forward at a pace that increased with every second. At the back of his mind, too, lay some kind of faint perception that the governess would, after all, be there to help him. She had always turned up before when he was in danger, and she would not fail him now. But this was a mere ghost of a thought that brought little comfort, and merely added its quota of force to the speed that whipped him on, ever faster, into the huge white moon-world in front. For this, then, he had escaped from the horror of the Empty House! To be sucked up into the moon, the "relentless, misty moon"--to be drawn into its cruel, silver web, and destroyed. The Song to the Misty Moon outside the window came back in snatches and added to his terror; only it seemed now weeks ago since he had heard it. Something of its real meaning, too, filtered down into his heart, and he trembled anew to think that the moon could be a great, vast, moving Being, alive and with a purpose.... But why, oh, why did they keep shouting these horrid snatches of the song through the sky? Trapped! Trapped! The word haunted him through the night: Thy songs are nightly driven, From sky to sky, Eternally, O'er the old, grey hills of heaven! _Caught!_ Caught at last! The moon's prisoner, a captive in her airless caves; alone on her dead white plains; searching for ever in vain for the governess; wandering alone and terrified. By the awful grace Of thy weird white face. The thought crazed him, and he struggled like a bird caught in a net. But he might as well have struggled to push the worlds out of their courses. The power against him was the power of the universe in which he was nothing but a little, lost, whirling atom. It was all of no avail, and the moon did not even smile at his feeble efforts. He was too light to revolve round her, too impalpable to create his own orbit; he had not even the consistency of a comet; he had reached the point of stagnation, as it were--the dead level--the neutral zone where the attractions of the earth and moon meet and counterbalance one another--where bodies have no weight and existence no meaning. Now the moon was close upon him; he could see nothing else. There lay the vast, shining sea of light in front of him. Behind, the roar of the following creature grew fainter and fainter, as he outdistanced it in the awful swiftness of the huge drop down upon the moon mountains. Already he was close enough to its surface to hear nothing of its great singing but a deep, confused murmur. And, as the distance increased, he realised that the change in his own condition increased. He felt as if he were flying off into a million tiny particles--breaking up under the effects of the deadly speed and the action of the new moon-forces. Immense, invisible arms, half-silver and half-shadow, grew out of the white disc and drew him downwards upon her surface. He was being merged into the life of the moon. There was a pause. For a moment his wings stopped dead. Their vain fluttering was all but over.... Hark! Was that a voice borne on the wings of some lost wind? Why should his heart beat so tumultuously all at once? He turned and stared into the ocean of black air overhead till it turned him dizzy. A violent trembling ran through his tired being from head to foot. He had heard a voice--a voice that he knew and loved--a voice of help and deliverance. It rang in shrill syllables up the empty spaces, and it reached new centres of force within him that touched his last store of courage and strength. "Jimbo, hold on!" it cried, like a faint, thin, pricking current of sound almost unable to reach him through the seas of distance. "I'm coming; hold on a little longer!" It was the governess. She was true to the end. Jimbo felt his heart swell within him. She was mounting, mounting behind him with incredible swiftness. The sound of his own name in these terrible regions recalled to him some degree of concentration, and he strove hard to fight against the drawing power that was seeking his destruction. He struggled frantically with his wings. But between him and the governess there was still the power of Fright to be overcome--the very Power she had long ago invoked. It was following him still, preventing his turning back, and driving him ever forward to his death. Again the voice sounded in the night; and this time it was closer. He could not quite distinguish the words. They buzzed oddly in his ears ... other voices mingled with them ... the hideous children began to shriek somewhere underneath him ... wings with eyes among their burning feathers flashed past him. His own wings folded close over his little body, drooping like dead things. His eyes closed, and he turned on his side. A huge face that was one-half the governess and the other half the head gardener at home, thrust itself close against his own, and blew upon his eyelids till he opened them. Already he was falling, sinking, tumbling headlong through a space that offered no resistance. "Jimbo!" shrieked a voice that instantly died away into a wail behind him. He opened his eyes once more--for it was that loved voice again--but the glare from the moon so dazzled him that he could only fancy he saw the figure of the governess, not a hundred feet away, struggling and floundering in the clutch of a black creature that beat the air with enormous wings all round her. He saw her hair streaming out into the night, and one wing seemed to hang broken and useless at her side. He was turning over and over, like a piece of wood in the waves of the sea, and the governess, caught by Fright, the monster of her own creation, drifted away from his consciousness as a dream melts away in the light of the morning.... From the gleaming mountains and treeless plains below Jimbo thought there rose a hollow roar like the mocking laughter of an immense multitude of people, shaking with mirth. The Moon had got him at last, and her laughter ran through the heavens like a wave. Revolving upon his own little axis so swiftly that he neither saw nor heard anything more, he dropped straight down upon the great satellite. The light of the moon flamed up into his eyes and dazzled him. But what in the world was this? How could the moon dwindle so suddenly to the size of a mere lamp flame? How could the whole expanse of the heavens shrink in an instant to the limits of a little, cramped room? In a single second, before he had time to realise that he felt surprise, the entire memory of his recent experiences vanished from his mind. The past became an utter blank. Like a wreath of smoke everything melted away as if it had never been at all. The functions of the brain resumed their normal course. The delirium of the past few hours was over. Jimbo was lying at home on his bed in the night-nursery, and his mother was bending over him. At the foot of the bed stood the doctor in black. The nurse held a lamp, only half shaded by her hand, as she approached the bedside. This lamp was the moon of his delirium--only he had quite forgotten now that there had ever been any moon at all. The little thermometer, thrust into his teeth among the stars, was still in his mouth. A hot-water bottle made his feet glow and burn. And from the walls of the sick-room came as it were the echoes of recently-uttered sentences: "Take his temperature! Give him the medicine the moment he wakes! Put the hot bottle to his feet.... Fetch the ice-bag.... Quick!" "Where am I, mother?" he asked in a whisper. "You're in bed, darling, and must keep quite quiet. You'll soon be all right again. It was the old black cow that tossed you. The gardener found you by the swinging gate and carried you in.... You've been unconscious!" "How long have I been uncon----?" Jimbo could not manage the whole word. "About three hours, darling." Then he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, and when he woke long after it was early morning, and there was no one in the room but the old family nurse, who sat watching beside the bed. Something--some dim memory--that had stirred his brain in sleep, immediately rushed to his lips in the form of an inconsequent question. But before he could even frame the sentence, the thought that prompted it had slipped back into the deeper consciousness he had just left behind with the trance of deep sleep. But the old nurse, watching every movement, waiting upon the child's very breath, had caught the question, and she answered soothingly in a whisper-- "Oh, Miss Lake died a few days after she left here," she said in a very low voice. "But don't think about her any more, dearie! She'll never frighten children again with her silly stories." "_DIED!_" Jimbo sat up in bed and stared into the shadows behind her, as though his eyes saw something she could not see. But his voice seemed almost to belong to some one else. "She was really dead all the time, then," he said below his breath. Then the child fell back without another word, and dropped off into the sleep which was the first step to final recovery. THE END PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. [Transcriber's Note: The following corrections were made: p. 52: removed paragraph break after comma (whispered, "My darling boy,) p. 87: acccomplish to accomplish (she would accomplish) p. 96: removed paragraph break after comma (and said very gravely, with her serious eyes fixed on his face, "Miss Lake,) p. 123: achoed to echoed ("Long!" he echoed,) p. 181: existance to existence (an existence far antedating) p. 197: conciousness to consciousness (the consciousness cannot) p. 204: so to no (no sequence in the order) Minor punctuation errors and missing spaces between words have been corrected without note. An oe-ligature in the word manoeuvre has been replaced with "oe" in the plain text versions. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have not been corrected.] 
31007	----	scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project. THE GIRLS AND I [Illustration: 'We ran over the fields by a short cut to a stile on to the road, where we could see her pass, and there we shouted out again all our messages.'--c. xi. p. 168.] THE GIRLS AND I: A Veracious History [Illustration] BY MRS MOLESWORTH Illustrated by L. Leslie Brooke London Macmillan & Co. MDCCCXCII CONTENTS CHAPTER I OURSELVES 1 CHAPTER II THE DIAMOND ORNAMENT 16 CHAPTER III WORK FOR THE TOWN-CRIER 30 CHAPTER IV AT THE DANCING CLASS 46 CHAPTER V RODNEY SQUARE 63 CHAPTER VI THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 79 CHAPTER VII FOUR 'IF'S' AND A COINCIDENCE 95 CHAPTER VIII MOSSMOOR FARM 110 CHAPTER IX SPYING THE LAND 125 CHAPTER X A LONG AGO ADVENTURE 140 CHAPTER XI MISCHIEF IN THE AIR 157 CHAPTER XII MISS CROSS-AT-FIRST'S FUR CAPE 173 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 'JACK, DO HELP ME TO FASTEN THIS BRACELET' 24 'I'D GIVE ANYTHING, I'D ALMOST GIVE MYSELF, TO FIND IT' 48 'THE DOOR OPENED A LITTLE WIDER, AND TWO FACES APPEARED' 74 'I JUST STOOD STILL ... AND LOOKED WELL ROUND AT THE VIEW AND EVERYTHING' 130 'HER GRANDMOTHER ... WENT QUIETLY OUT OF THE PEW WITHOUT A NOTION BUT THAT THE CHILD WAS BESIDE HER' 153 'WE RAN OVER THE FIELDS BY A SHORT CUT TO A STILE ON TO THE ROAD, WHERE WE COULD SEE HER PASS, AND THERE WE SHOUTED OUT AGAIN ALL OUR MESSAGES' 168 'WE ALL THREE SAT LISTENING AND LISTENING' 175 CHAPTER I OURSELVES I'm Jack. I've always been Jack, ever since I can remember at least, though I suppose I must have been called 'Baby' for a bit before Serena came. But she's only a year and a half younger than me, and Maud's only a year and a quarter behind her, so I can scarcely remember even Serena being 'Baby'; and Maud's always been so very grown up for her age that you couldn't fancy her anything but 'Maud.' My real name isn't John though, as you might fancy. It's a much queerer name, but there's always been one of it in our family ever since some grandfather or other married a German girl, who called her eldest son after her own father. So we're accustomed to it, and it doesn't seem so queer to us as to other people. It's 'Joachim.' 'Jock' seems a better short for it than 'Jack,' doesn't it? and I believe mother once meant to call me 'Jock.' But when Serry and Maud came I _had_ to be Jack, for with Anne and Hebe in front of me, and the two others behind, of course I was 'Jack-in-the-middle.' There's never been any more of us, and even if there had I'd have stayed Jack, once I'd got settled into it, you see. I'm eleven. I'm writing this in the holidays; and if I don't get it finished before they're done I'll keep adding on to it till I've told all there is to tell. It's a sort of comfort to me to write about everything, for one way and another I've had a good deal to put up with, all because of--_girls_. And I have to be good-tempered and nice just because they _are_ girls. And besides that, I'm really very fond of them; and they're not bad. But no one who hasn't tried it knows in the least what it is to be one boy among a lot of girls, 'specially when some of them are rather boy-ey girls, and when you yourself are just a little perhaps--just a very little--the other way. I don't think I'm a baby. Honestly I don't, and I'm not going to write down anything I don't _quite_ think. But I do like to be quiet, and I like to have things tidy and regular. I like rules, and keeping to them; and I hate racket and mess. Anne, now, drives me nearly wild with her rushy, helter-skelter ways. You wouldn't think it, would you, considering that she's fourteen, and the eldest, and that she's been the eldest all her life?--eldests _should_ be steady and good examples. And her name sounds steady and neat, doesn't it? and yet of all the untidy, unpunctual--no, I mustn't let myself go like that. Besides, it's quite true, as Hebe says, Anne has got a very good heart, and she's very particular in some _mind_ ways; she never says a word that isn't quite true--she doesn't even exaggerate. I have noticed that rather tiresome, careless people often have very good hearts. I wish they could see how much nicer it would be for other people if they'd put some of their good hearts into their tiresome ways. On the whole, it's Hebe that suits the best with me. She particular--_much_ more particular than Anne, though not quite as particular as _I'd_ like her to be, and then she is really awfully sweet. That makes her a little worrying sometimes, for she will take sides. If I am in a great state at finding our postage stamps all muddled, for instance--Anne and Hebe and I have a collection together, I am sorry to say--and _I_ know who's been at them and say something--who could help saying something if they found a lot of carefully-sorted ones ready to gum in, all pitched into the unsorted box with Uncle Brian's last envelopeful that I haven't looked over?--up flies Hebe in Anne's defence. 'Poor Anne, she was in such a hurry, she never meant it'; or 'she only wanted to help you, Jack; she didn't know you had sorted these.' Now, isn't that rather trying? For it makes me feel as if I was horrid; and if Hebe would just say, 'Yes, it _is_ awfully tiresome,' I'd feel I had a sort of right to be vexed, and when you feel that, the vexedness often goes away. Still, there's no doubt Hebe _is_ sweet, and I daresay she flies up for me just as she does for the others when I am the one not there. We're all very fond of Hebe. She and Serena are rather like each other; they have fair fluffy hair and rosy cheeks, but they're not a bit like each other in themselves. Serena is a terrible tomboy--worse than Anne, for she really never thinks at all. Anne does mean to think, but she does it the wrong way; she gets her head so full of some one thing that she forgets everything else, and then she's awfully sorry. But Serry just doesn't think at all, though she's very good-natured, and, of course, when it comes to really vexing or hurting any one, she's sorry too--for about a minute and a half! And then there's Maud. It is very funny about Maud, the oddest thing about us, though we are rather a topsy-turvy family. Maud is only eight and a half, but she's the oldest of us all. 'She's that terrible old-fashioned,' mother's old nurse said when she came to pay us a visit once, 'she's scarce canny.' They call _me_ old-fashioned sometimes, but I'm nothing to Maud. Why, bless you (I learnt that from old nurse, and I like it, and nobody can say it's naughty to bless anybody), compared to Maud I'm careless, and untidy, and unpunctual, and heedless, and everything of these kinds that I shouldn't be. And yet she and I don't get on as well as Hebe and I do, and in some ways even not as well as Anne and I do. But Maud and Anne get on very well-- I never saw anything like it. She tidies for Anne; she reminds her of things she's going to forget; she seems to think she was sent into the world to take care of her big sister. Anne is big--at least she's tall--tall and thin, and with rather smooth dark hair. My goodness! if she'd had fluffy hair like us three middle ones--for even mine is rather a bother, it grows so fast and is so curly--what _would_ she have looked like? She seems meant to be neat, and till you know her, and go her all over pretty closely, you'd never guess how untidy she is--pins all over, even though Sophy is _always_ mending her frocks and things. And Maud is dark too, though her hair is curly like ours; she's like a gipsy, people say, but she's not a bit gipsy in her _ways_--oh dear, no! We live in London--mostly, that's to say. We've got a big dark old house that really belongs to grandfather, but he's so little there that he lets us use it, for father has to be in London a lot. We're always there in winter; that's the time grandfather's generally in France or Egypt, or somewhere warm. Now and then, if he's later of going away than usual, or sooner of coming back, he's with us a while in London. We don't like it much. That sounds unkind. I don't mean to be unkind. I'm just writing everything down because I want to practise myself at it. Father writes books--very clever ones, though they're stories. I've read bits, but I didn't understand them much, only I know they're very clever by the fuss that's made about them. And people wonder how ever he gets time to write them with all the Government things he does too. He _must_ be very clever; that's what put it in my head that _perhaps_ some day I might be clever that way too. For I don't want to be either a soldier or a sailor, or a lawyer like father was before he got into Government things, and I'm sure I'm not good enough to be a parson, though I think I'd rather like it; and so sometimes I really get frightened that I'll be no good at anything at all, and a boy must be something. I think father and mother would be pleased if I were a great writer. And then we really have had some adventures: that makes it more interesting to make out a story about ourselves, for I think a book just about getting up and going to bed, and breakfast, and dinner, and tea, would be very stupid--though, all the same, in story-books I do like rather to know what the children have to eat, and something about the place they live in too. To go back about grandfather. The reason we don't much like his being with us isn't exactly that we don't care for him. He's not bad. But father's his only child, and our grandmother died a good while ago, and I think she must have been a very giving-in sort of person, and that's bad training for any one. When I'm grown up, _if_ ever I marry, I shall settle with my wife before we start that she mustn't give in to me too much, and I'll stick to it once it's settled. For I've got rather a nasty temper, and I feel in me that if I was to get too much of my own way it would get horrid. It's perhaps because of that that it's been a good thing for me to have four sisters, for they're _nearly_ as bad as four wives sometimes. I don't get too much of my own way at present, I can tell you. I often think I'm rather like grandfather. P'raps if he'd had four sisters or a not-too-giving-in wife he'd have been better. Now, I hope that's not rude? I don't mean it to be; I'm rather excusing him. And I can't put down what isn't true, even though nobody should ever see this 'veracious history'--that's what I'm going to put on the title-page--except myself. And the truth is that grandfather expects everybody and everything to give in to him. Not _always_ father, for he does see how grand and clever father is, and that he can't be expected to come and go, and do things, and give up things, just like a baby. But oh, as for poor little mums!--that's mother--her life's not her own when gran's with us. And it isn't that she's silly a bit. She's awfully sensible; something like Hebe and Maud mixed together, though to look at her she's more like Anne. It's real goodness makes _her_ give in. 'He's getting old, dears, you know,' she says, 'and practically he's so very good to us.' I'm not quite sure that I understand quite what 'practically' means. I think it's to do with the house--or the houses, for we've got two--and money. For father, though he's so clever, wouldn't be _rich_ without grandfather, I don't think. Perhaps it means presents too. He--grandfather--isn't bad about presents. He never forgets birthdays or Christmases--oh dear, no, he's got an _awfully_ good memory. Sometimes _some_ of us would almost rather be worse off for presents if only he'd forget some other things. I'm like him about remembering too. I think my mind is rather tidy, as well as my outside ways. I've got things very neat inside; I often feel as if it was a cupboard, and I like to know exactly which shelf to go to for anything I want. Mums says, 'That's all very well so far as it goes, Jack, but don't stop short at that, or you will be in danger of growing narrow-minded and self-satisfied.' And I think I know what she means. There are some things now about Anne, for all her tiresome ways, that I know are _grander_ than about me, or even perhaps than about Hebe, only Hebe's sweetness makes up for everything. But Anne would give anything in a moment to do any one a good turn. And I--well, I'd think about it. I didn't at all like having to tear up my nice pocket-handkerchief even the day we found the poor little boy with his leg bleeding so dreadfully in the Park, and Anne had hers in strips in a moment. And she'll lend her very best things to any one of us. And she's got feelings I don't understand. Beautiful church music makes her want so _dreadfully_ to be good, she says. I _like_ it very much, but I don't think I feel it that way. I just feel nice and quiet, and almost a little sleepy if it goes on a good while. I was telling about our house in London. It's big, and rather grand in a dull sort of way, but dark and gloomy. Long ago, when they built big houses, I think they fancied it was the proper thing to make them dark. It's nice in winter when it's shut up for the night, and the gas lighted in the hall and on the staircases, and with the lamps in the dining-room and drawing-rooms and library--it is very warm and comfortable then, and though the furniture's old-fashioned, and not a pretty kind of old-fashioned, it looks grand in a way. But when the spring comes, and the bright days show up all the dinginess, poor mother, how she does sigh! 'I would so like to have a pretty house,' she says. 'The curtains are all so dark, you can scarcely see they're any colour at all, and those dreadful heavy gilt frames to the mirrors in the drawing-rooms! Oh, Alan'--Alan is father--'don't you think gran would let us refurnish even the third drawing-room? I could make it a sort of boudoir, you know, and I could have my own friends in there in the daytime. The rooms don't look so bad at night.' But father shakes his head. 'I'm afraid he wouldn't like it,' he says. So I suppose even father gives in a good deal to gran. Mums isn't a bit selfish. The brightest rooms in the house have always been ours. They're two floors over the drawing-rooms, which are really _very_ big rooms. We have a nursery, and on one side of it a dressing-room--that's mine--and two other rooms, with two beds each for the girls. We do our lessons in the study--a little room in front of the dining-room, very jolly, for it looks to the front, and the street is wide, and we can see all the barrel-organs and monkeys, and Punch and Judys, and bands, when we're doing our lessons. I don't mean when we're _having_ our lessons; that's different. My goodness! I'd like to see even Serry try to look out of the window when Miss Stirling is there! Miss Stirling's our governess. She comes, you know; she's not a living-in-the-house one, and she's pretty strict, so we like her best the way she is. But _doing_ our lessons is when we're learning them. Most days, in winter anyway, we go a walk till four, or a quarter to, and then we learn for an hour, and then we have tea; and if we're not finished, we come down again till half-past six or so, and then we dress to go into the drawing-room to mums. She nearly always dresses for dinner early, so we have an hour with her. The little ones, Serena and Maud, never have much to learn. It's Anne and Hebe and me. We all do Latin-- I mean we three do. And twice a week Miss Stirling takes Anne and Hebe to French and German classes for 'advanced pupils.' I'm not an advanced pupil, so those mornings I work alone for two hours, and then I've not much to do in the evening those days. And Miss Stirling gives me French and German the days that the girls are at their music with Mrs. Meux, their music-teacher. That's how we've done for a long time--ages. But next year I'm going to school. I'm to go when I'm twelve. My birthday comes in November. It's just been; that's how I said 'I'm eleven,' not eleven and a quarter, or eleven and a half--just eleven. And I'm to go at the end of the Christmas holidays after that. I don't much mind; at least I don't think I do. I'll have more lessons and more games in a regular way, and I'll have less worries, anyway at first. For I shall be counted a small boy, of course, and I shan't have to look after others and be blamed for them, the way I have to look after the girls at home. It'll really be a sort of rest. I've had such a lot of looking after other people. I really have. Mums says so herself sometimes. She even says I have to look after her. And it's true. She's awfully good--she's almost an angel--but she's a tiny bit like Anne. She's rather untidy. Not to look at, ever. She's as neat as a pin, and then she's very pretty; but she's careless--she says so herself. She so often loses things, because she's got a trick of putting them down anywhere she happens to be. Often and often I go to her room when she's dressing, and tap at the door and say-- 'Have you lost something, mums?' And ten to one she'll call back-- 'Yes, my dear town-crier, I have.' ('My gloves,' or 'my card-case,' or 'my keys,' or, oh! almost anything.) 'But I wasn't worrying about it; I knew you'd find it, Jack.' And Maud does finder for Anne, just the same way, only _her_ finding sometimes gets me into trouble. Just fancy that. If Anne loses something, and Maud is hunting away and doesn't find it all at once, they'll turn upon me--they truly will--and say-- 'You _might_ help her, Jack, you really might, poor little thing! It's no trouble to you to run up and down stairs, and she's so little.' When that sort of thing happens, I do feel that I've got a rather nasty temper. I've begun about losing things, because our adventures had to do with a very big losing. The first adventure came straight from it, and the rest had to do with it. It's funny how things hang together like that. You think of something that's come, and you remember what made it happen, and then you go back to the beginning of _that_, and you see it came from something else; and you go on feeling it out like, till you're quite astonished to find what a perfectly different thing had started it all from what you would have thought. I think this will be a good place for ending the first chapter, which isn't really like a story--only an explanation of us. And in the next I'll begin about our adventures. CHAPTER II THE DIAMOND ORNAMENT It was two years ago nearly; it was the end of February--no, I think it was a little way on in March. So I was only nine and a quarter, and Anne was about twelve, and all the others in proportion younger than they are now, of course. You can count their ages, if you like, though I don't know who 'you' are, or if there's ever going to be any 'you' at all. But it's the sort of thing I like to do myself when I read a story. I count all the people's ages, and the times they did things, and that things are said to have happened, and I can tell you that very often I find that authors make very stupid mistakes. I told father of this once, and I said I'd like to write and tell them. He laughed, but he called me a prig, which I didn't like, so I never have written to any of them. That winter began early, and was very cold, but it went early too. So grandfather took it into his head to come back to England the end of February, for a bit, meaning to go on somewhere else--to Ireland, I think, where we have some relations--after he'd been in London a fortnight or so. It all came--all that I've got to tell--of gran's returning from the hot place he'd been at, whichever it was, so much sooner than usual. There was going to be a Drawing-room just about the end of the fortnight he was to be with us, and mums was going to it. She had fixed it a good while ago, because she was going to take some friends--a girl who'd got married to a cousin of father's, and another girl--to be presented. They were both rather pretty. We saw them in the morning, when they came for mums to take them. _I_ thought the married one prettiest; she had nice laughing eyes. If ever I marry, I'd like a girl with laughing eyes; they look so jolly. The other one was rather cross, I thought, and so did Maud. But Anne said she was interesting-looking, as if she had a hidden sorrow, like in poetry. And after that, none of us quite dared to say she was only cross-looking. And she wasn't really cross; we found that out afterwards. It was only the way her face was made. Her name was Judith, and the married one was Dorothea. We always call her that, as she's our cousin. They were prettily dressed, both of them. All white. But Dorothea's dress went rather in creases. It looked too loose. I went all round her, ever so many times, peeping at it, though she didn't know, of course. I can tell when a dress fits, as well as anybody, because of helping to dress mums so often. Sometimes, for a change from the town-crier, mums calls me a man-milliner. I don't mind. Judith's dress was all right. It was of silk, a soft kind, not near so liney as satin. I like it better. They were both very neat. No pins or hair-pins sticking out. But mums looked prettiest. I can tell you how she was dressed, because she's not been at a Drawing-room since, for last spring and summer she got a cold or something both times she meant to go. By rights she should go every year, because of what father is. I hope she'll go next spring, for after that I shall be at school, and never able to see her, and I do love to look at her all grand like that. She says she doesn't know how she'll do without me for seeing she's all right. Well, her dress was blue and pale pink, the train blue--a flowery pattern--and she had blue and pink bunches of feathers all sticking about it; no flowers except her nosegay, which was blushing roses tied with blue streamers. She did look nice. Her hair looked grander than usual, because of something she had never had in it before, and that was a beautiful diamond twisty-twirly thing. I have never seen a diamond brooch or pin quite like it, though I often look in the jewellers' windows. She was very proud of it, though she'd only got the loan of it. I must go back a bit to tell you how she had got it. A day or two before grandfather left, mums told him about the Drawing-room. If she had known he was going to be with us then, she wouldn't have fixed to go to it; for, as I have said, he takes up nearly all her time, especially when he's only there for a short visit. I suppose I shouldn't call it a visit, as it's his own house, but it seems the best word. And for her to be a whole day out, not in at luncheon, and a train-show at afternoon tea-time, would have been just what he doesn't like. But it couldn't be helped now, as others were counting on her, especially Mrs. Chasserton, our cousin's wife--that's Dorothea. We were there--Anne, Hebe, and I--when mother told gran about it. We really felt rather frightened, but she said it so sweetly, I felt sure he _couldn't_ be vexed. And he wasn't. He did frudge up his eyebrows--'frudge' is a word we've made ourselves, it does do so well; we've made several--and they are very thick. Anne opened her mouth in a silly way she has, just enough to make him say, 'What are you gaping at, Miss Anne, may I ask?' but luckily he didn't notice. And Hebe squeezed my hand under the table-cloth. It was breakfast time. But in a minute he unfrudged his eyebrows, and then we knew it was over. 'Quite right, my dear Valeria,' he said. Valeria is mums' name; isn't it pretty? 'I am very glad for you to show attention to Dick's wife--quite right, as you are at the head of the family. As for Judith Merthyr--h-m--h-m--she's a strong-minded young woman, I'm told--don't care about strong-minded young women--wonder she condescends to such frivolity. And thank you, my dear, for your consideration for me. But it won't be needed. I must leave for Holyhead on Tuesday. They are expecting me at Tilly' something or other (I don't mean that gran said that, but I can't remember these long Irish names). Tuesday was the day before the Drawing-room. I'm sure mums clapped her inside hands--that's another of our makings up--I know _we_ did. For if gran had been there I don't believe we'd have got in to the train-show at all. And of course it's much jollier to be in the drawing-room in the afternoon, waiting for them to come back, and speaking to the people that are there, and getting a good many extra teas and sandwiches and cakes and ices, than just to see mums start in the morning, however pretty she looks. Grandfather was really rather wonderful that day. 'What are you going to wear, my dear Valeria?' he asked mother. She told him. 'H-m, h-m,' he said. He has different ways of h-ming. This time it was all right, not like when he spoke of Judy Merthyr. And actually a smile broke over his face. The night before he was leaving he came into the drawing-room just before dinner-time, looking very smiley. He was holding something in his hand--a dark leather case. 'My dear child,' he said, and though we were all five there we knew he was speaking to mother. I like to hear mother called 'my dear child'--father does it sometimes--it makes her seem so nice and young. 'My dear child,' he said, 'I have got something here that I want you to wear in your hair at the Drawing-room. I cannot _give_ it you out and out, though I mean you to have it some day, but I want to lend it you for as long as you like.' And then he opened the case, mother standing close by, and all of us trying to peep too. It was the twisty-twirly diamond ornament. A sort of knot--big diamonds in the middle and littler ones in and out. It is awfully pretty. I never saw diamonds sparkle so--you can see every colour in them when you look close, like thousands of prisms, you know. It had a case on purpose for it, and there were pins of different shapes and sizes, so that it could be a brooch, or a hair-pin, or a hanging thing without a pin at all. Mums _was_ pleased. 'Oh, thank you, dear gran,' she said. 'It _is_ good of you. Yes, indeed, I shall be proud to have such a lovely, splendid ornament in my hair.' Then grandfather took it out of the case, and showed her all the different ways of fastening in the pins. They had little screws at their ends, and they all fitted in so neatly, it was quite interesting to see. 'You will wear it in your hair on Wednesday, no doubt,' he said. 'So I will fasten in the hair-pin--there, you see it screws quite firmly.' And then he gave it to mother, and she took it upstairs and put it away. The next night--grandfather had left that morning--father and mother were going out to dinner. Mother dresses rather early generally, so that she can be with us a little, but that night she had been busy, and she was rather late. She called us into her room when she was nearly ready, not to disappoint us, and because we always like to see her dressed. She had on a red dress that night, I remember. Her maid, Rowley, had put out all the things on the toilet-table. When mums isn't in a hurry I often choose for her what she's going to wear--we spread all the cases out and then we settle. But to-night there wasn't time for that. Rowley had got out a lot of things, because she didn't know which mother would choose, and among them the new, grand, diamond thing of grandfather's. 'Oh,' said Anne--she and I were first at the toilet-table,--'are you going to wear gran's ornament, mother?' [Illustration: 'Jack, do help me to fasten this bracelet.'--c. ii. p. 24.] 'No, of course not,' said mums. 'It's only for very grand occasions, and to-night is quite a small dinner. I've got on all the jewellery I need. But, Jack, do help me to fasten this bracelet, there's a good boy.' Rowley was fussing away at something that wasn't quite right in mother's skirt. Mother was rather impatient, and the bracelet was fidgety. But at last I got it done, and Rowley stood up with rather a red face from tacking the sweepy, lacey thing that had come undone. Mums flew off. 'Good-night, dears,' she said. 'I haven't even time to kiss you. Father has gone down, and the carriage has been there ever so long.' The girls called out 'good-night,' and Hebe and I ran to the top of the staircase to watch her go down. Then we went straight back to the nursery, and in a minute or two the three others came in. Maud was saying something to Anne, and Anne was laughing at her. 'Did you ever hear such a little prig as Maud?' she said. 'She's actually scolding me because I was looking at mums's jewels.' 'Anne made them all untidy,' said Maud. 'Well, Rowley'll tidy them again. She came back on purpose; she'd only gone down to put mother's cloak on,' said Anne carelessly. 'Anne,' said I rather sharply. You see I knew her ways, and mums often leaves me in charge. 'Were you playing with mother's jewels?' 'I was doing no harm,' said Anne; 'I was only looking at the way the pins fasten in to that big diamond thing. It's quite right, Jack, you needn't fuss. Rowley's putting them all away.' So I didn't say any more. And to-morrow was the Drawing-room day. Mother looked beautiful, as I said. We watched her start with the two others, cousin Dorothea and Miss Merthyr. It was rather a cold day; they took lots of warm cloaks in the carriage. I remember hearing Judy--we call her Judy now--say, 'You must take plenty of wraps, Mrs. Warwick,'--that's mother. 'My aunt made me bring a fur cape that I thought I should not wear again this year; it would never do for you to catch cold.' Mums does look rather delicate, but she isn't delicate really. She's never ill. But Judith looked at her so nicely when she said that about not catching cold, that the cross look went quite out of her face, and I saw it was only something about her eyebrows. And I began to think she must be rather nice. But we didn't see her again. She did not get out of the carriage when they came back in the afternoon, but went straight home to her own house. Somebody of hers was ill there. Cousin Dorothea came back with mother, and three other ladies in trains came too, so there was rather a good show. And everybody was laughing and talking, and we'd all had two or three little teas and several ices, and it was all very jolly when a dreadful thing happened. I was standing by mother. I had brought her a cup of tea from the end drawing-room where Rowley and the others were pouring it out, and she was just drinking it, when I happened to look up at her head. 'Mums,' I said, 'why have you taken out gran's diamond thing? It looked so nice.' Mums put her hand to her head--to the place where she knew she had put in the pin: of course it wasn't there, I wouldn't have made such a mistake. Mums grew white--really white. I never saw her like that except once when father was thrown from his horse. 'Oh, Jack,' she said, 'are you sure?' and she kept feeling all over her hair among the feathers and hanging lacey things, as if she thought it must be sticking about somewhere. 'Stoop down, mums,' I said, 'and I'll have a good look.' There weren't many people there just then--several had gone, and several were having tea. So mums sat down on a low chair, and I poked all over her hair. But of course the pin was gone--no, I shouldn't say the _pin_, for _it_ was there; its top, with the screwy end, was sticking up, but the beautiful diamond thing was gone! I drew out the pin, and mother gave a little cry of joy as she felt me. 'Oh, it's there,' she said, 'there after all----' 'No, dear,' I said quickly, 'it isn't. Look--it's only the pin.' Mother seized it, and looked at it with great puzzle as well as trouble in her eyes. 'It's come undone,' she said, 'yet how could it have done? Gran fixed it on himself, and he's so very particular. There's a little catch that fastens it to the pin as well as the screw--see here, Jack,' and she showed me the catch, 'that _couldn't_ have come undone if it was fastened when I put it on. And I _know_ gran clicked it, as well as screwing the head in.' She stared at me, as if she thought it _couldn't_ be true, and as if explaining about it would make it come back somehow. Several ladies came up, and she began telling them about it. Cousin Dorothea had gone, but these other ladies were all very sorry for her, and indeed any one would have been, poor little mother looked so dreadfully troubled. One of them took up the pin and examined it closely. 'There's one comfort,' she said, 'it hasn't been _stolen_. You see it's not been cut off, and that's what very clever thieves do sometimes. They nip off a jewel in a crowd, quite noiselessly and in half a second, I've been told. No, Mrs. Warwick, it's dropped off, and by advertising and offering a good reward you may very likely get it back. But--excuse me--it was very careless of your maid not to see that it was properly fastened. A very valuable thing, I suppose it is?' 'It's more than valuable,' said poor mother. 'It's an heirloom, _quite_ irreplaceable. I do not know how I shall ever have courage to tell my father-in-law. No, I can't blame my maid. I told her not to touch it, as the General had fastened it himself all ready. But how _can_ it have come undone?' At that moment Anne and Hebe, who had been having a little refreshment no doubt, came into the front drawing-room where we were. They saw there was something the matter, and when they got close to mother and saw what she was holding in her hand, for the lady had given it back to her, they seemed to know in a moment what had happened. And Anne's mouth opened, the way it does when she's startled or frightened, and she stood staring. Then I knew what it meant. CHAPTER III WORK FOR THE TOWN-CRIER 'Oh, those girls,' I thought to myself; 'why did I leave them alone in mother's room with all her things about?' But Anne's face made me feel as if I couldn't say anything--not before all those people; though of course I knew that as soon as she could see mother alone she would tell, herself. I was turning away, thinking it would be better to wait--for, you see, mother was not blaming any one else--when all of a sudden Maud ran up. She was all dressed up very nicely, of course; and she's a pretty little thing, everybody says, and then she's the youngest. So a lot of people had been petting her and making a fuss about her. Maud doesn't like that at all. She's not the least bit conceited or spoilt, and she really is so sensible that I think it teazes her to be spoken to as if she was only a baby. Her face was rather red, I remember; she had been trying to get away from those ladies without being at all rude, for she's far too 'ladylike' to be rude _ever_. And now she ran up, in a hurry to get to her dear Anne as usual. But the moment she saw Anne's face she knew that something was wrong. For one thing, Anne's mouth was wide open, and I have told you about Anne's mouth. Then there was the pin in mother's hand, the hair-pin, and no top to it! And mums looking so troubled, and all the ladies round her. 'What is it?' said Maud in her quick way. 'Oh--is mums' brooch broken? Oh, Anne, you shouldn't have touched it!' Everybody--mother and everybody--turned to Anne; I _was_ sorry for her. It wasn't like Maud to have called it out, she is generally so careful; but you see she was startled, and she only thought the diamond thing was broken or loosened. Anne's face grew scarlet. 'What do you mean, Maudie?' said mother. 'Anne, what does she mean?' It was hard upon Anne, for it looked as if she hadn't been going to tell, and that wasn't at all her way. In another moment I daresay she would have blurted it out; but then, you see, she had hardly had time to take in that most likely she had caused the mischief, for she knew she hadn't _meant_ to, and she quite thought she had left the pin just as firmly fastened as she had found it. 'Oh, mother,' she cried, 'I didn't think-- I never meant-- I'm sure I screwed it in again quite the same.' 'When did you touch it? I don't understand anything about it. Jack, what do Anne and Maud mean?' said poor mums, turning to me. 'It was my fault,' I said. 'I shouldn't have left any one in your room, with all your things about, and Rowley even not there.' 'And I did tell Anne not to touch the diamond brooch,' said Maud. For once she really seemed quite angry with Anne. Then we told mother all there was to tell--at least Anne did, for she knew the most of course. She had been fiddling at the diamond thing all the time she was standing by the table, but no one had noticed her except Maud. For you remember mums was in a great hurry, and I was helping her to fasten her bracelet, and Rowley was fussing at her skirt, and then Hebe and I went half-way downstairs to see mother start. Oh dear, I did feel vexed with myself! Anne said she wanted to see how the ornament could be turned into different things; she had unscrewed the pin and unclicked the little catch, and then she had fixed in the other kind of pin to make it into a brooch, and she wanted to try the screw with a ring to it, to make it a hanging ornament, but Maud wouldn't let her stay. So she screwed in the hairpin again--the one that gran had fastened in himself. She meant to do it quite tight, but she couldn't remember if she clicked the little catch. And she was in a hurry, so no doubt she did it carelessly. That was really about all Anne had to tell. But it was plain that it had been her fault that the beautiful ornament was lost. It had dropped off. Mums didn't say very much to her: it wouldn't have done before all the visitors. They were very good-natured, and very sorry for mother. And several people said again what a good thing it was it was only _lost_, not stolen, for that gave ever so much more chance of finding it. When all the people had gone, father came in. Mother had still her dress on, but she was looking very white and tired, and in a moment, like Maud, he saw there was something the matter. He was very vexed, dreadfully vexed, only he was too good to scold Anne _very_ much. And indeed it would have been difficult to do so, she looked such a miserable creature, her eyes nearly swollen out of her head with crying. And we were all pretty bad--even Serry, who never troubles herself much about anything, looked solemn. And as for me, I just couldn't forgive myself for not having stayed in mother's room and seen to putting away her jewel-cases, as I generally do. Father set to work at once. First he made mother stand up in the middle of the room, and he called Rowley, and he and Rowley and I and Hebe shook out her train and poked into every little fluthery ruffle--there was a lot of fustled-up net inside the edge, just the place for the diamond thing to get caught in, and we made her shake herself and turn out her pocket and everything. But it was no use. Then--the poor little thing was nearly dead, she was so tired!--father made her go to take off her finery, telling Rowley to look over all the dress again when mother had got out of it. Then he and I went out together to the coach-house, first telling all the servants of the loss, and making them hunt over the hall and up and down the stairs; it was really quite exciting, though it was horrid too, knowing that father and mother were so vexed and Anne so miserable. We found the coachman just washing the carriage. We got into it, and poked into every corner, and shook out the rugs, and just did everything, even to looking on the front-door steps behind the scraper, and in the gutter, and shaking out the roll of carpet that had been laid down. For father is splendid at anything like that; he's so practical, and I think I take after him. (I don't know but what I'd like best of all to be a private detective when I grow up. I'll speak to father about it some day.) But all was no use, and when we came up to the drawing-room again there was mums in her crimson teagown, looking _so_ anxious. It went to my heart to have to shake my head, especially when poor Anne came out of a corner looking like a dozen ghosts. Still, we had rather a nice evening after all, though it seems odd. It was all thanks to father. He made us three come down to dinner with mums and him, 'To cheer your mother up a little,' he said, though I shouldn't have thought there was much cheering to be got out of Anne. In reality I think he did it as much for Anne's sake as for mums's. And Hebe was very sweet to Anne, for they don't _always_ get on so very well. Hebe sometimes does elder sister too much, which is bad enough when one _is_ elder sister, but rather too bad when one _isn't_, even if it is the real elder sister's own fault. But to-night Hebe sat close to Anne, holding her hand under the table-cloth, and trying to make her eat some pudding. (It was chocolate pudding, I remember, and mother gave us each some.) And when dessert was on the table, and the servants had gone, father called Anne to him, and put his arm round her. 'My dear little girl,' he said, 'you must try to leave off crying. It only makes mother more troubled. I can't deny that this loss _is_ a great vexation: it will annoy grandfather, and--well, there's no use telling you what you know already. But of course it isn't as bad as some troubles, and even though I'm afraid I can't deny that it has come through your fault, it isn't as bad as if your fault had been a worse one--unkindness, or untruthfulness, or some piece of selfishness.' Anne hid her face on his shoulder, and sobbed and choked, and said something we couldn't hear. 'But still carelessness _is_ a great fault, and causes troubles without end,' father went on. 'And in this case it was meddlesomeness too. I do hope----' 'Oh, father,' said Anne, looking up, 'I know what you're going to say. Yes, it _will_ be a lesson to me: you'll see. I shall be quite different, and ever so much more thoughtful and careful from now.' And of course she meant what she said. But father looked grave still. 'My dear child, don't be too confident. You won't find that you can cure yourself all at once. The force of bad habit is almost harder to overcome in small things than in great: it is so unconscious.' 'Yes, father,' said Anne. She understood what he said better than I did then; for she is really clever--much cleverer than I am about poetry and _thinking_ sort of cleverness, though I have such a good memory. So I remembered what father said, and now I understand it. After dinner we went up to the littlest drawing-room--the one mother wanted for so long to refurnish prettily. There was a fire, for it was only March, and mums sat in one of the big old armchairs close to it, and Anne and Hebe beside her. And father drew a chair to mums' writing-table, and wrote out several advertisements for the next morning's papers, which he sent off to the offices that very evening. Some were in the next morning, and some weren't; but it didn't much matter, for none of them did any good. Before he sent them he inquired of all the servants if they had looked everywhere he had told them to. 'There is just a chance of daylight showing it in some corner,' he said, when he had done all this, and come to sit down beside mums. 'I don't know that,' she said. 'This house is so dark by day. But, after all, the chance of its being here is very small.' 'Yes,' father said, 'I have more hope in the advertisements.' 'And,' mother went on, her voice sounding almost as if she was going to cry--I believe she kept it back a good deal for Anne's sake--'if--if they don't bring anything, what about telling your father, Alan?' 'Alan' is fathers name--'Alan Joachim,' and mine is 'Joachim Gerald.' Father considered. 'We must wait a little. It will be a good while before I quite give up hopes of it. And there's no use in spoiling gran's time in Ireland; for there's no doubt the news _would_ spoil it--he's the sort of person to fret tremendously over a thing of the kind.' 'I'm afraid he is,' said mother, and she sighed deeply. But hearing a faint sob from Anne, father gave mother a tiny sign, and then he asked us if we'd like him to read aloud a little sort of fairy story he'd been writing for some magazine. Of course we all said 'Yes': we're very proud if ever he offers to read us anything, even though we mayn't understand it very well; but this time we did understand it--Anne best of all, I expect. And when he had finished, it was time for us to go to bed. We had had, as I told you, rather an extra nice evening after all, and father had managed to make poor mums more cheerful and hopeful. It got worse again, however, the next day, when the hours went on, and there came no letter or telegram or anything about the lost treasure. For mother had got to feel almost sure the advertisements would bring some news of it. And father was very late of coming home. It was a dreadfully busy time for him just then. We were all in bed before he came in, both that night and the next I remember, for I know he looked in to say good-night to me, and to say he hoped we were all being as good as we could be to mums. I think we were, and to Anne too, for we were nearly as sorry for her. I had never known her mind about anything so much, or for so long. Serry began to be rather tired of it. 'It's so awfully dull to see Anne going about with such a long face,' she said the second evening, when we were all sitting with mother. 'Mums herself doesn't look half so gloomy. Mums, do tell Anne not to be so cross; it can't be as bad for her as for you.' 'You're very unkind, Serry,' said Maud, bristling up for Anne; 'and, after all, I think you might feel a little sorry too. You joined Anne in looking over all mother's things that night, you know you did, and you only laughed when I said you'd left them in a mess.' Serry only laughed now. She tossed back her fluffy hair--it's a way of hers, and I must say she looks very pretty when she does it. 'It's not my nature to fuss about things,' she said. 'It wouldn't suit my name if I did; would it, mums? And you are such a little preacher, Maud.' It _was_ funny to hear Maud. It's funny still, for she looks such a mite, but two years ago it was even funnier. For she was only six and a half then, though she spoke just as well as she does now. I can't remember ever hearing Maud talk babyishly. 'Don't begin quarrelling about it, my dear children,' said mother. 'That certainly won't do any good. And, Anne, you must just try to put it off your mind a little, as I am doing.' 'I _can't_,' said Anne. 'I've never been so long sorry about anything in my life. I didn't know any one _could_ be. I dream about it all night, too--the most provoking dreams of finding it in all sorts of places. Last night I dreamt I found it in my teacup, when I had finished drinking my tea, and it seemed so dreadfully _real_, you don't know. I could scarcely help thinking it would be in my cup this morning at breakfast.' 'Oh,' said Serena, 'that was why you were staring at the dregs so, and sighing so dolefully.' But Anne didn't pay any attention to her. 'Mother,' she said, 'you don't think it could _mean_ anything--my dream, I mean? Could it be that we are to look all through the teacups in the pantry, for you know there were a great lot in the drawing-room that day, and it _might_ have dropped into one that wasn't used, and got put away without being washed.' Mums smiled a little. 'I'm afraid that's wildly improbable,' she said; 'but if you like to go downstairs and tell Barstow about your dream, you may. It may inspirit them all to go on looking, for I'm afraid they have given up hopes.' Barstow is the butler. He's _very_ nice, and he was with father since he--I mean, father--was a baby; he's been always with gran, or what he calls 'in the family.' He's only got one fault, and that is, he can't keep a footman. We've just had _shoals_, and now father and mother say they really can't help it, and Barstow must settle them for himself. Since they've said that, the last two have stayed rather longer. But he's most exceedingly jolly to us. Mums says he spoils us, but I don't think he does, for he's very particular. Lots of footmen have been sent away because he didn't think they spoke properly for us to hear. He was terribly shocked one day when Serry said something was 'like blazes,' and still worse when he caught me pretending to smoke. He was sure James or Thomas had taught me, say what I would, and of course I was only humbugging. I think mums sent Anne down to talk to old Barstow a bit, partly to cheer her up. Anne was away about ten minutes. When she came back she did look rather brighter, though she shook her head. She was holding a note in her hand. 'No,' she said; 'Barstow was very nice, and he made Alfred climb up to look at some cups on a high shelf that hadn't been used the Drawing-room day--they'd just been brought up in case the others ran short. But there was nothing there. At least--look, mother,' she went on, holding out the letter. 'Fancy, Alfred found _this_ on the shelf. Barstow is so angry, and Alfred's dreadfully sorry, and I said I'd ask you to forgive him. It came that evening, when we were all in such a fuss, and he forgot to give it you. He was carrying down a tray and put the note on it, meaning to take it up to the drawing-room. And somehow it got among the extra cups.' Mums took the note and began to open it. 'I haven't the heart to scold any one for being careless just now,' she said, and then she unfolded the letter and read it. 'I'm rather glad of this,' she said, looking up. 'And it is a good thing it was found, Anne, otherwise Mrs. Liddell would have thought me very rude. It is from her to say that the dancing class begins again on--let me see--yes, it's to-morrow, Saturday, and she wants to know how many of you are coming. It's to be at her house, like last year. I must send her a word at once.' Mrs. Liddell's house isn't far from ours, and it's very big. There's a room with no carpet on, where we dance. She likes to have the class at her house, because her children are awfully delicate, or, anyway, she thinks they are; and if it's the least cold or wet, she's afraid to let them go out. They come up to town early in the spring, and it suits very well for us to go to their class, as it's so near. We rather like it. There's more girls than boys, of course--a lot--but I don't mind, because there are two or three about my size, and one a bit bigger, though he's younger. We were not sorry to hear it was to begin again, and we all said to mums that she should let Maud come too. Maud had never been yet, and Serry had only been one year. Mums wasn't sure. Dancing is rather expensive, you know, but she said she'd ask father. 'The class is to be every Saturday afternoon, like last year,' she said. 'That will do very well.' 'But do persuade father to let Maud come too,' we all said. It wasn't till afterwards that I thought to myself that I would look absurder than ever--the only boy to _four_ sisters! It was bad enough the year before with three. CHAPTER IV AT THE DANCING CLASS It's funny to think what came of our going to that first dancing class. If Anne hadn't run down to the pantry, the note wouldn't have been found--perhaps not for months, if ever. And though Mrs. Liddell would have written again the next week most likely, it wouldn't have been in time for us to go to the first class, and everything would have come different. We did go--all five of us. Father was quite willing for Maud to come too. I think he would have said yes to anything mother asked just then, he was so sorry for her; and he was beginning himself, as the days went on, to feel less hopeful about the diamond ornament being found. And you see mums couldn't put it off her mind, as she kept telling Anne _she_ should do, for it was quite dreadful to her to think of grandfather's having to hear about it. She was so really sorry for him to be vexed, for she had thought it so kind of him to lend it to her. There were several children we knew at the dancing class. Some, like the little Liddells themselves, that we hadn't seen for a good long while, as they always stayed in the country till after Christmas, and some that we didn't know as friends, only just at the dancing, you see. It was rather fun. We always found time for a good deal of talking and laughing between the exercises and the dances, for they took us in turns--the little ones, like Serena and Maud, who were just beginning, and the older ones who could dance pretty well, and one or two dances at the end for the biggest of all or the furthest on ones. Anne and Hebe were among these, but Hebe danced much better than Anne. Most of the exercises and the marching we did all together. And the mammas or governesses sat at the other end of the room from all of us. There were some children there called Barry that we didn't know except meeting them there. But I was glad to see them again, because two of them were boys, one a little older and the other a little younger than me. And they had a sister who was a twin to the younger one. They were nice children, and I liked talking to them, and the girl--her name was Flossy--was nice to dance with. I could manage much better with her than with our girls somehow. They put me to dance the polka with Flossy. She's not at all a shy girl, and I'm not shy either, so we talked a good deal between times, and after the polka was done we sat down beside Anne and Hebe, and I went on talking. I was telling Flossy about losing the diamond thing, and she was _so_ interested. It wasn't a secret, you see. Father said the more we told it the better; there was no saying how it might be traced through talking about it. Only I was sorry for Anne. I had rather forgotten about her when I begun about it to Flossy, and I hadn't told about Anne's having meddled with the pin; and when Flossy went on talking, I felt as if Anne would think me unkind. But Anne's not like that. She only sat looking very grave, and when I had answered Flossy's questions, she just said-- [Illustration: 'I'd give anything, I'd almost give myself, to find it.'--c. iv. p. 48.] 'Isn't it dreadful to have lost it? I'd give anything, I'd almost give myself, to find it.' That's the queer sort of way Anne talks sometimes when she's very tremendously in earnest. Flossy looked rather surprised. 'What a funny girl you are,' she said. 'I don't think your mother would agree to give _you_, even to get back her brooch! But, do you know, there's something running in my head about losings and findings that I've been hearing. What can it be? Oh yes; it was some of our cousins yesterday-- Ludo,' and she called her brother, the twin one, 'Ludo, do you remember what the little Nearns were telling us, about something they'd found?' 'It wasn't they that found it. It was lying on their doorstep the day of the Drawing-room; they'd had a party, and it must have dropped off some lady's dress. But their mother had sent to all the ladies that had been there, and it wasn't theirs.' Anne was listening so eagerly that her eyes almost looked as if they were going to jump out of her head. 'What is it like--the brooch, I mean--didn't you say it was a brooch?' she asked in a panting sort of voice. Ludovic Barry stared at her. 'It's because they've lost one,' said Flossy quickly, 'at least their mother has, and they would give anything to find it. It's a--I forget the word--a family treasure, you know.' 'An heirloom,' I said. 'Yes, that's the worst of it. But, Anne, don't look so wild about it,' I went on, laughingly. 'What is the brooch like, that your cousins have found? Is it diamonds?' I went on to the Barrys. 'I think so,' said Ludo. 'It's some kind of jewels. But the Nearns are quite small children; they wouldn't know, and I don't suppose they've seen it. They'd only heard their mother and the servants talking about it. We can easily find out, though. I'll run round there--they live in our Square--when we go home.' 'No, Ludo, I'm afraid you can't, for mamma heard this morning that----' At that very moment we were interrupted by another dance beginning. And when it was over it was time for us all to go. Flossy Barry didn't finish her sentence. I saw her saying something to her brother, and then she came up to us. 'I'll find out about the found brooch,' she said. 'I won't forget. And if it's the least likely to be yours, I'll ask mamma to write to your mamma. That'll be the best.' 'Thank you,' I said. She was a nice, kind little girl, and I was sure she wouldn't forget. But Anne looked disappointed. 'I don't see why she tried to stop her brother going about it at once,' she said. 'Perhaps there was some reason,' I said. 'And Anne, if I were you, I wouldn't say anything about it to mums. Raising her hopes, you know, very likely for nothing, for it's such a _chance_ that it's our brooch--ours has been advertised so, these people would have seen the notices.' Anne did not answer. Flossy had a reason, and a good one, for what she said to her brother. But she had been told not to speak of what her mother had heard, as Mrs. Barry said it was not certain. The 'it' was that these little cousins of theirs had got the whooping-cough, or rather Lady Nearn, their mother, was afraid they had, and so she had told the Barrys they mustn't come to the house. Of course we only heard all that afterwards. We walked home from the dancing with Miss Stirling. She came with us sometimes, and sometimes mother, and now and then only nurse. For as the class was on Saturday afternoon, it wouldn't have done for Miss Stirling always to take us, as it was giving up part of her holiday. That first day mother was busy or engaged, otherwise she would have come herself. It was getting dusk already as we went home; it was a dull afternoon, looking as if it was going to rain. 'I do hope it's not going to be wet to-morrow,' said Hebe. 'I like it to be fine on Sunday.' Anne started at this. She had been walking very silently, scarcely talking at all. 'Is to-morrow Sunday?' she said. 'I'd quite forgotten. Oh, I do wish it wasn't. There's no post on Sunday, you know, Jack.' She was next me, and I don't think any one else heard what she said. 'What do you mean?' I said. 'There's never any post on Sunday in London. What does it matter?' 'About the brooch, of course,' she answered. 'You see, if Flossy tells her mother what we said, and they send to find out, _perhaps_ Mrs. Barry would write to mums to-night; and if it wasn't Sunday, the letter would come to-morrow morning.' I felt quite provoked with her. 'Anne,' I said, and I daresay I spoke rather crossly, 'you're really silly. It's just as unlikely as it can be that it's mums' thing, and you'd much better put out of your head that it could be. You'll get yourself into a fidget, and then mums will think there's something new the matter, and----' 'I'm not going to tell her anything about it, I've said so already,' interrupted Anne, rather crossly too. 'I'm always being told to put things out of my head now; it would have been better if they hadn't been so much put _in_ my head. I wouldn't have been half so miserable all this time if you hadn't all gone on so about it's being my fault that the horrid thing was lost,' and she gave a little sob, half of anger, half of unhappiness. I was very sorry for her, and I was vexed with myself for having begun about it at the dancing class just when Anne might have forgotten it a little. 'If--just _supposing_ Mrs. Barry thought it was it, she'd very likely send a note round to say; Rodney Square is quite near us,' said Hebe, who always thought of something cheering to say. 'Rodney Square,' Anne repeated, 'yes, that's close to here.' For by this time we were almost at our own house. Miss Stirling said good-bye to us as soon as the door was opened, and we all five went in together. Mother was out; we knew she was, but yet it seemed rather dull to be told she hadn't come in. I always think it's dreadfully dull to come home and find one's mother out. I didn't go upstairs. I had some lessons to finish, though it was Saturday afternoon, and so had Hebe, because you see we'd been longer at the dancing than if we'd just gone a walk. So we two went straight into the schoolroom, and Hebe took off her hat and jacket and put them down on a chair. The other three went on upstairs, and we didn't think any more about them. What happened when they got up to the nursery we heard afterwards. Nurse was not there, and the room was rather dark. 'Why isn't the gas lighted?' said Maud. 'It looks so dull,' and she ran out of the room and down the passage to nurse's own room, calling out, 'Nurse, nurse, where are you? We've come in.' Maud was very fond of nurse, and of course being the youngest she was nurse's pet. She's married now--our old nurse, I mean. She left us last Christmas, and we've got a schoolroom-maid instead, who doesn't pet Maud at all of course, but I don't think Maud minds. 'Nurse, where are you?' she called out. Nurse was in her room; she had a fire, and she was ironing some things. 'Come in here, dearie,' she answered. 'I didn't think it was so late. I'll have done in a moment, and then I'll light the gas and see about tea.' So Maud went in to nurse's room and began telling her about the dancing. And thus Anne and Serena were left by themselves in the half-dark nursery. Anne stood staring in the fire for a minute without speaking. All this, you understand, they told us afterwards. 'Won't you come and take your things off, Anne?' said Serry. But, instead of answering, Anne asked her another question. 'Do you know the number of the Barrys' house in Rodney Square?' it was. 'No,' said Serena. 'But I know the house. It is a corner one, and it has blue and white flower-boxes. What do you want to know about it for?' Anne looked round--no, there was no sign of nurse; she and Serena were alone. 'Serry,' she said in a whisper, 'I've thought of something,' and then she went on to tell Serry what it was. That's all I'll tell just now; the rest will come soon. Till you try, you've no idea how difficult it is to tell a story--or even not a regular story, just an account of simple things that really happened--at all properly. The bits of it get so mixed. It's like a tangle of thread--the ends you don't want keep coming up the wrong way, and putting themselves in front of the others. I must just go on as well as I can, and put down the things as straight as they'll come. Well, Hebe and I had about finished the lessons we wanted to get done. It was partly that Monday was going to be mother's birthday, and we wanted to have a clear evening. Hebe and I always agree about things like that; we like to look forward and arrange comfortably. Well, we had just about finished, and I was getting up to begin putting away the books, when the door opened and nurse came in looking just the least little bit vexed. For she is good-natured. She glanced round the room before she spoke, as if she was looking for some one not there. 'The child's right,' she said, as if speaking to herself. 'I must say she generally is. Master Jack,' she went on, 'and Miss Hebe, my dears, tea's ready. But where are Miss Warwick and Miss Serry?' We stared. 'Anne and Serry,' I said. 'I'm sure I don't know. Upstairs, I suppose. They went straight up with Maudie when we came in, ever so long ago.' 'But indeed they're not upstairs,' said nurse, her face growing very uneasy. 'That's what Miss Maud said too. She saw them go into the nursery when she ran along to my room. But they are not there, nor in any of the bedrooms; I've looked everywhere, and called too.' 'They may be reading in the little drawing-room,' I said, and both Hebe and I jumped up to go and help nurse in her search. She had not thought of the drawing-room, knowing mother had not come in. 'Have they taken off their hats and jackets?' asked Hebe. Nurse shook her head. 'I've not seen them anywhere about, and Miss Anne and Miss Serry are not young ladies that ever think of putting away their out-door things as you do sometimes, Miss Hebe.' Hebe hung back a little. We were following nurse upstairs. 'Jack,' she whispered,'do you know, while you and I were busy in the schoolroom, I am sure I heard the front door shut. I hadn't heard the bell ring, and I wondered for a moment why Alfred was opening when no one had rung. But, you see, it may have been some one going out. Jack, _do_ you think Anne and Serry can have gone out by themselves?' 'They'd never do such a thing,' I said. 'Why, it's almost quite dark, and they know mother would be really very angry if they did!' But Hebe did not seem satisfied. 'The door was shut _very_ softly,' she said. We were at the drawing-room by this time. There was no light in the two big rooms, but there were two lamps in the little one where mums sits when she's alone. No sign of Anne or Serena, however. And no sign of them in the other rooms either. Alfred brought up a candle, and we called to them to come out if they were hiding, and said we were really frightened; but there was no answer. 'They can't be there,' said nurse; 'Miss Anne has far too kind a heart not to come out, even if they had begun by playing a trick on me. Come up to the nursery, my dears, and have your tea. I'll go down and speak to Mr. Barstow. Maybe he can throw some light on it.' 'They must have gone out, nurse,' I said boldly. There was no use not telling her all we knew. She turned upon me quite sharply. '_Gone out_, Master Jack? Nonsense, Miss Anne is far too good and obedient to do such a wild thing, knowing how it would displease your dear mamma too.' But Maud, whom we met on the staircase, suddenly thought of an explanation of the mystery. 'Come in here,' she said, pulling us all three into the nursery and closing the door. 'Listen, I do believe I know where they've gone. It's about the diamond brooch. I believe Anne's gone to those children's house where they've found a brooch that might be it.' Hebe and I jumped. 'I believe you're right, Maud,' I said. 'How stupid of us not to have thought of it!' exclaimed Hebe. But nurse, of course, only stared. Then we explained to her what Maud meant. Even then she could scarcely believe Anne had really done such a thing. 'It would have been so much better to wait till your mamma came in,' she said. 'Alfred could have been sent with a note in a minute.' 'Anne didn't want mother to know about it. At least, I said to her it would be a pity to raise mother's hopes, and it was all nicely settled that Flossy Barry was to find out and ask her mother to write if it seemed possible it _was_ our diamond thing,' I said. 'It is all Anne's impatience, and you see, nurse, she knew she shouldn't have gone alone with Serry, or she wouldn't have crept out that way without telling any one.' 'I don't know how they can have gone to those people's house,' said Hebe. 'I'm not even sure of the name, though I heard it, and I've a better memory than Anne. I only know it's in Rodney Square.' 'They'll have gone to Flossy Barry's to ask for the redress,' said Maud. We couldn't help smiling; it is so funny when Maud says words wrong, for she is so wonderfully clever and sensible. 'Yes,' exclaimed Hebe. 'I'm sure they'll have done that. Maud always thinks of the right thing.' But what were _we_ to do? Every moment we hoped to hear the front-door bell ring, followed by our sisters' pattering steps running upstairs. We didn't seem to care much about the diamond brooch. Even if I had heard Anne's voice calling out, 'It _is_ it. We've got it!' I think my first words would have been, 'Oh, Anne, how _could_ you go out and frighten us so?' And of course, even if it had been the brooch, they would never have given it to two children to bring back. Mums would have had to vow it was hers, and all sorts of fuss, I daresay. Nurse poured out our three cups of tea. She was very sensible; I think she wanted to stop us getting too excited, though she told me afterwards she had been as frightened as frightened: it had been all she could do to keep quiet and not go off just as she was to look for them. 'I'll just go down and have a word with Mr. Barstow,' she said. 'I daresay he'll send round to Mrs. Barry's to see if the young ladies have been there, as Miss Maudie says, dear child. We'll find Mrs. Barry's number in the red book. And you don't know the other family's name?' 'It's a Lady something,' said Hebe. 'Not Mrs., and not Lady Mary or Lady Catharine, but Lady ---- the name straight off.' 'That won't help so very much, I'm afraid,' said nurse. 'Not in Rodney Square. But they'll be sure to know the name at Mrs. Barry's. I shouldn't wonder if Mr. Barstow steps round himself. Now go on with your tea, my dears, while I go downstairs for a minute. Of course there's nothing at all to be really frightened about.' We pretended to go on with our tea, but we were very unhappy. CHAPTER V RODNEY SQUARE It seemed a long time till nurse came back again. We had finished our tea--it was really rather a pretence one, as I said--when we thought we heard her coming upstairs, and ran out to meet her. It was her: she was coming up the big front staircase, for she still, as she told me afterwards, had a half-silly idea that _perhaps_ the two girls were still hiding somewhere in the drawing-rooms, and might be going to jump out to surprise her. When we looked over the balusters and saw it was nurse, we ran down to the first landing towards her. 'Mr. Barstow has gone himself,' she said. 'We've been looking out Rodney Square in the red book; we found Mr. Barry's--it's No. 37--fast enough, but we can't say which is the other lady's, as you've no idea of the name. There's ever so many might do for it; the very next door is a Sir Herbert Mortimer's.' 'No, it was a short name, I'm sure of that. Aren't you, Hebe?' I said. 'Now, my dears, why didn't you say so before?' said nurse. 'A short name would have been some guide.' 'But it was far the best to go straight to the Barrys,' said Maud, which was certainly quite true. Just then the front bell rang. 'Oh,' said nurse, 'if only it could be the young ladies before your mamma comes in!' But no, it was not Anne and Serena. It was mums herself. She seemed to know by instinct that there was something wrong. She glanced up and saw our heads all looking over the railing. 'What is it?' she said. 'Are you all there, dears?' Nurse and we three looked at each other. It was no use hiding it. So we went on downstairs to the hall. 'It's nothing really wrong, mums, darling,' I said. 'It's only----' but nurse interrupted me. 'It's Miss Warwick and Miss Serena, ma'am, haven't come in yet,' she said. 'We hoped it was them when the bell rang.' Mother looked bewildered. 'Anne and Serry,' she said. 'What do you mean? Didn't they go to the dancing with the rest of you?' 'Yes, of course; they've been in since then,' said Hebe. 'Miss Stirling brought us all to the door. But they've gone out again, we're afraid;' and seeing mother looking more and more puzzled, she turned to Maud. 'You tell mums, Maud,' she said. 'You know most.' Mother sat down on a chair in the hall. She seemed quite shaky and frightened. Nurse ran off to get a glass of water, and Maud told her all we knew or guessed in her quiet little particular way. She told _all_--about the ornament that had been found, and everything--it was no use hiding anything. 'Oh,' said poor mums at the end, 'I do wish gran had never thought of lending me his diamonds,' and she gave a great sigh. 'But after all,' she went on, 'I don't think we need be very frightened, though it was exceedingly, really _very_ wrong of Anne to go, whatever her motive was. I only hope the Barrys sent some one with them to these cousins of theirs; they must have thought it extraordinary for two little girls to be out alone so late.' Still, on the whole, she did not seem so very frightened now. She drank the water nurse brought, and went into the library, where the lamp was lit, and the fire burning cheerfully. 'Barstow will be back immediately, no doubt?' she said to nurse. 'He'll be as quick as he can, I'm sure,' said nurse. 'But perhaps--if he has gone on to the other house--it may be some little time.' At that moment, however, we heard the area bell ring, and almost immediately Barstow appeared. His face was rather red, and he seemed out of breath--poor Barstow is getting pretty fat. 'Are they back?' he exclaimed. Then seeing mother, 'I beg your pardon, ma'am. I just ran in to see if the young ladies were returned, for they've not been at Mrs. Barry's--no one there has heard anything of them. I got the address of the other lady's--Lady Nearn's----' 'Oh yes,' Hebe and I interrupted; 'that's the name.' ----'Just in case,' Barstow continued, 'they hadn't come in. But I really begin to think we're on the wrong tack. Perhaps Miss Anne has only gone to some shop, and it seemed making such a hue and cry to go round to _another_ house, and not of our own acquaintances, you see, ma'am,' he went on, 'and asking for the young ladies. I quite hoped to find they were home.' Mother considered. She kept her presence of mind, but I could see she was growing really frightened. 'Could they have gone to get cakes for tea, for a surprise,' she said suddenly, 'and have lost their way coming back? There's that German shop in ---- Street, where there are such nice cakes.' It was possible, but after all ---- Street was not very far off, and Anne had sense enough to ask the way. And as the minutes went on, and no ring came to the bell, we all looked at each other in increasing trouble. 'You'd better go to Lady Nearn's, Barstow,' said mums at last, 'though it seems such a mere chance. How could they have known what house it was, scarcely having heard the name, and certainly not having been told the number!' That was what we all thought. But Barstow was off--like a shot, I was going to say, but it wouldn't be a very good description,--as like a shot as a stout elderly butler _could_ be, we'll say. And poor mums began walking up and down the room, squeezing her hands together in a way she has when she's awfully worried. 'If only Alan were at home,' I heard her say. 'Oh dear! is it a punishment to me for having made too much of the loss of that unlucky brooch? It would seem less, far less than nothing, in comparison with any harm to the children. Oh, if only Anne were less thoughtless and impulsive, what a comfort it would be!' And I must say, when I saw the poor, dear little thing-- I can't help calling mums a little thing sometimes, though of course she's twice as tall as I am, but she's so sweet and soft, and seems to need to be taken care of--when I saw her, I say, so dreadfully upset, it was all I could do not to feel _very_ angry with Anne; and yet, you understand, till I could see with my own eyes that she and Serry were all right, I didn't _dare_ to feel angry. And all sorts of things began to come into my head, and I am sure they were in mother's already. The one that seemed the plainest was that they had been run over: the streets are not at all well lighted about where we live; there are no shops, and the London gas is horribly dull. Still, it wasn't likely that they'd both been run over and hurt so badly that they couldn't speak to tell who they were or where they lived. There was some comfort in that. But-- I looked at the library clock, which always keeps good time: father sees to it himself--it was getting on for two hours since they had been out! Where _could_ they be? Suddenly there came a ring at the bell--rather a sharp ring--and as Alfred flew to open the door, we heard the sort of little bustle that there always is if it is a carriage or cab arriving--tiny clickings of the harness and the coachman's voice. Yes, it was a carriage. We ran out into the hall and saw a footman in a buff greatcoat standing on the steps, up which came two little dark figures, who ran in past him. Then the door was shut, the carriage drove off, and we saw that it was Anne and Serry. 'Oh, children! oh, Anne!' cried mother. 'Where _have_ you been?' And we all called out in different voice, '_Oh_, Anne! _oh_, Serry!' But before she said anything else Anne rushed up to mother. 'Oh, mums, it _wasn't_ it after all. It was a star with a pearl in the middle. I was _so_ disappointed!' That shows how silly Anne is. She had planned, you know, to say nothing about it to mother, and then she bursts out as if mums had sent her to find out about it! Indeed, for that matter, it was only thanks to clever little Maud that any of us knew where they had been, or had any idea rather. For as to _knowing_, we had not known; we had only guessed. 'Then you _were_ there, after all,' said Maud. 'I thought so.' 'But how did you get the address without going to the Barrys for it?' said Hebe. 'We sent there. Barstow went himself. Oh, Anne, you have frightened us so, especially poor darling mums!' Then at last Anne and Serry began to look rather ashamed of themselves. Mother, after the first exclamation, had not spoken. She went back into the library, looking whiter than before almost, and I felt too disgusted with Anne's thoughtlessness to ask any questions. Still, I _was_ very curious to know all about it, and so were we all. Anne followed mums into the library--she was really frightened by this time, I think. 'Tell me all about it,' said mother. So they did--Anne first, of course, and Serena putting in her word now and then. It was just as we had thought about the first part of it. They had gone to find out about the brooch. Rodney Square wasn't far off, and Anne was sure she knew the way there, and would be back directly. But after all, it wasn't so easy to find as she expected. It makes a great difference when it's dark--the turnings are so like each other, especially where there are no shops. They did get to Rodney Square at last, but they must have gone a very roundabout way, and when they _were_ there, there was a new difficulty: they knew the Barrys' house by sight, or they thought they did, but they didn't know the number, only that it was a corner one. They came to one corner, one that looked something like it, and Anne thought they'd better try. So they went up the steps and rang the bell, and a footman opened. 'Does Mrs. Barry live here?' asked Anne. 'No,' he said,' that's not our name.' But he must have been good-natured, for he went on to say he'd get the red book if they liked, and look for it. 'Bury--was that the name?' he said when he had got the book. '_Barry_,' Anne was just going to say, when a new thought struck her. It was no good going to two houses when she might get the information she wanted at one. 'It isn't really Mrs. Barry's house I need,' she said. 'I was only going to ask there for another address--Lady Nern, or some name like that.' 'Oh,' said the man, 'Lady Nearn's!--that's next door, miss. I don't need to look it up.' They thanked him and set off again, thinking they had been very lucky, though _I_ thought if Anne had remembered the name as close as that, she might have looked it up in our own red book at home before starting. They rang again next door, and again a footman opened; but he wasn't so good-natured as the other, and he was stupid too. 'Is Lady Nearn at home? Can I see her?' asked Anne quite coolly. Anne is as cool as anything when she's full of some idea. Nothing puts her out or frightens her. It was rather dark, and of course no one expects little _ladies_ to be walking about alone so late. So it wasn't much wonder the man thought they were errand girls, or beggars of some kind possibly. 'No,' he said, 'my lady's not at home; and if she was she wouldn't be to no tiresome children like you.' (We made Anne and Serry tell us exactly all that was said.) 'She leaves word if she's expecting any of her school brats, but she's said nothing this time, so it's no use your teasing.' If _I'd_ been Anne I'd have been in a fury, but Serry said she didn't seem to mind. 'Oh, please,' she said, 'we're not school-children, and we've come about something very particular indeed. Don't you think Lady Nearn will be in soon?' That was Anne all over. She'd no intention of giving up now she had got so far. I suppose the footman heard by her voice that she wasn't a common child. 'Can't you leave a message?' he said rather more civilly. 'No,' said Anne. 'It's something I must see Lady Nearn herself about.' She had the sense not to speak of the found ornament to him. Of course it would have been no use, as Lady Nearn wouldn't have left it with a servant. 'We're friends of--at least we know Mrs. Barry's children,' Anne went on. 'Can't you let us come in and wait, if Lady Nearn will be in soon?' For it was very chilly on the doorstep, and indeed both Anne and Serry were very tired by this time--coming straight from the dancing, and losing their way to Rodney Square, and it being past tea-time and all. The footman seemed to consider. 'Step inside,' he said at last; 'I'll see what--somebody--says,' They didn't catch the name. It wasn't nearly such a grand house as the one next door. The hall was quite small, and there was no fireplace in it. 'You can take a seat,' said the man, and he went off. 'Somebody' must have taken a good while to find, for he didn't come back for ever so long. I suppose once he saw them in the light, he was satisfied they weren't beggars or anything like that. They were glad to sit down, and it felt warm in the hall compared to outside. There was a door close to where they were. It was one of those houses that have the dining-room at the back and the library to the front, you know, and the door was the library door. [Illustration: 'The door opened a little wider, and two faces appeared.'--c. v. p. 74.] After a moment it opened, very slowly and softly, and some one peeped out; then Anne and Serena heard some whispering, and the door opened a little wider, and two faces appeared. It was two children--a boy and a girl, though their heads looked much the same, as they had both short, dark, curly hair, and they both wore sailor tops. They gradually opened the door still more till they could be seen quite well. They were about six or seven, and they stood smiling at the girls, half shy and half pleased. 'Won't you come in here?' said one of them. 'It must be so cold out there. We're having tea in here all by ourselves. It's such fun.' 'We're to stay here till mamma comes home,' said the other. 'We've been by ourselves all day, because Lilly and Tom are ill--we mustn't be in the nursery to disturb them.' Anne and Serry walked in. 'They didn't see why they shouldn't,' said Serry, and these dear little children were so kind and polite. They handed them the cake and bread-and-butter, and they would have given them tea, only they hadn't cups enough, and they didn't seem quite sure about ringing for more. George, the footman, was rather cross sometimes, they said. But it wasn't often he was so rude as to leave any one in the cold hall. They'd tell mamma when she came in. She did come in very soon. The bell rang, and the children ran to the door to peep out, and when Lady Nearn hurried in, there she found the four as happy as could be--Anne and Serry so amused by the children that they had quite forgotten all about how frightened nurse and all of us would be getting; indeed, they'd almost forgotten what they had come to this strange house about at all. Lady Nearn did look astonished. For half a minute she took Serena for Flossy Barry. 'Flossy,' she said, 'I wrote to your----' but then she stopped, and just stared in surprise. Anne had got back her wits by then, and she explained it all--how it was partly, anyway, her fault about the brooch being lost, and how pleased she'd be to find it, and all about what Flossy had told them, and how she and Serry had come off by themselves, not even knowing the name, or the number of the house. Lady Nearn was very kind, but I don't think she quite took in that it was really naughty of them to have come out without leave. You see, Anne hadn't got to think it naughty herself, yet. She fetched the brooch just to show Anne--though, indeed, from the way Anne spoke of it, she was sure it wasn't it, and of course it wasn't! Anne could nearly have cried with disappointment. Then it did strike Lady Nearn to ask how they were going home again. It was quite dark by now. She couldn't send a servant with them, for the house was rather upset--three of the children were ill. 'Indeed,' she said, 'I must write to Mrs. Warwick to explain. I hope no harm will come of it, as you have only seen the twins, who are quite well, so far, and separated from the others.' But all the same she seemed anxious to get them away, and she suddenly rang the bell and told George--who must have looked rather astonished to see the 'school brats' such friends with his mistress--to run round to the stables and tell the coachman to call at the house on his way to fetch Lord Nearn from somewhere or other. That was how Anne and Serry came home in a carriage. We didn't hear the whole ins and outs of the story at once, but we made the girls tell it us over afterwards. Just now Anne could hardly get through with it; for she began crying when she understood how frightened mums had been, and begging her to forgive her. Mums did, of course--she always does. And then she sent us upstairs to finish our tea. But as we left the library I heard her say to herself-- 'I wonder what Lady Nearn can be going to write to me about.' Serena was quite jolly, and as hungry as anything. 'All's well that ends well,' she said, tossing her hair. Anne turned upon her pretty sharply. I wasn't sorry. 'Serry,' she said, 'I know you're not to blame like me, for I made you come. But you might see now how wrong it was, as I do. And "ends well" indeed! Why, we've given mums and all of them a dreadful fright, and we haven't found the brooch.' And--but I must tell that in a new chapter. No, it wasn't 'ends well' _yet_, by a long way. 'If only you'd asked _me_, Anne,' said Miss Maud Wisdom. CHAPTER VI THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW I was alone with mums in her room the next morning when her letters were brought up. The poor little thing had a headache and was very tired, and, for once, she hadn't got up to breakfast. She had not been able to go to sleep the night before--really she had had a lot of worries lately--and then when she did, it was so nearly morning that she slept on ever so much longer than usual. For she's not a bit lazy, like some mothers I know. When she _does_ have breakfast in bed, she lets me look after her. It's awfully jolly. Father is sure to say as he goes off, 'You'll see to your mother, Jack.' The girls don't mind. Anne wouldn't be much good at anything like that--at least, she wouldn't have been _then_, though she's ever so much better _now_ about forgetting things, and spilling things, and seeming as if all her fingers were thumbs, you know. Hebe is very handy, and she always was. But she never put herself before Anne, and so we got in the way of me being the one to do most for mums. I told you at the beginning--didn't I?--that some people might think me rather a girl-y boy, but I don't mind one scrap of an atom if they do. I have my own ideas. I know the splendidest cricketer and footballer you ever saw is a fellow whose sister's a cripple, and she can't bear any one to lift her but him, because he's so gentle. And I've seen a young doctor in our village doing up a baby that was burnt nearly to death, as if _his_ fingers were fairy's, and afterwards I heard that he'd been the bravest of the brave in some awful battles in Burmah, or somewhere like that. Indeed, he got so wounded with cutting in to carry out the men as they dropped--it was what they call a skirmish, I think, not a proper battle where they have ambulances and carrying people and everything ready, I suppose--that he's had to leave off being a soldier-doctor for good. And now that the girls know it can't be for long, except in holidays, that I can look after mums, they're very good about letting me be with her as much as I can. And I've got them into pretty good ways. I don't think she'll miss me so _very_ much when I go. Well, I settled the breakfast tray with Rowley, and nothing was forgotten. I let Rowley carry it up, because I knew it was safer for her to do it, and there's no sense in bragging you're bigger than you are, and can carry things that need long arms when you know you can't. But I walked beside her, opening the doors and watching that the things didn't slide about; that's how I always do. And then when the tray was safe on the bed, and I had arranged the 'courses,' first the roll and butter and ham and egg--I cracked the top of the egg and got it ready--and then the muffin and marmalade, my nice time began. I squatted at the foot of the bed, near enough to reach mums anything she wanted, and then we talked. We talk of lots of things when we're alone like that. Mums tells me of anything that's on her mind, and I comfort her up a bit. Of course we talked about the unlucky brooch, and about Anne, and how easily she and Serry might have been run over, or something like that. 'Yes, indeed,' said mums, 'I often think we're not half thankful enough for the misfortunes that _don't_ happen.' Just then there came a knock at the door. 'Bother!' thought I. I don't think I _said_ it, for mums thinks it's such an ugly word. It was Rowley again. 'Your letters, ma'am,' she said. 'They were forgotten when I brought up the tray.' There were only three. Two were nothing particular--accounts or something. But the third was in a strange handwriting, and mums opened it quickly. 'It's from Lady Nearn,' she said. 'I think it was rather me to write to her. It's very kind of her, but----' She began reading it, and her face got very grave. 'Do leave it till you've finished your breakfast, mums,' I said. 'You've not even finished the first course.' But she scarcely listened to me. 'Oh, Jack!' she said, 'I'm afraid we haven't got to the end of the troubles caused by poor gran's diamonds yet. Oh dear, I shall be so uneasy for some days to come!' I couldn't make out what she meant, and when she saw my puzzled face she went on to explain. Lady Nearn's letter was very kind, but she thought it right to tell mother that Anne and Serena had run into some risk by coming to her house the night before, for it was quite decided that three of her children had got whooping-cough. Not the two they had seen; at least she still _hoped_ they--the twins--wouldn't get it, for they were very delicate, and they had been separated from the others. But still there was no telling how infection might be caught, and she advised mother to be prepared for her little girls having perhaps got the illness. Mums did look worried. 'It's a most tiresome and trying thing,' she said; 'and neither Hebe nor Maud is very strong. Perhaps I shouldn't have told you, Jack. You must be sure not to speak of it to any of them.' I promised, of course. And then poor mums, instead of having a nice rest, declared she must get up at once, and go off to catch the doctor before he went out. Wasn't it too bad? She wanted to know what to do--whether it was any good trying to separate Anne and Serry from the rest of us, and how soon it would show, and a lot of things like that. For mother was an only child herself, and she always says she isn't at all experienced about children. She's had to learn everything by us, you see. Well, she did catch the doctor, and came back looking rather jollier. He had comforted her up. There were ten chances to one against the girls having got it, he said; and as for separating them, now they had been with us all, it would be nonsense. Ah, well! doctors don't know everything. _I'd_ have separated them fast enough, I know; and it would have been a good punishment for Anne and Serena to have been shut up for a day or two; perhaps it would have made them think twice before doing some wild, silly thing again. So mums and I kept our own counsel. She told father, of course, but no one else, not even nurse--it would only have made her nervous. We sent round once or twice to ask how the little Nearns were--mums wrote notes, I think, as she didn't want the servants chattering. And we were very sorry to hear that the poor twins had got it after all, and rather badly. 'So you see, Jack,' said mother, 'it wasn't any good separating them. Dr. Marshall must know.' I think this was rather a comfort to her. If the doctor had been right about one thing, there was more chance of his being right about another. And for two or three days we all kept quite well, and mother began to breathe freely. But, alas! I think it was about the fourth morning after that evening, when I ran into the nursery on my way down to prayers, I found mother there, talking to nurse. Mother looked very grave, much worse than nurse, who didn't seem particularly put out. 'It's only a cold, ma'am, I'm sure,' she was saying. 'A cold soon makes a child feverish and heavy. I don't think, indeed, there's any need for the doctor; but it's just as you like, of course.' Then 'it' had come. Poor mums! I stole up to her and slipped my hand into hers. I understood, though nurse didn't. It was rather nice to feel that I was mother's sort of confi---- I'm not sure of the word. But who was it that was ill? My heart did go down when I heard it was not Anne or Serry--really, I think I'd have said they deserved it--but poor old Maudie! Sensible, good little Maud, who never did naughty, silly things, or teased anybody. It did seem too bad. 'May I run in to see her?' I asked. Nurse would have said, 'Yes, of course, Master Jack,' in a moment, but mother shook her head. 'Not till Dr. Marshall has been, dear,' she said; and she gave my hand a little squeeze. I'm afraid she began to wish she had separated the girls after all. I could see that nurse thought mums very funny, as she went on asking ever so many questions about Maud--above all, was she coughing? 'A little,' said nurse; 'rather a croupy, odd-sounding sort of cough.' But she was too old for croup, of course. It was just cold. 'I must go down to prayers now,' said mother. 'I will come up immediately after breakfast, and I will send for Dr. Marshall. I am sure it will be best.' Just then there came the sound of a cough from Maud's room--a queer, croaky sort of cough--and we heard the poor little thing call out-- 'Oh, mums, is that you? Do come to see me. I does feel so funny.' 'Yes, darling, I will come very soon,' said mother. It was so queer to hear Maudie talking babyishly--she always did if she was at all ill. As we went downstairs I was sure mums was crying a little. Well, that was the beginning of it all. When the doctor came, of course he looked very owly, and said he couldn't say for a day or two; and pretended to be jolly, and told mother she wasn't to be so silly, and all that kind of talk. But after his 'day or two'--no, indeed, before they were over--he had to allow there was some cause for grave looks. For by then they'd _all_ got it--all except me! Just fancy, all four of them! The nursery was like a menagerie, for no sooner did one cough than all the others started too, and they all coughed different ways. If it hadn't been really horrid it would have been rather absurd--something like the mumps, you know. It's _all_ you can do not to laugh at each other when you've got the mumps. I'll never forget Serry's face,--never, as long as I live, and she's the prettiest of us, I suppose. I saw my own once in the glass, but I wouldn't look again. And yet it's awfully horrid. It hurts--my goodness! doesn't it just? There was no good separating _me_. I made mums see that, and I promised her I'd do my very best not to get the whooping-cough; and I didn't! That was something to be proud of, now, wasn't it? You mightn't think so, but it was; for I really believe I stopped myself having it. Ever so often, when I heard them all crowing and choking, and holding on to the table, and scolding--how Serry did scold sometimes--over it, I felt as if I was going to start coughing and whooping too-- I did, I give you my word. But I just _wouldn't_. I said to myself it was all fancy and nonsense--though I don't a bit believe it was--and I drank some water, and got all right again. And after a week or two, the catchy feeling in my throat went off. It was a good thing I kept well, for mums did need some comfort. The worst of it didn't come for a good while--that's the tiresome part of the whooping-cough, you never know where you are with it, it lasts such a time; and when you think it's about over, very often you find children have got some other illness from it--I mean something the matter with their chests or throats, or bothers like that. It was Maud that got it first, and seemed the worst for a good while; but then she took a turn and got hungry again, and the doctor began to speak of our soon going away somewhere for change of air; and we were getting jollier, and mums looking less worried, when all at once Hebe got very bad indeed. It was partly her own fault, though she hadn't meant it. She had been feeling very ill indeed, but she didn't like to say so, for she thought most likely the others felt just as bad, and you know she's dreadfully unselfish. Often and often she'd get up in the middle of the night if Serry called out she was thirsty or anything--very often it was only that she fancied the clothes were slipping off, or some nonsense like that--and Hebe may have caught cold by that. Anyway, there came one morning that poor Hebe couldn't get up at all; indeed, she could scarcely speak. We all ran in to see what was the matter, and she just smiled a tiny little smile, and put out her poor little hand--it was burning hot--and whispered, 'I daresay I'll be better soon.' Nurse was frightened; but she's very good and sensible. She just told me to go down to mother's room and ask her to come up, as Hebe had had a bad night, and perhaps we'd better send for the doctor to come early. And, of course, I knew how to do it without startling mums more than could be helped. All the same, if she had been dreadfully startled it couldn't have been worse than had to be. For it was the beginning of Hebe's being awfully ill. I can't tell you properly what it was; it was something about her lungs, so bad that she was wrapped in blankets and carried down to a room beside mother's, where she could be perfectly quiet. And a strange nurse came--one with a cap and an apron, like you see in pictures of children in hospitals; she was rather pretty and not old at all, and she and mums took turns of watching Hebe; and the air of the room had to be kept exactly the same hotness, like a vinery, you know. And there was a queer, strange, solemn feeling all about, that I can't explain. We all felt it, even though they didn't tell us--not even _me_--how bad the poor little sweet was. The angel of death came very near us that time, mums told us afterwards, and I know it was true. One night I almost felt it myself. I woke all of a sudden, and sat bolt up in bed. I had thought I heard Hebe calling me--I was sure I did--and then I remembered I'd been dreaming about her. I thought we were walking in a wood. It was evening, or afternoon, and it seemed to be getting dark, and I fancied we were looking for the others--it was muddled up with their having gone out that night, you see--and I felt very worried and unhappy. 'Hebe,' I said, 'it's getting very dark.' 'Yes,' she said, 'it is, darker and darker, Jack'; and her voice sounded strange. 'Jack,' she went on, 'hold my hand, I'm rather frightened'; and I felt that she was shivering. I think I was rather frightened myself, but I tried to comfort her up. 'Perhaps it'll get lighter again after a bit,' I said. 'I don't think the sun's set yet.' 'Hasn't it?' she said. 'I think it's just going to, though. Jack, can you say that verse about the shadows or the darkness? I can't remember it.' But I couldn't remember it properly either; however I tried. I could only say, '"I will be with thee"--is it that, Hebe?--"I will be with thee."' And she squeezed my hand tighter, and I thought she said, 'Yes, that's it, Jack.' And then again I fancied she pulled her hand out of mine, and ran on in front quite fast, calling joyfully, 'I see them, Jack. Come on quick-- Jack, Jack.' It was then I awoke, and I found I had been squeezing my own hand quite tight. But I felt sure Hebe had been calling me. I sat up and listened, but there was no sound. I began to cry; I thought Hebe was dead, and then I remembered that the verse I couldn't get right in my dream was about the valley of the shadow of death, and at first that made me feel worse, till all of a sudden it came into my head that it wasn't 'the valley of _death_' but only 'the valley of the _shadow_ of death,' And that seemed to mean that Hebe had been _near_ it--near death, I mean,--'near enough for the shadow of his wings to fall over her,' was the way mums said it when I told her my dream afterwards. That comforted me. I got out of bed very softly in the darkness and crept to the landing, where the balusters run round, and listened. The gas lamp was burning faintly down below, and I heard a slight rustling as if people were moving about. And after a while the door of a room opened softly, and two men came out. It was father and the doctor. I couldn't have believed big men could have moved so quietly, and I listened as if I was all ears. 'I think, now----' was the most I could catch of what Dr. Marshall said. But then came much plainer--of course I know his voice so well--from father, '_Thank God_.' And I knew Hebe was better. I shall always think of that night, always, even when I'm quite old, when I read that verse. Afterwards mother explained to me more about it. She said she thought that to good people--you know what I mean by 'good people'--_Christians_--it should always seem as if, after all, even when they really do have to die, it is only the _shadow_ that they have to go through--'the valley of the shadow of death'; that Death itself in any dreadful lasting way is not really there, because of the presence that is promised to us--'I will be with thee.' I can't say it anything like as nicely as mums did, but I do understand it pretty well all the same; and if ever I feel frightened of death in a wrong way, I think about it. Mother said we're meant to be afraid of death in one way, just as we would be afraid and are meant to be afraid of anything dark and unknown and very solemn. But that's different. And dear little Hebe had really been some way into the valley of the shadow. When she got _quite_ well, she told me about it--of the feelings and thoughts she had had that night when for some hours they thought she was going far away from us, out of this world altogether. For she had had all her senses. She thought about us all, and wished she could see us, and she wished she could hold my hand--'your dear, rough, brown hand, Jack,' she said. (I'm not quite as particular to keep my hands very nice as I should be, I'm afraid!) Wasn't it queer? I'm sure her feelings had come up to me through the floor and made me dream. CHAPTER VII FOUR 'IF'S' AND A COINCIDENCE Now what happened next was this--in one way it was almost the nicest thing that we had ever had; that is to say, it would have been but for the pull-backs to it. Very jolly things generally do have pull-backs, I think. This was it. Everybody who knows anything about children's illnesses knows that when they're getting better they should have change of air, especially after whooping-cough. Indeed, even before they're much better of whooping-cough they're often sent away, for change of air helps actually to cure it. And a week or two after Hebe had been so very bad, the doctor began to talk of the others going away. It was the end of April now, and it was nice, fine weather, and promised to be a mild spring and early summer. Anne and Serry had really not been very ill in themselves, though they had been noisy enough with their coughing. Maud had been the worst next to Hebe, but as she had begun first she had got better first. And she got better in a very sensible way. She did everything in a sensible way, you know. She never fussed or fidgeted, and was very patient and cheerful. She took all her medicines, and even if nurse or mums forgot anything the doctor had said, you may be sure, if Maud herself had heard it, _she_ wouldn't let it be forgotten. Yes, really, she was too 'old-fashioned' for anything, as old nurse said. She wasn't quite as sweet as Hebe-- Hebe looked like a little crushed flower when she first began to be better; you could scarcely help kissing her every minute. She isn't so what people call 'clinging' as Hebe, but still she's a good, kind little girl, and it's not hard to get on with her. My life would be a very different affair if I had four sisters all like Hebe and Maud--wouldn't it just? So Maud was pretty well again in herself, and the other two hadn't much the matter with them, and I of course was all right, though dear old mums said I was looking pale, and that I'd been such a comfort to her and knocked myself up. I think she said it partly to show that she wasn't thinking less of me than of the girls because I hadn't been ill. And just as things were like that, Dr. Marshall said we should go away for change of air. But unluckily 'we' only meant Anne and Serena and Maudie and I. Not Hebe--no, indeed. That was quite another story. _We_ wanted 'bracing,' the doctor said--nice fresh hill or moor air, but for Hebe anything like cold or strong air was out of the question. In the first place she couldn't be moved for some time yet, and when she did go it must be to somewhere mild. He spoke of somewhere abroad first, but then he thought it would be getting too hot at the warm places, and as far as the others were concerned, there were just as good in England. So in a sort of a way it came to be settled that when Hebe did go, it should be to the Isle of Wight. That didn't fix anything about the rest of us, however. And there were a good many things to think of. I knew all about them. You see mums has always told me everything. She knows she can trust me. It's with it being so that I have anything to write. I'm behind the scenes. I don't see how children who are just told things straight off like, 'You're going to the seaside on Tuesday,' or 'Nurse is leaving to be married, and you're not going to have a regular nurse any more now you're so big'-- I don't see how they could have anything interesting to write. It's the way things work out that I think makes life interesting, and children don't often look at things that way. But I couldn't have helped it, for I knew all about how things happened, and how mother planned and thought them over, and when she was happy and when she was anxious. It was all like pictures moving along--one leading into another. Just now mother was anxious. I've said already that we're not rich--not as rich as we look. That's to say it's not father's and mother's money, but gran's. Of course you might say that's the same thing--father being an only child and gran so proud of him being so clever and distinguished, though not in ways that make much money. But it isn't the same, however kind gran is. And just now it was specially not the same. For, of course, long before this, gran had had to be told about the sad loss of the diamond ornament, and it wasn't in nature for him to be _pleased_ about it, now was it? He'd very likely have been still more vexed if it hadn't been for the whooping-cough coming so soon upon the top of it. He didn't know that the one had brought the other, both thanks to Anne. Father and mother thought there was no need to tell him that part of it, for he was always ready to be down upon Anne. Her careless, thoughtless ways were just what worried him particularly. But he was kind and loving in his own way. He never wrote another word of reproach about the diamond thing after he heard of the trouble we were in. He was very glad I didn't get the illness. I don't know that I am a special pet of his, but I'm the only boy and named after him. I daresay it's that, though, as far as real favourites go, I think it's Hebe he cares most for. He was terribly sorry about her, and wrote that if she needed anything expensive, mother wasn't to give two thoughts to the cost. That letter came just about the time Dr. Marshall said we should all go away, and mums and I had a talk over it. 'It's very good of gran,', said mums. 'I do think he's been wonderfully good. But still it doesn't show me what to do. You see, Jack, when Hebe goes away I _must_ go with her--I think Rowley and I could manage without nurse--and that would be pretty expensive to begin with. Still, I shouldn't so much mind writing to him about that, but it's for the rest of you. I don't see how I'm to manage it, and I don't want to worry your father just now. He is so busy with his new book, and he's been so put back with the anxiety and bad nights while Hebe was so ill.' For you know it isn't only writing books father does. He's busy all day with his other work. I don't think I should say exactly what his appointment is, for then you'd know who he was, but it's to do with Parliament and the Government. 'Why can't we go to Furzely?' I said stupidly. For I had been told all about it having been let for six months. Furzely is our--at least gran's--country-house. It's not bad, but we're rather tired of it, and the housekeeper is grumpy. 'That wouldn't cost much, would it?' 'My dear boy, you forget, the Wilmingtons are to be there till August.' 'Oh, of course,' I said. 'And besides, Furzely isn't the sort of air Dr. Marshall wants for you all just now,' she went on. 'It's healthy, but it's nothing particular; it's not hill air or moor air. Besides, it's out of the question. Strayling or Fewforest--those were the places he said, or somewhere in their neighbourhood. And I don't know either of them in the least. I've no idea if there are lodgings or houses to be got; besides a house would cost far too much, and I should have to send two or three servants. Oh dear, what troubles have come with gran's lending me that unlucky ornament!' 'I don't think that's quite fair, mums,' I couldn't help saying. 'The troubles have come through Anne's fault. I wish _she_ would see it that way, but I don't believe she thinks about it much now.' 'I hope she does,' said mother. 'And of course,' she went on, 'it's wrong of me to grumble so. _Illnesses_ come through nobody's fault! And I should be so thankful that Hebe is getting better that nothing else should seem anything. But it is real practical difficulty about money just now that I mind the most. You see, dear, I have to pay all your teachers just the same. It wouldn't be fair to Miss Stirling or any of them to stop just because the girls have got ill.' I felt very sorry, and I didn't really know what to propose. 'Isn't there any one you could ask about those places?' I said. 'Mightn't we perhaps get lodgings at a farmhouse, where it wouldn't be at all dear? Not grand ones, you know, mums. And we'd all wait on ourselves a good deal, so that nurse could help the farmer's wife to cook for us if she needed. Nurse loves cooking.' Mums' face cleared a little. She does worry sometimes more than she needs to. 'That would be very nice, Jack,' she said. 'I wonder if there's anybody who could tell us about where such a place is likely to be found.' 'We'd live quite plainly,' I went on. 'It would be fun to be almost like poor children for a while. I don't mean _poor_, poor children, but like rather well-off cottage children.' 'H-m,' said mother. 'I don't think you'd find it as amusing as you think. However, you would of course have to live plainly in some ways, but still it must be a comfortable sort of place. It would not do to run any risks for the girls after their illness.' Just at that moment Alfred brought in a note that had come, and 'they,' he said--why do servants always say 'they' for a messenger when there's only one?--'were waiting for an answer.' The note was from young Mrs. Chasserton, Cousin Dorothea. She had just come back to London, she said, and she was so sorry to hear how ill "the children" had all been'--thank you, all but one, if you please. And would mother come to see her? She had got a horrid cold, and couldn't go out, but she wasn't a bit afraid of whooping-cough--she'd had it. 'Please come to tea this afternoon, and bring any child that's well enough to go out.' 'Oh, I can't,' said mother, 'I've too much on my mind!' 'Oh, do go,' I said, 'it'll do you good. You've not had the least little change for ever so long. And let me come with you, mums, as the others mayn't go out yet. I like Cousin Dorothea; and perhaps she could tell us of some farmhouse, as she's always lived in the country.' So mother wrote a word to say she'd go. And that afternoon we did go. I had never been in the Chassertons' house before. It was a nice little place, and it was all decked out like a doll's house with Dorothea's wedding presents. I amused myself very well by walking round the room looking at them all. They weren't very well arranged. There was a corner cupboard with glass doors, filled with china, and it was all mixty-maxty. Blue or plain-coloured china on the same shelf as many-coloured Dresden or oriental. (I know something about china, and I mean to know more before I've done with it.) The key was in the lock, and I couldn't resist opening the doors and moving one or two pieces to see how much better they might look. But just then Dorothea called me over to tea. She was a sensible girl. She'd had some bread-and-butter and jam ready spread, thicker than those silly wafer slices ladies eat, and the jam was my favourite--strawberry. I felt very comfortable. I was glad I'd made mother come. She looked brighter. I spoke to Cousin Dorothea about the bad way her china was arranged. 'Yes,' she said, 'I know it is.' She spoke quite gravely, but still I thought I saw a kind of a smile go round the corners of her mouth. I suppose she was thinking it was very funny for a boy to care how china was arranged. I don't see why. Boys have got eyes, and some of them have got good taste--more than some girls. 'It was washed while we were away,' she said, 'and the housemaid put it all in, according to the size of the things, I suppose. Nothing to do with the colour or kinds.' 'I've moved a few of them,' I said; 'they look better already. You've got some nice bits; there are one or two very old; I think I saw some Worcester.' 'How learned you are, Jack!' said Dorothea. But I didn't see it. Nothing's easier than to pick up a smattering--just enough to tell one cup from another, and to seem very wise about it. I didn't mean to do that. 'No,' I said; 'I'm not. There's one cup I can't make out at all.' 'Do you mean the one with the deep purplish flowers?' said she. 'Oh, it is sharp of you to have spotted that one! No one knows for certain what it is; it was given me by an old servant of ours who married and went to live up in Yorkshire; and once when we were at Harrogate we went to see her. She said there were a few old pieces of it in the cottage her husband and she lived at when they were first married, and she gave us each one for a keepsake.' 'Was she your nurse?' asked mother. 'No, only a housemaid; but she was a particularly nice woman, superior to her station. And she and her husband have got on very well. He was under-bailiff to Lord Uxfort up in the north, and then an uncle died and left him a small farm near--oh, where is it near? I forget,--but it's not so very far from London. I've always promised to go to see her some day.' 'That reminds me,' said mums. 'I haven't told you our present difficulty.' Till now Dorothea had been hearing about the whooping-cough, and asking all about the diamond brooch losing. She had known about it, for father had written to Mr. Chasserton to ask if Cousin Dorothea could possibly throw any light upon it,--had she noticed it on their way home, or had she only noticed it going there, or when?--but she hadn't been able to remember anything at all. She _was_ sorry about it; she's very sweet, very sweet indeed, and nice to tell troubles to; she looks so sorry with her kind blue eyes, though I don't think she's a very clever girl. 'I feel quite guilty about it all,' she said; 'for it was for my sake you went to that unlucky Drawing-room, and that all these troubles came. But what was the new one you were going to tell me about, dear Valeria?' 'Oh, that isn't exactly a trouble, only a difficulty,' said mums. And she went on to explain about the change to the country and my idea of a farmhouse. Cousin Dorothea listened, and tried to look very wise. 'I'm afraid nowhere near my home would be any good,' she said. 'Devonshire's not bracing at all.' Suddenly a thought jumped into my head. 'That nice woman,' I said, 'the one who gave you the cup, is it bracing where she lives?' Dorothea gave a little jump. 'Oh,' she said, 'she'd be the _very_ person to take care of the children _if_ she had rooms, and _if_ her husband would let her take lodgers, and _if_ the place is bracing, and _if_ I could remember where it is!' We couldn't help laughing. 'Four "if's" indeed,' said mother. But Dorothea didn't laugh; she was too busy cudgelling her brains. 'I've a feeling,' she said, 'that it _is_ a bracing place; that Homer--isn't it a funny name for a woman, it was her surname, and the boys used to call her all manner of nonsense because of it--"Iliad" and "Odyssey" of course,--I've a feeling that Homer wrote something about moors and fresh air. If I could but remember!' 'Would you know it if you heard it?' I said. 'Suppose we got a railway guide and looked at some names?' said mother. 'Is there a railway station there?' I asked. 'Oh yes, I know there is one near, for Homer wrote all that when she asked us to go down for a day. Stay, there's something about English history mixed up with it in my mind. I do believe it's coming. Ring the bell, Jack, dear, and we'll look through an A B C. It's something about putting the fires out at night, you know--the old law.' 'Curfew?' said mother. 'Ye-es, but it's not quite that. But----' Just then the servant came, and we got the railway guide. 'Look at "f's," Jack,' said Dorothea. I read some 'f's,' but she shook her head. Then I said to mother-- 'Here's one of the places Dr. Marshall was speaking about. "Fewforest," it----' Cousin Dorothea clapped her hands. '_That's_ it,' she said joyfully. 'What a coincidence!' said mother. 'I remember about it now,' said Dorothea. 'They were so afraid of fire there, because the village stands close to a thick wood--at least it did then--that the Curfew bell was rung there long after it had been given up in many places. And so it got from Curfew Forest to Fewforest.' 'It must be a jolly old place, mums,' I said. 'Do let's find out about it.' CHAPTER VIII MOSSMOOR FARM And so we did. Dorothea wrote to her home, and got Mrs. Parsley's proper address. Mrs. Parsley was the farmer's wife who used to be 'Homer'--rather a come-down from 'Homer' to 'Parsley,' wasn't it? and it _was_ near Fewforest. Then she wrote to Mrs. Parsley, 'sounding' her a little, and the day she got the answer she brought it straight off to us. Mums and I were in the little drawing-room by ourselves, for the girls were still kept rather out of the way, as they coughed a good deal now and then. Hebe by this time was able to get up a little and lie on a sofa in her room, and the others used to go in and sit with her in turns,--Anne the most, of course, for she reads aloud nicely, and she's not at all stupid, and Hebe's very fond of her. I used to sit with her too a good deal, but really that spring I was very busy. I had some of my lessons. I went to Miss Stirling's house when the girls began to get better, instead of her coming to us, just for _fear_ of infection, as she'd never had the whooping-cough. And I had heaps to do for mother, besides helping to amuse the two little ones. My greatest rest was to be alone with mums sometimes for a bit in the afternoon. Now and then I had tea with her. We were having tea that day when Cousin Dorothea came in, all in a fuss and quite eager. She had just got the letter. 'Such a nice answer from dear old Homer' she said. 'She'll be delighted to do anything for relations of mine, and she doesn't think you _could_ find a healthier place. It's as bracing as anything, and yet not cold. She says there's a small convalescent Home not far from the farm, and that the place was chosen out of ever so many by some rich people who built it, just because of its healthiness. Now I come to think of it, I'm sure I've heard of that Home before, but I can't think from whom.' 'That's all very satisfactory indeed, and thank you very much, dear,' said mother. 'But--what about the possibility of lodgings?' 'I was coming to that,' said Dorothea, and indeed she was almost out of breath with such a lot to tell. 'Homer says there are really none to be had----' 'Oh dear!' exclaimed mums and I. 'But,' Dorothea went on, 'they _have_ some spare rooms at the farm, and occasionally they have had thoughts of letting them--I mean, of taking lodgers. But they're _very_ plainly furnished, and she's always busy, so her husband was rather afraid of beginning it. She wouldn't exactly like to offer them, but she says if my friends would go down to see the rooms, and thought they'd do, she would be pleased to do her best. I can guarantee they'd be beautifully _clean_.' Dorothea looked quite excited about it. She was so proud of being able to help mums. 'I think it sounds charming,' said mother. 'How many rooms are there?' 'Two big bedrooms, and a tiny one, and a sort of best kitchen that could be made comfortable in a plain way as a sitting-room,' said Dorothea consulting the letter. 'You could take down a few sofa rugs, and two or three folding chairs and so on, I daresay?' 'Oh yes, easily,' said mother. 'But I quite agree with Mrs. Parsley that I had better see the rooms. How long does it take by train, and how far is the farm--what's the name of it, by the bye?--from the station?' 'About a mile and a half. But they have a pony-cart of some kind and could meet you. The name is Mossmoor--Mossmoor Farm, Fewforest.' It seemed wonderfully lucky. We were all three as pleased as anything. There was only one thing I wanted to make sure of. 'Mums,' I whispered. I was just giving her her second cup of tea. I always make her tea when we're alone. 'Mums, if you do go down one day to see the farm, you'll take me with you, won't you?' Cousin Dorothea has quick ears. She overheard. 'Oh yes, Valeria,' she said, 'you must take him. I consider it's more than half thanks to him that we've thought of it.' I do like Dorothea. Mums smiled. 'We must see what father says,' she answered. 'Of course there's the railway fare.' 'But you couldn't go alone, mums,' I reminded her; 'and you know I'm only half, still. Father would never have time to go, and if you took Rowley she'd cost full fare.' 'Oh, you old-fashioned child!' said Cousin Dorothea, laughing. 'Dear, you _must_ take him.' I felt sure mums would, after that. 'I know I could help you about the rooms and everything better than anybody,' I said. And I knew I could. I did go. Father laughed and said I was the proper person to take his place, as he couldn't possibly go. So it was settled, and one fine morning off we set. It was really a fine morning,--I don't mean it only as an expression. It was really a lovely morning. Let me see, it must have been May by then. I'll look it up in my diary of that year, and fill in the exact date afterwards. It was sunny and mild, though there was a little nice wind too. Mums and I felt like two children out of school, or two captives out of prison, when we found ourselves in a jolly comfortable railway carriage all alone, flying along through the bright green fields with the trees in their new spring dresses and the sky as blue as blue,--all so jolly, you know, after the long winter in our London square and all the troubles we'd had. Everything seemed at last to be going to begin to come right. 'I feel in such much better spirits,' said mums. 'Hebe does seem to be improving so fast now, and the weather is so nice.' Dear little mums, she was looking so pretty. She had a brown dress with very soft, fussy trimming, and a brown bonnet, with something pink--just a tiny bit of pink. She generally wears bonnets, except when we're regularly in the country. They suit her, and I like them better than hats for her. I hate those mothers who are always trying to look young. And I think mums looks all the younger because she dresses like a mother and not like a girl. I've got ideas about dressing though I am a boy. I can't help having them. 'I do hope Mossmoor Farm will be nice,' she went on again. 'The only thing is I wish we were going to be all together there.' 'So do I,' I said. I hate being away from mums, and then I've a feeling she may be wanting me always. 'Perhaps, if Hebe gets much stronger at Ventnor, after two or three weeks there, the doctor may let us join you all at this place,' said mother. That was a nice idea. 'It would be awfully jolly,' I said. 'We'd have nothing left to wish for then, would we, mums, except--if only the diamond thing could be found!' I don't know what put it in my head just then; we hadn't spoken of it for ever so long. I was almost sorry I had said it, for mums' face clouded over a little. 'Yes, indeed,' she said. 'But I fear there's no chance of that now. And really gran has been _so_ good about it. He might have been very, very angry; for, after all, it _was_ a sort of carelessness of mine. I should have made sure it was firm the very last moment before I put it on.' But I began to talk of other things to put it out of her head. And before long--at least it didn't seem long, railway journeys do so depend on how you're feeling--we pulled up at a pretty little station, and we saw that the name of it was Fewforest. We got out, feeling rather important, and perhaps mums was a tiny bit nervous. You see she's very seldom had to do things like looking for houses, by herself. She's always nearly had father or gran. She was rather proud of it, too, and so was I. I was determined she shouldn't feel lonely or bothered if I could help it. And everything went wonderfully right. It is like that sometimes. To begin with, I never saw a jollier railway station. It seems in the middle of a wood, and the station-master's house is like a Swiss cottage. I've never been in Switzerland-- I've never been out of England--but mother has, lots, and of course I've seen pictures. And everybody says Fewforest is quite as pretty as heaps of places people travel miles and miles over the sea to visit. There was a little kind of a phaeton standing outside, and a rather fat boy with red cheeks on the box. He touched his cap as we came out, and, getting still redder, he mumbled something about 'Measter Parsley,' and 'Mossmoor.' 'Yes,' said mother, 'we are going to Mossmoor Farm. Are you to drive us?' He touched his cap again, and tried to explain that his master was very sorry he couldn't come himself; something or other unexpected, we couldn't make out what, having happened to prevent him. I wasn't sorry. If the farmer had come, we'd have had to talk to him, for civility's sake, and it would have been a great bore, when we wanted to talk to each other and to look about us. We certainly didn't need to talk to the fat boy. He looked most thankful when we were settled in our places behind, and he didn't have to see us at all, though his ears kept red all the way to Mossmoor, I could see, just from shyness. I got to know him quite well afterwards, and his ears weren't generally redder than other people's. He was a nice boy; his name was Simon Wanderer; it didn't suit him, for he'd never been farther away from his home at Mossmoor than six miles. I don't believe he has yet, though he must be seventeen by now. It was a lovely drive. I have been it lots of times since of course, and I always like it; but that first time there was something extra about it. It was all new to us, and then we did so enjoy being in the country again, and there was a nice feeling as if we were having an adventure too. Part of the way is all through woods; then after that comes a heathy bit, and then a clear bit of common, and then you go up for a while with trees thick at one side of the road and at the other a beautiful sort of stretching-to-the-sky view. _Then_ you turn sharp down a lane, and at a corner where another lane--quite a short one--leads on to a heath again, is the Farm. We got out at the gate. There's no drive to the front of the house, and this first time Mrs. Parsley wouldn't have thought it 'manners' to meet us in the stable-yard. She was standing at the gate. I saw in a minute she was nice. She had a pleasant face, not too smiley, and no make up about it. 'I _am_ pleased to see you, ma'am,' she said, 'and Master Warwick too, and I'm so glad it's a fine day. Real May weather, isn't it, ma'am?' 'Yes, indeed,' said mums. 'We couldn't see your pretty home to greater advantage, Mrs. Parsley.' Then Mrs. Parsley smiled more than she had done yet. 'I can't deny, ma'am, that it's a sweet spot,' she said, '_and_ a healthy. It's coldish in winter, it's true, but then it's a cold that you don't feel in the same piercing way as when it's damp. The air's that bracing about here, ma'am.' 'So they tell me,' said mother. 'And that's just what we're looking for.' Then she went on to tell about the whooping-cough, and though Cousin Dorothea had written about it already, Mrs. Parsley seemed as interested as could be. People like that--I mean people you can't call gentlemen and ladies, though they're not poor, and regular poor people, too--do love talking about illnesses--other people's as well as their own. And she had a lot of questions to ask about 'Miss Dorothea' too. She 'did hope as she'd come down to Mossmoor some day.' All this time we were going towards the house. But it was rather a slow business, doing so much talking by the way, and I _was_ in a fidget to see the rooms and find out if they'd do. There was no hall or passage; we went straight into a large kitchen, a very large one. You didn't see at first how big it was, because just round the door--to keep out the draught, I suppose--there was a fixed wooden screen, like what you see in lots of cottages. I was a little surprised that there was no hall, for, outside, the house looked really rather grand; it might have been called 'Mossmoor Grange,' for it was built of nice dull red old bricks and the windows were very pretty--out-jutting, you know, and with tiny panes. But once you were well inside the kitchen you couldn't have wished it any different. It was so jolly; not a bit messy, you know, as if plates and dishes were washed there, or potatoes peeled, or anything like that, for there was a good-sized back kitchen where all that was done. The floor was tiled, with good thick rugs here and there, and there was a regular old grandfather's clock and bright brass pans and things on the wall. I wondered at first if this could be the kitchen we were to have as a sitting-room. But Mrs. Parsley soon explained. 'Won't you sit down and rest a bit, ma'am,' she said, 'before I show you the rooms?' But mums and I both said we weren't at all tired. 'Well, then,' she said, 'if you'll be so good, we'll step through this way,' and she opened a door at quite the other side of the kitchen. 'You'll have a little lunch, I _hope_,' said the kind woman, 'after we've seen the rooms,' and she nodded towards a table, which was all spread with a white cloth and on it two or three dishes, one with a cold ham, and another with some kind of a pie or tart, and a big jug of milk. I was getting hungry, but still I cared most of all to see the rooms. Through the door there _was_ a tiny hall. It had a nice window, and a door stood open at the other end. 'This is the summer kitchen, as we always call it,' said Mrs. Parsley. 'I had a little fire lighted just for you to see, it's nice and comfortable,'--she called it 'com,' not _cum_-fortable,'--'even if the weather's chilly.' It was a dear room--beautiful deep windows with seats round them, and nice old cupboards, one with glass doors, and a queer kind of sofa with a straight-up back and a long red cushion. The chairs were plain wood and everything was plain, but not a bit common; ever so much nicer than lodgings, you know, like what there are sometimes at the seaside with horrid flowery carpets all staring, and mirrors with gilt frames, and shaky little chiffoniers that won't hold anything. Here it was all solid and comfortable; there was nothing we could break supposing we did 'rampage' about, as nurse calls it. Even the kitchen fireplace was nice; I thought to myself what jolly toffy we could make on a wet day. 'Oh, this _is_ a nice room,' said mums; 'nothing could be better.' Mrs. Parsley did look pleased, and in a minute or two she opened a door we hadn't noticed. It looked like a part of the wooden panels, and there was a funny little stair. 'This leads to the small bedroom, ma'am,' she said. 'There's a door through it to the other two, but there's also doors to them on the landing over the big kitchen, which you get to up the regular staircase. But if the young gentleman was to have this room it might be a convenience for him to get to it without having to go all the way round and pass through the other bedrooms.' It was a funny little room--very jolly though,--just a bed and a chest of drawers, a toilet-table, and a shelf across a corner for a washhand-stand, and two chairs. But I liked it very much, and the two big bedrooms that we got into through it were really very nice--carpets in the middle, and in one a regular polished bedstead with curtains. _I_ wouldn't have liked it, but, as it turned out, Anne did. And it was very big; plenty of room for her and Maud too. In the other room there were two smaller beds; one would do for Serry, and the other for nurse. And everything was as clean as clean--lavendery too--not a bit fusty or musty. 'Really,' said mums, 'nothing could be nicer. I suppose these are all the rooms you have to spare, Mrs. Parsley?' There was one other, as tiny as mine, but it was at the opposite side of the house. Still mother thought it would do for me _if_ Hebe was able to come at the end of the time, and then nurse could have mine. 'And if I could run down myself for a night or so,' she said, 'I daresay Serry and Maud could sleep together; there'd be plenty of room for me beside Anne.' Then she and Mrs. Parsley went on to talk about sheets and pillow-cases, and stupid things like that, so I took out my notebook--I always have a notebook--and went poking about to see what things we'd better bring down with us from London. I made quite a tidy list, though mums wouldn't let me bring all I wanted; and some of the things Mrs. Parsley had already when I spoke about them, only she hadn't put them out. Then we went down again by the big staircase--all old brown wood and nobbly balusters: mother said it was really beautiful--which ran down to a kind of hall behind the kitchen, and then we had luncheon. I'll never forget it. Either I was awfully hungry, or the things were extra good--perhaps both--but I don't think I ever tasted such nice ham, or such a splendid home-made cake. CHAPTER IX SPYING THE LAND After luncheon we had still an hour and a half before we needed to start for the station. Mrs. Parsley asked us if we would like to stroll about the garden and the farm a little, but mums was tired. She did go outside the house to a nice sheltered corner where there was a rustic bench, and there she said she would enjoy the air and rest at the same time. But I wasn't the least tired. I wanted to enjoy the air without resting. So mums asked Mrs. Parsley to tell me where I could go without any fear of losing my way, or coming back too late. Mrs. Parsley considered. 'There's a beautiful path through the wood,' she said, 'that brings you out at the end of what we call our village. It's "Fewforest, South End," by rights, for Fewforest is very straggly. It's divided into north end and south end, and houses between, here and there. The old church is at South End, I'm glad to say, for it makes it nice and convenient for us; no excuses for staying away if it's a bad day, though, indeed, I think our folk love their church. We've been very favoured in the clergy here for a many years.' 'I'd like to see the church,' I said. I always like to see churches. 'Will it be open, Mrs. Parsley?' 'Oh yes, sir, bless you, sure to be. We've all the new ways here. Mr. Joyce would never hold with a church that was kept locked.' Mother smiled a little. 'The _old_ ways, I like to call them, Mrs. Parsley,' she said. 'The old ways we're coming back to, I'm glad to say, after putting them aside for so long that people had almost forgotten they were the really old original ones.' Mrs. Parsley didn't mind her saying that, I could see. 'True, ma'am, that's just as Mr. Joyce puts it,' she said. Then she explained to me exactly how I should go. I was to make a round, coming back by the high road. In this way I should pass up the village, and see the post office, which was also a telegraph office, and the doctor's house. It's always a good thing in a new place to see all you can. 'And some little distance behind the church, so to say,' added Mrs. Parsley, 'standing on rather high ground, you'll see the Convalescent Home, Master Jack. We're quite proud of it now, though at the beginning some folk were silly enough to think it'd bring infections and illnesses to the place. But them as has charge of it know better than that; every care's taken. And there's some sweet young ladies who come down turn about, one with another, to help with the children. It's a pretty sight, I can tell you, to see the poor dears picking up as they do here. They'll get quite rosy before they go, some of them, and they poor peakit-like faces they come with.' 'Peakit-like' means pinched and miserable-looking. It is a north country expression, mums says, for Mrs. Parsley belonged to the north when she was young. Well, off I set. I hadn't any adventures--that was for afterwards. I found my way quite well, and I enjoyed the walk very much. The church was rather queer. It was very old; there were strange tablets on the walls and monuments in the corners, and part of the pavement was gravestones--the side parts, not the middle. But it was new too. There weren't any pews, and it was all open and airy. But still it had the feeling of being very old. I don't know much about architecture--it's one of the things I mean to learn. I know pews are all wrong, still they're rather fun. At one church near Furzely, where we sometimes go in wet weather, there are some square ones with curtains all round, and the two biggest pews have even fireplaces in them--they're exactly like tiny rooms. I daresay there were pews like that once in Fewforest church, for it certainly is very old. I stood in front of the chancel some time looking at the high painted window behind the altar; it was very old. I could see it by the cracks here and there where you could tell it had been mended. I couldn't help thinking what lots and lots of people must have looked at that window--at those very figures in it and the patterns round the edge--since it was first put up there. Lots of children as little as me, who grew up to be men and women, and then got old and died. Isn't it queer to think how men and women _must_ die, and that bits of glass that anybody could break with a touch can last on for hundreds of years? I daresay some of the children I was thinking of, the long long ago ones, kept on looking at that window every Sunday, and saints' days too--for people long ago went much oftener to church on saints' days, you know,--all through their lives; for before there were railways, or even coaches, and travelling cost so dear, lots of country people never went farther away than a few miles from their own village at all. It is strange to think of. I thought to myself I'd like to show Anne the church. She'd understand all these feelings it gave me--perhaps she'd make poetry about it. She does make poetry sometimes. I was sure she'd like the church. But I was afraid of being late for mother, or making her fidgety that I was _going_ to be late, so I turned to go. Just as I was leaving the church, I saw that there was some one there beside myself. I hadn't noticed her before, but she must have been there all the time. It was a lady. She had been kneeling, but she got up and passed out quickly. I had only time to catch a very little glimpse of her face, but even in that tiny glimpse I felt as if I had seen it before. But I couldn't think where. She didn't see me, I was a little in shadow, and she looked eager and hurried, as if she had plenty to do, and had only run in to say her prayers for a minute. Where had I seen that rather frowning, eager look in a face before? It did bother me so, but I _couldn't_ remember. That was a tiny bit of an adventure, after all. I shouldn't have said I hadn't any at all that day. [Illustration: 'I just stood still ... and looked well round at the view and everything.' c. ix. p. 130.] I walked home through the village--that end of it, that's to say, the south end--past the doctor's house, with a big plate on the door, 'Dr. Hepland,' and the one or two everything shops (don't you _love_ 'everything' shops? I do. I stood at the door of one of them, to sniff the jolly mixty-maxty, regular country shop smell), and the post office. And then I felt I knew the place pretty tidily for a beginning. There was lots of time. I'd seen what o'clock it was at the church, so I strolled along comfortably. Some of the people stared at me a bit. It was rather early in the season for visitors, you see. But I didn't mind. I just stood still, with my hands behind me, and looked well round at the view and everything. Behind the church the ground rises, and up there, there was a house, standing by itself and looking rather new. I remembered what Mrs. Parsley had said. 'That must be the getting-well Home for children,' I thought. 'I'd like to see through it. Perhaps we might have some of the children to tea one day, when we're at the farm. The wellest ones; it would be rather fun.' I'd a good deal to tell the girls about when we got home, hadn't I? But, after all, we didn't tell them very much that night. For both mums and I were pretty tired, though everything had been so nice. The train going home was a much slower one. When we got near London, it seemed to stop at every station. My goodness! it _was_ tiresome. And we were hungry too, for we'd only had luncheon at Mossmoor; we had to leave too soon for tea, and, besides, mother didn't want to give Mrs. Parsley so much trouble. Father was going to be late that night. He wasn't coming in to dinner at all. I didn't much mind, for it was all the nicer for me. Mums and I had a sort of picnic dinner--with tea, you know, like what people often have when they arrive very late after a journey. And we talked over about the rooms and everything quietly. The girls were all in bed. We just went in to see them. Hebe was the widest awake; and she was so pleased to hear that perhaps there'd be room for her too at Mossmoor if she was a good girl, and got nearly quite well at Ventnor. And the next morning we told all of them everything about it. I had to begin at the beginning, and tell about the railway, and how pretty the fields looked, and what a lovely station there was at Fewforest, and the drive in the pony phaeton, and how red the fat boy's ears were; and then about the house and Mrs. Parsley, and the rooms, and everything. I hadn't time to tell about my walk through the village till luncheon--mum's luncheon, I mean, which is our dinner. And then I began about the nice old church; they were very pleased, Anne most of all. But just as I was telling about the lady I'd seen, and how I couldn't remember how I seemed to know her face, all of a sudden it plumped into my mind. I threw down my knife and fork on my plate. I'm afraid they made a clatter, for mums jumped. It was partly perhaps that I called out so. 'I _know_ who it was. It's that girl--Miss Cross-at-first, you know, Anne,' for that was the name we'd given her, and, indeed, I didn't remember her real name. 'Miss _what_, Jack?' said mums; while Anne said quietly, 'Oh yes, I know. How funny!' Then we explained what we meant. 'Judith,' said mother; 'Judith Merthyr. What a very queer name for her,' and she couldn't help laughing. 'It may have been her, for I know she works among poor children. Perhaps she's one of the girls who come down in turns to the Convalescent Home--the ladies Mrs. Parsley told us of. I must ask Dorothea Chasserton; she's sure to know. It would be nice if Judith were there, they say she's such a very kind girl.' 'Yes,' I said, 'we found that out. It's only the way her face is made--she can't help it.' But somehow we all forgot to ask Cousin Dorothea. For one thing, there soon began to be a good deal of bustle getting ready to go away, for with this horrid whooping-cough nurse and Rowley had been so extra busy that there was a lot of sewing to do. Not for me, of course. My sailor suits all come from the man at Devonport, and, except for darning my stockings, I don't think I give much mending to do. But of course _girls_ are always wanting things made for them at home. Then to add to all the fuss, gran took it into his head to come back all of a sudden. Mother hadn't counted on his coming at all till after she'd got back from Ventnor with Hebe, and by then she thought if Hebe was well enough to be with the rest of us at Mossmoor, she herself would be free to devote herself to gran. She wanted to be _extra_ good to him, you see, to make up for the worry about the diamond ornament. But gran's often rather changeable; and of course, as mums always says, 'It's his own house: who has a better right to come to it whenever it suits him?' Only it _was_ rather inconvenient, and mother looked pretty blank the morning she got the letter. He wasn't going to stay long--he had some other visits to pay before he settled down for his usual two months or so of the season in town. He would only stay about ten days. '_Just_ till we are all leaving,' said poor mums. 'And I know he will want me all day,--and I'd gladly be with him all day--but I _am_ so busy.' 'So am I,' said father, looking rather flabbergasted himself. 'But we must just do the best we can, Valeria. You tell him frankly that you are and must be very busy, and I will tell him that my new book is announced, and yet I have a good deal to do to it still.' 'Yes,' sighed mums,' I must do my best. But it is a pity. He says he is anxious to see the children for himself--to make sure they are coming round satisfactorily. Poor gran, and he doesn't say one word about that unlucky brooch. He has been very good about it.' 'Perhaps he thinks every one concerned has been sufficiently punished about it,' said father. And Anne, who was down at breakfast with us, grew very red, and looked down at her plate. Well, gran came, and I think mums managed beautifully, though she must have been pretty tired. _We_ rather went to the wall. That's to say _I_ did, for there was an end of all my nice quiet times with mums--afternoon teas in the little drawing-room, and driving out with her to shop. The doctor ordered drives for the girls now--for Anne, and Serena, and Maud, that's to say,--so they took turns of it in the victoria every fine afternoon. I didn't envy them the days gran went too, for if there's one thing I hate it's the back seat of a victoria, and it gives such a messy look to the turn-out, _I_ think. Those days I was a good deal with Hebe, reading to her in the afternoons, and sitting with her to make up for mums being so little with her. Gran used to come sometimes, and I had to go on reading aloud just the same, with him listening. I didn't like it at all. But he was very kind. He never went out scarcely without bringing in some present for some of us, especially Hebe--either fruit, or cakes, not too rich, but very good, or new story-books, or some kind of puzzle or game. He was really very jolly that time. We were awfully pleased though when the day came at last for us all to start. _We_ were to go first--the three girls, and nurse, and I,--and mums, and Hebe, and Rowley were to go down to Ventnor the next day. Father was to take them, for poor Hebe could scarcely walk yet Gran went off on his visit the afternoon of _our_ day. He said he couldn't leave till he had seen us off, and he actually came to the station with us--he and his man. Fancy that! And it was rather lucky for us, for he would have us travel first-class, and mums had only meant us to go second. I must say first is ever so much nicer, and it's rubbish of people to say they like second better. It's only silly people, who are ashamed to say they do it for saving reasons. I can't understand that sort of being ashamed. Then gran tipped the guard, so that he came at every station to ask if we wanted anything. We never did, but it felt rather grand. Altogether, the journey was very nice, and we hadn't time to feel very sad at leaving dear mums and Hebe, though all the way I kept thinking of my last going there with mother. It was a fine day, though not so bright as the other time. When we got to Fewforest there was a big fly waiting for us, and a spring cart from the farm for the luggage. And no sooner did Serry catch sight of it than she tugged my arm, and said quite loud-- 'Is that the red-eared boy, Jack?' She _is_ so silly, I wonder he didn't hear her. It _was_ he, sure enough, as red as ever, and grinning now as well, like an old acquaintance. The driver of the fly, on the contrary, was a rather grumpy man. I had been thinking of asking nurse to let me go outside, but when I saw his face I didn't. No chance of _him_ letting me drive part of the way, even though the horse was about a hundred years old, and went jog-jogging along as if it meant to take a month to get to Mossmoor. I can generally tell something about people by the look of their faces. So we all squashed inside--nurse and us four. It wasn't a very great squash, for the fly was a regular old-fashioned roomy one. Once upon a time I daresay it had been some lady's grand 'coach' in which she drove about paying all her visits. I happened to say this to Anne, and she liked the idea. She said she thought she would write a story, and call it _The History of a Chariot_. I don't know if she ever has. When we got to Mossmoor the stupid coachman was going to drive us into the stable-yard, which would quite have stopped the niceness of our first arriving, especially as I caught sight of dear old Mrs. Parsley standing at the front door with her best cap on, all in a flutter to welcome us. (I didn't call her 'dear old Mrs. Parsley' to myself _then_: it's since I've got to know her. And I couldn't have told it was her best cap; it wasn't for some time that we got to understand her caps. They were like degrees of comparison, both upwards and downwards, for she had always about six going at a time.) So I holloaed out to the driver to stop at the little gate, and he did, though he growled and grumbled. He _is_ so surly; his name's Griffin, and he and the fly belong to the 'Yule Log' at Fewforest, North end. There's no inn at South end. I was only just in time, for you can't turn, farther up the lane, unless you drive on a bit, _or_ turn in the stable-yard. You see it was a good thing for the girls that I'd been there before, and knew all the ins and outs of the place, wasn't it? It _was_ fun showing them the rooms and everything. And even though I had described them as particularly as I could, they all declared--nurse too--that I hadn't made them out half nice enough. I was glad of that. We had plenty of time to poke about, because the luggage hadn't yet come. And Mrs. Parsley had tea set out all ready; she wasn't one of those horrid landladies who won't give anything at the first start for fear they should possibly not be paid back for it. I'm sure she never charged anything for the cake she'd made us, and the jam and honey, that first night, though there was precious little over of any of them when we'd finished. CHAPTER X A LONG AGO ADVENTURE We were very busy and happy the next morning getting all our things settled, and making the summer kitchen look as pretty as we could. We had brought one or two folding chairs and some rugs and table-covers to brighten it up, and it did look very nice indeed. It was a good thing we were taken up that way, for--wasn't it provoking?--that first day it took it into its head to rain! All the morning at least, though it cleared up about our dinner-time. But it was very tiresome, for though it was quite mild, it was of course damp under foot, and nurse wouldn't hear of us going a nice scrambly walk as we had planned. And she would come with us. I daresay she was right, but it was a bore. 'Which way shall we go, Jack?' said Anne, when we were all ready to start and nurse had satisfied herself that the girls had all got their thickest boots on, and waterproofs and umbrellas in case it came on to rain again. Nurse had been consulting Mrs. Parsley, I'm sure. 'We must keep to the high-road,' she said. 'It dries up very quickly as it's a sandy soil.' 'Anne wasn't asking you, nurse,' said Serry rather pertly. 'She was asking Jack.' 'All the same, Miss Serena, I must do my duty,' said nurse. 'I am in charge of you, and your mamma wouldn't be pleased if I let you all go stravaging over the wet fields to get bad colds and pleurisys and newmens, and what not.' 'Newmens,' said Anne, 'what _do_ you mean?' But nurse was put out, and wouldn't explain. It wasn't till some time after that we found out she meant that bad kind of cold on your chest that cows have so often, as well as people. I tried to smooth nurse down, and I frowned at Serry, who was just in a humour to go on setting her up. It was a pity to start so grumpily on our first walk, but things never do go quite right for long in this world, do they? 'I'll tell you what we can do,' I said; 'we can see the church. It's just a nice little walk by the road from here--you'd like that, wouldn't you, Anne?' 'Yes,' said Anne, 'I like old churches.' 'So do I,' said Maud. 'Are there places you could hide in, in this church,' said Serry, 'like in the old church at Furzely? Whenever I go there I can't help thinking what lovely hide-and-seek we might have there.' 'Miss Serry,' said nurse, quite shocked, 'I think you should have different ideas from that in your mind when you go to church.' And of course we all thought so too. But it isn't much use taking up anything Serry says, seriously. She _is_ so scatter-brained. We had a nice enough walk after all. The road was beginning to dry up, except at the side next the wood where the trees dripped on to it, for the trees were really soaking. And we soon got nurse into a good humour again; she's never cross for long. We made plans about all the nice things we'd do, if only the weather would be really fine--tea in the woods and things like that, you know. 'But it's early in the season still, my dears, you must remember,' said nurse. 'It's not often you can plan for much out-of-doors before June is near its end.' 'And then July is always a rainy month, people say,' said Anne. 'I do think England's horrid for the weather being so uncertain.' 'Well, indeed,' said nurse, 'take it all in all, I think I'd rather have our climate up in the north. It's cold, to be sure, a great part of the year, but the summer is summer while it lasts. And then you know where you are; in winter you can hap yourselves up and make the best of it, while here in the south it seems to me that every day you have to think if it's warm or cold, or what it is, all the year round, summer and winter alike.' I forget if I told you that nurse is Scotch. She hasn't really been in Scotland since she was quite little, but she's very proud of it, and she's very fond of using funny words, like 'stravaging.' 'They say the air here is like Scotland,' I said, 'so fresh and moor-y. So you should like it, nurse. And you know there's a place here that they send little ill children to from London; I can show you the house, we can see it up above when we get to the church.' And, funnily enough, just as we got close to the village we came upon a little party of the convalescent children going a walk. They were all dressed alike--the girls in brown frocks and red cloaks and brown hats, and the boys in some sort of corduroy. And there was a sort of servanty looking person with them, and also a lady; just for half a moment I wondered if it was Miss Cross-at-first, but it wasn't. This one was quite different; she was short and round-faced, and extremely good-natured looking. She smiled at us as she passed us. And the children all looked very happy. 'You see they've come a walk along the wood like us,' said Maud, 'because I daresay it's wet in their garden too.' 'I'd like to go to see them very much,' said Anne. 'What a pity it isn't Miss Cross-at-first with them! And mums never remembered to write to Cousin Dorothea to ask if it could have been her you saw in the church that day.' 'I'm certain it was,' I said. 'I don't need Cousin Dorothea or anybody to say so. But I'd like to know if she's gone away or if she's coming back again. They say girls--ladies, I mean--take it in turns to come and look after the children.' 'Perhaps Mrs. Parsley could find out for us,' said Anne. 'You know, nurse, we want to have some of the children at tea at the farm before we go. Mother said she daresayed we might.' 'It's time enough, Miss Anne, to talk about what you'll do before you go, seeing as you're scarcely come,' said nurse, rather grumpily. She's not very fond of things to do with poor children; she's always afraid of our catching illnesses. 'And it would be no kindness to ask any other children to come to see you at present. As likely as not they'd be getting the whooping-cough.' We hadn't thought of that; it was rather a disappointment. We had got to the church by now, and we all went in. It didn't look quite so pretty as the day I had seen it first, for there was no sunshine coming in through the coloured windows and lighting up the queer old tablets and figures here and there. Still it looked very nice, and Anne and Maud admired it very much. So did Serry, only she said she'd have liked it better with high pews and curtains to draw round the big square ones. Just fancy that! 'You _couldn't_ think it was nicer like that,' I said. 'Not prettier, but there must have been such jolly corners and hiding-places,' said Serena. Her head was full of hiding. 'There'd be nowhere to hide in this church. You'd be seen in a minute.' 'Nobody wants to hide in church,' I said; 'that's not what people come for.' 'They _might_ though,' said Serena; 'that's to say, supposing any one got locked up in a church all night, they'd like to have some comfortable corner to creep into where nobody could get at them.' 'But there'd be nobody _to_ get at them,' said Anne. 'I don't say I'd like at all to be shut up in a church all night; still, the best of it would be you'd know you were safe from anybody.' Serry didn't seem convinced. 'I don't know,' she said. 'There might be--well, bats and owls and things like that, and then there'd be _feelings_. You'd be sure to fancy there were people or things there, and it wouldn't be half so frightening if you could get into a pew with a carpet, and make a bed of the cushions and hassocks.' 'Eh,' said nurse all of a sudden, 'you put me in mind, Miss Serry, of an old story my mother told me when I was a child.' 'Oh, do tell it us,' cried Maud. But nurse said we must wait, of course, till we were out of the church. Nurse has quite proper feelings about churches, though, when she was little, she belonged to the Scotch kirk, you know, which is different. She said she'd tell us the story either on the way home or after tea when we were all sitting together in our kitchen-parlour, for it was too damp an evening for us to go out again. And at first we thought we'd have the story on the way home, but then we settled we'd wait till the evening. For there were plenty of things to amuse us going home; I had to show them the post office and the shops--we went farther down the village on purpose,--and I don't think stories are ever quite so nice when people are walking as when they're sitting still. We all felt quite hungry when we got back to the farm, and we were very glad that it was nearly tea time. Nurse was very pleased, for Anne and Maud had never got back their good appetites since they'd been ill, though Serry had never lost hers all through--I don't much think _anything_ would make Serry lose her good appetite,--and of course _I'd_ kept all right. After tea we helped nurse to clear away. We always did that at Mossmoor, for you see mums had promised Mrs. Parsley that we should give as little trouble as possible,--it wasn't as if she had been a lodging-house keeper, and she had only one servant who was rather rough and clumsy. We liked doing it too, and dear Mrs. Parsley was even better than her word about making us as comfortable as she possibly could. There was scarcely a day that she didn't do something 'extra' to please us. This very evening she had made us some lovely kind of scones for tea. She said they were a kind she had learnt to make up in the north, and she 'wanted to make us feel at home; it must be a bit lonely just at first, and such a wet day to begin.' Wasn't it sweet of her? Well, as I said, we did justice to the scones, and when tea was over and all nicely tidied up, we brought our chairs near the fire. For it was chilly after the rain, and we were glad of a fire. And nurse got out her knitting--nurse has always got socks for me or stockings for the girls on hand,--and we began to feel very jolly. We _had_ felt a very little lonely, perhaps almost an atom homesick, I think, with the dull morning and the strangeness and the not having father and mother and Hebe, even though everything was so nice. 'Now for your story, nurse,' said I. 'I hope it's been growing into a very big one all this time we've been waiting for it.' 'No, indeed, Master Jack,' said nurse, 'it's nothing of the kind. It's scarce to be called a story at all, and but little worth listening to.' But we made her tell it all the same. I'm not going to try to write it in Scotch words, for I don't know Scotch a bit, and I'm not sure that nurse knows much either, as she's been in England ever since she was very young. So I'll just tell it straight off; anyway it'll be the sense of what she said, though she did put in some extra Scotch words. I think she's rather proud when we have to ask her to explain them. NURSE'S STORY. 'It was my mother that told it me,' said nurse, 'for it happened to herself when she was a little girl. She lived at home with her father and mother and brothers in a good-sized cottage on the Muirness estate, for my grandfather was one of the head men on the place, which belonged to old Sir Patrick Muir. They were a good way--five miles or so--from even a village, and I daresay double as far from the nearest town, which was only a small one. But in those days people were content with stay-at-home lives, and they didn't feel dull or lonely even in very out-of-the-way places. It is a good while ago since my mother was a child. She was not young when she married, and she was nearly forty when I was born, and I'm getting on for that myself now. My grandmother had been rather above my grandfather, for she was the daughter of a well-to-do man who farmed his own land. When my mother was a child these old folk were still living, and their little place was very near Muirness; indeed, I believe it was bought several years ago by Sir Herbert, old Sir Patrick's grandson, and now belongs to the big estate. 'My mother was a great favourite with her grandfather and grandmother, for she was the only granddaughter, all the others being boys. She used often to go over to Oldbiggins Farm to stay for a day or two; and her grandmother was very fond of having her from a Saturday to a Monday to take her to church with them on Sunday, and send her back early on Monday morning in time to go to school. My mother didn't care for these visits as much as for week-day ones, for her grandmother used to take her to church on Sunday morning and keep her there straight on through the afternoon service too, which was really too much for a child. Her mother was not so strict, and understood better about children's feelings; and she used always to let mother and her brothers go home after the morning service, even if she stayed on for the afternoon herself. It was five miles away, so it was a long walk, but the old people used to drive in a cart there and back; for if they hadn't done so, they wouldn't have been able to go to church at all. 'One Saturday afternoon--it was late in the autumn--mother's grandmother sent over to say that she wanted Maggie, that was mother's name, to come to stay till Monday, and she should drive to church and back with her on the Sunday--the 'Sabbath-day' was what they called it always. Maggie didn't want much to go, but her mother didn't like to refuse; the old people were kind, and it wouldn't do to vex them. So the child was sent off. She was about eight years old. '"Mayn't I come home with my brothers after the morning church is done?" she said. But her mother shook her head. For some reason they were not going till the afternoon. I think somebody was ill. '"If I can get in the afternoon, I'll look out for you, and you can come home with me then, dearie," she said. "Tell your grandmother I'd like to have you back to-morrow evening if she doesn't mind." 'The Sunday evenings at Oldbiggins were rather hard upon a child too, for, on the top of the two long services, the old grandfather always read out a very long sermon, difficult for any one to understand, as he read very feebly, and the words were often puzzling. [Illustration: 'Her grandmother ... went quietly out of the pew without a notion but that the child was beside her.'--c. x. p. 153.] 'So, with the hope of getting home again before the Sunday evening, little Maggie started. She was a gentle, quiet child, and the old people had no idea but that she was quite happy and liked the long hours in the church as much as they did. She went to church alone with her grandmother and the farm-man who drove the cart, and they took with them a packet of bread-and-butter, or bread-and-jam maybe--what was called "a piece"--to eat outside the church between the two services. There was only an hour between them. Maggie looked out for her own people before she and her grandmother went back into the church again, but they must have been a little late, and the old lady liked to be in her place in good time, so the child did not see them. But she thought to herself she'd be sure to meet them after church, and this thought kept her quiet, though she couldn't possibly get a glimpse of them from her corner of the high pew, even if she had dared to look about. She must have been very tired, and she had cried in bed the night before, and I daresay the cold air outside made it feel warm in the church, anyway this was what happened. The poor little thing fell fast asleep. And her grandmother, who was very blind except with her glasses on--and she always took them off and put them away when the last psalm had been sung--went quietly out of the pew without a notion but that the child was beside her. 'When Maggie woke it was quite dark, the church had been shut up ever so long; there was no evening service. At first she thought she was in bed, and that the clothes had tumbled off her, then feeling about, she found she had her frock and cape and bonnet on, and everything near her was hard and cold, not like bed at all. And by bits it all came back to her mind--her last waking thoughts in church, and how she was hoping to see her mother,--and she began to take in where she was. I've always thought it was really dreadful for her, and she must have been a brave, sensible child-- I know she grew up a brave, sensible woman. For, though she couldn't help crying at first with loneliness and cold and the queer sort of fear, she soon settled to do the best she could. There was some moonlight coming in at one window, though not much, but enough to make her see where the pulpit was, and up into the pulpit Maggie climbed, because she had an idea she'd be safer there; and it certainly was warmer, for it was a sort of little box with a door to it, and there were one or two stools and cushions and some red cloth hanging round the top, which Miss Maggie ventured to pull down and wrap round her. And there she composed herself to sleep, and sleep she did, in spite of her loneliness and hunger--oh, I forgot to say she found a wee bit of her "piece" still in her pocket,--till the sunshine woke her up the next morning, for luckily it was a bright mild day. Then down she came, and walked up and down the aisles as fast as she dared, considering it was a church, to get her cramped legs warm again, and just as she was thinking what she was to do to get out, the door opened, to her delight, and in came the man who had care of the church--what we call a verger--followed by the old body who cleaned and swept it. 'They _were_ astonished, as you can fancy; such a thing had never happened before within the memory of man. 'Old Peter took her off with him to his cottage, and his wife gave her some hot breakfast, and then he borrowed a cart and drove Maggie home--straight home to Muirness, not to Oldbiggins. It was home Maggie wanted to go, you may be sure, and when Peter heard the story, he declared her granny deserved a good fright for not looking after her better. "P'raps she thought I'd run off to mother and the boys," said Maggie. 'And that was just what it turned out to be. 'The old lady, instead of being frightened, was very angry. She had stayed talking to some friend at the church door, and somehow her daughter and the boys had fancied she and Maggie had driven off, not seeing them about. Maggie's mother was in a hurry to get home to the one that was ill, and just thought the little girl had gone back quietly with her grandmother till the next morning. And when the granny had missed the child, _she_ thought Maggie had run off to her mother--for some one called out that Mistress Gray and her children had driven off,--and was too offended to send to Muirness to ask! 'And at home they hadn't missed her of course. So, after all, Maggie wasn't made much of a heroine of, for all she'd been so brave and sensible. 'But I'm sure she never minded that, so glad was she to be in her own dear home again, safe and sound. And you may be sure her mother petted her enough to make up all she could for the poor little thing's disagreeable adventure. It was talked of through the country-side for many a day after that. Maybe it is still.' 'And I hope they never let her go back to that horrid old grandmother again,' said Anne. 'Nay, my dear, she wasn't so bad as that. But old people have their ways.' 'I think our gran is _much_ nicer than that,' said Maud in her clear little voice. And I'm sure we all agreed with her. But we all thanked nurse very nicely for telling us the story, which was really very interesting. And it gave us a good deal to talk about. CHAPTER XI MISCHIEF IN THE AIR Yes, it gave us a good deal to talk about. Stories that do that are much the nicest; they seem to make themselves over and over, and to last so long. We talked for some days after that, about what we'd each of us do if _we_ were locked up all night alone in a church, and we made ever so many plans. And the next Sunday--that was our first one at Mossmoor,--when we all came home from church and were at dinner, Serena astonished us very much, when nurse said she'd been a very good girl, for she's generally a dreadful fidget, by saying quite coolly-- 'Oh, I didn't mind the sermon a bit to-day, though it was very long. For I was settling all the time what I'd do if I was like Maggie in _that_ church. And I know quite well, only I won't tell any of you. So if ever _I'm_ lost on a Sunday you'll have a nice hunt.' She tossed back her head the way she does when she means to be aggravating. 'You silly girl,' said Maud in her superior way, 'you couldn't hide in that church not to be found. You're so boasty. And if you did, there'd be no fun in it.' Serry gave another toss, and a particular sort of a smile. That smile meant mischief. 'Miss Serena's certainly very clever at hiding places,' said nurse. 'But there couldn't be very much cleverness wanted to hide in a church; it's not like finding out queer places you'd never think of in a house. Now, I daresay, Miss Serry, if it came a very wet day again while we're here and Mrs. Parsley let you have a good game, as I've no doubt she would, I daresay you'd keep us hunting like anything.' 'I daresay I could,' said Serry. But I knew by her voice that _she_ knew that nurse was speaking that way on purpose to put hiding in the church out of her head. For, as I've said, Serry's very queer; for all she's so changeable and flighty, there are times that if she takes up a thing, _nothing_ will get it from her--make her drop it, I mean,--till she's done it. And she'd gone on so about hiding in the church that I think nurse was a little uncomfortable. Perhaps she began to wish she hadn't told us the story of her mother, but I wouldn't say so, for I didn't want to vex her. She'd been really so very kind. After that Sunday, however, for some weeks nothing more was said about it, and we left off talking of the Maggie story. We had so many other things to do and to speak about. The weather got all right again, even better than before, for every day now was getting us nearer and nearer into the real summer; though, of course, even in the middle of summer there do come cold wet bits, just like our first day at Mossmoor. But for some time we had nothing but lovely weather. It's a very drying soil all about Fewforest; after two or three fine days, even in the woods, the ground is so dry that you'd think it hadn't rained since the world was made. It's partly with the trees being mostly firs which are so neat and bare low down--no mess of undergrowth about them. And the soil is very nice, so beautifully clean and crunchy to walk on, for it's made of the pricks that fall off the firs, in great part. It's perfectly splendid to lie on--springy and yielding and not a bit dirty--your things don't get soiled in the least. They say, too, that the scent or breath of pines and firs--I think it's rather nice to think it's the sweet breath of the trees, don't you?--is awfully good for coughs or illnesses to do with coughs. So it suited us very well indeed to spend a great part of our time in the woods. And certainly the girls' coughs soon went quite away. I was glad. I really could _hardly_ help hitting them sometimes when they would go on barking and whooping, even though I suppose they couldn't stop it. They still coughed a little if they ran too fast, or if they got excited or angry. I do believe Serry pretended it sometimes just to be aggravating, for she was in rather an aggravating humour at that time. I think it was partly from not having Hebe, who has such a good way with her, and as Anne and Maud always stick together, you see Serena was rather left to me, and I don't pretend to have a good way with her at all, she makes me so angry. Though we get on a good deal better now than we did then. Still, on the whole, we were very happy indeed. We did a little lessons--at least Anne and I did regularly. Miss Stirling had set me some Latin and French, and Anne didn't want to get behind me in Latin, so she did it with me, and she was very good in helping me with my French, for she's much farther on than me in French. That was in the mornings, for an hour or so. Then we used to go what nurse calls a 'good bracing walk,' right over the heath that edges the woods, for two or three miles sometimes. We used to come in for dinner pretty hungry, I can tell you. But Mrs. Parsley didn't mind how much she had to cook for us. She was as pleased as if you'd given her a present when nurse said she never had known our appetites so good. Sometimes we met the getting-well children from the Home. But I rather fancy the people there had heard about the whooping-cough; for though the young lady who was with them smiled at us very nicely always, she rather shoo'd them away from us. And it was always the same round-faced, beamy-looking girl--not Miss Cross-at-first, certainly. Then in the afternoons we mostly played or sat about the woods, coming in for tea, and sometimes, when it was very fine and mild, nurse let us go out again a little after tea. But if it was the least chilly or windy or anything, she wouldn't let the girls go out, and then we sat all together playing games, or now and then telling stories till bed-time. Very often dear Mrs. Parsley would come in, and we always made her sit down and talk to us. And sometimes I'd go out a stroll by myself in the evening--towards the village generally, for there was often a letter to post or some little message for nurse to the shop. And then I got another reason for walking that way in the evening, which I'll tell you about directly. We had been five weeks at the farm when one day we got very jolly news from mums. The news had been pretty jolly all the time; Hebe had gone on getting better, though the doctor at Ventnor had thought her very weak at first, and so she and mums had stayed on longer than they'd expected they would. But this letter told that they had really fixed a day for coming back to London, and that the nice Ventnor doctor said no air could be better for Hebe now than Fewforest, and so mums was going to bring her down the very next Friday to be with us for the last three weeks. Mums was coming herself too, to stay from Friday to Monday, for father had to be away with gran those two days. Gran was at Brighton, I think, but he was coming back now mums would be there. There was a postscript to the letter--it was to Anne,--in which mums said she might perhaps want nurse to come up to London for a few hours to see about clothes or something. 'If I do,' she wrote, 'do you think I can trust you and Jack to take care of the two little ones? I am sure Mrs. Parsley would be most kind, but of course I do not want to give her more trouble than we can help.' 'Oh,' said Serena, when Anne had read all that aloud--I wished she had stopped before the postscript--'that would be fun. We'd lead old Jack a dance wouldn't we, Maud? As for Anne, we'd find her a new book, and then she wouldn't trouble us.' Maud looked at her with scorn, but would not condescend to speak. I do believe from that moment Serry settled to play some kind of trick if we _were_ left alone. But when I said to Anne that I hoped to goodness we shouldn't be left in charge of Serry, she only said it would be all right; Serry made herself out worse than she was, and so on. Anne _is_ so easygoing. Now I must tell you why I liked strolling down to the church in the evenings. It only began the week before Hebe and mums were to come. I happened to have gone to the village rather late with a letter, and, coming back, I noticed that there was some light in the church, even though it wasn't the time for any service. And, standing still for a moment, suddenly I heard the organ begin. Some one was playing it. The door was a little open, and I went inside the porch and found I could hear quite well. It was beautiful, far nicer than on Sundays, and after a while I heard singing too. Such lovely singing--it was a woman's voice--and she sang some of the things I liked best, and I stayed there listening as long as I dared. The next evening I couldn't come, but the one after that I did, and she was there again, and I listened ever so long. After that I came whenever I could; sometimes she was there and sometimes not,--it was rather fun wondering if she would be. I told Anne about it, and she said she'd like awfully to come with me one evening, but we didn't know how to manage it, for we really couldn't tell Serry. She'd have teased so to come too, and she'd have spoilt it all with her fidgeting, and if we'd told nurse and asked her to let us go without the little ones, Serry would have made some sort of a fuss I'm sure. So I just kept on going whenever I could, though very often there was no music. And I promised Anne that the first chance I could see I'd take her too. Mums wrote for nurse to go up to London on the Thursday--just the day before she and Hebe were coming. Nurse was to go up by an afternoon train, and she'd get back about nine in the evening, mums wrote; and we--Anne and I--might help to put the little ones to bed, and then we might sit up till nurse came back. There was really nothing to be anxious about, Mrs. Parsley was so kind, and really we were old enough to be left an hour or two by ourselves. Still nurse seemed a little uneasy. I'm sure it was all about Serena. Anne and I promised her we'd be awfully careful and good. 'I know I can depend upon you, Master Jack,' said nurse. We were alone at the time--she and I--'and really Miss Anne is wonderfully improved. Since the diamond ornament was lost, and it being partly through her fault, she's hardly like the same young lady. It's an ill wind that does nobody any good, they say; perhaps Miss Serry will take a sensible turn after a while.' 'I hope it won't have to cost another diamond ornament, and us all having whooping-cough again--no, I suppose you can't have it twice, but I daresay there are plenty of other illnesses just as horrid or horrider,' I said rather grumpily. 'I hope not,' said nurse, 'though I would really be thankful if Miss Serry would take thought. There's never any saying what she'll be after next. The rest of the nursery work all put together isn't above half what the mending and tidying up of her things alone is.' Serry could take thought if she chose; she had an uncommonly, good memory when it suited her. This was the day before nurse was going. I had found out by now that the music at the church was mostly every other evening, and as I'd heard it the night before, very likely the lady would be playing and singing again the next day. So all of a sudden I thought I'd better tell nurse about it, and get leave to go if it was a fine evening with Anne, and Mrs. Parsley would take care of the little ones. Nurse wasn't sure about it, but when I told her very likely Serry would be better alone with Maud and Mrs. Parsley than if we were all together the whole long evening, she gave in. 'Very well,' she said, 'but don't you and Miss Anne stay out late--not above half an hour.' I promised her we wouldn't. Anne was very pleased, only she said wouldn't it perhaps be better if we all four went; it would be a little treat for Serry to look forward to, and perhaps it would keep her good the rest of the time. I thought afterwards Anne had been right, but I wouldn't agree with her when she said it. I didn't want Serry at all; I wouldn't have minded Maud, but I knew Serry would spoil it all. So I said to Anne it would never do; they'd fidget or make a noise, and the lady who was playing might hear us and be vexed, and it would be horrid to have any fuss in a church, we might get scolded by the verger or possibly even the clergyman,--what _would_ father and mother and gran think of such a thing? Anne gave in. But I gave in to her a bit too. She said it was much best to make no mystery about it. Serry was as sharp as a needle about mysteries, and she'd only set herself to find out. So that Thursday morning at breakfast--the day nurse was to be away--I said quietly, 'Anne and I are going to church this evening for half an hour. Nurse, please tell Serry that she and Maud may stay with Mrs. Parsley in her kitchen while we're out.' 'Yes,' said nurse. 'You hear, Miss Serry and Miss Maud. It'll make a little change for you.' 'I like being in Mrs. Parsley's kitchen for a while in the evening very much, don't you, Serry?' said Maud. But Serry did not answer. I think she pretended not to hear. Still she couldn't make out now that she hadn't been properly told. Well, with many charges and warnings, poor nurse set off. The red-eared boy drove her to the station, and we ran over the fields by a short cut to a stile on to the road, where we could see her pass, and there we shouted out again all our messages to mums and Hebe--nurse couldn't possibly have remembered all the things we told her to say, and it didn't matter certainly, considering we were going to see them the very next day. The first part of the afternoon we got on all right. We'd had dinner earlier than usual, so that nurse should be in time for the train, and after she was fairly off we went out into the woods with baskets to get all the flowers we could for mums and Hebe--I mean to make the rooms look nice for them. There weren't very many, for of course the spring flowers were over, and it was too early for the regular summer ones. Besides, the spring is always the best time for flowers that grow in the woods. Still we got some, pretty nice, and some trails of ivy and these pretty reddy leaves that you can find most of the year. And we got a lot of fir cones too--mums does so love the scent of them in the fire, and as people often feel a little chilly when they first come out to the country, we fixed we'd have a nice fire in the evening, and make it nearly all of the cones. After that we went in and arranged our flowers; there's always lots of moss in the woods, and with moss you can make a good show even with very little. Then there came tea-time. We were a good while over tea, for even though Serry had been all right so far, both Anne and I felt a little fidgety-- Serry was almost _too_ good, if you understand. It was half-past five, or nearer six than that, I daresay, when we had finished tea. Anne and I wanted to go to the church about a quarter to seven, meaning to be back before half-past, which was the two little ones' bed-time, so that we could help Mrs. Parsley if she needed us. Mrs. Parsley looked rather worried when she came in to take away the tea things--not _crossly_ worried, for she was as kind as could be, but just troubled. And afterwards we knew that the reason was that an old aunt of theirs who lived a mile or two off was very ill, and had sent for her, but she didn't like to go because of leaving us. She didn't tell us; I almost think it would have been better if she had, for then Anne and I would have given up going out and have looked after Serry and Maud till nurse came back. Only, if we _had_ done that, very likely nothing would have happened the same, and the wond----no, I must go straight on. Well, we played 'patience,' and did everything we could to please Serry till about half-past six. Did I tell you that there's a very jolly old clock in the Parsley's summer kitchen?--so we always know the time. Then I said to Anne I thought she might go and get ready, and we might as well start, and 'you two,' I said to Serry and Maud, 'can go to Mrs. Parsley till we come back.' Maud began gathering up the cards and counters and things we'd been playing with, and putting them together tidily--she's always so tidy,--but Serry had got a 'patience' half set out. 'Do let me finish this,' she said, 'and then I promise you I'll go into Mrs. Parsley's kitchen.' 'You promise,' I said. By this time Anne had come downstairs with her hat and jacket on, and I was standing by the door with my cap in my hand. 'Promise,' said Serena, 'word of honour.' Well, she's not a story-teller after all, and she wouldn't break a right-down promise like that, so I thought it was all right. 'We shan't be long,' I said, and off we set, Anne and I, thinking we had managed beautifully. It was very nice and peaceful outside; Anne is really very jolly when you get her alone and she isn't thinking of some book or other she's reading, and we quite enjoyed the little walk. The church was open as usual, but there was no sound of music yet, only there was a light up in the organ loft, which I was sure showed the lady was coming, though Anne thought it was perhaps only a reflection of the evening light through the window. But I knew by this time that it was always pretty dark up by the organ, except perhaps in the very middle of the day in very bright weather. We didn't stay in the porch like I'd done at first. I had found a nice little corner just inside, where we could hear beautifully, and yet slip out in a moment, _in case_ any one came and found fault. And there we sat quite happily, and in a minute or two we heard a hum beginning and then some notes, and then the playing started properly. It was beautiful. Anne squeezed my hand, and I felt quite proud of having found it out--like a showman, you know. But 'wait till you hear her singing,' I whispered. She was still only playing, _luckily_, when, what _do_ you think happened? The big door behind us was slowly pushed openly, and in walked, as cool as twenty cucumbers, two small figures, giving us--no that was only Serry--a condescending little nod and smile as they slipped into a seat almost alongside ours. CHAPTER XII MISS CROSS-AT-FIRST'S FUR CAPE I couldn't help it, even though it was in church, I felt so boiling. I jumped up and caught hold of Serry's arm and pulled her out into the porch. Poor Maud came too of herself, and when we got outside into the light, I saw that she looked pale and frightened. Then Anne appeared, quite puzzled and dazed, for she'd been all up in the music and had almost forgotten where she was, or if she was anywhere, as she does sometimes. _I_ was all there though. I closed the door so that our voices couldn't possibly be heard from the inside, and then I faced round upon Serry. 'What's the meaning of this?' I said. 'The very moment nurse's back is turned you begin disobeying her?' Serena's eyes sparkled. She has very funny eyes. Sometimes, when she's very mischievous, they look really green, though sometimes they're very pretty. 'Then you shouldn't go plotting for you and Anne to have treats, and to keep us out of them,' she said. '"Treats,"--nonsense,' said. 'As if it was a _treat_. A simple thing like this, coming down to listen to the organ.' 'Well, why shouldn't Maud and I have a simple pleasure too?' 'You don't care for music, at least you hate sitting still, and Maud was quite happy at the farm. _She_ didn't want to come.' 'No, Jack, truly I didn't,' said Maud almost crying. 'But Serry said if I didn't she'd run off into the wood and hide herself so that we couldn't find her. And she told the servant to tell Mrs. Parsley we'd gone with you after all, and we'd be all home soon. And Mrs. Parsley was upstairs, and she called down, "All right, my dears," and Serry said if I said anything she'd----' I never knew what Serry had said she'd do, for now Maud began crying, and Anne put her arms round her, and kissed and comforted her. Then Anne and I looked at each other. What should we do? After all it wasn't a very big thing; it wouldn't do any harm for them to sit listening to the music too if Serry would be quiet. And perhaps she would be, to make up for having been so naughty. So I said, 'As you are here, you had better stay. Take Maud into the church, Anne. I'll look after Serry.' But when I was going to take hold of Serry she slipped away. 'I won't be pulled and dragged about,' she said. 'I'll go into a corner and be quite quiet if you'll leave me alone, but I'll scream if you don't.' Just then the singing began. I _didn't_ want to miss any of it, and Serry was more likely to be quiet if I gave in. So I let her go; she went in before me very quickly, right into a corner as she said, and she gave me a sort of a nod over her shoulder. I hoped it meant she was going to be sensible. [Illustration: 'We all three sat listening and listening.'--c. xii. p. 175.] The singing was most beautiful that night. We all three sat listening and listening. I think Anne soon went up into the clouds again and forgot everything else. Maudie liked it too; she leant against me, but every now and then I felt her shiver, and little sobs went through her. Maud scarcely ever cries, but when she does it seems to tire her out. And Serry had worried her very badly. 'Are you cold, dear?' I whispered, and she said she was a little. Serry had hurried her out without seeing that she was properly wrapped up, and it was a chilly evening, I forgot to say. Perhaps it would have been better if I had made them all come away then, but it did seem such a pity to miss the singing. I think it was 'Angels ever bright and fair,' but I'm not sure. We've heard so many of her beautiful songs since then that I'm not sure which it was. Suddenly we heard the door pushed open, and some one came into the church. It was a girl; she came in very quickly, and hurried up the aisle and in through a door or a curtain somewhere at the side. It was already darker than when we came. A minute after, we heard talking--the singing had stopped, I forgot to say--and then two people came out at the side, and hurried back again down the aisle and out at the door. It was the person who had been playing, and the girl who had come evidently to fetch her. They didn't shut the door to, only closed it a little. 'What a pity,' said Anne, 'she's been fetched away.' 'Yes,' said I, 'but Maudie's rather cold. Perhaps it's best for us to go home,' and we got up and went towards the door. I looked round for Serry. She wasn't in the corner we had seen her in. 'I expect Serry's outside in the porch,' I said to Anne. But no, she wasn't. 'She was sitting in the same place just before the girl came in,' said Anne. 'I saw her.' 'She can't have gone home,' I said. 'She's not very fond of walking about alone. She must be somewhere in the church.' And then all of a sudden there came over me the remembrance of her boast about being able to hide in the church so that we couldn't find her. Was that what she had been after? Was that her reason for following us, that she thought it would be a good chance for playing us this trick? It was too bad. There was poor Maud tired and cold, and Anne and me who had been worried enough already. I really felt as if I couldn't stand it. I asked Maud what she thought, but of course Serry hadn't said a word to her about hiding. It wasn't likely she would, but every minute we got surer that she _was_ hiding. You can't shout out in a church, and yet it wasn't easy to hunt. We began; we poked into any of the dark corners we could think of, and behind the doors and curtains, and even in the pulpit, though it was a sort of open-work that a mouse could scarcely have hidden in--not like the one in the 'Maggie' story. But it was all no use, and it was more provoking than you can fancy to know that all the time the naughty child was hearing us, and laughing at us. We went on for a quarter of an hour or more, I daresay; then I determined I'd bother no more. 'Stop, Anne,' I said, in a low voice, 'I'm not going to----' but Anne interrupted me. 'I hear something,' she said. 'Listen; what is it?' There was a little sound of footsteps, but not inside the church, I thought. Still it _might_ be Serry; she might have slipped out to baffle us. But first I thought I'd try my new idea. I slipped out as near the middle as I could, and then I said, loud and clear, though not shouting, of course--do you know I felt quite frightened when I heard my own voice so loud, it seemed so unreverent-- 'Serena'--this was what I said--'you can hear me quite well, I know, so I give you fair warning that if you don't come out before I finish counting twelve we'll go home, and leave you to yourself--to stay here all night if you choose.' Then I began, 'One, two, three, four'--was it fancy, or did I hear a little smothered laugh just as I was going to say 'five?'--but then all was still again, and I went on, till, just as I was, you may say, on the stroke of 'twelve,' there came a flutter and rush down the aisle, and there was Miss Serry, tossing her hair back, her eyes looking, I am sure, if there had been light enough to see them by, very bright green indeed. But, just as she appeared, there came another sound--a harsh, rasping, grating sound,--a queer feeling went through me as I heard it, only I was so taken up with Serry that I didn't seem to have attention to spare, and I didn't really take in for the moment what it meant. There was Serry as triumphant as could be. 'I don't mind coming out now,' she said. 'I've proved that you couldn't find me.' 'You have been about as naughty as you could be,' said Anne, 'and whether Jack tells mother all about it or not, I know _I_ shall.' Serena did not answer. She really seemed startled. It is not often that Anne takes that tone. She used to be so constantly in scrapes herself--about carelessness, and forgettings, and losings, and all that sort of thing--that I think she felt as if she had no right to find fault with others. But after a moment Serry got back her coolness. 'Well, anyway I've gained,' she said. 'You don't know where I was hidden, and you'd never have found me.' And to this day she has never told us! 'Let us get home now as fast as we can,' said Anne; 'there is poor Maudie shivering with cold. I'm afraid she's got a chill.' We turned towards the door, but suddenly the remembrance of the sound I had heard came back to me, and a great fear went through me. I hurried on. Yes, it was too true; the door was locked, locked from the outside, and we were prisoners--prisoners pretty certainly for the night! I faced round upon the girls and told them. 'I remember hearing the sound of locking,' I said. But at first they wouldn't believe me; I could scarcely believe it myself. We rattled and shook at the door in the silly way people do in such cases; of course it was no use. Then we made journeys round the church to all the other doors; none of them had been open in the daytime, so it wasn't likely they would be now. Then we considered together if it would be any use shouting, but we were sure it wouldn't be. There was no house very near the church; the Convalescent Home, on rising ground a little behind it, was about the nearest, and we knew our voices could never be heard there. And we were too far back from the road to hope that any passer-by would hear us; beside which, unluckily, it was a windy night--the wind had risen a good deal since we had come out. We could hear it outside, and it almost sounded as if it was raining too. 'There is nothing for it,' I said at last, 'but to stay quietly and make ourselves as comfortable as we can till some one comes to let us out. Mrs. Parsley is sure to miss us and send, as she knows where we are. The great thing is to keep poor Maud from catching cold.' I wasn't cold myself; I had been moving about, and then I wasn't getting well of an illness like the girls. So I took off my ulster and made Maudie put it on. There were no cushions in the church, but we collected all the hassocks we could, and built up a sort of little nest, and then we all huddled in together. It was fast getting dark, and after we had been sitting there a while we heard the clock outside strike eight. I couldn't make it out; they _must_ have missed us at the farm before this. But they hadn't, and I may as well explain here--a lot of explainings together at the end are so confusing, I think--how it was. You remember my saying Mrs. Parsley had had bad news that day. Well, just as Serry called out to her that she and Maud were coming with us after all, another message had come that she _must_ go at once to the old lady who was so ill. There was no choice, she had to go, so the horse was put to and the red-eared boy drove her off. Mr. Parsley hadn't come in, so all she could do was to tell the servant we'd all be in soon, and she must tell us what had happened, and that she'd send the cart back to the station to meet nurse at nine. Now, the servant was very stupid; she got 'nine' into her head, and when Mr. Parsley came in about half-past seven she told him we were all to be in at nine; and he said afterwards he'd got some vague idea that we had all gone in the cart to meet nurse. Anyhow, he wasn't a bit uneasy, and after he'd had his supper he set off walking to the old aunt's to see how she was, and to arrange about Mrs. Parsley staying all night if she had to. So you see, till nurse got back, there was no one to be uneasy about us. But _we_ didn't know it, and there we sat, more and more puzzled, and even frightened in a strange sort of way. It seemed as if we'd dropped out of the world and nobody cared. 'At the worst,' I whispered to Anne, 'when nurse comes they'll hunt us up. She knows we were to be in the church, and she'll think of the Maggie story.' 'Only,' said Anne, '_suppose_ she misses her train, or that it's very late. It's Maudie I'm so unhappy about, Jack. Hush----' For we heard a little sob, and we didn't want to wake her. She had fallen asleep, and Anne and I were both cuddling her close to keep her warm. 'Is she waking?' I said, very low. But Anne pinched my hand. The sob wasn't from Maud, it was from Serry. I must say I was rather glad. It was about time for her to sob and cry, I thought. We waited on and on. After a bit I think Anne and Serry too got drowsy, and perhaps I did myself. Anyhow, I grew stupid, and as if I didn't care; but I was very cold too. It seemed such a tremendous time. I heard a story not long ago of a man who got shut in somewhere--I think it was in the catacombs, or some place like that--who went through, as he thought, days of it. He grew terribly hungry, for one thing, and ate his candle, and was released just when he believed he was at the last gasp, and after all he'd only been there three hours! It did seem absurd, but I can quite believe it. He'd lost all sense of time, you see. Well, I suppose it was rather like that with us. I know, when at last we heard the clock strike, I was _sure_ it was going on to twelve. I couldn't _believe_ it was only nine! 'Anne,' I whispered, 'are you awake? How ever are we to wait here till to-morrow morning? It's only nine o'clock!' 'Nurse will be coming home soon then,' said Anne, hopefully; 'she'll _never_ wait till to-morrow morning to find us.' 'I don't know,' I said. 'I can't make anything out. I think it's as if we were all dead and buried, and nobody cares.' 'Hush,' said a clear little voice; 'that's not good, Jack. _God_ cares, always.' 'It was poor little Maudie, and again I heard the choky sob from Serena. Just then, as if in answer to Maud, _at last_ we heard a sound, or sounds--voices and footsteps, and then the grating of the key in the lock. 'They've come for us, they've come for us!' we cried, and up we all jumped. It was quite dark, but as the door opened a light came in; the people, whoever they were, had a lantern. But it wasn't Mr. Parsley, nor his wife, nor the red-eared boy, nor any one we knew--at least, not any one we expected. It was--the light was full in her face, and she was frowning just the sort of way I remembered--it was Miss Cross-at-first! And just fancy what I did? I ran at her, I was so confused and stupid, calling her _that_! 'Oh, Miss Cross-at-first,' I said, 'please let us out! We've been locked in, hours, and Maud is so cold!' It must have been awfully muddling for _her_. She frowned worse than ever, and turned to the girl with her--a girl about fifteen, not a lady, but very nice. 'Who are they, Linny?' she said. 'Do you know?' But Linny shook her head. 'Some mistake,' she began, but I interrupted her. 'I'll tell you who we are,' I said. 'You know us, and we know you, but I can't remember your proper name,' and then it flashed upon me what I had called her, and I got scarlet. 'My name isn't "Crossley," or whatever you said,' she began (oh, how thankful I was she hadn't heard properly! _Afterwards_ we told her the name we'd given her, and she didn't mind a bit), 'but I seem to know you. I'm staying at the Home here. I left my music in church, for I went off in a hurry. But what in the world were you all doing here?' 'We came to listen to you,' I said, and then Anne went on to explain. She did it so nicely, not exactly putting the blame on Serry, which would not have been kind just then, but she quite made Miss Merthyr understand. 'You poor little souls!' she exclaimed. 'Of course, I remember hearing you were somewhere down here, but I've been away. I only came back again a few days ago. And Maud, poor child, you _do_ look blue. I'll tell you what, come back to the Home with me and get warm. Linny, run back and tell them to heat some milk, and then Linny and I will wrap you up and take you home.' 'But,' said a little voice, 'won't the getting-well children catch the whooping-cough?' Judith--that's what we always call her now--couldn't help laughing. It was Maud who had said it. 'The Home children are all in bed and asleep long ago,' she said. 'They'll run no risk, and I've not heard any of you coughing. I'm sure the infection's over. So come along. Oh, my music! Linny, take the lantern; oh no, she's gone! Never mind, I'll get it on my way home. I don't want the organist to confuse it with his.' And in five minutes we found ourselves in the kitchen at the Home, in front of a jolly fire, and with nice hot milk to drink. For it really was a cold night; it had been raining, too, pretty sharply. The other ladies at the Home--there were two, and two servants--were very nice to us. But Maud kept hold of Miss Cross-at-first's hand as if she couldn't let go. 'Now, we must get you home,' said Judith. 'Let's see, how can we wrap you up? Why, this is your brother's jacket. My boy, _you_ must have been cold! Here, put on your coat, and I'll fetch some shawls and things. I have a bundle I have never undone since I came, for it hasn't been cold till now.' She flew upstairs, and was down again in a moment. 'Here's a shawl for each of you,' she said to Anne and Serry; 'and here, oh yes, this short fur tippet will be just the thing for Maud. I didn't know I'd got it here.' It was a nice little cape, with a hood at the back. She opened it out and gave it a shake, as people often do when a thing has been folded up, and--something hard dropped out of it and rolled on to the stone floor with a clatter. 'What's that?' said Judith. 'There must have been some pin or something caught in the fur. I haven't worn it for ever so long--not since----' She stooped and looked about a little on the floor. But she is near-sighted--that's why she frowns so,--and she didn't see anything. 'Never mind, I daresay it was only a safety-pin,' she said. 'Here, Maudie, dear,' and she held out the cape. But Anne had been looking about on the floor too, and suddenly she made a dive under a table standing at one side. When she stood up again her face looked all--I don't know how. 'Jack,' she said, as if she were choking, 'it's----' and she held out her hand. There, on her palm--looking not quite so bright as the last time we had seen it, but otherwise none the worse--lay _the diamond ornament_, gran's curious old-fashioned treasure, which had caused poor mums and Anne, and indeed all of us, so much trouble and distress. I gasped. I couldn't speak. Judith stared. 'What is it?' she said. Then I tried to get my voice. 'It's the thing that was lost,' I said, 'worth ever so much, and an heirloom too. Didn't you know? Cousin Dorothea knew. Mother lost it the day of the Drawing-room. Oh,' as light began to break in upon me, 'it must have dropped on to your cape and caught in the fur--it is very fuzzy fur--and there it's been ever since! Oh, to think of it!' 'Yes,' said Judith, 'there it has been ever since. I've never had on the cape since, and my maid put it in with these shawls when I was coming down here. I remember her saying it might be cold here sometimes. No, I never heard a word about the ornament being lost. You know I didn't come back to your house that day; I went straight home. I wonder I never heard of it. But I've been in Germany till lately; and if I had heard of it I don't think I would ever have thought of this little cape. It must have fallen into the hood of my cape in the carriage. I remember I sat beside Mrs. Warwick. It is really wonderful!' Wasn't it? We could talk of nothing else all the way to the farm, for we set off almost at once, and we only got there in time to prevent poor nurse and Mrs. Parsley from being most terribly frightened about us, as they had just arrived, Mrs. Parsley having driven to the station to pick up nurse on her own way home, as the old aunt was a little better, and she'd got a neighbour to come in for the night. Nurse was rather uneasy when she heard from Mrs. Parsley that she'd had to leave us, still Fanny, the servant, was very good-natured, and, as Mrs. Parsley said, it was difficult to think what harm _could_ come to us in a couple of hours. Certainly, getting locked up in church was a very out-of-the-way sort of accident to happen! But the finding the diamond brooch seemed to put everything else out of our heads. I don't know how late we didn't sit up talking. Maudie grew quite bright again, and I think the excitement kept her from catching cold. Serry, for a wonder, was the quietest of all. She told me afterwards that she was more thankful than she could say that her naughtiness hadn't done Maud any harm, and she told it all to mother--all of her own self. I think that was good of her. The only thing she kept up her mischief about was that she _never_ has told us where she hid. We made a beautiful plan with Miss Cross-at-first--Judith, I mean. She was to go with us to the station the next morning to meet mums and Hebe, with the diamond brooch in a nice little box she found for it. And we carried out the plan exactly. Mother _was_ astonished when she saw Judith, and very pleased even before she knew what had happened. And she thought us all looking _so_ well. No wonder we were all so happy, just bursting to tell her. And I _can't_ tell you how delighted she was, and how wonderful she thought it. She sent off a telegram that minute--we went to the post office on purpose--to gran, for he had really been so good about it. It really seemed too much happiness to be all together again, and dear old Hebe looking so well, and poor little sweet mums so bright and merry. The rest of the time at Fewforest passed very jollily, though we had no particular adventures. We've been there two or three times since, and we like it extra much if it happens to be Miss Cross-at-first's turn at the getting-well Home, for we've grown _awfully_ fond of her. We count her one of our very most particular friends, and she sings _so_ beautifully. That's all I have to write about just now. It seems to finish up pretty well. I daresay I shall write more some day, for things are always happening, unless being at school gets me out of the way of it. Perhaps even if it does I'll write stories like father when I'm a man. If ever I do, and if people like them (I'm afraid they'd never be anything like his), it would be rather funny to remember that I was only eleven when I wrote my first one--about the girls and me! THE END July, 1892. 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38771	----	[Illustration: "I WILL KNOCK. YOU ARE TO SAY, 'PLEASE IS MRS. ROBBINS IN?'"--Page 171.] THE LITTLE PRINCESS OF TOWER HILL. BY L. T. MEADE, _Author of "A Sweet Girl Graduate," "The Lady of the Forest," "A World of Girls," "Polly", "The Palace Beautiful," etc._ SIX PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. NEW YORK A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER. [Transcriber's note: This book contains the following stories as well: "Tom, Pepper, and Trusty", "Billy Anderson and his Troubles", "The Old Organ-Man". The table of contents is only for The Little Princess of Tower Hill.] CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER I. Her Very Young Days 1 CHAPTER II. Father's Short Visitor 12 CHAPTER III. Snubbed 23 CHAPTER IV. The Stable Clock 35 CHAPTER V. The Empty Hutch 49 CHAPTER VI. Jo's Room 63 CHAPTER VII. In Violet 77 CHAPTER VIII. Choosing Her Colors 103 CHAPTER IX. A Jolly Plan 113 CHAPTER X. A Great Fear 127 CHAPTER XI. Going Home 142 CHAPTER XII. In the Wood 151 CHAPTER XIII. Thank God for All 165 THE LITTLE PRINCESS OF TOWER HILL CHAPTER I. HER VERY YOUNG DAYS. All the other children who knew her thought Maggie a wonderfully fortunate little girl. She was sometimes spoken about as the "Little Princess of Tower Hill," for Tower Hill was the name of her father's place, and Maggie was his only child. The children in the village close by spoke of her with great respect, and looked at her with a good deal of longing and also no slight degree of envy, for while they had to run about in darned and shabby frocks, Maggie could wear the gayest and daintiest little dresses, and while they had to trudge sometimes even on little bare feet, Maggie could sit by her mother's side and be carried rapidly over the ground in a most delicious and luxurious carriage, or, better still, she might ride on her white pony Snowball, followed by a groom. The poor children envied Maggie, and admired her vastly, and the children of those people who, compared to Sir John Ascot, Maggie's father, might be considered neither rich nor poor, also thought her one of the most fortunate little girls in existence. Maggie was nearly eight years old, and from her very earliest days there had been a great fuss made about her. At the time of her birth bonfires had been lit, and oxen killed and roasted whole to be given away to the poor people, and Sir John and Lady Ascot did not seem at all disappointed at their baby being a girl instead of a son and heir to the old title and the fine old place. There was a most extraordinary fuss made over Maggie while she was a baby; her mother was never tired of visiting her grand nurseries and watching her as she lay asleep, or smiling at her and kissing her when she opened her big, bright blue eyes. The eyes in question were very pretty, so also was the little face, and the father and mother quite thought that there never was such a baby as their little Maggie. They had christened her Margarita Henrietta Villiers; these were all old family names, and very suitable to the child of proud old county folk. At least so Sir John thought, and his pretty young wife agreed with him, and she gave the servants strict directions that the baby was to be called Miss Margarita, and that the name was on no account whatever to be abridged or altered. This was very fine as long as the baby could only coo or make little inarticulate sounds, but that will of her own, which from the earliest minutes of her existence Maggie had manifested, came fully into play as soon as she found the full use of her tongue. She would call herself Mag-Mag, and would not answer to Margarita, or pay the smallest heed to any summons which came to her in this guise, and so, simply because they could not help themselves, Sir John and Lady Ascot had almost virtually to rechristen their little daughter, and before she was two years old Maggie was the only name by which she was known. Years passed, and no other baby came to Tower Hill, and every year Maggie became of a little more importance, and was made a little more fuss about, and as a natural consequence was a little more spoiled. She was a very pretty child; her hair was wavy and curly, and exquisitely fine; in its darkest parts it was nut-brown, but round her temples, and wherever the light fell on it, it was shaded off to the brightest gold; her eyes were large, and blue, and well open; her cheeks were pink, her lips rosy, and she had a saucy, never-me-care look, which her father and mother and the visitors who saw her thought wonderfully charming, but which now and then her nurse and her patient governess, Miss Grey, objected to. All things that money could buy, and all things that love could devise, were lavished at Maggie's feet. Her smallest wishes were instantly granted; the most expensive toys were purchased for her; the most valuable presents were given to her day by day. "Surely," said the village children, "there can be no happier little girl in all the wide, wide world than our little princess. If there is a child who lives always, every day, in a fairy-land, it is Miss Maggie Ascot." Maggie had two large nurseries to play in, and two nurses to wait upon her, and when she was seven years old a certain gentle-faced, kind-hearted Miss Grey arrived at Tower Hill to superintend the little girl's education. Then a schoolroom was added to her suit of apartments, and then also the troubles of her small life began. Hitherto everything had gone for Maggie Ascot with such smoothness and regularity, with such an eager desire on the part of every one around her not only to grant her wishes, but almost to anticipate them, that although nurse, and especially Grace, the under-nurse, strongly suspected that Miss Maggie had a temper of her own, yet certainly Sir John and Lady Ascot only considered her a somewhat daring, slightly self-willed, but altogether charming little girl. With the advent, however, of Miss Grey things were different. Maggie had taken the greatest delight in the furnishing and arranging of her schoolroom; she had laughed and clapped her hands with glee when she saw the pretty book-shelves being put up, and the gayly bound books arranged on them; and when Miss Grey herself arrived, Maggie had fallen quite in love with her, and had sat on her knee, and listened to her charming stories, and in fact for the first day or two would scarcely leave her new friend's side; but when lessons commenced, Maggie began to alter her mind about Miss Grey. That young lady was as firm as she was gentle, and she insisted not only on her little pupil obeying her, but also on her staying still and applying herself to her new duties for at least two hours out of every day. Long before a quarter of the first two hours had expired, Maggie had expressed herself tired of learning to read, and had announced, with her usual charming frankness, that she now intended to run into the garden and pick some roses. [Illustration: "I WANT TO PICK THOSE WHITE ROSES."--Page 6.] "I want to pick a great quantity of those nice white roses, and some of the prettiest of the buds, and when they are picked, I'll give them all to you, Miss Grey, darling," she continued, raising her fearless and saucy eyes to her governess' face. "Here you go, you tiresome old book," and the new reading-book was flung to the other side of the room, and Maggie had almost reached the door before Miss Grey had time to say: "Pick up your book and return to your seat, Maggie dear. You forget that these are lesson hours." "But I'm tired of lessons," said Maggie, "and I don't wish to do any more. I don't mean to learn to read--I don't like reading--I like being read to. I shan't ever read, I have quite made up my mind. How many roses would you like, Miss Grey?" "Not any, Maggie; you forget, dear, that Thompson, the gardener, told you last night you were not to pick any more roses at present, for they are very scarce just now." "Well, what are they there for except for me to pick?" answered the spoiled child, and from that moment Miss Grey's difficulties began. Maggie's hitherto sunshiny little life became to her full of troubles--she could not take pleasure in her lessons, and she failed to see any reason for her small crosses. Miss Grey was kind, and conscientious, and painstaking, but she certainly did not understand the spoiled but warm-hearted little girl she was engaged to teach, and the two did not pull well together. Nurse petted her darling and sympathized with her, and remarked in a somewhat injudicious way to Grace that Miss Maggie's cheeks were getting quite pale, and that she was certain, positive sure, that her brain was being forced into over-ripeness. "What's over-ripeness?" inquired Maggie as she submitted to her hair being brushed and curled for dinner, and to nurse turning her about with many jerks as she tied her pink sash into the most becoming bow--"what's over-ripeness, nursey, and what has it to say to my brain? That's the part of me what thinks, isn't it?" "Yes, Miss Maggie dear, and when it's forced unnatural it gets what I call over-ripe. I had a nephew once whose brain went like that--he died eventual of the same cause, for it filled with water." Maggie's round blue eyes regarded her nurse with a certain gleam of horror and satisfaction. Miss Grey had now been in the house for three months, and certainly the progress Maggie had made in her studies was not sufficiently remarkable to induce any one to dread evil consequences to her little brain. She trotted down to dinner, and took her usual place opposite her governess. In one of the pauses of the meal, her clear voice was heard addressing Sir John Ascot. "Father dear, did you ever hear nurse talk of her nephew?" "No, Mag-Mag, I can't say I have. Nurse does not favor me with much news about her domestic concerns, and she has doubtless many nephews." "Oh, but this is the one who was over-ripe," answered Maggie, "so you'd be sure to remember about him father." "What an unpleasant description, little woman!" answered Sir John; "an over-ripe nephew! Don't let's think of him. Have a peach, little one. Here is one which I can promise you is not in that state of incipient decay." Maggie received her peach with a little nod of thanks, but she was presently heard to murmur to herself: "I'm over-ripe, too. I quite 'spect I'll soon fill with water." "What is the child muttering?" asked Sir John of his wife; but Lady Ascot nodded to her husband to take no notice of Maggie, and presently she and her governess left the room. "My dear," said Lady Ascot to Sir John, when they were alone, "Miss Grey says that our little girl is determined to grow up a dunce--she simply won't learn, and she won't obey her; and I often see Maggie crying now, and nurse is not at all happy about her." "Miss Grey can't manage her; send her away," pronounced the baronet shortly. "But, my dear, she seems a very nice, good girl. I have really no reason for giving her notice to leave us--and--and--John, even though Maggie is our only little darling, I don't think we ought to spoil her." "Spoil her! Bless me, I never saw a better child." "Yes, my dear, she is all that is good and sweet to us, but she ought to be taught to obey her governess; indeed, I think we must not allow her to have the victory in this matter. If we sent Miss Grey away, Maggie would feel she had won the victory, and she would behave still more badly with the next governess." "Tut! tut!" said Sir John. "What a worry the world is, to be sure! Of course the little maid must be taught discipline; we'd none of us be anywhere without it; eh, wife? I'll tell you what, Maggie is all alone; she needs a companion. I'll send for Ralph." "That is a good idea," replied Lady Ascot. "Well, say nothing about it until I see if my sister can spare him. I'll go up to town to-morrow, and call and see her. Ralph will mold Maggie into shape better than twenty Miss Greys." CHAPTER II. FATHER'S SHORT VISITOR. Ralph's mother was a widow. She had traveled on the Continent for a long time, but had at last taken a small house in London. Sir John intended week after week to go and see his sister, and week after week put off doing so, until it suddenly dawned upon him that Ralph's society might do his own little princess good. Sir John told his wife to say nothing to Maggie about her cousin's visit, as it was quite uncertain whether his mother would spare him, and he did not wish the little maid to be disappointed. Maggie, however, was a very sharp child, and she was much interested in sundry mysterious preparations which were taking place in a certain very pretty bedroom not far from her own nurseries. A little brass bedstead, quite new and bright, was being covered with snowy draperies; and sundry articles which girls were not supposed to care about, but which, nevertheless, Maggie looked at with eyes of the deepest veneration and curiosity, were being placed in the room; among these articles might have been seen some cricket-bats, a pair of boxing-gloves, a couple of racket-balls, and even a little miniature gun. The little gun was harmless enough in its way; it had belonged to Sir John when a lad, but why was it placed in this room, and what did all these preparations mean? Maggie eagerly questioned Rosalie, the under-housemaid, but Rosalie could tell her nothing, beyond the fact that she was bid to make certain preparations in the room, and she supposed one of master's visitors was expected. "He must be a very short man," said Maggie, laying herself down at full length on the little white bed, and measuring the distance between her feet and the bright brass bars at the bottom; "he'll be about half a foot bigger than me," and then she scampered off to Miss Grey. "Father's visitor's room is all ready," she said. "How tall should you think he'd be, Miss Grey?" "Dear me, Maggie, how can I tell? If the visitor is a man, he'll be sure to be somewhere between five feet and six feet; I can't tell you the exact number of inches." "No, you're as wrong as possible," answered Maggie, clapping her hands. "There's a visitor coming to father, and of course he's a man, or he wouldn't be father's visitor, and he's only about one head bigger than me. He's very manly, too; he likes cricket, and racket, and boxing, and firing guns. His room is full of all those 'licious things. Oh, I wish I was a man too. Miss Grey, darling, how soon shall I be growed up?" "Not for a long, long time yet. Now do sit straight, dear, and don't cross your legs. Sit upright on your chair, Maggie, like a little lady. Here is your hemming, love; I have turned down a nice piece for you. Now be sure you put in small stitches, and don't prick your finger." These remarks and these little injunctions always drew a deep frown between Maggie's arched brows. "Sewing isn't meant for rich little girls like me," she said. "I'm not going to sew when I grow up; I know what I'll do then. I know quite well; when I'm tired I'll sit in an easy-chair and eat lollipops, and when I'm not tired I'll ride on all the wildest horses I can find, and I'll play cricket, and fire guns, and fish, and--and--oh, I wish I was grown up." Miss Grey, who was by this time quite accustomed to Maggie's erratic speeches, thought it best to take no notice whatever of her present remarks. Maggie would have liked her to argue with her and remonstrate; she would have preferred anything to the calm and perfect stillness of the governess. She was allowed to talk a little while she was at her hemming, and she now turned her conversation into a different channel. "Miss Grey," she said, "which do you think are the best off, very rich little only children girls, or very poor little many children girls?" "Maggie dear," replied her governess, "you are asking me, as usual, a silly question. The fact of a little girl being rich and an only child, or the fact of a little girl being poor and having a great many brothers and sisters, has really much less to do with happiness than people think. Happiness is a very precious possession, and sometimes it is given to people who look very pale and suffering, and sometimes it is denied to those who look as if they wanted for nothing." "That's me," said Maggie, uttering a profound sigh. "I'm rich and I want for nothing, and I'm the mis'rable one, and Jim, the cripple in our village, is poor, and he hasn't got no nice things, and he's the happy one. Oh, how I wish I was Jim the cripple." "Why, Maggie, you would not surely like to give up your dear father and mother to be somebody else's child." "No, of course not. They'd have to be poor too. Mother would have to take in washing and father--I'm afraid father would have to put on ragged clothes, and go about begging from place to place. I don't think Jim, the cripple, has any father, but I couldn't do without mine, so he'd have to be a beggar and go about from place to place to get pennies for mother and me. We'd be darling and poor, and we couldn't afford to keep you, Miss Grey, and I wouldn't mind that at all, 'cause then I need never do reading and hemming, and I'd be as ignoram as possible all my days." Just at this moment somebody called Maggie, and she was told to put on her out-door things, and to go for a drive with her mother in the carriage. Maggie was a very sharp little girl, and she could not help noticing a certain air of expectancy on Lady Ascot's face, and a certain brightening of her eyes, particularly when Maggie, in her usual impetuous fashion, asked eager questions about the very short gentleman visitor who was coming to stay with father. "He's not four feet high," said Maggie. "I am sure I shall like him greatly; he'll be a sort of companion to me, and I know he must be very brave." "Why do you know that, little woman?" asked Lady Ascot in an amused voice "Oh, 'cause, 'cause--his gun, and his fishing-tackle, and his boxing-gloves have been sent on already. Of course he must be brave and manly, or father would have nothing to say to him. But as he's only three inches taller than me, I'm thinking perhaps he'll be tired keeping up with father's long steps, when they go out shooting together; and so perhaps he will really like to make a companion of me." "I should not be surprised, Maggie--I should not be the least surprised, and now I'm going to tell you a secret. We are going at this very moment to drive to Ashburnham station to meet father and his gentleman visitor." "Oh, mother!" exclaimed Maggie, "and do you know the visitor? Have you seen him before? What is his name?" "His name is Ralph, and though I have heard a great deal about him, it so happens I have never seen him." "Mr. Ralph," repeated Maggie, softly; "it's a nice short name, and easy to remember. I think Mr. Ralph is a very good name indeed for father's little tiny gentleman visitor." All during their drive to Ashburnham Maggie chattered, and laughed, and wondered. Her bright little face looked its brightest, and her merry blue eyes quite danced with fun and happiness. No wonder her mother thought her a most charming little girl, and no wonder the village children looked at the pretty and beautifully dressed child with eyes of envy and admiration! When they reached Ashburnham station, Lady Ascot got out of the carriage, and taking Maggie's hand in hers, went on the platform. They had scarcely arrived there before the train from London puffed into the station, and Sir John Ascot was seen to jump out of a first-class smoking carriage, accompanied by a brown-faced, slender-looking boy, whose hands were full of parcels, and who began to help Sir John vigorously, and to indignantly disdain the services of the porter, and of Sir John's own groom, who came up at that moment. "No, thank you; I wish to hold these rabbits myself," he exclaimed, "and my pigeons. Uncle John, will you please hand me down that cage? Oh, aren't my fantails beauties!" "Mother," exclaimed Maggie in a low, breathless voice, "is that the gentleman visitor?" "Yes, darling, your cousin Ralph Grenville. Ralph is your visitor, Maggie, not your father's. Come up and let me introduce you. Ralph, my dear boy, how do you do? I am your aunt. I am very glad to see you. Welcome to Tower Hill!" "Are you Aunt Beatrice?" answered the brown-faced boy. "How do you do, Aunt Beatrice? Oh, I do hope my fishing-tackle is safe." "And this is your Cousin Maggie," proceeded Lady Ascot. "You and Maggie must be great friends." "Do you like fantails?" asked Ralph, looking full at his little cousin. "Do you mean those darling white birds in the cage?" answered Maggie, her cheeks crimsoning. [Illustration: "I CAUGHT HIM MY OWN SELF."--Page 21.] "Yes; I've got some pouters at home, but I only brought the fantails here. I hope you've got a nice pigeon-cote at Tower Hill. Oh, my rabbits, my bunnies! Help me, Maggie; one of them has got loose; help me, Maggie, to catch him." Before either Sir John or Lady Ascot could interfere, the two children had disappeared into a crowd of porters, passengers, and luggage. Lady Ascot uttered a scream of dismay, but Sir John said coolly: "Let them be. The little lad has got his head screwed on the right way; and if I don't mistake, my pretty maid can hold her own with anybody. Don't agitate yourself, Bee; they'll be back all right in a moment." So they were, Maggie holding a huge white rabbit clasped against her beautiful embroidered frock. The rabbit scratched and struggled, but Maggie held him without flinching, although her face was very red. "I caught him my own self," she screamed. "Ralph couldn't, 'cause his hands were too full." "Pop him into this cage now," exclaimed the boy. "Uncle John, has a separate trap come for all the luggage? and if so, may I go home in it? I must watch my bunnies, and I should like to keep the fantails on my lap." "Well, yes, Ralph," replied Sir John Ascot in an amused voice. "I have no doubt the dog-cart has turned up by now. Do you think you can manage to stick on, my boy? The mare is very fresh." "I stick on? Rather!" answered Ralph. "You may hold the cage with the bunnies, if you like, while I step up, Jo--Maggie, I mean." "I'd like to go up there, too, father," whispered little Miss Ascot's full round tones. "No, no, bairnie," answered the baronet. "I don't want your pretty little neck to be broken. There, hop into the carriage beside mother, and I'll get in the dog-cart to keep this young scamp out of mischief. Now then, off we go. We'll all be at home in a twinkling." CHAPTER III. SNUBBED. When the children met next it was at tea-time. There was a very nice and tempting tea prepared in Maggie's schoolroom, and Miss Grey presided, and took good care to attend to the wants of the hungry little traveler. Ralph looked a very different boy sitting at the tea-table munching bread-and-butter, and disposing of large plates of strawberries and cream, from what he did when Maggie met him at Ashburnham station. He was no longer in the least excited; he was neatly dressed, with his hair well brushed, and his hands extremely clean and gentlemanly. He was polite and attentive to Miss Grey, and thanked her in quite a sweet voice for the little attentions which she lavished upon him. Maggie was far too excited to feel hungry. She could scarcely take her round blue eyes off Ralph, who, for his part, did not pay her the smallest attention. He was conversing in quite a proper and grown-up tone with the governess. "Do you really like flat countries best?" he said. "Ah! I suppose, then, you must suffer from palpitation. Mother does very much--she finds sal volatile does her good; did you ever try that? When I next write to mother, I'll ask her to send me a little bottle, and when you feel an attack coming on, I'll measure some drops for you. If you take ten drops in a little water, and then lie down, you don't know how much better you'll get. Thank you, yes, I'll have another cup of tea. I like a good deal of cream, please, and four or five lumps of sugar; if the lumps are small, I don't mind having six. Well, what were we talking about? Oh, scenery! I like hilly scenery. I like to get on the top of a hill, and race down as fast as ever I can to the bottom. Sometimes I shout as I go--it's awfully nice shouting out loud as you're racing through the air. Did you ever try that? Oh, I forgot; you couldn't if you suffer from palpitation." "I like steep mountains, and flying over big precipices," here burst from Maggie. "I hate flat countries, and I don't think much of running down little hills. Give me the mountains and the precipices, and you'll see how I'll scamper." Ralph raised his eyebrows a tiny bit, smiled at Maggie with a gentle pity in his face, and then, without vouchsafing any comment to her audacious observations, resumed his placid conversation with the governess. "Mother and I have been a good deal in Switzerland, you know," he continued, "so of course we can really judge what scenery is like. I got tired of those great mountains after a bit. I'm very fond indeed of England, particularly since I have spent so much of my time with Jo. Do you know my little friend Jo, Miss Grey?" "No, Mr. Ralph, I cannot say I do. Is he a nice little boy? Is he about your age?" Ralph laughed, but in a very moderate "I beg your pardon," he exclaimed. "I hope you were not hurt when I laughed. Mother says it's very rude to laugh at a grown-up lady, but it seemed so funny to hear you speak of Jo as a boy. She's a girl, quite the very nicest girl in the world; her real name is Joanna, but I call her Jo." Here Maggie, who, after Ralph's ignoring of her last audacious observation, had been getting through her tea in a subdued manner, brightened up considerably, shook back her shining curls, and said in a much more gentle voice than she had hitherto used: "I should like to see her." "You!" said Ralph. "She's not the least in your style. Well, I've done my tea. Have you done your tea, Miss Grey? And may I leave the table, please? I should like to have a run around the place before it gets dark." "And may I come with you?" asked Maggie. "Oh, yes, Mag! Come along." Ralph held out his hand, which Maggie took with a great deal of gratitude in her heart, and the two children went out together into the sweet summer air. Ralph first of all inspected his pigeons, and then his rabbits. He grumbled a good deal over the arrangements made for the reception of his pets, and informed Maggie that the hutch for the rabbits was but small and close, and that the dove-cote must be altered immediately, and that he would take care to speak to his Uncle John about it in the morning. Maggie agreed with every word Ralph said. She, too, pronounced the hutch small and dirty, and said the dove-cote must be altered, and while she echoed her cousin's sentiments, she felt herself quite big and important, and turned away from the rather smiling eyes of Jim, the stable-boy, who was in attendance on the pair. The children then proceeded to the stable, where Maggie's pretty snow-white pony was kept. "Ah!" said Ralph, "I wish you could see my horse. My horse is black, and rather bigger than this, and he has an eye of fire and such a beautiful glossy, arched neck. I can tell you it is worth something to see Raven. Yes, Maggie, Snowball is rather a nice little pony, and very well suited for you, I should imagine." "I don't like him much," said Maggie, who until this moment had adored her pet. "I like flashy, frisky horses. I like them fresh, don't you, Ralph?" "Don't talk nonsense!" said Ralph rather pertly. "Now where shall we go?" "Oh, Ralph, I should like to show you my garden. I dare say father will give you a little garden near mine if we ask him. I'm building a rockery. I don't work in my garden very often, 'cause it's rather tiresome, but I like building my rockery, and when we go to the seaside, I shall gather lots of shells for it. Come, Ralph, this is the way." "Never mind to-night," said Ralph. "Here is a nice seat on this little mossy bank. If you like to sit by me, Maggie, we can talk." Maggie was only too pleased. Ralph stretched himself on the soft velvety grass, put his hands under his head, and gazed up at the sky; Maggie took care to imitate his position in all particulars. She also put her hands under her head, and gazed through her shady hat up at the tall trees where the rooks were going to sleep. That night the rather spoiled little princess of Tower Hill lay awake for some time. It was very unusual for Maggie to remain for an instant out of the land of dreams. The moment she laid her curly head on the pillow she entered that pleasant country, and, as a rule, she stayed there and enjoyed delightful times with other dream-children until the morning. On the present occasion, however, sleep did not visit her so quickly; she was disturbed by the events of the day. Ralph was a very new experience in her little life; she thought of all he had said to her, of how he had looked, of his extreme manliness, his fearlessness, and his great politeness to Miss Grey. Maggie owned with a half-sigh that there was nothing at all particularly gracious in Ralph's manners to her. "But I like him all the better for that," she thought. "He treats me as an equal; most likely half the time he forgets that I'm a girl, and believes that I'm a boy like himself. I wish I were a boy! Wouldn't it be jolly to climb trees, and fish, and go out shooting with father! I'd be a great comfort to Ralph if I were a boy, but I'm not; that's the worst of it. How I do wish my pony was black, and was called Raven! I think I'll ask father to sell Snowball; he's rather a fat, stupid little horse. Ralph's horse has an eye of fire. How splendid he must be! I wonder if Jo has got a horse too, and if it is black, and if its eyes flash. Jo must be a splendid girl. How Ralph did look when he spoke of her! I wish I knew her! Ralph talks of her as if she were as good as a boy. I dare say she climbs trees, and fishes, and shoots. I should like Ralph to talk of me as he talks of Jo." At this stage of Maggie's meditations her bright eyes closed very gently, and she remembered nothing more until the morning. The sun shone brightly into her room when she awoke; she had been dreaming about Jo. She sprang up instantly, and began to dress herself. This feat she had never accomplished before in her life. Two servants, as a rule, waited on the little princess when she made her toilet, but now, with a vivid dream of the manly Jo in her mind, and with some vague ideas that she would please Ralph if she were up very bright and early, she proceeded to tumble into her cold bath, and then, after an untidy fashion, to scramble into her clothes. At last her dressing was completed, she knelt down for a moment by her bedside to utter a very hasty little childish prayer, and then ran softly out of her bedroom. She certainly did not know how early it was, but as there was no one stirring in the house, and as she did not wish nurse to find her and to call her back, and perhaps pop her once more into bed, she went on tiptoe along the passages until she reached her Cousin Ralph's bedroom door. She opened the door and went in. The large window of Ralph's bedroom exactly faced his little white bed; the blind of the window was up to the top, and the full light of the morning sun shone directly on the little sleeper's face. Oh, how delightful! thought Maggie. Ralph was still sound, sound asleep; she was the good one now, for Ralph was decidedly lazy. She went softly to the bedside and gazed at her cousin. His arms were thrown up over his head; he was lying on his back, and breathing softly and easily. Ralph had a handsome little face, and it looked gentle and sweet in his slumbers. The dauntless expression of his dark eyes, and the somewhat scornful and hard way in which he looked when he addressed himself to Maggie, were no longer perceptible. Maggie had a loving little heart, and it went out to her stranger cousin now. "I hope some day he'll like me as well as he does Jo," she murmured, and then she bent down and printed the lightest of light kisses on his forehead. "Bother those flies," muttered Ralph, raising his hand to brush the offending kiss away. This remark caused Maggie to burst into a peal of laughter, and of course her laugh aroused the young sleeper. "Yes, I'm up," said Maggie, dancing softly up and down. "I'm up, and I'm dressed, and I'm ready to go into the garden. Don't you think it's very good of me to get up so early? Don't you think I'm about as good as that Jo of yours?" Ralph had recovered from his first surprise, and now he gazed tranquilly at his little cousin. "What's the hour?" he asked. Maggie said, "I don't know." "Well, you'd better find out," responded Ralph; "it feels very early. My watch is on the dressing-table. Do you know the time by a watch yet? If you can read it, you may, and tell me the hour. How untidily you have dressed yourself!" Maggie felt herself growing very red when Ralph asked her if she could tell the hour by a watch. The fact was, she could not; she had always been too lazy to learn. She went in a faltering way to the dressing-table, feeling quite sure in her little heart that Jo knew all about watches, and that if she revealed her ignorance to Ralph, he would despise her for the rest of her life. Just at this moment, however, relief came, for the stable clock was heard to strike very distinctly. It struck four times. "It's four o'clock," said Maggie. "Yes, and what a muff you are!" answered Ralph. "Four o'clock! Why, it's the middle of the night. Good-night, Maggie. Please go away, and shut the door after you." "Then you're not getting up?" questioned the little cousin wistfully. "Getting up? No, thank you, not for many an hour to come. Good-night, Maggie. I don't want to be rude, but you really are a little worry coming in and waking me in this fashion." CHAPTER IV. THE STABLE CLOCK. It was rather desolate standing at the other side of Ralph's door in the passage. There was plenty of light in the passage, but no sunshine, and Maggie felt her excitement cooling down and her heart beating tranquilly again. All that delightful energy and zest which she had shown when dressing herself, which she had felt when she had danced into her cousin's room, had forsaken her. She walked slowly back to her own little chamber, wondering what she had better do now, and thinking how very disagreeable it was to be spoken of as "a muff." Was it really only the middle of the night, and had she better just ignominiously undress herself and go back to bed? No; she would not do that. It was horrid to think of Ralph sound and happily asleep, and of nurse asleep, and father and mother also in the land of dreams. Maggie felt quite forlorn, and as if she were alone in the world. But at this moment a thrush perched itself on a bough of clematis just outside the window, and sang a delicious morning song. The little princess clapped her hands. "The birdies are up!" she exclaimed. "I expect lots of delightful creatures are up in the garden. I'll go into the garden. Perhaps, after all, Ralph is more of a muff than me." She swung her garden hat on her head, and ran softly and quickly downstairs. All the doors were barred and locked; the place felt intensely still and strange; but Maggie found egress through a small side window, which she easily opened; and, once in the garden, her loneliness and sadness vanished like magic. She laughed aloud, and ran gayly hither and thither. The butterflies were out, the birds were having a splendid morning concert, and the flowers were opening their petals and taking their morning breakfast from the sunshine. "Oh, dear! Ralph is the muff, and I am the good one, after all!" exclaimed Maggie aloud. She ran until she was tired, then went into an arbor at one end of a long grass walk, and sat down to rest herself. In a moment the most likely thing happened--she fell asleep. She slept in the arbor, with her head resting on the rustic table, until the stable clock struck six; that sound awoke her. She rubbed her drowsy eyes and looked around. Jim, the boy who had smiled the night before when he saw Maggie and Ralph talking together, passed the entrance to the little arbor at this moment with a bag of tools slung over his shoulder. Maggie called to him: "Jim, come here; aren't you surprised? I'm up, you see." "Why, Miss Maggie!" exclaimed the astonished stable-boy, "you a sitting in the arbor at this hour, miss! Oh, dear! oh, dear! ain't you very cold, missie? And was you overtook with sleep, and did you spend the night here? Why, I 'spect your poor pa and ma were in a fine fright about you, Miss Maggie." "Oh, do, they are not," answered Maggie, shaking herself, and running up to Jim, and taking hold of one of his hands. "They know nothing at all about it, Jim. They are all in their beds, every one of them, sound, fast asleep. Even my new Cousin Ralph is asleep. He said I was a muff, but I 'spect he is. Isn't it 'licious being up so bright and early, Jim?" "Well, no, missie, I don't think it is. I likes to lie in bed uncommon myself, so I do. I 'ates getting up of a morning, Miss Maggie; and whenever I gets a holiday, don't I take it out in my bed, that's all!" "Oh, you poor Jim!" said Maggie in a very compassionate tone. "I didn't know bed was thought such a treat; I don't find it so. Well, Jim, I'm glad, anyhow, you're obliged to be up this morning, 'cause you and me, we can be company to one another. I'm going with you into the stable-yard now." "Oh! but, missie, I has to clean out Snowball's stable, and get another stable ready for Master Ralph's pony Raven, and that's all work that a little lady could have no call to mix with. I think, missie, if I was you, I'd go straight back to my bed, and have another hour or two before Sir John and her ladyship are up." But Maggie shook her head very decidedly over this proposition. "No," she said, "I'm going to the stable-yard; I'm going to look at Snowball. I don't think very much of Snowball; I think he'll have to be sold." Jim opened his eyes and raised his eyebrows a trifle at this proof of inconstancy on Maggie's part, but he thought fit to offer no verbal objection, and the two walked together in the direction of the stables. Here the large stable clock attracted the erratic little maid's attention; she suddenly remembered the dreadful feeling of shame which had swept over her when Ralph had asked her to tell him the hour. She had earnestly wished at that moment that she had been a good child, and had learned how to tell the time when Miss Grey offered to teach her. It would never do for Ralph to discover her deficiency in this matter. Perhaps Jim could teach her. She turned to him eagerly. "Jim, do you know what o'clock it is?" "Yes, missie, of course; it's a quarter-past six." "Oh! how clever of you, Jim, to know that. Did you find it out by looking up at the stable clock?" "Why, of course, Miss Maggie; there it is in front of us. You can see for yourself." Maggie's face became very grave, and her eyes assumed quite a sad expression. "I want to whisper something to you, Jim," she said. "Stoop down; I want to say it very, very low. I don't know the clock time." Jim received this solemn secret in a grave manner. He was silent for a moment; then he said slowly: "You can learn it, I suppose, Miss Maggie?" "Oh, yes, dear Jim; and you can teach me." Jim began to rumple up his hair and to look perplexed. "I--oh! that's another thing," he said. "Yes, you can, Jim; and you must begin right away. There's a big, round white thing, and there are little figures marked on it; and there are two hands that move, 'cause I've watched them; and there's a funny thing at the bottom that goes tick-tick all the time." "That's the pend'lum, Miss Maggie." "Yes, the pend'lum," repeated Maggie glibly. "I'll remember that word; I won't forget. Now, go on, Jim. What's the next thing?" "Well, there's the two 'ands, miss; the little 'and points to the hours, and the big 'un to the minutes." "It sounds very puzzling," said Maggie. "So it is, miss; so it is. You couldn't learn the clock not for a score of days. I took a week of Sundays over it myself, and I'm not to say dull. The clock's a puzzler, Miss Maggie, and can't be learned off in a jiffy, anyhow." "Well, but, Jim, Ralph mustn't find out; he mustn't ever find out that I don't know it. It would be quite dreadful what Ralph would think of me then; he wouldn't ever, ever believe that I could turn out as well as Jo. You don't think Jo such a wonderful girl, do you, Jim?" "Oh, no, Miss Maggie; I don't think nothing at all about her. I'd better get to my work now, miss." "Yes, but you must teach me something about the old clock, just to make Ralph s'pose I know about the hour." "Well, miss, you can talk a little bit about the pend'lum, and the big 'and and the little 'un, and you can say that you think the stable clock is fast; it is that same, miss, and that will sound very 'cute. Now I must go to my sweeping. William will be round almost immediately, and he'll be ever so angry if I have nothing done, so you'll please to excuse me, miss." Maggie left the stable-yard rather discontentedly. It was not yet half-past six, and breakfast would not be on the table for two long hours. What should she do? After all, perhaps she was a muff to get up in the middle of the night; perhaps she was the silly one, and Ralph, so snug and rosy and comfortable in his little bed, was the wise and good one. Some things very like tears came to Maggie's bright blue eyes as she turned back again to the garden, for she was beginning to feel a little tired, and oh! very, very hungry. She wondered if Jo ever got up at four o'clock in the morning, and if Ralph had ever called Jo a muff; but of course he had not. Jo was doubtless one of those unpleasant model little girls about whom nurse sometimes spoke to her on Sunday: little girls who always did at once what their old nurses told them, who never rumpled their pinafores, nor made their hair untidy, nor soiled their clean hands, but walked instead of running, and smiled instead of laughing. Nurse had spoken over and over of these dear little lady-like misses. These little girls delighted in doing plain needlework, and were intensely happy when they conquered a fresh word in their reading, and they always adored their governesses, and were rather sorry when holiday time came. When nurse spoke about these children, Maggie usually interrupted her vehemently with the exclamation. "I hate that proper good little girl!" and then nurse's small twinkling brown eyes would grow full of suppressed fun, and she would passionately kiss her spoiled darling. Maggie, as she walked through the garden, where the dew was still sparkling, quite made up her mind that Jo belonged to this unpleasant order of little maids, and she determined to dislike her very much. As she was sauntering slowly along she passed a small narrow path which led into a shrubbery; directly through the shrubbery was another path, which branched out in the direction of Maggie's neglected garden; suppose she went and did a little weeding in her garden; or no, suppose she did what would be much more enchanting, suppose she paid a visit to Ralph's rabbits! Ralph had complained the night before of the hutch where his pets had been put; he had grumbled at its not being bright enough, and large enough, and clean enough. Suppose Maggie went and furbished it up a little, and looked at Ralph's pets, and gave them some lettuce leaves to eat. In a moment she had flown through the shrubbery, had passed the little neglected garden and the half-finished rockery, and was kneeling down by the hutch where Ralph's rabbits had made for themselves a new home. There they were, two beautiful snow-white creatures, with long silky hair, and funny bright red eyes, and pink noses. They had not a black hair on either of their glossy coats. Ralph had said they were very valuable rabbits, and because of the extreme purity of their coats he had called them Lily and Bianco. Maggie, too, thought them lovely; she bent close to the bars of the hutch and called them to her, and tried to stroke their noses through the little round holes. Bianco was very tame, but Lily was a little shy, and kept in the background, and did not allow her nose to be rubbed. Maggie showered endearing names on her; no pet she had ever possessed herself seemed equal to Ralph's snow-white rabbits. After playing with them for a little she ran into the kitchen garden to fetch some lettuce leaves, and with a good bundle in her arms returned to the rabbit-hutch. At so tempting a sight even Lily lost her shyness, and pressed her nose against the bars of her cage, and struggled to get at the tempting green food. "They shall come out and eat their breakfasts in peace and comfort, the darlings!" exclaimed Maggie. "Here, I'll make a nice pile of it just by this tree, and I'll open the door, and out they'll both come. While they are eating I can be cleaning the hutch. What a nice useful girl I am, after all! I expect Ralph will think I'm quite as good as that stupid old Jo of his. Come along, Bianco pet; here's your dear little breakfast ready for you. Oh, you darling, precious Lily! you need not be afraid of me. I would not hurt a hair of your lovely coat." Open went the door of the hutch, and out scampered the two white rabbits. They bounded in rabbit fashion toward the green lettuces, and when Maggie saw them happily feeding, she turned her attention to the hutch. "No, this is not a proper hutch," she said to herself. "It's not large enough, nor roomy enough, nor handsome enough. I don't wonder at poor Ralph being put out--he felt he was treated shabby. I must speak to father about it. There must be a new hutch made as quick as possible. Well, I had better clean this one while the dear bunnies are at their breakfast. I'll see if I can get some fresh straw. I'll run round to the yard and try if I can pull some straw out of one of the ricks. I really am most useful. Good-by, Bianco and Lily; I'll be back with you in a moment, dear little pets." The rabbits did not pay the slightest heed to Maggie's loving words. It is to be feared that, beautiful as they were in person, they possessed but small and selfish natures; they liked fresh lettuces very much, and when they had eaten enough they looked around somewhat shyly, after the manner of timid little creatures. The whole place represented a strange world to them, but as there was not a soul in sight, they thought they might explore this new land a little. Bianco bounded on in front, and looked back at Lily; Lily scampered after her companion. In a short time they found themselves on the boundary of a green and shady and pleasant-looking wood. In this wood doubtless abounded those many good and tempting things to which rabbits as a race are partial. They went a little further, and lost themselves in the soft green herbage. When Maggie returned to the rabbit-hutch, with her arms full of straw and her rosy cheeks much flushed, Bianco and Lily were nowhere to be seen. CHAPTER V. THE EMPTY HUTCH. At breakfast that morning Lady Ascot noticed how tired Maggie looked--her blue eyes were swollen as if she had been crying, her pretty cheeks were very red, and she did not come to table with at all her usual appetite. Maggie always breakfasted with her father and mother. She also had her early dinner at their lunch, but her own lunch and tea she took in the schoolroom with Miss Grey. Miss Grey was now present at the breakfast-table, and so also was Ralph. Ralph was a very slight and thin boy, with a dark face and bright eyes. He looked uncommonly well this morning, remarkably neat in his person, and altogether a striking contrast to poor disheveled little Maggie. Maggie felt afraid to raise her eyes from her plate. When her mother noticed her fatigue and languor, she knew that Ralph's quizzical and laughing gaze was upon her, and that his lips were softly moving to the inaudible words: "Little muff, she got up in the middle of the night! She got up in the middle of the night!" Maggie would have been quite saucy enough, and independent enough, to be indifferent to these remarks of Ralph's, and perhaps even to pay him back in his own coin, but for the loss of the rabbits. Bianco and Lily were gone, however; the hutch was empty; it was all the little princess' fault, and, in consequence, her versatile spirits had gone down to zero. With all her faults--and she had plenty--Maggie was far too honest a child to think of concealing what she had done from her cousin. She meant to tell him, but she had dreaded very much going through her revelation, and she felt that his contempt and anger would be very bitter and hard to bear. Maggie always sat next her father at breakfast, and he now patted her on her hot cheeks, looked tenderly at her, and piled the choicest morsels on her plate. "The little maid does not look quite the thing," Sir John called across the table to his wife. "I think we must give her a holiday. Miss Grey, you won't object to a holiday, I am sure, and Ralph and Maggie will have plenty to do with one another." "If you please, sir," here burst from Ralph, "do you mind coming round with me after breakfast and seeing to the accommodation of the rabbits and pigeons? I think my rabbits want a larger and better hutch, if you please, Uncle John." "All right, my boy, we'll see about them," replied the good-natured uncle. "Hullo, little maid, what is up with you--where are you off to?" "I--I don't want any breakfast. I'm tired," said Maggie, and before her father could again interrupt her she ran out of the room. Her heart was full, there was a limit to her endurance; she could not go with Sir John and her Cousin Ralph to look at the empty hutch. She wondered what she should do; she wished with all her heart at this moment that Ralph had never come, that he had never brought those tiresome and beautiful rabbits to tempt her to open the door of their prison, and so unwittingly set them free. She ran once more into the garden, and went in a forlorn manner into the shrubbery; she had a kind of wild vain hope that Bianco and Lily might be tired of having run away, and might have returned to their new home. She approached the rabbit-hutch; alas! the truants were nowhere in sight; she stooped down and looked into the empty home; and just at this moment voices were heard approaching, the clear high voice of her boy cousin, accompanied by Sir John's deeper tones. Maggie had nothing for it but to hide, and the nearest and safest way for her to accomplish this feat was to climb into a large tree which partly over-shaded the rabbit-hutch. Maggie could climb like any little squirrel, and Sir John and Ralph took no notice of a rustling in the boughs as they approached. Her heart beat fast; she crouched down in the green leafy foliage, and hoped and trusted they would not look up. There was certainly no chance of their doing that. When Ralph discovered that his pets were gone, he gave vent to something between a howl and a cry of agony, and then, dragging his uncle by the arm, they both set off in a vain search for the missing pets--Bianco and Lily. No one knew better than poor Maggie did how slight was their chance of finding them. She wondered if she might leave her leafy prison, if she would have time to rush in to nurse or mother before Ralph came back. She thought she might try. It would be such a comfort to put her head on mother's breast and tell the story to this sympathizing friend. She had just made the first rustling in the old tree, preparatory to her descent, when Sir John's portly form was seen returning. He was coming back alone, and, after a fashion he had, was saying aloud: "Very strange occurrence. 'Pon my word, quite mysterious. Whoever did open the door of the hutch? Surely Jim would not be so mischievous! I must question him, and if I think the young rascal is telling me a lie, he shall go--yes, he shall go. I won't be humbugged. And Ralph, poor lad! It's a disgrace to have my sister's son annoyed in this way on the very first morning of his visit. Why, hullo, Maggie, little woman! What are you doing up there?" "I'm coming down if you'll just wait a minute, father," called down Maggie. "Oh, please, father, stand close under the tree, and don't let Ralph see us. I'm coming down as hard as ever I can. There, please stretch up your hand, father; when I catch it I'll jump." "Into my arms," said Sir John, folding her tight in a loving embrace. "My darling, you are not well. You are all trembling. What is the matter, little woman?" "Nothing, father; only I wanted to speak to you so badly, and I didn't want Ralph to hear. I heard you say that perhaps Jim did it, and you'd send him away. 'Twasn't Jim, 'twas me. I'm miserable about it--'twas all me, father." "All you? Mag-Mag, what do you mean?" "I let them out, father. I gave poor Bianco and Lily some nice lettuce leaves just here under the tree. See, they have not quite finished what I gave them. While they were feeding I thought I'd clean the hutch to please Ralph, and I ran round to the hay-rick for some fresh hay, and when I came back Bianco and Lily were gone. I spent all the time before breakfast looking for them, but I couldn't see them anywhere. Poor Jim had nothing to do with it, father. I did see Jim this morning. I think he's an awfully good boy. Father, Jim had nothing to do with opening the door of the hutch--it was all me." "Yes, Maggie, so it seems. Ah! here comes Ralph himself. Now, my dear little maid, you really need not be frightened. I'll undertake to break the tidings to Master Ralph. You were a good child to tell me the truth, Maggie." "I can't find them anywhere, uncle," called back Ralph, in his high voice. "Who could have been the mischievous person? Don't you think it was very wicked, Uncle John, for any one to open my hutch door? I expect some thief came and stole them. I suppose you are a magistrate, Uncle John; I hope you are, and that you'll have a warrant issued immediately, so that the person who stole my Bianco and Lily may find themselves locked up in prison. Why, if that is not Maggie standing behind you. How very, very queer you look, Maggie!" Sir John laid his hand on Ralph's shoulder. "The fact is, my lad," he said, "this poor dear little maid of mine has come to me with a sad confession. It seems that she is the guilty person. She gave your rabbits something to eat, and let them out in order that they might enjoy their meal the better. Then it occurred to her to get some fresh hay for the hutch, and while she was away Bianco and Lily took it into their heads to play truants. You must forgive Maggie, Ralph; she meant no harm. If the rabbits are not found I can only promise to get you another pair as handsome as money can buy." While his uncle was speaking Ralph's face had grown very white. "I don't want any other rabbits, thank you, Uncle John," he said. "It was poor little Jo gave me Bianco and Lily, and I was fond of them; other rabbits would not be the same." "I only hope, Ralph, your pets will be found. I shall send a couple of men to search for them directly. In the mean time, you must promise me not to be angry with my poor little girl; she meant no harm." "Oh, I'm not angry," said Ralph; "most girls are muffs; Jo isn't, but then she's not like other people." He turned on his heel and sauntered slowly away. It is difficult to say how the affair of the rabbits would have terminated, and how soon Maggie would have been taken back into Ralph's favor, but just then, on the afternoon of that very day in fact, an event occurred which turned every one's thoughts into a fresh channel. Lady Ascot received a telegram announcing the dangerous illness of her favorite and only sister--it was necessary that she and Sir John should start that very night for the North to see her. The question then arose. What was to become of the two children? "Send us to mother, of course," promptly said Ralph. "Hullo!" exclaimed Sir John; "why, I declare if it isn't a good thought. Violet wouldn't mind having you both on a visit for a fortnight or so, and Miss Grey could go with you, so that your mother need have no extra trouble. Remember, Ralph, you are bound to us for the summer, my boy, and we only lend you to your mother for a few days. You quite understand?" "Lend me to mother; no, I'm sure I don't understand that," said Ralph. "Oh! Maggie," he exclaimed suddenly, in all his old brightest manner, "if we go to London, you'll see Jo!" "I'll go off this very moment and telegraph to my sister," said Sir John; "the children and Miss Grey can start to-morrow morning. It's all arranged. It is a splendid plan." In five minutes the plan was made which was to exercise so large an influence over little Maggie, which was, in short, completely to alter her life. Sir John sent off his telegram, and in the course of the afternoon his sister, Mrs. Grenville, replied to it. She would be ready to receive Ralph and Maggie the next day, and would be pleased also to have Miss Grey, Maggie's governess, accompany the children. Maggie had never seen London; and Ralph became eloquent with regard to its charms. "It will be delightful for you," he said; "of course I am rather tired of it, for I have been everywhere and seen all the sights, but it will really be very nice for you. You are young, you know, Maggie, and you'll have to go to the places where quite the little children are seen; Madame Tussaud's is one, and the Zoological Gardens is another. Oh, won't it be fun to see you jumping when the lions roar!" At these words of Ralph's Maggie turned rather pale, and perceiving that he had made an impression, he proceeded still further to work on her feelings, describing graphically the scene at the Zoo when the lions are fed, the cruel glitter in the eyes of the hungry beasts, and the awful sound which they make when they crush the great bones of meat provided for them. "You mustn't go too near their cages," said Ralph; "nobody knows how strong a lion is; and though the cages are made with very large bars of iron, yet still----" Here Ralph made an expressive pause. Maggie opened her blue eyes, remained quite silent for a moment, for she did not wish Ralph to suppose that she was really afraid of the lions, and then she said softly: "I'm not going to the Zoo--at least not at first. I'm going to do my lessons with Miss Grey in the hours when the lions are fed. I know it's very good of me, but I'm going to be good, 'cause I am so sorry about your rabbits, Ralph." "So you ought to be," said Ralph, turning red; "but weeks and weeks of being sorry won't bring them back. When people do very careless and thoughtless things, being sorry doesn't mend matters. You ask mother, and she'll explain to you. But please don't say anything more about Bianco and Lily. I want to know what you mean by saying that you'll do your lessons at the hour the lions are fed. You do your lessons at the hour that most suits Miss Grey, don't you?" Maggie nodded. "Yes," she said, "I'm going to please poor Miss Grey too; I'm going to be very good." "Well, Miss Grey won't like to be kept at home in the afternoons teaching you your lessons--she'll like to be out amusing herself in the afternoon. I call that more thoughtlessness. You'll have to do your lessons in the morning, and the lions are fed at three o'clock, so that excuse won't serve." "I'm not going to the Zoo," continued Maggie, who began to feel decidedly worried. "If Miss Grey wants to be out in the afternoon, I'll go to Madame Tussaud's then. I don't like that Zoo, and I'm not fond of lions; but I expect Madame Tussaud's must be a nice sort of place." "Oh--oh--oh," said Ralph, beginning to jump about on one leg; "you see the chamber of horrors before you make up your mind whether it's a nice sort of place or not. Why, at Madame Tussaud's you always have your heart in your mouth because you don't know whether the wax figures are alive or not; and you are always saying, 'I beg your pardon;' and you are always knocking up against people whom you think are alive and want to speak to you, when they are only big wax dolls; and whenever you give a little start and show by your face that you have made a mistake, the real live people laugh. I can tell you, Maggie, you have to mind your p's and q's at Madame Tussaud's." "I won't go," said Maggie; "I need not go unless I like;" and then she walked out of the room, beginning seriously to debate in her poor little mind on the joys of having a playmate, for Ralph contrived at every turn to make her feel so very small. CHAPTER VI. JO'S ROOM. It was well for Maggie that Ralph was a very different boy when with his mother and when without her. When the children arrived in London and found themselves in Mrs. Grenville's pretty bright house in Bayswater, Ralph flew to the sweet-looking young mother who came up to meet them, clasped his arms round her neck, laid his head on her shoulder, and instantly a softened and sweet expression came over his dark and somewhat hard little face. Mrs. Grenville was very much like her brother, so that prevented Maggie being shy with her. She also petted the little girl a great deal, and, as a matter of course, took more notice of her than of Ralph. Mrs. Grenville also spoke about the Zoo and Madame Tussaud's, but she contrived to make these two places of entertainment sound quite delightful to her little visitor. Instead of dwelling on their horrors she spoke of their manifold and varied charms, until Maggie's eyes sparkled, and she said in her quick, excitable way: "I'll go there with you, Aunt Violet; I'd like to go to both of those places with you." Aunt Violet read between the lines here, and gave Ralph a quick little glance which he pretended not to see. The next morning Mrs. Grenville asked Miss Grey to allow Maggie to have a holiday. "To-morrow she will begin her lessons regularly," continued the lady. "Of course by this time such a tall girl can read and write nicely, and I shall like to inclose a little letter from her to her mother; but to-day the children and I mean to be very busy together. Ralph, as you are older, and as you know most about London, you shall choose what our amusement shall be." Maggie felt herself turning first red and then white when Mrs. Grenville spoke of her reading and writing accomplishments, but Miss Grey was merciful and made no comment, and as Ralph had not yet been made acquainted with the poor little princess' profound ignorance, she trusted that her secret was safe. "Mother," here eagerly burst in Ralph, "of course the very first thing we must do is to go and see Jo. Shall I go round to see Jo this morning, mother, and may I take Maggie with me? I think it would do Maggie lots of good to see a girl like Jo." "Jo would do any one good," responded Mrs. Grenville. "It is a kind thought, Ralph, and you may carry it out. If you and Maggie like to run upstairs and get ready now, I will send Waters round with you, and I will call for you myself at Philmer's Buildings at twelve o'clock. After all, I should like to take Maggie myself to the Zoo--I want her to see the monkeys and the birds, and she shall have a ride on one of the elephants if she likes. As to the lions, dear," continued Mrs. Grenville, looking kindly at the little girl, "you shall not see them feed unless you like." "I don't mind seeing them feed if you are with me," whispered back Maggie; but just then Ralph called to her imperiously, and she had to hurry out of the room. "Aren't you glad that you are going at last to see my dear little Jo?" exclaimed the boy. "Now do hurry, Mag; get yourself up nice and smart, for Jo does so admire pretty things." Maggie made no response, but went slowly into her little bedroom. In her heart of hearts she was becoming intensely jealous of this wonderful Jo. She was putting her in the same category with those unpleasant little girls who liked needlework, and were exceedingly proper and good, and belonged to that tiresome class of little models of whom nurse was so fond of speaking. Maggie had borne patiently all Ralph's rhapsodies over this perfect little Jo, but quite a pang went through her heart when she heard Mrs. Grenville also praise her. "I don't want to go," she said as Miss Grey helped her to put on her boots, and took out her neat little jacket and pretty shady hat from their drawers. "Not want to go?" said the governess. "Oh, surely you will like the walk with Ralph this lovely morning, Maggie?" "No, I won't," said Maggie. "I don't want to see Jo; I'm sure she's a horrid good little girl; she's like nurse's Sunday go-to-meeting girls, and I never could bear them." Miss Grey could not help smiling slightly at Maggie's eager words. "I remember," she said after a pause as she helped to put the little girl's sash straight, "when I was a child about your age, Maggie, I often amused myself making up pictures of people before I had seen them. I generally found that the pictures were wrong, and that the people were not at all like what I had fancied them to be." Maggie pondered over this statement; then she said solemnly: "But I know about Jo--I'm quite sure that my picture of Jo isn't wrong. She wears a white pinafore, and there are no spots on it, and her hair is so shiny--I 'spect there is vaseline on her hair--and her nails are neat, and her shoes are always buttoned, and--and--and--she's a horrid good little girl--and I don't like her--and I never will like her." "Maggie! Maggie!" shouted Ralph from below, and Maggie, with a nod at Miss Grey, and the parting words, "I know all about her," rushed out of the room, danced down the stairs, and holding her cousin's hand, and accompanied by the sedate Waters, set out on their morning walk. It was Maggie's first walk in London, and the children and maid soon found themselves crossing Hyde Park, coming out at one of the gates at the opposite side from Mrs. Grenville's pretty house, and then entering a crowded thoroughfare. Here Waters stepped resolutely between the little pair, took a hand of each, and hurried them along. Ralph carried a small closed basket in his hand, and Maggie wondered what it contained, and why Ralph looked so grave and thoughtful, and why he so often questioned Waters as to the contents of a square box which she also carried. "You took great care of that box while I was away, Waters?" "Well, yes, Master Ralph; it always stood on the mantelpiece in my mistress' room, and I dusted it myself most regularly." "And do you really think it's getting heavy, Waters?" "Well, sir, you were away exactly two nights and two days, and that means, by the allowance of one penny a day given to you, two pennies more in the money-box. It's two pennies heavier than it was, sir, when you left us, and that's all." Ralph sighed profoundly. "Time goes very slowly," he said. "How I wish I had more money, and that when I had it I didn't spend it so fast. Well, perhaps Jo has managed about the tambourine after all. If there is a good manager, Jo is one. Oh, here we are at last!" The children and Waters had turned into a shabby-looking street, and were now standing before a block of buildings which looked new and tolerably clean. Unlike any ordinary house Maggie had ever seen, this one appeared to possess no hall door, but was entered at once by a flight of stone stairs. The children and the servant began to ascend the stairs, and Maggie wondered how many they would have to go up before they reached the rooms where the little girl in the spotless pinafore with the white hands and the smoothly vaselined hair resided. Maggie was rather puzzled and disconcerted by the bare look of the stone stairs, and also by the somewhat anxious and grave expression on Ralph's face. She was unacquainted with that kind of look, and it puzzled her, and she began dimly to wonder if Miss Grey was right, and her picture of Jo was untrue. At last they stopped at a door, which was shut, and which contained some writing in large black letters on its yellow paint. Maggie could not read, but Ralph pointed to the letters, and said joyfully: "Here we are at last!" The words on the door where these: "Mrs. Aylmer, Laundress and Charwoman," but Maggie, of course, was not enlightened by what she could not understand. Waters knocked at the door; a quick, eager little voice said, "Come in." There was the pattering of some small feet, the door was flung wide open, and Maggie, Ralph, and Waters found themselves inside Jo's room. That was the first impression the room gave; it seemed to belong to Jo; Jo's spirit seemed to pervade it all over. Mrs. Aylmer, laundress and charwoman, might own the room and pay the rent for it, but that made no difference--it was Jo's. Who was Jo? Maggie asked herself this question; then she turned red; then she felt her lips trembling; then she became silent, absorbed, fascinated. The picture she had conjured up faded never to return, and the real Jo took its place. Jo was the most beautiful little girl Maggie had ever seen--she had fluffy, shining, tangled hair; her pale face was not thin, but round and smooth; each little feature was delicate and chiseled; the lips were little rosebuds; the eyes had that serene light which you never see except in the faces of those children who have been taught patience through suffering. Jo was a sadly crippled little girl lying on a low bed. Maggie, of course, had seen poor children in the village at home; but those children had not been ill; they were rosy and hearty and strong. This child looked fragile, and yet there was nothing absolutely weak about her. At the moment when Ralph and Maggie entered Jo was keeping school; two twin boys were standing by her bedside, and listening eagerly to her instructions. "No, no, Bob," she was saying, "you mustn't do it that way; you must do it more carefully, Bob, and slower. Now, shall we begin again?" Bob tried to drone something in a monotonous sing-song, but just then the visitors' faces appeared, and all semblance of school vanished on the spot. Ralph poured out a whole string of remarks. The contents of the money-box were emptied on Jo's bed, and the exciting question of Susy's tambourine came under earnest discussion. If Susy had a proper tambourine she could use her rather sweet voice to advantage, and earn money by singing and dancing in the streets. Susy was ten years old--a thick-set little girl with none of Jo's transparent beauty. Sixpence had been already collected for the coveted musical instrument; Ralph's box contained eightpence, but, alas! the tambourine on which Susy had set her heart could not be obtained for a smaller sum than half a crown. "They are not worth nothing for less than that," she exclaimed; "they makes no sound, and when you sings or dances with them, your voice don't seem to carry nohow. No, I'd a sight rayther wait and have a good one. Them cheap 'uns cracks, too, when they gets wet. Here's sixpence and here's eightpence; that makes one shilling and two pennies. Oh! but it do seem as if it were a long way off afore we see our way to 'arf a crown." Here Susy, whose face had been radiant, became suddenly depressed, and Maggie felt a lump in her throat, and an earnest, almost passionate, wish to get hold of her father's purse-strings. "Now come and talk to Jo," said Ralph, drawing his little cousin forward. "We need not say any more about the tambourine to-day; I'm saving up all my money; I earn a penny every day that I'm good, and I'll give my penny to Susy for the present, so she'll really have the half-crown by and by. Now, Jo, this is my Cousin Maggie; I've told her about you. She lives down in the country; she doesn't know much, but then that's not to be wondered at. She was very naughty and careless too about my rabbits; she has asked me to forgive her, and of course I haven't said much; it wouldn't be at all manly to scold a girl; but you are really the one to forgive her, Jo, for the rabbits were yours before they were mine." "What, Bianco and Lily?" answered Jo, the pink color coming into her little face. "Oh, missie, wasn't they beautiful and white?" [Illustration: "NOW, JO, THIS IS MY COUSIN MAGGIE."--Page 74.] "Yes, and they're lost," said Maggie; "'twas I did it. I opened the door of their little house, and they ran out, and went into a wood, and none of us could find them since. Ralph said it was you gave them to him, and he doesn't really and truly forgive me, though he pretends he does. I was sorry, but I won't go on being sorry if he doesn't really and truly forgive me." To this rather defiant little speech of Maggie's Jo made a very eager reply. She looked into the pretty little country lady's face, right straight up into her eyes, and then she said ecstatically: "Oh, ain't I happy to think as my beautiful darling white Bianco and Lily has got safe away into a real country wood! Oh, missie, are there real trees there, and grass? and I hopes, oh, I hopes there's a little stream." "Yes, there is," said Maggie, "a sweet little stream, and it tinkles away all day and all night, and of course there are trees, and there's grass. It's just like any other country wood." "I'm so glad," said Jo; "I can picter it. In course I has never seen it, but I can picter it. Trees, grass, and the little stream a-tinkling, and the white bunnies ever and ever so happy. Yes, missie, thank you, missie; it's real beautiful, and when I shuts my eyes I can see it all." Jo had said nothing about forgiving Maggie; on the contrary, she seemed to think her careless deed something rather heroic, Ralph raised his dark brows, fidgeted a little, and began to look at his cousin with a new respect. At this moment Mrs. Grenville's footman came up to say that the carriage was waiting for the children; so Maggie's first visit to Jo was over. CHAPTER VII. IN VIOLET. Maggie and Ralph spent a very happy afternoon at the Zoo. The best of Ralph always came to the surface when he was with his mother, and he was also impressed by Jo's remarks about her rabbits. Was it really true that Maggie had done a beautiful deed by giving his white and pretty darlings their liberty in a country wood? How Jo's eyes shone when she spoke, and how ecstatically she looked at the little princess! Ralph was a great deal too much of a boy, and a great deal too proud to make any set speech of forgiveness to Maggie, but he determined on the spot to restore her to his favor. He ceased to be condescending, and greeted her more as a little hail-fellow-well-met. Maggie rejoiced in the change. Mrs. Grenville was her brightest and most agreeable self; the lions on near acquaintance proved more fascinating than dreadful, and on their way home Maggie pronounced in favor of the Zoo, said she would certainly like to go there again, and thought that on the whole it must be a nicer place than Madame Tussaud's, where, according to Ralph's account, unless you visited the chamber of horrors there were only large and overgrown dolls to be seen. "I wonder," said Maggie to her cousin as they sat in the most amiable manner side by side at their tea that evening, "I wonder why Susy cares to go out into the streets and sing and play a funny little tambourine. She can't be at all shy to sing before a lot of people; can she, Ralph?" Ralph stared hard at Maggie. "Don't you really know what she does it for?" he asked. "I suppose for a kind of play," said Maggie, opening her eyes a little. Ralph stamped his foot impatiently. "A kind of play!" he repeated. "I was beginning to respect you. I forgot how ignorant you are, Poor Susy goes out and plays the tambourine and dances and sings because she wants pennies--pennies to buy bread for Jo and for herself, and for Ben and Bob. No, of course you can't know! Susy wants the tambourine not to play with, but because she's hungry." Ralph spoke with great energy; Maggie's little round sweet face became quite pale; she dropped the delicious bread-and-butter and marmalade which she was putting to her lips, and remained absolutely silent. "Must the tambourine cost half a crown?" she asked presently. "Yes," replied Ralph; "didn't you hear her say so? She knows best what it ought to cost." Maggie wished she were not such a dunce, that she could read a little and write a little, and that she had some slight knowledge of figures. Hitherto she had been shy of revealing any of her great ignorance to Ralph, but now her intense longing to know how many pennies were in half a crown made her ask her cousin the question. Ralph assured her carelessly that there were thirty pennies in that very substantial piece of money. "It will take a long time to collect," he said, sighing deeply. "Poor Susy will have to have plenty of patience, for I know Jo can't help her, and she'll have to depend on me. I earn a penny a day when I'm good. I generally am good when I'm with mother. It was quite different at Tower Hill, for you annoyed me a good deal, Maggie, but I've made up my mind to say nothing more on that subject. I dare say you, too, will try to be a good girl when you're with mother. Well, what was I saying? Oh! about Susy's pennies. With what I gave her and what Jo collected she has got fourteen. Take fourteen from thirty, how much is left, Maggie? Of course you know, so I need not tell you. All that number of days poor Susy will have to wait, however hungry she is. There, we have finished our tea, let's go up to the drawing-room to mother now. Isn't mother sweet? Did you ever see any one--any one so nice?" "Yes, I saw my own mother, and she's a lot nicer," said Maggie. Ralph's eyes flashed. "I like that," he said; "why, every one says the same thing about my mother, that she's the very, very nicest lady in the world. Oh, I say, Maggie, where are you----" But his little cousin had disappeared. The facts were these. The events of her first day in London had worked up poor little Maggie's feelings to a crisis. She had been excited, she had been pleased, she had been greatly surprised. All the old tranquil life in the midst of which she had moved, knowing all the time that she was its center, that she, the little princess, was the beloved object for whom most things were done, for whom treats were prepared and delights got ready--all this old life had vanished, and Maggie was nothing more than little Maggie Ascot, an ignorant child, a dunce who could not even reckon figures or read a word of the queen's English, or have any pennies in her purse. Maggie was only the little cousin whom Ralph rather despised, who was nobody at all in his estimation compared to Jo--Jo, who was so humble, and so very poor. Maggie's feelings had been greatly moved about Jo and Susy; she had longed beyond words to put the necessary number of pennies into Susy's hand, and to tell her to go out and buy that tambourine, on which her heart was set, without a moment's delay. She had wished this when she only supposed that Susy wanted the tambourine to amuse herself. How much more now did she long to get it for her, when Ralph had assured her that Susy's need was so great that she wished for the tambourine in order that she might earn money to buy bread! When Ralph said this Maggie felt a lump rising in her throat, and her own healthy childish appetite failing her--even then she felt inclined to rush away and cry; but when Ralph added to this his somewhat slighting remarks about the mother whose arms Maggie did so long to feel round her, the little princess could bear her feelings no longer, and rushed upstairs to sob out her over-full heart. It was not Miss Grey who found Maggie in the dark in her little room, but the good-natured Waters, who after all knew far more about children than the somewhat inexperienced governess. Waters wasted no time in asking the little girl what was the matter, but she lifted her into a very motherly embrace, and soothed and petted her with many loving words. Maggie thought Waters a most delicious person, and soon wiped away her tears, and began to smile once again. Waters was judicious enough to ask no questions about the tears, and, when they were over, to forget that they ever existed. She took Maggie into her mistress' room, and made her sit on the bed, and showed her some of Ralph's childish toys. It occurred to Maggie as she sat there that Waters would not be nearly such a dreadful person as most others to confide in. She was intensely anxious to gain some information, and she resolved to trust Waters. "May I tell you something as a great, tremendous secret?" she asked. "Well, Miss Maggie, that's as you please," replied the servant. "I can only tell you one thing--that what's confided to me is a secret from that day forward, and no mistake. What's the color to keep a secret in, Miss Maggie? In violet. That's where I keeps it, and so it's sure to be safe." Maggie laughed and clapped her hands. "Waters, I think you're a darling!" she said, "and I will trust you. I don't suppose you ever heard of any one so ignorant as me. I'll be eight years old before very long, and I can't read, and I can't write, and I can't put figures together. I can't even tell the time, Waters--I can't, really." While Maggie was speaking, Waters kept gazing at her with a most perfectly unmoved countenance. "Bless the child!" she said presently. "Well, Miss Maggie dear, where's the secret I'm to keep inviolate?" "Why, that's it, Waters; the secret is that I don't know nothing--nothing at all." "Well, you'll learn, dearie," said Waters; "you'll learn all in good time. You're nothing but a young child, and you has lots and lots of years before you." Maggie did not at all consider herself very young. There were one or two babies in the village at home, just beginning to toddle, who were really juvenile; but she, Maggie Ascot, who could run and jump and skip, and even ride!--it was really rather silly to speak of her as a very young child. However, now she was so soothed by "Waters' gentle words and Waters' petting that she could find no fault with any remark made to her by that worthy person. On the contrary, she cuddled up to her and stroked her cheek, and felt relieved at the unburdening of her secret. "I didn't learn to read till I was a good bit older than you," said Waters. "I don't mean that I'm an example for any dear little lady to follow, for I never could abide a bookworm. I don't take to it now. I only learned because my mother said it was a shame to have a great big girl who could neither spell nor write. My tastes always lay in the needlework line. Since I was a little tot I was forever with a bit of sewing in my hand; I'd hem, and I'd back-stitch, and I'd top-sew whenever I had the chance. Why, I mind me of the time when I unpicked one of my father's old shirts just for the pleasure of putting it together again, and didn't mother laugh when she saw what I was after! Plain needlework was my line, Miss Maggie, and maybe it's yours too, dearie." "Oh, no, it isn't!" said Maggie, opening her blue eyes with quite a gleam of horror in them. "I hate plain sewing worser even than I do reading; I hate it even worser than my figures. Plain sewing pricks, and it worries me. I hate it more than anything." "Well, well, dearie, you're in the pricking stages yet; I went through that, same as another. You'll come to learn the comfort of it, for of all the soothers for poor worrited women, there's nothing at all in my opinion like needle and thread." Maggie was beginning to find this turn in the conversation rather unintelligible, so she brought Waters back to the subject which most interested her by asking if she had also found the study of figures very good for the worries, and if she would let her know how many pennies Susy must have to make up the half-crown. "Oh, is that little Susy Aylmer?" said Waters. "I don't approve of no child going out to sing in the streets. However, it isn't for me to interfere, and Mrs. Aylmer is as honest and hard-working a body as ever walked, and that little Jo is a real angel, and as the poor things must live somehow, why, I suppose Susy had better sing. Master Ralph is saving up his pennies, and he'll give them all to her as sure as sure, so you has no call to put yourself out about it, Miss Maggie." "Yes, but I don't want her to wait," said Maggie. "She has nothing to eat, and she'll be so dreadfully, dreadfully hungry. She has got fourteen pennies, and she can't get anything to eat until she has thirty. Oh, Waters! if you do know figures, please tell me how many days poor Susy must live without any food until she has got the thirty pennies." Waters laughed. "Things won't be as bad as that for Susy Aylmer," she said. "She is a sturdy little piece, and I don't believe she denies herself much; don't you fret about her, Miss Maggie darling." "Yes, but what is the difference between fourteen and thirty?" insisted Maggie. "Ralph only gets a penny a day; how many days will have to pass before Susy gets the thirty pennies?" "She has fourteen now," said Waters; "well--well, it is something of a poser; I never had much aptitude in the figure line, Miss Maggie. Fourteen in hand, thirty to make up; well--well, let's try it by our fingers. Ten fingers first, five on each hand. Bear that in your mind, Miss Maggie. Add ten to fourteen, makes twenty-four; come now, I'm getting on, but that isn't thirty, is it, darling? Try the fingers again; five more fingers makes twenty-nine, and one--why, there we are--thirty. Ten, five, and one make sixteen. There, Miss Maggie, sixteen pennies more she'll have to get." Just at this moment Mrs. Grenville entered the room, and Maggie's conversation with the good-natured lady's maid was brought to an abrupt conclusion. The next morning Maggie awoke out of a profound sleep, in which she had been dreaming of Jo as turned into a real angel with wings, and of Susy as playing on the most perfect tambourine that was ever invented. The little girl awoke out of this slumber to hear the unfamiliar London sounds, and to sit up in bed and rub her sleepy eyes. The hours kept at Mrs. Grenville's were not so early as those enjoyed at Tower Hill. Maggie was tired of lying in bed; she was occupying a tiny room which led out of Miss Grey's, and she now jumped up and went to the window. What was her amazement to see just under the window, walking leisurely across the road, one of the objects of her last vivid dream, Susy Aylmer herself! Susy's very stout little form was seen crossing the street and coming right up to the Grenvilles' house. Maggie was charmed to see her, and took not an instant in making up her mind to improve the occasion. She knocked violently on the pane, but her room was too high up for even Susy's quick ears to discern this signal, and she then, in her little blue dressing-gown, rushed through Miss Grey's room, and ran as fast as her small feet would carry her down the stairs, down and down until she reached the front hall. There were no servants in the hall, but the chain had already been taken off the hall door, and Maggie had no difficulty in slipping back the bolt. She opened the door and stood on the steps. "Susy! Susy! Susy!" she screamed. Susy at this moment was receiving what indeed she came for every morning--a good supply of broken bread and meat from Mrs. Grenville's cook. Mrs. Grenville allowed the cook to give these things to Mrs. Aylmer, and Susy was generally sent to fetch them. She was much amazed to see the pretty little country lady calling to her so vehemently; she was also delighted, and came to the foot of the hall-door steps, and looked up at Maggie with a very eager face. For a girl who was so dreadfully starved, Maggie could not help thinking the said face rather round and full; however, she would not allow this passing reflection to spoil her interest. She beckoned to Susy, and said in a whisper: [Illustration: MAGGIE STOOD IN A CONTEMPLATIVE ATTITUDE.--Page 91.] "I'm most terrible sorry for you. If I had any money I'd give it to you--really and truly I would, but I haven't got nothing at all. Father has--father's ever so rich, but he's not with me, he's far away, and I can't--oh! Susy, can you write?" Maggie stood in a contemplative attitude. Susy posed herself on one leg, held her basket of broken meat in a careless manner, as though it did not account for anything at all, and kept her quick and intelligent eyes fixed on the little princess. "I do want to help you, very much," said Maggie, at last. "I want to help you my own self, without any one knowing anything about it. I think I want to do this as much for Jo as for you. Once I didn't like Jo at all, but now I do love her; she looks so beautiful and so sweet. I don't think you do; you have rather a cross face, and you are very red, and you've such fat cheeks; but maybe being hungry makes people look cross and red." "And--and--fat," continued Susy eagerly. "I'm puffed out with being so holler inside. I am now, missie, really. It's an awfully empty feel, and it won't go, not a bit of it, till I gets that 'ere tambourine." "I wish I could help you!" continued Maggie again. Just then there were sounds inside the house, sounds of dustpans and brushes, and of industrious maids approaching, and Susy knew that her opportunity was short. "I believe you, missie," she said, "I believe in your kind 'eart, missie. It do seem a shame as you shouldn't have no money, for you would know how to pervide for the poor and needy, missie; but--but it might be managed in other ways, Miss Maggie." "In other ways?" repeated Maggie. "How, Susy--how, dear, nice Susy?" "Why, now, you hasn't nothing as you could sell, I suppose?" "That I could sell?" repeated little Miss Ascot. "Oh, dear, no, I haven't nothing at all to make a shop with, if that's what you mean." "I wasn't thinking of that, missie; I was wondering now if you had any little bit of dress as you didn't want. Your clothes is very 'andsome, and something as you didn't greatly care for would fetch a few pence if it was sold, and so help on the tambourine." Maggie's blue eyes began to sparkle. "Why, there's my new hat," she said; "mother got it from London only a week ago, and I know it cost pounds--it has two long white feathers; I like it very much, but I could do without it, 'cause I've got my little common garden-hat to wear. Do you think I'd get two or three pennies for my new best hat with the feathers and the lace, Susy?" "Oh, yes, missie--oh, yes, missie; I seed the hat yesterday, and I never clapped my two eyes on such a beauty. But it seems a pity to take it away from you, missie dear, and maybe the little common garden-hat would fetch enough to buy the tambourine." "Oh, I wouldn't sell that at all," said Maggie; "I am very fond of my garden-hat, 'cause father likes me in it; and 'sides, I've gathered strawberries in it, and I've had wild birds' eggs in it. I'd much, much rather sell the stupid new hat." Susy was quite agreeable to the transfer, and it was finally arranged that the two little girls were to meet each other at the same hour on the following morning, and Susy was to accompany Maggie to the pawnbroker's, where the new hat might be disposed of. If there was a commonplace, ordinary, every-day London child, it was Susy Aylmer. She was the sister of two little brothers, who also belonged to a very easily found class of human beings; she was the daughter of an industrious, hard-working, every-day mother; and yet she was also sister to Jo! How Jo got into that home was a puzzle to all who knew her; she had innate refinement; she had heaven-born beauty. Her ideas were above her class; her little flower-like face looked like some rare exotic among its ruder companions. Mrs. Aylmer alone knew why Jo was different from her other children. Jo represented a short, bright episode in the hard-working woman's life. She had been born in good days, in sweet, happy, country days. Her father had been like her, refined in feature and poetic in temperament. Shortly after Jo's birth the Aylmers had come to London, poverty and all its attendant ills had over-taken them, and after a few years Aylmer had fallen a victim to consumption, and had left his wife with four young children on her hands, the three younger of whom altogether resembled her. Mrs. Aylmer had no time to grieve--she was a brave woman; there are many brave women in the world, thank God; among the working poor they are perhaps more the rule than the exception. She turned round, faced her position, and managed after a fashion to provide for her children. Many visitors came to see her, for she was eminently respectable, and had an honest way about her which impressed people, and all these visitors pitied her when they saw Jo. Poor little Jo was a cripple, a lovely cripple, but still unable to walk or move from her little sofa. The visitors congratulated Mrs. Aylmer on her strong boys and stalwart-looking little daughter, but they invariably pitied her about Jo. Nothing made that worthy woman so angry. "For Jo is my brightest blessing," she would exclaim; "she's always like a bit of sunshine in the room. Trouble, bless her! she a trouble! Why, don't she take the trouble off my shoulders more than any one else ever did or ever will do? Ask me who never yet spoke a cross word, and I'll tell you it's that little pale girl who can never lift herself off the sofa. Ask me who keeps the peace with the others, and I'll tell you again it's little Jo. And she don't preach, not she, for she don't know how, and she never looks reproachful for all the roughness and the wildness of the others; but her life's one sarmin, and, in short, we none of us could get on without her. Jo my trouble indeed! I only wish them visitors wouldn't talk about what they knows nothing on." What Mrs. Aylmer felt for her little lame daughter was also, although perhaps in a slightly minor degree, acknowledged by the boys and Susy. They clung to Jo, and looked up to her. The boys, who were the two youngest of the family, had a habit of giving her their absolute confidence. They not only told her of their good deeds, but of their naughty ones. They had a habit of pouring out their little scrapes and misdemeanors with one of Jo's thin hands clasped to their tearful faces, and when she forgave, and when she encouraged, the sunshine came out again on them. But Susy was different from the boys, and of late she had kept the knowledge of more than one naughty little action from Jo. The history of the tambourine, the history of the purchase of that redoubtable instrument which was to make Susy's fortune and fill the Aylmers' home with not only the necessaries, but also some of the dainties of life, was, of course, known by Jo. No one had ever been more interested in the purchase of a musical instrument than she was in the collecting of that hoard which was to result in the buying of Susy's tambourine. Jo was a delightful and sympathizing listener, and Susy liked nothing better than to kneel by her sofa and pour out her longings and dreams into so good a listener's ears; but Susy had kept more than one secret to herself, and she said nothing to Jo about her interview with little Miss Ascot, nor about the arrangement she had made with that little lady to purchase the tambourine out of the proceeds of the sale of her best hat. Susy knew perfectly that Jo would not approve of anything so underhanded, and she resolved to keep her own counsel. She returned home, however, in the wildest spirits, and indulged all day long in fantastic day-dreams. Jo was having a bad day of much pain and suffering, but Susy's brightness was infectious, and Mrs. Aylmer thought as she tidied up her place and made it straight, that surely there never were happier children than hers. "But we won't have the tambourine for many and many a day yet," said Ben. "Don't be too sure, Susy; how can you tell but that Master Ralph'll get tired of saving up all his pennies for you? Hanyhow," continued Ben, with a profound sigh, "we has a sight of days to wait afore we gets 'arf a crown." "I knows what I knows," answered Susan oracularly. "Look here, Jo, you're the one for making up real 'ticing pictures. I wants to make a day-dream, and you tell me what to do with it when we get it. S'pose now--oh, do be quiet, Ben and Bob--s'pose now I 'ad the tambourine, and it wor a beauty; well, s'pose as the day is fine, and the hair balmy, and every-body goes out, so to speak, with their pockets open, and they sees me--I'm dressed up smart and tidy--" "Oh, my, and ain't you red about the face, just?" here interrupts Bob. "Well, don't interrupt; I can't help my 'plexion; I'm tidy enough--and I'm dancing round, and I'm playing the tambourine like anything, and I'm singing. Well, maybe it's 'Nelly Bly,' or maybe it's the 'Ten Little Nigger Boys;' hanyhow I takes; I'm nothing but little Susy Aylmer, but I takes. The crowd collects, and they laugh, and they likes it, and then, the ladies and the gents, they go by, so they give me their pennies--lots of 'em; and one old gent, he have no change, and he throws me a shilling. Well, now, that's my day-dream. I comes home, I gives the pennies to mother, but I keeps the shilling; I keeps the shilling for a treat for us four young 'uns. Now, Jo, speak up. What shall we do with our day-dream?" The boys were here wildly excited. To all intents and purposes the shilling was already in Susy's possession. Bob, to relieve his over-charged feelings, instantly stood on his head, and Ben set to work to punch him; Jo's eyes began to shine. "'Tis a real beautiful day-dream, Susy darlint," she said. "Yes, ain't it, Jo? a whole shilling; you mind that, Jo. Now make up what we'll do with it. Let's all sit quiet, and shut our heyes, and listen to Jo. You'll be sure to make up something oncommon, Joey dear." Jo, when she spoke, or at least when she made up what her brothers and sisters called day-dreams, always clasped her hands and gazed straight before her; her large violet-tinted eyes began to see visions, nowhere to be perceived within that commonplace, whitewashed room; the children who listened to her instinctively perceived this, and they usually closed their own eyes in order to follow her glowing words the better. On this occasion she spoke slowly, and after a pause. "A whole shilling," she began; "it's a sight of money, and it ought to do a deal. What I'm thinking is this: suppose we had a wan, a wan as would hold us all, mother, and Susy, and Ben, and Bob, and there was lots of green grass in the bottom of the wan, so we all of us sat easy, and had no pain even when it moved. Suppose there was two horses to the wan, and a kind driver, and we went werry quick; we went away from the houses, and the streets, and we left the noise ahind us, and the dust and the dirt ahind us, and we got out into fields. Fields, with trees a-growing, and real yellow buttercups looking up at you saucy and perky like, and dear little white daisies, like bits of snow with yellow eyes. S'pose we all got out there, right in the fields, and we seed a little brook running and rushing past us, and we see the fishes leaping for joy out of the water; and if the sun was werry hot we got under a big tree, where it was shady, and we sat there; mother and I sat side by side, and you, Susy, and you, Ben and Bob, just rolled about on the green, and picked the buttercups and the daisies. Why, I can think of nothing better than that, unless, maybe, angels came and talked to us while we were there." Here Jo paused abruptly, and the three children who had sat absolutely motionless opened their eyes; the two boys sighed deeply, but Susy after a time began to cut up the day-dream; while Jo thought of angels as the only possible culmination to such intense joy, it occurred to practical Susy to suggest a good substantial dinner to be eaten under the shade of the green trees. CHAPTER VIII. CHOOSING HER COLORS. Maggie had found it very delightful to talk to Susy on the doorstep of her aunt's house. The little mystery of the whole proceeding fascinated her, and as she was in reality a very romantic and imaginative child, she thought nothing could be finer than going off privately with Susy, and sacrificing her best hat for the benefit of this young person. She had also a decidedly mixed and perhaps somewhat naughty desire to out-do Ralph in this matter, and to be herself the person who was to rescue poor Susy and her family from the depths of starvation. When Susy went away, she crept upstairs and went softly into her little room, no one having heard her either leave it or return to it. There was one part, however, of the programme marked out by Susy which was not quite so agreeable to little Miss Ascot. Susy had adjured her, with absolute tears starting to her black eyes, to keep the whole thing a secret. Maggie had not the smallest difficulty in promising this at the moment, but she had no sooner reached her little bedroom than she became possessed with a frantic desire to tell her little adventure to some one. She was not yet eight years old; she had never kept a secret in her life, and the moment she possessed this one it began to worry her. Little Maggie, however, was not without a certain code of morals; she knew that it would be very wrong indeed to tell a lie. She had given her word to Susy; she must keep her poor little secret at any cost. Miss Grey, who of course knew nothing of all that had transpired, came in at her accustomed hour to assist her little pupil at her toilet. Maggie capered about and seemed in excellent spirits while she was being dressed. She had no idea of betraying her secret, but she liked, so to speak, to play with it, to show little peeps of it, and certainly fully to acquaint those she was with, with the fact that she was the happy possessor of such a treasure. She remembered Waters' remarks of the night before. Waters had said how very faithfully she preserved anything told to her in confidence. Waters kept her secrets in violet. Maggie did not quite understand the double meaning of this expression; but, as she was being dressed, she became violently enamored of what she called the "secret" color. "No, no, I won't have my pink sash this morning, please, Miss Grey; I don't like pink; I mean it isn't the fit color for me to wear to-day. You don't know why; you'll never of course guess why, but pink isn't my color to-day anyhow." "Well, Maggie, you need not wear it," replied the patient governess; "here is a very pretty blue sash, dear; it will go quite nicely with your white frock; let me tie it on in a hurry, dear, for the breakfast gong has sounded." But Maggie would not be satisfied with the blue sash, nor yet with the tartan, nor even with the pale gold. "I want a violet sash," she said; "I'll have nothing but a violet sash; I'm keeping something in violet; you'll never, never guess what." The breakfast gong here sounded a second time, and of course Miss Grey could not find any violet ribbons in Maggie's box; fortunately she had a piece of the desired color among her own stores; so when the little princess was decked in it, she went downstairs, feeling very happy and proud. Miss Grey's violet sash did not happen to be of a pretty shade; it was an old ribbon, of a dark tint of color, and was a great deal too short for its present purpose. "What a hideous thing you have round your waist," whispered Ralph to his little cousin; but here he caught his mother's eye; she did not allow him to make personal remarks, and although she herself was considerably surprised at Lady Ascot's allowing such a ribbon into Maggie's wardrobe, nothing further was said on the subject. Even the wearing of the violet sash, however, could scarcely keep the secret from bubbling to Maggie's lips. Mrs. Grenville began to form her plans for the day. Maggie and Ralph were to employ themselves over their lessons until twelve o'clock and then Mrs. Grenville would take them both out with her, first to Madame Tussaud's, and later on for a drive in the park. "To-morrow," she continued, "you are both going with me to a children's garden party. Mrs. Somerville--you know Mrs. Somerville, Ralph, and what nice children hers are--happened to hear that you and Maggie were coming to me for a short time, and she sent an invitation for you both last night. We shall not return until quite late, as it will be Hugh Somerville's birthday; and they are going to have fireworks in the evening, and even a little dance." Ralph rubbed his hands together with delight. "Won't Maggie jump when she hears the fireworks?" he said. "You never saw fireworks, did you, Mag? Oh, I say, what a jolly time we are going to have!" Maggie felt her cheeks flushing, more particularly as she had seen a few rockets, and even some Catharine wheels, and in consequence she had hitherto believed herself rather knowing on the subject of fireworks; but when Ralph proceeded to enlighten her with regard to the style of fireworks likely to be exhibited at Mrs. Somerville's garden party; when he spoke about the fairy fountains, and the electric lights, and the golden showers of fire-drops, and last, but not least, the bouquet which was to end the entertainment, she felt she had better keep silent with regard to the rockets and Catharine wheels which her father had once displayed for the amusement of the villagers. Mrs. Grenville here began to speak earnestly to Miss Grey. "I want Maggie's dress to be quite suitable. Is there anything we ought to get for her, Miss Grey?" "I think not," replied Miss Grey. "She has just had a beautifully worked Indian muslin frock from Perrett's, in Bond Street, which she has not yet worn; and I don't think anything could be more dressy than her new hat with the ostrich feathers." "Oh, yes, it is a charming hat," replied Mrs. Grenville. "Of course she must wear it to-day when she drives with me in the carriage, but that won't injure it for to-morrow. Then I need not trouble about your wardrobe, my darling; you will accompany me to-morrow, quite the little princess your father is so fond of calling you." During this brief conversation, Maggie's little face had been changing color. "I think," she said suddenly, "that perhaps I'd better have a new hat." "Why so, my love? your hat is quite new and charming. It came from Perrett's, too, did it not, Miss Grey?" "Yes, Mrs. Grenville; it was sent in the same box as the muslin costume." "Oh, it will answer admirably, Maggie, dear. Why, what is the matter, my child?" Maggie's lips were quivering, and her eyes were fixed on her violet sash. "Only perhaps--perhaps the new hat might get lost or something," she muttered incoherently. Mrs. Grenville looked at her for a moment, but as her remark was not very intelligible, she dismissed it from her mind. The rest of the day passed happily enough. In half an hour Maggie ceased to fret about her hat. She comforted herself with the thought that her plain brown straw garden-hat, trimmed with a neat band of brown velvet, and a few daisies, would be after all just the thing for a garden party, and that in any case it did not greatly matter what she wore. What was of much more consequence was, that to-morrow Susy would be capering about with her tambourine, and that pennies would be pouring in for the Aylmer children, and for Jo in particular. She was obliged to wear her best hat when she went out that afternoon, and she certainly was remarkably careful as to how she put it on, and she quite astonished Miss Grey, when she came home in the evening, by the extreme care with which she herself placed it back in its box. "Waters," she said that night, when she suddenly met Mrs. Grenville's maid, "I am quite happy again; I have done just as you do, and I have kept it in violet all day long." "What, my darling?" asked the surprised servant. "Oh, my secret; I have got such a darling secret. It would be very wrong of me to tell it, wouldn't it, Waters?" Waters looked dubious. "I don't approve of secrets for a little lady." "But, Waters, how queer you are! You always keep your own secrets in violet, don't you?" "Oh, yes, dear; yes. But I haven't many. They're sort of burdensome things; at least, I find them so. And in no case do I approve of secrets for little ladies, Miss Maggie; in no single case." Maggie knit her brows, looked exceedingly perplexed, felt a great longing to pour the whole affair into Waters' sympathizing ears, then remembered Susy and refrained. "But I promised not to tell," she said; "I promised most solemn not to tell." "Well, well; I s'pose it's something between you and Master Ralph," remarked the servant, who felt worried she scarcely knew why. Maggie jumped softly up and down. "It isn't Ralph's secret, but it's about Ralph. He needn't save up his pennies no more. It's about Ralph's pennies and the half-crown. I know what it is; I'll tell you exactly what it is, Waters, and yet I know you won't never guess. It's add sixteen to fourteen makes thirty. My secret's the sixteen. You'll never, never, never guess, will you, Waters?" Here Waters had to confess herself bamboozled, and Maggie skipped off to bed with a very light heart. She had kept her secret all day long, and now all she had to do was to wake up quite early in the morning, and go off with Susy to the pawnbroker's. CHAPTER IX. A JOLLY PLAN. Maggie, on the whole, was inclined to wake early; she was not a particularly sound sleeper, and on the summer mornings she always had an intense longing to be up and about. It occurred to her, however, as Miss Grey was helping her to undress that night, how very, very dreadful it would be if Susy were to wait down in the street on the following morning, and she were all unconsciously to oversleep herself. She thought that such a thing ought not to be left to chance, and she cast about in her active little brain for some means of rousing herself. The little room she slept in used to be occupied by Ralph; and among the rest of its furniture, it held a nice little book-shelf, full of gayly covered boy's books. Maggie could not read, but Ralph during the day had come up with her and told her the names of some of his favorite volumes. Maggie now thought that these books might help her to wake; and accordingly, after Miss Grey had left her tucked up comfortably in her little white bed, she slipped on to the floor, and going to the book-case, selected a green and gayly bound volume, which Ralph had called "Robinson Crusoe;" another, which he had entitled "Swiss Family Robinson," and a book bound in brown, which he assured her was as heavy in its contents as in its exterior, and which bore the name of "Sandford and Merton." Maggie carried these three books into her bed, and then arranged them with system. "I am sure to wake now," she said to herself. "And poor little Susy shall not be disappointed of her tambourine. The green book is 'Robinson Crusoe,' he'll do to begin with; he's rather thick, and he'll make a good clatter. Now I do call this a lovely plan." Maggie now arranged herself in bed, and placed "Robinson Crusoe" on her feet. "I'll go sound asleep, and though he's rather weighty I don't mind him, and then when I turn, he'll go bang on the floor, and that'll wake me the first time," she said. "The other two books can stay handy until they're wanted under my pillow." Then the little princess shut up her curly fringed eyes and went happily off into the land of dreams. It so happened that Miss Grey was getting into bed when the bump occasioned by "Robinson Crusoe's" fall occurred. She rushed into her little pupil's room to inquire what was wrong. Maggie was sitting up in bed and rubbing her sleepy eyes. "He did come down with a bang," she said; "it's a jolly plan. Please, Miss Grey, it's only 'Robinson Crusoe;' do you mind putting him on the shelf?" Miss Grey picked up the volume in great wonder, but concluding that Maggie, who could not read a word, must have been amusing herself looking at the pictures, laid the book down and retired to rest. In the course of the night she had again to fly into the little princess' bedroom. This time Maggie was very sleepy, and only murmured drowsily: "I think it's his 'Family' that has got on the floor now." Miss Grey picked up the "Swiss Family Robinson," and with a not unnatural reflection that there seldom was a more troublesome little girl than her pupil, once more sought her couch. The third bang was the loudest of all, and it came with daylight, and strange and unfortunate to say, awoke the pupil, and not the governess. Maggie was out of bed in a moment, and approached the window, and was gazing out to see some sign of Susy in the street. It was not yet five o'clock, and certainly Susy was not likely to put in an appearance so early; but Maggie determined not to risk going to sleep again, and she accordingly dressed herself, and then getting on the window-sill, which happened to be rather deep, curled herself up, and pressed her little face against the glass. The band-box containing the precious hat was by her side. The moment Susy appeared, therefore, she was ready to start. Six o'clock struck from a church tower hard by, but another hour had very nearly passed before a somewhat stout little figure was seen eagerly turning the corner and gazing right up to the window where Maggie, cold and tired with waiting, sat. At the sight of Susy, however, her spirits revived and her enthusiasm was once more kindled. With the band-box containing the new hat in her hand she rushed out of the room--she was too excited to be very prudent this morning--and dashed downstairs in a way which certainly would have aroused any one in the dead of the night, but was only mistaken now for a frantic housemaid's extra cleaning. Once more she reached the hall without any one seeing her, and opening the street door, found Susy Aylmer waiting on the steps. "Oh! here you are, miss--my heart was in my mouth for fear as you'd fail me. Oh, not that band-box please, Miss Maggie, anybody would notice us with the band-box! I have brought round the little broken-victual basket, and we'll stuff the hat into that." Maggie on this occasion was certainly not going to be particular, but she did feel a pang of some annoyance when she saw her lovely hat crushed and squeezed into a by no means clean basket. She concluded, however, that as the hat was now absolutely Susy's, she need not trouble any further about it. "That's all right now," she said; "you'll be able to buy the tambourine now, won't you?" "Well, I 'ope so, miss; that's if the 'at ain't a sham, and it don't look like a sham--it looks like a real good 'at. Now, then, Miss Maggie, hadn't we better come along?--it's a good step from here to the pawnshop--we'll get there a little before eight, and they opens at eight. It's a good plan to be at the pawn bright and early, and then you get served first; come along, miss." "But I didn't know you wanted me to go with you to the shop," said Maggie; "I thought you might do that by yourself; I have gived you the hat, and I thought you'd sell it by yourself. Why, what is the matter Susy?" Susy Aylmer's face had grown crimson, redder, indeed, than any face Maggie had ever seen; she began opening the basket and pulling out the hat. "Oh! oh!" she said, "and is that your kind? Is it me that 'ud take this hat and sell it by myself? Why, I'd be took for a thief, that's what I'd be took for, and I'd be put in the lock-up, that's where I'd be found. There, Miss Maggie, take back your hat, miss; it's better to be ever so hungry and holler, and have your bit of liberty. I must do without the tambourine, and Jo's day dream won't come, that's all. Good-morning to yer, miss." Susy began to walk very slowly away, but Maggie flew after her. "Why, Susy," she said, "I don't mind going with you; I think perhaps I'd rather like going, only I didn't know you wanted me. You shan't be put in the lock-up, Susy, though I'm sure I don't know what the lock-up is, and you shall have your tambourine. But oh, Susy, I hope they won't take me for a thief and put me into that funny place!" "Oh, dear, no, missy darling--any one might see at a glance that you was the rightful owner of that 'ere pretty hat, and might well sell what was your own. Come, missy dear, it's all right now, and I never thought as you'd be that real mean as to desert me." "We must be very quick, then, Susy," said Maggie; "for my Aunt Violet is going to have breakfast at half-past eight this morning and I have been up a long time--a very long time, and I never was so hungry in all my life. I had a very disturbed night, Susy, for 'Robinson Crusoe' did bump so when he fell on the floor, and so did the 'Family,' but none of them bumped quite so hard as 'Sandford and Merton.'" All the time the two little girls were talking they were going further and further away from Mrs. Grenville's door, and by the time Maggie had quite made up her mind to accompany her little companion they had turned into a side street, and if she had wished it she could not now have found her way home. Maggie, however, no longer wished to go back; it was great fun going with Susy to the pawnbroker's, and she felt very important at having something of her own to sell. She was a strong, healthy little girl, and did not feel particularly tired when they at last reached the special pawnbroker's which Susy had fixed upon as the best place for making their bargain. The doors of this shop were not yet open, but they were presently pushed back, the shutters were taken down, and a dirty-looking girl and a slovenly red-faced man entered the establishment. Maggie had never seen such an unpleasant-looking pair, and she was very glad to shelter herself behind Susy, and felt much inclined to refuse to enter the shop at all. Susy, however, marched in boldly, and very soon the white hat was laid upon the counter, and a fierce haggling ensued between this young person and the red-faced man. The dirty girl also came and stared very hard at Maggie, for certainly such a refined little face and such a lovely hat had not been seen in that pawnshop for many a day. The hat was new, and had cost several guineas, but Maggie's eyes quite glistened when the red man presented her with seven shillings in exchange for it. She thought this a magnificent lot of money--her cheeks became deeply flushed, and she poured the silver into Susy's hand with the delighted remark: "Oh, now you can get a tambourine! This will more than make up the sixteen added to fourteen, won't it?" Susy, too, thought seven shillings a splendid lot of money, and the two were leaving the pawnbroker's in a state of ecstasy, when Susy suddenly felt even her florid complexion turning pale, and Maggie exclaimed joyfully: "Oh, it's dear Waters! Waters, where have you come from, and how did you learn my secret?" For answer to Maggie's eager inquiries Waters stooped down and lifted the little girl into her arms; she held her close, and even kissed her in a quite tremulous and agitated manner. "Thank God, Miss Maggie!" she exclaimed; "thank God, my pretty innocent lamb, I'm in time. Oh, what a bad, bad girl that Susy must be! How could she tempt you to do anything so wicked? Why, Miss Maggie, you might have been stolen yourself--you might have been--you might have been! Oh, poor dear Sir John! What a near escape he has had of having his heart broke!" Here Waters shed some tears and leaned up against the counter in her agitation. "Susy was not to blame," said Maggie, when she could speak in her utter astonishment. "Poor Susy wanted the tambourine, and I wanted to give it her, and I couldn't think of no other way, 'cause I'm a dunce and can't write, and so I couldn't send no letter to father to ask him to give me the money. Don't you be frightened, Susy; come here; poor Susy you shall have your tambourine." But here the untidy-looking girl who served behind the counter raised her shrill voice. "Ef you're looking for the red-faced young person what came with you into the shop, miss, she runned away some minutes since." "And I'm grieved to say taking the money with her," added the pawnbroker. "It seems provoking," he continued, "as of course if the money had been returned I might have given up the hat. As things now stands this here hat is mine." "Not quite so," interposed Waters; "you know quite well, sir, you had no right to buy a hat from a little lady like Miss Ascot. Here's seven shillings from my purse, sir, and I'd be thankful to you to restore me the hat." Of course the pawnbroker and Waters had a rather sharp quarrel upon the spot, but in the end the pawnbroker was the better of that morning's transaction to the tune of several shillings, and Waters rescued the pretty white hat, which, much bent out of shape, and with some black marks on its pure white trimmings, was carried home. "Not that you shall wear it, my dear--not that you shall attempt to put it on your head again, for nobody knows what the hat may have contracted, so to speak, in so horrid and dirty a shop, but that I didn't wish that man to have more of a victory than I could help. Oh, Miss Maggie, darling, you did give me a fright and no mistake!" "But how did you know where I was, Waters? I kept my secret so well." "Yes, my dearie; but somehow I got fidgety last night, and I kept thinking and thinking of your words, and the idea got hold of me that maybe the secret wasn't just between you and Master Ralph. This morning I woke earlier than my wont, and as I couldn't sleep, I got up. I had to put one or two little matters right with regard to my mistress' wardrobe, and then I thought I'd see, just when I had a quiet hour, whether you had everything right to go to the garden party. Your new dress was hung up in my mistress' room, and I took it out and saw that the tucker was fastened round the neck, and that your gloves were neat, and your little white French boots wanted no buttons, and then it occurred to me that I'd just curl up the feathers of the hat. The hat was not with the dress, so I ran up to your room to fetch it, thinking of course to see you, dearie, like a little bird asleep in your nest. Well, my dear, the poor little bird was flown, and the beautiful hat was nowhere, and, I must say, I was in a taking, and it flashed across me that was the secret. I put on my bonnet and flew into the street, only just in time to see you and Susy talking very earnestly together, and turning the corner. The street, as you know, is a long one, and I couldn't get up with you, run as I might, but thank God, I kept you in sight, and at last overtook you at the pawnshop. Oh, what a wicked girl Susy Aylmer is!" "She isn't," said Maggie, "Oh, poor Susy isn't wicked. Waters, I'm sorry you found us. I did want to do something for Susy and for Jo!" Here Maggie burst into such bitter weeping that Waters found it absolutely impossible to comfort her. CHAPTER X. A GREAT FEAR. Nothing could exceed the fuss which was made over Maggie and her adventure. Mrs. Grenville turned quite pale when she heard of it--even Ralph, who was tranquilly eating his breakfast, and who, as a rule, did not disturb himself about anything, threw down his spoon, ceased to devour his porridge, and gazed at Maggie in some astonishment mingled with a tiny degree of envy and even a little shadow of respect. Mrs. Grenville took the little girl in her arms, and while she kissed and petted her, she also thought it necessary to chide her very gently. It was at this juncture that Ralph did an astonishing thing; he upset his mug of milk, he tossed his spoon with a great clatter on the floor, and dashing in the most headlong style round the table, caught Maggie's two hands and said impulsively: "She oughtn't to be scolded, really, mother. She didn't know anything about its being wrong, and I call it a downright plucky thing of her to do. She couldn't have done more even if she had been a boy--no, not even if she had been a boy," continued Ralph, nodding his head with intense earnestness. "I can say nothing better than that, can I, mother?" "According to your code you certainly cannot, Ralph," answered his mother. "Now go back to your seat, my boy, and pick up the spoon you have thrown on the floor. See what a mess you have made on the breakfast-table. Maggie, dear, you did not mean to do wrong, still you did wrong. But we will say nothing more on that subject for the present. Now, my darling, you shall have some breakfast, and then I have a surprise for you." Maggie could not help owning to her own little heart that Ralph's words had cheered her considerably; she thought a great deal more of Ralph's opinion than of any one else's, and it was an immense consolation to be compared to a boy, and to a plucky one. She accordingly ate her breakfast with considerable appetite, and was ready to receive the surprise which her aunt said awaited her at its close. This was no less joyful a piece of news than the fact that Lady Ascot's sister was much better, and that Sir John intended to come up to London for a few days. "After all, Maggie," said her aunt, "if you had shown a little patience, you could have asked your father for the money, instead of trying to sell your best hat. Now, dear, you can go up to the schoolroom with Ralph, and I hope that no bad consequences will arise from this morning's adventure." "I think, mother," here interrupted Ralph, "it would be a good plan for Maggie and me to go round and see how Jo is. Susy didn't act right, and I know Jo will be very unhappy, and Jo oughtn't to be blamed; ought she, mother?" "Certainly not, Ralph; Jo has done nothing wrong. Well, if Waters can spare the time, I don't mind you two little people going to see Jo, but remember, you must not stay long; for now I really must buy Maggie a new hat for the garden party." "Oh, auntie, but I brought my own hat back," exclaimed the little princess. "Yes, my love, but it is much injured, and there are other reasons why I should not care to see you wear it again. Now run away, children, and get your visit over, for we have plenty to do this afternoon." When Maggie, with her heart beating high, and one of her hands held tightly in Ralph's, entered Mrs. Aylmer's room, she was startled to find herself in a scene of much confusion. Mrs. Aylmer prided herself on keeping a very neat and orderly home, but there was certainly nothing orderly about that home to-day. Mrs. Aylmer herself was seated on a low, broken chair, her hands thrown down at her sides, her cap on crooked, and her face bearing signs of violent weeping. The two little boys stood one at each side of their mother: Ben had his finger in his mouth, and Bob's red hair seemed almost to stand on end. They kept gazing with solemn eyes at their mother, for tears on her face were a rare occurrence. Susy was nowhere to be seen; and most startling fact of all, Jo's little sofa was empty. It was Jo's absence from the room which Ralph first remarked. He rushed up to Mrs. Aylmer and clutched one of her hands. "What is the matter? Where's Jo? Where's our darling little Jo?" he exclaimed. "Oh, Master Ralph Grenville," exclaimed the poor woman, "you had better not come near me; you had better not, sir, it mightn't be safe. I'm just distraught with misery and terror. My little Jo, my little treasure, is tuk away from me; she's tuk bad with the fever, sir, and they've carried her off to the hospital. She's there now; I 'as just come from seeing her there." By this time Waters, panting and puffing hard, had reached the room, and had heard, with a sinking heart, the last of Mrs. Aylmer's words. She eagerly questioned the poor woman, who said that Jo had not been well for days, and yesterday the doctor had pronounced her case one of fever and had ordered her, for the sake of the other children, to be moved at once to the nearest fever hospital. "She was werry willing to go herself," continued the mother; "she wouldn't harm no one, not in life, nor in death, would my little Jo." "And Susy knew of this!" exclaimed Waters. "Oh, was there ever such a bad girl? Mrs. Aylmer, you'll forgive me if I hurries these dear children out of this infected air! I'll come back later in the day, ma'am, and do what I can for you; and if Susy comes home, you might do well to keep her in, for I can't help saying she is no credit to you. It sounds hard at such a moment, but I must out with my mind." "Susy!" here exclaimed Mrs. Aylmer, "I ain't seen nothing of Susy to-day." "No, ma'am, very like; but it's my duty to tell you she has been after no good. Now come away, darlings. I'll look in again presently, Mrs. Aylmer." Maggie could never make out why her aunt turned so pale and looked so anxiously at her when the news of Jo's dangerous illness was told to her. The pity which should have been expended on the sick and suffering little girl seemed, in some inexplicable way, to be showered upon her. A doctor even was sent for, who asked Maggie a lot of questions, and was particularly anxious to know if she held Susy's hand when she walked with her, and how long she and Ralph had been in the infected room. In conclusion, he said some words which seemed to Maggie to have no sense at all. "There is nothing whatever for us to do, Mrs. Grenville. If the children have imbibed the poison it is too late to stop matters. We must only hope for the best, and watch them. Nothing, of course, can be certainly known for several days." Maggie could not understand the doctor, and both she and Ralph thought Mrs. Grenville rather wanting in feeling not to let them go and inquire for Jo at the hospital. Under these circumstances the garden-party was a rather cheerless affair, and Maggie was glad to return home and to lay a very tired little head on her pillow. She was awakened from her first sleep by her father bending over her and kissing her passionately. Never had she seen Sir John's face so red, and his eyes quite looked--only of course that was impossible--as if he had been crying. "Oh, father, I am glad to see you," exclaimed Maggie, "only I wish you had come last night, for then I wouldn't have tried to sell my hat, and you'd have given me the money for the tambourine. I wish you had come last night, father, dear." "So do I, Mag-Mag," answered poor Sir John. "God knows it might have saved me from a broken heart." Maggie could not understand either her father or aunt. She began, perhaps, to have a certain glimmering as to the meaning of it all when, a few days later, she felt very hot, and languid, and heavy, when her throat ached, and her head ached, and although it was a warm summer's day, she was glad to lie with a shawl over her on the sofa. Then certain words of the doctor's, as he bent over her, penetrated her dull ears, and crept somehow down into her heart. "There is no doubt whatever that she has taken the fever from Susy Aylmer. Well, all we have to do now is to pull her through as quickly as possible, and of course, Mrs. Grenville, as Ralph is still quite well, and as he was not exposed to anything like the same amount of infection as Maggie, you will send him away." Mrs. Grenville responded in rather a choking voice, and she and the doctor left the room together. A few moments later Mrs. Grenville came back and bent over the sick child. "Is that you, Auntie Violet?" asked Maggie. "Yes, my darling," responded her aunt. "What's fever, auntie?" "An illness, dear." "And am I going to be very, very ill?" "I hope not very ill, Maggie. We are going to nurse you so well that we trust that will not be the case; but I am afraid my poor little girl will not feel comfortable for some time." "And did I take the fever that's to make me so sick from Susy--only Susy wasn't sick, auntie?" "No, dearest; but she carried the infection on her clothes, and there is no doubt you took it from her." "Then I'm 'fraid," continued Maggie, "you're very angry with her still." "I cannot say that I'm pleased with her, darling." "Oh, but, auntie, I want you to forgive her, and I want father to forgive her, 'cause she didn't know nothing about 'fection or fevers--and--and--do forgive her, Auntie Violet." Here poor sick little Maggie began to cry and Mrs. Grenville was glad to comfort her with any assurances, even of promises of forgiveness for the naughty Susy. After this there came very dark and anxious days for the people who loved the little princess. Ralph was sent back to Tower Hill, where he wandered about and was miserable, and thought a great deal about Maggie, and found out that after all he was very fond of her. He did not take the fever himself, but he was full of anxieties about Jo and Maggie; for both the little girls, one in the fever hospital and the other in his mother's luxurious home, were having a hard fight for their little lives. Lady Ascot and Sir John were always, day and night, one or another of them, to be found by Maggie's sick-bed, and of course there were professional nurses, and more than one doctor; but with all this care the sick child in the home seemed to have as hard a time of it as the other sick child who was away from those she loved and who was handed over to the tender mercies of strangers. It was very curious how, through all her ravings and through all the delirium of her fever, Maggie talked about Jo. She had only seen Jo once in her life, but although she mentioned her mother and her father, and her old nurse and Ralph, there was no one at all about whom she spoke so frequently, or with so keen an interest, as the lame child of the poor laundress. From the moment she heard that Susy was to be forgiven, that very mischievous little person seemed to have passed from her thoughts; but with Jo it was different, until at last Waters began to think that there was some mysterious link between the two sick children. This idea was confirmed, when one evening little Maggie awoke, cool and quiet, but with a weakness over her which was beyond any weakness she could ever have dreamed of undergoing. Her feeble voice could scarcely be heard, but her thoughts still ran on Jo. "Mother," she whispered, very, very low indeed in Lady Ascot's ear, "I thought Jo had got her day-dream." "Try not to talk, my precious one," whispered the mother back in reply. "But why not?" asked Maggie. "Jo often had day-dreams, Susy told me, and so did Ralph. She wanted to be in a cool place, where beautiful things are, in the country, or in--in heaven. And I want to be with Jo in the country--or in--heaven." Maggie looked very sweet as she spoke, and when the last words passed her pale little lips, she closed her eyes with their pretty curly lashes. The father and mother both felt, as they looked at her, that a very, very little more would take their darling away. "I wonder how the sick child in the hospital is," said Sir John Ascot to his wife. "I must own I have had no time to think about her, and she and hers have done mischief enough to us; but the little one's heart seems set on her--has been all through. It might be a good thing for our little Maggie if I could bring her word that the other child is better." "It would be the best thing in all the world for Maggie," answered Lady Ascot. "Then I will go round to the fever hospital now, and make inquiries," said Sir John. On his way downstairs he met Mrs. Grenville, and told her what he was doing. She said: "Wait one moment, John, and I will put on my bonnet and go with you." It was a lovely evening toward the end of July. The day had been intensely hot, but now a soft breeze began to stir the heated atmosphere, a breeze with a little touch of health and healing about it. "This night will be cooler than the last," said Mrs. Grenville, "and that will be another chance in our little one's favor." At this moment the lady's dress was plucked rather sharply from behind, and looking round Mrs. Grenville saw, for the first time since all their trouble, the excited and rough little figure of Susy Aylmer. Her first impulse was to shake herself free from the touch of so naughty a child, but then she remembered her promise to Maggie, and looked again at the little intruder. A great change had come over poor Susy; the confidence and assurance had all left her round face. It was round still, and was to a certain extent red still, but the eyes were so swollen with crying, and the poor face itself so disfigured by tear-channels, that only one who had seen her several times would have recognized her. "Oh, ma'am," she exclaimed, "I has been waiting here for hours and hours, and nobody will speak to me nor tell me nothing. Mrs. Cook won't speak, nor the housemaid, nor Mrs. Waters, nor nobody, and I feel as if my heart would burst, ma'am. Oh, Mrs. Grenville, how is Miss Maggie, and is she going away same as our little Jo is going away?" "Who is that child, Violet?" inquired Sir John. "Does she, too, know some one of the name of Jo, and what is she keeping you for? Do let us hurry on." "She is little Jo Aylmer's sister," whispered back Mrs. Grenville. "Susy, it is very hard to forgive you, for through your deceit we have all got into this terrible trouble; but I promised Maggie I would try, and I can not go back from my word to the dear little one. Maggie is a shade, just a shade better to-night, Susy, but she is still very, very ill. Pray for her, child, pray for that most precious little life. And now, what about Jo? It is not really true what you said about Jo, Susy?" "Yes, but it is, ma'am; they has just sent round a message to mother, and they say that our little Jo won't live through the night. It's quite true as she's going away to God, ma'am." CHAPTER XI. GOING HOME. Sir John and Mrs. Grenville left poor Susy standing with her apron to her eyes at the corner of the street, and went on in the direction of the fever hospital. Their hearts had sunk very low at Susy's words, and they began to share in Waters' belief that there was a mysterious sympathy between the two sick children, and that if one went away perhaps the other would follow quickly. The fever hospital was some little distance off, but they both preferred walking to calling a cab. It was not the visiting hour when they got there, but Mrs. Grenville scribbled some words on a little card, and begged of the porter who admitted them into the cool stone hall to send a note with her card and Sir John's at once to the lady superintendent. This little note had the desired effect, and in a few moments they were both admitted to the good lady's private sanctum. Mrs. Grenville in a few low words explained the nature of their errand. The good lady nurse was all sympathy and interest, but when they mentioned the name of the child they had come to see her face became very grave and sad. "That little one!" she remarked; "I fear that God is going to take that sweet child away to himself. She is the sweetest and prettiest child in the hospital--she has gone through a terrible illness, and I don't think I have once heard her murmur. Poor little lamb! her sufferings are over at last, thank God; she is just quietly moment by moment passing away. It is a case of dying from exhaustion." "But, good madam, can nothing be done to rouse her?" asked Sir John, his face turning purple with agitation. "Has she the best and most expensive nourishment--can't her strength be supported? Perhaps, ma'am, you are not aware that a good deal depends on the life of that little girl. It is not an ordinary case--no, no, by no means an ordinary case. My purse is at your command, ma'am; get the best doctors, the best nurses, the best care--save the child's life at any cost." While Sir John was speaking the lady nurse looked sadder than ever. "We give of the best in this hospital," she said; "and there has been from the first no question of expense or money. Perhaps the worst symptom in the case of little Joanna Aylmer is in the fact that the child herself does not wish to recover. I confess I have no hope whatever, but it is a well-known saying that, in fever, as long as there is life there is hope. Would you like to see the child, Mrs. Grenville? It might comfort your own little darling afterward to know that you had gone to see her just at the end." Mrs. Grenville nodded in reply, but poor Sir John, overcome by an undefined terror, sank down by the table, and covered his face with his hands. Mrs. Grenville followed the nurse into the long cool ward, passing on her way many sick and suffering children. The child by whose little narrow white bed they at last stopped was certainly now not suffering. Her eyes were closed; through her parted lips only came the gentlest breathing; on her serene brow there rested a look of absolute peace. Little Jo Aylmer was alive, but she neither spoke nor moved. Mrs. Grenville stooped down and kissed her, leaving what she thought was a tear of farewell on her sweet little face. As she was walking home by Sir John's side, she said abruptly, after an interval of silence: "It is quite true, John--we must do what we can to keep Maggie, but little Jo is going home." "She must not die. We must keep her somehow," replied Sir John. That night it seemed to several people that two little children were about to be taken away to their heavenly home, for Maggie's feeble strength fluttered and failed, and, as the hours went by, the doctors shook their heads and looked very grave. She still talked in a half-delirious way about Jo, and still seemed to fancy that she and Jo were soon going somewhere away together. All through her illness no one had been more devoted in her attentions to the sick child than the faithful servant Waters. When the day began to break, Waters made up her mind to a certain line of action. Her mistress had told her how very ill little Jo Aylmer was--she had described fully her visit to the hospital--had told Waters that she herself had no hope whatever of Jo, and had further added that the child herself did not wish to live. "That's not to be wondered at," commented Waters. "What have she special to live for, pretty lamb? and there's much to delight one like her where she's going; but all the same, ma'am, it will be the death-knell of our little Miss Maggie if the other child is taken." When the morning broke, Waters felt that she could bear her present state of inaction no longer, and accordingly she tied on her bonnet and went out. First of all she wended her steps in the direction of the Aylmers' humble dwelling. She mounted the stairs to Mrs. Aylmer's door and knocked. The poor woman had not been in bed all night, and flew to the door now, fearing that Waters' knock was the dreaded message which she had been expecting from the hospital. "'Tis only me, ma'am," said Waters, "and you has no call to be frightened. I want you just to put on your bonnet and shawl, and come right away with me to the hospital. We has got to be let in somehow, for I must see Jo directly." "For aught I know," said Mrs. Aylmer, "little Jo may be singing with the angels now." "We must hope not, ma'am, for I want that little Jo of yours to live. She has got to live for our Miss Maggie's sake, and there is not a moment to lose; so come away, ma'am, at once." Mrs. Aylmer stared at Waters; then, because she felt very weak, and feeble, and wretched herself, she allowed the stronger woman to guide her, and the two went out without another word being said on either side. It was, of course, against all rules for visitors to be admitted at five o'clock in the morning; but in the case of mothers and dying children such rules are apt to become lax, and the two women presently found themselves behind the screen which sheltered little Jo from her companions. "She won't hear you now," said the nurse; "she has not noticed any one for many hours." Waters looked round her almost despairingly--the poor mother had sunk down by the bedside, and had covered her face with her hands. Waters, too, covered her face, and as she did so she prayed to her Father in heaven with great fervor and strong faith and hope. After this brief prayer she knelt by the little white cot, and took the cold little hand of the child who was every moment going further away from the shore of life. "Little Jo," she said, "you have got to live. I don't believe God wishes you to die, and you mustn't wish it either. You have got your work to do, Jo; do you hear me? Look at me, pretty one--you have got to live." Waters spoke clearly, and in a very decided voice. The little one's violet eyes opened for a brief instant and fixed themselves on the anxious, pleading woman; both the nurse and the mother came close to the bed in breathless astonishment. "Have you got a cordial?" said Waters, turning to the nurse. "Give it to me, and let me put it between her lips." The nurse gave her a few drops out of a bottle, and Waters wetted the parched lips of the child. "There's another little one, my pretty, and she's waiting for you. If you go I fear she'll go, but if you stay I think she'll stay. There are them who would break their hearts without her, and she ought to do a good work down on the earth. Will you stay for her sake, little Jo?" Here the sick child moved restlessly, and Waters continued. "Send her a message, Jo Aylmer," she said. "Tell her where you two are next to meet--in the country, where the grass is green, or in--heaven. Oh, Jo! do say you will meet Miss Maggie in the cool, shady, lovely country, and wait until by and by for heaven, my pretty lamb." Whether God really heard Waters' very earnest prayer, or whether little Jo was at that moment about to take a turn for the better, she certainly opened her eyes again full and bright and wide, and quite intelligible words came from her pretty lips. "My day-dream," said little Jo Aylmer; "tell her--tell her to meet me where the grass is green." CHAPTER XII. IN THE WOOD. The little princess of Tower Hill and the child of the poor laundress were both pronounced out of danger. Death no longer with his terrible sickle hovered over these pretty flowers; they were to make beautiful the garden of earth for the present. Waters felt quite sure in her own heart that she, under God, had been the means of saving Maggie's life, for Maggie had smiled so sweetly and contentedly when Waters had brought her back the other child's message, and after that she had ceased to speak about meeting Jo in heaven. When the scales were turned and the children were pronounced out of danger, they both grew rapidly better, and at the end of a fortnight Maggie was able to sit up for a few moments at a time, and almost to fatigue those about her with her numerous inquiries about Jo. Every day Waters went to the hospital, and came back with reports of the sick child, whose progress toward recovery was satisfactory, only not quite so rapid as Maggie's. At last the doctor gave Sir John and Lady Ascot permission to take their little darling back to Tower Hill. Mrs. Grenville accompanied her brother and sister and little niece; and of course in the country Maggie would have the great happiness of meeting Ralph again. Ralph by this time had taken the hearts of Miss Grey and the numerous servants at Tower Hill by storm. He was thoroughly at home and thoroughly happy, assumed a good deal the airs of a little autocrat, and had more or less his own way in everything. He was delighted to see Maggie, and immediately drew her away from the rest to talk to her and consult her on various subjects. [Illustration: HE PUT HIS ARM AROUND HIS LITTLE COUSIN.--Page 158.] "You look rather white and peaky, Mag, but you'll soon brown up now you've got into the real country. You must run about a great deal, and forget that you were ever ill. You mustn't even mind being a little tottery upon your legs at first. I know you must be tottery, because I've been consulting Miss Grey about it, and she once had rheumatic fever, and she used to totter about after it awfully; but the great thing is not to be sentimental over it, but to determine that you will get back your muscle. Now what do you think I have found? Come round with me into the shrubbery and you shall see." Ralph's words were decidedly a little rough and tonicky, but his actions were more considerate, for he put his arm round his little cousin and led her quite gently away. Maggie found the sweet country air delicious; she was also very happy to feel Ralph's arm round her waist, and she could not help giving his little brown hand a squeeze. "I wish you'd kiss me, Ralph," she said. "I have thought of you so often when I was getting better; I know you must think me not much of a playfellow, and I am so sorry that I began by vexing you about the rabbits." "I'll kiss you, of course, Mag," said Ralph. "I don't think kisses are at all interesting things myself, but I'd do a great deal more than that to make you happy, for I was really, really sorry when you were ill. I don't think you're at all a bad sort of playfellow, Mag--I mean for a girl. And as to the rabbits, why, that was the best deed you ever did. You are coming to see my dear bunnies now." "Oh, Ralph, you don't mean Bianco and Lily?" "Yes, I mean my darling white beauties that Jo gave me. I found them again in the wood, and they have grown as friendly as possible. I don't shut them up in any hutch; they live in the wood and they come to me when I call them. Yesterday I found that they had made a nest, and the nest was full of little bunnies, all snow white, and with long hair like the father and mother. I'm going to show you the nest now." At the thought of this delightful sight Maggie's cheeks became very pink, her blue eyes danced, and she forgot that her legs were without muscle, and even tried to run in her excitement and pleasure. "Don't be silly, Mag!" laughed her cousin; "the bunnies aren't going to hide themselves, and we'll find them all in good time. You may walk with those tottery legs of yours, but you certainly cannot run. Here, now we're at the entrance to the wood; now I'll help you over the stile." The children found the nest of lovely white rabbits, and spent a very happy half-hour sitting on the ground gazing at them. Then Maggie began to confide a little care, which rested on her heart about Jo, to her cousin. "She has got well again, you know, Ralph, and I promised she should meet me in the country somewhere where the grass is green, and yet I don't know how she's to come. I have got no money, and Jo has got no money, and father and mother don't say any thing about it. It would be a dreadful thing for Jo to stay away from heaven--for she was very, very near going to heaven, Ralph--and then to find that I had broken my word to her, and that after all we were never to see each other where the grass is green." "It would be worse than dreadful," answered Ralph, "it would be downright cruel and wicked. Dear little Jo! she'd like to come here and look at the bunnies, wouldn't she? Well, I've got no money either, and she can't be got into the country without money; that I do know. Perhaps I'd better speak to mother about it." But Ralph, when he did question Mrs. Grenville on the subject, found her wonderfully silent, and in his opinion unsympathetic. She said that she could not possibly interfere with Sir John and Lady Ascot in their own place, and that if she were Ralph she would let things alone, and trust to the Ascots doing what was right in the matter. But Ralph was not inclined to take this advice. "I like Maggie for being good about Jo," he said, "and Jo shan't be disappointed. I'll go myself to Uncle John; he probably only needs to have the thing put plainly to him." Sir John listened to the little boy's somewhat excited remarks with an amused twinkle in his eyes. "So the princess has sent you to me, my lad?" he said. "You tell her to keep her little mind tranquil, and to try to trust her old father." Little Jo Aylmer came very slowly back to health and strength, but at last there arrived a day when the hospital nurse pronounced her cured, and when her mother arrived in a cab to take her away. The hospital nurse had tears in her eyes when she kissed Jo, and the other sick children in the ward were extremely sorry to say good-by to her, for little Jo, without making any extraordinary efforts, indeed without making any efforts at all, had a wonderful faculty for inspiring love. No doubt she was sympathetic, and no doubt also she was self-forgetful, and her ready tact prevented her saying the words which might hurt or doing the deeds which might annoy, and these apparently trivial traits in her character may have helped to make her popular. On that particular sunshiny afternoon the preparations made by certain excited little people in Philmer's Buildings were great. From the day Jo was pronounced out of danger Susy had begun to recover her spirits, and at any rate to forgive herself for her conduct in the matter of the tambourine. She had not spent any of the seven shillings which the pawnbroker had given for poor Maggie's best hat; it had all been securely tucked away in her best white cotton pocket-handkerchief, and neither her mother nor the boys knew of its existence, for to purchase a tambourine while Jo was so ill, and Maggie supposed to be dying was beyond even thoughtless Susy's desires. After her own fashion, this rather heedless little girl had suffered a good deal during the past weeks, and suffering did her good, as it does all other creatures. Now, while the boys were very busy getting the room into a festive condition for Jo, Susy quietly and softly withdrew one shilling from her mysterious hoard, and went out to make purchases. A shilling means almost nothing to some people; they spend it on utter rubbish--they virtually throw it away. This was, however, by no means the case with Susy Aylmer; she knew a shilling's worth to the uttermost farthing, and it was surprising with what a number of parcels she returned home. "Now, Ben and Bob, we'll lay the tea-table," she said, addressing her excited little brothers. "Yere, put the cloth straight, do--you know as Jo can't abide nothing crooked. Now then, out comes the fresh loaf as mother bought; pop it on the cracked plate, and put it here, a little to one side--it looks more genteel--not right away in the very middle. Here goes the teapot--oh, my! ain't it a pity as the spout is cracked off?--and here's the little yaller jug for the milk! Here's butter, too--Dosset, but not bad. Now then, we begins on my purchases. A slice of 'am on this tiny plate for Jo; red herrings, which we'll toast up and make piping hot presently; a nice little bundle of radishes, creases ditto. Oh, my heyes! I do like creases, they're so nice and biting. Now then, what 'ave we 'ere?--why, a big packet of lollipops; I got the second quality of lollipops, so I 'as quite a big parcel; and the man threw in two over, 'cause I said they was for a gal just out of 'ospital. Shrimps is in this 'ere bag. Now, boys, there ain't none of these 'ere for you, they're just for mother and Jo, and no one else--don't you be greedy, Ben and Bob, for ef you are, I'll give you something to remember. Yere's a real fresh egg, which must be boiled werry light--that's for Jo, of course--and 'ere's a penn'orth of dandy-o-lions to stick in the middle of the table. Yere they goes into this old brown cracked jug, and don't they look fine? Well, I'm sure I never see'd a more genteel board." The boys thoroughly agreed with Susy on this point, and while they were skipping and dancing about, and making many dives at the tempting eatables, and Susy was chasing them with loud whoops, half of anger, half of mirth, about the room, Mrs. Aylmer and the little pale, spiritual-looking sister arrived. At the sight of Jo the children felt their undue excitement subsiding--their happiness became peace, as it always did in her blessed little presence. There was no wrangling or quarreling over the tea-table--the look of pretty Jo lying on her sofa once again kept the boys from being over-greedy, and reduced Susy's excitement to due bounds. Mrs. Aylmer said several times, "I'm the werry happiest woman in London," and her children seemed to think that they were the happiest children. The pleasant tea-hour came, however, to an end at last, and Susy was just washing up the cups and saucers and putting the remainder of the feast into the cupboard, when the whole family were roused into a condition of most alert attention by a sharp and somewhat imperative knock on the room door. "Dear heart alive!" exclaimed Mrs. Aylmer. "Whoever can that be? It sounds like the landlord, only I paid my bit of rent yesterday." "It's more likely to be some one after you as laundress, mother," remarked practical Susy; and then Ben flew across the room and, opening the door wide, admitted no less a person than Sir John Ascot himself. Mrs. Aylmer had never seen him, and of course did not know what an important visitor was now coming into her humble little room. Susy, however, knew Maggie's father, and felt herself turning very white, and took instant refuge behind Jo's sofa. "Now, which is little Jo?" said Sir John, coming forward and peering round him. "I've come here specially to-day to see a child whom my own little girl loves very much. I've something to say to that child, and also to her mother. My name is Ascot, and I dare say you all, good folks, have heard of my dear little girl Maggie." "Miss Maggie!" exclaimed Jo, a delicate pink coming into her face, and her sweet violet eyes becoming, not tearful, but misty. "Are you Miss Maggie's father, sir? I seems to be near to Miss Maggie somehow." "So you are, little lassie," said the baronet; and then he glanced from pretty Jo to the other children, and from her again to her mother, as though he could not quite account for such a fragile and pure little flower among these plants of sturdy and common growth. "My little Jo favors her father, Sir John," said Mrs. Aylmer, dropping a profound courtesy and dusting a chair with her apron for the baronet. "Will you be pleased to be seated, sir?" she went on. "We're all pleased to see you here--pleased and proud, and that's not saying a word too much. And how is the dear, beautiful little lady, Sir John, and Master Ralph, bless him?" "My little girl is well again, thank God, Mrs. Aylmer, and Ralph is as sturdy a little chap as any heart could desire. Yes, I will take a seat near Jo, if you please. I've a little plan to propose, which I hope she will like, and which you, Mrs. Aylmer, will also approve of. This is it." Then Sir John unfolded a deep-laid plot, which threw the Aylmer family into a state of unspeakable rapture. To describe their feelings would be beyond any ordinary pen. CHAPTER XIII. THANK GOD FOR ALL. On a certain lovely evening in the beginning of September, when the air was no longer too warm, and the whole world seemed bathed in absolute peace and rest, little Maggie Ascot and her Cousin Ralph might have been seen walking, with their arms round each other, in very deep consultation. Maggie was quite strong again, had got her roses back, and the bright light of health in her blue eyes. She and Ralph were pacing slowly up and down a shady path not far from the large entrance gates. "I can't think what it means," exclaimed Maggie; "it is the fourth time Aunt Violet has gone up there to-day, and Susan the scullery-maid has gone with her now, carrying an enormous basket. Susan let me peep into it, and it was full of all kinds of goodies. She said it was for the new laundress. I never knew such a fuss to make about a laundress." Here Ralph thought it well to administer a little reproof. "That's because you haven't been taught to consider the poor," he said. "Why shouldn't a laundress have nice things done for her? and if this is a poor lonely stranger coming from a long way off, it's quite right for mother to welcome her. Mother always thinks you can't do too much for lonely people, and she'll wash your dresses all the whiter if she thinks you're going to be kind and attentive. Why, Maggie, our little Jo's mother is a laundress, you forget that. Laundresses are most respectable people." At the mention of Jo's name Maggie sighed. "There's nothing at all been done about her, Ralph," she said. "Nobody seems to take any notice when I speak about her. She must be tired of waiting and watching by this time. She must be dreadfully sorry that she did not go away to heaven and God; for she must know now that I never meant anything when I wanted to meet her in the country--and yet I did, Ralph, I did!" Here Maggie's blue eyes grew full of tears. "Never mind, Mag," replied her little cousin soothingly; "it is very odd, and I don't understand it a bit, but mother says things are sure to come right, and you know Uncle John wished us to trust him." "But the time is going on," said Maggie; "the summer days will go, and Jo won't have seen the lovely country where the grass is green. Oh! Ralph, we must do something." "If only Mrs. Aylmer were the new laundress!" began Ralph. "You can't think what a nice cottage that is, Mag--four lovely rooms, and such a nice, nice kitchen, with those dear little lattice panes of glass in the window, and lots of jasmine and Virginia creeper peeping in from outside, and a green field for the laundress to dry her clothes in, just beyond. Poor laundress! she will like that field awfully, and it would be very unkind of us to wish to take it away from her and give it to Mrs. Aylmer, for of course Mrs. Aylmer knows nothing about it, and the new laundress has probably arrived, and set her heart on it by this time; and she may be a widow, too, with lots and lots of little children." "But none of the children could be like Jo," said Maggie. "Well, perhaps not," answered Ralph. "Oh, here comes mother; let's run to meet her. Mother darling, has the new laundress come?" "Yes, Ralph, she and her family arrived about an hour ago; they are settling down nicely into the cottage, and seem to be respectable people. They all think the cottage very comfortable." "And are you going to see them again to-night, Auntie Violet?" asked Maggie with rather a sorrowful look on her little face. "Why, yes, Maggie; they are all strangers here, you know, and I fancy they rather feel that, so it might be nice to walk up presently and take a cup of tea with them. There are some children, so you and Ralph might come too." "Didn't I tell you how mother considered the poor?" here whispered Ralph, poking the little princess rather violently in the side. "Oh, yes, mother, we'd like to go to tea with the little laundresses. Is there anything we could take them--anything they would like, to show that we sympathize with them for having come so far, and having left their old home?" "They don't seem at all melancholy, Ralph," said Mrs. Grenville, smiling, "and when they have seen you and Maggie, I fancy they will none of them have anything further to desire to-night. Why, Maggie dear, you look quite sad; what is the matter?" "I am thinking of little Jo," whispered Maggie. "Her mother is a laundress, too, and she's poor. Why couldn't you have considered the poor in the shape of Jo's mother, Aunt Violet?" Mrs. Grenville stooped down and kissed Maggie. "Here come your father and mother," she said, "and I know they too want to see the new people who have come to the pretty cottage. Now let us all set off. I told the laundress and her family that you were coming to have tea with them, Maggie and Ralph. Suppose you two run on in front; you know the cottage and you know the way." "Tell the good folks we'll look in on them presently," shouted Sir John Ascot, and then the children took each other's hands and ran across some fields to the laundress' cottage. They heard some sounds of mirth as they drew near, and saw two rather wild little boys tumbling about, turning somersaults and standing on their heads; they also heard a high-pitched voice, and caught a glimpse of a remarkably round and red face, and it seemed to Maggie that the voice and the face were both familiar, although she could not quite recall where she had seen them before. "We must introduce ourselves quite politely," said Ralph as they walked up the narrow garden path. "Now here we are; I'll knock with my knuckles. I wish I knew the laundress' name. It seems rude to say, 'Is the laundress in?' for of course she has got a name, and her name is just as valuable to her as ours are to us. How stupid not to have found out what she is really called. Perhaps we had better inquire for Mrs. Robbins; that's rather a common name, and yet not too common. It would never do to call her Mrs. Smith or Jones, for if she wasn't Smith or Jones, she wouldn't like it. Now, Maggie, I'll knock rather sharp, and when the new laundress opens the door you are to say, 'Please is Mrs. Robbins the laundress in?'" All this time the girl with the red face was making little darts to the lattice window and looking out, and there were some stifled sounds of mirth from the boys with the high-pitched voices. "The laundress' family are in good spirits," remarked Ralph, and then he gave a sharp little knock, and Maggie prepared her speech. "Please is the new--is Mrs. Rob--is, is--oh! Ralph, why, it's Mrs. Aylmer herself!" Nothing very coherent after this discovery was uttered by any one for several minutes. Maggie found herself kneeling by Jo, with her arms round Jo's neck, and two little cheeks, both wet with tears, were pressed together, and two pair of lips kissed each other. That kiss was a solemn one, for the two little hearts were full. In different ranks, belonging almost to two extremes, the child of riches and the child of poverty knew that they possessed kindred spirits, and that their friendship was such that circumstances were not likely again to divide them. Waters was right when she said there was a strong link between Maggie and Jo. That is the story, an episode, after all, in the life of the little princess, but an episode which was to influence all her future days. THE END. TOM, PEPPER, AND TRUSTY. "Therefore, to this dog will I, Tenderly, not scornfully, Render praise and favor: With my hand upon his head Is my benediction said, Therefore, and forever." --E. B. BROWNING. CHAPTER I. THE THREE FRIENDS. A child and a dog sat very close to the fast-expiring embers of a small fire in a shabby London attic. The dog was very old, with palsied, shaking limbs, eyes half-blind, and an appearance about his whole person of almost disreputable ugliness and decrepitude, He was a large white-and-liver-colored dog, of no particular breed, and certainly of no particular beauty. Never, even in his best days, could this dog have been at all good-looking. The child who crouched close to him was small and thin. He was a pale child, with big, sorrowful eyes, and that shrunken appearance of the whole little frame which proclaims but too clearly that bread-and-milk have not sufficiently nourished it. He sat very close to the old dog, half-supporting himself against him; his head was bent forward on his little chest--he was half-asleep. A little apart from the dog and the sleepy child stood a very bright boy, a boy with rosy cheeks and sparkling eye. He poised himself for a moment on one leg, kicked off the snow from his ragged trousers with the other, then flinging his cap and an old broom into a corner of the attic, he sang out in a clear, ringing tone: "Hillow! Pepper and Trusty, is that h'all the welcome yer 'ave to give to a feller?" At the first sound of his voice the dog feebly wagged his tail and the little child started to his feet. "Hillow!" he answered with a pitiful attempt at the elder boy's cheerfulness; "I 'opes as yer 'ave brought h'in some supper, Tom." "See yere," said Tom, just turning back a morsel of his ragged jacket to show what really was still a pocket. This pocket bunched out now in a most suggestive manner, and Pepper, thrusting in his tiny hand, pulled from it the following heterogeneous mixture: an old bone--very bare of even the pretense of meat; an orange; some nuts; a piece of moldy bread, and a nice little crisp loaf; also twopence and a halfpenny. "Ain't it prime, Pepper?" said the elder boy. "Yere's the bone for old Trusty, and the broken bread, and the pretty little loaf, and the nuts, and th' orange, for you and me." "Oh, Tom! where did you get the nuts?" "They were throwing 'em to a dancing monkey, and an old 'oman gave me a handful h'all to myself. I say, didn't I clutch 'em!" "Well, let's crunch 'em up now," said Pepper, whose face had grown quite bright with anticipation. "And give Trusty his bone," said Tom. "I picked it h'out o' the gutter, and washed it at the pump. 'Tis a real juicy bone--full o' marrow. Yere, old feller! Don't he move his lazy h'old sides quickly now, Pepper?" "Yes," said Pepper, clapping his tiny hands. CHAPTER II. WHY HE WAS CALLED TRUSTY. The two little boys and the dog ate their supper in perfect silence, the only noise to be heard during the meal being the crunching of three sets of busy teeth. Then, the fire being quite out, the children lay down on a dirty mattress in a corner of the room, and Trusty curled himself up at their feet. However lazy Trusty might be in the daytime while the fire was alight, at night he always assumed the character of a protector. Let the slightest sound arise, above, around, or beneath him, and he raised a bay, cracked it is true, but still full of unspeakable consolation to the timid heart of little Pepper. In the daytime Pepper was often guilty of very wicked and treacherous thoughts about Trusty. When he was so often hungry, and could seldom enjoy more than half a meal, why must Tom, however little money or food he brought in after his day's sweeping, always insist on Trusty having his full share? Why must Tom--on those rare occasions when he was a little cross and discontented--too cross and discontented to take much notice of him (Pepper), yet still put his arms so lovingly round the old dog's neck? and why, why above all things must Trusty be so very selfish about their tiny fire, sitting so close to it, and taking all its warmth into his own person, while poor little Pepper shivered by his side? Pepper was younger than Trusty, and he never remembered the day when the dog was not a great person in his home; he never remembered the day when his mother, however poor and pinched, had not managed, with all the good-will in the world, to pay the dog-tax for him. And when that mother--six months ago--died, she had enjoined on Tom, almost with her last breath, the necessity of continuing this, and whatever straits they were placed in, begged of them never to forsake the old dog in his need. Of course Pepper knew the reason of all this love and care for old Trusty; and the reason, notwithstanding those treacherous and discontented thoughts in which he now and then found himself indulging, filled him with not a little pride and pleasure. It was because of him--of him, poor little insignificant Pepper--that his mother and Tom loved Trusty so well. For when he was a baby Trusty had saved his life. How Pepper did love to hear that story! How he used to climb on his mother's knee, and curl in her arms, and get her to tell it to him over and over again; and then, as he listened, his big, dark eyes used to get bright and wondering, while he pictured to himself the country home with the roses growing about the porch; and the pretty room inside, and the cradle where he lay warm and sheltered. Then, how his heart did beat when his mother spoke of that dreadful day when she went out and left him in charge of a neighbor's daughter, paying no heed to his real caretaker, the large strong dog--young then, who lay under the table. How often his cheek had turned pale, as his mother went on to tell him how the neighbor's daughter first built up the fire, and then, growing tired of her dull occupation, went away and left him alone with no companion but the dog. And then, how his father, returning from his day's work, had rushed in with a cry of horror, to find the cradle burned and some of the other furniture on fire; but the baby himself lying, smiling and uninjured, in a corner of the room; for the brave dog had dragged him from his dangerous resting-place, and had himself put out the flames as they began to catch his little night-shirt. Trusty was severely burned, and for the rest of his days was blind of one eye and walked with a limp; but he earned the undying love and gratitude of the father and mother for his heroic conduct. After this adventure his name was changed from Jack to Trusty, and any member of the family would rather have starved than allow Trusty to want. Pepper never listened to this exciting tale without his chest beginning to heave, and a moisture of love and compunction filling his brown eyes. To-night, as he lay curled up as close as possible to Tom, with Trusty keeping his feet warm by lying on them, he thought of it all over again. As he thought, he felt even more than his usual sorrow, for he had certainly been very cross to Trusty to-day. These feelings and recollections so occupied him that he forgot to chatter away as usual, until, looking up suddenly, he felt that his brother's eyes were closing--in short, that Tom was going to sleep. Now, of all the twenty-four hours that comprised Pepper's day and night, there was none that compared with the hour when he lay in his brother's arms, and talked to him, and listened to his adventures. This hour made the remaining twenty-three endurable; in short, it was his golden hour--his hour marked with a red letter. "Oh, Tom!" he said now, rousing himself and speaking in a voice almost tearful, so keen was his disappointment, "yer never agoin' to get drowsy?" "Not I," answered Tom, awakened at once by the sorrowful tones, and half-sitting up. "Wot is it, Pepper? I'm as lively as a lark, I am." "Yer h'eyes were shut," said Pepper. "Well, and your mouth wor shut, Pepper, that wor wy I fastened h'up my h'eyes, to save time." "Tom," said Pepper, creeping very close to his big brother, "does yer really think as yer'll 'ave the money saved h'up for dear old Trusty's tax, wen the man comes fur it?" "Oh, yes! I 'opes so; there's three months yet." "'E's a dear old dog," said Pepper, in an emphatic voice, "and I won't mind wot Pat Finnahan says 'bout 'im." "Wot's that?" asked Tom. "Oh, Tom! 'e comes h'in, some days, wen 'tis bitter cold, and Trusty 'ave got hisself drawed in front o' the fire (Trusty do take h'up h'all the fire, Tom) and 'e says as Trusty is h'eatin' us h'out o' 'ouse and 'ome, and ef you pays the tax fur 'im, wy, yer'll be the biggest fool h'out." "Dear me," said Tom, "'e must be a nice 'un, 'e must! Why, Trusty's a sight better'n him, and a sight better worth lookin' arter." This remark of Tom's, uttered with great vehemence, startled Pepper so much that he lay perfectly silent, staring up at his big brother. The moonlight, which quite filled the attic, enabled him to see Tom's face very distinctly. A strongly marked face, and full of character at all times; it was now also so full of disgust that Pepper quite trembled. "Well, he is a mean 'un," continued Tom. "See if I don't lay it on him the next time I catches of him coming spyin' in yere; and, Pepper," he added, "I'm real consarned as yer should 'ave listened to such words." "'Ow could I 'elp it?" answered Pepper. "'E comed h'in, and 'e kicked at Trusty. I didn't want fur h'old Trusty not to be paid fur, Tom." "I should 'ope not, indeed," replied Tom; "that 'ud be a nice pass for us two boys to fursake Trusty. But look yere, Pepper. Yer never goin' to be untrue to yer name, be yer?" "Oh, Tom! 'ow so?" "Does yer know wy Trusty was called Trusty?" Now, of course, Pepper knew no story in the world half so well, but at this question of Tom's he nestled close so him, raised beseeching eyes, and said: "Tell us." "'E wor called Trusty," continued Tom, "'cause wen yer were a little 'un he wor faithful. Trusty means faithful; it means a kind of a body wot won't fursake another body what-h'ever 'appens. That wor wy father and mother changed 'is name from Jack to Trusty, 'cause 'e wor faithful to you, Pepper." "Yes," answered Pepper, half-sobbing, and feeling very gently with his toes the motion of Trusty's tail; for Trusty, hearing his name mentioned so often, was beating it softly up and down. "And does yer know wy you was called Pepper?" continued Tom, by no means intending to abate the point and the object of his lecture by the break in Pepper's voice. "Tell us," said the little child again. "You was christened Hen-e-ry [Henry]; but, lor! Pepper, that wor no name fur yer. That name meant some 'un soft and h'easy. But, bless yer, young 'un! there wor nothink soft nor h'easy about yer. What a firebrand yer were--flying h'out at h'everybody--so touchy and sparky-like, that mother wor sure you 'ad got a taste o' the fire as poor Trusty saved yer from, until, at last, there wor no name 'ud suit yer but Pepper. Lor, lad, wot a spirrit yer 'ad then!" With these words Tom turned himself round on his pillow, and, having spoken his mind, and being in consequence quite comfortable, dropped quickly to sleep. But to poor little Pepper, listening breathlessly for another word, that first snore of Tom's was a very dreadful one. He knew then that there was no hope that night of any further words with Tom. He must lie all night under the heavy weight of Tom's displeasure; for, of course, Tom was angry, or he would never have turned away with such despairing and contemptuous words on his lips. As Pepper thought of this he could not quite keep down a rising sob, for the Tom who he felt was angry with him meant father, mother, conscience--everything--to the poor little fellow. And Tom had cause for his anger; this was what gave it its sting. There was no doubt that Pepper was not at all the spirited little boy he had been during his mother's lifetime--the brave little plucky fellow, who was afraid of no one, and who never would stoop to a mean act. How well he remembered that scene a few months ago, when a rough boy had flung a stone at Trusty--yes! and hit him, and made him howl with the cruel pain he had inflicted; and then how Pepper had fought for him, and given his cowardly assailant a black eye, and afterward how his mother and Tom had praised him. Oh, how different he was now from then! His tears flowed copiously as he thought of it all. But the times were also different. Since his mother's death he had spent his days so much alone, and those long days, spent in the old attic with no companion but Trusty, had depressed his spirit and undermined his nerves. The unselfish, affectionate little boy found new and strange thoughts filling his poor little heart--thoughts to which, during his mother's lifetime, he was altogether a stranger. He wished he was strong and big like Tom, and could go out and sweep a crossing. It was dreadful to stay at home all day doing nothing but thinking, and thinking, as he now knew, bad thoughts. For the idea suggested by that wild, queer Irish boy downstairs would not go away again. That boy had said with contempt, with even cutting sarcasm, how silly, how absurd it was of two poor little beggars like himself and Tom to have to support a great, large dog like Trusty; how hard it was to have to pay Trusty's tax; how worse than ridiculous to have to share their morsel of food with Trusty; and Pepper had pondered over these words so often that his heart had grown sour and bitter against the old dog who had once saved his life. But not to-night. To-night, as he lay in his bed and sobbed, that heart was rising up and saying hard things against itself. Tom, with rough kindness, had torn the veil from his eyes, and he saw that he had gone down several pegs in the moral scale since his mother's death. Could his mother come back to him now, would she recognize her own bright-spirited little Pepper in this poor, weak, selfish boy? He could bear his own thoughts no longer; he must not wake Tom, but he could at least make it up with Trusty. He crept softly down in the bed until he reached the place where the old dog lay, and then he put his arms round him and half-strangled him with hugs and kisses. "Oh, Trusty!" he said, "I does love yer, and I 'opes as God 'ull always let me be a real sperrited little 'un. I means h'always to stand up fur yer, Trusty; and I'll be as fiery as red pepper to any 'un as says a word agen yer, Trusty." To this fervent speech Trusty replied by raising a sleepy head and licking Pepper's face. CHAPTER III TOM AT WORK. Early the next morning, long before Pepper was awake, Tom got up, washed his face and hands in the old cracked hand-basin in one corner of the room, laid a small fire in the grate, and put some matches near it, ready for Pepper to strike when he chose to rise. These preparations concluded, he thrust his hands into his ragged trousers pocket and pulled from thence twopence and a halfpenny. The pence he laid on the three-legged stool, by the side of the matches, the halfpenny he put for safety into his mouth. Then, with a nod of farewell at the sleeping Pepper, and a pat of Trusty's head, he shouldered his broom and ran downstairs. The month was January, and at this early hour, for it was not yet eight o'clock, the outside world gave to the little sweeper no warm welcome. There was a fog and thaw, and Tom, though he ran and whistled and blew his hot breath against his cold fingers, could not get himself warm. With his halfpenny he bought himself a cup of steaming coffee at the first coffee-stall he came to, then he ran to his crossing, and began to sweep away with all the good-will in the world. The day, dismal as it was, promised to be a good one for his trade, and Tom hoped to have a fine harvest to carry home to Pepper and Trusty to-night. This thought made his bright face look still brighter. Perhaps, in all London, there was not to be found a braver boy than this little crossing-sweeper. He was only twelve years old, but he had family cares on his young shoulders. For six months now--ever since his mother's death--he had managed, he scarcely himself knew how, to keep a home for his little brother, the old dog, and himself. He had proudly resolved that Pepper--poor little tender Pepper--should never see the inside of a workhouse. As long as he had hands, and wit, and strength, Pepper should live with him. Not for worlds would he allow himself to be parted from his little brother. In some wonderful way he kept his resolve. Pepper certainly grew very white, and weak, and thin; old Trusty's ribs stuck out more and more, his one remaining eye looked more longingly every day at the morsel of food with which he was provided; and Tom himself knew but too well what hunger was. Still they, none of them, quite died of starvation; and the rent of the attic in which they lived was paid week by week. This state of things had gone on for months, Tom just managing, by the most intense industry, to keep all their heads above water. As he swept away now at his crossing, his thoughts were busy, and his thoughts, poor brave little boy! were anxious ones. How very ill Pepper was beginning to look, and how strangely he had spoken the night before about Trusty! Was it possible that his poor life of semi-starvation was beginning to tell not only on Pepper's weak body, but on his kind heart? Was Tom, while working almost beyond his strength, in reality only doing harm by keeping Pepper out of the workhouse? Would that dreadful workhouse after all be the best place for Pepper? and would his fine brave spirit revive again if he had enough food and warmth? These questions passed often through Tom's mind as he swept his crossing, but he had another thought which engrossed him even more. He had spoken confidently to Pepper about his ability to pay the tax for Trusty when the time came round, but in reality he had great anxiety on that point. The time when Trusty's tax would be due was still three months away--but three months would not be long going by, and Tom had not a penny--not a farthing toward the large sum which must then be demanded of him. It was beginning to rest like a nightmare on his bright spirit, the fact that he might have to break his word to his dying mother, that in three months' time the dear old dog might have to go. After all, he, not Pepper, might be the one faithless to their dear old Trusty. As he swept and cleaned the road so thoroughly that the finest lady might pass by without a speck on her dainty boots, he resolved, suffer what hunger he might, to put by one halfpenny a day toward the necessary money which much be paid to save Trusty's life. With this resolve bright in his eyes and firm on his rosy lips, he touched his cap to many a passer-by. But what ailed the men and women, the boys and girls, who walked quickly over Tom's clean crossing? They were all either too busy, or too happy, or too careless, to throw a coin, even the smallest coin, to the hungry, industrious little fellow. His luck was all against him; not a halfpenny did he earn. No one read his story in his eyes, no one saw the invisible arms of Pepper round his neck, nor felt the melting gaze of Trusty fixed on his face. No one knew that he was working for them as well as for himself. By noon the wind again changed and fresh snow began to fall. Tom knew that now his chance was worse than ever, for surely now no one would stop to pull out a penny or a halfpenny--the cold was much too intense. Tom knew by instinct that nothing makes people so selfish as intense cold. When he left home that morning he had only a halfpenny in his pocket, consequently he could get himself no better breakfast than a small cup of coffee. The cold, and the exercise he had been going through since early morning, had raised his healthy appetite to a ravenous pitch, and this, joined to his anxiety, induced him at last to depart from his invariable custom of simply touching his cap, and made him raise an imploring voice, to beseech for the coins which he had honestly earned. "Please, sir, I'm h'awful cold and 'ungry--give us a penny--do, for pity's sake," he said, addressing an elderly gentleman who was hurrying quickly to his home in a square close by. Would the gentleman stop, pause, look at him? Would he slacken his pace the least morsel in the world, or would he pass quickly on like those cross old ladies whom he had last addressed? His heart, began to beat a trifle more hopefully, for the old gentleman certainly did pause, pushed back his hat, and gave him--not a penny, but a quick, sharp glance from under two shaggy brows. "I hate giving to beggars," he muttered, preparing to hurry off again. But Tom was not to be so easily repressed. "Please, sir, I ain't a beggar. I works real 'ard, and I'm h'awful 'ungry, please, sir." He was now following the old gentleman, who was walking on, but slowly, and as though meditating with himself. "That's a likely story!" he said, throwing his words contemptuously at poor Tom: "you, hungry! go and feed. You have your pocket full of pennies this moment, which folks threw to you for doing nothing. I hate that idle work." "Oh! h'indeed, sir, I ain't nothink in 'em--look, please, sir." A very soiled pocket, attached to a ragged trouser, was turned out for the old gentleman's benefit. "You have 'em in your mouth," replied the man. "I'm up to some of your dodges." At this remark Tom grinned from ear to ear. His teeth were white and regular. They gleamed in his pretty mouth like little pearls; thus the heart-whole smile he threw up at the old gentleman did more for him than all the tears in the world. "Well, little fellow," he said, smiling back, for he could not help himself, "'tis much too cold now to pull out my purse--for I know you have pence about you--but if you like to call at my house to-morrow morning,--Russell Square, you shall have a penny." "Please, sir, mayn't I call to-day?" "No, I shan't be home until ten o'clock this evening." "Give us a penny, please, now, sir, for I'm real, real 'ungry." This time poor Tom very nearly cried. "Well, well! what a troublesome, pertinacious boy! I suppose I'd better get rid of him--see, here goes----" He pulled his purse out of his pocket--how Tom hoped he would give him twopence! "There, boy. Oh, I can't, I say. I have no smaller change than a shilling. I can't help you, boy; I have not got a penny." "Please, please, sir, let me run and fetch the the change." "Well, I like that! How do I know that you won't keep the whole shilling?" "Indeed, yer may trust me, sir. Indeed, I'll bring the eleven-pence to--Russell Square to-morrer mornin'." The old gentleman half-smiled, and again Tom showed his white teeth. If there was any honesty left in the world it surely dwelt in that anxious, pleading face. The old gentleman, looking down at it, suddenly felt his heart beginning to thaw and his interest to be aroused. "Oh, yes; I'm the greatest, biggest fool in the world. Still--No, I won't; I hate being taken in; and yet he's a pleasant little chap. Well, I'll try it, just as an experiment. See here, young 'un; if I trust you with my shilling, when am I to see the change?" "At eight o'clock to-morrer mornin', sir." "Well, I'm going to trust you. I never trusted a crossing-sweeper before." "H'all right, sir," answered Tom, taking off his cap and throwing back his head. "There, then, you may spend twopence; bring me back tenpence. God bless me, what a fool I am!" as he hurried away. This was not the only favor Tom got that day; but soon the lamps were lighted, sleet and rain began to fall, and no more business could be expected. CHAPTER IV. IN TROUBLE. When Tom returned home that night, he had not only the old gentleman's shilling unbroken in his pocket, but three pennies which had been given to him since then, and which jingled and made a very nice sound against the shilling. But though this was a pleasant state of affairs, there was nothing pleasant in poor little Tom's face; its bright look had left it, it was white and drawn, and he limped along in evident pain and difficulty. The fact was, Tom had fallen in the snow, and had sprained his ankle very badly. When he entered the house his pain was so great that he could scarcely hobble upstairs. On the first landing he was greeted by the rough, rude tones of Pat Finnahan, who stopped him with a loud exclamation, then shouted to his mother that Tom had arrived. Mrs. Finnahan was Tom's Irish landlady, but as he did not owe her any rent he was not afraid of her. She called to him now, however, and he stood still to listen to what she had to say. "Ah, then, wisha, Tom, and when am I to see me own agen?" she demanded, with a very strong Irish brogue. "Wot does yer mean?" asked Tom, staring at her. "I pays my rent reg'lar. I owes yer nothink." "Oh, glory!" said Mrs. Finnahan, throwing up her hands, "the boy have the imperence to ax me to my face what I manes. I manes the shilling as I lent to yer mother, young man, and that I wants back agen; that's what I manes." At these words Tom felt himself turning very pale. He remembered perfectly how, in a moment of generosity, Mrs. Finnahan had once lent his mother a shilling, but he was quite under the impression that it had been paid back some time ago. "I thought as my mother give it back to yer afore she died," he said, but a great fear took possession of his heart while he spoke. Mrs. Finnahan pushed him from her, her red face growing purple. "Listen to the likes of him," she said; "he tells me to me face as 'tis lies I'm afther telling. Oh, musha! but he's a black-hearted schoundrel. I must have me shilling to-morrow, young man, or out you goes." With these words Mrs. Finnahan retired into her private apartment, slamming the door behind her. "Tom," whispered Pat, who during this colloquy had stood by his side, "can yer give mother that 'ere shilling to-morrer?" "Yer knows I can't," answered Tom. "Well, she'll turn yer h'out, as sure as I'm Pat Finnahan." "I can't help her," answered Tom, preparing once more, as well as his painful ankle would allow him, to mount the stairs. "Yes; but I say?" continued Pat, "maybe I can do somethink." With these words the Irish boy began fumbling violently in his pocket, and in a moment or two produced from a heterogeneous group a dull, battered shilling. This shilling he exhibited in the palm of his hand, looking up at Tom as he showed it, with an expression of pride and cunning in his small, deep-set eyes. "Look yere, Tom. I really feels fur yer, fur mother's h'awful when she says a thing. There's no hope of mother letting of yer off, Tom. No, not the ghost of a hope. But see yere--this is my h'own. I got it--no matter 'ow I got it, and I'll give it to yer fur yer h'old dog. The dog ain't nothink but a burden on yer, Tom, and I'd like him. I'd give yer the shilling for h'old Trusty, Tom." But at these words all the color rushed back to Tom's face. "Take that instead of Trusty," he said, aiming a blow with all his might and main at Pat, and sending him and his shilling rolling downstairs. The false strength with which his sudden indignation had inspired him enabled him to get up the remaining stairs to his attic; but when once there, the poor little sweeper nearly fainted. CHAPTER V. THE TEMPTATION. Perhaps on this dark evening there could scarcely be found in all London three more unhappy creatures than those who crouched round the empty grate in Tom's attic. In truth, over this poor attic rested a cloud too heavy for man to lift, and good and bad angels were drawing near to witness the issues of victory or defeat. "We'll get into bed," said Tom, looking drearily round the supperless, fireless room. "Pepper," he continued as he pressed his arms round his little brother, "should yer mind werry much going to the work'us arter h'all?" "Oh, yes, yes, Tom! Oh, Tom! ef they took me from yer, I'd die." "But ef we both went, Pepper?" "What 'ud come o' Trusty?" asked Pepper. "I doesn't know the ways of work'uses," said Tom, speaking half to himself. "Maybe they'll take h'in the h'old dog. Ef you and I were to beg of 'em a little 'ard, they might take h'in old Trusty, Pepper." "But I doesn't want to go to no work'us," whispered Pepper. "I only says perhaps, Pepper," answered poor Tom. "I'd 'ate to go." "Well, don't let's think of it," said Pepper, putting up his lips to kiss Tom. "Yer'll be better in the morning, Tom; and, Tom," he added, half-timidly, half-exultantly, "I've been real sperrited h'all day. Pat came in and began to talk 'bout dear Trusty, but I flew at him, I boxed im right up h'in the ear, Tom." "Did yer really?" answered Tom, laughing, and forgetting the pain in his ankle for the moment. "Yes, and 'e's nothink but a coward, Tom, fur 'e just runned away. I'll never be a Hen-e-ry to him no more," added the little boy with strong emphasis. "No; yer a real nice, peppery young 'un," said Tom, "and I'm proud o' yer; but now go to sleep, young 'un, for I 'as a deal to think about." "'Ow's the pain, Tom?" "Werry 'ot and fiery like; but maybe 'twill be better in the morning." "Good-night, Tom," said Pepper, creeping closer into his arms. Under the sweet influence of Tom's praise, resting in peace in the delicious words that Tom was proud of him, poor hungry little Pepper was soon enjoying dreamless slumber. But not so Tom himself. Tom had gone through a hard day's work. He was tired, aching in every limb, but no kind sleep would visit that weary little body or troubled mind. His sprained ankle hurt him sadly, but his mental anxiety made him almost forget his bodily suffering. Dark indeed was the cloud that rested on Tom. His sprained ankle was bad enough--for how, with that swollen and aching foot, could he go out to sweep his crossing to-morrow? And if the little breadwinner was not at his crossing, where would the food come from for Pepper and Trusty? This was a dark cloud, but, dark as it was, it might be got over. Tom knew nothing of the tedious and lingering pain which a sprain may cause; he quite believed that a day's rest in bed would make his foot all right, and for that one day while he was in bed, they three--he, Pepper, and Trusty--might manage not quite to starve, on the pence which were over from that day's earnings. Yes, through this cloud could be seen a possible glimmer of light. But the cloud that rested behind it! Oh, was there any possible loophole of escape out of that difficulty? Tom had told nothing of this greater anxiety to Pepper. Nay, while Pepper was awake he tried to push it away even from his own mental vision. But now, in the night watches, he pulled it forward and looked at it steadily. In truth, as the poor little boy looked, he felt almost in despair. Since his mother's death he had managed to support his little household, and not only to support them, but to keep them out of debt. No honorable man of the world could keep more faithfully the maxim, "Owe no man anything, but to love one another," than did this little crossing sweeper. But now, suddenly, a debt, a debt the existence of which he had never suspected, stared him in the face. His mother had borrowed a shilling from Mrs. Finnahan. Mrs. Finnahan required that shilling back again. If that enormous sum--twelve whole pennies--was not forthcoming by to-morrow, he and Pepper and Trusty would find themselves homeless--homeless in mid-winter in the London streets. Tom knew well that Mrs. Finnahan would keep her word; that nothing, no pleading language, no entreating eyes, would induce Mrs. Finnahan to alter her cruel resolve. No; into the streets they three must go. Tom did not mind the streets so very much for himself, he was accustomed to them, at least all day long. But poor little, tender, delicate Pepper, and old broken-down Trusty! Very, very soon, those friendless, cold, desolate streets would kill Pepper and Trusty. As Tom thought of it scalding drops filled his brave, bright eyes and rolled down his cheeks. It was a moonlight night, and its full radiance had filled the little attic for an hour or more; but now the moon was hidden behind a bank of cloud, and in the dark came to little Tom the darker temptation. No way out of his difficulty? Yes, there were two ways. He might sell Trusty to Pat Finnahan for a shilling--it was far, far better to part with Trusty than to let Pepper die in the London streets; or he might keep the old gentleman's shilling and never bring him back the tenpence he had promised to return to-morrow morning. By one or other of these plans he might save Pepper from either dying or going to the workhouse. As he thought over them both, the latter plan presented itself as decidedly the most feasible. Both his pride and his love revolted against the first. Part with Trusty? How he had blamed Pepper when he had even hinted at Trusty being in the way! How very, very much his mother had loved Trusty! how, even when she was dying, she had begged of them both never to forsake the faithful old dog! Oh, he could not part with the dog! if for no other reason, he loved him too much himself. At this moment, as though to strengthen him in his resolve, Trusty, who from hunger and cold was by no means sleeping well, left his place at the little boy's feet and came up close to Tom; lying down by Tom's side, he put his paws on his shoulders and licked his face with his rough tongue; and also, just then, as though further to help Trusty in his unconscious pleading for his own safety, the moon came out from behind the cloud, shedding its white light full on the boy and the dog; and oh! how pleading, how melting, how full of tenderness did that one remaining eye of Trusty's look to Tom as he gazed at him. Clasping his arms tightly round the old dog's neck, Tom firmly determined that happen what would, he must never part from Trusty. He turned his mind now resolutely to the other plan, the one remaining loophole out of his despair. Need he give back that change to the old man? That was the question. The money he had pleaded so earnestly for still lay unbroken in his pocket; for immediately after it had been given to him, fortune seemed to turn in his favor, and other people had become not quite so stony-hearted, and a few pence had fallen to his share. With two or three pence he had bought himself some dinner, and he had brought threepence back, for Pepper's use and his own. Yes, the shilling was still unbroken--and that shilling, just that one shilling, would save them all. But--the old gentleman had trusted him--the old gentleman had said: "I never trusted a crossing-sweeper before. I am going to trust you." And Tom had promised him. Tom had pledged his word to bring him back tenpence to-morrow morning. Strange as it may seem--incomprehensible to many who judge them by no high standard--here was a little crossing-sweeper who had never told a lie in his life. Here, lying on this trundle-bed, in this poor room, rested as honorable a little heart as ever beat in human breast; he could not do a mean act; he could not betray his trust and break his word. What would his mother say could she look down from heaven and find out that her Tom had told a lie? No, not even to save Trusty and Pepper would he do this mean, mean thing. But he was very miserable, and in his misery and despair he longed so much for sympathy that he was fain at last to wake Pepper. "Pepper," he said, "we never said no prayers to-night; fold yer 'ands, Pepper, and say 'Our Father' right away." "Our Father chart heaven," began Pepper, folding his hands as he was bidden, and gazing up with his great dark eyes at the moon, "hallowed be thy name ... thy kingdom come ... thy will be done in earth h'as 'tis in heaven ... give us this day h'our daily bread ... and furgive us h'our trespasses h'as we furgive ... h'and lead us not into temptation----" "Yer may shut up there, Pepper," interrupted Tom; "go to sleep now, young 'un. I doesn't want no more." "Yes," added Tom, a few moments later, "that was wot I needed. I won't do neither o' them things. Our Father, lead us not inter temptation. Our Father, please take care on me, and Pepper, and Trusty." CHAPTER VI. TRUE TO HIS NAME. It was apparently the merest chance in the world that brought the old gentleman, who lived in--Russell Square, to his hall-door the next morning, to answer, in his own person, a very small and insignificant-sounding ring. When he opened the door he saw standing outside a very tiny boy, and by the boy's side a most disreputable-looking dog. "Well," said the old gentleman, for he hated beggars, "what do you want? Some mischief, I warrant." "Please, sir," piped Pepper's small treble, "Tom 'ud come hisself, but 'e 'ave hurt 'is foot h'awful bad, so 'e 'ave sent me and Trusty wid the tenpence, please, sir.' "What tenpence?" asked the old man, who had really forgotten the circumstance of yesterday. "Please, sir," continued Pepper, holding out sixpence and four dirty pennies, "'tis the change from the shilling as yer lent to Tom." At these words the old gentleman got very red in the face, and stared with all his might at Pepper. "Bless me!" he said suddenly; then he took hold of Pepper's ragged coat-sleeve and drew him into the hall. "Wife," he called out, "I say, wife, come here. Bless me! I never heard of anything so strange. I have actually found an honest crossing-sweeper at last." But that is the story--for the old gentleman was as kind as he was eccentric--and he failed not quickly to inquire into all particulars with regard to Tom, Pepper, and Trusty; and then as promptly to help and raise the three. Yes, that is the story. But in the lives of two prosperous men--for Tom and Pepper are men now--there is never forgotten that dark night, when the little crossing-sweeper risked everything rather than tell a lie or break a trust. And Trusty was true to his name to the last. BILLY ANDERSEN AND HIS TROUBLES. CHAPTER I. BILLY'S BABY. Billy was a small boy of ten; he was thin and wiry, had a freckled face, and a good deal of short, rather stumpy red hair. He was by no means young-looking for his ten years; and only that his figure was small, his shoulders narrow, and his little legs sadly like spindles, he might have passed for a boy of twelve or thirteen. Billy had a weight of care upon his shoulders--he had the entire charge of a baby. The baby was a year old, fairly heavy, fairly well grown; she was cutting her teeth badly, and in consequence was often cross and unmanageable. Billy had to do with her night and day, and no one who saw the two together could for a moment wonder at the premature lines of care about his small thin face. A year ago, on a certain January morning, Billy had been called away from a delightful game of hop-scotch. A red-faced woman had come to the door of a tall house, which over-looked the alley where Billy was playing so contentedly, and beckoned him mysteriously to follow her. "Yer'd better make no noise, and take off those heavy clumps of shoes," she remarked. Billy looked down at his small feet, on which some very large and much-battered specimens of the shoemaker's craft were hanging loosely. "I can shuffle of 'em off right there, under the stairs," he remarked, raising his blue eyes in a confident manner to the red-faced woman. She nodded, but did not trouble to speak further, and barefooted Billy crept up the stairs; up and up, until he came to an attic room, which he knew well, for it represented his home. He was still fresh from his hop-scotch, and eager to go back to his game; and when a thin, rather rasping woman's voice called him, he ran up eagerly to a bedside. "Wot is it, mother? I want to go back to punch Tom Jones." Alas! for poor Billy--his fate was fixed from that moment, and the wild bird was caged. "Another time, Billy," said his mother; "you 'as got other work to see to now. Pull down the bedclothes, and look wot's under 'em." Billy eagerly drew aside the dirty counterpane and sheet, and saw a very small and pink morsel of humanity--a morsel of humanity which greeted his rough intrusion on her privacy with several contortions of the tiny features, and some piercing screams. "Why, sakes alive, ef it ain't a baby," said Billy, falling back a step or two in astonishment. "Yes, Billy," replied his mother, "and she's to be your baby, for I can't do no charring and mind her as well, so set down by the fire, this minute and mind her right away." Billy did not dream of objecting; he seated himself patiently and instantly, and thought with a very faint sigh of Tom Jones, whose head he so ached to punch. Tom Jones would be victorious at hop-scotch, and he would not be present to abate his pride. Well, well, perhaps he could go to-morrow. CHAPTER II. MORE TROUBLE. Day after day passed, and month after month, and Tom Jones, the bully of Aylmer's Court, quite ceased to fear any assaults from a certain plucky and wiry little fellow, who used to fly at him when he knocked down the girls, and who made himself generally unpleasant to Tom, when Tom too violently transgressed the principle of right and justice. Not that Billy Andersen knew anything of right and justice himself; he was mostly guided by an instinct which taught him to dislike everything that Tom did, and perhaps he was also a wee bit influenced by a sentiment which made him dislike to see any thing weaker or smaller than himself bullied. Since that January morning, however, Billy's head and heart and hands were all too full for him to have any time to waste upon Tom Jones. The girls and the very little ones of the court crowded round Billy the first time he went out with his charge. One of the biggest of them, indeed, carried the little thing right up into her own home, followed by a noisy crowd eager to make friends with the little arrival. Billy was flattered by their attentions, but he preferred to keep his charge entirely to himself. At first, it was his head and hands alone which were occupied over the baby, but as she progressed under his small brotherly care, and wrinkled up her tiny features with an ugly attempt at a smile, and stretched out her limbs and cooed at him, he began gradually to discover that the baby was getting into his heart. From the moment he became certain on this point, all the irksomeness of his duties faded out of sight, and he did not mind what care or trouble he expended over Sarah Ann. Mrs. Andersen, true to her word, had given Billy the entire charge of this last addition to her family. Her husband had deserted her some months before the birth of the baby, and the poor woman had about as much as she could do, in earning bread to put into her own mouth and those of her two children. Now, it is grievous to relate that notwithstanding all Billy's devotion and good nature, Sarah Ann was by no means a nice baby. In the first place, she was very ugly--not even Billy could see any beauty in her rather old and yellow face; in the next place, she had a temper, which the neighbors were fond of describing as "vicious." Sarah Ann seemed already to have studied human nature for the purpose of annoying it. She cried at the wrong moments, she cut her teeth at the most inopportune times, she slept by day and stayed awake at night, in a manner enough to try the patience of an angel; she tyrannized over any one who had anything to do with her, and in particular she tyrannized over Billy. Night after night had Billy to pace up and down the attic, with Sarah Ann in his arms, for nothing would induce the infant to spend her waking moments except in a state of perpetual motion. In vain Billy tried darkness, and his mother tried scolding. Sarah Ann, when placed in her cot, screamed so loud that all the neighbors were aroused. When once, however, this strange and wayward little child had got into Billy's heart, he was wonderfully patient with all her caprices, and treasured the rare and far-between smiles she gave him, as worth going through a great deal to obtain. On fine days Billy took Sarah Ann for a walk; and even once or twice he went with her as far as Kensington Gardens, where they both enjoyed themselves vastly, under the shadow of a huge elm tree. It was on the last of these occasions, just before the second winter of Sarah Ann's existence, that that small adventure occurred which was to land poor Billy in such hot water and such perplexity. Sarah Ann was quite nice that afternoon; she cooed and smiled, and allowed her brother to stroke her face, and even to play tenderly with the tiny rings of soft flaxen hair which were beginning to show round her forehead. Billy's heart and head were quite absorbed with her, when a harsh, mocking laugh and a loud "Hulloa, you youngster," caused him to raise his head, and see, to his unutterable aversion, the well-remembered form of Tom Jones. "Well, I never; and so that's the reason you've bin a-shunnin' of me lately; and so you've been obliged to go and turn nursemaid; well--well--and you call yourself a manly boy." "So I be manly," retorted Billy, glaring angrily and defiantly at his adversary. "I don't want none of your cheek, Tom Jones, and I'd a sight rayther be taking care of a cute little baby like this than idling and loafing about and getting into trouble all day long--like yourself." "Oh! we has turned nice and good," said Tom Jones, trying to affect a fine lady's accent; "ain't it edifying--ain't it delicious--to hear us speaking so well of ourselves? Now then, Billy, where's that punched head you promised me a year ago now? I ain't forgot it, and I'd like to see you at it; you're afeard, that's wot you are; you're a coward, arter all, Billy Andersen." "No, I ain't," said Billy, "and I'll give it yer this 'ere blessed minute, if you like. Yere, Sarah Ann darling, you set easy with yer back up agin' the tree, and I'll soon settle Tom Jones for him." Sarah Ann strongly objected to being removed from Billy's lap to the ground; all her sunshiny good temper deserted her on the spot; she screamed, she wriggled, she made such violent contortions, and altogether behaved in such an excited and extraordinary manner, that Tom, who by no means in his heart wished to test Billy's powers, found a ready excuse for postponing the moment when his head must be punched, in her remarkable behavior. "Well, I never did see such a baby," he began; "now, I likes that sort of a baby; why, she have a sperrit. No, no, Billy, I ain't going to punch you; now, I'd like to catch hold of that 'ere little one"--but here Billy frustrated his intention. "You shan't touch my baby; you shan't lay a hand on her," he exclaimed, snatching Sarah Ann up again in his arms, and covering her with kisses. "Well, see if I don't some day," said Tom; "you dare me, do you? Well, all right, we'll see." As Billy walked home that afternoon, he was a little troubled by Tom's words; he knew how vindictive Tom could be, and there was an ugly light in his green eyes when he, Billy, had refused to give him the baby. Tom was capable of mischief, of playing such a practical joke as might cause sad trouble and even danger to poor little Sarah Ann. Hitherto Billy had kept all knowledge of the baby's existence from Tom Jones. What evil chance had brought him to Kensington Gardens that day? Troubles, however, were not to fall singly on poor Billy Andersen that day. He was greeted on his return to his attic by eager words and excited ejaculations. It was some time before his poor little dazed head could take in the fact that his mother had broken her leg, and was taken to the hospital. He must then for the time being turn the baby's breadwinner as well as her caretaker. CHAPTER III. TOM JONES' TRICK. The neighbors were full of suggestions to Billy at this crisis of his fate. It was ascertained beyond all doubt that Mrs. Andersen would be six weeks, if not two months, away; and this being the case, the neighbors one and all declared roundly that there was nothing whatever for Sarah Ann but to become a workhouse baby. One of them would carry her to the house the very next morning, and of course she would be admitted without a moment's difficulty, and there would be an end of her. Billy might manage to earn a precarious living by running messages, by opening cab-doors, and by the thousand-and-one things an active boy could undertake, and so he might eke out a livelihood till his mother came back; but there was no hope whatever for Sarah Ann--there was no loophole for her but the workhouse. To these admonitions on the part of his friendly neighbors, Billy responded in a manner peculiar to himself. First of all, he raised two blue and very innocent eyes, and let them rest slowly and thoughtfully on each loquacious speaker's face; then he suddenly and without the slightest warning winked one of the said eyes in a manner that was so knowing as to be almost wicked, and then without the slightest word or comment he dashed into his attic and locked the door on himself and Sarah Ann. "Sarah Ann, darling," he said, placing the baby on the floor and kneeling down a few paces from her, "will yer go to the workhouse, or will yer stay with yer h'own Billy?" Sarah Ann's response to this was to wriggle as fast as possible up to her affectionate nurse, and rub her little dirty face against his equally dirty trousers. "That's settled, then," said Billy; "yer has chosen, Sarah Ann, and yer ain't one as could ever abear contradictions, so we 'as got to see how we two can live." This was a problem not so easily managed, for the neighbors took offense with Billy not following their advice, and it was almost impossible for him to leave Sarah Ann long at home by herself. True to this terrible infant's character, she now refused to sleep by day, as she had hitherto done, thus cutting off poor Billy's last loophole of earning his bread and her own with any comfort. Billy had two reasons which made it almost impossible for him to leave the baby in the attic; the first was his fear that Tom Jones, who still hovered dangerously about, might find her and carry her off; the second was the undoubted fact that if Sarah Ann was left to enjoy her own solitary company, she would undoubtedly scream herself into fits and the neighbors into distraction. There was nothing whatever for it but for Billy to carry the baby with him when he went in search of their daily bread. Poor little brave man, he had certainly a hard time during those next two months, and except for the undoubted fact that he and the baby were two of the sparrows whom our Father feeds, they both must have starved; but perhaps owing to a certain look in Billy's eyes, which were as blue as blue could be, in the midst of his freckled face, and also, perhaps, to a certain pathetic turn which the baby's ugliness had now assumed, the two always managed to secure attention. With attention, came invariably a few pence--fourpence one day--sixpence and even eightpence another. The greater portion of the food thus obtained was given to Sarah Ann, but neither of the two quite starved. Billy counted and counted and counted the days until his mother would be home again; and as, fortunately for him, Mrs. Andersen had paid the rent of their attic some weeks in advance, the children still had a shelter at night. All went tolerably well with the little pair until a certain bitter day in the beginning of November. Billy was very hopeful on the morning of that day, for his mother's time of captivity in the hospital had nearly expired, and soon now she would be back to take the burden of responsibility off his young shoulders. Sarah Ann had hitherto escaped cold; indeed, her life in the open air seemed to agree with her, and she slept better at nights, and was really becoming quite a nice tempered baby. Billy used to look at her with the most old fatherly admiration, and assured her that she was such a darling duck of a cherub that he could almost eat her up. No, Sarah Ann had never taken cold, but Billy felt a certain amount of uneasiness on this particular morning, which was as sleety, as gusty, as altogether melancholy a day as ever dawned on the great London world. There was no help for it, however, the daily bread must be found; and he and the baby must face the elements. He wrapped an old woolen comforter several times round Sarah Ann's throat, and beneath the comforter secured a very thin and worn Paisley shawl of his mother's, and then buttoning up his own ragged jacket, and shuffling along in his large and untidy boots, he set forth. Whether it was the insufficient food he had lately partaken of or that the baby was really growing very heavy, poor Billy almost staggered to-day under Sarah Ann's weight. He found himself obliged to lean for support against a pillar box, and then he discovered to his distress that the baby began to sneeze, that her tiny face was blue, and that her solemn black eyes had quite a weary and tearful look. "She's a-catchin' cold, the blessed, blessed babby," exclaimed poor Billy; "oh, Sairey Ann, darlin', don't you go and take the brownchitis, and break the heart of your h'own Billy. Oh! lady, lady, give us a 'ap'enny, or a penny. Give us a copper, please, kind lady." The lady so aprostrophized was good-natured enough to bestow a few pence on the starved-looking children, and after a certain miserable fashion the morning passed away. This was, however, Billy's only money success, and he was just making up his mind to go home, and to prefer starvation in his attic to running the feeble chance of securing any more charities. Sarah Ann still continued to sneeze and her eyes still looked watery, and Billy was sorrowfully giving up his hope of receiving any more coppers, when he came face to face with his old adversary and tormentor, Tom Jones. In the anxiety of these latter few weeks, Billy had lost his old fear of Tom, and he was now so spent and exhausted that he greeted him with almost pleasure. "Oh! Tom, do hold the babby just for one minute, just for me to get a wee bit of breath. I'm all blown like, and I'm afeard as Sarah Ann 'as taken cold; jest hold her for one minute--will yer?" Tom, who was looking rather white and shaken himself, just glanced into Billy's face, and some gibing words, which were on the tip of his tongue, were restrained. "Why, yer does look bad, Billy Andersen," he said, and then, without another word, he lifted the baby out of the little lad's trembling arms, and held her in an awkward but not altogether untender fashion. "Look you here, Billy," he said, "ef yer likes to round quick this 'ere corner, there are two cabs coming up to a house as I passed, and they are sure to want a boy to help in with the boxes, and you maybe earn sixpence or a bob; run round this yere minute--quick, Billy, quick." "I'd like to, awful well," said Billy, "and the run will warm me, and wouldn't the bob be fine--but, oh! Tom, will yer hold Sairey Ann? and will yer promise not to run away with her? will yer promise sure and faithful, Tom?" "What in the world should I do that for?" said Tom. "What good would yer Sairey Ann be to me? My h'eyes--I has work enough to get my h'own victuals. There, Billy, I'll not deprive you of the babby; you jest run round the corner, or yer'll lose the chance. There, Billy, be quick; you'll find Sairey Ann safe enough when yer comes back." The poor thin and cold baby gave a little cry as Billy ran off, but the chance was too good for him to lose; and, after all, what earthly use could Tom have with Sairey Ann? CHAPTER IV. WHAT IT MEANT. Poor Billy! After all, Tom had told him a story, for there was no cab whatever waiting in the long and dreary street, into which he ran so eagerly. He ran up and down its entire length, and even stopped at the very number Tom had indicated. A little girl was coming slowly down the steps, and Billy could not help saying to her, "Oh, missy, am I too late, and have all the boxes been stowed away afore I come?" "There have been no boxes stowed away," said the little girl, stopping and staring in astonishment at the ragged boy. "Oh, but, missy, out of the two cabs, yer knows." "There have been no cabs here for many a day," replied the child in a sorrowful, dull kind of tone, which seemed to say that she only wished anything half so nice and interesting would arrive. Billy saw then that the whole thing had been a hoax, and he flew back down the long street, with a great terror in his heart. Oh! what did Tom mean, and was the baby safe? There was no Tom anywhere in sight when the poor little boy returned to the more crowded thoroughfare; but a policeman was stooping down and looking curiously at something on the pavement, and one or two people were beginning to collect round him. Billy arrived just in time to see the policeman pick up a little shivering, crying, half-naked baby. Yes, this baby was his own Sarah Ann, but her woolen comforter, and mother's old Paisley shawl, and even a little brown winsey frock had all disappeared. "Oh! give her to me, give her to me," sobbed poor Billy; "oh, Sairey Ann, Sairey Ann, yer'll have brownchitis and hinflammation now, sure and certain; oh, wot a wicked boy Tom Jones is." The policeman asked a few leading questions, and then finding that the baby was Billy's undoubted property, he was only too glad to deliver her into his arms. The poor baby was quiet at once, and laid her little head caressingly against Billy's cheek. Billy tore off his own ragged jacket and wrapped it round her, and then flew home, with the energy and terror of despair. A pitiless sleet shower overtook him, however, and the two were wet to the skin when they arrived at their attic. CHAPTER V. BILLY'S ILLNESS. All that day Billy anxiously watched the baby; he tore off her wet clothes, and wrapped the blanket and the sheet tightly round her, and then he coaxed a neighbor to expend one of his pennies on milk, which he warmed and gave with some broken bread to the little hungry creature. He forgot all about himself in his anxiety for Sarah Ann, and as the day passed on, and she did not sneeze any more, but sat quite warm and bright and chirrupy in his arms, he became more and more light-hearted, and more and more thankful. In his thankfulness he would have offered a little prayer to God, had he known how, for his mother was just sufficiently not a heathen to say to him, now and then, "Don't go out without saying your prayers, Billy, be sure you say your prayers," and once or twice she had even tried to teach him a clause out of Our Father. He only remembered the first two words now, and, looking at the baby, he repeated them solemnly several times. At last it was time to go to bed, and as Sarah Ann was quite nice and sleepy, Billy hoped they would have a comfortable night. So they might have had, as far as the baby was concerned, for she nestled off so peacefully, and laid her soft head on Billy's breast. But what ailed the poor little boy himself? His head ached, his pulse throbbed as he lay with the scanty blankets covering him; he shivered so violently that he almost feared he should wake Sarah Ann. Yes, he, not the baby, had taken cold. He, not the baby, was going to have brownchitis or that hinflammation which he dreaded. The mischief had been done when he tore off his jacket and ran home, through the pitiless sleet, in his ragged shirt-sleeves. Well, he was glad it was not Sairey Ann, and mother would soon be home now, and find her baby well, and not starved, and perhaps she would praise him a little bit, and tell him he was a good boy. He had certainly tried to be a good boy. All through the night--while his chest ached and ached, and his breath became more and more difficult, and the baby slumbered on, with her little downy head against his breast--he kept wondering, in a confused sort of way, what his mother would say to him, and if the Our Father, in the only prayer he ever knew, was anything like the father who had been cruel, and who had run away from him and his mother a year ago. All his thoughts, however, were very vague, and as the morning broke, and his suffering grew worse, he was too ill to think at all. CHAPTER VI. THE END OF HIS TROUBLES. Tom Jones, having secured the baby's comforter, the thin Paisley shawl, and the little winsey frock, ran as fast as he could to a pawnbroker's hard by. There he received a shilling on the articles, and with this shilling jingling pleasantly in his pocket he entered an eating-house which he knew, and prepared to enjoy some pea pudding and pork. Tom expended exactly the half of the shilling on his dinner; he ate it greedily, for he was very hungry indeed, and then he went back into the street, with sixpence still to the good in his trouser pocket. With sixpence in his pocket, and a comfortable dinner inside of him, Tom felt that his present circumstances were delightfully easy. He might walk about the streets with quite fine gentlemanly airs for an hour or two, if he so willed. Or he might flatten his nose against the shop windows, or he might play halfpenny pitch and toss. His circumstances were really affluent, and of course he ought to have been correspondingly happy. The odd thing was that he was not very happy; he could not get Billy's white face out of his head, and he could not altogether forget the icy cold feel of the baby's little arms, when he slipped off that brown winsey frock. Tom was as hard a boy as ever lived, and a year ago his conscience might not have troubled him, even for playing so wicked a prank as he had done that day. But since then he had met with a softening influence. Tom Jones had been very ill with a bad fever, and during that time had been taken care of in the London fever hospital. In that hospital, the wild, rough street boy had listened to many kind and gentle words and had witnessed many noble and self-denying actions. Two or three children had died while Tom was in the hospital, and the nurses had told the other children that this death only meant going home for the little ones, and that they were now safely housed, and free from any more sin and any more temptation. Tom had listened to the gentle words of the kind Sister nurse, without heeding them much. But the memory of the whole scene came back to him to-day, all mingled strangely with Billy's pale face and the baby's cold little form, until he became quite compunctious and unhappy, and finally felt that he could not spend that remaining sixpence, but must let it burn a hole in his pocket, and do anything, in short, rather than provide him with food and shelter. Tom was accustomed to spending his nights under archways and huddled up in any sheltered corner he could discover. This particular night he was lucky enough to find a cart half-full of hay, and here he would doubtless have had a delicious sleep, had not the baby and Billy come into his dreams. The baby and Billy between them managed to give poor Tom a horrible time of it, and at last he felt that he could bear it no longer: he must go and give Billy the sixpence which remained out of his shilling. He started tolerably early the next morning, and carefully turning his face away from the bakers' shops and coffee-stalls as he passed them, he found himself presently in Aylmer's Court. He had conquered himself in the matter of the bakers' shops and the coffee stalls, and in consequence he felt a good deal elated, his conscience became easier, and he began to say to himself that very few boys would restore even a stolen sixpence when they were starving. He ran up the stairs, calling out to a neighbor to know if Billy Andersen was within. "I believe yer," she replied; "jest listen to That 'ere blessed babby, a-screamin' of itself into fits; oh! bother her for as ill-mannered a child as ever I came across." Tom ran up the remainder of the stairs, and entered Billy's attic without knocking. There he saw a sight which made him draw in his breath with a little start of surprise and terror; the baby was sitting up in bed and crying lustily, and Billy was lying with his back to her, quite motionless, and apparently deaf to her most piteous wails. Billy's usual white face was flushed a fiery red, and his breathing, loud and labored, fell with solemn distinctness on Tom's ears. Tom knew these signs at a glance; he had seen them so often in the fever hospital. Shutting the door softly behind him, and first of all taking the baby in his arms and thrusting a sticky lollipop, which he happened to have in his waistcoat pocket, into her mouth: "Be yer werry bad, Billy Andersen?" he said, stooping down over the sick boy. "Our Father," replied Billy, raising his blue eyes and fixing them in a pathetic manner on Tom. "'Tis our Father I wants." "Why, he were a bad'un," said Tom; "he runned away from yer, he did; I wouldn't be fretting about him, if I was you, Billy lad." "'Tis the other one--'tis t'other one I means," said Billy in a weak gasping voice. "I has 'ad the words afore me all night long--our Father; tell us what it means, Tom, do." "I know all about it," said Tom in a tone of wisdom; "I larned about it in hospital. There, shut up, Sairey Ann, do; what a young 'un yer are for squallin'. Our Father lives in heaven, Billy, and he'll--he'll--oh! I am sure I forgets--look yere, wouldn't yer like some breakfast, old chap?" "Water," gasped Billy, "and some milk for the babby." Tom found himself, whether he wished it or not, installed as Billy's nurse. He had to run out and purchase a penny-worth of milk, and he had also the forethought to provide himself with a farthing's worth of bull's eyes, one of which he popped into Sarah Ann's mouth whenever she began to howl. Never had Tom Jones passed so strange a day. It did not occur to him that Billy was in any danger, but neither did it come into his wild, untutored, hard little heart to desert his sick comrade. By means of the lollipops, he managed to keep Sarah Ann quiet, and then he kindled a tiny fire in the grate, and sat down by Billy, and gave him plentiful drinks of cold water whenever he asked for them. Billy shivered and flushed alternately, and his blue eyes had a glassy look, and his breath came harder and faster as the slow sad day wore away. Tom, however, never deserted his post, satisfying his own hunger with a hunk of dry bread, and managing to keep Sarah Ann quiet. Toward evening, Billy seemed easier; the dreadful oppression of his breathing was not quite so intense, and the flush on his face had given way to pallor. Tom lit a morsel of candle and placed it in a tin sconce, and then he once more sat down by his little comrade. For the first time then Tom noticed that solemn and peculiar look which Billy's well-known features wore. He puzzled his brain to recall where he had last seen such an expression; then it came back to him--it was in the fever hospital, and the little ones who had worn it had soon gone home. Was Billy going home? The baby lay asleep in Tom's arms, and he looked from her to the sick child whose eyes were now closed, and whose breath was faint and light. "Shall I fetch a doctor, old chap?" he whispered. Billy shook his head. "Tell us wot yer knows about our Father," he said in a very low and feeble voice. "Our Father," began Tom. "He lives in heaven, he do. He's kind and he gives lots of good things to the young 'uns as lives with him in heaven. It sounds real fine," continued Tom, "the way as our Father treats them young 'uns, only the worst of it is," he added with the air of a philosopher, "we 'as to die first." "To die," said Billy, "yes, and wot then?" "I 'spect," continued Tom, "as our Father fetches us up 'ome somehow, but I'm very ignorant; I don't know nothing, but jest that there's a home and a Father somewheres. Look yere, Billy, old chap, you ain't going to die, be yer?" "I 'spect I be," said Billy; "a home somewheres, and our Father there, it sounds werry nice." Then he closed his eyes again, and his breath came a little quicker and a little weaker, and the solemn look grew and deepened on his white face. "Give me my babby," he said an hour later; "lay her alongside o' me; oh! my darling, darling Sairey Ann; and I'll tell mother when she comes in." But mother never got her message, for when next Billy spoke, it was in the safe home of our Father. Billy's baby grew up by and by, but no one ever loved her better than Billy did. THE OLD ORGAN-MAN. "The world goes up and the world goes down, And the sunshine follows the rain." CHARLES KINGSLEY. CHAPTER I. PLAYING FOR LOVE. He was always called old Antonio, and though he doubtless possessed a surname of some sort, no one seemed to know anything about it. He had white hair, and a bronzed face, and kindly soft brown eyes, and he got his living by pacing up and down the streets and turning a hurdy-gurdy. This instrument was a rather good one of its class--it could play six different airs, and all the airs were Italian, and even played by the hurdy-gurdy had a little of the sweet cadence and soft pathetic melody of that land of music. Antonio lived in an attic all by himself, and the grown people wondered at him and asked each other what his history could be, but the children loved him and his music, and were to be seen about him wherever he went. He looked like a man with a story, but no one had ever troubled themselves to find it out or to ask him any questions. He did, however, receive stray pennies enough to keep him alive, and the street children loved him, and whenever they had a chance danced merrily to his music. One cold and snowy afternoon, about a week before Christmas Day, old Antonio sat up in his attic and looked gloomily out at the snow-laden clouds. Nothing but the fact that there was no oil for his stove, and no pennies in his pockets, would have induced the old Italian to brave such inclement weather. But no fire and no food will make a man do harder things than Antonio was now thinking about. He must get something to eat and some fire to warm himself by. He shouldered his hurdy-gurdy and went out. "Poor Marcia," he said to himself as he trudged along. "Well, well, we of the south are mistaken in the generous land of England. The milk and honey-bah, they are nowhere. The inhabitants--they freeze like their frozen skies. Poor Marcia, no doubt she has long ceased to look for the footfall of her Antonio." The old man, feeling very melancholy and depressed, walked down several streets without once pausing or attempting to commence his music. At last he stopped at the entrance of a very dull square. He had never yet received a penny in this square, and had often said to himself that its inhabitants had not a note of music among them. He took the square now as a short cut, meaning to strike out toward Holborn and the neighborhood of the shops. Half-way through the square he stopped. A house which used to be all over placards and notices to let presented a different appearance. It was no longer dead and lifeless. From its windows lights gleamed, and lie could see people flitting to and fro. He stopped for a moment to look at the house and comment on its changed appearance, then with a slight little start, and a look of pleased expectation, he put down his hurdy-gurdy and began softly to turn the handle and to bring out one by one his beloved Italian melodies. The first, a well-known air from "Il Trovatore," was scarcely finished before a little dark head was popped up from behind a window-blind, and two soft eyes gazed eagerly across the street at the old organ-grinder. "Bless her! what a depth of color, what eyes, what hair! she comes from the south, the pretty one." Antonio nodded his head to her as he made these remarks, and the child, with her face pressed against the pane, gazed steadily back at him, now and then smiling in an appreciative manner. The six airs were all played out and repeated a second time, and then Antonio, looking up at the sky, from which the snow was still steadily falling, began to think of moving on. In his pleasure at playing for the child he had forgotten all about the money part of his profession. He was indeed indulging in a happy dream, in which Marcia, and a certain little Marcia, who had long ago gone back to God, were again by his side. He threw a cloth over his hurdy-gurdy and prepared to mount it on his shoulder. The moment he did so the child disappeared from the window. There was a quick, eager patter of little feet in the hall, the front door was opened, and the next moment the little dark child was standing by his side. "Here's sixpence of my very own, and you shall have it, poor man, and thank you for your lovely, lovely music." "You liked it, dearie?" said Antonio, not touching the sixpence, but looking down at the pretty child with reverence. "Oh! didn't I just? I used to hear those airs in Italy, and they remind me of my dear mamma." "Little missy has got eyes dark and long like almonds; perhaps she comes from our sunny south?" said Antonio eagerly. "No, I am a little English girl; but my mamma was ill, and they took her to Italy, and Marcia nursed her. God has taken my mamma away, and now I am in England, and I don't like it; but I shall only stay here until my father comes home." "Missy, you make my heart beat when you talk of Italy and of Marcia--but your Marcia, was she young?--the name is a common one, and mine, if the good Lord has not removed her, must be very old now." "My Marcia was young and good," said the little girl. "I loved her, and I cry for her still. I am so sorry your Marcia is old, poor man. Thank you for the music. I must run in now, or Janet will scold. Good-by. Here's your sixpence." "No, no, missy. I'll get some pence in the other streets. Let me feel that I played the old airs for you only for love." CHAPTER II. A FRIEND IN NEED. Antonio did not stay out much longer in the snow. This enterprise of his had not turned out a profitable one; no one on such a miserable day felt inclined to listen to his Italian airs, the snow seemed to be locking up people's hearts, and he went back to his attic hungry and cold, and quite as penniless as when he started on his expedition. Still there was a glow in his heart, and he was not at all sorry that he had played for the pretty child for love. He sat down in an old broken arm-chair and wrapped a tattered cloak about him, and indulged in what he called a reverie of Italy and old times. This reverie, as he said afterward, quite warmed him and took away his desire for food. "The child has brought all back to me like a golden dream," he murmured. "Poor, poor Marcia! why do I think of her so much to-night? and there's no money in the little box, and no hope of going back to her, and it's fifteen years ago now." The next day Antonio went back to the quiet square off Bloomsbury, and played all his Italian airs opposite the house where he had played them yesterday; but though he looked longingly from one window to another, he could not get any glimpse of the child who reminded him of Italy. As he walked through the square on his way home he could see the people passing to the week-night service at the church, which stood in the center. But no trace of the little one could he catch. As far as money was concerned, he had had a much better day than yesterday, but he went home, nevertheless, disappointed and with quite a blank at his old heart. The next day he hoped he would see the child, and he again went slowly through the square, but he could not catch a glimpse of her, and after doing this every day in vain he soon came to the conclusion that she had gone. "Her father has come for the pretty one, and she has gone back to the fair south," he murmured. "Ah, well! I never saw such eyes as hers on an English maiden before." On Christmas Day Antonio shouldered his organ, as usual, and went out. On this morning he made quite a little harvest; people were so merry and so bright and so happy that even those who did not want his Italian airs gave him a penny to get rid of him. Quite early in the afternoon he turned his steps homeward. On his way he bought half a pound of sausages and a small bottle of thin and sour claret. "Now," he said to himself, "I shall have a feast worthy of my Italy," and he trudged cheerfully back, feeling all the better for his walk through the pleasant frosty air. Antonio never indulged in fires, but he had a small paraffin stove in his attic, and this he now lit, and spread out his thin hands before the poor little attempt at a fire. Then he drank his claret and ate his sausages and bread, and tried to believe that he was having quite a bright little Christmas feast. There were many voices in the room below, and cheerful sounds coming up now and then from the court, and altogether there was a festive air about everything, and Antonio tried to believe himself one with a merry multitude. But, poor old man, he failed to do so. He was a lonely and very old man--he was an exile from his native country. No one in all this great world of London cared anything at all about him, and he was parted from his good wife Marcia. Fifteen years ago now they had agreed to part; they both supposed that this parting would be a matter of months, or a year at most. "The good land of England is paved with gold," said Antonio. "I will go there and collect some of the treasure and then come back for you and little Marcia." "And in the mean time the good God will give me money enough to keep on the little fruit stall and to support our little sweet one," said Marcia, bravely keeping back her tears. Antonio came to England, and quickly discovered that the streets paved with gold and the abundant wealth lived only in his dreams. The little money he had brought with him was quickly spent, and he had no means to enable him to return to Italy. Neither he nor his wife could write, and under these circumstances it was only too easy for the couple to lose sight of each other. Once, a few years back, an Italian had brought him word that little Marcia was dead, and that his wife was having a very poor time of it. When Antonio heard this he came home in a fit of desperation, and finding a small box, bored a hole in the lid, and into this hole he religiously dropped half of all he earned, hoping by this means to secure a little fund to enable him to return to Naples and to Marcia. The winter, however, set in with unusual severity, and the contents of the little box had to be spent, and poor Antonio seemed no nearer to the only longing he now had in his old heart. On this particular Christmas Day, after his vain attempt at being merry and Christmas-like, he dropped his head into his hands and gave way to some very gloomy thoughts. There was no hope now of his ever seeing his old wife again. How tired she must be of standing by that fruit stall and watching in vain for him to turn the corner of the gay and picturesque street! There she would stand day after day, with her crimson petticoat, and her tidy bodice, and the bright yellow handkerchief twisted round her head. Her dark eyes would look out softly and longingly for the old man who was never coming back. Yes, since the child had gone back to God, Marcia must be a very lonely woman. After thinking thus for some time, until all the short daylight had faded and the lamps were lit one by one in the street below, Antonio began to pace up and down his little attic. He was feeling almost fierce in his longing and despair; the patient submission to what he believed an inevitable fate, which at most times characterized him, gave place to passionate utterances, the natural outcome of his warm southern nature. "Oh, God! give me back Marcia--let me see my old wife Marcia once again before I die," he pleaded several times. After a little he thought he would change the current of his sad musings, and go out into the street with his hurdy-gurdy. As I have said before, he was always a favorite with the children, and they now crowded round him and begged for that merry Italian air to which they could dance. Antonio was feeling too unhappy to care about money, and it afforded him a passing pleasure to gratify the children, so he set down his barrel-organ in the dirty crowded street, and began to turn the handle. The children, waiting for their own favorite air, collected closely round the old man; now it was coming, and they could dance, oh! so merrily, to the strains they loved. But--what was the matter? Antonio was looking straight before him, and turning the handle slowly and mechanically. Suddenly his whole face lit up with an expression of wonder, of pleasure, of astonishment. He let go the handle of the barrel organ, and the music went out with a little crash, and the next instant he was pushing his way through the crowd of dirty children, and was bending over a little girl, with dark hair and dark, sweet, troubled eyes, who was standing without either bonnet or jacket spell-bound by the notes of the old hurdy-gurdy. "Why, my little one--my little sweet one from the south, however did you come to a dreadful place like this?" said old Antonio. At the sound of his voice, the child seemed to be roused out of a spell of terror; she trembled violently, she clasped her arms round his knees, and burst into sobs and cries. "You are my organ-man--you are my own darling organ-man. Oh! I knew it must be you, and now you will take me home to my father." "But however did you come here, my dear little missy?" "My name is Mona. I am Mona Sinclair, and Janet my maid--oh! how cruel she is; she was jealous of the dear Marcia I used to have in Italy, and she said she would punish me, and she would do it on Christmas Day. Father has not come home yet, and I have been so unhappy waiting for him, and Janet said she was tired of my always crying and missing my mamma, and she took me for a walk this afternoon, and she met some grandly dressed people, and they wanted her to go with them, and she said she would for a little, and she told me to stand at the street corner, and she would be back in ten minutes, but it seemed like hours and hours," continued the child excitedly, "and I was so cold, and so miserable, and I could not wait any longer, and I thought I would find my own way home, and I have been looking for it ever since, and I cannot find it. I asked one woman to tell me, but all she did was to hurry me into a corner and take off my fur cap and my warm jacket, and she looked so wicked, and I've been afraid to ask any one since; but now you will take me home, you won't be unkind to me, my dear organ-man." "Yes, I will take you home, my darling," said Antonio, and he lifted the little child tenderly into his arms. CHAPTER III. GLAD TIDINGS. "I must not leave my barrel-organ in the street," said Antonio to the child; "will you let me take it home first, missy? and then I can take you back to your father." Little Mona, holding Antonio's hand, and walking by his side in the midst of the rabble, was a totally different child from Mona, standing by herself under the street lamp. "I shall like to see your home, organ-man," she said in her sweet voice. "Do you really live in an attic? Marcia and her mother live in an attic in Italy, too, and Marcia likes it." Then they walked through the streets together, and Mona went upstairs with Antonio. She seemed quite contented in the funny little place, and sat down on a low seat with a sigh of satisfaction. "I am so glad I met you, organ-man, and I like your home. I would much rather live here with you than go back to Janet. I am dreadfully afraid of Janet, and I sometimes think my father will never come. I wish I could live with you, organ-man," continued little Mona in a piteous voice, "for you could talk to me about Italy, where my dear mamma died, and oh! organ-man, you do remind me of Marcia." "I once had two Marcias," said old Antonio in a grave and troubled voice; "the little one is with God, and the wife whom I love, I don't know what shelter she is finding for her gray hairs. It troubles me to hear you speak of Marcia, missy. It brings back painful memories." The child had a thoughtful and serious face; she now fixed her eyes on old Antonio, and did not speak. "And I must take you home," continued the old man. "I should like to keep you with me, my little bright missy, but suppose your good father has returned, fancy his agony." "If I could think my father had come, how glad I should be!" said little Mona, and she went over to Antonio and took his hand. It was not a very long way from Antonio's attic to the house in B---- Square. Antonio was too old and too feeble to carry the little girl all the way. He would have liked to do so, for the feel of her little arms round his neck, and her soft brown cheek pressed to his, brought the strangest peace and comfort to his heart. Antonio had not had such a good time since he left Italy, and he could not help feeling, in some inexplicable way, that he was going back to Marcia. At last they reached the house, and the old organ-man's ring was speedily answered. Immediately there was a shout of delight and a great bustle, and little Mona was almost torn from her companion and carried into a dining-room, which was very bright with firelight and gaslight. Antonio, standing on the hall-door steps, heard some very tender and loving words addressed in a manly voice to the little girl. Then he said to himself, "The dear little one's father has come and her heart will be at rest." And he began slowly to go down the steps, and to turn back to a world which was once more quite sunless and cold. But this was not to be, for little Mona's voice arrested him, and both she and her father brought him into the house and into the warm dining-room. There Mr. Sinclair shook his hand, and thanked him many times, and tried to explain to him something of the agony he had undergone when he had listened to the terrified Janet's confession, and had discovered that his only child was gone. "I too have lost a child," said old Antonio. "I can sympathize with your feelings, sir." "But you have got to tell my father all that story of the Marcia with gray hair," said little Mona. She was a totally different child now, her timidity and fear were gone, she danced about, and put Antonio into a snug chair, and insisted once more on his telling his story. When he had finished, Mr. Sinclair said a few words: "I believe God's providence sent you here to-night in a double sense, and I begin to see my way to pay you back in some measure for what you have done for me. The young girl who so devotedly nursed my wife during her long illness was called Marcia. We wished to bring her to England, for my child loved her much, but we could not induce her to go away from an old mother of the same name. She often told us what hard times this mother had undergone, and how her heart was almost broken for her husband, who had gone away to England to seek his fortune, but had never come back. Now, can it be possible that these two Marcias are yours, and that the man who said your child was dead was mistaken?" "It may be so," said old Antonio, whose face had grown very white. "Oh! sir, if ever you go back to Naples could you find out from that Marcia with gray hairs if the husband she laments was one Antonio, an old man, who played Italian airs?" "My child and I are going back to Naples next week," said Mr. Sinclair, "and suppose you come with us and find out for yourself, Antonio." CHAPTER IV. AT LAST. There came a warm day, full of light, and life, and color; a day over which the blue sky of Italy smiled. Beside an artistically arranged fruit stall a slender and handsome Italian girl stood. Behind the stall, on a low seat, sat an old woman; she was knitting, but her restless eyes took eager count of every passer-by. "Did you observe that old man, Marcia?" she said in her rapid Italian to the young girl. The girl turned her beautiful and pitying eyes full on the old woman. "He was not my father, mother. Ah! dear mother, can you not rest content that the good God has taken my father to himself?" "Fifteen years," muttered the old Italian woman. "Fifteen years, with the love growing stronger, and the heart emptier, and the longing sorer. No, I have not given him up. Oh! my merciful Father in heaven, what--who is that?" A little group was coming up to the fruit stall, a child who danced merrily, an old man with a bent white head, and a gentleman on whose arm he leaned. They came up close. The child flew to the younger Marcia, the old couple gazed at each other with that sudden trembling which great and wonderful heart-joy gives, they came a little nearer, and then their arms were round each other's necks. "At last, Marcia," said old Antonio--"at last!" THE END. * * * * * A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS For Young People BY POPULAR WRITERS. 52-58 Duane Street, New York. Bonnie Prince Charlie: A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The adventures of the son of a Scotch officer in French service. The boy, brought up by a Glasgow bailie, is arrested for aiding a Jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the French coast, reaches Paris, and serves with the French army at Dettingen. He kills his father's foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the adventures of Prince Charlie, but finally settles happily in Scotland. "Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'Quentin Durward.' The lad's journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of treatment and variety of incident Mr. Henty has surpassed himself."--Spectator. With Clive in India; or, the Beginnings of an Empire. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in India and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. At its commencement the English were traders existing on sufferance of the native princes. At its close they were masters of Bengal and of the greater part of Southern India. The author has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adventure, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume. "He has taken a period of Indian history of the most vital importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply interesting. Young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume."--_Scotsman._ The Lion of the North: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars of Religion. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by JOHN SCH�NBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Henty gives the history of the first part of the Thirty Years' War. The issue had its importance, which has extended to the present day, as it established religious freedom in Germany. The army of the chivalrous king of Sweden was largely composed of Scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story. "The tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited."--_Times._ The Dragon and the Raven; or, The Days of King Alfred. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. The hero, a young Saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by King Alfred. He is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the Danes on their own element, and being pursued by them up the Seine, is present at the long and desperate siege of Paris. "Treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader."--_Athenæum._ The Young Carthaginian: A Story of the Times of Hannibal. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Boys reading the history of the Punic Wars have seldom a keen appreciation of the merits of the contest. That it was at first a struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of Carthage, that Hannibal was a great and skillful general, that he defeated the Romans at Trebia, Lake Trasimenus, and Cannæ, and all but took Rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of their knowledge. To let them know more about this momentous struggle for the empire of the world Mr. Henty has written this story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant description of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of exciting adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. "Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force."--_Saturday Review._ In Freedom's Cause: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish War of Independence. The extraordinary valor and personal prowess of Wallace and Bruce rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time Wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. The researches of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing man--and a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought under both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of "hairbreadth 'scapes" and wild adventure. "It is written in the author's best style. Full of the wildest and most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put on one side."--The Schoolmaster. With Lee in Virginia: A Story of the American Civil War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. He has many hairbreadth escapes, is several times wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had assisted, bring him safely through all difficulties. "One of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet written. The picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story."--_Standard._ By England's Aid; or, The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585-1604) By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE, and Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of two English lads who go to Holland as pages in the service of one of "the fighting Veres." After many adventures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a Spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the Armada, and escapes only to fall into the hands of the Corsairs. He is successful in getting back to Spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant, and regains his native country after the capture of Cadiz. "It is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with stirring incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the scene are finely reproduced. The illustrations add to its attractiveness."--_Boston Gazette._ By Right of Conquest; or, With Cortez in Mexico. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. S. STACEY, and Two Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.50. The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under the magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightly ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. With this as the groundwork of his story Mr. Henty has interwoven the adventures of an English youth, Roger Hawkshaw, the sole survivor of the good ship Swan, which had sailed from a Devon port to challenge the mercantile supremacy of the Spaniards in the New World. He is beset by many perils among the natives, but is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion of an Aztec princess. At last by a ruse he obtains the protection of the Spaniards, and after the fall of Mexico he succeeds in regaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming Aztec bride. "'By Right of Conquest' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that Mr. Henty has yet published."--_Academy._ In the Reign of Terror: The Adventures of a Westminster Boy. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by J. SCH�NBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Harry Sandwith, a Westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau of a French marquis, and after various adventures accompanies the family to Paris at the crisis of the Revolution. Imprisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils with the three young daughters of the house in his charge. After hairbreadth escapes they reach Nantes. There the girls are condemned to death in the coffin-ships, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector. "Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat Mr. Henty's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict.... The story is one of Mr. Henty's best."--_Saturday Review._ With Wolfe in Canada; or, The Winning of a Continent. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In the present volume Mr. Henty gives an account of the struggle between Britain and France for supremacy in the North American continent. On the issue of this war depended not only the destinies of North America, but to a large extent those of the mother countries themselves. The fall of Quebec decided that the Anglo-Saxon race should predominate in the New World; that Britain, and not France, should take the lead among the nations of Europe; and that English and American commerce, the English language, and English literature, should spread right round the globe. "It is not only a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and field."--_Illustrated London News._ True to the Old Flag: A Tale of the American War of Independence. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which American and British soldiers have been engaged did they behave with greater courage and good conduct. The historical portion of the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the redskins on the shores of Lake Huron, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried through the book. "Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against American emancipation. The son of an American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very Huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of Hawkeye and Chingachgook."--_The Times._ The Lion of St. Mark: A Tale of Venice in the Fourteenth Century. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story of Venice at a period when her strength and splendor were put to the severest tests. The hero displays a fine sense and manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of intrigue, crime, and bloodshed. He contributes largely to the victories of the Venetians at Porto d'Anzo and Chioggia, and finally wins the hand of the daughter of one of the chief men of Venice. "Every boy should read 'The Lion of St. Mark.' Mr. Henty has never produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious."--_Saturday Review._ A Final Reckoning: A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The hero, a young English lad, after rather a stormy boyhood emigrates to Australia, and gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. A few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush with both natives and bushrangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter. "Mr. Henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully constructed, or a better written story than this."--_Spectator._ Under Drake's Flag: A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the supremacy of the sea. The heroes sail as lads with Drake in the Pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. The historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the course of their voyages. "A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, one would think, to turn his hair gray."--_Harper's Monthly Magazine._ By Sheer Pluck: A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. His hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is detained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war, but escapes, and accompanies the English expedition on their march to Coomassie. "Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. 'By Sheer Pluck' will be eagerly read."--_Athenæum._ By Pike and Dyke: A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by MAYNARD BROWN, and 4 Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Henty traces the adventures and brave deeds of an English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age--William the Silent. Edward Martin, the son of an English sea-captain, enters the service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time. He ultimately settles down as Sir Edward Martin. "Boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book, while the rest who only care for adventure will be students in spite of themselves."--_St. James' Gazette._ St. George for England: A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. No portion of English history is more crowded with great events than that of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers; the destruction of the Spanish fleet; the plague of the Black Death; the Jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in "St. George for England." The hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless adventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend of the Black Prince. "Mr. Henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel for boys which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of Sir Walter Scott in the land of fiction."--_The Standard._ Captain's Kidd's Gold: The True Story of an Adventurous Sailor Boy. By JAMES FRANKLIN FITTS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. There is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea of buried treasure. A vision arises before his eyes of swarthy Portuguese and Spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes--sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the Spanish Main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long, low schooner, of picaroonish rake and sheer, to attack an unsuspecting trading craft. There were many famous sea rovers in their day, but none more celebrated than Capt. Kidd. Perhaps the most fascinating tale of all is Mr. Fitts' true story of an adventurous American boy, who receives from his dying father an ancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way. The document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a certain island in the Bahama group, and a considerable treasure buried there by two of Kidd's crew. The hero of this book, Paul Jones Garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water New England ancestry, and his efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press. Captain Bayley's Heir: A Tale of the Gold Fields of California By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship of a considerable property. The former falls into a trap laid by the latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves England for America. He works his passage before the mast, joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested with Indians to the Californian gold diggings, and is successful both as digger and trader. "Mr. Henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the Westminster dustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled."--_Christian Leader._ For Name and Fame; or, Through Afghan Passes. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. An interesting story of the last war in Afghanistan. The hero, after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures among the Malays, finds his way to Calcutta and enlists in a regiment proceeding to join the army at the Afghan passes. He accompanies the force under General Roberts to the Peiwar Kotal, is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to Cabul, whence he is transferred to Candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army of Ayoub Khan. "The best feature of the book--apart from the interest of its scenes of adventure--is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the Afghan people."--_Daily News._ Captured by Apes: The Wonderful Adventures of a Young Animal Trainer. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. The scene of this tale is laid on an island in the Malay Archipelago. Philip Garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of New York, sets sail for Eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. The vessel is wrecked off the coast of Borneo and young Garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the place. The lad discovers that the ruling spirit of the monkey tribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as Goliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose instruction he had been especially diligent. The brute recognizes him, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former master through the same course of training he had himself experienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonishing is monkey recollection. Very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. Mr. Prentice has certainly worked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which he handles a difficult subject stamps him as a writer of undoubted skill. The Bravest of the Brave; or, With Peterborough in Spain. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. There are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so completely fallen into oblivion as those of the Earl of Peterborough. This is largely due to the fact that they were over-shadowed by the glory and successes of Marlborough. His career as general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been surpassed. "Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work--to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth. Lads will read 'The Bravest of the Brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure."--_Daily Telegraph._ The Cat of Bubastes: A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight into the customs of the Egyptian people. Amuba, a prince of the Rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer Jethro into slavery. They become inmates of the house of Ameres, the Egyptian high-priest, and are happy in his service until the priest's son accidentally kills the sacred cat of Bubastes. In an outburst of popular fury Ameres is killed, and it rests with Jethro and Amuba to secure the escape of the high-priest's son and daughter. "The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. It is admirably illustrated."--_Saturday Review._ With Washington at Monmouth: A Story of Three Philadelphia Boys. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Three Philadelphia boys, Seth Graydon "whose mother conducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the British officers;" Enoch Ball, "son of that Mrs. Ball whose dancing school was situated on Letitia Street," and little Jacob, son of "Chris, the Baker," serve as the principal characters. The story is laid during the winter when Lord Howe held possession of the city, and the lads aid the cause by assisting the American spies who make regular and frequent visits from Valley Forge. One reads here of home life in the captive city when bread was scarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodigality shown by the British officers, who passed the winter in feasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army but a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger. The story abounds with pictures of Colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of Washington's soldiers which are given show that the work has not been hastily done, or without considerable study. For the Temple: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by S. J. SOLOMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Mr. Henty here weaves into the record of Josephus an admirable and attractive story. The troubles in the district of Tiberias, the march of the legions, the sieges of Jotapata, of Gamala, and of Jerusalem, form the impressive and carefully studied historic setting to the figure of the lad who passes from the vineyard to the service of Josephus, becomes the leader of a guerrilla band of patriots, fights bravely for the Temple, and after a brief term of slavery at Alexandria, returns to his Galilean home with the favor of Titus. "Mr. Henty's graphic prose pictures of the hopeless Jewish resistance to Roman sway add another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world."--_Graphic._ Facing Death; or, The Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of the Coal Mines. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "Facing Death" is a story with a purpose. It is intended to show that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed. The hero of the story is a typical British boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though "shamefaced" to a degree, is ready to face death in the discharge of duty. "The tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is much reality in the characters. If any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the lookout for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend."--_Standard._ Tom Temple's Career. By HORATIO ALGER. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Tom Temple, a bright, self-reliant lad, by the death of his father becomes a boarder at the home of Nathan Middleton, a penurious insurance agent. Though well paid for keeping the boy, Nathan and his wife endeavor to bring Master Tom in line with their parsimonious habits. The lad ingeniously evades their efforts and revolutionizes the household. As Tom is heir to $40,000, he is regarded as a person of some importance until by an unfortunate combination of circumstances his fortune shrinks to a few hundreds. He leaves Plympton village to seek work in New York, whence he undertakes an important mission to California, around which center the most exciting incidents of his young career. Some of his adventures in the far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been reached. The tale is written in Mr. Alger's most fascinating style, and is bound to please the very large class of boys who regard this popular author as a prime favorite. Maori and Settler: A Story of the New Zealand War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The Renshaws emigrate to New Zealand during the period of the war with the natives. Wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant, courageous lad, is the mainstay of the household. He has for his friend Mr. Atherton, a botanist and naturalist of herculean strength and unfailing nerve and humor. In the adventures among the Maoris, there are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasant New Zealand valleys. "Brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life."--_Schoolmaster._ Julian Mortimer: A Brave Boy's Struggle for Home and Fortune. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Here is a story that will warm every boy's heart. There is mystery enough to keep any lad's imagination wound up to the highest pitch. The scene of the story lies west of the Mississippi River, in the days when emigrants made their perilous way across the great plains to the land of gold. One of the startling features of the book is the attack upon the wagon train by a large party of Indians. Our hero is a lad of uncommon nerve and pluck, a brave young American in every sense of the word. He enlists and holds the reader's sympathy from the outset. Surrounded by an unknown and constant peril, and assisted by the unswerving fidelity of a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most happy results. Harry Castlemon has written many entertaining stories for boys, and it would seem almost superfluous to say anything in his praise, for the youth of America regard him as a favorite author. "Carrots:" Just a Little Boy. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good fortune to meet with for some time. Carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of."--_Examiner._ "A genuine children's book; we've seen 'em seize it, and read it greedily. Children are first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate Walter Crane's illustrations."--_Punch._ Mopsa the Fairy. By JEAN INGELOW. With Eight page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "Mrs. Ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for children, and 'Mopsa' alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to the love and gratitude of our young folks. It requires genius to conceive a purely imaginary work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural, without running into a mere riot of fantastic absurdity; but genius Miss Ingelow has and the story of 'Jack' is as careless and joyous, but as delicate, as a picture of childhood."--_Eclectic._ A Jaunt Through Java: The Story of a Journey to the Sacred Mountain. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The central interest of this story is found in the thrilling adventures of two cousins, Hermon and Eustace Hadley, on their trip across the island of Java, from Samarang to the Sacred Mountain. In a land where the Royal Bengal tiger runs at large; where the rhinoceros and other fierce beasts are to be met with at unexpected moments; it is but natural that the heroes of this book should have a lively experience. Hermon not only distinguishes himself by killing a full-grown tiger at short range, but meets with the most startling adventure of the journey. There is much in this narrative to instruct as well as entertain the reader, and so deftly has Mr. Ellis used his material that there is not a dull page in the book. The two heroes are brave, manly young fellows, bubbling over with boyish independence. They cope with the many difficulties that arise during the trip in a fearless way that is bound to win the admiration of every lad who is so fortunate as to read their adventures. Wrecked on Spider Island; or, How Ned Rogers Found the Treasure. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A "down-east" plucky lad who ships as cabin boy, not from love of adventure, but because it is the only course remaining by which he can gain a livelihood. While in his bunk, seasick, Ned Rogers hears the captain and mate discussing their plans for the willful wreck of the brig in order to gain the insurance. Once it is known he is in possession of the secret the captain maroons him on Spider Island, explaining to the crew that the boy is afflicted with leprosy. While thus involuntarily playing the part of a Crusoe, Ned discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and overhauling the timbers for the purpose of gathering material with which to build a hut, finds a considerable amount of treasure. Raising the wreck; a voyage to Havana under sail; shipping there a crew and running for Savannah; the attempt of the crew to seize the little craft after learning of the treasure on board, and, as a matter of course, the successful ending of the journey, all serve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most captious boy could desire. Geoff and Jim: A Story of School Life. By ISMAY THORN. Illustrated by A. G. WALKER. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "This is a prettily told story of the life spent by two motherless bairns at a small preparatory school. Both Geoff and Jim are very lovable characters, only Jim is the more so; and the scrapes he gets into and the trials he endures will, no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers."--_Church Times._ "This is a capital children's story, the characters well portrayed, and the book tastefully bound and well illustrated."--_Schoolmaster._ "The story can be heartily recommended as a present for boys."--_Standard._ The Castaways; or, On the Florida Reefs. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This tale smacks of the salt sea. It is just the kind of story that the majority of boys yearn for. From the moment that the Sea Queen dispenses with the services of the tug in lower New York bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off the coast of Florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to the leeward, and feel her rise to the snow-capped waves which her sharp bow cuts into twin streaks of foam. Off Marquesas Keys she floats in a dead calm. Ben Clark, the hero of the story, and Jake, the cook, spy a turtle asleep upon the glassy surface of the water. They determine to capture him, and take a boat for that purpose, and just as they succeed in catching him a thick fog cuts them off from the vessel, and then their troubles begin. They take refuge on board a drifting hulk, a storm arises and they are cast ashore upon a low sandy key. Their adventures from this point cannot fail to charm the reader. As a writer for young people Mr. Otis is a prime favorite. His style is captivating, and never for a moment does he allow the interest to flag. In "The Castaways" he is at his best. Tom Thatcher's Fortune. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Like all of Mr. Alger's heroes, Tom Thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. He supports his mother and sister on meager wages earned as a shoe-pegger in John Simpson's factory. The story begins with Tom's discharge from the factory, because Mr. Simpson felt annoyed with the lad for interrogating him too closely about his missing father. A few days afterward Tom learns that which induces him to start overland for California with the view of probing the family mystery. He meets with many adventures. Ultimately he returns to his native village, bringing consternation to the soul of John Simpson, who only escapes the consequences of his villainy by making full restitution to the man whose friendship he had betrayed. The story is told in that entertaining way which has made Mr. Alger's name a household word in so many homes. Birdie: A Tale of Child Life. By H. L. CHILDE-PEMBERTON. Illustrated by H. W. RAINEY. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "The story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness about it that makes one hear again the ringing laugh and the cheery shout of children at play which charmed his earlier years."--_New York Express._ Popular Fairy Tales. By the BROTHERS GRIMM. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "From first to last, almost without exception, these stories are delightful."--_Athenæum._ With Lafayette at Yorktown: A Story of How Two Boys Joined the Continental Army. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The two boys are from Portsmouth, N. H., and are introduced in August, 1781, when on the point of leaving home to enlist in Col. Scammell's regiment, then stationed near New York City. Their method of traveling is on horseback, and the author has given an interesting account of what was expected from boys in the Colonial days. The lads, after no slight amount of adventure, are sent as messengers--not soldiers--into the south to find the troops under Lafayette. Once with that youthful general they are given employment as spies, and enter the British camp, bringing away valuable information. The pictures of camp-life are carefully drawn, and the portrayal of Lafayette's character is thoroughly well done. The story is wholesome in tone, as are all of Mr. Otis' works. There is no lack of exciting incident which the youthful reader craves, but it is healthful excitement brimming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, and while the reader is following the adventures of Ben Jaffreys and Ned Allen he is acquiring a fund of historical lore which will remain in his memory long after that which he has memorized from text-books has been forgotten. Lost in the Canon: Sam Willett's Adventures on the Great Colorado. By ALFRED R. CALHOUN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This story hinges on a fortune left to Sam Willett, the hero, and the fact that it will pass to a disreputable relative if the lad dies before he shall have reached his majority. The Vigilance Committee of Hurley's Gulch arrest Sam's father and an associate for the crime of murder. Their lives depend on the production of the receipt given for money paid. This is in Sam's possession at the camp on the other side of the cañon. A messenger is dispatched to get it. He reaches the lad in the midst of a fearful storm which floods the cañon. His father's peril urges Sam to action. A raft is built on which the boy and his friends essay to cross the torrent. They fail to do so, and a desperate trip down the stream ensues. How the party finally escape from the horrors of their situation and Sam reaches Hurley's Gulch in the very nick of time, is described in a graphic style that stamps Mr. Calhoun as a master of his art. Jack: A Topsy Turvy Story. By C. M. CRAWLEY-BOEVEY. With upward of Thirty Illustrations by H. J. A. MILES. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "The illustrations deserve particular mention, as they add largely to the interest of this amusing volume for children. Jack falls asleep with his mind full of the subject of the fishpond, and is very much surprised presently to find himself an inhabitant of Waterworld, where he goes through wonderful and edifying adventures. A handsome and pleasant book."--_Literary World._ Search for the Silver City: A Tale of Adventure in Yucatan. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Two American lads, Teddy Wright and Neal Emery, embark on the steam yacht Day Dream for a short summer cruise to the tropics. Homeward bound the yacht is destroyed by fire. All hands take to the boats, but during the night the boat is cast upon the coast of Yucatan. They come across a young American named Cummings, who entertains them with the story of the wonderful Silver City, of the Chan Santa Cruz Indians. Cummings proposes with the aid of a faithful Indian ally to brave the perils of the swamp and carry off a number of the golden images from the temples. Pursued with relentless vigor for days their situation is desperate. At last their escape is effected in an astonishing manner. Mr. Otis has built his story on an historical foundation. It is so full of exciting incidents that the reader is quite carried away with the novelty and realism of the narrative. Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Thrown upon his own resources Frank Fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a living for himself and his foster-sister Grace. Going to New York he obtains a situation as cash boy in a dry goods store. He renders a service to a wealthy old gentleman named Wharton, who takes a fancy to the lad. Frank, after losing his place as cash boy, is enticed by an enemy to a lonesome part of New Jersey and held a prisoner. This move recoils upon the plotter, for it leads to a clue that enables the lad to establish his real identity. Mr. Alger's stories are not only unusually interesting, but they convey a useful lesson of pluck and manly independence. Budd Boyd's Triumph; or, the Boy Firm of Fox Island. By WILLIAM P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The scene of this story is laid on the upper part of Narragansett Bay, and the leading incidents have a strong salt-water flavor. Owing to the conviction of his father for forgery and theft, Budd Boyd is compelled to leave his home and strike out for himself. Chance brings Budd in contact with Judd Floyd. The two boys, being ambitious and clear sighted, form a partnership to catch and sell fish. The scheme is successfully launched, but the unexpected appearance on the scene of Thomas Bagsley, the man whom Budd believes guilty of the crimes attributed to his father, leads to several disagreeable complications that nearly caused the lad's ruin. His pluck and good sense, however, carry him through his troubles. In following the career of the boy firm of Boyd & Floyd, the youthful reader will find a useful lesson--that industry and perseverance are bound to lead to ultimate success. 
39662	----	scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print archive. [Illustration: Book Cover] THE MAGIC NUTS [Illustration] [Illustration: THE UNSELFISH MERMAID. _Frontispiece._] THE MAGIC NUTS BY MRS. MOLESWORTH AUTHOR OF 'CARROTS,' 'CUCKOO CLOCK,' 'TELL ME A STORY,' ETC. [Illustration] ILLUSTRATED BY ROSIE M. M. PITMAN London MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1898 In childhood, when with eager eyes The season-measured years I viewed, All garbed in fairy guise. CARDINAL NEWMAN. I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE STORY TO MY GRAND-DAUGHTER VIOLET SARA MOLESWORTH 19 SUMNER PLACE, S.W., _February_ 1898. CONTENTS PAGE CHAPTER I NIGHT AND MORNING 1 CHAPTER II APPLES AND NUTS 17 CHAPTER III IT IS HILDEGARDE 33 CHAPTER IV ON THE WAY 49 CHAPTER V 'WHAT'S O'CLOCK?' 65 CHAPTER VI GNOMELAND 81 CHAPTER VII A COLLATION UNDER DIFFICULTIES 99 CHAPTER VIII TREE-TOP LAND 115 CHAPTER IX A CONCERT 132 CHAPTER X THE BLUE-SILK ROOM 148 CHAPTER XI 'THE UNSELFISH MERMAID' 162 CHAPTER XII 'THE UNSELFISH MERMAID' (_continued_) 179 ILLUSTRATIONS VIGNETTE _On Title page_ THE UNSELFISH MERMAID _Frontispiece_ "TAKE THESE," SHE SAID, "FOR GOOD LUCK" _To face page_ 20 PORTRAIT OF HILDEGARDE 33 "I MUST GIVE YOU ONE OR TWO WARNINGS" 76 MANUFACTURING LUCKY PENNIES 86 "WHO SENT YOU TO KISS US, YOU BREEZES OF MAY" 115 THE UNSELFISH MERMAID 162 CHAPTER I NIGHT AND MORNING The way was long. _Lay of the Last Minstrel._ Little Leonore pressed her face against the window of the railway carriage and tried hard to see out. But it was no use. It all looked so dark and black, all the darker and blacker for the glimmer of the rain-drops trickling down thickly outside, and reflecting the feeble light of the lamp in the roof of the compartment. Leonore sighed deeply. She was very tired, more tired than she knew, for she did not feel sleepy, or as if she would give anything to be undressed and go to bed. On the contrary, she wished with all her heart that it was daylight, and that it would leave off raining, and that she could get out of the stuffy old railway train, and go for a good run. It had been raining for _so_ long, and they had been such a lot of hours shut in and bum-bumming along in this dreary way--it even seemed to her now and then as if she had _always_ been sitting in her corner like this, and that it had _always_ been night and _always_ raining outside. 'I don't believe I'm going to be happy at all at Alten,' she said to herself. 'I'm sure it's going to be horrid. It's always the way if people tell you anything's going to be lovely and nice, it's sure to be dull, and--just horrid.' She glanced at the other end of the railway carriage where a lady, comfortably muffled up in the corner, was sleeping peacefully. She was not an old lady, but she was not young. To Leonore she seemed past counting her age, for she never appeared to get older, and during the six or seven years she had been the little girl's governess she had not changed at all. 'I wish I could go to sleep like Fraulein,' was the next thought that came into her busy brain. 'When she wakes she'll think I have been asleep, for she did tuck me up nicely. And I'm feeling as cross as cross.' Then her eyes fell on the little cushion and the railway rug that she had thrown on to the floor--should she try to settle herself again and _perhaps_ manage to go to sleep? It would be so nice to wake up and find they had got there, and _surely_ it could not be very much farther. Fraulein had said ten o'clock, had she not? Leonore remembered sitting up one night till ten o'clock--more than a year ago--when her father was expected to arrive, and Fraulein was sure he would like to find her awake to welcome him. It hadn't seemed half so late that night as it did now--would ten o'clock _never_ come? She stooped down and pulled up the rug, and tried to prop the cushion against the back of the seat for her head. It was not very easy to manage, but Leonore was not a selfish child; it never occurred to her to disturb her governess for the sake of her own comfort, though Fraulein would not have been the least vexed with her had she done so. Just as she had made up her mind that she would try to go to sleep, she felt a slight change in the motion of the train--the bum and rattle, rattle and bum, grew fainter--was it only her fancy, or could it, oh! could it be that they were slackening speed? If so, it could only mean arriving at Alten, for her governess had distinctly told her they would not stop again till they had reached their journey's end. 'Sleep, my dear,' she had said, 'sleep well till I wake you, and then we shall be _there_. There will be no other stopping anywhere to disturb you.' Leonore held her breath in anxiety--yes, it was no fancy--they _were_ moving more and more slowly, and through the darkness lights, which were not the glimmer of the rain-drops, began to appear. Then at last there was a pull-up. 'Fraulein, Fraulein,' cried Leonore, in great excitement, 'wake up, quick. We're _there_--do you hear? The train has stopped.' Poor Fraulein had started up at the first words, but Leonore was too eager to leave off talking all at once, and in another moment the governess's head was out of the window, calling to a porter, for there was not too much time to spare, as the train had to start off again, not having finished _its_ journey, though some of its passengers had done so. And almost before our little girl had quite taken in that the dreary rattle and bum in the darkness were over, she found herself on the platform, her own little travelling-bag and warm cloak in her grasp, while Fraulein, who insisted on loading herself as much as the porter, was chattering away to him in the cheeriest and liveliest of voices, far too fast for Leonore to understand much of what she said, as if she had never been asleep in her life. 'I suppose she's very pleased to be in her own country,' thought Leonore. 'I wish it wasn't night, so that I could see what it all looks like,' and she gazed about her eagerly, as she followed Fraulein and the porter out of the station. Something, after all, _was_ to be seen. The rain was clearing off; overhead it was almost dry, though very wet and puddly underfoot. In front of the station was a wide open space, with trees surrounding it, except where a broad road, at the end of which lamps showed some carriages waiting, led away to somewhere, though no streets or even houses were to be seen. The air felt fresh and pleasant, and Leonore's spirits began to rise. 'It feels like the country,' she said to herself; 'I wonder where the town is.' But Fraulein was still too busy talking to the porter and to two or three other men who had somehow sprung up, to be asked any questions just yet. One of the men had a band round his cap with some words stamped on it in gilt letters. Leonore could only make out one word, 'Hotel ----,' and then he turned away, and she could not see the others. By this time her governess was picking up her skirts in preparation for crossing the wet space before them. 'He says we had better step over to where the carriages are standing,' she explained to the little girl; 'it will be quicker'; and when, a moment later, the two found themselves alone, with plenty of room, in the comfortable omnibus, she lent back with a sigh of satisfaction. 'It is so pleasant to be in a land where things are well managed,' she said. 'We do not need to wait for our big luggage. I give the paper to the hotel porter, he sees to it all for us.' 'Yes,' said Leonore, though without paying much attention; the care of the luggage did not trouble her; 'but do tell me, Fraulein, dear, where is the hotel? Where are the streets and--and--everything? It seems like the country, and oh, aren't you glad to be out of the train? I thought we should never get here, and it was so dark and raining so hard, and I _couldn't_ go to sleep.' 'Poor dear,' said tender-hearted Fraulein, 'and I who slept comfortably for so long. Had I known you were awake I would have kept awake also.' 'Never mind now,' said Leonore amiably; 'but tell me where we are going.' 'The station is half a mile or so out of the town,' explained the governess. 'See now, the houses are appearing. We cross the bridge--by daylight it is beautiful, such a view down the river.' But Leonore did not care very much about beautiful views--not just now especially. 'I wish it wasn't so far to the town,' she said wearily, though almost as she said the words her tone changed. 'Oh now,' she exclaimed brightly, 'we are really getting into the streets. How queer everything looks--do you think the people are all in bed, Fraulein?' It was a natural question, for as they drove through the wide dark streets, faintly lighted by an occasional lamp, there was nothing to be seen but closed shutters and barred doors. The houses, for the most part, looked large, particularly as regarded the entrance, for many of these led into courtyards, with great double gates. Fraulein nodded her head. 'They are all in their houses,' she said, 'though perhaps not all in bed yet, for it is not really so very late. In Alten we keep to the good old ways, you see, my dear--"early to bed and early to rise," as your rhyme says.' 'It's very dull-looking,' said Leonore discontentedly. 'It seems like a lot of prisons, and--oh----' She broke off suddenly, for they were stopping at last, or at least preparing to stop, as they turned in through a large doorway standing open to admit them into a courtyard, paved with cobble stones, and dimly lighted like the streets by an old-fashioned lamp or lantern at one side. There was more light at the other side, however, where a short flight of steps led into the hotel, and here they pulled up, to be received by a funny little man in black, with a large expanse of shirt-front, and by what looked to Leonore's half-dazzled eyes like a whole troop of waiters, also in black, fluttering about him, though in reality there were only three--all the party bowing in the most polite way, and almost tumbling over each other in their eagerness to help the ladies to alight. This sort of thing was quite to Leonore's taste, and for the moment all feeling of dullness or tiredness left her. She bent her head graciously to the little fat man, who was really the landlord, and allowed one of the others to take her cloak and bag. Fraulein seemed more than ever in her element. Yes; rooms were ready for the ladies--two bedrooms opening into each other--would they have supper upstairs, or (and as he spoke the polite little man threw open a door they were passing) in here? 'Here' being the large dining-room. They would be quite undisturbed. 'Oh, in here, Fraulein, do say in here,' said Leonore, 'I don't like eating in bedrooms; it makes me feel as if I had the measles or something. And, I'm not sure, but I think I'm rather hungry, so mayn't we have supper at once?' Fraulein was quite willing, and supper, in the shape of chocolate and an omelette, would be ready immediately. So the two settled themselves at one end of the long narrow table, and Leonore's eyes set to work to see what they could see by the light of the two not very bright lamps. 'What a funny old man,' she exclaimed. 'Look, Fraulein, the walls are all dark wood like a church, and the ceiling has white carvings on it, and the floor is red and black squares like the kitchen at Aunt Isabella's. And it isn't like a hotel, is it? Not like the one at Paris, where there was such a bustle. I don't believe there's anybody staying here except you and me.' 'Oh yes, there are probably other people,' said Fraulein, 'but it is long past proper supper-time, you see, my dear. It is very polite of the landlord to have received us himself, and to have all the waiters in attendance.' And by the way Fraulein leant back in her chair Leonore saw that she was in a state of great satisfaction with everything, and exceedingly delighted to find herself again in her own country. Upstairs, where they soon made their way, guided by two, if not three, of the attentive waiters, the house seemed even queerer and older than down below. Leonore was now getting too sleepy to notice anything very clearly, but the dark wainscotted walls, the long passages and funny little staircases, struck her as very mysterious and interesting, and she said to herself that she would have a good exploring the next day. The bedrooms prepared for them looked large and imposing, partly perhaps because the candles left the corners in darkness. The beds were small and cosy, with their white eider-down quilts, and very comfortable too, as the tired little girl stretched herself out with a sigh of relief and content, to fall asleep long before Fraulein had completed her unpackings and arrangements. If Leonore had any dreams that night she did not know it, for the sun had been up some hours before she awoke, though it was already late autumn. She did not feel at all ashamed of her laziness however, and considering everything I do not see that she had any reason to feel so. And she gave a cry of welcome and pleasure as she caught sight of the merry little rays of sunshine creeping over the white bed as if to wish her a kindly good morning. 'Oh I _am_ glad it is a fine day,' she thought to herself, 'and I am so glad we are not going in that horrid old train again.' She lay still and looked about her. Yes, it was a curiously old-fashioned room; even a child could see at once that the house must be very, very old. 'I wonder if many little girls have slept here and waked up in the morning, and looked at the funny walls and queer-shaped ceiling just like I'm doing,' she thought to herself. 'Some of them must be quite old women by now, and perhaps even, lots who have been dead for hundreds of years have lived here. How queer it is to think of! I wonder if Fraulein is awake, and I do hope we shall have breakfast soon. I'm so hungry.' The sound of a tap seemed to come as an answer to these questions and hopes, and as Fraulein put her head in at one door, a maid carrying a bath and a large can of hot water appeared at the other. She was a pleasant-faced girl with rosy cheeks, and as she passed the bed she wished the young lady good morning with a smile. 'You are awake, my child?' said the governess. 'That is right. You have slept well? Call me as soon as you want me to help you to do your hair, and then we shall have our breakfast. You would rather have it downstairs, I suppose?' 'Oh yes,' said Leonore decidedly. 'I am quite rested, Fraulein, and I want dreadfully to go downstairs and see this funny old place by daylight, and I want to look out of the window to see if the streets look nice, and--and----' 'Well, get dressed first, my dear,' said her governess, pleased to find the little girl in such a cheerful frame of mind. 'It is just a trifle cold, though it will probably be warmer as the day goes on, thanks to this bright sunshine. You have had rainy weather lately, I suppose?' she went on, turning to the maid-servant. The girl held up her hands. 'Rain,' she repeated, 'yes, indeed, I should rather think so--rain, rain, rain, for ever so many days. The ladies have brought us the sunshine.' So it seemed, for when they made their way downstairs, Leonore scarcely knew the dining-room again, it looked so bright and cheerful in comparison with the night before. Their coffee and rolls had not yet made their appearance, so the little girl flew to the window to see what she could through the muslin blinds. For the window opened straight out on to the pavement, so that any inquisitive passer-by could peep in, which made the blinds quite necessary, as, though it is very pleasant to look out, it is not equally so to feel that strangers can look in when one is sitting at table. Leonore pulled a tiny corner of the blind aside. 'Oh, Fraulein,' she exclaimed, 'it is such a nice street. And there are lots of people passing, and shops a little way off, and I see the top of a big old church quite near, and--and--a sort of open square place up that short street--do you see?' Fraulein having joined her by this time. 'That is the market-place,' said her governess, 'and I rather think--yes, I am sure it is market-day to-day.' Leonore danced about in excitement. 'Oh, _please_ take me to see it,' she said. 'I have never seen a proper market, and perhaps the people would have funny dresses--costumes like what you were telling me about. Do you think we should see any of them?' 'I hope so,' said Fraulein, 'we must go out as soon as we have had breakfast and see. I have to ask about a carriage to take us to Dorf. I almost wish----' 'What?' asked Leonore. 'That we could stay till to-morrow, if Alten amuses you so--indeed, I do not see why we need hurry. My aunt is not quite certain what day we are coming, and she is _quite_ certain to be ready for us whenever we arrive. Indeed, I have no doubt she has had our rooms prepared for weeks past, so good and careful a housewife is she. Our beds will have been aired every day, I daresay.' But Leonore was scarcely old enough to care whether the beds were aired or not. For the moment her whole thoughts were running on having a good exploring of the quaint town which had so taken her fancy, and while she drank her coffee and munched the nice crisp rolls, which tasted better than any bread she had ever eaten before, she kept urging her governess to stay another day where they were. 'You see,' she said, 'I'm so used to the country, and we shall be there all the winter, and I daresay it _will_ be rather dull.' 'I hope not,' said Fraulein, somewhat anxiously. 'I shall do my best, you know, my child, to make you happy, and so will my good aunt, I am sure.' 'Oh yes, I know you are always very kind,' said Leonore, with a funny little tone of condescension which she sometimes used to her governess. 'But, you see, it _must_ be dull when anybody has no brothers and sisters, and no mamma--and papa so far away.' She gave a little sigh. She rather liked to pity herself now and then, and it made Fraulein all the kinder, but in reality she was not in some ways so much to be pitied as might have seemed. For she could not remember her mother, and she had been accustomed all her life to her father's being as a rule away from her, though when he _was_ in England he spent most of his time in planning pleasures for his little daughter. Then she had had plenty of kind aunts and uncles, and, above all, the constant care of her devoted Fraulein. But Fraulein's heart was _very_ tender. She kissed Leonore fondly, and as soon as breakfast was over, out they sallied, after settling that they should stay at Alten another night, to please the little lady. CHAPTER II APPLES AND NUTS I love old women best, I think; She knows a friend in me.--ASHE. It _was_ market-day, to Leonore's great delight, and scarcely less to that of her governess. The scene was a busy and amusing one, and added to that was the charm of everything being so new to the little girl. She wanted to buy all sorts of treasures, but when Fraulein reminded her that there was no hurry, and that she would probably have plenty of chances of choosing the things that took her fancy at the yearly fair at Dorf, or in the little village shops there, she gave in, and contented herself with some delicious tiny pots and jugs, which she declared must _really_ have been made by fairies. 'You are in the country of fairies now,' said Fraulein, smiling. 'Not Fairyland itself, of course, but one of the earth countries which lie nearest its borders.' Leonore looked up gravely. Some feeling of the kind had already come over her--ever since their arrival the night before at the queer old inn, she had felt herself in a sort of new world, new to her just because of its strange oldness. 'Oh, Fraulein,' she said, 'I do like you to say that. Do you really mean it? And is Dorf as near Fairyland as this dear old town, do you think?' 'Quite, I should say,' replied Fraulein, taking up the little girl's fancy. 'Even nearer, perhaps. There are wonderful old woods on one side of the village, which look like the very home of gnomes and kobolds and all kinds of funny people. And----' she broke off abruptly, for Leonore had given her arm a sudden tug. 'Do look, Fraulein,' she said in a half whisper. '_Isn't_ she like an old fairy? And she's smiling as if she understood what we were saying.' 'She' was a tiny little old woman, seated in a corner of the market-place, with her goods for sale spread out before her. These were but a poor display--a few common vegetables, a trayful of not very inviting-looking apples, small and grayish, and a basket filled with nuts. But the owner of these seemed quite content. She glanced up as Leonore stopped to gaze at her and smiled--a bright, half-mischievous sort of smile, which was reflected in her twinkling eyes, and made her old brown wrinkled face seem like that of an indiarubber doll. Fraulein looked at her too with interest in her own kindly blue eyes. 'She must be very poor,' she said. Fraulein was very practical, though she was fond of fairy stories and such things too. 'Oh, do let us buy something from her,' said Leonore. 'I've plenty of money, you know--and if you'll lend me a little, you can pay yourself back when you get my English gold pound changed, can't you, dear Fraulein? I have spent those funny pretence-silver pennies you gave me yesterday.' Fraulein opened her purse and put two small coins into the child's hand. 'Buy apples with one of these,' she said; 'that will be enough to please the poor old thing.' 'And nuts with the other?' asked Leonore. Fraulein shook her head. 'Nuts are so indigestible, my little girl,' she replied; 'and though these apples are not pretty, I am not sure but that they may taste better than they look. I have a sort of remembrance of some ugly little gray apples in this neighbourhood which were rather famous.' Her 'pretence-silver' penny procured for Leonore a good handful, or handkerchief-full--for the fruit-seller had no paper-bags to put them in--of the apples. And when she had got them safe, and was turning away, the old woman stretched out a brown wizened hand again with another of her queer smiles. [Illustration: "TAKE THESE," SHE SAID, "FOR GOOD LUCK."] 'Take these,' she said, 'for good luck.' 'These' were a few of the nuts. If Leonore had wished to refuse them, she could hardly have done so, for before she had time to do more than thank the giver politely, the dame was busy talking to some other customer, who had stopped in front of her little table. Fraulein had walked on. Leonore ran after her. 'See,' she said, holding out her nuts, 'see what the old woman gave me. What shall I do with them, if I mustn't eat them? I don't like to throw them away, when she gave me them as a present.' 'No, of course not,' said Fraulein at once. 'Put them in your jacket pocket, dear, and perhaps you may eat two or three of them when we go in.' Leonore slipped the nuts into her pocket as she was told, and soon after, the clock of the great church striking twelve, she and her governess made their way back to the hotel. 'I do not want you to be tired,' said Fraulein, 'for this afternoon I should like to take you to see one or two of the curious old houses here, as well as the interior of the church'; for the market and the shops had taken up Leonore's attention so much, that they had had no time for anything else in the way of sight-seeing. Dinner was rather a long affair, and tried the little girl's patience. There seemed twice or three times as many dishes as were needed, even though there were several other guests at the long table besides themselves, none of whom, however, were very interesting. 'I hope we shan't have such a lot to eat at your aunt's house, Fraulein,' said Leonore in a low voice, towards the end of the meal, with a sigh. 'It seems such a pity not to be out-of-doors, when it's so bright and sunny.' 'We shall have plenty of time, dear,' said her governess. 'See, we are at dessert now. And you will probably feel more tired this evening than you expect. No, my aunt lives more simply, though you will like her puddings and cakes, I am sure.' The afternoon passed very pleasantly and quickly, though, as Fraulein had expected, Leonore did feel more tired when they came in for the second time than she had thought she would be, and quite ready for bed-time when it came--indeed, not sorry to allow that the dustman's summons was there, half an hour or so earlier than usual. 'Your eyes are looking quite sleepy, my child,' said Fraulein; 'and though we have no more long railway journeys before us, we have a drive of some hours to-morrow, and I should like you to reach Dorf feeling quite fresh. It makes such a difference in one's impressions of things if one is tired or not, and I do want your first feelings about our temporary home to be very pleasant ones.' Leonore was used to her governess's rather prim, long-winded way of saying things, and had learnt by practice to pick out the kernel--always a kind one--of her speeches very quickly. 'Yes,' she said, 'I know how you mean. Last night in the railway train, before we got here, I thought everything was perfectly horrid and miserable and would never get nice again. And to-day I've been so happy--even though I _am_ tired and sleepy now,' she added, looking rather puzzled. 'There must be different ways of being tired, I suppose.' 'Undoubtedly there are--but we won't talk any more to-night. I am so glad you have been happy to-day.' And sleepy Leonore went off to bed, and was soon in dreamland. She had forgotten all about her apples and nuts--the former Fraulein found tied up in the handkerchief after the little girl had fallen asleep, and put them into her travelling-bag, thinking they might be nice to eat during the drive the next day, but the nuts did not come into her mind at all. 'We certainly seem very lucky,' she said to Leonore the next morning, as they were at breakfast. 'The weather could not be better, especially when we remember that it is already late autumn. My aunt will be so pleased at it; her last letter was full of regrets about the rain and fears of its lasting.' Leonore glanced towards the window. The clear gray-blue sky was to be seen above the blinds, and the pale yellow sunshine was straying in as if to wish them good-morning. 'Is it a very long drive to Dorf?' she asked. 'About three hours,' Fraulein replied. 'It is longer through being partly uphill; but at the steepest bit the road is very pretty, so it may be pleasant to get out and walk a little.' 'Yes, I should like that,' said Leonore. And then Fraulein went on to tell her that she had arranged for them to have dinner a little earlier than usual by themselves, so as to start in good time to reach Dorf by daylight. And when they started in a comfortable though rather shabby carriage, with their lighter luggage strapped on behind, the horses' collar bells ringing merrily, and the wheels making what Leonore called a lovely clatter on the old paved streets, the little girl's spirits rose still higher, and she began to think that Fraulein's praises of her own country had not been too great. The first half of the way was fairly level, and not, so it seemed to Leonore, very unlike the part of England where she had spent most of her life, except, that is to say, the two or three villages through which they passed. These reminded her of pictures of Switzerland which she had seen--the houses having high pointed roofs, with deep eaves, and many of them little staircases outside. Some of them too were gaily painted in colours on a white ground, which she admired very much. And after a time the road began gently to ascend, and then indeed, as Fraulein said, the likeness to Switzerland grew greater. For now it skirted pine woods on one side, and on the other the ground fell away sharply, here and there almost like a precipice; and before very long the driver pulled up, getting down to push a heavy stone behind the wheel, to prevent the carriage slipping back while he gave the horses a rest. 'Mayn't we get out here and walk on a little way?' asked Leonore, and Fraulein said 'Yes,' it was just what she had been intending. 'It _is_ pretty here,' said Leonore, looking about her with satisfaction; 'the woods are so thick and dark--I love Christmas-tree woods--and the road goes winding such a nice funny way. And see, Fraulein, there's another little well, all mossy, and the water _so_ clear. Doesn't the running and trickling sound pretty? And, oh yes, there are goats down there, goats with bells. I hear them tinkling, and the man with them has some kind of a music-pipe--listen, Fraulein.' They stood still for a moment, the better to catch the mingled soft sounds which Leonore spoke of. And behind them, some little way off, came the tingling of their horses' louder bells, and the voice of the driver talking to them and cracking his whip encouragingly. 'It _is_ nice,' said Leonore. 'I'm getting to be very glad papa settled for me to come here with you, Fraulein.' The good lady's eyes sparkled with pleasure. 'And I am glad too, more glad than I can say,' she replied, 'and so will my kind aunt be, if we can make you really happy at Dorf.' 'Are we half-way there yet?' asked Leonore. 'Quite that, but the rest of the way is mostly uphill, so it takes longer, you see.' As she spoke, Fraulein drew something out of the little bag on her arm which she was seldom without. It was one of the small grayish apples which they had bought from the old woman in the market-place. 'You forgot these,' she said, holding the apple out to Leonore. 'I found them last night after you were asleep, and I thought you might like one or two on our way to-day. I believe they will prove very good.' 'How stupid of me to have forgotten them,' said the little girl, as she bit off a piece. 'Yes,' she went on, 'it is very good indeed--you would not believe how sweet and juicy it tastes. Won't you eat one yourself?' Fraulein was quite willing to do so, and soon got out another. 'The rest,' she said, 'are in my travelling-bag in the carriage. I am glad I was not mistaken,' she went on. 'I felt sure they were the same ugly little apples I remember as a child.' 'And oh,' said Leonore, suddenly diving into her jacket pocket, 'that reminds me, Fraulein--where are the nuts she gave me? They're not in this pocket, and,' feeling in the other, 'oh dear! they must have dropped out; there are only three left, and I am sure she gave me at least twenty.' 'Well, never mind, dear,' said the governess, who was contentedly munching her apple. 'They would not have been good for you to eat--you would have had to throw them away, and so long as the poor old dame's feelings were not hurt, it really is of no consequence.' But Leonore was still eyeing the three nuts in her hand with a look of regret. 'I don't know,' she said. 'I might have used them for counters, or played with them somehow. It seems unkind to have lost them--do you want me to throw these last three away?' she went on rather plaintively. 'Oh no,' said Fraulein, 'you may keep them certainly if you like. And even if you eat them, _three_ can't do you much harm.' 'I don't want to eat them,' said Leonore, 'but I should like to _keep_ them,' and she stowed them away in her pocket again with a more satisfied look on her face. As she did so, a sound, seemingly quite near, made her start and look round. It was that of a soft yet merry laugh, low and musical and clear, though faint. 'Did you hear that, Fraulein?' said the little girl. 'What?' asked her governess. 'Somebody laughing, close to us--such a pretty laugh, like little silver bells.' 'Most likely it was the bells, the goats' little bells. I heard nothing else,' Fraulein replied. Leonore shook her head. 'No,' she said,' it was different from that, quite different. And the goats are some way off now; listen, you can only just hear them. And the laughing was quite near.' But Fraulein only smiled. 'There could not have been any one quite near without my hearing it too,' she replied, 'even if----' but here she stopped. She had said enough, however, to rouse her pupil's curiosity. 'Even if what?' repeated Leonore; 'do tell me what you were going to say, dear Fraulein.' 'I was only joking, or going to joke,' her governess answered. 'It came into my head that the woods about here--as indeed about most parts of this country--are said to be a favourite place for the fairies to visit. _Some_ kinds of fairies, you know--gnomes and brownies and such like. The kinds that don't live in Fairyland itself make their homes in the woods, by preference to anywhere else.' 'And do you think it _might_ have been one of them I heard laughing?' asked Leonore eagerly. 'Oh, how lovely! But then, why didn't you hear it too, Fraulein, and what was it laughing at, do you think? I wasn't saying anything funny. I was only----' 'Dear child,' said Fraulein, 'do not take me up so seriously. I am afraid your papa and your aunts would not think me at all a sensible governess if they heard me chattering away like this to you. Of course I was only joking.' Leonore looked rather disappointed. 'I wish you _weren't_ joking,' she said. 'I can't see that people need be counted silly who believe in fairies and nice queer things like that. _I_ think the people who don't are the stupid silly ones. And you will never make me think I _didn't_ hear some one laugh, Fraulein--I just know I did.' Then after a little pause she added, 'Would your old aunt think me very silly for believing about fairies? If she has lived so near Fairyland all her life I shouldn't think she would.' This was rather a poser for poor Fraulein. 'She would not think you _silly_!' she replied; 'that is to say, she loves fairy stories herself. Life would indeed be very dull if we had no pretty fancies to brighten it with.' 'Oh, but,' said Leonore, 'that's just what I don't want. I mean I don't want to count fairy stories _only_ stories--not real. I like to think there _are_ fairies and brownies and gnomes, and all sorts of good people like that, though it isn't very often that mortals'--she said the last word with great satisfaction--'see them. I am always hoping that some day _I_ shall. And if this country of yours, Fraulein dear, is on the borders of Fairyland, I don't see why I don't run a very good chance of coming across some of them while we are here. They are much more likely to show themselves to any one who does believe in them, I should say. Don't you think so?' Fraulein laughed. 'I remember feeling just as you do, my child, when I was a little girl,' she said. 'But time has gone on, and I am no longer young, and I am obliged to confess that I have never seen a fairy.' 'Perhaps you didn't believe _enough_ in them,' said Leonore sagely; and to herself she added, 'I have a sort of idea that Fraulein's aunt knows more about them than Fraulein does. I shall soon find out, though I won't say anything for a day or two till I see. But nothing will ever make me believe that I didn't hear somebody laughing just now.' Her hand had strayed again to her jacket pocket as she said this to herself, and her fingers were feeling the nuts. 'It is funny that just three are left,' she thought, 'for so often in fairy stories you read about three nuts, or three kernels. I won't crack _my_ nuts in a hurry, however.' A few minutes more brought them to the summit of the steep incline, and soon the driver's voice and the cracking of his whip as he cheered up his horses sounded close behind them. He halted for a short time to give his animals a little rest, and then Fraulein and Leonore got back into the carriage. 'The rest of the way is almost level,' said the former; 'quite so as we enter Dorf. You will see, Leonore, how fast we shall go at the end. The drivers love to make a clatter and jingle to announce their arrival. No doubt my aunt will hear it, and be at the gate some minutes before she can possibly see us.' [Illustration: PORTRAIT OF HILDEGARDE.] CHAPTER III IT IS HILDEGARDE A pair of friends.--WORDSWORTH. Fraulein was right. Both driver and horses woke up wonderfully as the first straggling houses of the village came in sight; it would be impossible to describe the extraordinary sounds and ejaculations which Friedrich, as he was called, addressed to his steeds, but which they evidently quite understood. 'How nice it is to go so fast, and to hear the bells jingling so,' said Leonore. 'I wish we had farther to go.' 'If that were the case we should soon sober down again,' said Fraulein with a smile, adding the next moment, 'and here we are. See the good aunt, my child, as I told you--standing at the gate, just as I last saw her, when I left her five years ago! But then it was parting and tears--now it is meeting and joy.' Tears nevertheless were not wanting in the eyes of both the good ladies--tears of happiness, however, which were quickly wiped away. 'How well you are looking--not a day older,' said the niece. 'And you, my Elsa--how well _you_ look. A trifle stouter perhaps, but that is an improvement. You have always been too thin, my child,' said the aunt, fondly patting Fraulein's shoulders, though she had to reach up to do so. Then she moved quickly to Leonore with a little exclamation of apology. 'And I have not yet welcomed our guest. Welcome to Dorf, my Fraulein--a thousand times welcome, and may you be as happy here as the old aunt will wish to make you.' Leonore had been standing by eyeing the aunt and niece with the greatest interest. It amused her much to hear her governess spoken to as 'my child,' for to _her_ Fraulein seemed quite old, long past the age of thinking _how_ old she was. Indeed, the white-haired little lady did not seem to her much older! 'Thank you,' she said in reply to the aunt's kind words. 'I hope I shall be very happy here, but please don't call me anything but Leonore.' 'As you please,' her new friend replied, while Fraulein smiled beamingly. She was most anxious that her aunt and her pupil should make friends, and she knew that, though Leonore was a polite and well-mannered little girl, she had likes and dislikes of her own, and not always quite reasonable ones. Perhaps, to put it shortly, she felt anxious that her charge was just a trifle spoilt, and that she herself had had a hand in the spoiling. 'A motherless child,' she had said to herself many and many a time in excuse during the five years she had had the care of Leonore, for Fraulein had gone to her when the little girl was only four years old, 'and her papa so far away! Who could be severe with her?' Not tender-hearted Fraulein Elsa, most certainly! So she felt especially delighted when Leonore replied so prettily to her aunt, and still more so when the child lifted up her face for the kiss of welcome which Aunt Anna was only too ready to bestow, though she would have been rather surprised had she known the thoughts that were in Leonore's head at the moment. 'I believe she _does_ know something about fairies,' the little girl was saying to herself. 'She has nice twinkly eyes, and--oh, I don't know what makes me think so, but I believe she _does_ understand about them. Any way, she won't be like my aunts in England who always want me to read improving books and say I am getting too big for fairy stories.' That first evening in the quaint old village was full of interest for Leonore. Aunt Anna's house in itself was charming to her, for though really small as to the size and number of its rooms, it did not seem so. There were such nice 'twisty' passages, and funny short flights of steps, each leading perhaps to only one room, or even to nothing more than a landing with a window. And, standing at one of these, the little girl made a grand discovery, which took her flying off to the room where Fraulein was busily unpacking the boxes which the carrier had already brought. 'Fraulein, Fraulein,' she cried; 'I've been looking out at the back of the house, and just across the yard there's a lovely sort of big courtyard and buildings round it, and I saw a man all white and powdery carrying sacks. Is there a mill here?' 'Yes, my dear,' Fraulein replied. 'Did I not tell you? It is a very old mill, and the same people have had it for nearly a hundred years--such nice people too. I will take you all over it in a day or two--it will amuse you to see the different kinds of grain and flour, all so neatly arranged.' 'And the same people have been there for nearly a hundred years!' exclaimed Leonore. 'How _very_ old they must be.' Fraulein laughed. Though Leonore was so fond of wonders and fancies, she was sometimes very matter-of-fact. Aunt Anna, who just then joined them, smiled kindly. 'Elsa did not mean the same _persons_,' she explained, 'but the same family--the same name. Those there now--the miller himself--is the great-grandson of the man who was there first when the mill was built, which was, I think, fully _more_ than a hundred years ago,' she added, turning to her niece. Leonore looked rather disappointed. 'Oh,' she said, 'I thought it would be so nice to see people who were a hundred. Then, I suppose, the people here aren't any older than anywhere else.' 'I can scarcely say that,' Aunt Anna replied. 'There are some very old, and--there are odd stories about a few of the aged folk. I know one or two who do not seem to have grown any older since _I_ can remember, and my memory goes back a good way now. But, my dears, I came to tell you that supper is ready--we must not let it get cold.' She held out her hand to Leonore as she spoke. The little girl took it, and went off with her very happily, Fraulein calling after them that she would follow immediately. 'Please tell me, Aunt Anna,' said Leonore--it had been decided that she should thus address the old lady--'please tell me, do you mean that some of these very old people who don't grow any older are a kind of _fairy_?' She spoke almost in a whisper, but she was quite in earnest. 'Well,' said Aunt Anna, 'this country is on the borders of Fairyland, so who can say? When we were children--I and my brothers and sisters and the little barons and baronesses up at the Castle--when we all played together long ago, we used often to try to find the way there--and fairies, of course, are much cleverer than we are. I don't see why some of them may not stray into our world sometimes.' 'And pretend to be _not_ fairies,' said Leonore eagerly. 'P'raps they go back to Fairyland every night, and are here every day; fairies don't need to go to sleep ever, do they?' But Aunt Anna had not time to reply just then, for supper was on the table, and all her attention was given to seeing that the dishes were what they should be, and in helping her little guest to Leonore's liking. When Fraulein joined them, however, the conversation took a more general turn. 'I was speaking just now to Leonore,' Aunt Anna began, 'of my childhood--when your dear father, Elsie, and the others, and I used to play with the castle children. And that reminds me that I have a piece of news for you--things repeat themselves it is said. It will be strange if a second generation----' she said no more, and for a moment or two seemed lost in thought--the thought of the past! Fraulein was used to her aunt's ways; the old lady was a curious mixture of practical commonsense and dreamy fancifulness. But after a little pause the niece recalled her to the present. 'A piece of news, you said, aunt? Good news, I hope?' she inquired. 'I think so,' said the aunt. 'It is about the family at the Castle. Little Baroness Hildegarde is probably, almost certainly, coming here to spend the winter with her grandparents. She may arrive any day.' 'Oh I _am_ pleased to hear it,' said Fraulein. 'It was just what I was hoping might happen, but I dared scarcely think of it. It would be so nice for our dear Leonore to have a companion.' Leonore pricked up her ears at this. 'Yes, my dear,' Fraulein went on, in answer to the question in her eyes, 'I have not spoken of it to you before, for there seemed so little chance of its coming to pass. It is about the little Hildegarde who would be such a delightful companion for you. She is just about your age, an only child as you are, and such a dear little girl by all accounts. I have not seen her since she was six, but Aunt Anna knows her well, and the family at the Castle have been our most kind friends for so long.' Leonore looked full of interest but rather perplexed. 'I don't quite understand,' she said. 'Do you mean that the little girl is perhaps coming to live here in this house with us?' 'Oh no, my dear. Her own home is a good way off, but her grandpapa and grandmamma live at the Castle--a large old gray house half way up the hill above the village. I will show it to you to-morrow. It is a wonderfully quaint old place. And the little Baroness comes sometimes on long visits to her grandparents, who love to have her.' 'Only they fear it is lonely for her, as she is accustomed to the life of a great capital,' said Aunt Anna. 'They were delighted to hear I was expecting a little guest, when I saw them the other day, and they told me of the probability of Hildegarde's coming.' Fraulein almost clapped her hands at this. 'Nothing could be more fortunate,' she said. 'There will be no fear now of your finding Dorf dull, my dearest Leonore.' Leonore smiled back in return. It was impossible not to be touched by her kind governess's anxiety for her happiness, but she herself had had no fears about being dull or lonely at Dorf. She was not much accustomed to companions of her own age, and just a little shy of them, so the news of Hildegarde's coming was not quite as welcome to her as to her friends. 'I should have been quite happy without anybody else,' she said to herself. 'I love old Aunt Anna, and I am sure she knows plenty of fairy stories whether she has ever seen any fairies herself or not.' Still she felt, of course, a good deal of curiosity to see the grandchild of the Castle, and could not help letting her thoughts run on her. Would she be taller or smaller than herself--dark or fair, merry or quiet? Above all, would she care for the same things--would she love fairies, and be always hoping to see one some day? There was plenty for Leonore to think about, and dream about, that first night in the quaint little house, was there not? And dream she did. When she woke in the morning it seemed to her that she had been busy at it all night, though only one bit of her dreams remained in her memory. This bit was about Hildegarde, and, strange as it seemed, about a person she had only given a passing moment's attention to--the old dame in the market-place at Alt. She dreamt that she was walking along the village street, when she heard a voice calling. She was alone, and she looked back expecting to see Fraulein. But no--a queer little figure was trotting after her, and as it came nearer she heard that the name that reached her ears was not 'Leonore,' but 'Hildegarde,' and with that, some queer feeling made her slip inside the shade of a gateway she was passing to watch what happened. And as the figure came quite close she saw that it was that of the old apple-woman--then to her surprise there came flying down the hill, for the village street lay closely below the rising ground at one side, a child all dressed in white, with fair hair blowing about her face as she ran. 'Here I am,' she said, 'what is it?' And now glancing at the dame, Leonore saw that she was quite changed--at first indeed she thought she was no longer there, till some unuttered voice seemed to tell her that the figure now before her was still the same person. She had grown tall and wavy-looking--her wrinkled face was smooth and fair--only the bright dark eyes remained, and as she held out her hand as if to welcome the pretty child, Leonore saw that in it lay three nuts small and dry and brown--just like the three still stored in her own jacket pocket. 'Take these,' said a sweet low voice, 'they will match hers. You will know what to do with them, and by their means you will bring her to me. We must make her happy--she has travelled far, and she has longed to cross the borderland. And Hildegarde, for the same inner voice seemed to tell Leonore that Hildegarde it was, took the nuts and nodded, as if to say 'I understand,' and with that, to her great disappointment, Leonore awoke! Awoke, however, to what goes far to take away disappointment of such a kind. For the sun was shining brightly, her simple but cosy little room seemed painted in white and pale gold, and a soft green by the window told her that the creepers had not yet faded into their winter bareness. 'I wonder what o'clock it is,' thought the little girl, as she gazed about her in great content. 'How glad I am that it is such a fine day! I do want to go all about the village, and especially to see the Castle. I _wonder_ if Hildegarde is like the little girl in my dream. I do hope she is. And how funny that I should have dreamt about the nut-woman turning into a fairy--it does seem as if Hildegarde must care for fairies just as I do--and as if she knew a good deal about them, too. By the bye I do hope my nuts are safe. I never remembered to take them out of my jacket pocket!' She was on the point of jumping up to see if they were still there when the door opened softly and Fraulein peeped in. She was already dressed, and her face was beaming; it seemed to reflect the sunshine coming in at the window. 'Oh, Fraulein, dear,' said Leonore, 'how lazy I am! You are dressed, and I only woke up a few minutes ago.' 'All the better, my child,' was Fraulein's kind reply. 'It means, I hope, that you have slept well and soundly. My native air brings back old habits to me, you see. I was always accustomed to getting up very early here. And see, what a lovely day it is! As soon as we have had breakfast I must take you out to see the village and----' 'The Castle,' interrupted Leonore. 'Can't we go to the Castle? I do so want to know if Hildegarde has come. I have been--' 'dreaming about her,' she was going to say, but something, she knew not what, made her hesitate and change the words into 'thinking of her--' 'so much.' Which was of course quite true. And something of the same feeling prevented her looking for the nuts till Fraulein left the room. 'It is not likely that the little Baroness has already arrived,' her governess replied. 'We shall be sure to hear as soon as she comes. But we can see something of the Castle _outside_ at any rate. For the next few days I think it must be all holiday-time,' she went on, smiling. 'Aunt Anna begs for it, and we have been working pretty steadily these last months.' Leonore had no objection to this proposal, though she was fond of lessons, never having been over-dosed with them, and she jumped out of bed and bathed and dressed in the best of spirits. The nuts were quite safe in her jacket pocket. She wrapped them in a piece of paper for better security and put them back again. 'I should not like to lose them,' she thought. 'My dream has given me a feeling that there is something out of the common about them, and I should like to take them with me wherever I go. Just _supposing_ I ever met any fairy sort of person, perhaps the nuts might turn out to be of use in some queer way.' After breakfast, and when Fraulein had helped Leonore to arrange her books and work and other little things in the room that was to serve as her schoolroom during the winter, they set off on their first ramble through and round the village. It was a pretty village--lying as it did at the foot of the hills, which were beautifully wooded, it could scarcely have been ugly. But besides these natural advantages, it was bright and clean; many of the houses, too, were pretty in themselves, with deep roofs and carved balconies, and in some cases many coloured designs painted on the outside walls. Leonore was delighted; it was so different from any place she had ever seen before. 'Oh, Fraulein,' she exclaimed, 'it's like a toy-town. It doesn't look as if real people had built it.' 'But it looks as if very real people had built _that_, does it not?' said Fraulein, stopping short and drawing Leonore a little backward. '_That_' was the grim old Castle, of which they now had the first view, standing lonely and gray up on the heights overlooking the village, like a stern guardian keeping watch on the doings of playful children at his feet. The little girl gazed at it with all her eyes. 'It's a real Castle,' she exclaimed; 'I _am_ so pleased. It looks as if it had dungeons and--and--forti-- What is the word, Fraulein?' 'Fortifications,' said her governess. 'You mean that it is fortified. Yes; at least it used to be in the old days. There are the holes in the walls which the defenders used to shoot through in time of siege, and there are battlements still quite perfect round the front. It is so pleasant to saunter on them, and think of the strange scenes the old place must have witnessed. We can walk up the hill towards the gates if you like, and you will see a little more.' Leonore, of course, _did_ like, and the nearer they got to the Castle the more was she fascinated by the view of the ancient building. Just outside the entrance they stood still, and Fraulein began pointing out to her its different parts and giving her a little historical account of it, to which she listened with interest. Suddenly--for all was very silent just then--they heard steps approaching and a clear young voice singing softly. And--Fraulein stopped talking and stood gazing before her, as did Leonore, till--from among the trees which bordered the short approach to the inner gateway, there appeared a childish figure, running towards them, singing as she came. A young girl, dressed all in white, with fair floating hair---- 'It is Hildegarde,' said Leonore, growing pale with excitement. For the figure was exactly like the little girl in her dream! CHAPTER IV ON THE WAY Oh, what is that country, And where can it be?--ROSSETTI. If Fraulein heard what Leonore said, she did not seem surprised, for though she did not, of course, know about the little girl's curious dream, she knew that Hildegarde's coming had been freely talked about the evening before. But she _was_ very astonished a moment later when Hildegarde, looking up quietly, said with a smile-- 'I have come to meet you. I was sure I should.' 'My dear child!' exclaimed Fraulein. 'How could you know? The fairies must have told you!' The little stranger smiled again. 'This is Leonore,' she said, taking the other child's hand. 'Grandmamma told me her name, but grandmamma did not know I should meet you'; and she shook her head with a funny little air of mystery. 'It is wonderful,' said Fraulein; 'it is even wonderful that you should know _me_ again. It is five years--_five years_--since you saw me last--half your life.' 'Yes,' said Hildegarde, 'but I can remember longer ago than that.' She was still holding Leonore's hand, and though the little English girl felt rather shy, and had not yet spoken to her new friend, yet she liked the touch of the gentle fingers and pressed them in return, while she looked at Hildegarde's pretty fair face in admiration. 'I am coming soon to see Aunt Anna,' Hildegarde went on. 'Will you give her my love, Fraulein Elsa, and tell her so? May I come this afternoon?' 'Certainly, certainly,' said Fraulein; 'the sooner you and Leonore make friends, the better pleased we shall all be.' At this Leonore took courage. 'Yes,' she said, looking earnestly at Hildegarde with her serious dark eyes. 'I want _very much_ to be friends.' 'It will not take long,' said Hildegarde, and then, for the first time, Leonore noticed that the little girl's eyes were not like any she had ever seen before. They were not blue, as one would have expected from her light, almost flaxen hair and fair complexion, but a kind of bright hazel-brown--with lovely flashes, almost, as it were, of sunshine, coming and going. 'They are _golden_ eyes,' thought Leonore; and when she repeated this to Fraulein afterwards, her governess agreed with her that she was right. 'I remember noticing their colour when she was a very tiny child,' said Fraulein, thinking to herself that the two little girls made a pretty contrast, for Leonore's hair was dark, as well as her eyes. Hildegarde held up her face for Fraulein to kiss, and then she ran off again, saying as she did so-- 'Do not forget to tell Aunt Anna I am coming, and perhaps she will make some of those dear little round cakes I love so--she knows which they are. Leonore will like them too, I am sure.' The day was getting on by this time; it was past noon. 'We will just stroll to the other end of the village,' said Fraulein; 'from there we shall have the side view of the Castle--there is a short cut down to the street at that end, by some steps, but they are rough and in need of repair, so we generally prefer the longer way. The old Baron has spoken of shutting off the side entrance; he says it is only fit for goats to scramble up.' Leonore thought, though she did not say so, that it would be very amusing for little girls all the same, and determined to ask Hildegarde about it. She thought the Castle even more interesting seen sideways than in front; it looked so very close to the thick dark trees behind, almost as if it touched them. 'I shall have lots of things to talk to Hildegarde about,' she said to herself. 'These woods are _very_ fairy-looking. And I think I must tell her my strange dream about her and the nuts. I don't _think_ she would laugh at it. I hope I have them quite safe.' Yes, they lay snugly in her pocket, wrapped up in the piece of paper--a nice piece of pink paper that she had found among her things. 'I will leave them where they are,' she thought, 'and then I shall be sure to remember to tell Hildegarde my dream.' It was nearly dinner-time when they got back to Aunt Anna's, for in that part of the world big people as well as little dine in the middle of the day. Aunt Anna was most interested in hearing of Hildegarde's arrival, and quite as delighted as Fraulein had been. 'And was it not strange that she should have come to meet us?' said Fraulein. 'She must have had a presentiment about it.' 'What is a presentiment?' asked Leonore. 'A sort of knowing beforehand about something that is going to happen,' answered Fraulein. 'Many people have the feeling, but very often it does not come true, and then it is not a real presentiment. It is not everybody that has real presentiments.' Aunt Anna smiled. Leonore was learning to love her smiles. They reminded her of some other smile--whose was it? Hildegarde's?--yes, a little, perhaps, but no, she had seen Hildegarde for the first time that morning, and this feeling about Aunt Anna's smile had come to her already yesterday. Whose smile could it be? 'Hildegarde is a dear child,' said Aunt Anna, 'and perhaps she is one of the few who know more than the everyday people. And she was born at the Castle and spent her babyhood there. How well I remember the day she was christened!' 'Oh, do tell me,' exclaimed Leonore impulsively. 'Did they have a grand feast, and did they invite any fairies? Perhaps she had a fairy godmother.' 'Leonore!' said Fraulein, beginning to laugh. 'You are getting too fanciful--you really----' 'Nay, Elsa,' interrupted Aunt Anna. 'Let the child say out what is in her mind, and remember, we are here in our dear country, close on the borders of Fairyland----' 'Yes, Fraulein,' Leonore interrupted in her turn. 'You said so yourself.' 'And assuredly,' Aunt Anna went on, 'if Hildegarde has a fairy godmother, she has given her none but good gifts.' 'You speak as if such things were possible, my dear aunt,' said Fraulein. 'We must not let Leonore grow too fanciful. I shall have you and her taking flight in an airy chariot drawn by white swans or something of that kind some fine day, if I don't take care.' 'Well, you and Hildegarde can come after us in another chariot if we do,' said Aunt Anna, laughing. But Leonore remained serious. 'Please tell me, Aunt Anna,' she said, 'as you were at Hildegarde's christening, was there any one there who _might_ have been a fairy?' Aunt Anna hesitated. 'There was an odd story,' she replied, 'about a beautiful lady who was met coming away from the nursery, when the baby had been left alone in her cot for a moment or two. And when the nurse went back she found her smiling and crowing and chuckling to herself as if she were six months instead of only a few days old, and in her little hand she was tightly clasping----' 'What?' asked Leonore breathlessly. 'Three nuts,' replied Aunt Anna impressively. 'Three common little brown hazel-nuts. That part of the story is true, for Hildegarde has the nuts to this day, I believe--at least she had them the last time she was here.' 'She must have picked them up somehow,' said Fraulein. Aunt Anna shook her head. 'A baby of a few days old cannot pick things up,' she said. 'No, it has never been explained. None of the servants had put them into her hand--indeed they would not have been so foolish, and they could scarcely have had the chance of doing so. And it was said by the one or two who declared they had met her, that the beautiful lady was carrying a basket on her arm filled with common hazel-nuts, and some days afterwards one of the foresters said that late that same evening a little old woman whom he had never seen before stopped him up in the high woods to ask the way to some strange place of which he had never heard, and she--the little old woman--was carrying a basket of nuts. She offered him some, but he thought she was a witch and would not have any.' 'Dear me, Aunt Anna,' exclaimed her niece, 'I did not know all these wonderful tales. Surely they grew out of finding the nuts in the baby's hands. I do remember hearing _that_, though I had forgotten it.' 'Perhaps that was the origin of it all,' said her aunt quietly. 'Still, Hildegarde is an uncommon child. It certainly seems as if she had received some fairy gifts, however they came to her.' Leonore did not speak, but she listened intently. She would probably have not contented herself with listening but for knowing that she was so soon to see Hildegarde herself again. '_She_ will be the best person to ask,' thought Leonore. 'I will tell her about _my_ nuts and the little old woman who gave me them, and about the pretty laugh I heard in the wood, and then, I feel sure, she will tell me all _she_ knows.' She could scarcely finish her dinner, so eager and excited did she feel. And she was more than delighted when, at the close of the meal, kind Fraulein proposed to her that, as Hildegarde had come to meet _them_ that morning, Leonore should show her new little friend the same attention. 'You can scarcely miss her,' she said. 'She is sure to come the same way that I took you this morning. If you get ready now, and start in a quarter of an hour or so, you will be about right, I should say. They dine early at the Castle. But I should like you to change your dress in case you should be presented to the Baroness--Hildegarde's grandmamma.' Leonore ran off to get ready. She was not long about it, but all the same her new little friend must have been even quicker, for Leonore met her a very few steps only from Aunt Anna's gate. Hildegarde's face lighted up with a smile when she caught sight of the other little girl. 'So you have come to meet me,' she said; 'that is very nice of you. I hope I have not come too soon. Shall I go in now to see Aunt Anna?' Leonore looked a little disappointed, which Hildegarde seemed at once to understand. 'I don't mean to _stay_ with Aunt Anna,' she added quickly; 'what I want is for you and me to go out somewhere together. It is a lovely day, and I have leave to stay out till dusk. My grandmamma is going to pay some visits, so she hopes to see you some other day--perhaps to-morrow. I think we shall get to know each other far the best by being alone by ourselves--don't you think so?' 'Yes, certainly,' said Leonore, her face clearing. 'I am so glad you understand. I have such a lot of things to talk to you about.' Hildegarde nodded her head. It was a little habit of hers to do so without speaking sometimes. 'Then we must not lose any of our time,' she said, after a moment's pause. 'But first I will run in to give Aunt Anna a kiss, and then we can go off somewhere together.' Aunt Anna's face was full of pleasure at the sight of her little friend--the two were evidently old acquaintances. 'How well you are looking, my child,' she said, 'and how much you have grown! Let me see, which is the taller, you or our little Leonore,' and she drew the two children together. 'There is not a quarter of an inch between you,' she exclaimed. 'If you were ponies you would be a perfect match--one dark and one fair,' she added musingly. 'Yes, my dears, you are evidently intended to be friends.' 'And that is just what we mean to be,' said Hildegarde. 'May we go now, Aunt Anna? You will not be anxious even if Leonore does not come home till dark?' 'Oh no,' said the old lady tranquilly, 'I know you are as safe as you can be--you are going to the woods, I suppose?' 'I think so,' Hildegarde replied. As soon as they found themselves out of doors again, she took Leonore's hand. 'Let us run quickly through the village,' she said, 'and then when we get inside the Castle grounds we can go slowly and talk as we go. Or perhaps we can sit down--it is so mild, and there are lots of cosy places among the trees.' Leonore was quite pleased to do as Hildegarde proposed; indeed she had a curious feeling that whatever her new little friend wished she would like. She did not speak much, for it seemed to her as if she were meant in the first place to listen. The woods were very lovely that afternoon. Hildegarde led the way round the Castle without approaching it quite closely, till they stood in a little clearing, from which they looked upwards into the rows of pine-trees, through which here and there the afternoon sunshine made streaks of light and brightness. 'Isn't it pretty here?' said Hildegarde. 'Hush--there's a squirrel--there are lots about here; they are so tame they like to be near the house, I think. Shall we sit down? It is quite dry.' Leonore was not troubled with any fears of catching cold--and indeed the day was as mild as summer. 'Yes,' she said, 'it is a very pretty place. I have never seen such big woods before.' 'They go on for miles and miles--up ever so far,' said Hildegarde, 'though here and there the ground is quite flat for a bit. And over there,' she pointed to the left, 'they are not pine woods, but all sorts of other trees. I don't know which I like best.' 'Pine woods _I_ should say,' Leonore replied. 'Perhaps because I have never seen such beautiful high fir-trees before. And the way the sun peeps through them is so pretty.' As she spoke, half unconsciously her hand strayed to her jacket pocket. There lay safely the little packet containing the three nuts. 'Hildegarde,' she said, 'I heard the story about you when you were a baby, and what they found in your hand. And--it is very odd--do you know--no, of course you couldn't--but just fancy, _I_ have three nuts too!' Hildegarde nodded her head. 'I _did_ know,' she said, smiling. 'And--look here.' From the front of her frock she drew out a little green silk bag drawn in at the top with tiny white ribbon. She opened it carefully, and took out something which she held towards Leonore--on her pretty pink palm lay three nuts, common little brown nuts, just like Leonore's. And Leonore unwrapped her own packet and in the same way held out its contents. 'Yes,' said Hildegarde, 'it is all right. I knew you had them.' Leonore stared at her in astonishment. 'How could you know?' she exclaimed. 'I suppose people would say I dreamt it,' Hildegarde replied, 'but I don't call it dreaming. I have always known things like that since I was a baby. And I knew that some day I should have a friend like you, and that together we should have lovely adventures, and now it is going to come true.' Leonore grew rosy red with excitement. 'Do you mean,' she began, 'Hildegarde, _can_ you mean that perhaps we are going to find the way to Fairyland? _I_ have been thinking about it ever since I can remember anything.' Hildegarde nodded. 'Yes,' she said, 'I am sure you have. But I don't quite know about Fairyland itself. I am not sure if any one ever gets _quite_ there--into the very insidest part, you know. I almost think we should have to be turned into fairies for that, and then we never could be little girls again, you see. But I am sure we are going to see some wonderful things--there are the outside parts of Fairyland, you know.' 'Fraulein says all this country is on the borders of Fairyland,' said Leonore. 'Well, so it is, I daresay, for fairies _do_ come about here sometimes. You've heard the story of the one that came to my christening feast?' 'Yes,' said Leonore, 'and I am beginning to think that I have seen her too,' and she went on to tell Hildegarde about the little old dame in the market-place at Alt who had given her the nuts, and about the mischievous laugh she had heard in the wood on the way to Dorf, and all her own thoughts and fancies, including her dream of Hildegarde herself. Hildegarde listened attentively. 'I feel sure you are right,' she said, 'and that the dame _was_ my own fairy, as I call her. And I believe the laugh you heard in the wood was when you were hoping you hadn't lost the last three nuts. I don't believe you could have lost them; if you had thrown them away they would have come back to you. Just think how my three have always been kept safe, even though I was only a tiny baby when they were put into my hand.' Both little girls sat silent for a moment or two, gazing at the six brown nuts. 'And what do you think we are meant to do now?' asked Leonore at last. 'To do,' repeated Hildegarde in some surprise; 'why, of course it's quite plain--to crack the nuts! Not all of them at once--one, or perhaps two--one of yours and one of mine, I daresay.' 'Oh,' exclaimed Leonore, 'do you really think we should? _How_ I wonder what we shall find! Just supposing there is nothing but a kernel inside.' 'There's no good in supposing it,' said Hildegarde; 'we shall soon see. As I have had the nuts the longest perhaps it's meant for me to crack one first--so----' She put the nut between her teeth. Of course if it _had_ been a common nut this would not have been a sensible thing to do, as she would probably have broken her teeth and not cracked the nut, but Hildegarde knew what she was about. The nut gave way with a touch, and in another moment the little girl had broken off enough of the shell to see what was inside, Leonore bending over her in breathless eagerness. CHAPTER V 'WHAT'S O'CLOCK?' 'You had best come with me,' says he. .... And so they did.--_The Brown Bear._ The first exclamation came from Leonore. It was one of disappointment. 'Oh, Hildegarde,' she cried, 'it _is_ only a common kernel,' for nothing was to be seen but what looked just like the browny-gray skin of the inside of a nut. 'No,' Hildegarde replied, 'it isn't that at all'; and with her clever little fingers she carefully drew out what was in reality a small sheet of thin brown paper or tissue of some curious kind, rolled into a ball, and which, when she had carefully unfolded it, was shown to have a few lines of words stamped or impressed upon it in gilt letters. These were the lines. I have translated them to give the exact meaning, though as rhymes they were prettier in the original language:-- Right behind the Castle Is hid a tiny door; This let thy comrade open-- Nuts you still have four. Hildegarde smoothed it out and held it for Leonore to see. 'What can it mean?' Leonore asked breathlessly. 'First,' said Hildegarde, 'it means that you are to crack one of your nuts too. Don't you see--it says "_thy_ comrade," and then "nuts _you_ still have four." That shows that the "you" means us both together--four nuts between us. So please crack your one.' Leonore did so between her teeth, as her friend had done, and quite as easily. This time there was no exclamation of disappointment, for the first glimpse of the contents showed something glittering, and with trembling eagerness the little girl, breaking away still more of the shell, drew out a little ball of very fine but firm gilt thread. This, by Hildegarde's advice, she gently untwined, till she came to something hard in the middle. It was a small, very small, gold key, hanging on the long gilt thread, which proved to be in a ring, with no knot or join to be seen. Leonore, without speaking, glanced up at Hildegarde, who was earnestly examining their new discovery. '"Right behind the Castle,"' Hildegarde murmured to herself. 'Let me see--yes, I think I know what it means. See, Leonore, "right behind" must be from the centre of the wall of the Castle yard down below us, I should say. It is easy to find, as there is a door just in the middle. Look, you can see it from here. Well, now, if one of us stands as near the middle as we can guess, holding the thread, and the other goes straight on, holding the thread too, as far as it will reach, and running the key on as she goes, then she would get to the place that I fancy is meant. The thread must be meant to be double, or it would not be in a ring.' Leonore looked at Hildegarde admiringly. 'Yes,' she said, 'I'm sure that's the best thing to do; anyway, we can try. But, Hildegarde, the key is _so_ small.' Hildegarde examined it closely; suddenly Leonore heard a tiny click. 'It is not so very small now,' said Hildegarde; 'see, it pulls out,' and so it did. It was now a long-stemmed, very delicately-made key, small still in the actual words, but quite easy to hold firmly. Hildegarde moved a few paces to one side. 'I think we are about even with the centre of the Castle here,' she said, stopping short. 'Now, it is for you to look for the door, while I stand here holding the thread, for my rhyme says, "thy comrade," I shall stand quite still, and you walk on as straight as you can go.' 'I am so afraid of the thread breaking,' said Leonore, taking it and the key from Hildegarde. 'I don't think there is any fear of that, if you handle it gently,' said Hildegarde. 'Remember, it must be some kind of a fairy thread.' Leonore set off, her heart beating with excitement. As she went on she felt the thread sliding gently through her fingers, so she allowed her hold of it to slacken, while she grasped the tiny key more firmly. It seemed to her that she had walked a good way, and she was marvelling at the length of the thread, when she felt it tighten, and, slender as a hair though it was, pull her up with a little jerk. She stopped at once--yes, it was at its full stretch now, and she looked around her eagerly. The trees were growing thicker and closer here; in front the wood seemed almost dark, though here and there a streak of sunshine broke the gloom. But of a _door_ of any kind she could see no trace! She gazed downwards, for she had a vague idea that it might be a trap-door in the ground--a great stone with a ring in it, such as one reads of in old stories of enchantment and magic; but no, there was nothing of the kind to be seen, and she was on the point of calling back to Hildegarde that she could find no trace of a door, when, lifting her eyes suddenly, she caught sight of a gleam--a tiny spot of light--on the trunk of a tree in front of her. It was an old tree; the trunk was much thicker than those around it, the bark was rugged. Leonore hastened close up to it, the thread seeming to become elastic to allow of her doing so. To her delight, as she peered in at the spot, she descried the outline of a very small keyhole in bright gold. She almost screamed with pleasure, and had to conquer her first impulse, which was to try to unlock it at once, for this would have been contrary to what she and Hildegarde had planned. So she did as she had promised, giving a soft jerk to the thread, the signal agreed upon. And in a minute Hildegarde was beside her, her blue eyes sparkling, her fair hair flying behind her. 'You have found it?' she cried; and Leonore, too excited to speak, pointed to the golden rim. 'The key,' exclaimed Hildegarde, and with careful though trembling fingers Leonore fitted it into the lock. It turned without the slightest difficulty, and there before them stood open a narrow entrance into what looked like a dark hole, about as high as the children themselves. Leonore was darting forwards when her friend stopped her. 'Take out the key,' she said, 'it must not be left in the lock'; but when Leonore turned to obey her, lo and behold, the key was no longer there, and the thread had slipped from the hold of both! Only a very tiny shiny ball, like a gold bead, was lying among the fir-needles at their feet, and as Hildegarde stooped to pick it up, it seemed to sink into the ground, and disappeared! She stood up again, laughing. 'All right,' she said, 'it has done its work.' Then hand-in-hand they crept through the doorway sideways, for it was only wide enough to admit one at a time. But no sooner were they well within, the door closing of itself behind them, than they were able to stand abreast, for they found themselves in a wide passage. But before looking about them, Hildegarde stopped short for a moment. 'What has become of the little brown paper?' she said. 'Perhaps there was something else on it.' Leonore shook her head. 'I don't think so,' she said. 'I looked at it well. Is it not in your pocket?' No, it was not there. It had evidently disappeared, like the contents of Leonore's own nut. 'Then we are meant to find our own way now,' said Hildegarde cheerfully. 'At present there is not much difficulty, for there is plainly only one way to go,' and that was straight before them. The passage was dimly lighted, though how or from where they could not tell, but by degrees, as their eyes grew accustomed to the dusk, they saw that the way sloped downwards, and was a sort of path between rows of curiously twisted pillars or columns at each side. Leonore squeezed Hildegarde's arm. 'What are these things?' she said. 'I don't like them--they look like snakes.' Her little friend laughed. 'You silly girl,' she replied. 'Don't you see--they are the roots of the trees. We have got right down underneath.' Leonore stared in wonder. 'I thought their roots were in the _earth_,' she said. 'Perhaps the earth doesn't go down so far as we thought,' said Hildegarde, 'or perhaps it has been cleared away here to make a path. Yes, I should think that's how it is. But you see, Leonore, if we're getting into Fairyland we must expect to see a good many queer things, not like what we are accustomed to.' 'Of course,' Leonore agreed, her eyes sparkling at the idea. 'I don't think I should really feel _surprised_ at anything. But do let us hurry on, Hildegarde.' They took hands again and ran on. It was quite easy to do so, as there was light enough to see where they were going, and the way still sloped gently downwards. Suddenly Hildegarde stopped. 'Hark!' she exclaimed; 'do you hear that sound, Leonore? What can it be?' for a very soft monotonous sort of whirr was plainly to be distinguished. 'Can it be water?' Leonore was beginning, when Hildegarde interrupted her. 'It is a spinning-wheel,' she whispered eagerly. 'Now, Leonore, our adventures are really beginning.' Almost as she spoke, they became aware that just in front of them the passage made a turn; and another minute brought them within sight of a kind of niche at one side, within which sat a not altogether unfamiliar figure. It was that of the old dame of the market-place at Alt. She was spinning busily. The children stopped. They felt her bright eyes fixed upon them, but neither liked to speak. They waited in respectful silence. 'Welcome,' she said at last, while a smile broke over her face. 'I have been expecting you.' They drew a little nearer. 'Then you _are_ a fairy,' Leonore burst out, 'and it was you I heard laugh on our way here--wasn't it?' 'Never mind about that,' said the dame. 'Tell me what you want.' 'Oh,' said Hildegarde softly, 'you know that better than we do. You know all about us. We want to get to Fairyland, and you can show us the way, can you not?' To their disappointment and surprise, the dame shook her head. But her words softened the disappointment a little. 'No--not quite that,' she replied. 'Into actual Fairyland itself I cannot take or lead you. No one but yourselves can do that--and,' with a little sigh, 'there are but few who ever really penetrate there. It cannot be otherwise. But I can help you and show you a good deal, so do not look sad about it. There are many, many wonderful things to see between this and actual Fairyland.' At this the little girls brightened up. 'Please tell us,' said Leonore timidly, 'do you always sit here, except when you come up to where we live? And are you always spinning?' The dame shook her head and smiled again. 'No,' she replied. 'This is only one of my posts. I am here to-day because I expected you. And I spin when I have no other special work to do. We do not love idleness.' Hildegarde had moved quite close up to her. 'What are you spinning now?' she said softly. Oh, I see--it is cobwebs, is it not?' 'You have good eyes, my child,' said the dame; and so indeed she had, for, but for a certain glistening as the light caught the almost invisible ball of threads, nothing could have been perceived. 'Yes, our fairy looms use a good deal of cobweb yarn--there is nothing like it for our gossamer tissue, nothing that takes such shades of colour.' Leonore listened with wide-open eyes. 'Oh,' she said beneath her breath, 'I wish I could see it--I----' 'So you shall,' said the dame; 'that is a wish it is easy to grant'; and as she spoke she rose from her seat, giving a touch to the spinning-wheel which made it revolve with double speed, and changed the soft whirr into a louder sound, almost like a note of music. The children stared at the wheel, and in that moment of their attention being distracted the old dame had vanished, and in her stead stood a lovely figure, smiling down upon them. 'Oh,' exclaimed Hildegarde, 'you are my own fairy lady. I remember you now--it was you that gave me the nuts when I was a baby.' 'And I have dreamt of you,' added Leonore eagerly. 'And this is the gossamer--may I touch it?' she went on, softly stroking the gleaming garment which floated round the fairy. 'I can _scarcely_ feel it.' 'It says much for you if you feel it at all,' said the lady. 'But now, my children, if you want to see some of the things open to you to visit, you must be on your way. Go straight on till you come to a barred gate--that is one of the doors into gnomeland. Knock and say that the fairy of the spinning-wheel sent you, and asks for you courtesy and kindness. Leonore looked a very little frightened. 'Is there any fear?' she began. 'Could the gnomes be vexed at our coming?' Hildegarde turned to her with a little impatience. 'Of course not,' she said, 'if our fairy lady sends us.' [Illustration: "I MUST GIVE YOU ONE OR TWO WARNINGS."] 'But still,' said the lady, though she smiled, 'I must give you one or two warnings. Gnomes are gnomes, remember--not angels, not even fairies. They are queer-tempered folk. In speaking to them you must be very respectful and never interrupt them. And you must never seem to pity them in the very least; they think their underground country is far more wonderful and delightful than any other, and you must not disagree with this opinion.' 'No,' said Hildegarde, 'we shall be very careful. Come along, Leonore.' 'Shall we find you here when we come back, please, dear fairy lady?' asked Leonore. 'You will not return this way,' their friend answered. 'But you will see me again before long--never fear.' She pointed towards the passage, and as she did so it seemed to the children that the light increased, as if her white hand had touched some unseen spring in the air. Nor did it grow dimmer again--though not very bright, it was now twice as bright as when they first entered, only the colour had grown reddish; and as they walked on, they noticed this more and more. 'It looks like the light of a fire, of a great fire,' said Leonore. 'Or of a great many fires,' said Hildegarde. 'I daresay it is that, for I have heard stories of the gnomes working at metals, and to do that they must have big fires like blacksmiths, you know.' 'I hope it won't be very hot in their country,' said Leonore, who was more timid than Hildegarde. 'It will be all right whatever it is,' replied her friend, 'otherwise you may be sure our fairy would not have let us come. Gnomeland is the nearest to our world of all the fairy countries--or the border countries, as they are, I suppose--so it is right to begin with it. But you needn't be frightened, Leonore. I hope we shall have lots of adventures, now we have really got started.' 'You are so brave,' said Leonore admiringly, 'and you seem to know so much about fairy things. What are all the other countries, do you think?' Hildegarde smiled. 'Oh, more, far more, than we have any idea of,' she said. 'Just think how many kinds of fairies we have _names_ for even. Gnomes, and pixies, and brownies, and wood-sprites, and water-sprites, and mermaids, and----' 'I think I should like most of all to go to the sea-fairies,' said Leonore. 'I do so love stories of mermaids, though they are nearly always rather sad. But oh, Hildegarde, that must be the gate into gnomeland--I am so glad it does not feel any hotter; it is quite nice and cool, isn't it?' Just before them stood a wrought-iron gate or door; it had bars across and was beautifully worked in all sorts of curious patterns and designs. On the top of each gate-post sat a bird--one was like an owl, and at first the little girls thought it must be really alive, for its eyes seemed to blink and its feathers to move softly. And opposite it was an eagle, whose keen eyes gleamed redly, while its wings sparkled like burnished gold. But neither was a living bird, and soon the children discovered that it was only the reflection of the light on the polished metal that gave the look of life to the eyes and plumage. The birds were placed sideways as if to see both inside the gate and outwards along the passage, and from the claw of the eagle hung a chain, ending in a fawn's foot also in bronze, or some such metal. 'That must be the gnomes' front-door bell,' said Hildegarde. 'Shall I ring it, or will you?' Leonore was creeping behind Hildegarde a little. 'Oh you, please,' she replied, and Hildegarde took the fawn's foot in her hand and pulled it--gently and carefully, for she remembered the fairy's warning--and a good thing it was that she did so, for softly though she had touched it, the result was rather startling. It rang out at once with a deep clang, which, strange to say, went sounding on and on, very loudly at first, then by degrees more faintly, till it was lost in the distance--it was as if hundreds of bells or echoes of bells had been pulled instead of one. Even Hildegarde looked a little alarmed. 'I hope they won't think us rude,' she said, 'I really scarcely----' but before she had time to say more, a face appeared behind the bars of the gate. It was a gnome--a regular, proper sort of gnome--about half the height of the children, with a pointed cap and a mantle tossed over one shoulder, a queer wrinkled-up face, a big nose, and black bead-like eyes. He did not look particularly good-natured; he was evidently not one of the laughing order of gnomes, not at any rate at the present moment. But neither did he seem exactly surly; his expression was rather as if he were waiting to see what kind of beings were these audacious visitors! But his first words were a great surprise, for instead of asking what they wanted, or any natural question of that kind, he tilted back his head, so that if his peaked cap had not been firmly fitted it would certainly have fallen off, and peering up into Hildegarde's face--Leonore by this time had crept well behind her companion--said sharply-- 'What's o'clock?' CHAPTER VI GNOMELAND He appeared, sniffed, and sneered, In a fairy pet.--_Child Nature._ For a moment or two Hildegarde stared down at the little man without speaking. Then her face lighted up again, and she replied-- 'I am very sorry, sir, that I can't tell you, for I have no watch and I don't know.' Something like a smile broke over the gnome's countenance. 'All right,' he said, 'you don't know, and you don't pretend you do. And _I_ don't want to know. Here in our country,' and he waved his hand in a lordly fashion, 'we have nothing to do with clocks and watches, and time and hours, and all such fiddle-faddle. We leave that to the poor folk who can't settle things for themselves, but have to be ruled by the sun and the moon, and the stars too, for all I know. Some people up there, where you come from, fancy we make the cuckoo-clocks down here, but that's all nonsense--we wouldn't waste our time over such rubbish.' 'I thought you said----' began Leonore impulsively. She was getting over her alarm a little by now--'I thought you said you didn't trouble about time,' she was _going_ to have added, but a touch from Hildegarde came, luckily, quickly enough to stop her, and to remind her of the fairy's warning. The gnome did not seem to have heard her; he was unfastening the gates. When he had got them ajar, he stood right in the middle, his head cocked on one side and his feet well apart, and surveyed the children coolly. 'And who sent you?' he said at last. 'The fairy of the spinning-wheel,' Hildegarde replied. 'Humph--I thought as much,' he remarked. 'And what for, if you please?' 'To pay you and your wonderful country a visit, if you will kindly allow us to do so,' Hildegarde answered. 'That means that I am to----' he cleared his throat and hesitated for a moment, then went on again, 'to tire myself out doing showman; I suppose?' he said rather grumpily. 'I hope not to tire yourself out, sir,' Hildegarde returned in her politest tone. 'We shall give you as little trouble as possible, but we are of course very anxious to see all you will kindly show us.' 'All right,' the gnome replied. 'Enter, children of the upper world, and be welcome,' and he flung open the gates with a flourish, while Hildegarde and Leonore passed through. It had seemed to them as they stood waiting that within the entrance was much the same as outside, but no sooner had they stepped across the boundary, the doors clanging behind them as they did so, than they found everything quite different. They were no longer in a rather narrow passage, but on a broad road, bordered on each side by magnificent rocks which stretched up so high that they could not see their summit or the roof. The ground was covered with very fine gravel or white silvery sand, firm and pleasant to walk upon, and which glistened like pale pink tinsel in the light. For everywhere was flooded with the soft red or rosy brilliance they had noticed before they entered, though whence it came they could not see. 'Why is the light so red?' asked Leonore, gaining some courage again, though since her last attempt she had not dared to speak. 'We noticed it outside, and we thought perhaps it came from big fires--furnaces you know, or forges--like what blacksmiths have.' The gnome was walking a little in front--at this he turned round. 'And why should we have "big fires," or furnaces, or whatever you call the clumsy things?' he said, fixing his small bright eyes, which gleamed redly themselves, on Leonore. 'Oh,' said Leonore, dreadfully afraid that he thought her rude, 'because--because--everybody says you make things like--like blacksmiths do--with iron and metal stuffs like that.' 'Indeed,' said the gnome, 'and what then? Do you think we denizens of the under-world are as stupid as your clumsy workmen up above? Wait a bit; you shall soon see for yourselves.' 'You mustn't think Leonore meant to be rude,' said Hildegarde. 'You see we are only children, and we don't understand about wonderfully clever things.' 'Humph,' said the gnome, but he seemed pleased. They had walked some little way by now, and once or twice their guide had stopped at what looked like a narrow passage between the rocks, as if uncertain if he should turn down it or not. Just then they came to another of these passages, and he looked back at the children. 'Follow me,' he said, 'and you shall see how we work. I am going to show you the manufacturing of the lucky pennies and horse-shoes.' 'What are lucky pennies?' whispered Leonore to Hildegarde. 'I think I have heard of them, but I'm not sure.' 'Never mind,' Hildegarde replied in the same tone. 'The gnomes won't be vexed with us for not knowing things if we are polite and admire their cleverness, and I am sure they _are_ very clever.' Then they followed their guide in silence, which soon, however, came to be broken by the sound of tapping, light sharp tapping, and in another moment or two, there was added to this a whizzing sound, and now and then short clear whistles. But the little girls asked no questions and made no remarks, till suddenly, the passage along which they were walking coming to an end, they found themselves in a very large rock-chamber--the sides of which towered up so high that their tops could not be seen, though everywhere the same clear rose-coloured light penetrated. The air was fresh and pleasant, though not cold. The gnomes evidently possessed the secret of warming their habitation as well as lighting it! And now were explained the several sounds the children had heard as they approached the 'manufactory' as their guide had called it. [Illustration: MANUFACTURING LUCKY PENNIES.] For the great room--one would have called it a cave perhaps, except that no cave ever was so lofty--was filled with a crowd of busy workers. Gnomes of course, some smaller, some a little bigger than the one who was guiding the children, but all as like each other as a lot of Chinese seem to us--and all apparently of the same age. A few were standing, but most were sitting, and in front of each was a small rock-table, on which lay tools of glistening silver. There were tiny hammers which explained the tapping, and little wheels revolving so rapidly that when in motion they could not be seen. And every now and then a gnome lifted a kind of tube or pipe to his mouth, through which he blew with a whistling sound, on to the piece of metal he was working at. None of them spoke; they all seemed absorbed in what they were doing. The guide-gnome signed to the children to come close up to one little earth-man and watch what he was doing. He was beating a round piece of copper with his fairy-like hammer, and blowing upon it between times through his whistling tube. 'There now,' said the first gnome, speaking at last. 'Is not that better than your scorching furnaces? That tube is a heat-tube--every time he blows through it, it melts, or at least softens the metal, without any fuss or trouble.' 'Really!' exclaimed Hildegarde, 'what a good plan! I wish we had heat-tubes to warm our fingers with in winter.' 'Better not wish for anything of the kind,' replied their guide. 'You up-above people are a long way from such things yet. You'd only burn your fingers off.' 'Thank you,' said Hildegarde respectfully. 'I daresay we should. But will you kindly explain about lucky pennies. Is that one he is making?' 'Yes,' replied the gnome. 'You good, near-sighted people,' and he jerked his thumb upwards, 'don't see the difference. You don't know when you get hold of a lucky penny or not--but a great many are sent up to your world, all the same, and that is why some folk seem to succeed with you and some not. _Partly_ the reason, that is to say, for the holders of lucky pennies must be honest, otherwise our coins do them more harm than good.' 'How wonderful!' said Leonore. 'But if you make such a great many, where do you send the others to? _All_ our pennies are not lucky pennies.' The gnome screwed up his eyes and looked at her. 'That's all I am at liberty to tell you,' he said. 'There are other worlds besides yours that _we_ know about though you don't,' and Leonore saw that she was not to question him further. 'Perhaps,' she thought to herself, 'there are people in the moon after all, and some of the lucky pennies go there.' The gnome seemed pleased by her respectful manner. He said something in a low voice to the little man they had been watching, who thereupon handed him two bright copper pieces. 'Here,' he said, 'here is a souvenir for each of you--a real lucky penny. Never part with them except in direst need, which with them in your possession is not likely ever to befall you.' The children were very pleased, and thanked him most politely. 'And now,' he said, 'as we pass on, you may glance at the other side of the manufactory, where we are employed on horse-shoes,' and he crossed between the rows of little men, each at his table, to where several were seated together at a larger one. Hildegarde gave an exclamation of disappointment. 'What are they doing?' she cried. 'Mending _old_ horse-shoes? What ugly things!' 'You foolish child,' said the gnome. 'How little you appreciate our skill! Of course the work they are doing is much more difficult than making pretty things. They are copying old horse-shoes after the clumsy earth fashion. Who would use a _new_ one for luck, I should like to know, and how little do you people up there think when you pick up an old cast-off horse-shoe, as you think, what it really is, and where it has come from.' Hildegarde felt rather snubbed. It was the first time she had forgotten the fairy's warning. 'How _very_ clever!' she said. 'Yes, indeed,' Leonore agreed. 'I shall always pick up horse-shoes when I see them now. And if you please, Mr. Gnome----' But her sentence was never finished, for just as she had got so far, their guide suddenly clapped his hands. There came a rush of cold air in the children's faces, so sharply, that without knowing it, they both shut their eyes. And when they opened them again, the big chamber and the busy workers had disappeared--they found themselves--still in the under-world, but in quite a different part of it. Here the light was no longer red, but a pale pretty green--a green which did not make things or people look pale and sickly, but only cast a soft radiance, such as one sees in the woods in the early spring. And to add to this impression there was a faint sound of running or trickling water near at hand. Hildegarde and Leonore rubbed their eyes and looked at each other; they almost felt as if they were dreaming. 'Where have we got to?' said Leonore; but as she looked about her a little she saw that they were still surrounded by the high rocks which seemed to be the walls and boundaries of the under-world. 'And how did we get here?' added Hildegarde laughing. 'It felt as if we were _blown_ here.' 'And so you were,' said a voice beside them, and turning, they caught sight of their old friend the gnome again. 'There was no object in tiring you with walking all through our domains--what brought you was one of our little inventions--the simplest in the world--for those who understand such things,' he added with condescension. 'And if you please where are we, and what are you going to show us now?' they inquired. 'You are at the entrance to our gardens, where I am going to show you our flower designs. You have doubtless never been told how many of your upper-world plants and flowers owe their existence to _us_.' 'Really!' exclaimed Hildegarde; and then, as a sudden thought struck her, 'oh, I _wonder_,' she cried, 'if those very, very queer flowers that we see in hot-houses and sometimes in gardens too--what do they call them--or--or--? I wonder if _they_ are invented by your gardeners.' The gnome smiled condescendingly. 'You mean orchids,' he said. 'Ah well, you will soon see for yourselves. And now,' he went on, 'I must bid you farewell, for the present at any rate, though who knows but that some day you may again visit the under-world. You will meet with no difficulties now. On leaving the gardens you may, if you like, pass through toy-land, and there you will see some of _our_ children. That, I think, must be the limit of your sight-seeing--any more would be too much for you to take in. I have the honour to bid you adieu.' He took off his cap with a flourish, bowing like a master of ceremonies. 'Goodbye, sir, and thank you very much,' said the little girls, but as they said the words, lo and behold the gnome had disappeared! 'That must be another of their inventions,' said Hildegarde, at which they both laughed. All the same, in their hearts they were not quite sure if they were glad or sorry to be left to themselves, though neither liked to say so to the other. They gazed about them. Behind were the rock passages they had grown accustomed to, but looking longer and dimmer, perhaps in contrast with the pale green light which had something more natural and more like the upper world about it. And just in front of them was a curious sort of palisade--or paling--with openings at regular intervals, though too narrow to see anything through, unless one placed one's eyes quite close. And this it was not worth while to do, for another glance showed them a door in the paling, and a bell, of the same pattern as the one at the first entrance, only in silver instead of in bronze or copper. Hildegarde rung it. The door opened almost at once, but no one was to be seen. So they walked in. The change of scene was complete. It was a garden, but a very queer one. Instead of lawns of grass, there were wide spaces covered with fine glittering sand of different shades of green; the paths between were brown, and stooping closer to examine them the children found that they consisted of very small round pebbles, something like toffee drops, so smooth and yet elastic that they did not hurt the feet at all. But the flower-beds were the oddest of all. They were filled with plants and flowers of the strangest shapes and colours you can--or rather 'can_not_'--imagine. And when Leonore put out her hand to touch one, she started in surprise; they were made of fine metal. So far, they had seen no one, but just as they were beginning to wonder which way they should go, and if they were to meet no more of the inhabitants of gnomeland, they saw toddling towards them the very queerest little figure they had ever seen out of a picture-book! It was that of a very _very_ old gnome--'the great-grandfather of all the gnomes surely,' whispered Hildegarde to Leonore. And it was with difficulty they restrained their laughter. Nor was it easier to do so when the little man came closer to them. He was so _very_ comical-looking. But mindful of the fairy's advice, both children kept perfectly grave and greeted the newcomer with a low courtesy. 'Well,' was all he said, and then stood wrinkling up his face, though you would have thought he could not screw it any higher than it was, and blinking up at them with his funny little eyes. Somehow they did not feel much in awe of him after all. 'Well?' he said again, this time in a more questioning tone of voice. 'If you please,' Hildegarde replied. 'May we walk through your--garden?' She could not help hesitating a little at the last word, for somehow the more she looked at the queer place they were in, the less like a garden it seemed. 'We won't pick any of the flowers.' 'You couldn't if you tried,' said the old gnome. 'Why not?' asked Hildegarde. 'I don't see any gardeners about.' 'They are all at their supper,' he replied. 'Supper,' replied Hildegarde. 'How early they must have it.' 'We don't know anything about late and early,' he said. 'But young things like them need plenty of food. Why, I don't believe the eldest of them is more than three hundred years old, counting the way you do up in your country.' It was all the children could do not to call out in astonishment; they did not do so, however, fearing it might sound rude. 'Do you count gardening easy work, then, if you put such young gnomes to do it?' Leonore inquired. The gnome nodded--a sort of nod that took in things in general---- 'This kind of gardening--yes,' he replied. 'It's only dusting the plants, and straightening the stems if they are bent, and raking the beds and paths. Designing's a different thing--_that_ takes experience. But you can stroll through if you like, and see for yourselves,' and with another nod, he toddled off again. 'How old must _he_ be,' exclaimed Leonore in an awe-struck tone, 'if he counts hundreds of years nothing! I wonder what he meant by saying we could not pick flowers if we tried.' Hildegarde walked on to where a border of strange blossoms, brilliant in colour and most grotesque in shape, stood in perfect motionlessness. She touched two or three of them gently before she spoke. Then---- 'Leonore,' cried she, 'they're _not_ flowers. They're made of metal.' Leonore sprang forward. 'Oh that's what he meant by saying they needed "dusting" and "straightening,"' she exclaimed. 'Oh, Hildegarde, how queer everything is down here--don't you think we had better go home?' 'Not till we have seen a little more,' said Hildegarde. 'There's nothing to be afraid of. My fairy wouldn't have let us come if there could be anything to hurt us.' 'No--not exactly that,' said Leonore, 'but it's all so _queer_.' 'Come along quickly then,' Hildegarde replied. 'I don't care for this garden, if there's nothing really alive and growing in it. But I daresay we will soon get to somewhere else.' And so, before very long, they did. They passed quantities of flower-beds and rows, so dazzling in colour and extraordinary in shape that they felt as if they were looking through some fantastic kaleidoscope. Suddenly a rushing noise made them glance round in the direction whence it came. It was soon explained--a crowd of gnomes were racing towards them; on they came, running, jumping, chattering, and shouting at the top of their voices. 'It's the gardeners,' said Leonore. 'Oh, Hildegarde, I am rather frightened--they might play tricks on us. Do let us get out of their way,' and Hildegarde, to confess the truth, was not unwilling to do so. 'Let us run down here,' she said, turning as she spoke, for they were just then passing a side row of high plants which could hide them from view of the approaching crowd. No sooner said than done. They set off running at full speed, scarcely glancing where they were going, the noise behind them lessening as they ran, till it ceased altogether; and breathless, but glad to have escaped the bevy of gnomes, they at last stood still. 'Now,' said Hildegarde, 'let's look about and see where we've got to.' CHAPTER VII A COLLATION UNDER DIFFICULTIES D'une façon fort civile. _Le rat de ville et le rat des champs._ They were at the opposite side of the garden from that by which they had entered it, and just before them was a large white tent. A faint sound reached them--a rustle and murmur, as of people moving about busily, but not of voices. The tent appeared closed, but as they went nearer they saw that there were doors or flaps in the stuff it was made of, which could be opened either from within or without. Hildegarde turned to Leonore. 'We may as well go in,' she said. 'We weren't told not to, and we want to see all we can.' Leonore was looking a little frightened again. 'We can't knock,' she said; 'there's nothing to knock on. And we can't ring; there's no bell.' 'So the only thing is to walk in,' said Hildegarde. She drew aside the first flap they came to, and both entered. It was a busy scene. There was a table right round the tent, and at it gnomes were working actively. A moment's glance sufficed to show that they were packing, for queer-shaped boxes and baskets stood about, and quantities of moss. For a minute or so no one seemed to notice the visitors. These gnomes were evidently not of the young and giddy class; they did not seem to be speaking to each other at all. The children drew still closer to the table. The gnome nearest to them was laying a bright scarlet flower, in shape like a large pitcher with half a dozen small jugs hanging round it, in a basket well filled with moss. He glanced at the newcomers. 'If you please,' said Hildegarde, 'are you packing flowers?' 'You can see that for yourself,' was the reply. 'Yes,' she agreed, 'but we would like to know why you are doing it--I mean where are all the packages to be sent to, and what for?' 'Who sent you down here?' asked the gnome. 'The spinning-wheel fairy,' Hildegarde replied. The gnome's manner became more cordial. 'Ah well, then,' he said, 'I don't mind explaining things a little. She would not send idle folk to tease us; she is always busy herself. We are packing pattern-flowers. Our artists design them, and our most skilful metal-workers make them, and then we send them up to be copied again.' 'Up to our world, do you mean?' asked Leonore. 'I didn't know we had so many new patterns of flowers.' The gnome shook his head. 'You don't,' he said; 'only a very few find their way to the place you come from. We send them first to the flower-fairies, and they copy them in common stuff--stuff like what all your flowers up there are made of,' with a tone of contempt, 'and then they send them off again--seeds or roots--whichever they think best, and that's how new flowers start.' 'But where do they send them to?' asked Hildegarde curiously. 'You say not many come to our world.' 'That's not my business,' he replied. 'Your world isn't the only one. You can ask the flower-fairies if ever you pass their way. Now I must get on with my work. If you cross the tent you will see the toy-packers at the other side.' The children's eyes sparkled. 'Toys,' they repeated. 'Do you make toys down here?' The gnome nodded. 'That's our principal dealing with your world,' he said. 'You don't mean to say you thought all the toys your shops are full of are made by clumsy human fingers! You should see our toy factory about Christmas-time. Santa Claus has a time of it, choosing and settling, I can tell you.' Hildegarde and Leonore were breathless with eagerness. 'Oh, how interesting!' they exclaimed. 'Mayn't we see the toy factory? Do tell us which way to go to get to it.' But to their disappointment the little packer shook his head. 'Can't be done,' he said. 'Doors are closed to all visitors for six months before Christmas. That's the arrangement with Santa Claus. It would never do for it to leak out about the new inventions before the time. You can see some of the regular toys over there where they're packing, for even on them we're always improving.' The children saw that it was no use persisting, for there was something very decided about the gnomes' manner even when they were the most amiable. And the small man was busily at work again. So they made their way quietly to the other side of the tent. There they saw displayed, waiting to be packed, a good many toys they had often seen before, and some not so familiar. There were queer little doll gnomes, or groups of them for ornaments--not very like those the children had seen alive in one way, for as a rule the living gnomes were grave and pompous, and the figures were represented as laughing and rollicking. 'They must be taken from the young gnomes, the ones who are only two or three hundred years old,' said Leonore, smiling. 'But, oh, Hildegarde, do look at that doll-house furniture half packed over there. Isn't it too lovely? I've often wondered--haven't you?--how people's fingers _could_ make such tiny things, but now I understand. Oh, I do wish we could have seen the toy manufactory!' But it was no use wishing. None of the packers took much notice of them, so they thought it as well to pass out of the tent, trusting that somehow or other they would find their way home, for they were sure that the spinning-wheel fairy would not forget them. And in this they were right. A straight path between the rocks was before them as they came out of the tent, so there was no question of which way to go. They ran on fearlessly for some distance, till the passage they were following suddenly emerged into a large square, or 'round' rather, on all sides of which stood tiny little houses, each exactly like its neighbours, with a door in the middle, and a window at both sides. And at every doorway appeared a little gnome woman, with a gnome baby in her arms. You never saw anything so funny. Hildegarde and Leonore stopped short in astonishment; they could scarcely help bursting out laughing, the whole scene was so comical. 'This must be the gnome village,' said Hildegarde in a low voice. 'I wonder how old these "babies" are--fifty or sixty, perhaps!' Before Leonore had time to reply, one of the little women stepped forward. She curtsied very politely, and when she spoke her voice, though rather squeaky, was meek and gentle. It was evident that the Mrs. Gnomes were kept in good order by their lords and masters. 'We have received a message to tell us you would be honouring us with a visit,' she said, 'and we have prepared a little collation for you. May I ask you to step inside?' She pointed as she spoke to the door of her own little house, and the children turned to follow her. But, alack and alas, with all the goodwill in the world, they could not have availed themselves of the good lady's invitation! The door of the cottage was not as high as their waists, and even if they had crept in, they could not possibly have stood or even crouched inside. It would have been a tighter fit than in a fair-sized dog's kennel! 'I am very sorry,' began Hildegarde, but she was interrupted by a burst of wailing. All the little women had rushed forward, each clutching her baby, and all the babies roared too, rubbing their fists in their eyes, and looking more grotesquely gnome-like--as indeed they had a good right to do--than ever. 'Oh dear, oh dear,' sobbed the little women, 'what _shall_ we do? We never thought of our houses being too small for the gracious ladies, and our masters will be so angry if they find the collation has not been partaken of, for they sent strict orders by an electric bird.' 'An electric bird,' repeated the children, very much interested. 'Do let us see it,' but the gnome lady nearest them shook her head. 'It's gone back again,' she said, 'and it flies so fast you couldn't see it. It just whistles a message. Oh, it's quite a common thing; but, oh dear, dear, what _shall_ we do about the collation?' and at her words all the other little women started wringing their hands again, while the babies screamed. Hildegarde looked as if she did not know whether to laugh or to pity them, but Leonore felt very sorry for them; then a brilliant thought struck her. 'Supposing you carry it out here,' she said, 'to the middle of the square--the collation, I mean. We could sit down on the ground and eat it quite comfortably.' And indeed so far as the _quantity_ was concerned, there was not likely to be any difficulty. 'If they've planned it according to their own size,' Leonore whispered to Hildegarde, 'we could eat it all up like a dolls' feast in half a minute.' 'Yes,' Hildegarde replied in the same tone. 'I only hope it is something we _can_ eat. Not roasted flies, or anything like that.' The little women had seized Leonore's suggestion with delight, and were now busily employed in carrying out the feast. They first placed a table--a huge table they evidently thought it, though it was only about two feet long--in the middle of the square, and then carried out the dishes, of which, the little girls were glad to see, there were not, after all, above half a dozen. Then the gnome lady who had first spoken to them seated herself at one end, and Hildegarde and Leonore took their places on the ground at each side, the crowd of little women, rushing about to wait upon them, tucking their babies under one arm in an original fashion of their own. 'What may I have the pleasure of helping you to first?' said the small hostess. She had now quite recovered her spirits, and spoke in a very elegant manner, moving her hands airily over the dishes, having plumped down _her_ baby on the ground beside her, where it lay quite contentedly sucking its thumbs. 'Thank you,' said Hildegarde, 'please give us anything you like.' 'It is a little difficult to choose, you see,' said Leonore, who felt quite at ease with the gnome ladies, 'as we do not know what the things are--though,' she added quickly, 'they look very nice.' The small woman looked rather disappointed. 'They should not be strange to you,' she said. 'They are all--or nearly all--made of our upper-world supplies, as we thought you would prefer them. The dish before you contains blackberries, with just a touch of pine-cone flavouring; the one opposite is wild honey--we deal regularly with the bees through the flower-fairies, who understand their language. Then these are cakes of acorn flour, and the jelly at the other side is a special recipe of our own made from the moss which grows thickly where the streamlets trickle down from the upper world.' 'Thank you,' said Hildegarde again, 'may I have some blackberries? It is very late for them, isn't it?' Their hostess shook her head. 'They are not freshly gathered,' she said, 'but they are just as good--nothing ever gets stale in our rock larders.' 'How very convenient,' said Hildegarde, as she tasted the blackberries. They were not bad, though they had a curious aromatic flavour. But after all, it did not much matter, as one good-sized teaspoon would have held all her helping! Leonore had chosen a tiny cake and honey, and then their hospitable friend insisted on both children tasting every other dish on the table, which they had to do, though in one or two cases they tried to hide how very little they took. The moss jelly was decidedly peculiar! 'Aren't you going to eat anything yourselves?' Leonore inquired. The gnome ladies gave a wail of disapproval--such a thing was quite contrary to their ideas of good manners. 'Never, never would we be so rude,' they said. And the children, remembering the fairy's warning, said no more on this point, for fear of offending even these meek little women. But they felt very curious to hear more of the ways and customs of their underground friends. 'Do you have all you eat sent down from our country, or from Fairyland?' asked Leonore in a very polite tone. 'Oh dear, no,' was the reply. 'Just occasionally. We have plenty of supplies of our own.' 'Do tell us what,' said Hildegarde. Their hostess hesitated a little. 'You might not appreciate our national dishes,' she said. 'We are very fond of stewed frogs, and find them most nourishing, and a good fat toad makes an excellent dish.' Even politeness could not keep back an exclamation of horror from the visitors, though they tried to smother it. 'Ugh!' said Hildegarde with a shiver. 'Ugh!' said Leonore. But Hildegarde went on speaking so quickly, that it is to be hoped the gnome ladies did not hear the 'ughs.' 'I think,' she said, getting up from the ground as she spoke, 'I think we must be going--don't you, Leonore?' 'Yes,' said Leonore eagerly, 'I am sure we must.' And when they were alone together, each owned to the other that she felt as if there must be toads and frogs all about! 'We thank you very much for your kindness,' they went on, 'and please tell the--the gentlemen that the collation was excellent. And we should like to know the nearest way home, if you will kindly show it us.' The little lady gnome got up from her seat and curtsied graciously. So did all the others, though the effect in their case was a little spoilt by the tucked-in baby gnome under each arm. Apparently the lady who had done the honours of the feast was the only one to whom it was permitted to deposit _her_ baby on the floor! She waved her hand towards the opposite side of the square, or circle of houses. 'You will have no difficulty in finding your way,' she said. 'All arrangements have been made.' She did not press them to stay longer, so they bowed in return, most politely of course, and went off in the direction pointed out. 'Perhaps,' said Leonore, 'they are afraid of the gnome gentlemen coming home to supper and scolding them for having the collation outside. I should not like to be a gnome lady.' 'Nor should I,' Hildegarde agreed. 'Certainly the collation could not have been _indoors_. But I should have liked to peep into the houses--wouldn't you, Leonore? And I _almost_ think I should have liked to pick up one of the gnome babies, though they _are_ rather froggy.' Leonore shuddered. 'Don't speak of frogs or toads,' she said, and she hastened on more rapidly. 'Do let us get away quickly,' she added. 'I have got such a feeling that we shall be treading on some.' Hildegarde laughed at her. 'Nonsense,' she said, 'they couldn't live on this dry gravel or sand, or whatever it is. I expect the gnomes find them where the little streams trickle down. Oh, Leonore, I do hope we shall find our way! This path looks just exactly like the one we came in by.' And so it did. But they had not far to go before all misgivings were set at rest by the unexpected appearance of a very fine gray donkey standing on the path before them. He was handsomely caparisoned, and a pannier hung at each side, large enough for a child of our little girls' size to sit in comfortably; and if any doubt remained in their minds as to what they were meant to do, it was soon put to flight, for as they came close up to the donkey, they saw that one pannier was labelled 'Hildegarde,' and the other 'Leonore.' 'Oh, what fun!' they exclaimed. 'What nice arrangements the gnomes make! This time they have not forgotten how big we are. What a beautiful donkey!' A very quiet donkey too, apparently. He stood perfectly still while the little girls mounted into their places, which was all very well, but he showed no signs of moving after they were settled either, though they shook the reins and begged him to gee-up! Suddenly Hildegarde turned to Leonore. 'Leonore,' she said, 'I don't believe he's a live donkey! Feel him--he's quite cold--he's like the magic horse in the _Arabian Nights_, who moved by a spring. How can we find out how to make him go?' They had no need to do so after all. Almost before Hildegarde finished speaking, a short shrill whistle was heard, and off the same instant started the donkey! 'Up,' I should say--rather than 'off.' For, greatly to the children's astonishment, they felt themselves rising from the ground. Up, up, up they went, the light growing gradually dimmer and dimmer, till but for a round spot which gradually appeared white, high above them, they would have been in total darkness. 'Hildegarde,' whispered Leonore, 'are you frightened? It's a nice feeling, going up so fast, isn't it, but I wonder where we are going to?' The star of white light overhead grew larger; they became able to distinguish that they were in a kind of shaft; it was not cold or uncomfortable in any way, and the panniers in which they sat were easily cushioned. 'I believe,' began Hildegarde, but she did not finish her sentence. There came another whistle, softer and longer than the first, and something--was it a gentle hand, or the touch of a bird's feathered wing?--they could not tell--made both little girls close their eyes for a moment. And when they opened them again--where were they? [Illustration: "WHO SENT YOU TO KISS US, YOU BREEZES OF MAY?"] CHAPTER VIII TREE-TOP LAND Where were you taught your song, little bird? Who sent you to kiss us, you breezes of May? There are secrets, yes secrets you never have heard, Whispered breezes and bird as they fluttered away. _Spring Song._ Where were they? Why, sitting on the short thymy grass just behind the Castle, not a stone's throw from the old tree trunk where they had found the little door, which the golden key had opened. They gazed at each other, then rubbed their eyes and gazed again. 'How did we get out of the panniers?' said Hildegarde. 'I never felt anything, did you, Leonore?' Leonore's reply was another question. 'Have we been dreaming?' she said. 'No, of course it couldn't be that, people can't dream the same dream together; it is too funny and queer.' 'It's just what it is,' said Hildegarde laughing. 'We've been to gnomeland, and now we've come back again. And after all, Leonore, we haven't been two hours away. Look at the sun, it is not near setting yet, but of course in gnomeland, as they told us, they don't count time as we do.' She got up as she spoke and gave herself a little shake. 'I want to be sure I have not been dreaming,' she went on. 'Even though I _know_ I haven't. Pinch me, Leonore, just a nice little gentle pinch to make me feel real, and I'll pinch you in return.' The pinching made them both laugh, which took away the dreamy feeling better than anything else. 'And now,' said Hildegarde, 'I suppose we had best make our way home--to your home I mean, Leonore, as fast as we can. Grandmamma gave me leave to stay out till sunset, and Aunt Anna will be expecting us back in time for coffee.' 'Yes,' said Leonore. 'She hoped you would come back with me after our walk; but, Hildegarde, what shall we say if they ask where we have been?' 'Say?' repeated Hildegarde, 'why, that we have been up in the woods behind the Castle. We mayn't tell anything more, and I don't believe we could if we tried. That is always the way with people who have been to Fairyland, or at least part of the way there--besides----' but she hesitated. 'Besides what?' asked Leonore curiously. 'Oh,' said Hildegarde, 'I was only going to say that I am not sure but what Aunt Anna understands a great deal more than she says. There is something very fairyish about her sometimes. I don't think she'll question us much.' 'Perhaps,' said Leonore, in her funny rather prim matter-of-fact little way, 'she has been there herself when she was a little girl.' 'I shouldn't much wonder,' Hildegarde replied, and then they turned to descend the hill towards the village street. 'Hildegarde,' said Leonore as they were walking on, 'how shall we know when we are meant to crack the next two nuts?' 'I can't tell you just now,' her little friend replied, 'for I don't know myself. But I am quite sure we shall know in good time. My fairy won't forget about us, and she will tell us somehow.' Fraulein Elsa was looking out for them at the gate. She welcomed them with a cheerful smile. 'You are just in good time for coffee,' she said. 'Aunt Anna sent me out to look for you. Have you had a pleasant afternoon?' 'Very pleasant indeed,' Hildegarde replied. The governess asked no more, nor did Aunt Anna, who was seated at the table, where there was a tempting display of the cakes which she knew to be Hildegarde's favourites. 'I thought you would be punctual,' she said to the children; 'you have been up in the woods behind the Castle, I suspect, and I hope you have brought back a good appetite?' 'Very good indeed,' they replied together, and at the same moment a funny thought struck them both. The 'collation' had not been of a kind to prevent their feeling hungry now! And Aunt Anna was quite satisfied with the way the cakes disappeared. 'I think I must be going home,' said Hildegarde a little later on. 'Grandmamma will like to find me there when she returns from her drive. May Leonore come to the foot of the Castle hill with me?' 'Certainly,' said Fraulein, 'and to-morrow I hope you may meet again, indeed every day, unless the weather should be very bad.' 'Oh in that case,' said Hildegarde eagerly, 'I hope Leonore will wrap herself up well and come to spend the day with me. Of course I could come here--I am not the least afraid of rain, or wind, or snow, or anything like that--but the Castle is so big and such a splendid place for playing in, when there is any one to play with, though it is rather dull all alone. And about to-morrow,' she went on, 'may Leonore come up immediately after dinner? Grandmamma would like to see her.' To this request too, Fraulein willingly consented, and the two children set off. 'You have your nuts quite safe?' said Leonore, as they kissed each other in saying goodbye. Hildegarde nodded reassuringly. 'You needn't be afraid,' she said, 'after keeping them all these years, since I was a little baby; it isn't likely that I should lose them now, just when they've come to be of use. I should be more afraid of yours, Leonore, except that, to tell you the truth, I don't believe either of us could lose them if we tried.' 'Mine are quite safe,' said Leonore, slipping her hand into her jacket pocket to feel them, 'and I certainly won't risk trying whether they would find their way back or not.' And so saying she ran off. Nothing came to interfere with their plans. The weather continued lovely, and the children spent every afternoon together. For the old Baroness, Hildegarde's grandmother, to whom Leonore was introduced the next day, was just as pleased on her side, as were Fraulein and Aunt Anna on theirs, that each, otherwise lonely little girl, should have a companion. And for two or three weeks nothing special happened. They searched in vain among the trees behind the Castle for the old trunk in which was the little door. No trace of it was to be seen. But this scarcely disappointed them. 'It wouldn't be a magic door,' said Hildegarde, 'if it was always there, or at least, always to be found. No, Leonore, we must just wait till the spinning-wheel fairy sends us some message or tells us somehow what we are to do.' To which Leonore agreed. Nevertheless, on many an afternoon they lay down with their ears to the ground near the spot where they believed the entrance to gnomeland to be, listening if no murmur of the queer underground life, which they had had a glimpse of, could reach them. But it never did. At last one day Hildegarde appeared with a look on her face which told Leonore that she had something to tell, and as soon as they were by themselves she began eagerly. 'Leonore,' she said, 'I believe I have got a message at last from our fairy. I am not sure if it was a dream or if she was really there. It was quite early this morning before I was up, I thought I saw her standing beside my bed--her real self, you know, not the little old market-woman--she smiled and said, "You have been very patient children, and now you shall be rewarded. Crack two more of your nuts this afternoon when you are up in the woods. Throw high and throw together, and you will see." And then, when I was going to speak to her and thank her, and ask her to explain a little more, she was gone.' 'Of course it was a message,' said Leonore; 'let us hurry off as fast as we can,' for it was already afternoon. 'I should think the best place would be just where we cracked the first ones.' 'No,' said Hildegarde, '_I_ think, as near as we can guess to the magic door, would be the best. Further up in the woods I mean, than where we cracked the nuts.' So thither they hastened, full of eagerness and excitement. 'You crack first this time,' said Hildegarde, 'as I did the last.' Leonore obeyed her, and both little girls peered anxiously into the nutshell. Their first idea was that it would contain some paper of directions, as had been the case before, but it was not so. On the contrary, the only thing they saw was a little mass of very, very fine colourless thread or silk, so fine indeed as to seem almost like cobweb. With the utmost care Leonore drew it out--it was stronger than it looked, for at one end was attached to it a small, delicately-fashioned silver hook, like the finest fairy fish-hook. The children stared at each other. 'What can it mean?' they said. Leonore gave the threads a little shake, one end dropped to the ground and, in doing so, unravelled itself. 'I see what it is,' exclaimed Hildegarde. 'It is a rope ladder, a fairy's rope ladder of course, for nothing stronger than a spider could possibly climb up it. Perhaps my nut will explain.' So saying, she hastened to crack it, but to their surprise and momentary disappointment its contents were precisely the same as those of Leonore's nut. 'Well,' said Hildegarde, after a moment or two's reflection, 'we're evidently meant to find out for ourselves what to do with these queer things.' 'But the fairy did say something to you,' Leonore reminded her, '"throw high," wasn't that what she said?' 'Yes,' said Hildegarde, 'how stupid of me to have forgotten, we must be meant to throw these little hooks which are at one end up into the air, like the Indian jugglers I have heard about, and, as they are fairy hooks, I suppose they will find something to catch on to. "Throw high and throw together," was what she said, so here goes. Hold your hook carefully Leonore, as I do. I will count, and when I get to three we must throw--one, two----' And at 'three' both children flung up the tiny missiles into the air. Up, up, they flew, or seemed to fly, as straight as a rocket, till nothing was to be seen but the quivering thread gleaming brightly in the sunshine, which at that moment broke through the branches. And then, so quickly that they could not watch the change, the fairy ladders grew and swelled, till the threads of which they were made were as firm and strong as tightly twisted fine rope. They grew taut too, the lower end disappearing into the ground, as if held there by invisible hands. Hildegarde's eyes shone with delight. ''Tis plain what we are meant to do,' she said; 'we are to climb up.' Leonore, on the contrary, looked a little frightened. 'Up to where?' she said timidly. 'Oh,' said Hildegarde, 'that remains to be seen, of course. Don't be silly, Leonore. I think it was far more frightening to go down underground than to climb up into the beautiful sky. Come along.' And they set off on their strange journey. It was not difficult after all. The rope felt firm and substantial, even though soft to the touch, so that it in no way rasped their hands. And when they got a little higher, they began to see that the hooks had attached themselves to the very top of an immensely tall tree, which somehow gave Leonore more confidence. 'I am not in the least giddy; are you?' said Hildegarde. 'I am beginning to feel like a bird.' And Leonore agreed that she too felt perfectly at ease. 'That's what comes of having to do with fairies,' said Hildegarde with satisfaction; 'with a fairy like ours, at least. You see she plans everything so nicely for us.' A few moments more and their heads were on a level with the topmost branches. Just as they were wondering what was coming next, they heard a voice a little above them. 'Jump,' it said. 'First Hildegarde, then Leonore; don't be frightened, I will catch you.' Up they sprang fearlessly, for something in the voice made fear impossible, though instinctively they closed their eyes, and----. When they opened them again, there stood the spinning-wheel fairy, smiling at them, as they lay together on a couch of something soft and blue, soft yet firm. 'Are we on the other side of the sky?' asked Hildegarde. The fairy nodded. 'You are in tree-top land,' she said, 'the country of the air-fairies. When you have rested after your ascent, I will show you the way on, and before long you will meet some old friends. In the meantime I will draw up your ladders, for they may serve again, and we don't like wasting anything. I spun them for you myself long ago. I have a spinning-wheel up here as well as down below.' She moved away, seeming to melt into the lovely blue which was all around them. But in a moment or two she returned again and held out a hand to each child, and, springing to their feet, Hildegarde and Leonore gladly took hold of her. Then just before them, to their surprise, if they had still been able to feel surprise, they saw a little silver gate, which opened of itself as they approached it, and passing through with the fairy, they found themselves at the edge, of what they at first thought was a lovely lake of water, sparkling blue in the sunshine. But there were no boats upon it. 'How are we to cross it,' asked Hildegarde. 'Surely this is Fairyland itself at last?' but their guide shook her head. 'No, not Fairyland itself,' she replied, 'though on the way to it. Real Fairyland is still far away. I can only do as I promised you--show you some of the countries that lie between your land and it. Boats are not needed here. What you see is not water but air, and with these you will easily make your way across the lake.' So saying, she drew from under her mantle something white and fluffy, which proved to be two little pairs of wings, one pair for each child, which she slipped over their heads. They fitted as if they had always grown there, and, light as they had felt themselves before, Hildegarde and Leonore now seemed to themselves to be made of air itself. 'Off with you,' said the fairy laughing, with a little toss of her hand towards the children as if they had been two balls of thistle-down. 'When you have seen enough and want to go home you will easily find me; you have only to listen for the whirr of my spinning-wheel.' And she was no longer there. Flying or swimming, which was it? They could scarcely have told. For though their wings kept them up as lightly as any bird, their feet too seemed to move in time with their wings. 'Isn't it lovely?' said Hildegarde, and Leonore, who at first felt a little breathless, laughed back in agreement. But this journey through the blue soon came to an end. The wings seemed to be their guides, for they suddenly dropped on their shoulders, and the children found themselves standing in front of another silver gate, higher and more imposing than the former one. It glittered so that for a moment or two they were dazzled, but as their eyes grew accustomed to the brilliance, looking up, they saw worked in, among the silvery trellis, some letters, which with a little difficulty they spelt out. 'Singing-school,' were the words they read. 'Singing-school,' repeated Hildegarde, 'what can that mean?' 'And the fairy said we should soon meet some old friends,' added Leonore. 'Oh, Hildegarde,' and she held up her hand, 'I think I understand, listen.' They stood perfectly still and gradually sweet sounds reached their ears--a soft warbling as of many little voices in harmony. Then came a moment's silence, followed by the notes of a single singer, then warbling again--and again another voice alone, trilling high, high, till it seemed to melt away in the distance. 'That was a lark,' said Leonore, 'the last one, and the one before a blackbird, I think.' 'Or a thrush,' said Hildegarde, 'yes, I rather think it was a thrush.' But in the eagerness with which they had been listening, they had not noticed that the high gates had opened gently inwards, and in the centre between them stood two charming figures smiling at the children. 'Come in,' said one of them, 'we have been expecting you for some time.' 'Are you the air-fairies?' asked Hildegarde. She spoke with more confidence than to the gnomes; there was something so sweet and gracious about these pretty creatures that no one could feel afraid of them. 'Yes,' was the reply, 'and we are also the birds' singing-teachers. Here you will see many of your old friends--nightingales, larks, blackbirds, robins, all of them, even down to the poor little sparrows, whom we teach to chirp and twitter.' 'How wonderful!' exclaimed the children. 'Are they all the little young birds?' asked Leonore; 'no, of course not,' she added, 'they can't be, for this is autumn.' 'We have classes all the year round,' said one of the fairies, 'except in the very middle of your summer, when we give them a holiday, that you may all enjoy the bird concerts to perfection.' They had been walking slowly onwards till now, through a wide passage, the walls of which were like the whitest marble, though without its hard coldness. And now the fairy opening a door signed to them to pass in, and as they did so, the music they had heard grew clearer and louder. For they were in the central hall of the great bird singing-school. There they were, rows and rows of them, each family by itself, the smaller birds higher up, the bigger ones nearer the ground, and at the end of each row, perched a little apart from the others, was the head bird of his tribe--these, as the fairies afterwards explained, being the monitors of each class. But the queerest thing was, that every kind of bird was there, even such as we never think of as musical in any way, for down the central passage were strolling some magnificent peacocks, long red-legged storks; and in a large basin of water at the farther end, graceful swans, snowy ducks, and even homely gray-plumaged geese were contentedly enjoying themselves. Hildegarde and Leonore gazed in surprise. 'Peacocks,' they exclaimed, 'peacocks and ducks and geese--why, none of them can sing!' The fairy smiled. 'Ah,' she said, 'the ears that hear have something to do with true music; down below in your world it is not like here with us. Much that is true music sounds to you harsh and unlovely. Wait a little and you shall hear for yourselves.' CHAPTER IX A CONCERT A kiss on each forehead and she was gone! _The Fairy's Visit._ Greatly wondering, Hildegarde and Leonore followed the fairy to the end of the large hall, where there hung by silver cords from the roof two little seats, cushioned with the softest down. 'Rest yourselves in there,' she said; and though the little swinging chairs were a few feet from the ground, they sprang into them without the least difficulty, as their wings at once unfolded to waft them upwards. 'You may swing yourselves in time to the music, if it amuses you,' said the fairy; 'and now I must meet my sisters to get all ready for our concert.' The children were well content to stay where they were, watching and listening with the greatest eagerness. A door at the farther end from that by which they had entered opened, admitting the sound of soft music, and in a few moments a procession of air-fairies appeared, marching two and two, each with some instrument on which she was playing. They ranged themselves in the very centre of the hall, the two fairies who had received the children standing at each end of the group to command and direct. The music stopped; there was a flutter of excitement among the birds. Then the accompaniment of the instruments began again--softly at first, then louder, then sinking once more to gentler tones. But now--words fail to describe the wonderful sounds which filled the air in one great harmony, though to those learned in such things, and with ears endowed with the magic gift of perfect hearing, every little voice could be distinguished. In such company the peacock's harsh cry sounded like a distant but musical call, the duck's quacking like the pleasant clatter of castanettes; all was lovely, for all told of happiness and harmony, and the children felt as if they could sit there listening for ever. And when, almost suddenly, the music stopped in one great triumphant outburst, it seemed to them as if, for the first time in their lives, they had known what it was truly to _hear_. Then came a loud, merry flapping of wings; the birds flew off their perches and soared about the hall, then ranged themselves again, and passed in rows before the fairies, with twitters of farewell before they flew, or hopped, or waddled out of the doors and windows of the great hall, many more of which had opened of themselves as the music ceased. The fairies who had taken part in the concert glided out, two and two, as they had entered, playing a soft, low march, and then the great hall was empty again, save for the two children and their two fairy hostesses. At a sign from their friends, Hildegarde and Leonore sprang to the ground. 'Have you enjoyed the concert?' asked one of the fairies. 'Oh,' exclaimed the children together, it was too wonderful, too beautiful.' 'We can never hear anything like it again,' added Leonore half-sadly; 'down where we live the air is too thick and heavy, I suppose, to hear anything so perfectly.' 'Yes,' said the fairy, 'that is so; but those who have once heard can never again be as if they had not done so. You will always remember and be able to catch the echoes, though far away, of perfect harmony, even in common sounds.' For a moment or two the children were silent; perhaps they did not quite understand, but they remembered, which was as good, or better. 'Is it time for us to go home now?' asked Hildegarde. 'The spinning-wheel fairy said we should easily find her, and she will show us how to get back.' 'There is no hurry,' said one of their friends. 'Would you not like to see a little more of our country? We are always busy, for we have much to do, but to those sent by the spinning-wheel fairy we have time to give.' She held out a hand to each child, the second fairy smiling in token of farewell. 'I will go now, sister,' she said. 'I must see to some of the fledglings who are just beginning to chirp. For the birds come to us from all parts of your world,' she added, turning to the children, 'and it is not autumn everywhere, you know!' 'May we ask you questions?' said Hildegarde. 'You won't think it rude, will you? We were so afraid of offending the gnomes that we scarcely dared to speak when we were with them.' 'Ask what you like,' was the reply, 'and what I may I will answer. But we needn't stay here any longer. Outside you will see more of our country.' Outside the great hall it was still brighter and more sunshiny than within, though over everything was the lovely faint blue haze which had met them when they passed through the first silver gate. It was like, and yet not like, a garden--for there was nothing distinct in the shape of plants or flowers, though everywhere beautiful tree-like forms, quivering amidst waves of opal colour, were to be seen. 'It must be something like the bottom of the sea,' said Hildegarde, 'where the mermaids live.' 'No,' said Leonore, 'I think it is just like the sky at sunset. I have often wished I could get up on one of the clouds and see over to the other side.' 'And now that is what you are seeing,' said the fairy. 'But please,' began Hildegarde again, 'if I may ask you questions, do tell me what you are all busy about, besides teaching the birds to sing?' 'I will tell you a few things,' said the fairy, 'though you would not understand if I tried to tell you all. We have charge of the zephyrs and the breezes. We send them out on their errands, and we have to see that each does its appointed task.' 'Oh,' interrupted Leonore, 'is this the home of the Four Winds?--is this the place where they start from, and meet again and make all their plans?' The fairy shook her head. 'No,' she replied, 'the Four Winds are not fairies, they are spirits, and above us all; it is only the little winds, so to say--which are to the great ones like the little brooks compared to the great ocean--over whom we have authority. And,' she added more lightly, 'they are troublesome enough sometimes, I assure you--mischievous little imps--though they can be very sweet too, and seldom do real harm, and indeed, as a rule, a great deal of good. But for them your world would be dull and dreary.' 'Yes,' said Leonore, 'I should not like to live where everything was always quite still. And the little breezes are kind, aren't they? When it is very hot, it is lovely to feel one of them softly blowing round your face.' 'They are kind and tender too,' said the fairy; 'some of the gentlest among them are specially employed in refreshing poor sick people in their hot stifling rooms. They wait outside the windows patiently till they get a chance of entering. Then some of them spend most of their time in playing with little children, filling the sails of their tiny boats, or flying their kites and shuttlecocks for them.' While talking thus, the fairy had led them onwards. But now she stopped in front again of another silver gate. 'Inside here,' she said, 'is one of the nurseries of the little clouds; we let them out every now and then for a race. Would you like to see them? It is prettiest perhaps by moonlight, but I must not keep you here till night.' She opened the gate, and out flew a crowd of feathery forms, dancing, leaping, tumbling over each other in their hurry to escape; then at a sign from the fairy, off they flew, upwards, a dozen or more together, in a whirl and flutter. You can scarcely imagine anything prettier than it was. They flew so high that for a minute or two they were out of sight, then back they came again, some much in advance of the others, till the first one who had gained the race floated down to the fairy's feet, taking shape as it did so till it grew into the shadowy form of a little cherub, smiling up with its sky-blue eyes for its reward. 'Well done,' said the fairy. 'Now off you can go, all of you, for an hour or two; some little streams are very thirsty to-day, I hear, and will be glad to see you.' And at once the whole feathery troop disappeared. The children turned to the fairy with smiling delight. 'How pretty and good they are,' said Hildegarde. 'I shall always think of you when I see the little clouds scudding across the sky--I have often thought they looked so alive. Do you never come down to our world yourself, fairy?' 'Oh yes,' she replied, 'we have to keep all the wind instruments in order. Some we bring back with us here to repair, in the middle of the night, so that nobody misses them; but some we work at down where they are, and people say the weather has changed, and that somehow their instruments have got right again of themselves. That is one of our secrets, you see.' 'I wish you would let us know when you come,' said Hildegarde. 'We wouldn't tell anybody, and I am sure we would gladly sit up all night.' But the fairy shook her head. 'That cannot be,' she said, 'you would not be able to see me down there. Still, I can send you messages sometimes; the little breezes will always be glad to carry you my love or to kiss you for me.' Suddenly she stopped speaking and held up her hand. 'Hush,' she said; 'yes, I thought I heard it. It is the spinning-wheel fairy--don't you hear the whirr? It means, I fear, that you must be going. Yes, there she is, though your eyes can't see her; she is almost straight above us. She has caught two of the little clouds on their way down, and is sailing on them.' 'How shall we get to her?' exclaimed the children. 'You forget,' laughed the fairy, 'you forget what wings are for,' and with the words she blew softly on their shoulders, the wings stretched themselves, and off flew the children. The quickness of their flight made them close their eyes, and for a moment or two they could hear nothing but the rush of the air as they met it. Soon, however, came the sound of a now well-known voice. 'So I had to come to fetch you,' it said, 'instead of your looking for me. That shows, I hope, that the air-fairies entertained you well?' 'Yes, indeed,' said both the children. 'It was all so pretty, and they were so kind that we didn't feel the least frightened of offending them. It was quite different from gnomeland,' Hildegarde went on, 'and yet you say that both these countries are on the way to real Fairyland?' 'Yes,' replied their friend, 'so they are, and so are many, many others.' 'I wish we could see them all,' said Leonore. 'That would not do,' said the fairy. 'It would take you too much out of your own country, which is not good for any one. But now, dears, I want you to rest a little; even if you go to sleep it won't matter, while I am taking you home.' She held out her arms, and both little girls nestled down beside her. 'Are you going to take us all the way home yourself?' asked Leonore. 'That will be very nice.' The fairy did not reply, but she began spinning again, which certainly no one but a fairy could do seated on a cloud, and with a little girl tucked under each arm. The soft whirr was very soothing and pleasant to hear; soon both pairs of eyes closed drowsily, and it seemed to their little owners that quite a long time had passed when they awoke, roused by the touch of a feathery kiss on their foreheads, and a softly whispered 'Goodbye, my dears, goodbye for the present.' And again they found themselves among the trees a little to the rear of the Castle. It was quite daylight, though the afternoons were drawing in now. They felt perfectly bright and rested, and looked at each other with happy faces. 'It was all too lovely, wasn't it?' said Leonore, 'and this time I don't feel as if we had been dreaming, do you, Hildegarde?' Hildegarde was on the point of replying, when from far above their heads came the note of some bird as it flew by. 'To think that we know where you were taught to sing, you little dear,' she said, gazing upwards. 'There will be lots of things to remind us always of the air-fairies--every time we feel the little breezes on our cheeks, or see the clouds chasing each other across the sky!' 'And we have still two nuts left,' said Leonore. 'I wonder what will happen when we crack _them_, Hildegarde?' 'We must be patient,' was the reply; 'perhaps we may have to wait a good while before the time comes for that. But we must hurry home now, I think, or grandmamma may be getting anxious.' For this day was one which Leonore was spending with Hildegarde at the Castle, as happened now and then for a change, especially when the weather was unsettled. And these were happy days; for the Castle, as Hildegarde had said, was a splendid place for playing in when there were two to play, though rather too large and lonely for one little girl by herself. Their coffee and cakes were waiting for them in the little turret-room, which was Hildegarde's own when on a visit to her grandparents. And when they had thoroughly enjoyed these, for travels through the air naturally make little flesh-and-blood girls hungry and thirsty, Hildegarde took her friend to the drawing-room, where the old Baroness usually sat. She was a tall, fine-looking old lady, a little bit 'frightening' at first, till one got to know her, for her dark eyes were still bright and piercing, not like Aunt Anna's gentle, dreamy, blue ones. She spent a great deal of her time in working at beautiful embroidery, as her sight was still good, though in the cold weather, which was now coming on, she was not strong enough to go out of doors except on very fine days. She looked up with a smile as they entered the room. 'Well, my dear children,' she said, 'I hope you have had some good hot coffee, for you have stayed out rather late, and the evenings are getting very cold. Soon you will scarcely be able to go out after dinner, especially as every one is prophesying that we are to have an early winter and a severe one.' 'We have not been at all cold, thank you, grandmamma,' said Hildegarde. 'I hope it won't be a very severe winter, at least not before Christmas--for do you know, Leonore,' and she turned to her little friend, 'that sometimes when it snows heavily here, we cannot even get from the Castle to Aunt Anna's house?' 'Oh dear,' said Leonore, rather startled, 'I shouldn't like that at all; it would be dreadfully dull if we couldn't be together at Christmas.' 'Dull for us too,' said the Baroness, 'for many, many years my dear friend, Fraulein Anna, has spent Christmas with us. But if there is any sign of snowstorms before then, the best plan will be for you three to come and stay at the Castle for a week or two.' The children's faces lighted up with pleasure at the idea. 'In that case,' said Hildegarde, 'I shall almost hope for signs of a snowstorm. You have no idea how nice and warm the Castle can be made. Grandpapa loves huge fires, and the walls are so thick that once the rooms get well heated they don't get cold again quickly.' 'Not in your turret, I am afraid, Hildegarde,' said her grandmother. 'You will have to move out of it, I expect. Indeed, this very day I have been talking to old Maria about preparing a room for you on the south side. The turret-rooms cannot but be cold, as they have so much outer wall.' Hildegarde looked a little distressed. 'I do so love my turret-room,' she murmured, 'unless,' and she hesitated, 'oh grandmamma,' she went on after a moment's pause, 'if I might have the blue-silk room. I should be so careful to keep it very nice, and in the alcove two little beds could stand, so that if Leonore comes to stay here we might be together all night as well as all day.' Her grandmother smiled. 'We shall see,' she said, but even this seemed to satisfy the little girl. She jumped up and threw her arms round the Baroness. 'Most big people when they say "We shall see" mean "No," she said, but you are not like that, grandmamma. _Generally_, your "We shall sees" mean "Yes, you shall have what you want if it is possible."' 'I should like to see the blue-silk room,' said Leonore, half timidly, 'it is such a pretty name. Are the chairs all covered with blue silk?' 'Better than that,' said Hildegarde, 'the walls are hung with blue silk, and there are wreaths of roses worked at the top of the curtains and on the sofas and everywhere. Who was it that worked them, grandmamma? My great-great-great-grandmother, wasn't it?' 'No; two "greats" are enough,' said the Baroness, 'the embroidery was done by my grandmother; it is really wonderfully beautiful, and it is difficult to believe that one pair of hands did it all. So it is scarcely surprising that there should be an old story telling that the fairies helped my grandmother to do it.' The children glanced at each other. 'I daresay it's quite true,' said Hildegarde, but her grandmother only laughed. 'Come now, my dear,' she said, 'you must not be too fanciful. The fairies who helped our ancestors were probably those of industry and perseverance--very good fairies too.' 'But now, my child,' she went on, turning to Leonore, 'I do not, of course, want to hurry you away, but I am afraid Aunt Anna and Elsa will be wondering what has become of you, besides which, I do not want you to catch cold through coming to visit my Hildegarde.' Leonore started up. 'Yes, I must go,' she said. Hildegarde accompanied her as usual to the foot of the hill. 'Ask Fraulein Elsa,' said Hildegarde, as they parted, 'to let you come to-morrow morning instead of my going to you, and I will get grandmamma's leave to show you the blue-silk room by full daylight. Then in the afternoon, I daresay, grandmamma will let me run down to you.' 'Yes,' Leonore replied, 'I should like that very much; I have a feeling, Hildegarde, that there must be something "fairy" about that room.' And so saying she ran off. CHAPTER X THE BLUE-SILK ROOM For this let each remember--life cannot all be play. _The New Year's Answer._ But the children's plans for the next day did not come to pass. Unluckily, Leonore had caught cold. It was nothing very bad, but she was subject to sore throats sometimes, which made Fraulein doubly careful, if ever she saw any symptoms of her having had a chill. And for some days to come the little girl was not allowed to go out. At first she felt rather dull and depressed, but as her friends were soon satisfied that there was not much the matter with her, Hildegarde was allowed to come to see her. 'How did you catch cold?' were her visitor's first words; 'it couldn't surely have been from----' and she stopped short with a smile, for curiously enough the children did not talk very much when they were together, in an ordinary way, of their fairy adventures. Leonore gave a little laugh. 'From riding on a cloud,' she said softly. 'No, I am quite sure it was not from that, though certainly if we told anybody about it, they would think it a sure way of catching cold.' 'They wouldn't believe it,' said Hildegarde, 'or at least they would think we had been dreaming, but do you know, Leonore,' she went on eagerly, 'I shouldn't wonder if some good came of your cold; it's only a fortnight to Christmas now, and what grandmamma said that last day you were at the Castle seems coming true. There are all the signs of a hard winter, they say, and though grandmamma hasn't told me so, I have a great idea that they are planning for you all to come and stay at the Castle with us.' Leonore's eyes danced with pleasure. 'How lovely that would be,' she said, 'do tell me what makes you think so, Hildegarde?' 'Two or three things,' was the reply. 'I heard grandpapa talking about this house, "Aunt Anna's little house," he called it. He said the roof should have something done to it, in case of heavy snow, and that the bailiff should have told him of this before, for it scarcely could be done while the ladies were living in it. Then grandmamma smiled, and said that she thought the difficulty might be got over. And once or twice lately I have met old Maria on her way to the blue-silk room. One day, she and another maid were carrying mattresses and things in there, and when I asked her what it was for, she looked funny, and said something about airing things, and evidently didn't want me to go into the room, or ask her any more questions about it. So I shouldn't wonder at all if they are preparing for your all coming. You see grandmamma is like that; she doesn't do things by halves, and if you are to come, she would like to add to our pleasure by giving us the blue-silk room together.' Leonore felt so excited that she could scarcely speak. 'I wonder how soon we shall know?' she said at last. 'It wouldn't do to ask Aunt Anna, or Fraulein, I suppose?' Hildegarde shook her wise little head very decidedly. 'Oh no,' she said, 'if they wanted us to know they would have told us. If it is to be at all, it is to be a surprise; we must just be patient for a few days.' Their patience, as it proved, was not very sorely tried. The very first day that Leonore was well enough to go out again without fear of fresh cold, she was met by Hildegarde at the foot of the hill, and Hildegarde's beaming face told its own tale. 'May I, oh may I tell Leonore?' she said to Fraulein Elsa, 'grandmamma has given me leave provided you and Aunt Anna have no objection.' Fraulein could not help smiling. 'My dear child,' she said, 'there would not be much use in stopping you now; Leonore cannot but guess that there is a surprise in store; the very way you came dancing down the hill was enough to show it. But we must not keep Leonore standing. Come home with us and chatter as much as you like.' And in another moment the secret, which of course Leonore had already guessed, was told. 'You are all coming to stay at the Castle for Christmas,' she exclaimed, 'that is to say if your cold doesn't get worse, or----' Here Fraulein positively laughed. 'And that was to be decided by testing, if it did her no harm to come out to-day,' she said. 'You should have waited till to-morrow, Hildegarde.' The little girl looked rather penitent, but Leonore soon reassured her-- 'Of course it won't get worse,' she said, 'I haven't the least, tiniest bit of a scrap of sore throat now; the only thing is,' she went on, 'that it doesn't seem as if any snowstorms were coming,' and she looked up doubtfully into her governess's face. 'But why should you want snowstorms?' asked Fraulein, 'one can be very happy at Christmas time, even if the weather is mild and the fields still green.' 'Oh,' said Leonore, a little confused, for she did not want to take away the pleasure of the 'surprise,' 'it was only that I thought----' and she hesitated. Hildegarde came to the rescue. 'Oh,' she said, 'it was only that grandmamma had already mentioned something to us about your perhaps coming to stay at the Castle for Christmas, if the weather got very bad; and there was something about Aunt Anna's house needing repair. But all that doesn't matter now in the least. It is fixed, quite fixed, do you hear, Leonore?--that you are all coming next Monday, whether it snows, or hails, or thunders, or whatever it does.' So far as the present was concerned, there was not much sign of any great weather disturbance, for the day was mild and bright, and Leonore was by no means the worse, but decidedly the better, for her little expedition. Both children, as children always do, whenever there is any pleasure in prospect, thought that the days would never pass till 'next Monday.' But pass they did, and it would have been difficult to find two happier little maidens than Hildegarde and her guest, when the rather lumbering old carriage, which had been sent to fetch the three visitors, drew up in front of the Castle door. 'Come, come, quick,' were Hildegarde's first words to Leonore, 'I am in such a hurry to take you to our room,' and scarcely allowing her little friend time to receive the greetings of the Baron and Baroness, and their two younger sons, Hildegarde's uncles, who had arrived the night before to spend Christmas at home, she seized her little friend's hand, and hurried her off to a part of the Castle, which Leonore had not yet seen. 'Leonore,' she said, stopping to take breath, for though the steps of the staircase which they were mounting were shallow, she had raced up them at a tremendous rate. 'Leonore, it is as I thought, we are to have the blue-silk room.' Up one other little flight they went, across a small landing and along a corridor, at the end of which a door stood partly open. A pleasant sparkle of firelight met them, and in another moment they were in the most fascinating room that Leonore had ever seen or even dreamt of. As Hildegarde had described, it was all hung with blue silk, round which were worked lovely wreaths of rosebuds. And the remarkable thing was that the colours both of the silk and the embroidery were as fresh as if they had only just been made, though, as the Baroness had told her, Leonore knew that certainly more than a century and a half had passed since the room had first been furnished. She stood still, gazing round her. 'Oh what a lovely room!' she exclaimed. 'I had no idea any room could have been so beautiful, though you told me about it. But where are our beds, Hildegarde?' Hildegarde laughed. 'That's the beauty of it,' she said, drawing back, as she spoke, the blue hangings at one end, thus disclosing to view a recess in which stood two little beds side by side. 'It is like several rooms instead of one, there are two or three alcoves that you don't see when the curtains are drawn at night; one of them has a great big window to the south, where it is beautifully warm. I think we shall call that alcove our boudoir.' It was a delightful room, and the two children were very happy, till summoned downstairs to supper, in arranging the newcomer's possessions, and planning how they should spend their time during Leonore's stay at the Castle. 'We are sure to have a good deal of fun,' said Hildegarde, 'for the next week or so while my uncles stay; it is rather a pity that the hard winter that was talked so much about hasn't begun yet, for they would have skated with us.' 'I have never learnt to skate,' said Leonore, 'but your uncles look very kind, and perhaps they would have taught me.' 'Yes,' Hildegarde replied, 'I am sure they would; they are very nice, though not to be compared with papa. If only he and mamma were here, and your father, Leonore, we should have everything we could want in the world, wouldn't we?' 'Even to knowing that we have still two nuts to crack,' said Leonore in a low voice. Hildegarde's grandfather looked round the well-filled table with pleasure, when all had taken their places. 'This is much better,' he said heartily, 'than being alone, as we were last Christmas, not even our little Hildegarde was here. If only your father and mother and our little friend's father too,' he added kindly, turning to Leonore, 'were here, I should feel quite satisfied.' 'That is just what we were saying on our way downstairs,' said Hildegarde, 'I do believe grandpapa, you have something of a fairy about you too, to guess one's thoughts as you often do. Grandmamma is certainly a kind of fairy godmother, as well as being grandmamma. She plans such lovely surprises. Leonore and I are _so_ happy in the blue-silk room.' 'Oh that is where you have taken up your quarters, is it?' said her grandfather. 'Well, you could not be anywhere better; it has the name of being the luckiest room in the Castle under fairy guardianship, not that I quite believe in such things, though I do think the Castle has some fairy visitors,' he went on more gravely; 'the fairies of love and kindness are with us I hope; indeed, when I look back through a long life, mostly spent here, I think we have been a specially favoured family. My own parents and grandparents were good and kind to everybody.' 'And so, I am sure, are you and grandmamma,' said Hildegarde eagerly. Leonore looked up half timidly. 'There are other fairies too, the fairies of industry and perseverance, that your grandmother told us about,' she said to Hildegarde. The Baroness overheard her. 'Yes,' she said, with a smile, 'they must have had a hand in the adornment of the blue-silk room.' It was a charming nest in which to fall asleep, with the firelight dancing on the lovely colours of the sheeny silk, and it was a charming room to wake up in the next morning, when the first rays of the pale wintry sunshine began to creep in through the one window, which the little girls had left uncurtained the night before. They were later than usual of getting up, for they had been later than usual of going to bed. Rules were to be relaxed somewhat during the Christmas holidays. 'Are you awake, Hildegarde?' said Leonore. 'Oh yes,' was the reply. 'Doesn't the room look pretty?' Leonore raised herself on her elbow. 'Yes,' she said, 'and so beautifully neat. Did you tidy it at all after I got into bed last night, Hildegarde?' 'No indeed,' laughed her friend, 'I was too sleepy. I wonder if Amalia has been in already this morning without waking us.' 'I could almost fancy she had,' said Leonore, for I have a dreamy feeling of having heard some one moving about softly, as if they were putting things straight or dusting.' Just then came the maid's tap at the door; but on being questioned as to whether she had been in before, she laughingly shook her head, owning that she herself had slept later than usual that morning--if the young ladies had heard any one arranging the room, it must have been a 'brownie.' The children were not unwilling to think so. 'I daresay it was,' said Hildegarde in a whisper, 'it is only to be expected in a fairy room like this.' And certainly the next few days passed happily enough to justify the pleasant belief that the blue-silk room brought joy to those who inhabited it. Though frost and snow kept off, and there was no chance of skating, there were plenty of other amusements out of doors, as well as indoors; for Hildegarde's uncles proved quite as kind as Leonore thought they looked, and planned pleasant walks and drives and games for the two little girls. Then came Christmas itself, the happiest that Leonore had ever known, for her father had never been with her, that she could remember, at that season, and she had often, at home in England, felt it a little lonely. They had a Christmas-tree of course, a great beauty, provided with exactly the right presents for everybody, servants and humble friends connected with the Castle, as well as for the family itself and their visitors. And in the midst of all this enjoyment and excitement, the little girls almost forgot that they had still two magic nuts to crack, when the right time should come. Two days after Christmas the scene changed. In the first place, the uncles had to leave to rejoin their regiments--greatly to the little girls' regret, and then began the fulfilment of the weather prophet's predictions. There came sudden and severe cold, soon followed by a heavy fall of snow, accompanied by gales, such as were seldom known in that inland part of the country; weather indeed, almost approaching what is nowadays called a 'blizzard.' At first the children found it rather amusing, though the Baron looked grave, as news was brought in of the destruction among his trees, and after a day or two, the wind fell, but the snow continued. And even when it ceased to fall, leaving the house was completely out of the question, so deep did it lie, and to such a height had it, in many parts, drifted. After some days of this enforced imprisonment, Hildegarde and Leonore began to think a snowstorm by no means a laughing matter. They had played all their games so often, that they were growing tired of them; they had read and re-read their books, of which there was no great number suitable for children in the Castle, and one afternoon, when they were by themselves, in their own room, they looked at each other rather disconsolately, the same question rising to the lips of both. 'What shall we do with ourselves?' Fraulein had done her utmost to amuse them, but she too, by this time, was almost at the end of her resources, and they knew it was no use to apply to her again, unless they wished to begin lessons, in earnest before the holidays were over! So they sat down together on the floor, in front of the fire, half laughing at their own dullness. Suddenly, in one corner of the room, they heard a little tapping; had it been summer, and had the windows been open, they could have fancied it the tap of a wood-pecker, so clear and dainty did it sound. 'What can that be?' exclaimed Hildegarde; 'listen, Leonore,' and again came the tapping. The children held their breath to listen. Then---- [Illustration: THE UNSELFISH MERMAID.] CHAPTER XI 'THE UNSELFISH MERMAID' The stranger viewed the shore around. _The Lady of the Lake._ Leonore sprang to her feet, and as she did so something fell on the floor; it was her last remaining nut! She gazed at Hildegarde. 'Look,' she exclaimed, 'it dropped out of my pocket of itself; it means a message, I am sure it does. Where is your nut, Hildegarde?' 'Here,' was the reply, as she held it out. 'The time has come for cracking them,' said Leonore, and as she uttered the words the tapping in the corner of the room was repeated more loudly and rapidly, as if to say, 'Quite right, quite right.' Then it suddenly stopped. 'Here goes,' said Hildegarde, cracking her nut as she spoke, and the two pair of eyes peered eagerly into the shell. There lay a neat little roll of tiny blue ribbon. Hildegarde drew it out. It was only an inch or two in length, but on it were clearly printed six words:-- Tap, tiny hammer, till you find. But where was the tiny hammer? This question did not trouble the children for long. Without speaking, Leonore cracked _her_ nut, disclosing to view, as they expected, a 'tiny hammer' indeed--so tiny that even the little girls' small fingers had difficulty in holding it firmly. 'How can I tap with it?', she was on the point of saying to Hildegarde, when, as she gazed, she saw the little hammer stretch itself out till it grew to an inch or two in length, the silver head increasing also in proportion, so that it was now much easier to grasp it. 'How convenient it would be,' said Hildegarde, 'if we could pack up luggage in the way things are packed into our nuts; but let us be quick, Leonore. I wonder where we should begin tapping.' 'In the corner where we heard the other tapping, of course,' said Leonore. But this did not prove to be the right spot. There was no reply to their summons, and some patience and perseverance were required to prevent their yielding to disappointment. They had no reason, however, for distrusting their fairy friend, and a new idea struck Hildegarde. 'Leonore,' she exclaimed, 'perhaps we are meant to tap on the wall itself, behind the silk hangings. See, if I hold them back carefully, you can creep in and tap right into the corner.' No sooner said than done, and this time not in vain. With almost the first blow of the little hammer, a small door in the wall opened inwards, and before them the children saw the first steps of a narrow spiral staircase winding upwards. They fearlessly entered, the little door closing behind them, and began to ascend the steps. It was not dark, for slits in the wall let in from time to time tiny shafts of light; nor was it cold, though where the warmth came from they could not tell. 'To think,' said Hildegarde, 'of there being a secret staircase that nobody knows of, for I am sure no one does know of it. But oh, Leonore, how very high we seem to be going'; for though they had been mounting for some minutes, there was no sign of the staircase coming to an end. This time it was Leonore who encouraged her friend. 'Hush!' she said, 'I hear something; it is the sound of the spinning-wheel, Hildegarde; I believe we shall see our fairy in a second now.' She was right. They found themselves on a little landing, the entrance to which was screened by blue silk hangings, just like those in their room below, and as they stood, uncertain what to do next, the curtains were drawn apart, revealing the prettiest picture they had ever seen; for there sat the spinning-wheel fairy, busy at work as usual, but the thread she was spinning was neither flax nor wool, nor even silk. What it was the children could not tell, unless, as they said afterwards to themselves, it was made of rainbows. Fine as it was, it glittered and shone, seeming of every colour in turn, sparkling against the pure white robe of the fairy spinner. For a moment or two she did not speak to them, and they stood silent in admiration. Then she stopped and greeted them with a smile. 'I had not forgotten you, you see,' were her first words. 'I have been spinning for you all to-day.' 'Are you going to take us somewhere?' asked Hildegarde; 'is the thread to make ladders of again?' and she touched it gently as she spoke. The fairy shook her head. 'No,' she replied, 'guess once more.' 'I had thought,' said Leonore, 'that our next treat would perhaps have to do with the sea. We have been down in the ground with the gnomes, and up in the sky with the air-fairies, and we don't want to go into fire-land, but we _should_ like to hear about mermaids and sea-fairies.' 'I could not show you the secrets of the ocean,' said the fairy gravely; 'that is not in my power. It has its own voice, and only those who live on it, or by it, for generations can understand its mystery. True, it is one of the border countries between your world and Fairyland, but your little feet are not prepared for travelling there.' The two children listened in silence, with a look of disappointment on their faces. 'We have read such lovely stories,' said Hildegarde, 'about the palaces down in the sea.' 'Stories,' repeated the fairy. 'Ah, well, how would you like to hear a story, instead of paying another visit?' 'We should like it very much indeed,' they said together. 'It is so cold and snowy outside, we would rather stay with you, if you will tell us stories, dear fairy,' 'But first,' continued Hildegarde, 'would you mind telling us where we are?' and she glanced round at the pretty little room in which they found themselves. It was like a tent, all draped in blue silk, of the same shade as the hangings of their room below, but the wreaths embroidered upon it were of white lilies instead of rosebuds. 'Are we up on the roof of the Castle, or where?' 'Never mind where you are,' the fairy replied; 'is it not enough for you to know that you are with me? But something I _will_ explain to you. This thread,' and she touched it as she spoke, 'is spun from gossamer which has come from a long way off. I fetched it myself for you from Fairy-tale-land. Sit down beside me while I pass it through your fingers. Hold it very gently, for a rough touch would destroy it, and while I tell you my story close your eyes. The thread has the power of causing pictures to pass before you of all that I relate.' 'That will be beautiful,' exclaimed the children. 'Quite as nice as travelling there ourselves, and much cosier,' and they both settled themselves on a soft white fleecy rug at the fairy's feet, while she carefully caused the rainbow thread to pass through their hands. And in a moment or two she began her tale. 'You have asked for a story of the sea,' she said. 'There are many such--many, many--but some too sad for my little girls to hear--sad, that is to say, for those who are not yet able to understand the whole of the mystery of the great ocean. So I have chosen one which, though partly sad, is happy too.' 'Thank you,' murmured the children dreamily, for their eyes were already shut, and with these first words of the fairy there began to steal over them the feeling of the sea, though scarcely yet a picture. But they felt or saw the gleaming of the water, the rippling of the little waves on the shore, the far-off boom of the greater ones as they dashed against some rocky cliffs; nay, more, the very fragrance of the sea seemed to steal upon them as the magic thread passed slowly through their little fingers. 'Long, long ago,' continued the fairy, 'down below in one of the most beautiful parts of the ocean world, there lived a race of sea folk. Their lives are much longer, as I daresay you have heard, than those of dwellers in your earth-country, so that the youngest of those I am telling you of counted her age by scores of years, where you count by one, and yet, compared to many of her companions, she seemed still quite a child. Until now, childish things had been enough for her. Day after day brought its own delights; playing about among the sea-caves; swimming races with her brothers and sisters; adorning their home with rare sea-flowers and wonderful shells, to get which they thought nothing of journeying hundreds of miles; these and such-like pastimes were enough for the little sea-maiden. She had even, so far, no wish to rise to the surface and look out beyond the ocean borders; it would frighten her she said, or maybe she would see something sad, and she had no mind to be frightened or saddened, she would say laughingly, as she swam off, on some new game of play, heedless of her elders' reminders that it was time, even for a mermaid, to begin to take life more seriously. But at last a time came, even to this thoughtless little sea-maiden, when she began to think. It was partly the doing of one of the most aged of her race, one to whom all looked for counsel and advice, one who knew much more than even her own people suspected, and whose heart was full of love for all living things. '"My child," she said one day to Emerald, for such was the name of that little sea-maiden; "my child, does it never strike you that you cannot always be young? A day will come when you will be old like me, and dull and dreary would my life be now if I had no stores of the past to look back upon; if I had learnt nothing but to amuse myself, without thought for the future." 'Emerald looked up at her with a smile. '"But that time is still far off," she said, "and I am so content with the present. It is all so bright and happy. I want nothing else. When I feel myself beginning to get tired of fun and play, I will come to you kind grand-dame, and you shall teach me some of your knowledge, of the worlds outside ours, and of the beings that live in them." '"When that day comes," said the ancient sea-lady, "I shall be no longer here, and, after all, knowledge is not the greatest thing. I would fain see your heart enlarged by wider sympathy, my little one; even if some sadness and sorrow come with it," but the last few words she murmured so low that Emerald did not hear them. '"What are the memories of the past that make you happy to remember now?" said Emerald, suddenly, for something in her old friend's words had touched her, in a way she had never felt before. '"They are many," was the reply, "some you could not understand; others you might already learn for yourself. I love to think of the services to others I have, in my time, been allowed to render. More than once it has been my happiness to save the lives of dwellers on the land, human beings, as they are called. I have saved them when they were drowning and carried them in safety to their own shores, little as they knew that it was my doing, or that the friendly wave which floated them out of danger was in reality the arm of a mermaid. I have sung sweet songs and lullabies to the suffering and weary in the great ships that pass above us, or even, sometimes, to the fishermen's children in their humble homes on our borders, soothing them into life-giving sleep, though they thought my song was but the gentle wailing of the wind. Such services as these, Emerald, you might soon take your share of; for like all our race you have a lovely voice, and our gift of song should ever be used for good, if our hearts are true, and not to lure human beings to destruction. For after all they are our brothers and sisters." 'Emerald thanked her gently as she swam away, and the words she had heard took root in her merry little heart. Especially did she like the idea of using her beautiful voice to please or benefit others--those strange dwellers on the land, whom she had often heard about, though not till now with any wish to see or know them for herself. They were to be pitied, she had been told, for life was hard upon them; toil and pain and weariness, such as her race knew nought of, seemed to be their common lot. And among the best of her own people she knew, too, that it was accounted a good deed to minister to them. So from that time Emerald began to pay more attention when she heard her friends or companions talking together, as often happened, of their excursions to the upper world and of what they saw there. '"Some day," she said to one of her older sisters, "some day I should like to go with you when you swim up to the surface, or when you sit among the rocks and caves on the shore, watching the ships pass, and hearing the talk of these human beings in the little boats, which you say they love to sail in when the weather is calm." 'Her companions looked at her in surprise. '"Why, Emerald," said one of them, "you have always been content, and more than content, to frolic and play in our own beautiful world. I think you would do better to stay there; the weather is not always bright and calm up above, and there are sad sights and sounds, such as you have no idea of." 'But the little mermaid persisted. '"All the same," she replied, "I should like to see and hear for myself. I am growing older now, and new thoughts come when one ceases to be a child." 'Some time passed, however, before she had any opportunity of following the counsel of her aged friend. There were great doings just then in the sea-country, for the daughter of the king was to wed with the son of another great ocean sovereign far away on the other side of the world, and the only talk that went on was of festivity and rejoicing, and in this Emerald was ready enough to take her share. One day, however, when she was amusing herself as usual, she came upon a group of her friends who were consulting together earnestly about some matter of importance. '"What are you all talking about?" she asked. '"Nothing that you can help in," was the reply, "for you know nought of such matters. Our princess has expressed a wish that among her wedding gifts should be something from the upper world. She is tired of all our ocean treasures, and would fain have something rarer and more uncommon." '"What sort of thing?" asked Emerald curiously. '"Nay," they answered, "that remains to be seen. There are not many things within our power to get, as we dare not linger long on dry land, nor many things that would preserve their earthly beauty, if brought down here to our sea home. The flowers, for instance, are such poor frail things; they would wither into nothing at once. It is a serious matter, and we are arranging that the cleverest and most experienced of us should be entrusted with the matter." 'Emerald clasped her hands in appeal. "Oh, I pray you," she said, "let me be one of those whom you send. True, I have never been up to the surface before, but I am quick and agile, as you know, and young like the princess herself. I am sure I could find something that would please her, if you will but let me go too." 'The elder ones smiled at her, but she was a sort of spoilt child among them, and any request of hers was rarely refused. So almost to her surprise her wish was granted, and the very next day the little party set forth on their voyage upwards. 'It was somewhat toilsome work for Emerald, unaccustomed as she was to ascending to any distance, and when at last they reached the surface, she was half exhausted, and thankful to rest a little with her companions on a small islet, not far from the shore. 'After a short while, when they felt refreshed, the little party of mermaids separated, agreeing to meet again at the same place, before the sun should set. '"But we cannot tarry here long," said the eldest, "so do not let us wait for each other more than a short time"; for it was scarcely safe to show themselves much so near the shore, for among the human beings on the land there were, as the sea-folk well knew, cruel and mischievous ones, as well as kind and gentle. 'The eldest sister wished to take Emerald with her, as the child was so unaccustomed to the strange land, but Emerald begged to be allowed to stay by herself. '"I shall be very cautious," she said, "and if you do not find me here on your return, you may be pretty sure that I shall have gone home already. I have a strong belief that, if you trust me, I shall find something that will delight the princess as our wedding gift." 'So the others swam away, leaving Emerald alone. She remained on the rocks for a little while gazing around her, then taking courage, she dived into the water again, and swam straight to the shore. 'The coast at this part was very pretty, green lawns, bordered by graceful trees, sloped down almost close to the water's edge, and on rising ground, a little inland, Emerald perceived the white walls of a beautiful house. "A palace"--she called it to herself, for in the sea country their king and his court lived in a shining dwelling, adorned with shells and coral, and other ocean treasures; while the rest of his people made their homes in the deep sea caves. 'She nestled into a shady corner, sheltered by some drooping trees and flowering shrubs, finding pleasure and amusement enough in gazing at the pretty scene around her,--"though I wish," she said to herself, "I could see some of these wonderful human beings that the others talk so much about." And after a time, she began to ask herself how and where she was to seek for the treasure she had felt so confident of finding for the princess? 'She was too timid to venture ashore altogether, so she sat there, idly dabbling in the clear water, waiting for something, she knew not what, which would put her in the way of redeeming her pledge. Suddenly, the sound of voices reached her ears. Down a sloping path, through the pleasure grounds, two children came running--one some yards in advance of the other, the second one being rather taller and bigger than the little creature in front whom he was playfully pretending to chase. On ran the tiny girl, shouting in glee at the idea of winning the race. She was scarcely more than a baby, and the boy behind her was also very young. As they drew yet nearer to Emerald, she saw that the first comer held in her hand something which sparkled in the sun--it was a necklet of finely wrought gold, which she had run off with in a frolic. 'With a cry of triumph she ran to the water's edge, at a spot where the bank dropped suddenly, and flung the ornament into the sea, close to where Emerald was concealed; then turning to call back to her brother, in defiance, her little foot slipped, and she herself in another moment disappeared from sight. 'With a cry of terror the elder child was about to throw himself after her, when the nurse in charge of them, whom the mermaid had not before noticed, darted forward and caught him by the arm, herself uttering shrieks of dismay and calls for help. Her cries almost immediately brought down two or three gardeners, one of whom, on hearing what had happened, pulled off his coat and flung himself into the water. He struck out bravely, for he was a good swimmer, and felt no doubt of rescuing the child, knowing the exact spot where she had fallen in; but to his surprise, clear and almost shallow though the water was, the little creature was nowhere to be seen. She had utterly disappeared!' CHAPTER XII 'THE UNSELFISH MERMAID' (_continued_) What then?--the saddest things are sweet. _The Boy Musician._ The spinning-wheel fairy stopped for a moment. 'Oh, go on, go on, please,' said the two little girls. 'It is so interesting, and it has been just as you said; we have seen the pictures of it all gliding before us, as the thread passed through our fingers. Do go on, dear fairy; it must be that Emerald had caught the little girl.' 'Yes,' the fairy continued, 'so it was. Small wonder that her rescuer could not find the child. She was lying safe, though as yet unconscious, in the mermaid's arms, the golden chain thrown round Emerald's own neck, for she had found it when she stooped to take up the baby. As yet the sea-maiden scarcely realised what she had done, in yielding to the impulse of hiding the child from her friends. And it was not till they had left the spot, in the vain hope that the little creature might have drifted farther down the coast, that Emerald dared to breathe freely, and think over what had happened. By this time her little "treasure-trove" had half opened her eyes, and murmured some baby words, for, after all, she had been but momentarily under the water. Emerald had no difficulty in soothing her, and in a minute or two the little girl sank into a sweet and natural slumber. Then, without giving herself time to think, her new nurse, drawing out a tiny phial, without which no mermaid is allowed to swim to the surface, poured out of it a few drops of a precious liquid, with which she anointed the baby's face and lips. This liquid has the magic power of enabling a human being to live under water without injury, and of restoring to life those on whose behalf all the science of the landsmen would be exerted in vain. '"Now, my darling," she whispered to herself, "you are safe, and you belong to me. I can carry you down to our beautiful home, for it must be that you are meant for me, and the jewel, which your little hands flung before you, is the gift that I was to seek for our princess." 'And so saying, though casting cautious glances on all sides, she swam rapidly away till she reached the rocky islet where she had parted from her sisters. There, being well out of sight of the shore, she rested for a time. No one as yet but herself had reached the meeting-place, which Emerald by no means regretted. She wished to have the pride and pleasure of exhibiting her treasures down below to all the mermaids who were joining in the gift to the princess, when they assembled together to hear the result of the expedition. Possibly, too, at the very bottom of her heart there may have been hidden some little misgiving as to her right to carry away the child, and she may have dreaded her elder sisters' opinion as to this. As regarded the golden necklet, her conscience was quite at rest, for before leaving the shore she had placed there some of the rare shells and pearls which the sea-folk knew to be so highly valued on land, that they were ample payment for anything they might carry off with them from the upper country. 'Now, rapidly, she made her way homewards, seeking her own little bower at once, and there, on her couch, she laid the still sleeping child; then drawing from her own neck the beautiful chain, she sought about for the prettiest shell she could find, in which to lay it ready for the princess's acceptance. 'Before very long she heard the voices of her sisters and friends returning; she hastened out to meet them. Her eldest sister gave an exclamation of pleasure as soon as she caught sight of her. '"Oh, Emerald," she cried, "I am so glad to see you. We couldn't help feeling a little anxious at not finding you on the rock; it seems you did not enjoy your visit to the surface, as you hastened back so soon." '"That was not my reason for returning so quickly," said Emerald, with a smile. "I found what I sought"--"and more too," she added to herself in a low voice--"so there was no reason for delay. See, sisters, and all of you, what I have found. Could anything be prettier or rarer as a gift to our princess?" 'Her companions crowded round her eagerly, and all united in admiring and approving of the beautiful gold ornament. '"And you shall have the full credit of having found it, little Emerald," they said; "but for you we should have been sadly discouraged." 'For they had returned either empty-handed, or at best bringing trifles, scarcely worth offering to the princess. 'The chain was carefully put away till the next day, when it was to be presented, and then the little crowd dispersed, which Emerald was glad of, as she was anxious to confide to her most trusted sister the secret of the _living_ treasure which she had hidden in her bower. 'The elder mermaid looked at the sleeping child with startled eyes. '"Emerald," she exclaimed, "you did not steal her surely?" '"No, no," the little mermaid replied, "she fell almost into my arms--but for me she would have lost her life; she is mine, my very own, and I do not pity her people for losing her; they should have taken more care of the little darling." 'Just then the baby awoke and gazed about her in surprise. Then her little face puckered up for a cry at the strangeness of everything she saw, but before she had time to utter it Emerald caught her in her arms. '"My sweet," she said, and the child looked up at once at the sound of the lovely voice, "my sweet, you must not cry, I have so many pretty things to show you. You shall be quite safe and happy here with us in the beautiful sea." 'The little girl looked up at her, and a smile gradually broke over her face. '"Show me the pretty things," she said, "and then, then you will take me home, kind lady, won't you? home to brother and nurse and mamma--they will cry if baby doesn't come soon." 'Her sister glanced at Emerald as she heard these words, but the younger mermaid would not see the glance. '"Baby shall see all the beautiful things now at once," she replied; "she shall catch the little fishes in her hands as they swim past, and gather the pretty sea-flowers and pick up shells, such as you have never seen. And I will sing songs to baby, such pretty ones." The little creature smiled again. '"Baby would like that," she whispered. "Baby will take the pretty flowers and shells home to show brother and nurse." '"Yes, yes," said Emerald hastily, "baby is going to be such a happy little girl," and then, taking her hand, she led her away to the sea-gardens round the palace, amusing her so well, and singing to her when she grew tired, that at first it seemed as if all thought of her home and former life would soon fade from her infant memory. 'And thus things went on for some little time. While the child was happy and merry, she seldom spoke of returning to the upper world; but if anything crossed her baby wishes, or at night when she grew sleepy, her cry was sure to be again, "Oh please, kind lady, take me home." 'Then Emerald would rock her in her arms, and sing to her the wonderful songs of the mermaidens, so strange and lovely that the child seemed bewitched by them, and her little face would lose all look of distress. And when this happened, Emerald's spirits rose again and she would murmur to herself, "My darling is growing quite happy and contented. I shall never need to part with her. The upper world would seem coarse and clumsy to her now." 'The young mermaid's own character seemed quite changed by the charge of the tiny foundling. Instead of being the first to propose new games of play, or even mischief, she now grudged every moment that separated her from the little human girl, and her companions often rallied her about her devotion to her "new toy," as they called it. '"You will get tired of her after a while," they said, laughing. "You are too young to make yourself into such a mother-slave to her. Why, no one would know you for the same maiden!" 'But Emerald only smiled in return. '"I shall never get tired of her," she said; "she is my own treasure-trove." 'Nevertheless, during all this time some misgiving, low down in her heart or conscience, made her keep away from the aged sea-lady, who had often in time past reproved her for her thoughtlessness. Why she did so she excused to herself by saying she had no leisure now for anything but care for the little girl. "And the great-grandmother could not but be pleased if she knew how my time is spent," she would say to herself; "she was always the one to tell me to be of use to others and to be more sedate, and I am certainly now following her counsel." Yet notwithstanding these assurances to herself, she took care that in their playing and gambolling she and the baby should keep away from the cave where dwelt the aged grand-dame. 'So time went on. It passes perhaps more quickly, or its passing is less noticed, down in the under-world of the ocean, than with the dwellers on the land. It seemed to Emerald but a few days since the coming of her little pet, when her happy belief that all was right received a sudden blow. Baby was growing big now, for nearly as much of her life had by this time been spent in the sea as on land, and Emerald had fondly hoped that all remembrance of her own home had faded from the child's mind. The princess arrived one day on a visit to her parents. Emerald had always been a favourite of hers, and meeting her playing in the palace gardens with her little charge, she stopped to speak to them. '"Ah, Emerald," she said, "so this is the pretty child you saved? I have heard of her. How well you have treasured her, and I, too, have been careful of _my_ treasure." She touched the long golden chain hanging round her neck as she spoke, and playfully tossed it towards the little girl, who caught it, laughing. But as she looked more closely at the golden links in her fingers, a change came over her little face; it grew troubled, and Emerald, fearful lest she should begin to cry, made some excuse to the princess and carried her away, talking merrily as they went. But the child's face did not clear. '"Emerald," she said, for by this time she could talk quite perfectly, "something has come back to me. I remember that pretty chain. I threw it into the water, when brother was running after me. Oh, Emerald, I want to go home to him and the others. You may come too, dear Emerald, but I must go home." 'Her words sent a thrill of fear through the heart of her young sea-mother. '"Oh, baby darling," she said, "what has put such fancies in your little head? Are you not happy with Emerald and all your pretty toys and games? Emerald cannot go away from her own country, and she would be too miserable without you. And you--you would cry sadly at night, if she was not there to sing you to sleep." 'And the trouble on the mermaiden's face, as she spoke thus, grieved the little girl, for she had a tender heart. She gently stroked Emerald's cheeks, and said no more for the time. But from that moment, ever and anon, there crept into her soft blue eyes the strange, sad, far-away look which told that the charm was broken. She was pining for her own race and her own land. 'Emerald tried not to see it, tried to persuade herself that the child would be miserable away from the sea country, that it would be cruel to the little creature herself to restore her to her friends. Gradually, however, it became impossible to go on deceiving herself. Baby grew thin and pale--every one noticed it. Though gentle and tender as ever to her mermaid nurse, it was rarely now that her voice was heard in laughter or glee; and her smiles were even sadder than the wistfulness in her face. 'But all this time, though Emerald knew it not, her aged friend had kept watch over her and her new experience; and one day there came a message, bidding her go to the grand-dame's cave, as she had something to say to her. This was a summons no young mermaid would have dared to disobey, and so, holding the little girl as usual by the hand, she made her way thither. 'Her old friend looked at her earnestly. '"It is long since you have been to see me, my child," she said, "and this is your little charge." 'She drew the little girl towards her as she spoke, and kissed her. '"Are you happy with Emerald?" she asked her gently. The child's pale face flushed deeply. '"Emerald is very good to me," she replied, "and sometimes I am very happy, but I have a pain here," and she touched her heart. "I want to go home, I want to see brother and mamma and nurse again; until I do, the pain won't go away." '"It will get better soon, I think," said the sea lady, and then she drew the child's attention to a charming rockery in one corner of her cave, so that she could speak to Emerald without being heard. '"You have known this, I fear," she began. "You are not doing right, my child, and your own heart must tell you so." 'Emerald hung her head. '"You told me," she said, "you told me not to live for myself, but for the service of others--have I not been doing so?" '"You did well," was the reply, "in saving the child's life, and since then you might have had other chances of the same kind, but you have never returned to the upper world to seek for them. You have yielded to the pleasure to yourself, of giving all your time to her, forgetting or refusing to believe that you have no right to her. She is neither of our race nor blood--think of the bitter tears that must have been shed for her by her own people. See now--now that she is growing older and nature is speaking to her--the suffering that is beginning for herself. No child's face should look as hers does." 'It was enough. Emerald threw herself at her old friend's feet in deepest repentance. '"It is all true," she cried; "I see it now, and indeed I knew it before, but I would not let myself think of it. I will take baby back to her home--now, at once, before my courage fails me." 'And the little girl, hearing the distress in her dear Emerald's voice, ran forward. '"What is it," she said; "is the lady angry with you?" '"No, no," was the reply, "I am very pleased with Emerald; and now, my little girl, the pain at your heart will go. Emerald is going to take you home, home to your mother and your brother, and you will be very happy." '"But Emerald will come too?" asked the little girl; for though her face grew rosy with delight, her heart misgave her for her mermaid friend. 'Emerald drew her towards her and kissed her fondly. '"My darling," she whispered, "I will carry you home myself, but I could not stay in your country." '"And shall I never see you again, then?" asked the little girl sadly. '"I cannot say," Emerald replied; "but sometimes, if I may, I will come to the edge of the beautiful garden where is your home, and sing softly, so that you will know I am there. But this must be a secret between you and me. And now," she went on, "there is no time to lose; clasp your arms tightly round my neck, my little one, for we have a long way to go." 'Their old friend smiled in approval. '"Sing to her, my child," she murmured, "it will lull her to sleep and save her the pain of parting from you. The sun is still high in the heavens, it will be still full daylight when you reach the upper world. Lay her on the grass near the spot where you found her and kiss her on the brow. But do not linger yourself; she will wake to full remembrance of her life before she came to you, and all will be well."' * * * * * With these words the spinning-wheel fairy's voice ceased, but Hildegarde and Leonore did not move or speak for some moments. Then they raised their heads and gazed at their kind friend. 'Oh, thank you, thank you,' they said, 'for the story and the pictures; we couldn't look up at first, for we saw something more than you had told us. Almost the loveliest pictures of all came at the end.' 'There was one,' said Hildegarde, 'of the baby running to her mother in the garden, and the little brother came too, and they knew her again in a moment, though she had been so long away--oh, it was beautiful!' 'And,' added Leonore, 'the last of all nearly made me cry. The baby had grown quite big and was standing near the water's edge. Emerald had been singing to her, and just for one moment we saw her face--so sad, but so sweet. Oh, how I should love to have a mermaid friend.' But even as she spoke, her voice grew drowsy. She knew the spinning-wheel fairy was smiling at her and Hildegarde, and they both felt her gently releasing the rainbow thread from their fingers, but after that they knew no more, till a sound of tapping woke them up. It was Amalia, knocking at the door of the blue-silk room; and when they opened their eyes, there they were, lying on the soft fleecy rug in front of the fire, as if they had never moved the whole afternoon. 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43145	----	The Squire's Little Girl By L.T. Meade Illustrations by Lewis Baumer Published by W and R Chambers, Ltd, London and Edinburgh. This edition dated 1902. The Squire's Little Girl, by L.T. Meade. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ THE SQUIRE'S LITTLE GIRL, BY L.T. MEADE. CHAPTER ONE. The Squire's little daughter rode her pony down the avenue. She stopped for a moment at the gate, and the children at the other side could get a good view of her. There were four children, and they pressed together and nudged each other, and took in the small erect figure, and her sturdy pony, with open eyes and lips slightly apart. The Squire's daughter was a fresh arrival at Harringay. Her existence had always been known, the children of the village and the children of the Rectory had talked of her, but she had never come to live amongst them until now, for her mother had died at her birth, and her father had gone to live abroad, and Phyllis, the one child of his house, had been with him. Now he had returned; Phyllis was twelve years old; the Hall was open once more, full of servants and full of guests, and Phyllis Harringay rode her pony in full view of the Rectory children. Phyllis had a thick, rather short bush of tawny hair. Her eyes were of a grey blue, her little features were short and straight, and her small face had many freckles on it. She was by no means a pretty child, but there was something piquant and at the same time dignified about her. She stopped now to speak to Mrs Ashley, the woman at the Lodge; and the children pressed a little nearer, and Ralph touched Rose, and Rose nodded to Susie, and all three gazed at Edward with the same question on each pair of lips and in each pair of eyes. "Shall we introduce ourselves," said Susie to her brother. "Do say yes, Ned; it is such an opportunity, and we are longing to know her. Do say that we may speak to her now." But Ned shook his head. "It is not manners," he said; "we must not push ourselves on her. If, indeed, we could do anything for her it would be different." And just then, as if to help the children in their darling wish, the white gates which led to the Hall refused to open at Phyllis's push, and Ned and Ralph both rushed to the rescue. "Thank you," said Phyllis, with a toss of her head and a smile in her bright eyes. Then she paused and looked the boys all over. They were sturdy little chaps, and Ned in particular had the brightest brown eyes and the most honest face in the world. "It is awfully dull, isn't it?" said the Squire's daughter. "I wonder how any one can live in a place like this. Are there more than two of you, and have you lived here always?" "There are more than two of us," answered Ned, lifting his cap in the most polite manner, "and we don't find it dull. Here are my two sisters," he added; "may we introduce ourselves to you?" "Oh, what a funny speech, and how nice it sounds!" cried Phyllis. "Four of you, and all children! I haven't spoken to anything approaching a child for a whole fortnight. If it wasn't for Bob here,"--she laid her hand on her pony's mane as she spoke--"I believe I should lose my senses." "Well, you are all right now," said Ned, who certainly never lost his. "Here's Susie, and she's dying to know you; and here's Rosie, and I do believe she'd let her hair be cut short just for the pleasure of looking at you. And here am I, at your service; and I think I can promise that Ralph will do everything for you that boy could." Phyllis's little face turned quite a bright pink. She glanced eagerly at both the girls, then she looked at Ralph, and finally she laughed. "Let's be friends," she said. "I don't know who you are nor anything about you, but, oh, you are human beings, you are children! and I am so glad--I am so glad." As she said the last words she held out her hand to Ned. He clasped it, and then let it drop, while the colour filled his own brown face. "This makes all the difference in the world," said Phyllis. "What shall we do? How are we to spend the afternoon? You don't suppose, you four, that I'm going to lose sight of you, for if you do you are greatly mistaken." "What shall we do? Where shall we go?" cried Susie. She came close to Phyllis and looked earnestly into her face. Susie was a very pretty little girl; she had bright black eyes and a quantity of curling black hair, and her cheeks were rosy like the soft bloom of a peach, and her lips when she opened them showed pearly-white teeth. Phyllis looked right down into Susie's black eyes, and something in her heart stirred, so that the colour suffused her face, and she had difficulty in keeping back her tears. "You are the Rectory children," she said; "please tell me what your surname is." "Hilchester," said Ralph, without a moment's hesitation. "Oh! you will like father so much, Phyllis." "And mother too," cried Rosie. "Well, I tell you what it is," cried Phyllis. "I am going with you as far as ever you'll take me. Take me to the wildest and highest place in this neighbourhood, then I'll get off my pony and run; I want to run for bare life; I want to feel wild and free; I want to forget that I'm the Squire's little daughter, and that I've lots of money and grand dresses. I want to be, oh, _shabby_! oh, _wild_! dancing, joyful, just as if I hadn't a care in the world." "Let's do it," cried Susie. "I know how; I know where. We'll take her to the Friar's Mount, won't we, Ralph? Oh, you may ride, pretty little Phyllis, but I don't think your pony can take you faster than we can run, and when we get to the Friar's Mount you'll know what freedom means." "I should just think so," cried Phyllis. "I felt in prison until I saw you all, and now I'm so happy." She touched Bob's neck with her whip, and soon she was cantering down the village street, the Rectory children following at her heels. "Hullo!" cried a merry voice. "Where are you going, Phyl? Stop this instant, and tell me." The words came from Squire Harringay. He was standing on the steps of the principal inn. He did not know his little daughter with her cheeks on fire, her eyes bright, her mane of hair standing out from her pretty neck, and four shabbily dressed but decidedly energetic children following her. "Don't keep me now, Dad," was Phyllis's answer. "I've found playmates, and I am going to have a real good time. I'll tell you in the evening, but not now." The gay little party turned a corner and were soon lost to view. The Squire turned to a neighbour-- "That's a pretty sight!" he exclaimed. "And who are those young termagants who, to all appearance, have made my little daughter lose her senses?" "The Rectory children," was the response; "quite the wildest young imps in the countryside." "Phyllis will be a match for them," said her father, and he rubbed his hands in a contented manner. CHAPTER TWO. Phyllis came home quite late. Her habit was torn; Bob, the pony, was covered with mud; mud had also been splashed all over the little girl's neat costume--even her face and hands were more or less disfigured by it. Her curly hair was disfigured too with the mud from the swamps and dirty roads over which she had passed, but there was a brilliant colour in her cheeks and a happy light in her eyes. She rode into the yard, and a groom came up to take her pony. "Miss Phyllis," he exclaimed, "you have Bob in a lather!" "Oh, never mind," said Phyllis; "I have had a jolly time. I have found playmates." The groom touched his hat respectfully. It was the custom to be very respectful to the Squire's little daughter. She entered the house. Her governess, Miss Fleet, was waiting in the hall to receive her. "Where have you been?" she said in a stern voice. "Oh, Miss Fleet," cried Phyllis, "I have had such a time!--such fun, such delight! I met a lot of children, and I went up on to the hills with them. They are quite the most splendid children I ever came across in the whole course of my life. There are four of them--two boys and two girls." "Don't you even know their names?" asked Miss Fleet. "Yes, yes, of course. One is called Ned, and one Ralph; and there is a girl Susie, and another Rosie; and they adore me, and, oh, I am so happy!" "You are very nearly late for dinner," said Miss Fleet, "and you are in a most disgraceful mess; it will take half-an-hour to clean you and make you respectable; and you missed your music-master. In short, you are a very naughty girl." "I am a very happy girl," said Phyllis in the most contented voice in the world. "Please don't scold me, Miss Fleet; but I may as well say at once that I don't greatly care whether you are angry or not." "Oh, don't you?" said Miss Fleet. "Do you suppose I am going to put up with such a very disobedient little girl?" Her voice was stern. She did not often scold Phyllis, for Phyllis, as a rule, was too good to be reprimanded. She followed her now to her pleasant bedroom. There Nurse was waiting to pet the little girl and make her presentable for dinner. Miss Fleet looked into the room and said, "Here she is, Nurse, and I am extremely angry with her;" and then the governess closed the door and walked away. Phyllis gazed at Nurse, her eyes brimful of laughter. Then she ran up to the old woman and said ecstatically-- "Oh! I am so happy, and I don't care a bit--not a bit--for what old cross-patch says." "My dear Miss Phyllis," said Nurse, "you ought not to speak like that of your governess." "Well," cried Phyllis, "she is cross-patch." "I never heard you say that sort of thing before." "I learnt it from the Rectory children. Oh, they are so nice--so very nice! I was with them all the afternoon. I am going again to-morrow, and the day after, and the day after that, and every day--every single day. Now, please, Nurse, help me to get tidy for dinner." Nurse, who in her heart of hearts felt that Phyllis could do no wrong, assisted with right good-will to remove the mud-bespattered habit, and to get the little girl into her evening-frock. The Squire was immensely fond and proud of his little daughter, and she always dined in the evening with Miss Fleet and her father. Miss Fleet came downstairs first to the drawing-room. "Where is Phyllis?" said the Squire. "I am sorry to tell you, Mr Harringay, that Phyllis has been rather naughty. She has been out without leave, and came home just now in a disgraceful mess." "The young monkey," said the Squire, laughing. "I saw her; she rode past the `Blue Dragon,' a herd of children following her. I never was so amazed in my life; but she did look handsome and as if she were enjoying herself. I was told that the children belonged to the Rectory." "I don't care whom they belong to," said Miss Fleet. "They are very naughty children, and badly behaved; and if Phyllis has much to do with them she will get just as rough and wild herself." "Bless her! she is perfect whatever happens," said the Squire energetically. "Mr Harringay," said the governess, "may I ask you a question?" "My dear Miss Fleet, certainly. You know that I have the highest opinion of you." "Have I the charge of Phyllis or have I not?" "Bless me, bless me!" said the Squire, in some agitation, "of course you have the charge of her." "Then that is all right; and she has got to obey me, has she not?" "Of course, my good creature, of course." Just then Phyllis danced into the room. She looked very pretty in her evening-frock, and her happy afternoon had brought a red colour into her cheeks and a glow of happiness into her grey eyes. The trio went into the dining-room, and Phyllis amused her father during dinner with accounts of Rosie and Susie and the two boys. "I like the country," she said to her father; "I am glad we have come to live at the Hall; I am glad about everything. I am very, very happy to-night." The Squire kissed her and petted her, and it was not until she was just going to bed that he broke a piece of news to her which she scarcely appreciated. "My dear, it is good-bye as well as good-night." "Good-bye, Father? Why?" asked Phyllis. "Because I have to go to town to-morrow early, long before you are awake, my little daughter, and I shall probably not return to the Hall for quite a fortnight. But as you are so happy and have found friends, why, it does not matter so much, does it?" "But I shall miss you," said Phyllis, little guessing how very, very much she was to regret the Squire's absence. "I will write to you, pet, almost every day if I can; and if there is anything you fancy from town, you have but to say the word." "I will write and tell you, Father. Are you prepared to give me quite big, big things if I want them?" "I expect I am. You are my only child, and my pockets are pretty well lined." "But big, big things for other people?" repeated Phyllis in an emphatic whisper. "Come, Phyllis, it is time for bed," said Miss Fleet. Phyllis gave her father another hug. Her eyes looked into his, and his eyes looked into hers, and there was no doubt that the Squire and his little daughter thoroughly understood each other. Then she danced away from him, and took her governess's hand and left the room. "Miss Fleet manages her well," thought the Squire. "She is a very good woman, is very trustworthy and reliable, and the dear little thing wants a bit of discipline. Nothing will induce me to send Phyllis to school. I have the greatest confidence in Miss Fleet. I wish I hadn't to leave the child just now, but she is all right with the governess and Nurse-- oh, and yes, there are the Rectory children; they see a lot of her, and she won't miss me, not a bit." So the Squire went happily to bed and slept soundly, and went off at an early hour the following morning, kissing his hand as he did so in the direction of Phyllis's window. CHAPTER THREE. When Phyllis awoke the next morning she had the pleasureable sensation down deep in her heart that something very agreeable was about to happen. For a time she lay still, hugging the pleasant knowledge to herself. Then she sat up in bed with a laugh. Nurse had come into the room with Phyllis's bath, and was pouring the hot water out for her and preparing to help her to dress. "Well, Miss," she said, "what is the matter?" "Oh Nursey! those nice children from the Rectory are coming over to-day, and I mean to give them such a jolly time. The whole four are coming, and we mean to have hide-and-seek in the grounds and in the house. We'll be a bit wild and we'll be a bit noisy, but you don't mind, do you, Nursey?" "No, darling," replied Nurse, "I don't mind; I am glad you have something to cheer you now that the Squire has gone." "Oh, I forgot that!" said Phyllis. "I shall miss my darling father, but I am all the more glad that the Rectory children are coming." Phyllis rose in high spirits, and presently she and Miss Fleet met in the schoolroom. In the Squire's absence they were to have their meals in the schoolroom, and the table was laid now and placed in the cheerful bay-window, and the schoolroom maid was bringing in coffee, toast, and other good things for breakfast. "I am hungry," said Phyllis.--"Good-morning, Miss Fleet." "Good-morning, my dear," said Miss Fleet. "Take your seat quietly, please--not quite so noisily. Shall I give you a cup of coffee?" "Yes, please," said Phyllis. As a rule she rather resented Miss Fleet's remarks, but she was in such good spirits to-day that she determined, as she expressed it, to be extra well-behaved. "I have been thinking, Phyllis," said the governess as she slowly ate her own breakfast, "that this is an excellent opportunity for us to begin a more exhaustive routine of work." "Exhaustive routine? What is that?" asked Phyllis. "I will explain to you. We have been going about for so many years that you have never settled properly to your studies. Your father has given me _carte blanche_ to do exactly as I please with regard to your education. I mean to have the carriage this afternoon and to drive into Dartfield, the nearest large town, in order to see about new books for you, and also to get you music-masters, drawing-masters, and a dancing-master; you will probably have to join a dancing-class at Dartfield once or twice a week, and we may have to go there for your music. I, myself, will undertake your English education, and for the present will instruct you in French and German. We cannot quite arrange matters so as to fill up your time before Monday--this is Thursday--but on Monday I trust that we shall have a complete system so that every hour may be occupied." "It sounds very dull," said Phyllis when her governess paused for want of breath. "Is there to be no time for play?" "Play!" said Miss Fleet, with scorn. "You have played all your life. You want to work now." "But `all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,'" said Phyllis in a flippant tone. "Your uttering that remark, dear," said the governess, "shows how sadly you have been neglected. Of course you shall play after a fashion. You must take regular exercise, and have half-an-hour a day at gymnastics, and I may be able to arrange to take you to Dartfield for tennis and hockey according to the season." "But why go to Dartfield for my games?" said Phyllis. "There are the Rectory children." Miss Fleet opened her eyes. She did not speak at all for a moment; then she said gently-- "As we have finished breakfast, will you please say grace, Phyllis, and then meet me here in half-an-hour for lessons?" Phyllis muttered her grace in a decidedly cross voice. Miss Fleet immediately afterwards left the room. Phyllis went and stood by the fire. Suddenly she gave a little jump and her eyes danced. "Why, of course I can't go with her--horrid old thing!--to Dartfield to-day," she exclaimed joyfully. "They are coming, the darlings, and I cannot be out of the way on any account whatsoever." The remembrance that the Rectory children were coming cheered her immensely, and she danced gaily about the room putting things in order for Miss Fleet. The moment the governess appeared Phyllis ran up to her. CHAPTER FOUR. "Oh, you have brought all those horrid dingy books!" said Phyllis, seeing that Miss Fleet carried a huge pile of half-worn-out lesson-books in her arms. "Keep away, Phyllis, a minute; I want to put them on the table," said the governess. "What stupid things they are!" said Phyllis, forgetting for a minute the excitement which the thought of her little guests had given her, in her dismay at the appearance of the books. She took up one volume after another, letting it fall on the table with an expression of great disdain. "_Child's Guide to Knowledge_," she said. "Horrid book. And oh! what is this? _Mrs Markham's History of England_. I hate _Mrs Markham_. Oh, and this--and this!--I say, Miss Fleet!" "Phyllis, I wish to speak to you," said her governess. "What is it now?" said Phyllis, but she was aroused by the tone. She looked full up into Miss Fleet's small grey eyes, and her heart beat fast. For although Miss Fleet was really affectionate to the little girl, and was as a rule gentle, there were times when she could be quite the reverse. Phyllis saw that such a time had arrived. "I wish to speak to you," said Miss Fleet. "During lessons you are to be industrious, careful, studious, and respectful. These books are not to be treated with levity; they are to be studied, and pondered over, and digested." "Well, let's begin and get it over," said Phyllis. She sat down by the table, drew a blotting-pad towards her and a bottle of ink, and looked up at her governess. "And, oh, Miss Fleet! I want to say something. I can't go with you to Dartfield to-day." "Why not, pray?" "The four Hilchesters, the Rectory children, are coming here; I asked them yesterday. They are coming immediately after lunch, and they will stay to supper. I thought perhaps we might have supper in the evenings now that father is away. You don't mind, do you, Fleetie dear?" "But I do mind very much indeed," said Miss Fleet. "What business had you to ask the Hilchesters without my permission?" Phyllis bit her lips; her face grew scarlet. "Well, I did, you know," she said. "And extremely naughty you were. Did your father know that you had asked them?" "I never told Dad; I--I forgot." "Then you, a little girl of twelve years old, took it on you to ask a party of wild, disreputable, untrained children to this house without either his leave or mine!" "Please, Miss Fleet," said Phyllis, who had a very quick temper when roused, "they are not disreputable and they are not wild." "I repeat what I have said--disreputable, untrained children. I will have none of it." "You cannot prevent it now--you daren't." "Oh, we will see. Take this page of _Child's Guide_ and learn it carefully. I will be back in a few minutes." Miss Fleet went out of the room. Phyllis looked after her until the door was closed; then she gave a wild, sharp scream, and rushing to the window, looked out. From there she had a view of the stables, and presently she saw one of the grooms get on her own special pony, Bob, and gallop off. The groom carried a note in his hand. "What are you doing, David?" shrieked Phyllis from the schoolroom window. The man paused, turned round in amazement, and looked up at the excited child. "I am going with a note to the Rectory, Miss; it is from Miss Fleet." "Stop one minute." Phyllis dashed to the table, seized a sheet of paper, scribbled on it, "Come and save me; I am in the claws of a dragon," folded the note, directed it to Ralph, and threw it out of the window. "Take that note too to the Rectory," she said. David picked it up, grinned from ear to ear, and galloped off. When Miss Fleet returned she found Phyllis bending attentively over her _Child's Guide_. "I hope you know it," said Miss Fleet. "I have sent a line to Mrs Hilchester to say that it is not convenient for the children to come to-day. If you are very good I will ask the two girls to tea some afternoon when we have settled to our routine of work. Now don't say any more about them; attend like a good girl to your lessons." "But I'm not going to Dartfield this afternoon," said Phyllis. "You are if I desire it." Phyllis shut up her lips. She could look very obstinate when she pleased. Her eyes now fixed themselves boldly on the governess's face, and her eyes seemed to say: "I am hating you for being cruel; I am hating you right hard." But Miss Fleet was impervious to the flashing glances of her rebellious pupil. Lessons went on after a fashion, and at last luncheon was announced. Miss Fleet and her pupil lunched in the library. "Now go upstairs, Phyllis," said her governess, "put on your hat, and come down within a quarter of an hour. Tell Nurse to see that your gloves are in order; and you had better wear a jacket; it may rain." Phyllis went out of the room without a word. Miss Fleet stood at the library door and watched the little figure as it mounted slowly--very slowly--the winding stairs. There was something very naughty about that little figure just then, and yet at the same time something pathetic. "Poor child! I am sorry I disappointed her," thought the governess; "but I have my duty to perform. I hear on all hands that the four young Hilchesters are the terror of the neighbourhood: so wild, so untrained, so disobedient. I should certainly be unworthy of the position I hold if I allowed Phyllis to have anything to do with them. Yes, I will keep my word, and the girls may have tea here in a week or so, but they shall not be alone with Phyllis; of that I am resolved." Meanwhile the little girl, having turned a certain angle of the stairs, stood quite still, uttered a strange laugh, and then, turning quite aside from the nursery, ran down an unfrequented corridor and out into the back yard. She had already secured, in preparation for a certain adventure which she was fully resolved to have, a half-worn-out jacket and a torn and very dirty sailor-hat. She popped the hat on her head and fastened the jacket. Then she stood in the yard and looked around her. The only person within view was David the groom. Somehow, Phyllis expected to see David in the yard. "Did you give the note?" asked the little girl, turning and speaking to him in an imperious way. "Yes, Miss. I met the young gentleman all alone in the avenue, and I gave it him." "And what did he say?" "He only said, `All right,' Miss." "Thank you, David," said Phyllis; "I am very much obliged to you." She ran across the yard and into a small fir plantation just beyond, and there she stood leaning over the railing. David could see her, and he smiled to himself. "She is a spirited little miss," he thought. "Didn't Master Ralph show his white teeth just, when he read her note. His `All right' meant all right, or I am much mistook. My word! the little miss will get into trouble if she ain't careful; but I ain't the one to split on her." So when the pony-trap came round to take Miss Fleet and her small charge to Dartfield, nowhere could Phyllis be found. The whole house was searched, and the servants were questioned, but no one had seen the child. Miss Fleet, in alarm, gave up her expedition and instituted a more vigorous search, but try as she would, nowhere could she or Nurse get a glimpse of the child. David, who alone knew the direction in which Phyllis had gone, had taken care to absent himself, and no one else had the slightest clue by which her whereabouts could be discovered. Presently Miss Fleet, in great anger, started off to drive to the Rectory. "This really is intolerable," she thought. "I shall have to write to the Squire. Oh, of course, the naughty, naughty child has gone to those other wicked children. I shall have to give Mrs Hilchester a piece of my mind." CHAPTER FIVE. Ralph Hilchester had never felt better pleased in the whole course of his life than when he got Phyllis's letter. That she should tell him that she was in trouble was more delightful to him than even a costly present would be--than even half-a-crown would be--and costly presents and half-crowns were rare treasures in the Rectory household. His first determination was to tell his brother and sisters, but on second thoughts he resolved to keep to himself the delicious fact that Phyllis had written to him. He opened the blotted sheet of paper and looked at the words again: "Come and save me; I am in the claws of a dragon." "I should think I just will," thought Ralph; "it is exactly what I am made for. I always guessed there was something heroic about me. Fancy, in these prosaic days, having to deliver a princess from a dragon; I declare I feel exactly like Saint George of England." So Ralph held his head very high, and, with the precious letter reposing against his heart, entered the Rectory. There dismay and indignation met him on every side. "Oh Ralph," cried Rose, "what do you think? You know what a jolly afternoon we were all going to have!" "Well?" said Ralph, his brown eyes dancing. "Oh, you won't look quite so happy when you know! The Squire's little girl was nice enough yesterday, but she seems to have changed her mind. `Other matters to attend to'--that is what that odious governess of hers said. Far too grand to notice us, of course." "I wish you would speak plain," said Ralph. "I cannot get a scrap of sense out of that gabble of yours." "How rude you are!" said Susie. "You will be as gloomy as us when you know. Well, it is this: we are not to go to the Hall this afternoon. We are not to play with Phyllis. It was the governess who wrote--that odious woman; she signed herself `Josephine Fleet.' She says that Phyllis had no right to invite us, and we are not to come. Pretty cheek, I call it. Well, if Phyllis does not want us, I'm sure we don't want her." "But that is all very fine," said Rosie; "I do want Phyllis. She promised me an old doll she had discarded, and she gave distinct hopes that we might have a baby-house of hers; and, anyhow, she is very jolly, and I did want to have a good time at the Hall. I call it horrid; I do indeed." "And so do I," said Ned. "It is a precious big shame. But there, Ralph, we will go out rabbit-hunting this afternoon; I want to see if some of our snares have caught any." "You are horridly cruel about rabbits; you know you are," said Rosie. "Not at all; the sort of snare I have laid does not hurt any of them," said Ned. "Come along, Ralph, won't you?" But Ralph held back. "Sorry I can't," he said; "other things to attend to." He spoke in a lofty tone, and the feel of the precious letter in his pocket made his heart throb. The Hilchesters were not a patient family, and they fell upon Ralph tooth and nail. He was mean; he was shabby; he was hard-hearted; he did not care a bit for their disappointment; but nothing, nothing they could say altered the lad's determination. They might amuse themselves: he had other fish to fry; he could not accompany any of them that afternoon. It was in vain to plead and catechise, and reproach and fight. Ralph stuck to his resolve. The early dinner at the Rectory was therefore a somewhat sorry affair, and Ralph was all too glad when it came to an end. He had now, if possible, to blind his very sharp sisters and brother. This was no easy matter. During dinner he made up his mind what he would do. There were occasions when Ralph, all alone and unaccompanied, walked as far as Dartfield. Dartfield was five or six miles away. He announced gravely to the family that he was going on a long expedition, and then he went upstairs and brushed his hair, and washed his hands, and put on a clean collar. "What can it mean?" said Rosie, who was watching him through the keyhole. "Ralph with clean hands! Something must be up!" "Of course something is up," whispered Susie. "Oh Rose! he hears us. He will be down upon us with a vengeance. Let's fly!" Just as Ralph opened the door they did fly, scrambling up to the attics, where they locked themselves in. "They watched me, the monkeys. I must blind them," thought Ralph. So he started off quite in the opposite direction from the Hall, and gained the high-road. Ned now shouted to his sisters to come and help to search for rabbits, and the girls, in high discontent, saw nothing for it but to obey. But Ralph was generally the ringleader of all forms of fun and mischief, and his absence made the rest of the party doubly depressed. Ralph ran a whole mile in the direction of Dartfield; then looking cautiously about him, he doubled back, got into the wood, skirted it, and presently came within measurable distance of the Hall. To his disgust, he heard his sisters' and brother's voices as they rambled about the wood. Suppose by any chance Phyllis met them first; she scarcely knew one from the other of the Rectory children so far. If she saw them she would think they had come to save her, and would rush to them and tell them all about her trouble. Ralph would indeed then be out of it. He quickened his steps therefore, boldly entered the wood, which was on Squire Harringay's property, and a moment later came face to face with the little girl. She was leaning against the stile waiting for him. It had not occurred to her that he would come alone, but when she saw him, and noticed how tall and manly he looked, and how strong and well developed, her heart gave a bound of rapture. She ran to him, took both his hands, and laughed aloud in her glee. "Here I am," said Ralph. "Of course I mean to save you; you were right to trust me." "I thought I was," said Phyllis; "I felt that somehow yesterday. But where are the others?" "Oh! the others," said Ralph. "I thought you wanted me alone." "It is ever so good of you to come, but I should like you all best," answered the little girl. "But there, you have come, and I will tell you everything. Let us walk round by the back of the stables. If _she_ sees us I am lost." "She in other words is the dragon," said Ralph. "Yes--Miss Fleet; and I quite, quite hate her now." "Tell me all about it," said Ralph, and he tucked Phyllis's hand through his arm, and they sauntered slowly in the direction of the field which led to the back of the stables. Meanwhile Miss Fleet, in dismay and indignation, drove straight to the Rectory. Mrs Hilchester happened to be at home. She was in a room which was very plainly furnished. At a large centre table the Rector's wife had spread bales of red flannel and coarse grey serge and unbleached calico, and was busy cutting out garments which were to be made up immediately for the poor of the parish. When she heard Miss Fleet's step, she did not trouble even to look round. "Is that you, my dear?" she said. "And have you come to help me? But you are very late." "I don't know what you mean by `my dear,'" answered the indignant governess, "but I have certainly never had the pleasure of speaking to you before, and I may as well emphatically say I have not come to help you." Mrs Hilchester dropped her large cutting-out scissors, and turned and faced her visitor. "I am sorry," she said abruptly; "I thought you were Mildred Jones; she promised to look in and do what she could. I have a heavy pile to get through before nightfall. As you are here, do you mind holding this unbleached calico while I divide it into yards?" "Really,"--began Miss Fleet. But indignant looks and even words were absolutely thrown away on the busy Rector's wife. "Catch," she said, "and hold tight. If you have anything to say, you can say it while we are busy. No one who ever comes to the Rectory is allowed to waste time or to be idle. Thank you very much." It was impossible for Miss Fleet not to hold the unbleached calico, and it was difficult for her to be quite as indignant and as dignified as she had intended to be in such a position. "Why, really, this is most extraordinary," she said. "Oh! pray, don't let go, or I shall have all my trouble over again." Miss Fleet held tight to the calico, which got heavier and heavier as more and more yards were measured off. "Now, for goodness' sake lay it gently on the table. Thanks; that is a help. Now, my good friend, what is your business? If I can help you I shall be pleased to do so; at present I don't even know your name." "My name is Josephine Fleet." "Ah, you are little Phyllis Harringay's governess. I received a somewhat extraordinary note from you before dinner." "I am puzzled to know why you should think it extraordinary. Phyllis asked your children to spend the afternoon with her. I did not find it convenient to have them. I wrote to you plainly on the subject. You seem to be a frank sort of person yourself; you cannot, therefore, object to frankness in others." "On the contrary, I admire it. Pray push that bale of red flannel across the table. Thank you." "Oh! I cannot help to measure the flannel into yards," ejaculated the angry Miss Fleet. "I don't require you to. Have you come here because you have changed your mind and wish the children to go to the Hall? But I am afraid I cannot find them now; they have dispersed. I always turn them out of doors, whatever the weather, in the afternoon. Pray, do tell me what you want, and--don't mind my being a little brusque--go--" "You really are," began Miss Fleet, but she checked herself. "I have come here," she continued, "to ask you a question. Phyllis is not to be found anywhere. Is she--Mrs Hilchester--is she at the Rectory?" "The Squire's little girl? Most certainly not. Do you suppose we would have her here against your will?" "Well, I hope not. Where can she be?" "My dear, good creature, how can I tell you? I have never set eyes on the child. Pass those scissors, please, and--yes, and that basket with the cottons. Thank you so much. Would you like to sew up a seam while we are discussing where the little girl can be? Ah, I see you are not willing to help. Well, well! good-afternoon." CHAPTER SIX. There never was a more angry woman than Miss Fleet as she left the Rectory that afternoon. Certainly, Mrs Hilchester had not been sympathetic. It is true she had followed her visitor into the hall, and had said by way of reassuring her: "You need not be at all alarmed about your little girl--my children are often out hours and hours at a time, and I assure you that I never dream of fidgeting; they eventually come home, grubby perhaps, and with their clothes in disorder, but otherwise safe and sound. Naturally, in the country your little girl will do as others do. Sorry you cannot stay to help me with my cutting-out, but as you cannot, good-afternoon." Miss Fleet scarcely touched the hand which the Rector's good lady vouchsafed. She got into the pony-cart and drove rapidly away. "What next, indeed!" she said to herself; "to compare Phyllis, who has been cossetted and petted all her life, to those wild, bearish children. I am certainly extremely sorry we have come to live at the Hall. If only the Squire were at home I should give him a piece of my mind; as it is it will be my duty to punish Phyllis most severely when she does return. Poor Phyllis! I don't wish to be hard on her, but still discipline at any cost must be sustained. Of course, she has returned long before now; but to have upset all my plans--a mere child like that!" Miss Fleet had now returned to the Hall, and her first eager question was: "Is Miss Phyllis in? Has any one seen her, or does any one know anything about her?" Alas! Miss Phyllis had not come back; no one had seen her--no one knew anything about her. Miss Fleet now began to be really alarmed. She had not, as a rule, a vivid imagination, but certainly horrors now began to crowd before her mental vision. There was that deep pond just beyond the shrubbery. There were some late water-lilies still to be found on its surface. Suppose--oh! suppose Phyllis had gone to it and had tried to drag in the lilies, and had--Miss Fleet turned quite white. Or suppose she had gone right outside the fir plantation, and had been seen and appropriated by the gipsies who were camping in the field just beyond. Altogether poor Miss Fleet had a sad afternoon, while Phyllis, the naughty and the reckless, enjoyed herself immensely. It sometimes does happen like that even in the lives of naughty children: they have their naughty time, and they thoroughly like it for the present. Phyllis had been very angry, and had determined to take her own way; and now she was having it, and her laugh was loud and her merriment excessive. For she had not been long in the field at the back of the stables, and Ralph had not long been enjoying the sweet pleasure of her society all to himself, when three heads appeared above the hedge and three gay voices uttered a shout, and Susie, Rosie, and Ned dashed across the field. "Oh! oh! oh!" said Susie, "now we know why he was smartening himself up." "Didn't he scrub his hands just," cried Rosie, "and didn't we watch him through the keyhole!" "Oh, shut up, shut up!" said Ralph. "Now that you have come I suppose you must stay; but it was to me Phyllis wrote.--Was it not to me you wrote, Phyllis?" "Well, yes," said Phyllis. "Yours was the first name that I thought of, but I wanted you all. It is all of you I like best. Now you have come we will have a gay time." "But where?" asked Rosie. "Are we to come to the house after all?" "I wish we could," said Phyllis. "I do earnestly wish we could. Perhaps--perhaps it would be safe." She stood for a minute holding her finger to her lips; then a bright light filled her grey eyes and smiles wreathed her lips. "Could you go up one of the back ways, and take off your shoes, and slip upstairs and up and up?" she said in a tremulous whisper. "Oh, couldn't we just!" said Rosie, her eyes nearly dancing out of her head. "Then I think we can manage," said Phyllis. "All my toys are upstairs in the big, very big, big attic; and there is the baby-house that I said perhaps you could have; and there are the dolls' cups and saucers; and if only we could smuggle something to eat!" "Something to eat!" cried Ned. "I can run back to the Rectory and bring a lot of things--a whole basketful. No one will know; Mother is at her cutting-out for the poor, and trumpets would not turn her attention. I can get the things--I can and I will." "We must not let Miss Fleet know; she'll never, never think of looking for us in the attic," said Phyllis, "and it is so big and so very far away from all the other rooms that we won't be found; the only danger is your being seen when you bring the basket." "I will go straight away this very minute," said Ned, "and you had better wait until I return." "I know something still better than that," said Phyllis. "Why go to the Rectory? Why don't you go to the village and buy things there--nice unwholesome curranty and doughy things?" "Oh, I say, scrumptious!" cried Rosie. "I'll go with him. No one will see us. But, oh, I say, Phyllis, we have not got a single brass farthing amongst us!" Ralph's face turned very red; he felt awfully ashamed of Rosie. "But I have," said Phyllis; "I always carry my purse about." She opened it. "There is a five-shilling piece," she said. "And may we spend it all?" said Rosie, looking with almost reverence on the solid piece of money. "Oh, rather! only do get very unwholesome things." "I know the kind, trust me," said Rosie, and she and Ned set to running as fast as they could. While they were away Susie and Ralph and Phyllis walked up and down, and talked in quite lady-like and gentlemanlike styles, and Phyllis described how Miss Fleet had brought in the dull lesson-books, and how she had tried to crush her bit of fun; and the other two laughed, and told stories on their own account, and said how cross they had been when that horrid letter had arrived. "Only I knew your real mind," said Ralph, and he gave a protecting, admiring look at the little girl. "I guessed you were very nice, Ralph," she replied, and she laid her pretty hand on his arm. Thus the time while Rosie and Ned were away buying the unwholesome things went quite quickly; and when they returned bearing large paper parcels and mysterious-looking bottles, they all stole softly into the house. Phyllis knew exactly how to get in by way of the old unused part. She took the others round to the door over which ivy hung, and instructed Ralph how he was to unfasten the tiny window, and then squeeze in and unbar the door. This he did with the despatch of quite an accomplished burglar, and when the door was opened the other four figures came solemnly in. They were quite solemn and breathless now in their excitement. When they got inside, their boots were carefully removed, and Phyllis led the way. They went up some narrow stairs. These stairs led to the old tower, and by the tower was another rambling staircase, which conducted them to the attics. So at last there they were safe and sound, as Phyllis explained. "We must be quiet, but not too quiet," she exclaimed, "for nobody ever comes to the tower, and nobody ever comes in by that entrance, and Miss Fleet may think for ever and ever before she can possibly imagine that I am having high tea with you four in the big back attic. Oh, perhaps we had better lock the door; but even that is scarcely necessary." But the door was locked, and then began a time of wild mirth. The food from the village shop was as decidedly unwholesome as the most venturesome little girl could desire. The cakes were nearly leaden in weight, were richly stored with currants, and were underdone; there were awful-looking lollipops of queer shapes and quaint designs, and there was ginger-beer of the worst quality, and lemonade which had never made acquaintance with lemons. But what mattered that? The food thus acquired was all the sweeter because of that wicked little flavour of wrong-doing about it; and Susie and Ned had also supplied great bags of nuts and some very green apples, so that these young folks thought it really was a feast worth being dreadfully naughty to obtain. They made a table out of some old boxes, and the cakes were cut, and the lemonade went pop, and the dolls' cups and saucers were brought into great requisition, and time went very merrily both for the naughty little girl and the Rectory children. After the meal came to an end Phyllis began to show the toys she no longer required--the rocking-horse, which her father had given her when she was four years old, and which she had ceased to ride, and the big, big, wonderful dolls' house which Susie, aged ten, still found one of the most fascinating things in the world. "You can have them all over at the Rectory," said Phyllis, with the royal airs of a young queen. "You can send for them any day you like; and there is a box full of dolls over there, and a trunk of dolls' clothes. I don't want them--I don't care for those sort of things without playmates. I tired of them long, long ago, but you can have them." "Oh, I say, Phyllis," cried Susie, and she put both her arms round Phyllis's neck, "can't you come and play with all the darling, lovely toys with playmates over at the Rectory?" "Yes, I could do that," said Phyllis, looking wistful; "and I love you all," she cried. "I have been an awfully happy girl to-day if it were not for Miss Fleet." CHAPTER SEVEN. When happy times are wrong and come to an end, one generally goes through some bad moments. This was the case on the special occasion which I am describing. Loud was the fun in the big attic, merry the laughter. The rattling of dolls' cups and saucers, the popping of lemonade bottles, and the shrieks of mirth over each volley of wit had come to their height, when there came a loud knocking at the attic door. The knocking was immediately followed by the angry turning of the handle, and then by the excited voice of Miss Fleet. "Open the door immediately, you bad, bad children!" she exclaimed. "Oh Phyllis, can we hide anywhere?" said Susie. "No, no, Susie," answered Phyllis; "we are found out, and we have got to pay for it. Well, I have enjoyed myself; haven't you?" "If you don't open the door immediately," said Miss Fleet's voice again, "I shall have it burst open." "Yes, children, open the door directly," said a sterner, older, graver tone; and then Ralph drew himself up, and Edward prepared for severe punishment, for it was the Rector's voice which now was heard. "Give me the key, Phyl," said Ralph, turning to the little girl. "I will say it was almost altogether my fault." "You will do nothing of the kind, for it is not true," said Phyllis. She turned very white, and her lips trembled. She did not like the bad moment which lay before her, but on no account was she going to excuse herself. So she marched--"just as if she were a queen, the darling," said Susie, describing it afterwards--to the door and unlocked it, and flung it open, and stood with her hair hanging about her shoulders and her frock in disorder, facing the indignant but almost speechless Miss Fleet and the tall, burly figure of the Rector. "Well?" said Miss Fleet. "Well, and what have you to say for yourself?" "I know I have, been very naughty," said Phyllis; "I know it quite well, and,"--her eyes danced--"and I'm _not_ sorry; no, I have had such a good time that I'm not sorry. As to the children of the Rectory, they are not a bit, not one scrap to blame. It was all my doing. I wrote a letter to Ralph when you forbade them all to come, for it was shabby of you; and, as you would not allow us to have tea properly downstairs, we had it here. That is all." The Rector pushed past Phyllis and walked into the room. "Come, children," he said. "Phyllis Harringay has made a very frank confession, and has tried to excuse you all; but I don't excuse you, for you must have known that you did wrong to come here." "Of course we did, Father," said Ralph; "but at the same time," he added, "when a girl writes to you, you know, and asks you to help her out of a mess, what is a fellow to do?" The Rector could not help smiling. "And oh, please, please, Mr Hilchester," said Phyllis, "do ask Miss Fleet to forgive me! Do, do ask her!" "It will be quite useless," said Miss Fleet. "I am determined that you shall be well punished.--I am obliged to you, Mr Hilchester, for coming to help me. I was really in such despair that I had to get some assistance.--Come, my dear." She took Phyllis's hand and dragged her from the room. Phyllis struggled; but Miss Fleet was a strong woman, and Phyllis had no chance. She left the four Rectory children behind her in the attic with all the delightful debris of the delightful feast, and went downstairs, down and down, into the proper part of the house, into the dull rooms and the dull routine of her life, knowing that she was naughty, and knowing that Miss Fleet had a perfect right to punish her. Miss Fleet took her straight into the schoolroom. "Here you stay," she said, "for the present. I will talk to you when you are calmer. You stay here until I let you out. I am too angry to speak to you at all just now." Miss Fleet turned as she spoke, shut the door behind her, locked it, and went away with the key in her pocket. "Well!" said Phyllis. She said this word aloud. She had been angry; she had been excited; she had gone through what seemed to her every sort of emotion during the last few hours, and now things had come to this. "If only Father were at home," thought the Squire's little girl, and then she sank down on an ottoman in the middle of the room and burst into tears. Her heart was very sore. She had not been a good girl, but, oh! she had enjoyed herself. "Why is it so nice to be naughty, and why is it that I can't feel sorry?" she said to herself. She nursed with all her might and main hot anger against her governess, and for a long time succeeded. But the days were short, and by-and-by the light faded away at the windows, and there was only the firelight in the room. The fire was a good one; it had a guard in front of it. Phyllis went and poked it up; it blazed, and soon cheerful flashes of light fell all over the room. There was no lamp nor any other way of making a light. Phyllis crouched down near the fire and tried hard to think. "I wonder when I'll _begin_ to feel sorry," she said to herself. "In all the story-books when the children are naughty they are desperately, madly sorry afterwards, but I'm not one bit sorry--at least not yet." She nestled down comfortably on the hearthrug. Presently she took a pillow from one of the sofas and put it under her head, and then blinking into the fire and shutting and opening her eyes, she dropped off to sleep. When she awoke she found that the fire was nearly out; she was stiff and cold, too, from lying on the rug. She started up, and could not make out where she was. Presently, however, memory came back to her. How cruel of Miss Fleet to leave her like this! How wrong!--how more than wrong! "If Father were at home I would tell him he was to send Miss Fleet away," said the little girl to herself. "She is a horrid, horrid woman; she makes me downright miserable. Oh, how dark it is! and there is no more coal in the coal-hod, and the fire will soon be out." She stood up and shook herself, and then she took the poker and poked what fire was left into as good a blaze as she could manage; but it soon died away for want of new fuel, and the little girl, who was now very desolate and in very low spirits and very hungry, began thoroughly to feel her punishment. "I won't stand it," she said to herself. "It is awfully unfair. She has no right to do it." Phyllis ran to the door, shook it, and began to cry out: "Open the door, please. Somebody come and open the door. I am here; Phyllis is here." But nobody answered because nobody heard her. Suddenly she thought of the bell. She ran to it and rang it over and over again; but as Miss Fleet had given positive directions that no one was to approach poor Phyllis in her imprisonment, there was no reply. The fire was now very nearly out. "Well," said Phyllis to herself, "at this rate she'll kill me. I'll be found frozen to death in the morning; and, oh, I am so hungry!" But just then, before her physical sufferings could get any worse, there came a slow step on the carpet outside. The door was unlocked, and Miss Fleet, bearing a lamp in her hand, entered. She laid the lamp on the centre table; she then went over and rang the bell. Phyllis stood facing her. Her face was tear-stained and very pale; her eyes flashed an angry light. "I can run past you," she said, "and get out of this room." "You can," said Miss Fleet, just glancing at her and then bending down to adjust the flame of the lamp, "but you won't." A servant appeared at the door. "Fill this coal-hod, Henry, and bring it up immediately; and tell Cook to send Miss Phyllis's dinner up. Be quick, please; the room is rather cold." The man departed, having just dared to give a sympathetic glance at Phyllis before he left the room. He quickly returned with the coals. The fire was built up and blazed merrily. He then drew down the blinds and pulled the curtains across the windows, and a moment later reappeared again, bearing a little tray of delicious food. "I declare," thought the child to herself, "I never knew before how nice a thing it is to eat. I _am_ ready for my chop and fried potatoes. Oh! and I am glad I am having roast apples." She sat down quite cheerfully to her meal; even Miss Fleet's presence scarcely annoyed her, so hungry was she and so glad to eat. CHAPTER EIGHT. At last the meal came to an end. While Phyllis was eating it Miss Fleet sat near the fire. She read, or pretended to read, the evening newspaper which had just been sent to the Hall. Presently Phyllis got up, uttering a low sigh. "Have you said your grace?" said Miss Fleet. "Yes," replied Phyllis. "I said it in a whisper. What else do you want me to do?" "_I_ wish you to listen to me--to be attentive and no longer impertinent. I'm tired of punishing you. You have been a very naughty girl, but I am willing to forgive you and to restore you to my favour, provided you do what I wish." "What is that?" asked Phyllis in a guarded voice. "Come here, Phyllis." Miss Fleet drew the little girl towards her. Her voice had softened; some of the severity had left it. Phyllis was the kind of child to be easily touched by kindness--no one could drive her, but affection and love could always guide her. Miss Fleet almost caressed the small hand which Phyllis stole into hers. "I hate not being friends with you," she said. "You have been my constant care and my constant pleasure for the last three years. Why do you suddenly turn against me?" "I don't," said Phyllis. "I have always liked you--very well, that is; but you don't understand me." "I'm not going to argue with you, Phyllis. You are only a little girl of twelve years old. I am three times your age." "Three times twelve are thirty-six," said Phyllis under her breath. "She never let out her age to me before." The fact that she knew Miss Fleet's enormously great age gave her a slight feeling of satisfaction. "Yes," she said aloud. "I must be kind to the poor thing; she is so very aged," was her inward thought. "Yes, I quite like you when you talk softly," she said. "Go on, please." "I cannot argue with you; I can but give you my opinion. You behaved badly to-day--so badly, so disgracefully that I cannot bring myself to speak of it. You did this in your father's absence--which made it, let me tell you, ten times worse; but I will forgive you and not tell your father if you make me a promise." "What, Miss Fleet?" "Wait one moment. You don't care to be always in this room, do you?" "I hate being in this room. I hate being punished. I hate--I hate--I hate you to be cold to me. Do be nice to me again, Fleetie, for I'm quite too awfully miserable just now;" and the little girl flung her arms round Miss Fleet's neck and burst into bitter weeping. After all, Josephine Fleet did love her wayward little charge. She kissed her once or twice and patted her on her arm, and then she said: "Now for our conditions. I forgive and you promise." "I promise!" said Phyllis. "Yes." "And if I promise, you'll never tell Father?" "I will never tell your father." "And you will let me go into all the rooms and play, and ride my pony, and do everything just as I did before--just as I did before?" "Just as you did before." "Then, of course, I'll promise, darling Fleetie. There is no doubt about it. If you'll let me do as I did before, I'll promise. Is it to learn a lot of history? It is to do my horrid--Is it? Is it?" "It is none of these things, Phyllis. It is this. You must give me your solemn word, as a lady, that you will not speak or have any intercourse with the Rectory children until your father's return." "What!" said Phyllis. All the light went out of her small face and all the gladness from her eyes. "I didn't think you'd be so mean, Fleetie," she said, and she went right away to the other end of the room and stood with her back to her governess. Miss Fleet glanced with a queer sort of longing towards the little figure. The little figure at the other end of the room looked pathetic; it looked lonely. Miss Fleet remembered certain words of the Rector's: "I cannot see why you should object to the children playing with each other. Squire Harringay did not object; on the contrary, he was glad." "Yes, yes," thought the governess; "and I would have allowed it in moderation, and doubtless it can be arranged in moderation when the Squire comes back. But Phyllis did wrong, and she must be punished in such a way as to make her feel it. I am forced to get this promise from her. I can take nothing else." But all the time while Miss Fleet thought, she kept watching the little figure, and presently she saw the shoulders slightly heave, and she guessed that Phyllis was crying. "It is very hard; I hate myself," thought the governess. "But I must, I must make her feel it." It was just at that moment that Phyllis wheeled right round and came up to Miss Fleet and said quietly: "If I cannot see them, may I write to them to say why?" "I will write to them and give the reason," said Miss Fleet. "May I not write my own self to Ralph, please, or to--to Susie?" "I will write to them," said Miss Fleet gently. Phyllis stood quite silent for a moment. Once again her shoulders worked suspiciously, and Miss Fleet noticed that her little chest heaved, but she kept back her tears. "There's Susie," she said after a pause; "she would so like the baby-house, and the rocking-horse that I never ride on because I have no playmates, you know. May they be sent over to the Rectory? I promised that she should have them. Need I wait till Father comes back to keep my promise?" "You had no right to make the promise." "But mayn't they go? Please say yes." "Not until your father returns." Phyllis now stood, very calm and despairing, close to Miss Fleet. "You want me to love you, but you make it very hard for me to do so," she said gently. "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll promise for two whole days. If Father isn't back at the end of two whole days, my promise is at an end. I don't give you my word, as a lady, after two whole days. That is all. I will not make any promise after that, not for anybody." CHAPTER NINE. Phyllis was so tired after her day of exciting adventure that she slept quite soundly. She had no bad dreams in her sleep, and when she awoke in the morning and looked round her pretty, cosy room--with Nurse standing not far off ready to wait on her, with a bright fire burning in the grate, and her bath and all her other comforts close at hand--she raised herself on her elbow and gave a sigh of content. "How nice you look, Nursey!" she said. "How that pretty dress becomes you! What a darling, dear sort of face you have, Nursey; and how much I love you!" But as she said the last words her happiness was changed into a sigh, for memory had returned. "Oh Nursey!" she said, with a sort of groan, "I had forgotten just for a minute. Oh! I was such a miserable little girl yesterday, and Fleetie was so angry; but I have promised her, and for two whole days I will keep my promise. Do you think by any chance Father will be back at the end of two days?" Now, Nurse had no very keen love for Miss Fleet. To begin with, she was jealous of her. Before Miss Fleet came on the scene she had Phyllis all to herself. It was she who superintended the little girl's work and play; it was she who petted her and loved her and made her happy. With Miss Fleet's advent these things changed; and although the good woman was far too sensible not to know that it was right that her dear little lady should have the best instruction in the world, yet there were times when she did not think that Miss Fleet quite understood Phyllis; the present occasion was one of these. If Phyllis had slept soundly all night--had slept the sleep of absolute exhaustion--Nurse had often awoke, and once even, drawn by a low, deep sigh from the little sleeper, had got out of bed, lit a candle, and scanned the small white face with no little anxiety. "If this sort of thing goes on she will do for her, sweet little darling," thought the nurse. "She wants to cram her dear little head with all sorts of useless knowledge, and never once, never for a minute to think that the lamb needs play and laughter and companions. Why, bless her! it did my heart good to hear her laughing yesterday, when she and those young romps found their way to the big attic. Well did I guess what they were after, the termagants, and small idea had I of telling madam where they were. I wonder now what I can do to cheer up my little pet!" So when Phyllis the next morning had looked piteously at Nurse, and had asked if her father was at all likely to be back within two days, Nurse had put a large bath-towel over the can of hot water, had stirred up the fire, and then, going close to the little girl, had spoken. "You tell me all about it, darling," she said--"all, every single thing about it. The Squire did not a bit want to go to London, but it was business took him there. Why do you want him to be back so mortal bad in two days' time?" Phyllis's face turned first red and then pale. "Because I made a promise," she said, then slowly, "and the promise hurts me awfully; but it was only for two days. If Father stays longer away I know I shall get very naughty again. Nursey, I mean to be naughty; I mean to be. I will have them back again, Nursey, and I will give them every sort of thing they want; and I will go and see them, and I will disobey her. Oh! it is horrid of me, but I have not kept back anything from her. She knows quite well what she has to expect; I have been fair to her, and she knows--it is for two days. It is what you call an--an amnesty--is not that a long word?--and it is just for two days." "Oh, but, my pet, you ought not to be naughty, you know," said Nurse, who felt she must read a little moral lecture to her charge. "It is I, darling, who would like to give you companions and every other mortal thing you want; but there, my pet, the governess is set over you by the master, and I suppose you must obey her." "For two days, yes," said Phyllis. She did not say any more, but a very heavy sigh escaped her lips. Nurse and she then plunged into the mysteries of her toilet, and at the usual breakfast-hour a very sprucely dressed, nice-looking little girl joined her governess in the schoolroom. Meanwhile the children of the Rectory were having very varied opinions with regard to Phyllis. Rosie announced that she thought Phyllis quite the most captivating and beautiful little girl in the world; but Susie, who had been even more fascinated, announced gravely that she thought Phyllis, for all her fascinations, was in the wrong. "It was delightful to steal up into the attic and have our stolen tea," she said, "and to be promised those lovely, most, most fascinating playthings; but all the same what a state she had that governess of hers in! And--well, anyhow, Rosie, I would not do that sort of thing to my own mother. I would not be deceitful to her, and have friends when she did not approve." "As if that horrid Miss Fleet could be compared to our mother!" said Rosie somewhat hotly. "There, Sue, you are talking nonsense, and I am not inclined to listen." As to the boys, they declined absolutely to discuss Phyllis; Ralph felt that he was in a sort of fashion Phyllis's chosen prince. "We do not understand, and we cannot pretend to," he said. "She will see us again when the right time comes; there is nothing I would not do for her, of course, but I cannot talk of it." Susie burst into a merry laugh, and Rose looked attentively at her brother. Ralph turned on his heel; he felt very like a knight of ancient romance, and Phyllis was the fair lady whom he was to rescue. He did not like to own it to himself, but he was very much hurt at the way things had gone, and very much puzzled with regard to Phyllis's extraordinary behaviour; and he wondered how things were going to end. At school that morning he was not quite so attentive as usual, and went down a place in his form, and altogether did his lessons in that unsatisfactory way which is the usual result of being absent-minded. Instead of joining his brother and Susie and Rosie for their usual walk, he slipped away by himself, and of course he went in the direction of the Hall. He often peered through the trees to catch a glimpse of the dear little figure of Phyllis dressed in its pretty brown, with her rosy cheeks and bright eyes. At last, to his great delight, he saw her walking by herself in the distance. She was walking slowly, and evidently was lost in thought. The sight of her was more than Ralph could withstand. He ran fast, and soon was standing breathless and excited by her side. "Oh Phyllis!" he said. "Oh Phyllis!" Phyllis turned at once when she saw him, and her rosy cheeks got white, and there came a very puzzled look into her eyes. "Ralph," she said, "I cannot explain anything. You must go away. No, I cannot give you any message. I have promised, and I must--yes, I must keep my word. Perhaps some day you will know, and I can tell you. No, I won't say another word. Go away, please--please." There was something not only entreating but also commanding in Phyllis's face, and Ralph knew at once that he must obey her. He turned, therefore, very disconsolately, walked about twenty yards, and then looked back. "Have you anything to say?" he cried. "No," she answered; "and I won't even speak if you ask me another question, for I have promised, and I must keep my word." CHAPTER TEN. Nurse did not often take the bit between her teeth, as she expressed it, but the time had now come when, in her opinion, she ought to do so. Accordingly she made an excuse to go into the town soon after breakfast, and sent off a telegram on her own account to the Squire. The little message was worded as follows:-- "Dear Master,--If you cannot come back in two days, please send for Miss Phyllis to town. Urgent.--Nurse." This rather startling telegram reached the Squire in London about the middle of the day. Now, it so happened that he had made arrangements not only not to return to the Hall in two days' time, but, further, to go with a friend on special and urgent business to Scotland. They would both be travelling about a good deal, and to have Phyllis with them would be absolutely impossible; so the Squire contented himself with writing a long letter to Nurse, and giving her an address which would find him in case of need, and enclosing a five-pound note, which was to be spent on any special thing which Phyllis liked best to have. He also wrote to Miss Fleet, not, of course, alluding to Nurse's telegram, but speaking with great affection about his child. "You must be as good to her as ever you can," he said. "I need scarcely say that I know you will be. I am sorry to be so long away from the dear child, but she will have her little friends, and doubtless their company will do much to sweeten her life." This letter Miss Fleet received the following morning. She read it deliberately. Phyllis watched her face all the while. "Well," said Phyllis, who had been as good as gold on the previous day, "when is Father coming back?" "He does not say a word about coming back, Phyllis. Oh yes, though; he says in his postscript that we must expect him when we see him." "Then he will not be back to-morrow night?" "Certainly not, dear. He is going to Scotland." Phyllis's face turned very white. Miss Fleet looked full at her. "My dear," she said, "you have pleased me much by your conduct yesterday, and I trust until your father's return you will be equally good; then I shall have a delightful report to render him." Phyllis made no remark. She would keep her word, certainly, as far as it went, but to-morrow she fully meant to see the children of the Rectory. This night would end the second day of her promise; she would consider herself free the next morning. With all her faults she was a very honest child. She looked full at Miss Fleet now. "I won't deceive you," she said. "I made you a promise, and I will keep it; but, please, you can understand that my promise ends to-night. I mean that when this time to-morrow arrives, I won't have made you any promise with regard to being good or bad." As Phyllis uttered these words the governess's eyes rested on that portion of the Squire's letter which expressed satisfaction at his little girl's having companions to play with. "If he knew," thought Miss Fleet, "what thoroughly naughty children they are, he would certainly approve of my determination not to allow Phyllis to have anything to do with them. Yes, I must be guided by my own common-sense in the matter." Miss Fleet therefore now looked full up at the little girl, and said slowly and gently: "All the same, I do not think you will make me unhappy while your father is away." Some one called the governess hastily; she ran out of the room. Phyllis continued her breakfast, feeling extremely discontented. "Oh, I do wish Dad would come back!" she said to herself. "It is more than horrid to have him away. What am I to do? I know he would not mind my playing with the children." As these thoughts came to her, she saw her father's letter lying upon Miss Fleet's plate. Phyllis was a thoroughly honourable child, and she would not have read the letter for worlds, but just then, as if to tempt her to the uttermost, a puff of wind came in through the open window. The letter, written on thin paper, fluttered to the floor, and as Phyllis sprang to pick it up, her eyes fell on the very words she was not meant to see. She turned very white, and a look of resolution crossed her face. "So Father approves. Then I am quite right, and I will disobey to-morrow," she thought. She put the letter back on Miss Fleet's plate, and a moment later her governess came in. "Fleetie," said the little girl, "do you know what has happened since you left the room? This letter was blown off your plate by a gust of wind. I jumped up to put it back again, and I saw the words in which Father said that he was glad that I had playmates, so after that of course you will not object to my playing with the Rectory children?" Miss Fleet's face turned very red. "Am I to believe this story or not, Phyllis?" she said. "Is it possible that you did not read the letter on purpose?" "I have told you just the very exact truth," replied Phyllis. "You can believe it or not, as you please." She then got up and marched out of the room. "Dear, dear!" thought Miss Fleet, "how very difficult it is sometimes to know what is right!" The rest of the day passed quietly, and Phyllis was still a model child. She did her different lessons to the absolute satisfaction of her governess, and the time slipped by quickly. "We have had a happy day," said Miss Fleet as she kissed the little girl just before her bed-hour. "I hope it is a forerunner of many others just as happy." Phyllis looked full at her, but did not speak. Miss Fleet tried hard to read the thoughts which were behind those frank grey eyes. Presently the little girl left the room and went to bed. The next morning she awoke very early. She had a curious sense of something delightful, and, at the same time, very disagreeable, which was happening. At first her memory would not serve her right, but then it rushed back, and she knew everything. "I have been good for two days, and I have not promised to be good for another instant," she said to herself. "I can do what I like to-day, and Father wants me to play with the Rectory children." She raised herself on her elbow and looked at a little clock on the mantelpiece. She wondered why Nurse had not come in to dress her as usual. The clock pointed to a quarter past seven. The first rays of the wintry light were streaming in at the window. Phyllis got softly up and washed herself after a fashion, got into her clothes, and before Nurse appeared on the scene was already out. She walked quickly in the direction of the Rectory; excitement filled her breast; she was intensely interested in what she was about to do. Should she by any chance meet Ralph! How glad she would be to spring to his side, and to say: "It is all right now, Ralph. I have kept my promise, and we can play together quite happily this afternoon." But there was no Ralph about; nor was there any Susie or Rosie. She presently reached the Rectory gates, and walked up the avenue. She had started out without her breakfast, and she was very hungry, and it occurred to her that she might ask Mrs Hilchester to give her something to eat. "Of course, I cannot stay long," she thought. "I must be honourable whatever happens. I must be back with Miss Fleet in time for lessons. Then in the afternoon the children can come over to me, and we can have a real good time." But all Phyllis's gay resolves and all her plans for the afternoon were suddenly put a stop to by the appearance of a gentleman who was driving down the avenue. He stopped when he saw the little girl, and put his head out. "Are you not Miss Harringay?" he said. "Yes; I thought so. Please, do not go up to the Rectory." "Why not?" said Phyllis. "I have just been there, and two of the children are not well. Pray, go home as quickly as possible. May I give you a seat in my carriage? It is rather early for a little girl like yourself to be out." "No, thank you," answered Phyllis, with dignity. She felt angry with the doctor, who had often seen her on her pony, and had recognised her at once. What business had he to interfere? And if the children were ill, it was all the more reason why she should go and find out about them. So she waited until his carriage had turned an angle of the avenue, and then, putting wings to her feet, ran up in the direction of the house. The hall door was wide open. She rang the bell. No one attended to her summons. She heard voices in the distance--the quick voice of Mrs Hilchester as she bustled about. Then a child came down the stairs--a child with a rosy face, and with marks of tears round her eyes. The moment she saw Phyllis she rushed to meet her. "Oh, Phyl! Phyl!" she exclaimed. "It is Ralph, and he is very ill. We do not know what he has got, we don't; and the doctor does not know, but he thinks perhaps he has something bad; and Susie is ill too. Oh! her throat is so sore, and the doctor says--" But what further Rosie would have uttered was fiercely interrupted. Mrs Hilchester came out and stood in the hall. "Rosie," she said, "how dare you! Who is this little girl?" "I am Phyllis Harringay," answered Phyllis stoutly. "And," she added, "I am very sorry to hear that Ralph is ill. Please, may I come and sit with him, and tell him funny stories, and amuse him; and may I see Susie? I am so fond of them both, and of Rosie too. Oh, please, please let me!" Mrs Hilchester fairly gasped. "Two days ago," she said, "you would not have come here. Two days ago you invited my children to go to you, and then sent a note telling them not to come. Two days ago your governess was here--a most offensive person--and now, now you come. Do you think we want you here? Go away at once--at once--and get your nurse to change your things, and--Here, I will write her a note. Go out, child, and stand in the open air. Oh, this is too distracting!" Mrs Hilchester disappeared into her little sitting-room. There she wrote a few lines, folded them up, sprayed them with a sanitas spray which stood near, and put them into an envelope. She gave the envelope to Phyllis. "Take that back with you," she said, "and do not come near the place for the present." "But I am so sorry," said poor little Phyllis, and her bright eyes filled with tears. "There, dear, there; I know you mean all right. But go now, for Heaven's sake!--Rosie, my dear, come with me." Phyllis and Rosie looked longingly one at the other for the world of things they could talk about, for the world of sympathy each could have shown to the other; but for a reason unknown to either little girl, it was dangerous for them to meet. Phyllis walked very sadly back to her own home; her mother took Rosie into the parlour. "You and Ned are going to your uncle Joe's as soon as ever your father can take you," she said. "If you are at all ill, or you have the slightest headache, you are to be sent back here; but there is just a possibility that you may escape. And now, my dear little girl, don't go upstairs, and don't talk to any one as you have just spoken to poor little Miss Harringay. You were very imprudent. Did I not tell you that you were not to speak to any other child?" "But, oh, Mother! she looked so sweet, and she did promise the rocking-horse, and the baby-house, and--and I could not help myself, Mother, I could not really." "Well, don't cry, child. Sit down and eat your breakfast. God help us all, I only trust you have escaped infection, and that she, poor little girl! has not received it from you." Mrs Hilchester left the room. Rosie sat down close to the fire; she did not like to own it to herself, but her head did ache just a tiny bit, and her throat felt dry, and it hurt her to swallow, and as to eating her breakfast, she could not even think of such a thing. Oh! it would be very dreary at Uncle Joe's, even though Ned would be with her. She would think all the time of Susie's burning eyes as she looked at her out of her little bed, and hear her cry for "water, water," as she, Rosie, had administered it to her at intervals all night; and however hard she tried to shut her ears, she would hear Ralph's groans in his sickroom close by. Oh, what was the use of going away? Of course, she was not ill, and it would be horrid at Uncle Joe's; and suppose--suppose Phyllis got ill! But of course she would not. Why should she? If only she might go and stay with Phyllis at the Hall? If only she could find her way to the attic where the rocking-horse and the baby-house were! But, of course, Mother would not agree to that. "Rosie, wake up," said her mother; "you are half asleep, dear. Why do you not take your breakfast?" "I am not hungry, Mother." "Does your head ache?" "Yes, Mother, a little." "How is your throat?" "It only hurts a very little. I am all right, Mother. Is that the cab at the door? Are we to go?" "Wait a moment, my dear." Mrs Hilchester went into the hall. Her husband was waiting to take Ned and Rosie away with him. "Well," he said, "are the children ready? I really must be off; there is a wedding at twelve o'clock to-day, and it is some distance to my brother's." "Rosie cannot go," said poor Mrs Hilchester. "What! is she bad too?" "I fear it; I greatly fear it. We cannot send her away until we are sure." "Well, anyhow, Ned is all right. Jump into the cab, Ned, and let us be off." CHAPTER ELEVEN. A very malignant form of scarlet-fever had showed itself already in the village, and the Rector's children were some of the first victims. To say that Miss Fleet was shocked when she received Mrs Hilchester's note would but lightly explain the state of that good woman's feelings. She was so horrified that she forgot to scold Phyllis for her act, as she termed it, of disobedience; on the contrary, she flew to the little girl and clasped her in her arms, and said in a broken whisper: "We must pray for your little sick friends. Let us kneel down here at once and pray." "Yes," answered Phyllis in some surprise. Miss Fleet fell on her knees, and Phyllis clasped her governess's hand and looked up into her face. What Miss Fleet said aloud was quite comprehensible to Phyllis and soothed her very much. She asked God that the sick children might recover, and she spoke of them with affection and again called them Phyllis's friends. But what she did not say aloud was perhaps the most earnest part of her prayer, for in that she asked God to forgive her for not being as kind and sympathetic to Phyllis and to the Rectory children as she might have been, and she implored of God most earnestly the precious, most precious life of the only child. That day a telegram reached Squire Harringay in Edinburgh. It was from the governess this time, and its purport was so grave that he decided to return home that day. He turned to the friend with whom he was transacting business and said: "I have just had rather a nasty shock. You know, of course, that I have only one child, my little Phyllis, the apple of my eye, as you may well understand. Well, some children, friends of hers, have contracted a very bad sort of scarlet-fever, and she has been exposed this morning to direct infection. I hope that God will be merciful, and that the child may have escaped. But I am best at home, Lawson, and will leave here by the next train." Early the next morning Phyllis was made happy by the arrival of her father. He could not pet her too much, nor look at her too often, nor make enough fuss about her. Phyllis wondered why every one was now so kind, and why the children of the Rectory were spoken of as her dear little friends, not only by Nurse and Miss Fleet, but by every one in the house. "But they were scarcely my friends. I mean--I mean," said Phyllis as she sat on her father's knee that evening--"I mean that I love them most awfully, but Fleetie did not wish me to love them. She would not have called them my friends; she did not until they got ill." "When they recover you shall see plenty of them," said Mr Harringay; "and now, my darling, let us talk of something else." But Phyllis was not happy unless she was allowed to talk of the Rectory children. She told her father everything--all about that picnic tea in the attics, and poor Rosie's longing for the rocking-horse and the baby-house. "Could not they be sent to her--couldn't they, Father? She would be so glad to have them; even if she was ill and her throat was sore, she could look at the rocking-horse and perhaps play with the baby-house." "No, no," said the Squire. "No, no; we will keep them until she is well. But I will tell you what, Phyllis; we will have that baby-house down to-morrow, and you shall furnish it in the nicest and most fashionable style. You and Miss Fleet shall go out in the afternoon and buy new furniture for the entire house." "Yes, what a lovely idea!" said Phyllis, and the thought cheered her up. But nevertheless she was very sad during the next few days. Those who loved her watched her with anxiety. The children at the Rectory were very ill, and little Rosie especially was the one nigh unto death. There came a day when the doctor feared that little Rosie might not recover. It was Rose who had kissed Phyllis so passionately; it was Rosie who, if any one, had given the little girl the dreaded infection. Mr Harringay had a curious feeling that Phyllis's life hung on the life of Rosie. He spent the entire day going between the Hall and the Rectory to make inquiries. "Very ill. Very bad. Quite unconscious. Scarcely any hope. May last till the morning; not sure." Such were the varied bulletins. Mr Harringay did not dare to tell Phyllis how bad her little friend was. Ralph and Susie were already out of danger; it was Rose whose life hung in the balance. Early the next morning the Squire got up and went across the fields to the Rectory. He could scarcely bring himself to raise his eyes to see if the blinds were all down or not. He walked straight up to the door. There the Rector himself greeted him. "Well, well?" said the Squire. "Speak, my dear friend; I can scarcely explain what I feel for you." The Rector grasped his hand. "Better news," he said; "she has slept for the last three or four hours; indeed, she is sleeping still. Both the doctor and nurse think that she may awake out of danger." "Thank God!" said the Squire. He went back home. Although he had not entered the house, he would not meet Phyllis until he had completely changed his dress. He came down to breakfast. If Phyllis had taken the infection she ought to show some symptoms that morning. But Phyllis's little fresh face looked as bonny and bright as ever, and her eyes were as clear and her appetite as keen. In a remarkable way the Squire began to feel the load which had rested so heavily on his heart begin to lift. "Phyllis," he said, "Rosie has been very ill, but I think she will get better." "Will God make her quite well if we ask Him?" said Phyllis to her father. "Do ask Him, my child; do," said the Squire. Phyllis rushed out of the room. She came back presently and sat down in a contented way to her breakfast. She ate with appetite. "Are you not anxious, Phyllis?" asked her father. "Not now," she said in a cheerful tone. "I spoke to God, you know, and it is all right." "Bless the child," said the Squire. Late that day the news came that Rosie was out of danger. "Then Phyllis was right," said the Squire. He caught his little daughter to his heart, and kissed her many, many times. After all Phyllis did escape, and the three children at the Rectory got well. Ned did not sicken at all with the dreaded fever. When they were well enough the Squire himself insisted on sending them to the seaside. There they got strong and brown and bonny, and came back with as gay spirits and as fond of Phyllis as ever. It was a very happy day when the Rectory children and Phyllis met once more in the old attic. The Squire was in their midst this time, and there was no naughtiness anywhere about, and Phyllis had found playmates at last. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The End. 
18688	----	DAISY IN THE FIELD BY ELIZABETH WETHERELL Author of "The Wide, Wide World," "Queechy," etc., etc. WARD, LOCK &CO., LIMITED LONDON AND MELBOURNE Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE FIRST SMOKE OF THE BATTLEFIELD CHAPTER II. AT THE RENDEZVOUS CHAPTER III. IN REVIEW CHAPTER IV. ON FOOT CHAPTER V. ON HORSEBACK CHAPTER VI. IN THE FIRE CHAPTER VII. DETAILED FOR DUTY CHAPTER VIII. DAISY'S POST CHAPTER IX. SKIRMISHING CHAPTER X. WAITING CHAPTER XI. A VICTORY CHAPTER XII. AN ENGAGEMENT CHAPTER XIII. A TRUCE CHAPTER XIV. FLIGHT CHAPTER XV. OLD BATTLEFIELDS CHAPTER XVI. THE FORLORN HOPE CHAPTER XVII. OUT OF THE SMOKE CHAPTER XVIII. A MARKED BATTERY CHAPTER XIX. ONE FALLEN CHAPTER XX. THE WOUNDED CHAPTER XXI. THE HOSPITAL CHAPTER XXII. ORDERS CHAPTER XXIII. "HERE!" "My half-day's work is done; And this is all my part - I give a patient God My patient heart. "And clasp his banner still, Though all the blue be dim. These stripes, no less than stars, Lead after Him." CHAPTER I. THE FIRST SMOKE OF THE BATTLEFIELD. While Miss Cardigan went with her nephew to the door, I remained standing by the fire, which could have witnessed to so much done around it that night. I felt strong, but I remember my cheeks had an odd sensation as if the blood had left them. I did not know Miss Cardigan had come back, till I saw her standing beside me and looking at me anxiously. "Will you go and lie down now, my lamb?" "Oh, no!" I said. "Oh, no - I do not want to lie down. I have not done my studying yet, that I came to do." "Studying!" said Miss Cardigan. "Yes. I want something out of some of your books. I have not done it. I will sit down and do it now." "You're much more fit to lie down and go to sleep," said she, sorrowfully. "Let be the study, Daisy; and take some rest, while ye can." "I shall have plenty of time," I said. "I do not want any rest, more than I shall get so." Miss Cardigan sighed - I had heard more sighs from her that night than in all my knowledge of her before; and I sat down on the floor again, to pull out again the volumes I had put up, and begin my school work anew. As I touched them, I felt how much had come into my hands, and fallen out of my hands, since I took them up before, just a few hours ago. It would not do to think of that. I resolutely put it back, and set myself about getting out of the books the facts I wanted for my work. Miss Cardigan left the room; and for a time I turned over leaves vigorously. But the images of modern warfare began to mix themselves inconveniently with the struggles of long ago. Visions of a grey uniform came blending in dissolving views with the visions of monarchs in their robes of state and soldiers in heavy armour; it meant much, that grey uniform; and a sense of loss and want and desolation by degrees crept over me, which had nothing to do with the ruin of kingdoms. The books grew heavy; my hands trembled; yet still I tried to make good work, and bade myself deal with the present and let the past and the future alone. The "present" being represented by my school day and my studies. Could I do it? The past and the future rushed in at last, from opposite sides as it were, and my "present" was overthrown. I dropped my books and myself too, as nearly as possible; my heart gave way in a deep passion of tears. Now I tried to reason myself out of this. What had I lost? I asked myself. What were these tears for? What had I lost, that I had not been without until only twelve hours before? Indeed rather, what had I not gained? But my reasonings were of no use. Against them all, some vision of Thorold's face, some sparkle of his eyes, some touch of his hand, would come back to me, and break down my power and unlock fresh fountains of tears. This passion of self-indulgence was not like me, and surprised myself. I suppose the reason was, I had been so long alone; I had been working my way and waiting, in exile from home as it were, so many days and years; nobody that loved me better than I loved myself had been near me for so very long; that the sweetness so suddenly given and so suddenly taken away left me a little unsteady. Was it wonderful? The joy and the grief were both new; I was not braced for either; the one seemed to add poignancy to the other; and between the two facts, that Thorold loved me, and that he was gone from me into what might be a duty of danger, - that he was gone into danger and that he loved me, - for a little while my soul was tossed back and forth like a ship on a stormy sea, unable to make any headway at all. And so Miss Cardigan found me. She half lifted half drew me up, I remember; made me lie down again on the sofa, gave me some hot tea to drink; and when she had made me drink it, she sat still looking at me, silent, and I thought a good deal disturbed. It would be difficult to tell why I thought so. Perhaps it was because she said nothing. I lay quiet with my face hid in my hands. "What do you think to do with yourself to-day, now?" - was at last her practical question. "What o'clock is it?" I whispered. "It's just on the stroke of six, Daisy." "I'll get up and go on with my work," I said; and I raised myself to a sitting posture accordingly. "Work!" echoed Miss Cardigan. "You look like much of that! Your cheeks" (and she touched them) "they are the colour of my magnolia there that has just opened. A night's work Christian has made of it! I suppose he is travelling off as content as if he had something to praise himself for. The pride of these men! -" I could not help laughing, and laughing made me cry. Miss Cardigan promptly put me back on the cushions and bade me lie still; and she sat in front of me there like a good shaggy human watch dog. I should not say _shaggy_, for she was entirely neat and trim; but there was something of sturdy and uncompromising about her which suggested the idea. I lay still, and by and by went off into a sleep. That restored me. I woke up a couple of hours later all right and quite myself again. I was able to rush through the bit of study I had wanted; and went over to Mme. Ricard's just a minute before school opened. I had expected some uncomfortable questioning about my staying out all night; but things do not happen as one expects. I got no questioning, except from one or two of the girls. Mme. Ricard was ill, that was the news in school; the other teachers had their hands full, and did not give themselves any extra trouble about the doings of so regular and trusted an inmate as myself. The business of the day rolled on and rolled off, as if last night had never been; only that I walked in a dream; and when night came I was free to go to bed early and open my budget of thoughts and look at them. From without, all was safe. All day my thoughts had been rushing off, away from the schoolroom and from studies and masters, to look at a receding railway train, and follow a grey coat in among the crowd of its fellows, where its wearer mingled in all the business and avocations of his interrupted course of life. Interrupted! yes, what a change had come to his and to mine; and yet all was exactly the same outwardly. But the difference was, that I was thinking of Thorold, and Thorold was thinking of me. How strange it was! and what a great treasure of joy it was. I felt rich; with the most abounding, satisfying, inexhaustible treasure of riches. All day I had known I was rich; now I took out my gold and counted it, and could not count it, and gave full-hearted thanks over it. If the brightness wanted a foil, it was there; the gold glittered upon a cloudy background. My treasure was not exactly in my hand to enjoy. There might be many days before Thorold and I saw each other's faces again. Dangers lay threatening him, that I could not bear to think of; although I knew they were there. And even were this cloud all cleared away, I saw the edges of another rising up along the horizon. My father and my mother. My mother especially; what would she say to Daisy loving an officer in the Northern army? That cloud was as yet afar off; but I knew it was likely to rise thick and black; it might shut out the sun. Even so I my treasure was my treasure still, through all this. Thorold loved me and belonged to me; nothing could change that. Dangers, and even death, would not touch it. My mother's command could not alter it. She might forbid his marrying me; I must obey her; but the fact that we loved each other was a fact beyond her reach and out of her, power, as out of mine. Thorold belonged to me, in this higher and indestructible sense, and also I belonged to him. And in this joy I rejoiced, and counted my treasure with an inexpressible triumph of joy that it was uncountable. I wondered too, very much. I had had no idea that I loved Thorold; no dream that he liked me had ever entered my head. I thought we were friends, and that was all. Indeed I had not known there was anything in the world more, until one night ago. But I winced a little, privately, in the very bottom of my heart, that I had let Thorold have so much liberty; that I had let him know so easily what he was to me. I seemed unlike the Daisy Randolph of my former acquaintance. She was never so free. But it was done; and I had been taken unawares and at disadvantage, with the thought of coming danger and separation checking every reserve I would have shown. I had to be content with myself at all events; Thorold knew my weakness and would never forget it another time. I thought a great many other thoughts that night; some of them were grave enough. My sleep however, when I went to sleep, was as light as the fall of the dew. I could not be careful. Just seventeen, and just come into life's great inheritance, my spirit was strong, as such spirits are, to throw off every burden. For several days it happened that I was too busy to see Miss Cardigan. I used to look over to her house, those days, as the place where I had begun to live. Meanwhile I was bending my energies to work, with a serious consciousness of woman's life and responsibility before me. In one way I think I felt ten years older, when next I crossed the avenue and went into the familiar marble-paved hall and opened Miss Cardigan's door. That Thorold was not there, was the first thought with me. Certainly the world had made a revolution; but all things else looked as usual; and Miss Cardigan gave me a welcome just as if the world had not turned round. She was busy with the affairs of some poor people, and plunged me into them as her custom was. But I fancied a somewhat more than usual of sober gravity in her manner. I fancied, and then was sure of it; though for a long time nothing was said which touched Thorold or me. I had forgotten that it was to come; and then it came. "And what have ye been doing, my bonnie lady, since ye went away at eight o'clock o' the morn?" I started, and found that I had lost myself in a reverie. I said, I had been studying. "You and me have need to study some new things," Miss Cardigan said, soberly. "Yes ma'am," I said. But then - "What, Miss Cardigan?" "There's our duty" - she said, with a pause at that part of her sentence; - "and then, how to do it. Yes, Daisy, you need not look at me, nor call the bloom up into your cheeks, that Christian says are such an odd colour. Don't you think you have duties, lassie? and more to-day than a fortnight syne?" "But - Miss Cardigan," I answered, - "yes, I have duties; but - I thought I knew them." "It will do no harm to look at them, Daisy. It is good to see all round our duties, and it's hard too. Are you in a hurry to go back to school?" "No, ma'am - I can have the evening." Miss Cardigan pushed her work-baskets and table away, and drew her chair up beside mine, before the fire; and made it blaze, and sat and looked into the blaze, till I wondered what was coming. "I suppose this is all a fixed thing between Christian and you," she began at last. I hardly knew what she meant. I said, that I could not unfix it. "And he will not, no fear! So it is fixed, as we may say; fixed as two hearts can make it. But it's very sudden, Daisy; and you are a young thing, my dear." "I know it is sudden," I said, meekly. "It is sudden to me. But he will not like me less for my being so young." Miss Cardigan laughed a short laugh. "Troth, he's no right, being young himself, we may say. You are safe for his liking, my bonnie Daisy. But - your father and mother, my dear?" "Yes, Miss Cardigan." "What will their word be?" "I do not know, ma'am." "You will tell them, Daisy?" This was very disagreeable to me. I had thought over these things, and made up my mind; but to outline on canvass, as it were, and put in full depth of shadow, all the images of opposition real and possible that might rise in my way - which I knew might rise, - I liked not to do it. Still Miss Cardigan had reason; and when she repeated, "You will tell them at once?" I answered, "No, Miss Cardigan; I think not." "When, then, will you tell them?" she said shortly. "I think I will not tell them at all. I will wait, till -" "Till Christian does it?" "Yes." "When will _that_ be?" "I do not know. It may be - a great while. Why should I tell them before, Miss Cardigan?" "For many reasons, as they seem to my mind, Daisy; and I thought, as they would seem to yours. 'Honour thy father and thy mother.' Daisy, would it be honouring them, to let them not know?" There were so many things, of which Miss Cardigan was ignorant! How could I answer her? I sat silent, pondering the difficulty; and she was silent on her side, waiting for me to think over it. It was never her way to be in a hurry; not to leave her work half done neither, as I knew. "I will honour them the best way I can," I said at length. "Then you will write them next steamer. Is it not so, Daisy?" "That would make it very difficult for me to honour them," I said; "to honour them in action, I mean." "Why so? There is no way so short as a straight way." "No, ma'am. But -I cannot undo what is done, Miss Cardigan." "What our cheeks say your heart has done. No, child." And again I heard the unwonted sigh from Miss Cardigan's lips. "Not my heart only," I went on, plucking up courage. "I have spoken - I have let him speak. I cannot undo it - I cannot undo it." "Well?" said Miss Cardigan, looking anxious. "It was done before I thought of mamma and papa. It was all done - it is done; and I cannot undo it now, even for them." "My dear, you would not marry without your parents' consent?" "No, Miss Cardigan. They may forbid _that_." "What then? What harm would be done by your letting them know at once how the case stands. They would care for your happiness, Daisy." Not with a Northerner, a farmer's son, and an officer in the Northern army. I knew how it would be; but I could not tell Miss Cardigan. "What is it you cannot undo, little Daisy?" she said softly, I suppose seeing me look troubled. And she stretched out a kind hand and took hold of mine. It was very hard to bear. All this was a sort of dragging things into light and putting things in black and white; more tangible and more hard to deal with for ever after. "What is it you cannot undo? Since you confess, that if they desired, you would undo the whole." "Not my faith, nor my affection," - I said, slowly. "Some things they may forbid, and I obey; but _these_ things are passed beyond their power, and beyond mine. I will be true. I cannot help it now, if I would." "But, Daisy -" said Miss Cardigan, and she was evidently perplexed now herself. - "Since you are ready to obey them in the utmost and give up Thorold if they say so, what is there, my dear, which your father and mother could command _now_ in which you are not ready to obey them?" "The time has not come, Miss Cardigan," I said. "It may be - you know it may be - long, before they need know anything about it; before, I mean, anything could be done. I am going abroad - Christian will be busy here - and they might tell me not to think of him and not to write to him; and - I can't live so. It is fair to give him and myself the chance. It is fair that they should know him and see him before they hear what he wants of them; or at least before they answer it." "Give him and yourself the _chance_ - of what, Daisy?" "I don't know," I said faint-heartedly. "Of what time may do." "Then you think -my dear, you augur ill of your father's and mother's opinion of your engagement?" "I can't help it now, Miss Cardigan," I said; and I know I spoke firmly then. "I did not know what I was doing - I did not know what was coming. If I had known, if I could have helped myself, I think I ought not to have loved anybody or let anybody speak to me without my father and mother choosing it; but it was all done before I could in the least help it; and you know I cannot help it now. I owe something besides to them now. I will not disobey them in anything I can help; - but I will be true, - as long as I live." Miss Cardigan sat a long while silent, holding my hand all the while; sometimes clasping, and sometimes fondling it. Then she turned and kissed me. It was very hard to bear, all of it. "I suppose you are a great heiress," she said at last; as if the words escaped her, and with a breath of a sigh. "It is not that!" I exclaimed. "No, I am not. I am not - I shall not be a great heiress, or an heiress at all, I think. Christian is richer than I." "My dear!" said Miss Cardigan. "Christian never said a word to me about it, but your friend Mrs. Sandford - she told _me_; she told me you would be one of the richest women in your State." "She thought so," - I said. "My dear, your parents are very wealthy; and they have only one other child, Mrs. Sandford told me. I remember, for it took me with a pity at my heart, little Daisy, for you." "Yes, they are wealthy," I said; "and Ransom, my brother, is the only other one. _He_ will be rich. But I shall not." "Do you mean he is the favourite?" said Miss Cardigan. "Oh, no!" I said. "At least, if he is, so am I. It isn't that. But I shall never be an heiress, Miss Cardigan. I shall be very poor, I rather think." I smiled at her as I said these words - they were upon the first pleasant subject that had been touched for some time between us; and Miss Cardigan looked quite bewildered. I remembered she had good reason; and I thought it was right, though very much against my will, to explain my words. "You know what makes my father and mother rich?" I said. "My dear!" said Miss Cardigan - "They have large Southern properties." "And you know what makes Southern wealth?" I went on. "Rice - cotton -" "No, it isn't that," I said. "What then, my dear? I do not know what you mean. I thought it was mainly cotton." "It is unpaid labour," I said. "It is hands that ought to work for themselves; and men and women that ought to belong to themselves." "Slaves," said Miss Cardigan. "But, Daisy, what do you mean? It's all true; but what can you do?" "I can have nothing to do with it. And I will have nothing. I would rather be poor, as poor as old Darry and Maria, than take what belongs to them. Miss Cardigan, so would you." She settled herself back in her chair, like a person who has got a new thought. "My dear child!" she said. And then she said nothing more. I did not wish she should. I wanted no counsel, nor to hear any talk about it. I had only spoken so much, as thinking she had a right to hear it. I went back into my own meditations. "Daisy, my child," she said suddenly after a while, - "there is only one thing to be said; and the word is not mine. 'If the world hate you, ye know that it hated me before it hated you." "Why, Miss Cardigan," said I, smiling, "do you think the, world will hate me for such a thing?" "It hates all those who pretend to tell it is wrong." "I do not pretend to tell it anything," I said. "There is no preaching like that of the life. Daisy, have you well considered this matter?" "For years." "Then I'll know how to pray for you," she said. And there our conversation ended. It had laid on my heart a grave burden of well-defined care, which went with me thenceforth. I could never ignore it nor doubt it was there. Not but I knew well enough each several point in our discussion, before it had come up in words between Miss Cardigan and me; but having so come up, and taken form, each was a tangible thing for ever after. It is odd, how much we can bear unspoken, to which words give an unendurable weight and power. However, these troubles, in their present form, were not unendurable. I only felt them constantly from that time. My visits to Miss Cardigan now were what they had always been; only perhaps she was a little more tenderly affectionate and careful of me. We did not go back to the discussions of that day, nor to any other regarding my affairs; but she and I scanned the papers well, and talked to each other of the items that seemed now to touch Thorold's and my future as well as the future of the country. We talked, - I could not help it; and yet often I would as lief not; the subjects were not quieting. The first thing, was the going to Washington of Christian and his class. He wrote to me about it. They went in haste and zeal; waiting for nothing; losing not a train; going by night. Some in civilian's dress; some in cadet clothes, with the black stripe torn off the leg; all eager for their work. What work? It was peaceful enough work just at first. Thorold and others were set to drill the new citizen soldiers who had come in, answering to the President's proclamation, and who knew simply nothing of the business they were to be wanted for, if wanted at all. It was likely they would have something to do! Already a second proclamation from the President had called for a second supply of men, to serve for three years, if the war was not sooner ended. Seamen for the navy also, in like manner. For three years or the war! It went to my heart, that requisition. It looked so terribly in earnest. And so unhopeful. I wondered, those days, how people could live that did not know how to pray; when every one had, or might have, a treasure at stake in this fierce game that was playing. I have often since felt the same wonder. I do not know how studies and the usual forms of school recitations went on; but they did go on; smoothly, I suppose. I even recollect that mine went on successfully. With my double or treble motive for desiring success, I had also a reason for prizing and remembering the attainment. But my head was on graver matters, all the time. Would the rebels attack, Washington? it was constantly threatened. Would fighting actually become the common news of the land? The answer to this second query began to be sounded audibly. It was before May was over, that Ellsworth's soldiers took possession of Alexandria, and he was killed. That stirred people at the time; it looks a very little thing now. Alexandria! how I remembered driving through it one grey morning, on one of my Southern journeys; the dull little place, that looked as if it had fallen asleep some hundred or two years ago and never waked up. Now it was waked up with rifle shots; but its slave pen was emptied. I was glad of that. And Thorold was safe in Washington, drilling raw soldiers, in the saddle all day, and very happy, he wrote me. I had begun to be uneasy about his writing to me. It was without leave from my father and mother, and the leave I knew could not be obtained; it would follow that the indulgence must be given up. I knew it must. I looked that necessity in the face. A correspondence, such a correspondence, carried on without their knowing of it, must be an impossibility for me. I intended to tell Christian so, and stop the letters, before I should go abroad. My difficulties were becoming daily more and more clear, and looking more and more unmanageable. I wondered sometimes whither I was drifting; for guide or choose my course I could not. I had got into the current by no agency and with no fault of my own. To get out of the current - perhaps that might not be till life and I should go out together. So I was a somewhat sober and diligent student those closing weeks of the term; and yet, very happy, for Christian loved me. It was a new, sweet, strange, elixir of life. The term was almost out, when I was called to the parlour one day to see Mrs. Sandford. All winter I had not seen her; she had not been in New York. I think she was unaffectedly glad to see me; somehow my presence was pleasant to her. "Out of school!" she exclaimed, after a few greetings had passed. "Almost out of school. A woman, Daisy. My dear, I never see you but I am struck with the change in you. Don't change any more! you are just right." I laughed and asked her, what was the change in me? I had not grown taller. "No -" said Mrs. Sandford - "I don't know that you have; but your figure is improved, and you have the air of being taller, Daisy. I never saw you looking so well. My dear, what work you are going to do now! now that you are out of the 'elements.' And by the by - what _are_ you going to do, when school closes and you are set free?" I said I could not tell; I had received no directions. I was waiting for letters from somewhere, to tell me what I must do. "Suppose you go with me to Washington." "Washington!" - I ejaculated, and therewith the power of speech left me. "Yes. You are not afraid, Daisy, that you look at me so? Some people are afraid, I know, and think Washington is going to be stormed by the Southern army; but that is all nonsense, Grant says; and I always trust Grant. He knows. He wants me to come. He says Washington is a novel sight just now, and I may never have such another chance; and I think I shall do as he says and go. Washington is full of soldiers, and no ladies in it. You are not _afraid?_" "Oh, no. But - Dr. Sandford has not written to me to come." "Yes, he has; or something very like it. He asked me to come and see you as I passed through the city - I was not likely to need his admonition, Daisy, my dear, for it always does me good to see you; - and he added that I might suggest to you that I was coming, and ask you if your curiosity inclined you to take the trouble of the journey. He said _he_ thought it worth while, - and that we would both find it so." I was dumb. Dr. Sandford little knew to what he was inviting me; and I - and Thorold - What a strange chance. "Well, what are you pondering?" Mrs. Sandford cried gaily. "Dresses? You don't care for dresses; besides, we can have them made in two minutes. Don't you want to go, Daisy? I am sure you do; and I am sure Grant will take famous good care of us, and you specially, and show us the camps and everything. And don't you want to see the President?" "I have seen him." "When, and where?" "In the street - when he went through, on his way to Washington." "Well, I don't care much for Presidents; but this one they say so many different things about, that it makes me curious. Don't you want to see him again?" "Yes - I would like it." "Then you'll come with me - I see it; and I'll have everything in readiness. Thursday, does your school-work end? then we will go Saturday. You will want one day perhaps, besides, they say Friday is unlucky. I never go a journey on Friday." "I would as lieve go Friday as any day," I said. "Oh, well - Saturday will be soon enough; and now good-bye, my dear; you to your work and I to mine. You are beautiful, my dear Daisy!" she added, kissing me. I wondered if it was true. If it was, I was glad, for Thorold's sake. I knew it would be a pleasure to him. And to my father and mother also; but that brought other thoughts, and I went off to my studies. CHAPTER II. AT THE RENDEZVOUS. The examination was over and school ended for me, before I had one half hour to spare to go to see Miss Cardigan. The examination had passed as I could have wished it might; all had gone well; and I could afford to put by that whole train of thought, even as I put up my school-books and stowed them away; being things that I should not immediately want again. Some time would pass, it was likely, before I would need to refresh my memory with mathematics or philosophy. My music was another matter, and I kept that out. I put my books hastily as well as securely away; and then took my hat and rushed over to Miss Cardigan's. It was a very warm June day. I remember now the cool feeling of her marble hall. Miss Cardigan sat in her matted parlour, busy as always, looking quiet and comfortable in a white muslin wrapper, and neat as a pin; also an invariable thing. Something in the peaceful, settled, calm air of the place impressed me, I suppose, with a feeling of contrast; of an uninvaded, undisturbed domain, which changes were not threatening. I had gone over the street hurriedly; I walked into the room with a slow step. "Daisy! my dear child!" Miss Cardigan exclaimed, - "is it you? and is all over? I see it is. Just sit down, and you shall have some strawberries; you look tired, my love." I sat still, and waited, and eat my strawberries. "Miss Cardigan," I said at length, "what is Christian's address in Washington?" "In Washington? I don't know. Did he never give it to you?" "No, ma'am; nothing except 'Washington.' " "I suppose that is enough. Haven't you written to him?" "I have written once. - I have been thinking, Miss Cardigan, that I must stop the writing." "Altogether?" "Yes, ma'am." "His writing too?" "Yes. My father and mother do not know - and I cannot ask them, - and -" "You are right," Miss Cardigan answered sorrowfully. "And yet you will let your engagement stand, Daisy?" "I cannot break my part of it, ma'am. I - nor they - cannot change what is, and what has been done. The future is in their hands - or in God's hands, rather." Miss Cardigan sighed. "And what then, dear, about the address?" she said. "Because, Miss Cardigan, I am going there. I am going to Washington." She stopped her work to look at me. "I am going Saturday. My guardian has sent for me. It is very strange, Miss Cardigan; but I must go; and I thought I would like to know in what part of the city Christian is." "Will you write to let him know? You will, of course. Write just as usual, child; the letter will reach him." "Why should I, Miss Cardigan? what use? He cannot come to see me." "Why not?" "I would not dare. My guardian watches me well; and he would not like my seeing Mr. Thorold of all people." "Why not? Ah, child! there is a rose leaf in each of your cheeks this minute. That tells the story. Then, Daisy, you had better not go to Washington. Christian will not bear that very well; and it will be hard for you too. My dear, it will be hard." "Yes, ma'am - and hard not to go. I shall go, Miss Cardigan." "And mayn't I tell him you are there?" "No, ma'am. If I can, I will let him know somehow." But a sense of the difficulties, dangers, doubts and uncertainties, thronging my way, therewith pressed heavily upon me; and I sat in silence and weariness, while Miss Cardigan put up her work and ordered tea, and finally went off to her greenhouse. Presently she came back with a rose in her hand and held it under my face. It was a full dewy sweet damask rose, rich and fragrant and lovely as such a rose can be. I took it and looked at it. "Do ye mind," my old friend said, "how the flowers spoke to you and brought you messages, when Daisy was a child yet and first came to see me?" "I know - I remember," I said. "Does that no tell you something?" "What does it tell me?" I said, scarce able to command my words, under the power of association, or memory, which was laying its message on my heart, though it was a flower that bore the message. Inanimate things do that sometimes - I think, often, - when the ear of the soul is open to hear them; and flowers in especial are the Lord's messengers and speak what He gives them. I knew this one spoke to me. "Listen, and see," Miss Cardigan said. I looked, and as I looked, these words came up in my mind - "Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?" "The Lord over all is rich unto all that call upon Him." And still as I looked, I remembered, - "In all their afflictions He was afflicted;" - and, "My God shall supply all your need, according to His riches in glory by Christ Jesus." The words came into my head; but apart from the words, the rose seemed to say all these things to me. People who never heard flowers talk would think me fanciful, I suppose. "And you will go to that city of trouble, and you will not let Christian know?" Miss Cardigan said after a while. "Yes ma'am. - No ma'am," I answered. "Suppose he should be angry about it?" "Does he get angry?" I asked; and his aunt laughed. "Does the child think he is perfect?" "No, certainly," I said; "of course he has faults; but, Miss Cardigan, I did not think anger was one of them, - or getting angry." "He will never get angry with you, Daisy, it is my firm belief." "But does he, easily, with other people?" "There! I don't know," she said. "He used to be gay quick with his temper, for all so gentle as he is. I wouldn't try him too far, Daisy, with not letting him know." "I cannot tell him -" I said, sighing. For I knew, better than she did, what thorough good care would be taken of me, and what small mercy such a visitor as Mr. Thorold would meet at the hands of my guardians. So with a doubtful heart I kissed Miss Cardigan, and went back over the way to prepare for my journey. Which was, however, thrown over by a storm till the next week. The journey made my heart beat, in spite of all my doubts. It was strange, to see the uniforms and military caps which sprinkled every assemblage of people, in or out of the cars. They would have kept my thoughts to one theme, even if wandering had been possible. The war, - the recruiting for the war, - the coming struggle, - the large and determined preparation making to meet it, - I saw the tokens of these things everywhere, and heard them on every hand. The long day's ride to Washington was a long fever dream, as it seems to me now; it seemed a little so to me then. It was dark when we reached Washington; but the thought that now became present with me, that anywhere Thorold might be, could scarce be kept in check by the reflection that he certainly would not be at the railway station. He was not there; and Dr. Sandford was; and a carriage presently conveyed us to the house where rooms for us were provided. Not a hotel, I was sorry to find. By no chance could I see Thorold elsewhere than in a hotel. Supper was very full of talk. Mrs. Sandford wanted to know everything; from the state of the capital and the military situation and prospects for the nation, to the openings for enjoyment or excitement which might await ourselves. The doctor answered her fast enough; but I noticed that he often looked at me. "Are you tired?" he asked me at length; and there was a tone of gentle deference in his question, such as I often heard from Dr. Sandford. I saw that my silence struck him. "Nonchalant," said Mrs. Sandford, half laughing. "Daisy does not care about all these things. Why should she? To see and to conquer are the same thing with her, whatever becomes of your Southern and Northern camps and armies." "Indeed I do care," I said. "For receptions at the White House? - or military reviews? - or parades, or encampments? Confess, Daisy." "Yes, I care," I said. "I care about some of these things." "I am glad to hear it," said Mrs. Sandford. "I really thought, Daisy, you were superior to them all. Why, child, you have done nothing but meditate, in the gravest manner, ever since we took seats in the cars this morning. I was thinking that nothing but cabinet ministers would interest you." This would not do. I roused myself and smiled. "What do you think of your ward?" said Mrs. Sandford pointedly. "I think more of her guardian," said the doctor somewhat dryly. "How soon are you going to send Daisy to Europe?" "According to orders, just as soon as I can satisfy myself with a good opportunity. I wish you would go." "Meanwhile, it is a very good thing that she should come here. It will keep her from _ennui_ at least. Washington is alive, that is one thing; and Daisy, my dear, we may mount muskets yet. Come, let us go and get a good night's sleep while that is possible." I was glad to be alone. I took off my dusty travelling dress, refreshed myself with a bath, put on a wrapper, and sat down to think. I found my heart was beating in a way that showed some mental fever. What was I about? what was I going to do? I asked myself. I sat with my head in my hands. Then I got up and walked the floor. I found that I was determined to see Mr. Thorold, and to see him as soon as possible. Yet I had no certain means of communicating with him. My determination was a vague determination, but it sprung from the necessity of the case. I must see Mr. Thorold. Both of us in Washington for a little while now, no foresight could tell when again we might be near each other. It might well be never. I would see him. Then came the question, - Daisy, what are you going to say to him, when you see him? I walked and thought. Our correspondence must cease. I must tell him that. - It was dreadfully hard to think it, but I knew it must cease. I could not receive letters from Christian in Switzerland, and certainly I could not write them, without the knowledge of my father and mother; - and if I could, I would not. We must stop writing; we must be hundreds of miles apart, know that dangers clustered round the path of one if not both, know that clouds and uncertainties hung over all our future, and we must not write. And I must tell Mr. Thorold so. It was very hard; for I did not flatter myself with an easy bright clearing away of our difficulties by and by, even if the storm of the war should roll over and leave Christian to encounter them with me. I did not hope that explanations and a little persuasion would induce my mother and my father to look favourably on a Northern suitor for their daughter's hand. My father? - he possibly might give up his pleasure for the sake of my happiness; with my mother I saw no such possibility. It was useless to hope they would let me write to an officer in the Union army. If any chance at all for my happiness were in the future, it must lie in changes not yet accomplished, or in Mr. Thorold's own personal power of recommending himself; rather in both these. For the present - I could not tell how long - now, soon, as soon as I should leave Washington again, we must be separated. I wished I could see Thorold that very evening! In Washington - maybe not far off - and days so few - and I could not see him! I sat down again and put my head in my hand. Had I done wrong, made any unconscious mistake neglected any duty, that this trouble had come upon me? I tried to think. I could not find that I had to blame myself on any such score. It was not wrong to go to West Point last summer. I held none but friendly relations with Mr. Thorold there, so far as I knew. I was utterly taken by surprise, when at Miss Cardigan's that night I found that we were more than friends. Could I hide the fact then? Perhaps it would have been right to do it, if I had known what I was about; but I did not know. Mr. Thorold was going to the war; I had but a surprised minute; it was simply impossible to hide from him all which that minute revealed. Now? Now I was committed; my truth was pledged; my heart was given. My heart might be broken, but could never be taken back. Truth must be truth; and my life was Mr. Thorold's if it belonged to anybody but my father and mother. I settled that point. It was needless ever to look at it again. I had something else to tell Mr. Thorold; and here I took up my walk through the room, but slowly now. I was not going to be an heiress. I must tell him that. He must know all about me. I would be a poor girl at last; not the rich, very rich, Miss Randolph that people supposed I would be. No yearly revenues; no Southern mansions and demesnes; no power of name and place. Would Mr. Thorold care? I believed not. I had no doubt but that his care was for myself alone, and that he regarded as little as I the adventitious circumstances of wealth and standing which I intended to cast from me. Nevertheless, _I_ cared. Now, when it was not for myself, I did care. For Mr. Thorold, I would have liked to be rich beyond my riches, and powerful above my power. I would have liked to possess very much; that I might make him the owner of it all. And instead, I was going to give him as poor a wife as ever he could have picked up in the farm-houses of the North. Yes, I cared. I found I cared much. And though there was not, of course, any wavering of my judgment as to what was right, I found that to do the right would cost me something; more than I could have thought possible; and to tell Mr. Thorold of it all, was the same as doing it. I walked down a good many bitter regrets, of pride or affection; I think both were at work; before I dismissed the matter from my mind that night. I think I had walked a good part of the night while I was cogitating these things and trying to bring my thoughts into order respecting them. While I was at last preparing for sleep, I reflected on yet another thing. I always looked back to that evening at Miss Cardigan's with a mixture of feelings. Glad, and sorrowful, and wondering, and grateful, as I was in the remembrance, with all that was mingled a little displeasure and disapproval of myself for that I had allowed Mr. Thorold so much liberty, and had been quite so free in my disclosures to him of my own mind. I did not know how it had happened. It was not like me. I ought to have kept him more at a distance, kindly of course. One, or two, kisses - my cheek burnt at the thought - were the utmost he should have been allowed; and I ought to have been more reserved, and without denying the truth, to have kept myself more in my own power. I resolved I would do it in the future. I would keep my own place. Mr. Thorold might indeed know what he was to me and what I was to him; I did not mean to hide that; but he must be satisfied with knowing it and not take any liberties with the knowledge. So I went to sleep; but my sleep was heavy and scarcely refreshing. I woke up, startled with the thought that I was in Washington and might see Christian to-day. And I found the desire quite outran the possibility. I was therefore ready to agree to all the plans of my companions; which included for that day a ride to the camps and the President's reception. Abroad, amidst the stir of men, especially where soldiers were or soldiers' work was done, I might hope to see Christian. What then, if I saw him? I left that point. One thing at a time. CHAPTER III. IN REVIEW There were a party of us that went that morning to see the sights in the neighbourhood of Washington. On horseback we were; Dr. Sandford and Mrs. Sandford, Colonel Forsyth, whom I had seen at West Point, another gentleman, and myself. I suppose my senses were keened by anxiety; I never shall forget the wonderful beauty of the afternoon and of what we came to see. In some intense moods of mind, it seems as if every sunbeam had daguerreotyping power, and memory the preparedness to receive and retain. And I could tell even now, where there was a sunny bank, and where a group of sun-touched trees; the ring of our horses' hoofs is in my ear with a thought; and I could almost paint from memory the first view of the camp we went to see. We had crossed over into Virginia; and this regiment, - it was Ellsworth's they told me, - was encamped upon a hill, where tents and trees and uniforms made a bright, very picturesque, picture. Ellsworth's corps; and he was gone already. I could not help thinking of that; and while the rest of the party were busy and merry over the camp doings, I sat in my saddle looking over some lower grounds below the hill, where several other regiments were going through certain exercises. It looked like war! it went through my heart. And Ellsworth's soldiers had lost their commander already. Very likely there was somebody to miss and mourn him; somebody at home; his mother - a young wife, perhaps - "Is Daisy tired already?" Dr. Sandford's voice was at my side. I roused myself and said we had had a pretty brisk ride, and I had not been on horseback in a long time; which was true and I felt it. "Has it been too much for you?" he said, with a change of tone. I disclaimed that. "These war-shows make you thoughtful?" "They give me something to think about." "They need not." "How can they help it?" "Daisy, I am confident there is not the slightest danger to Washington. Do you think I would have brought you into danger?" "Oh, I am not thinking of danger to myself!" I exclaimed. "I am not afraid in that way." "For the country, are you afraid?" "Dr. Sandford, do you think there is real danger to the country?" I asked. "The South will do what they can." "Do you expect the North will be able to stand against them?" "_You_ do not," - he said smiling. "I know nothing about it," I said; "or at least, I know very little of what the North can do. Of course, I know _some_ Northern soldiers will fight as well as any; but, do you think, Dr. Sandford, they can stand - the greater part of them - do you think they can meet the bravery and skill of the South and get the better?" I asked anxiously. Dr. Sandford's brow grew grave. "Daisy, I don't know, as you say; but I have lived among the Northern people in my life; and when a Yankee 'takes a notion,' he is as tough a customer as ever I wish to have to deal with." "But they are not accustomed to fighting," I said. "I am afraid they will be, before it is through." "Then you think they are as brave as the South? Can they be?" Dr. Sandford laughed at me a good deal. Nevertheless, I could not find out what he thought; and I knew, I thought, what he did not know so well. I knew the fiery proud spirit of my native portion of the people. While his banter fell on my ears, my eyes went off to the sunlit green fields where the troops were parading; on Southern soil; and I saw in imagination the rush and fury of vengeful onset, which might come over those very fields; I saw the unequal contest; I saw - what happened soon after. I sighed as I turned my eyes to the doctor again. "You are more of a Southerner than I thought you," he said. And I fancied some gratification lurked behind the words. "But _you_ are true?" I exclaimed. "True!" said the doctor, smiling. "True to what? I hope I am true." "I mean, you are a true Northerner? you do not sympathise with the South?" "I do not think they are in the right, Daisy; and I cannot say I wish they should succeed. It is very natural that you should wish it." "I do not," I said. "I wish the right to succeed." "I believe you do, or you would not be Daisy. But, with a woman, - excuse me, - the right is where her heart is." Dr. Sandford touched so much more than he knew in this speech, I felt my cheek grow hot. I thought at the same time that he was speaking with the intent to find out more than he knew. I was silent and kept my face turned from him. "You do not plead guilty," he went on. "The charge is not guilt, but weakness," I said coolly. "Weakness!" said the doctor. "Not at all. It is a woman's strength." "To be misled by her feelings?" "No; to be _led_ by them. Her feelings tell her where the right is - generally. You are Daisy; but a woman, and therefore perhaps no exception. Or _are_ you an exception? How is it, Daisy?" "I do not wish the South to succeed, Dr. Sandford - if that is what you mean." "It is quite enough," he said, "to constitute you a remarkable exception. I do not know three more at this minute, in this cause. You will not have the sympathies of your father and mother, Daisy?" "No, Dr. Sandford." "Your cousin, Mr. Gary, whom we saw last summer; - on which side is he?" "I have not heard from him since he came to Washington. I do not know where he is. I want to find out." "We can easily find out," said the doctor. "If Colonel Forsyth does not know, we shall see somebody this evening probably who can tell us about him." We rode home through the lingering sunlight of that long day; uniforms, camps, fortifications, cannon, on all sides proclaiming the new and strange state of things upon which the country had fallen; busy people passing and repassing in all directions; an air of life and stir everywhere that would have been delightful, if the reason had been only different. It saddened me. I had to make a constant effort to hide the fact from my companions. One of them watched me, I knew. Dr. Sandford thought I was tired; and proposed that we should defer going to the White House until the next occasion; but I could not rest at home and insisted on carrying out the original scheme for the day. I was in a fever now to see Mr. Thorold; keeping up a constant watch for him, which wearied me. To watch with more hope of success, I would go to the President's reception. Mr. Thorold might be there. Mrs. Sandford, I remember, was very earnest about my dress. I was in no danger from gratified or ungratified vanity now; it was something else that moved me as I robed myself for that reception. And I met my escort in the drawing-room, forgetting that my dress could be a subject of interest to anybody but one, - who might not see it. "Why, that is - yes! that is the very same thing you wore to the cadets' hop; the last hop you went to, Daisy?" Mrs. Sandford exclaimed, as she surveyed me. "It will do, won't it?" I said. "I have had nothing new made this spring." "Do!" said the lady. "What do you think, Grant?" Dr. Sandford's face was a little flushed. "Anything will do," he said. "It makes less difference than ladies suppose." "It has more to do than gentlemen ever imagine!" Mrs. Sandford returned indignantly. "It is very good, Daisy. That pure white somehow suits you; but I believe everything suits you, my dear. Your mother will be a proud woman." That sentence laid a little weight on my heart, which had just been springing with undefined hope. I had been thinking of somebody else who might perhaps be not displeased with me. I sought for his figure that night, among the crowds at the President's reception; amidst all the other interests of the hour, that one was never forgotten. And there were many interests certainly clustering about Washington and Washington society then. The assembly was very peculiar, very marked, very striking in many of its characteristics. The women were few, much fewer than make part of ordinary assemblies; the men were unusually well-looking, it seemed to me; and had an air of life and purpose and energy in definite exercise, which was very refreshing to meet. Besides that, which was generally true, there were in Washington at this time many marked men, and men of whom much was expected. The last have been first, it is true, in many an instance; here as elsewhere; nevertheless, the aspect of things and people at the time was novel and interesting in the highest degree. So, was the talk. Insipidities were no longer tolerated; everybody was _living_, in some real sense, now. I had my second view of the President, and nearer by. It did not disappoint me, nor change the impression produced by the first view. What a homely face! but I thought withal, what a fine face! Rugged, and soft; gentle, and shrewd; Miss Cardigan's "Yon's a mon!" recurred to me often. A man, every inch of him; self- respecting, self-dependent, having a sturdy mind of his own; but wise also to bide his time; strong to wait and endure; modest, to receive from others all they could give him of aid and counsel. But the honest, keen, kindly eyes won my heart. The evening was very lively. There were a great many people to see and talk to, whom it was pleasant to hear. Dr. Sandford, I always knew was a favourite; but it seemed to me this evening that our party was thronged. Indeed I had little chance and less time to look for Mr. Thorold; and the little I could use availed me nothing. I was sure he was not there; for he certainly would have seen me. And what then? It would not have been agreeable. I began to think with myself that I was somewhat inconsistent. It was not till I got home that I thought this, however. I had no time for private reflections till then. When we reached home, Mrs. Sandford was in a talkative mood; the doctor very silent. "And what do you think of General Scott, Daisy? you have not seen him before." "I do not know," I said. "I did not hear him, talk." "You have not heard Mr. Lincoln talk, have you?" "No, certainly not; not before to night." "You know how you like _him_," Dr. Sandford said pointedly. "Yes." "My dear, you made him the most beautiful reverence that I ever knew a woman could make; grace and homage in perfection; but there was something else in it, Daisy, something more; something most exquisitely expressed. What was it, Grant?" "You ought to know," said the doctor, with a grim smile. "I do, I suppose, only I cannot tell the word for it. Daisy, have you ever seen the President before?" "When he passed through New York," I said. "I stood in the street to see him." Dr. Sandford's eyes opened upon me. His sister-in-law exclaimed, "You could not see him _then_, child. But you like him, don't you? Well, they tell all sorts of stories about him; but I do not believe half of them." I thought, I could believe all the good ones. "But Grant, you never can keep Daisy here," Mrs. Sandford went on. "It would be hazardous in the extreme." "Not very," said the doctor. "Nobody else is going to stay; it is a floating community." So we parted for the night. And I slept, the dark hours; but restlessness took possession of me the moment I awoke. Dr. Sandford's last words rung in my heart. "It is a floating community." "Nobody else is going to stay." I must see Mr. Thorold. What if _he_ should be ordered on, away from Washington somewhere, and my opportunity be lost? I knew to be sure that he had been very busy training and drilling some of the new troops; and I hoped there was enough of the same work on hand to keep him busy; but I could not know. With the desire to find him, began to mingle now some foretaste of the pain of parting from him again when I - or he - should leave the city. A drop of bitter which I began to taste distinctly in my cup. I was to learn now, how difficult it sometimes is in new forms of trial, to be quiet and submissive and trust. I used to be able to trust myself and my wants with God; I found at this time that the human cry of longing, and of fear, was very hard to still. I was ready to trust, if I might only see Mr. Thorold. I was willing to wait, if only we might not be separated at last. But _now_ to trust and to wait, when all was in doubt for me; when, if I missed this sight of my friend, I might never have another; when all the future was a cloudy sea and a rocky shore; I felt that I _must_ have this one moment of peace. Yet I prayed for it submissively; but I am afraid my heart made its own cry unsubmissively. I was restless. The days that followed the President's levee were one after the other filled up with engagements and amusements, - if I can give that term to what had such deep and thrilling interest for me; but I grew only more secretly restless with every one. My companions seemed to find it all amusement, the rides and parades and receptions that were constantly going on; I only saw everywhere the preparation for a desperate game soon to be played. The Secessionists threatened Washington; and said "only wait till the Fourth." The people in Washington laughed at this; yet now and then I saw one who did not laugh; and such were often some of those who should know best and judge most wisely. Troops were gathered under Beauregard's command not very far from the capital. I knew the dash and fire and uncompromising temper of the people I was born among; I could not despise their threats nor hold light their power. My anxiety grew to see Mr. Thorold; but I could not. I watched and watched; nothing like him crossed my vision. Once, riding home late at night from a gay visit to one of the neighbouring camps, we had drawn bridle in passing the grounds of the Treasury Building, where the Eleventh Massachusetts regiment was encamped; and slowly walking by, were endeavouring to distinguish forms and sounds through the dim night air - forms and sounds so novel in Washington and so suggestive of interests at stake and dangers at hand; when the distinct clatter of a horse's hoofs in full gallop came down the street and passed closed by me. The light of a passing lamp just brushed the flying horseman; not enough to discover him, but enough to lift my heart into my mouth. I could not tell whether it were Mr. Thorold; I cannot tell what I saw; only my nerves were unstrung in a moment, and for the rest of that night I tossed with impatient pain. The idea of being so near Mr. Thorold, was more than I could bear. One other time, in a crowd, I heard a bit of a laugh which thrilled me. My efforts to see the person from whom it came were good for nothing; nobody like my friend was in sight, or near me; yet that laugh haunted me for two days. "I do not think Washington agrees with Daisy," Mrs. Sandford said one morning at breakfast. "She never looked better," said the doctor. "No. Oh, I don't mean that; she looks all herself; yes, she is in great beauty; but she is uncommonly abstracted and uninterested." "Not being in general a sensitive person," observed Dr. Sandford. I explained that I had never been more interested in my life; but that these things made me sober. "My dear Daisy!" Mrs. Sandford laughed. "You were never anything but sober yet, in all your little life. I should like to see you intoxicated." I felt on dangerous ground and was silent. The doctor asked why? - to Mrs. Sandford's last speech. "No matter!" said the lady. "The first man she loves will know why." "The first," said Dr. Sandford dryly. "I hope she will not love more than one." "She will be an uncommonly happy woman then," said Mrs. Sandford. "Nonsense, Grant! every woman loves two or three before she has done. Your first liking will come to nothing, - Daisy, my dear, I forewarn you; - and most probably the second too; but no one will be the wiser but yourself. Why don't you blush, child? On my word, I believe you are growing pale! Never mind, child; I am not a prophet." I believe the blushes came then, and they all laughed at me; but Dr. Sandford asked me very kindly if I was too tired to see the review that day? I was not tired; and if I had been, nothing would have tempted me to be absent from the review. I went everywhere, as far as I could; and Dr. Sandford was always with us, indulging every fancy I expressed or did not express, it seemed to me. He had to work very hard at other times to make up for it; and I thought Washington did not agree with _him_. He looked pale and jaded this day. I thought so after the morning's work was done; at the time I had no leisure for such thoughts. The morning's work was a review of many thousand troops, by the President. Dr. Sandford and our friends had secured an excellent place for us, from which we could well see all we wished to see; and I wished to see everything. For various reasons. The platform where Mr. Lincoln stood had its own peculiar attractions and interests. It held himself, first of all, standing in front, in plain view much of the time. It held besides a group of men that one liked to look at just then. General Scott was there, and I know not how many other generals; the members of the Cabinet, and inferior military officers; and each colonel of the regiments that passed in review, after passing, dismounted and joined the group on the platform. I looked at these officers with particular interest, for they and their command were going straight across into Virginia expecting active service soon. So I looked at their men. While each regiment marched by, the band belonging to it halted and played. They were going to the war. In good earnest they were going now. This was no show of pleasure; it was work; and my heart, it seemed to me, alternately beat and stood still. Sometimes the oppression of feeling grew very painful, obliged as I was to hide carefully the greater part of what I felt. A little additional stir was almost more than I could bear. One regiment - the Garibaldis, I think, had bouquets of flowers and greens in their hats. I did not indeed notice this, until the foremost came just in front of the platform and the President. Then the bouquets were taken out from the hats, and were tossed, in military order, rank by rank, as the files passed by, to Mr. Lincoln's feet. It was a little thing; but how it shook me! I was glad of the rush which followed the passing of the regiment; the rush of people eager to secure these bunches of flowers and evergreens for memorials; the diversion of interest for a moment gave me chance to fight down my heart-swelling. "Daisy! you are - what is the matter? You are not well - you are tired," - my guardian exclaimed anxiously, as he came back to my side with one of the Garibaldi flower bunches. "I am well - you are mistaken, Dr. Sandford," I made myself say quietly. "For which side are you so anxious?" he inquired. "You are paler than you ought to be, at this moment, with a smile on your lips. I got this for you - will you scorn it, or value it?" "You would not waste it upon me, if you thought I would scorn it?" I said. "I don't know. I am not infatuated about anybody. You may have the bouquet, Daisy. Will you have it?" I did not want to have it! I was not amusing myself, as many and as Mrs. Sandford were doing; this was not an interesting little bit of greens to me, but a handful of pain. I held it, as one holds such handfuls; till the regiment, which had halted a little while at Willard's, was ordered forward and took the turning from Pennsylvania Avenue into the road leading to Virginia. With that, the whole regiment burst into song; I do not know what; a deep-voiced grave melody from a thousand throats, cheering their advance into the quarter of the enemy and of actual warfare. I forgot Dr. Sandford then, whose watchful eyes I generally remembered; I ceased to see the houses or the people before me; for my eyes grew dim with tears it was impossible to keep back; and I listened to nothing but that mellow, ominous, sweet, bitter, strain, till the sound faded away in the distance. Then I found that my cheeks were wet, and that Mrs. Sandford was wondering. "This is what it is to have an ear for music!" she said. "There is positively no possession which does not bring some inconvenience on the possessor. My dear Daisy, you are in pain; those were not tears of joy; what did that chant say to your sensibilities? To mine it only sounded strength, and victory. If the arms of those - _what_ are they? - that regiment, - if their arms are only constituted proportionately to their throats, they must do good fighting. I should think nothing would stand before them. Daisy, they will certainly bear down all opposition. Are you afraid? Here is the Fourth, and Washington safe yet, for all the Southern bluster." "I do not think you had better try to go to the Capitol," the doctor put in. "What, to see the meeting of Congress? Oh, yes, we will. I am not going to miss it." "Daisy will not?" he asked. But Daisy would. I would try every chance. I did not at the moment care for Congress; my wish was to find Mr. Thorold. At the review I knew I had little reason to hope for what I wanted; at the Capitol - after all, what chance there? when Mr. Thorold was drilling troops from morning till night; unless he had been already sent out of Washington. But I would go. If I had dared, I would have expressed a desire to see some troops drilled. I did not dare. I remember nothing of the scene at the Capitol, except the sea of heads, the crowd, and the heat; my intense scrutiny of the crowd, and the weariness that grew on me. Mrs. Sandford had friends to talk to; I only wished I need not speak to anybody. It was a weary day; for I could not see Mr. Thorold, and I could not hear the President's Message. I was so placed or so surrounded that it came to me only in bits. Wearily we went home. At least, Dr. Sandford and I. Mrs. Sandford tried in vain to rally us. "There is to be a marriage in camp," she said. "What do you think of that, Daisy? We can have invitations, we like. Shall we like? Wouldn't it be a curious scene? Daisy is interested, I see. Grant, no. What is the matter, Grant?" "I hope, nothing," said the doctor. "Will you go, if I get you an invitation?" "Who is to be married?" "La fille du régiment." "It takes two," said the doctor. "Oh! The other is a sergeant, I believe; some sergeant of the same regiment. They are to be married to-morrow evening; and it is to be by moonlight and torchlight, and everything odd; up on that beautiful hill where we were the other day, where the trees and the tents make such a pretty mingling with red caps and everything else." "I hope the ceremony will be performed by comet light, too," said Dr. Sandford. "It ought, to be in character." "You do not feel well to-night, Grant?" "Tired. So is Daisy. Are you tired of Washington, Daisy?" "Oh - no!" I said eagerly. "Not at all. I like very much to be here." "Then we will go and see the sergeant's wedding," said he. But we did not; for the next day it was found to be only too true that Dr. Sandford was unwell. Perhaps he had been working too hard; at any rate, he was obliged to confess to being ill; and a day or two more settled the question of the amount of his indisposition. He had a low fever, and was obliged to give up to it. CHAPTER IV. ON FOOT Mrs Sandford devoted herself to the doctor. Of course, a sudden stop was put to our gay amusements. I could not ride or drive out any more; nor would I go to entertainments anywhere. The stir and the rush of the world had quietly dropped me out of it. Yet I was more than ever eager to be in it and know what was doing; and above all, what one was doing. I studied the newspapers, more assiduously than I had hitherto had time for. They excited me almost unbearably with the desire to know more than they told, and with unnumbered fears and anxieties. I took to walking, to wear away part of the restless uneasiness which had settled upon me. I walked in the morning; I walked at evening, when the sun's light was off the avenue and the air a little cooler; and kept myself out of the house as much as I could. It was so that I came upon my object, when I was not seeking it. One evening I was walking up Pennsylvania avenue; slowly, for the evening was warm, although the sun had gone down. Slowly and disconsolately. My heart began to fail me. I pondered writing a word to Mr. Thorold, now that I was completely at liberty; and I wished I had done it at once upon Dr. Sandford's becoming ill. Two or three days' time had been lost. I should have to take the note to the post-office myself; but that would not be impossible now, as it had been until now. While I was thinking these things, I saw a horseman riding down the avenue; a single horseman, coming at a fast gallop. I had never seen Mr. Thorold on horseback; yet from almost the first sight of this mounted figure my heart said with a bound who it was. I stood still by the curbstone, looking breathlessly. I felt more and more sure as he drew nearer, if that can be when I had been sure all along; but, would he know me? Would he even see me, in the first place? So many ladies walk on Pennsylvania avenue; why should his eye pick me out? and he was riding so fast too, there would be but one instant to see or miss me. I would not like to go again through the suspense of that minute, though it was almost too intense to be conscious pain. I stood, all eyes, while that figure came on, steady, swift, and moveless, but for the quick action of the horse's muscles. I dared not make a sign, although I felt morally sure who it was, until he was quite close to me; then, I do not know whether I made it or not. I think not; but the horse wheeled, just as he was past me; I did not know a horse could wheel so short; and the rider had dismounted at the same instant it seemed, for he was there, at my side, and my hand in his. I certainly forgot at that minute all I had stored up to say to Mr. Thorold, in the one great throb of joy. He did not promise to be easily managed, either. "Daisy!" was his first question - "Daisy, where have you been?" "I have been here - a while." "I heard it from Aunt Catherine yesterday - I should have found you before another day went over - Daisy, how long?" I hardly liked to tell him, he looked so eager and so imperative, and so much as if he had a right to know, and to have known. But he did not wait for the answer; and instead, drawing my arm within his own, bent down to me with looks and words so glad, so tender, so bright, that I trembled with a new feeling, and all the blood in my heart came surging up to my face and away again. The bridle was over his other arm, and the horse with drooped head walked on the other side of him, while Mr. Thorold led me on in this fashion. I do not know how far. I do not know what he said or what I answered, except in bits. I know that he made me answer him. I was not capable of the least self-assertion. What startled me at last out of this abstraction, was the sudden fear that we might be observed. I looked up and said something about it. Only to my confusion; for Thorold laughed at me, softly, but how he laughed - at me. I tried a diversion. "Have you been drilling troops to-day?" "All day; or I should have come to find and scold you. By the way, how long _have_ you been in Washington, Daisy?" "I should not have thought you would ride such a pace at the end of a day's work - you did not ride like a tired man." "I am not a tired man. Didn't I tell you, I had a letter from Aunt Catherine yesterday. I have felt no fatigue since. When did you come here, Daisy?" "Christian, I could not let you know, for I was with my guardian - he is a sort of guardian for the time - and -" "Well? I know your guardian. Dr. Sandford, isn't he" "Yes, but he would not like to see you." "I don't care whether he likes it or not, Daisy." "Yes, but, you see, Christian, it would be not pleasant if he were to carry me off away from Washington; as he took me from West Point last year." "To get you away from me?" "He would, if he suspected anything." "Daisy, I do not like suspicions. The best way is to let him know the truth." "Oh, no, Christian!" "Why not, little one?" "I would rather my father and mother heard it first from you in person," I answered, stumbling in my speech. "So would I, Daisy; but the times are against us. A letter must be my messenger; and Dr. Sandford has nothing to do with the matter." "He would think he had," I answered, feeling the difficulties in my way. "Aren't you my Daisy?" he said, looking down into my face with his flashing eyes, all alight with fire and pleasure. "But that -" I began. "No evasions, Daisy. Answer. Aren't you mine?" I said "yes" meekly. But what other words I had purposed to add were simply taken off my lips. I looked round, in scared fashion, to see who was near; but Thorold laughed softly again. "It is too dark for people to make minute investigations, Daisy." "Dark!" said I. "Oh, Christian, I must go home. I shall be missed, and Mrs. Sandford will be frightened." "Will the doctor come after you?" "Oh, no, he is sick; but Christian, I must go home." He turned and went with me, changing his tone, and making a variety of tender inquiries about my situation and my doings. They were something new; they were so tender of me, so thoughtful of my welfare, so protecting in their inquisitive care; and moreover they were the inquiries of one who had a right to know all about me. Something entirely new to my experience; my mother's care was never so sympathetic; my father's never so fond; even my guardian's was never so strict. Dr. Sandford to be sure had no right to make his care like this. I did not know that Mr. Thorold had; but I found it was indisputable. And in proportion it was delightful. We had a slow, very busy walk and talk until within a few doors of my Washington home; there we parted, with a long hand clasp, and the promise on my part that Mr. Thorold should find me at the same hour and place as to-day on the next evening. Nobody was looking for me, and I gained my room in safety. I was very happy, yet not all happy; for the first use I made of my solitude, after getting rid of my bonnet and mantilla, was to sit down and cry. I asked myself the reason, for I did not like to be in the dark about my own feelings; this time they were in a good deal of confusion. As I look back, I think the uppermost thing was my happiness; this new, delicate, strange joy which had come into my life and which I had never tasted so fully or known the flavour of it so intimately as this evening. Looks and tones, and little nameless things of manner telling almost more yet, came back to me in a small crowd and overwhelmed me with their testimony. Affection, and tenderness, and pleasure; and something apart from these, an inexplicable assuming of me and delight in me as so assumed; they found me or made me very weak to-night. What was the matter? I believe it was, first, this happiness; and next, the doubt that rested over it and the certainty that I must leave it. Certainly my weeping was hearty enough to answer to all three causes. It was a very unaccustomed indulgence to me; or not an indulgence at all, for I was not fond of tears; but it did act as a relief. I washed away some of my trouble in my tears; the happiness sprung to the surface; and then I could almost weep for joy and thankfulness that I was so happy. Even if the grounds of my happiness were precarious, I had trusted God all my life with all I cared for; could I not trust Him still? My tears stopped; and I believe one or two smiles could not be checked as I remembered some look or word of Mr. Thorold's. I was to see him the next evening; and it would behove me to lose no time in telling him all the various matters I had wished him to understand. It seemed to me there was something to reconsider in my proposed communications. I had to tell him that our correspondence must be stopped. Would he agree to that? I had thought he would agree, and must, to anything I desired. To-night assured me that he had a will in the matter too, and that his will was strong. Further, it assured me that he had a right; and knew it. Yet it was impossible that we should write to each other without my parents' leave; and impossible that we should gain the leave. Mr. Thorold would have to see the matter as I looked at it; but a doubt came over me that to make him do so might prove difficult. That was one thing. Then about my not being an heiress. I suddenly found a great dislike in myself to speak to him on the subject. There was no doubt that it would be right to tell him what I had thought to tell him; wrong not to do it; the right and the wrong were settled; my willingness was not. A little inner consciousness that Mr. Thorold would relish any handling of the matter that savoured of the practical, and would improve it for his own ends, made my cheek hot. Yet I must tell him. The thing stood, with only an addition of disagreeableness. And what chance should I have, in the street? I meditated a good while, before there suddenly started into my mind a third subject upon which I had meant to take action with Mr. Thorold. I had thought to qualify a little the liberty he had assumed upon our first betrothal; to keep at a somewhat more reserved distance, and make him. Could I? Was Mr. Thorold under my management? He seemed to take me under his. I pondered, but between laughing and rebellion I could make nothing of the subject. Only, I resolved, if circumstances gave me any chance, to act on my proposed system. The next day was swallowed up in like thoughts. I tried to arrange my subjects and fix upon one to begin with; but it was a vain effort. I knew that as soon as I began to get ready for my walk. Things must come as they would. And my cross tides of purpose resolved themselves into one long swell of joy, when I discerned the figure I was looking for, waiting for me on Pennsylvania avenue; too soon, for it was near the place where we parted the night before. "This is very dangerous -" I said, as we began to stroll up the avenue. "What?" said Mr. Thorold, looking down at me with his eyes as full of mischief as ever. "It is so light yet, and you come so near the house." "You walk with other people, don't you?" "I am not afraid of the other people." "Are you afraid of me?" said he smiling; and then growing grave, "We may have only a few times, Daisy; let us make the most of them." How could I start anything after that. I was mute; and Mr. Thorold began upon a new theme. "Daisy, how long have you been in Washington?" "Christian, I _could_ not let you know. I was always hoping to see you somewhere." "Sounds as if you felt guilty," he said. "Confess, Daisy; you look as if you were afraid I would be angry. I will not be very hard with you." I was afraid; and he was angry, when I told him. His face flushed and his eye changed, and turned away from me. "Christian," I said, "I was very unwilling that Dr. Sandford should know anything about it; that was my reason. If I had written to you, you know you would have come straight to where I was; and the risk was too great." "What risk?" he said. "I might have been ordered away from Washington; and then we might never have met." "Are you vexed?" I said gently. "You have wronged me, Daisy." It gave me, I do not know whether more pain or pleasure, the serious grave displeasure his manner testified. Neither pain nor pleasure was very easy to express; but pain pressed the hardest. "I have been looking for the chance of seeing you; looking the whole time," I said. "Everywhere, it was the one thing I was intent upon." "Daisy, it might have been lost altogether. And how many days have been lost!" I was silent now; and we walked some steps together without anything more. But the next words were with a return to his usual clear voice. "Daisy, you must not be afraid of anything." "How can I help it?" I asked. "Help it? - but have _I_ brought those tears into your eyes?" It was almost worth while to have offended him, to hear the tone of those words. I could not speak. "I see you are not very angry with me," he said; "but I am with myself. Daisy, my Daisy, you must not be so fearful of unknown dangers." "I think I have been fearful of them all my life," I answered. "Perhaps it is my fault." And with unspeakable joy I recognised the truth, that at last my life was anchored to one from whom I need neither fear nor disguise anything. "To fear them is often to bring them." he added. "I do not think it will, in my case," I said. "But, if Dr. Sandford had known you were coming to see me, he might have carried me off from Washington, just as he did from West Point last year." "From West Point?" said Mr. Thorold, his eyes making a brilliant commentary on my words; - "Did he carry you away from West Point for any such reason? Is he afraid of me?" "He would be afraid of anybody," I said in some confusion, for Mr. Thorold's eyes were dancing with mischief and pleasure; - "I do not know - of course I do not know what he was afraid of; but I know how it _would_ be." Mr. Thorold's answer was to take my hand and softly draw it through his own arm. I did not like it; I was fearful of being seen to walk so; yet the assuming of me was done in a manner that I could not resist nor contravene. I knew how Christian's eyes fell upon me; I dared not meet them. "Is the doctor jealous of you, Daisy?" he whispered laughing. I did not find an answer immediately. "Does he _dare?_" Mr. Thorold said in a different tone. "No, no. Christian, how imperious you are!" "Yes," he said; "I will be so where you are concerned. What do you mean, Daisy? or what does he mean?" "He is my guardian, you know," I said; "and he has sharp eyes; and he is careful of me." "_Very_ careful?" said Mr. Thorold, laughing and pressing my arm. "Daisy, _I_ am your guardian while you are in Washington. I wish I had a right to say that you shall have nothing more to do with Dr. Sandford. But for the present I must mind my duty." "And I mine," - I added, with my heart beating. Now it seemed a good opening for some of the things I had to say; yet my heart beat and I was silent. "Yours, Daisy?" he said very tenderly. "What is yours? What present pressure of conscience is giving you something hard to do? I know it will be done! What work is this little soldier on?" I could not tell him. I could not. My answer diverged. "What are _you_ on, Christian?" "The same thing. Rather preparing for work - preparing others. I am at that all day." "And do you expect there will be real work, as you call it? Will it come to that?" "Looks like it. What do you think of Fairfax Court-house? - and Great Bethel? - and Falling Waters, and so on?" "That was bad, at Great Bethel," I said. "Mismanagement -" said Mr. Thorold calmly. "And at Vienna." "No, the troops behaved well. They behaved well, Daisy. I am content with that." "Do you think - don't be angry, Christian! - do you think the people of the North generally will make as fiery fighting men as the people of the South, who are used to fighting, and commanding, and the practice of arms?" "When you get a quiet man angry, Daisy, he is the very worst man to deal with that you ever saw." "But the people of the North are all accustomed to peaceful employments?" Mr. Thorold laughed, looking down at me with infinite amusement and tenderness mixed. "I see what your training has been," he said. "What will you do when you have one of those quiet people for your husband?" "Quiet!" said I. "When your eyes are showering sparks of fire all over me!" "Daisy," he said, "those rose leaves in your cheeks are the very prettiest bits of colour I ever saw in my life." "But we are wandering from the subject," I said. "No, we are not," he said decidedly. "You are my one subject at all times." "Not when you are training soldiers?" I said half laughing. But he gave me a look which silenced me. And it nearly took away all the courage I had, for everything I wanted to say to him and had found it so difficult to say. "Christian," I began again after an interval, "were the troops that were sent over into Virginia just now, sent, do you suppose, to meet Beauregard?" "I suppose so." "You are not going?" - I asked, because the question was torturing me. He looked down at me again, a steady, fixed, inquiring look, that grew very full of affection before he answered, "I hope so, Daisy." "You are not ordered!" "No; not yet." "But if you were to go, would you not know it by this time?" "Not certainly. Some troops will be left here of course, to guard Washington." I walked with my heart in my mouth. I knew, what he did not say, that orders might be issued suddenly and as suddenly obeyed; with no beforehand warning or after delay. How could I speak anything of what had been in my mind to be said? Yet the very circumstances which made it more difficult made it also imperative, to speak them. I fought myself, while Mr. Thorold sometimes watched me and constantly took care of me, with a thoughtful care in little things which was eloquent. "Christian" - I began, feeling my voice changed. "That is to tell me we must turn homeward?" he said gayly. "No; I want to speak to you. But we must turn homeward too." "To speak to me? In that voice? Look at me, Daisy. - No, I won't hear it now, and not here. We must have something better. Daisy, go and ride with me to- morrow evening!" "Oh, I cannot." "Yes, Daisy. I ask it of you. Dr. Sandford is in bed. He cannot go along. Then you can tell me all that is on your mind about Northern soldiers." "Oh, I only thought Christian - You know, I know the temper of the Southern people." "You will know the temper of the other section of the country some day," he said, with a smile at me which was half serious and half personal in its bearing. But he made me promise to go and ride with him if I could; and so left me. I met Mrs. Sandford as I went into the house. She said she was glad I kept up my walks; she was sorry I had such a terribly dull time; it was a pity I came to Washington. Dr. Sandford was no better, and much worried about me, that I should be so cut off from amusement. "Tell him I am doing very well, and having time to read the papers," I said. "Those horrid papers!" said Mrs. Sandford. "They make my hair stand on end. I wouldn't read them; Daisy." "But you do." "Well, I cannot keep my hands off them when I see them; but I wish I was where I could never see them. Ever since I read General Beauregard's proclamation, I have been in a fury with everything South; and it is uncomfortable to be in a fury. O dear! I wish Grant would get well and take us away. Come in and let us have a cup of tea, dear. Isn't it hot?" I took the tea and bore the talk, till both were done and I could shut myself into the seclusion of my own room. And tears did not come to-night, but dry heart- aching pain instead; with which I struggled till the night had worn far on. Struggled, trying to reason it away and to calm it down by faith and prayer. Ah me! how little reason could do, or faith either. For reason only affirmed and enlarged my fears; and faith had no power to say; they might not come true. The promise, "He shall not be afraid of evil tidings," belongs to those who have their will so merged in God's will as not to be careful what that will may be. I had not got so far. A new lesson was set me in my experience book; even to lay my will down; and nobody who has not learned or tried to learn that lesson knows how mortal hard it is. It seemed to me my heart was breaking the whole livelong night. CHAPTER V. ON HORSEBACK A little sleep and the fresh morning light set me up again. I was to ride with Mr. Thorold in the evening; my mind fixed on that nearest point, and refused for the moment to go further. I heard from Mrs. Sandford at breakfast that Dr. Sandford was no better; his low nervous prostration continued and threatened to continue. Mrs. Sandford was much troubled about me. All this suited my convenience; even her unnecessary concern; for I had made up my mind to tell Mrs. Sandford I was going to ride; but I would not till our late dinner, that there might be no chance of her consulting the doctor. At dinner I mentioned that a friend had asked me to ride and I had half consented. Mrs. Sandford looked somewhat startled and asked who the friend might be? "Another officer," I said quietly; "his name is Thorold. I saw him last summer, Mrs. Sandford; and I know about him. He is a good one to go with." "I can't ask Grant anything," she said, looking doubtful. "He knows everybody." "It is not needful," I answered. "I am going to take the indulgence this once. I think it will do me good." "Daisy, my dear!" said Mrs. Sandford - "You are as good as possible - but you have a will of your own. All you Southerners have, I think." I replied that I was a Northerner; and the talk went to other things. Mrs. Sandford left me with a kiss and the injunction to take care of myself. I was very glad to get off so, for she looked a little unsatisfied. My way was clear now. I dressed with a bounding heart, mounted, and was away with Mr. Thorold; feeling beneath all my gladness that now was my time and my only time for doing all the difficult work I had set myself. But gladness was uppermost, as I found myself in the saddle and away, with Mr. Thorold by my side; - for once free and alone together; - gladness that kept us both still I think; for we exchanged few words till we were clear of the city and out upon the open country. There we slackened bridle, and I began to feel that the minutes were exceedingly precious. I dreaded lest some words of Christian's should make it impossible for me to do what I had to do. "Christian," I began, "I have things to talk to you about." "Well," said he brightly, "you shall. Will it take a great while, Daisy? Because I have things to talk to _you_ about." "Not a great while, I hope," I said, almost stammering. "You shall talk what you will, darling. But wait till we get a better place." I would have liked the place where we were, and the time. Better where the road was rough than where it was smooth; easier where there was something to make interruption than where Christian could give too exclusive heed to me. But I could not gainsay him; and we rode on, till we came to a piece of pretty broken ground with green turf and trees. Here Mr. Thorold stopped and proposed that we should dismount; he said we should talk more at our ease so. I thought my predetermined measures of dignity could be more easily maintained on horseback; but I could not bear to refuse him, and he did not mean to be refused, I saw. He had dismounted even while he spoke, and throwing his horse's bridle over the branch of a tree, came to lift me down; first throwing his cap on the grass. Then keeping me in his arms and bending a brilliant inquisitive look on my face, he asked me, "Daisy - is this my Daisy, as I left her?" I could not help answering a plain yes. Nothing in me was changed; and come what might, that was true. No other answer would have been true. And I could not blame him that he held me fast and kissed me, almost as he had done that first time. Almost; but the kisses were more grave and deliberate now; every one seemed a seal and a taking possession. Indeed the whole manner of Mr. Thorold had taken gravity and manliness and purpose; he was changed, as it would have taken much longer in other circumstances to change a man. I stood still and trembled, I believe; but I could no more check him than I could that first night. Still holding me fast, he lifted my face a little and smiling asked me, what Daisy had to say to him? The tone, tender and happy, was as much as I could bear; more than I could answer. He led me a little way, arranged a seat for me on a green bank, and threw himself down by my side. But that was very inconvenient, for he could look up right into my face. "Business, Daisy?" he said gayly and tenderly at once. The tone seemed to .touch the colour in my cheeks and the droop of my eyes. "Yes," I said. "It is business." "Well, what, love?" "Christian," said I, putting my hand in his, "you know papa and mamma do not know of this." "They shall know, as soon as I can write to them," he answered. "I understand - you do not wish that, Daisy; but see - I cannot leave it unsaid, as long as your thought would leave it. Till they know, I have only half a right to you. I cannot live so." "You must," I whispered, - "till this war is over." "What then?" said he quickly. "How will that help the matter?" "Then they may see you for themselves. A letter would not do." "If you please, how do you expect I am to live till then?" he said smiling. "With half a right to you." "Yes - with that, - and without writing to me," I answered. "Daisy!" exclaimed Thorold, raising himself half up. "Yes," I said - "I know - I have been wanting to talk to you about it. You _know_, Christian, I could not write nor receive your letters without my father's and mother's permission." "Can _you_ bear that, Daisy?" he asked. My heart seemed to turn sick. His words suggested nothing new, but they were his words. I failed to answer, and my face went down in my hands. "There, is no need of that, darling," he said, getting one of them and putting it to his lips. "Here you are fearing dangers again. Daisy -with truth on your side and on mine, nothing can separate us permanently." "But for the present," - I said as soon as I could speak. "I am sure our chance for the future is better if we are patient and wait now." "Patient, and wait?" said Mr. Thorold. "If we are patient now? What do you mean by patience? You in Switzerland, with half a hundred suitors by turns; and I here in the smoke of artillery practice, unable to see twenty yards from my drill - and _that_, you think, does not call for patience, but you must cut off the post-office from our national institutions. And to wait for you is not enough, but I must wait for news of you as well!" "Christian!" said I, in desperation - "it is harder for me than for you." He laughed at that; laughed and looked at me, and his eyes sparkled like a shower of fireworks, and then I was sure that a mist was gathering in them. I could scarcely bear the one thing ands the other. My own composure failed. He did not this time answer by caresses. He got up and paced the turf a little distance below me; his arms folded, his lips set, and the steps never slackening. So he was when I could look up and see. This was worse than anything. And the sun was lowering fast, and we had settled nothing, and our time was going. I waited a minute, and then I called him. He came and stood before me, face and attitude unchanged. "Christian," I said, - "don't you see that it is best - my plan?" "No," he said. I did not know what to urge next. But as I looked at him, his lips unbent and his face shone down at me, after a sort, with love, and tenderness and pleasure. I felt I had not prevailed yet. I rose up and stood before him. "Indeed it is best!" I said earnestly. "What do you fear, Daisy?" His look was unchanged and feared nothing. It was very hard to tell him what I feared. "I think, without seeing you and knowing you, they will never let us write; and I would rather they did not know anything about the - about us - till you can see them." He took both my hands in his, and I felt how hard it is for a woman to move a man's will when it is once in earnest. "Daisy, that is not brave," he said. "No - _I_ am not," I answered. "But is it not prudent?" "I do not believe in cowardly prudence," he said; but he kissed me gently to soften the words; "the frank way is the wisest, always, I believe; and anyhow, Daisy, I can't stand any other. I am going to ask you of your father and mother; and I am going to do it without delay." "I wish they could see you," I said helplessly. "And as I cannot be present to do my pleading in person, I must trust you to plead for me." "You forget," said I; "it is against you that you are a Northern officer." "That may depend upon the event of the war," he said; and I saw a sparkle again. Wilful and manly as he could be; but he did not know my father and mother. Yet that last word of his might be true; what if it were? The end of the war! When might that be? and how? If all the Northern army were Thorolds, - but I knew they were not. I felt as if my magazine of words was exhausted. I suppose then my face spoke for me. He loosened his hold of one hand to put his arm round me and draw me to him, with a fine tenderness, both reverent and masterful. "My Daisy" - he said, - "what do you want of me?" And I could not tell him then. As little could I pretend to be dignified. Pain was too sharp. We drew very close to each other, and were very silent for those minutes. I would command myself, and did, hard work as it was, and though my face lay on his shoulder. I do not know how his face looked; when he spoke again the tone was of the gravest tenderness. "What do you want of me, Daisy?" "I think, this," I said, raising my head and laying my hand on his shoulder instead. "Suppose, Christian, you leave the question undecided - the question of letters, I mean, - until I get there, - to Switzerland, - and see my father and mother. Perhaps I can judge then what will be safe to do; and if I can write, you know I will write immediately." "And if you cannot?" "Then - I will write once, to let you know how it is." He stood still, reading my face, until it was a little hard to bear, and my eyes went down. "Suppose your father and mother - suppose they are obdurate, Daisy, and will not have me, being a Northern man and in the Government service?" What then? I could not say. "Suppose it, Daisy." "Well, Christian?" I said, raising my eyes to his face. "What will you do?" "You know, Christian, I _must_ obey my father and mother." "Even as I my other duty. Well, we are both soldiers. But what would you do, Daisy?" "Do? -" I repeated. "Yes," he said very gravely, and with a certain determination to have the answer. "I should do nothing, Christian. I should be just the same." But I believe my cheeks must have answered for me, for I felt them grow pale. "What if they chose a Southern husband for you, and laid their commands in his favour?" "I am _yours_ -" I said, looking up at him. I could not say any more, but I believe Mr. Thorold understood it all, just what I meant him to understand; how that bond could never be unloosed, what though the seal of it might be withheld. He was satisfied. "You are not brave, Daisy," he said, holding me again very close; "here are these cheeks fairly grown white under my supposings. Does that bring the colour back?" he added laughing. "Christian," I said, seizing my time while my face was half hidden, "what would _you_ do, supposing I should prove to be a very poor girl?" "What is that?" said he, laughing more gayly, and raising my face a little. "You know what our property is." "No, I do not." "You know - I mean, you know, my father's and mother's property is in Southern lands mostly, and in those that cultivate them." "Yes. I believe I have understood that." "Well, I will never be the owner of those people - the people that cultivate those lands; and so I suppose I shall not be worth a sixpence; for the land is not much without the people." "You will not be the owner of them?" "No." "Why do you tell me that?" said Mr. Thorold gravely. "I wanted you to know -" I said, hesitating and beginning very much to wish my words unsaid. "And the question is, what I will do in the supposed circumstances? Was that it?" "I said that," - I assented. "What shall I do?" said Mr. Thorold. "I don't know. If I am in camp, I will pitch a tent for my wife; it shall have soft carpets and damask cushions; as many servants as she likes, and one in especial who will take care that the others do her bidding; scanty accommodations, perhaps, but the air full of welcome. She will like it. If I am stationed in town somewhere, I will fill her house with things to please her. If I am at the old farm, I will make her confess, in a little while, that it is the pleasantest place she ever saw in her life. I don't know what I will do! I will do something to make her ashamed she ever asked me such a question." "Oh, don't!" said I, with my cheeks burning. "I am very much ashamed now." "Do you acknowledge that?" he said, laughing and taking his revenge. "So you ought." But then he made me sit down on the grass again and threw himself at my feet, and began to talk of other things. He would not let me go back to the former subjects. He kept me in a state of amusement, making me talk too about what he would; and with the light of that last subject I had unluckily started, shining all over his face and sparkling in his eye and smile, until my face was in a condition of permanent colour. I had given him an advantage, and he took it and played with it. I resolved I would never give him another. He had gone back apparently to the mood of that evening at Miss Cardigan's; and was full of life and spirits and mischief. I could do nothing but fall in with his mood and be happy; although I remembered I had not gained my point yet; and I half suspected he had a mind I should not gain it. It was a very bright, short half hour; and then I reminded him it was growing late. "Moonlight -" he said. "There is a good large moon, Daisy." "But Mrs. Sandford -" I said. "She knows you are your own mistress." "She _thinks_ I am," I said. "You know better." "You are mine," said Mr. Thorold, with gentle gravity, immediately. "You shall command me. Do you say go, Daisy?" "May I influence you in something else?" I said putting my hand in his to enforce my words. "Eh?" said he, clasping the hand. "What, Daisy?" "Christian, I want you not to write to my father and mother until I give you leave." I thought I would let go arguing and try persuasion. He looked away, and then looked at me; - a look full of affection, but I saw I had not moved him. "I do not see how we can settle that, Daisy." "But you said - you said -" "What?" "You said just now, you intimated, that my wishes would have weight with you." He laughed a little, a moved laugh, and kissed me. But it was not a kiss which carried any compromise. "Weight with me? Yes, a little. But with me, Daisy. They must not change me into somebody not myself." "Would that? -" "If I could be content to have your faith in secret, or to wait to know if I might have it at all? I must be somebody not myself, Daisy." I pondered and felt very grave. Was it true, that Mr. Thorold, though no Christian, was following a rule of action more noble and good than I, who made such professions? It was noble, I felt that. Had my wish been cowardly and political? Must not open truth be the best way always? Yet with my father and mother old experience had long ago taught me to hold my tongue and not speak till the time came. Which was right? I felt that his rule of action crossed all my _inner_ nature, if it were not indeed the habit which had become second nature. Mr. Thorold watched me. "What is it, Daisy? - my Daisy?" he asked with a tender inquisitiveness, though looking amused at me. "I was thinking -" I answered, - "whether you are a great deal better than I am." "Think it by all means," he said laughing. "I am certainly a good deal braver. But what else, Daisy? there was something else." "That," said I. "I was thinking of my habit, all my life long, of keeping things back from my father and mother till I thought it was safe to show them." "Are you going to let that habit live? What lessons you will have to learn, my little Daisy! I could never bear to have my wife afraid of me." "Of you!" I said. "I never should." - But there I stopped in some confusion, which I knew my neighbour enjoyed. I broke up the enjoyment by standing up and declaring that it was now time to go. We had a pretty ride home. My mind was disburthened of its various subjects of care which I had had to communicate to Mr. Thorold; and although I had not been able entirely to prevail with him, yet I had done all I could, and my conscience was clear. I let myself enjoy, and the ride was good. Mr. Thorold said we must have another; but I did not believe that feasible. However, it fell out so. Dr. Sandford lingered on in the same disabled state; his sister-in-law was devoted to her attendance on him; I was left to myself. And it did come to pass, that not only Mr. Thorold and I had walks continually together; but also we had one more good ride. I did not try moving him again on the point of my father and mother. I had read my man and knew that I could not. And I suppose I liked him the better for it. Weakness is the last thing, I think, that a woman forgives in men, who ought to be strong. Christian was not weak; all the more he was gentle and tender and thoughtful for those who were. Certainly for me. Those days, those walks, - what music of thought and manner there was in them! The sort of protecting care and affection I had from him then, I never had from any other at any time. Care that seemed to, make my life his own; affection that made it something much before his own; but all this told, not in words, which could not have been, but in indescribable little things of manner and tone; graces too fine to count and measure. Once I had fancied I ought to put more reserve into my manner, or manage more distance in his; that thought fled from me after the first afternoon's ride and never came back. I did not take care for myself; he took care for me. The affection that held me as a part of himself, held me also as a delicate charge more precious than himself; and while he protected me as one who had a right to do it, he guarded me also as one whose own rights were more valuable than his. He never flattered, nor praised, nor complimented me; or with rare exceptions; but he showed me that he lived for me, and sometimes that he knew I lived for him. What days and walks! The extreme and impending gravity of the time and the interests at work, lent only a keen and keener perception of their preciousness and sweetness. Any day our opportunities might suddenly come to an end; every day they were welcomed as a special fresh gift. Every evening, as soon as Mr. Thorold's engagements allowed it, he met me on the avenue, and we walked until the evening was as far spent as we durst spend it so. I basked in a sunshine of care and affection which surrounded me, which watched me, which catered to my pleasure, and knew my thoughts before they were spoken. We were both grown suddenly older than our years, Mr. Thorold and I; the coming changes and chances in our lives brought us to life's reality at once. One ride besides we had; that was all. Except one other experience; which was afterwards precious to me beyond price. As it became known that Dr. Sandford's illness was persistent and not dangerous, and that I was in consequence leading a (supposed) bitterly dull life; it naturally happened that our acquaintances began to come round us again; and invitations to this or that entertainment came pouring upon me. I generally refused; but once thought it, best, as a blind to Mrs. Sandford, to accept an invitation to ride. Mrs. Sandford as before demurred, but would not object. "Who is it this time, Daisy?" she asked. I named Major Fairbairn; luckily also an officer whom I had known the last summer at West Point. "Nothing but officers!" she remarked in a dubious tone. "Not much else to be had here." "And nothing much better anywhere," I said, "when, one is going on horseback. They know how to ride." "All Southerners know that. By the way, Daisy, I have heard yesterday of Lieutenant Gary. He is in Beauregard's army." "Are you sure?" I asked. "Quite, I think. I was told by Mr. Lumpkin; and he knows all the Southern doings, and people." "Then he ought not to be here." I said. "He may let them know our doings." "_Ours!_" said Mrs. Sandford. "How fierce you are. Is Major Fairbairn South or North? I don't remember." "From Maine." "Well. But, Daisy, what will your father and mother say to you?" There was no use in considering that question. I dismissed it, and got ready for the major and my horse. Mounted, my companion asked me, where should we go? I had considered that point; and after a little pause asked, as coolly as I could, where there were any troops drilling in cavalry or artillery exercises. Major Fairbairn pondered a minute and told me, with rather a rueful countenance. "Let us go there first," I said. "It is an old story to you; but I never saw such a thing. I want to see it and understand it, if I can." "Ladies like to see it, I know," said the major. "You think, we cannot understand it?" "I don't see how you should." "I am going to try, Major Fairbairn. And notwithstanding your hopeless tone, I expect you to give me all the help you can." "I think, the less you understand of it, the better," said the major. "Pray why?" "Doesn't seem comfortable knowledge, for those who cannot use it." "Men think that of many things," I said. "And they are much mistaken. Knowledge is always comfortable. I mean, it is comfortable to have it, rather than to be ignorant." "I don't know -" said the major. "Where ignorance is bliss -" "Ignorance never is bliss!" I said energetically. "Then the poet must be wrong." "Don't you think poets may be wrong as well as other people, Major Fairbairn?" "I hope so! or I should wish to be a poet. And that would be a vain wish for me." "But in these war matters," I resumed, as we cantered on, "I am very much interested; and I think all women ought to be - must be." "Getting to be serious earnest -" said the major, resignedly. I was silenced for a while. The words, "serious earnest," rang in my heart as we went through the streets. "Is it getting to be such serious earnest?" I asked as lightly as I could. "We shall know more about it soon," the major answered. _His_ carelessness was real. "How soon?" "May be any day. Beauregard is making ready for us at Manassas Junction." "How many men do you suppose he has?" "Can't tell," said the major. "There is no depending, I think myself, on any accounts we have. The Southern people generally are very much in earnest." "And the North are," I said. "It is just a question of who will hold out best." I thought I knew who those would be; and a shiver for a moment ran through my heart. Christian had said, that the success of his suit with my father and mother might depend on how the war went. And certainly, if the struggle should be at all prolonged and issue in the triumph of the rebels, they would have little favour for the enemies they would despise. How if the war went for the North? I believe I lost several sentences of my companion in the depth of my musing; remembered this would not do; shook off my thoughts and talked gayly, until we came to the place where he said the drilling process was going on. I wondered if it were the right place; then made sure that it was; and sat on my horse looking and waiting, with my heart in a great flutter. The artillery wagons were rushing about; I recognised _them;_ and a cloud of dust accompanied and swallowed up their movements, a little too distant from me just now to give room for close observation. "Well, how do you like it, Miss Randolph?" my major began, with a tone of some exultation at my supposed discomfiture. "It is very confused -" I said. "I do not see what they are doing." "No more than you could if it was a battle," said the major. "Won't they come nearer to us?" "No doubt they will, if we give them time enough." I would not take this hint. I had got my chance; I was not going to fling it away. I had discerned besides in the distant smoke and dust a dark figure on a gray horse, which I thought I knew. Nothing would have drawn me from the spot then. I kept up a scattering fire of talk with my companion, I do not know how, to prevent the exhaustion of his patience; while my heart went out at my eyes to follow the gray horse. I was rewarded at last. The whole battery charged down upon the point where we were standing, at full gallop, "as if we had been the Secession army," Major Fairbairn remarked; adding, that nothing but a good conscience could have kept me so quiet. And in truth guns and horses and all were close upon us before the order to halt was given, and the gunners flung themselves from the wagons and proceeded to unlimber and get the battery in working order, with the mouths of the cannon only a few yards from our standing-place. I hardly heard the major now, for the gray horse and dark rider were near enough to be seen, stationed quietly a few paces in the rear of the line of guns. I saw his eye going watchfully from one point to another of his charge; his head making quick little turns to right and left to see if all were doing properly; the horse a statue, the man alive as quicksilver, though nothing of him moved but his head. I was sure, very sure, that he would not see me. He was intent on his duty; spectators or the whole world looking on were nothing to him. He would not even perhaps be conscious that anybody was in his neighbourhood. I don't know whether I was most glad or sorry; though indeed, I desired nothing less than that he should give any sign that he saw me. How well he looked on horseback, I thought; how stately he sat there, motionless, overseeing his command. There was a pause now; they were all still, waiting for an order. I might have expected what it would be; but I did not, till the words suddenly came out - "Battery - Fire!" The voice went through my heart; but my horse's nerves were immediately as much disturbed as mine. The order was followed by a discharge of the whole battery at once, sounding as the burst of one gun. My horse, exceedingly surprised, lifted his fore feet in the air on the instant; and otherwise testified to his discomposure; and I had some little difficulty to keep him to the spot and bring him back to quietness. It was vexatious to lose such precious minutes; however, we were composed again by the time the smoke of the guns was clearing away. I could hardly believe my eyes. There lay the cannon, on the ground, taken from their carriages; the very carriages themselves were all in pieces; here lay one wheel, there lay another; the men were sitting around contentedly. "What is the matter?" I exclaimed. "The officer in charge of the drill, seeing what mischief his guns have unwittingly done, you see, Miss Randolph, has taken his battery to pieces. He will not fire any more while you are here. By George!" said the major, "I believe here he comes to tell us so." I wished myself away, as I saw the gray horse leap over some of the obstacles before him and bear down straight towards me. I bowed low, to hide various things. Mr. Thorold touched his cap gravely, to the major as well as to me, and then brought his gray horse alongside. "Your horse does not like my battery," he remarked. I looked up at him. His face was safely grave; it meant business; but his eyes sparkled a little for me; and as I looked he smiled, and added, "He wants a spur." "To make him run? I had difficulty enough to prevent his doing that just now, Mr. Thorold." "No; to make him stand still. He wants punishing." "Miss Randolph deserves a great deal of credit," said the major. "But all Southern women know how to ride; and the men to fight." "We are going to have a hard time then," said Thorold; with a wilful presuming on his privileges. "But what have you done with your battery?" I asked. "Taken it to pieces - as you see." "Pray, what for? I thought something was the matter." "Nothing was the matter, I am glad to know," Thorold said looking at me. "It is sometimes necessary to do this sort of thing in a hurry; and the only way to do it then in a hurry, is to practise now when there is no hurry. You shall see how little time it will take to get ready for another order to fire. But Miss Randolph had better be out of the way first. Are you going farther?" The major said he hoped so, and I answered certainly. "I shall fire no more while you are here," Thorold said as he touched his cap, and he gallopped back to his place. He sat like a rock; it was something pretty to see. Then came an order, which I could not distinguish; and in an incredibly short time wheels were geared, guns were mounted, and the dismantled condition of everything replaced by the most alert order. The major said it was done very well, and told me how quick it could be done; I forget, but I think he said in much less than a minute; and then I know he wanted to move; but I could not. I held my place still, and the battery manoeuvred up and down the ground in all manner of directions, forming in various forms of battery; which little by little I got the major partially to explain. He was not very fluent; and I did not like his explanations; but nevertheless it was necessary to give him something to do, and I kept him busy, while the long line of artillery wagons rushed over the ground, and skirted it, and trailed across it in diagonal lines; walking sometimes, and sometimes going at full speed of horses and wheels. It stirred me, it saddened me, it fascinated me, all at once; while the gray horse and his rider held my eye far and near with a magnet hold. Sometimes in one part of the line, sometimes in another, the moving spirit and life of the whole. I followed and watched him with eye and heart, till my heart grew sick and I turned away. CHAPTER VI. IN THE FIRE My ride with Major Fairbairn made me unsettled. Or else it was my seeing Mr. Thorold at his drill. A certain impatience seized me; an impatience of the circumstances and position in which I found myself privately, and of the ominous state and position of affairs in public. The horizon black with clouds, the grumble of the storm, and yet the portentous waiting and quiet which go before the storm's burst. It irked me to see Mr. Thorold as I had seen him yesterday; knowing ourselves united, but standing apart as if it were not so, and telling a lie to the world. It weighed on me, and I half felt that Christian was right and that anything openly acknowledged was easier to bear. And then Major Fairbairn's talk had filled me with fears. He represented things as being so very threatening, and the outbreak of the storm as being so very near; I could not regain the tranquillity of the days past, do what I would. I did a very unwise thing, I suppose, for I went to reading the papers. And they were full of Northern preparations and of Southern boastings; I grew more and more unsettled as I read. Among other things, I remember, was a letter from Russell, the _Times_ correspondent, over which my heart beat wearily. For Mr. Russell, I thought, being an Englishman, and not a party to our national quarrel, might be expected to judge more coolly and speak more dispassionately than our own writers, either South or North. And the speeches he reported as heard from Southern gentlemen, and the feelings he observed to be common among them, were most adverse to any faint hope of mine that the war might soon end, or end advantageously for the North, or when it ended, leave my father and mother kindly disposed for my happiness. All the while I read, a slow knell seemed to be sounding at my heart. "We could have got on with those fanatics if they had been either Christians or gentlemen" - "there are neither Christians nor gentlemen among them." "Nothing on earth shall ever induce us to submit to any union with the brutal, bigoted blackguards of the New England States, who neither comprehend nor regard the feelings of gentlemen." That was like what Preston said. I recognised the tone well. And when it was added, "Man, woman, and child, we'll die first" - I thought it was probably true. What chance then for Christian and me? "There is nothing in all the dark caves of human passion," Mr. Russell wrote, "so cruel and deadly as the hatred the South Carolinians profess for the Yankees." The end of the letter contained a little comfort in the intimation of more moderate counsels just then taking favour; but I went back to my father and mother, and aunt, and Preston, and others; and comfort found no lodgment with me. Then there was an extract from a Southern paper, calling Yankees "the most contemptible and detestable of God's creation" - speaking of their "mean, niggardly lives - their low, vulgar and sordid occupations" - and I thought, How can peace be? or what will it be when it comes? I went out for my usual evening walk, longing and half dreading to see Mr. Thorold; for I did not like to show him my fears; they gave him pain; and yet at the same time I wanted him to scold them away. But this time I did not see him. I walked the avenue, at first eagerly, then anxiously; then with an intense pressing pain and suspense which could hardly be borne. Neither Thorold nor Thorold's horse appeared among all the figures moving there; and after walking as long as I dared, I was fain to go home with that pain in my heart. It seemed, as I went up the stairs to my room, almost as if I could die at once with it. Yet I had to make my hair smooth and meet Mrs. Sandford at tea, and hear all her little details about Dr. Sandford's illness; which, as they were precisely the same as those of the day before, had nothing even to hold my attention for a moment. But I attended. It was necessary. And I eat toast and drank tea. That was necessary too; with every mouthful a stab of pain, and every little ordinary incident of the tea-table a wrenching of my heartstrings. One does those things quietly and the world never knows. But I hailed it as a great relief when Mrs. Sandford rose from the table. "Poor Daisy!" she said. "I must leave you to yourself again - all alone. It's too bad!" "I like it very well so," I told her. "It mustn't go on," she said. "Really it must not. You will mope, if you don't already. _Don't_ you, Daisy? Where are all your admirers?" She had touched my face caressingly with her fingers, and I had to look up and meet her. It was one of the hardest minutes of self-control I ever knew. I met her and answered calmly, even coldly; and she went; and I sat down and shrank, I remember how I shrank, lowering my head and neck and shoulders in a crushing reaction from the erect self-assertion of the moment before. The next thing, two hands were on my shoulders and a voice whispered in my ear a question, "what was the matter?". So as no other voice ever asked me that question; - with the tender assumption of the right to know, and an equally gentle hint that there was comfort and help somewhere not far off. Now, however, I only started up with terror at hearing that voice there; - terror instantly displaced by another terror at the reason of its being there. I knew, I can't tell how I knew, by the first glance into Mr. Thorold's face. "Yes," said he, in a low voice, "I have got orders." "Where?" I managed to ask. "To do what?" "I must take a battery across the country to General Patterson." "That will take you out of the way," I said. "Out of the way of what?" said he, drawing me to his breast, and looking down into my face with his hazel eyes sparkling over a depth of something that was not merry. "Out of the way of what, Daisy?" he repeated. "Out of the way of fighting, do you mean? Is that your way of being a proper soldier's wife? It is out of your way, love; that is what I think of." I hid my face and we stood still. It was no time then to be dignified. "How long?" - I whispered at last. "Impossible to tell, you know. I could not meet you this evening. I must be off in an hour." "To-night?" "Yes." There was another silence. "What is General Patterson doing?" I ventured then. "I suppose he has to keep Johnston in order. How long will you stay in Washington? - can you tell?" "Till Dr. Sandford can travel. - He is no better." "Well!" - and a breath of a sigh came then which went to my heart - "Something will be decided before a few days; and then we shall know a little better where we stand. I must go!" He clasped me close and gave me kisses all over my face; but I would not have lost one this time. Then he gently put me on the sofa, pressed his lips to mine one last time, and was out of the room in an instant. I listened to every step in the hall; I heard him open the door and shut it; I heard his foot upon the stone steps outside two or three times; and then I had lost all. I sat very still and stunned for a long time. There seemed nothing to do. I could not rouse myself. It was the fear of being found there that roused me at last. I gathered myself up, and went to my room. Oh days, days! How much one lives through. I was keen set now for news, army news especially; and I spent hours in studying all the public prints that were within reach of my hand. So contradictory they were, and so confusing, that they made me only the more long for actual living advices. The second day, Major Fairbairn came to ask me again to ride; and though at first I thought I could not, the next feeling of restless uncertainty and suspense decided me. Better be on a horse's back than anywhere else, perhaps. And Major Fairbairn was not a bad person to talk to. But I had to nerve myself forcibly to the task of entering upon the subject I wanted. "How perplexing the papers are," I remarked, by way of making an easy beginning. "Find them so?" said the major. "That is because you read all sides." "How else can one make up one's mind? How can you know what is the truth?" "Apparently you do not know it that way," said the major, smiling. "No; the way is, to choose your side, and stick to it. Then you stand a chance to be comfortable." "But you cannot go into society without hearing more sides than one." "Silence the wrong." "I want to know first which is right." "Haven't you found _that_ out yet?" my companion said, with a surprised glance at me. "I thought, Miss Randolph, you were a safe person; all right for the good cause." "Oh, yes, of course, that is not the question. I do not want to hear both sides to decide that. But I mean lesser questions; movements, probabilities, dangers; the truth of actual events. _Those_ I want to know about." "I am sure, so do I," said the major. "I hoped you could enlighten me, Major Fairbairn." "About movements?" said the major. "Well, our forces are moving; there is no doubt. McDowell is going forward in earnest at last." "Against Beauregard?" "Against whatever he meets; and I suppose Beauregard will meet him." "Then there will be a battle?" "I hope so." "Why do you hope so, Major Fairbairn?" "It is the shortest way to peace, Miss Randolph. But it is not likely that one battle will do it." "I know it will not if the North succeed," I said; "but how if the Southern army should get the better?" "You aren't a rebel in disguise?" said the major, looking askance at me. "Is my reputation in danger, to be riding with you?" "It is just as well to look the truth in the face, Major Fairbairn." "So it is; you are right there," said my companion seriously enough. "Well, I look for a long tussle of it, whichever way this particular game goes to-day. It will be well if there is anything left to fight for, by the time it is over." "There is always the truth" - I said. "The truth gives poor board wages to its servants, though," said the major. "It is all very well to cry 'victory,' when there is no corn in the hopper." "Is it likely that Patterson will fight?" I asked, with my heart in my mouth. I had been trying to get this question out; and it seemed to me now as if every word were as big as two. "Humph! - I don't know," said the major. "I suppose he will, if he can't help it." "What do you mean?" "Why, he has got work enough to do," said Major Fairbairn. "I don't know if it is work that he likes. I have some private acquaintance with the man. His business is to keep Johnston busy, so that he will not have leisure to look our way." "And suppose Patterson does not do his duty?" "Then we may have too much on our hands. Beauregard doesn't want any help just now." And weary, no doubt, of the subject, the major diverged to some lighter matters of conversation. I tried to answer and make talk, but my heart was very sick. I could hardly know what he was saying; Beauregard, and Patterson, and Johnston, so ran in my thoughts. I suppose the major did not find it out, for he seemed very well satisfied, and at parting said that "after the victory" he would come and have another ride with me. So I waited now for news. Dull, dreadful days; long with an interminable length of quarters and half hours; heavy with fear. They were not many; for the morning but one, I think, after my last ride, a gentleman stopped me in the street to tell me that firing had been heard that morning, and McDowell had, it was thought, met his enemy. I calculated the days since I had seen Mr. Thorold; speculated on Patterson's probable activity or non-activity, and Christian's consequent place and duty in the position of affairs; and could only know that it was all a confusion of pain. At first I thought to go at once back to the house and give up my walk; but a second thought of that dull weary waiting inside of walls sent me on up the avenue. I might hear something more; at any rate, the open sky was a better breathing-place. The open sky! Blue and calm as ever; moveless and pure; while the grim strife of a battlefield was raging beneath it. Was there another struggle where Johnston's forces were opposed by General Patterson? And why could I not leave my cares now, as so many a time I had left them, as I longed to leave them this minute, - in the hand that upheld that blue sky? I could not. That is to say, I did in some fashion, which kept me from utterly fainting; but I was not confident; I was not willing that the will of God should be done irrespective of mine, If writhed from under the pressure of a coming possibility. Could I help it? My one first earthly joy, the treasure that gathered up all life's riches for me; could I think of that treasure being scattered and not know that should be left poor? And what if God willed I should be thus poor? Ah, I was not ready. I had a long, feverish walk, made as long as I could; and came home with a sort of thirst of heart, and very weary. Mrs. Sandford met me, and I had to turn into the parlour. "Grant is a little better, I think," she said. I could not find words to speak to her. If he was better, why, then, he would be taking me from Washington. I knew how it would be. "He is certainly better," she repeated, with exultation in her voice; "and now, my dear Daisy, we will get away from this horrid place. My dear, how - how _grey_ you look! What is the matter? you are tired to death." I almost wished I was. However, I commanded myself, and told her I had been walking far, and it was hot, and no doubt I was grey with dust. "And do you know," Mrs. Sandford went on, "they say the attack has commenced. Firing has been heard from some direction down in Virginia; the doctor told me." "Mr. Vinton told me." "Did he? while you were out? and you never mentioned it! Daisy, you are the coolest creature! I envy you for that more than for everything else you have got; though people do say - some people - that Miss Randolph's grey eyes are depths of delight. My dear! whose possible encomiums have I hit in your memory, that your cheeks are taking up the matter with such a delicious rose colour?" She did not know what she touched. It was no vanity, but her words brought up suddenly what Thorold had told his aunt about Vermont lakes, and all the bitter-sweetness of that evening. My heart swelled. I was very near bursting into tears and astonishing Mrs. Sandford. "Daisy, my dear," she said fondly and half seriously, "you are too great a treasure to be risked out of your parents' hands. The responsibility is weighing upon me. I hope Grant will get well, I am sure, and take us away. What with one sort of danger and another, it is really too much. Fancy, what it would be if we were to lose this battle! Why, the rebels would be here in no time; the doctor said so." "Well -" I said. I could not tell all my thought; that in such an event I would not be anywhere but where I was, for worlds; unless indeed I could be with the army of General Patterson before Johnston. "Is Dr. Sandford really better?" I asked. "He certainly is; I am so glad! and I will tell him you asked so earnestly about him, and that will make him better still. Yes, we will get away now from this dismal place some time, I do believe. Do go and lie down, Daisy; and I will send you some lemonade." The lemonade stood by me all day; while I thought of the smoke and the conflict to which no refreshment could come. I could not touch the lemonade. I cannot tell now whether that day was Friday or Saturday. I have tried to recollect, and I cannot. I am not sure whether it was not Thursday. But I know it was Saturday evening when the next thing happened which stands clear in my memory. I was in my own room, forlornly endeavouring to work some worsted embroidery; - though the sickness of my heart seemed to find its way into my fingers, and it was with pain and difficulty that they pulled the needle in and out. It was only more difficult to sit still and do nothing; and to read was impossible. I sat drawing the wool through the canvass-drawing long threads of thought at the same time - when Mrs. Sandford burst in. "Daisy! - they say McDowell has had a bad time - they have driven him back, or something; isn't it dreadful! - and there you sit embroidering as quiet as can be. But bless me, child! you haven't a bit of colour. Washington will kill us all yet." "Who told you?" "Doctor Barnard says it's so; it's all through the city. And if the rebels get the better of McDowell, they'll come straight here, Daisy, and take Washington. Oh, I wish Grant was well enough to set right off to-morrow! but he isn't. How can you be so quiet? I tell you, our army has been repulsed, and how bad it is nobody knows." "We had better wait till somebody does know," I said. "We have had repulses before. There was Big Bethel - and Vienna - and a great many." "But this is McDowell and the great army; and Beauregard has hosts at his back." "Well! -" I said. "But you are dreadfully pale, Daisy. How can you keep so quiet? What are you made of?" "I do not think they will take Washington," I said. "I am in no hurry, for my part, to get away. Look - do you say maroon or dark purple for this bit of grounding? I cannot make up my mind." Mrs. Sandford dived into the purples and browns of my coloured wools; came back again to McDowell and Beauregard, but came back quieted, and presently left the room. Then, I put down my needle and laid my head on the table, and shook from head to foot with the trembling she had given me. And a longing to see Christian took possession of me; a sick, crying thirst for the sight, if it were only for a minute; the impatient agony of self-will. Necessity's bands and manacles put it down after a time. The next day was Sunday. I went to church alone, and with my usual average of calm. But I heard some one say to his neighbour, that there was a great battle going forward - with what promise nobody knew. The words sent me home with a sort of half breath. I avoided Mrs. Sandford, took no dinner; and in the afternoon feverishly crept out to church again. The air seemed to me full of bodings. Yet I heard nothing. I saw people whisper each other, and nod; I thought good news was given and received, and I breathed a little easier. It was not till I was coming out from the service that any one spoke to me. I found myself then near a gentleman whom we knew. "Glorious news, Miss Randolph!" he half whispered. "General Scott will dine with a good appetite to-day." "What is the news" "Oh, a great victory! We have not got the details yet, of course; but it seems all is going right." "It _seems_ going right." "Yes. You know we have not details yet. There's been heavy fighting, though." "Is it a general engagement?" "Oh, yes! All in that could be in. And some that had no business to be in. They say, Johnston has reinforced Beauregard; but they are totally routed, I believe. So it is said." "Who says it?" "The accounts from the battlefield, I presume. They are coming in all the time. The Nation has triumphed. I congratulate you. I know you are loyal. Mrs. Sand- ford will be rejoiced. Good afternoon." It was too sudden, too soon, and too confused. I could not breathe freely yet. Johnston reinforced Beauregard? That was just what Patterson was expected to prevent; ought to have prevented. Then, probably, Patterson had done no fighting? I was pondering, when I suddenly found Major Fairbairn beside me. He belonged with the troops left to guard Washington. "Oh, Major," said I, "what is the news?" "Firing down in Virginia, -" said the major, laconically. "Is it true, that a battle has been won by McDowell?" "I wish it were," said he; "but in general it is safe not to speak of a fight till it is over." "Then it is not over?" "I have not heard that it is." "But they tell me a fight has been won." "They tell every conceivable thing in war-time," said the major. "Don't you know that? It is safe to believe nothing." "Has Johnston joined Beauregard?" "I am afraid he has. The advices seem to put that beyond disbelief." "You are _afraid!_ Then the news means nothing to you; nothing good, I mean?" "The rumours mean nothing to me," said the major, smiling. "The reliable news is really, so far, not much. It is certain there is a battle going on, Miss Randolph, and a battle along the whole line. And it is certain that Patterson had orders to follow up Johnston, and keep him from troubling us. And I am afraid it is also certain that he has not done it - confound him! Excuse me; but a man who don't obey orders deserves to have people swear at him, Miss Randolph." I left the major at a corner, and before I got home, another acquaintance informed me that the victory was undoubted, though severely purchased, and that the city was in a state of exultation. I did not know what to think. I said as little as possible to Mrs. Sandford; but later in the evening Dr. Barnard came with the details of the day, and the added intelligence that since seven o'clock the firing had recommenced. "What for? if the victory is sure?" said Mrs. Sandford; and I went to my room feeling that it was not sure. Nevertheless I slept that night. I cannot tell why, or how. Whether it were most akin to weariness or despair, I slept, and quietly, and the whole night through. But I know very well that I awaked with a full sense that it was not to quietness nor peace. I took up my burden as I got out of bed. My room was at the back of the house. Consequently I heard and saw nothing of the outer world till I came down to the breakfast-room. Nobody was there yet, and I went to the window. The first thing I saw then made my heart stand still. A group was gathered just before the window, on the sidewalk. In the midst a soldier, one of a gay Zouave regiment, not at all gay now, stood talking to a little crowd of listeners; talking in a pouring rain, which nobody seemed to care about. He was wet; his bright uniform was stained and draggled; he had no musket; and his tasseled cap sat on a head which in every line and movement expressed defeat and disgrace. So they all listened who stood around; I read it as well as if I had heard the words they were hearing. I saw dejection, profound sorrow, absorbed attention, utter forgetfulness of present bodily discomfort. I noticed that one man who carried an umbrella had put it down, and stood listening in the rain. Occasionally the soldier raised his arm to eke out his words with a gesture; and then moved a step as if to go on, but they closed around him again and staid him with eager questions or urgings. I was very near throwing up the sash to ask what it all was; and then I thought, what matter! I should know soon enough, But I could not move from the window; and Mrs. Sandford entering and seeing me there came and looked over my shoulder. I did not know it, till I heard her - "Good Heavens! - Daisy, my dear, what is the matter?" "We shall hear presently," I said, turning away from the window. "But what is it?" - And Mrs. Sandford first took my place, and then did what I had been tempted to do; - threw up the sash. "What is the matter?" she said. "Is there news. Men, is there news?" I do not know what was answered; I did not hear; I had gone into the middle of the room; but Mrs. Sanford closed the window presently and came to me, looking even pale. A rare thing for her. "Daisy, there is trouble," she said. "Yes, -" I answered. "How do you know? They say - they say, the army is all cut to pieces!" I could not speak about it. We knew nothing yet; but Mrs. Sandford went on - "He says, everybody is killed. All routed and destroyed, the army is. Can it be possible?" I thought it was very possible: I never had doubted but that the Southerners - as a body - were the best fighters. But I said nothing; while Mrs. Sandford poured out sorrows and fears and speculations in a breath. I could have smiled, but that I could not have smiled. We stood still, looking at each other, nobody remembering breakfast. I was thinking, if the cause was lost, where would Mr. Thorold be then. And I ceased to hear Mrs. Sandford. "But Daisy!" she said suddenly - "the other army - Beauregard's - they will be here directly to take Washington, if all this is true; and it must be true; or that soldier would not have been out there in the rain. They will be coming here directly, Daisy. And, bless me! how wicked I am! You are standing there, patient and pale, and you have had no breakfast. Come here and let me give you some coffee. Grant said he would be down to dinner perhaps; and how angry he would be." We drank cups of coffee, but I do not think either of us broke bread. That was a weary day. All the day long new groups were forming and dispersing in the street, telling and talking over the news; groups of all sorts. Soldiers discoursing to audiences like the one in the morning; knots of officers; twos and threes of business men; debating, inquiring, discussing; all under the dark rain, all with downcast faces and dispirited bearing. Late in the day Major Fairbairn called. He somewhat reassured us. The carnage was not so great; the loss not so tremendous, as we had at first been told; the damage done not so absolutely overwhelming. "Then you do not think Beauregard will come and take Washington?" Mrs. Sandford asked. "I don't know!" the major said, with a smile. "He must be quick about it, or it will be too late." "But is this a final settling of the question, Major Fairbairn?" I inquired. "That is what I want to know." "We have been whipped," he said, looking at me. "Yes, I know; but the North - will they take this as a settlement of the question?" "The North!" echoed the Major. "Will they give up, you mean? Not just yet! The Government does not feel like it. Do you?" "I am so ignorant -" I answered. "You must be, - pardon my saying so. Not at all. The sting of the whip will make us move faster. Orders are issued already for the reinforcement and reorganisation of the army. General McClellan is to take command here; and we will get things upon a new basis." "Is McClellan the man we want?" Mrs. Sandford inquired. "I cannot say. If he is not, we will wait for another." "You are very cool, Major Fairbairn!" said the lady. "It is the best plan, in July." "But it is very hard to keep cool." The major smiled and looked at me. "What has Patterson been doing all this while?" I asked. Smiles died out of the major's face. "_He_ has kept cool," he said. "Easy - when a man never was warm." "And you think, major," said Mrs. Sandford, "you really think that the truth is not so bad as it has been reported. Why, Mr. May was positive the rebels would come and take Washington. You think there has not been such dreadful loss of life after all?". "A tenth of the story will be nearer the mark," said the major. "But we shall know more particulars to-morrow; and I will step in again, as I can, and let you know what I know. I must not stay now." And with a bow to me, the major went. I did not stop then to inquire what his bow meant. Nor did I hear Mrs. Sandford's long string of comments and speculations, any further than was necessary to enable me to reply from time to time with some show of connectedness. I was eagerly calculating chances, without any basis of data to go upon. Trying to conjecture General Patterson's probable coming duty, and to what it might lead. If his foe had disappeared from before him, must he not follow on this way, where (I thought) men were so imperatively needed? If he came, there would be fighting for him, certainly, the next time! Beauregard would muster again for the fray; I knew that; and it seemed the Union army was going to make ready also on its side. If Patterson and his command staid where he was, to take care of that part of the country, perhaps it might be a bloodless charge for a while; it might, till the two grand armies should encounter once more, and one or the other get the mastery. Then, how long might it be, before these two armies would be ready to try another, a third tussle together? and would Mr. Thorold be willing to stay permanently where inaction would be his portion? Twenty such incongruous unreasonable questions I was mooting and turning over, while Mrs. Sandford's running fire of talk made it impossible for me to think to any conclusion. When I went up to my room, however, and got free of her, I sat down to it. There had been no fighting for this bout in that part of the army where Patterson commanded and where Thorold served. So far he had escaped. Now, if Patterson could only be kept in that region, for a little time, and the question between the North and South be brought to an issue meanwhile and decided here - I was in a fever of hope and fear, cogitating deeply things which I had no means of knowing or settling, when the question suddenly occurred to me, What was I doing? What was I doing? Only, trying to arrange the wheels of Providence; trying to make peace and war; to kill and to keep alive. I was taking and bearing on my shoulders the burden of the nation's armies and of their destiny. It fell on my heart all at once, what I was doing. And my nerves were straining, even now, to throw around my beloved the shield of circumstances; to keep him where he would be safe; to put my hand between his life and a blow. Could Daisy do that? Was her arm long enough, or her eye enough far-seeing? In despair and in humiliation both, I fell on my knees. _This_ must be given up. I must leave armies and battles, yes and every several bullet and cannon ball, yes, yes, and more; I must leave Mr. Thorold's life and heart in other hands than mine. I must put the care of them out of mine; I must give up even the thought of shielding him, or arranging for him. More. Yes, though it pressed upon my heart with the great difficulty, I must be willing to have God do, with him and with me, just what He pleased. How else could I live, with the struggle before me? How else could I live at all as a believing and obedient child of God? "I must," and "I will," are not words for a child to say. My heart, my heart, how it died within me as I saw my duty! as I saw that it behoved me to give up all, and then wait in patience to see what the Lord would let me have. My heart died first, and then rose again to the struggle. But those only know what a struggle it is, who, have tried. It seems to me, most people, even Christians, do not try. Yet, to "forsake all," the test of discipleship, what is it but to cease saying "I must" and "I will," about anything, and to hold everything thenceforth at the will of God. I spent that night on my knees, when I was not walking the floor. I spent it in tears and in pleading the promises; sometimes almost in despair. But I reached at last a place of great calm. I gave up insisting upon my own will; and though with every nerve of affection throbbing, as it were, I gave up the care of myself and of Thorold; I gave up the disposal of the lives of both. And when the calm was once reached, it grew deeper and quieter, and the throbbing nerves were stilled, and a great burden was taken off my shoulders. And then, the sense of a love better than mine, and of a power stronger than mine, stole over my heart with an infinite sweetness; the parched and thirsty places of my spirit seemed to catch the dews of heaven; and still soothed and quieted more and more, I went to sleep with my head upon the bed's side, where I was kneeling. CHAPTER VII. DETAILED FOR DUTY I awaked in the peace of one who has laid his burden down. My joints were a little stiff, from the position in which I had slept; my mind was set free. The charge of the rival armies and their conflicts was no longer on my shoulders; even the care of individual life and safety I thought no longer to secure. Myself I was a soldier, in a different army; and I had been forgetting my business and presuming into the General's province. No wonder my nerves were strained and my heart almost broken. That was now all given up; and I went through my morning duties in a quiet that was profound, if it was also very humble. I had found the only harbour of rest that can be found on the shores of this world; that one which is entered by paying the tribute of one's self-will. The tides of the great sea do not rise and fall there; the anchorage is good; the winds that weep over the waters bring balm with them; and the banner that floats at the entrance bears this inscription - "He shall not be afraid of evil tidings; his heart is fixed, trusting in the Lord." The first thing I heard from Mrs. Sandford was that he doctor was almost well, and would come down stairs after breakfast. I knew what that portended for me; thought I knew; but as I said, I had given up the management of myself and my concerns. "If ye be not able to do that thing which is least, why take ye thought for the rest?" I got my worsted and sat down stairs at my work, to be ready to see the doctor when he should come. Mrs. Sandford took post at the window; and so we waited. The weather to-day was clear and bright; the street full yet of motley groups, returned soldiers and gathered civilians, looking however far less dismal than the day before. Mrs. Sandford from the window detailed all she saw; while my worsted needle went in and out to an interrupted refrain - "He shall not be afraid of evil tidings" - "Why take ye thought?" - Then Mrs. Sandford said, "Here comes the major, Daisy. It seems to me he is very attentive -" and in the major walked. He gave his hand to me, and his eye glanced at the figure in the window. I could not help the thought that he wished it not there. But things too far down had been stirred in me, for a little surface matter like this to move my calm. "What news, major?" my friend asked. "Good. How do you do, Mrs. Sandford? I told you yesterday that it would be good." "Yes, but how good is it, Major Fairbairn?" "Fine." "Well, go on and tell us. You are a nice major." "Thank you. In the first place, as you may remember I said it would be, the lists of casualties are greatly reduced." "Casualties?" said Mrs. Sandford. "What is that? I am learning so many new things." "The lists of the killed and wounded." "Oh! That is what a military man calls _casualties_, Daisy, my dear." "It is the term in common use -" said the major, looking somewhat taken aback. "I know. Pray, Major Fairbairn, have the officers of the army the reputation of making good husbands and heads of families?" "I have always heard that they did," said the major, colouring a little and by no means free of his astonishment. "I don't see how they can have any sympathy for little common heartaches and headaches, though, when to be run through the body is such a trifle. They can't, I think, major." "But Mrs. Sandford -" "For instance," the lady went on, unmercifully, - "for instance, Miss Randolph has her head taken off by a cannon ball. The doctor and I are desolate; but Major Fairbairn says it is a 'casualty.' Or, the doctor himself may be hit by a shot not intended for him, and put out of charge of his hospital for ever. Miss Randolph and I are in ashes; but our friend Major Fairbairn says it is only a 'casualty.' " "But _friends_, Mrs. Sandford, -" the major began. "Everybody has friends," said Mrs. Sandford. "I was reading in the paper just now a list of these little accidents. One man had his leg shattered by a minie ball; it killed him in a few hours. Another had a charge of grape-shot in his breast; it struck the spine. _He_ is dead. What is grape-shot, Major Fairbairn?" The major hastily passed to the sideboard in the other room and brought me a glass of water. "Daisy!" Mrs. Sandford exclaimed. "Are you faint, my dear? These are only casualties. My dear, are you faint? what is the matter? - Bless me, how white you are! What is it?" I drank the water, and struggled back into composure, at least outwardly; being very much surprised at myself. "But what _is_ the matter, Daisy? what is the matter? I have said nothing in the world. Cannot you bear that?" "Major Fairbairn was going to tell us something, ma'am," I said, endeavouring to throw my thoughts off. "That can wait until you are better." "No," I said, "do not wait. I am well. What were you going to say, major?" "Only that things are much better than they were supposed to be yesterday." "You said that before. Please go on." "Well, it is always so," said the major. "At first all the stragglers are counted for lost. Then they come in. They are coming in now, by scores, all the while. Instead of thousands killed and wounded, it is found to-day that there are but five or six hundred; and without being particularly hard-hearted, I rejoice at it. That is part of what I was going to say." The major spoke gravely, and looked at me with an anxious expression. I assured him I was better, and begged him to tell us the rest. "You have put it all out of my head, Miss Randolph. Will you have - won't you have - something else? - wine? Pardon me, you have not regained your usual colour." "The best thing would be some more of your good news. I have a great appetite for good news, after yesterday." "Naturally. Well, the rest of my news is very good. The country is answering the call made upon her." "The call for fortitude?" said Mrs. Sandford. "The call for men, - and for pluck, if you like," said the major. "More men," - said Mrs. Sandford. "Certainly. We must have men. And from every quarter, wherever we have heard, there comes an enthusiastic response. Sixty thousand new men have been accepted already by the Government; and they are coming in all the while. There will be a very great number of fresh arrivals here in a very few days. Miss Randolph, your question is answered." "What question, Major Fairbairn?" "Whether the North would give up, you know." "I am glad," I said. "I am glad!" "And even in saying it, you grow pale again, Daisy. You are not well!" Mrs. Sandford exclaimed. "Perfectly well. These times are exciting." "Rather too exciting. I like the excitement that brings the blood into the cheeks. Do go out and take a walk; you want fresh air; or yesterday has unstrung your nerves. But you were so quiet, I thought nothing moved you. Do go and take a walk, Daisy." The major added a quiet word of urging, saying that if I could go at once, he would see that I did not faint before I got home. I was bewildered, I think, or I should not have gone; but I wanted to get away from the talk and to feel the fresh air; I was stifled; and I went. My nervous perturbation was a surprise to me. I had given up everything, I thought; I was quite calm, ready for everything. I thought I was; and yet, so little a word had unsettled me. So I went with the major. And then, I was brought to myself presently by more than the fresh air; for I found my friend somewhat too happy in his charge, and more careful of me than I chose he should think there was any occasion for. Moreover, I could not bear to accept his care. I summoned my forces and plunged him into a depth of political and philosophical discussion which he could not get out of till he left me again at my own door. I reassured Mrs. Sandford then; and sat down to my worsted embroidery with a profound sense of how little my strength was. A few minutes afterwards Dr. Sandford came in. I had not seen him now for several weeks; and I never saw him look better. It immediately struck me, that with him well, it mattered comparatively little whether Mr. Thorold and I were in the same place together or not. Dr. Sandford's clear blue eye was not to be braved with impunity. No more was it to be shunned. But I needed not to shun it. I met it full now. I could, since last night. The disposal of my affairs, if it was not in me, it certainly was not in him. He met me with a smile and a look of pleasure; and sat down by me to watch the progress of my worsted work. So ostensibly; but I soon knew that he was watching not my work, but me. "How have these weeks been with Miss Randolph? Dull?" "No," I said; - "not dull." "How have they escaped that?" "There has been too much to interest, Dr. Sandford." "Yet I see you at your Berlin wools. Pardon me - but whenever I see a lady busy with her needle and a bit of canvass, I always think she is hard up for something to think of. Pardon again, Daisy. I know you have no mercy upon slang." "See how mistaken you are, Dr. Sandford." "In that? Not in that." "No; but in your notions about wool and canvass." "They are true!" said the doctor. "Ah, but, don't you know that extremes meet?" "What extremes?" "All extremes, perhaps. I have been working worsted; for a day or two, just because I had so much to think of." "They have been exciting days," said the doctor slowly, "to a sick man who could do nothing." "Why not to a woman, for the same reason?" "Have they tried you very much, Daisy?" "Why, she was turning faint here a little while ago," broke in Mrs. Sandford, "because I was giving an account of some wounded soldiers I had read about in the papers; and the major and I persuaded her to go out and take a walk to recover herself." "The major? - that is indefinite, though you use the definite article. What major?" "Oh, we have a number of military friends. They have kept us alive since you have been shut up. What is this one, Daisy? He is a very good one. Major Fairbairn." "Fairbairn? I do not know him," said the doctor. "It is not necessary that you should know everybody," said his sister-in-law. "Daisy knows him very well." "And likes him -" said the doctor; "or he could not have a share in persuading Miss Randolph to anything." "Yes, I like him," I said. I thought, the more friends in the army I had, the better; and also, that Dr. Sandford must not be permitted to push his lines too far. "Who _is_ Major Fairbairn?" "I do not know; he is from Maine or New Hampshire, I think." "Your parents, Daisy, would not desire these Northern associations for you; would they?" I do not know with what calm I faced the doctor and answered him. "These Northern associations" - the words touched the innermost beatings of my heart - if such an expression can be used. Yet I looked at Dr. Sandford in absolute calm, knowing all that the doctor did not know, and spoke with perfect composure. "I cannot escape them, you know, Dr. Sandford, unless I were to go over to the enemy's lines; and I cannot do that." "I would not wish that," said the doctor. "Then your feelings continue all with the Northern men, Daisy?" "All -" I said. I went back to my worsted work, but I had a sense that the doctor was studying me. One cannot judge, of course, of one's own manner, or know what is in it; so I cannot tell what had been in mine. The doctor sat and considered me; I thought, in some perplexity. "Daisy's feelings are appreciated and returned by the Northern men," Mrs. Sandford said, laughing. "Rides and walks - how many rides and walks have you taken, Daisy, these forlorn weeks, with officers of the Northern army? Oh! they are not ungrateful." Dr. Sandford made no answer, and when he spoke I knew he was not making answer to these words. But they startled me. "Is there anybody engaged in this struggle, Daisy, that you are concerned for?" "Certainly!" I said; - "several." "I was not aware -" the doctor began. "Some whom you know, and some whom you don't know, and on both sides." "You have a cousin, I believe, somewhere in the Southern army. He was at West Point, if I remember." "Preston Gary. I do not know where he is now, only he is among them. They say, he is with Beauregard. I was very fond of him. Then there is my brother; he either is with them or he will be; and there are still others." "On the Southern side," said the doctor. "Those two are on the Southern side," I said. "Others are on the Northern. I am there myself." "Not exactly in the struggle," said the doctor; "and yet, I do not know. These women!" I think the doctor was baffled by my perfect quietness and readiness. He spoke presently in a disengaged manner, - "Mr. Ransom Randolph is in no danger at present. I know from a word in a late letter from your father, that he is in Europe still. Would you not like to get out of this confused state of things, and join them there?" "I would like better to go if it was peace here," I said. "Would you? Then you are not afraid lest the rebels should take Washington and confiscate the whole of us?" "Major Fairbairn thinks the danger of that is past." "He does! However, other dangers might arise -" "I knew you would not think Washington very safe ground for us," Mrs. Sandford rejoined. "Mrs. Sandford is at her own risk. But I should hardly be doing the duty of a good guardian if I risked anything, where so important a charge is committed to me. I shall get you away from here without delay. How soon can you both be ready?" I wanted to say I was ready, but I could not get out the words. My two friends debated the matter, and the doctor fixed his own time. The day after to-morrow. It was good for me, that I had given up the charge of my own interests; or I never could have maintained the ease of manner which it was desirable to maintain in face of this proposition. I was very calm, remembering that "a man's heart deviseth his way, but the Lord directeth his steps." I went on with my worsted stitching under the eye of the doctor. I do not know why he watched me so. "Has anybody ventured to tell you, Miss Randolph, that you have changed within a few months?" This question was put after I had forgotten the doctor and was marching somewhere before a battery in Patterson's column. I started a little. "Yes, indeed! has she not?" exclaimed Mrs. Sandford. "Changed! She came out of school the dearest little schoolgirl that ever lived; or I should say, she went back to school so, last year. What has the year done to you, Daisy?" "What _has_ it done to me?" I replied, smiling at her. "How am I changed?" "Changed!" Mrs. Sandford repeated. "Tell her, Grant, what is she now?" "She would not thank me for telling her," said the doctor. "But I will thank you, Mrs. Sandford," I said. "I _was_ 'the dearest little schoolgirl.' " "My dear, you are not that now," Mrs. Sandford said solemnly. "It all comes to this, Daisy," said the doctor. "You are a psychological puzzle to me. For the matter of that, now I think of it, you always were. When you went to visit Molly Skelton, and carried rose-bushes round the country in your pony-chaise, just as much as now. You are not the same Daisy, however." "Yes, I am; just the same," I said earnestly. "Fancy it!" said Mrs. Sandford. "My dear, you do I not see yourself; that is clear." "I would like to do the same things again," I insisted. But that nearly choked me. For a vision of myself in my happy pony-chaise; the free, joyous child that I was, ignorant of soldiers and wars, further than as I knew my dear Captain Drummond; the vision of the Daisy that once was, and could never be again; went nigh to shake all my composure down. The emotion came with a rush, and I had nearly succumbed to it. "Miss Randolph has a philosophy," the doctor went on, still watching me, - "which is not common to the world, and which I have hitherto in vain endeavoured to fathom. I have always fancied that I should be happier if I could find it out." "Did I never tell you what it was, Dr. Sandford?" "Never - intelligibly. You will excuse me. I do not mean to accuse you, but myself." "But you know what it is," I said, facing him. "My philosophy, as you call it. It is only, to live for the other world instead of this." "Why not live for this world, while you are in it, Daisy?" "I am not going to stay in it." "I hope, very long!" said the doctor - seriously. "And do you not think that people are meant to enjoy this world, while they have it?" "Yes, when they can," I answered; remembering vividly that enjoyment is not always the rule. "But I enjoy the world better than you do, Dr. Sandford; because, living for the other, I take the good of both. And if this fails at any time, the other - cannot." Dr. Sandford's blue eye went as deep into mine, and into me, I think, as it could; and he did not look satisfied. The preparations for our journey were pressed with a diligence that admitted of no delay, all that day and the next. I was quietly busy too, thinking that it did not matter; that the time must come, and as well then as ever. I had miscalculated my strength, or my weakness. Or perhaps the emotional part of our nature is never to be depended on. That dim morning of our early departure is fixed in my memory as one of the most heart-sinking times my heart ever knew. My companions were brisk and bright, in travelling mood, taking cars and porters and ticket offices and crowds, as pleasant concomitants of a pleasant affair. Glad to get away from Washington, both of them. And I, alone in my heart, knew what a thread was breaking for me; knew that Thorold's path and mine were starting from that point upon divergent lines, which would grow but further and further apart every day. Until that moment I had not realised what it would be, to leave the neighbourhood of his work and his danger, and cut off all but the most distant and precarious communication between him and me; what it would be, too, to him, to know that I was gone. It did seem then for a minute as if I could not go; as if I must, as necessity, remain within hailing distance of him, and at the headquarters of information. But there was another "must," stronger than mine; I was seated in the car, the whistle blew its mockery of me; and the slow movement which immediately followed was the snapping of the thread, - the parting of the lines. It was something that no human action could stay or avert now; and the gentle motion soon grew to a whirl of speed which bore me relentlessly away. The slow pang of that first stir of the cars, I can feel yet. It was a dumb pain at my heart all day. I could not understand myself. For several days I had been quiet and prepared, I thought, and submissive; now to-day all was disorder; no preparedness; no quiet. Instead were heartaches and regrets and wild wishes; sometimes in dull and steady force, like a still rain storm; and sometimes sweeping over me with the fury of a tempestuous blast. I had not strength to resist; my utmost was to keep a calm front before my friends. I did that, I think. But what torture is it not, to be obliged to hear and answer all manner of trifling words, to enter into every trivial thought, of people at ease around one, when the heart is bending and bowing under its life burden; to be obliged to count the pebbles in the way, when one is staggering to keep one's footing at all. Yes, and one must answer with a disengaged face, and one must smile with ready lips, and attention must not wander, and self-absorption for a minute cannot be allowed. Perhaps it was good for me. My companions attended to me well, so that I got no respite all day. Not till night, when I reached my room; and when I had respite, I found no rest. It was great relief to put my head down without fear lest somebody should ask me if it ached; but all night long I struggled with the pain that had fought me all day. The next morning I went to find Miss Cardigan. To my great disappointment she was not at home; and would not be at home, I was told, under a week. I passed slowly in, over the familiar stones of the marble floor, in through the empty rooms, to the innermost one which opened upon the little conservatory. That too was stripped of its beauties; most of the plants were set out in the open ground, and the scaffolding steps were bare. I turned my back upon the glass door, which had been for me the door to so much sweetness, and sat down to think. Not only sweetness. How strange it was! From Miss Cardigan's flowers, the connecting links led on straight to all my sorrow and heartache of the present and perhaps of many future days. They had led me here; and here Mr. Thorold had said words to me that had bound him and me together for the rest of our lives, and made his welfare my welfare. And now, he was in the shock of battlefields; and I - afar off - must watch and listen. And I could not be near and watch. I must be where even good news would be no news, except of the past; where nobody would speak to me of Mr. Thorold, and where I could not speak of him to anybody. I was sure, the more I thought of it, that the only possible chance for a good issue to our engagement, would be to wait until the war should be over; and if he persisted in his determination of speaking to my father and mother before such a favourable conjuncture, the end would be only disaster. I somewhat hoped, that the pressure of active duty on his part, or some happy negligence of post-office officials, or other contingency, might hinder such a letter as he had threatened from coming to my father's hands at present. Meanwhile, in Miss Cardigan's little room, I struggled for a right mind. If I was sorrowful, I told myself, I was also glad. If I pitied myself a little for all that had happened, it was also true that I would not have undone it - that is, my part in it, - for the world. I would rather belong to Mr. Thorold, even through all this pain, than be nothing to him and have him nothing to me. Yes, even going away on my distant journey to Europe, the knowledge of his love was a richer jewel in my heart than any other of earth's jewels that I carried. So what was I crying about? I washed away some of the soreness of the days past in those tears. And then I came quietly back to my position; willing that God should dispose of me and do with me what He pleased; send me away or bring me home; give or take from me. At least so far I was willing, that I gave up all care-taking and ceased to struggle. My mood grew even sunshiny as I walked back to the hotel where we were all stationed. Hope began to execute little dances before me. The doctor was busy now, I understood, with trying to find some party with whom I might make the journey to Switzerland. Mrs. Sandford was eager to get back to Melbourne, or its neighbourhood; I always called the whole region by that name. How I wished I could be allowed to go with her, and wait there till an opportunity offered for my further journey! But such were not the views of my guardian. "Here's devotion!" exclaimed Mrs. Sandford as I came in to tea one evening. "My dear, he says he will go with you himself." "Where? - who?" I asked. "Why, Grant, to be sure. He says he will go with you, himself, and then his mind will be easy." "How can he?" I said. "An army surgeon, - how can he get away?" "Yes, and in war-time," said Mrs. Sandford. "But the truth is, that he needs to get away, he says; he is not fit for duty; and the voyage over and back will just set him up. I think it is a capital plan, for my part. He won't be gone any length of time, you know; and indeed he must not; he will just run across and put you in the hands of your friends; and so your passage is engaged, Daisy, in the _Persia_. I only wish I was going along, but I can't. I advise you never to marry Grant. It ties one up terribly." "It does not tie _you_ very close," the doctor answered. "When does the _Persia_ go?" I asked. "Yes, indeed; that _is_ a question," said Mrs. Sandford. "Just think - she sails Saturday, and this is Thursday. Only one single day for you, Daisy; but after all, it is best so. You can be ready just as well, and the sooner you are off now the better. I shall miss you dreadfully, though." I felt my cheeks turn cold, and I busied myself with my cup of tea. "You are not so eager to be off, Miss Randolph, as my good sister is to have you," I heard the doctor say. "No, not quite. I would like better to go if all this trouble in the country were ended." "That would be to wait some time, I am afraid, said the doctor, helping himself to a piece of toast. And I do not know what in his motion and his manner of speech conveyed to me the notion that he was glad I could not wait. And, my mother's child though I was, I could not thwart him this time. "It is a good time to be away, _I_ think," said Mrs. Sandford. "I'd keep the news from her, Grant, if I were you. She sits and studies the papers as if her life were in them." "There will be no news on board the steamer," said the doctor. Yes, I knew that. The very beginning of my journey was to cut me off from tidings. How should I get them in Switzerland? And I must go too without seeing Miss Cardigan. Well, I thought, nothing can take my best Friend from me. CHAPTER VIII. DAISY'S POST Dr. Sandford and I stood together on the deck of the steamer, looking at the lessening shore. I was afraid the doctor should see how I looked, yet I could not turn my eyes from it. I had given up the care of myself; I could bear to see America fading out of my sight; yet it seemed to me as if I left Daisy and her life there, and as if I must be like a wandering spirit from another world till I should come back to those shores again. I would minister to my father and mother, but nobody would minister to me. And I thought it was very likely very good for me. Maybe I was in danger of growing selfish and of forgetting my work and all happiness except my own and Thorold's. I could do nothing for either of those now; nothing actively. But I called myself up as soon as that thought passed through me. I could always pray; and I could be quiet and trust; and I could be full of faith, hope and love; and anybody with those is not unhappy. And God is with his people; and he can feed them in a desert. And with that, I went down to my stateroom, to sob my heart out. Not altogether in sorrow, or I think I should not have shed a tear; but with that sense of joy and riches in the midst of trial; the feeling of care that was over my helplessness, and hope that could never die nor be disappointed sin spite of the many hopes that fail. After that, my voyage was pleasant, as every voyage or journey is when one goes in the Lord's hand and with Him for a companion. I had no news, as the doctor had said, and I laid down all the matter of the war; though I was obliged to hear it talked of very much and in a way that was often extremely hard to bear. The English people on board seemed to think that Americans had no feeling on the subject of their country, or no country to feel about. Certainly they showed no respect for mine; and though Dr. Sandford and one or two other gentlemen could and did answer their words well and cogently, and there was satisfaction in that; yet it was a warfare I did not choose to enter into unless good breeding could be a defence on both sides. They abused Mr. Lincoln; how they abused him! they have learned better since. They abused republics in general, rejoicing openly in the ruin they affected to see before ours. Yes, the United States of America and their boasted Constitution were a vast bubble - no solidity - rather a collection of bubbles, which would go to pieces by their own contact. Specially the weight of dislike and maligning fell on the Northern portion of the country; sympathy was with the South. These natives of the free British Isles were unmistakably disposed to cheer and help on a nation of oppressors, and wished them success. It was some time before I could understand such an anomaly; at last I saw that the instinct of self-preservation was at work, and I forgave as natural, what I could not admire as noble. This element in our little society troubled somewhat my enjoyment of the voyage. I _had_ some patriotic nerves, if I was an American; and every one of them was often tingling with disagreeable irritation. Besides, ill-breeding is of itself always disagreeable enough; and here was ill-breeding in well- bred people, - worst of all. And I had my own private reasons for annoyance. A favourite theme with the company was the want of soldiers or generals at the North, and the impossibility that a set of mechanics and tradesmen, who knew only how to make money and keep it, should be able in chivalrous and gentlemanly exercises to cope with the Southern cavaliers, who were accustomed to sword and pistol and the use of them from their youth up. Bull Run, they said, showed what the consequence must always be, of a conflict between soldiers with the martial spirit and soldiers without it. It would be much better and cheaper for the North to succumb at once. I had Southern prejudice enough to believe there might be a good deal of truth in this, but I could not bear to hear it or to think it; for besides the question of country and right, the ruin of the North would be disaster to Mr. Thorold and me. I shunned at last all conversation with our English companions, as far as I could, and bent my thoughts forward to the joyful meeting which lay before me with father and mother and brother. Brighter and brighter the prospect grew, as each day brought it nearer; and I sat sometimes by the hour looking over the waters and resting my heart in the hope of that meeting. "Almost in, Miss Randolph," said the doctor, coming to my side one of those times. I brought my eyes from the dancing sea, and answered "You are glad." "Very glad." "What route will you take, when we get to land?" "The shortest." "You do not wish to see anything by the way?" "I can see enough, after I get to them," I answered. "You are at a happy time of life!" the doctor said after a pause. "Are you past it, Dr. Sandford?" I asked, replying, I think, to something in the tones of his voice. "I do not know. I think, yes. Cologne cathedral will never be to me what it will be to you." "What will it be to me?" "I wish you would tell me, when you see it." "Does it lie in our route?" I asked somewhat eagerly. "It can - if you choose." "But I should not want to stop to look at it," I said; "and I could not see it without stopping, I suppose." "I suppose not. Well, we will push forward as fast as possible. To Lausanne, is it?" "They _were_ at Lausanne. They were talking of going to Lucerne." "To stay?" "For some time, I think. Papa was getting tired of Lausanne. We shall know as soon as we reach our port." "Wonderful things will crowd upon you now, Daisy," the doctor said meditatively. "And you are as ready for them as ever." "Don't they crowd upon everybody?" I said, remembering what strange ones life had lately brought to me. "Everybody does not see them - does not know it. You have this peculiarity, that you will not fail to note every one that comes within your knowledge. Europe will be a wonder gallery to you. And life, perhaps." "Oh, life is now, Dr. Sandford." He had been looking very grave. He smiled at me then, one of his bright, winsome smiles that the child Daisy used to get. It made my heart sore with longing for him, and sorrow. "Isn't it a wonder, that I live, and that I shall live for ever?" I said. "That this world is only the portal to glory? Isn't it a wonder, that there is a highway from these low grounds to Heaven's court, and that the gates of brass and bars of iron that stopped the way, are broken asunder? Isn't it a wonder, that the Prince of Heaven came down to open the way and to show it to us? and is there any wonder so great, as that, after this, any mortal should refuse to walk that way?" "Grant Sandford, to wit!" said the doctor with an odd expression, something between pleased and displeased. "I am afraid, Daisy, he would want an angel to go before him after all." I remember this little talk well, for it puzzled me and did not seem like Dr. Sandford. I remember nothing else of any interest till we came to Switzerland and I was near my journey's end. We had pushed on, sometimes by night and day; stopping only for necessary meals and refreshment. I wanted no delay. When we reached the glories of the Swiss mountains, even yet distant, my mood oddly changed, and I was no longer in a hurry. My life, I knew, would take a new turn, in among those mountains somewhere; and it might not, I had a shrewd suspicion that it would not, be a turn for my ease and comfort; and even while I was as eager as ever to see my father and mother, at the same time I was willing to take the last steps of the way more slowly, and enjoy what I had and what I hoped for together, before reality should displace anticipation. This is my understanding of the mood as I look back to it; at the time I did not reason, but only was conscious of being ready to linger and willing to lose nothing of novelty and beauty on my way. However, lingering was not possible. By one conveyance and another we pushed our way on, till Lucerne, our place of destination, was reached. I saw nothing in the town, almost literally, while we were making our way through its streets. I was in a breathless state; my senses could not play, or my mind could receive no impression from them. It was disappointment and relief too, when coming to the house where my father and mother lived, we were told that the family were gone out of town on some excursion and would not be back till evening. The servants told us. This was no hotel, but a nice little private house which my father had hired and where he and my mother were living entirely at home. I knew I was at home, as my feet pressed the stairs going up to the little drawing-room. "At home." Not since we left Melbourne had the exquisite sensation come over me. It came now like a subtle perfume, pervading and surrounding everything. My eyes filled with tears of great joy, as I mounted the stairs. I would not let Dr. Sandford see them. He, I knew, felt like anything but crying for joy. He was certainly very honestly fond of me and of my company, and I was grateful for it. The servant led us to a little drawing-room, out of which another opened; over the simple furniture of which my mother's hand had thrown a spell of grace. And luxurious enjoyment too; that belonged to her. A soft rug or two lay here and there; a shawl of beautiful colour had fallen upon a chair-back; pictures hung on the walls, - one stood on an easel in a corner; bits of statuary, bronzes, wood-carvings, trifles of art, mosaics, engravings, were everywhere; and my mother's presence was felt in the harmony which subdued and united all these in one delicious effect. My mother had almost an Oriental eye for colour and harmony. It was like seeing a bit of her, to be in her room. I lost my head for a moment, standing in the middle of the floor; then I turned to Dr. Sandford. "Now you are happy," he said, extending his hand - "and I will leave you." "No, Dr. Sandford - you will sit down and be happy too." "You could command me to sit down, undoubtedly; but I am afraid my happiness is beyond your power." "I wish it was not!" I said earnestly. "You have been very good to me, Dr. Sandford." His face flushed a little and paled, and the eyes which were so fond of reading other people's seemed now to shun being read. I could not understand his expression, but it troubled me. "Happiness is always beyond other people's power," I said; - "but not beyond one's own." "That's your confounded theory!" he answered, bringing the word out very gingerly and with a little laugh. "I beg ten thousand pardons, Daisy; but a slight expression of indignation was an unavoidable indulgence just then. You would make every one responsible for all the troubles that come upon him!" "No - only for their effect upon his happiness," I ventured, doubtfully. "You think the effect of troubles upon happiness is then optional!" - he said, with a humorous expression so cool and shrewd that I could not forbear laughing. "I do not mean exactly that." "Your words were well chosen to produce that impression." "No, Dr. Sandford - yes, perhaps they were; - but the real truth is, that we may have a happiness that is beyond the reach of trouble. So much is optional." "With Daisy Randolph," said the doctor. "For the rest of the world, a brown study will never be a golden reflection." He held out his hand as he spoke. "But are you going?" I said; - "before my father and mother come home?" "I will call before I leave Lucerne." "How soon do you expect to do that?" "Immediately, Daisy; to-morrow. I must hasten back to my post, you know; before there is another Bull Run, if possible. It is very good that you are out of the way of such things," he said, eyeing me earnestly. "The very mention of them - do you know what it does?" "It gives me a great feeling of pain, I know," I said, trying to rally. "It does that, I see. I did not know the power of imagination was so strong in you. I thought you were rather a literalist." "And I think I am," I answered as calmly as I could. "It does not require much imagination. It did not, when I was in Washington." "It does not now," said the doctor; "for your cheeks have not got back their colour yet. What banished it, Daisy?" It was the old tone and look I used to meet in my childhood, and to which I always then rendered obedience. For an instant the spell was upon me now; then I threw it off, shook hands with the doctor and parted from him with a bow and smile which told him nothing. And he succumbed in his turn; made me a profound reverence and left the room. My first feeling was of gladness that he was gone. My next was, the sense that I was under my natural guardians once more. I felt it with a thrill of delight, even though I had a full consciousness that I was going to be far less my own mistress than for some time I had been accustomed to find myself. Dr. Sandford rather took laws from me, in most things. This however did not give me much concern. I went round the rooms to quiet myself, for I was growing more and more excited. I went studying one by one the objects in the little home museum, for such those drawing-rooms were to me. I read, not natural history but family history in them; here my father's hand had been, here By mother's, leaving some token of study, or luxury, or art, or feeling. A very handsome meerschaum seemed to give also a hint of my brother's presence. The home review did not quiet me; I found it would not do; I went to the window. And there I sat down immediately, to hear all that nature said to me; as once Miss Cardigan's flowers. I had expected to see the town; and it was part of the town no doubt that stretched away before me, but it had rather the beauty of the country. There was nothing regular in streets or buildings, nor compact; the houses scattered away down the hill, standing here and there, alone and in groups, with fields or pieces of fields intermingling. Pretty houses, with quaint dormer windows and high sloping roofs. We were on a height, I found, from which the eye went down delightfully over this bit of the rambling old town. A courtyard, with grass and young trees, was the first thing next the house on this side; which I found was not the front; then the ground fell sharply, and most of the houses stood upon a level below bordering the lake. A stretch of the lake lay there, smooth, still, bearing the reflection of some houses on its opposite edge; where softened under a misty atmosphere another little town seemed to rest on a rising bank. And then, just behind it, rose the mountain, looking down upon lake and towns as if to forbid a thought of foolishness in any one who should ever live there. So, in its beautiful gravity, Mont Pilatte seemed to me, then and always. Are not mountains always witnesses for God? This first time I saw it, a misty cloud had swept across the breast of the mountain and hid part of the outline; but the head lifted itself in sunlight just above the veiling cloud, and looked down in unspeakable majesty upon the lower world. Always my eyes went back to that wonderful mountain head; then fell to the placid lake and the little town sleeping in misty sunlight on its further border; then caught the sharp pointed towers of a church or cathedral close by at my left hand, just within my picture; I could not see the whole church; then back to the soft veiled mountain. A more picturesque combination never went into a view. I sat still in a trance of pleasure, only my eyes moving slowly from point to point, and my heart and soul listening to the hidden melodies which in nature's great halls are always sounding. I do believe, for the matter of that, they are always sounding in nature's least chambers as well; but there is the tinkle of a silver bell, and there is the thunder of the great organ. At any rate I was quieted, comforted, soothed, and entirely myself again, by the time I had listened to Mont Pilatte for a couple of hours. The day wore on, and the lights changed, and the cloud deepened on the mountain. The lights had not begun to fade yet, though it was the time of long shadows, when a little bustle below and steps on the stairs drew me away from the window and brought me to my feet; but I stood still. The first one was mamma, and her first word of course broke the spell under which I had been standing and brought me into her arms. And that word I pondered many a time afterwards. It was simply, "Why, Daisy!" - but the letters put together tell nothing of what was in the expression. Pleasure and affection there were, of course; and there was something beside, which I could not help thinking gave token of gratified surprise. What should have excited it I do not know, unless it were that my appearance pleased her better than she had expected. It was not surprise at my being there, for the servants had told of that. My father, who was next, said exactly the same words; but his "Why, Daisy!" had an altogether different expression. I flung myself into his arms, and then almost broke my heart with the thought that I had been so long out of them. My father pressed me very close, and kept very still. I felt my mother touch me on the shoulder, and heard her tell me not to be so excited; but I could not mind her. And papa, sitting down, kept me in his arms and held me fast and kissed me, and I sobbed myself into content. "Is that Daisy?" said mamma. I was sitting on papa's knee yet. I looked up at her. She was standing beside us. "Doesn't she look like it?" my father said, fondly, stroking my hair. "She does not act like it," said my mother. But I hid my face in papa's neck at that, and he kissed me again. "Don't you mean to speak to anybody else?" said mamma, with an amused voice. "Nobody else has any right," said papa. I looked up however, eagerly, and saw what I could only guess was Ransom, he had so grown and changed. He was looking curious and pleased. I got up to salute him. "Why, Daisy!" said he, returning my embrace with more new than old emotion as it seemed to me, - "you are a sister of whom a fellow may be proud." "Can't you say as much for him, Daisy?" said my mother. "As far as looks go -" I answered slowly, surveying him. He was excessively handsome, and his mother's own boy in grace of person and manner. I could see that in the first moment. "As far as looks go" - my mother repeated. "_That_ is like Daisy. Is it the very same Daisy?" I looked up at her, and they looked at me. Oddly enough, we were all silent. Had I changed so much? "Mamma, there is the difference between ten and seventeen," I said. "I don't think there is much other." "And between formed and unformed," said my brother Ransom; for my father and mother were still silent, and I could hardly bear to meet their eyes. "What is formed, and what is unformed?" I asked, trying to make it a light question. "My opinion is not unformed," said Ransom, - "and your destiny is - formed." "Papa," said I, "Ransom is very quick in deciding upon my destiny." But with that look into each other's eyes, Ransom's words were forgotten; my father clasped me in a fresh fond embrace and my head went down upon his shoulder again. And we were all still. Words are nothing at such times. I think one rather speaks light words, if any; thoughts are too deep to come out. At last my mother remarked that our toilettes were among the unformed things, and suggested that we should go to our rooms for a little while before dinner. I got up from papa's knee and followed mamma; and passing Ransom with a smile, he suddenly clasped me in his arms and kissed me. "I am proud of you, Daisy," he whispered. Arrived in mamma's room, her tenderness came out after her own fashion. She examined me; her hands touched me caressingly; she helped me to dress, although her maid was at hand. "You did not tell me you had such beautiful hair," she said, when I had unbound it to put it in order. "Mamma!" I laughed. "Why should I?" "And there are a great many other things you have not told me," she went on. I had to control myself to prevent a start, though her words meant nothing. "Of course, mamma," I answered. "Yes; you could hardly have been expected to give me a catalogue raisonné of your advantages. Do you know them yourself, Daisy?" "Mamma, - I suppose I know some of them." "Do you know, for instance, that your skin is exquisite, in colour and texture?" "Mrs. Sandford used to tell me so," I said. My mother drew the tips of her fingers over my cheek. "And now, at my saying that, comes a little rose hue here, as delicate as the inside of a shell. But you have lost all the look of delicate condition, Daisy; this is the colour of perfect health." "Dr. Sandford has taken care of me, mamma." "Your father trusted a great deal to Dr. Sandford. Do you think his trust was well placed?" "Nobody could have taken more care of me, mamma. Dr. Sandford has been very good." "He always was your favourite," she remarked. "Well, mamma, he deserved all I have given him." "Don't give anybody much, - unless I bid you," my mother said, laughingly. "Daisy, you have matured better even than I ever thought you would, or than your aunt Gary told me. Your figure is as good as ever mine was." She took up one of my hands, looked at it, kissed it, and as she let it drop asked carelessly, - "What has become of Preston now?" I felt as if breakers were all around me. "He has joined the Southern army," I said. "When did you see him?" "Not since a year ago." "Where then?" "At West Point, mamma. He only graduated this spring." "Were you long at West Point?" "Yes, ma'am - some weeks." "Dr. Sandford did not show remarkable care in that." "He thought so, mamma, for he found me not well, and took me away immediately from school, without waiting for the term to close. Mrs. Sandford and he, were going to West Point - and so -" "West Point did you good?" "I grew well there." "Your aunt tells me, your voice is very uncommon, Daisy. Is she right in that?" "Mamma - you can judge better than I. It is not so easy for me to judge how it sounds." "You know how it sounds to you." "Yes, but then I am thinking of the music. I cannot tell, mamma, how it sounds to other people." "Well, we shall be able to judge by and by," my mother said, in a satisfied tone. "Your speaking voice is as calm and sweet as I ever heard." "_Calm?_ mamma," I said, laughing. "Yes, child. Don't you know most people's voices have a little thread, if it is not more, of sharpness or roughness, coming out somewhere. It is sure to come out somewhere; in one form of speech or another; with some people it only appears in the laugh, and they should never laugh. Your voice is like a chime of bells." And my mother took me in her arms, half-dressed as I was, and pressed her lips full upon mine; looking into my face and playing with me and smiling at me; finishing with another pressure of her mouth to mine. "Your lips are very sweet," she said, with a half sigh. "I wonder who else will think so!" And if one bit of vanity or self-exaltation could have been stirred in my thoughts, though it were by my mother's praises, these last words banished it well. I was sobered to the depths of my heart; so sobered, that I found it expedient to be busy with my dressing, and not expose my face immediately to any more observations. And even when I went down stairs, my father's first remark was, - "It is the same Daisy!" "Did you doubt it, papa?" I asked, with a smile. "No, my pet." "Then why do you say that as soon as I make my appearance!" "I can hardly tell - the consciousness forced itself upon me. You are looking at life with a microscope, - as of old." "With a microscope, papa!" "To pick up invisible duties and find out indiscernible dangers -" "When one is as old as I am," I said, "there is no need of a microscope to find out either dangers or duties." "Ha!" said my father, folding me in his arms - "what dangers have you discovered, Daisy?" "I believe they are everywhere, papa," I said, kissing him. "Not here," he said, fondly; "there shall be none here for you." "Mr. Randolph," said mamma, laughing, "if Daisy is to be meat and drink as well as scenery to you, we may as well dispense with the usual formalities; but I hope you will condescend to look at dinner as usual." CHAPTER VIII. SKIRMISHING That first dinner at home! how strange and sweet it was. So sweet, that I could scarcely hear the note of the little warning bell down in the bottom of my heart. But mamma had struck it up stairs, and its vibrations would not quite be still. Yet there was a wonderful charm in my own home circle. The circle was made larger in the evening, by the coming in of two of Ransom's friends, who were also, I saw, friends of my father and mother. They were two Southern gentlemen, as I immediately knew them to be; MM. de Saussure and Marshall, Ransom's worthy compeers in the line of personal appearance and manner. De Saussure especially; but I liked Marshall best. This I found out afterward. The conversation that evening naturally went back to America which I had just come from, and to the time of my leaving it, and to the news then new there and but lately arrived here. I had to hear the whole Bull Run affair talked over from beginning to end and back again. It was not so pleasant a subject to me as to the rest of the company; which I suppose made the talk seem long. "And you were there?" said Mr. de Saussure, suddenly appealing to me. "Not at Manasses," I said. "No, but close by; held in durance in the capital, with liberators so near. It seems to me very stupid of Beauregard not to have gone in and set you free." "Free?" said I, smiling. "I was free." "There will be no freedom in the country, properly speaking, until that Northern usurper is tossed out of the place he occupies." "That will be soon," said my mother. "In what sense is Mr. Lincoln a usurper?" I ventured to ask. "He was duly elected." "Is it possible Daisy has turned politician?" exclaimed my brother. "He is not a usurper," said Mr. Marshall. "He is, if being out of his place can make him so," said De Saussure; "and the assumption of rights that nobody has given him. By what title does he dare shut up Southern ports and send his cut-throats upon Southern soil?" "Well, they have met their punishment," my father remarked. And it hurt me sorely to hear him say it with evident pleasure. "The work is not done yet," said Ransom. "But at Bull Run rates - 'sixty pieces of splendid cannon' taken, as Mr. Davis says, and how many killed and prisoners? - the mud-sills will not be able to keep it up very long. Absurd! to think that those Northern shopkeepers could make head against a few dozen Southern swords." "There were only a few dozen swords at Manasses," said De Saussure. "Eighteen thousand, Mr. Davis puts the number in his Richmond speech; and the Northern army had sixty thousand in the field." "A Richmond paper says forty thousand instead of eighteen," Mr. Marshall remarked. "Mr. Russell, of the London _Times_, estimated Beauregard's force at sixty thousand," I said. "_He_ don't know!" said De Saussure. "And Mr. Davis does not know," I added; "for the whole loss of cannon on the Northern side that day amounted to but seventeen. Mr. Davis may as well be wrong in one set of facts as in another. He said also that provisions enough were taken to feed an army of fifty thousand men for twelve months." "Well, why not?" said Ransom, frowning. "These gentlemen can tell you why not." "Pretty heavy figures," said Mr. Marshall. "Why are they not true, Miss Randolph?" Mr. de Saussure asked, bending as before a most deferential look upon me. "And look here, - in what interest are you, Daisy?" my brother continued. "Nothing is gained by blinking the truth anywhere, Ransom." "No, that is true," said my father. "Daisy has been under the disadvantage of hearing only one side lately," my mother remarked very coolly. "But about the provisions, Miss Randolph?" Mr. De Saussure insisted, returning to the point with a willingness, I thought, to have me speak. "Mamma says, I have heard only one side," I answered. "But on that side I have heard it remarked, that twelve thousand wagons would have been required to carry those provisions to the battlefield. I do not know if the calculation was correct." Mr. De Saussure's face clouded for an instant. My father seemed to be pondering. Ransom's frowns grew more deep. "What side are you on, Daisy?" he repeated. "She is on her own side, of course," my mother said. "I hope there is no doubt of that, Mrs. Randolph," said Mr. Marshall. "Such an enemy would be very formidable! I should begin to question on which side I was myself." They went off into a long discussion about the probable movements of the belligerent parties in America; what might be expected from different generals; how long the conflict was likely to last, and how its certain issue, the discomfiture of the North and the independence of the South, would be attained. Mingled with this discussion were laudations of Jefferson Davis, scornful reviling of President Lincoln, and sneers at the North generally; at their men, their officers, their money, their way of making it and their way of spending it. Triumphant anticipations, of shame and defeat to them and the superb exaltation of the South, were scattered, like a salt and pepper seasoning, through all the conversation. I listened, with my nerves tingling sometimes, with my heart throbbing at other times; sadly inclined to believe they might be right in a part of their calculations; very sadly sure they were wrong in everything else. I had to keep a constant guard upon my face; happily my words were not called for. My eyes now and then met papa's, with a look that gave and received another sort of communication. When the evening was over, and papa was folding me in his arms to bid me good-night, he whispered, - "You and I cannot be on two sides of anything, Daisy?" "Papa - you know on what side of most things I am -" I replied to this difficult question. "Do I? No, I do not know that I do. What side is it, Daisy?" "On the Lord's side, papa, when I can find out what that is." "Make me sure that you have found it, and I will be on that side too," he said, as he kissed me. The words filled me with a great joy. For they were not spoken in defiance of the supposed condition, but rather, as it seemed to me, in desire and love of it. Had papa come to that? The new joy poured like a flood over all the dry places in my heart, which had got into a very dry state with hearing the conversation of the evening. I went to bed tired and happy. Nevertheless I awoke to the consciousness that I had a nice piece of navigation before me, and plenty of rough water in all probability. The best thing would be for me to be as silent as possible. Could I be silent? They all wanted to hear what I would say. Every eye had sought mine this past evening. I was the first in the breakfast-room, and papa was the next. We were alone. He took me tenderly in his arms and held me fast, looking at me and kissing me by turns. "Are you well now, papa?" I asked him. "Are you quite well again?" "Well enough," he answered; "not just as I was once." "Why not, papa?" "I have never quite got over that unlucky fall. It has left my head a little shaky, Daisy; and my strength - Never mind! you are my strength now, my pet. We should have gone home before this, only for the troubles breaking out there." I leaned my head upon his breast, and wished the troubles were not! What a division those troubles made, unknown to him, between his heart's happiness and mine - yes, between him and me. Mamma came in and looked at us both. "It is a very pretty picture," she said. And she kissed me, while papa did not let me out of his arms. "Daisy, you are a beauty." "She is a great deal better than a beauty," said my father. "But, now I look at you, Daisy - yes, you _are_ a beauty, certainly." They both laughed heartily at the colour which all this raised in my face. "Most exquisite, her skin is," said my mother, touching my cheek. "Did you ever see anything superior to it, Mr. Randolph? Rose leaves are not any better than that. Pshaw, Daisy! - you must get accustomed to hear people say it." "Nobody shall say it to me, mamma, but you." "No," said my father. "That is my view of it, too." "Nonsense!" said mamma - "there are a thousand ways of doing the same thing, and you cannot stop them all. Your hair is as fine as possible, too, Daisy, although it has not had me to take care of it." "But I did just as you told me with it, mamma," I said. She kissed me again. "Did nobody ever tell you you were beautiful?" she asked archly. "Yes, I know that you did just as I told you. You always did, and always will. But did you not know that you were beautiful?" "Speak, Daisy," said papa. Said as it was with a smile, it brought childish memories vividly back. "Mamma," I said, "I have heard something of it - and I suppose it may be true." They laughed, and mamma remarked that I was human yet. "There is a difference between the child and the woman, you will find, Mr. Randolph." Papa answered, that it was no very remarkable token of humanity, to have eyes and ears. "Daisy's eyes were always remarkable," said my mother. "But, mamma," said I, "in other things there is no difference between the child and the woman. My outside may have altered - my mind is not changed at all; only grown." "That will do," said mamma. I was obliged to leave it to time, and hoped to make myself so pleasant that what I could not change in me might be at least tolerated, if it were not approved. It seemed an easy task! I was such a manifest subject of joy, to father and mother, and even Ransom too. A newly discovered land, full of gold, is not more delightfully explored by its finders, than I was watched, scrutinised, commented on, by my family. That first day, of course, they could not let me out of their sight. It was nothing but talk, all day long. In the evening however our last evening's guests reappeared. The conversation this time did not get upon American politics, so everybody showed to better advantage; I suppose, myself included. We had music; and the gentlemen were greatly delighted with my voice and my singing. Mamma and papa took it very coolly until we were left alone again; then my mother came up and kissed me. "You have done your duty, Daisy, in improving your voice," she said. "You are a Daisy I am perfectly satisfied with. If you can sing as well in public as you have done to-night in private, papa will be proud of you." "In public, mamma?" I said. "Yes. That does not frighten you. Nothing does frighten you." "No, mamma, but - what do you mean by 'in public'?" "Not on the stage," said mamma. "But mamma, - papa," - I said, anxiously, "this is what I want you to understand. I will do anything in the world you wish me to do; only, I am - I must be, - you know, - a servant of Christ." "I said nothing against that," my mother replied. But my father, clasping me in his arms, whispered, - "We will be servants together, Daisy." That word sent me to bed with a whole heartful of thankfulness. I could bear anything now, if his words meant what I hoped they did. And I should have security, too, against any too great trial of my affection and duty to him and to mamma. An expedition had been arranged for the next day; in which my brother and his friends were to take me upon the lake. Mamma and papa would not go. It was a day, in one sort, of such pleasure as I had never known till then. The beautiful water, the magnificent shores of the lake, the wonderful lights on the mountains, almost took me out of this world; to which they seemed scarcely to belong. I cannot tell what a pang in the midst of this pleasure the thought of Mr. Thorold brought with it. The life I was living now was so very far from his life, and so unlike; my part of the world was now so very distant from his, - there was such an abyss between; - and yet the Swiss hills were so glorious, and I was enjoying them. I began to wonder, as we were sailing towards home in the end of the day, what work I had to do in this new and strange place; why was I here? Perhaps, to learn patience, and have faith grow strong by trial, while all my life hopes waited upon a will that I did not know and must trust. Perhaps, to stand up for Christian truth and simplicity in the face of much opposition. Perhaps, to suffer, and learn to bear suffering. "You are fatigued, Miss Randolph?" said the soft voice of De Saussure. "Or beauty of scenery, so much beauty, makes you melancholy," said Mr. Marshall. "It always makes me so, if I let myself think of it." "Why should it make any one melancholy?" I asked. "I think beauty has the contrary effect." "A little beauty. But very great and wonderful loveliness - I don't know why, it always moves me so. It is something too far beyond me; it is unlike me; it seems to belong to another stage of being, while I am held fast in this. It mocks me, - somehow." "It does not do so with me," I said. "Ah, it is your world!" De Saussure said, laughing. "It could not do so with you very well." "But look at Mont Pilatte now," resumed Mr. Marshall, - "with that crown of light on its brow; - does it not give you the feeling of something inapproachable - not literally but spiritually, - something pure, glorious, infinite - something that shames us mortals into insignificance?" I looked, and I thought I knew why he felt as he did; but I did not think I could explain it to him just then. "Have you a little of my feeling?" he said again. "Do you understand it?" "I understand it, I think," I said. "And do not share it at all?" "No, Mr. Marshall. Of course, the mountain is great, and I am small; but the purity, and the glory, - that is not beyond reach; and no human being ought to be insignificant, and none need be." "Not if his life is insignificant?" "Nobody's life ought to be that," I answered. "How can it be helped, in the case of many a one?" "Yes indeed," said De Saussure; "there is a question. I should like to hear Miss Randolph answer it." One spoke lightly and the other earnestly. It was not easy to answer them both. "I should like to have you define insignificance first," I said. "Can there be a more significant word?" said Mr. De Saussure. "It defines itself." "A life of insignificance, is a life that does not signify anything," Mr. Marshall added. "Most people's lives signify something," I said, stupidly, my thoughts running on far ahead of my words. "Yes, to somebody in the corner at home," Mr. Marshall said, "whose affection cannot make a true estimate. But do most people's lives signify anything, except to some fond judgment of that sort?" "Who is estimating you, in a corner at home?" said Mr. de Saussure. "Nobody - and that you know. Nobody, except my old mammy." "You are a lucky fellow, Hugh. Free as air! Now I have five or six dear appraisers at my home; who are of opinion that an epaulette and a commission would add to my value; or rather, to do them justice, they are very desirous to have my life - or my death - tell for something, in the struggle which occupies all their, thoughts at present. I do not mean that they have no choice, but, one or the other. And so am I desirous; but - Lucerne is so very captivating! And really, as, I said, one signifies so little." "One is half of two," said Ransom - "and a hundredth part of a hundred." "I should like, I think, to be half of two," said De Saussure, comically. "I don't care about being the hundredth part of anything." "But you are going when I go?" said Ransom. "Mrs. Randolph says so; and I suppose she will command me. What does Miss Randolph say?" "Yes, to my question," said Hugh Marshall. "I do not quite know what is either question," I replied; "and a judge ought to understand his cause." "Is it my duty to go and plunge into the mêlée at home, because my mother and two aunts and three sisters are all telling me they will renounce me if I do not? I say, what does one signify?" "And _I_ say, how may one escape from insignificance? - anyhow?" "A man with your income need not ask that," said Ransom. "What does Miss Randolph say?" De Saussure insisted. "If you will tell me, Mr. De Saussure, what the South is fighting for, I can better answer you." "That speech is Daisy all over!" said Ransom impatiently. "She never will commit herself, if she can get somebody to do it for her." "Fighting for freedom - for independence, of course!" Mr. De Saussure said, opening his eyes. "Is there any question?" "How was their freedom threatened?" "Why," said Ransom, hotly, "what do you think of armies upon the soil of Virginia? - invading armies, come to take what they like? What do you think of Southern forts garrisoned by Northern troops, and Southern cities in blockade? Is that your idea of freedom?" "These are not the cause, but the effect, of the position taken by the South," I said. "Yes, we fired the first gun, Randolph," said Mr. Marshall. "Sumter was held against us," said Ransom. "Not till South Carolina had seceded." "Well, she had a _right_ to secede!" cried Ransom. "And this right the Northern mudsills are trying to trample out. If she has not a right to be governed as she likes, she is not free." "But why did she secede?" I asked. "What wrong was done her?" "You are a girl, and cannot understand such matters!" Ransom answered, impatiently. "Just ask mamma to talk to you; - or I will!" "Miss Randolph's question is pertinent though," said Mr. Marshall; "and I am ashamed to confess I am as little able to answer it as she. What wrong had they to complain of?" "Why, Hugh, you certainly know," his companion answered, "that Lincoln was elected; and that if the government is to be in the hands of those who do not think and vote with us - as this election shows it will - we shall be pushed to the wall. The South and her institutions will come to nothing - will be in a contemptible minority. We do not choose that." "Then the wrong done them was that they were out-voted?" Mr. Marshall said. "Put it so!" De Saussure replied, with heat; "we have a right to say we will govern ourselves and sail our own boat." "Yes, so I think we have," said the other. "Whether it is worth such a war, is another question, Such a war is a serious thing." "It would be mean-spirited to let our rights be taken from us," said Ransom. "It is worth anything to maintain them." "It will not be much of a war," resumed De Saussure. "Those poor tailors and weavers will find their workshops are a great deal more comfortable than soldiers' tents and the battle- ground; and they won't stand fire, depend upon it." "Cowardly Yankees!" said Ransom. "That is Preston's favourite word," I remarked. "But I am not clear that you are not both mistaken." "You have lived among Yankees, till it has hurt you," said Ransom. "Till I have learned to know something about them," I said. "And is your judgment of the probable issue of the war, different from that I have expressed, Miss Randolph?" Mr. De Saussure asked. "My judgment is not worth much," I said. "I have doubts." "But you agree with us as to the right of preserving our independence?" Mr. Marshall said. "Does independence mean, the governing power? Does every minority, as such, lose its independence?" "Yes!" said De Saussure - "if it is to be permanently a minority." "That would be our case, you see," Mr. Marshall went on. "Are we not justified in endeavouring to escape from such a position?" I was most unwilling to talk on the subject, but they were all determined I should. I could not escape. "It depends," I said, "the settlement of that question, upon the other question, whether our government is one or twenty." "It is thirty!" said Ransom. I had thrown a ball now which they could keep up without me. To my joy, the whole three became so much engaged in the game, that I was forgotten. I could afford to forget too; and quitting the fair lake and the glorious mountain that looked down upon it, ceasing to hear the eager debate which went on at my side, my thoughts flew over the water to a uniform and a sword that were somewhere in that struggle of rights and wrongs. My heart sank. So far off, and I could not reach him; so busy against the feelings and prejudices of my friends, and I could not reconcile them; in danger, and I could not be near; in trouble, perhaps, and I could not help. It would not do to think about. I brought my thoughts back, and wondered at old Mont Pilatte which looked so steadily down on me with the calm of the ages. CHAPTER X. WAITING For weeks after this sail on the lake my life was like a fête day. Expeditions of all sorts were planned and carried out for my pleasure. One day we were exploring the lake shores in a boat; the next, we went back into the country, as far as we could go and return before evening; a third day we climbed the mountains somewhere and got glorious new views of what the world is. Nothing could hinder, in those days, but that my draught of pleasure was very full. Whatever weight might lie at my heart, when I found myself high, high up above the ordinary region of life, resting on a mountain summit from which I looked down upon all that surrounded me other days; a little of that same lifting up befel the thoughts of my heart and the views that have to do with the spirit's life. I stood above the region of mists for a little. I saw how the inequalities of the lower level, which perplex us there, sink into nothing when looked upon from a higher standpoint. I saw that rough roads led to quiet valleys; and that the blessed sunlight was always lying on the earth, though down in one of those depths one might lose sight of it for a time. I do not know how it is, but getting up into a high mountain has a little the effect of getting out of the world. One has left perplexities and uncertainties behind; the calm and the strength of the everlasting hills is about one; the air is not defiled with contentions or rivalries or jealousies up there; and the glory of creation reminds one of other glory, and power, and wisdom and might; and one breathes hope and rest. So I used to do. Of all our excursions, I liked best to go up the mountains. No matter how high, or by how difficult a road. Mamma and papa were only now and then of the party. That I was very sorry for, but it could not be helped. Mamma had seen it all, she said; and when I urged that she had not been to this particular "horn," she said that one "horn" was just like another, and that when you had seen one or two you had seen them all. But I never found it so. Every new time was a new revelation of glory to me. If I could have had papa with me, my satisfaction would have been perfect; but papa shunned fatigue, and never went where he could not go easily. I was obliged to be content with my brother and my brother's friends; and after I had made up my mind to that, the whole way was a rejoicing to me, from the time I left the house till we returned, a weary and hungry party, to claim mamma's welcome again. Our party was always the same four. Mr. de Saussure and Hugh Marshall were, I found, very intimately at home with my father and mother, and naturally they were soon on the same footing with me. As far as care went, I had three brothers to look after me, of whom indeed Ransom was not the most careful; and as to social qualifications, they were extremely well-bred, well-educated, and had a great deal of general and particular cultivation. In the evenings we had music and conversation; which last was always very pleasant except when it turned upon American affairs. Then I had great twinges of heart, which I thought it wise to keep to myself as closely as possible. I remember well the twinge I had, when one evening early in September De Saussure came in, the utmost glee expressed in his eyes and manner, and announced his news thus; - "They have had a battle at Springfield, and Lyon is killed." "Who is Lyon?" I could not help asking, though it was incautious. "You should not ask," he said more gently as he sat down by me; "you have no relish for these things. Even the cause of liberty cannot sweeten them to you." "Who is Lyon, De Saussure?" my father repeated. "A Connecticut fellow." The tone of these words, in its utter disdain, was inexpressible. "Connecticut?" said my father. "Has the war got into New England? That cannot be." "No, sir, no, sir," said Ransom. "It is Springfield in Missouri. You find a Yankee wherever you go in this world." "Wilson's Creek is the place of the battle," Mr. De Saussure went on. "Near Springfield, in Missouri. It was an overwhelming defeat. Lyon killed, and the next in command obliged to beat off." "Who on our side?" asked my mother. "Ben McCulloch and Price." "How many engaged? Was it much of an affair?" "We had twenty thousand or so. Of course, the others had more." "It doesn't take but one or two Southerners to whip a score of those cowards," said Ransom. "Why should not the war have got into New England, Mr. Randolph?" my mother asked. "You said, 'That cannot be.' Why should it not be?" "There are a few thousand men in the way," said my father; "and I think they are not all cowards." "They will never stand before our rifles," said De Saussure. "Our boys will mow them down like grass," said Ransom. "And in New Orleans the fever will take care of them. How soon, mother, will the fever be there?" Mamma and Ransom compared notes upon the probable and usual time for the yellow fever to make its appearance, when it would wield, its scythe of destruction upon the fresh harvest of life made ready for it, in the bands of the Northern soldiers in Louisiana. My whole soul was in a stir of opposition to the speakers. I had to be still, but pain struggled to speak. "You do not enjoy the prospect -" Hugh Marshall said, softly. I only looked at him. "Nor do I," said he, shaking his head. "A fair fight is one thing. - It is a terrible state of affairs at home, Miss Randolph." I had the utmost difficulty to keep quiet and give no sign. I could have answered him with a cry which would have startled them all. What if Thorold were ordered down there? He might be. He would go where he was ordered. That thought brought help; for so would I! A soldier, in another warfare, I remembered my ways were appointed, even as his; only more wisely, more surely, and on no service that could by any means be in vain. But yet the pain was very sharp, as I looked at the group who were eagerly discussing war matters; my father, my mother, my brother, and De Saussure, who in the interest of the thing had left my side; how keen they were! So were others keen at home, who had swords in their hands and pistols in their belts. It would not do to think. I could but repeat to myself, - "I am a soldier - I am a soldier - and just now my duty is to stand and bear fire." There was little chance in those days at Lucerne for me to be alone with papa. The opportunities we had we both enjoyed highly. Now and then mamma would be late for breakfast, or even take hers in bed; once in a while go out to a visit from which I begged off. Then papa and I drew together and had a good time. One of these chances occurred a few days after the news came of General Lyon's death. We were alone, and I was drawing, and papa had been watching me a little while in silence. "Daisy," he began, "am I wrong? It seems to me that you do not look upon matters at home with just the eye that the rest of us have for them?" "What matters, papa?" I said, looking up, and feeling troubled. "You do not like the war." "Papa, - do you?" "Yes. I think our countrymen are right, and of course I wish that they should have their rights." "Papa," said I, "don't you think it must be very strong reasons that can justify so dreadful a thing as a war?" "Undoubtedly; but the preservation of liberty is one of the strongest that can be conceived." "Papa - you know I want liberty for the blacks." "It is like you, my dear child," my father said, after pausing a minute; "it is like your generous nature; but Daisy, I think those people do not want it for themselves." "Papa, if they did not, I should think it would be one of the strongest arguments on my side; but I am sure they do. I know a great many of them that do." "Did not you, perhaps, bring about that desire in them, by your kind and possibly somewhat misjudged indulgences?" "No indeed, papa; it was our overseer, with his wicked ways. That Mr. Edwards is dreadful, papa!" "All overseers are not good," said my father with a sigh. "The people at Magnolia are as well treated, on the whole, - as they can be anywhere, I think, - I hope." "You do not know, papa. If they are, you have said all. And there is our old Maria, who has nothing to do with Mr. Edwards; she has no hope nor anticipation which does not go beyond this world; and it is so with a great many of them. They have that hope; but they sing, "I am bound for the promised land!" - in a minor key; and to a plaintive air that makes your heart ache." "Yours, Daisy," said my father with a somewhat constrained smile. "Papa," I went on, trembling, but I thought it best to venture, - "if the issue of this war could be to set all those people free, I could almost be glad." "That will not be the issue, Daisy," he said. "Papa, what do you think will?" "It can have but one issue. The Southern people cannot be put down." "Then, if they succeed, what will be the state of things between them and the North?" "It is impossible to tell how far things will go, Daisy, now that they have actually taken up arms. But I do not think the Southern people want anything of the North, but to be let alone." "How would it be, if the North succeeded, papa?" "It cannot succeed, Daisy. You have heard a different language, I suppose; but I know the men, - and the women, - of the South. They will never yield. The North must, sooner or later." I could not carry this on, and turned the conversation. But I had to listen to a great deal of the same sort of thing, in which I took no part. It came up every day. I discovered that my mother was using her influence and all her art to induce our two young friends to return home and enter the Southern army. She desired with equal vehemence that Ransom should take the same course; and as they all professed to be strong in the interests and sympathies that moved her, I was a little puzzled to understand why they delayed so long. For they did delay. They talked, but nothing came of it. Still we went on fresh excursions and made new expeditions; spending days of delight on the mountain sides, and days of enchantment in the mountain valleys; and still our party was of the same four. It is true that papa did not at all share mamma's eagerness to have Ransom go; but Ransom did not greatly care for papa's likings; and in the case of the others, I did not see what held them. The printed news from home we had of course, regularly; and as far as I could without being watched, I studied them. The papers after all were mostly Southern, and so filled with outrageous invective and inflated boasting, that I could not judge anything very certainly, from what they said. Nothing of great importance seemed to be transpiring between the belligerent parties. I supposed that it wanted but some such occurrence or occasion to send off our three young men like a ball from a rifle, straight to the seat of war. Meanwhile we enjoyed ourselves. Others did, and I did also, whenever I could put down fear and lift up hope; and I was young, and that happened to me sometimes. So the weeks ran on. "I really don't see why I should be in a hurry to plunge myself into that angry confusion of things at home," Hugh Marshall said one day. "It seems to me, they can get through it without my help." "Well, you are not in a hurry." I answered. We were out as usual for a day's pleasure among the mountains, and Hugh and I were resting on a sunny bank waiting for the others to come up. We had distanced them. "What do you think about it?" he said, suddenly drawing himself up from the grass and looking in my face. "Men do not rule their course by what women think," - I answered. "No, you are wrong; they do! Sometimes they do," - he said. "I have no mother nor sister to counsel me; only Mrs. Randolph bids me go home and be a soldier; but I would as lieve take advice from you. What would you tell me to do - if I were your brother?" "I do not tell Ransom anything." "He is under his mother's tutelage; but I am not. Tell me what to do, Miss Randolph. I am sure your counsel would be good. Do you wish me to go and fight the North, as your mother says I ought?" "I wish people would not fight at all," I said, with my heart straitened. "Of course; but here we are in it, or they are; and it is the same thing. Don't you think they can get through it without me? or do you say as your mother, - 'Every one go!' " He looked at me more earnestly than was pleasant, and I was greatly at a loss what to answer. It was wisest for me not to commit myself to a course opposed to my mother's; and yet, truth is wisest of all. I looked to see Ransom and Mr. De Saussure, but they were not in sight. "You are not speaking in jest," I said; "and I have no business to speak in earnest." "You never speak any other way," he rejoined. "Tell me your mind. You are never violent; do you feel as Mrs. Randolph does about it? Would you like me better if I went heart and soul into the fray at home?" "That would depend upon the-views and motives with which you went into it." "Well - if I did it for love of you?" he said smiling. "I cannot imagine that anybody should do such a thing for love of me. Nothing but the strongest and purest convictions of duty can justify such a thing as fighting." "I suppose I know what that means," he said somewhat gloomily. "No," said I hastily, "I don't think you do." "What does it mean, then?" he asked. "Permit me to ask first, Are your convictions strong and clear, that it is your duty to go home and enter the war for the South?" "That's a searching question," he said laughing. "To say yes, would be to condemn myself at once. To say no, - what would that do for me with Mrs. Randolph?" "You are not speaking to Mrs. Randolph," I said, half under my breath. He looked up eagerly in my face. "You do not think as she does!" he said. "You do not believe in fighting, under any circumstances?" "Yes, I do, Mr. Marshall," I said; and I felt myself colour. "I do believe in fighting, when it is to relieve the oppressed, to deliver those who are trampled upon, or to save ourselves or others from worse than death." "Our friends at the South can hardly be said to be in such extremity," he said, looking rather perplexed; "unless you believe all that the papers say about Yankee invaders; and I for one am not ready to do that." "Nor I," I said; "I know them too well." "Then who is so bitterly oppressed just now, Miss Randolph?" "If you do not know of anybody, I would not fight, Mr. Marshall." "Really?" said he. "Perhaps I ought to go home and take care of my twelve hundred people at Vincennes. Is that your thought?" "Are they in need of care?" I asked. " 'Pon my word, I don't know. Perhaps it would be nearer right to say, take care of myself; for if the war should come the way of Vicksburg, and Yankee arms have a little success, there might be the mischief to pay at Vincennes. On reflection, I don't see how I could take care of myself, either. Then you do not bid me go?" he asked again. "You remember our words one day about insignificant lives?" "Yes!" he cried eagerly; "and I have been longing ever since to ask you to explain more fully what interested me so much. I never could get a chance. I assure you, I have felt to the bottom of my heart what it is to have one's existence really worth nothing, to anybody. How may it be better? My life has to do with nothing but insignificant things." "But you must define insignificance," I said. "Is it needful?" "I think so. What makes things insignificant? Not their being small, - or common?" "What then, Miss Randolph?" "Small things, and common things, are often to the last degree important, you know, Mr. Marshall." "Yes; but however small and common, I cannot feel that I am important, in any degree," he said, half laughing. "We were talking of lives, and things." "Yes. Excuse me. Well?" "I think I see the crowns of two hats, down below, which belong to some people that we know." "Is it they?" he exclaimed; - "and I wish they were farther off. Finish what you were going to say, Miss Daisy! Do not leave me in ignorance now, after bringing me so far." "I can only tell you what I think," I said. "And that is precisely what I want to hear," he answered earnestly. "You will not agree to it, though, and I do not know that you will even understand me. Mr. Marshall, I think that nothing is insignificant which is done for God; and that everything which is not done for Him, directly or indirectly, is insignificant or worse." "I do _not_ understand -" he said thoughtfully. "In what sense can a thing be 'done for God?' Unless it is building a church or founding a hospital." "Very few churches have been built for God," I said. "At least I think so." "Why, the old monks -" Mr. Marshall began. But just then our missing companions came up, and he stopped. They had been lured aside from the way by the sight of some game. We had no more private talk; but Hugh Marshall was sober and thoughtful all the rest of the day. He sought such talks with me now whenever he could; and seemed to enter into them like a man, with an earnest purpose to know the truth and to do his work in the world if he could find it. I grew, in a way, very fond of him. He was gentle, well-bred, happy-tempered, extremely careful of my welfare and pleasure, and regardful of my opinions, which I suppose flattered my vanity; well-read and sensible; and it seemed to me that he grew more agreeable every day. The accounts from the seat of war in America were not very stirring just then; nothing great was done or expected; and the question of our young men's return to take part in what was going on, was suffered for a time to fall out of sight. Meanwhile we left Lucerne and went to Geneva. There was more society, in a quiet way; and there was a fresh harvest of pleasure to be reaped by me and for me in the domains of nature. CHAPTER XI. A VICTORY "Daisy, - you are very happy!" my father said one day when I was sitting with him. We were looking out upon the lake, which our windows commanded; but I found papa's look had come back from the window to me. "You are very happy!" he said. "Yes, papa, - pretty happy." "Pretty happy?" said he, putting his hand under my chin and turning my face again round to him, and then kissing me. "Pretty _and_ happy, you mean." "No, papa," I said laughing; - "I don't mean that." "It is true, though," said he. "There was a bit of a smile upon your mouth just now - before I spoke; - what were you thinking of?" "Papa, it is so glorious, - the lake and its shores in this sunlight." "That was all?" "No, not quite all, papa." "I thought not. What was the rest of it, Daisy?" "Papa, I was thinking with joy, that I belong to the wonderful One who made all that; and so, that the riches of his power and glory are in a certain sense mine; - just as everything good in you is mine, papa." He folded me in his arms and kissed me again, very fondly. "There is not much good in me, Daisy." "Yes, papa, - for me." "But there is a great deal in you, - for somebody." "For you, papa." "Nobody else, Daisy?" He was holding me close in his arms and looking down into my face. I believe the colour must have come into my cheeks. "Ah, I thought so!" he said. "Even so soon, Daisy, you are leaving me for somebody else." "Papa!" I exclaimed, hiding my face in his neck, - "I will never leave you, till you say so." "Till I say so? I will not be over selfish, my dear child. I do not mean that." "Who is it to be, Daisy?" my mother's voice said behind us. I started up in absolute terror. What had I said? and what did she mean? I looked at her, speechless. "Well?" she said laughing, "what is the matter? You need not turn white about it. Is your father the only one to be in your confidence? I will withdraw then." "Stop! - Mamma!" I cried; "what are you saying? There is no confidence. What are you talking about?" "I only asked, who it was to be, Daisy? I thought you were talking of leaving us, and naturally concluded it was to be with somebody." "Mamma - oh, mamma, I was speaking only in the abstract." Mamma laughed. "In the abstract! Well, you will have to come from generals to particulars, Daisy. Abstractions will not satisfy anybody long." I was in great difficulty and great confusion. Papa drew me into his arms again and kissed my lips and cheeks and eyes, as if he would have hid my blushes. "You shall be as abstract as you like," he said; "and as long as you like. I give you leave." "That's nonsense, though, Mr. Randolph," said my mother, standing at the back of his chair. "Daisy cannot live in abstractions for ever. She must choose, and let her choice be known; and the sooner the better. Nobody can guess it now. She has been abstract enough." I was in the greatest perplexity at this speech, which conveyed to me no meaning whatever. Let my choice be known? Did mamma know about Mr. Thorold? I knew she could not; but then, what did she mean? "There is no hurry, Felicia," said papa. "I will not have Daisy marry any but an American, Mr. Randolph." "Agreed. There is no present likelihood that she will." "But when we get to Florence, Mr. Randolph, and she is seen in the great world, things may not absolutely be within your control - or mine." Mamma stood tapping her fingers upon the back of my father's chair, and I thought her very odd indeed. Her last sentence, however, had a word that I could answer. I stood up and faced her. "Mamma," I said, "I am going to say something that you will not like." "Then do not say it, Daisy." "I would not, if I could help it. But you know, mamma, I am a servant of God - I have not changed, - and I and the 'great world' have nothing in common." "Well? -" said mamma calmly. "I do not belong to it. I have no place in it." "No, of course. You are just out of school. A few months more will change all that." "No, mamma, - please!" "Yes, Daisy, - please!" she said, tapping my cheek with her finger, and then leaning forward to kiss me with smiling lips. "You do not know what you are talking about, my love. You are made for the great world, Daisy. There is no danger of turning your head; so I have no objection to explain to you that you are magnificent." "Mamma, what difference can that possibly make?" They both laughed at me, and mamma said I would soon see. "But, mamma," I urged, "that world and I have nothing in common. I should be out of my place in it, and it would find me something strange." "It is quite time to have that altered then," she said. "You may be a nun if you choose afterward; but you shall know what the great world is, before you give it up; and it shall know you. You may spend your odd minutes in considering what dress you will wear for your first appearance, Daisy. Don't ask me for a white cambric and an apron with pockets." I stood in much perplexity, not resolved what I ought to say next. Papa took my hand. "It is not much, to show yourself," he said kindly. "What is the difficulty, Daisy?" "You mean, show myself in a fine dress and in a fine assembly, papa?" "I don't care about the dress," he answered. "Yes, but you do, Mr. Randolph," said my mother. "Daisy would not wear a print, for instance, to the Grand Duke's ball. Your complexion, Daisy, will take any sort of colour; but rubies will look especially well on this skin, and pearls." She touched my face caressingly as she spoke, pushing back the hair from my temple and then bringing her hand down to take hold of my chin. "Little fool!" said she laughing - "does it dismay you?" "Yes, mamma, - the thought of crossing your pleasure." "You shall not do that. Good children always obey their mothers, I am not going to have you settled down on a plantation at home, east or west, without at least letting the world see you first." "Daisy does not want jewels," said my father. "She is too young." "One day she will," said mamma; "and an occasion might make it proper, even now. I hope so; for I want to see the effect." Mamma went away, with that; and I sat down again by papa's side. Not to dream over the sunlight on the lake any more; I was busy with cloudy realities. "Children, obey your parents _in the Lord_." Oh, why did duty bid me go contrary to the pleasure of mine! I would have so gladly pleased them to the utmost limits of my power. Papa was watching me, though I did not know it, and presently said very gently, - "What is it, Daisy?" "Papa, I want to please you and mamma so much!" "And cannot you?" "Not in this, papa." "Why? Explain to me. I do not understand your position, Daisy." "Papa, I am a servant of Christ; and a servant is bound to do his Master's will." "But you are begging the question." "If you will have patience, papa, I will try to tell you how it is. You know the Lord said, 'If any man serve me, let him follow me.' You know how He lived and what He lived for. Should I be following in his footsteps, when I was dressing and dancing and talking nonsense or nothings and getting so tired that I could do nothing but sleep all the next day? And papa, that is not all. It is so difficult, when one is dressed to look well and others are dressed in like manner, or for the same object, I mean, - it is very difficult not to wish to look well, and to wish to look better than other people, and to be glad if one does; and then comes the desire for admiration, and a feeling of pride, and perhaps, emulation of somebody else; and one comes home with one's head filled with poor thoughts, and the next day one is fit for nothing. And is that, following Christ? who went about doing good, who sought not His own, who was separate from sinners. And He said to His people, 'Ye are not of the world, even as I am not of the world.' " "Why, Daisy," said my father, passing over the last part of my speech, "how do you know all this? Have you been out into the great world already?" "No, papa; but if the little world has such effects what must the great one do?" "Pray, what little world have you seen?" "The little world of West Point, papa. And something of the world of Washington." "_That_ is not much like a European court," said my father. "How did you like West Point?" "Very much indeed." "Did you go to balls there?" "Oh, no, sir! only little hops, that the cadets have in the evenings." "Was Preston there then?" "He was entering upon his last year at the Academy." "Had he improved?" "Papa. - I thought he had _not_." My father smiled. "Which of these young friends of ours do you like the best, Daisy?" "Mr. Marshall and Mr. De Saussure, do you mean?" "I mean them." Something in papa's tone made my answer, I was conscious, a little constrained. I was very sorry, and could not help it. "Papa - I think - Don't you think, Mr. Marshall has the most principle?" "Do you always like people best that are the best, Daisy?" said papa laughing. "Because, I confess I have a wicked perverseness to do the other way." After this conversation I seemed to see several clouds rising on my horizon in different quarters. I thought it was wisest not to look at them; but there was one that cast a shadow always on the spot where I was. It was so long since I had heard from Mr. Thorold! I had told him he must not write to me; but at the same time he had said that he would, and that he would enclose a letter to my father. Neither letter had come. It was easy to account for; he might not have had a chance to write; or in the confusions at home, his despatch might have been detained somewhere; it might reach me after a long interval, or it might never reach me! There was nothing strange about it; there was something trying. The hunger of my heart for one word from him or of him, grew sometimes rapacious; it was a perpetual fast day with me, and nature cried out for relief. _That_ cloud cast a shadow always over me now; only except when now and then a ray from the eternal sunshine found a rift in the cloud, or shot below it, and for a moment my feet stood in light. I had letters from the Sandfords; I had even one from Miss Cardigan; it did me a great deal of good, but it broke my heart too. Mamma and I kept off the subject of the great world for a while; I think my father purposely prolonged our stay at Geneva, to favour my pleasure; and I hoped something after all might prevent the discussion of that subject between mamma and me, at least for the present. So something did. I came down one afternoon to the green bank behind the house, where a table stood, and where we took our meals when the weather was fine. Our three young men were around it and the air was fragrant with the fumes of their cigars. The cigars of two of them were tossed away on my appearance. Ransom held his in abeyance. "I did not know you were here," I said, "or I should have scrupled about interrupting anything so pleasant." "You do not think it pleasant, confess, Miss Randolph," said De Saussure, drawing near to look over the progress of my work. "Do you dislike it, honestly, Miss Randolph?" said Hugh Marshall. "I don't dislike sugar-plums," I said. "Daisy likes nothing that ordinary people like," cried Ransom. "I pity the man that will marry you, Daisy! He will live within a hedge-row of restrictions. You have lived among Puritans till you're blue." I lifted my eyes to Ransom without speaking. What there was in my look, I do not know; but they all laughed. "What connection is there between cigars and sugar-plums?" Hugh Marshall asked next. "None, I suppose," I said. "Only, - what would you think of a lady who sat down regularly to eat sugar-plums three or four times a day and the last thing before going to bed? and who evidently could not live without them." "But why not take a sugar-plum, or a cigar, as well as other things - wine, or fruit, for instance?" said Marshall. "It is an indulgence - but we all allow ourselves indulgences of one sort or another." "Besides, with a lady it is different," said De Saussure. "We poor fellows have nothing better to do, half the time." I had no wish to lecture Mr. De Saussure, but I could not help looking at him, which again seemed to rouse their amusement. "You seem to say, that is an insignificant way of life," Hugh Marshall added. "We'll try for something better to-morrow," said De Saussure. "We have laid a plan to go to see the lake of Annecy, Miss Randolph, if we can secure your company and approbation. It will just take the day; and I propose that each one of us shall go prepared to instruct the others, at luncheon, as to his or her views of the worthiest thing a man can do with his life; - cigars being banished." "Cigars are not banished yet," said Ransom, taking delicate whiffs of his own, which sent a fragrant wreath of blue smoke curling about his face. "What do you say, Miss Randolph?" Hugh asked. "Wouldn't you like to see the house of Eugene Sue?" said De Saussure. "Who was Eugene Sue?" was my counter question; and they laughed again, our two friends with sparkling eyes. "Look here, Daisy!" said Ransom, suddenly bringing down his chair on four feet and sitting upright, - "I wish you would put an end to this indulgence of sight-seeing and your society, and send these gentlemen home with me. I must go, and they ought to go too and do their duty. A word from you would send either of them straight to Beauregard's headquarters. Talk of indulgences!" "I do not wish to send either of them there," was my incautious answer. "Do you think it is always wrong to fight?" De Saussure asked. I said no, with an internal shiver running through me from head to foot. They went into a mutual gratulation on the causes for fighting that existed on the part of the Southern States, and the certainty that the warlike spirit of the North would "die off like a big fungus," as one of them phrased it. I could not discuss the point with them, and I got away as soon as it could gracefully be done. But something in this little talk, or in what went before it, had unsettled me; and I slept little that night. Anxieties which had lain pretty still, and pain which had been rather quiet, rose up together and shook me. My Bible reading had given me a word which for a time helped the confusion. "No man that warreth entangleth himself with the affairs of this life, that he may please Him who hath chosen him to be a soldier." Not to be entangled with the affairs of this life! - and my heart and soul were in a whirl of them; I might say, in a snarl. And true the words were. How could I please Him who had chosen me to be a soldier, with my heart set on my own pleasure, and busy with my own fears? I knew I could not. The quiet subjection of spirit with which I left Washington, I had in a measure lost at Lucerne. Somehow, opposition had roused me; and the great distance and the impossibility of hearing had made my imagination restless; and the near probability that mamma would not favour our wishes had caused me to take a sort of life and death grasp of them. The management of myself, that I had resigned, I found I had not resigned it; but my heart was stretching out yearning hands to Thorold and crying for a sight of him. Meanwhile, the particular work that I had to do in Switzerland had been little thought of. What was it? I spent that night waking. My room looked not to the lake, but over an extent of greensward and orchards, lit up now by a bright moon. I knelt at my window, with a strong recollection of former times, and a vain look back at my little old self, the childish Daisy, whose window at Melbourne, over the honeysuckles, had been so well used and had entertained such a quiet little heart. Then there had been Miss Pinshon's Daisy; but all the Daisies that I could remember had been quiet compared to this one. Must joy take such close hold on sorrow? Must hopes always be twin with such fears? - I asked amid bitter tears. But tears do one good; and after a little indulgence of them, I brought myself up to look at my duty. What was it? I might love, and fear, and hope; but I must not be "entangled." Not so concerned about myself, either for sorrow or joy, that I should fail in anything to discern the Lord's will, or be unready, or be slow, to do it. Not so but that my heart should be free, looking to God for its chief strength and joy always and everywhere, - yes, and holding my hopes at his hand, to be given up if he called them back. With Thorold parted from me, in the thick of the war struggle, almost certain to be rejected by both my father and my mother, could I have and keep such a disentangled heart? The command said yes, and I knew there were promises that said yes too; but for a time I was strangely unwilling. I had a sort of superstitious feeling, that the giving up of my will about these things, and of my will's hold of them, would be a preliminary to their being taken away from me in good earnest. And I trembled and wept and shrank, like the coward I was. "And if a man also strive for masteries, yet is he not crowned, except he strive lawfully." "God's way is the way," I said to myself, - "and there is no other. I know, in what I said to mamma that afternoon about dressing and going into the world, it was not all principle. There was a mixture of selfish disinclination to go into society, because of Mr. Thorold and my feeling about him. My thoughts and will are all in a tangle; and they must be disentangled." The struggle was long and sore that night. Worse than in Washington; because here I was alone among those who did not favour Mr. Thorold, and were opposed in everything to his and my views and wishes. Temptation said, that it was forsaking their cause, to give up my will about them. But there is no temptation that takes us and God has not provided a way of escape. The struggle was sharp; but when the dawn broke over the orchards and replaced the glory of the moonlight, my heart was quiet again. I was bent, before all things, upon doing the will of God; and had given up myself and all my hopes entirely to His disposal. They were not less dear hopes for that, though now the rest of my heart was on something better; on something which by no change or contingency can disappoint or fail. I was disentangled. I stood free. And I was happier than I had been in many a long day. "The peace of God." If people could only possibly know what that means! CHAPTER XII. AN ENGAGEMENT The expedition to Annecy had been determined on, and papa and mamma were to go. I went in a carriage with them, while the others were on horseback; so I had a nice quiet time, which suited me; a time of curious secret enjoyment. It seemed as if a gratulation came to me from every blade of grass and every ray of sunlight; because I was a servant of God, and as wholly given up to do His will as they were. There was communion between them and me. Of those "ministers of His, that do His pleasure," I would be one; to do what He had for me to do in the world, should be my care and joy at once; and the care of myself - I left it to Him. One goes light when one does not carry that burden. "Daisy, you are dreadfully sober," said mamma. "Not _dreadfully_, mamma, I hope," I said with a smile. "You are pale too," she went on. "Mr. Randolph, Daisy thinks too much." "It is an old weakness of hers," said papa. "I am afraid it is beyond our reach, Felicia." "I will break it up for to-day," said mamma as the carriage stopped and Mr. De Saussure came to the steps. "Charles, Daisy has got into a brown study. I give her to you in charge, not to allow anything of the sort again till we get home. And order luncheon at once, will you. I can't go walking or sight- seeing without that." Mr. de Saussure gave me his arm and took me with him, as he said, to help about the luncheon. It was soon spread out of doors, beneath the shade of some large trees, and we gathered round it in holiday mood. Bread was sweet, with that page of beauty spread out before my eyes all the time; - for between the boles of the trees and under their hanging branches I could see the glittering waters of the lake and a bit of its distant shore. I did not go into a brown study, however, not wishing to give occasion to Mr. De Saussure's good offices. I thought he had quite enough enjoyed his charge during the business before luncheon. To my disappointment, after the meal papa declared himself tired and went to lie down. "We have forgotten our agreement," said Mr. De Saussure. "At luncheon, we were all to tell, Mrs. Randolph, what we think the worthiest thing to live for." "Were we?" said mamma. "That sounds like one of Daisy's problems." "It is not hers, however," he rejoined; "any further than that I am mainly curious to know what she will say about it." "You ought to be equally anxious about my opinion, it seems to me," mamma said. "Do I not know it already? Pour la patrie, - does anything go before that in your mind? Honestly, Mrs. Randolph, - is it not in your opinion the worthiest thing anybody can do, to fight, or to die - still better, - for the independence of the South?" "You do not think so," said mamma, "or you would be there." "I am selfish, and have selfish hopes and fears. But you think so?" "Let us hear what you consider the worthiest object of life," said mamma. "It is not my turn. Miss Randolph, your mother has spoken - the next honour belongs to you." "The worthiest object of life?" I said. "Is that the question?" "It will not be a question, when you have answered it," De Saussure said gallantly. "You will not like my answer," I said. "I should think it would be, To please God." "But that is not an answer, pardon me. Of course, the Supreme Being is pleased to see people following the worthiest object; and the question is, What is the _worthiest?_" I did not like to hear Mr. De Saussure's tongue touch themes where it was not at home. The conversation was too serious for light handling; but I could not get out of it. "You will find that my answer includes all," I said. "It is impossible to lay down a rule, as to particulars, that will fit all cases. It is the best thing one man can do, to lay down his life for his country; the best thing another man can do is to stay at home and devote himself to the care of an infirm mother or father; but in either case, for God." "I do not understand -" said Mr. Marshall. "Suppose the one goes to the battlefield for his own glory, and the other stays at home for his own ease?" "Don't you think glory is a thing to live for?" said Ransom, with an indignant expression that reminded me painfully of our childish days. "Yes," I said slowly, - "I do; but not the praise of men, which is so often mistaken. The glory that comes from God, - _that_ is worth living for." "What an incomprehensible girl you are!" Ransom answered impatiently. "She'll mend -" said mamma. "But, Miss Randolph," said Mr. Marshall, "the care of infirm relatives, a father or a mother, can anything make that unworthy?" "Not in itself," I said; "but suppose a man's duty calls him away? It might. You can suppose such a case." "I see what I have to expect," mamma said with a laugh. "Daisy will take care of me, until some duty calls her away. I will not count upon you, Daisy, any longer than that. De Saussure, what is _your_ estimate of life's objects? On honour, now!" "I can think of nothing better than to live for somebody that one loves," he said. "I knew you would say that," she rejoined. "Hugh, what do you say?" "I need to go to school, Mrs. Randolph." "Well, go to school to Daisy," said mamma with another light laugh. "And come, let us walk, or we shall not have time. Eug�ne Sue, is it, that we are going to see?" "Only his house, madam. Miss Randolph, I am charged, you know, with your studies to-day." I was not in the mood of accepting Mr. De Saussure's arm, but just then it was the only thing to do. My mother and Ransom and Hugh Marshall were presently some little distance behind, an interval separating us; and Mr. De Saussure and I followed the shores of the lake, taking such counsel together as our somewhat diverse moods made possible. I was thinking, what a life of hard work the two prophets Elijah must have known in their time; he who was first of the name, and his greater successor, John the Baptist. Each of them worked alone, against a universal tide of adverse evil that flooded the land. If I found it so sorrowful to be alone in my family and society, what must they have felt with the whole world against them. And Elijah's spirit did once give out, brave as he was: "It is enough, O Lord; take away my life." I thought I could understand it. To be all alone; to have no sympathy in what is dearest to you; to face opposition and scorn and ridicule and contumely while trying to do people good and bring them to good; to have only God on your side, with the bitter consciousness that those whom you love best are arrayed against him; your family and country; - I suppose nobody can tell how hard that is to endure, but he who has tasted it. My taste of it was light indeed; but a half hour with Miss Cardigan would have been inexpressibly good to me that day. So I thought, as I walked along the bank of the lake with Mr. De Saussure; and then I remembered "my hiding-place and my shield." "You are very silent to-day, Miss Randolph," said my companion at length. I may remark, in passing, that _he_ had not been. "It is enough to look, and to think," I answered, "with such a sight before one's eyes." "Do you know," said he, "such independence of all the exterior world, - of mortals, I mean, - is very tantalising to those disregarded mortals?" "Do you find it so? It is fair then to presume, in a place like this, that what takes up my attention has not so much charm for you." "That is severe!" he said. "Do you think I do not see all this beauty before us? But pardon me, - have _you_ seen it?" "I have tasted it every step of the way, Mr. De Saussure." "I am rebuked," he said. "You must excuse me - I had counted upon the pleasure of seeing you enjoy it." "One's enjoyment is not always heightened by giving it expression," I said. "No, I know that is your theory - or practice," he said. "My sisters are always so vehement in their praises of anything they like, that nobody else has a chance to know whether he likes it or not. I generally incline to the _not_." I added no remark upon Mr. De Saussure's or his sisters' peculiar way of enjoying themselves. "But you _are_ uncommonly silent," he went on presently; - "_triste_, _rêveuse_. It is impossible not to suffer from it, - in one who values your words as much as I do." "Why, I thought you were apt to look upon things from a different point of view, - not from mine," I said. "I must be wrong then - always. Miss Randolph, you are of a gentle and kind disposition, - I wish you would be my Mentor!" "I am not old enough to be Mentor," I said. "To be mine! Yes, you are," he rejoined eagerly. "I would not have you a day older." "I shall be that to-morrow," I said, laughing. "But if you were mine," he said, changing his tone, "every day would only add to your power and your qualifications for doing me good. And I know that is what you love." "I cannot see that I have done you the least good, so far, Mr. De Saussure," I said, amused. "I think you must be mistaken." "Will you try, Daisy?" he said insinuatingly, and stopping short in our walk. "Try what, Mr. De Saussure?" I said, beginning to be bewildered. "Surely you know! You are a little cruel. But you have the right. Be my Mentor - be my darling - promise to be, one of these days, my wife." I dropped my arm from Mr. De Saussure's and stood in a maze, I might say with truth, frightened. Up to that minute, no suspicion of his purpose or mind regarding me had entered my thoughts. I suppose I was more blind than I ought to have been; and the truth was, that in the utter preoccupation of my own heart, the idea that I could like anybody else but Mr. Thorold, or that anybody else could like me, had been simply out of sight. I knew myself so thoroughly beyond anybody's reach, the prior possession of the ground was so perfect and settled a thing, that I did not remember it was a fact hidden from other eyes but mine. And I had gone on in my supposed walled-in safety; - and here was somebody presuming within the walls, who might allege that I had left the gate open. However, to do Mr. De Saussure justice, I never doubted for a moment that his heart might be in any danger of breaking if I thrust him out. But for all that, I lost my breath in the first minute of discovery of what I had been doing. "You hesitate," said he. "You shall command me, Daisy. I will go instantly, hard as it would be, and give all my power to furthering the war at home; - or, if you bid me, I will keep out of it, which would be harder still, were you not here instead of there. Speak, won't you, -a good word for me?" "You must do nothing at my command, Mr. de Saussure," I said. "I have known you only as mamma's and my brother's friend; - I never thought you had any other feeling; and I had no other towards you." "Mrs. Randolph _is_ my friend," he said eagerly. "She does me the honour to wish well to my suit. She looks at it, not with my eyes, but with the eyes of prudence; and she sees the advantages that such an arrangement would secure. I believe she looks at it with patriotic eyes too. You know my estates are nearly adjoining to yours. I may say too, that our families are worthy one of another. But there, I am very conscious, my worthiness ends. I am not personally deserving of your regard - I can only promise under your guidance to become so." A light broke upon me. "Mr. De Saussure" - I began; but he said hastily, "Let us go on - they are coming near us;" and I took his offered arm again, not wishing more than he to have spectators or hearers of our talk; and now that the talk was begun, I wished to end it. "Mr. de Saussure," I said, "you are under a serious mistake. You speak of my estates; I must inform you that I shall never, under any circumstances, be an heiress. Whoever marries me - if I ever marry - will marry a poor girl." "Pardon me -" he began. "Yes," said I interrupting him; - "I know of what I speak." "What can you mean, Miss Randolph?" "I assure you, I mean exactly what I say. Pray take it so." "But I do not understand you." "Understand this, - that I shall be a penniless woman; or something very like it. I am making no jest. I am no heiress - as people think." "But you confound me, Miss Randolph," he said, looking both curious and incredulous. "May I ask, what can be the explanation of your words? I know your Magnolia property - and it is, I assure you, a very noble one, and unencumbered. Nothing can hinder you from inheriting it - at some, we hope, of course, very distant day." "Nevertheless," I said, "if I live to see that day, I shall be very poor, Mr. De Saussure." "You will condescend to explain so extraordinary a statement?" "Is not my word sufficient?" "Pardon me, a thousand times; but you must see that I am in a difficulty. Against your word I have the word of two others - your mother and your brother, who both assure me of the contrary. May it not be, that they know best?" "No, Mr. De Saussure; for the fact depends on something out of their knowledge." "It is out of my knowledge too," he said. I hesitated a little, and then said, - "I will explain myself, Mr. De Saussure, trusting to your honour to keep silence about it. I am a friend of the coloured people." "Oh! - So are we all," he said. "And I will never be rich at their expense." "By their means, is not necessarily at their expense," he said gently. "It is at their expense," I repeated. "I do not choose to be rich so. And the religion I live by, forbids me to do to others as I would not like they should do to me." "I am sure, by that rule, your dependants at Magnolia would implore you not to give them over to other hands. They will never have so kind a mistress. Don't you see?" he said with the same insinuating gentleness. "I shall give them over to no other hands. I would make them as free as myself." "Make them free!" "That is what I would do." "You cannot mean it," he said. "You see, Mr. De Saussure, that I shall be very poor." "You are playing with me." "I am very serious." "It is rank Northern madness!" he said to himself. "And it is Mrs. Randolph's daughter. The thing is impossible." "It _is_ Mrs. Randolph's daughter," I said, withdrawing my hand from his arm. "I pray you not to forget it." "Pray, forgive me!" he said eagerly. "I was bewildered, and am yet. I did not know where I was. It seems to me I cannot have heard you aright." "Quite right, Mr. De Saussure." "But just reflect!" he said. "These creatures, whose cause you are advocating, they are but half human; they cannot take care of themselves; their very happiness is identified with their present position." "It is not the view they take of it." "They are incapable of forming any judgment on the matter." "At least they know what _they_ mean by happiness," I said; "and in their mouths it is not a synonym with slavery. And if your words are true, Mr. De Saussure, in the case of some of those poor people, - and I know they are, - it is one of the worst things that can be said of the system. If some of them are brought so low as to be content with being slaves, we have robbed them of their humanity." "It is absolutely Northern radicalism!" said Mr. De Saussure to himself. "No," I said, - "it is Christian justice and mercy." "You will allow me to represent to you, without any presumption, that there are very many Christians, both at the South and North, who do not look at the matter with your eyes." "I suppose they have never really seen it," I answered sadly. "People that have always lived close to something, often do not know what it is. My father has never seen it - nor, my mother. _I_ have." "They would not agree with you; your views would not harmonise with theirs." "And therefore I trust to your honour to keep silence respecting mine." "I am bound," he answered gloomily; and we walked a few minutes in silence. "You will change your manner of thinking, Miss Randolph," he began again. "Yours is the vision of inexperienced eyes and of impulsive generosity. It will not remain what it is." "Inexperienced eyes see the clearest," I answered. "The habit of wrong is no help towards judging of the right." "You will think differently by and by." "Not while I am a servant of God and He commands me to break every yoke, to do as I would be done by, to look not on my own things, but also on the things of others. We owe our poor people not liberty only, but education, and every advantage for restored civilisation; - a great long debt." "And is this the reason why you will not look favourably on my suit?" he said after another interval. "It is a reason why you will not wish to prosecute it, Mr. De Saussure." "You are very severe!" he said. "Do you really think that?" "You know it is true. I do not wish to be severe." "Have you then no kindness for me?" "Why do you ask?" "You are so dreadfully calm and cool!" he said. "One has no chance with you. If this matter were not in the way, would you have any kindness for me, Daisy? Is this all that separates us?" "It is quite enough, Mr. De Saussure. It is as powerful with you as with me." "I am too late, I suppose!" he said, as it seemed to me, rather spitefully. As he was too late, it was no use to tell him he could never have been early enough. I was silent; and we walked on unenjoyingly. Vexation was working in his countenance, and a trace of that same spite; I was glad when we came to the end of our way and the other members of our party closed up and joined us. As I cared nothing for the house they had come to see, I excused myself from going any nearer, and sat down upon the bank at a little distance while they gratified their curiosity. The view of the lake and lake shores here was very lovely; enough to satisfy any one for a long while; but now, my thoughts only rested there for a minute, to make a spring clear across the Atlantic. Mr. Thorold was very close to me, and I was very far from him; that was the burden of my heart. So close to me he had been, that I had never dreamed any one could think of taking his place. I saw I had been a simpleton. Up to that day I had no suspicion that Mr. De Saussure liked me more than would be convenient; and indeed I had no fear now of his heart being broken; but I saw that his unlucky suit made a complication in my affairs that they certainly did not need. - Mamma approved it; yes, I had no doubt of that. I knew of a plantation of his, Briery Bank, only a few miles distant from Magnolia and reputed to be very rich in its incomings. And, no doubt Mr. De Saussure would have liked the neighbourhood of Magnolia, and to add its harvest to his own. And all the while I belonged to Mr. Thorold, and nobody else could have me. My thoughts came back to that refrain with a strong sense of pain and gladness. However, the gladness was the strongest. How lovely the lake was, with its sunlit hills! In the midst of my musings, Hugh Marshall came and threw himself on the ground at my side. I welcomed him with a smile; for I liked him; he was a friend; and I thought, - This one does not want me at any rate. I was a great simpleton, I suppose. "I was afraid you had deserted me to-day," he said. "I am sure, it is I who might rather have thought that of you," I answered; and indeed I had wished for his company more than once. "You could not have thought it!" he said. "Have you satisfied your curiosity with Eugene Sue's house?" "I do not care to look at anything that you don't like," he replied. "Cigars? -" I suggested. "No indeed. If you disapprove of them, I shall have no more fellowship with them." "That is going quite too far, Mr. Marshall. A man should never give up anything that he does not disapprove of himself." "Not to please somebody he wishes to please?" "Of course," I said, thinking of Mr. Thorold, - "there might be such cases. But in general." "This is one of the cases. I wish to please you." "Thank you," I said earnestly. "But indeed, I should be more pleased to have you follow your own sense of right than any notion of another, even of myself." "You are not like any other woman I ever saw," he said smiling. "Do you know, they all have a passion for command? There are De Saussure's mother and sisters, - they do not leave him a moment's peace, because he is not at home fighting." I was silent, and hoped that Mr. De Saussure's friends might now perhaps get him away from Geneva at least. "You think with them, that he ought to go?" Hugh Marshall said presently with a shadow, I thought, on his words. "I would not add one more to the war," I answered. "Your mother does not think so." "No." "Mrs. Randolph has almost signified to me that her favour will depend on my taking such a course, and doing all I can to help on the Confederacy." "Yes, I know," I said rather sadly; "mamma feels very strongly about it." "You do not?" "Yes, Mr. Marshall, I do; but it is in a different way." "I wish you would explain," he said earnestly. "But I do not like to set myself in opposition to mamma; and you ought to do what you yourself think right, Mr. Marshall; not what either of us thinks." "What do _you_ think is right?" he repeated eagerly. "My thoughts do not make or unmake anything." "They make - they will make, if you will let them - the rule of my life," he answered. "I have no dearer wish." I was struck with dismay. "Please do not say that!" I said trembling. "My thoughts should rule only my own life; not anybody, else's." "One more!" said Hugh Marshall. "They must rule one more. There will be one, somewhere, whose highest pleasure will be to please you, as long as he has a life to give to it. - Will you take mine?" he said after a pause and in a lower tone. "I offer it to you undividedly." It cannot be told, the sickness of heart which came over me. The mistake I had made in my blindness, the sorrowfulness of it, the pain I must give, the mischief it might do, I saw it all at once. For a while, I could not find words to speak. Hugh studied my face, and must have seen no ground of hope there, for he did not speak either. He was quite silent and left it to me. Oh, Lake of Annecy! what pain comes to me now with the remembrance of your sweet waters. I turned at last and laid my hand upon Hugh's arm. He did not mistake me; he took my hand in his, and stood looking at me with a face as grave as my own. "What is the matter, Daisy?" he said sorrowfully. "I have made a miserable mistake!" I said. "Cannot we be friends, Mr. Marshall? - dear friends, and nothing more?" "Why 'nothing more'?" "I can be no more to you," I answered. "Why not?" "I have not the feeling. I have not the power. I would, if I could." "It is I who have made a mistake," he said, as he dropped my hand. "No, it is I," I said bitterly. "I have been childishly wrong. I have been foolish. It never entered my thought, that you - or anybody - liked me, except as a friend." "And he got your heart without your knowing it?" "Who?" said I, frightened. "De Saussure, of course." "De Saussure! No indeed. I would a thousand times rather give it to you, Hugh. But, I cannot." "Then it will come," said he, taking my hand again; "if you can say that, it will come. I will wait." "No, it will not come," I said, as we looked one another in the face. "I can be only a friend. May I not be that?" He eyed me keenly, I saw, and my eyes for a moment fell. He let go my hand again. "Then, I understand," - he said. "Shall we go? I believe it is time." "Where is mamma?" I asked, looking about in some bewilderment now. "Mrs. Randolph and the rest have gone on; they are some distance ahead of us by this time." And what were they all thinking too, by this time! In great dismay I turned to go after them with my unwelcome companion. We walked in silence; I blaming myself greatly for stupidness and blindness and selfish preoccupation, which had made me look at nobody's affairs but my own; and grieving sadly too for the mischief I had done. "Mayn't we be friends, Mr. Marshall?" I said somewhat timidly at last; for I could not bear the silence. "I can never be anything else," he said. "You may always command me. But I have not misunderstood you, Daisy? You meant to tell me that - _some one_ has been more fortunate than I, and been beforehand with me ?" "I did not mean to tell you that," I said in a good deal of confusion. "But it is true ?" he said, looking searchingly at me. "Nobody knows it, Hugh," I said. "Not my mother nor my father." The silence fell again and again became painful. The others of our party were well in advance. - We caught no glimpse of them yet. "We will be friends, Mr. Marshall?" - I said anxiously. "Yes, we will be friends, Daisy; but I cannot be a friend near you. I cannot see you any longer. I shall be a wreck now, I suppose. You might have made me - anything !" "You will make yourself a noble name and place in the world," I said, laying my hand on his arm. "The name and the place of a servant of God. Won't you, Hugh? Then you will come to true joy, and honour - the joy and honour that God gives. Let me have the joy of knowing that! I have done so much mischief, - let me know that the mischief is mended." "What mischief have you done?" he asked, with his voice roughened by feeling. "I did not know what I was leading you - and others - into." "You led to nothing; except as the breath of a rose leads one to stretch out one's hand for it," he answered. "The rose has as much design!" He turned aside hastily, stooped for a little twig that lay on the roadside, and began assiduously breaking it up. And the silence was not interrupted again, till we came in sight of our friends in advance of us, leisurely walking to let us come up. Then Hugh and I plunged into conversation; but what it was about I have not the least remembrance. It lasted though, till we joined company with the rest of our party, and the talk became general. Still I do not know what we talked about. I had a feeling of thunder in the air, though the very stillness of sunlight beauty was on the smooth water and the hilly shore; and I saw clouds rising and gathering, even though Mont Blanc as we returned that evening showed rosy hues to its very summit in the clear heaven. I can hardly tell how, my mother's manner or something in it, made me sure both of the clouds and the thunder. It was full of grace, tact and spirit, to such a point of admiration. Yet I read in it, yes, and in that very grace and spirit, a certain state of the nervous powers which told of excitement at work, or a fund of determination gathering; the electric forces massing somewhere; and this luminous play only foretold the lightning. CHAPTER XIII. A TRUCE It is odd with what significance little things become endued, from their connection with other things which are not little. I remember the white dress mamma wore the next day, and the red cashmere scarf she had wrapped round her. I remember how happy and easy the folds of her drapery were, and how I noticed her graceful slow movements, Surely grace is a natural attribute of power, even though power be not always graceful; at least any uncertainty of meaning or manner is fatal to gracefulness. There was no uncertainty about mamma ever, unless the uncertainty of carelessness; and that itself belonged to power. There was no uncertainty in any fold of her cashmere that morning; in any movement of her person, slow and reposeful as every movement was. I knew by a sort of instinct what it all meant. Indeed these were mamma's ordinary characteristics; only appearing just now with the bloom of perfection upon them. She was powerful and she knew it; I knew myself naturally no match for her. It was always very hard for me to withstand mamma. Nothing but the sense of right ever gave me courage to do it. But striving for the right, the Christian is not at his own charges, and has other strength than his own to depend upon. "You do not eat, my darling," papa said to me. "Daisy has too much to think of," said mamma with a sort of careless significance. "I will have another bit of chicken, if you please, Mr. Randolph." "What is she thinking of?" "Girls' thoughts are unfathomable," said mamma. "_Is_ it thoughts, Daisy?" said my father. "I suppose it may be, papa." "Then I shall do something to break up thinking," he said. But I knew I must not look for help so. To appeal to one of my parents against the other, was what it would never answer to do, even if I could have done it. I felt alone; but I was as quiet as mamma. I had not so good an appetite. In the course of the morning she had me up stairs to consider the matter of dresses and fashions; and we were turning over a quantity of laces and jewels. Mamma tried one and another set of stones upon me and in my hair. "Rubies and pearls are your style," she said at length. "Diamonds are out of harmony, somehow. You are magnificent, Daisy; and pearls make you look like the Queen of Sheba. I cannot imagine why diamonds do hot suit you." "I do not suit them, mamma." "Pardon me. You do not know yourself. But girls of your age never do. That is where mothers are useful, I suppose. Which is it to be, Daisy?" "I do not want either, mamma." "Yes; that is of course too. But which do you like best, of the two? I suppose you have some preference." "Mamma, I think I prefer the pearls, but you know -" Mamma stopped my mouth with a kiss. "Little goose!" she said, - "I am not talking of pearls. Did I not say what I was thinking of? I supposed we both had the same thought, Daisy, and that you would understand me." "I thought it was pearls and rubies, mamma." "Well, now you know it is not; and again I come back to my question, - Which is it to be?" "Which - of what, mamma?" "Nonsense, Daisy; - you know." "I know nothing of any choice that I have to make, ma'am, if you do not mean about jewels; and of them, as I said, I should prefer neither." "You may choose and refuse among jewels," said my mother, - "and refuse and choose; but among some other things it is necessary to make a choice and stick to it." "Yes, mamma; but I am not in such a necessity." "What choice have you made, then? It is the same thing, Daisy; only I want to know. Do you not think it is reasonable that I should know?" "Please explain yourself, mamma." "Hugh Marshall, then, and Charles De Saussure. What is your mind about them?" "I like them, mamma, as your friends and as mine, - very well, - but no more." "Only very well." "No more, mamma." "Very well, is a good deal," said mamma coolly. "Which of them must I like a little more than very well, Daisy?" "Mamma? -" "Whoever owns and possesses you, I should wish to like very much. Which is it to be, Daisy?" "Neither of these gentlemen, mamma." "Did De Saussure propose to you yesterday?" "Yes." "What did you say to him?" "I made him understand that he was nothing to me." "He is something to me," said mamma. "He is one of the first young men I know, and has one of the finest estates - close by yours, Daisy." "Estates are nothing in such a matter, mamma." "That is like saying that pearls and rubies are nothing on such a skin as yours," said mamma laughing. "But you may think of the men, Daisy, and I will think of the estates; that is all _en règle_." "I do not wish to think of these men, mamma." "It is late in the day to say that. You must have thought of them both, Daisy, and long ago." "It never entered my head till yesterday, mamma, that either of them liked me." "You must have seen it for weeks past." "I did not, mamma, - I never thought of such a thing as possible, till yesterday." "Is it a possible thing," said mamma, "that a daughter of mine can be such a simpleton? It is time you were married, Daisy, if you can break hearts like that, without knowing it." "Better be a simpleton than wicked," I said. "And that comes to the point," said mamma. "You have most unaccountably encouraged the addresses of these gentlemen - and seeing that you did, so have I; - now, to clear both yourself and me, let your preference be made known. It need not take you long to make your mind up, I suppose." "I am very sorry, mamma. I have done wrong; I have been very foolish; but I cannot do worse. I do not like either of these gentlemen well enough for what you mean." "If you have done wrong, you can mend it," said mamma. "Liking will come fast enough, Daisy; a girl like you does not think she can like anybody but her father and mother; she finds out her mistake in time. So will you. I will decide for you, if you have no choice. Charles De Saussure is my friend, and I think he is most of a man of the two. I will tell Charles that you will make him happy by and by." "No, mamma, I will not. Do not tell him so." "Do you like Hugh Marshall better?" "I do not like either of them in the way you mean." "Do you like Hugh better? Answer me." "Mamma -" "No, answer me. A plain answer. Do you like Hugh better?" "A great deal better; but -" "That settles it," said mamma. "You shall be Hugh Marshall's wife. Don't tell me a word against it, Daisy, for I will not hear you. I do not like Marshall as well, myself, but his property is even larger, I believe; and as I am not in love, I may be allowed to think of such things. It is away over on the Mississippi; but we cannot help that. I will make Hugh happy to-day, and then - you shall, Daisy." "No, mamma, - never. It cannot be." "It must, Daisy. You have compromised yourself, and me. You have allowed these gentlemen's attentions; you have been seen everywhere with them; you owe it to yourself and them to declare your choice of one of them now. You must make up your mind to it. If you are not in love, it cannot be helped; that will come in time; but I think you are. Hey, Daisy?" she said, lifting my chin with her forefinger and looking into my face, - "isn't it true? Isn't it true? Ah, silly thing! - Eyes that are wells of sweetness for somebody - for all down they go, - a mouth that has smiles enough for somebody, - though it trembles, - and what does this rose leaf mean, that is stealing over every one of your two cheeks? it is a witness to somebody, who has brought it there. Go - I know all about it. You may make your confession to Hugh, if you like it best." I thought mamma would have broken my heart. I rose up in despair. "To-day, Daisy," mamma repeated. "It must be done to-day." What could I say? I did not know. "Mamma, it is not as you think. I do not care for Hugh Marshall." "Is it De Saussure, then?" she asked, turning quickly upon me. "No, mamma." "Is it Preston Gary?" she asked, with a change in her voice. "No, Oh, no, mamma!" "Then it is one of these. Daisy, I protest I have not skill enough to find out _which_ of them; but you know, and that is sufficient. And they must know too; there can be no more of this three-cornered game. It is time to put an end to it. I have read you, if you have not read yourself; and now, my child, you must be content to let the rose blossom, that you keep so carefully folded up in its green leaves. One of these gentlemen will leave us presently; and the other, whichever it is, I shall consider and treat as your acknowledged suitor; and so _must you, Daisy_. He will be going home to the war, he too, in a short time more; and he must go with the distinct understanding that when the war is over, you will reward him as he wants to be rewarded. Not; till then, child. You will have time enough to think about it." My mother had shut my lips. I was afraid to say anything good or bad. She had read me; yes, I felt that she had, when she looked into my face and touched my cheeks and kissed my lips, which I knew well enough were trembling, as she had said. She had read me, all but the name in my heart. What if she had read that? The least movement now on my part might bring it to the light; what if it came? I did not know what then, and I was greatly afraid. An old awe of my mother and sense of her power, as well as knowledge of her invincible determination, filled me with doubt and fear. She might write to Mr. Thorold at once and forbid him ever to think of me; she might send him word that I was engaged to Mr. De Saussure. And indeed I might also possibly clear my own action to Mr. Thorold; but change hers, never. My faith failed, I believe. I was like Abraham when he went into Egypt and feared somebody would kill him to get possession of his wife. I did not, like him, resort to a fiction for my safety; but neither did I trust God and dare tell the truth. My own will was as good as mamma's. I was not afraid of weakly yielding some time or other; I was only afraid of her outside measures. She resumed her occupation of trying laces and jewels on me; finally laughed, chucked me under the chin, kissed me, called me a pretty goose, and bade me go and dress myself "for whomever I liked best." I went to my room to have the heartache. I had given up the management of myself; I was not struggling now; I knew there would be a way out of all my perplexities some time; but nevertheless my heart ached. I did dress myself, however, for that is an important part of a woman's work; and I went down stairs with a vague hope in my heart that I might see Hugh and somehow enlist him on my side, so far at least as to make him delay his departure; though I could not imagine how I could ask it, nor what I could say to him of any sort that would benefit me or that would not do him harm. But I thought in vain. I did not see him. Mr. De Saussure came, and played chess with me all the evening. I played very ill, and he won every game, till I thought he would stop for the very stupidness of it. Some painful days followed that day; during which mamma managed to make me accept Mr. De Saussure's attentions in public and in private. She managed it; I could not escape them without making a violent protest, and I did not of course choose that. Hugh Marshall was gone; he had come only to take a hurried leave of us; suddenly obliged to return home, he said; "he had lingered too long." Mr. De Saussure's eyes flashed with I triumph; every line of mamma's face (to me) expressed satisfaction, of course gracefully concealed from everybody else. But Hugh and I parted with a great grasp of the hand, which I am sure came from both our hearts and left mine very sore. Then he was gone. After that, Mr. De Saussure took Hugh's place and his own too in our little society; and for a few days things went on in a train which I knew was preparing mischief. Then one night the explosion came. We were out on the lake in a boat; mamma, Mr. De Saussure, and I; we had gone to see the colours come and go on the great head of Mont Blanc. In the glory of the sight, I had forgotten who was with me and where I was, for the moment; and I was thinking of the colours and lights of the New Jerusalem, than which those before me seemed scarcely less unearthly. Thinking, with a pang at the distance between; with a longing for those pure heights where human life never casts its flickering shadow; with a cry for Thorold in my heart, whom every sight of joy or beauty was sure to bring before me. I was rudely recalled from my momentary dream, though it was by my mother's soft voice. "Daisy -" I started and came back to earth and the Lake of Geneva. "Mr. De Saussure is going soon to leave us and return home - you know for what. Before he goes, he desires the satisfaction of kissing your hand. I suppose he would have liked a little more, but I have only promised the hand." "I have explained myself to Mr. De Saussure, mamma; he is under no mistake." "So I have told him. He could not ask more than you have given him; but leaving us for a long while, Daisy, and on such a service, a little further grace would not be ill bestowed. I shall give him leave, if you do not," she added laughing; "and I may give him more than you would like, Daisy." I think at that minute I felt as if I would like to make one spring out of this world and all its confusions into that other world I had been thinking of; but one does not get quit of one's troubles so easily. That minute on the Lake of Geneva was one of the _ugliest_ I have ever known. Mamma was smooth and determined; Mr. De Saussure looked triumphant and expectant; for a moment my heart shrank, but I do not think I showed it outwardly. "Daisy -" said mamma, smiling. "Yes, ma'am." "Mr. De Saussure is waiting. Will you speak the word? - or shall I?" "I have spoken to Mr. De Saussure," I said, coldly. "Not very clearly. He understands you better now." "Permit me to say," put in blandly Mr. De Saussure, - "that I am rejoiced to find I did _not_ understand you at a former conversation we held together. Mrs. Randolph has been my kind interpreter. You will not _now_ refuse me?" he said, as he endeavoured to insinuate his fingers into mine. "Kiss her, Charles!" said mamma; "she is a coy girl. I give you leave." And before I could anticipate or prevent it, Mr. De Saussure's arm was round me and the salute was given. I think mamma really thought she could bestow me away as she pleased. I am sure she had no idea of the nature she was combating. Nobody had ever withstood her successfully; she did not think that I could be the first. But this little thing - it was not a little thing to me at the time - cut the knot of my difficulties. Released from Mr. De Saussure's encircling arm, I removed myself to the other side of the boat and drew my shawl round me. I do not know what significance was in my action, but mamma said, "Nonsense!" "I have not offended, have I?" said Mr. De Saussure. "Remember, I had liberty." "Mamma," I said, "if you will sit a little further that way, you will restore the balance of the boat." "Which you have entirely disarranged, Daisy," she said as she moved herself. "Daisy will acknowledge I had liberty," Mr. De Saussure repeated. "Mamma," I said, "don't you think it is growing chill?" "Row us home, Charles," said my mother. "And, Daisy, don't be a fool. Mr. De Saussure had liberty, as he says." "I do not acknowledge it, ma'am." "You must give her line, Charles," mamma said, half laughing but vexed. "She is a woman." "I hope she will grant me forgiveness," he said. "She must remember, I _thought_ I had liberty." "I shall not forget," I answered. "I understand, that respect for me failed before respect for my mother." "But! -" he began. "Be quiet, Charles," my mother interrupted him. "Pull us to shore; and let fits of perverseness alone till they go off. That is my counsel to you." And the remainder of our little voyage was finished in profound silence. I knew mamma was terribly vexed, but at the same time I was secretly overjoyed; for I saw that she yielded to me, and I knew that I should have no more trouble with Mr. De Saussure. I did not. He lingered about for a few days longer, in moody style, and then went away and I saw him no more. During those days I had nothing to do with him. But my mother had almost as little to do with me. She was greatly offended; and also, I saw, very much surprised. The woman Daisy could not be quite the ductile thing the child Daisy had been. I took refuge with papa whenever I could. "What is all this about De Saussure and Marshall?" he asked one day. "They have both gone home." "I know they have; but what sent them home?" "Mamma has been trying to make them go, this long while, you know, papa. She wanted them to go and join Beauregard." "And will they? Is that what they are gone for?" "I do not know if they will, papa. I suppose Mr. De Saussure will." "And not Marshall?" "I do not know about him." "What did _you_ do, Daisy?" "Papa - you know I do not like the war." "How about liking the gentlemen?" "I am glad they are gone." "Well, so am I," papa answered; "but what had you to do with sending them home?" "Nothing, papa, - only that I unfortunately did not want them to stay." "And you could not offer them any reward for going?" "Papa, a man who would do such a thing for _reward_, would not be a man." "I think so too, Daisy. Your mother somehow takes a different view." "She cares only for the soldier, papa; not for the man." Papa was silent and thoughtful. There were no other intimate friends about us in Geneva; and our life became, I must confess, less varied and pleasant after the young men had gone. At first I felt only the relief; then the dulness began to creep in. Papa led the life of an invalid, or of one who had been an invalid; not an active life in any way; I thought, not active enough for his good. Some hours I got of reading with him; reading to him, and talking of what we read; they did my father good, and me too; but they were few, and often cut short. As soon as mamma joined us, our books had to be laid aside. They bored her, she said, or hindered her own reading; and she and papa played draughts and chess and piquet. Mamma was not in a bored state at other times; for she was busy with letters and plans and arrangements, always in a leisurely way, but yet busy. It was a sort of business with which I had no sympathy, and which therefore left me out. The cause of the South was not my cause; and the discussion of toilettes, fashions, costumes and society matters, was entirely out of my line. In all these, mamma found her element. Ransom was no resource to anybody; and of course not to me, with whom, now as ever, he had little in common. Mamma held me aloof, ever since Mr. De Saussure's departure; and I only knew indirectly, as it were, that she was planning a social campaign for me and meditating over adornments and advantages which should help to make it triumphant. Life in this way was not altogether enjoyable. The only conversation which could be said to be general among us, was on the subject of home affairs in America. That rung in my ears every day. "Glorious news, sir!" cried Ransom one day as he came in to dinner. "Glorious news! The first real news we have had in a long time." "What is it?" said my father; and "What, Ransom?" my mother asked, with a kindling eye. My heart sank. Those know who remember those times, how one's heart used to sink when news came. "What is it, Ransom?" "Why, a large body of them, the Yankees, got across the Potomac the night of the 20th; got in a nest of our sharpshooters and were well riddled; then, when they couldn't stand it any longer, they fell back to the river and tried to get across again to the other side, where they came from; and they had no means of getting across, nothing but a couple of old scows; so they went into the water to get away from the fire, and quantities of them were drowned, and those that were not drowned were shot. Lost a great many, and their commanding officer killed. That's the way. They'll have enough of it in time. The war'll be over in a few weeks or months more. De Saussure will not have time to raise his regiment. I don't think, mamma, it's any use for me to go home, it'll be over so soon." "Where was this?" inquired my father. "Some place - Ball's Bluff, I believe. It was a grand affair." "How many did they lose?" my mother said. "Oh, I don't know - some thousands. We lost nothing to speak of. But the thing is, they will lose heart. They will never stand this sort of thing. They have no officers, you know, and they can have no soldiers. They will be obliged to give up." Words were in my heart, but my lips knew better than to speak them. _Had_ they no officers? Had Christian no soldiers under him? My head was ready to believe it; my heart refused. Yet I thought too I had seen at the North the stuff that soldiers are made of. "If I were you," said my mother, "I would not let it all be over before I had a part in it." "The war is not ended yet, Felicia," my father remarked; "and it will take more than a few hard knocks to make them give up." "They have had nothing but hard knocks, sir, since it began," Ransom cried. "Your father always takes a medium view of everything," my mother said. "If it depended on him, I believe there would be no war." "I should have one other vote for peace," papa said, looking at me. "It is well Daisy was not born a boy!" Ransom said. "I hope you will not make me wish you had been born a girl," my father replied. "Strength is no more noble when it ceases to be gentle." "Must not every woman wish for peace?" I said. It was an unhappy attempt at a diversion, and if I had not been in a hurry I should not have made it. "No," my mother answered, not sharply, but with cold distinctness. "Before the South should submit to the dictation or reproof of Northern boors and fanatics, I would take a musket myself and die in the trenches." "It is an ugly place to die in, my dear," answered my father. "See Daisy shiver!" Ransom exclaimed; and he burst into a laugh, "Mamma, Daisy's blood has grown thin at the North. She is not a true Southern woman. There is no fire in you, Daisy." Not at that moment, for I was sick and cold, as he said. I could not get accustomed to these things, with all the practice I had. "No fire in her?" said papa, calmly. "There is ammunition enough, Ransom. I don't want to see the fire, for my part. I am glad there is one of us that keeps cool. My darling, you look pale - what is it for?" "Fire that burns with a blue flame," said mamma. "Blue?" - said papa, with a look at me which somehow set us all to laughing. "The carmine is coming in again," said mamma. "I profess I do not understand you, Daisy." I was afraid she began to suspect me. It was very true that mamma did not understand me; and it was the unhappiness of my life. I tried hard to narrow the distance between us, by every opportunity that the days or the hours gave; and a certain accord was after a time established anew in our relations with each other. Mamma again took to adorning and playing with me; again studied my toilettes and superintended my dressing; made me as exquisite as herself in all outward paraphernalia. I let her alone; in this at least I could gratify her; and no occasion of gratifying her was to be lost. Papa was pleased too, though I think it made less difference to him what I was dressed in; yet he observed me, and smiled in a way to show his pleasure whenever a new device of mamma's produced a new effect. She sought society for herself and me now. We removed from Geneva and went to Florence. I was thankful it was not to Paris. Every foot of Italy had great charms for me; and I dreamed over Florence, with a delighted fancy that never grew tired or tame. That my evenings were spent in what I did not care for, could not spoil my days. Our walks and drives, which papa and I often now took alone, were delicious beyond expression. I forgot the whirl of the night before and of the evening to come, and I was the child Daisy again, I think, in very much. At night mamma had me. There was a lull at this time in the news from home. Both parties in America were gathering up their strength; and in the mean time the only affairs we heard of were inconclusive skirmishes, sometimes turning out for the advantage of one side, sometimes of the other; but not to signal advantage for anybody. I hoped, with such a lull, that things might subside into a state susceptible of composition. I might have reasoned, if I looked at home, upon the unlikelihood of any such thing. No news of advantages lost or gained had any effect upon my mother and brother but to make them more keen in the cause and more relentless in pursuit of their end. The hearing of a trifling success was like a taste of blood to the lion; the loss of Beaufort and its forts was turned into an occasion of triumph because "the great naval expedition" had accomplished no greater things. They laughed at McClellan's review of troops; and counted up the gains his adversaries were to realise from the co-operation of foreign well-wishers. And then the taking of Mason and Slidell put them into a fume of indignation and scorn. My father shared, though more gently, in all this. I was alone. Could I tell them that my heart was with the Northern army; and how it went out after every gleam of one particular sabre? My mother drew me into society by degrees. I hardly knew where the line was passed, between quiet conversaziones and brilliant and courtly assemblies. It was passed when I was unwitting of it, or when I felt unable to help it. My mother had been so much alienated by my behaviour toward Marshall and De Saussure, that I thought it needful to please her by every means in my power, short of downright violation of conscience. "Children, obey your parents _in the Lord_," - I did not forget; I thought I was doing the very thing. For it was not to please myself, that I let my mother make me look as she chose and let her take me - where she would. My heart was too sore to be ambitious and too sober to feel the flutterings of vanity. I knew the effect of her doings was often what satisfied her; but the nearest approach to a thrill of vanity in myself was, I think, the wish that Christian could see me. And as he could not, I seemed to wear an armour of proof against other eyes. I did not care for them. Nevertheless, I began to be sensible that they cared for me. I obeyed my mother at first because she signified her will very absolutely, and allowed me to see that any refusal on my part would make a breach between us. I left myself in her hands, to dress and adorn and lead about as she liked; I could not help it without an effort that would have parted us. And besides, I believe I accepted these engrossments of society as a sedative to keep me from thinking. They took a great deal of tine and occupied my attention while they lasted. By degrees there came a change. As I said, I was admired. At first I cared little for any eyes but those which could not see me; but that did not last. I began to like to be admired. Soon after that, it dimly dawned upon me, that some of those whom I saw now every day, might come to admire me too much. I had learnt a lesson. There were several gentlemen, whose society I liked very well, who gave us, I began to perceive, a great deal of it. I saw them at night; I saw them by day; they met us in our walks; they even joined us in our rides. One was a German; a very cultivated and agreeable talker, well-bred, and in high position at Florence. Another was a delightful Italian; poor I think. A third was a young English nobleman; rich, but nothing more that I could discover. The German talked to me; the Italian sang with me; the Englishman followed me, and was most at home in our house of them all. I had been taking the good of all this, in a nice society way, enjoying the music and the talk and the information I got from the two first, and I am afraid enjoying too the flowers and the attentions of the third, as well as of still others whom I have not mentioned. I was floating down a stream and I had not thought about it, only enjoyed in a careless way; till a little thing startled me. "We do not have so much time for our walks as we used, Daisy," papa said one day when he came into the drawing-room and found me with my habit on. "Where are you going now?" "To ride, papa, with Lord Montjoy." "My Daisy is not a daisy any longer," said papa, folding me in his arms. "She has grown into a white camellia. Going to ride with Lord Montjoy! -" I cannot say what in these last words of papa gave me a whole revelation. "I think you are mistaken, papa," I said. "I am Daisy yet." "I _was_ mistaken," said papa smiling, but rather shadowedly, I thought; - "I should have said a rose camellia. Here is Lord Montjoy, my dear. Go." I am sure Lord Montjoy had little satisfaction in that ride; at least I am sure I had little. I was longing for time to think, and frightened besides. But when the ride was over, mamma wanted me; the evening claimed me for a grand reception; the morning held me in sleep; we had company at luncheon; I was engaged with another riding party in the afternoon, and another assembly expected me at night. I could not rest or think, as I wanted to think, till night and morning had again two or three times tossed me about as a society ball. I think one's mind gets to be something like a ball too, when one lives such a life; all one's better thoughts rolled up, like a hybernating hedgehog, and put away as not wanted for use. I had no opportunity to unroll mine for several days. But I could not bear this state of things long; and at last I excused myself from a party one morning and went to walk with papa; and then that hedgehog of thoughts began to stir and unfold and come to life. Still I wanted quiet. We had been going through a picture gallery, where I did not see the pictures; then, as often before, I persuaded papa to walk on further and take post where we could look at our leisure on the beautiful Dome. This was an unceasing pleasure to me. Papa was not so fond of it; he came for my sake, as he often was accustomed to do. To-day, instead of soothing, its majestic beauty roused all there was to rouse within me. I suppose we were a long time silent, but I do not know. "Daisy, you are very quiet," papa said at length. "Yes papa," I said, rousing myself. "I was thinking." "That is an old disease of yours, my pet. I wish I could enjoy that great Dome as much as you do." "Papa, it is so perfect!" "The Grecian temples suit me better, Daisy." "Not me, papa." "Why do they not? What can equal their grace and symmetry?" "It is cold beauty, papa; there is nothing to lift the thoughts up; and I don't believe those who built them had any high thoughts - spiritual thoughts, I mean, papa." "And you think the builder of the Dome of Florence had?" "Yes, sir - I think so." "The one means no more to me than the other, Daisy." "Papa," I said, "don't you remember, when you sent me word I must stay two years longer in school without seeing you and mamma, you sent me a promise too? - by Aunt Gary." "I remember very well, Daisy. Are you going to claim the promise?" "Papa, may I?" "Certainly." "But, papa, -does the promise stand good, like Herod's promise to that dancing woman? is it to be whatever I ask?" "I believe I said so, Daisy. By the way, why do you not like dancing?" "I suppose I should like it, papa, if I let myself do it." "Why not let yourself do it? You do not want to make yourself singular, Daisy." "No more than I must, papa. But about your promise." "Yes. Well?" "It stands good, papa? if it is 'to the half of your kingdom.' " "That was a rash promise of Herod, Daisy." "Yes, papa; but I am not a dancing girl." Papa laughed, and looked at me, and laughed again, and seemed a good deal amused. "What put that argument into your mouth?" he said. "And what is the reason that it is an argument? You are very absurd, Daisy! You are very absurd not to dance; so your mother says; and I am absurd too, by that reasoning; for I like you better than if you did. Well, not being a dancing girl, what is your petition? I reckon it will stand good, even to the half of my kingdom. Though indeed I do not know how much of a kingdom will remain to me, by the time matters are composed at home. There will be no crops grown at the South this year." "It would not cost more to go to Palestine, would it, papa, than to live as we are doing now?" "Palestine!" he exclaimed. "Your mother would never go to Palestine, Daisy." "But you and I might, papa, - for a few months. You know mamma wants to go to Paris, to be there with Aunt Gary, who is coming." "She wants you there too, Daisy, I much suspect; not to speak of me." "What better time can we ever have, papa?" "I do not know. I am afraid your mother would say any other would be better." "Papa, I cannot tell you how glad I should be to go now." "Why, Daisy?" said papa, looking at me. "To my certain knowledge, there are several people who will be desolate if you quit Florence at this time - several besides your mother." "Papa, - that is the very reason why I should like to go - before it becomes serious." Papa became serious immediately. He lifted my face to look at it, flushed as I suppose it was; and kissed me, with a smile which did not in the least belie the seriousness. "If we go to Paris, Daisy? - we should leave your enemies behind." "No papa - two of them are going to Paris when we go." "That _is_ serious," said my father. "After all, why not, Daisy?" "Oh, papa, let us get away while it is time!" I said. "Mamma was so displeased with me because of Mr. De Saussure and Mr. Marshall; and she will be again - perhaps." "Why, Daisy," said papa, lifting my face again for scrutiny, - "how do you know? Are you cased in proof armour? are you sure? Do you know what you are talking of, Daisy?" "Yes, - I know, papa." "I see you do. Whenever your eyes are deep and calm like that, you are always in your right mind and know it. That is, you are thoroughly yourself; and so far as my limited acquaintance with you goes, there is no other mind that has the power of turning you. Yes, Daisy; we will go to Palestine, you and I." I kissed his hand, in the extremity of my joy. "But this is not a proper season for travelling in Syria, my pet. I am afraid it is not. The winter rains make the roads bad." "Oh, yes, papa. - We will be quiet when it rains, and travel on the good days. And then we shall be in time to see the spring flowers." "How do you know anything about that, Daisy?" "Papa, I remember when I was a child, at Melbourne, Mr. Dinwiddie told me some of these things; and I have never forgotten." "Have you wanted to go to Palestine ever since you were ten years old?" "Oh, no, papa; only of late. When your promise came, then I thought very soon what I would ask you. And now is such a good time." "There will be different opinions about that," said my father. "However, we will go, Daisy. To the half of my kingdom. Your mother has the other half. But allow me to ask you just in passing, what do you think of our young English friend?" "He has no head, papa." Papa looked amused. "Signor Piacevoli - what do you think of him?" "He is very nice and kind and full of good things; but he has no principles, papa; no settled principles." "He has a head," said papa. "Yes, sir; out of order." "How do you estimate Mr. Leypoldt, then? - _his_ head is in order, and a good deal in it." "Only the truth left out, papa." "The truth?" said my father. "He is fuller of truth, of all sorts, than any one else I know, Daisy." "Truth of all sorts, papa, but not _the_ truth. He understands the world, and almost everything in it; but not who made it nor what it was made for; and he knows men; but not their work, or place, or destiny in the universe. He knows what they are; he has no idea what they ought to be, or what they may be." "He is not a religious man, certainly. Do you carry your principles so far, Daisy, that you mean you would not let anybody approach you who is not of your way of thinking?" A pang shot through my heart, with the instant sense of the answer I ought to give. I might have evaded the question; but I would not. Yet I could not immediately speak. I was going to put a bond upon myself; and the words would not come. "Do you mean that, Daisy?" papa repeated. "Seriously. Is it your rule of supposed duty, that a man must be a Christian after your sort, to obtain your favour?" "Papa," I said struggling, - "one cannot control one's liking." "No," said papa, laughing; "that is very true. Then if you _liked_ somebody who was not that sort of a Christian, Daisy, you would not refuse to marry him?" "Papa," I said with difficulty, - "I think I ought." The words struck upon my own heart, I cannot tell how heavily. But they were forced from me. When the question came, it had to be answered. I suppose the matter had really been in my mind before, vaguely, and I had refused to look at it, while yet I could not help seeing its proportions and bearing; so that when papa asked me I knew what I must say. But the spoken words stunned me, for all that. "I suppose," said papa, not lightly, "you will think so till you are tried; and then you will take a woman's privilege of changing your mind. But if the trial is to come in that shape, Daisy, it is very far off. There are no men of your way of thinking, my pet." He kissed me as he said it; and I could not for a moment speak. "But we will go to Palestine, papa?" "Yes, we will go to Palestine. That is fixed. You and I will take a holiday, and for a while give up all thoughts of marrying and giving in marriage." CHAPTER XIV. FLIGHT I am coming to the holiday of my life; a time that seems, as I look back to it, like a chequered mosaic of pleasure pieces laid in bright colours, all in harmony, and making out a pattern of beauty. It is odd I should speak so; for I have known other holidays, when fewer clouds were in my sky and fewer life-shadows stretching along the landscape. Nevertheless, this is how it looks to me in the retrospect; and to write of it, is like setting the pins of that mosaic work over again. Not one of them is lost in my memory. Truly I have known other holidays; yet never one that took me out of so much harassment and perplexity. And I could not get rid of all my burdens, even in Palestine; but somehow I got rid of all my anxious trouble about them. I had left behind so much, that I accepted even thankfully all that remained. I was free from mamma's schemes for me, and cleared from the pursuit of those who seconded her schemes; they could not follow me in the Holy Land. No more angry discussions of affairs at home, and words of enmity and fierce displeasure toward the part of the nation that held my heart. No more canvassing of war news; not much hearing of them, even; a clean escape from the demands of society and leisure for a time to look into my heart and see what condition it was in. And to my great astonishment I had found the love of admiration and the ambition of womanly vanity beginning to stir again; in me, who knew better things, and who really did not value these; in me, who had so much to make me sober and keep down thoughts of folly. I found that I had a certain satisfaction when entering a room, to know that the sight of me gave pleasure; yes, more; I liked to feel that the sight of no one else gave so much pleasure. I could hardly understand, when I came to look at it, how so small a satisfaction could have taken possession of my mind; I was very much ashamed; but the fact remained. When we set sail for Palestine I got clear, at least for the time, from all this. I hoped for ever. - And it was exceedingly sweet to find myself alone with papa. How mamma ever consented to the plan, I do not know. Because papa had settled it and given his word, perhaps; for in those cases I know she never interfered; necessity made her yield. She would not go with us; she went to Paris, where Aunt Gary was come for the winter. Ransom went home to join the army; and papa and I took our holiday. I ought not to have been so happy, with so many causes of anxiety on my mind; Ransom in the war on one side, and Christian already engaged on the opposite side; both in danger, not to speak of other friends whom I knew; and my own and Mr. Thorold's future so very dark to look forward to. But I was happy. I believe, the very enormous pressure of things to trouble me, helped me to throw off the weight. In fact, it was too heavy for me to bear. I had trusted and given up myself to God; it was not a mock trust or submission; I laid off my cares, or in the expressive Bible words, "rolled them" upon him. And then I went light. Even my self-spoken sentence, the declaration that I ought not to marry a person who was not a Christian, did not crush me as I thought it would. Somebody has said very truly, "There is a healing power in truth." It is correct in more ways than one. And especially in truth towards God, in whole-hearted devotion to him, or as the Bible says again, in "wholly following the Lord," there is strength and healing; "quietness and assurance for ever." I was no nearer despair now than I had been before. And I was more ready for my holiday. My holiday began on board the steamer, among the novel varieties of character and costume by which I found myself surrounded. I was certainly getting far away from the American war, far from Parisian saloons; I could not even regret the Dome of Florence. And I shall never forget the minute when I first looked upon the coast of Jaffa. I had been in the cabin and papa called me; and with the sight, a full, delicious sensation of pleasure entered my heart, and never left it, I think, while I stayed in the land. The picture is all before me. The little white town, shining in the western sun on its hill, with its foot in the water; the surf breaking on the rocks; and the long line of high land in the distance, which I knew was the hill country of Palestine. I was glad, with a fulness of gladness. Even the terrors of landing through the surf could not dash my pleasure, though the water was not quiet enough to make it safe, and I did not see how we were possibly to get through. I thought we would, and we did; and then out of the confusion on the quay we found our way to a nice little hotel. Few things I suppose are nice in Jaffa; but this really seemed clean, and I am sure it was pleasant. The Oriental style of the house - the courtyard, and alcove rooms, stone floors and cushioned divans, - were delightful to me. And so was our first dinner there; papa and I alone, tired and hungry, and eating with the Mediterranean full in sight, and the sun going down "ayont the sea." I established a truce with sorrowful thoughts that evening, and slept the night through in peace. The next morning papa found me standing at the window of one of our rooms that looked inward from the sea. "Well, Daisy," said he, putting his hands on my shoulders - "I have got my Daisy of ten years old back again. What is it now?" "Oh, papa," I exclaimed, "look at the housetops! I have read of housetops all my life; and now here they are!" "They have been here all the time, Daisy." "But - it is so impossible to realise without seeing it, papa. It was on such a housetop that Peter was when he had his vision. You can see, it is the pleasantest part of the house, papa. I should like to sleep on the housetop, as they do in summer; with only the stars over me. How nice!" "What was Peter's vision, besides the stars?" "Papa! Not the stars; his vision was at noonday. I have just been reading about it. How delicious the Bible will be here!" "It is always delicious to you, I think," papa said; I fancied rather sadly. "It is a taste you were born with. Sit down and read me about that vision." But it was papa that sat down, and I stood by the window, and we read together those chapters of the Acts; and papa grew very much interested, and we had an excellent talk all breakfast time. The strange dishes at breakfast helped the interest too; the boiled rice and meat, and the fish and the pomegranates. I seemed to have my living in Bible times as well as places. The Mediterranean lay sparkling before us; as it was before Peter no doubt when he went up to that housetop to pray. The house is gone; but it is the same sea yet. "I shall always look upon Jaffa with respect," said papa, at last; "since here it was that the gates of religion were publicly set open for all the world, and the key taken out of the hands of the Jews. It is a little place too, to have anything of so much interest belonging to it." "That is not all, papa," I said. "Solomon had the cedar for the Temple, and for all his great buildings, floated down here." "Solomon!" said papa. "Don't you remember, sir, his great works, and the timber he had to get from Lebanon?" "Did it come this way?" "The only way it could come, papa; and then it had to go by land up to Jerusalem - the same way that we are going; thirty- three miles." "Where did you learn so much about it?" "That isn't much, papa; all that is in Murray; but now may I read you about Solomon's floats of timber, while you are finishing that pomegranate?" "Read away," said papa. "Pomegranates are not ripe now, are they?" "They keep, papa." Papa laughed at me, and I read to him as much as I liked; and he was almost as much engaged as I was. "We'll go out and look at this famous harbour for lumber," he said. "It is not good for much else, Daisy; I thought yesterday we should certainly make shipwreck on that reef. Is it possible there is no better along the coast." "It is not what we would call a harbour at all, papa. Nothing but little boats can get through that narrow opening in the reef; and I suppose, Solomon's cedar timber got through." "The ships of old time were not much more than our boats, many of them," said my father. "How delightfully you realise everything, Daisy!" "Well, papa, - don't you?" "Not the past, child. I realise _you_ by my side." "Papa, if you think about it a little, you will realise Joppa too." "I have not your imagination, Daisy. About Solomon's temple, - there is nothing of it left now, I suppose?" "Oh, no, papa!" "It might, Daisy. Thebes is vastly older." "But, papa, - don't you remember, there was not one stone of all those buildings to be left upon another stone. Nothing is left - only some of the foundation wall that supported the floor, or the platform, of the Temple." "Well, we shall see, when we go to Jerusalem," my father said. In the meantime we went out and took a great walk about the environs of Joppa. Through the miles of gardens; the grand orange groves, and pomegranate, lemon, fig, apricot and palm orchards. The oranges and lemons getting their great harvests ready; cultivation going on beneath the trees; the water- wheels working; the curious hedges of prickly pear, four and six feet high, reminding us all the while, if nothing else did, that we were in a very strange land. What endless delight it was! The weather had just cleared the day before; and to- day, the fifteenth of January, the sun shone still and fair and warm. I saw that papa was getting good with every step, and growing interested with every hour. We went down to the beach, and strolled along as far as the tanneries; every wave that broke at my side seeming to sing in my ears the reminder that it broke on the shores of Palestine. Papa wished the oranges were ripe; I wished for nothing. Then we entered the city again, and examined the bazars; lingering first a good while to watch the motley, picturesque, strange and wild crowd without the city gate. It was my first taste of Oriental life; papa knew it before, but he relished it all afresh in my enjoyment of it. Of course we were taken to see Simon's house and the house where Tabitha died. "Do you realise anything here, Daisy?" papa asked, as we stood on the flat roof of the first of these two. "Yes, papa." "Pray, what? St. Peter never saw this building, my dear." "No, papa, I don't think it. But he saw the Mediterranean - just so, - and he had the same sky over him, and the same shores before him." "The same sky, Daisy? What is the sky?" "Yes papa, I know; but there is a difference. This Syrian sky is not like the sky over Florence nor like the sky over Melbourne. And this is what Peter saw." "You are a delicious travelling companion, Daisy," said papa. "Your mother is good, but you are better. Well, take me with you now in your journey into the past." We sat down there on the roof of the so-called house of Simon, papa and I; he gave the guide a bonus to keep him contented; and we read together chapters in the Old Testament and chapters in the New. It was drinking water from wells of delight. Bible words never seemed so real, nor so full. And then when I thought that I was going on to Jerusalem - to Jericho - to Mount Tabor, and the Sea of Galilee, and Lebanon, - that Joppa was only the beginning, - I could hardly contain my joy. I could only give thanks for it all the time. True, I did remember, as I looked over that bright sea of the Levant, I did remember that far away there was a region of conflict where the interests nearest to me were involved; a strife going on, in which the best blood in the world, the dearest in my account, might be shed or shedding. I remembered it all. But the burden of that care was too heavy for me to carry; I was fain to lay it down where so many a load has been laid before now; and it was easier for me to do it in Syria than anywhere else; God's own land, where His people had had so many tokens to trust Him. Where Peter's doubts of conscience were resolved by a vision, where the poor worker of kindness was raised from the sleep of death, it was not there the place for me to doubt whether the Lord looked upon my trouble, or whether he cared about it, or whether he could manage it. I laid care and doubt to sleep; and while I was in the Lord's land I walked with the Lord's presence always before me. There is no want to them that fear him. We were detained at Joppa three days by a most pouring rain, which kept us fast prisoners in doors. The time was however not lost. We had despaired of making arrangements at Joppa for our journey, any further than such as would take us to Jerusalem. Joppa is no place for such arrangements. But while we waited there in the rain, a party of English people arrived who came to take the steamer for home. They had just ended their travels in the Holy Land; and while waiting for the steamer, one of them who was an invalid sought the shelter of our hotel. We came to know each other. And the end was, we secured their travelling equipment. Tents, servants and all, were made over to papa, with mutual pleasure at the arrangement. So when the sun shone out on the fourth day, we were ready to start in great comfort. I had a dear little Syrian pony, which carried me nicely through my whole journey; papa had another that served him well. The tents and tent fittings were in the English style of perfection; cook and interpreter and other servants knew their business, and we had no reason to complain of them from the beginning to the end of our tour. Moreover, in those days of waiting at Joppa, and intercourse with the ladies of the party, I got from them some useful hints and details which were of great service to me afterwards. I had always wished to go through Palestine living in our own tents; papa had been a little uncertain how he would do. Now it was settled. I had my maid, of course; but she was the greatest trouble I had, all the way. The morning of our setting out from Joppa is never to be forgotten. It was clear and balmy. For miles we rode through the orange gardens, getting ready fast for their superb harvest, which would be ripe a month later. Then through a pleasant open country; - cornfields and meadows interspersed with trees in patches. It was easy riding, and I liked my pony, and my heart was full of exhilaration. "Well?" said papa, as my eye met his one time in the course of its wanderings. "Papa, it is the plain of Sharon!" "You speak as if it were a place where you had played, when you were a child." "Papa, in some measure it is like that; so often I have read about the old things that were done here." Papa smiled at me? and asked what? But I could not tell him while we were going at a canter. "It would be pretty in spring," he said. "Where are we to stop to-night, Daisy? I have left all that to you. I do not know the country as you do." "Papa, we set off so late, we shall not be able to get further than Latron to-night." "What place is that? is it any place?" "Supposed to be the Modin of the Maccabees." "Have you brought any books, Daisy?" was papa's next question. "No, papa, except 'Murray' and the Bible." "We ought to have more," he said. "We must see if we cannot supply that want at Jerusalem." Papa's interest in the subject was thoroughly waking up. We lunched at Ramleh. How present it is to me, those hours we spent there. The olive groves and orchards and cornfields, the palms and figs, the prickly-pear hedges, the sweet breath of the air. And after our luncheon we stayed to examine the ruins and the minaret. Our master of ceremonies, Suleiman, was a little impatient. But we got off in good time and reached our camping ground just before sunset. Tiere too, the sunlight flashing on those rocks of ruin comes back to me, and the wide plain and sea view which the little hill commands. Papa and I climbed it to look at the ruins and see the view while dinner was getting ready. "What is it, Daisy?" he said. "You must be my gazetteer and interpreter for the land; Suleiman will do for the people." "It is an old Crusaders' fortress, papa; built to command the pass to Jerusalem." That was enough for papa. He pored over the rough remains and their associations; while I sat down on a stone and looked over the Philistine plain; scarce able to convince myself that I was so happy as to see it in reality. Papa and I had a most enjoyable dinner afterwards; he enjoyed it, I knew; and our night's rest was sweet, with a faint echo of the war storms of the ages breaking upon my ear. To my great joy, there was no storm of the elements the next morning, and we were able to take up our march for Jerusalem. The road soon was among the hills; rough, thickety, wild; from one glen into another, down and up steep ridge sides, always mounting of course by degrees. Rough as it all was, there were olives and vineyards sometimes to be seen; often terraced hillsides which spoke of what had been. At last we came up out of a deep glen and saw at a distance the white line of wall which tells of Jerusalem. I believe it was a dreary piece of country which lay between, but I could hardly know what it was. My thoughts were fixed on that white wall. I forgot even papa. We had pouring rains again soon after we got to Jerusalem. I was half glad. So much to see and think of at once, it was almost a relief to be obliged to take things gradually. I had been given numerous good bits of counsel by the kind English ladies we had seen at Jaffa; and according to their advice, I persuaded papa that we should go down at once to Jericho and the Dead Sea, without waiting till the weather should grow too hot for it; then Jerusalem and the Mount of Olives and all the neighbourhood would be delightful. Now, they were very gray and forlorn to a stranger's eye. I wanted papa to be pleased. _I_ could have enjoyed Jerusalem at any time. But I knew that by and by Jericho would be insupportable. So papa and Suleiman made their arrangements. All that we wanted was a guard of Arabs; everything else we had already. The rain ceased after the third day; and early in the morning we went out of the eastern gate of the city and moved slowly down the slope of the Kedron valley and up the side of Mount Olivet. It was my first ride in the environs of Jerusalem; and I could hardly bear the thoughts it brought up. Yet there was scant time for thoughts; eyes had to be so busy. The valley of the Kedron! I searched its depths, only to find tombs everywhere, with olive trees sprinkled about among them. Life and death; for if anything is an emblem of life in Palestine, I suppose it is the olive. They looked sad to me at first, the olives; their blue-gray foliage had so little of the fresh cheer of our green woods. Afterwards I thought differently. But certainly the valley of the Kedron was desolate and mournful in the extreme, as we first saw it. Nor was Olivet less so. The echo of forfeited promises seemed to fill my ear; the shades of lost glory seemed to tenant all those ways and hillsides. I could but think what feet had trod those paths; what hands of blessing had been held out on these hills; turned back and rejected, to the utter ruin of those who rejected them. The places of Solomon's splendour and David's honour, in the hands of the Moslem; or buried beneath the ruins of twenty desolations. And in the midst of such thoughts which possessed me constantly, came thrills of joy that I was there. So we mounted over the shoulder of the Mount of Olives, and the day cleared and brightened as we went on. Then came the ruins of Bethany. I would have liked to linger there; but this was not the time. I left it for the present. "We must dismount here, Daisy," said papa the next minute. And he set me the example. "Our own feet will do this next piece of road most satisfactorily." We scrambled down, over the loose stones and rock, the very steep pitch just below Bethany. I do not know how deep, but hundreds of feet certainly. Our mules and horses came on as they could. "Is this to be taken as a specimen of Palestine roads, Daisy?" "I believe they are pretty bad, papa." "How do you like it?" "Oh, papa," said I, stopping, "I like it. Look - look yonder - do you see that glimmer? do you know what that is, papa?" "It is water -" "It is the Dead Sea." "Thirty-six hundred feet below. We have a sharp ride before us, Daisy." "Not quite so much below us - we have come down some way. Papa, don't you enjoy it?" "I enjoy _you_," he said, smiling. "Yes, child, I enjoy it; only I don't enjoy such villainous roads." "But then, papa, you know it is the only possible way the road can go, and always has been; and so we are sure that Christ was here many a time. _Here_, papa, where our feet are treading." Papa looked at me and said nothing. The way was so pleasant, that we walked on ahead of our mules, till we came to the spring about a mile from Bethany. It was strange to look at the water pouring out its never failing stream, and to remember it had been doing just so ever since nineteen hundred years ago. "How often travellers have rested here and drunk of the water, papa; how often Christ was here." "That arch was not over the spring in those days, though," said papa. But papa stood and looked at the spring and at the ravine, and I saw that he was catching something of my feeling. We mounted there, and the rest of the way we had no more talk. I did not want to talk. There was too much to think about, as we wound down the rough valleys or watercourses among the desolate hills; while the air grew constantly warmer as we got lower. No trees, no life, no vine terraces; and this was the way to Jericho. At the ruined khan, a good distance from the top, we dismounted and stopped to rest and take our lunch. "Well, Daisy," said papa, "are you enjoying yet?" "Every minute, papa." "I am very glad. But I am very tired." "Papa, you must take a good rest here; and here is an orange for you. I will give you something else directly." Papa stretched himself out wearily on the stones. "What is the source of your pleasure just now, Daisy? It is as barren a landscape as ever I traversed." "Papa, David went this way when he fled from Absalom." "Humph!" said papa, as if there were not much pleasure in that association. "And Jesus and His apostles came this way, up from Jericho; up and down, I suppose, many a time; they have rested _here_, papa." "And I see, Daisy, you love the ground where those feet have trod. I never could understand it before. I fancy, I could never attain power of realisation to get near enough to the subject." "Do you now, papa?" "Hardly. By sympathy with you, Daisy." "A little below, papa, we shall come to the Valley of Achor, where Achan was stoned." "I don't know that story, Daisy. You may read it to me." We had a long reading and resting there by the ruined khan. Papa was ready to listen and talk; and I saw that so long as we were in Palestine he would read the Bible as much as I liked. Then we made the rest of our way. I knew he could not but be interested with that. The scenery became so wild and grand as to satisfy even him. We got the glorious view of the plains of Jericho from the top of the steep descent, and stood still for some time to look. Papa said it was a noble view; but to me it was so full of the riches of association that I could hardly feast upon it enough. Down there, Jericho of old had stood and fallen; when the priests and the people of Israel compassed it about with trumpets of victory. There, or over against it, the Jordan had been divided to let the people pass over. In later days Elijah and Elisha had gone over single-handed. Down on that plain had stood Herod's Jericho, which Christ had gone through time and again; where Zaccheus climbed the tree to see Him, and Bartimeus sitting by the wayside had cried out for his mercy and got it. What was there before me in all that scene that did not tell of the power of faith - of the grace of God - of the safety and strength of His children - of the powerlessness of their enemies. My heart sang hymns and chanted psalms of rejoicing, while my little Syrian pony stood still with me at the top of the pass of Adummim. I even forgot papa. At the bottom we found ourselves in a new world. Water and wood, luxuriant vegetation of many kinds; a stream even to ford, the brook which comes down from Wady Kelt, now full with the rains; a warm delicious atmosphere, and the sun shining on the opposite Moab mountains. And then came another sight which is very pleasant at the close of a long day of fatigue and excitement; our tents, up and ready for us. Our Syrian cook gave us a good dinner; and papa was satisfied to see me so happy. I thought he was a little happy himself. CHAPTER XV. OLD BATTLEFIELDS The next day papa was so tired that he would not go anywhere. So I had to be quiet too. It was no hardship. I was rather glad, to take in leisurely the good of all I had before and around me, and have time for it. Our tents were pitched by the beautiful fountain Aines-Sultân; which the books told me was Elisha's fountain. I wandered round it, examining the strange trees and bushes, gathering flowers; I found a great many; studying the lights and shades on the Moab mountains, and casting longing looks towards the Dead Sea and the Jordan. I took my maid with me in my wanderings, and Suleiman also kept near me like a shadow; but nobody of all our caravan behaved to me with anything but the most observant politeness. The Arabs, taught, I suppose, by other travellers whom they had attended, were very eager to bring me natural curiosities; birds and animals and shells and plants. I had no lack of business and pleasure all that day. I wanted only some one to talk to me who could tell me things I wanted to know. The day had come to an end, almost; the shadow of Quarantania had fallen upon us; and I sat on a rock by the spring, watching the colours of the sunset still bright on the trees in the plain, on the water of the sea, and on the range of the Moab hills. From all these my thoughts had at last wandered away, and were busy at the other end of the world; sad, with a great sense that Mr. Thorold was away from me; heavy, with a moment's contrast of pleasures present and pleasures past. My musings were suddenly broken by seeing that some one was close by my side, and a single glance said, a stranger. I was startled and rose up, but the stranger stood still and seemed to wish to speak to me. Yet he did not speak. I saw the air of a gentleman, the dress of a European in Syria, the outlines of a personable man; one glance at his face showed me a bronzed complexion, warm-coloured auburn hair, and a frank and very bright eye. I looked away, and then irresistibly was driven to look back again. He smiled. I was in confusion. "Don't you know?" he said. "Not -?" "Yes!" "Can it be, - Mr. Dinwiddie?" "Is it possible it is Daisy?" he said, taking my hand. "Oh, Mr. Dinwiddie, I am so glad to see you!" "And I am so glad to see you - here, of all places, at Elisha's fountain. The first question is, How came we both here?" "I persuaded papa to bring me. I wanted to see Palestine." "And I heard of you in Jerusalem, and felt sure it must be you, and I could not resist the temptation to take a little journey after you." "And you are travelling through Palestine too?" "In one way. I am living here - and life is a journey, you know." "You are _living_ in Palestine?" "In Jerusalem. I came here as a missionary, five years ago." "How very nice!" I said. "And you can go with us?" He shook my hand heartily, which he had not yet let go, laughing, and asked where we were going? "I want to see the Dead Sea, very much, Mr. Dinwiddie; and papa was in doubt; but if you were with us there would be no more difficulty." "I shall be most happy to be with you. Do you know where you are now?" "I know a little. This is Elisha's fountain, isn't it?" "Yes; and just hereabouts are the ruins of old Jericho." "I did not know. I wondered, and wanted to know. But, Mr. Dinwiddie, have you got a tent?" "I never travel without one." "Then it is all right," I said; "for we have a cook." "I should not miss that functionary," he said, shaking his head. "I am accustomed to act in that capacity myself. It is something I have learned since I came from Virginia." We were called to dinner and had no time then for anything more. Our table was spread in front of the tents, in a clear spot of greensward; in the midst, I thought, of all possible delights that could be clustered together - except one. The breeze was a balmy, gentle evening zephyr; the sunlight, hidden from us by the Quarantania, shone on the opposite mountains of Moab, bringing out colours of beauty; and glanced from the water of the Dead Sea, and brightened the hues of the green thickets on the plain. Jericho behind us, the Jordan in front of us, the confusions of the world we live in thrust to a great distance out of the way, - I sat down to the open-air meal with a profound feeling of gratitude and joy. It was also a relief to me to have Mr. Dinwiddie's company with papa; he knew the land and the people and the ways of the land, and could give such good help if help were needed. He could be such good society too. I fancied that papa's reception of Mr. Dinwiddie was rather slack in its evidence of pleasant recollection; but however, every shadow of stiffness passed away from his manner before dinner was over. Mr. Dinwiddie made himself very acceptable; and there, where we had so much to talk about, talk flowed in full stream. It was arranged that the new member of our party should be our guest and our travelling companion during as much of our journey as his duties allowed; and I went to sleep that night with a deep and full sense of satisfaction. Papa declared himself still the next day unable for a very long and exciting day's work; so it was decided that we should put off till the morrow our ride to the Jordan and the Dead Sea, and Mr. Dinwiddie proposed to conduct me to Mount Quarantania to see the hermits' caves which are remaining there. Of course they remain; for the walls of caves do not crumble away; however, the staircases and rock ways which led to the upper ones have many of them suffered that fate. We had a delicious walk. First along the foot of the mountain, skirting a little channel of running water which brings the outflow of another fountain to enrich a part of the plain. It was made good for the cultivation of a large tract; although very wild and disorderly cultivation. As we went, every spot within sight was full of interest; rich with associations; the air was warm but pleasant; the warble of the orange-winged blackbird - I don't know if I ought to call it a warble; it was a very fine and strong note, or whistle, - sounding from the rocks as we went by, thrilled me with a wild reminder of all that had once been busy life there, where now the blackbird's cry sounded alone. The ruins of what had been, - the blank, that was once so filled up, - the forlorn repose, where the stir of the ages had been so restlessly active. I heard Mr. Dinwiddie's talk as we went, he was telling and explaining things to me. I heard, but could not make much answer. Thought was too full. A good distance from home, that is, from the tents, we reached the source of all that fertilising water the channel of which we had followed up. How wild the source was too! No Saracenic arch over that; the water in a full flow came out from among the roots of a great tree - one of the curious thorny dôm trees that grow in thickets over the plain. I believe our Arabs called them dôm; Mr. Dinwiddie said it was a Zizyphus. It was a very large tree at any rate, and with its odd thorny branches and bright green foliage canopied picturesquely the fine spring beneath it. All was wild and waste. The Arabs do not even root out the dîm or nubk trees from the spots they irrigate and cultivate; but the little channels of water flow in and out among the stems and roots of the trees as they can. Times are changed on Jericho's plain. I thought so, as we turned up the slope of rock rubbish which leads to the foot of the cave cliffs. The mountain here is a sheer face of rock; and the caves, natural or artificial, pierce the rock in tiers, higher and lower. The precipice is spotted with them. The lowest ones are used now by the Arabs to pen their sheep and quarter their donkeys; Mr. Dinwiddie and I looked into a good many of them; in one or two we found a store of corn or straw laid up. Many of the highest caves could not be got at; the paths and stairs in the rock which used to lead to them are washed and worn away; but the second tier are not so utterly cut off from human feet. By a way chiselled in the rock, with good nerves, one can reach them. My nerves were good enough, and I followed Mr. Dinwiddie along the face of the precipice till we reached some sets of caves communicating with each other. These were partly natural, partly enlarged by labour. Places were cut for beds and for cupboards; there was provision of a fine water tank, to which, Mr. Dinwiddie told me, there were stone channels leading from a source some hundreds of feet distant; cistern and tubes both carefully plastered. A few Abyssinian Christians come here every spring to keep Lent, Mr. Dinwiddie said. How much more pains they take than we do, I thought. "Yes," said Mr. Dinwiddie, when I said my thought aloud, - " 'Skin for skin; all that a man hath will he give for his life.' But when the conscience knows that heaven is not to be bought that way, then there is no other motive left that will use up all a man's energies but the love of Christ constraining him." "The trouble is, Mr. Dinwiddie, that there is so little of that." "So little!" he said, - "even in those of us who love most. I do not mean to say that this love had no share in determining the actions of those who used to live here; perhaps they thought to get nearer to Christ by getting nearer to the places of His some time presence and working in human flesh." "And don't you think it does help, Mr. Dinwiddie?" I said. He turned on me a very deep and sweet look, that was half a smile. "No!" he answered. "The Lord may use it, - He often does, - to quicken our sense of realities and so strengthen our apprehension of spiritualities; but just so He can use other things, even remote distance from such and all material helps. Out of that very distance He can make a tie to draw the soul to Himself." "There must have been a great many of those old Christians living here once?" I said. "Yes," said Mr. Dinwiddie. "On this face of the mountain there are thirty or forty caves - I think there are many more in the gorge of the Kelt, round on the south face. Do you see that round hole over your head?" We were standing in one of the caverns. I looked up. "I cannot get you up there," he went on, - "but I have climbed up by means of a rope. There are other rooms there, and one is a chapel - I mean, it was one, - with arches cut to the windows and doorways, and frescoed walls, full of figures of saints. Through another hole in another ceiling, like this, I got up into still a third set of rooms, like the ones below. Into those nobody had come for many a year; the dust witnessed it. Back of one room, the chapel, was a little low doorway; very low. I crept through - and there in the inner place, lay piled the skeletons of the old hermits; skulls and bones, just as they had been laid while the flesh was still upon them; the dust was inches deep. A hundred feet higher up there are more caverns. No, I should not like to take you - though the Abyssinian devotees come to them every spring. Yet higher than those, far up, near the top of the mountain, I have explored others, where I found still more burial caves like the one just here above us. Chapels and frescoes were up there too." "And difficult climbing, Mr. Dinwiddie." "Very difficult. Broken stairs and dizzy galleries, and deep precipices, with the vultures floating in air down below me." "What a place for men to live!" "Fitter for the doves and swallows which inhabit the old hermits' houses now. Yet not a bad place to live either, if one had nothing to do in the world. Sit down and rest and let us look at it." "And I have got some luncheon for you, Mr. Dinwiddie. I should have missed all this if you had not been with me. Papa would never have come here." There were many places in front of the cells where seats had been cut out in the rock; and in one of these Mr. Dinwiddie and I sat down, to eat fruit and biscuit and use our eyes; our attendant Arab no doubt wondering at us all the while. The landscape in view was exceedingly fine. We had the plains of Jericho, green and lovely, spread out before us; we could see the north end of the Dead Sea and the mouth of the Jordan; and the hills of Moab, always like a superb wall of mountain rising up over against us. "Do you know where you are?" said Mr. Dinwiddie. "Partly." "The site of old Jericho is marked by the heaps and the ruins which lie between us and our camp." "Yes. That is _old_ Jericho." "Over against us, somewhere among those Moab hills, is the pass by which the hosts of the 'sons of Israel' came down, with their flocks and herds, to the rich plains over there, - the plains of Moab." "And opposite us, I suppose, somewhere along there in front of old Jericho, is the place where the waters of the river failed from below and were cut off from above, and the great space was laid bare for the armies to pass over." "Just over there. And there - Elijah and Elisha went over dry shod, when Elijah smote with his mantle upon the waters; and there by the same way Elisha came back alone, after he had seen his master taken from him." "Those were grand times!" I said, with a half breath. "They were rough times." "Still, they were grand times." "I think, these are grander." "But, Mr. Dinwiddie, such things are not done now as were done then." "Why not?" "Why, how can you ask?" "How can you answer?" "Why, Mr. Dinwiddie, the river is not parted now, this river nor any other, for the Lord's people to go over without trouble." "Are you sure?" said he, with the deep sweet look I had noticed. "Do they never come now, in the way of their duty, to an impassable barrier of danger or difficulty, through which the same hand opens their path? Did you never find that they do, in your own experience?" A little, I had; and yet it seemed to me that a very Jordan of difficulty lay before me now, rolling in full power. Mr. Dinwiddie waited a moment and went on. "That old cry, 'Where is the Lord God of Elijah?' - will bring down His hand, now as then; mighty to hold back worse waves than those of the 'Descender.' Aaron's rod, and the blast of the priests' trumpets, were but the appeal and the triumph of faith. And before that appeal stronger walls than those of Jericho fall down, now as well as then." "Then it must be the faith that is wanting," I said. "Sometimes" - Mr. Dinwiddie answered; "and _not_ sometimes. That earnest Sunday-school teacher, who prayed that the Lord would give him at least one soul a week out of his Bible class, and who reported at the end of the year, _fifty-two_ brought to God, - what do you think of his faith? - and his Jericho?" "Is it true?" I said. "It is true. What are the walls of stone and mortar to that? We wrestle not with flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world. - But our Captain is stronger." I think we were both silent for some time; yet there was a din of voices in my ear. So it seemed. Silence was literally broken only by the note of a bird here and there; but the plain before me, the green line which marked the course of the Jordan, the Moab mountains, the ruins at my feet, the caves behind me, were all talking to me. And there were voices of my own past and present, still other voices, blending with these. I sat very still, and Mr. Dinwiddie sat very still; until he suddenly turned to me and spoke. "Will nothing but a miracle do, Miss Daisy?" The tone was so gentle and so quietly blended itself with my musings, that I started and smiled. "Oh, yes," I said; - "I do not suppose I want a miracle." "Can a friend's counsel be of any use?" "It might - of the greatest," I answered; - "if only I could tell you all the circumstances." "Before we go to that, how has it fared with my little friend of old time, all these years?" "How has it _fared_ with me?" - I repeated in doubt. "There is only one sort of welfare I know," he said. "It is not strength to the body, or gold to the purse. I am 'well' only when God's favour is shining on me and I am strong to run the way of His commandments." "I am not strong," I said. "You know I do not mean my own strength, or yours," he answered. "I have never forgotten what you used to tell me," I said. "Good. And yet, Miss Daisy, I would rather you could tell me you had forgotten it; that you had gone on so far from that beginning as to have lost it out of view." "Ah, but I have not had so many friends to teach me, and help me, that I could afford to forget the first one," I said. "I have one dear old friend who thinks as you do, - and that is all; and I cannot see her now." " 'If any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him,' " Mr. Dinwiddie said. "I lack wisdom, very much; but it does not seem to come, even though I ask for it. I am sometimes in a great puzzle." "About what to do?" "Yes." "You can always find out the first step to be taken. Jesus will be followed step by step. He will not show you but one step at a time, very often. But take that, holding His hand, and He will show you the next." "So I came here," I said. "And what is the work to be done here? on yourself, or on somebody else?" "I do not know," I said. "I had not thought it was either. Perhaps I am learning." He was silent then, and I sat thinking. "Mr. Dinwiddie," I said, "maybe you can help me." "I will gladly, if I can." "But it is very difficult for me to put you in possession of the circumstances - or in the atmosphere of the circumstances. I do not know that I can. You know that papa and mamma do not think with me on the subject of religion?" "Yes." "There are other things in which I think differently from them - other things in which we feel apart; and they do not know it. Ought I to let them know it?" "Your question is as enigmatical as an ancient oracle. I must have a little more light. Do these differences of feeling or opinion touch action? - either yours or theirs?" "Yes, - both." "Then, unless your minds are known to each other, will there not be danger of mistaken action, on the one part or on the other?" "Telling them would not prevent that danger," I said. "They would disregard your views, or you would disregard theirs, - which?" "I must not disregard theirs," I said low. Mr. Dinwiddie was silent awhile. I had a sort of cry in my heart for the old dividing of the waters. "Miss Daisy," he said, "there is one sure rule. Do right; and let consequences break us to pieces, if needs be." "But," said I doubtfully, "I had questioned what was right; at least I had not been certain that I ought to do anything just now." "Of course I am speaking in the dark," he answered. "But you can judge whether this matter of division is something that in your father's place you would feel you had a right to know." I mused so long after this speech, that I am sure Mr. Dinwiddie must have felt that he had touched my difficulty. He was perfectly silent. At last I rose up to go home. I do not know what Mr. Dinwiddie saw in me, but he stopped me and took my hand. "Can't you trust the Lord?" he said. "I see trouble before me, whatever I do," I said with some difficulty. "Very well," he said; "even so, trust the Lord. The trouble will do you no harm." I sat down for a moment and covered my face. It might do me no harm; it might at the same time separate me from what I loved best in the world. "Cannot you trust?" he repeated. " 'He that putteth his trust in the Lord shall be made fat.' " "You know," I said, getting up, "one cannot help being weak." "Will you excuse me? - That is precisely what we _can_ help. We cannot help being ignorant sometimes, - foolish sometimes, - short-sighted. But weak we need not be; for 'in the Lord Jehovah is everlasting strength;' and 'he giveth power to the faint.' " "But there is no perfection, Mr. Dinwiddie." "Not if by perfection you mean, standing alone. But if the power that holds us up is perfect, - what should hinder our having a fulness of that? 'If ye shall ask anything in My name, I will do it.' Isn't that promise good for all we want to ask?" I sat down again to think. Mr. Dinwiddie quietly took his place by my side; and we were still for a good while. The plains of Jericho and the Jordan and the Moab mountains and the Quarantania, all seemed to have new voices for me now; voices full of balm; messages of soft-healing. I do think the messages God sends to us by natural things are some of the sweetest and mightiest and best understood of all. They come home. "Do you think," I asked, after a long silence, "that this mountain was really the scene of the Temptation?" "Why should we think so? No, I do not think it." "But the road from Jericho to Jerusalem - there is no doubt of that?" "No doubt at all. We are often sure of the roads here, when we are sure of little else." There was a pause; and then Mr. Dinwiddie broke it. "You left things in confusion at home. How do you feel about that?" "At home in America?" I said. "I do not feel about it as my parents do." "You side with the North!" "I have lived there so much. I know the view taken there; and it seems to me the right one. And I have lived at the South too; and I do not like the view held there, - nor the practice followed." "There are some things I can fancy you would not like," he said musingly. "I have not known what to think. It seems to me they have made a false move. But it seems to me they must succeed." "I don't know," I said. "Perhaps." He looked at me a little hard, and then we left the hermits' caves and went down the plain to our encampment. CHAPTER XVI. THE FORLORN HOPE The spot where our tents were pitched commands a view, I think one of the loveliest in the world. Perhaps with me association has something to do with the feeling. That broad sweep of the plains of Jericho, bright with their groves of Zizyphus trees; the lake waters coming in at the south; the great line of the Moab horizon, and the heights of the western shore; and then the constant changes which the light makes in revealing all these; I found it a study of beauty, from the morning till the night. From the time when the sun rose over the Moab mountains and brightened our dôm trees and kissed our spring, to the evening when the shadow of Quarantania stretched over all our neighbourhood, as it stretched over Jericho of old, and the distant hills and waters and thickets glowed in colours and lights of their own. The next morning after my walk I was up early, and going a little way from my tent door, I sat down to enjoy it. The servants were but just stirring; my father and Mr. Dinwiddie safe within their canvas curtains. It was very nice to be alone, for I wanted to think. The air was deliciously balmy and soft; another fair day had risen upon us in that region of tropical summer; the breath of the air was peace. Or was it the speech of the past? It is difficult to disentangle things sometimes. I had troublesome matters to think about, yet somehow I was not troubled. I did not lay hold of trouble, all the while I was in Palestine. Mr. Dinwiddie's words had revealed to me that it might be my duty to tell my father all that was in my heart. Suspicions of the fact, only, had crossed my thought before; but "as iron sharpeneth iron, so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend." I saw more clearly. And the longer I sat there on my stone looking over to the line of the Jordan and to the hills through which the armies of Israel had once come down to cross it, the clearer it grew to my mind, that the difficulty before me was one to be faced, not evaded. I saw that papa had a right to know my affairs, and that he would think it became me as a Christian not to make a mystery of them. I saw I must tell papa about myself. And yet, it did not appal me, as the idea had often appalled me. I was hardly afraid. At any rate, there before me the hosts of the Israelites had passed over dry shod; though the river was swift and strong; and the appeal of Elisha, - "Where is the Lord God of Elijah?" - came home to my ear like a blast of the priests' silver trumpets. I felt two hands on my shoulders. "Studying it all, Daisy?" "Papa, I am never tired of studying." "This is a wonderful place." "Papa, you know little about it yet. Old Jericho was up there." "You speak as if I had gone to school in 'old Jericho,' " said my father, laughing. "I have the vaguest idea, Daisy, that such a city existed. That is all." "Sit down, papa, while breakfast is getting ready, and let me mend your knowledge." So we read the story there, on the stone by the spring. Mr. Dinwiddie joined us; and it was presently decided that we should spend the morning in examining the ground in our neighbourhood and the old sites of what had passed away. So after breakfast we sat out upon a walk over the territory of old Jericho. "But it is strange," said papa, "if the city was here, that there are no architectural remains to testify as much." "We rarely find them, sir, but in connection with Roman or Saracenic work. Shapeless mounds, and broken pottery, as you have it here, are all that generally mark our Palestine ruins." "But Herod?" said papa. "He was a builder." "Herod's Jericho was a mile and a half away, to the east. And moreover, if anything had been remaining here that could be made of use, the Saracens or Crusaders would have pulled it to pieces to help make their sugar mills up yonder, or their aqueducts." "There is no sugar cane here now?" "Not a trace of it. Nor a palm tree; though Jericho was a city of palms; nor a root of the balsam, though great gain was derived to Judea in ancient times from the balsam gardens here." We mounted our horses and rode down to the site of Herod's Jericho, on the banks of the little stream that issues from the gorge of the Wady Kelt. How lovely, and how desolate, it was. The stream overhung with trees and bordered with oleanders and shrubs of which I have forgotten the names, and crossed by old arches still; and around, the desolate tokens of what once was. Foundation lines, and ruined aqueducts. Mr. Dinwiddie made us remark the pavement of the road leading up to the Kelt, the old road to Jerusalem, the road by which Jesus went when the blind men called him, and over which, somewhere on its way, stretched the sycamore tree into which Zaccheus climbed. Ah how barren and empty the way looked now! - with Him no longer here. For a moment, so looked my own path before me, - the dusty, hot road; the desolate pass; the barren mountain top. It was only a freak of fancy; I do not know what brought it. I had not felt so a moment before, and I did not a moment after. "Where His feet lead now, the green pastures are not wanting, -" Mr. Dinwiddie said; I suppose reading my look. "Never, Mr. Dinwiddie?" "Never!" "But it _seems_, often, to people, that they are wanting." "Their eyes are so blinded by tears that they cannot see them, sometimes. Even then, they can lie down and feel them, - feel that they are in them." "Are there any sycamore trees here now?" my father asked. "Two or three poor old specimens; just enough to show for the story. Those sycamore figs belong to the low and warm situations; this is the proper place for them." Papa felt so well that we determined to push on to the Jordan. It was a hot, long ride, over a shadeless and barren plain; and when we came to the river papa declared himself very much disappointed. But I was not. Narrow and muddy as the stream was, it was also powerful in its rapid flood; no one could venture to bathe in it. The river was much swollen and had been yet more so; the tracks of wild animals which the floods had disturbed were everywhere to be seen. Papa and Mr. Dinwiddie reasoned and argued, while I sat and meditated; in a deep delight that I should see the Jordan at all. We took a long rest there, on its banks. The jungle was a delicious study to me, and when the deep talk of the gentlemen subsided enough to give me a chance, I got Mr. Dinwiddie to enlighten me as to the names and qualities of the various trees and plants. They were of fine luxuriant growth. Poplars and sycamores and other trees, willows, I think, and exquisite tamarisks in blossom; and what I specially admired, the canes. I understood then how people might go into the plain to see "a reed shaken with the wind." Growing twelve to fifteen feet high, with graceful tufts of feathery bloom which they bow and sway to the breeze in a manner lovely to see. Another day we rode down to the shore of the Dead Sea; papa being none the worse for his Jordan excursion. Then the rain visited us, and for two or three days we were kept in our tents. With some difficulty I then persuaded papa to go further south, to the shore of the Dead Sea, to some pleasant camping ground by one of its western springs; there rain falls almost never. So, first at Ain Feshkah and then at Ain Jidi, we spent another couple of weeks; without Mr. Dinwiddie it would have been impossible, but his society kept papa from wearying and made everything as enjoyable as could be to both of us. It was the middle of February when we returned to Jerusalem. The rainy season was not of course at an end yet; but a change of beauty had come over the land. We found fruit trees in blossom, almond and peach; and apricots just ready to bloom. Corn up and green; and flowers coming and come. I had my own plans, made up from the experience and counsels of my English friends; but papa wanted to see Jerusalem, and I waited. Of course I wanted to see Jerusalem too; and here again Mr. Dinwiddie was our excellent friend and guide and instructor. Papa was quite in earnest now; and went about the city examining walls and churches and rock-tombs and all the environs, with a diligent intentness almost equal to mine; and he and Mr. Dinwiddie had endless talks and discussions, while I mused. The words, "Constantine," "Byzantine," "Crusaders," "Helena", "Saracenic," "Herod," "Josephus;" with modern names almost as well known; echoed and re-echoed in my ears. "Daisy!" said papa suddenly in one of these talks, - "Daisy! you are not interested in this." "Papa, it is so uncertain." Mr. Dinwiddie laughed. "But the question, child; don't you care about the question? how is it ever to be made certain? I thought this question would engage all your attention." "How can it ever be made certain, papa? After those hundred and fifty years when there were no Jews allowed here, who was to remember the spot of the Sepulchre? Few but Christians knew it, in the first place." "Oh, you _have_ thought about it!" said papa. "But are you not interested in a _probable_ site, Daisy?" "No, papa." "All these old churches and relics then do not concern you?" "Papa, I only go to see them for your sake." "Well," said papa, "now I will go to the Mount of Olives for your sake." That was my plan; following the advice of the English party, who said they had enjoyed it. We hired for a time a little stone dwelling on the Mount of Olives, from which we had a fine view of the city; and to this new home papa and I moved, and took up our quarters in it. Of all my days in the Holy Land, excepting perhaps the time spent at Jericho and Engedi, these days were the best. They are like a jewel of treasure in my memory. The little dwelling to which we had come was rougher in accommodation than our tents; but the season was still early, and it gave better shelter to papa. It was a rude stone house, with a few small rooms at our service; which I soon made comfortable with carpets and cushions. The flat roof above gave us a delightful view of the country and abundant chance to examine and watch all its points and aspects. I spent the hours up here or at the window of our little sitting-room; using my eyes all the time, to take in and feast upon what was before them. Only when papa would go out with me, I left my post; to take up the survey from some new point of view. I had a great deal to think of, those days; a certain crisis in my life had come, or was coming; I was facing it and getting ready for it; and thinking and looking seemed to help and stimulate each other. It was wonderful to watch the lights change on Jerusalem; from the first sunbeam that came over the hills of Moab and touched the city, to the full glare of the midday, and then the sunset colours on land and rock and building, transforming the dull greys and whites with a flush of rosy beauty and purple splendour. The tints that hovered then upon the red hills of Moab were never to be forgotten. I watched it, this change of light and shade and colour, from day to day. I learned to know Jerusalem and her surrounding hills and her enclosing valleys; and the barrier wall of Moab became a familiar line to me. All this while, as I said, I had a great deal to think of, and was thinking. Past, present and future chased each other in and out of my head; or rather, it seems to me, dwelt there together. "Daisy!" - papa called to me when I was on the roof one day. I ran down. "What are you doing up there?" "I was looking, papa. I was studying topography." "Let us go out and study it a little by actual survey. I think a walk would do me good." We went down first to the valley of the Kedron, and wandered about there; sometimes sitting down under the shade of the olive trees to rest; speculating upon localities, recalling scenes of history; wondering at the path which descends into the valley from St. Stephen's gate and goes on over the Mount of Olives to Bethany. Above all things, that path held my eyes. No doubt the real path that was travelled eighteen centuries ago lay deep beneath many feet of piled-up rubbish; but the rubbish itself told a tale; and the path was there. After a long stay in the valley, we mounted the hill again, where our temporary home was; and passing that, went on to the height of the hill. There we sat down. The westering sun was casting lines of light all over the landscape, which would be soon floods of colour. Papa and I sat down to look and wait. "It certainly is worth coming for," said papa. "Our journey realises more than all I had hoped from it, Daisy." "I am so glad, papa!" "But you, Daisy, how is it with you? You seem to me a little, and not a little, _distraite_." "I have so much to think of, papa." "More than I have?" "Why, yes, papa," I said, half laughing. "I think so." "You must have fields of speculation unknown to me, Daisy." "Yes, papa. Some time I want to talk to you about them." "Isn't now a good time?" said papa, carelessly. I was silent a while, thinking how to begin. It was a good time, I knew, and I dared not let it pass. I had been waiting till Mr. Dinwiddie should have left us and papa and I be quite alone; and he was to join us again as soon as we started on our northward journey. Now was my best opportunity. All the more, for knowing that, my heart beat. "Papa," I began, "may I ask you a few questions, the better to come at what I want?" "Certainly. Your questions, Daisy, I have always found stimulating." "Then first, what is it you think of most, in looking over from this place to Jerusalem?" "Of course," said papa, rousing himself, "the prominent thought must be the wonderful scene that was acted there eighteen hundred years ago; not the course of history before or after. Is that what you mean?" "I mean that, papa. I mean the death of Christ. Papa, what was that for?" "Why, as I understand it, Daisy, it was a satisfaction to the justice of God for the sins of the world. Are you going to put me through a course of theology, Daisy?" "No, papa. But do you think it was for all the world, or only for a part of them?" "For all, of course. The Bible words I take to be quite clear on that point, even if it were possible that it should have been otherwise." "Then it was for you and me, papa?" "Yes." "And for those ignorant Moslems that live in the city now?" "Yes, of course it was; though I think they will not have much good of it, Daisy." "Never mind that, papa. Then it was for my old June, and for Maria and Darry and Pete and Margaret, and all the rest of our people at Magnolia?" "Yes," said papa, rousing up a little. I did not look at him. "Papa, don't you think the Lord Jesus loves the people for whom He died?" "Certainly. It is inconceivable that He should have died for them if He did not love them. Though that is also a great mystery to me, Daisy." "Papa, don't you think that, having died for them, He holds them precious?" "I suppose so," said papa slowly. "Every one?" "Yes." "Do you think He loves one man less than another because his skin is darker?" "Certainly not, Daisy." "Then papa - should we?" "I do not know that we do," papa said, after a pause. "Papa, think. What would you say to our, or anybody's, holding white men in slavery - making them work without wages - and forcing them to obey under the lash?" "They are an inferior race, Daisy," papa answered again after a pause. His voice showed he did not enjoy the conversation; but it was needful for me to go on. "Papa, they have been kept down. But suppose they were inferior, - since Christ died for them, does He not love them?" "I have no doubt of it." "Then, papa, what will He say to us, for keeping those whom He loves and died for, at arms' length or under our feet? and what will He say to us for keeping them out of the good He died to give them?" "We do not, Daisy! They have their religious privileges." "Papa, I have lived among them as you never did. They may not meet together to pray, on pain of the lash. They cannot have Bibles, for they are not allowed to read. They have no family life; for husbands and wives and parents and children are parted and torn from each other at the will or for the interest of their owners. They live like the animals." "Not on my estates!" said papa, rousing himself again. "There is no selling and buying of the people there." "Pete's wife was forcibly taken from him, papa, and then sent South." "By whom?" "By Edwards. And the rest of the hands were in mortal fear of him; utterly cowed. They dared not move without his pleasure." "Abuses," papa muttered; - "nothing to do with the system." "What must the system be where such things are possible? where one such thing is possible? And oh, papa, they suffer! there is no such thing as real comfort of life; there is no scope or liberty for the smallest upward tendency. Nothing is their own, not their own time; they have no chance to be anything but inferior." "They have all the essentials of comfortable living, and they are comfortable," said my father. "Papa, they do not think so." "Few people do think so," said papa. "It is a vice of humanity." I was silent a little bit, and then I ventured to say, - "Papa, the Lord Jesus loved them well enough to die for them." "Well," said papa, rather growlingly, "what then?" "I am thinking, what will He say to us for handling them so." "What would you do for them, Daisy?" "All I could, papa," I said softly. "How much could you, do you suppose?" "Papa, I would not stop as long as there was anything more to be done." "I suppose you would begin by setting them all free?" "Wouldn't you wish it, papa, for yourself and me, if we were two of them? - and for mamma and Ransom, if they were two more?" "You are mistaken in thinking it is a parallel case. They do not wish for liberty as we should." "Then it only shows how much harm the want of liberty has done them already. But they wish for it quite enough, papa; quite enough. It breaks my heart to think how much they do wish for it." "My child, you do not know what you are talking about!" papa answered; half worried, I thought, and half impatient. "In the first place, they would not be better off if they were set free; though you think they would; and in the second place, do you know how it would affect our own condition?" "Papa," I said low, - "it has nothing to do with the question. I do not care." "You would care." "I care for this other more, papa." "Daisy, understand. Instead of being well off, you would be poor; you would be poor. The Southern estates would be worth nothing without hands to cultivate them; and my Northern estates will go to your brother." "I should never be rich in the way you think, papa." "How so?" "I would never be rich in that way." "What would you do?" "I would be poor." "It is not so easy to do as to talk about," said my father. "At the present time, Daisy, - I suppose, if you had your will, you would set at liberty at once all the people on the Magnolia plantations?" "Indeed I would, papa." "Then we should be reduced to a present nothing. The Melbourne property brings in very little, nothing, in fact, without a master on the spot to manage it. I dare say some trifling rent might be obtained for it; and the sale of Magnolia and its corresponding estates would fetch something if the times admitted of sale. You know it is impossible now. We should have scarce anything to live upon, my child, to satisfy your philanthropy." "Papa, there was a poor woman once, who was reduced to a handful of meal and a little oil as her whole household store. Yet at the command of the prophet of the Lord, she took some of it to make bread for him, before she fed herself and her child - both of them starving. And the Lord never let her want either meal or oil all the time the famine lasted." "Miracles do not come for people's help, now-a-days, Daisy." "Papa, yes! God's ways may change, His ways of doing the same thing; but He does not change. He takes care of His people now without miracles, all the same." "All the same!" repeated papa. "That is an English expression, that you have caught from your friends." We were both silent for a while. "Daisy, my child, your views of all these things will alter by and by. You are young, and have slight experience of the things of life. By and by, you will find it a much more serious thing than you imagine to be without wealth. You would find a great difference between the heiress and the penniless girl; a difference you would not like." "Papa," I said slowly, - "I hope you will not be displeased or hurt, - but I want it to be known, and I wanted you should know, that I never shall be an heiress. I never will be rich in that way. I will take what God gives me." "First throwing away what He has given you," said papa. "I do not think He has given it, papa." "What then? have we stolen it?" "Not we; but those who have been before us, papa; they stole it. All we are doing, is keeping that which is not ours." "Enough too, I should think!" said papa. "You will alter your mind, Daisy, about all this, if you wait a while. What do you think your mother would say to it?" "I know, papa," I said softly. "But I cannot help thinking of what will be said somewhere else. I would like that you and I, and she too, might have that 'Well done' - which the Lord Jesus will give to some. And when they enter into the joy of their Lord, will they care what His service has cost them?" My eyes were full of tears, and I could scarcely speak; for I felt that I had gained very little ground, or better no ground at all. What indeed could I have expected to gain? Papa sat still, and I looked over at Jerusalem, where the westing sun was making a bath of sunbeams for the old domes and walls. A sort of promise of glory, which yet touched me exceedingly from its contrast with present condition. Even so of other things, and other places besides Jerusalem. But Melbourne seemed to be in shadow. And Magnolia? - I wondered what papa would say next, or whether our talk had come to a deadlock then and there. I had a great deal more myself to say; but the present opportunity seemed to be questionable. And then it was gone; for Mr. Dinwiddie mounted the hill and came to take a seat beside us. "Any news, Mr. Dinwiddie?" was papa's question, as usual. "From America." "What sort of news?" "Confused sort - as the custom is. Skirmishes which amount to nothing, and tell nothing. However, there is a little more this time. Fort Henry has been taken, on the Tennessee river, by Commander Foote and his gunboats." "Successes cannot always be on one side, of course," remarked my father. "Roanoke Island has been taken, by the sea and land forces under Burnside and Goldsborough." "Has it!" - said papa. "Well, - what good will that do them?" "Strengthen their hearts for continuing the struggle," said Mr. Dinwiddie. "It will do that." "The struggle cannot last very long," said my father. "They must see sooner or later how hopeless it is." "Not in the light of these last events," said Mr. Dinwiddie. "What does my other friend here think about it?" "About what, Mr. Dinwiddie?" "The length of the struggle." "Do you think Daisy has some special means of knowledge?" asked my father, carelessly. "Well - yes," said Mr Dinwiddie. "She has been among Northern friends a good while; perhaps she can judge better of their tone and temper than I can, - or you, sir." "I cannot hold just the view that you do, Mr. Dinwiddie, - or that papa does." "So I supposed. You think there are some good soldiers in the Northern army." "It would be absurd to suppose there are not," said my father; "but what they do want, is a right understanding of the spirit of the South. It is more persistent and obstinate, as well as strong, than the North takes any account of. It will not yield. It will do and endure anything first." I thought I had heard papa intimate a doubt on that issue; however I said nothing. "If _spirit_ would save a people," Mr. Dinwiddie rejoined, "those walls over against us would not bear the testimony they do. No people ever fought with more spirit than this people. Yet Jerusalem is a heap of ruins." "You do not mean that such a fate can overtake the whole South?" said my father. "I mean, that the race is not always to the swift. The South have right on their side, however." "Right?" said I. "I thought that would bring you out," Mr. Dinwiddie said, with a kindly look at me. "Daisy is an abolitionist," said papa. "Where she got it, is out of my knowledge. But I think, Mr. Dinwiddie, there are minds so constituted that they take of choice that view of things which is practically the most adverse to their own interest." "Tell papa, Mr. Dinwiddie, that that cannot be." "What cannot be, if you please?" "I mean, that which is the _right_ cannot be the wrong in any sense; cannot be even the wrong view for anybody's interest that adopts it." "Fair theories -" said papa. "Something else, it must be, papa. There is a promise - 'With what measure ye measure, it shall be measured to you again.' 'Give, and it shall be given unto you; full measure, pressed down, heaped up, and running over, shall men give into your bosom.' " "Why into my bosom?" said papa. "I would rather it were into my hands, or a basket, or anything." We went off into a laugh upon that, and Mr. Dinwiddie explained, and the conversation turned. We went into the house to have tea; and there we discussed the subject of our further journey and when we should set off. Mr. Dinwiddie was engaged to go with us to Lebanon. But it was concluded that we would wait yet a little for the season to be further advanced. For me, I was in no hurry to leave the Mount of Olives and Jerusalem. We sat on the roof that evening and watched the lights kindle in Jerusalem, and talked of the old-time scenes and changes; till I supposed the question of home troubles and our poor Magnolia people was pretty well driven from papa's mind. But when Mr. Dinwiddie was gone, and I was bidding him good-night, he held me fast in his arms, looking down into my face. "Little Daisy!" - he said. "Not just now, papa." "The very same!" he said. "My little Daisy! - who was always forgetting herself in favour of any poor creature that came in her way." "Papa - what did our Lord do?" "Daisy, do you expect to conform yourself and everybody to that pattern?" "Myself, papa. Not everybody." "Me? -" I could not answer papa. I hid my face on his breast; - for he still held me. And now he kissed me fondly. "We must not do what mamma would never agree to," he said very kindly. Again I could make no answer. I knew all about mamma. "Daisy," said papa presently, we had not changed our position, - "is Mr. Dinwiddie your friend, or mine?" "Of us both, papa!" I said in astonishment. "Of me; particularly, perhaps; because he knows me best and has known me longest." "Then he comes here to see you?" "And you, papa." "I am afraid he does not come to see me," papa said. "Do you like to see him very much, Daisy?" "Certainly, papa; very much; because he is an old, old, very good friend. That is all." "You are sure?" "Quite sure, papa." "I believe that _is_ all," said papa, looking into my face. "I am afraid, however, that our friend wishes he were not quite so old a friend." "No, papa," I said; "you are, mistaken. I am sure Mr. Dinwiddie does not think so. He knows better." "How does he know better?" "I think he understands, papa." "What?" "Me." "What about you?" "I think he thinks only that, - what I said, papa." "And how came you to think he thinks anything about it?" "Papa -" "Has he ever told you his thoughts?" "No, sir; certainly." "Then what do you mean, Daisy." "Papa - we have talked." "But not about that?" "No, papa; not about Mr. Dinwiddie's feelings, certainly. But I am sure he understands." "What, my pet?" "My feelings, papa." "Your feeling about himself?" "Yes." "How should he understand it, Daisy?" "I think he does, papa -" "You say, you 'have talked'? What course did your talk take?" My heart beat. I saw what was coming now, - what ought to come. It was my time. "It was a very general course, papa. It did not touch, directly, my feeling for Mr. Dinwiddie, or anybody." "Indirectly?" "I think - I do not know - I half fancied, Mr. Dinwiddie thought so." "Thought what?" "That it did touch some feeling of mine." "Not for himself. For some other?" "Yes -" I whispered. "For whom?" he said abruptly. And then as I hesitated, - "For one of those two?" "What two?" "De Saussure or Marshall?" "Oh, no, papa!" "Your cousin Gary?" "Oh, no, papa!" "Have I lost you, Daisy?" he said then in a different tone, gentle and lingering and full of regret. My breath was gone; I threw my arms around his neck. "Why did you never tell me before, Daisy?" "Papa, - I was afraid." "Are you afraid now?" "Yes." "Let us have it over then, Daisy. Who is it that has stolen you from me?" "Oh no one, papal" I cried. "No one could. No one can." "Who has tried, then?" "A great many people, papa; but not this person." "How has it come to pass then, my pet? And who is this person?" "Papa, it came to pass without anybody's knowing it or meaning it; and when I knew it, then I could not help it. But not what you say has come to pass; nobody has stolen or could steal me from you." "I have only lost, without any other being the gainer," said papa a little bitterly. "No, papa, you have not lost; you cannot; I am not changed, papa, do you not see that I am not changed? I am yours, just as I always was, - only more, papa." Papa kissed me, but it cut me to the heart to feel there was pain in the kiss. I did what my lips could to clear the pain away. "Half is not as much as the whole, Daisy," he said at length. "It may be, papa. Suppose the whole is twice as large as it used to be?" "That is a good specimen of woman's reasoning. But you have not told me all yet, Daisy. Who is it that holds the other half?" There was so much soreness and disappointment shown in papa's words, rather in the manner of them, that it was extremely difficult for me to carry on the conversation. Tears are a help, I suppose, to other women. They do not come to me, not at such times. I stood still in papa's arms, with a kind of dry heartache. The pain in his words was a terrible trial to me. He folded me close again and kissed me over and over, and then whispered, - "Who is it, Daisy?" "Papa, it was at West Point. I never meant it, and never knew it, until I could not help it." "At West Point!" said papa. "Two years ago, when Dr. Sandford took me there." "It is not Dr. Sandford!" "Oh, no, papa! He is not to blame. He did everything he could to take care of me. He knows nothing it all about it." "Who is it, then?" "He was a cadet then, papa; he is in the army now." "Who is he?" "He is from Vermont; his name is Thorold." "Not a Southerner?" "No, papa. Do you care very much for that?" "Is he in the _Northern_ army, Daisy?" "He could not help that, papa; being a Vermonter." Papa let me go; I had been standing in his arms all this while; and took several turns up and down our little room. I sat down, for my joints trembled under me. Papa walked and walked. "Does your mother know?" he said at last. "I dared not tell her." "Who does know?" "Nobody, papa, but you, and an old friend of mine in New York, - an aunt of Mr. Thorold's." "Daisy, what is this young man?" "Papa, I wish you could know him." "How comes it that he, as well as you, has kept silence?" "I don't know, papa. His letter must have miscarried. He was going to write to you immediately, just before I left Washington. I was afraid to have him do it, but he insisted that he must." "Why were you afraid?" "Papa, I knew you and mamma would not be I pleased; that it would not be what you would wish; and I feared mamma, and perhaps you, would forbid him at once." "Does he write to you?" "I would not let him, papa, without your permission; and I was afraid I could not get that." "What did you expect to do then, Daisy, if I was never to be told?" "I thought to wait only till the war should be over, papa, - when he might see you himself and you might see him. I thought that would be the best way." "_He_ did not?" "No; he insisted on writing." "He was right. What is the young man's name, Daisy? you have not told me yet." "Christian Thorold." "Thorold," said papa. "It is an English name. Have you heard nothing from him, Daisy, since you came to Switzerland?" "Nothing," - I said. Papa came over again to where I sat on the divan, bent down and kissed me. "Am I such a terror to you, Daisy?" "Oh, no, papa," I said, bursting into tears at last; - "but mamma - you know if mamma said a word at first, she would never go back from it." "I know," he said. "And I choose, for the present, that this matter should remain a secret between you and me. You need not tell your mother until I bid you." "Yes, papa. Thank you." "And, Daisy," said he stroking my hair fondly, - "the war is not ended in America yet, and I am afraid we have a long time to wait for it. Poor child! - But for the present there are no storms ahead." I rose up and kissed papa, with a very tender good-night given and exchanged; and then I went to my room. The Jerusalem lights were out. But a peace, deep and wide as the blue arch of the sky, seemed to have spanned my life and my heart. CHAPTER XVII. OUT OF THE SMOKE There was an immense burden lifted off me. It is difficult to express the change and the relief in my feelings. The next day was given to an excursion in the neighbourhood; and I never can forget how rare the air seemed to be, as if I were breathing pure life; and how brilliant the sunlight was that fell on the wonderful Palestine carpet of spring flowers. All over they were; under foot and everywhere else; flashing from hidden places, peeping round corners, smiling at us in every meadow and hillside; a glory upon the land. Papa was in great delight, as well as I; and as kind as possible to me; also very good to Mr. Dinwiddie. Mr. Dinwiddie himself seemed to me transformed. I had gone back now to the free feeling of a child; and he looked to me again as my childish eyes had seen him. There was a great amount of fire and vigour and intellectual life in his countenance; the auburn hair and the brown eyes glowed together with the hue of a warm temperament; but that was tempered by a sweet and manly character. I thought he had grown soberer than the Mr. Dinwiddie of my remembrance. That particular day lies in my memory like some far-off lake that one has seen just under the horizon of a wide landscape, - a still bit of silvery light. It is not the distance, though, in this case, that gives it its shining. We were going that morning to visit Gibeon and Neby Samwil; and the landscape was full, for me, of the peace which had come into the relations between me and papa. It was a delicious spring day; the flowers bursting under our feet with their fresh smiles; the air perfumed with herby scents and young sweetness of nature; while associations of old time clustered all about, like sighs of history. - We went first along the great stony track which leads from Jerusalem to the north; then turned aside into the great route from Jaffa to Jerusalem; not the southern and rougher way which re had taken when we came from the coast. This was he approach of almost all the armies which have poured their fury on the devoted city. We went single file, as one has to go in Palestine; and I liked it. There was too much to think of to make one want to talk. And the buoyancy of the air seemed to feed mind as well as body, and give all the stimulus needed. Mr. Dinwiddie sometimes called out to me to point my attention to something; and the rest of the time I kept company with the past and my own musings. We visited Gibeon first, and stood by the dry pool where Abner and Joab watched the fight of their twelve picked men; and we read Solomon's prayer. "This is a wonderful country," said papa, "for the way its associations are packed. There is more history here than in any other region of the world." "Well, papa, it is the world's history," I said. "What do you mean, Daisy?" I hesitated; it was not very easy to tell. "She is right though," said Mr. Dinwiddie; "it is the very core of the world's history, round which the other is slowly gathering and maturing, to the perfected fruit. Or to take it another way, - ever since God at the first did visit the Gentiles, to take put of them a people for His name, His dealings with that people have been an earnest and an image of His course with His Church at large. We may cut down to the heart of the world and find the perfect flower here - as we do in bulbs." "A blossoming to destruction then, it seems," said my father. "No!" said Mr. Dinwiddie - "to restoration and glory. The history of this land is not yet finished." "And you think _that_ is in store for it yet?" Mr. Dinwiddie answered, - " 'Thus saith the Lord; If ye can break my covenant of the day, and my covenant of the night, and that there should not be day and night in their season; then may also my covenant be broken with David my servant, that he should not have a son to reign upon his throne; and with the Levites the priests, my ministers. As the hosts of heaven cannot be numbered, neither the sand of the sea measured: so will I multiply the seed of David my servant, and the Levites that minister unto me.' " "Who spoke that?" "The prophet Jeremiah." "And when, pray?" "When Nebuchadnezzar and his army were just upon the point of completing the destruction of the city - and of the people." "Then it refers to their return from captivity, does it not?" "As the type of the other restoration," said Mr. Dinwiddie. "For 'In those days, and at that time, will I cause the Branch of righteousness to grow up unto David; and he shall execute judgment and righteousness in the land. In those days shall Judah be saved, and Jerusalem shall dwell safely; and this is the name whereby she shall be called, The Lord our righteousness.' Moreover, in Ezekiel's vision of a new temple and city, he gives the dimensions of the temple large enough to take in all Jerusalem, and the holy city as many times exceeding its utmost actual limits; and he says, 'The name of the city from that day shall be, The Lord is there.' Jehovah shammah. I wish the day were come." "You take it as entirely figurative!" said papa. "I thought just now you made it entirely literal." "What is a figure?" said Mr. Dinwiddie. "And if you take away the literal, where will the spiritual be?" "True," said papa. "These are things I have not studied." And then we mounted to the height of Neby Samwil and sat down for a good long look. Mr. Dinwiddie was here as elsewhere invaluable. He told us everything and pointed out everything to us, that we ought to see or know. The seacoast plain lay below; - spread out for many a mile, with here a height and there a cluster of buildings, and the blue sea washing its western border. We could easily see Jaffa, Ramleh and Lydda; we picked those spots out first which we knew. Then Mr. Dinwiddie pointed us to Ashdod, and to Ekron, a little to the left of Ramleh. "And that is where Nebuchadnezzar was with his army, before he went up to Jerusalem," I said. "The first time," said Mr. Dinwiddie. "Yes; there his hosts of Chaldeans lay in the plain; and there after the place was taken he impaled the chiefs of the town; and then flushed with power, came up to Jerusalem and cast banks against it. So he says; and we know that so Isaiah prophesied he would do; and we know that Hezekiah bought him off." "Did he come up this way of the Beth-horons?" I asked. "I suppose so. And down this way, Joshua chased the fleeing kings and their followers and overthrew them as they fled down the pass - what a rush it must have been! - and down there, down where the green sweeps into the hills from the plain, there is Ajalon." "Papa, do you see?" "I see; but I do not understand quite so well as you do, Daisy, what you are talking about." "It is Miss Randolph's own country," remarked Mr. Dinwiddie. "She is not a Jewess," said papa. "Pardon me - we have it on authority that 'he is a Jew which is one inwardly;' - an Israelite indeed," Mr . Dinwiddie muttered to himself. I saw papa was puzzled and half displeased. I hastened to turn the conversation, and showed him where Bethel lay and the mountains of Ephraim; and finally ordered our luncheon basket to be brought forward. But we had to leave our position and choose a shaded place, the sun was growing so hot. "How long do you expect to remain here - in Palestine, Mr. Dinwiddie?" something prompted me to ask. He hesitated a moment or two and then replied - "I cannot tell - probably as long as I stay anywhere on this scene of action." "You do not mean ever to come home?" I said. "What is 'home,' Miss Daisy?" he replied, looking at me. "It is where we were born," said papa. "Would your daughter say so?" "No," I answered; for I was born at Magnolia. "But I think home is where we have lived, - is it not?" "Melbourne?" Mr. Dinwiddie suggested. "No," said I; "it is not Melbourne now, to be sure; but neither could it be possibly any place in Europe, or Asia." "Are you sure? Not in _any_ circumstances?" I cannot tell what, in his tone or look, drove his meaning home. But I felt the colour rise in my face and I could not answer. "It is where the heart is, after all," Mr. Dinwiddie resumed. "The Syrian sky does not make much difference. _My_ home is waiting for me." "But we speak of home here, and properly." "Properly, for those who have it." "I think, Mr. Dinwiddie, that we say 'home' sometimes, when we speak only of where the heart was." "Better not," he said. "Let us have a living home, not a dead one. And that we can, always." "What do you know of places where the heart _was?_" said papa, looking at me curiously. "Not much, papa; but I was thinking; and I think people mean that sometimes." "We will both trust she will never come nearer to the knowledge," said Mr. Dinwiddie, with one of his bright looks at papa and at me. It was assuming a little more interest in our affairs than I feared papa would like; but he took it quietly. More quietly than I could, though my reason for disquietude was different. Mr. Dinwiddie's words had set vibrating a chord in my heart which could not just then give a note of pleasure. I wanted it to lie still. The wide fair landscape took a look to me instantly, which indeed belonged to it, of "places where the heart was;" and the echo of broken hopes came up to my ear from the gray ruins near and far. Yet the flowers of spring were laughing and shouting under my feet. Was it hope, or mockery? "What are you questioning, Miss Daisy ?" said Mr. Dinwiddie, as he offered me some fruit. "I seemed to hear two voices in nature, Mr. Dinwiddie; - I wanted to find out which was the true." "What were the voices? - and I will tell you." "One came from the old heap of Ekron yonder, and the ruins of Ramleh, and Jerusalem, and Gibeon, and Bethel; - the other voice came from the flowers." "Trust the flowers." "Why, more than the ruins?" "Remember," - said he. "One is God's truth; the other is man's falsehood." "But the ruins tell truth too, Mr. Dinwiddie." "What truth? They tell of man's faithlessness, perversity, wrongheadedness, disobedience; persisted in, till there was no remedy. And now, to be sure, they are a desolation. But that is not what God willed for the land." "Yet surely, Mr. Dinwiddie, there come desolations into people's lives too." "By the same reason." "Surely without it sometimes." "Nay," he said. " 'The Lord redeemeth the soul of His servants; and none of them that trust in Him shall be desolate.' " "But their lives are empty sometimes?" "That they may be more full, then. Depend on it, the promise is sure, - they shall not want any good I thing." "One must let the Lord judge then," I said somewhat sorrowfully, "what are the good things." "Will we not?" said Mr. Dinwiddie. "Do we know? We must agree to his judgment, too; and then we shall find there is no want to them that fear him. The Lord is my Shepherd! - I shall not want. But the sheep follow the shepherd, and never dream of choosing out their own pasture, Miss Daisy." My voice choked a little and I could not answer. And all the rest of the day I could not get back my quiet. The talk of leaving the choice of my life out of my own hands, had roused my hands to cling to their choice with a terrible grasp lest it should be taken away from them. The idea that Thorold and I might be parted from each other, made my heart leap out with inexpressible longing to be with him. It was not till we got home to the Mount of Olives again, and I was watching the glory of the sunset, turning Jerusalem to gold and bringing out rosy and purple and amethyst hues from the Moab mountains, that my heart leapt back to its rest and I heard the voice of nature and God again above the din of my own heart. As soon as the season was far enough advanced, and Mr. Dinwiddie could make his arrangements to be with us, we left Jerusalem and its surroundings and set off northwards. It was hard to go. Where many a sorrowful traveller has left his little mound of farewell stones on Scopus, I stood and looked back; as long as papa would wait for me. Jerusalem looked so fair, and the thought and prospect of another Jerusalem lay before me, fairer indeed, but so distant. And I fancied storms and some rough travelling between. And here, in the actual Jerusalem, my life had been very sweet; peaceful with a whole flood tide of peacefulness. I resolved I would not lose nor forget this ungratefully; but as long as I could I would be happy. So I turned my face at last to enjoy every foot of the way to Nablous. During our stay at Jerusalem and on the Mount of Olives, of course letters and papers had been received regularly; and sometimes a bit of news from America had made all our hearts stir. Mine, with a new throb of hope and possible exultation; for what we heard was on the side of Northern successes. Still, papa and Mr. Dinwiddie agreed these were but the fortune of war, and could not - in the nature of things last. The South could not be overcome. So they said, and I feared. But a thrill of possible doubt came over me when I heard of Fort Donelson, and the battle of Pea Ridge, and the prowess of the little iron-clad _Monitor_. And a great throb of another kind heaved my heart, when we got the news of President Lincoln's Message, recommending that assistance should be given by Congress to every Southern State which would abolish slavery. A light broke in upon the whole struggle; and from that time the war was a different thing to me. Papa and Mr. Dinwiddie talked a great deal about it, discussing the subject in almost all its bearings. I sat by and said nothing. I would not read the papers myself, all this time. In America I had studied them, and in Switzerland and in Florence I had devoured them. Here in the Holy Land, I had made an agreement with myself to be happy; to leave the care of things which I could not manage, and not to concern myself with the fluctuations on the face of affairs which I could not trace out to their consequences, do what I would. So. I heard the principal points of news from papa's talk and Mr. Dinwiddie's; I let the papers alone. Only with one exception. I could not help it. I could not withhold myself from looking at the lists of wounded and killed. I looked at nothing more; but the thought that one name might be there would have incessantly haunted me, if I had not made sure that it was not there. I dreaded every arrival from the steamers of a new mail budget. From Mr. Thorold I got no letter. Nor from Miss Cardigan. From Mrs. Sandford one; which told me nothing I wanted to know. To mamma papa had writ- ten, describing to her the pleasure we were enjoying and the benefit his health was deriving from our journey, and asking her to join us at Beyrout and spend the summer on Lebanon. Towards Beyrout we now journeyed gently on; stopping and lingering by the way as our custom was. At Nablous, at Nazareth, at Tiberias, at Safed, at Banias; then across the country to Sidon, down to Khaiffa and Carmel; finally we went up to Beyrout. Papa enjoyed every bit of the way; to me it was a journey scarcely of this earth, the happiness of it was so great. Mr. Dinwiddie everywhere our kind and skilful guide, counsellor, helper; knowing all the ground, and teaching us to use our time to the very best advantage. He made papa more at ease about me, and me about papa. At Beyrout, for the first time since we left Jerusalem, we found ourselves again in a hotel. Mr. Dinwiddie went to find our despatches that were awaiting us. Papa lay down on the cushions of a divan. I sat at the window, wondering at what I saw. I wonder now at the remembrance. It was afternoon, and the shades and colours on the mountains and the sea were a labyrinth of delight. Yes, the eye and the mind lost themselves again and again, to start back again to the consciousness of an enchanted existence. The mountains rising from the coast were in full view of my window, shaded with all sorts of green from the different woods and cultivation which clothed their sides. The eye followed their growing heights and ridges, till it rested on the snow summit of Sunnin; then swept round the range to the southward; but ever came back again to the lofty, reposeful majesty of that white mountain top in the blue ether. Little streams I could see dashing down the rocks; a white thread amongst the green; castles or buildings of some stately sort were upon every crag; I found afterwards they were monasteries. The sea waves breaking on the rocks of the shore gave other touches of white, and the sea was taking a deep hue, and the town stretching back from it looked gay and bright, with pretty houses and palm trees and palaces, and, bright-coloured dresses flitting here and there in the streets; and white sails were on the sea. I had never seen, I have never seen, anything more lovely than Beyrout. I had come to the city rather anxious; for we expected there to meet a great budget of news, which I always dreaded; wandering about from place to place, we had been blissfully separated for some time from all disturbing intelligence. Now we must meet it, perhaps; but the glory of the beauty before me wrapped my heart round as with an unearthly shield. Peace, peace, and good will, - it spoke, from Him who made the beauty and owned the glory; softly it reminded me that my Father in heaven could not fail in love nor in resources. I leaned my head against the frame of the open window, and rested and was glad. Mr. Dinwiddie came back with a business step. I looked up, but I would not fear. He laid a pile of letters and papers before papa, and then sat down to the consideration of some of his own. "What is doing at home, Dinwiddie?" papa asked. "A good deal, since our last advices." "What? I am tired of reading about it." "Yes," said Mr. Dinwiddie. "You want me to save you the trouble?" "If it is no trouble to you." "The news is of several advantages gained by the Yankees." "That won't last," said papa. "But there are always fluctuations in these things." "Back in March," Mr. Dinwiddie went on, "there are reported two engagements in which our troops came off second best - at Newhern and at Winchester. It is difficult perhaps to know the exact truth - the papers on the two sides hold such different language. But the sixth of April there was a furious battle at Pittsburg Landing, our men headed by Beauregard, Polk and Sidney Johnston, when our men got the better very decidedly; the next day came up a sweeping reinforcement of the enemy under Grant and others, and took back the fortune of war into their own hands, it seems." "Perhaps that is doubtful too," observed my father. "I see Beauregard asked permission to bury his dead." "Many killed?" asked my father. "Terribly many. There were large numbers engaged, and fierce fighting." So they _can_ do it, I said to myself, amid all my heart- beating. "There will be of course, some variation of success," said my father. "The pendulum is swung all to one side, in these last news," said Mr. Dinwiddie. "What next?" "Fort Pulaski is taken." "Pulaski!" my father exclaimed. "Handsomely done, after a bombardment of thirty hours." "I am surprised, I confess," said papa. "The House of Representatives has passed a bill for the abolition of slavery in the District." "Oh, I am glad!" I exclaimed. "_That_ is good." "Is that _all_ you think good in the news?" said Mr. Dinwiddie a little pointedly. "Daisy is a rebel," said papa. "No, papa; not _I_ surely. I stand by the President and the Country." "Then _we_ are rebels, Dinwiddie," said papa, half wearily. "Half the country is playing the fool, that is clear; and the whole must suffer." "But the half where the seat of war is, suffers the most." "That will not last," said papa. "I know the South." "I wonder if we know the North," said Mr. Dinwiddie. "Farragut has run the gauntlet of the forts at the mouth of the Mississippi and taken New Orleans." "Taken New Orleans!" my father exclaimed again, rising half up as he lay on the cushions of the divan. "It was done in style," said Mr. Dinwiddie, looking along the columns of his paper. "Let me read you this, Mr. Randolph." Papa assented, and he read; while I turned my face to the window again, and listened to Farragut's guns and looked at Lebanon. What a strange hour it was! There was hope at work and rejoicing; but it shook me. And the calmness of the everlasting hills and the mingled sweetnesses of the air, came in upon the fever of my heart with cooling and quieting power. The sea grew a deeper blue as I listened and looked; the mountains - what words can tell the mantle of their own purple that enfolded them as the evening came on; and the snowy heights of Sunnin and Kunisyeh grew rosy. I looked and I drank it in; and I could not fear for the future. I believe I had fallen into a great reverie, during which Mr. Dinwiddie ended his reading and left the room. It was papa's touch on my shoulder that roused me. He had come to my side. "Are you happy, Daisy?" was his question. "Papa? -" I said in bewilderment. "Your face was as calm as if you had nothing to think about." "I had been thinking, papa. I was thinking, I believe." "Does this strange news make you happy?" "Oh, no, papa; not that." "What then?" "Something that is no news, and that never can grow old, papa. The mountains and the sea were just reminding me of it." "You mean - what? You speak riddles, Daisy." "Papa, you would give me everything good for me, if you could." He kissed me fondly. "I would, my child. Whether I can, or no, that troubles me by its uncertainty." "Papa, my Father in heaven can, and will. There is no doubt about His power. And so there is no uncertainty." "Daisy! -" said papa, looking at me in a strange way. "Yes, papa, I mean it. Papa, you know it is true." "I know you deserve all I can give you," he said, taking my face in his two hands and looking into it. "Daisy - is there anybody in the world that loves you as well as I do?" That was a little too much, to bring up my heart in words in that manner. In spite of my composure, which I thought so strong, I was very near bursting into tears. I believe my face flushed and then grew pale with the struggle. Papa took me in his arms. "You shall have no trouble that I can shield you from," he said tenderly. "I will put nothing between you and this young man if he is worthy of you, Daisy. I will pat nothing. But others may. My power reaches only a certain distance." "Papa -" I began, but I could not say what I would. "Well?3 - said he tenderly, stroking my hair, "what is it? I would keep all trouble from you, my pet, if I could." "Papa," I whispered, "that may not be best. We must leave that. But papa, if you only knew what I know and were glad as I am glad, - I think I could bear all the rest!" "How shall I be glad as you are glad, Daisy?" he said, half sadly. "Papa, let Jesus make you happy!" "You are talking Hebrew, my child." "No, papa; for if you seek Him, He _will_ make you happy." "Come! we will seek him from to-day," my father said. And that was my summer on Lebanon. My mother wrote that she would not join us in Syria; she preferred to remain in Paris, where she had my aunt Gary's company and could receive the American news regularly. Her words were bitter and scornful about the successes of the Northern army and McClellan's fruitless siege of Yorktown; so bitter, that papa and I passed them over without a word of comment, knowing how they bore on my possible future. But we, we studied the Bible, and we lived on Lebanon. And when I have said that, I have said all. From one village to another, higher and higher up, we went; pitching our tents under the grand old walnut trees, within sight or hearing of mountain torrents that made witcheries of beauty in the deep ravines; studying sunrisings, when the light came over the mountain's brow and lit our broken hillside by degrees, our walnut tree tops and the thread of the rushing stream; and sunsets, when the sun looked at us from the far-off Mediterranean and touched no spot of Lebanon but to make a glorified place of it. With Mr. Dinwiddie we took rides to different scenes of wonder and beauty; made excursions sometimes of a week or two long; we dreamed at Baalbec and rejoiced under the Cedars. Everywhere papa and I read the Bible. Mr. Dinwiddie left us for some time during the summer, and returned again a few days before we left Lebanon and Syria. "So you are going to-morrow" - he said the last evening, as he and I were watching the sunset from the edge of the ravine which bordered our camping-ground. I made no answer, for my heart was too full. "It has been a good summer," he said. I bowed my head in assent. "And now," he said, "you push out into the world again. I feel about you as I did when I saw your little craft just starting forth, and knew there were breakers ahead." "You do not know that now, Mr. Dinwiddie?" I said. "I know there are rocks. If the sea should let you pass them in quiet, it would be a wonder." That was too true, I knew. I could only be silent. "How do you feel?" he next asked. "I know it is as you say, Mr. Dinwiddie." "And in view of it? -" "What can I do, - Mr. Dinwiddie?" "Nothing to avoid the rocks. The helm is not in your hand." "But I know in whose hand it is." "And are willing to have it there?" "More than willing," I said, meeting his eye. "Then the boat will go right," he said, with a sort of accent of relief. "It is the cross pulls with the oar, striving to undo the work of the rudder, that draw the vessel out of her course. The Pilot knows, - if you can only leave it to the Pilot." There was a pause again. "But He sometimes takes the boat into the breakers," Mr. Dinwiddie said. "Yes," I said. "I know it." "What then, Daisy, my friend?" "What then, Mr. Dinwiddie?" I said, looking up at him. "Then she must be broken to pieces." "And what then? Can you trust the Pilot still?" His great eyes were flashing and glittering as he looked at me. No careless nor aimless thought had caused such an interrogatory, I knew. I met the eyes which seemed to be blazing and melting at once, but I answered only by the look. "You may," he went on, without taking his eyes from mine. "You may trust safely. Even if the vessel is shaken and broken, trust even then, when all seems gone. There shall be smooth waters yet; and a better voyage than if you had gone a less wearisome way." "Why do you say all this to me, Mr. Dinwiddie?" "Not because I am a prophet," he said, looking away now, - "for I am none. And if I saw such trials ahead for you, I should have hardly courage to utter them. I asked, to comfort myself; that I might know of a certainty that you are safe, whatever comes." "Thank you," I said, rather faintly. "I shall stay here," he went on presently, "in the land of my work; and you will be gone to-morrow for other scenes. It isn't likely you will ever see me again. But if ever you need a friend, on the other side of the globe, if you call me, I will come. It is folly to say that, though," he said plucking hastily at a spear of grass; - "you will not need nor think of me. But I suppose you know, Daisy, by this time, that all those who come near you, love you. I am no exception. You must have charity for me." "Dear Mr. Dinwiddie," I said reaching out my hand, - "if I were in trouble and wanted a friend, there is no one in the world that I would sooner, or - rather, or as soon or as lief, ask to help me. Except -" I added, and could not finish my sentence. For I had remembered there was an exception which ought to be implied somewhere. "I know," he said, wringing my hand. "I wish I could heap blessings on the head of the exception. Now let us go in." The next day we rode down to Beyrout, and took the steamer that same evening. CHAPTER XVIII. A MASKED BATTERY My Palestine holiday lasted, in some measure, all the way of our journey home; and left me at the very moment when we entered our Parisian hotel and met mamma. It left me then. All the air of the place, much more all the style of mamma's dress and manner, said at once that we had come into another world. She was exquisitely dressed; that was usual; it could not have been only that, nor the dainty appointments around her; - it was something in her bearing, an indescribable something even as she greeted us, which said, You have played your play - now you will play mine. And it said, I cannot tell how, The cards are in my hands. Company engaged her that evening. I saw little of her till the next day. At our late breakfast then we discussed many things. Not much of Palestine; mamma did not want to hear much of that. She had had it in our letters, she said. American affairs were gone into largely; with great eagerness and bitterness by both mamma and Aunt Gary; with triumphs over the disasters of the Union army before Richmond, and other lesser affairs in which the North had gained no advantage; invectives against the President's July proclamation, his impudence and his cowardice; and prophecies of ruin to him and his cause. Papa listened and said little. I heard and was silent; with throbbing forebodings of trouble. "Daisy is handsomer than ever," my aunt remarked, when even politics had exhausted themselves. But I wondered what she was thinking of when she said it. Mamma lifted her eyes and glanced me over. "Daisy has a rival, newly appeared," she said. "She must do her best." "There cannot be rivalry, mamma, where there is no competition," I said. "Cannot there?" said mamma. "You never told us, Daisy, of _your_ successes in the North." I do not think I flushed at all in answer to this remark; the blood seemed to me to go all to my heart. "Who has been Daisy's trumpeter?" papa asked. "There is a friend of hers here," mamma said, slowly sipping her coffee. I do not know how I sat at the table; things seemed to swim in a maze before my eyes; then mamma went on, - "What have you done with your victim, Daisy?" "Mamma," I said, "I do not at all know of whom you are speaking." "Left him for dead, I suppose," she said. "He has met with a good Samaritan, I understand, who carried oil and wine." Papa's eye met mine for a moment. "Felicia," he said, "you are speaking very unintelligibly. I beg you will use clearer language, for all our sakes." "Daisy understands," she said. "Indeed I do not, mamma." "Not the good Samaritan's part, of course. That has come since you were away. But you knew once that a Northern Blue-coat had been pierced by the fire of your eyes?" "Mamma," I said, - "if you put it so, I have known it of more than one." "Imagine it!" said mamma, with an indescribable gesture of lip, which yet was gracefully slight. "Imagine what?" said papa. "One of those canaille venturing to look at Daisy!" "My dear," said papa, "pray do not fail to remember, that we have passed a large portion of our life among those whom you denominate canaille, and who always were permitted the privilege of looking at us all. I do not recollect that we felt it any derogation from anything that belonged to us." "Did you let him look at you, Daisy?" mamma said, lifting her own eyes up to me. "It was cruel of you." "Your friend Miss St. Clair, is here, Daisy," my aunt Gary said. "My friend!" I repeated. "She is your friend," said mamma. "She has bound up the wounds you have made, Daisy, and saved you from being in the full sense a destroyer of human life." "When did Faustina come here?" I asked. "She has been here a month. Are you glad?" "She was never a particular friend of mine, mamma." "You will love her now," said mamma; and the conversation turned. It had only filled me with vague fears. I could not understand it. I met Faustina soon in company. She was as brilliant a vision as I have often seen; her beauty was perfected in her womanhood, and was of that type which draws all eyes. She was not changed, however; and she was not changed towards me. She met me with the old coldness; with a something besides which I could not fathom. It gave me a secret feeling of uneasiness; I suppose, because that in it I read a meaning of exultation, a secret air of triumph, which, I could not tell how or why, directed itself towards me and gathered about my head. It grew disagreeable to me to meet her; but I was forced to do this constantly. We never talked together more than a few words; but as we passed each other, as our eyes met and hers went from me, as she smiled at the next opening of her mouth, I felt always something sinister, or at least something hidden, which took the shape of an advantage gained. I tried to meet her with perfect pleasantness, but it grew difficult. In my circumstances I was very open to influences of discouragement or apprehension; indeed the trouble was to fight them off. This intangible evil however presently took shape. I thought I had observed that for a day or two my father's eyes had lingered on me frequently with a tender or wistful expression, more than usual. I did not know what it meant. Mamma was pushing me into company all this while, and making no allusion to my own private affairs, if she had any clue to them. One morning I had excused myself from an engagement which carried away my aunt and her, that I might have a quiet time to read with papa. Our readings had been much broken in upon - lately. With a glad step I went to papa's room; a study, I might call it, where he spent all of the time he did not wish to give to society. He was there, expecting me; a wood-fire was burning on the hearth; the place had the air of comfort and seclusion and intelligent leisure; books and engravings and works of art scattered about, and luxurious easy-chairs standing ready for the accommodation of papa and me. "This is nice, papa!" I said, as the cushions of one of them received me. "It is not quite the Mount of Olives," said papa. "No indeed!" I answered; and my eyes filled. The bustle of the fashionable world was all around me, the storms of the political world were shaking the very ground where I stood, the air of our little social world was not as on Lebanon sweet and pure. When would it be again? Papa sat thinking in his easy-chair. "How do you like Paris, my child?" "Papa, it does not make much difference, Italy or Paris, so long as I am where you are, and we can have a little time together." "Your English friend has followed you from Florence." "Yes, papa. At least he is here." "And your German friend." "He is here, papa." There was a silence. I wondered what papa was thinking of, but I did not speak, for I saw he was thinking. "You have never heard from your American friend?" "No, papa." "Daisy," said papa, tenderly, and looking at me now, - "you are strong?" "Am I, papa?" "I think you are. You can bear the truth, cannot you?" "I hope I can, -any truth that you have to tell me," I said. One thought of terrible evil chilled my heart for a moment, and passed away. Papa's tone and manner did not touch anything like that. Though it was serious enough to awake my apprehension. I could not guess what to apprehend. "Did you get any clear understanding of what your mother might mean, one day at breakfast, when she was alluding to friends of yours in America? - you remember?" "I remember. I did not understand in the least, papa." "It had to do with Miss St. Clair." "Yes." "It seems she spent all the last winter in Washington, where the society was unusually good, it is said, as well as unusually military. I do not know how that can be true, when all Southerners were of course out of the city - but that's no matter. A girl like this St. Clair girl of course knew all the epaulettes there were." "Yes, papa - she is always very much admired. She must be that everywhere." "I suppose so, though I don't like her," said papa. "Well, Daisy, - I do not know how to tell you. She knew your friend." "Yes, papa." "And he admired her." I was silent, wondering what all this was coming to. "Do you understand me, Daisy? - She has won him from you." A feeling of sickness passed over me; it did not last. One vision of my beautiful enemy, one image of her as Mr. Thorold's friend, - it made me sick for that instant; then, I believe I looked up and smiled. "Papa, it is not true, I think." "It is well attested, Daisy." "By whom?" "By a friend of Miss St. Clair, who was with her in Washington and knew the whole progress of the affair, and testifies to their being engaged." "To whose being engaged, papa?" "Miss St. Clair and your friend, - Colonel Somebody. I forget his name, Daisy, though you told me, I believe." "He was not a colonel, papa; not at all; not near it." "No. He has been promoted, I understand. Promotions are rapid in the Northern army now-a-days; a lieutenant in the regulars is transformed easily into a colonel of volunteers. They want more officers than they have got, I suppose." I remained silent, thinking. "Who told you all this, papa?" "Your mother. She has it direct from the friend of your rival." "But, papa, nobody knew about me. It was kept entirely private." "Not after you came away, I suppose. How else should this story be told as of the gentleman _you were engaged to?_" I waited a little while, to get my voice steady, and then I went on with my reading to papa. Once he interrupted me to say, "Daisy, how do you take this that I have been telling you?" - and at the close of our reading he asked again in a perplexed manner, "You do not let it trouble you, Daisy?" - and each time I answered him, "I do not believe it, papa." Neither did I; but at the same time a dreadful shadow of possibility came over my spirit. I could not get from under it, and my soul fainted, as those were said to do who lay down for shelter under the upas tree. A poison as of death seemed to distil upon me from that shadow. Not let it trouble me? It was a man's question, I suppose, put with a man's powerlessness to read a woman's mind; even though the man was my father. I noticed from that time more than ever his tender lingering looks upon me, wistful, and doubtful. It was hard to bear them, and I would not confess to them. I would not and did not show by look or word that I put faith in the story my father had brought me, or that I had lost faith in any one who had ever commanded it. Indeed I did not believe the story. I did trust Mr. Thorold. Nevertheless the cold chill of a "What if?" - fell upon me sometimes. Could I say that it was an impossibility, that he should have turned from me, from one whom such a thorn hedge of difficulties encompassed, to another woman so much, - I was going to say, so much more beautiful; but I do not mean that, for I do not think it. No, but to one whose beauty was so brilliant and whose hand was so attainable? It would not be an impossibility in the case of many men. Yes, I trusted Mr. Thorold; but so had other women trusted. A woman's trust is not a guarantee for the worthiness of its object. I had only my trust and my knowledge. Could I say that both might not be mistaken? And trust as I would, these thoughts would rise. Now it was very hard for me to meet Faustina St. Clair, and bear the supercilious air of confident triumph with which she regarded me. I think nobody could have observed this or read it but myself only; its tokens were too exceedingly slight and inappreciable for anything but the tension of my own heart to feel. I always felt it, whenever we were in company together; and though I always said at such times, "Christian cannot love her," - when I was at home and alone, the shadow of doubt and jealousy came over me again. Everything withers in that shadow. A woman must either put it out of her heart, somehow, or grow a diseased and sickly thing, mentally and morally. I found that I was coming to this in my own mind and character; and that brought me to a stand. I shut myself up one or two nights - I could not command my days - and spent the whole night in thinking and praying. Two things were before me. The story might be somehow untrue. Time would show. In the meanwhile, nothing but trust would have done honour to Mr. Thorold or to myself. I thought it was untrue. But suppose it were not, - suppose that the joy of my life were gone, passed over to another; who had done it? By whose will was my life stripped? The false faith or the weakness of friend or enemy could not have wrought thus, if it had not been the will of God that His child should be so tried; that she should go through just this sorrow, for some great end or reason known only to Himself. Could I not trust Him -? If there is a vulture whose claws are hard to unloose from the vitals of the spirit, I think it is jealousy. I found it had got hold of me, and was tearing the life out of me. I knew it in time. O sing praise to our King, you who know Him! he is mightier than our enemies; we need not be the prey of any. But I struggled and prayed, more than one night through, before faith could gain the victory. Then it did. I gave the matter into my Lord's hands. If he had decreed that I was to lose Mr. Thorold, and in this way, - why, I was my Lord's, to do with as He pleased; it would all be wise and glorious, and kind too, whatever He did. I would just leave that. But in the mean time, till I knew that He had taken my joy from me, I would not believe it; but would go on trusting the friend I had believed so deserving of trust. I would believe in Mr. Thorold still and be quiet, till I knew my confidence was misplaced. It was thoroughly done at last. I gave up myself to God again and my affairs; and the rest that is unknown anywhere else, came to me at His feet. I gave up being jealous of Faustina. If the Lord pleased that she should have what had been so precious to me, why, well! I gave it up. But not till I was sure I had cause. What a lull came upon my harassed and tossed spirit, which had been like a stormy sea under cross winds. Now it lay still, and could catch the reflection of the sun again and the blue of heaven. I could go into society now and please mamma, and read at home to papa and give him the wonted gratification; and I could meet Faustina with an open brow and a free hand. "Daisy, you are better this day or two," papa said to me, wistfully. "You are like yourself. What is it, my child?" "It is Christ, my Lord, papa." "I do not know what you can mean by that, Daisy," said papa, looking grave. "You are not an enthusiast or a fanatic." "It is not enthusiasm, papa, to believe God's promises. It can't be fanaticism, to be glad of them." "Promises?" said papa. "What are you talking of?" "Papa, I am a servant of Christ," I said; I remember I was arranging the sticks of wood on the fire as I spoke, and it made pauses between my words; - "and He has promised to take care of His servants and to let no harm come to them, - no real harm; - how can I be afraid, papa? My Lord knows, - He knows all about it and all about me; I am safe; I have nothing to do to be afraid." "Safe from what?" "Not from trouble, papa; I do not mean that. He may see that it is best that trouble should come to me. But it will not come unless He sees that it is best; and I can trust Him." "My dear child, is there not a little fanaticism there?" "How, papa?" "It seems to me to sound like it." "It is nothing but believing God, papa." "I wish I understood you," said papa, thoughtfully. So I knelt down beside him and put my arms about him, and told him what I wanted him to understand; much more than I had ever been able to do before. The pain and sorrow of the past few weeks had set me free, and the rest of heart of the last few days too. I told papa all about it. I think, as Philip did to Queen Candace's servant, I "preached to him Jesus." "So that is what you mean by being a Christian," said papa at last. "It is not living a good moral life and keeping all one's engagements." " 'By the deeds of the law there shall no flesh be justified.' Even you, papa, are not good enough for that. God's law calls for perfection." "Nobody is perfect." "No, papa; and so all have come short of the glory of God." "Well, then, I don't see what you are going to do, Daisy." "Christ has paid our debt, papa." "Then nobody need do anything." "Oh, no, papa; for the free pardon that is made out for you and me - the white robe that Christ counsels us to buy of Him - waits for our acceptance and is given only on conditions. It is ready for every one who will trust Christ and obey Him; a free pardon, papa; a white robe that will hide all our ugliness. But we must be willing to have it on the conditions." "And how then, Daisy?" "Why, this way, papa. See, - I am dead - with Christ; it is as if I myself had died under the law, instead of my substitute; the penalty is paid, and the law has nothing to say to a dead malefactor, you know, papa. And now, I am dead to the law, and my life is Christ's. I live because He lives, and by His Spirit living in me; all I am and have belongs to Christ; the life that I live, I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me. I am not trying to keep the law, to buy my life; but I am _keeping_ the law, because Christ has given me life - do you see, papa? and all my life is love to Him." "It seems to me, Daisy," said papa, "that if faith is all, people may lead what lives they choose." "Papa, the faith that believes in Christ, loves and obeys Him; or it is just no faith. It is nothing. It is dead." "And faith makes such a change in people's feelings and lives?" "Why, yes, papa, for then they live by Christ's strength and not their own; and in the love of Him, and not in the love of themselves any longer." "Daisy," said papa, "it is something I do not know, and I see that you do know; and I would like to be like you anyhow. Pray for me, my child, that I may have that faith." I had never done it in his presence before, but now I knelt down by the table and uttered all my heart to the One who could hear us both. I could not have done it, I think, a few weeks earlier; but this last storm had seemed to shake me free from everything. What mattered, if I could only help to show papa the way? He was weeping, I think, while I was praying; I thought he sought to hide the traces of it when I rose up; and I went from the room with a gladness in my heart that said, "What if, even if Thorold is lost to me! There is something better beyond." Papa and I seemed to walk on a new plane from that day. There was a hidden sympathy between us, which had its root in the deepest ground of our nature. We never had been one before, as we were one from that time. It was but a few days, and another thing happened. The mail bag had come in as usual, and I had gathered up my little parcel of letters and gone with it to my room, before I examined what they were. A letter evidently from Mr. Dinwiddie had just made my heart leap with pleasure, when glancing at the addresses of the rest before I broke the seal of this, I saw what made my heart stand still. It was the handwriting of Mr. Thorold. I think my eyes grew dim and dazed for a minute; then I saw clearly enough to open the envelope, which showed signs of having been a traveller. There was a letter for me, such a letter as I had wanted; such as I had thirsted for; it was not long, for it was written by a busy man, but it was long enough, for it satisfied my thirst. Enclosed with it was another envelope directed to papa. I waited to get calm again; for the joy which shot through all my veins was a kind of elixir of life; it produced too much exhilaration for me to dare to see anybody. Yet I think I was weeping; but at any rate, I waited till my nerves were quiet and under control, and then I went with the letter to papa. I knew mamma was just gone out and there was no fear of interruption. Papa read the letter, and read it, and looked up at me. "Do you know what this is, Daisy?" "Papa, I guess. I know what it was meant to be." "It is a cool demand of you," said papa. I was glad, and proud; that was what it ought to be; that was what I knew it suited papa that it should be. I stood by the mantelpiece, waiting. "So you knew about it?" "Mr. Thorold said he would write to you, papa. I had been afraid, and asked him not. I wanted him to wait till he could see you." "One sees a good deal of a man in his letters," said papa; "and this is a man's letter. He thinks enough of himself, Daisy." "Papa, - not too much." "I did not say too much; but enough; and a man who does not think enough of himself is a poor creature. I would not have a man ask me for you, Daisy, who did not in his heart think he was worthy of you." "Papa, you draw nice distinctions," I said half laughing. "That would be simple presumption, not modesty; this is manliness." We were both silent upon this; papa considering the letter, or its proposal; I thinking of Mr. Thorold's manliness, and feeling very much pleased that he had shown it and papa had discerned it so readily. The silence lasted till I began to be curious. "What shall we do now, Daisy?" papa said at last. I left him to answer his own question. "Hey? What do you wish me to do?" "Papa, - I hope you will give him a kind answer." "How can I get it to him?" "I can enclose it to an aunt of his, whom I know. She can get it to him. She lives in New York." "His aunt? So you know his family? "No one of them, papa, but this one; his mother's sister." "What sort of a person is she?" So I sat down and told papa about Miss Cardigan. He listened with a very grave, thoughtful face; asking few questions, but kissing me. And then, without more ado, he turned to the table and wrote a letter, writing very fast, and handed it to me. It was all I could have asked that it might be. My heart filled with grateful rest. "Will that do?" said papa as I gave it back. "Papa, only one thing more, - if you are willing, that we should sometimes write to each other?" "Hm - that sounds moderate," said papa. "By the way, why was not this letter written and sent sooner? What is the date? - why, Daisy! -" "What, papa?" "My child, this letter, - it is a good year old, and more; written in the beginning of last winter." It took me a little while to get the full bearings of this; then I saw that it dated back to a time quite anterior to the circumstances of Faustina St. Clair's story, whatever that amounted to. Papa was all thrown back. "This is good for nothing, now, you see, Daisy." "Oh, no, papa." "For the purposes of action." "Papa, it does not matter, the date." "Yes, Daisy, it does; for it speaks of a man of last year, and my answer would go to a man of this year." "They are not different men, papa." "I must be assured of that." He was folding up his letter, his own, and I saw the next thing would be to throw it into the fire. I laid my hand over his. "Papa, don't do that. Let me have it." "I cannot send it." "Papa, let me have it. I will send it to Miss Cardigan - she loves me almost as well as you do - I will tell her; and if there is any truth in mamma's story, Miss Cardigan will know and she will burn the letter, just as well as you. And so you would escape doing a great wrong." "You may be mistaken, my child." "Then Miss Cardigan will burn the letter, papa. I can trust her." "Can _I_ trust her?" "Yes, papa, through me. Please let me have it. There shall come no harm from this, papa." "Daisy, your mother says he is engaged to this girl." "It is a mistake, papa." "You cannot prove it, my child." "Time will." "Then will be soon enough for my action." "But papa, in the mean time? - think of the months he has been waiting already for an answer -" I suppose the tears were in my eyes, as I pleaded, with my hand still upon papa's hand, covering the papers. He slowly drew his hand away, leaving the letter under mine. "Well!" - said he, - "do as you will." "You are not unwilling, papa?" "I am a little unwilling, Daisy; but I cannot deny you, child. I hope you are right." "Then, papa, add that one word about letters, will you?" "And if it is all undeserved?" "It is not, papa." Papa set his teeth for a moment, with a look which, however, wonted perhaps in his youthful days, I had very rarely seen called up in him. It passed then, and he wrote the brief word I had asked for, of addition to his letter, and gave it to me; and then took me in his arms and kissed me again. "You are not very wise in the world, my Daisy," he said; "and men would say I am not. But I cannot deny you. Guard your letter to Miss Cardigan. And for the present all this matter shall sleep in our own bosoms." "Papa," I asked, "how much did mamma know - I mean - how much did she hear about me that was true?" "It was reported that you had been engaged." "She heard that." "Yes." "She has never spoken about it." "She thinks it not necessary." I was silent a moment, pondering, as well I might; but then I kissed papa and thanked him, and went off and wrote and posted my letter with its enclosure. Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. CHAPTER XIX. ONE FALLEN I sent my letter, and waited. I got no answer. The weeks rolled on, and the months. It was palpable, that delays which had kept back one letter for a year might affect the delivery of another letter in the same way; but it is hard, the straining one's eyes into thick darkness with the vain endeavour to see something. The months were outwardly gay; very full of society life, though not of the kind that I cared for. I went into it to please mamma; and succeeded but partially; for she insisted I was too sober and did not half take the French tone of easy, light, graceful skimming over the surface of things. But mamma could be deep and earnest too on her own subjects of interest. The news of President Lincoln's proclamation, setting free the slaves of the rebel States, roused her as much as she could be roused. There were no terms to her speech or my aunt Gary's; violent and angry against not only the President, but everything and everybody that shared Northern growth and extraction. - How bitterly they sneered at "Massachusetts codfish;" - I think nothing would have induced either of them to touch it; and whatsoever belonged to the East or the North, not only meats and drinks, but Yankee spirit and manners and courage, were all, figuratively, put under foot and well trampled on. I listened and trembled, sometimes; sometimes I listened and rejoiced. For, after all, my own affairs were not the whole world; and a thrill of inexpressible joy went through me when I remembered that my old Maria, and Pete, and the Jems, and Darry, were all, by law, freed for ever from the oppression of Mr. Edwards and any like him; and that the day of their actual emancipation would come, so soon as the rights of the Government should be established over the South. And of this issue I began to be a little hopeful, beginning to believe that it might be possible. Antietam and Corinth, and Fredricksburg and New Orleans, with varying fortune, had at least proclaimed to my ear that Yankees could fight; there was no doubt of that now; and Southern prowess could not always prevail against theirs. Papa ceased to question it, I noticed; though mamma's sneers grew more intense as the occasion for them grew less and less obvious. The winter passed, and the spring came; and moved on with its sweet step of peace, as it does even when men's hearts are all at war. The echo of the battlefields of Virginias wept through the Boulevards with met often; and it thundered at home. Mamma had burst into new triumph at the news of Chancellorsville; and uttered with great earnestness her wish that Jefferson Davis might be able to execute the threat of his proclamation and hang General Butler. But for me, I got no letter; and these echoes began to sound in my ear like the distant outside rumblings of the storm to one whose hearthstone it has already swept and laid desolate. I was not desolate; yet I began to listen as one whose ears were dim with listening. I met Faustina St. Clair again with uneasiness. Not the torment of my former jealousy; but a stir of doubt and pain which I could not repress at the sight of her. When the summer drew on, to my great pleasure we went to Switzerland again. We established ourselves quietly at Lucerne, which papa was very fond of. There we were much more quiet than we had been the fall before; Ransom having gone home now to take his share in the struggle, and our two Southern friends who had also gone, having no successors like them in our little home circle. We made not so many and not so long excursions. But papa and I had good time for our readings; and I had always a friend with whom I could take counsel, in the grand old Mont Pilatte. What a friend that mountain was to me, to be sure! When I was downhearted, and when anything made me glad; when I was weary and when I was most full of life; its grand head in the skies told me of truth and righteousness and strength; the light and colours that played and rested there, as it held, the sun's beams and gave them back to earth, were a sort of promise to me of beauty and life above and beyond this earth; yes, and of its substantial existence now, even when we do not see it. They were a little hint of what we do not see. I do not exactly know what was the language of the wreaths of vapour that robed and shrouded and then revealed the mountain, with the exquisite shiftings and changings of their gracefulness; I believe it was like, to me, the floating veil that hides God's purposes from us, yet now and then parting enough to let us see the eternal truth and unchangeableness behind it. I told all my moods to Mont Pilatte, and I think it told all its moods to me. After a human friend, there is nothing like a big mountain. And when the news of Gettysburg and Vicksburg came; and mamma grew furious; and I saw for the first time that success was truly looming up on the horizon of the North, and that my dear coloured people might indeed soon be free; that night Mont Pilatte and I shouted together. There came no particular light on my own affairs all this time. Indeed mamma began to reproach me for what she called my disloyal and treacherous sentiments. And then, hints began to break out, very hard to bear, that I had indulged in traitorous alliances and was an unworthy child of my house. It rankled in mamma's mind, that I had not only refused the connection with one of the two powerful Southern families which had sought me the preceding year; but that I had also discouraged and repelled during the past winter several addresses which might have been made very profitable to my country as well as my own interests. For what had I rejected them all? mamma began to ask discontentedly. Papa shielded me a little; but I felt that the sky was growing dark around me with the coming storm. One never knows, after all, where the first bolt will come from. Mine struck me all unawares, while I was looking in an opposite quarter. It is hard to write it. A day came, that I had a father in the morning, and at night, none. It was very sudden. He had been feeble, to be sure, more than usual, for several days, but nobody apprehended anything. Towards evening he failed - suddenly; sent for me, and died in my arms, blessing me. Yes, we had been walking the same road together for some time. I was only left to go on awhile longer alone. But Mont Pilatte said to me that night, "There remaineth a rest for the people of God." And while the moon went down and the stars slowly trooped over the head of the mountain, I heard that utterance, and those words of the hymn - "God liveth ever: "Wherefore, soul, despair thou never." I could go no farther. I could think no more. Kneeling at my window-sill, under the starry night, my soul held to those two things and did not loose its moorings. It is a great deal, to hold fast. It was all then I could do. And even in the remembrance now of the loneliness and desolate feeling that came upon me at that time, there is also a strong sense of the deep sweetness which I was conscious of, rather than able to taste, coming from those words and resting at the bottom of my heart. I was in some measure drawn out of myself, almost immediately, by the illness of my mother. She fell into a nervous disordered condition, which it taxed all my powers to tend and soothe. I think it was mental rather than bodily, in the origin of it; but body and mind shared in the result, as usual. And when she got better and was able to sit up and even to go about again, she remained under the utmost despondency. Affairs were not looking well for the Southern struggle in America; and besides the mortification of her political affections, mamma was very sure that if the South could not succeed in establishing its independence, we should as a family be ruined. "We are ruined now, Daisy," she said. "There can be nothing coming from our Magnolia estates - and our Virginia property is a mere battle ground, you know; and what have we to live upon?" "Mamma, there will be some way," I said. "I have not thought about it." "No, you do not think but of your own favourite speculations. I wish with all my heart you had never taken to fanatical ways. I have no comfort in you." "What do you mean by fanaticism, mamma?" "I will tell you!" replied mamma with energy. "The essence of fanaticism is to have your own way." "I do not think, mamma, that I want to have my own way." "Of course, when you have it. That is what such people always say. They don't want to have their own, way. I do not want to have mine, either." "Is not Dr. Sandford attending to our affairs for us, mamma?" "I do not know. Your father trusted him, unaccountably. I do not know what he is doing." "He will certainly do anything that can be done for us, mamma; I am persuaded of that. And he knows how." "Is it for your sake, Daisy?" mamma said suddenly, and with a glitter in her eye which boded confusion to the doctor. "I do not know, mamma," I said quietly. "He was always very good and very kind to me." "I suppose you are not quite a fool," she said, calming down a little. "And a Yankee doctor would hardly lose his senses enough to fall in love with you. Though I believe the Yankees are the most impudent nation upon the earth. I wish Butler could be hanged! I should like to know that was done before I die." I fled from this turn of the talk always. It was true, however brought about I do not know, that Dr. Sandford had been for some time kindly bestirring himself to look after our interests at home, which the distressed state of the country had of course greatly imperilled. I was not aware that papa had been at any time seriously concerned about them; however, it soon appeared that mamma had reason enough now for being ill at ease. In the South, war and war preparations had so far superseded the usual employments of men, that next to nothing could be looked for in place of the ordinary large crops and ample revenues. And Melbourne had been let, indeed, for a good rent; but there was some trouble about collecting the rent; and if collected, it belonged to Ransom. Ransom was in the Southern army, fighting no doubt his best, and mamma would not have scrupled to use his money; but Dr. Sandford scrupled to send it without authority. He urged mamma to come home, where he said she could be better taken care of than alone in distant Switzerland. He proposed that she should reoccupy Melbourne, and let him farm the ground for her until Ransom should be able to look after it. Mamma and Aunt Gary had many talks on the subject. I said as little as I could. "It is almost as bad with me," said my aunt Gary, one of these times. "Only I do not want much." "I _do_," said mamma. "And if one must live as one has not been accustomed to live, I would rather it should be where I am unknown." "You are not unknown here, my dear sister!" "Personally and socially. Not exactly. But I am historically unknown." "Historically!" echoed my aunt. "And living is cheaper here too." "But one must have _some_ money, even here, Felicia." "I have jewels," said mamma. "Your jewels! - Daisy might have prevented all this," said Aunt Gary, looking at me. "Daisy is one of those whose religion it is to please themselves." "But, my dear, you must be married some time," my aunt went on, appealingly. "I do not think that is certain, Aunt Gary." "You are not waiting for Preston, are you? I hope not; for he is likely to be as poor as you are; if he gets through the battles, poor boy!" And my aunt put her handkerchief to her eyes. "I am not waiting for Preston," I said, "any more than he is waiting for me." "I don't know how that is," said my aunt. "Preston was very dependent on you, Daisy; but I don't know - since he has heard these stories of you" - "Daisy is nothing to Preston!" my mother broke in with some sharpness. "Tell him so, if he ever broaches the question to you. Cut that matter short. I have other views for Daisy, when she returns to her duty. I believe in a religion of obedience - not in a religion of independent self-will. I wish Daisy had been brought up in a convent. She would, if I had had my way. These popular religions throw over all law and order. I hate them!" "You see, Daisy my dear, how pleasant it would be, if you could see things as your mother does," my aunt remarked. "I am indifferent whether Daisy has my eyes or not," said mamma; "what I desire is, that she should have my will." The talks came to nothing, ended in nothing, did nothing. My aunt Gary at the beginning of winter went back to America. My mother did as she had proposed; sold some of her jewels, and so paid her way in Switzerland for some months longer. But this could not last. Dr. Sandford urged her return; she wished also to be nearer to Ransom; and in the spring we once more embarked for home. The winter had been exceedingly sad to me. No word from America ever reached my hands to give me any comfort; and I was alone with my sorrow. Mamma's state of mind, too, which was most uncomfortable for her, was extremely trying to me; because it consisted of regrets that I could not soothe, anxieties that I was unable to allay, and reproachful wishes that I could neither meet nor promise to meet. Constant repinings, ceaseless irritations, purposeless discussions; they wearied my heart, but I could bring no salve nor remedy unless I would have agreed to make a marriage for money. I missed all that had brought so much sweetness into even my Paris life, with my talks with papa, and readings, and sympathy, and mutual confidence. It was a weary winter, my only real earthly friend being Mont Pilatte. Except Mr. Dinwiddie. I had written to him and got one or two good, strong, kind, helpful answers. Ah, what a good thing a good letter is! So it was great relief to quit Switzerland and find myself on the deck of the steamer, with every revolution of the paddle wheels bringing me nearer home. Nearer what had been home; all was vague and blank in the distance now. I was sure of nothing. Only, "The Lord is my Shepherd," answers all that. It cannot always stop the beating of human hearts, though; and mine beat hard sometimes, on that homeward voyage. Mamma was very dismal. I sat on deck as much as I could and watched the sea. It soothed me, with its living image of God's grand government on earth; its ceaseless majestic flow, of which the successive billows that raise their heads upon its surface are not the interruption, but the continuation. So with our little affairs, so with mine. Not for nothing does any feeblest one's fortunes rise or fall; but to work somewhat of good either to himself or to others, and so to the whole. I was pretty quiet during the voyage, while I knew that no news could reach me; I expected to keep quiet; but I did not know myself. We had hardly entered the bay of New York, and I had begun to discern familiar objects and to realise that I was in the same land with Mr. Thorold again, when a tormenting anxiety took possession of my heart. Now that I was near him, questions could be put off no longer. What tidings would greet me? and how should I get any tidings at all? A fever began to run along my veins, which I felt was not to be cured by reasoning. Yes, I was not seeking to dispose my own affairs; I was not trying to take them into my own hands; but I craved to know how they stood, and what it was to which I must submit myself. I was not willing to submit to uncertainty. Yet I remembered I must do just that. The vessel came to her moorings, and I sat in my muse, only conscious of that devouring impatience which possessed me; and did not see Dr. Sandford till he was close by my side. Then I was glad; but the deck of that bustling steamer was no place to show how glad. I stood still, with my hand in the doctor's, and felt my face growing cold. "Sit down!" he said, putting me back in the chair from which I had risen; and still keeping my hand. "How is Mrs. Randolph?" "I suppose you know how she is, from her letters." "And you?" he said, with a change of tone. "I do not know. I shall be better, I hope." "You will be better, to get ashore. Will you learn your mother's pleasure about it? and I will attend to the rest." I thanked him; for the tone of genuine, manly care and protection, was in my ears for the first time in many a day. Mamma was very willing to avail herself of it too, and to my great pleasure received Dr. Sandford and treated him with perfect courtesy. Rooms were provided for us in one of the best hotels, and comforts ready. The doctor saw us established there, and asked what more he could do for us before he left us to rest. He would not stay to dinner. "The papers, please," said mamma. "Will you send me all the papers. What is the news? We have heard nothing for weeks." "I will send you the papers. You will see the news there," said the doctor. "But what is it?" "You would not rest if I began upon the subject. It would take a good while to tell it all." "But what is the position of affairs?" "Sherman is in Georgia. Grant is in Virginia. There has been, and there is, some stout fighting on hand." "Sherman and Grant," said mamma. "Where are my people, doctor?" "Opposed to them. They do not find the way exactly open," the doctor answered. "Hard fighting, you said. How did it result?" "Nothing is decided yet - except that the Yankees can fight," said the doctor, with a slight smile. And mamma said no more. But I took courage, and she took gloom. The papers came, a bundle of them, reaching back over several dates; giving details of the battles of the Wilderness and of Sherman's operations in the South. Mamma studied and studied, and interrupted her dinner, to study. I took the sheets as they fell from her hand and looked - for the lists of the wounded. They were long enough, but they did not hold what I was looking for. Mamma broke out at last with an earnest expression of thanksgiving that Sedgwick was killed. "Why, mamma?" I said in some horror. "There is one less!" she answered grimly. "But _one_ less makes very little difference for the cause, mamma." "I wish there were a dozen then," said she. "I wish all were shot, that have the faculty of leading this rabble of numbers and making them worth something." But I was getting, I, to have a little pride in Northern blood. I said nothing, of course. "You are just a traitor, Daisy, I believe," said mamma. "You read of all that is going on, and you know that Ransom and Preston Gary are in it, and you do not care; except you care on the wrong side. But I tell you this, - nothing that calls itself Yankee shall ever have anything to do with me or mine so long as I live. I will see you dead first, Daisy." There was no answer to be made to this either. It only sank down into my heart; and I knew I had no help in this world. The question immediately pressed itself upon our attention, where would we go? Dr. Sandford proposed Melbourne; and urged that in the first place we should avail ourselves of the hospitalities of his sister's house in that neighbourhood, most generously tendered us, till he could be at leisure to make arrangements at our old home. Just now he was under the necessity of returning immediately to Washington, where he had one or more hospitals in charge; indeed he left us that same night of our landing; but before he went he earnestly pressed his sister's invitation upon my mother, and promised that so soon as the settlement of the country's difficulties should set him free, he would devote himself to the care of us and Melbourne till we were satisfactorily established. "And I am in hopes it will not be very long now," he said aside to me. "I think the country has got the right man at last; and that is what we have been waiting for. Grant says he will fight it out on this line, if it takes all summer; and I think the end is coming." Mamma would give no positive answer to the doctor's instances; she thanked him and talked round the subject, and he was obliged to go away without any contentment of her giving. Alone with me, she spoke out: - "I will take no Yankee civilities, Daisy. I will be under no obligation to one of them. And I could not endure to be in the house of one of them, if it were conferring instead of receiving obligation." "What will you do, then, mamma." "I will wait. You do not suppose that the South can be conquered, Daisy? The idea is absurd!" "But, mamma? -" "Well?" "Why is it absurd?" "Because they are not a people to give up. Don't you know that? They would die first, every man and woman of them." "But mamma, whatever the spirit of the people may be, numbers and means have to tell upon the question at last." "Numbers and means!" mamma repeated scornfully. "I tell you, Daisy, the South _cannot_ yield. And as they cannot yield, they must sooner or later succeed. Success always comes at last to those who cannot be conquered." "What is to become of us in the mean time, mamma?" "I don't see that it signifies much," she said, relapsing out of the fire with which the former sentences had been pronounced. "I would like to live to see the triumph come." That was all I could get from mamma that evening. She lay down on a sofa and buried her face in pillows. I sat in the darkening room and mused. The windows were open; a soft warm air blew the curtains gently in and out; from the street below came the murmur of business and voices and clatter of feet and sound of wheels; not with the earnestness of alarm or the droop of depression, but ringing, sharp, clear, cheery. The city did not feel badly. New York had not suffered in its fortunes or prosperity. There was many a battlefield at the South where the ravages of war had swept all traces and hopes of good fortunes away; never one at the North where the corn had been blasted, or the fruits of the earth untimely ravaged, or the heart of the husbandman disappointed in his ground. Mamma's conclusions seemed to me without premise. What of my own fortunes? I thought the wind of the desert, had blown upon them and they were dead. I remember, in the trembling of my heart as I sat and listened and mused, and thoughts trooped in and out of my head with little order or volition on my part, one word was a sort of rallying point on which they gathered and fell back from time to time, though they started out again on fresh roamings - "Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations"! - I remember, - it seems to me now as if it had been some time before I was born, - how the muslin curtains floated in on the evening wind, and the hum and stir of the street came up to my ear; the bustle and activity, though it was evening; and how the distant battlefields of Virginia looked in forlorn contrast in the far distance. Yet this was really the desert and that the populous place; for there, somewhere, my world was. I grew very desolate as I thought, or mused, by the window. If it had not been for those words of the refuge, my heart would have failed me utterly. After a long while mamma roused up and we had tea brought. "Has Dr. Sandford gone?" she asked. "He bid us good bye, mamma, you know. I suppose he took the evening train, as he said." "Then we shall have no more meddling." "He means us only kindness, I am sure, mamma." "I do not like kindness. I do not know what right Dr. Sandford has to offer me kindness. I gave him none." "Mamma, it seems to me that we are in a condition to receive kindness, - and be very glad of it." "You are poor-spirited, Daisy; you always were. You never had any right pride of blood or of place. I think it makes no difference to you who people are. If you had done your duty to me, we should have been in no condition now to 'receive kindness,' as you express it. I may thank you." "What do you mean to do, mamma?" "Nothing." "Stay here, in this hotel?" "Yes." "It will be very expensive, mamma." "I will meet the expense." "But, mamma, - without funds?" "I have a diamond necklace yet, Daisy." "But, mamma, when that is gone? -" "Do you think," she broke out with violence, "that this war is going to last for ever? It _cannot_ last. The Yankees will find out what they have undertaken. Lee will drive them back. You do not suppose _he_ can be overcome?" "Mamma - if the others have more men and more means -" "They are only Yankees," - mamma said quietly, but with a concentration of scorn impossible to give in words. "They know how to fight," - I could not help saying. "Yes, but _we_ do not know how to be overcome! Do you think it, Daisy?" "Mamma - there was New Orleans - and Vicksburg - and Gettysburg; - and now in Virginia -" "Yes, now; these battles; you will see how they will turn. Do you suppose this Yankee Grant is a match for Robert E. Lee?" It was best to drop the discussion, and I dropped it; but it had gone too far to be forgotten. Every bit of news from that time was a point of irritation; if good for the South, mamma asserted that I did not sympathise with it; if good for the North, she found that I was glad, though I tried not to show that I was. She was irritated, and anxious, and unhappy. What I was, I kept to myself. CHAPTER XX. THE WOUNDED One desire possessed me, pressing before every other; it was to see Miss Cardigan. I thought I should accomplish this very soon after my landing. I found that I must wait for days. It was very hard to wait. Yet mamma needed me; she was nervous and low-spirited and unwell and lonely; she could not endure to have me long out of her sight. She never looked with favour upon any proposal of mine to go out, even for a walk; and I could hardly get permission. I fancied that some - latent - suspicion lay beneath all this unwillingness, which did not make it more easy to bear. But I got leave at last, one afternoon early in June; and took my way up the gay thoroughfares of Broadway and the Avenue. It was June, June all over. Just like the June of four years ago, when Dr. Sandford took me away from school to go to West Point; like the June of three years ago, when I had been finishing my school work, before I went to Washington. I was a mere girl then; now, I seemed to myself at least twenty years older. June sweetness was in all the air; June sunlight through all the streets; roses blossomed in courtyards and looked out of windows; grass was lush and green; people were in summer dresses. I hurried along, my breath growing shorter as I went. The well-known corner of Mme. Ricard's establishment came into view, and bright school-days with it. Miss Cardigan's house opposite looked just as I had left it; and as I drew near I saw that this was literally so. The flowers were blossoming in the garden plots and putting their faces out of window, exactly as if I had left them but a day ago. My knees trembled under me then, as I went up the steps and rang the bell. A strange servant opened to me. I went in, to her astonishment I suppose, without asking any questions; which indeed I could not. What if a second time I should find Mr. Thorold here? Such a thought crossed me as I trod the familiar marble floor, after the wild fashion in which our wishes mock our reason; then it left me the next instant, in my gladness to see through the opening door the figure of my dear old friend. Just as I had left her also. Something, in the wreck of my world, had stood still and suffered no change. I went in and stood before her. She pulled off her spectacles, looked at me, changed colour and started up. I can hardly tell what she said. I think I was in too great a confusion for my senses to do their office perfectly. But her warm arms were about me, and my head found a hiding-place on her shoulder. "Sit down, my lamb, my lamb!" were the first words I remember. "Janet, shut the door, and tell anybody I am busy. Sit you down here and rest. My lamb, ye're all shaken. Daisy, my pet, where have you been?" I sat down, and she did, but I leaned over to the arms that still enfolded me and laid my head on her bosom. She was silent now for a while. And I wished she would speak, but I could not. Her arms pressed me close in the embrace that had so comforted my childhood. She had taken off my bonnet and kissed me and smoothed my hair; and that was all, for what seemed a long while. "What is it?" she said at last. "I know you're left, my darling. I heard of your loss, while you were so far away from home. One is gone from your world." "He was happy - he is happy," I whispered. "Let us praise the Lord for that!" she said in her broadest Scotch accent, which only came out in moments of feeling. "But he was nearly all my world, Miss Cardigan." "Ay," she said. "We have but one father. And yet, no, my bairn. Ye're not left desolate." "I have been very near it." "I am glad ye are come home." "But I feel as if I had no home anywhere," I said with a burst of tears which were a great mercy to me at the time. The stricture upon my heart had like to have taken away my breath. Miss Cardigan let me weep, saying sympathy with the tender touch of her soft hand; no otherwise. And then I could lift myself up and face life again. "You have not forgotten your Lord, Daisy?" she said at length, when she saw me quiet. I looked at her and smiled my answer, though it must have been a sober smile. "I see," she said; "you have not. But how was it, so far away, my bairn? Weren't you tempted?" "No, dear Miss Cardigan. What could tempt me?" "The world, child. Its baits of pleasure and pride and power. Did they never take hold on ye, Daisy?" "My pleasure I had left at home," I said. "No, that is not quite true. I had the pleasure of being with papa and mamma; and of seeing a great deal of beauty, too. And I had pleasure in Palestine, Miss Cardigan; but it was not the sort to tempt me to forget anything good." "And pride?" said the old lady. "Why do you ask me?" "You're so bonny, my darling. You ken you are; and other folks know it." "Pride? Yes, it tempted me a little," I said; "but it could not for long, Miss Cardigan, when I remembered." "Remembered? What was it you remembered?" she said very tenderly; for I believe my eyes had filled again. "When I remembered what I was heir to." "And ye didn't have your inheritance all in the future, I trust?" said my old friend. "There's crumbs to be gotten even now from that feast; ye didn't go starving, my bairn?" "I hadn't much to help me, Miss Cardigan, except the Lord's wonderful world which He has made. That helped me." "And ye had a crumb of joy now and then?" "I had more than crumbs sometimes," I said, with a sober looking back over the years. "And it is my own living Daisy and not an image of her? You are not spoiled a bit, my bairn?" "Maybe I am," I said, smiling at her. "How do I know?" "There's a look in your eyes which says you are not," she said with a sort of long breath; "and I know not how you have escaped it. Child! the forces which have assailed you have beaten down many a one. It's only to be strong in the Lord, to be sure; but we are lured away from our strength, sometimes, and then we fall; and we are lured easily." "Perhaps not when the battle is so very hard to fight, dear Miss Cardigan." "Maybe no," she said. "But had ye never a minister to counsel ye or to help ye, in those parts?" "Only when I was in Palestine; nowhere else." "You must have wanted it sorely." "Yes, but, Miss Cardigan, I had better teaching all the time. The mountains and the sun and the sky and the beauty, all seemed to repeat the Bible to me, all the time. I never saw the top of Mont Blanc rosy in the sunset, nor the other mountains, without thinking of those words, 'Be ye perfect, even as your Father in heaven is perfect;' - and, 'They shall walk with me in white.' -" Miss Cardigan wiped away a tear or two. "But you are looking very sober, my love," she said presently, examining me. "I have reason," I said. And I went on to give her in detail the account of the past year's doings in my family, and of our present position and prospects. She listened with the greatest sympathy and the most absorbed attention. The story had taken a good while; it was growing late, and I rose to go. Not till then was her nephew alluded to. "I'm thinking," then said Miss Cardigan slowly, "there's one person you have not asked after, who would ill like to be left out of our mouths." I stood still and hesitated and I felt my face grow warm. "I have not heard from him, Miss Cardigan, since -" And I did not say since when. "And what of it?" she asked. "Nothing -" I said, stammering a little, "but I wait." "He's waiting, poor lad," she said. "Have ye not had letters from him?" "Never; not since that one I sent him through you." "He got it, however," said Miss Cardigan; "for there was no reason whatever why he should not. Did you think, Daisy, he had forgotten you?" "No, Miss Cardigan; but it was told of him that - he had forgotten me." "How was that done? I thought no one knew about your loving each other, you two children." "So I thought; but - why, Miss Cardigan, it was confidently told in Paris to my mother that he was engaged to a schoolmate of mine." "Did you believe it?" "No. But I never heard from him again, and of course papa did believe it. How could I tell, Miss Cardigan?" "By your faith, child. I wouldn't have Christian think you didn't believe him, not for all the world holds." "I did believe him," I said, feeling a rill of joy flowing into some dry places in my heart and changing the wilderness there. "But he was silent, and I waited." "He was not silent, I'll answer for it," said his aunt; "but the letters might have gone wrong, you know. That is what they have done, somehow." "What could have been the foundation of that story?" I questioned. "I just counsel ye to ask Christian, when ye see him - if these weary wars ever let us see him. I think he'll answer ye." And his aunt's manner rather intimated that my answer would be decisive. I bade her good bye, and returned along the shadowing streets with such a play of life and hope in my heart, as for the time changed it into a very garden of delight. I was not the same person that had walked those ways a few hours ago. This jubilation, however, could not quite last. I had no sooner got home, than mamma began to cast in doubts and fears and frettings, till the play of the fountain was well nigh covered over with rubbish. Yet I could feel the waters of joy stirring underneath it all; and she said, rather in a displeased manner, that my walk seemed to have done me a great deal of good! and inquired where I had been. I told her, of course; and then had to explain how I became acquainted with Miss Cardigan; a detail which mamma heard with small edification. Her only remark, however, made at the end, was, "I beseech you, Daisy, do not cultivate such associations!" "She was very good to me, mamma, when I was a schoolgirl." "Very well, you are not a schoolgirl now." It followed very easily, that I could see little of my dear old friend. Mamma was suspicious of me and rarely allowed me to go I out of her sight. We abode still at the hotel, where we had luxurious quarters; how paid for, mamma's jewel-box knew. It made me very uneasy to live so; for jewels, even be they diamonds, cannot last very long after they are once turned into gold pieces; and I knew ours went fast; but nothing could move my mother out of her pleasure. In vain Dr. Sandford wrote and remonstrated; and in vain I sometimes pleaded. "The war is not going to last for ever," she would coldly reply; "you and Dr. Sandford are two fools. The South _cannot_ be conquered, Daisy." But I, with trembling hope, was beginning to think otherwise. So the days passed on, and the weeks. Mamma spent half her time over the newspapers. I consulted them, I could not help it, in my old fashion; and it made them gruesome things to me. But it was a necessity for me, to quiet my nerves with the certainty that no name I loved was to be found there in those lists of sorrow. And one day that certainty failed. Among the new arrivals of wounded men just come into Washington from Virginia, I saw the name of Captain Preston Gary. It was late in the summer, or early in September; I forget which. We were as we had been; nothing in our position changed. Mamma at the moment was busy over other prints, having thrown this down; and feeling my cheeks grow white as I sat there, I held the paper to shield my face and pondered what I should do. The instant thought had been, "I must go to him." The second brought difficulties. How to meet the difficulties, I sat thinking; that I must go to Preston I never doubted for a moment. I sat in a maze; till an exclamation from my mother brought my paper shield down. "Here's a letter from the doctor, Daisy; he says your cousin is in the hospital." "_His_ hospital?" I asked. "I suppose so; he does not say that. But he says he is badly wounded. I wonder how he comes to be in Washington?" "Taken prisoner, mamma." "Yes, - wounded," mamma said bitterly. "That's the only way he could. Dr. Sandford bids me let his mother know. She can't go to him; even if my letter could reach her in time and she could get to Washington, which I don't believe she could; she is too ill herself. I shall not write to her." "Let us go, mamma; you and I." "I?" said mamma. "_I_ go to that den of thieves? No; I shall not go to Washington, unless I am dragged there." "But Preston, mamma; think!" "I am tired of thinking, Daisy. There is no good in thinking. This is the work of your favourite Northern swords and guns; I hope you enjoy it." "I Would like to remedy it, mamma; to do something at least. Mamma, do let us go to Preston!" I spoke very earnestly, and I believe with tears. Mamma looked at me. "Why, do you care for him?" she asked. "Very much!" I said weeping. "I did not know you had any affection for anything South, except the coloured people." "Mamma, let us go to Preston. He must want us so much!" "I cannot go to Washington, Daisy." "Can you spare me, mamma? I will go." "Do you love Preston Gary?" said mamma, sitting up-right to look at me. "Mamma, I always loved him. You know I did." "Why did you not say so before?" "I did say so, mamma, whenever I was asked. Will you let me go? O mamma, let me go!" "What could you do, child? he is in the hospital." "Mamma, he may want so many things; I know he must want some things." "It is vain talking. You cannot go alone, Daisy." "No, ma'am; but if I could get a good safe friend to go with me?" "I do not know such a person in this place." "I do, mamma, - just the person." "Not a fit person for you to travel with." "Yes, mamma, just the one; safe and wise to take care of me. And if I were once there, Dr. Sandford would do anything for me." Mamma pondered my words, but would not yield to them. I wept half the evening, I think, with a strange strain on my heart that said I must go to Preston. Childish memories came thick about me, and later memories; and I could not bear the idea of his dying, perhaps, alone in a hospital, without one near to say a word of truth or help him in any wish or want that went beyond the wants of the body. Would even those be met? My nerves were unstrung. "Do stop your tears, Daisy!" mamma said at length. "I can't bear them. I never saw you do so before." "Mamma, I must go to Preston." "If you could go there properly, child, and had any one to take care of you; as it is, it is impossible." I half thought it was; I could not bend mamma. But while we sat there under the light of the lamp, and I was trying to do some work, which was every now and then wetted by a drop that would fall, a servant brought in a note to me. It was from Mrs. Sandford, in New York, on her way to Washington to look after a friend of her own; and asking if in any matter she could be of service to me or to mamma. I had got my opportunity now, and I managed to get mamma's consent. I answered Mrs. Sandford's note; packed up my things; and by the early train next morning started with her for Washington. Mrs. Sandford was very kind, very glad to have me with her, very full of questions, of sympathy, of condolence, and of care; I remember all that, and how I took it at the time, feeling that Daisy and Daisy's life had changed since last I was under that same gentle and feeble guidance. And I remember what an undertone of music ran through my heart in the thought that I might perhaps hear of, or see, Mr. Thorold. Our journey was prosperous; and the next person we saw after arriving at our rooms was Dr. Sandford. He shook hands with his sister; and then, his eye lightened and his countenance altered as he turned to the other figure in the room and saw who it was. "Daisy!" he exclaimed, warmly grasping my hand, - "Miss Randolph! where is Mrs. Randolph, and what brings you here?" "Why, the train, to be sure, Grant," answered his sister-in- law. "What a man you are - for business! Do let Daisy rest and breathe and have something to eat, before she is obliged to give an account of herself. See, we are tired to death." Perhaps she was, but I was not. However, the doctor and I both yielded. Mrs. Sandford and I withdrew to change our dresses, and then we had supper; but after supper, when she was again out of the room, Dr. Sandford turned to me and took my hand. "I must go presently," he said. "Now, Miss Randolph, what is it?" I sat down and he sat down beside me, still holding my hand, on a sofa in the room. "Dr. Sandford, my cousin Gary is a prisoner and in the hospital. You wrote to mamma." "Yes. I thought his mother might like to know." "She is ill herself, in Georgia, and cannot come to Washington. Dr. Sandford, I want to go in and take care of him." "You!" said the doctor. But whatever he thought, his countenance was impenetrable. "You can manage that for me." "Can I?" said he. "But, Daisy, you do not come under the regulations." "That is no matter, Dr. Sandford." "How is it no matter?" "Because, I know you can do what you like. You always could manage things for me." He smiled a little, but went on in an unchanged tone. "You are too young; and - excuse me - you have another disqualification." "I will do just as you tell me," I said. "If I let you in." "You will let me in." "I do not see that I ought. I think I ought not." "But you _will_, Dr. Sandford. My cousin was very dear to me when I was a child at Melbourne - I love him yet very much - no one would take so good care of him as I would; and it would be a comfort to me for ever. Do let me go in! I have come for that." "You might get sick yourself," he said. "You do not know what you would be obliged to hear and see. You do not know, Daisy." "I am not a child now," - I replied. There was more in my answer than mere words; there was more, I know, in my feeling; and the doctor took the force of it. He looked very sober, though, upon my plan, which it was evident he did not like. "Does Mrs. Randolph give her consent to this proceeding?" he asked. "She knows I came that I might look after Preston. I did not tell her my plan any further." "She would not like it." "Mamma and I do not see things with the - same eyes, some things, Dr. Sandford. I think I _ought_ to do it." "I think she is right," he said. "You are not fit for it. You have no idea what you would be obliged to encounter." "Try me," I said. "I believe you are fit for anything," he broke out in answer to this last appeal; "and I owned myself conquered by you, Daisy, long ago. I find I have not recovered my independence. Well - you will go in. But you cannot be dressed - _so_." "No, I will change my dress. I will do it immediately." "No, not to-night!" exclaimed the doctor. "Not to-night. It is bad enough to-morrow; but I shall not take you in to-night. Rest, and sleep and be refreshed; I need not say, be strong; for that you are always. No, I will not take you with me to- night. You must wait." And I could do no more with him for the time. I improved the interval, however. I sent out and got some yards of check to make aprons; and at my aprons I sat sewing all the evening, to Mrs. Sandford's disgust. "My dear child, what do you want of those things?" she said, looking at them and me with an inexpressible disdain of the check. "I think they will be useful, ma'am." "But you are not going into the hospital?" "Yes; to-morrow morning." "As a visitor. But not to stay." "I am going to stay if I am wanted," I said, displaying the dimensions of my apron for my own satisfaction. "My dear, if you stay, you will be obliged to see all manner of horrible things." "They must be worse to bear than to see, Mrs. Sandford." "But you cannot endure to see them, Daisy; you never can. Grant will never allow it." I sewed in silence, thinking that Dr. Sandford would conform his will to mine in the matter. "I will never forgive him if he does!" said the lady. But that also I thought would have to be borne. My heart was firm for whatever lay before me. In the hospital, by Preston's side, I was sure my work lay; and to be there, I must have a place at other bedsides as well as his. In the morning Mrs. Sandford renewed her objections and remonstrances as soon as she saw her brother-in-law; and to do him justice, he looked as ill pleased as she did. "Daisy wants to go into the hospital as a regular nurse," she said. "It is a weakness of large-hearted women now-a-days." "Large-hearted! Grant, you are not going to permit such a thing?" "I am no better than other men," said the doctor; "and have no more defences." "But it is Daisy that wants the defences," Mrs. Sandford cried; "it is she that is running into danger." "She shall want no defences while she is in my hospital." "It is very well to say; but if you let her in there, you cannot help it. She must be in danger, of all sorts of harm." "If you will prevent it, Mrs. Sandford, you will lay me under obligations," said the doctor, sitting down and looking up at his sister-in-law somewhat comically. "I am helpless, for I have passed my word. Daisy has the command." "But just look at the figure she is, in that dress! Fancy it! That is Miss Randolph." The doctor glanced up and down, over my dress, and his eye turned to Mrs. Sandford with provoking unconcern. "But you will not let her stay there, Grant?" The doctor looked up at me now, and I saw an answer ready on his lips. There was but one way left for me, I thought; I do not know how I came to do it, but I was not Daisy that morning; or else my energies were all strung up to a state of tension that made Daisy a different person from her wont. I laid my hand lightly over the doctor's mouth before he could speak. It silenced him, as I hoped. He rose up with a look that showed me I had conquered, and asked if I were ready. He must go, he said. I did not keep him waiting. And once out in the street, with my hand on his arm, I was quite Daisy again; as humble and quiet as ever in my life. I went like a child now, in my guardian's hand; through the little crowds of men collected here and there, past the sentinels at the hospital door, in through the wide, clean, quiet halls and rooms, where Dr. Sandford's authority and system made everything work, I afterwards found, as by the perfection of machinery. Through one ward and another at last, where the rows of beds, each containing its special sufferer, the rows of faces, of various expression, that watched us from the beds, the attendants and nurses and the work that was going on by their hands, caused me to draw a little closer to the arm on which I leaned and to feel yet more like a weak child. Yet even then, even at that moment, the woman within me began to rise and put down the feeling of childish weakness. I began to be strong. Out of the wards, into his own particular room and office, comfortable enough, Dr. Sandford brought me then. He gave me a chair, and poured me out a glass of wine. "No, thank you," said I, smiling. "I do not need it." "You are pale." "That is womanish; but I am not weak or faint, though." "Do you maintain your purpose?" "Yes, certainly." "You had better take off your bonnet and shawl then. You would find them in the way." I obeyed, and went on to envelope myself in my apron. Dr. Sandford looked on grimly. Very ill pleased he was, I could see. But then I laid my hand on his arm and looked at him. "I am so much obliged to you for this," I said earnestly. And his face softened. "I am afraid it is wrong in me," he remarked. "If you thought it was, you would not do it," I answered; "and I hope I should not ask it. I am ready now. But Dr. Sandford, I want teaching, as to what I ought to do. Who will teach me?" "I will teach you. But you know how to give a sick man tea or soup, I fancy, without much teaching." "There are other things, Dr. Sandford." "It will not be necessary. There are others to do the other things. Captain Gary has only some simple wounds to be dressed." "But there are others, Dr. Sandford? And I must know how to do all that the nurses do. I am not here to be in the way. I am not going to take care of my cousin only." "There is enough to do," said the doctor; "but, you will not like it, Daisy." Something in his wistful look at me, something in the contrast between merely seeing what he was afraid I should see, and the suffering itself which by the sufferers had to be borne, touched me keenly. My eyes filled as I looked at the doctor, but I think the purpose in my heart perhaps came out in my face; for his own suddenly changed, and with a "Come, then!" - he gave me his arm and led the way upstairs and into another succession of rooms, to the ward and the room where my cousin Preston lay. CHAPTER XXI. THE HOSPITAL A clean, quiet, airy room, like all the rest; like all the rest filled with rows of beds, the occupants of which had come from the stir of the fight and the bustle of the march, to lie here and be still; from doing to suffering. How much the harder work, I thought; and if it be well done, how much the nobler. And all who know the way in which our boys did it, will bear witness to their great nobleness. Patient, and strong, and brave, where there was no excitement to cheer, nor spectators to applaud; their fortitude and their patience and their generous self-devotion never failed nor faltered, when all adventitious or real helps and stimulants were withdrawn, and patriotism and bravery stood alone. From the turn of Dr. Sandford's head, I knew on which side I might look to see Preston; and as we slowly passed up the long line of beds, I scanned breathlessly each face. Old and young, grim and fair, gentle and rough; it was a variety. And then I saw, I should hardly have known it, a pale face with a dark moustache and a thick head of dark, glossy hair, which was luxuriant yet, although it had been cropped. His eyes were closed as we came up; opened as we paused by his bed-side, and opened very wide indeed as he looked from the doctor to me. "How do you do, this morning, Gary?" said my conductor. "Confoundedly -" was the somewhat careless answer, made while examining my face. "You see who has come to look after you?" "It isn't Daisy!" he cried. "How do you do, Preston?" I said, taking hold of the hand which lay upon the coverlid. He drew the hand hastily away, half raising himself on his elbow. "What have you come here for?" he asked. "I have come to take care of you." "_You_," said Preston. "In this place! Where is mamma?" "Aunt Gary is far away from here. She could not get to you." "But you, you were in Switzerland." "Not since last May." "Lie down, Gary, and take it quietly," said Dr. Sandford, putting his hand on his shoulder. Preston scowled and submitted, without taking his eyes from my face. "You are not glad to see me?" I asked, feeling his manner a little awkward. "Of course not. You ought not to be in this place. What have you got on that rig for?" "What rig?" "That! I suppose you don't dress so at home, do you? You didn't use it. Hey? what is it for?" "It is that I may be properly dressed. Home things would be out of place here." "Yes; so I think," said Preston; "and you most of all. Where is Aunt Randolph?" "You do not seem very grateful, Gary," said the doctor, who all this while stood by with an impenetrable countenance. "Grateful - for what?" "For your cousin's affection and kindness, which has come here to look after you." "I am not grateful," said Preston. "I shall not have her stay." "What has brought _you_ here, Preston?" I asked by way of diversion. "Me? Powder. It's an infernal invention. If one could fight with steel, there would be some fun in it. But powder has no respect of persons." "How has it hurt you?" I asked. I had somehow never chosen to put the question to Dr. Sandford; I can hardly tell why. Now it was time to know. Preston's eye fell on me with sudden gentleness. "Daisy, go away," he said. "You have no business here. It is of all places no place for you. Go away, and don't come again." "Dr. Sandford," said I, "will you take me with you and give me my lesson? That is the first thing. I must earn my right to the place, it seems." The doctor looked at me in his turn; I avoided the eye of Preston. He looked at me in a way not hard to read; quite agreeing with Preston in wishing me away, but, I saw also, respecting my qualifications for the work I had come to do. I saw that he gave me a great reverence on account of it; but then, Dr. Sandford always gave me more reverence than belonged to me. I made use of this, and held my advantage. And the doctor seeing that I was calmly in earnest, even took me at my word. We began a progress through the ward; during which every man's condition was inquired into; wounds examined and dressed; and course of treatment prescribed. I looked on at first as a mere spectator; bearing the revelation of pain and suffering with all the fortitude I could muster; but I found in a little while that it would overmaster me if I continued an idle looker-on; and putting aside the attendant nurse at last with a whisper to which she yielded, I offered myself quietly in her place to do her work. Dr. Sandford glanced at me then, but made no remark whatever; suffering me to do my pleasure, and employing me as if I had been there for a month. He began to give me directions too. It seemed a long age of feeling and experience, the time while we were passing through the ward; yet Dr. Sandford was extremely quick and quiet in his work, and lost no seconds by unnecessary delay. Even I could see that. He was kind, too; never harsh, though very firm in his authority and thorough in his business. I could not help an unconscious admiration for him growing as we went on. That steady, strong blue eye; what a thing it was for doubt and fear to rest on. I saw how doubt and fear rested. I thought I did; though the bearing of all the sufferers there was calm and self-contained to an admirable degree. It was so, I heard, with all our soldiers everywhere. We came round, last of all, to Preston's couch again; and the doctor paused. He glanced at me again for the first time in a long while. I do not know how I trembled inwardly; outwardly, I am sure, I did not flinch. His eye went to Preston. "Do you see, you are to have a better nurse than you deserve?" he said. "It is disgusting!" Preston muttered. "Some things are," answered the doctor; "not a brave woman, or a gentle man." "Send Daisy away from this place. You know she ought not to be here; and you can forbid it." "You overstate my power, my friend," said the doctor. "Shall we see how you are getting along to-day." Preston's eye came to me again, silently, with reluctance and regret in it. I was touched more than I chose to show, and more than it was safe to think about." "Does she know?" he asked. "She does not know. Your cousin, Miss Randolph, has given one of his arms for his cherished cause." "And one of my legs too," said Preston. "If it would do the cause any good, I would not care; but what good does it do? That's what I don't like about powder." I had much ado to stand this communication. The work of examining and dressing Preston's wounds, however, immediately began; and in the effort to do my part, as usual, I found the best relief for overstrained nerves. I think some tears fell upon the bandages; but no word of remark was made by either physician or patient, till the whole business was concluded. Dr. Sandford then carried me off to a nice, warm, comfortable apartment, which he told me I might always hold as my own whenever I had time to be there; he seated me in a chair, and a second time poured me out a glass of wine, which he took from a cupboard. "I do not drink it," I said, shaking my head. "Yes, you do, - to-day." "I never drink it," I said. "I cannot touch it, Dr. Sandford." "You must take something. What is the matter with the wine? Is it disagreeable to you?" "I will not help anybody else drink it," I said, looking at him and forcing a smile; for I was tired and very sick at heart. "Nobody will know you take it." "Not if I do not take it. They will if I do." "Are you going upon that old childish plan of yours?" said the doctor, sitting down beside me and looking with a wistful kind of tenderness into my face. "Are you bent still upon living for other people, Daisy?" "You know, the Master I follow did so; and His servants must be like him," I said, and I felt my smile was stronger and brighter this time. Dr. Sandford arose, summoned an attendant and sent him off for a cup of tea for me; then saw me take it. "Now," said he, "are you fixed in the plan of devoting yourself to the care of this ungracious cousin?" "Of him, and of others," I said. "He does not deserve it." "Suppose we waited to give people their deserts, Dr. Sandford?" "Some people deserve to be allowed to take care of you," said the doctor, getting up and beginning to pace up and down the floor. "They deserve it; and find it hard work; or denied them altogether." "You do take care of me," I said gratefully. "You always did, Dr. Sandford. You are doing it now; and I am thanking you all the time in my heart." "Well," said he abruptly, standing still before me, - "you are one of those who are born to command; and in your case I always find I have to obey. This room you will use as you please; no one will share it with you; and you need a retiring-place for a breath of rest when you can get it. I shall see you constantly, as I am going out and in; and anything you want you will tell me. But you will not like it, Daisy. You can stand the sight of blood, like other women, whose tenderness makes them strong; but you will not like some other things. You will not like the way you will have to take your meals in this place." I had finished my cup of tea, and now stood up to let the doctor take me back to my place beside Preston; which he did without any more words. And there he left me; and I sat down to consider my work and my surroundings. My cousin had forgotten his impatience in sleep; and there was a sort of lull in the business of the ward at that hour. I found in a few minutes that it was a great comfort to me to be there. Not since papa's death, had so peaceful a sense of full hands and earnest living crept into my heart. My thoughts flew once or twice to Mr. Thorold, but I called them back as soon; I could not bear that; while at the same time I felt I was nearer to him here than anywhere else. And my thoughts were very soon called effectually home from my own special concerns, by seeing that the tenant of one of the neighbouring beds was restless and suffering from fever. A strong, fine- looking man, flushed and nervous on a fever bed, in helpless inactivity, with the contrast of life energies all at work and effectively used only a little while ago, in the camp and the battlefield. Now lying here. His fever proceeded from his wounds, I knew, for I had seen them dressed. I went to him and laid my hand on his forehead. I wonder what and how much there can be in the touch of a hand. It quieted him, like a charm; and after a while, a fan and a word or two now and then were enough for his comfort. I did not seem to be Daisy Randolph; I was just - the hospital nurse; and my use was to minister; and the joy of ministering was very great. From my fever patient I was called to others, who wanted many various things; it was a good while before I got round to Preston again. Meanwhile, I was secretly glad to find out that I was gaining fast ground in the heart of the other nurse of the ward, who had at first looked upon me with great doubt and mistrust on account of my age and appearance. She was a clever, energetic New England woman; efficient and helpful as it was possible to be; thin and wiry, but quiet, and full of sense and kindliness. With a consciousness of her growing favour upon me, I came at last to Preston's bedside again. He looked anything but amicable. "Where is Aunt Randolph?" were his first words, uttered with very much the manner of a growl. I replied that I had left her in New York. "I shall write to her," said Preston. "How came she to do such an absurd thing as to let you come here? and whom did you come with? Did you come alone?" "Not at all. I came with proper company." "Proper company wouldn't have brought you," Preston growled. "I think you want something to eat, Preston," I said. "You will feel better when you have had some refreshment." It was just the time for a meal and I saw the supplies coming in. And Preston's refreshment, as well as that of some others, I attended to myself. I think he found it pleasant; for although some growls waited upon me even in the course of my ministering to him, I heard from that time no more remonstrances; and I am sure Preston never wrote his letter. A testimonial of a different sort was conveyed in his whispered request to me, not to let that horrid Yankee spinster come near him again. But Miss Yates was a good friend to me. "You are looking a little pale," she said to me at evening. "Go and lie down a spell. All's done up; you ain't wanted now, and you may be, for anything anybody can tell, before an hour is gone. Just you go away and get some rest. It's been your first day. And the first day's rather tough." I told her I did not feel tired. But she insisted; and I yielded so far as to go and lie down for a while in the room which Dr. Sandford had given to me. When I came back, I met Miss Yates near the door of the room. I asked her if there were any serious cases in the ward just then. "La! half of 'em's serious," said she; "if you mean by that they might take a wrong turn and go off. You never can tell." "But are there any in immediate danger, do you think?" She searched my face before she answered. "How come you to be so strong, and so young, and so - well, so unlike all this sort of thing? - Have you ever, no you never have, seen much of sickness and death, and that?" "No; not much." "But you look as calm as a field of white clover. I beg your pardon, my dear; it's like you. And you ain't one of the India rubber sort, neither. I am glad you ain't, too; I don't think that sort is fit to be nurses or anything else." She looked at me inquiringly. "Miss Yates," I said, "I love Jesus. I am a servant of Christ. I like to do whatever my Lord gives me to do." "Oh!" said she. "Well I ain't. I sometimes wish I was. But it comes handy now, for there's a man down there - he ain't a going to live, and he knows it, and he's kind o' worried about it; and I can't say nothing to him. Maybe you can. I've written his letters for him, and all that; but he's just uneasy." I asked, and she told me, which bed held this sick man, who would soon be a dying one. I walked slowly down the ward, thinking of this new burden of life-work that was laid upon me and how to meet it. My very heart sank. I was so helpless. And rose too; for I remembered that our Redeemer is strong. What could I do? I stood by the man's side. He was thirsty and I gave him lemonade. His eye met mine as his lips left the cup; an eye of unrest. "Are you comfortable?" I asked. "As much as I can be." - It was a restless answer. "Can't you think of Jesus, and rest?" I asked, bending over him. His eye darted to mine with a strange expression of inquiry and pain; but it was all the answer he made. "There is rest at His feet for all who trust in Him; - rest in His arms for all who love Him." "I am not the one or the other," he said shortly. "But you may be." "I reckon not, - at this time of day," he said. "Any time of day will do," I said tenderly. "I guess not," said he. "One cannot do anything lying here - and I sha'n't lie here much longer, either. There's no time now to do anything." "There is nothing to do, dear friend, but to give your heart and trust to the Lord who died for you - who loves you - who invites you - who will wash away your sins for His own sake, in His own blood, which He shed for you. Jesus has died for you; you shall not die, if you will put your trust in Him." He looked at me, turned his head away restlessly, turned it back again, and said, - "That won't do." "Why?" "I don't believe in wicked people going to heaven." "Jesus came to save wicked people; just them." "They've got to be good, though, before they" - he paused, - "go - to His place." "Jesus will make you good, if you will let him." "What chance is there, lying here; and only a few minutes at that?" He spoke almost bitterly, but I saw the drops of sweat standing on his brow, brought there by the intensity of feeling. I felt as if my heart would have broken. "As much chance here as anywhere," I answered calmly. "The heart is the place for reform; outward work, without the heart, signifies nothing at all; and if the heart of love and obedience is in any man, God knows that the life would follow, if there were opportunity." "Yes. I haven't it," he said, looking at me. "You may have it." "I tell you, you are talking - you don't know of what," he said vehemently. "I know all about it," I answered softly. "There is no love nor obedience in me," he repeated, searching my eyes, as if to see whether there were anything to be said to that. "No; you are sick at heart, and dying, unless you can be cured. Can you trust Jesus to cure you? They that be whole need not a physician, He says, but those that are sick." He was silent, gazing at me. "Can you lay your heart, just as it is, at Jesus' feet, and ask him to take it and make it right? He says, Come." "What must _I_ do?" "Trust Him." "But you are mistaken," he said. "I am not good." "No," said I; and then I know I could not keep back the tears from springing; - "Jesus did not come to save the good. He came to save you. He bids you trust Him, and your sins shall be forgiven, for He gave His life for yours; and He bids you come to Him, and He will take all that is wrong away, and make you clean." "Come?" - the sick man repeated. "With your heart - to his feet. Give yourself to Him. He is here, though you do not see Him." The man shut his eyes, with a weary sort of expression overspreading his features; and remained silent. After a little while he said slowly - "I think - I have heard - such things - once. It is a great while ago. I don't think I know - what it means." Yet the face looked weary and worn; and for me, I stood beside him and my tears dripped like a summer shower. Like the first of the shower, as somebody says; the pressure at my heart was too great to let them flow. O life, and death! O message of mercy, and deaf ears! O open door of salvation, and feet that stumble at the threshold! After a time his eyes opened. "What are you doing there?" he said vaguely. "I am praying for you, dear friend." "Praying?" said he. "Pray so that I can hear you." I was well startled at this. I had prayed with papa; with no other, and before no other, in all my life. And here were rows of beds on all sides of me, wide-awake careless eyes in some of their occupants; nurses and attendants moving about; no privacy; no absolute stillness. I thought I could not; then I knew I must; and then all other things faded into insignificance before the work Jesus came to do and had given me to help. I knelt down, not without hands and face growing cold in the effort; but as soon as I was once fairly speaking to my Lord, I ceased to think or care who else was listening to me. There was a deep stillness around; I knew that; the attendants paused in their movements, and words and work I think were suspended during the few minutes when I was on my knees. When I got up, the sick man's eyes were closed. I sat down with my face in my hands, feeling as if I had received a great wrench; but presently Miss Yates came with a whispered request that I would do something that was required just then for somebody. Work set me all right very soon. But when after a while I came round to Preston again, I found him in a rage. "What _has_ come over you?" he said, looking at me with a complication of frowns. I was at a loss for the reason, and requested him to explain himself. "You are not Daisy!" he said. "I do not know you any more. What has happened to you?" "What do you mean, Preston?" "Mean!" said he with a fling. "What do _you_ mean? I don't know you." I thought this paroxysm might as well pass off by itself, like another; and I kept quiet. "What were you doing just now," said he savagely, "by that soldier's bedside?" "That soldier? He is a dying man, Preston." "Let him die!" he cried. "What is that to you? You are Daisy Randolph. Do you remember whose daughter you are? _You_ making a spectacle of yourself, for a hundred to look at!" But this shot quite overreached its mark. Preston saw it had not touched me. "You did not use to be so bold," he began again. "You were delicate to an exquisite fault. I would never have believed that _you_ would have done anything unwomanly. What has taken possession of you?" "I should like to take possession of you just now, Preston, and keep you quiet," I said. "Look here, - your tea is coming. Suppose you wait till you understand things a little better; and now - let me give you this. I am sure Dr. Sandford would bid you be quiet; and in his name, I do." Preston fumed; but I managed to stop his mouth; and then I left him, to attend to other people. But when all was done, and the ward was quiet, I stood at the foot of the dying man's bed, thinking, what could I do more for him? His face looked weary and anxious; his eye rested, I saw, on me, but without comfort in it. What could I say, that I had not said? or how could I reach him? Then, I do not know how the thought struck me, but I knew what to do. "My dear," said Miss Yates, touching my shoulder, "hadn't you better give up for to-night? You are a young hand; you ain't seasoned to it yet; you'll give out if you don't look sharp. Suppose you quit for to- night." "O no!" I said hastily - "Oh no, I cannot. I cannot." "Well, sit down, any way, before you can't stand. It is just as cheap sittin' as standin'." I sat down; she passed on her way; the place was quiet; only there were uneasy breaths that came and went near me. Then I opened my mouth and sang - "There is a fountain filled with blood, "Drawn from Immanuel's veins; "And sinners plunged beneath that flood, "Lose all their guilty stains." "The dying thief rejoiced to see "That fountain in his day; "And there may I, as vile as he, "Wash all my sins away." I sang it to a sweet simple air, in which the last lines are repeated and repeated and drawn out in all their sweetness. The ward was as still as death. I never felt such joy that I could sing; for I knew the words went to the furthest corner and distinctly, though I was not raising my voice beyond a very soft pitch. The stillness lasted after I stopped; then some one near spoke out - "Oh, go on!" And I thought the silence asked me. But what to sing? that was the difficulty. It had need be something so very simple in the wording, so very comprehensive in the sense; something to tell the truth, and to tell it quick, and the whole truth; what should it be? Hymns came up to me, loved and sweet, but too partial in their application, or presupposing too much knowledge of religious things. My mind wandered; and then of a sudden floated to me the refrain that I had heard and learned when a child, long ago, from the lips of Mr. Dinwiddie, in the little chapel at Melbourne; and with all the tenderness of the old time and the new it sprung from my heart and lips now - "In evil long I took delight, "Unawed by shame or fear; "Till a new object struck my sight, "And stopped my wild career." "O the Lamb - the loving Lamb! "The Lamb on Calvary "The Lamb that was slain, but lives again, "To intercede for me." How grand it was! But for the grandeur and the sweetness of the message I was bringing, I should have broken down a score of times. As it was, I poured my tears into my song, and wept them into the melody. But other tears, I knew, were not so contained; in intervals I heard low sobbing in more than one part of the room. I had no time to sing another hymn before Dr. Sandford came in. I was very glad he had not been five minutes earlier. I followed him round the ward, seeking to acquaint myself as fast as possible with whatever might help to make me useful there. Dr. Sandford attended only to business and not to me, till the whole round was gone through. Then he said, - "You will let me take you home now, I hope." "I am at home," I answered. "Even so," said he smiling. "You will let me take you _from_ home then, to the place my sister dwells in." "No, Dr. Sandford; and you do not expect it." "I have some reason to know what to expect, by this time. Will you not do it at my earnest request? not for your sake, but for mine? There is presumption for you!" "No, Dr. Sandford; it is not presumption, and I thank you; but I cannot. I cannot, Dr. Sandford. I am wanted here." "Yes, so you will be to-morrow." "I will be here to-morrow." "But, Daisy, this is unaccustomed work; and you cannot bear it, no one can, without intermission. Let me take you to the hotel to-night. You shall come again in the morning." "I cannot. There is some one here who wants me." "Your cousin, do you mean?" "Oh no. Not he at all. There is one who is, I am afraid, dying." "Morton," said the doctor. "Yes. You can do nothing for him." But I thought of my hymn, and the tears rose to my eyes. "I will do what I can, Dr. Sandford. I cannot leave him." "There is a night nurse who will take charge. You must not watch. You must not do that, Daisy. I command here." "All but me," I said, putting my hand on his arm. "Trust me. I will try to do just the right thing." There must have been more persuasion in my look than I knew; for Dr. Sandford quitted me without another word, and left me to my own will. I went softly down the room to the poor friend I was watching over. I found his eyes watching me; but for talk there was no time just then; some services were called for in another part of the ward that drew me away from him; and when I came back he seemed to be asleep. I sat down at the bed foot and thought my hymn all over, then the war, my own life, and lastly the world. Miss Yates came to me and bent down. "Are you tired out, dear?" "Not at all," I said. "Not at all - tired." "They'd give their eyes if you'd sing again. It's better than doctors and anodynes; and it's the first bit of anything unearthly we've had in this place. Will you try?" I was only too glad. I sang, "Jesus, lover of my soul" - "Rock of Ages" - and then, - "Just as I am, without one plea, "But that Thy blood was shed for me, "And that Thou bidst me come to Thee, "O Lamb of God, I come." And stillness, deep and peaceful seeming, brooded over all the place in the pauses between the singing. There were restless and weary and suffering people around me; patient indeed too, and uncomplaining, in the worst of times; but now even sighs seemed to be hushed. I looked at the man who was said to be dying. His wide open eyes were intently fixed upon me; very intently; and I thought, less ruefully than a while ago. Then I sang, - "Come to Jesus just now -" As I sang, a voice from the further end of the room took it up, and bore me company in a somewhat rough but true and manly chorus, to the end of the singing. It rang sweet round the room; it fell sweet on many ears, I know. And so I gave my Lord's message. I sang no more that night. The poor man for whose sake I had begun the singing, rapidly grew worse. I could not leave him; for ever and again, in the pauses of suffering, his eyes sought mine. I answered the mute appeal as I best could, with a word now and a word then. Towards morning the struggle ceased. He spoke no more to me; but the last look was to my eyes, and in his, it seemed to me, the shadow had cleared away. That was all I could know. CHAPTER XXII. ORDERS I slept longer than I had meant to do, the next morning; but I rose with a happy feeling of being in my place; where I wanted to be. That is, to be sure, not always the criterion by which to know the place where one ought to be; yet where it is a qualification it is also in some sense a token. The ministry of the hours preceding swept over me while I was dressing, with something of the grand swell and cadence of the notes of a great organ; grand and solemn and sweet. I entered the ward, ready for the day's work, with a glad readiness. So I felt, as I stepped in and went down the space between the rows of beds. Miss Yates nodded to me. "Here you are!" she said. "Fresh as the morning. Well I don't know why we shouldn't have pleasant things in such a place as this, if we can get them; there's enough that ain't pleasant, and folks forget there is anything else in the world. Now you'll be better than breakfast, to some of them; and here's breakfast, my dear. You know how to manage that." I knew very well how to manage that; and I knew too, as I went on with my ministrations, that Miss Yates was not altogether wrong. My ministry did give pleasure; and I could not help enjoying the knowledge. This was not the enjoyment of flattering crowds, waiting round me with homage in their eyes and on their tongues. I had known that too, and felt the foolish flutter of gratified vanity for a moment, to be ashamed of it the next. This was the brightening eye, the relaxing lip, the tone of gratification, from those whose days and hours were a weary struggle with pain and disease; to bring a moment's refreshment to them was a great joy, which gives me no shame now in the remembrance. Even if it was only the refreshment of memory and fancy, that was something; and I gave thanks in my heart, as I went from one sufferer to another, that I had been made pleasant to look at. Preston himself smiled at me this morning, which I thought a great gain. "Well, you do know how to sing!" he said softly, as I was giving him his tea and toast. "I am glad you think so." "Think so! Why, Daisy, positively I was inclined to bless gunpowder for the minute, for having brought me here. Now if you would only sing something else - Don't you know anything from Norma, or II Trovatore?" "They would be rather out of place here." "Not a bit of it. Create a soul under the ribs - Well, this is vile tea." "Hush, Preston; you know the tea is good, like everything else here." "I know no such thing. There is nothing good in this place, - except you, - and I suppose that is the reason you have chosen it for your abode. I can't imagine how Aunt Randolph came to let you, though." "She let me come to take care of you." "_I_'m not worth it. What's a man good for, when there is only half of him left? I should like just to get into one other field, and let powder take the other half." "Hush, Preston! hush; you must not talk so. There's your mother." "My mother won't think much of me now, I don't know why she should. You never did, even when I was myself." "I think just as much of you now as ever, Preston. You might be much more than your old self, if you would." Preston frowned and rolled his head over on the pillow. "Confounded!" he muttered. "To be in such a den of Yankees!" "You are ungrateful." "I am not. I owe it to Yankee powder." What, perhaps, had Southern powder done? I shivered inwardly, and for a moment forgot Preston. "What is the matter?" said he. "You look queer; and it is very queer of you to spill my tea." "Drink it then," I said, "and don't talk in such a way. I will not have you do it, Preston, to me." He glanced at me, a little wickedly; but he had finished his breakfast and I turned from him. As I turned, I saw that the bed opposite, where Morton had died a few hours before, had already received another occupant. It startled me a little; this quick transition; this sudden total passing away; then, as I cast another glance at the newly come, my breath stood still. I saw eyes watching me, - I had never but once known such eyes; I saw an embrowned but very familiar face; as I looked, I saw a flash of light come into the eyes, quick and brilliant as I had seen such flashes come and go a hundred times. I knew what I saw. It seems to me now in the retrospect, it seemed to me then, as if my life - that which makes life - were that moment suddenly gathered up, held before me, and then dashed under my feet; thrown down to the ground and trampled on. For a moment the sight of my eyes failed me. I think nobody noticed it. I think nothing was to be seen, except that I stood still for that minute. It passed, and my sight returned; and as one whose life is under foot and who knows it will never rise again, I crossed the floor to Thorold. We were not alone. Eyes and ears were all around us. Remembering this, I put my hand in his and said a simple - "How do you do?" But his look at me was so infinitely glad and sweet, that my senses failed me again. I did not sink down; but I stood without sight or hearing. The clasp of his hand recalled me. "It is Daisy!" he said smiling. "Daisy, and not a vision. My Daisy! How is it?" "What can I do for you?" I said hastily. "Nothing. Stand there. I have been looking at you; and thought it was long till you would look at me." "I was busy." "Yes, I know, love. How is it, Daisy? When did you come back from Switzerland?" "Months ago." "I did not know of it." "Letters failed, I suppose." "Then you wrote?" "I wrote, - with papa's letter." "When?" "Oh, long ago - long ago; - I don't know, - a year or two." "It never reached me," he said, a shadow crossing his bright brow. "I sent it to your aunt, for her to send it to you; and she sent it; I asked her." "Failed," he said. "What was it, Daisy?" The question was put eagerly. "Papa was very good," I said; - "and you were very right, Christian, and I was wrong. He liked your letter." "And I should have liked his?" he said, with one of those brilliant illuminations of eye and face. "I think you would." "Then I have got all I can ask for," he said. "You are mine; and while we live in this world we belong to each other. Is it not so?" There was mamma. But I could not speak of her. Even she could not prevent the truth of what Christian said; in one way it must be true. I gave no denial. Thorold clasped my hand very fast, and I stood breathless. Then suddenly I asked if he had had his breakfast? He laughed and said yes, and still clasped my hand in a grasp that said it was better than food and drink to him. I stood like one from under whose feet the ground is slipping away. I longed to know, but dared not ask, what had brought him there; whether he was suffering; the words would not come to my lips. I knew Dr. Sandford would be here by and by; how should I bear it? But I, and nobody but me, must do all that was done for this sufferer at least. I left Mr. Thorold, to attend to duties that called me on all hands. I did them like one in a dream. Yet my ordinary manner was quiet, and I suppose nobody saw any difference; only I felt it. I was looking all the time for the moment of Dr. Sandford's appearance, and praying for strength. It came, his visit, as everything does come, when its time was; and I followed him in his round; waiting and helping as there was want of me. I did it coolly, I know, with faculties sharpened by an intense motive and feelings engrossed with one thought. I proved myself a good assistant; I knew Dr. Sandford approved of me; I triumphed, so far, in the consciousness that I had made good my claim to my position, and was in no danger of being shoved away on the score of incompetency. "Doctor," said Preston when we came round to him, "won't you send away Miss Randolph out of a place that she is not fit for?" "I will," said Dr. Sandford grimly, "when I find such a place." "Out of _this_ place, then, where she ought not to be; and you know it." "It would be your loss, my friend. You are exercising great self-denial, or else you speak in ignorance." "She might as well go on the stage at once!" said Preston bitterly. "Singing half the night to sixty soldiers, - and won't give one a thing from Norma, then!" The doctor gave one quick glance of his blue eye at me; it was a glance inquiring, recognising, touched, sympathising, all in an instant; it surprised me. Then it went coolly back to his work. "What does she sing?" "Psalms" - said Preston. "Feverish tendency?" said the doctor. Preston flung himself to one side, with a violent word, almost an oath, that shocked me. We left him and went on. Or rather, went over; for at the instant Dr. Sandford's eye caught the new occupant of the opposite bed. I was glad to find that he did not recognise him. The examination of Mr. Thorold's wounds followed. They were internal, and had been neglected. I do not know how I went through it; seeing how he went through it partly helped me, for I thought he did not seem to suffer greatly. His face was entirely calm, and his eye clear whenever it could catch mine. But the operation was long; and I felt when it was over as if I had been through a battle myself. I was forced to leave him and go on with my attentions to the other sufferers in the ward; and I could not get back to Mr. Thorold till the dinner hour. I managed to be at his side to serve him then. But he had the use of his arms and hands and did not need feeding, like some of the others. "It is worth being here, Daisy," said Mr. Thorold, when I came with his dinner; which was, however, a light one. "No," said I. Speaking in low tones, which I was accustomed to use to all there, we were in little danger of being overheard. "Not to you," said he with a laughing flash of his eye; "I only spoke of my own sense of things. That is as I tell you." "How do you do now?" I asked tremblingly. His eye changed, softened, lifted itself to mine with a beautiful glow in it. I half knew what was coming before he spoke. "We know in whose hands I am," he said. "I have earned the 'right to my name,' Daisy." Ah, that was hard to bear! harder than the surgeon's probe which had gone before. It was hard at the same time not to fall on my knees to give thanks; or to break out into a shout of glad praise. I suppose I showed nothing of it, only stood still - and pale by the side of the bed; till Mr. Thorold asked me for something, and I knew that I had been neglecting his dinner. And then I knew that I was neglecting others; and flew across to Preston, who needed my services. "Who's that over yonder," he grumbled. "One newly come in - wounded," I replied. "Isn't it somebody you know?" "It is one I used to know." "Then you know him yet, I suppose. It is that fellow Thorold, isn't it?" "Yes." "What has brought him here?" "He is wounded," I whispered. "I am glad of it!" said Preston, savagely. "Why shouldn't he be wounded, when his betters are? Is he badly off?" I simply could not answer at the minute. "How's he wounded?" "I do not know." "You don't know! when you were attending to him. Then he hasn't lost a leg or an arm, I suppose? You would know that." "No." "D-n him!" said Preston. "That _he_ should be whole and sound and only half of me left!" I was dumb, for want of the power to speak. I think such a passion of indignation and displeasure never found place in my heart, before or since. But I did not wish to say anything angrily, and yet my heart was full of violent feeling that could find but violent words. I fed Preston in silence till his dinner was done, and left him. Then as I passed near him again soon after, I stopped. "You are so far from sound, Preston," I said, "that I shall keep out of the way of your words. You must excuse me - but I cannot hear or allow them; and as you have no control over yourself, my only resource is to keep at a distance." I waited for no answer but moved away; and busied myself with all the ward rather than him. It was a hard, hard, afternoon's work; my heart divided between the temptation to violent anger and violent tears. I kept away from Mr. Thorold too, partly from policy, and partly because I could not command myself, I was afraid, in his presence. But towards evening I found myself by his side, and in the dusk our hands met; while I used a fan with the other hand, by way of seeming to do something for him. "What is the matter?" he whispered. "Matter?" I repeated. "Yes." "There is enough the matter here always, Christian." "Yes. And what more than usual this afternoon?" "What makes you ask?" "I have been looking at you." "And what did you see?" "I saw that you were hiding something, from everybody but me. Tell it now." "Christian, it was not anything good." "Confess your faults one to another, then," said he. "What is the use of having friends?" "You would not be pleased to hear of my faults." I could see, even in the dim light, the flash of his eye as it looked into mine. "How many, Daisy?" "Anger," I said; - "and resentment; and - self-will." "What raised the anger?" said he; a different tone coming into his own voice. "Preston. His way of talking." "About me?" "Yes. I cannot get over it." And I thought I should have broken down at that minute. My fan-play ceased. Christian held my hand very fast, and after a few minutes began again - "Does he know you are angry, Daisy?" "Yes, he does; for I told him as much." "Did you tell him sharply?" "No. I told him coldly." "Go over and say that you have forgiven him." "But I have not forgiven him." "You know you must." "I cannot, just yet, Christian. To-morrow, perhaps I can." "You must do it to-night, Daisy. You do not know what else you may have to do before to-morrow, that you will want the spirit of love for." I was silent a little, for I knew that was true. "Well? -" said he. "What can I do?" I said. "I suppose it will wear out; but just now I have great displeasure against Preston. I cannot tell him I forgive him. I have not forgiven him." "And do not want to forgive him?" I was again silent, for the answer would have had to be an affirmative. "If I could reach you, I would kiss that away," said Thorold. "Daisy, must _I_ tell _you_, that there is One who can look it away? You need not wait." I knew he spoke truth again; and I had forgotten it. Truth that once by experience I so well knew. I stood silent and self-condemned. "Christian, I do not very often get angry; but when I do, I am afraid the feeling is very obstinate." "The case isn't desperate - unless you are obstinate too," he said, with a look which conquered me. I fanned him a little while longer; not long. For I was able very soon to go across to Preston. "Are you going to desert me for that fellow?" he growled. "I must desert you, for whoever wants me more than you do; and you must be willing that I should." "If it wasn't for confounded Yankees!" he said. "Yankees are pretty good to you, Preston, I think, just now. What if they were to desert you? Where is your generosity?" "Shot away. Come, Daisy, I had no business to speak as I did. I'll confess it. Forgive me, won't you?" "Entirely," I said. "But you gave me great pain, Preston." "You are like the thinnest description of glass manufacture," said Preston. "What wouldn't scratch something else, makes a confounded fracture in your feelings. I'll try and remember what brittle ware I am dealing with." So that was over, and I gave him his tea; and then went round to do the same by others. I had to take them in turn; and when I got to Mr. Thorold at last, there was no more time then for talking, which I longed for. After the surgeon's round, when all was quiet again in the room, I sat at the foot of Mr. Thorold's bed with a kind of cry in my heart, to which I could give no expression. I could not kneel there, to pray; I could not leave my post; I could not speak nor listen where I wanted a full interchange of heart with heart; the oppression almost choked me. Then I remembered I could sing. And I sang that hour, if I never did before. My sorrow, and my joy, and my cry of heart, I put them all into the notes and poured them forth in my song. I was never so glad I could sing as these days. I knew, all the time, it was medicine and anodynes and strength - and maybe teaching - to many that heard; for me, it was the cry of prayer, and the pleading of faith, and the confession of utmost need. How strong "Rock of Ages" seemed to me again that night; the hymn, "How sweet the name of Jesus sounds," was to me a very schedule of treasure; my soul mounted on the words, like the angels on Jacob's ladder; the top of the ladder was in heaven, if the foot of it was on a very rough spot of earth. That night I sang hymns, in the high-wrought state of my feelings, which the next day I could not have sung. I remember that one of them was "What are these in bright array," with the chorus, "They have clean robes, white robes." "When I can read my title clear," was another. Sometimes a hymn starts up to me now, with a thrill of knowledge that I sang it that night, which yet at other times I cannot recall. I sang till the hour, and past it, when I must go to my room and give place to the night watchers. I longed to stay, but it was impossible; so I went and bade Preston good-night, who said to me never a word this time; spoke to one or two others; and then went to Mr. Thorold. I laid my hand on his. He grasped it immediately and looked up at me with a clear, sweet, bright look, which did me untold good; pulling me gently down. I bent over him, thinking he wished to speak; then I knew what he wished, and obeying the impulse and the request, our lips met. I don't know if anybody saw it; and I did not care. That kiss sent me to sleep. The next day I was myself again. Not relieved from the impression which had seized me when I first saw Mr. Thorold; but quietly able to bear it; in a sort raised above it. To do the moment's duty; to gather, and to give, every stray crumb of relief or pleasure that might be possible for either of us; better than that, to do the Lord's will and to bear it, were all I sought for. All at least, of which I was fairly conscious that I sought it; the heart has a way of carrying on underground trains of feeling and action of its own, and so did mine now. As I found afterwards. But I was perfectly able for all my work. When next I had an opportunity for private talk with Mr. Thorold, he asked me with a smile, if the resentment was all gone? I told him, "Oh, yes." "What was the 'self-will' about, Daisy?" "You remember too well," I said. "What?" "Me and my words." "Why?" "It is not easy to say why, just in this instance." "No. Well, Daisy, say the other thing. About the self-will." I hesitated. "Are you apt to be self-willed?" he asked, tenderly. "I do not know. I believe I did not use to think so. I am afraid it is very difficult to know oneself, Christian." "_I_ think you are self-willed," he said, smiling. "Did you use to see it in me?" "I think so. What is the present matter in hand, Daisy?" I did not want to tell him. But I could not run away. And those bright eyes were going over my face and reading in it, I knew. I did not know what they read. I feared. He waited, smiling a little as he looked. "I ought not to be self-willed, - about anything," - I said at last. "No, I suppose not. What has got a grip of your heart then, Daisy?" "I am unwilling to see you lying here," I said. It was said with great force upon myself, under the stress of necessity. "And unwilling that I should get any but one sort of discharge," - he added. "You do not fear it," I said, hastily. "I fear nothing. But a soldier, Daisy, - a soldier ought to be ready for orders; and he must not choose. He does not know where the service will call for him. He knows his Captain does know." I stood still, slowly fanning Mr. Thorold; my self-control could go no further than to keep, me outwardly quiet. "_You_ used to be a soldier," he said gently, after a pause. "You are yet. Not ready for orders, Daisy?" "Christian - you know, -" I stammered forth. "I know, my beloved. And there is another that knows. He knows all. Can't you leave the matter to him?" "I must." "Must is a hard word. Let Jesus appoint, and let you and me obey; because we love Him, and are His." He was silent, and so was I then; the words trooping in a sort of grand procession through some distant part of my brain - "All things are yours; whether life, or death, or the world, or things present, or things to come; all are yours; and ye are Christ's; and Christ is God's." I knew they swept by there, in their sweetness and their majesty; I could not lay hold of them to make them dwell with me then. A few days went past, filled with duty as usual; more filled with a consuming desire which had taken possession of me, to know really how Mr. Thorold was and what were the prospects of his recovery. His face always looked clear and well; I thought his wounds were not specially painful; I never saw any sign that they were; the dressing of them was always borne very quietly. _That_ was not uncommon, but involuntary tokens of pain were sometimes wrung from the sufferers; a sigh, or a knit brow, or a pale cheek, or a clinched hand, gave one sorrowful knowledge often that the heroism of patient courage was more severely tested in the hospital than on the field. I never saw any of these signs in Mr. Thorold. In spite of myself, a hope began to spring and grow in my heart, which at the first seeing of him in that place I had thought dead altogether. And then I could not rest short of certainty. But how to get any light at all on the subject was a question. The other nurse could not tell me, for she knew no more than myself; not so much, for she rarely nursed Mr. Thorold. Dr. Sandford never told how his patients were doing or likely to do; if he were asked, he evaded the answer. What we were to do, he told explicitly, carefully; the issue of our cares he left it to time and fact to show. So what was I to do? Moreover, I did not wish to let him see that I had any, the least, solicitude for one case more than the rest. And another thing, I dreaded unspeakably to make the appeal and have my doubts solved. With the one difficulty and the other before me, I let day after day go by; day after day; during which I saw as much of Mr. Thorold as I could, and watched him with intense eyes. But I was able to resolve nothing; only I thought his appetite grew poorer than it had been, while that of many others was improving. We had some chance for talk during those days; by snatches, I told him a good deal of the history of my European life; and he gave me details of his life in camp and field. We lived very close to each other all that time, though outward communication was so restricted. Hearts have their own way of communicating, - and spirits are not wholly shut in by flesh and blood. But as the days went by, my anxiety and suspense began to glow unendurable. So I followed Dr. Sandford one morning to his den, as he called it. "Are you getting tired of hospital life?" he asked me? with a smile. "I see you want to speak to me." "You know I am not tired." "I know you are not. There is something in a woman that likes suffering, I think, if only she can lay her hand on it and relieve it." "That is making it a very selfish business, Dr. Sandford." "We are all selfish," said the doctor. "The difference is, that some are selfish for themselves, and some for other people." "Now you are cynical." "I am nothing of the kind. What do you want with me?" "Preston is doing very well, is he not, Dr. Sandford." "Perfectly well. He will be out just as soon as in the nature of things it is possible. I suppose, or am I not to suppose, that then you will consider your work done?" "I do not think he wants me a quarter as much as other people, now." "He does not want you at all, in the sense of needing. In the other sense, I presume different people might put in a claim to be attended to." "But, Dr. Sandford, I wish I knew who of all these people in the ward need me most." "You are doing all you can for all of them." "If I had that knowledge, though, I might serve them better - or with more judicious service." "No you could not," said the doctor. "You are twice as judicious as Miss Yates now; though she is twice as old as you. You do the right thing in the right place always." "I wish you would do this thing for me, nevertheless, Dr. Sandford. I wish it very much." "What thing?" "Let me know the various states of the patients, and their prospect of recovery." "Most of them have a very fair prospect of recovery," said the doctor. "Will you do it for me, Dr. Sandford? - I ask it as a great favour." "Gary's all right," he said, with a full look at me. "Yes, I know; but I would like to know how it is with the others. I could better tell how to minister to them, and what to do." "The thing to be done would not vary at all with your increased knowledge, Daisy." "Not the things in your line, I know; but the things in mine." "You would know better how to sing, to wit?" said the doctor. "And to pray -" I said half under my breath. "Daisy, I haven't a schedule of the cases here; and if I told you, you might forget, among so many, which was which. Anyhow, I have not the schedule." "No, but you could do this for me. To-night, Dr. Sandford, when you go round, you could indicate to me what I want to know, and nobody else be the wiser. When we come to any case that is serious, but with hope, take hold of your chin, so; if any is serious without hope, just pass your hand through your hair. You do that often." "Not when I am going my rounds, Daisy," said the doctor, looking amused. "Only this time, for me," I pleaded. "You would not sing as well." "I should - or I might - know better how to sing." "Or you might not be able to sing at all. Though your nerves are good," the doctor admitted. "Women's nerves are made of a material altogether differently selected, or tempered, from that of masculine nerves; pure metal, of some ethereal sort." "Are there such things as masculine nerves?" I asked. "Do you doubt it?" said the doctor, turning a half reproachful look upon me. "Dr. Sandford, I do not doubt it. And so, you will, for once, and as an extraordinary kindness, do this thing for me that I have asked you." "The use of it is hidden from me," said the doctor; "but to admit my ignorance is a thing I have often done before, where you are concerned." "Then I will take care to be with you as soon as you come in this evening," I said, "so as to get all you will tell me." "If I do not forget it," said the doctor. But I knew there was no danger of his forgetting. There was no taking Dr. Sandford off his guard. In all matters that concerned his professional duties, he was like steel; for strength and truth and temper. Nothing that Dr. Sandford did not see; nothing that he did not remember; nothing that was too much for his skill and energies and executive faculty. Nobody disobeyed Dr. Sandford - unless it were I, now and then. I walked through the rest of that day in a smothered fever. How I had found courage to make my proposition to the doctor, I do not know; it was the courage of desperate suspense which could bear itself no longer. After the promise had been obtained that I sought, my courage failed. My joints trembled under me, as I went about the ward; my very hands trembled as I ministered to the men. The certainty that I had coveted, I dreaded now. Yet Mr. Thorold looked so well and seemed to suffer so little, I could not but quarrel with myself for folly, in being so fearful. Also I was ready to question myself, whether I had done right in seeking more knowledge of the future than might come to me day by day in the slow course of events. But I had done it; and Dr. Sandford was coming in the evening. "What is the matter with you, Daisy?" Mr. Thorold said. "Is anything the matter?" I replied. "Yes. What is it?" "How can you see it, Christian?" "I?" - said he. "I see right through your eyes, back into the thought that looks out of them." "Yet you ask me for the thought?" "The root of it. Yes. I see that you are preoccupied, and troubled; - and trembling. _You_, my Daisy? "Can I quite help it, Christian?" "Can you quite trust the Lord?" "But, - not that He will always save me from what I fear." "No; not that. Let Him save you from the _fear_." "How have you learned so much about it, so much more than I?" - and my lips were trembling then, I know. "I have had time," he said gently. "All those months and months, when you were at an unimaginable distance from me, actually and morally, - and prospectively, - do you think I had no chance to exercise myself in the lesson of submission? I fought out that problem, Daisy." "Were you in Washington the winter of '61?" I asked, changing the subject; for I could not bear it. "Part of that winter," he said, with a somewhat surprised look at me. "Did you meet in society here that winter a Miss St. Clair, who used to be once a schoolmate of mine? - very handsome." "I think I remember her. I knew nothing about her having been at school with you, or I think I should have sought her acquaintance." "She was said to have yours." "A passing, society acquaintance, she had." "Nothing more?" "More?" said he. "No. Nothing more." "How came the report that you were her dearest friend?" "From the father of lies," said Mr. Thorold; "if there ever was such a report; which I should doubt." "It came to me in Paris." "Did you believe it?" "I could not; but papa did. It came from Miss St. Clair's own particular friend, and she told mamma, I think, that you were engaged to her." "I think particular friends are a nuisance!" said Mr. Thorold. "Why, she was said _here_, to be engaged to somebody, - Major - Major Somebody, - I forget. Major Fairbairn." "Major Fairbairn!" "Yes. Why?" "That explains it," I exclaimed. "Explains what?" said Mr. Thorold. And such a shower of fire as came from his eyes then, fun and intelligence and affection, never came from anybody's eyes beside. I had to tell him all I was thinking about; and then hurry away to my duties. But at tea time I could touch nothing. The trembling had reached my very heart. "Why, you ain't going to give out, are you?" said Miss Yates in a concerned voice. "You've gone a little beyond your tether." "Not at all," said I; "not at all. I am only not hungry. I will go back, if you please, to something I _can_ do." I busied myself restlessly about the ward, till one of the men, I forget who, asked me to sing to them. It had become a standing ordinance of the place; and people said, a very beneficial one. But to-night I had not thought I could sing. Yet when he asked me, the power came. I did not sit down 'as usual;' standing at the foot of Mr. Thorold's bed I sang, leaning hard against strength and love out of sight; and my voice was as clear as ever. The ward was so very still that I should have thought nothing could come in or go out without my being conscious of a stir. However, the absolute hush continued, until it occurred to me that I must have been singing a great while, and I half turned and glanced down the room. My singing was done; for there stood Dr. Sandford, as still as I had been, with folded arms near the door. I went towards him immediately. "Do you have this sort of concert most evenings?" he inquired, as he took my hand. "Always, Dr. Sandford." "I never heard you sing so well anywhere else," he remarked. "I never had such an audience. But now, you remember my request this morning, Dr. Sandford?" "I never forget your requests," he said, gravely. And we went to business. From one to another, from one to another. Generally with no more but a pleasant or a kind word from the doctor to the patient; but two or three times the doctor's hand came to his chin for a moment, before such a word was spoken. - It did not in those cases tell me much. I had known, or guessed, the truth of them before. I suppose every good nurse must get a power or faculty of reading symptoms and seeing the state of the patient, both actual and probable. I was not shocked nor startled. But the shock and the start were all the greater, when pausing before the one cot which held what I cared for in this world, the doctor's fingers were thrust suddenly through his thick auburn hair. He went on immediately with the due attention to Mr. Thorold's wounds; and I waited and stood by, with no outward sign, I think, of the death at my heart. Even through all the round, I kept my place by Dr. Sandford's side, doing whatever was wanted of me, attending, at least in outward guise, to what was going on. So one can do, while the whole soul and life are concentrated on some point unconnected with it all, outside of it all, in the distance. Towards that point I slowly made my way, as the doctor went through his rounds; and came up with it at last in the little retiring room which he called his own and where our conversation of the morning had been held. "I see how little I know, Dr. Sandford," I remarked. "Ay?" said he. "I had been thinking rather the other way." "You surprised me very much - with the one touch of your hair." The doctor was silent. "I should have thought - in my ignorance - several others more likely to have called for it." "Thorold is the only one," said the doctor. "How is it?" "The injuries are internal and complicated; and beyond reach." The doctor had been washing his hands, and I was now washing mine; and with my face so turned away from him, I went on. "He does not seem to suffer much." "Doesn't he?" said the doctor. "Should he?" "He should, if he has not good power of self-control. No man in the ward suffers as he does. I have noticed, he hides it well." I was washing my hands. I remember my wringing the water from them; then I remember no more. When I knew anything again, I was lying on an old sofa that stood in the doctor's room, and he was putting water or brandy - I hardly know what - on my face. With a face of his own that was pale, I saw even then, without seeing it, as it bent over me. He was speaking my name. I struggled for breath and tried to raise myself. He gently put me back. "Lie still," he said. "Are you better?" "I am quite well," I answered. He gave me a few drops of something to swallow. It revived me. I sat up presently on the sofa, pushed back the hair from my face, and thought I would get up and be as though nothing had been. Dr. Sandford's hand followed my hasty fingers and put gently away from my brow the hair I had failed to stroke into order. It was an unlucky touch, for it reached more than my hair and my brow. I turned deadly sick again, and fell back into unconsciousness. When a second time I recovered sense, I kept still and waited and let Dr. Sandford minister to me as he thought best, with strong waters and sweet waters and ice water; until he saw that I was really restored, and I saw that great concern was sitting upon his features. "You have overtasked yourself at last," he said. "Not at all," I answered, quietly. "You must do no more, Daisy." "I must do all my work," I said. And I sat up now and put my feet to the floor, and put up my fallen-down hair, taking out my comb and twisting up the hair in some semblance of its wont. "Your work here is done," said the doctor. I finished doing up my hair and took a towel and wiped the drops of water and brandy from my face. "Daisy, I know your face," said the doctor, anxiously; "and it has just the determined gentleness I used to see at ten years old. But you would yield to authority then, and you must now. And you will." "When it is properly exerted," I said. "But it is not now, Dr. Sandford, and it will not be. I am perfectly well; and I am going to do my work." "You fainted just now from very exhaustion." "I am not exhausted at all. Nor even tired. I am perfectly well." "I never knew you faint before." "No," I said. "It is very disagreeable." "Disagreeable!" said the doctor, half laughing, though thoroughly disturbed. "What made you do it, then?" I could not answer. I stood still, with cheeks I suppose again growing so white, that the doctor hastily approached me with hartshorn. But I put it away and shook my head. "I am not going to faint again, thank you." "Daisy, Daisy!" said the doctor, "don't you know that your welfare is very dear to me?" "I know it," I said. "I know you are like a good brother to me, Dr. Sandford." "I am not like a brother at all!" said he. "Cannot you see that?" "I do not want to see it," I answered sadly. "If I have not a brother in you, I have nothing." "Why?" he asked shortly. But I made no answer, and he asked no more. He looked at me, made a step towards the door, turned back, and came close to me, speaking in a husky changed tone, - "You shall command me, Daisy, as you have long done. Let me know what to do to please you." He went away then and left me. And I gathered my strength together and went back to Mr. Thorold. CHAPTER XXIII. "HERE!" From that time we all were, to all seeming, just as we had been before that day. Dr. Sandford went his rounds, with no change perceptible in his manner towards any- body, or towards me. I think I was not different in the ward from what I had been, except to one pair of eyes: The duties of every day rolled on as they had been accustomed to do; the singing of every night was just as usual. One thing was a little changed. I sought no longer to hide that Mr. Thorold was something to me. The time for that was past. Of the few broken minutes that remained to us, he should lose none, nor I, by unnecessary difficulty. I was by his side now, all I could without neglecting those who also needed me. And we talked, all we could, with his strength and my time. I cared not now, that all the ward should see and know what we were to each other. Mr. Thorold saw a change in me, and asked the reason. And I gave it. And then we talked no more of our own losses. "I am quite ready to go, Daisy," he had said to me, with a look both bright and sweet which it breaks my heart, while it gladdens me, to remember. "You will come by and by, and I shall be looking for you; and I am ready now, love." After that, we spoke no more of our parting. We talked a very great deal of other things, past and future; talks, that it seems to me - now were scarce earthly, for their pure high beauty, and truth, and joy. The strength of them will go with me all my life. Dr. Sandford let us alone; ministered, to Mr. Thorold and me, all he could; and interfered with me no more. Preston took an opportunity to grumble; but that was soon silenced, for I showed him that I would not bear it. And the days in the hospital sped away. I do not know how; I did not know at the time. Only as one lives and works and breathes and sleeps in the presence of a single thought, enveloping and enfolding everything else. The life was hardly my own life; it was the life of another; or rather the two lives were for the time so joined that they were almost one. In a sort happy, as long as it was so. But I knew it could not last; and the utter uncertainty when it would end, oppressed me fearfully. Nothing in Mr. Thorold's looks or manner gave me any help to judge about it. His face was like itself always; his eye yet sometimes flashed and sparkled after its own brilliant fashion, as gayly and freely as ever. It always gave me untold pain; it brought life and death into such close neighbourhood, and seemed to mock at the necessity which hung over us. And then, if Mr. Thorold saw a shadow come over my brow, he would give me such words and looks of comfort and help, that again death was half swallowed up of a better life, before the time. So the days went; and Mr. Thorold said I grew thin; and the nurses and attendants were almost reverentially careful of me; and Dr. Sandford was a silent servant of mine and of Mr. Thorold's too, doing all that was possible for us both. And Preston was fearfully jealous and irritable; and wrote, I knew long afterwards, to my mother; and my mother sent me orders to return home to her at once and leave everything; and Dr. Sandford never gave me the letters. I missed nothing; knew nothing; asked nothing; until the day came that I was looking for. It came, and left me. I had done all I had to do; all I wanted to do; I had been able to do it all. Through the hours of the last struggle, no hand but mine had touched him. It was borne, as everything else had been borne, with a clear, brave uncomplainingness; his eye was still bright and quiet when it met mine, and the smile sweet and ready. We did not talk much; we had done that in the days past; our thoughts were known to each other; we were both looking now to the time of next meeting. But his head lay on my shoulder at the very last, and his hand was in mine. I don't think I knew when the moment was; until somebody drew him out of my hands and placed him back on the pillow. It was I then closed the eyes; and then I laid my brow for a few minutes on the one that was growing cold, for the last leave-taking. Nobody meddled with me; I saw and heard nothing; and indeed when I stood up I was blind; I was not faint, but I could see nothing. Some one took my hand, I felt, and drew my arm through his and led me away. I knew, as soon as my hand touched his arm, that it was Dr. Sandford. I did not go back to the ward that day, and I never went back. I charged Dr. Sandford with all my remaining care, and he accepted the charge. No illness seized me, but my heart failed. That was worse. Better have been sick. Bodily illness is easier to get at. And there was nobody to minister to mine. Dr. Sandford's presence worried me, somehow. It ought not, but it did. Mrs. Sandford was kind, and of course helpless to do me good. I think the doctor saw I was not doing well, nor likely to be better, and he brought me on to New York, to my mother. Mamma understood nothing of what had passed, except what Preston's letter had told her. I do not know how much, or what, it was; and I did not care. Mamma, however, was wrought up to a point of discomfort quite beyond the usual chronic unrest of the year past. She exclaimed at my appearance; complained of my change of manner; inveighed against hospitals, lady nurses, Dr. Sandford, the war, Yankees and Washington air; and declaimed against the religion which did not make daughters dutiful and attentive to their mothers. It was true, some of it; but my heart was dead, for the time, and powerless to heed. - I heard, and did not feel. I could not minister to my mother's happiness now, for I had no spring of strength in my own; and ministry that was not bright and winsome did, not content her. Such as I had I gave; I knew it was poor, and she said so. As the spring drew on, and days grew gentle, and soft weather replaced the strong brace of the winter frost, my condition of health became more and more unsatisfactory. My mother grew seriously uneasy at length and consulted Dr. Sandford. And the next thing was Dr. Sandford's appearance at our hotel. "What is the matter with you, Daisy?" he asked, very professionally. Mamma was out when he came. "Nothing -" I answered; "except what will take its own time." "Not like you, that answer," he said. "It is like me now," I replied. "We must get back to a better condition. It is not I good for you to be in this place. Would you like to go into quarters near Melbourne, for the summer?" "Better than anything! - if you could manage it. Mamma would not like it." "I think I can convince her." Dr. Sandford I knew had powers of convincing, and I judge they were helped on this occasion by facts in the pecuniary state of our affairs, to which my mother could no longer quite shut her eyes. She had not money to remain where she was. I think she had not been able, properly, to be there, for a good while past; though the bills were paid somehow. But now her resources failed; the war was evidently ending disastrously for the South; her hopes gave way; and she agreed to let Dr. Sandford make arrangements for our going into the country. It was very bitter to her, the whole draught she had to swallow; and the very fact of being under necessity. Dr. Sandford had a deal of trouble, I fancy, to find any house or arrangement that would content her. No board was procurable that could be endured even for a day. The doctor found at last, and hired, and put in order for us, a small cottage on the way between Melbourne and Crum Elbow; and there, early in June, mamma and I found ourselves established; "Buried," she said; "sheltered," I thought. "I wish I was dead," mamma said next morning. "Mamma - why do you speak so? just now." "There is no sort of view here - nothing in the world but those grass fields." "We have this fine elm tree over the house, mamma, to shade us. That is worth a great deal." "If the windows had Italian shades, they would be better. What windows! Who do you suppose lived here before us?" "Mamma, I do think it is very comfortable." "I hope you will show that you think so, then. I have had no comfort in you for a long time past." I thought, _I_ should never have comfort in anybody any more. "What has changed you so?" "Changes come to everybody, I suppose, mamma, now and then." "Is that all your boasted religion is good for?" I could not answer. Was it? What is the boat which can only sail in smooth water? But though feeling reproached, and justly, I was as far from help as ever. Mamma went on - "You used to be always bright - with your sort of brightness; there was not much brilliance to it; but you had a kind of steady cheerfulness of your own, from a child. What has become of it?" "Mamma, I am sorry it is gone. Perhaps it will wake up one of these days." "I shall die of heartache first. It would be the easiest thing I could do. To live here, is to die a long death. I feel as if I could not get a free breath now." "I think, mamma, when we get accustomed to the place, we shall find pleasantness in it. It is a world pleasanter than New York." "No, it is not," said mamma vehemently; "and it never will be. In a city, you can cover yourself up, as it were, and half hide yourself from even yourself; in such a place as this, there is not a line in your lot but you have; leisure to trace it all out; and there is not a rough place in your life but you have time to put your foot on every separate inch of it. Life is bare, Daisy; in a city one lives faster, and one is in a crowd, and things are covered up or one passes them over somehow. I shall die here!" "Next spring you can have Melbourne again, mamma, you know." But mamma burst into tears. I knew not how to comfort. "Would'st thou go forth to bless? be sure of thine own ground; "Fix well thy centre first; then draw thy circle round." I was silent, while mamma wept. "I wish you would keep Dr. Sandford from coming here!" she said suddenly. "I see his curricle at the gate now, mamma." "Then I'll go. I don't want to see him. Do give him a dismissal, Daisy!" Our only faithful kind friend; how could I? It was not possible that I should do such a thing. "How is all here?" said the doctor, coming in. I told him, as well as usual - or not quite. Mamma had not got accustomed to the change yet. "And Daisy?" "I like it." The doctor took an ungratified survey of my countenance. "Don't you want to see some of your old friends?" "Friends? - _here?_ Who, Dr. Sandford?" "Old Juanita would like to see you." "Juanita!" said I. "Is she alive?" "You do not seem very glad of it?" I was not glad of anything. But I did not say so. "She would like to see you." "I suppose she would." "Do you not incline to gratify her?" "Did you tell her of - my being here, Dr. Sandford?" "It was a very natural thing to do. If I had not, somebody else would." "I will go over to see her some time," I said. "I suppose it is not too far for me to walk." "It is not too far for you to ride," said the doctor. "I am going that way now. Put on your hat and come. The air will be good for you." It was not pleasant to go. Nevertheless I yielded and went. I knew how it would be. Every foot of the way pain. The doctor let me alone. I was thankful for that. And he left me alone at Juanita's cottage. He drove on, and I walked up the little path where I had first gone for a drink of water almost eleven years ago. Yet eleven years, from ten to twenty-one, is not so much, in most cases, I thought. In mine, it was a whole life- time, and the end of a life-time. So it seemed. The interview with my old nurse was not satisfactory. Not to me, and I think not to her. I did not seem to her quite the same Daisy Randolph she had known; indeed I was not the same. Juanita had a little awe of me; and I could not be unreserved and remove the awe. I could not tell her my heart's history; and without telling it, in part, I could not but keep at a distance from my old friend. Time might bring something out of our intercourse; but I felt that this first sight of her had done me no good. So Dr. Sandford found that I felt; for he took pains to know. Juanita was but little changed. The eleven years had just touched her. She was more wrinkled, hardly so firm in her bearing, not quite so upright, as her beautiful presence used to be. There was no deeper change. The brow was as peaceful and as noble as ever. I thought, speculating upon it, that she must have seen storms, too, in her life-time. The clouds were all cleared away, long since. Perhaps it will be so with me, I thought, some day; by and by. I thought Dr. Sandford would be discouraged in trying to do me good; however, a day or two after this drive, I saw his horses stopping again at our gate. My mother uttered an exclamation of impatience. "Does that man come to see you or me, Daisy?" she asked. "Mamma, I think he is a kind friend to both of us," I said. "I suppose every woman has a tenderness for a man that is enamoured of her, if he is ever so great a fool," she remarked. "Mamma! - nobody ever accused Dr. Sandford before of being a fool." "He is a fool to look at you. Do get a little wisdom into his head, Daisy!" And she left the room again as the doctor entered the house. I knew he and I understood each other; and though he might be a fool after mamma's reckoning, I had a great kindness for him. So I met him with frank kindness now. The doctor walked about the room a while, talking of indifferent things; and then said suddenly, - "Do you remember old Molly Skelton?" "Certainly. What of her?" "She is dying, poor creature." "Does _she_ know I am here?" I asked. "I have not told her." "Would she like to see me, do you think?" I said, with an uneasy consciousness that I must go, whatever the answer were. "If she can recognise you-I presume there is nobody else she would so like to see. As in reason there ought not." "Can you take me there, Dr. Sandford?" "Not at this hour; I am going another way. This afternoon I will take you, if you will go. Will you go?" "If you will be so good as to take me." "I will come for you then at four o'clock." That ride I have reason to remember. It was a fair June afternoon, though the month was almost out now; the peculiar brilliance which distinguishes June shone through the air and sparkled on the hills. With clear bright outlines the Catskill range stretched away right and left before us, whenever our road brought us in view of it; fulness of light on the sunny slopes, soft depth of shadow on the others, proclaiming the clear purity of the atmosphere. The blue of the sky, the fresh sweetness of the air, the life of colour in the fields and trees, all I suppose made their appeal at the doors of my heart; for I felt the pressure. It is the life in this June weather, I think, that reproaches what in us is not life; and my spirit was dead. Not really, but practically; and the June beauty gave me pain. I was out of harmony with it. And I heard nature's soft whisper of reproof. Justly given; for when one is out of harmony with nature, there is sure to be some want of harmony with the Author of nature. The doctor drove me silently, letting nature and me have it out together; till we came to the old cottage of Molly Skelton, and he handed me from the curricle. Still the doctor was silent. He stopped, purposely I think, to speak to his groom; and I went in first. The rows of flowers by the side of the walk were tangled and overgrown and a thicket of weeds; no care had visited them for many a day; but they were there yet. Molly had not forgotten her old tastes. I went on, wondering at myself, and entered the cottage. The sick woman lay on the bed there, alone and seemingly asleep; I turned from her to look at the room. The same old room; little different from what it used to be; even two pots with geraniums in them stood on the window-sill, drooping their heads for want of water. Nobody had watered them for so long. Clearly Molly had not changed. Was it only I? I looked and wondered, as I saw myself again at ten years old in that very room. Here had been those first cups of tea; those first lessons in A B C; and other lessons in the beginnings of a higher knowledge. What had they all come to? Was Molly the better in anything beyond her flowers? What had eleven years wrought for her? I turned again from the past, as the doctor came in, to look at the poor creature herself. She did not answer the words he addressed to her; I doubted if she heard them; she was evidently oppressed with disease, which was fast making an end of her. Experience had taught me now to judge somewhat of the looks and condition of sick people. Molly, I saw, was very sick; and I knew soon that it was with a combination of evils, which had taken hold of her, and made her poor existence a wearisome thing. It was near an end now. "Speak to her," - said the doctor. And I did, and he did; but we got no response. None in words; I fancied that the look of the face bore witness to some aroused attention; might it be more? One hand of Molly's lay stretched out upon the coverlid. She was a mass of disease; I should not have thought once that I could touch that hand; but I had had training since then. I put my hand upon that poor hand and clasped it. I fancied, I cannot tell why, that Molly was sensible of my action and that she liked it; yet she did not speak. - We sat so, my hand in hers, or hers in mine, and Dr. Sandford watching us. Time went by. I hardly knew how it went. "How long will you stay?" he asked at length. "I cannot leave her so, Dr. Sandford." "You cannot stay here!" "Why not?" "It would be a peculiar proceeding. You would not do it?" "I cannot do otherwise, Dr. Sandford. I cannot leave her alone in this condition." "I cannot leave _you_," he said. "There is nothing to be afraid of," I returned, looking at him. "And something may need to be done." The doctor's look in answer was unguarded; it expressed so much that he did not generally allow himself to express; it was full of tenderness, of reverence, of affection. Full it was of sorrow too. It was not a look I could meet. I turned from it hastily; the former question was let drop; and we were again still and silent. I had enough to keep me silent, and Dr. Sandford was as mute. All three of us only breathed in company, for a long while more; though I suppose some of Dr. Sandford's meditations and mine came near together. I do not know how time went; but then, the one to break silence was the one I had thought might never speak again. Suddenly she began in a low sort of crooning voice, saying over and over the same words - "I am in the valley - in the valley - in the valley -" Maybe half a dozen times she repeated these words; and forlornly true as they seemed of her, I was in doubt whether she knew of what she was speaking. Could intelligence be awake, in that oppressed condition of the bodily powers? Her speech was a sort of mumbling repetition. But then, with a change of tone, clean and round the words came out - "But there's light in the valley! -" My heart sprang with such an impulse of joy as quite overleaped all my own sorrows and took me out of them. Then Molly had not forgotten; then the seed sown long ago had not perished in the ground or been caught away; it had been growing and springing all these years; life had sprung up in the ungenial soil, even everlasting life; and what were earth's troubles to that? One vision of unseen things, rushing in, made small all the things that are seen. The poor old cripple, deformed and diseased, whose days must have been long a burden to her, was going even now to drop the slough of her mortality and to take on her the robes of light and the life that is all glory. What if my own life were barren for a while; then comes the end! What if I must be alone in my journey; I may do the Master's work all the way. And _this_ is His work; to set the captive free; light to the blind; the opening of the prison doors to them that are bound; riches to the poor; yes, life to the dead. If I may do this work, shall I complain, because I have not the helper I wanted; when God is my helper? I waited but till Dr. Sandford was gone, for I made him go; and then I knelt down by Molly's bedside, very, very humbled, to weep out my confession and prayer. Molly slumbered on, wanting nothing, when I rose to my feet; and I went to the cottage door and sat down on the step. The sun was going to set in glory beyond the blue misty line of the mountains; the June evening light was falling, in freshness and sweetness, on every leaf and blade of grass; and the harmony I had wanted I had got again. Molly's words had made the first rift in my cloud; the first sunshine had reached me that I had seen for many a long day. I saw it at last, as I sat in the cottage door and looked at the glory of the evening. I saw, that although my life might be in shadow for most of its way, yet the sunshine was on the other side of the cloud, unchanged, and I should come out into it in due time. And others were in its full rays already; - and my poor Molly was just going to find its brightness. Could I not wait a while? - just for myself? - and meanwhile do my blessed work? And now, in the hush of my spirit, nature came home to me with her messages. The sunbeams laid their promise at my feet, of everlasting joy; the hills told me of unchangeableness and strength, and reminded me of what Mont Pilatte used to say. The air breathed balm, comfort, the earnest of gracious supply; the beauty around me said that God would not withhold anything that was good for me. I could trust Him; and I thanked Him for the messages of His creatures; and I prayed that I, an intelligent living creature of higher order, might live to carry higher messages, for Him, to all within my reach. I gave myself to do His will. And as for the comfort of my life, God would take care of that, and be Himself my portion and my exceeding great reward. The sun went down behind the Catskill leaving the mountains in a bath of glorified mist; and I, strengthened and comforted, left my door-step and went back to Molly. She lay as she had lain, in what I might have supposed stupor; and perhaps it was; but she had said there was light in the valley she was going through. That was enough. She might speak no more; and in effect she never did intelligibly; it did not matter. My heart was full of songs of gladness for her; yes, for a moment I almost stood up yonder, among the harpers harping with their harps. Meanwhile I put the little room to rights; even as I had tried to do when I was a little child. I succeeded better now; and then I sat down to wait; there seemed nothing more to be done. The evening shades closed in; I wondered if I were to spend the night alone with the dying woman; but I was not afraid. I think I have done with fear in this world. Even as the thought passed me, Dr. Sandford came in. He had not been able to get any help, and he came to take my place, that I might go home. It ended in our watching the night through together; for of course I would not leave the cottage. It was a night of strange and new peace to me; peace that I had not known for many months. Molly was slowly passing away; not seeming to suffer much, needing little care; she was past it; and Dr. Sandford bestowed his attention upon me. He sent for refreshments; had a fire built, for the June night was chill; and watched me and waited upon me. And I let him, for I knew it gave him pleasure. "How do you do?" he said to me one time when the night was far spent. "Why do you ask that, Dr. Sandford?" "Must you know, before you tell me?" "No, not at all; I was only curious, because I know you always have a reason for your questions." "Most people have, I believe." "Yes, curiosity; but it is knowledge, not ignorance, that prompts your inquiries, Dr. Sandford." He smiled at that; one of the pleasant smiles I used to know so well. I saw them rarely now. It made me a little sad, for I knew Dr. Sandford's life had suffered an eclipse, as well as mine. "I have not so much knowledge that I do not desire more," he said. "Yes, I know. I am very well, thank you." "You were not very well when I brought you here." "No. I was well in body." "You are better?" "Yes." "If it were not impertinent, I would like to ask more." "It is not impertinent. You may ask." "In pursuit of my old psychological study, you know. What has happened in this poor little place, by this poor creature's bedside, to do any good to Daisy Randolph?" Now it was not according to my nature to like to tell him. But what had I just been asking, but that I might carry messages? So I spoke, slowly. "This poor creature is just going to step out of this poor place, into glory. The light of that glory is shining around her now, for she said so. You heard her." "Yes," said the doctor. "Well?" "Well, Dr. Sandford, it reminded me how near the glory is, and how little this world's things are in face of it. I have remembered that I am a servant of the King of that land, and an heir of the glory; and that He loves me now, and has given me work to do for Him, and when the work is done will take me home. And I am content." "What 'work' are you going to do?" the doctor asked, rather growlingly. "I do not know. What He gives me." And even as I spoke, there was a rush of tears to my eyes, with the thought that I must do my work alone; but I was content, nevertheless. Dr. Sandford was not. His fingers worked restlessly among the thick locks of his hair; as if he were busy with a thicket of thoughts as well; but he said nothing more. Towards morning Molly passed away from the scene of her very lonely and loveless life journey. I went to the door again, in time to see the rays of the morning brightening the blue ridge which lay clear and cool over against me. What light for Molly now! And what new light for me. I drove home through that new light, outward and inward. I could and did give mamma some pleasure at breakfast; and then slept a quiet, dreamless sleep, to make up for my loss of the night before. I have got through my story now, I think. In Molly's cottage, life started anew for me, on a new basis. Not my own special gratification, but my Lord's will. And I seeking that, He takes care of the other. I find it so. And He has promised that everybody shall find it so. My only care is to do exactly the work He means I shall do. It is not so easy always to find out and make sure of that. I would like, if I followed my liking, I would like to go South and teach in the Freedmen's schools somewhere. But that is not my work now, for mamma claims me here. We are at Melbourne again. As soon as the last tenant's term of possession was expired, Dr. Sandford had the house put in order for us, and mamma and I moved in. There is a sort of pleasure, in being here, in the old place; but it is a mingled pleasure. I think all places are pleasant to me now. Mamma reigns here queen, as of old; - for Ransom will not come North, and leaves all in her hand. All the enjoyment, that is. Dr. Sandford manages the business. I do not know how long this will last; for Ransom may marry, and in that case he may wish to live in the place himself, and mamma and I would have to go; but that day is not yet; and the blue mountains across the river, and the slopes of green turf, and the clumps and groves of trees which stand about the house and adorn the grounds, are all in even greater beauty than when I was ten years old; and I enjoy them even more. Dr. Sandford takes care of everything that mamma cannot manage. I know why he does it; and I am sorry. He is like a good brother to me, and I am very fond of him; he is coming and going in our house continually; he furthers my plans, and ministers to all my pleasure, and looks after my well-being, somewhat as he did when I was ten years old; only with much more of freedom and acknowledged affection and authority. I think he fancies that time will befriend him and bring me to look upon him in a light more kindly for his wishes. He is mistaken. People may love truly and love again, I suppose; I have no doubt men may; but I think not women. Not true women, when they have once thoroughly given their hearts. I do not think they can take them back to give again. And mine is Mr. Thorold's. My writing all this has been a great comfort to me and done me good. Have I accomplished what I said at the beginning I would try to do, - follow out the present truth of my life to the possible glory? Surely I have found it. Through sorrow and joy, through gain and loss, yes, and I suppose by means of these, I have come to know that all joy, even fulness of joy, is summed up in being wholly the Lord's child. To do His will, and to be filled with the happiness that He can give and He alone, that is enough for anybody. It is enough for me. THE END. Note by the transcriber : DAISY IN THE FIELD is the continuation of MELBOURNE HOUSE and DAISY. 
37043	----	[Illustration: "THE BIRDS WERE SCREECHING AND FLUTTERING THEIR WINGS."] JILL'S RED BAG By AMY LE FEUVRE _Author of "Probable Sons," "The Odd One," etc._ [Illustration] New York Chicago Toronto FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY London and Edinburgh Copyright, 1903, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY (_April_) New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 63 Washington Street Toronto: 27 Richmond Street W London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 30 St. Mary Street CONTENTS I. "What Can Be Done with Them?" 1 II. "We're to Have a Governess" 12 III. "The Golden City" 24 IV. "Let's Be Truants!" 37 V. "A Very Solemn Vow!" 53 VI. "God's Cabbages" 67 VII. The Trespasser 80 VIII. "I Must Love First, before I Can Give" 99 IX. Trying to Be "Double Good" 114 X. A Paper Chase 131 XI. A Donkey Ride 148 XII. The Bishop and the Geese 165 XIII. Mona's Tenth 179 XIV. "You and Your Red Bag Are at the Bottom of It All!" 192 XV. "Worn Out in a Good Service" 205 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS _Facing page_ "The birds were screeching and fluttering their wings" title "Good gracious!" he ejaculated "what a scene" 2 "Are these my little pupils"? 22 "Bumps knelt down" 60 "There's my mite towards it" 164 "You're trespassers and thieves" 192 Jill's Red Bag I "WHAT CAN BE DONE WITH THEM?" "Oh, Jack! do let her go! I'll make you if you don't!" "Get away! She's an early Christian, and I'm seeing if she's a real one." "It's Sunday, and if she screams much louder, they'll hear in the drawing-room." "It's a proper Sunday game, and I don't care for anybody in the drawing-room!" When Jack was defiant, Jill knew it was a hopeless case. She sat on the back of a cane chair, her feet beating a tattoo on its seat; and a twinkle of amusement succeeded the marked disapproval in her big blue eyes when Jack proceeded to stuff his victim's head into a pillow-case. Six-year-old Winnie, or Bumps, as she was called, was always a ready subject for her brother's ingenious mischief. She worshipped the ground he trod upon, and would promise to be all that he desired, until the experience of it proved too much for her endurance. She was at present gagged and bound with bedroom towels, antimacassars, and pocket-handkerchiefs combined. She had been rolled over and over on the floor, with Jack on the top of her, and now he announced in an offhand tone-- "She's going to be put into a sack and thrown into the river, and that will be the end of an early Christian." "Where's the river?" asked Jill with interest. "The bath-room, of course. Go and fill the bath." Jill laughed, and started up to obey. The fun of such a prospect before her overcame her scruples. But in her haste she overbalanced herself, and came with a crash to the floor. Her screams united with Winnie's brought two people to the nursery, and the first one to open the door was a young man. "Good gracious!" he ejaculated, "what a scene!" [Illustration: "GOOD GRACIOUS!" HE EJACULATED, "WHAT A SCENE."] He might well say so. The nursery floor was covered with a medley of furniture, toys, and miscellaneous articles that clearly had no business there. In her fall Jill had caught hold of a tablecloth, and swept to the ground the remains of the nursery tea. Broken plates, a stream of milk, and bread and butter were mingled with the entangled bodies of the three children. Bumps had escaped from the pillowcase, but was rolling about screaming lustily; Jack was trying to extricate Jill out of the meshes of the broken chair, and a small terrier puppy was dancing to and fro, and worrying at everything in turn. "Oh it's you, Captain Willoughby," said Jack, getting upon his feet. "It's a pretty mess, I'm afraid." "You young scamp! I bet you are the originator of it! Your sister is wondering if the ceiling will withstand your onslaughts. Ah, here she is to speak for herself." A pretty delicate-looking girl with dark hair and eyes and impulsive manner stood at the door. "Oh, you children!" she exclaimed. "Where is nurse? And what are you doing? Don't you know you ought not to romp like this on Sunday?" "Nurse is at her tea. She gave us ours too early." Jill had struggled to her feet by this time, and was rubbing the back of her head ruefully. Captain Willoughby was busy releasing Bumps from her bonds. "It strikes me there has been a bit of bullying going on here," he said, eyeing Jack severely. "Is this the way you generally treat your small sister?" "She likes it," asserted Jack eagerly. "On my honour she does--don't you, Bumps?" "Yeth, I does!" sobbed his victim. "Nurse has no business to leave you," said Mona Baron decisively, as she gave a sharp pull to the nursery bell. "Now, Jill, pick up some of these things at once. Why can't you keep Jack quiet? I don't know which is the worse of you. It is six of one and half-a-dozen of the other!" She did not speak angrily, for these three pickles always afforded her considerable amusement. But she felt that a limit must be drawn somewhere, and when the nurse appeared, considerably ruffled by her sudden recall from the servants' hall, she was spoken to so sharply by her young mistress that she gave notice on the spot. Mona went back to the drawing-room with Captain Willoughby. "That makes the fifth nurse we have had in ten months," she said. "What can be done with them? They are too small to go to school." "Can't you get a governess?" "I suppose I must try. But I was made so miserable myself as a small child by one, that I resolved never to give them the chance of such an experience. I must talk it over with Miss Webb." The nursery party up-stairs soon calmed down. Nurse restored order, and set the three delinquents in separate corners of the room. Her tongue was a powerful one, and she did not spare them. "I shall be thankful to get out of the house, for never in my life have I seen such bold, owdacious children, and no respectable woman would stand it. Your sister ought to look after you herself, and then she'd know what you were like. She dances out to all her gaieties with that lazy Miss Webb, who's in a field of clover if any one is, and expects me to grind on in this four-walled room without a friend to keep me company. I would as soon be in prison, and I'm not going to stand it. And as for you, with your monkey tricks and your wicked ways, you want to be well whipped and placed in a reformatory. That's the place for the likes of you!" No one dared speak. She talked on in the same strain for a good quarter of an hour, then dared them at the peril of their lives to move from their seats, and walked down to the servants' hall again. "Sunday is a _dreadful_ day," observed Jill plaintively. "I wonder what it was made for!" "I s'pose God thought it would make people good," said Jack; "it may do grown-up people good, but it makes children dreadfully wicked!" "Yes," assented Jill; "because there's nothing to do after church, and we're always shut up in this old nursery. When I grow up I shall live in a house without any doors, so that I can never be shut up anywhere!" Jack looked across at his sister meditatively. "Then what would you do when robbers came?" "I'd run away, of course, stupid!" "They'd soon catch you. We'll try it to-morrow. I'll be the robber, and you can leave all the doors open to give yourself a chance, and I'll give you five minutes' start." "Me too!" exclaimed Bumps, removing her thumb from her mouth, which she had been contentedly sucking. "Oh, you!" said her brother scornfully. "You can't even be an early Christian without screaming the house down! But you've done one good thing! Nurse is going, and a jolly good job too! Nurses are all rot!" Jill shook her head doubtfully. "We shall only have another worse than this one! I wish we could do without them, like the Clarkes. Their mother looks after them." "That's because they're poor--George told me so." "What's poor?" asked Bumps. "It's having no money," explained Jill. "But we haven't no money," argued Bumps. "No, you little stupid, but Mona has. I heard nurse say she was an heiress, and that's an awfully grand thing to be, it's next to being a princess in a fairy-book." "Now we've sat still long enough," announced Jack with a yawn. "We'll have a kind of 'Puss in the Corner.' Our chairs will be the corners. We can easily get back to them before nurse comes." "It's Sunday," objected Jill again. "Here's Miss Webb!" shouted Jack. A stout, pleasant-faced lady came into the room as he spoke, and saved the situation, for restless Jack could never stay quiet for long. The little Barons could remember neither father nor mother. Their mother had died at Bumps' birth, their father a year after. He had married twice, and Mona was the daughter of his first wife. Miss Webb, a cousin of Mr. Baron's, had taken charge of the household after his death; but when Mona had finished her education she came home, and when she came of age and inherited a good bit of money, Miss Webb still stayed on as her chaperon. The children were fond of Miss Webb, though they did not see much of her, and their faces brightened at her appearance. "Your sister asked me to come and see if order had been restored," she said, smiling. "Why, you are as quiet as mice! Now, why can't you always sit still like this?" "We were just going to finish it," said Jill. "We've been here ages. Do you like Sunday, Miss Webb? We don't." "I think I used to when I was a little girl," said Miss Webb, taking a seat by the nursery fire, and placing Bumps upon her lap. Jack and Jill came to her side at once. "Do tell us about it. What did you do?" "My mother used to have me down-stairs in the drawing-room in the afternoon, and show me lovely pictures out of some books she had, and talk to me about them. I had no brothers and sisters, and I used to be allowed to dine with her and my father, and sometimes she sang to me. She had a beautiful voice, and she would play hymns for me to sing with her." "Ah," said Jill, with a long-drawn breath and a wistful look in her eyes; "but then, you see, we haven't got a mother." "But you have a nice kind sister," said Miss Webb, pity filling her heart for the children who had never realised a mother's love. "Yes," said Jack; "Mona is very good, but she's always out, and she doesn't make Sunday nice to us." "May we thing hymns in the drawing-room?" asked Bumps eagerly. "Yes," said Miss Webb on the impulse of the moment, "you shall. Nurse has made you tidy, so come along, just as you are." Down two flights of stairs they scampered, delighted at the prospect of leaving the nursery. They found Mona leaning back in an easy-chair by the fire. A butler was removing the tea, and Captain Willoughby was standing, hat in hand, saying good-bye. Mona's other Sunday visitors had taken their leave. She looked up astonished when she saw the children. "Now, what are you doing, Miss Webb?" she said, laughing. "Bringing them in their right minds to express contrition for their Sabbath-breaking?" "No," said Miss Webb quietly. "They are going to sing some hymns. I thought you would like to play for them." Mona elevated her eyebrows. "Wish I could stay to join you," said Captain Willoughby, "but I've promised my mother to take her to evening church. Au revoir!" He departed. Mona got up from her seat and went to the piano. Then she twirled round on the music-stool and confronted Miss Webb. "What new freak is this?" she asked, laughing. Miss Webb looked at her gravely. "We were wondering why Sundays should be such a trial," she said, "and Jill solved the problem. She said it was because they have no mother. I reminded them that they had you, and we finally bethought ourselves of hymn-singing down here." Mona's laughing dimples faded away. She turned to the piano, her little sisters and brother clustered round her, and soon the sweet, childish voices were uplifted in song. When bedtime came Bumps said ecstatically, "Thinging hymns in the drawn-room is nearly as nithe as thinging them in heaven!" "When did you sing them there?" demanded Jack. And Bumps replied promptly, "Before I wath a baby." II "WE'RE TO HAVE A GOVERNESS" "Miss Jill, your sister wants to speak to you." Jill was curled up on the nursery hearthrug, reading a story-book, and sucking peppermints. She had a slight cold, and had not accompanied Jack and Bumps in their daily walk with nurse. She jumped up with alacrity. "Where is she, Annie? Not in the drawing-room?" "No, in the library," answered the nursery-maid. Jill dashed down-stairs, and burst open the library door very noisily. She drew back when she saw a strange young lady in earnest conversation with her sister; and she was conscious of a rough head of hair, a buttonless shoe that was being trodden under heel, and some very sticky fingers. Mona turned round. "This is one of them, Miss Falkner. Shake hands with this lady, Jill." Jill kept her hands behind her back. "They're sticky," she said, staring at Miss Falkner in wonder. "Never mind," said Miss Falkner with a smile. "You are fond of peppermints, are you?" Jill stared the harder, then she said-- "How did you know? Cook gave them to me. She said they were good for a cold." "You do look a little object," said Mona, drawing Jill to her, and smoothing her hair as she spoke. "She is the eldest, Miss Falkner, then comes Jack, then Winnie. They are very backward for their ages, I am afraid, but you will remedy that." Jill's blue eyes scanned Miss Falkner up and down. "Who was she?" she wondered. "Can you read, dear?" asked Miss Falkner. Jill nodded. "And write?" Another nod. Mona gave her a little shake. "Speak properly, Jill. Where are your manners? You are like a little savage this afternoon. I am sure it is high time you had a governess to keep you in order." Mona did not often speak so crossly. Jill darted away from her with scarlet cheeks and flashing eyes. "Who is she? and what does she want?" she demanded passionately. "Is _she_ a governess? Because, if she is, I hate her!" Then flying out of the room she banged the door violently behind her, and raced up-stairs, never drawing breath till she reached the nursery. Here she flung herself down face foremost on the hearthrug, and when a little time later Jack and Bumps rushed in, they found her still muttering angrily to herself. Jack at once flung himself on the top of her. "You're in a tantrum! What have you been doing?" Jill would not answer till she had extricated herself from his clutches. Then she sat up and tossed her long hair back from her flushed little face. "We're to have a governess!" "Hurray!" shouted Jack. "Good-bye to nurses, who are rotten rot!" "And I've seen her," pursued Jill, shaking her head mournfully; "and I was rude to her, I told her I hated her, and she'll never forgive me. Mona was so cross, and then I was, and of course the governess will hate me back, and we'll fight from the very beginning!" "What was she like?" demanded Jack. "Like any other person," said Jill crossly. "Is she coming to tea?" asked Bumps with round eyes. Jill looked at her small sister scornfully. "She's coming to breakfast, and dinner, and tea, for ever and ever; she's just like a nurse, only it will be lessons all day long, and punishments." This depressing view had no effect on Jack. "We can play truant," he suggested eagerly. "Boys do that when they go to school--at least in books they do. To be sure," he added thoughtfully, "they always come to a bad end and wish they hadn't, but before the end comes, it's jolly." "Is truant a nice game?" asked Bumps. Jill's brown eyes began to dance with mirth. "So we will," she exclaimed. "We'll settle what to do at once. We must save up bits of cake and biscuits, and anything else we can stuff in our pockets, for we must have food." "But," objected Jack, looking thoughtful, "it's winter, and I think you can only be truants in summer. You always spend a day in the woods and have a kind of picnic, and you must be in the country to do it, and we're in a town." "What does that matter?" said Jill impatiently. "We'll show how we can truant. I'll think of the most splendid things when I'm in bed to-night." All her ill temper vanished. Jill's thoughts in bed were the admiration of her brother. His brain was a quick and busy one, but nothing to be compared to Jill's. He laid the foundation for many a mischievous scheme, but it was Jill who took it up and worked it out. Bumps was at present a nonentity, but she was a sturdy little follower, and would as cheerfully have tried to walk a tight-rope as to eat her dinner, had she seen the others attempt it. "When shall we start?" pursued Jack--"to-morrow?" "I don't know when she's coming," Jill replied. "I think we shall have to do lessons with her one day first," said Jack, "because we shan't be proper truants unless we do." "Oh yes, and if it's a very wet day we won't go." It was a great disappointment to them when Mona came into the nursery that evening and called them to her. "A very nice lady named Miss Falkner is coming to live with us," she began. "I know!" exclaimed Jack. "She's a governess. Is she coming to-night?" "Oh dear, no, not for another month, when we go down to Willowlands." The children's faces fell. Willowlands was their country home, and it was only shut up for three months in the winter. They liked London best, and were always sorry when their time came to leave it. Mona watched their expressive faces. "You must try to be very good till she comes," she said cheerfully. "The time will soon pass. Jill, what made you so naughty this afternoon? I was quite ashamed of you." Jill got very red, and twisted her hands together, as was her habit when embarrassed. Then she looked straight at her sister with a defiant sparkle in her eyes. "Of course we don't like her," she said. "You've told us how you used to hate your governess, and we shall do it too." "Oh dear!" said Mona with a smile and a groan. "I'm always so stupid when I talk to you. My governess was very different from Miss Falkner--she was a tall, grim, strict old thing, who never smiled. I've found you a very different kind of governess, and you will all love her, I feel sure." "I wish she was coming now," said Jill gloomily. "Why? What a queer child you are." "It's only," explained Jack hastily, "we've settled to do something when she comes, and we don't like waiting." "What is it?" asked Mona unsuspiciously. "Oh, it's a secret," exclaimed Jill; "we aren't going to tell any one." "I hope it isn't anything naughty. I wish you would try to be good. I can't think why you are always in mischief!" She left them. Jill was up on the window-seat drumming her fingers on the pane. "I wish," she said at length, "that the king would pass a law that for one day every child could do exactly what they liked, that they could be just as naughty as ever they wished to be. Why, there are crowds and crowds of things that I'm _longing_ to do, only Mona would think it wicked!" "And God would too," put in Jack, who in spite of his mischievous rollicking ways had occasional qualms of conscience. Jill looked at him meditatively. "I try and think God looks the other way sometimes when we're doing things. That's what I shall do when I have any children. I shall only look at them when they want me to! It's a pity this governess isn't coming soon; but we'll have plenty of time to save heaps of food for our truant day, and I'll think out some lovely things to do on it." "I think," said Jack, "I'll keep the food in my play-box that locks up. Lumps of sugar will be a very good thing to save up." "And treacle pudding," put in Bumps anxiously. She was only too eager to bring contributions to Jack's secret store. He kept his box in a corner of the nursery, and more than once had to interfere when Bumps was eagerly putting all kinds of her favourite puddings into screws of paper and attempting to stuff them in with drier and more suitable food. This hope of "playing truant" did much to comfort them in the dread of possible lessons and punishments. Jill's programme for "truant day" grew more glorious as time went on, and when her imagination sometimes failed before Bumps' eager and original questions, Jack came to her rescue and threw himself gallantly into the breach. "What shall we do if there are no blackberries or nuts in the woods to eat, and a mad bull has eaten all our food, and the sun has dried up all the ponds and rivers so that we can get no water? Why, you stupid, of course we'll go up to a cottage like beggars, and they'll give us some food." Bumps nodded contentedly. "We'll be proper beggarth, with no shoeth and stockingth, and we'll have no hat, and I'll tear a 'normouth hole in my frock!" The time seemed to pass very slowly, but the month wore away, and then came the move into the country. For the first few days after their arrival the children ran wild. Nurse was too busy unpacking and arranging things to heed them, and their adventurous spirits led them into every kind of mischief. Then Mona was appealed to, and she made short work of nurse's complaints. "I don't care what they do as long as they don't hurt themselves. Miss Falkner is coming the end of the week, and then she will be entirely responsible for them." And so, after a long and tiring journey, when Miss Falkner arrived at the house, this is what she saw in the hall-- Bumps seated in a large copper coal-scuttle, which was suspended by a rope from the stair-railings above. Her face, pinafore and hands were covered with black coal-dust, for the contents of the coal-scuttle had been hastily emptied into the hall fire-place, and Bumps had taken her place without a thought of consequences. Jack, with red and hot cheeks, was sitting astride of the balustrade and trying vainly to haul up his heavy load, being in danger of over-balancing himself with his exertions, and Jill, arrayed in all the coats and wraps that she could find, was ambling about on all fours making sudden rushes at the coal-scuttle, which was just high enough to swing over her head. All three children were screaming at the top of their voices, and when William the butler came forward to open the door, nothing that he could do or say seemed to have any result. It was not till a very bright clear voice spoke that there was a sudden hush. [Illustration: "ARE THESE MY LITTLE PUPILS?"] "Are these my little pupils?" Jill threw off her disguise and stood upon her feet. Jack scrambled down from his post, and Bumps was the only one that continued her occupation. She swung helplessly to and fro, and puckered up her face as if she were meditating a weep. "Take me down, Jack," she whined; "I'm thy!" Miss Falkner lifted her down. "Now, what game is this, I wonder?" she said. "It looks most interesting; do tell me." "It's a princess being rescued from a dragon," said Jack eagerly. "And I'm the one who saves her; I'm the prince!" Miss Falkner smiled, and her smile emboldened Jack still further. "Everybody is out," he informed her; "Mona and Miss Webb have gone to a party. We've had our tea, and nurse has gone down-stairs to have hers. She's going to-morrow, because you've come, and I'm jolly glad too! And if you make haste and have your tea, you can come back and be the old queen who has lost the princess. It's a jolly game. Jill and I made it up ourselves." "I think I should like some tea very much," said Miss Falkner, following William up-stairs. "Won't you all come and talk to me while I have it?" When Mona returned home just before dinner, she found the children clustering round their new governess in the school-room, whilst she related to them some childish reminiscence of her own. Their rapt attention proved she could interest them, and Mona said to Miss Webb triumphantly-- "I have succeeded at last in finding some one who will manage them." Miss Webb shook her head doubtfully. "Time will show," she said wisely. III THE GOLDEN CITY Another Sunday. The children had been to the little village church in the morning, and now after their early dinner were discussing plans for the afternoon in the school-room. It was a lovely day. The French windows were open, and the green lawn, with its fringe of young larches and birches at the bottom of it, looked very inviting to the little ones. This lawn was their special property. It was not so smoothly rolled and cared for as were the two on which Mona had her croquet and tennis, but then, when cricket and rounders were as often the order of the day as anything else, it was not to be expected that its turf would be as well preserved. It belonged to the children, and their little feet used it well. "Shall we be naughty or good?" questioned Bumps anxiously. Jill screwed up her mouth and nose impatiently. "Shut up, Bumps; you shouldn't ask such silly questions. Jack and I are going to be what we like. I don't think we shall want you at all." "Oh, she can come if she likes," said Jack, "we may want her. We're going to play a proper Sunday game--one out of the Bible." Jill looked at her little sister meditatively. "She would make a good Joseph!" "Yes," cried Jack, cutting a caper; "and there's the rubbish-pit in the backyard, she could never climb up without a rope." "But there's the coat of many colours," said Jill slowly; "we must have that." There was silence. Bumps looked slightly uneasy. "The rubbith-pit is very dirty, and I've got my bestest frock on," she ventured. Jill turned upon her severely. "You ought to be _thankful_ to be Joseph, Bumps. He was an awfully good little boy, you can't do wrong if you play at being him. S'posing if we told you to be Cain, how would you like that?" "There's my striped red-and-blue jersey," broke in Jack, "we'll dress her up in that." "Yes, go and get it quick, and I've got some yellow ribbon that Mona gave me; we'll twist it round and round, and it will look splendid!" It was unfortunate, from the children's point of view, that Miss Falkner should take it into her head to come into the room just when Bumps was being arrayed in her many-coloured garment. They had taken it for granted that she would retire to her room for a long afternoon nap, after the custom of their nurse. Bumps was quite happy now. She stood on a chair with beaming pride, whilst Jill wound her yellow ribbon round and round the coloured jersey, till she looked like some fat wasp. Jack with his hands in his pockets was watching the proceeding impatiently. "Hurry up, Jill--and, I say! we haven't half talked it out. How shall we manage to dip it in blood, and who's to be old Jacob?" Jill was never at a loss. "I'll be Jacob. I can easily be him, and we'll get a can of water, and one of Mona's red paints--the oil ones in the tubes--I'll soon make some blood." Then Miss Falkner spoke. "I did not mean to leave you so long, chicks, but I was looking in my box to see if I could find a story-book to read to you. I haven't been successful, but I thought we would all go out on the lawn and sit under the trees, and then I would tell you a story!" The children's faces looked rather blank. "We're having a game, thank you," said Jill slowly, striving to be polite. "Why are you making Winnie such a guy? I think we must leave such games for week-days." "Oh, but," said Jack eagerly, "this is a Sunday game; we're most partic'lar to play only Sunday games on Sunday. Mona likes us to." But Miss Falkner showed a bold front. "I cannot have it," she said decidedly; "take that jersey off, Winnie, and come out into the garden with me." It was Miss Falkner's first Sunday. Her little pupils were still in awe of her, but their disappointment was great, and they followed her out into the garden with sullen, angry faces. Yet when they were settled under a lime-tree with chairs and cushions, the sweet spring air and sunshine, and the singing of the birds, charmed their discontent away. Miss Falkner could tell a story well, and they knew it. Bumps sat on a cushion at her feet, Jack lay on his back on the grass with another cushion tucked under his head, and Jill was curled up in a big wicker-chair sitting on her feet in true tailor fashion, as was her custom. "Once upon a time," began Miss Falkner, "there lived two children who were orphans. They were a boy and a girl named Rufus and Cicely. They had no one to care for them and love them, for an old uncle with whom they lived could not bear children, and told them to keep out of his sight and way as much as possible. They used to spend most of their time out of doors, and would wander over the country day after day, taking their dinners in their pockets, and only coming home at bedtime. One day they went out feeling very unhappy. Their uncle had been very angry with them, and told them to be gone, and never come back again, for he was sick and tired of keeping them in his house. They walked on and on through a wood, and at last came out on the other side to the banks of a river which they had never seen before. Cicely was tired, so she sat down on the grass, and Rufus did the same. It was very quiet, and they soon fell asleep, but after a time they awoke with a start. An old man with a kind face and a grey beard was speaking to them. He held a letter in his hand. "'This is a letter for you, dear children, from a King who loves you, and wants you to come to Him in His Golden City.' "'For us?' said Rufus; 'it must be a mistake. No one loves us, no one wants us.' "'My Master does. Read His message.' "Rufus took the letter. His name and Cicely's were written upon it. He opened it. In golden letters which shone like the sun was written-- "'Come unto Me. Those that seek Me early shall find Me. This is the way, walk ye in it.'" Jill sharp eyes were lifted at once to her governess's face. "That sounds like a text," she said. Miss Falkner made no remark, but went on-- "Rufus read the letter through again and again. "'What does it mean?' he asked. 'Where does this King live? Where is the way to Him? We would like to go to Him if He wants us, would we not, Cicely?' "'Oh, yes,' Cicely cried. 'Let us go at once. Show us the way.' "The old man smiled. "'Are you in earnest?' he asked. 'Do you really want to go to my Master? Then follow me. He has sent me to show you the way.' "Then he led the children to the bank of the river, and told them to look across it. They saw on the other side a green hill with people walking up, and at the very top some glittering golden gates. "'That is the Golden City,' he said gently. 'If you want real happiness it is to be found inside those gates; no pain, no unkindness, no disappointment ever finds its way there, and no sin.' "He said these last words very solemnly. "Rufus and Cicely began to feel uncomfortable. "'We aren't altogether good,' they said. "Then they looked about them with interest. They saw other children trying to cross the river; one boy was rowing himself across in a boat, another was building a bridge, some were standing on the bank hesitating. One little girl and boy bravely jumped in and began wading through it. "'They will be drowned,' exclaimed Cicely. 'How shall we get across? In a boat?' "The old man shook his head. "'It is the King's wish that all travellers shall arrive at His gates with spotlessly clean clothes. Look through this telescope and you will see what is written above the gates.' "The children looked through eagerly, and Cicely spelled out: '"There shall in no wise enter into it anything that defileth."' "'What does that mean?' she asked. "'It means that no dust or dirt of any kind is allowed inside.' "Rufus looked down at his boots and clothes, then at his sister's. "'We are very muddy,' he said; 'how can we make ourselves clean?' "'By plunging into this river and being washed,' the old man said. 'The King's Son made this river. It cost Him His life, but it was the only way travellers could be cleansed. Look up at that sign-post and read what it says.' "Rufus read: '"Wash and be clean." "If I wash thee not, thou hast no part with Me."' "'The river is the only true way to the Golden City,' the old man said. 'You will only be turned away at the gates if you arrive there without washing in the river. That boy you see building a bridge is very eager and earnest, but his clothes will be too travel-stained and dusty to allow him to enter the gates when he gets there. He has made a wrong start, and is trying to reach the Golden City in the wrong way.' "'And the boy in the boat?' asked Rufus. "'He is wrong too, he too has overlooked the first start of all. The King would never have placed the river there if He did not mean every one to go through it.' "Then Rufus led Cicely down to the river. "'We will go through,' he said. 'We want to be washed clean.' "Cicely was rather frightened at first, but the river was not deep, and when they clambered up the other side, they found to their delight that their clothes were new and fresh and clean. Then they started walking up the hill. "It was steep and stony, but they kept their eyes fixed on the golden gates, and presently they found their old friend by their side again. "Other people were climbing the hill, but many had never been through the river, and they were so dusty and shabby that their chance of entering the city was small indeed. Suddenly Cicely, who had been walking carelessly, stumbled and fell. She picked herself up, but her clean frock was soiled. She began to cry. "'I can't keep myself clean,' she said; 'what shall I do?' "The old man took hold of her hand and showed her a little stream running along by the side of the path. "'It comes from the river,' he said, 'and is always close to you. You can wash in it whenever you get yourself dirty.' "So Cicely dried her tears and quickly washed away her stain, and she went on happily with her brother. They walked with other children a part of the way; sometimes they found themselves alone; sometimes the path was rough, sometimes easy, and after a long, long time they reached the Golden City. It was a happy day for them then. They were tired, but they forgot their troubles when they saw the lovely gates. Two shining angels stood by the entrance, and they only let those in who had been washed in the river. They were the only ones who arrived in clean clothes. The others sadly turned away. Then Rufus and Cicely saw the King Himself. He came to meet them, and His look and smile was wonderful. I cannot tell you what He said, but He put His hands upon their heads and blessed them, and they followed Him up the golden street." Miss Falkner paused. There was a short silence, then Bumps remarked reflectively-- "That was Jesus; no one puts their hands on children's heads and blesses them except Him!" "It's a sort of parable, isn't it?" asked Jack. "I don't like parables, they make me feel so muddled. I love the _Pilgrim's Progress_ if nobody tries to explain it. But it gets so mixed up when they do, that it's quite spoilt!" "Would you like me to explain my story?" asked Miss Falkner gently. "No," said Jack promptly. "Yes," said Jill, in the same tone. "We ought to be all journeying to the Golden City every day," said Miss Falkner. "I have only told you about the start, because I wanted you to make the right beginning. Perhaps some of you have started, have you?" The children made no answer. Jill uncurled her feet, and her big questioning eyes were fixed intently upon her governess. "I haven't started," she said abruptly. "The King wants you quite as much as He wanted Rufus and Cicely," Miss Falkner said softly; "He wants all three of you." "But where's the river?" asked Jack. "Jesus Christ is the Water of Life, His blood that He shed will wash you whiter than snow. You must go to Him and ask Him to cleanse you, and then you will be able to start on your journey." "I like journeys," announced Bumps, only dimly understanding the allegory, "partic'ly when we have thandwiches." Jack rolled over on the grass. "It will be a first-rate game," he said, rising to his feet; "I think better than Joseph!" Then he caught sight of an early butterfly, and in a moment was off across the lawn in pursuit of it. The little party broke up. Bumps trotted after Jack, but Jill betook herself to their hammock. Here she swung herself to and fro wrapped in deep meditation. The Golden City had entranced her. For the first time in her little life she began to long to be good, and later on that day, after she had been put to bed, Miss Falkner heard her murmur in her sleep-- "I'll start to-morrow!" IV "LET'S BE TRUANTS!" But to-morrow found her with different intentions. She awoke at six o'clock, the birds were singing, and the sun was streaming through the yellow blinds, bathing the room in golden light. Jill and Bumps slept in a room leading out of Miss Falkner's, Jack had a small room across the passage. Softly Jill stole out of bed and peeped out of the window. It was a morning that would tempt any one out of doors. She saw a bright blue sky and sunny meadows. The fresh green trees, the spring flowers, the sweet scents of early morning all seemed to say, "Come out and enjoy us!" Jill's cheeks grew rosy at a thought that flashed through her brain. She opened the door softly and crossed the passage. Turning the handle of Jack's door she whispered, "Jack! Are you awake?" Jack sprang up at once. "Of course I am. What do you want?" "Let's be truants to-day." "Oh, jolly! When? How?" Jill came in and sat on the bottom of the bed. "We must go before breakfast, or we shan't be able to get away without being seen. Miss Falkner sends Bumps and me down at half-past seven, and breakfast isn't ready till eight, so we shan't be missed. You get the food ready and dress as quick as you can." "And where shall we go?" "Anywhere. What does it matter? I'll go back and wake up Bumps and tell her." Jill crept back to her room, and Bumps, a sleepy fat bundle, was shaken into consciousness. When she understood she was delighted, and was full of fuss and importance at once. "I'll take my best china mug on the mantelpiece to get some water from a thtream; and do you think I might take a umblella, because it might come on a thunderstorm; and thall I take my thpade and bucket I took to the thea?" "Hush," whispered Jill; "you'll wake Miss Falkner. You needn't take anything, you little stupid! Keep quiet, and do what I tell you." Bumps was not crushed. She kept up an incessant stream of shrill whispers till Jill refused to respond, and then she confided the whole plan of action to a beloved rag doll that she always took to bed with her. It was hard to keep the secret from Miss Falkner, who always helped them to dress, but at last they were dismissed, and scampered down-stairs. Jill had quietly conveyed their hats and boots into the passage before-hand, so they had no difficulty in getting themselves ready for their day out. Jack joined them in the hall below. One of the maids noticed them but thought they were going into the garden, which indeed they did, though they did not stay there. "We will walk along the road till we come to a nice field," said Jill, who was taking the head. "And now we've really begun to truant!" said Bumps importantly; "but please don't go so fatht!" "Hurrah!" shouted Jack, throwing his cap into the air and catching it; "we're going to do no horrid lessons to-day!" They tramped along, Bumps getting hot and breathless with her eager resolve to keep pace with the others. "My legs is so short!" she panted ruefully; "pleath let me hold your hand, Jill." Jill seized hold of her impatiently. "You must be quick, Bumps, or else they'll find out we've gone, and run after us. Now, Jack, let us go across this field, it leads down to the river, and no one will find us there because the trees are so thick." The grass was wet, but that was a trifle. Buttercups were already springing up in the meadow; larks were rising in the air singing their morning hymn of praise, and the children broke into a run. Not a shadow fell on their spirits, they felt exhilarated by the fresh morning breeze. They reached the river and then began to think of breakfast. Jack with great pride produced his store. It was rather a fragmentary one. Two or three figs, some bits of cake and one orange were divided into three equal portions. The novelty of such a breakfast compensated for the quantity and quality. But when Bumps announced she was thirsty they looked rather dismayed. "You must drink from the river," said Jill. "But I might thwallow some fishes," objected Bumps, "and I've no cup." "Then you must wait till we go home. You can't be thirsty early in the morning." Bumps heaved a sigh, and looked at the river meditatively. "It would be nithe to take off shoes and stockings, and go through it like the children Miss Falkner told us of." "Oh yes, we will," cried Jack. "We'll play at going to the Golden City." Jill looked grave. "I meant to start really to-day," she said, "but it's no good now, because we're doing a wicked thing to play truant, and you have to be good when you're walking to the Golden City. I mean to be double good to-morrow to make up." Jack was already pulling off his shoes and stockings; his sisters quickly followed his example, and for half-an-hour or so they had a delightful time in paddling about. It is true that Bumps fell with a splash once, grazing her hands and knees against the stones and soaking her dress and pinafore, but Bumps' tumbles were so frequent that they passed unnoticed. When they were tired of this pastime they crossed two or three more fields and then climbed up into some steep woods. They were very hot and tired when they reached the top, and sat down to rest. "We've done nothing exciting yet," complained Jill. "I thought truants always met with lovely adventures." "Let's have our dinner," suggested Jack, "I'm sure it's time." So again Jack's hoard was brought out, and more bits of cake and biscuits and miscellaneous scraps were divided round. "I wonder what Miss Falkner is doing," said Jack, "do you think she's hunting for us?" "Oh, don't think of her. Come on, we must make some adventures. This is very dull." "We'll all climb a tree," said Jack, "and pretend we're Charles II. hiding in an oak." Bumps looked a little anxious, but Jill eagerly assented. A suitable tree was found, and up went nimble Jack, followed by Jill, who was quite as good a climber as he was. Bumps tried her best, but failed entirely, so she sat down on the grass and cried. Jill took pity on her, and came down to assist her. With the greatest difficulty she was hoisted up, but when she was comfortably settled on a big branch, her little face shone with pride and contentment. "It's my legs again," she said, looking down upon them with pity; "they is so short, and--and inconven'ent!" "Hush!" cried Jack, "here's a wild beast coming, look out! Oh, look, look, it's a deer!" It was indeed a stag, that had wandered out of a private park near. The children had never seen one so close before. Their movements startled the timid animal, he threw his head up, scented and then saw them, and in a moment he had dashed away through the bushes. In another moment Jack and Jill were down on the ground and racing after him. Bumps again was left behind, and she lifted up her voice and wept a second time. "I can't get down! Oh, Jill, come back! Take me down! I'm frightened!" But no Jill came back, and poor Bumps sobbed away, clinging hold of the branch with her hot little hands and regarding the distance down to the ground with terrified eyes. It seemed hours to her before any one passed her way, and then suddenly a young man with a gun across his shoulder, and a couple of dogs, came into sight. "Man! man!" cried Bumps frantically. "I'm left behind. Come and take me down, oh, pleath take me down!" He started and looked up at her in astonishment, then a smile crossed his lips. "A baby in a tree! How on earth did a small mite like you perch yourself up there?" "I've been lefted!" sobbed Bumps. "They've run away, and I'm lotht!" The young man laughed, then sprang up the tree, and in another minute Bumps stood on firm ground once again. "Thank you," she said prettily, her face wreathed in smiles. "Now pleathe help me find Jack and Jill." "Oh no!" ejaculated the young man; "that I refuse to do. I'm in a hurry. If you come along with me I will put you in the road again, and then you will soon find your way home." Bumps trotted after him quite reassured, talking fast all the time. "We're having a truant-day, and I've got to stay out till tea-time--Jill thaid so. It is such a long day, and I'd like to go back to Miss Falkner--she's our governess. She takes me in her lap, and I like her. Does your gun go off? Are you killing any one? Jack likes guns. I don't! Jill and him have runned after a deer with horns. I'm thorry I couldn't run after it too. But I think I'll go home by myself, I'm tired of being a truant." She talked on to her new acquaintance till they reached the road, then he came to a standstill. "Now where do you live? Can you find your way home?" Bumps looked about her, then put one finger in her mouth and considered. "I don't know this road, I'm afraid," she said slowly. "Where do you live, child?" the young man asked impatiently. "I live at home," said Bumps with dignity. "What is your name? Your mother's or father's name?" "Oh, they went to heaven _years_ ago, we never talks about them. My name is Winnie, but I'm called Bumps." "And your other name?" "Winnie Baron." The young man whistled slowly. "I see light at last. I know your sister, Miss Baron. You have just come down from London. I'll see you home." He seemed as anxious now to accompany Bumps back as he had been before to get rid of her. She was perfectly content to follow him. "You're a keeper, I expect," she said presently. "We've got two, and I'm dreadfully frightened of Andrew, he is tho croth, he won't let us go into his wood at all. But Barker is very nithe. He has a little boy who tumbled on the fender and had to have his forehead thewn up with needle and cotton! Fanthy that! And he has the cotton in him now!" Half-an-hour afterwards Bumps and her friend were at the hall door, and Mona came hastily forward to meet him. "Oh, Bumps, how naughty! We have been looking for you everywhere! Where are the others?" Then as the young man raised his hat and stepped forward, Mona held out her hand. "Sir Henry Talbot, is it not? I met you, I think, at Mrs. Archer's the other day. How very kind of you to take pity on my small sister. Do come in. We are just going to have lunch." "I thought he was a keeper," said Bumps, staring at her sister gravely. "Do you know him, Mona?" "Run along up-stairs to Miss Falkner. She has been out all the morning looking for you. I hope she will punish you all. You deserve it." Mona turned sharply away into the drawing-room, and Sir Henry followed her willingly. Bumps toiled up-stairs, feeling sore-footed and heavy-hearted. What would Jack and Jill say if their day was spoilt because of her? And what would Miss Falkner say? Great tears filled her blue eyes, but she opened the school-room door and walked in bravely. Miss Falkner met her with a smile of relief. "Oh, Bumps, where have you been?" Bumps ran to her and buried her head in her lap. "I'm thorry," she sobbed. "We were truants, but I've come back, and the others are lotht!" "Where did you leave them? It was very naughty to go away as you did. Now tell me all about it." Bumps tried to check her tears. "I'll never do it again," she said. "They left me up a tree, and I oughtn't to have come back at all. Jill thaid we motht thtay out till tea-time. She'll be angry, and Jack too." "Where are Jack and Jill?" "I don't know. They ran away after a deer and never came back; and I waited till a man came by, and he broughted me home." No more could be got out of Bumps, who began crying again. Miss Falkner saw she was tired and hungry, so she wisely said no more, but gave her some dinner, and then made her lie down on her bed, where she soon fell fast asleep. Meanwhile Jack and Jill were hunting high and low for Bumps. They pursued the deer with such zeal that they missed their path in the wood, and could not find their tree again. "Oh, let us leave off looking," said Jack, impatiently, "we shall lose all our day, Bumps is sure to find her way home." "We can't leave her," said Jill. "She's always a bother when we bring her out. I wish we had left her behind." But they continued their search. And at last they found the object of it, but no Bumps. Jack climbed up the tree and they shouted till they made the wood ring again, but no answer came. "She's gone home," said Jack decisively. "We'll just enjoy ourselves without her." "I think being truants is very dull," admitted Jill. "I'm not enjoying myself a bit as I thought I should. We have no adventures, and nothing has happened." "We've lost Bumps." "Yes, so we have. But that isn't fun to us. It's only fun to the one lost. She may be having heaps and heaps of adventures!" "What shall we do now?" "Oh, there's nothing to do but just walk on and see what comes." Nothing did come. They walked right through the wood, which was a small one, and then got over a hedge into a field. Here they met a small boy carrying a milk-can. Jill stopped him. "I'm dreadfully thirsty," she said. "Could you give me a drink?" "Go to your mammy!" the small boy said rudely. Jill was hot tempered. The scornful tone enraged her. She flew at the boy like a small whirlwind and knocked him down. Over went the can of milk, and the boy stood up at once to fight. Jack pushed Jill aside. "I'll settle him! I'll teach him manners!" he cried. Jill climbed a gate-post to watch results. It was not Jack's first fight, and she felt confident that he would come off victorious. She cheered him on lustily, and longed to be in the fray herself. But the small boy proved to be a better pugilist than Jack, and Jill was filled with dismay when she saw Jack thrown violently to the ground, his opponent sitting on his chest triumphantly. "Will 'ee have some more?" "Get up," said Jack sullenly. "Not till 'ee pays me thruppence for that there milk." Jill dived into her pocket and threw three coppers at the boy. "I shall tell Mona, and she'll have you punished for fighting us, you wicked boy!" The victor laughed, slung his can over his shoulder, and ran off. Jack raised himself from the ground with difficulty. "He's given my head such a bump on the ground," he said, "that I feel quite queer." "Your nose is bleeding, and oh! you'll have such a black eye! And your shirt is torn, and your collar bursted away!" "Shut up," growled Jack; "he was like a bullet to hit. I believe he must have a wooden body. Let's find a stream of water, and then I can wash my face!" They went into another field and found a stream. When Jack had put himself tidy he said slowly-- "Do you know I think we'd better go home. It isn't going to be much fun to-day, I can see. We ought to have had heaps of adventures, and we haven't had one." "All right! It must be nearly tea-time. I do hope Bumps is all right!" They trudged home. Jill would not acknowledge that the day had been a failure, but then she had not been vanquished in a fight. Jack had, and his spirit as well as his body was sore in consequence. It was four o'clock when they reached home. They stole softly up-stairs, but were met by Miss Falkner on the top landing. She looked at them in silence, then she said-- "I hope you have both enjoyed your day." Jack shuffled into his room and shut his door without a word. "Is Bumps home?" Jill asked in a shamefaced way. "Yes, quite tired out, poor mite. If you put yourself tidy, Jill, I will have tea earlier. You look as if you want it." Not a word of blame or reproach! Jill went into her bedroom with a little lump in her throat. "I haven't really enjoyed myself," she said, as she gazed at her untidy little self in the glass. "I think it would have been much better if I had started for the Golden City this morning, instead of playing truant." V "A VERY SOLEMN VOW!" It was Miss Falkner's custom to read the Bible every morning before she began lessons with the children. She did not choose long chapters, but with a few words at the end tried to make them interesting to her little pupils. One morning the subject was Jacob's flight from home. Jill was keenly interested in it. "What did Jacob mean by giving a tenth to God?" she asked after reading in her turn the last verse of the chapter. Miss Falkner explained it. "You see," she said, after telling them of the Jewish custom, "all the money that we have really comes from God. And those of us who are trying to be His servants feel we are given it to use for Him. But even so it is nice to put apart a tenth to use especially for His work down here. A tenth means a penny out of every ten, or a shilling out of every ten, or a pound out of every ten, just as we have it given to us." Jill's mouth and eyes were open wide. "And if you have only nine pennies?" she asked. Miss Falkner smiled. "Wait till you have ten," she said. "And what must you do with the tenth?" asked Jack; "put it into the plate at the church?" "Not always. I think it is nice to keep a little bag or box. A great many people keep a missionary-box and put their tenth in that. Sometimes you can buy something for very poor people. There are such lots of ways of spending money for God. Now we must begin lessons." The Bibles were shut up, but the seed was sown. That afternoon, when lessons were over, the children ran out into the garden to play. Jill's face was full of earnest resolve. "Let's come into the plantation," she said, "I've a lovely plan in my head; only first we must look about for some big stones." The plantation was a fir-tree one, and edged one side of the garden. Fortune seemed in Jill's favour, for near the plantation was an old stone wall which had been partially removed. "Now," said the little leader, "we must carry some of these right into the middle of the plantation. Into a dark corner where no one will see us." "What for?" asked Jack. He never obeyed unquestioningly. "I'll tell you in a minute. I think perhaps we ought to have three heaps of stones, only it will take so long. No, one will do, and we must all three share it." They set to work, found a corner under a tall old pine, and soon had a very respectable heap of stones collected together. Then Jill volunteered her explanation. "Of course, Jack, if you don't want to, you needn't, and Bumps needn't either, but I'm going to do it. This is going to be a kind of Jacob's pillar. I've been thinking of it a lot, and I'm going to do what Jacob did." "Run away from home?" asked Jack, his eyes lighting up with eagerness. "No, of course not. I'm going to give a tenth of my money to God, and I must have a proper place to do it in." "Oh," said Jack, his face falling a little; "and you want me to do it too." "You ought to," Jill said severely. "I will if Jack does," said Bumps in her breathless way, "I have five pennies!" "You see me do it first," said Jill; "and then you can make up your mind. It's a very solemn vow, so I must have the stones properly put." "Yes," said Jack suddenly, "and there was the oil, you know. Jacob had some oil, it's no good without it." "Bumps must go and ask cook for some; she'll always give her anything." Away ran Bumps. Jack began to take a keener interest in it. "Are you going to get very good, Jill?" he asked, looking at his sister critically. "No," said Jill, "I'm quite sure, however much I want to be good, I shall always be very wicked. But, Jack, I've quite made up my mind to walk to the Golden City; I began the day before yesterday." "Have you been through the river?" asked Jack in an awed whisper. "I'm not going to talk about it," said Jill. "Miss Falkner helped me when I was in bed to start right. I'm not _quite_ sure about the road, but I think I'm on it. And anyhow I'm quite determined to give a tenth. Now here comes Bumps. Hooray! She's got the oil!" Jill capered with delight, then checked herself. "I'm going to be properly solemn," she said, "for it isn't a game at all, it's a--a--vow!" She arranged the stones a little more carefully. "This will have to stay just as it is for years and years and years, in fact for ever," Jill announced. "When I'm an old woman with a stick and a cap I shall be led out here by all my great-grandchildren, and I shall look back and remember this day." "That sounds lovely," said Jack admiringly. "Do begin, here's the oil!" Jill took the bottle, but first she marshalled Jack and Bumps to a respectful distance from her altar. "You can look on, because it will be your turns next, and there must be no laughing, because I'm in awful earnest. I've brought my Bible out to say the words properly. I shall take some of the oil, and leave you the rest." Very gravely and deliberately Jill poured the oil on the top stone, then holding her Bible in both hands for an instant, she looked up into the blue sky above her, and then in a clear, distinct voice she read-- "And this stone which I have set for a pillar shall be God's house; and of all that Thou shalt give me I will surely give the tenth unto Thee." There was a dead silence for a minute, then she turned to her witnesses. "Say 'Amen,'" she commanded. The "Amen" was fervently and loudly uttered. Jill walked away and sat down under a tree. "Don't speak to me," she said; "after a vow you must be quite quiet for five minutes. Now, Jack, it's your turn; you know what to do." Jack looked a little frightened. "It's like service in church," he confided to Bumps; "are you going to do it, Bumps?" "Oh, yeth, I'll do it," assented Bumps cheerfully, "if you does." "I suppose I'd better." Jack walked up to the stones and took up the bottle. He poured some oil out, then followed Jill's example and read the verse out as bravely and loudly as he could. Jill and Bumps uttered an emphatic "Amen," and Jack came back to his tree and sat down, heaving a great sigh of relief as he did so. "Go on, Bumps," he muttered. Bumps trotted up to the stones then looked helplessly round. "I don't know what next," she said. "Pour out some oil." "It's a fat cork--oh! ah! it's thpilt itthelf down my pinny!" Jill dashed up to her. "You always spoil everything, you little stupid! Here! give the bottle to me, why, there's hardly any left! Now take it and pour it out properly, and don't keep talking so; be solemn!" Bumps looked agitated. "The Bible, Jill! Find the place quick! Oh, I shall never be ready! And Bible words is so hard to read. I'm 'fraid I shall never do it prop'ly. And you said the verth like thaying your prayers. Hadn't I better kneel down to make it more proper to God?" Bumps was earnestly trying to do her best. Jill found the verse, and left her. "You can kneel down if you like. It is a Bible prayer, of course, but you must do it by yourself. It's a vow to God, that's what it is." [Illustration: "BUMPS KNELT DOWN."] Bumps knelt down, holding the Bible devoutly in her little fat hands. She read the verse haltingly, but her whole soul was in it, and she rose from her feet triumphant. "I've never," she confided to Jack, "thpoken to God out of doors before. He is sure to have heard me, isn't He? Did I do it quite proper, do you think?" Jack assured her she had managed it quite satisfactorily. Then the three children stood and looked at each other. "The next thing," announced Jill, "is to divide our money into tens. We have done the vow, but that's only the beginning. And we mustn't tell anybody about this place, and the stones mustn't be touched, and we must call it what Jacob did--Bethel!" "Let's put it up somewhere," said Jack. "Yes," said Jill eagerly; "we will get a board like a trespassers' board, and chalk it with that lovely piece of white chalk you have in your paint-box." "But where shall we get a board?" "Sam will make us one." Sam was the house-carpenter who was always at work on the premises. The children loved him, for he made them many a little trifle, and he was always ready for a chat. They marched off at once to find him, and came across him taking some planks out of his wood-shed. Their want was soon made known. Jill was always emphatic and clear in her utterances. "A proper trespassers' board, Sam, like you put up in the pheasant-covers last week, and I should like you to paint, 'Trespassers will be prosecuted,' to keep people away, only you must leave room for the name on the top." "Let him paint the name too," suggested Jack, "it would look better than chalk." Jill looked doubtfully at Sam. "Could you paint the word 'Bethel,' Sam? I'll tell you how to spell it." Sam grinned. "I reckon I could, missy. You show me where you want it put, and I'll do the job!" "But you promise on your honour you won't tell, because it's a great secret, and we don't want any one to know where it is." "I'll be as dumb as a dog," said Sam. "Show me the spot, and be sharp, missy, for I'm extra busy to-day!" The children led him into the plantation. He smiled when he saw the heap of stones. "So this here is a Bethel, is it?" "I don't believe Jacob put up a trespassers' board," said Jack with a knowing shake of his head; "it will look very funny, Jill." "It's to be done," said Jill. "I won't have people coming, and making fun, and pulling our stones about, and if they do come, I shall prosecute them!" Bumps looked at her sister in awe. "Will you thend them to prison?" she asked. "But what is it for?" asked Sam, peering on the stones and seeing the marks of the oil; "be you going to make a sacrifice?" "No," said Jill solemnly; "you never laugh at us, Sam, so I'll tell you; and if you like to join us you shall. It's a vow we've made to God. You can read about it in your Bible if you like. We're going to be like Jacob, and give God a tenth of our money." Sam scratched his head. "I'll make the board, missy, but I can't promise to jine you." "Well, make it as quick as you can, and if you read about Jacob like Miss Falkner and us, you'll want to do it too!" Sam did not respond, but he promised to make the board, and the children, hearing their tea-bell ring, ran off to the house. They did not tell Miss Falkner of their afternoon's performance, though Bumps was sadly wanting to do so. After tea their governess sat down to write a letter, and told them to amuse themselves quietly. Jill gathered her forces into a corner of the room. "Now then," she said; "have you got your money?" "Yes," replied Jack, shaking out his pockets; "here is all mine, but it's precious little! Here's a threepenny bit and a sixpence and two pennies. How am I to get a tenth out of it? It's as bad as sums." Jill took the money spread it out on the floor, and then sat down in front of it to consider it, with a face as grave as a judge's. "You have eleven pennies," she said; "take one away, and that leaves ten; take a penny out of that, and that's your tenth." Jack looked completely puzzled. "And what am I do with the first penny that I take away?" he asked. "You must keep that to go on for another ten pennies," said Jill with a knitted brow. "I'm sure that will be right, and the nine-pence you can spend any day you like." "I'll spend it to-morrow, I think. I want a kite that I saw in the shop in the village, and I believe it costs about that. What am I to do with my tenth?" "Keep it in a box or bag. Miss Falkner told you that. Now, Bumps, what have you got?" "Five pennies," said Bumps importantly. "You can't give a tenth then," said Jill, "for you haven't got one." Bumps looked ready to cry. "I'm alwayth being left out," she said; "do pleath make it come right. Can't I give one penny?" A brilliant idea struck Jack. "Change it into halfpennies, and she'll have ten!" he said. Jill and Bumps both brightened up. "Yes, Bumps, that will be the thing; you must put a halfpenny by, and that will be your tenth. I have two halfpennies you can have instead of your penny." It needed a good deal of explaining to Bumps before she was completely satisfied. When that was done Jill produced her own purse. She was the richest of the three, for she owned three shillings and sixpence, but how to get a tenth out of it was a puzzle. Miss Falkner, hearing their eager, excited voices, came to the rescue, and showed Jill that fourpence was the tenth of forty pence, and the two over would go towards the next tenth. Then she delighted her small pupils by producing a pretty scarlet flannel bag which she gave them as a "Tenth" bag. Their united coins rattled in, and though it was only fivepence-halfpenny, they felt as proud of it as if it had been five pounds. "It's a beginning," said Jill to her governess as she was tucking her up in bed that night. "That's two beginnings I've made since you came here." Miss Falkner's eyes glistened as she bent over her. "My little Jill, I shall pray that God may never let you go back from these beginnings, as you call them. Ask Him to help you, dear. It is easier sometimes to make a beginning than go steadily on." "Yes," said Jill sleepily; "but that's because the Golden City is such a long way off!" VI "GOD'S CABBAGES" Sam was as good as his word. Before a week was out a minute board was erected by the children's heap of stones. Big white letters confronted any passerby-- "BETHEL. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED." And Jill made a point of visiting the spot at least once a day, to be sure that it was left unmolested. "I'm coming to tea with you, Sam, soon," she announced one afternoon, as she sat on a gate swinging herself to and fro and watching the carpenter repairing a fence. Sam lived alone with his old father, in a rose-covered cottage, at the corner of the village. Sam was devoted to roses, and his little front garden was given up to their cultivation. The back one was in his father's charge, and he grew cabbages. "Father will be pleased to see you, missy, and so shall I," was Sam's quiet response. "Then you must invite me properly, and ask me to-morrow, for Mona is going to take Miss Falkner out for a drive. And then we have tea with Annie. I hate my tea poured out by a schoolroom-maid!" Jill's little nose was tilted scornfully in the air. "Aye," said Sam smiling; "to-morrow will suit first-rate, missy. Father and me presents our duty, and will be pleased if you will favour us with your company to tea to-morrow at five o'clock." This was the usual formula, and Jill clapped her hands in delight; then she said with becoming gravity-- "I shall be very pleased to come, Sam. Tell Mr. Stone I'll favour him." Then she ran into the house, and told Jack and Bumps where she was going. They were inclined to be cross at first, but Jack soon recovered himself. "We'll do quite well without you. I shall play at Sinbad the Sailor, and Bumps is going to be my Old Man of the Sea. Annie likes to join sometimes, and we'll have our tea in the garden. She likes that, for the gardener has a cup of tea with us." Miss Falkner heard of the invitation, but raised no objection, so punctually at five o'clock the next evening Jill walked into Sam Stone's cottage. He and his father were expecting her. The tiny kitchen was in perfect order, and looked spotlessly clean. The table was laid for tea; and a boiled egg for Jill, besides some watercress and currant buns, gave it quite a festive air. Old Mr. Stone looked delighted to see her. He was a tall, active old man, with a long grey beard, and had always plenty to say for himself. "'Tis a pleasure to see you, missy. Come right in, an' sit comfortable on my poor wife's rocking-cheer. 'Twas the last thing she sat in afore she died, an' I see her in it now a gaspin' an' chokin', an' smilin' up at me so sadly like. 'Jim,' she sez, ''tis the Lord that did give me to yer, an' 'tis the Lord that do be goin' to take me away from yer. Thank Him,' she sez, 'for all His mercies!' An' I sez to her, 'Jenny, my heart can't thank if my lips can, an' I'd rather say nothin' just now to the Almighty.' Jenny, she were always so properly religious!" "And are you properly religious too, Mr. Stone?" questioned Jill as she took her seat at the table, and commenced with great pride and solemnity to pour out tea. She was always given the post of honour, behind the big flowered tin tea-tray, and much enjoyed the responsibilities of her position. The old man shook his head. "I fear I be a very improper Christian," he said. "I wonder," said Jill reflectively, "whether your wife gave a tenth to God. Miss Falkner thinks all proper good people do." "What be that, missy?" "It's what Jacob did, you know, and we're going to try to do it. Don't you remember his vow? 'Of all that Thou shalt give me, I will surely give the tenth unto Thee.'" Old Mr. Stone nodded his head. "My fayther did allays give a little to our rector; that be it missy, that be it. 'Tis the beginning of it you have told of!" "Do tell me," said Jill eagerly. "Do you think we could give our tenth to our rector?" Sam and his father both tried then to give Jill a dissertation on tithes. She hardly grasped it, but child-like returned pertinaciously to her business in hand. "I want Sam to join us. I'm sure he has a lot of money. I hear it jingle in his pocket. And won't you too, Mr. Stone? If you will, you can come to our 'Bethel' and do it quite properly." "I tell missy we be hard-workin' people, that be scarcely able to feed ourselves," said Sam. "But a tenth isn't much," argued Jill. "Out of forty pennies you only have to give four. How much do you get from Mona, Sam?" "A pound a week," answered Sam stolidly. "Now, how many tens are in that, I wonder," Jill went on with interest; "you see, Sam, Miss Falkner says God sends us everything, so it does seem rather mean never to give anything back, doesn't it?" "I reckon," said Mr. Stone looking at his son with a twinkle in his eye, "that two shillin' be a tenth o' Sam's money, not to speak of his other odd jobs that he do get in an' out." "We should be on the way to the House, missy, if I did give away such a bit as that!" "Oh, no, you wouldn't, for God just sends it back, Miss Falkner says in other kind of ways. Only He is pleased if we think of Him." "If I were a rich man," said old Mr. Stone, "I'd give the Almighty a tenth. 'Tis a cryin' shame the rich be so grudgin' wi' their wealth; but we poor humble folk be not expected to do such things!" "Haven't you got anything to give God, Mr. Stone?" "Nothin' at all," responded the old man with a sigh. "Sam do take care of his old father, an' I sells my cabbages an' helps all I can; but since Christmas twelvemonth the rheumaty pains in my innerds be so cruel bad, that I be creepin' on to church-yard slow and sure." A little gloom seemed to have fallen on the tea-party. Then Jill started another subject. "When are you going to be married, Sam?" Sam threw up his head and laughed aloud. He was a confirmed old bachelor and did not, as he expressed it, "like the ways of women." "Ah, missy, I'll wait till you set the example." "Oh, but I don't mean to marry at all. I shall be like Mona. Cook told Annie the other day that Mona was going to marry Captain Willoughby and I told Mona, and she was very angry and then she laughed and said that cook had already married her to over a dozen people. I don't quite know what she meant--but I think you ought to marry, Sam, and cook thinks so too. She says a house isn't a home without a woman!" Sam laughed again. "A woman, missy, is an ork'ard customer to deal with. There is smiles, 'tis true, but then there's tears, an' I can't abide 'em! An' there's a great chatteration, and there's a spendin', not so much in pots an' pans an' good wholesome food, but in ribbons an' silks an' finery. An' many a maid turns her man to drink, from her contrary tempers. Best be wi'out them, I say, an' so do fayther." They talked away till tea was over, and then Jill accompanied old Mr. Stone into the back garden. He pointed out to her row after row of his fine cabbages. "One hundred and fifty-two, missy, an' all sowed from seed, an' I've tended 'em like chillen." Jill walked up and down amongst the cabbages with a thoughtful air. Suddenly she stood still, seized with an inspiration. "Mr. Stone, you've got cabbages! The text says, 'Of all that Thou shalt give me, I will surely give the tenth unto Thee.' You must give a tenth of your cabbages to God. Oh, do, won't you? And then you can join us. How many tens have you got? Let us go through, and mark every tenth cabbage off for God. That's the way to do it. How shall we mark them? Will Sam let us have some of that red worsted he ties up his roses with? I'll ask him. Just wait a minute. I know how to do it!" Jill flew into the house breathless and excited without waiting for the old man's reply. She returned triumphant with her ball of red wool. "Sam thinks it will be very nice. I told him. And you know, Mr. Stone, God did give the cabbages to you. He made them grow, you didn't!" The old man looked at her queerly. Then he fetched his pipe out of his pocket and began to smoke. "Them cabbages fetch three-halfpence each in the market, and cheap at the price," he said. Jill marched along the first row until she arrived at the tenth cabbage, then she broke off a piece of her red wool and tied it through one of the leaves. "There, Mr. Stone, that's God's cabbage. Now, I'll go on to the next, and then you'll know how many you will have to give." "What am I to do wi' 'em, missy. Take 'em to church?" Jill sat down on an old wheelbarrow to consider. "Why," she said presently with a beaming smile, "when you take up a cabbage with a piece of red wool on it, you must sell it for God, and put the money in a little bag, and then give it to the poor." "P'raps," said the old man with a chuckle, "it will find its way back into my pocket, for I'm a very poor old body, very poor indeed!" "You're making a joke of it," said Jill, flushing a deep red. "I mean a real starving person, when I talk of the poor. Would you rather give it to the collection in church, Mr. Stone?" "Aye p'raps that would be the best way to work it." So taking that as a promise Jill set to work with a will, and before she left that evening she had marked off fifteen cabbages, the tenth of the old man's property. "And now if you really like to give them, will you come to-morrow to 'Bethel' and do your vow?" Mr. Stone wavered, but finally Jill won him over, and he promised to be outside the fir plantation the very next day. Jack and Bumps were full of interest when Jill told them of her evening's work. It did much towards solacing Bumps, who had a bruised head and a badly grazed knee, but wounds were generally her lot after an hour or two alone with Jack. "I wath the old man of the thea," she explained to Jill, "and I couldn't thtick on. Jack jumped and rolled and kicked me up in the air to get me off, and I had to try to be on all the time. It wath very differcult!" She was rather doubtful about the cabbages. "I thought it wath to be money. God really does make money and give it to us, but does He make cabbages? I thought they growed of theirselves." "How do you think God makes money?" Jack asked. Bumps thought hard for a minute. "I 'spect He just drops pennies and shillings into the ground when no one is looking, and then lets us find them. I know they does come from under the earth, becauth Miss Falkner told me." Jill tried to explain that cabbages brought in money, and it was the money for them that would be the tenth and after a time Bumps was satisfied. They were all present the next day when old Mr. Stone was initiated into the mysteries of Bethel. But he shook his head sternly at the heap of stones. "No no, that there altar is idol'try, that is what it be. The chapel folk would turn me out if I went for to forget myself in such a heathen-like way! Pour oil on it? Indeed no, missy. That be like the cannibal heathen who offer up sacrifices and living bodies, an' such like." "But Jacob did," argued Jill. "We've kept most particular to the Bible." "Ah, well, Jacob had to answer to the Almighty for it, an' I won't be his judge. But I'm a chapel man myself, though I favours the church on occasions. I'll say the words, missy, an' then you must let me go. My poor wife used to give to charity an' such like. I remember her handin' a penny out of the windy to a tramp one day. I could do with a deal more religion, I owns, for though I thinks little, I knows I ought to thank my Maker more for His mercy an' goodness. An' He is kindly welcome to my cabbages--them that be marked with red wool. So now, missy, where be the book?" The Bible was put into his hand, and the verse pointed out, but he would only repeat the last part of it. The children chorused "Amen," and then he was led away, but his words left an uncomfortable feeling behind. "Is it like the heathens to have a heap of stones, I wonder?" said Jill, sitting down on the grass and looking at the pile very affectionately. "It's all rubbish!" said Jack. "Jacob wouldn't have done a wicked thing, when he was making a vow to God." "Arth Miss Falkner," was Bumps' suggestion. But Jill would not agree to this. "It's a secret," she said; "we mustn't tell everybody. I think I'm rather sorry I brought Mr. Stone here. Sam didn't think it wicked." "Isn't Sam going to join?" "He won't just yet. He says he wants to think it over." Then she jumped up. "Come along, let us have a game of hide-and-seek." Away they scampered, making the garden ring with their shouts, and "Bethel" was forgotten for the time. VII THE TRESPASSER A few days afterwards Miss Falkner took Jack and Jill out for a drive in a low pony-chaise that was their special property. Mona came out on the doorstep to see them start. "I'm so glad you can drive, Miss Falkner," she said, "for I shall have no fears about the children with you as driver. The grooms can't be trusted. They give the reins to them, and Jack upset the whole concern just before you came." "I used to drive as a tiny child," said Miss Falkner with heightened colour. "I have not done so lately, but one never loses the art." Mona looked at her curiously. She began to feel a great interest in this young girl, who had so quietly taken the reins in the school-room and was slowly but surely influencing the young turbulent spirits in it. The children were giving their pony sugar. Mona looked at them, then she laid her hand gently on Miss Falkner's arm. "Some day you will tell me about yourself and your home," she said. The quick tears sprang to the young governess's eyes. She felt as she stood there that the girl who spoke to her had all that the world could give her. She had as yet been untouched by the storms of life, and on her proud young face there were lines of discontent and restlessness that would never be effaced till she had learnt some of life's lessons, and perhaps been through the school of suffering. They were very nearly the same age, were two blocks of stone, ordained for a building above; yet though one was cut and chiselled already, the other bore no impress of the Master's hand. But the sympathetic touch and words struck a chord in Miss Falkner's heart. She forgot from that time that Mona Baron was her employer, she thought of her only as a girl who might need help. "Now where shall we go, children?" she asked, as they drove down the sweet-smelling lime avenue into the high road. "Oh, do drive up to Chilton Common," cried Jack; "there are such a lot of rabbits there, and we can see the sea from it." So to Chilton Common they went. It was about four miles off, and at first sight looked a dreary expanse of wild moorland. As they crossed it, they caught the salt scent of the sea, and soon came to a cluster of poor-looking cottages, but beyond them in the distance was the unmistakable blue line of the ocean, and the children seemed delighted. "I wish we lived by the sea," said Jill. "I like to be on the very outside edge of the earth." "Why?" inquired Jack. Jill seldom gave reasons for her likes and dislikes. "Because I do," she returned sharply. "Oh, look, Miss Falkner, there's our rector, Mr. Errington. He has a lot of people round him. P'raps he's preaching!" Mr. Errington caught sight of them and smiled at the children, who were great favourites of his. Then he came forward. "My horse has gone very lame," he explained. "I am thinking of leaving him here at the blacksmith's and walking home." "Can we give you a lift?" asked Miss Falkner. "That will be very good of you. I shall be grateful for my wife will be expecting me and will be anxious." "Jill thought you were preaching," said Jack. "Wasn't she silly? As if you'd preach on a weekday!" "I wish I had been," said Mr. Errington with a smile. Then he turned to Miss Falkner. "These are my parishioners," he said, "and not one of them comes to church. They're just like heathen. It looks a God-forsaken place, does it not?" "It seems a strange place to see cottages," said Miss Falkner. "How do they earn their living?" "By peat-cutting, and working in a quarry a mile off. The blacksmith is unable to walk far, or I really think I should see him at church sometimes. The rest are totally indifferent to their soul's welfare. I am longing to build a little mission-room and come over and have a service for them, but it would cost money, and I have none to spare at present." "It is a pity," said Miss Falkner gently. "One wonders sometimes if money drifted into the right channels whether this dense ignorance would be overcome. At my old home there was a district very like this. My father's curate was indefatigable in trying to raise money, and he eventually succeeded. It was a great success, for the people came to the mission church and sent their children to school. But he--" her voice faltered a little, "overworked himself, took cold and died, and my father followed him. The present rector does not care for the mission-room. He thinks they ought to come to church, and they don't do it." Mr. Errington nodded with perfect comprehension. "Of course not. It would want a good deal of zeal to walk eight miles after a week's hard work. Our English labourer will not do it." They talked on, and much of the conversation was above the children's heads, but Jill was a sharp child, and she was already evolving a plan in her head, which had the effect of taking her to the Rectory the next day. Mrs. Errington was a great invalid. When she was told that "Miss Jill Baron" wanted to see her, she said to her husband, who was overlooking some accounts with her: "My dear Robert, we ought not to be disturbed. Shall we say we are engaged?" "No," said Mr. Errington, leaning back in his chair with a laugh; "I am dazed with figures. Let us be refreshed by one of the fresh things in this world. There is nothing like a child for relieving one of care." Jill was ushered in, flushed and excited. She could hardly wait to shake hands. "Jack and Bumps are willing, and so I've come with it," she said. "It's to help to build that church on the common. Miss Falkner said we might, and I've brought it in our bag." She put a scarlet flannel bag on the table, and went on-- "You see we haven't begun very long, so there's only a little to start with; but we shall always be putting in, because we often get presents, and I've spoken to Mr. Stone, and we've counted that his fifteen cabbages will bring him one shilling and tenpence halfpenny, and he says that had better be given to you too." It seemed incoherent, but Mrs. Errington gently drew the explanation out of the child, and though Jill did not divulge the spot of their "Bethel," her account interested the rector and his wife greatly. "It will be money well spent," Mr. Errington said, "for it will be the means of telling those poor folk of the love of the Saviour." "And you will have the honour, Jill dear, of starting the collection," said Mrs. Errington. "It's a pity," said Jill with knitted brows, "that you can't get every one to give you their tenth." "I don't think there are many people who do give their tenth," said the rector. "Miss Falkner gives all hers to the Church Missionary Society," Jill went on; "but Jack and Bumps and me thought we'd like to see where our money went." "Wise little woman!" Mr. Errington emptied the bag, and delighted Jill by giving her a formal receipt for it, and entering the sum in an account book. She ran away quite happy, waving her scarlet bag in the air, and wishing with all her heart that birthdays and Christmas, and all such occasions for receiving presents, would come every day. "Mona is going to have a party," announced Jack one day soon after this. "I went into the drawing-room to give Miss Webb her pencil that I picked up, and she and Mona were talking about it. It is to be next Wednesday." The children were just beginning their afternoon lessons; and Jill was washing her slate preparatory to doing a sum. "How jolly!" she cried. "I hope she'll let us come to it. When is it to be? Is it a dinner party?" "No, a garden party. It's going to be a very grand one. There's a band coming, and a tent for fruit and ices, and there will be tennis and croquet, and bowls and----" "Now, Jack," said Miss Falkner quietly, "that is enough. Lessons now, and talk after." It was hard to obey, but Jack put a restraint upon himself, and when lessons were over Jill determined to get no more news second-hand. "Come on, Bumps. I'm going to ask Mona about it." The little girls found their sister in her bedroom, getting ready for a drive. "We've come to ask about the party," said Jill, who always went straight to the point. "We can come into it, can't we?" Mona laughed, then she sat down in an easy-chair and took Bumps upon her lap. "I hardly ever see you now," she said; "Miss Falkner keeps you all in such order. Why, Bumps, you are growing quite heavy." "Yeth," assented Bumps, "I thmashed Polly's head by stepping on it. She's my thecond betht wax-doll, Mona!" "You'll let us come to the party?" asked Jill persuasively. "Yes, if you behave nicely. There may be two other children coming. Little Indian nieces of Mrs. Moxon's." "Heathens?" questioned Jill. Mona laughed merrily. "Good gracious, no! What a ridiculous child you are." Jill coloured up at once. "I like boys better than girls," she said in her stubborn tone. "I know I shan't like them." "You must be civil and kind to them, or else I shall send you back to the school-room. But perhaps that will be no punishment. I think you must have altered your mind about governesses, Jill." "Yes," said Jill in a different tone. "But Miss Falkner is not like a governess. She's very fond of us, she says so!" "Extraordinary! You don't say so!" Mona laughed again, then put Bumps off her lap. "Now run away, small people, and remember if you appear in the garden on Wednesday, you must be in the cleanest frocks and the sweetest tempers. Otherwise you must make yourselves scarce." "Like the children walking to the Golden City," said Bumps trotting after Jill. Jill looked down at her with troubled eyes. "Sometimes I wonder where I am," she said, moved by the impulse of the moment to confide in her little sister. "I don't believe I get on very fast. I'm always losing my temper, and that means dirtying my frock." "And then you have to wash it," said Bumps cheerfully. "Yes," said Jill, with a light in her eyes; "I can do that, at least I can ask to have it done, but--" and here she relapsed into gloom again. "I sometimes wonder if it is ever clean for more than a minute!" Wednesday came, and the three children sadly tried Miss Falkner's patience at lessons. She closed books at last, and sent them out into the garden to play before their early dinner. They longed to go into Mona's portion of the grounds, but the head gardener kept them back. Tents were being erected; servants bustled about, and Mona herself, with Miss Webb and one or two gentlemen, seemed to be superintending everything herself. At four o'clock Jill and Bumps, arrayed in their best white frocks, were down on the front lawn awaiting the arrival of guests. Miss Falkner in a pretty grey dress and hat stood talking to Miss Webb under the trees, and Mona, looking radiant in her youth and loveliness, dressed like her little sisters in pure white, with a spray of delicate pink roses in her breast, was talking and laughing with a few of her house guests. Jack presently came up to his sister. He was dressed in his white sailor-suit, and looked stiff and uncomfortable. "Oh, Jill, I say, do let's get out of this. It's so dull and proper. You and Bumps look like the china figures on the school-room mantelpiece." "Yes," said Jill; "it is very dull. Where shall we go?" "Let us see how Bethel is getting on." So the three made their way to the fir plantation, but met with several interruptions on the way. Jack chased a fowl which had escaped from the poultry-yard. Bumps would insist on stopping to watch the peregrinations of two frogs in some long grass, and Jill had a talk with Sam, who was cutting down a young tree. As they trod softly on the brown pine-needles underfoot Jack startled his sisters by a shrill whisper. "Look! there's a trespasser." Jill pressed eagerly forward. A tall broad-shouldered man in clerical clothes was standing reading the board. Then instead of turning away, he went up to the pile of stones, and bending down was in the act of lifting one of them out of its place to look at it, when Jill's indignant voice arrested him. "You're a trespasser! We shall prosecute you!" He turned round in astonishment, and his stern, rugged features were transformed by a smile, when he saw the daintily-dressed children before him. "Is this your property?" he asked. Jill was like a little bantam-cock. "Every bit of it is ours, of course it is. You must have seen the board; we ain't going to allow any trespassers here." "You'll have to be prothecuted!" cried Bumps breathlessly. "Yes, Jill said she'd prosecute," said Jack, looking first at the stranger and then at his sister, as if measuring in his mind's eye their respective sizes. "What is to be done with me?" asked the stranger with an amused look. Jack and Jill put their heads together, and consulted in hurried whispers as to the best course to take. Then Jill spoke very emphatically. "We shall have to prosecute you, because you didn't care for our board. You saw it and you were going to move our stones. Jack and I think if you will walk between us and promise not to escape, we will go down to the policeman at our gate. Mona is having a grand party and he's here now, for we saw him. He'll tell us what to do." "I think," said the trespasser, trying to look grave, "that you might fine me. Magistrates do that to some trespassers." Jill did not understand this, but she was too proud to confess it. "No, you must come to the policeman," she said. So presently skirting the tennis lawn the little procession passed. Jack and Jill marched on either side of him, Bumps walked behind. "I can catch hold of his coat if he runs away," she said. It was unfortunate for the children's plan that Mona should intercept them. She moved from a shady tree on the lawn, and accompanied by two gentlemen confronted them. A slight flush rose to her cheek when she saw the prisoner, and her voice faltered slightly. "Mr. Arnold? I have not seen you for so many years that I hardly recognised you at first. You must be staying with Lady Crane; though she mentioned your name to me I never connected it with _you_. I am very glad to see you." Her tone was more nervous than cordial. She introduced the other gentlemen with her to him. "Sir Henry Talbot. Captain Willoughby." Then she added lightly-- "I might have known I would find you in the children's company. I remember how fond you were of all small people." "He's our prisoner," said Jack importantly, "and we're taking him to the policeman." "A trethpather," put in Bumps excitedly. "Yes, we're going to prosecute him," said Jill gravely. Mona laughed, but Mr. Arnold looked grave enough as he said: "Yes, I plead guilty, but I appeal to the present company that I should be let off a term of imprisonment by paying a fine." "What does he mean?" asked Jill confidentially, addressing Captain Willoughby, who was always the children's friend. "He means he'll pay down some money if you make him. What has he been doing?" "He has been trespassing in our most private place. There's a board up, so there was no excuse." "I think if he pays us some money we'll let him off," said Jack. Mr. Arnold held out five shillings. "It's a first offence," he said. "I'll never do it again." "What shall we do with it?" asked Jill, taking the money and fingering it dubiously. Mona had walked on with Sir Henry Talbot. "Why," said Jack "we'll put it in our bag." Jill's whole face brightened. "Thank you," she said. "We'll forgive you then." "You mercenary little wretches," said Captain Willoughby. "Is this a new game by which you fleece every stranger?" "The money isn't for us!" said Jill indignantly. "It's for a kind of church." Mr. Arnold looked at her, and gave one of his rare smiles again. "I must hear about it," he said. "I should like to know where my fine will go." He certainly knew how to gain children's confidences. Before very long on a garden seat Jill was telling him about it all, even about their cherished "Bethel." She was rapidly making the trespasser into a friend. "I am most interested," he said; "I am going back to a big manufacturing town soon, and I think I must try and get some of my boys and girls to put aside a tenth." "Have you any little boys and girls of your own?" asked Jill. "I am not a father," Mr. Arnold replied, "but I have all sorts and kinds of boys and girls who I consider belong to me. Little crossing-sweepers, and errand-boys, and miners, and school-boys, and factory-girls. And I have a few like you who enjoy plenty from their Heavenly Father." "Did you know Mona long ago?" asked Jill. "I knew her," said Mr. Arnold slowly, as his gaze travelled to a white-gowned figure in the distance, "when she was about as big as you, and we used to spend all our holidays together till we grew up. You ask your sister to tell you of our prank in the church tower with old Solomon Disher!" "Oh, do tell me." He shook his head. He saw Mona coming towards them again and he rose to meet her. A few words that then passed between them puzzled Jill. "Well, Mr. Arnold, tell me your news. I suppose you have never changed your opinion since we last met." "No, I never have." His eyes and mouth were stern as he spoke. Mona looked at him thoughtfully, then as she met his gaze, she laughed lightly. "Your spirit is still ruling your body. I can see that. And I suppose you would say that my body is still ruling my spirit. I think it is. I always told you I should take the easy path." Mr. Arnold glanced at her, then he looked at the gay company on the flowered lawns, his ear caught the lively strains of the band, and his gaze wandered to the beautiful sloping hills and woods that formed a background to the charming old English house that was her property. "A noble patrimony," he said in a low clear voice. "I would it did not belong to those who lay up treasure for themselves and are not rich toward God." A crimson flush mounted to Mona's fair cheeks. "Seven years ago," she said "we parted because of your unreasonable severity. Have we met to do the same this afternoon?" A smile came to his lips. "I hope not. I have lived and learnt to judge less harshly; but my aim is still the same. I hope my standard has not been lowered." Mona shrugged her shoulders, then deliberately walked away from him. Jill looked after her astonished. "You have made Mona cross, Mr. Arnold." "I am afraid I have," he said humbly. "Shall we come over to the tea tent?" Jill was only too delighted. VIII "I MUST LOVE FIRST, BEFORE I CAN GIVE" But Jill lost her friend in the tent. Several ladies took possession of him, and Miss Falkner told her to come with her and speak to two little girls who were standing outside. They were evidently twins. Both had white delicate faces and long fair hair reaching almost to their waists. Jill was much astonished when she heard they were the "Indian nieces." "Why do they call you Indians?" she asked them abruptly, as Miss Falkner having left them they walked across the lawn towards the band. "We are not Indians," one of the little girls said indignantly. "We have been living in India and came to England last month. Mother and father are still out there." "Oh," said Jill in a relieved tone: "I was afraid you would be half black. Mona told me you were coming. What do you do in India?" Their tongues were loosened, they poured out such a volley of "ride through bazaars," "tiffins," "ayahs," "dobies," "punkahs," "rupees," "gymkanas," and other unknown words and terms that Jill grew quite bewildered. She questioned them eagerly and was quite impressed with all the strange things they had seen and heard. "What kind of things do you do?" they asked in their turn. "It seems so dull to us in England, but that's because we are shut up in a school-room with a governess." "We're never dull," said Jill warmly. "Never! And we're always doing new things every day. Do you see Jack and Bumps anywhere?" "Who are they? Is Bumps a dog? What a funny name!" "She's my little sister; we've always called her Bumps because she tumbles about and hurts herself so. They've gone off together somewhere. Now if we find them you'll see the sort of things we do. Whenever Jack and Bumps are missing, they are always up to something!" Jill commenced a rapid and thorough search for her brother and sister. Miss Falkner was also looking for them, but it was a long time before their search was successful. At last coming to a small artificial lake which was tenanted by some wild waterfowl and white swans, they heard a commotion, and found Jack and Bumps very busy indeed. Bumps was sitting in a wheelbarrow to which were harnessed with yards of tape and ribbon, two of the swans. It had been a difficult task, to judge from the children's heated, dirty faces. The birds were screeching and fluttering their wings, nearly choking themselves in their efforts to free themselves. Jack was pushing the wheelbarrow behind, trying to follow the lead of the distressed and angry birds. Bumps, elated by her position, was brandishing a small whip and trying to manage her reins, which seemed a difficult matter. How they had got hold of the swans at all was a wonder, but Jack's white suit was covered with green slime and soaked with water. "I'm Snow White," called out Bumps, "but these thtupid thwans won't go prop'ly!" Miss Falkner said very little, but what she said had the effect of bringing Jack to his senses. "Well," she said; "you have shortened your happy day by this! What a pity! You evidently were tired of the party. We will go straight back to the school-room and stay there for the rest of the day." In two minutes she had liberated the unhappy swans and was marching Jack and Bumps--one on each side of her--back to the house. The little girls watched them, half in amusement half in pity. "That's what I say," said Rose, one of the twins, "a governess spoils every bit of fun!" "Miss Falkner doesn't," said Jill loyally, "but Jack does sometimes go too far. He nearly hung Bumps the other day. He was pretending to do it, but he got the rope too tight round her neck. She was a Royalist and he was Oliver Cromwell. We had had it in our lesson that day. He said he really felt she was his enemy, and he would have to get rid of her! Miss Falkner was very angry. She is very quiet when she is angry, but she's very nice. I love her!" Then with a quick change of thought, Jill said-- "Do you get a lot of money? Have you pocket-money?" "Yes, we have sixpence a week each, but it doesn't seem a great lot." "Wouldn't you like to give your tenth to God? You can easily, if you like. I'll tell you how it's done." The little girls looked at Jill completely puzzled, but she had a wonderful way of compelling attention and interest, and before she separated from them that afternoon they had promised to think over the matter, and let her know what they could do. "You see," said Norah, the other twin, "we haven't very much money to spare. We want every penny of it. We're always wanting to buy things." "Yes, but God wants it most," said Jill, "and it's such a very little He wants; only one penny out of tenpence, that's all it is. And if you saw the poor people out on Chilton Common, who have no church and who look so dirty and wicked, you'd like to give some money to help them." "Are you good?" asked Rose looking at her curiously. "No, I'm awfully wicked," said Jill with conviction, "but giving your money away doesn't make you good. I wish it did." There was nothing to say to this. They parted excellent friends, but Rose said to Norah afterwards, "She's rather a nice girl, but I feel if I was with her she would make me do a thing whether I liked it or not." "It's the way she talks," said Norah; "she gets so excited over it. I never heard of a tenth before, did you?" "No, never. I wonder if Aunt Mary gives it, I will ask her." Jill had a word or two again with Mr. Arnold before he left. He came up to wish her sister good-bye when she was standing by her side. "Good-bye, Miss Baron. I am off to my work again to-morrow, so shall not see you again for some time." Mona looked up at him a little wistfully, then spoke in her most airy manner-- "Good-bye, it is not likely we shall often meet; my path is not yours, as you are so fond of inferring." He looked at her in silence, then his hand fell rather heavily on Jill's shoulder. "I think of you," he said, "as you were at this age. This little sister of yours has discovered that she is a steward--help her when she grows up, as you were never helped, to preserve her childish faith and integrity. It is required in stewards that a man may be found faithful!" Then turning to Jill he said-- "Good-bye, little friend. I am not sorry that I trespassed this afternoon, for I am going away happier than when I came." "And you don't mind us keeping your five shillings?" "I shall like to think of it reposing in that scarlet bag you told me about!" He went, and Mona turned sharply upon Jill-- "Run away, child, to Miss Falkner. It is getting late, you have been here long enough." Jill obeyed, wondering why her sister spoke so crossly. It was a few days after this that Jill discovered two more trespassers in the vicinity of Bethel. She was by herself, and did not feel quite so ready to arrest them when they proved to be Mona and Captain Willoughby. They had been wandering through the plantation, and Captain Willoughby's voice was very low and earnest when the sudden appearance of Jill startled and disconcerted him. "You can't come any further, I'm afraid," said Jill barring the way; "for you'll be trespassing." Mona looked at her in amusement. "Whose wood is this? Yours or mine?" she asked. "This corner is ours," answered Jill firmly, "No one used it before we did." "But what have you been using it for?" inquired Mona. Jill looked a little rebellious. Captain Willoughby seized hold of her. "You are the little trespasser, not us, I fancy," he said. "Now then I have got you. Come along, and don't pull away from me unless you want a sore wrist." So Jill was dragged captive before her board and pile of stones. Mona looked at it curiously. "Now what on earth does it mean, Jill? Explain." "You're trespassers both of you," said Jill stubbornly. "It's got to do with _us_, and we are the ones that know about it." "The mighty _US_!" said Captain Willoughby, who loved to tease her sometimes. But Mona stopped him, and drew Jill's hand out of his very gently. "Never mind, Jill dear. We will own ourselves trespassers if you will explain this. What does 'Bethel' mean? It is a Bible word, is it not?" Jill was quickly appeased. When Mona spoke to her kindly she was ready to tell her anything. "It is a secret place, and a religious one," she said. "Of course it comes out of the Bible, and it's not idolatry, though Sam's father says it is." "I know!" said Captain Willoughby. "It's an altar, and you offer sacrifices on it." "No, we don't," said Jill indignantly, "we wouldn't be so wicked!" "But the good people in the Bible always offered sacrifices," argued the young Captain. Jill looked at him thoughtfully. "Well, we don't," she said. "What do you do?" asked her sister. "This is a kind of altar, isn't it?" "It is a kind of one," admitted Jill, "though Jacob did not call it an altar. He made a heap of stones and called it Bethel, and so we've done it too." "Oh, I see," said Captain Willoughby. "This is Jacob's heap of stones. Isn't one of them in the King's coronation chair, by the bye?" "But what use is this to you?" asked Mona, wanting to get to the bottom of it. "It has to do with our vow," said Jill, speaking fast and earnestly. "We have done what Jacob did, we've told God we'll give Him our tenth. 'Of all that Thou shalt give me, I will surely give a tenth unto Thee.' That's the vow. And if anybody wants to make it I shall let them come here and make it, and they won't be trespassers any longer." "That's a grand inducement," murmured the Captain, "but what does your tenth consist of, Jill? Sweets and currant-buns, and dolls, and picture-books? I should like the system explained." "It's the tenth of our money, of course," said Jill, "I thought everybody knew that." Mona was silent. She was looking a little troubled. Then she turned suddenly to Jill-- "Is this where you brought Mr. Arnold the other day?" "I found him here," said Jill. "He was a trespasser. That's why he gave me five shillings." "What have you done with it?" "I've put it into our bag. Miss Falkner made us a red bag and all our tenth goes into it, and then I take it to Mr. Errington, and he's going to build a mission church on Chilton Common with it!" Mona gasped, then she began to laugh. "Hopeful Mr. Errington! I admire his ambition, but I fancy many years will roll by before that church is built!" "I knew you would laugh," said Jill reproachfully. "Well," said Mona, looking first at Jill and then at her pile of stones, "I always did say you children had the bump of invention. But I, with Mr. Arnold, will plead guilty of the charge of trespassing; and you must do the same, Captain Willoughby. What will you fine us, Jill? Five shillings? I think we cannot escape with less than that." "Be merciful," pleaded Captain Willoughby. "If I had known this visit of ours would have entailed such a loss to my pocket, I would have kept a long way off from it!" Jill looked perplexed. "I don't want to get money out of people," she said, "but you really are trespassers, and it will be lovely for our bag!" Mona took her purse out of her pocket, and put half a sovereign into her little sister's hand. "There!" she said. "Run away and put that into your bag. It is for a good object. Now, Captain Willoughby, we must go back to the house. I promised to drive with Miss Webb at four o'clock, and it is that already." Jill turned over the gold coin in amazement and delight. She thanked her sister effusively. "I knew our bag would get on, I was sure it would," she said; and then she scampered back to the school-room, where Miss Falkner was teaching Jack how to arrange his stamps geographically in his stamp album, and Bumps was looking admiringly on. "Look!" she cried. "Mona has given this to me for our bag! Isn't it perfectly lovely." She got plenty of sympathy from the school-room party. Miss Falkner had heard at last about "Bethel," but she had respected Jill's wish about it, and had never been there. That evening when the children were in bed she sat by the open school-room window. Her thoughts were not sad ones, though she had had much in her life to make her sad. And when a slender figure in a black lace gown came across the dusky lawn and spoke to her, it was the young heiress's face that looked weary and troubled, not the governess's. Miss Falkner looked up brightly. "Isn't it a delicious evening?" "Is it? Yes, I suppose so. I wish I enjoyed things as you do, Miss Falkner." There was a little silence. Then Mona sat on the low window-ledge and put her light shawl over her shoulders. "I must have some one to talk to to-night, or I feel I shall go crazy, and I have come out of doors to get away from Miss Webb, because she is so cross with me." Miss Falkner looked her sympathy but said nothing. "Jill has altered a chapter in my life to-day, and I don't know whether I am glad or sorry." "I hope she has done good, not harm," said Miss Falkner. "From your standpoint--yes. From mine--I'm not so sure. I was about to yield to persuasion, when she interrupted us, but after her interruption, I--well I altered my mind. What a lot of bother one's memory gives one!" "Sometimes it does." Mona moved in her seat restlessly. "Seven years ago, Miss Falkner, I quarrelled with some one that I liked very much. It was about a certain subject. It is strange that this week the same person and the identical subject have both cropped up again." "I should say," said Miss Falkner, "that the coincident has occurred for a purpose." "Yes, I knew you would say that." Then after a pause she said-- "Do you believe that prosperity is good or bad for one?" "I think if we regard our wealth as a trust it will be good for us," said Miss Falkner. Mona laughed a little bitterly. "Of course. It is the same old story. People can't give because it's right to give. I hate being forced." "No," said Miss Falkner gently. "It is only when we love the One to whom our wealth belongs that we love to give it back to Him." "Then," said Mona, "I must love first, before I can give." She rose, then looked a little wistfully at the young governess. "Sometimes I wish I could change places with you," she said, and before Miss Falkner could make any reply she slipped away. IX TRYING TO BE "DOUBLE GOOD" "Are you going away?" It was Jack who spoke, and who stood at the door of Captain Willoughby's room, looking at the half-filled portmanteaus, and the general chaos of a man's quarters when he is on the point of departure. It was before breakfast, and being a rainy morning, Jack was wandering about the passages seeking for some occupation. Captain Willoughby looked up from his employment. He was vainly trying to strap a Gladstone bag, and was muttering imprecations under his breath. "Now then, young shaver, what do you want? You children are always turning up when you aren't desired. I have to thank your small sister yesterday for an interruption which proved disastrous!" Jack edged himself in, and climbed up to the iron foot-rail of the bed, where he sat swinging his legs. "Why are you going?" "You didn't really think I had taken up my quarters here for good and all, did you?" Captain Willoughby's tone was distinctly irritable. "You needn't be waxy," said Jack cheekily. "There's one thing! I know you'll be back again before long!" "Shall I?" said the Captain, giving a vicious tug to his straps. "I shall volunteer to go out to India with the next draft; I'm sick of England." "Do tell me why you're so cross," said Jack earnestly, clasping his hands round his knees. Captain Willoughby had finished his task. He sat down upon his bag with a sigh of relief. "There! I shall leave my man to do the rest. The world is an utter failure, Jack, that's what it is!" "Is it?" said Jack innocently. "Yes," went on Captain Willoughby. "And it's the women who are at the bottom of it. They're all the same--unstable, uncertain, fickle, false, their moods change from day to day; they make you believe in them, and take you in all round, and then are quite surprised to see that you are taken aback by their complete change of tone and mind. It's a bad thing, my boy, to spend too much time with women. Remember that when you grow up. You will rue the day you made their acquaintance." This dissertation was perfectly incomprehensible to Jack. He stared at the Captain with open eyes and mouth. Then he slipped down from his perch. "I'm sorry you're so put out," he said. "I suppose you're cross because you have to go away." Then he slipped out of the room, and confided to Jill that Captain Willoughby was awfully cross with everybody in the world, and that she had better keep out of his way. The children with their governess occasionally lunched in the dining-room, when there were no visitors. Jack looked around on this particular day before he commenced to eat. "There are five women," he announced; "and I'm the only man. It's a bad lookout for me!" "Why?" asked Mona, who had been sitting at the head of the table rather _distrait_ and silent. "Because," said Jack slowly, "Captain Willoughby told me this morning that it is a bad thing to spend too much time with women." Mona's cheeks flushed a deep crimson. Miss Webb glared at Jack through her pince-nez, and then Mona laughed outright. "I'm afraid your lot is cast amongst women for the present, Jack. When you are Captain Willoughby's age, I advise you to be careful how you cultivate their society." "Mona!" said Miss Webb warningly. "Oh yes," said Mona; "I mean it. And if a woman, Jack, gets tired of your company, and doesn't like the idea of spending all her life with you, take yourself off like a man, and don't be talking over your grievances with everybody you come across!" Jack said no more. His sister's words were like Captain Willoughby's, beyond his comprehension. Jill's walk to the Golden City was a very halting one. When she was put to bed at night she generally reviewed her path through the day, and sometimes Bumps was favoured with her confidences. "I've had an _awful_ day," she admitted one night after a series of misdemeanours and punishments. "I meant to go as straight as--as a ruler, and I've gone all crooked. I always mean to behave, but things happen to make me forget!" "Yeth," said Bumps a little virtuously. "You forgot when you dressed up the black cat in Annie's cap and apron that she alwayth goes in the coal cellar when she's frightened. And when Annie is croth, she's horrid! When you locked her up here becauth she said she'd tell Miss Falkner, I knew she'd bang at the door till she brought everybody up-stairs. I tolded you tho." "Well," said Jill, sighing; "when Miss Falkner gave me a column of spelling to learn as a punishment, I did mean to do it; but when I saw Sam pass through the garden, I just forgot all about it, and all I thought was that this was the day he got his money, and I must ask him again about his tenth--of course that was another crooked turn I took; and when Miss Falkner said she couldn't trust me I think Satan came up behind and pushed me down as hard as he could. For I don't remember what I called her! I only know I was in a passion." "You called her a beatht!" said Bumps in a shocked tone; "and Jack and I heard you, and Jack said he wouldn't never have called her that!" "And then I threw the spelling-book in the fire, and then I was sent to bed," pursued Jill mournfully. "I wonder, Bumps, if you can make up for one bad day in the next. You see, if I was sent to walk two miles along a road, and I only did a little bit of a mile, and the rest of the time I went into crooked lanes and got myself into scrapes, I think the next day if I ran hard all day, and never stopped to sit down one minute, perhaps I could do the two miles I didn't do the day before, and two more besides." "Two and two make four," said Bumps complacently. "Will you try to-morrow, Jill?" "I think I will," said Jill. "I don't want to lose a day if I can help it." The next morning she remembered her resolve, and she added a silent petition to her morning prayer-- "Oh God, please help me to run hard and very straight to-day. Keep me from tumbling, and let me make up for yesterday, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen." "Jill is going to be very, _very_ good to-day," said Bumps confidentially to Jack. "Is she?" said Jack with interest. "Then I'll ask her to give me those stamps Captain Willoughby gave her the other day." Jill was taken aback by this request. "They are mine, Jack. You know I'm beginning to collect them." "Yes, but it will be unkind if you don't give them to me, because I want them. You should try to please others before yourself, that's what Miss Falkner says." Jill did not see this. "I thought you were going to be double good to-day," said crafty Jack. "Yes," said Jill slowly; "but if you take them it will be unkind and selfish of you." "But I'm not trying to be good to-day like you," argued Jack, quite unabashed. "But I shall be making it easy for you to be wicked; I shall be helping you to do an unkind thing." They were in the thick of their argument when Miss Falkner came into the room, so they dropped it. Lessons were started, and progressed very smoothly. At twelve o'clock, when they were dismissed, Jill came to Jack, and put the stamps into his hand. "There they are," she said; "but I wouldn't be you for _anything_!" "I've helped you to be good," said Jack with the greatest satisfaction as he sat down at the school-room table and began to stick the stamps into his album at once. Jill ran out into the garden. "Come and thwing me!" cried Bumps. "I can't, Bumps, I must try to do something wonderfully good." "What will you do?" asked Bumps curiously. "I don't know; I think I will get the Bible and find out." As quick in action as in thought, Jill darted into the house and soon returned with her Bible in her hand. For some minutes she turned over the leaves of it unsuccessfully, then an under-gardener passed her. Now this young man was a local chapel preacher, and Jill had heard some of the servants call him "a shining light." She looked up at him inquiringly. "Tom," she said, "what is the very goodest thing to do when you want to be really good?" Tom scratched his head. "'Tis God's Word will tell 'ee, Miss Jill. There be that sayin' of Apostle James--'Pure religion an' undefiled is to visit the widows and fatherless in their affliction, and to keep oneself unspotted from the world.' 'Tisn't many that get beyond that!" "Thank you," said Jill in delight. "Please show me the verse in case I may forget it." So Tom took her Bible in his hand and found it for her, then went on his way; and Jill began to formulate her plans with great rapidity. "'Unspotted from the world' means, of course, not to tumble down and dirty my frock on the way to the Golden City. That I'm trying to do hard, but I haven't visited any widows, and I know there are two or three in the village. That will be a lovely way of doing good. I will go at once." But alas for Jill! Mona was calling her to come and pick some flowers for her. For a minute she thought of running away, then her conscience told her-- "That will not be running in a straight road," and she reluctantly obeyed her sister's call, and picked flowers till the bell rang for the school-room dinner. She was not free from lessons till four o'clock. Then, without saying a word to any one, she put on her hat and ran out of the house and down the long drive as fast as her legs could carry her. She knew one old widow by sight, but she had never been inside her cottage. She was rather shunned by her neighbours, as she was a very dirty, thriftless woman, and earned her living by collecting rags and bones. Jill knocked at her door eagerly and breathlessly. The old woman poked her head out and looked at her crossly. "What do 'ee want?" "I've come to visit you." "Don't want no visits from plaguey children!" The door was banged in her face. Poor Jill retired discomfited. Then she thought of another widow who had lately lost her husband, a very respectable farmer. She lived at a farm some distance off, but distance was no detriment to Jill's purpose. Away she went; across fields and down lanes; getting more tired and heated every step she took. She found the young woman at her wash-tub. "May I come in and visit you?" asked Jill meekly. "Come in and welcome, miss. I think you be one of the little ladies belongin' to Miss Baron?" "Yes, I am," said Jill, seating herself on a low stool with a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you will let me come in. Old Mrs. Jonas wouldn't!" "That old cat! Why, miss! you be never tryin' to visit her?" "I'm visiting all the widows I can find to-day," said Jill solemnly. "The Bible tells me to." Young Mrs. Drake put her apron to her eyes. "Aye, dearie me! My poor, dear husban'! To think that I be called a widder along wi' that old good-for-nothin' Mrs. Jonas! Oh, 'tis a cruel, wicked world, and hard on me that has allays done me duty an' attended church reg'lar!" "Don't cry, please," said Jill, only dimly understanding the drift of her words. "You can't help being a widow, you know. That's why I've come to see you. And I've come to see your children too, because it says the 'fatherless!'----" But at this Mrs. Drake began to sob afresh, and so violently that Jill felt quite alarmed. "So they be! 'Fatherless.' An' only last Wednesday three weeks he were a dandlin' of 'em on his knee. Oh, 'tis hard, 'tis cruel hard on a poor, single woman!" A hard-featured woman put her head in at the door. "Why, Polly, what be 'ee makin' such a moan over?" Then seeing Jill, she stepped forward. Mrs. Drake sobbed the louder. "Little miss have been mindin' me that I'm a lone widder, and my chillen fatherless. So they be, the poor critturs, but 'tis hard to have it thrown up agen me! Ah, my poor dear husban'! Oh, Jim, Jim! why did 'ee leave me?" She began to beat her hands to and fro, and seemed to be hysterically inclined. "Run away," said the hard-featured woman. "You won't do no good here, missy. Poor soul! she has been well-nigh distracted, and I were hopin' she were gettin' over the worst of it, and now she be so bad as ever!" Jill crept out of the house feeling her visit had been a failure. As she gained the high-road again, she met Sir Henry Talbot, whom Bumps still called the "keeper." He was very good to the children, and stopped directly he saw her. "Hulloo!" he said. "Are you having another truant day? Are you all alone?" "I'm not truanting," said Jill. "I've been looking for widows. Do you know any, Sir Henry?" He laughed. "I do. Now, what the dickens do you want widows for? Tell me, and I'll help you." Jill hesitated. "You won't laugh at me?" "On my honour, no." "I'm trying to be double-good to-day, so I'm visiting them, like the Bible says we must." Sir Henry did not laugh. He only stood and looked at her. "And what do you say to them when you see them?" "That's the difficult part," said Jill. "I don't quite know what to say. I've been to one widow, and she wouldn't let me in, and I've been to another, and made her cry." "And now you're looking for a third. Well, I will help you. Do you see that big house behind the trees over there? A widow lives there, and her name is Mrs. Beresford. Go and see her, and make her cry if you can." "But I don't want to make them cry,' said Jill. 'Will she like to see me?" "I should think she would. I should, if I were a widow." "Has she any children? I want to visit some fatherless." "Happy thought! Come home and have some tea with me. I'm a fatherless creature. My father died when I was an infant." "I think," said Jill slowly, "the Bible means poor widows and fatherless. You aren't in affliction, are you?" "No," said Sir Henry. "I can hardly say I am." "Then thank you very much, but I shall have to look for some really poor people." And nothing that he could say would induce her to accompany him home. She plodded back to the village, but before she reached it, she came upon a little party of tramps who had drawn up their pony and cart by the roadside, and were eating their evening meal. They were not prepossessing in appearance. Two women, both of whom seemed careworn and down-trodden, four children, ragged and dirty, and a sullen, bad-tempered looking man. Jill looked at them with interest. One of the women had a rusty piece of crape on her bonnet. It was that which prompted Jill to speak. "Are you a widow?" she asked. The woman stared at her, but the elder one of the two gave her a nudge, then answered for her. "Yes, little lady, she be, indeed; lost her por husban' a few weeks ago, an' leaves 'er with three chillen under four year. 'Ave you a copper, miss, to give 'er? for she be on her way to the 'ouse." "I'm afraid I haven't any money," said Jill, "but I'll sit down and talk to her. It's what I came out to do--to visit widows." The man eyed Jill up and down in a way that she did not much like, but she was a fearless child, and was so full of the part she meant to play that she did not think of anything else. "I suppose you are in affliction," she said, gazing sympathetically into the woman's face. "I'm so sorry for you. Do tell me which are your little children." The woman looked at Jill with dull, curious eyes. She indicated her little ones by a backward movement of her thumb. "And what house are you going to?" asked Jill. "There be only one 'ouse for the likes o' me," the woman responded bitterly; then she turned her head to watch the approach of a carriage. Jill enticed one of the small children to come to her. She heard a carriage pass, but did not look up, then she was startled by her name being called, and sprang to her feet. Mona was calling her, for it was she and Miss Webb who were driving by. Mona's disgust was great at seeing a party of the lowest class of tramps sitting by the roadside, and her little sister in the midst of them. She spoke very sharply-- "Come here at once, Jill! What do you mean by disgracing yourself and us so?" Jill turned to the woman politely. "I'm sorry I have to go," she said. "Good-bye." She insisted on shaking hands, then came up to the carriage-door, looking a little defiant. "Get in at once, and we will drive home. How is it, Miss Webb, that even with this immaculate Miss Falkner these children are for ever getting into scrapes?" Jill climbed into the carriage, feeling very uncomfortable under her sister's scrutiny. She was conscious that she was very heated and untidy; Mona's fresh daintiness made her feel her own deficiency in neatness. "Give me an explanation of this at once, you naughty child," said Mona peremptorily. Jill's eyes flashed. "I'm not naughty," she said indignantly; "I've--I've been visiting widows." Miss Webb scented amusement. She sat up straight, and tapped Jill's knee with her pince-nez. "That's very interesting," she said. "Of course, visiting widows is not a sin. But who told you to do it? And why did you pick out a family of tramps to work off your energy upon?" Jill shut her mouth firmly. She keenly resented Miss Webb's tone of ridicule, and determined to say no more. Mona gave her a long lecture upon the dangers to which she had exposed herself in making friends with tramps, and when they reached home she was delivered over to her governess with a sharp injunction to punish her for running away, and keep her in the school-room for the rest of the evening. "So that's what I get for trying to be double good!" said poor Jill when she was in bed that night. "I never will try it again!" "Perhaps," said Bumps with wisdom beyond her years, "it wasn't quite the right way to be it!" X A PAPER CHASE Sam Stone did not hold out very long. Jill pursued him everywhere, and was never tired of dilating on his selfishness and greediness, in refusing to give up a tenth of his weekly wage. She was beside herself with delight one day, when he came to her with a two-shilling piece. "That be my portion for that there scarlet bag, missy," he said. "I'll stick to it for a bit an' give it reg'lar every week, but if-so-be that I be wantin' of it, well I must have it. That's all I can say, an' I hope fayther won't miss his comforts through it!" "You must _never_ go back from it," said Jill looking up at him solemnly. "It's a vow! You can't break a vow, it's a much more solemn thing than a promise!" "But I don't mean to make no vow!" said Sam. That would not suit Jill at all. She talked away to him, and finally threatened that she would get Miss Falkner to come and see him and explain it to him. "She'll make you see you ought to do it." "I'll do my best, missy, but 'tis the prayer you say I must make, stumps me. I've been a-looking through the chapter, an' Jacob he spoke up very certain-like about the Lord being his God. I don't set up to be a religious man myself, and I don't want to make no promises that I bain't a-goin' to keep!" Jill insisted upon getting her Bible and reading the verses through to him. "Jacob doesn't promise anything wonderful, Sam. He only says if God will be good to him and take care of him, he will make Him his God, and give his tenth to Him. Why the Lord is your God, Sam, isn't He?" "I don't know what the words mean rightly," said Sam dubiously. "They just mean that you must belong to God, and He will belong to you. You do belong to Him already, Sam, you know you do!" "I bain't so sure." "Oh, Sam! God made you, and keeps you alive every day, and Miss Falkner says it isn't only what God does for us, but Jesus died for us, so that ought to make us belong to Him doubly sure!" "Well," said Sam after long thought, "I'll come to 'Bethel' to-morrow." So the next day saw him go through the little ceremony with great feeling and earnestness of purpose, though the effort cost him a good deal. "I've done it fayther," he said when he went home, "I've tooken the vow for good and all. I thought it were a kind o' game when Miss Jill first brought it up, but I've been readin' the Bible, an' it do seem very plain, an'--an'--well--we do be ungrateful creatures to the good God!" The scarlet bag grew heavy with coppers as time went on. Norah and Rose Beecher came over to tea one day, and were persuaded to join "Our Tenth Society!" Jill got to calling it grandly the "O.T.S." and soon had the satisfaction of enrolling Annie the school-room maid as one of its members. Then came talk of summer holidays. Mona came into the school-room one evening to consult with Miss Falkner about it. "I suppose you must go home?" she asked. "You would not be able to take the children to the seaside?" "I am afraid not," said Miss Falkner. "I have a mother who lives quite alone, and who looks for me to come to her whenever I can." "Ah," said Mona with a little sigh. "You have something that I have not." Then she added in a different tone-- "I don't know what to do with the children. They play such pranks, and they're too old for nurses. Jack and Jill are quite beyond them." Miss Falkner could offer no suggestion. Mona went on-- "Miss Webb has offered to look after them, but I want her to come abroad with me, and she cannot do both." "I suppose you will have to leave them here for their holidays?" "I see the look in your eyes, Miss Falkner! You think me a selfish wretch for letting my claims on Miss Webb come first. Perhaps you are like Mrs. Errington, who at once saw a solution out of the difficulty. 'Take them to some comfortable farmhouse and look after them yourself!' I told her I should be worn out in twenty-four hours. I often wonder how you can stand it!" "It is my life-work," said Miss Falkner quietly. "But I am so fond of children that they do not tire me." "Well," said Mona giving an impatient sigh, "my life-work at present is to amuse myself. I find it hard work sometimes. But as you won't make it easy for me to carry off Miss Webb I suppose I must leave her behind." And so it was settled. Miss Webb resigned herself to her fate. Mona went to some of her numerous friends, and Miss Falkner took her departure. The children hovered about her as she packed the day before she went, and hindered rather than helped her. "Just tell me what your mother and your home is like," said Jill. "I'm going to shut my eyes and pretend I see you. Make yourself saying 'How do you do,' to her." Miss Falkner smiled. "Shut your eyes then. A narrow street, and a terrace of small houses with little balconies above. A cab stops at the door, and a young woman--shall I call her?--hurries up the narrow steps. Some one has been watching at the door. A gentle, sweet-faced woman with a bright smile and tired body, comes forward to greet her. Then she takes her to a little upstairs drawing-room, which is full of sweet-smelling flowers, and a canary bird and a big tabby cat--both the best of friends--are also waiting to greet the home-comer. Tea is waiting. A little rosy-cheeked maid brings the kettle in. The windows are open, but the small balcony is full of flowers, and the scent and sight of them makes one forget the narrow, dingy street outside. Can you see my home, Jill? Can you see me sitting down by my mother's side, and saying, 'No more lessons, and no more children for six weeks'?" "Yes," said Jill with tightly closed eyes, "I can see you; but, oh, Miss Falkner," and here she flung her arms round her governess's neck as she was stooping to put some things in her travelling trunk, "promise on your word and honour that you'll come back to us!" "Indeed I hope to do so, dear." "And don't, _don't_ like your mother better than us!" Miss Falkner could not help laughing. When the very thought of her mother brought a light to her eye and a lump in her throat; when the anticipation of her mother's kiss and greeting was now the first waking thought, how could she explain to a motherless child the strong tie between an only daughter and her mother! "You must be a good child, Jill, whilst I am away. Let me find you when I come back steadily going forward towards the Golden City. God will help you, darling." Jill nodded soberly. "And we'll go on filling our bag. And perhaps the mission church will be built by the time you come back." Miss Falkner did not damp her hopes. She parted with her little pupils with sincere regret. Bumps sobbed audibly when she wished her good-bye, and Jill crept up to her room to have her weep out in secret. Jack appeared stolidly unconcerned, but when the carriage had taken Miss Falkner away, he went straight to the stables, a forbidden resort. "Here, Stokes," he called out to one of the grooms, "I've come out here because it's so beastly dull, and I don't care who finds me here; for there isn't a person left in the house that I care about at all!" For the first few days the children missed their governess very much, then the delights of the holidays took full possession of them. Miss Webb was valiantly trying to do her duty. She took them for drives and for picnics in the woods. She went into the nearest town and bought them outdoor games and story-books; and if she saw them safely to bed at the end of the day without any serious mishap having taken place, she heaved a sigh of relief and said-- "One more day got through safely!" Jack was her greatest trial. Jill was really trying to be good, but Jack's spirits were hard to restrain, and whatever he did, and wherever he went, Bumps was sure to follow. One afternoon after their early dinner, Miss Webb retired to her room with a headache. It was a hot, sultry day in August. She left her charges playing a game of cricket on their lawn, and hoped they would stay there till tea-time. Jill was the first one to give up cricket. "I'm going to write a letter to Miss Falkner," she said. "You go on playing without me." "Bumps can't bowl," complained Jack; "she throws the ball up into the sky as if she's aiming at the sun." "I'll bat," suggested Bumps cheerfully. "Yes, and I'll put you out, first bowl. There you are, you little stupid!" Bumps stared blankly at her wicket, then at Jack. "What shall we do next?" she inquired. "We'll have a paper chase," suggested Jack, who was never at a loss. "And where shall we get the paper?" asked Bumps in great glee at the prospect. "Oh, come on into the house. We'll find it somewhere." Jack was not particular where he got his paper. Miss Webb's waste-paper basket was first seized, then _The Times_ of the day before and sundry magazines in the drawing-room, then the library was invaded and various papers and circulars abstracted from the writing-table. "I shall be hare, of course," said Jack as he sat down on the floor with Bumps, and rapidly began to tear his various papers to pieces. "You must give me ten minutes' start, Bumps, by the clock, and then you must follow the paper, and never stop till you catch me up." "You won't go twenty miles away?" said Bumps very anxiously. "Of course I won't! And get Jill to come with you. It will be much greater fun if she comes." Tearing the papers up kept them quiet for a good half-hour, and then Jack started, first taking off his jacket, and making Bumps promise on her honour not to look which way he went. She waited her ten minutes and then went to Jill. "Jill, do come and be the other hound. Jack has gone, and oh! he has gone through the thtable, I thee the paper!" Bumps was too excited to wait. Jill was lying flat on the grass and hardly turned her head. She murmured, "It's too hot," and went on with her writing. The afternoon wore on. Miss Webb was roused by the tea-bell and went down-stairs congratulating herself upon the quiet behaviour of the children. She found Jill deep in a storybook. "Where are the others?" she asked. "Paper-chasing," said Jill. "Aren't they stupid, this hot afternoon?" "But I hope they have not gone far?" "I don't know. The last time I did it, I was the hare, and I climbed a wall, and fell through a greenhouse the other side, and I was ill for three weeks; the gardener said I might have killed myself." This was hardly comforting. Miss Webb looked anxiously out of the window. "If they do not come soon, we must go and look for them. I hope they have not gone outside the grounds!" "Oh, they mayn't be back till bed-time," said Jill. "You ought not to have let Bumps go," said Miss Webb sharply. "She is far too small. You ought to have looked after her better!" Jill did not appear moved in the slightest. She ate her tea and wondered at Miss Webb's concern; but as time went on, and there was no sign of the hare or hound, she began to share Miss Webb's anxiety. "I'll go and look for them." Out she ran, and Annie was made to accompany her. They followed the paper down the drive out into the road and across two fields, then it went through a farm-yard up into a loft, down again, and out at a small back gate. The farmer's wife came out and said she had seen both the children, for Bumps had tumbled down in the yard and grazed her knees. "An' I took her in, an' gave her a piece of plaster, but she were dead set on following the young gentleman." After going up the lane and going through another field, Annie said she could go no further. "'Tis getting dark, and they'll most like be home by this time. Come back, Miss Jill. Master Jack ought to be ashamed of himself leading us this chase!" So they turned back, but when they came in they found that Miss Webb had ordered the gardeners and grooms all out, for they had not returned. Jill's bed-time came. It grew quite dark, and then at last voices were heard in the hall and Miss Webb rushed out. It was Bumps in the arms of a big farmer. "I found her in a ditch," he said; "my mare shied as I were-a-drivin' home, and I seed somethin' white by the roadside, and then I seed it were a child. She have hurt her foot, poor little 'un. She must have failed a-tryin' to get over a fence above!" "Is she dead?" cried Jill, pressing forward, for Bumps hung a limp and apparently lifeless bundle over the farmer's arm. "Bless 'ee, no! Her be faint an' exhausted, but put her to bed an' she'll be all right in the mornin'. Leastwise if her foot be not injured!" So poor Bumps was put to bed, and her little swollen foot bathed and bandaged, and after a good deal of petting and feeding, she was able to look up and speak. "It wath my short legs," she said sadly, and somehow or other this old excuse of hers, which was always brought forward when she had failed to do what the others did, brought the tears as well as a smile to Miss Webb's face. Not a word of blame or reproach was uttered. But when she had dropped into a sound sleep, Miss Webb left her, and her thoughts were now centred on the missing Jack. The gardeners and grooms failed to trace him, and returned to the house between ten and eleven that night without having found any sign of him. Miss Webb passed a sleepless night, and early in the morning the search was continued. But Jill was the first in the field. She got up at six o'clock, and with determination in her small face, she trotted off following the paper track. Over the same ground as the day before she went, but now in the sunshine it was a different matter, and though in some places the paper had disappeared, her sharp eyes tracked it out again, and she went on with renewed vigour. At last she came to a standstill. The paper was to be seen close to a private plantation. And then it went no further. Jill climbed a low fence in spite of a board with "Trespassers will be prosecuted," and looked in every direction for signs of more paper. But none did she find. "I'll go through the plantation," she said to herself, "and see where it leads, for I believe that Jack must have come to an end of his paper." She followed a little beaten track; and presently with joy saw lying in a bush a white cotton pillow-case. It had been missing from Jack's bed the night before and was the bag he carried his paper in. Jill took it up and found it--as she expected--empty. Then she pressed forward, and at last came to the other end of the plantation. A deep and rather wide stream ran between it and a green field, in which there were several horses grazing. She looked down at the stream, then taking off her shoes and stockings she boldly splashed across. She was in the act of putting her stockings on again, when a gruff voice startled her. "Now here's another of 'em!" Looking up she encountered the gaze of a stout, red-faced old gentleman. "Have you seen Jack?" she asked eagerly. He shook his fist at her. "Didn't you see my board?" he shouted. "How dare you come on in the face of it, and disturb my birds! If it isn't poachers, it's children now-a-days. I hate 'em both!" "I'm very sorry," said Jill; "but please where is Jack. He has been away all night, and we can't find him." "If that impudent boy I caught and thrashed yesterday was Jack, you had better follow him, and if you aren't quick about it you'll get what he got!" He brandished his stick so fiercely, that Jill fled in terror across the field. Out of a white gate and down a lane she ran, and never stopped till she reached a small cottage. Here she pulled up and breathlessly asked a woman if she had seen her brother. "Were he a small boy with flannel shirt and trousers, and a straw hat? Then yestere'en 'bout seven o'clock, he came runnin' down the road an' Mike the tinker were in front with his old cart. I seed the boy speak to 'im, and then up he climbed, and away they drove, and I'm afeered that Mike was the worse for drink." "Where does Mike live?" asked Jill with a sinking heart. "About four mile from here, but he were a-goin' on his rounds, and his next stopping-place was at Thornton." Thornton was the nearest town. Jill knew it well, but it was beyond her walking powers. "I can't think why he hasn't come home," she said half crying. "I don't know what to do." "Here's some un comin'," said the woman shading her eyes with her hand. "'Tis a man on a hoss." Jill looked down the road, and when the rider drew near, she saw to her intense delight that it was Sir Henry Talbot. He stopped his horse directly he saw her. "What!" he said; "another of you straying. Are you still looking for widows?" "Oh no," Jill cried; "I'm looking for Jack. He is lost, and I've come out to find him, and a drunk tinker has driven him away!" Sir Henry nodded gravely. "I know all about it," he said; "I've sent Jack home in my carriage." Jill's face brightened at once. "Oh, I am so glad; why didn't he come home?" "He couldn't very well. I was driving home last night from a dinner party between twelve and one, and I came upon the tinker and Jack under the cart and horse by the old bridge. It's a wonder they hadn't fallen into the river. The tinker had his ribs broken, and Jack a nasty cut on the head, but my housekeeper plastered him up, and he's quite himself this morning. What scamps you are! How are you going to get home? I think you had better come up on my horse. He'll carry us both." So in a very short time Jill returned triumphantly to the house riding in front of Sir Henry. Miss Webb saw them from a window and hurried out. "How can I thank you, Sir Henry? He has arrived safe and sound. I feel I shall be a white-haired old lady by the time Mona comes back. And now you've brought Jill home. I do feel so grateful." "But I haven't been lost," said Jill in an aggrieved tone. And then she ran indoors to find Jack. XI A DONKEY RIDE Both Jack and Bumps were on the sick-list for the next few days. Bumps had sprained her foot, and Jack's cut on his head was a deep and painful one. When he recovered, he told his adventures to his sisters with much relish; but for once Jill took Bumps' part, and told Jack he had treated her very badly. "You ought to have stopped when your paper came to an end, and come back to her. How could she follow you, especially when you drove in a cart? It wasn't fair." "It was that old brute's fault. He nearly broke his stick over my shoulders. I'll pay him back when I get a chance. I've got the marks now. I can feel them. I couldn't walk home, I was so hurt. So I told Mike to drive me into Thornton, and then I was going to our butcher, I knew he would take me home." "That was rather clever of you," admitted Jill, "but did you forget all about Bumps?" "Oh, I knew she would never come on so far. If you'd been with her it would have been all right. And I thought you were. I told her to bring you; so it was really all your fault." This was turning the tables upon Jill. "I suppose," she said slowly, "I ought to have looked after her." But Bumps breathlessly protested: "I wath all right. I runned ever so fatht. And I thaw the paper, and never wath frightened of the cowth, and I would have catched him, Jill, I really would, only I couldn't get over the palings, and my legs thtuck where they oughtn't to, and then I tumbled on my head and--and----" Bumps came to a stop; then she added piteously, "I'll do better next time, Jack. I really will." And Jack replied with a patronising air. "Oh yes, you'll do, when you grow bigger." "Mona is coming back, children," said Miss Webb one morning as she opened her letters at the breakfast-table. "She does not say why she is coming home so much sooner than she intended, but I suppose she will tell us. She will be here this afternoon." The children were delighted. Mona was a constant source of interest and admiration to them. When she was in the house, there was a stir and bustle; the very servants seemed to go asleep in her absence. Miss Webb had tea out upon the lawn that afternoon, and when Mona arrived, she seemed struck with the children's orderly dress and behaviour, and the quiet peacefulness of the old garden. "There is no place like home after all," she said as she sat in a low wicker-chair with Bumps on her lap. Miss Webb looked at her with keen eyes. "You are tired and worried about something," she said. "Didn't you enjoy your visit?" "Very much till yesterday," and Mona gave a little shiver. Then she bent her lips, and touched Bumps' golden head with them caressingly. "I had a full programme," she said with a little laugh. "The Tambourne Races to-day, the Regatta to-morrow, and Lady Donald's ball next Monday, followed by her village theatricals and concert. There was an awfully nice girl staying with us. Maud Crichton was her name. She used to come into my room every night to have a chat, and I was going to bring her back here to stay with me. She was rather seedy a few days ago, and we thought it a heavy cold. Only last night she was sitting up with me, and though her head was very bad, we were making wonderful plans. This morning she was covered with a thick rash. I heard she had almost been light-headed in the night. The doctor came and pronounced it scarlet fever. Of course there was a general stampede. I'm terrified lest she should have infected me. What do you think, Miss Webb?" Miss Webb looked grave, then quietly took Bumps off Mona's lap and sent her indoors, telling the others to follow. "You don't think of the children," she said a little reproachfully. "The children? Good gracious! You're taking it for granted I am going to get it! Why, Miss Webb, it drives me frantic to think I may! What can I do? Shall I send for a doctor for some preventive?" Miss Webb saw the girl was thoroughly frightened and unstrung, so she spoke very quietly. "You are not a weak, hysterical girl, Mona. Do for pity's sake control yourself. It is not very likely you will take it; but if you did, there are many things worse than scarlet fever. What makes you so frightened?" "Oh," said Mona, covering her face with her hands, "I might die. It is so awful to think about it. And wasn't it strange, Miss Webb, we had a sermon last Sunday with the gruesome text: 'Prepare to meet thy God.' Now don't let us talk any more about it. Give me another cup of tea. I call it ridiculous to send the children away." Mona pulled herself together with an effort. After that one revelation of her frightened soul, she did not touch upon the subject again, but Miss Webb watched her anxiously, and would not let the children be much with her. A week afterwards, Mona was taken ill with the disease she so much dreaded. Her extreme nervousness about herself did not help her. Miss Webb promptly telegraphed to Miss Falkner--"Scarlet fever in house. Can you take children to seaside?" And though Miss Falkner had only had a month's holiday, instead of six weeks, she replied at once-- "Certainly, will return to-morrow." "It's rather exciting!" said Jack to Jill as they stood at the school-room window watching for the arrival of their governess. "I don't want Mona to be ill, but I'm jolly glad we're going to the seaside." "I'm glad Miss Falkner is coming with us, but I rather think I'd like to have scarlet fever. It must be so nice to have the doctor and a nurse, and jellies and beef-tea, and everybody fussing over you." The arrival of the carriage stopped further discussion, and in another moment all three children were flinging themselves upon their governess, nearly choking her with their eager embraces. They went the next day to a small seaside place about three miles from Chilton Common. There was a nice sandy beach, a row of lodging-houses, a stone pier and fishing-wharf; and the children were perfectly content with their lot. Annie came with them, and their landlady knew them well, for it was not the first time they had been there. "Miss Falkner, can't we go and see Chilton Common one day?" asked Jill, soon after they had arrived. "Why, you funny child!" said Miss Falkner, smiling. "The only reason you liked to go to Chilton Common was because you could see the sea in the distance; and now you are actually at the sea, you want to go to the Common." "Ah!" said Jill, "but I want to find the place where our mission-room is going to be." "I forgot that," admitted Miss Falkner. "But it is too far for you to walk, Jill. We must wait till we get home, I think, and then we can drive there." So Jill tried to be patient, and she was very fond of mounting a small hill close to the town where she could get a fine view of the Common, and one day Miss Falkner found her there, shaking her red bag wildly in the air at it. "There!" she was saying, "do you see the place you are going to build upon! The fatter you get, the better for Chilton Common!" They heard from Miss Webb, but her letters always smelt of carbolic, and Miss Falkner burnt them directly she had read them. Mona was very ill, and one morning Miss Falkner got a letter that rather startled her. It was as usual from Miss Webb. "DEAR MISS FALKNER, "I remember you told me that you were not afraid of scarlet fever, having had it a few years ago. Would you be afraid of coming to Mona? She is crying out for you incessantly day and night, and I do not think it is mere delirium. She says you would help her to get well, and the poor girl seems in terror lest she should not do so. Dr. Forbes says if her mind could be eased there would be more chance of her recovery. Leave the children with Annie. I am sure they will be good, when they know that Mona needs you. And nothing seems to matter in comparison with Mona's life. If you feel you can come, come at once." Miss Falkner went straight to her room, and put up a few things in a portmanteau. She called Jill to her, and told her about the letter. "I am going to trust you, Jill, to keep the others out of mischief, and ask God, dear, to make your sister better, if it is His will." Jill looked rather blank at the news. "You are always leaving us now," she said; "and Jack won't do what I tell him. He never would. Mona has got Miss Webb, she doesn't want you too!" This was very much Annie's opinion. "Miss Baron doesn't ever think of anybody but herself," she confided to Mrs. Pratt, the landlady. "If she took a fancy to see one of the children, she'd never think of the risk to them, but she'd insist upon them coming to her. She's a nice young lady to speak to, but she's always had her own way, and poor Miss Falkner must go to help nurse her now!" When Miss Falkner came softly into the sick-room, she was shocked at the change in Mona. She lay with crimson cheeks and parched, dry lips upon her pillows, restlessly turning her head to and fro; her beautiful hair had all been cut off; her eyes were dull and vacant; her voice husky and indistinct. A gleam of recognition lit up her face as Miss Falkner stooped over her and spoke to her. "Is it Miss Falkner? You are good, you know how to pray. I am not ready to die. Pray for me. It is cruel to take my life so soon, and he will keep preaching, 'Prepare to meet thy God.' Do stop him. Of course it is Cecil Arnold; I laughed at him, but I knew I was wrong, and he was right. I can't prepare. I don't know how to. And why should I give up a tenth of my money?--even little Jill is laughing at me--she and Cecil Arnold putting their heads together, and he won't look at me, he doesn't care for me any more. Oh, if only you will help me!" This and much more in the same strain she poured forth. Miss Falkner soothed her for the time, and the next day when she was lying weak and exhausted, but fully conscious, she spoke again. "Do you think I shall get over this, Miss Falkner!" "I think--I hope you will," said Miss Falkner brightly. "I am praying that you may." "I know I have lived only for pleasure, but if, oh, if God spares my life, I will give Him some of my money. It has worried me so. Even the children are giving now more than I do." "There is something God wants more than your money," said Miss Falkner gently. "It is of more value to Him than that." "What is it? Oh, if I get well I will give it. Life is everything to me." "It is your soul." The words were spoken in a soft whisper, and there was silence in the room for some time after that. At last Mona put her wasted hand out. "I will give it to Him, if He spares my life." * * * * * "Jack, Mona is going to get well. Miss Webb has written to tell us so. Oh, do let us do something jolly to-day." "We'll have a donkey ride. There's a man just come along the road with four of them. Come on!" But, alas! When purses were produced, only eightpence could be collected, and the donkey man shook his head. "I wish," said Jack discontentedly, "that we needn't always be giving to the Bag." Jill got hot and indignant at once. "You greedy, wicked boy, after your vow too. Remember Ananias and Sapphira!" "But they took the money; I haven't." "No, but you're almost wishing to!" "I'm not," said Jack sullenly. "What's the matter, my boy?" asked an old lady, who was sitting on a sheltered seat on the beach, and who had overheard a part of this conversation. "We want a donkey ride," said Jack bluntly; "and we haven't got enough money." The old lady quietly drew out a rusty black bag from her pocket. "I used to like donkey rides when I was a little girl," she said, "so I'll treat you to one. Where would you like to go?" The children could hardly believe their ears. But Jill's one thought came uppermost at once. "To Chilton Common," she said. "Oh! we should love to go there." The old lady spoke to the man. "Where is your nurse?" she said. "Will she like you to go so far?" "Oh, Annie won't mind. We always play out here till dinner-time." So in a few minutes, four donkeys were going at a steady trot towards Chilton Common; the man himself riding on one of them. It seemed a long way to the children, but Jill enlivened the way by telling the man about their tenth bag, and the room that they hoped to build on the Common. "You might help if you like," she suggested. "You could give a tenth out of what the lady is going to give you this morning. It's going to be a tenth room or church, because it's going to be built out of our tenths." "Don't believe in parsons or churches," said the man emphatically. "Do you mean you don't like them?" questioned Jill. "Don't you go to church yourself?" "Never been inside a church since I were a Sunday-school brat." "Oh! that sounds dreadful!" said Jill, eyeing him with severity. "Fact!" said the donkey man, giving Jill's donkey a vicious whack with his stick, and making her start off at a gallop. But Jill could stick to her donkey and to her point at the same time. "Well, if you don't want to go to church, other people do; and they can't do it on Chilton Common. You wait till we get there, and then you will see what it is like! And I'm sure you would like to give God some of your money, wouldn't you? You must get a lot of money by your donkeys. _Everybody_ likes to ride on donkeys!" "I'm a poor man, an' has a hard job to get my vittles," was the response. "Let rich folk build churches and such like. Let 'em throw away their money on such foolery, but a hard-workin' man has better to do with his'n." "But," argued Jill, who from her long discussion with Sam was quite prepared for these sentiments, "you aren't as poor as we are. If no one gives me a present I get threepence a week, but it doesn't matter how little you have, the first ten pennies you get, you put one aside for God. Now do, won't you? You really ought to, for God gives you your donkeys and your money. Supposing if your donkeys broke their legs, or you broke yours! Then you wouldn't be able to get any money. And if God takes care of you and your donkeys every day, I expect He's very disappointed that you don't give Him a little money!" This and much more Jill eagerly poured forth, and at last her driver took refuge in silent chuckles and shakes of his head. He would not be drawn out any more. They arrived in due time on the Common. It was a lovely day, and a few women came out on their doorsteps to watch the little cavalcade. The children dismounted, and began earnestly disputing about the best site for the mission-room. Jill took into her confidence one of the women who seemed greatly interested. "You see," she said, "Mr. Errington and us are going to build a church here when we can get enough money. Where would you like it put?" "We bain't church-goers," said the woman laughing. "No, but you will be when you get a church." "Now," said the donkey man, getting bolder when he saw he would be supported by a majority; "will 'ee tell us, little miss, what good a church does 'ee?" He raised his voice, and several lads and women drew near to listen. Jill climbed back on her donkey. She did not like the look of the rough boys, but she bravely held her ground. "It's a place where you can hear about Jesus," she said reverently, "and where you can ask Him what you want. Miss Falkner says He is always there to meet you." "And what good do He do?" asked a lad with a mocking laugh. "He helps you to set out, and keep on going to the Golden City," said Jill, looking at him with shocked disapproval. "You wait till you get your church, and Mr. Errington comes out to tell you all about it. You'll wish when you hear about it, that you'd been told _hundreds_ of years ago!" There was loud laughter, but one of the women came forward and looked at Jill somewhat wistfully. "Your Golden City reminds me of a hymn I used to sing in Sunday school," she said. "It began, 'Jeroos'lem the golden'!" "Yes, I know it," said Jill, nodding; "and when you get your church I'll ask Mr. Errington to let you have that hymn every Sunday if you like." "Shall we have hymn singin'?" questioned a boy, with a white face and dark shock of hair. "Who'll do the moosic?" "Mr. Errington will do it _all_," said Jill with proud emphasis. "And when the church is open, I shall come over, and Jack, and Bumps, and Miss Falkner. And we'll be in our Sunday clothes, and you will be in yours, and the church will be _crammed_! And there'll be lots of music and singing, and we shall all enjoy it awfully! And after it's over"--here her imagination ran away with her--"we'll all shake hands, and say how glad we are, and then we'll have flags waving and bells ringing, and a lovely tea which we'll sit down to all together, with cakes and buns, and tea in urns, like a schoolfeast!" Jack, who had been listening in silence, broke in now with enthusiasm. "And then we'll have three cheers for the King, and three cheers for Mr. Errington, and three cheers for our red bag that got the money, and we'll finish up with a bonfire and fireworks!" Jill pulled out her red bag which she had stuffed into her pocket, and wildly waved it in the air. "Hurray for Chilton Common Church!" she cried, and the children and rough lads round joined in her cheer with a hearty good-will. "Now," she said, relapsing from enthusiasm to business, "where would you like us to build it?" There was a little silence. Some of the women went indoors. The group thinned. Jack looked round wisely. "I think we'll let Mr. Errington choose the place," he said. "I'm sure it's time to go back." "Well," said Jill, turning to the blacksmith, who had left his forge and had come out to know what the cheers were about, "I've told you what is going to happen, and if you like to give a tenth of your money and give it to God, I will take it and put it in my red bag and give it to Mr. Errington." The blacksmith put his hand in his pocket and brought out sixpence. "There be my mite towards it," he said. "I always did say a parson up here would be the thing!" Jill thanked him profusely, dropped the sixpence in her bag, and the children rode away, followed for a short distance by a screaming crowd of small boys and girls. [Illustration: "THERE'S MY MITE TOWARDS IT."] XII THE BISHOP AND THE GEESE When they reached the beach again the old lady was just in the act of departing for her lunch. She cheerfully paid the donkey man, but Jill was watching the transaction anxiously, and pursued the man to the end of the beach, where she held an earnest conversation with him. "Jill is trying to make him give up his tenth," said Jack confidentially to the old lady. "I don't think she'll do it." "What do you mean, child?" Explanation followed, and with Bumps' eager and breathless interruptions, the old lady got quite mystified. "Why do you keep talking about a tenth?" she said. "Because it's a tenth that God expects from everybody," said Jack. "I suppose you give yours to somebody to look after, don't you?" "I don't give a tenth of my money away at all," said the lady snappishly. "That is an old Jewish law. Thank goodness, we are not Jews, but Christians." "But Miss Falkner told us it wasn't only meant for Jews," argued Jack. "She says everybody who gets money from God ought to give back some to Him." "Yeth," nodded Bumps; "and becauth we can't send it up to heaven, Miss Falkner thaid we could thpend it on good things for God down on the earth, and we would be very happy if you gave us your money for our bag, wouldn't we, Jack?" Jack was not a good beggar. He got hot and red. "We don't ask people for money," he said; "but if they like to give us their tenth we should be pleased." "Jill asks," said Bumps. "She asks everybody!" "Oh, dear!" said the old lady, "here she comes running back! I must go. There, my boy, there's a coin for your bag!" She put a sovereign into Jack's hand. "Is it your tenth?" he asked wonderingly; "what a lot of money you must have! Thank you very much!" But the old lady was gone, and strangely enough the children never saw her again. "Have you got any money from the donkey man?" asked Jack. "Yes," said Jill in quiet triumph. "He gave me sixpence. I don't know whether it was quite a tenth, but he seemed very pleased to do it--at least he got pleased. He said he had never done such a good thing in his life, and he hoped that it would be remembered. I told him God wouldn't forget it, for He can't forget anything. And he told me he only lives a mile from Chilton Common, and when the church is built I'm to let him know, and he will come and see it. He's a nice man!" Then Jack opened his hand, and let her see what he had got. Jill screamed in ecstacy; the red bag was produced, and when both coins were safely deposited, they ran indoors to their dinner, feeling they had had an eventful morning. The days passed slowly. There were days when everything went wrong, when Jill, as well as Jack and Bumps, was seized with the spirit of mischief and naughtiness. She was very repentant when the day was over, but Annie did not understand her moods, and was not so long-suffering as Miss Falkner. "It's no good leading me such a life all day, and then thinking you make it all right by saying you're sorry," she said with great severity. "You're all talk, Miss Jill! pretending to be so good with your bag of money, and making Miss Bumps as wicked as yourself when you choose! I've no belief in them that talks good, and acts wicked!" Jill's passionate temper was aroused at once. "I don't pretend, and I don't talk good! And I hate you, Annie! It's you that make us wicked! Miss Falkner never does! I'll run away, and go straight home, and catch the scarlet fever! I won't stay with you!" Annie laughed scornfully. "Words again! You want a piece clipped out of your saucy tongue, Miss Jill!" Jill was sitting up in bed. With all her strength she flung her pillow in Annie's face. Annie caught it, and marched out of the room with it. "You naughty, impudent child! I shall take it right away to punish you. You can sleep without it to-night!" Jill buried her burning cheeks in her bolster, and began to cry. Bumps sat up and ruefully regarded her. "Never mind, Jill. Annie is horrid. Oh, pleath don't cry!" "It's no good," sobbed poor Jill. "Annie doesn't mean me to finish off being wicked. She tries to make me go on for ever. Nobody understands but Miss Falkner. It's no use to try to be good again. I shall have to go on being in disgrace. I've gone miles away from my path to the Golden City to-day, and just when I'm trying to find my way back again, Annie pushes me away. I shall give it up altogether. I shall throw my red bag in the sea to-morrow, and shall give no more tenths to God. I shall be as wicked as I possibly can. I'm meant to be wicked!" "Oh, dear!" sighed Bumps, in despair. "You do want Miss Falkner, Jill." "Of course I do," said Jill, angrily. "How can I be good without her?" "I wonder," said Bumps, "if God would do instead!" There was silence. Bumps sometimes--baby though she was--had the rare faculty of hitting the nail straight on the head. Jill stopped her weeping and began to think. "I think," she said, after a few minutes' silence, "I'll just tell God all about it. I'd like to tell Him how nasty Annie is!" Better thoughts soon stole into her angry little heart. "There's one thing," she said presently, startling Bumps out of her first sleep; "God knows the proper truth about me. He knows I am sorry that I was tiresome to-day! Annie doesn't believe me, but He will. And He knows I don't pretend to be good!" "Yeth," assented Bumps, drowsily; "He knowth it!" Jill dropped asleep comforted. The long time was over at last. Mona recovered and went away for change of air; the house was cleaned and re-papered, and one day Miss Falkner arrived to take them home. "We almost like lessons now," said Jack. "We've had such long holidays." But when lessons began the children found them irksome. They had become thoroughly unsettled, and accustomed to careless, unpunctual ways. Miss Falkner's regular routine fretted and chafed them. She found she needed all her patience to bring them and keep them under her control. "I think," Jill said to Jack, one day, and her face was thoughtful as she spoke, "that no one can be properly good till they are twenty. I wonder how old Miss Falkner is." "She's just as old as Mona," said Jack. "I heard Mona tell Miss Webb so." "How funny! But she's not a bit like Mona." "No. Miss Webb said to Mona when she told her, 'You are a child beside her, Mona.' Now, what did she mean by that?" Jill pondered. "Miss Falkner looks older. And I expect being good makes you old. Miss Falkner is _very_ good. I'm sure when I try to be very good, and make you and Bumps good too, I feel--I feel a hundred years old!" "I don't think children are meant to be _very_ good," said Jack. "People always talk of us as if we're wicked. P'raps we ought to be good on Sundays." "If we're walking to the Golden City, we ought to be good every day," said Jill decidedly. Jack shook his curly head. "I've thought of a lovely game I'm going to make Bumps play at." "What?" asked Jill in an eager tone. "Why you know the story that comes in our reading-books about the geese who saved Rome by cackling when the enemy was creeping up. I'm going to be the enemy, and Bumps and you must be asleep." "But where?" asked Jill. "It was on the top of a high hill." "Yes," nodded Jack; "but I've thought it out. There's the church tower. We'll do it to-morrow afternoon, and we'll take the geese up first." "That will be splendid," said Jill; "only how will you do it? Remember the swans! I think if we can get hold of their food, and hold it out to them, they'll follow us, but how will you climb up to the tower?" "Tom Sanders has done it. He told me he did, and I'm longing to try. You climb the yew tree first, and then get on to the ivy. Then you get in at the belfry window. He got out again and went up by the lightning-conductor, but I thought the geese would see me climbing in at the window and then they'll cackle--and of course I shan't be able to come on any further." "But supposing they don't cackle?" "Well, that's the game--to see if they do! If they don't, I shall know Roman history tells lies. Because, of course, these geese are just the same as those were." "These are English geese!" Jill said doubtfully. Jack was undaunted. He was a true little Briton. "Then they must be better than Roman geese, and they'll cackle twice as loud, and be double as fierce!" So the next afternoon when lessons were over, instead of playing in the garden, the three children stole quietly off to the farmyard. The prospect was so exciting that even Jill had no qualms of conscience. Jack had persuaded one of the farm lads who looked after the geese to save him a dish of their food. Armed with a big dish he boldly went up to the biggest gander, who greedily put his head into it at once. It was the signal for all the others to follow suit. Then Jack, holding the dish, ran out of the farmyard; and to the children's delight, away strode the flock of geese after him, stretching out their necks and shrieking in protest. Jill and Bumps followed behind with switches to drive them along. Unfortunately, the fowls joined the chase, and two small black pigs escaped out of the yard and with squeals of delight raced into the flower-garden. Out into the lane the little procession went, and the geese behaved very well. Occasionally one or two would dive into a ditch after frogs, which delayed progress, but with Jill and Bumps chasing them behind, and Jack enticing them in front, they at last reached the church-yard, which was not very far away. The door of the tower was found open, and the geese were with a little difficulty driven in. But when Jill turned and shut the door a pandemonium ensued. The frightened birds screamed, and beat their wings against each other. As to making them mount the spiral stone steps, it seemed an impossibility. When Jack caught hold of the gander and tried to hoist him up, he turned and pecked at his hand so viciously that it began to bleed. Bumps got frightened, and crept into an empty oak chest. Jill coaxed and beat the birds by turns, and geese and children shrieked at the top of their voices, till the old tower echoed and re-echoed with the noise. But Jack and Jill never gave up any cherished plan very easily. By perseverance, and with much toil and persuasion, they got two young geese to the top. Their wings were strong and they flew most of the way. With these two birds they were forced to be content. Poor Bumps was forgotten, and the gander and his tribe were so furious at being entrapped in such a manner, that they shrieked and fought like furies. Bumps felt if she showed herself amongst them she would literally be torn to pieces, so she lay still in her chest, her little heart panting and throbbing with fright. Presently she heard voices in the church, and in a few minutes the belfry door was flung open. Mr. Errington had been entertaining his bishop that day, and had brought him and a party of ladies to look at a beautiful old screen in the church. Their consternation and amazement was considerable when the flock of angry geese confronted them. The ladies beat a hasty retreat behind the yew tree, and the bishop spoke sternly to the vicar, though there was a twinkle in his eye. "Is this usual, Errington? Is the belfry your poultry-yard?" And poor Mr. Errington was so utterly astonished that he could not utter a sound. Away waddled the geese down the church-yard path, and then Bumps lifted up her voice, and her little body too, thereby causing a second alarm. "Pleath it's only me," she explained, climbing out of her retreat. "The geeth were so angry, I wath quite frightened!" "Are you a little goose girl?" asked the bishop, bending over her, and putting his hand under her chin. "No," said Bumps, feeling distinctly aggrieved; "I'm not a gooth at all. It's a game, only the thtupid geeth won't play properly!" "I am afraid my lord," said Mr. Errington, recovering his presence of mind, "that some young people have been making free of this belfry without my knowledge." Then turning to Bumps he said, "Where are your brother and sister? I fancy they are the culprits." "They're upstairs," said Bumps, tears filling her blue eyes, which she vainly struggled to keep back. "They're playing the game without me. They always does when I get left behind. The geeth wouldn't go up-stairs, but Jack and Jill made two of them go." "And what game are you playing?" asked the bishop gently. "It's something about Rome and geeth that have to cackle, and an enemy. Jack is the enemy; he is climbing up outthide, and the top is Rome, and the geeth have to wake Jill and me up. But I've never been athleep, and it's all no good!" Tears dropped on her white pinafore. The bishop looked more amused than angry. He turned to Mr. Errington-- "They say that some of our churches lead to Rome, Errington, but these youngsters have been early in discovering it. I should like to go up to Rome, I think. Will you lead the way?" So Mr. Errington obeyed, and the ladies rustled after them, taking Bumps with them. When they came out on top, two geese were being held down forcibly by a very hot and dirty little boy and girl. "Stop your cackling, you brutes!" Jack was screaming. "I want you to stop till I come up! They're no good, Jill, if they go on like this, and they'll be flying over the tower next. What shall we do? Let us tie their legs!" "Jack!" Mr. Errington's tone was so sternly indignant that the boy started and let go of his goose, which flew frantically between the bishop's legs, knocked Bumps down, and finally took a header down the the belfry stairs. "What do you mean by this? How dare you use this church for such a purpose? Isn't your garden large enough for your games?" "We haven't got a tower," mumbled Jack. Jill broke in eagerly. "Please Mr. Errington don't be angry. We haven't been into the church. We wouldn't think of playing games in there. We didn't think you'd mind up here, and it is a history game." "It seems to me," said the bishop, looking at Mr. Errington with a twinkle in his eye, "that you have some scamps amongst your parishioners as well as examples. I have been hearing"--here the bishop turned to Jack and Jill--"of some good little children that I think you would do well to imitate. You might expend some of your superfluous zeal on following their example. These children are steadily putting by a tenth of all their money, and persuading many of their friends to do the same, with the object of building a mission-room in a neglected neighbourhood!" Jack and Jill looked at the bishop with open eyes and mouth. "But that's _us_!" gasped Jill. There was a moment's silence. Then the bishop's sense of humour overcame him and he laughed loud, the ladies joining him, only Mr. Errington preserving his gravity. As he descended the stairs again, he said to the vicar, "One lives and learns, Errington. I had forgotten the complex natures of children." XIII MONA'S TENTH It seemed a long time to the children before Mona returned, and their first sight of her was a distinct shock to them. She came back with a closely-cropped head, and a white face, looking so fragile that Bumps confided to Jack that she thought "Mona must be nearly dying." But her voice and laugh reassured them. They wondered when they saw her kiss Miss Falkner. "Do you like her very much?" asked Jack. "_Very_ much," said Mona promptly. "She came to me when I wanted her, and it was through her that I got well again!" "But hadn't you any doctors?" "Miss Falkner was my doctor." This sounded puzzling, but Mona astonished them still more by things she said and did. She came into the school-room while the Bible-reading was going on and asked Miss Falkner questions about it, as if she were one of her pupils. She started having family prayers; and then one afternoon Jill found her trespassing again in the vicinity of "Bethel." "I think I must join your Tenth Society, Jill. Tell me what you do." Jill's face flushed crimson with delight. "Will you? Do you mean it really? And will you put your tenth into the red bag?" Mona appeared to be considering. "My tenth will be a big affair by the side of yours, Jill. What does the red bag do with your money?" "I take it to Mr. Errington every fortnight. He keeps the money. It's for Chilton Common, you know. They do want a church there dreadfully." "I think I must have a little talk with Mr. Errington about it." "But you will help us to fill our bag, won't you?" "I dare say I shall." Mona was looking away through the pines rather dreamily as she spoke. Jill brought her back to the subject in hand. "And will you join us now? Properly? You will, won't you? And say the vow by our stones like Jacob? Let me just go and tell Jack and Bumps. They would love to hear you." But Mona caught hold of her as she was flying off. "No, Jill. Grown-up people have different ways to children. It isn't a game to me, and it means a great deal more than you could imagine. But I like your quaint idea of raising a little Bethel under the pines here, and if you leave me quite alone, I will take the vow in the same place that you did. More you cannot expect from me." "But somebody ought to hear you," objected Jill. "I am sure it's more proper to have people looking on." "God will hear me. Did Jacob have people near him?" Jill was speechless. Then obediently she walked away, and waited for her sister at the entrance to the wood. When Mona joined her there was a soft radiancy about her face that made her look very beautiful. "Oh, Jill," she said, "a tenth seems such a miserable portion to offer back. How shall I ever pay the debt of all the past wasted years?" "And when will you divide your money?" asked Jill. "Do let me see you do it. And if it's too difficult, Miss Falkner is very good at sums. She'll do it for you." "I shall go and see Mr. Errington this afternoon. You must be patient, Jill. All in good time." The next day the children were walking out in the village with Miss Falkner when they met the vicar. He beamed when he saw them. "Have you heard the good news?" he said. "Miss Baron did not bind me to secrecy. Perhaps she has told you herself?" "I think I know," said Jill, nodding wisely. "I have written to a builder, an old friend of mine, and asked him to come over at once and talk it out with me. Now the money is forthcoming we shall soon have the mission-room." "What!" cried Jill. "Have you got enough money to build it?" "Indeed I have. And we'll have it up in no time." "I wonder how the people will like it," said Miss Falkner meditatively. Mr. Errington looked quickly at her. "A month ago I should have had heart-sinkings on that point. But I assure you it is their chief topic at present when I go over to them. I fancy sometimes they expect it to bring to them more temporal than spiritual food; but it is owing to a visit from these small people that their antagonism has vanished." "But who--how have you got the money, Mr. Errington?" inquired Jack. "Ask your sister. She may enlighten you." "It is Mona's tenth!" exclaimed Jill, capering up and down in delight. "How soon will it be built, Mr. Errington, next week?" Mr. Errington laughed as he went his way. "Oh, you young people! So hot and impatient, so quick to resolve and carry out. I wish I could instill some of your spirits into the sluggish natures that I have to deal with!" The children could do little else but talk of Chilton Common all that day. "And now," said Jack, "if all the money is got for the church, where is our tenth money to go to?" "I think it will be some time before everything will be bought," said Miss Falkner. "You must remember there will be lots of things wanted inside the mission-room; seats--hassocks, perhaps--lamps, and all kinds of other articles. Mr. Errington will like to get your money for some time to come, I am sure." "And there are always the heathen to send it to," said Jill. "They never come to an end, do they, Miss Falkner? You send your money to them always, don't you?" "Yes," Miss Falkner replied. "I feel more drawn towards them. At home here in England there are so many to teach and help the ignorant ones. Out abroad there are millions still out of reach of help and Christianity." Jill looked grave. "And how much money does it take exactly to make a heathen a Christian, Miss Falkner?" Miss Falkner smiled. "I can't tell you, Jill. There is the cost of a missionary going out; he or she are the means, with God's help, of converting a heathen. But every little helps." "Mr. Errington says the Chilton Common people are heathen!" "Yes, dear, he means they are living without any thought of God." "But we did that before you came to us. Really and truly, Miss Falkner, we never thought about God at all. And I'm afraid I didn't want to. You see no one had told us about the Golden City. And I didn't know that Jesus loved us so, and would help us, and keep on forgiving us." Jill's face was earnest and sweet. Her governess stooped and kissed her. "But you know about it now, dear, and you must try to help others who are still ignorant." Jill nodded, then ran away to play. Autumn came, and then winter. Mr. Errington's energy never flagged; and it was a happy day for the children when the foundation-stone was laid for the mission-room on Chilton Common. Mona was asked to lay it, but for some time she hesitated, and suggested that Jill should do it instead. Jill flatly refused, and Miss Falkner encouraged her in her refusal. "I do not hold with children being placed in prominent positions," she said to Mona when they were talking the matter over. "Jill is a clever child, and wants to be repressed rather than pushed forward. I am glad to see she has the good sense to be shy of such a ceremony." "But I am such a beginner," said Mona humbly. "I have never gone in for good works, and lots of my friends--even Miss Webb--think that my illness has left my brain a little weak and queer." "Your friends could not think laying a foundation-stone queer conduct. And if they do, what does it matter?" The children were having their talk about it round the school-room fire. "I shouldn't like to lay a foundation-stone," said Jack. "Fancy, if you put it a little crooked, then the whole place would tumble down! Sam told me so." "I should love to build it all," said Jill. "Sticking bricks and stones into clay or wet stuff is lovely! But I couldn't do it with a lot of people and clergymen looking on. I hate people staring!" "Is it the very bottomest thtone of all?" questioned Bumps with big eyes. "Of course, stupid!" said Jack. "Do you think it would be the top one?" "I asked Mr. Errington what it was going to be called," said Jill. "He says he doesn't want exactly a church there, because he wants to give them tea and magic lanterns in the winter, so it's a mission-room, and do you know what he says we can call it? The Bethel Mission-room." Jack and Bumps set up a cheer at once. "It's called after our stones," went on Jill proudly. "Mr. Errington said it had been built by tenths. And he told me the meaning of Bethel, which I didn't know before." "What does it mean?" "The house of God." There was silence for a minute, then Jack said slowly-- "But our place under the pines isn't that." "I like to think it is sometimes," said Jill quietly. The day came at last for the ceremony of laying the foundation-stone. Even Miss Webb, who viewed most of Mona's proceedings now with raised eyebrows, entered into the spirit of it with real heartiness. When they drove out to the desolate spot all the inhabitants of the Common were there, and Jack and Jill walked amongst them, greeting them as old friends. Mona performed her part very gracefully. Mr. Errington had a good many friends present, but none enjoyed it all so much as the children. "This is only the very beginning of it," Jill confided to a rough specimen of girlhood, who had been making depreciatory remarks, after the service was over. "You wait till your room is built, then you'll see." "What shall us see? A parson in a pulpit?" "You'll see the way to the Golden City," Jill said enthusiastically. "And Mr. Errington will be always telling you about it till you all set out and go. And he'll give you teas and magic lanterns. I wish I lived here to see the workmen build it. I should come and watch them every day, and make them hurry." As they drove home in the carriage with Mona they heard a startling bit of news. It was Miss Webb who began talking of the room. "Mr. Errington is quite down at leaving. He told me it is only his wife's health that takes him. He hopes to hurry on the building--but I doubt if it will be finished before the New Year. It is strange that as soon as he gets his desire about this wild bit of his parish that he should have to leave it." "Is Mr. Errington going away?" asked Jill breathlessly. Mona looked at her gravely as she answered-- "Yes, I suppose you can all know it now. You can't be as sorry as I am. I was just getting to like him so." Miss Webb gave a little laugh. "It wasn't so long ago that you used to vote him a bore, my dear. There are plenty of clergy. We must hope for one as good." "But," cried Jill, "he can't go away. Who is to take our bag every Saturday? And the room is for him to preach in. Oh, how dreadful of him to go!" "Lady Crane has the gift of the living, has she not?" said Miss Webb, addressing Mona. "Yes, I believe so," said Mona listlessly. "Perhaps she may give it to Cecil Arnold. He is her nephew!" A rich colour came into Mona's cheeks. "Oh, no," she said confusedly. "Why should she? Besides, he would never leave his work in the north." Miss Webb nodded her head knowingly. "Wait and see, my dear; wait and see!" It was a great blow to the children, and as soon as lessons were over the next morning Jack and Jill ran off to the Vicarage as hard as they could go. Mrs. Errington received them; her husband was out. "We don't know what to do," Jill said breathlessly. "If Mr. Errington goes away, we can't get on at all. Do beg him not to. Why does he go?" "My dear child, we are both very loth to leave, but circumstances are against us. I have been told by the doctors that I shall never be better here. If we take this other living offered to us, I may be able to help Mr. Errington instead of being a constant source of anxiety to him." "It's the bag," Jill said; "it's the bag I am thinking of. I can't bring it to a strange clergyman. I hate strangers! It's too bad of you!" Jill actually began to cry. "You see," explained Jack, "some people laugh at us. Now Mr. Errington never did. He understood from the very beginning. Mona used to laugh, but she doesn't now. Miss Webb always does. She told Jill she was a Mrs. Judas, for she kept the bag. Mona scolded her. And Sir Henry Talbot always teases us. He asks if we have taken up any more trespassers. They think themselves very funny, but we don't think them funny, we hate them when they talk so." "I am sure no clergyman would laugh at you," said Mrs. Errington gently. "We will tell our successor all about you, and he will be only too glad to help you in every way he can." "But what will you tell him about us?" asked Jill, drying her eyes. "You won't tell him of our scrapes, will you? Say that we always mean to be good, it's just accidents happening when we aren't. And tell him he has just to take the money and use it for God, and ask no questions. Because, when the room is built our money will still be going on. We shall never stop, you know. We're not like Sam's father. He says his cabbages are done, and he can't grow any more in the winter. But I know he has got some turnips, and I'm going to talk to him about them. Oh, I do wish you weren't going away!" It was the general wish in the village, and there was great concern amongst all Mr. Errington's parishioners. His church was never so full as during the two months before his departure, and as Bumps pathetically remarked-- "There'll be no one like him in church ever again. There never are twos of anybody, except twins, and Mr. Errington isn't a twin." XIV "YOU AND YOUR RED BAG ARE AT THE BOTTOM OF IT ALL!" Mona was looking out of the drawing-room window one fine bright frosty afternoon, when she saw Jill tearing out of the stable-yard with the large carriage-whip in her hand. Her face was almost as red as her Tam o' Shanter, and Mona exclaimed to Miss Webb-- "I wonder what is the matter! Jill is in one of her tempers. I hope she is not going to wreak vengeance on any human being." "Oh, let her alone," said Miss Webb. "She must have an explosion now and then, for the way she bottles up her spirits now is marvellous. Miss Falkner seems to have no complaint to find with any of them. It is not natural." Mona laughed lightly, but putting on a wrap she slipped out of the house and crossed the lawn. Angry voices led her to the pine wood. There before the trespassers' board she found Jill brandishing her whip with fury in her face. Jack was by her side, armed with a stout stick; and Bumps, well in the rear, was picking up fir cones, and throwing them wildly at everybody. Two workmen were the aggressors; the pile of stones was scattered on the ground, and they seemed to be enjoying the children's wrath. "Who put those stones up?" Jill was screaming. "_I_ did, and you're thieves to touch them!" "But they comed from that there wall," argued the younger of the men; "and us have orders to build it up. 'Twasn't business of yours to take them stones from the wall. Back they shall go, or my name isn't Jim Hall!" "You dare to touch one!" shouted Jack. "Come on and try, we're ready for you!" "You're trespassers and thieves!" cried Jill. "Come on! I have my whip ready!" [Illustration: "YOU'RE TRESPASSERS AND THIEVES."] It was at this juncture Mona stepped up. Directly she appeared, Jill dashed forward. "Look at these men, they've pulled down our stones! They did it on purpose! They saw the board and they laughed at it. They are cheeking us now." "Hush!" said Mona. Then turning to the men she asked very quietly, "Are you working for me?" The elder touched his cap. "Yes, ma'am--leastways for Mr. Courtney." "What did Mr. Courtney tell you to do?" "To make good that there stone wall, ma'am." "Then why are you here?" "We thought best to take what stones we could from here?" "That was quite unnecessary. You had better put together that pile that you have destroyed. I will wait here till you have done it." But Jill objected. "They shan't touch one of them with their dirty hands! I will do it myself. Oh, Mona, it's a shame of them! They deserve a good thrashing. If I were a man I would give it to them!" Mona put her hand on Jill's shoulder. "Gently, dear! I am sorry about it, but they did not understand. If you don't want them here they can return to their work!" "I never wish to see them again," was the vehement retort. "I--I--feel like Elijah. I should like to call down fire from heaven to burn them up!" Jill's passion was great. Mona wisely said nothing till the workmen had disappeared, then she remarked-- "When you have put your pile of stones straight, Jill, you can run and find Sam for me. I will tell him to make a little fence round this, and then you will have no more trespassers." She walked away, for she judged rightly that work would soon subdue Jill's excitement. The idea of the fence delighted the children, and they set to work with a will. "Nobody dared to touch Jacob's stones, I know," said Jill; who could not quite get over the act of sacrilege, as she considered it. "Well," observed Jack, "the Bible mightn't tell about it, you see. He had no fence." "I know it was always there," persisted Jill, "because Miss Falkner told me that Jacob went back there after, and made a proper altar." "Yes," said Jack triumphantly; "because the other one had been knocked down. Of course he did." Jill pondered, as she tried to build up the stones in a tidy form. "Then," she said, "we must have a proper altar, and I'll get some of the mortar that those horrid men are using for their wall. We'll wait till they have gone to their tea, and then we'll do it." A resolve once taken by Jill was generally carried out. The three children came in to their school-room tea triumphant. "We've been building," announced Bumps, "and the thtones are all thtucked together!" "And Sam is going to make a fence round, and no one will be let in!" added Jack: "And if the clergyman that's coming isn't nice, I've thought of a lovely plan for our bag; but it's a secret, and I'll tell you, Miss Falkner, to-night when I'm in bed!" Miss Falkner asked for an explanation of these fragmentary sentences, and her little pupils gradually enlightened her. When Jill was in bed, she made her governess stoop down, and putting her arms round her neck, whispered-- "I've left a hole amongst the stones at the back, and I can cover it up by fixing in a loose stone. So I thought my red bag would go in beautifully, and then it would really be taken care of by God Himself. It couldn't be in a nicer place, could it? It would be like the ark in the tabernacle--in a holy place. And I'm not going to tell Bumps or Jack. Jack tells Bumps everything, and Bumps tells everybody else!" Miss Falkner looked rather doubtful over the wisdom of this, but Jill seemed in such delight over the idea that she had not the heart to damp her spirits. But before leaving her, she said very gently-- "How has your walk been to-day, Jill? A few stumbles, I am afraid." "Yes," whispered Jill. "I've told God I was sorry, only I was what the Bible calls 'righteously angry.' I would like to have called down fire from heaven upon those men. I told Mona so." "But Jill, that was not 'righteous' at all. The men made a mistake. You should have spoken gently to them." "No," said Jill, "they meant to do it, and they laughed at it, and I believe Sam's father is as bad. Since his cabbages are gone, he won't pay up his tenth, and he says we have a heathen altar!" Jill's cheeks began to get hot and red. Miss Falkner stooped down and kissed her. "If your Bethel is going to make you get angry--if it makes you trip and stumble on your way to the Golden City, it had better be destroyed at once." Jill looked up with big eyes. "Oh, Miss Falkner! How can you?" "You mustn't make an idol of it, Jill, or you will be the heathen. You grieve Jesus Christ by your hot temper. Perhaps you think more of your 'Bethel' than you do of Him!" "I'm afraid I did to-day," acknowledged Jill with shame. Then when her governess had left her, she put down her hot cheek upon the pillow, and murmured, "I'm afraid it wasn't 'righteous' anger after all." The Christmas holidays came and went. Mona was much more with her little brother and sisters in Miss Falkner's absence. Every morning she came into the school-room, and had the Bible-reading with them. They got into many scrapes in their leisure moments, but on the whole were far better behaved than formerly. In the beginning of the New Year the "Bethel Mission-room" was opened. Perhaps to the inhabitants of Chilton Common it lacked a little of the excitement and gaiety with which it had been painted by Jack and Jill; but it was a very enjoyable day to all, and a sit-down tea was given to young and old, at which, of course, Jill was very much to the fore. Mr. Errington left very soon afterwards, and for two months his successor was not known. Then one afternoon, when the children were roasting chestnuts over the school-room fire, and Miss Falkner was writing a letter to her mother, Mona appeared at the door. "I want to introduce our new vicar," she said very quietly. The children jumped up from the hearth-rug in the greatest state of excitement. "Why!" exclaimed Jill, as a tall broad-shouldered figure followed their sister into the room, "it's the trespasser!" "Yes, I am afraid it is," said Mr. Arnold in his deep and hearty voice. "But we parted friends, did we not?" "I should think we did just! Why we would rather have you as our clergyman than any one else in the whole world!" "Come! That's satisfactory. I did not think I would have so warm a welcome!" "Do you like chestnuts?" asked Jack, holding out a charred one between two grubby fingers. "Don't I?" In a moment Mr. Arnold was down on the rug like a school-boy, and the children's tongues went fast. Mona looked on smiling; then she said to Miss Falkner-- "What is the fascination of roasting chestnuts, I wonder. Why do all children love it so? You burn your fingers and the chestnuts, eat more ashes than anything else, and scorch your face to pieces!" "I think it is the love of cooking them," said Miss Falkner. "It is the danger and difficulty surrounding the undertaking," said Mr. Arnold, rescuing two chestnuts that had rolled over into the fire. "Difficulties stimulate children, they do not deter them." "I wish," said Mona thoughtfully, "they always stimulated me." Mr. Arnold looked at her, but Jill broke in impetuously. "Do you know about the Bethel Mission-room, Mr. Arnold? Will you go there on Sunday and preach to the people?" He nodded. "Yes, I have heard all about it from Mr. Errington, also about a certain red bag." "Ah!" exclaimed Jack; "Jill has hidden that bag away somewhere since Mr. Errington went. I say it isn't fair, and Bumps and I aren't going to give her any more money till she tells us where it is." "Yeth," echoed Bumps, "and we've looked everywhere, and Jill says, she won't give it to another clergyman unleth he is nith!" "Am I nice?" asked Mr. Arnold, with one of his sudden smiles. Jill looked at him gravely. "I will bring it to you every Saturday," she said, "even if there's only a few half-pennies. But Sam gives us two shillings, and Annie threepence, and Norah and Rose give us some when we see them, so sometimes we have quite a lot. Only you'll tell us what you're going to do with it, won't you?" "Indeed, I will. We will have a long talk about it." "And how are all your boys and girls?" asked Jill. Mr. Arnold's face shadowed instantly. He was looking ill and careworn; it was only in talking to the children that his face lightened up. "Ah," he said; "my poor people! Don't remind me of them. Nothing but the doctor's orders would have made me leave them." Then speaking to Miss Falkner, he said-- "I have been ill, otherwise you would not have seen me here. As it is, I fear I shall not find sufficient scope for my energies!" "You have over a thousand in your parish," said Mona, "and Chilton Common and other outlying districts in addition. I should think there was scope enough for one man's energies, especially as that man has already had a serious breakdown. Now come and have some tea. Miss Webb will wonder what we are doing." Mona carried him off, and the children did not see him again for some time. "Miss Falkner," asked Jill one day, "why doesn't Miss Webb like Mr. Arnold? She doesn't, you know." "Nonsense, Jill, you mustn't have such fancies." "But it isn't fancy. I was looking at _Punch_ in the drawing-room window seat yesterday, and Miss Webb said to Mona, 'Well, all I can say is, that I wish Cecil Arnold had rather gone to Timbuctoo than come here.' And Mona said, 'Nonsense!' like you said just now, and Miss Webb said, 'I see the end. I shouldn't have been afraid a year ago.' And then she said she was sorry for poor Sir Henry Talbot. Now what did she mean, Miss Falkner? What is the end going to be?" "You shouldn't listen to grown-up people's talk, Jill." "But I couldn't help hearing." "Then you should never repeat what you hear." Jill subsided. Mr. Arnold delighted Jill's heart a few Sundays after his arrival by taking for his text the words: "Then the people rejoiced, for that they offered willingly, because with perfect heart they offered willingly to the Lord. "But who am I, and what is my people, that we should be able to offer so willingly after this sort, for all things come of Thee and of Thine own have we given Thee." He spoke of the different things people received from God, and how very few of them they offered back, and then in plain and simple words he touched upon the system of tenth-giving. "There is not a little boy or girl in this church, however poor; there is not a landed proprietor, however rich, who cannot side by side give this small portion of what they receive to the service of God. The poorest labourer can spare a tenth; he will be blessed in giving it, and joy will be his portion." And then he astonished his congregation by saying he would be in his vestry every Saturday evening from six to eight, to accept the tenths of any of his parishioners who liked to bring them to him. There was great discussion amongst his congregation afterwards. "I have no patience with these new-fangled notions," said Miss Webb. "Cecil always did ride a hobby, and this money question is utterly ridiculous. We are not Jews, thank goodness!" "I think he is right," said Mona quietly. "Oh, of course you do, my dear. He will be able to twist you round his little finger now." Mona was silent. Jill burst in opportunely-- "I shall take my red bag every Saturday to him, Mona. I wonder if anybody else will be there." "You and your red bag are at the bottom of it all I do believe, Jill!" said Miss Webb laughing. "This wonderful Bethel of yours is turning every one crazy!" Jill did not like to be laughed at. She walked on with dignity, and did not mention the subject again. XV "WORN OUT IN A GOOD SERVICE" Lessons and play were the daily routine now. The children kept out of scrapes wonderfully. Perhaps it was Miss Falkner's quick interference before real harm was done, or perhaps it was as she liked to hope, her pupils were getting more considerate of other people's feelings. "It is their lively imagination, and their passion for acting out what they hear or read, that works such mischief," Miss Falkner said to Mona one day when they were talking over the children. "They are reckless of consequences. Future results are never taken into consideration." She said this when she had just stopped Jack from lighting a fire in the loft. He was a prisoner in hiding, he informed her, and he was going to cook himself a meal. Bumps had been foraging for him, and had brought him a raw piece of bacon. "I was going to be most careful," he informed her. "Of course I wouldn't light the hay. I pushed it all away, and had got quite an empty corner!" But one day the children's energies were turned in another direction. They were all devoted to Mr. Arnold, and as he lived alone with an old housekeeper who was really fond of children, they very often found their way over to the vicarage. Sometimes he invited them to tea with him, and it was when they returned one evening from this dissipation that they announced in the drawing-room-- "We are going to get Mr. Arnold a wife!" Miss Webb exploded with laughter. She was reading the newspaper over the fire. Mona was consulting with Miss Falkner at a table near about a certain girls' club in the village that she wished to start. She turned with a look of horror at the speaker, who of course was Jill; Miss Falkner was too accustomed to her pupils' speeches to be surprised. "Yes," put in Jack. "There ought to be a Mrs. Arnold, like Mrs. Errington; we told him so!" "To make his tea," said Bumps breathlessly, "and knit his thocks!" "And have a pretty drawing-room and flowers," said Jill. "He doesn't sit in the drawing-room like Mr. Errington did. He sits in his study, and there ought to be a Mrs. Arnold to help him in the village." "And what are your vicar's opinions on this important subject?" asked Miss Webb. "We've told him we'll get him one. We know more people than he does, and we know just the sort he wants. She must be just like Mrs. Errington, only not an invalid." "And we aren't going to tell," said Jack wisely, "but we've picked out somebody." "Yeth, and we're going to thend her to Mr. Arnold to-morrow!" burst forth Bumps excitedly. Miss Webb threw up her hands in mock astonishment. "Really! You don't mean it! And when is the wedding going to be?" Mona here interposed. "Jill, you are old enough to know better. You must not go to the vicarage at all, if you talk such nonsense." "It isn't nonsense!" Jill said indignantly. "Mr. Arnold wants a wife, he said he did; and we're going to find one for him." She rushed out of the room like a small whirlwind. "Who is the happy lady, Jack?" asked Miss Webb inquisitively. Jack was silent. "Miss Falkner, you will have to assert your authority and stop this," said Mona, half laughing, yet half vexed. "Let's tell, Jack," said Bumps, who loved giving information. But Jack shook his head. "We didn't even tell Mr. Arnold; we said we would send him some one to-morrow." "And have you told her her fate?" asked Miss Webb. "Jill is going to see Miss Grant in the morning," said Jack with dignity, and not perceiving he had let the cat out of the bag. Miss Webb began to laugh afresh, and even Mona smiled. Miss Grant was a lady between fifty and sixty who was an indefatigable parish worker, but whose strong will and love of interference had always been a sore trial to her vicar. "You think she'll make him a good wife?" Miss Webb said, trying to draw the children out. "She's just the sort to make tea," said Jack, "and she'll be much more help to him than Mrs. Errington would be, or any one else." "I think you will have to keep certain small people hard at lessons to-morrow, Miss Falkner. This proposed visit must be nipped in the bud." Miss Falkner took her charges off to the school-room and presently Jill appeared. She seemed to have forgotten the subject under discussion, for she was full of a plan she had talked over with Mr. Arnold of supporting a children's cot in the local hospital. "And my bag will begin it, like it did the Bethel Room. Don't you think it lovely?" Just before the children went to bed, Miss Falkner picked up an old copy-book an the floor of Jill's bedroom. She did not often look at her scribblings, but the first words startled her: "DEAR MISS GRANT,"-- She read on, with an anxious face, yet with a keen sense of humour-- "We've been having tea with Mr. Arnold. We think you had better be his wife. He has not anybody to do things like Mrs. Errington did, and we told him we would find a wife for him. We said we would send her to-morrow. He wants a wife, and so he will expect you. Please tell him you came from us. And have your wedding-day very soon, because we shall all come and see you married. Mr. Arnold told us we could do this, so it is not wrong. "Your affectionate friend, "JILL BARON. "P.S.--Jack and Bumps and I chose you, and we know Mr. Arnold will be pleased." "Jill," said Miss Falkner sharply, "what is this?" "Oh," said Jill unconcernedly, "it's a copy of a letter I sent Miss Grant. I wanted to do it neatly, so I wrote it in there first." "But you have never sent it?" "Yes, I did. Annie was going out, and she took it to the post." "But Jill, that was very naughty." "Why?" "You know why. Your sister was very vexed at your talking about such things. I don't know what she will say now. You must come and tell her what you have done." "Oh, I can't; please don't make me--Miss Webb will laugh. It isn't naughty. We simply _love_ Mr. Arnold. And why shouldn't he have a wife as well as Mr. Errington? He didn't mind us doing it." "He never told you to write to Miss Grant." "No, because it was only afterwards that we thought of her." Miss Falkner, in spite of her entreaties, took her straight to Mona, who was in her bedroom dressing for dinner. "I have brought Jill to tell you what she has done, as I think you ought to know." And then Miss Falkner left the little delinquent, who stood copy-book in hand with hanging head before her eldest sister. "It's--it's a letter I've sent to Miss Grant," said Jill. Mona took the copy-book from her. "Oh, Jill!" she exclaimed in real distress. "This is really very naughty of you. You may make a great deal of mischief, and annoy Miss Grant extremely. I don't know how we can put it straight." "I don't see what I've done wrong," said Jill stubbornly. "Little girls have no business to interfere with grown-up people. I don't know what Miss Grant will think; I must see Miss Falkner. Ask her to come here, and you had better go straight to bed." "It's always the way," Jill confided to Bumps when they were both in bed that evening; "everything I do turns out wrong. Children can't be kind to grown-up people. It's no good to try. They won't let them. And Mr. Arnold will never have a wife, if he doesn't have Miss Grant. There's no one else like her." "But you sent her a letter," said Bumps comfortingly. "Yes, but Mona is going to do something dreadful to-morrow. I know she is." As a matter of fact Mona did nothing. She felt powerless to act. Miss Webb counselled silence. She seemed to be enjoying the whole thing; Miss Falkner spent nearly an hour in bringing Jill to reason, but she repented of some of her words when they happened to meet Mr. Arnold in their morning walk. Jill flew to him at once. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I really did it for the best. I told Miss Grant to go to you, but Miss Falkner says I oughtn't to have anything to do with husbands and wives. She says Miss Grant will be made uncomfortable and so will you; and I wouldn't make you uncomfortable for _worlds_!" Mr. Arnold looked at first as if he did not know what she was talking about; then he began to laugh, and his laugh was so infectious that Miss Falkner could not help joining him. Jill eagerly continued to explain-- "Hasn't she been to you? Then perhaps it is all right. I'll never try to find a wife for you again. Miss Falkner says wives can't be found like we thought, and she says God is the only one that can find one for you." Mr. Arnold looked perfectly coolly into Miss Falkner's face. "Thank you," he said. "I believe in that too. My little friends were too anxious on my behalf. And as to Miss Grant, I wish her a more suitable partner than myself, Jill. Is your sister in? I want to ask her about a parish matter." He left them, and crossed the pine wood to reach the house, but he never got there, for he saw Mona leaning against the new wooden fence looking with dreamy, wistful eyes at the children's "Bethel," and he went straight to her. The scent of the pines, the pale blue sky behind them, and the quiet sacredness of the spot rested and soothed Mona's soul. She turned at the sound of his footsteps, but never changed her position; when he looked into her face he found her eyes were full of tears. "I come here when life is difficult," she said, trying to speak lightly. "I have been thinking over Christ's words, 'How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God.' I long sometimes to ease myself of the burden and responsibility of my money, by casting it to the winds. Can you advise me? I want to be a faithful steward. What shall I do?" Cecil Arnold's opportunity had come. It was some days before the children knew the result of that interview. They were all three tidying up their "Bethel," which Miss Webb said now reminded her of a small church-yard, when they saw their sister and Mr. Arnold slowly approach them. They were close to the fence before they noticed the children, then Mona started, a rich colour came into her cheeks and she tried to withdraw her hand from Mr. Arnold's arm. He held it fast, and said to her with a twinkle in his eye-- "Allow me to receive my congratulations. I must enlighten them." "Two trespassers again, Jill!" he called out. "May we come inside your gate?" "Yes," said Jill, stopping in her feat of brushing dead leaves away; "you and Mona aren't trespassers, for you belong to our Tenth Society, and you don't laugh at our 'Bethel.'" "Laugh at it?" said Mona tremulously. "I shall bless it all my days!" Then Mr. Arnold spoke, and his voice was hushed and reverent, though there was a glad light in his eye. "I thought you children would like to know whom God has graciously given to me as a wife." "Why it's Mona!" Surprise and delight were in the children's faces. Jill exclaimed--"I never should have thought of Mona. She doesn't seem like a clergyman's wife, but it's awfully nice." "Why don't I please you?" Mona asked. "Not good enough, I know." "Well, I think you're too smiling and--and too young." Mr. Arnold laughed. "And I am too old and grave. But, Jill, as a boy and girl we promised to marry each other, so we are only keeping our promise." "Why have you been so long before you did it?" asked Jill with interest. That question remained unanswered. Jack and Jill were full of excitement and curiosity. Bumps was the only one who seemed disappointed. "We can't never find a wife for him now, he hath found hithelf one!" she lamented. She and Jill were standing by their lodge gate next day when they saw Miss Grant coming along. For one moment Jill thought of flight, then she bravely stood her ground. They had been bowling their hoops along, and were a little breathless with their run. Miss Grant looked at them severely, then came across the road to them. "Jill," she said, "what do you mean by writing me such a letter? Who told you to do it? I am surprised that a little girl of your age should act so forwardly!" Jill got crimson at once. "It was all a mistake, please," she said, "and I'm sorry you got it. We were trying hard to find Mr. Arnold a wife." "Who put you up to it?" demanded Miss Grant. "I consider it a grave insult, and I was thinking of seeing your sister about the matter. She and your governess don't know how to keep you in order." "No one put me up to it," replied Jill eagerly. "I made a mistake, and it's a good thing you didn't go to him. Please forget it." "Yeth," put in Bumps with an emphatic nod of the head, "he didn't want you after all, becauth he has got Mona." Miss Grant beat a hasty retreat. She never mentioned the subject again. On the following Sunday Jill went to the vestry to hand in her bag. She had not been the only one who had responded to the vicar's invitation, for several of the villagers had appeared, and though their offerings were small, they were willing ones. She stood waiting whilst the village shopkeeper and a farmer's wife were taking their tenth out of their well-worn purses. Then a voice behind her startled her. It was Sam's father. "Eh, Miss Jill, here I be after you and your bag agen!" "Oh, Mr. Stone, what have you got? I'm so glad you haven't given up!" "I did have a mind to, as 'ee knows, but parson here do seem so set on it that I've been lookin' through some savin's o' mine." Mr. Arnold said good-night to the two women, and turned to the old man. "Are you bringing your money to me, Stone?" he asked quietly. "Yes, sir, that I be--'ee do talk so convinceable that I be quite worried till I have done it." "You must take it back again. I am only here to take my Master's money." Old Mr. Stone rubbed his head. "I see yer meanin'. In course I bring it to the A'mighty. 'Twas a mere mistake in speech." The old man counted out of a canvas bag, to the astonishment of Jill and his vicar, five pounds in silver. He moved a step nearer and spoke in a low, mysterious tone-- "Fifty pun have I laid by for death and burial, and the rest to Sam, but never a penny have I laid by for the God that brought me into the world, and that be soon going to take me out. The little lass hammered away till I gave her my cabbages, then I said 'No more,' for I kep' thinkin' o' these savin's, that no mortal body do know on. But, parson, your words be hot and uncomfortable, and las' night I lay thinkin' o' this here vestry an' Miss Jill's red bag. 'Twasn't the sermon, nor yet the bag, nor you and Miss Jill put together, but 'twas God that spoked to me in the night. "'I have loved 'ee,' He kep' sayin', 'I have loved 'ee, Tummas, I have loved 'ee.' An' then came that there tex' 'ee preached on last Sunday, 'Lovest thou Me?' and I were fair broken down. I knowed what the Lord did want. The tenth o' my savin's! And bless God, I knows He loves me, and 'tis that has brought me!" "Thank God," breathed Mr. Arnold, stretching out his hand and taking Thomas Stone's hard, horny one in his. "I take this gladly, and thank you in my Master's name." When the old man had gone Jill drew near. She held out her bag a little sorrowfully-- "It has only three shillings and a half-penny in it," she said; "and two shillings are from Sam, and threepence from Annie. I'm afraid our money is very, very little." "Never mind," said Mr. Arnold cheerfully, seeing her downcast face, "God does not expect more from you at present." Jill sighed. "And my bag is wearing out," she said mournfully, "and Miss Falkner has no more red flannel; she thinks a bag can be made of anything, but I like my old one. It has great holes, and as fast as I mend them they tear out again." "Poor little bag!" said Mr. Arnold, taking it in his hand. "It is worn out in a good service. Will you let me have it, Jill? I should like to hang it up in the vestry here, so that I can look at it sometimes. What is this tape on it? Something written on it." "I did that," said Jill, her face in a glow of delight at Mr. Arnold's words. He read out slowly-- "Of Thine own have we given Thee." The letters were crooked and uneven. He smiled at Jill, then hung the little bag up on a nail. She looked at it proudly. All sorrow for its uselessness had gone. "It looks lovely up there!" she said. "And I don't mind now having a new one." "But don't have a new motto, Jill. Keep that to the end of your life--'Of Thine own have we given Thee.'" Jill nodded, and then she ran away home. 
27949	----	DAISY. BY ELIZABETH WETHERELL, AUTHOR OF "THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD," "QUEECHY," ETC., ETC. [Illustration: Floral Squiggle] LONDON: WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C. NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE. [Illustration: Frontis "'And you love Jesus, Darry,' I said." _Page 59_ ] CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER I. MISS PINSHON 9 CHAPTER II. MY HOME 27 CHAPTER III. THE MULTIPLICATION TABLE 45 CHAPTER IV. SEVEN HUNDRED PEOPLE 68 CHAPTER V. IN THE KITCHEN 97 CHAPTER VI. WINTER AND SUMMER 119 CHAPTER VII. SINGLEHANDED 149 CHAPTER VIII. EGYPTIAN GLASS 165 CHAPTER IX. SHOPPING 185 CHAPTER X. SCHOOL 205 CHAPTER XI. A PLACE IN THE WORLD 226 CHAPTER XII. FRENCH DRESSES 244 CHAPTER XIII. GREY COATS 275 CHAPTER XIV. YANKEES 297 CHAPTER XV. FORT PUTNAM 320 CHAPTER XVI. HOPS 338 CHAPTER XVII. OBEYING ORDERS 356 CHAPTER XVIII. SOUTH AND NORTH 379 CHAPTER XIX. ENTERED FOR THE WAR 392 DAISY. CHAPTER I. MISS PINSHON. I want an excuse to myself for writing my own life; an excuse for the indulgence of going it all over again, as I have so often gone over bits. It has not been more remarkable than thousands of others. Yet every life has in it a thread of present truth and possible glory. Let me follow out the truth to the glory. The first bright years of my childhood I will pass. They were childishly bright. They lasted till my eleventh summer. Then the light of heavenly truth was woven in with the web of my mortal existence; and whatever the rest of the web has been, those golden threads have always run through it all the rest of the way. Just as I reached my birthday that summer and was ten years old, I became a Christian. For the rest of that summer I was a glad child. The brightness of those days is a treasure safe locked up in a chamber of my memory. I have known other glad times too in my life; other times of even higher enjoyment. But among all the dried flowers of my memory, there is not one that keeps a fresher perfume or a stronger scent of its life than this one. Those were the days without cloud; before life shadows had begun to cast their blackness over the landscape. And even though such shadows do go as well as come, and leave the intervals as sunlit as ever; yet after that change of the first life shadow is once seen, it is impossible to forget that it may come again and darken the sun. I do not mean that the days of that summer were absolutely without things to trouble me; I had changes of light and shade; but, on the whole, nothing that did not heighten the light. They were pleasant days that I had in Juanita's cottage at the time when my ankle was broken; there were hours of sweetness with crippled Molly; and it was simply delight I had all alone with my pony Loupe, driving over the sunny and shady roads, free to do as I liked and go where I liked. And how I enjoyed studying English history with my cousin Preston. It is all stowed away in my heart, as fresh and sweet as at first. I will not pull it out now. The change, and my first real life shadow came, when my father was thrown from his horse and injured his head. Then the doctors decided he must go abroad and travel, and mamma decided that it was best that I should go to Magnolia with Aunt Gary and have a governess. There is no pleasure in thinking of those weeks. They went very slowly, and yet very fast; while I counted every minute and noted every step in the preparations. They were all over at last; my little world was gone from me; and I was left alone with Aunt Gary. Her preparations had been made too; and the day after the steamer sailed we set off on our journey to the south. I do not know much about that journey. The things by the way were like objects in a mist to me and no more clearly discerned. Now and then there came a rift in the mist; something woke me up out of my sorrow-dream; and of those points and of what struck my eyes at those minutes I have a most intense and vivid recollection. I can feel yet the still air of one early morning's start, and hear the talk between my aunt and the hotel people about the luggage. My aunt was a great traveller and wanted no one to help her or manage for her. I remember acutely a beggar who spoke to us on the sidewalk at Washington. We stayed over a few days in Washington, and then hurried on; for when she was on the road my Aunt Gary lost not a minute. We went, I presume, as fast as we could without travelling all night; and our last day's journey added that too. By that time my head was getting steadied, perhaps, from the grief which had bewildered it; or grief was settling down and taking its proper place at the bottom of my heart, leaving the surface as usual. For twelve hours that day we went by a slow railway train through a country of weary monotony. Endless forests of pine seemed all that was to be seen; scarce ever a village; here and there a miserable clearing and forlorn-looking house; here and there stoppages of a few minutes to let somebody out or take somebody in; once, to my great surprise, a stop of rather more than a few minutes to accommodate a lady who wanted some flowers gathered for her. I was surprised to see flowers wild in the woods at that time of year, and much struck with the politeness of the railway train that was willing to delay for such a reason. We got out of the car for dinner, or for a short rest at dinner-time. My aunt had brought her lunch in a basket. Then the forests and the rumble of the cars began again. At one time the pine forests were exchanged for oak, I remember; after that, nothing but pine. It was late in the day, when we left the cars at one of those solitary wayside station-houses. I shall never forget the look and feeling of the place. We had been for some miles going through a region of swamp or swampy woods, where sometimes the rails were laid on piles in the water. This little station-house was in the midst of such a region. The woods were thick and tangled with vines everywhere beyond the edge of the clearing; the ground was wet beneath them, and in places showed standing water. There was scarcely a clearing; the forest was all round the house; with only the two breaks in it where on one side and on the other the iron rail track ran off into the distance. It was a lonely place; almost nobody was there waiting for the train; one or two forlorn coloured people and a long lank-looking countryman, were all. Except what at first prevented my seeing anything else--my cousin Preston. He met me just as I was going to get down from the car; lifted me to the platform, and then with his looks and words almost broke up the composure which for several days had been growing upon me. It was not hardened yet to bear attacks. I was like a poor shell-fish, which, having lost one coat of armour and defence, craves a place of hiding and shelter for itself until its new coat be grown. While he was begging me to come into the station-house and rest, I stood still looking up the long line of railway by which we had come, feeling as if my life lay at the other end of it, out of sight and quite beyond reach. Yet I asked him not to call me "poor" Daisy. I was very tired, and I suppose my nerves not very steady. Preston said we must wait at that place for another train; there was a fork in the road beyond, and this train would not go the right way. It would not take us to Baytown. So he had me into the station-house. It wearied me and so did all that my eyes lighted upon, strange though it was. The bare room, not clean; the board partition, with swinging doors, behind which, Preston said, were the cook and the baker! the untidy waiting girls that came and went, with scant gowns and coarse shoes, and no thread of white collar to relieve the dusky throat and head rising out of the dark gown, and no apron at all. Preston did what he could. He sent away the girls with their trays of eatables; he had a table pulled out from the wall and wiped off, and then he ordered a supper of eggs, and johnny cake, and all sorts of things. But I could not eat. As soon as supper was over I went out on the platform to watch the long lines of railway running off through the forest, and wait for the coming train. The evening fell while we looked; the train was late; and at last when it came I could only know it in the distance by the red spark of its locomotive gleaming like a firefly. It was a freight train, there was but one passenger car, and that was full. We got seats with difficulty, and apart from each other. I hardly know whether that, or anything, could have made me more forlorn. I was already stiff and weary with the twelve hours of travelling we had gone through that day; inexpressibly weary in heart. It seemed to me that I could not long endure the rumble and the jar and the closeness of this last car. The passengers, too, had habits which made me draw my clothes as tight around me as I could, and shrink away mentally into the smallest compass possible. I had noticed the like, to be sure, ever since we left Washington; but to-night, in my weary, faint, and tired-out state of mind and body every unseemly sight or sound struck my nerves with a sense of pain that was hardly endurable. I wondered if the train would go on all night; it went very slowly. And I noticed that nobody seemed impatient or had the air of expecting that it would soon find its journey's end. I felt as if I could not bear it many half hours. My next neighbour was a fat, good-natured, old lady, who rather made matters worse by putting her arm round me and hugging me up, and begging me to make a pillow of her and go to sleep. My nerves were twitching with impatience and the desire for relief; when suddenly the thought came to me that I might please the Lord by being patient. I remember what a lull the thought of Him brought; and yet how difficult it was not to be impatient, till I fixed my mind on some Bible words--they were the words of the twenty-third Psalm--and began to think and pray them over. So good they were, that by and by they rested me. I dropped asleep and forgot my aches and weariness until the train arrived at Baytown. They took me to a hotel, then, and put me to bed, and I did not get up for several days. I must have been feverish, for my fancies wandered incessantly in unknown places with papa, in regions of the old world; and sometimes, I think, took both him and myself to rest and home where wanderings are over. After a few days this passed away. I was able to come downstairs, and both Preston and his mother did their best to take good care of me. Especially Preston. He brought me books, and fruit, and birds to tempt me to eat, and was my kind and constant companion when his mother was out, and indeed when she was in, too. So I got better by the help of oranges and rice-birds. I could have got better faster, but for my dread of a governess which was hanging over me. I heard nothing about her and could not bear to ask. One day Preston brought the matter up and asked if Daisy was going to have a school-mistress? "Certainly," my Aunt Gary said. "She must be educated, you know." "_I_ don't know," said Preston; "but if they say so, I suppose she must. Who is it to be, mamma?" "You do not know anything about it," said Aunt Gary. "If my son was going to marry the greatest heiress in the State; and she is very nearly that--goodness! I did not see you were there, Daisy, my dear; but it makes no difference;--I should think it proper that she should be educated." "I can't see what her being an heiress should have to do with it," said Preston, "except rather to make it unnecessary as well as a bore. Who is it, mamma?" "I have recommended Miss Pinshon." "Oh, then, it is not fixed yet." "Yes, it is fixed. Miss Pinshon is coming as soon as we get to Magnolia." "I'll be off before that," said Preston. "Who is Miss Pinshon?" "How should _you_ know? She has lived at Jessamine Bank,--educated the Dalzell girls." "What sort of a person, mamma!" "What sort of a person?" said my Aunt Gary; "why a governess sort of a person. What sort should she be." "Any other sort in the world," said Preston, "for my money. That is just the sort to worry poor little Daisy out of her life." "You are a foolish boy!" said Aunt Gary. "Of course if you fill Daisy's head with notions, she will not get them out again. If you have anything of that sort to say, you had better say it where she will not hear." "Daisy has eyes--and a head," said Preston. As soon as I was able for it Preston took me out for short walks; and as I grew stronger he made the walks longer. The city was a strange place to me; very unlike New York; there was much to see and many a story to hear; and Preston and I enjoyed ourselves. Aunt Gary was busy making visits, I think. There was a beautiful walk by the sea which I liked best of all; and when it was not too cold my greatest pleasure was to sit there looking over the dark waters and sending my whole soul across them to that unknown spot where my father and mother were. "Home," that spot was to me. Preston did not know what I liked the Esplanade for; he sometimes laughed at me for being poetic and meditative; when I was only sending my heart over the water. But he was glad to please me in all that he could; and whenever it was not too cold, our walks always took me there. One day, sitting there, I remember we had a great argument about studying. Preston began with saying that I must not mind this governess that was coming, nor do anything she bade me unless I liked it. As I gave him no answer, he repeated what he had said. "You know, Daisy, you are not obliged to care what she thinks." I said I thought I was. "What for?" said Preston. "I have a great deal to learn you know," I said, feeling it very gravely indeed in my little heart. "What do you want to know so much?" said Preston. I said, everything. I was very ignorant. "You are no such thing," said Preston. "Your head is full this minute. I think you have about as much knowledge as is good for you. I mean to take care that you do not get too much." "O Preston," said I, "that is very wrong. I have not any knowledge scarcely." "There is no occasion," said Preston stoutly. "I hate learned women." "Don't you like to learn things?" "That's another matter," said he. "A man must know things, or he can't get along. Women are different." "But I think it is nice to know things too," said I. "I don't see how it is different." "Why, a woman need not be a lawyer, or a doctor, or a professor," said Preston; "all she need do, is to have good sense and dress herself nicely." "Is dressing so important?" said I, with a new light breaking over me. "Certainly. Ribbons of the wrong colour will half kill a woman. And I have heard Aunt Randolph say that a particular lady was ruined by her gloves." "Ruined by her gloves!" said I. "Did she buy so many?" Preston went into such a laugh at that, I had to wait some time before I could go on. I saw I had made some mistake, and I would not renew that subject. "Do _you_ mean to be anything of that sort?" I said, with some want of connection. "What sort? Ruined by my gloves? Not if I know it." "No, no! I mean, a lawyer or a doctor or a professor?" "I should think not!" said Preston, with a more emphatic denial. "Then, what are you studying for?" "Because, as I told you, Daisy, a man must know things, or he cannot get on in the world." I pondered the matter, and then I said, I should think good sense would make a woman study too. I did not see the difference. "Besides, Preston," I said, "if she didn't, they would not be equal." "Equal!" cried Preston. "Equal! O Daisy, you ought to have lived in some old times. You are two hundred years old, at least. Now don't go to studying that, but come home. You have sat here long enough." It was my last hour of freedom. Perhaps for that reason I remember every minute so distinctly. On our way home we met a negro funeral. I stopped to look at it. Something, I do not know what, in the long line of dark figures, orderly and even stately in their demeanour, the white dresses of the women, the peculiar faces of men and women both, fascinated my eyes. Preston exclaimed at me again. It was the commonest sight in the world, he said. It was their pride to have a grand funeral. I asked if _this_ was a grand funeral. Preston said "pretty well; there must be several hundred of them and they were well dressed." And then he grew impatient and hurried me on. But I was thinking; and before we got to the hotel where we lodged, I asked Preston if there were many coloured people at Magnolia. "Lots of them," he said. "There isn't anything else." "Preston," I said presently, "I want to buy some candy somewhere." Preston was very much pleased, I believe, thinking that my thoughts had quite left the current of sober things. He took me to a famous confectioner's; and there I bought sweet things till my little stock of money was all gone. "No more funds?" said Preston. "Never mind--go on, and I'll help you. Why I never knew you liked sugarplums so much. What next? burnt almonds? _this_ is good, Daisy--this confection of roses. But you must take all this sugar in small doses, or I am afraid it wouldn't be just beneficial." "O Preston!" I said--"I do not mean to eat all this myself." "Are you going to propitiate Miss Pinshon with it? I have a presentiment that sweets won't sweeten her, Daisy." "I don't know what 'propitiate' means," I said, sighing. "I will not take the almonds, Preston." But he was determined I should; and to the almonds he added a quantity of the delicate confection he spoke of, which I had thought too delicate and costly for the uses I had purposed; and after the rose he ordered candied fruits; till a great packet of varieties was made up. Preston paid for them--I could not help it--and desired them sent home; but I was bent on taking the package myself. Preston would not let me do that, so he carried it; which was a much more serious token of kindness, in him, than footing the bill. It was but a little way, however, to the hotel. We were in the hall, and I was just taking my sugars from Preston to carry them upstairs, when I heard Aunt Gary call my name from the parlour. Instinctively, I cannot tell how, I knew from her tone what she wanted me for. I put back the package in Preston's hands, and walked in; my play over. How well I knew my play was over, when I saw my governess. She was sitting by my aunt on the sofa. Quite different from what I had expected, so different that I walked up to her in a maze, and yet seemed to recognize in that first view all that was coming after. Probably that is fancy; but it seems to me now that all I ever knew or felt about Miss Pinshon in the years that followed, was duly begun and betokened in those first five minutes. She was a young-looking lady, younger looking than she was. She had a dark, rich complexion, and a face that I suppose would have been called handsome; it was never handsome to me. Long black curls on each side of her face, and large black eyes, were the features that first struck one; but I immediately decided that Miss Pinshon was not born a lady. I do not mean that I think blood and breeding are unseverable; or that half a dozen lady ancestors in a direct line secure the character to the seventh in descent; though they _do_ often secure the look of it; nevertheless, ladies are born who never know all their lives how to make a curtsey, and curtseys are made with infinite grace by those who have nothing of a lady beyond the trappings. I never saw Miss Pinshon do a rude or an awkward thing, that I remember; nor one which changed my first mind about her. She was handsomely dressed; but there again I felt the same want. Miss Pinshon's dresses made me think always of the mercer's counter and the dressmaker's shop. My mother's robes always seemed part of her own self; and so, in a certain true sense, they were. My aunt introduced me. Miss Pinshon studied me. Her first remark was that I looked very young. My aunt excused that, on the ground of my having been always a delicate child. Miss Pinshon observed further that the way I wore my hair produced part of the effect. My aunt explained _that_ to my father's and mother's fancy; and agreed that she thought cropped heads were always ungraceful. If my hair were allowed to fall in ringlets on my neck I would look very different. Miss Pinshon next inquired how much I knew? turning her great black eyes from me to Aunt Gary. My aunt declared she could not tell; delicate health had also here interfered; and she appealed to me to say what knowledge I was possessed of. I could not answer. I could not say. It seemed to me I had not learned anything. Then Preston spoke for me. "Modesty is apt to be silent on its own merits," he said. "My cousin has learned the usual rudiments; and in addition to those the art of driving." "Of _what_? What did you say?" inquired my governess. "Of driving, ma'am. Daisy is an excellent whip for her years and strength." Miss Pinshon turned to Preston's mother. My aunt confirmed and enlarged the statement, again throwing the blame on my father and mother. For herself, she always thought it very dangerous for a little girl like me to go about in the country in a pony-chaise all alone. Miss Pinshon's eyes could not be said to express anything, but to my fancy they concealed a good deal. She remarked that the roads were easy. "Oh, it was not here," said my aunt; "it was at the North, where the roads are not like our pine forest. However the roads were not dangerous there, that I know of; not for anybody but a child. But horses and carriages are always dangerous." Miss Pinshon next applied herself to me. What did I know? "beside this whip accomplishment," as she said. I was tongue-tied. It did not seem to me that I knew anything. At last I said so. Preston exclaimed. I looked at him to beg him to be still; and I remember how he smiled at me. "You can read, I suppose?" my governess went on. "Yes, ma'am." "And write, I suppose?" "I do not think you would say I know how to write," I answered. "I cannot do it at all well; and it takes me a long time." "Come back to the driving, Daisy," said Preston. "That is one thing you do know. And English history, I will bear witness." "What have you got there, Preston?" my aunt asked. "Some horehound drops, mamma." "You haven't a sore throat?" she asked, eagerly. "No, ma'am--not just now, but I had yesterday; and I thought I would be provided." "You seem provided for a long time," Miss Pinshon remarked. "Can't get anything up at Magnolia, except rice," said Preston, after making the lady a bow which did not promise good fellowship. "You must take with you what you are likely to want there." "You will not want all that," said his mother. "No ma'am, I hope not," said Preston, looking at his package demurely. "Old Uncle Lot, you know, always has a cough; and I purpose delighting him with some of my purchases. I will go and put them away." "Old Uncle Lot!" my aunt repeated. "What Uncle Lot? I did not know you had been enough at Magnolia to get the servants' names. But _I_ don't remember any Uncle Lot." Preston turned to leave the room with his candy, and in turning gave me a look of such supreme fun and mischief that at another time I could hardly have helped laughing. But Miss Pinshon was asking me if I understood arithmetic? "I think--I know very little about it," I said hesitating. "I can do a sum." "In what?" "On the slate, ma'am." "Yes, but in what?" "I don't know, ma'am--it is adding up the columns." "Oh, in _addition_, then. Do you know the multiplication and division tables?" "No, ma'am." "Go and get off your things, and then come back to me; and I will have some more talk with you." I remember to this day how heavily my feet went up the stairs. I was not very strong yet in body, and now the strength seemed to have gone out of my heart. "I declare," said Preston, who waited for me on the landing, "she falls into position easy! Does she think she is going to take _that_ tone with you?" I made no answer. Preston followed me into my room. "I won't have it, little Daisy. Nobody shall be mistress at Magnolia but you. This woman shall not. See, Daisy--I am going to put these things in my trunk for you, until we get where you want them. That will be safe." I thanked him. "What are you going to do now?" "I am going downstairs, as soon as I am ready." "Do you expect to be under all the commands this High Mightiness may think proper to lay upon you?" I begged him to be still and leave me. "She will turn you into stone!" he exclaimed. "She is a regular Gorgon, with those heavy eyes of hers. I never saw such eyes. I believe she would petrify me if I had to bear them. Don't you give Medusa one of those sweet almonds, Daisy--not one, do you hear?" I heard too well. I faced round upon him and begged him to remember that it was my _mother_ I must obey in Miss Pinshon's orders: and said that he must not talk to me. Whereupon Preston threw down his candies, and pulled my cloak out of my unsteady hands, and locked his arms about me; kissing me and lamenting over me that it was "too bad." I tried to keep my self-command; but the end was a great burst of tears; and I went down to Miss Pinshon with red eyes and at a disadvantage. I think Preston was pleased. I had need of all my quiet and self-command. My governess stretched out her hand, drew me to her side and kissed me; then with the other hand went on to arrange the ruffle round my neck, stroking it and pulling it into order, and even taking out a little bit of a pin I wore, and putting it in again to suit herself. It annoyed me excessively. I knew all was right about my ruffle and pin; I never left them carelessly arranged; no fingers but mamma's had ever dared to meddle with them before. But Miss Pinshon arranged the ruffle and the pin, and still holding me, looked in my face with those eyes of hers. I began to feel that they were "heavy." They did not waver. They did not seem to wink, like other eyes. They bore down upon my face with a steady power, that was not bright but ponderous. Her first question was, whether I was a good girl. I could not tell how to answer. My aunt answered for me, that she believed Daisy meant to be a good girl, though she liked to have her own way. Miss Pinshon ordered me to bring up a chair and sit down; and then asked if I knew anything about mathematics; told me it was the science of quantity; remarked to my aunt that it was the very best study for teaching children to think, and that she always gave them a great deal of it in the first year of their pupilage. "It puts the mind in order," the black-eyed lady went on; "and other things come so easily after it. Daisy, do you know what I mean by 'quantity?'" I knew what _I_ meant by quantity; but whether the English language had anything in common for Miss Pinshon and me, I had great doubts. I hesitated. "I always teach my little girls to answer promptly when they are asked anything. I notice that you do not answer promptly. You can always tell whether you know a thing or whether you do not." I was not so sure of that. Miss Pinshon desired me now to repeat the multiplication table. Here at least there was certainty. I had never learned it. "It appears to me," said my governess, "you have done very little with the first ten years of your life. It gives you a great deal to do for the next ten." "Health has prevented her applying to her studies," said my aunt. "The want of health. Yes, I suppose so. I hope Daisy will be very well now, for we must make up for lost time." "I do not suppose so much time need have been lost," said my aunt; "but parents are easily alarmed, you know; they think of nothing but one thing." So now there was nobody about me who would be easily alarmed. I took the full force of that. "Of course," said Miss Pinshon, "I shall have a careful regard to her health. Nothing can be done without that. I shall take her out regularly to walk with me, and see that she does not expose herself in any way. Study is no hindrance to health; learning has no malevolent effect upon the body. I think people often get sick for want of something to think of." How sure I felt, as I went up to bed that night, that no such easy cause of sickness would be mine for long years to come! CHAPTER II. MY HOME. The next day we were to go to Magnolia. It was a better day than I expected. Preston kept me with him, away from Aunt Gary and my governess; who seemed to have a very comfortable time together. Magnolia lay some miles inland, up a small stream or inlet called the Sands River; the banks of which were studded with gentlemen's houses. The houses were at large distances from one another, miles of plantation often lying between. We went by a small steamer which plied up and down the river; it paddled along slowly, made a good many landings, and kept us on board thus a great part of the day. At last Preston pointed out to me a little wooden pier or jetty ahead, which he said was my landing; and the steamer soon drew up to it. I could see only a broken bank, fifteen feet high, stretching all along the shore. However a few steps brought us to a receding level bit of ground, where there was a break in the bank; the shore fell in a little, and a wooded dell sloped back from the river. A carriage and servants were waiting here. Preston and I had arranged that we would walk up and let the ladies ride. But as soon as they had taken their places I heard myself called. We declared our purpose, Preston and I; but Miss Pinshon said the ground was damp and she preferred I should ride; and ordered me in. I obeyed, bitterly disappointed; so much disappointed that I had the utmost trouble not to let it be seen. For a little while I did not know what we were passing. Then curiosity recovered itself. The carriage was slowly making its way up a rough road. On each side the wooded banks of the dell shut us in; and these banks seemed to slope upward as well as the road, for though we mounted and mounted, the sides of the dell grew no lower. After a little, then, the hollow of the dell began to grow wider, and its sides softly shelving down; and through the trees on our left we could see a house, standing high above us, but on ground which sloped towards the dell, which rose and widened and spread out to meet it. This sloping ground was studded with magnificent live oaks; each holding its place in independent majesty, making no interference with the growth of the rest. Some of these trees had a girth that half a dozen men with their arms outstretched in a circle could not span; they were green in spite of the winter; branching low, and spreading into stately, beautiful heads of verdure, while grey wreaths of moss hung drooping from some of them. The house was seen not very distinctly among these trees; it showed low, and in a long extent of building. I have never seen a prettier approach to a house than that at Magnolia. My heart was full of the beauty this first time. "This is Magnolia, Daisy," said my aunt. "This is your house." "It appears a fine place," said Miss Pinshon. "It is one of the finest on the river. This is your property, Daisy." "It is papa's," I answered. "Well, it belongs to your mother, and so you may say it belongs to your father; but it is yours for all that. The arrangement was, as I know," my aunt went on, addressing Miss Pinshon--"the arrangement in the marriage settlements was, that the sons should have the father's property, and the daughters the mother's. There is one son and one daughter; so they will each have enough." "But it is mamma's and papa's," I pleaded. "Oh, well--it will be yours. That is what I mean. Ransom will have Melbourne and the Virginia estates; and Magnolia is yours. You ought to have a pretty good education." I was so astonished at this way of looking at things, that again I lost part of what was before me. The carriage went gently along, passing the house, and coming up gradually to the same level; then making a turn we drove at a better pace back under some of those great evergreen oaks, till we drew up at the house door. This was at a corner of the building, which stretched in a long, low line towards the river. A verandah skirted all that long front. As soon as I was out of the carriage I ran to the farthest end. I found the verandah turned the corner; the lawn too. All along the front it sloped to the dell; at the end of the house it sloped more gently and to greater distance down to the banks of the river. I could not see the river itself. The view of the dell at my left hand was lovely. A little stream which ran in the bottom had been coaxed to form a clear pool in an open spot, where the sunlight fell upon it, surrounded by a soft wilderness of trees and climbers. Sweet branches of jessamine waved there in their season; and a beautiful magnolia had been planted or cherished there, and carefully kept in view of the house windows. But the wide lawns, on one side and on the other, grew nothing but the oaks; the gentle slope was a play-ground for sunshine and shadow, as I first saw it; for then the shadows of the oaks were lengthening over the grass, and the waving grey wreaths of moss served sometimes as a foil, sometimes as an usher to the sunbeams. I stood in a trance of joy and sorrow; they were fighting so hard for the mastery; till I knew that my aunt and Miss Pinshon had come up behind me. "This is a proud place!" my governess remarked. I believe I looked at her. My aunt laughed; said she must not teach me that; and led the way back to the entrance of the house. All along the verandah I noticed that the green-blinded long windows made other entrances for whoever chose them. The door was open for us already, and within was a row of dark faces of men and women, and a show of white teeth that looked like a welcome. I wondered Aunt Gary did not say more to answer the welcome; she only dropped a few careless words as she went in, and asked if dinner was ready. I looked from one to another of the strange faces and gleaming rows of teeth. These were my mother's servants; that was something that came near to my heart. I heard inquiries after "Mis' Felissy" and "Mass' Randolph," and then the question, "Mis' 'Lizy, is this little missis?" It was asked by an old, respectable-looking, grey-haired negress. I did not hear my aunt's answer; but I stopped and turned to the woman and laid my little hand in her withered palm. I don't know what there was in that minute; only I know that whereas I touched one hand, I touched a great many hearts. Then and there began my good understanding with all the coloured people on my mother's estate of Magnolia. There was a general outburst of satisfaction and welcome. Some of the voices blessed me; more than one remarked that I was "like Mass' Randolph;" and I went into the parlour with a warm spot in my heart, which had been very cold. I was oddly at home at once. The room indeed was a room I had never seen before; yet according to the mystery of such things, the inanimate surroundings bore the mark of the tastes and habits I had grown up among all my life. A great splendid fire was blazing in the chimney; a rich carpet was on the floor; the furniture was luxurious though not showy, and there was plenty of it. So there was plenty of works of art, in home and foreign manufacture. Comfort, elegance, prettiness, all around; and through the clear glass of the long windows the evergreen oaks on the lawn showed like guardians of the place. I stood at one of them, with the pressure of that joy and sorrow filling my childish heart. My aunt presently called me from the window, and bade me let Margaret take off my things. I got leave to go upstairs with Margaret and take them off there. So I ran up the low easy flight of stairs--they were wooden and uncarpeted--to a matted gallery lit from the roof, with here and there a window in a recess looking upon the lawn. Many rooms opened into this gallery. I went from one to another. Here were great wood fires burning too; here were snowy white beds, with light muslin hangings; and dark cabinets and wardrobes; and mats on the floors, with thick carpets and rugs laid down here and there. And on one side and on the other side the windows looked out upon the wide lawn, with its giant oaks hung with grey wreaths of moss. My heart grew sore straitened. It was a hard evening, that first evening at Magnolia; with the loveliness and the brightness, the warm attraction, and the bitter cold sense of loneliness. I longed to throw myself down and cry. What I did, was to stand by one of the windows and fight myself not to let the tears come. If _they_ were here, it would be so happy! If they were here--oh, if they were here! I believe the girl spoke to me without my hearing her. But then came somebody whom I was obliged to hear, shouting "Daisy" along the gallery. I faced him with a great effort. He wanted to know what I was doing, and how I liked it, and where my room was. "Not found it yet?" said Preston. "Is this it? Whose room is this, hey?--you somebody?" "Maggie, massa," said the girl, dropping a curtsey. "Maggie, where is your mistress's room?" "This is Mis' 'Liza's room, sir." "Nonsense! Miss 'Liza is only here on a visit--_this_ is your mistress. Where is her room, hey?" "Oh stop, Preston!" I begged him. "I am not mistress." "Yes, you are. I'll roast anybody who says you ain't. Come along, and you shall choose which room you will have; and if it isn't ready they will get it ready. Come!" I made him understand my choice might depend on where other people's rooms were; and sent him off. Then I sent the girl away--she was a pleasant-faced mulatto, very eager to help me--and left to myself I hurriedly turned the key in the lock. I _must_ have some minutes to myself if I was to bear the burden of that afternoon; and I knelt down with as heavy a heart, almost, as I ever knew. In all my life I had never felt so castaway and desolate. When my father and mother first went from me, I was at least among the places where they had been; June was with me still, and I knew not Miss Pinshon. The journey had had its excitements and its interest. Now I was alone; for June had decided, with tears and woeful looks, that she would not come to Magnolia; and Preston would be soon on his way back to college. I knew of only one comfort in the world; that wonderful, "Lo, I am with you." Does anybody know what that means, who has not made it the single plank bridge over an abyss? No one found out that anything was the matter with me, except Preston. His caresses were dangerous to my composure. I kept him off; and he ate his dinner with a thundercloud face which foretold war with all governesses. For me, it was hard work enough to maintain my quiet; everything made it hard. Each new room, every arrangement of furniture, every table appointment, though certainly not what I had seen before, yet seemed so like home that I was constantly missing what would have made it home indeed. It was the shell without the kernel. The soup ladle seemed to be by mistake in the wrong hands; Preston seemed to have no business with my father's carving knife and fork; the sense of desolation pressed upon me everywhere. After dinner the ladies went upstairs to choose their rooms, and Miss Pinshon avowed that she wished to have mine within hers; it would be proper and convenient, she said. Aunt Gary made no objection; but there was some difficulty, because all the rooms had independent openings into the gallery. Miss Pinshon hesitated a moment between one of two that opened into each other, and another that was pleasanter and larger but would give her less facility for overlooking my affairs. For one moment I drew a breath of hope; and then my hope was quashed. Miss Pinshon chose one of the two that opened into each other; and my only comfort was the fact that my own room had two doors and I was not obliged to go through Miss Pinshon's to get to it. Just as this business was settled, Preston called me out into the gallery and asked me to go for a walk. I questioned with myself a second whether I should ask leave; but I had an inward assurance that to ask leave would be not to go. I felt I must go. I ran back to the room where my things lay, and in two minutes I was out of the house. My first introduction to Magnolia! How well I remember every minute and every foot of the way. It was delicious, the instant I stepped out among the oaks and into the sunshine. Freedom was there, at all events. "Now, Daisy, we'll go to the stables," Preston said, "and see if there is anything fit for you. I am afraid there isn't; though Edwards told me he thought there was." "Who is Edwards?" I asked, as we sped joyfully away through the oaks, across shade and sunshine. "Oh, he is the overseer." "What is an overseer?" "What is an overseer?--why, he is the man that looks after things." "What things?" I asked. "All the things--everything, Daisy; all the affairs of the plantation; the rice fields and the cotton fields and the people, and everything." "Where are the stables? and where are we going?" "Here--just here--a little way off. They are just in a dell over here--the other side of the house, where the quarters are." "Quarters?" I repeated. "Yes. Oh, you don't know anything down here, but you'll learn. The stables and quarters are in this dell we are coming to; nicely out of sight. Magnolia is one of the prettiest places on the river." We had passed through the grove of oaks on the further side of the house, and then found the beginning of a dell which, like the one by which we had come up a few hours before, sloped gently down to the river. In its course it widened out to a little low sheltered open ground, where a number of buildings stood. "So the house is between two dells," I said. "Yes; and on that height up there, beyond the quarters, is the cemetery; and from there you can see a great many fields and the river, and have a beautiful view. And there are capital rides all about the place, Daisy." When we came to the stables, Preston sent a boy in search of "Darius." Darius, he told me, was the coachman, and chief in charge of the stable department. Darius came presently. He was a grey-headed, fine-looking, most respectable black man. He had driven my mother and my mother's mother; and being a trusted and important man on the place, and for other reasons, he had a manner and bearing that were a model of dignified propriety. Very grave "Uncle Darry" was; stately and almost courtly in his respectful courtesy; but he gave me a pleasant smile when Preston presented him. "We's happy to see Miss Daisy at her own home. Hope de Lord bress her." My heart warmed at these words like the ice-bound earth in a spring day. They were not carelessly spoken, nor was the welcome. My feet trod the greensward more firmly. Then all other thoughts were for the moment put to flight by Preston's calling for the pony and asking Darius what he thought of him, and Darry's answer. "Very far, massa; very far. Him no good for not'ing." While I pondered what this judgment might amount to, the pony was brought out. He was larger than Loupe, and had not Loupe's peculiar symmetry of mane and tail: he was a fat dumpy little fellow, sleek and short, dapple grey, with a good long tail and a mild eye. Preston declared he had no shape at all and was a poor concern of a pony; but to my eyes he was beautiful. He took one or two sugarplums from my hand with as much amenity as if we had been old acquaintances. Then a boy was put on him, who rode him up and down with a halter. "He'll do, Darius," said Preston. "For little missis? Just big enough, massa. Got no tricks at all, only he no like work. Not much spring in him." "Daisy must take the whip, then. Come and let us go look at some of the country where you will ride. Are you tired, Daisy?" "Oh no," I said. "But wait a minute, Preston. Who lives in all those houses?" "The people. The hands. They are away in the fields at work now." "Does Darius live there?" "Of course. They all live here." "I should like to go nearer, and see the houses." "Daisy, it is nothing on earth to see. They are all just alike, and you see them from here." "I want to look in," I said, moving down the slope. "Daisy," said Preston, "you are just as fond of having your way as----" "As what? I do not think I am, Preston." "I suppose nobody thinks he is," grumbled Preston, following me, "except the fellows who can't get it." I had by this time almost forgotten Miss Pinshon. I had almost come to think that Magnolia might be a pleasant place. In the intervals when the pony was out of sight, I had improved my knowledge of the old coachman; and every look added to my liking. There was something I could not read that more and more drew me to him. A simplicity in his good manners, a placid expression in his gravity, a staid reserve in his humility, were all there; and more yet. Also the scene in the dell was charming to me. The ground about the negro cottages was kept neat; they were neatly built of stone and stood round the sides of a quadrangle; while on each side and below the wooded slopes of ground closed in the picture. Sunlight was streaming through and brightening up the cottages, and resting on Uncle Darry's swart face. Down through the sunlight I went to the cottages. The first door stood open, and I looked in. At the next I was about to knock, but Preston pushed open the door for me; and so he did for a third and a fourth. Nobody was in them. I was a good deal disappointed. They were empty, bare, dirty, and seemed to be very forlorn. What a set of people my mother's hands must be, I thought. Presently I came upon a ring of girls, a little larger than I was, huddled together behind one of the cottages. There was no manners about them. They were giggling and grinning, hopping on one foot, and going into other awkward antics; not the less that most of them had their arms filled with little black babies. I had got enough for that day, and turning about, left the dell with Preston. At the head of the dell, Preston led off in a new direction, along a wide avenue that ran through the woods. Perfectly level and smooth, with the woods closing in on both sides and making long vistas through their boles and under their boughs. By and by we took another path that led off from this one, wide enough for two horses to go abreast. The pine trees were sweet overhead and on each hand, making the light soft and the air fragrant. Preston and I wandered on in delightful roaming; leaving the house and all that it contained at an unremembered distance. Suddenly we came out upon a cleared field. It was many acres large; in the distance a number of people were at work. We turned back again. "Preston," I said, after a silence of a few minutes,--"there seemed to be no women in those cottages. I did not see any." "I suppose not," said Preston; "because there were not any to see." "But had all those little babies no mothers?" "Yes, of course, Daisy; but they were in the field." "The mothers of those little babies?" "Yes. What about it? Look here--are you getting tired?" I said no; and he put his arm round me fondly, so as to hold me up a little; and we wandered gently on, back to the avenue, then down its smooth course further yet from the house, then off by another wood path through the pines on the other side. This was a narrower path, amidst sweeping pine branches and hanging creepers, some of them prickly, which threw themselves all across the way. It was not easy getting along. I remarked that nobody seemed to come there much. "I never came here myself," said Preston, "but I know it must lead out upon the river somewhere, and that's what I am after. Hollo! we are coming to something. There is something white through the trees. I declare, I believe----" Preston had been out in his reckoning, and a second time had brought me where he did not wish to bring me. We came presently to an open place, or rather a place where the pines stood a little apart; and there in the midst was a small enclosure. A low brick wall surrounded a square bit of ground, with an iron gate on one side of the square; within, the grassy plot was spotted with the white marble of tombstones. There were large and small. Overhead, the great pine trees stood and waved their long branches gently in the wind. The place was lonely and lovely. We had come, as Preston guessed, to the river, and the shore was here high; so that we looked down upon the dark little stream far below us. The sunlight, getting low by this time, hardly touched it; but streamed through the pine trees and over the grass, and gilded the white marble with gold. "I did not mean to bring you here," said Preston, "I did not know I was bringing you here. Come, Daisy--we'll go and try again." "Oh stop!" I said--"I like it. I want to look at it." "It is the cemetery," said Preston. "That tall column is the monument of our great--no, of our great-great-grandfather; and this brown one is for mamma's father. Come, Daisy!----" "Wait a little," I said. "Whose is that with the vase on top?" "Vase?" said Preston--"it's an urn. It is an urn, Daisy. People do not put vases on tombstones." I asked what the difference was. "The difference? O Daisy, Daisy! Why vases are to put flowers in; and urns--I'll tell you, Daisy,--I believe it is because the Romans used to burn the bodies of their friends and gather up the ashes and keep them in a funeral urn. So an urn comes to be appropriate to a tombstone." "I do not see how," I said. "Why because an urn comes to be an emblem of mortality and all that. Come, Daisy; let us go." "I think a vase of flowers would be a great deal nicer," I said. "We do not keep the ashes of our friends." "We don't put signs of joy over their graves either," said Preston. "I should think we might," I said meditatively. "When people have gone to Jesus--they must be very glad!" Preston burst out with an expression of hope that Miss Pinshon would "do something" for me; and again would have led me away; but I was not ready to go. My eye, roving beyond the white marble and the low brick wall, had caught what seemed to be a number of meaner monuments, scattered among the pine trees and spreading down the slope of the ground on the further side, where it fell off towards another dell. In one place a bit of board was set up; further on a cross; then I saw a great many bits of board and crosses; some more and some less carefully made; and still as my eye roved about over the ground they seemed to start up to view in every direction; too low and too humble and too near the colour of the fallen pine leaves to make much show unless they were looked for. I asked what they all were. "Those? Oh, those are for the people, you know." "The people?" I repeated. "Yes, the people--the hands." "There are a great many of them," I remarked. "Of course," said Preston. "You see, Daisy, there have been I don't know how many hundreds of hands here for a great many years, ever since mother's grandfather's time." "I should think," said I, looking at the little board slips and crosses among the pine cones on the ground,--"I should think they would like to have something nicer to put up over their graves." "Nicer? those are good enough," said Preston. "Good enough for them." "I should think they would like to have something better," I said. "Poor people at the North have nicer monuments, I know. I never saw such monuments in my life." "Poor people!" cried Preston. "Why these are the _hands_, Daisy,--the coloured people. What do they want of monuments?" "Don't they care?" said I, wondering. "Who cares if they care? I don't know whether they care," said Preston, quite out of patience with me, I thought. "Only, if they cared, I should think they would have something nicer," I said. "Where do they all go to church, Preston?" "Who?" said Preston. "These people?" "What people? The families along the river do you mean?" "No, no," said I; "I mean _our_ people--these people; the hands. You say there are hundreds of them. Where do they go to church?" I faced Preston now in my eagerness; for the little board crosses and the forlorn look of the whole burying-ground on the side of the hill had given me a strange feeling. "Where do they go to church, Preston!" "Nowhere, I reckon." I was shocked, and Preston was impatient. How should he know, he said; he did not live at Magnolia. And he carried me off. We went back to the avenue and slowly bent our steps again towards the house; slowly, for I was tired, and we both, I think, were busy with our thoughts. Presently I saw a man, a negro, come into the avenue a little before us with a bundle of tools on his back. He went as slowly as we, with an indescribable, purposeless gait. His figure had the same look too, from his lop-sided old white hat to every fold of his clothing, which seemed to hang about him just as it would as lieve be off as on. I begged Preston to hail him and ask him the question about church going, which sorely troubled me. Preston was unwilling and resisted. "What do you want me to do that for, Daisy?" "Because Aunt Gary told Miss Pinshon that we have to drive six miles to go to church. Do ask him where they go!" "They don't go _anywhere_, Daisy," said Preston, impatiently; "they don't care a straw about it, either. All the church they care about is when they get together in somebody's house and make a great muss." "Make a muss!" said I. "Yes; a regular muss; shouting and crying and having what they call a good time. That's what some of them do; but I'll wager if I were to ask him about going to church, this fellow here would not know what I mean." This did by no means quiet me. I insisted that Preston should stop the man; and at last he did. The fellow turned and came back towards us, ducking his old white hat. His face was just like the rest of him; there was no expression in it but an expression of limp submissiveness. "Sambo, your mistress wants to speak to you." "Yes, massa. I's George, massa." "George," said I, "I want to know where you go to church?" "Yes, missis. What missis want to know?" "Where do you and all the rest go to church?" "Reckon don't go nowhar, missis." "Don't you ever go to church?" "Church for white folks, missis; bery far; long ways to ride." "But you and the rest of the people--don't you go anywhere to church? to hear preaching?" "Reckon not, missis. De preachin's don't come dis way, likely." "Can you read the Bible, George?" "Dunno read, missis. Never had no larnin'." "Then don't you know anything about what is in the Bible? don't you know about Jesus?" "Reckon don't know not'ing, missis." "About Jesus?" said I again. "'Clar, missis, dis nigger don't know not'ing, but de rice and de corn. Missis talk to Darry; he most knowin' nigger on plantation; knows a heap." "There!" exclaimed Preston, "that will do. You go off to your supper, George--and Daisy, you had better come on if you want anything pleasant at home. What on earth have you got now by that? What is the use? Of course they do not know anything; and why should they? They have no time and no use for it." "They have no time on Sundays?" I said. "Time to sleep. That is what they do. That is the only thing a negro cares about, to go to sleep in the sun. It's all nonsense, Daisy." "They would care about something else, I dare say," I answered, "if they could get it." "Well, they can't get it. Now, Daisy, I want you to let these fellows alone. You have nothing to do with them, and you did not come to Magnolia for such work. You have nothing on earth to do with them." I had my own thoughts on the subject, but Preston was not a sympathising hearer. I said no more. The evergreen oaks about the house came presently in sight; then the low verandah that ran round three sides of it; then we came to the door, and my walk was over. CHAPTER III. THE MULTIPLICATION TABLE. My life at Magnolia might be said to begin when I came downstairs that evening. My aunt and Miss Pinshon were sitting in the parlour, in the light of a glorious fire of light wood and oak sticks. Miss Pinshon called me to her at once; inquired where I had been; informed me I must not for the future take such diversion without her leave first asked and obtained; and then put me to reading aloud, that she might see how well I could do it. She gave me a philosophical article in a magazine for my proof piece; it was full of long words that I did not know and about matters that I did not understand. I read mechanically, of course; trying with all my might to speak the long words right, that there might be no room for correction; but Miss Pinshon's voice interrupted me again and again. I felt cast away in a foreign land; further and further from the home feeling every minute; and it seemed besides as if the climate had some power of petrifaction. I could not keep Medusa out of my head. It was a relief at last when the tea was brought in. Miss Pinshon took the magazine out of my hand. "She has a good voice, but she wants expression," was her remark. "I could not understand what she was reading," said my Aunt Gary. "Nor anybody else," said Preston. "How are you going to give expression, when there is nothing to express?" "That is where you feel the difference between a good reader and one who is not trained," said my governess. "I presume Daisy has never been trained." "No, not in anything," said my aunt. "I dare say she wants a good deal of it." "We will try," said Miss Pinshon. It all comes back to me as I write, that beginning of my Magnolia life. I remember how dazed and disheartened I sat at the tea-table, yet letting nobody see it; how Preston made violent efforts to change the character of the evening; and did keep up a stir that at another time would have amused me. And when I was dismissed to bed, Preston came after me to the upper gallery and almost broke up my power of keeping quiet. He gathered me in his arms, kissed me and lamented me, and denounced ferocious threats against "Medusa;" while I in vain tried to stop him. He would not be sent away, till he had come into my room and seen that the fire was burning and the room warm, and Margaret ready for me. With Margaret there was also an old coloured woman, dark and wrinkled, my faithful old friend Mammy Theresa! but indeed I could scarcely see her just then, for my eyes were full of big tears when Preston left me; and I had to stand still before the fire for some minutes before I could fight down the fresh tears that were welling up and let those which veiled my eyesight scatter away. I was conscious how silently the two women waited upon me. I had a sense even then of the sympathy they were giving. I knew they served me with a respect which would have done for an Eastern princess; but I said nothing hardly, nor they, that night. If the tears came when I was alone, so did sleep too at last; and I waked up the next morning a little revived. It was a cool morning, and my eyes opened to see Margaret on her knees making my fire. Two good oak sticks were on the fire dogs, and a heap of light wood on the floor. I watched her piling and preparing, and then kindling the wood with a splinter of light wood which she lit in the candle. It was all very strange to me. The bare painted and varnished floor; the rugs laid down here and there; the old cupboards in the wall; the unwonted furniture. It did not feel like home. I lay still, until the fire blazed up and Margaret rose to her feet, and seeing my eyes open dropped her curtsey. "Please, missis, may I be Miss Daisy's girl?" "I will ask Aunt Gary," I answered, a good deal surprised. "Miss Daisy is the mistress. We all belong to Miss Daisy. It will be as she say." I thought to myself that very little was going to be "as I said." I got out of bed, feeling terribly slim-hearted, and stood in my nightgown before the fire, trying to let the blaze warm me. Margaret did her duties with a zeal of devotion that reminded me of my old June. "I will ask Aunt Gary," I said; "and I think she will let you build my fire, Margaret." "Thank'e, ma'am. First-rate fires. I'll make, Miss Daisy. We'se all so glad Miss Daisy come to Magnoly." Were they? I thought, and what did she mean by their all "belonging to me?" I was not accustomed to quite so much deference. However, I improved my opportunity by asking Margaret my question of the day before about church. The girl half laughed. "Ain't any church big enough to hold all de people," she said. "Guess we coloured folks has to go widout." "But where _is_ the church?" I said. "Ain't none, Miss Daisy. People enough to make a church full all himselves." "And don't you want to go?" "Reckon it's o' no consequence, missis. It's a right smart chance of a way to Bo'mbroke, where de white folks' church is. Guess they don't have none for poor folks nor niggers in dese parts." "But Jesus died for poor people," I said, turning round upon my attendant. She met me with a gaze I did not understand, and said nothing. Margaret was not like my old June. She was a clear mulatto, with a fresh colour and rather a handsome face; and her eyes, unlike June's little anxious, restless, almond-shaped eyes, were liquid and full. She went on carefully with the toilet duties which busied her; and I was puzzled. "Did you never hear of Jesus?" I said presently. "Don't you know that He loves poor people?" "Reckon He loves rich people de best, Miss Daisy," the girl said, in a dry tone. I faced about to deny this, and to explain how the Lord had a special love and care for the poor. I saw that my hearer did not believe me. "She had heerd so," she said. The dressing-bell sounded long and loud, and I was obliged to let Margaret go on with my dressing; but in the midst of my puzzled state of mind, I felt childishly sure of the power of that truth, of the Lord's love, to break down any hardness and overcome any coldness. Yet, "how shall they hear without a preacher?" and I had so little chance to speak. "Then, Margaret," said I at last, "is there no place where you can go to hear about the things in the Bible?" "No, missis; I never goes." "And does not anybody, except Darry when he goes with the carriage?" "Can't, Miss Daisy; it's miles and miles; and no place for niggers neither." "Can you read the Bible, Margaret?" "Guess not, missis; we's too stupid; ain't good for coloured folks to read." "Does _nobody_, among all the people, read the Bible?" said I, once more stopping Margaret in my dismay. "Uncle Darry--he does," said the girl; "and he do 'spoun some; but I don't make no count of his 'spoundations." I did not know quite what she meant; but I had no time for anything more. I let her go, locked my door and kneeled down; with the burden on my heart of this new revelation; that there were hundreds of people under the care of my father and mother who were living without church and without Bible, in desperate ignorance of everything worth knowing. If papa had only been at Magnolia with me! I thought I could have persuaded him to build a church and let somebody come and teach the people. But now--what could I do? And I asked the Lord, what could I do? but I did not see the answer. Feeling the question on my two shoulders, I went downstairs. To my astonishment, I found the family all gathered in solemn order; the house servants at one end of the room, my aunt, Miss Pinshon and Preston at the other, and before my aunt a little table with books. I got a seat as soon as I could, for it was plain that something was waiting for me. Then my aunt opened the Bible and read a chapter, and followed it with prayer read out of another book. I was greatly amazed at the whole proceeding. No such ceremony was ever gone through at Melbourne; and certainly nothing had ever given me the notion that my Aunt Gary was any more fond of sacred things than the rest of the family. "An excellent plan," said Miss Pinshon, when we had risen from our knees and the servants had filed off. "Yes," my aunt said, somewhat as if it needed an apology;--"it was the custom in my father's and grandfather's time; and we always keep it up. I think old customs always should be kept up." "And do you have the same sort of thing on Sundays, for the out-of-door hands?" "What?" said my aunt. It was somewhat more abrupt than polite; but she probably felt that Miss Pinshon was a governess. "There were only the house servants gathered this morning." "Of course; part of them." "Have you any similar system of teaching for those who are outside? I think you told me they have no church to go to." "I should like to know what 'system' you would adopt," said my aunt, "to reach seven hundred people." "A church and a minister would not be a bad thing." "Or we might all turn missionaries," said Preston; "and go among them with bags of Bibles round our necks. We might all turn missionaries." "Colporteurs," said Miss Pinshon. Then I said in my heart, "I will be one." But I went on eating my breakfast and did not look at anybody; only I listened with all my might. "I don't know about that," said my aunt. "I doubt whether a church and a minister would be beneficial." "Then you have a nation of heathen at your doors," said Miss Pinshon. "I don't know but they are just as well off," said my aunt. "I doubt if more light would do them any good. They would not understand it." "They must be very dark if they could not understand light," said my governess. "Just as people that are very light cannot understand darkness," said Preston. "I think so," my aunt went on. "Our neighbour Colonel Joram, down below here at Crofts, will not allow such a thing as preaching or teaching on his plantation. He says it is bad for them. We always allowed it; but I don't know." "Colonel Joram is a heathen himself, you know, mother," said Preston. "Don't hold _him_ up." "I will hold him up for a gentleman, and a very successful planter," said Mrs. Gary. "No place is better worked or managed than Crofts. If the estate of Magnolia were worked and kept as well, it would be worth half as much again as it ever has been. But there is the difference of the master's eye. My brother-in-law never could be induced to settle at Magnolia, nor at his own estates either. He likes it better in the cold North." Miss Pinshon made no remark whatever in answer to this statement; and the rest of the talk at the breakfast-table was about rice. After breakfast my school life at Magnolia began. It seemed as if all the threads of my life there were in a hurry to get into my hand. Ah! I had a handful soon! But this was the fashion of my first day with my governess. All the days were not quite so bad; however, it gave the key of them all. Miss Pinshon bade me come with her to the room she and my aunt had agreed should be the schoolroom. It was the back room of the house, though it had hardly books enough to be called a library. It had been the study or private room of my grandfather; there was a leather-covered table with an old bronze standish; some plain bookcases; a large escritoire; a terrestrial globe; a thermometer and a barometer; and the rest of the furniture was an abundance of chintz-covered chairs and lounges. These were very easy and pleasant for use; and long windows opening on the verandah looked off among the evergreen oaks and their floating grey drapery; the light in the room and the whole aspect of it was agreeable. If Miss Pinshon had not been there! But she was there, with a terrible air of business; setting one or two chairs in certain positions by a window, and handing one or two books on the table. I stood meek and helpless, expectant. "Have you read any history, Daisy?" I said no; then I said yes, I had; a little. "What?" "A little of the history of England last summer." "Not of your own country?" "No, ma'am." "And no ancient history?" "No, ma'am." "You know nothing of the division of the nations, of course?" I answered, nothing. I had no idea what she meant; except that England, and America, and France, were different, and of course divided. Of Peleg the son of Eber and the brother of Joktan, I then knew nothing. "And arithmetic is something you do not understand," pursued Miss Pinshon. "Come here, and let me see how you can write." With trembling, stiff little fingers--I feel them yet--I wrote some lines under my governess's eye. "Very unformed," was her comment. "And now, Daisy, you may sit down there in the window and study the multiplication table. See how much of it you can get this morning." Was it to be a morning's work? My heart was heavy as lead. At this hour, at Melbourne, my task would have been to get my flat hat and rush out among the beds of flowers; and a little later, to have up Loupe and go driving whither I would, among the meadows and cornfields. Ah, yes; and there was Molly who might be taught, and Juanita who might be visited; and Dr. Sandford who might come like a pleasant gale of wind into the midst of whatever I was about. I did not stop to think of them now, though a waft of the sunny air through the open window brought a violent rush of such images. I tried to shut them out of my head and gave myself wistfully to "three times one is three; three times two is six." Miss Pinshon helped me by closing the window. I thought she might have let so much sweetness as that come into the multiplication table. However I studied its threes and fours steadily for some time; then my attention flagged. It was very uninteresting. I had never in all my life till then been obliged to study what gave me no pleasure. My mind wandered, and then my eyes wandered, to where the sunlight lay so golden under the live oaks. The wreaths of grey moss stirred gently with the wind. I longed to be out there. Miss Pinshon's voice startled me. "Daisy, where are your thoughts?" I hastily brought my eyes and wits home and answered, "Out upon the lawn, ma'am." "Do you find the multiplication table there?" It was so needless to answer! I was mute. I would have come to the rash conclusion that nature and mathematics had nothing to do with each other. "You must learn to command your attention," my governess went on. "You must not let it wander. That is the first lesson you have to learn. I shall give you mathematics till you have learnt it. You can do nothing without attention." I bent myself to the threes and fours again. But I was soon weary; my mind escaped; and without turning my eyes off my book, it swept over the distance between Magnolia and Melbourne, and sat down by Molly Skelton to help her in getting her letters. It was done and I was there. I could hear the hesitating utterances; I could see the dull finger tracing its way along the lines. And then would come the reading _to_ Molly, and the interested look of waiting attention, and once in a while the strange softening of the poor hard face. From there my mind went off to the people around me at Magnolia; were there some to be taught here perhaps? and could I get at them? and was there no other way--could it be there was no other way but by my weak little voice--through which some of them were ever to learn about my dear Saviour? I had got very far from mathematics, and my book fell. I heard Miss Pinshon's voice. "Daisy, come here." I obeyed and came to the table, where my governess was installed in the leather chair of my grandfather. She always used it. "I should like to know what you are doing." "I was thinking," I said. "Did I give you thinking to do?" "No, ma'am; not of that kind." "What kind was it?" "I was thinking, and remembering----" "Pray what were you remembering?" "Things at home--and other things." "Things and things," said Miss Pinshon. "That is not a very elegant way of speaking. Let me hear how much you have learned." I began. About all of the "threes" was on my tongue; the rest had got mixed up hopelessly with Molly Skelton and teaching Bible reading. Miss Pinshon was not pleased. "You must learn attention," she said. "I can do nothing with you until you have succeeded in that. You _must_ attend. Now I shall give you a motive for minding what you are about. Go and sit down again and study this table till you know the threes and the fours and the fives and the sixes, perfectly. Go and sit down." I sat down, and the life was all out of me. Tears in the first place had a great mind to come, and would put themselves between me and the figures in the multiplication table. I governed them back after a while. But I could not study to purpose. I was tired and down-spirited; I had not energy left to spring to my task and accomplish it. Over and over again I tried to put the changes of the numbers in my head; it seemed like writing them in sand. My memory would not take hold of them; could not keep them; with all my trying I grew only more and more stupefied and fagged, and less capable of doing what I had to do. So dinner came, and Miss Pinshon said I might get myself ready for dinner and after dinner come back again to my lesson. The lesson must be finished before anything else was done. I had no appetite. Preston was in a fume of vexation, partly aroused by my looks, partly by hearing that I was not yet free. He was enraged beyond prudent speaking, but Miss Pinshon never troubled herself about his words; and when the first and second courses were removed, told me I might go to my work. Preston called me to stay and have some fruit; but I went on to the study, not caring for fruit or for anything else. I felt very dull and miserable. Then I remembered that my governess probably did care for some fruit and would be delayed a little while; and then I tried what is the best preparation for study or anything else. I got down on my knees, to ask that help which is as willingly given to a child in her troubles as to the general of an army. I prayed that I might be patient and obedient and take disagreeable things pleasantly and do my duty in the multiplication table. And a breath of rest came over my heart, and a sort of perfume of remembered things which I had forgotten; and it quite changed the multiplication table to think that God had given it to me to learn, and so that some good would certainly come of learning it; at least the good of pleasing Him. As long as I dared I stayed on my knees; then I was strong for the fives and sixes. But it was not quick work; and though my patience did not flag again nor my attention fail, the afternoon was well on the way before I was dismissed. I had then permission to do what I liked. Miss Pinshon said she would not go to walk that day; I might follow my own pleasure. I must have been very tired; for it seemed to me there was hardly any pleasure left to follow. I got my flat and went out. The sun was westing; the shadows stretched among the evergreen oaks; the outer air was sweet. I had tried to find Preston first, in the house; but he was not to be found; and all alone I went out into the sunshine. It wooed me on. Sunshine and I were always at home together. Without knowing that I wanted to go anywhere, some secret attraction drew my steps towards the dell where I had seen Darry. I followed one of several well-beaten paths that led towards the quarters through the trees, and presently came out upon the stables again. All along the dell the sunshine poured. The ground was kept like a pleasure ground, it was so neat; the grass was as clean as the grass of a park; the little stone houses scattered away down towards the river, with shade trees among them, and oaks lining the sides of the dell. I thought surely Magnolia was a lovely place! if only my father and mother had been there. But then, seeing the many cottages, my trouble of the morning pressed upon me afresh. So many people, so many homes, and the light of the Bible not on them, nor in them? And, child as I was, and little as I knew, I knew the name of Christ too unspeakably precious, for me to think without a sore heart, and all these people were without what was the jewel of my life. And they my mother's servants! my father's dependants! What could I do? The dell was alone in the yellow sunlight which poured over the slope from the west: and I went musing on till getting to the corner of the stables I saw Darry just round the corner grooming a black horse. He was working energetically, and humming to himself as he worked a refrain which I learned afterwards to know well. All I could make out was, "I'm going home"--several times repeated. I came near before he saw me, and he started; then bid me good evening and "hoped I found Magnolia a pleasant place." Since I have grown older I have read that wonderful story of Mrs. Stowe's Uncle Tom; he reminded me of Darry then, and now I never think of the one without thinking of the other. But Darry, having served a different class of people from Uncle Tom's first owners, had a more polished style of manners, which I should almost call courtly; and he was besides a man of higher natural parts, and somewhat more education. But much commerce in the Court which is above all earthly dignities, no doubt had more to do with his peculiarities than any other cause. I asked him what he was singing about home? and where his home was? He turned his face full upon me, letting me see how grave and gentle his eye was, and at the same time there was a wistful expression in it that I felt. "Home ain't nowheres here, missie," he said. "I'm 'spectin' to go by and by." "Do you mean home up _there_?" said I, lifting my finger towards the sky. Darry fairly laughed. "'Spect don't want no other home, missie. Heaven good enough." I stood watching him as he rubbed down the black horse, feeling surely that he and I would be friends. "Where is your home here, Darry?" "I got a place down there, little missie--not fur." "When you have done that horse, will you show me your place? I want to see where you live." "Missie want to see Darry's house?" said he, showing his white teeth. "Missie shall see what she mind to. I allus keeps Sadler till the last, 'cause he's ontractable." The black horse was put in the stable, and I followed my black groom down among the lines of stone huts to which the working parties had not yet returned. Darry's house was one of the lowest in the dell, out of the quadrangle, and had a glimpse of the river. It stood alone in a pretty place, but something about it did not satisfy me. It looked square and bare. The stone walls within were rough as the stone-layer had left them; one little four-paned window, or rather casement, stood open; and the air was sweet; for Darry kept his place scrupulously neat and clean. But there was not much to be kept. A low bedstead; a wooden chest; an odd table made of a piece of board on three legs; a shelf with some kitchen ware; that was all the furniture. On the odd table there lay a Bible, that had, I saw, been turned over many a time. "Then you can read, Uncle Darry?" I said, pitching on the only thing that pleased me. "De good Lord, He give me dat happiness," the man answered gravely. "And you love Jesus, Darry," I said, feeling that we had better come to an understanding as soon as possible. His answer was an energetic-- "Bress de Lord! Do Miss Daisy love Him, den?" I would have said yes; I did say yes, I believe; but I did not know how or why, at this question there seemed a coming together of gladness and pain which took away my breath. My head dropped on Darry's little window-sill, and my tears rushed forth, like the head of water behind a broken mill-dam. Darry was startled and greatly concerned. He wanted to know if I was not well--if I would send him for "su'thing"--I could only shake my head and weep. I think Darry was the only creature at Magnolia before whom I would have so broken down. But somehow I felt safe with Darry. The tears cleared away from my voice after a little; and I went on with my inquiries again. It was a good chance. "Uncle Darry, does no one else but you read the Bible?" He looked dark and troubled. "Missie sees--de folks for most part got no learning. Dey no read, sure." "Do you read the Bible to them, Darry?" "Miss Daisy knows, dere ain't no great time. Dey's in the field all day, most days, and dey hab no time for to hear." "But Sundays?" I said. "Do try," he said, looking graver yet. "Me do 'tempt su'thing. But missie knows, de Sabbat' be de only day de people hab, and dey tink mostly of oder tings." "And there is no church for you all to go to?" "No, missis; no church." There was a sad tone in his answer. I did not know how to go on. I turned to something else. "Uncle Darry, I don't think your home looks very comfortable." Darry almost laughed at that. He said it was good enough; would last very well a little while longer. I insisted that it was not _comfortable_. It was cold. "Sun warm, Miss Daisy. De good Lord, He make His sun warm. And dere be fires enough." "But it is very empty," I said. "You want something more in it, to make it look nice." "It never empty, Miss Daisy, when de Lord Hisself be here. And He not leave His chil'n alone. Miss Daisy know dat?" I stretched forth my little hand and laid it in Darry's great black palm. There was an absolute confidence established between us. "Uncle Darry," I said, "I _do_ love Him--but sometimes, I want to see papa!----" And therewith my self-command was almost gone. I stood with full eyes and quivering lips, my hand still in Darry's, who on his part was speechless with sympathy. "De time pass quick, and Miss Daisy see her pa'," he said at last. I did not think the time passed quick. I said so. "Do little missie ask de Lord for help?" Darry said, his eyes by this time as watery as mine. "Do Miss Daisy know, it nebber lonesome where de Lord be? He so good." I could not stand any more. I pulled away my hand and stood still, looking out of the window and seeing nothing, till I could make myself quiet. Then I changed the subject and told Darry I should like to go and see some of the other houses again. I know now, I can see, looking back, how my childish self-control and reserve made some of those impulsive natures around me regard me with something like worshipful reverence. I felt it then, without thinking of it or reasoning about it. From Darry, and from Margaret, and from Mammy Theresa, and from several others, I had a loving, tender reverence, which not only felt for me as a sorrowful child, but bowed before me as something of higher and stronger nature than themselves. Darry silently attended me now from house to house of the quarters; introducing and explaining and doing all he could to make my progress interesting and amusing. Interested I was; but most certainly not amused. I did not like the look of things any better than I had done at first. The places were not "nice;" there was a coarse, uncared-for air of everything within, although the outside was in such well-dressed condition. No litter on the grass, no untidiness of walls or chimneys; and no seeming of comfortable homes when the door was opened. The village, for it amounted to that, was almost deserted at that hour; only a few crooning old women on the sunny side of a wall, and a few half-grown girls, and a quantity of little children, depending for all the care they got upon one or the other of these. "Haven't all these little babies got mothers!" I asked. "For sure, Miss Daisy--dey's got modders." "Where _are_ the mothers of all these babies, Darry?" I asked. "Dey's in de field, Miss Daisy. Home d'rectly." "Are they working like _men_ in the fields!" I asked. "Dey's all at work," said Darry. "Do they do the same work as the men?" "All alike, Miss Daisy." Darry's answers were not hearty. "But don't their little babies want them?" said I, looking at a group of girls in whose hands were some very little babies indeed. I think Darry made me no answer. "But if the men and women both work out," I went on, "papa must give them a great deal of money; I should think they would have things more comfortable, Darry. Why don't they have little carpets, and tables and chairs, and cups and saucers? Hardly anybody has teacups and saucers. Have _you_ got any, Uncle Darry?" "'Spect I'se no good woman to brew de tea for her ole man," said Darry; but I thought he looked at me very oddly. "Couldn't you make it for yourself, Uncle Darry?" "Poor folks don't live just like de rich folks," he answered, quietly, after a minute's pause. "And I don't count fur to want no good t'ing, missie." I went on with my observations; my questions I thought I would not push any further at that time. I grew more and more dissatisfied, that my father's work-people should live in no better style and in no better comfort. Even Molly Skelton had a furnished and appointed house, compared with these little bare stone huts; and mothers that would leave their babies for the sake of more wages, must, I thought, be very barbarous mothers. This was all because, no doubt, of having no church and no Bible. I grew weary. As we were going up the dell towards the stables, I suddenly remembered my pony; and I asked to see him. Darry was much relieved, I fancy, to have me come back to a child's sphere of action. He had out the fat little grey pony, and talked it over to me with great zeal. It came into my head to ask for a saddle. "Dere be a saddle," Darry said, doubtfully. "Massa Preston he done got a saddle dis very day. Dunno where Massa Preston can be." I did not heed this. I begged to have the saddle and be allowed to try the pony. Now Preston had laid a plan that nobody but himself should have the pleasure of first mounting me; but I did not know of this plan. Darry hesitated, I saw, but he had not the power to refuse me. The saddle was brought out, put on, and carefully arranged. "Uncle Darry, I want to get on him--may I?" "O' course--Miss Daisy do what she mind to. Him bery good, only some lazy." So I was mounted. Preston, Miss Pinshon, the servants' quarters, the multiplication table, all were forgotten and lost in a misty distance. I was in the saddle for the first time, and delight held me by both hands. My first moment on horseback! If Darry had guessed it he would have been terribly concerned; but as it happened, I knew how to take my seat; I had watched my mother so often mounting her horse that every detail was familiar to me; and Darry naturally supposed I knew what I was about after I was in my seat. The reins were a little confusing; however, the pony walked off lazily with me to the head of the glen, and I thought he was an improvement upon the old pony chaise. Finding myself coming out upon the avenue, which I did not wish, it became necessary to get at the practical use of the bridle. I was at some pains to do it; finally I managed to turn the pony's head round, and we walked back in the same sober style we had come up. Darry stood by the stables, smiling and watching me; down among the quarters the children and old people turned out to look after me; I walked down as far as Darry's house, turned and came back again. Darry stood ready to help me to dismount; but it was too pleasant. I went on to the avenue. Just as I turned there, I caught, as it seemed to me, a glimpse of two ladies, coming towards me from the house. Involuntarily I gave a sharper pull at the bridle, and I suppose touched the pony's shoulder with the switch Darry had put into my hand. The touch so woke him up, that he shook off his laziness and broke into a short galloping canter to go back to the stables. This was a new experience. I thought for the first minute that I certainly should be thrown off; I seemed to have no hold of anything, and I was tossed up and down on my saddle in the way that boded a landing on the ground every next time. I was not timid with animals, whatever might be true of me in other relations. My first comfort was finding that I did _not_ fall off; then I took heart and settled myself in the saddle more securely, gave myself to the motion, and began to think I should like it by and by. Nevertheless, for this time I was willing to stop at the stables; but the pony had only just found how good it was to be moving, and he went by at full canter. Down the dell, through the quarters, past the cottages, till I saw Darry's house ahead of me, and began to think how I _should_ get round again. At that pace I could not. Could I stop the fellow? I tried, but there was not much strength in my arms; one or two pulls did no good, and one or two pulls more did no good; pony cantered on, and I saw we were making straight for the river. I knew that I _must_ stop him; I threw so much good-will into the handling of my reins that, to my joy, the pony paused, let himself be turned about placidly, and took up his leisurely walk again. But now I was in a hurry, wanting to be dismounted before anybody should come; and I was a little triumphant, having kept my seat and turned my horse. Moreover, the walk was not good after that stirring canter. I would try it again. But it took a little earnestness now and more than one touch of my whip before the pony would mind me. Then he obeyed in good style and we cantered quietly up to where Darry was waiting. The thing was done. The pony and I had come to an understanding. I was a rider from that time, without fear or uncertainty. The first gentle pull on the bridle was obeyed and I came to a stop in front of Darry and my cousin Preston. I have spent a great deal of time to tell of my ride. Yet not more than its place in my life then deserved. It was my last half hour of pleasure for I think many a day. I had cantered up the slope, all fresh in mind and body, excited and glad with my achievement and with the pleasure of brisk motion; I had forgotten everybody and everything disagreeable, or what I did not forget I disregarded; but just before I stopped I saw what sent another thrill than that of pleasure tingling through all my veins. I saw Preston, who had but a moment before reached the stables, I saw him lift his hand with a light riding switch he carried, and drew the switch across Darry's mouth. I shall never forget the coloured man's face, as he stepped back a pace or two. I understood it afterwards; I _felt_ it then. There was no resentment; there was no fire of anger, which I should have expected; there was no manly and no stolid disregard of what had been done. There was instead a slight smile, which to this day I cannot bear to recall; it spoke so much of patient and helpless humiliation; as of one wincing at the galling of a sore and trying not to show he winced. Preston took me off my horse, and began to speak. I turned away from him to Darry, who now held two horses, Preston having just dismounted; and I thanked him for my pleasure, throwing into my manner all the studied courtesy I could. Then I walked up the dell beside Preston, without looking at him. Preston scolded. He had prepared a surprise for me, and was excited by his disappointment at my mounting without him. Of course I had not known that; and Darry, who was in the secret, had not known how to refuse. I gave Preston no answer to his charges and reproaches. At last I said I was tired and I wished he would not talk. "Tired! you are something besides tired," he said. "I suppose I am," I answered with great deliberation. He was eager to know what it was; but then we came out upon the avenue and were met flush by my aunt and Miss Pinshon. My aunt inquired, and Preston, who was by no means cool yet, accused me about the doings of the afternoon. I scarcely heeded one or the other; but I did feel Miss Pinshon's taking my hand and leading me home all the rest of the way. It was not that I wanted to talk to Preston, for I was not ready to talk to him; but this holding me like a little child was excessively distasteful to my habit of freedom. My governess would not loose her clasp when we got to the house; but kept fast hold and led me upstairs to my own room. CHAPTER IV. SEVEN HUNDRED PEOPLE. "Do you think that was a proper thing to do, Daisy?" my governess asked when she released me. "What thing, ma'am?" I asked. "To tear about on that great grey pony." "Yes, ma'am," I said. "You think it _was_ proper?" said Miss Pinshon, coolly. "Whom had you with you?" "Nobody was riding with me." "Your cousin was there?" "No, ma'am." "Who then?" "I had Uncle Darry. I was only riding up and down the dell." "The coachman! And were you riding up and through the quarters all the afternoon?" "No, ma'am." "What were you doing the rest of the time?" "I was going about----" I hesitated. "About where?" "Through the place there." "The quarters? Well, you think it proper amusement for your mother's daughter? You are not to make companions of the servants, Daisy. You are not to go to the quarters without my permission, and I shall not give it frequently. Now get yourself ready for tea." I did feel as if Preston's prophecy were coming true and I in a way to be gradually petrified; some slow, chill work of that kind seemed already to be going on. But a little thing soon stirred all the life there was in me. Miss Pinshon stepped to the door which led from her room into mine, unlocked it, took out the key, and put it on her own side of the door. I sprang forward at that, with a word, I do not know what; and my governess turned her lustrous, unmoved eyes calmly upon me. I remember now how deadening their look was, in their very lustre and moveless calm. I begged however for a reversal of her last proceeding; I wanted my door locked sometimes, I said. "You can lock the other door." "But I want both locked." "I do not. This door remains open, Daisy. I must come in here when I please. Now make haste and get ready." I had no time for anything but to obey. I went downstairs, I think, like a machine; my body obeying certain laws, while my mind and spirit were scarcely present. I suppose I behaved myself as usual; save that I would have nothing to do with Preston, nor would I receive anything whatever at the table from his hand. This, however, was known only to him and me. I said nothing; not the less every word that others said fastened itself in my memory. I was like a person dreaming. "You have just tired yourself with mounting that wild thing, Daisy," said my Aunt Gary. "Wild!" said Preston. "About as wild as a tame sloth." "I always heard that was very wild indeed," said Miss Pinshon. "The sloth cannot be tamed, can it?" "Being stupid already, I suppose not," said Preston. "Daisy looks pale at any rate," said my aunt. "A little overdone," said Miss Pinshon. "She wants regular exercise; but irregular exercise is very trying to any but a strong person. I think Daisy will be stronger in a few weeks." "What sort of exercise do you think will be good for her, ma'am?" Preston said, with an expression out of all keeping with his words, it was so fierce. "I shall try different sorts," my governess answered, composedly. "Exercise of patience is a very good thing, Master Gary. I think gymnastics will be useful for Daisy too. I shall try them." "That is what I have often said to my sister," said Aunt Gary. "I have no doubt that sort of training would establish Daisy's strength more than anything in the world. She just wants that to develop her and bring out the muscles." Preston almost groaned; pushed his chair from the table, and I knew sat watching me. I would give him no opportunity, for _my_ opportunity I could not have then. I kept quiet till the ladies moved; I moved with them; and sat all the evening abstracted in my own meditations, without paying Preston any attention; feeling indeed very old and grey, as no doubt I looked. When I was ordered to bed Miss Pinshon desired I would hold no conversation with anybody. Whereupon Preston took my candle and boldly marched out of the room with me. When we were upstairs he tried to make me disobey my orders. He declared I was turning to stone already; he said a great many hard words against my governess; threatened he would write to my father; and when he could not prevail to make me talk, dashed off passionately and left me. I went trembling into my room. But my refuge there was gone. I had fallen upon evil times. My door must not be locked, and Miss Pinshon might come in any minute. I could not pray. I undressed and went to bed; and lay there, waiting, all things in order, till my governess looked in. Then the door was closed, and I heard her steps moving about in her room. I lay and listened. At last the door was softly set open again; and then after a few minutes the sound of regular slow breathing proclaimed that those wide-open black eyes were really closed for the night. I got up, went to my governess's door and listened. She was sleeping profoundly. I laid hold of the handle of the door and drew it towards me; pulled out the key softly, put it in my own side of the lock and shut the door. And after all I was afraid to turn the key. The wicked sound of the lock might enter those sleeping ears. But the door was closed; and I went to my old place, the open window. It was not my window at Melbourne, with balmy summer air, and the dewy scent of the honeysuckle coming up, and the moonlight flooding all the world beneath me. But neither was it in the regions of the North. The night was still and mild, if not balmy; and the stars were brilliant; and the evergreen oaks were masses of dark shadow all over the lawn. I do not think I saw them at first; for my look was up to the sky, where the stars shone down to greet me, and where it was furthest from all the troubles on the surface of the earth; and with one thought of the Friend up there, who does not forget the troubles of even His little children, the barrier in my heart gave way, my tears gushed forth; my head lay on the window-sill at Magnolia, more hopelessly than in my childish sorrow it had ever lain at Melbourne. I kept my sobs quiet; I must; but they were deep, heartbreaking sobs, for a long time. Prayer got its chance after a while. I had a great deal to pray for; it seemed to my child's heart now and then as if it could hardly bear its troubles. And very much I felt I wanted patience and wisdom. I thought there was a great deal to do, even for my little hands; and promise of great hindrance and opposition. And the only one pleasant thing I could think of in my new life at Magnolia, was that I might tell of the truth to those poor people who lived in the negro quarters. Why I did not make myself immediately ill, with my night's vigils and sorrow, I cannot tell; unless it were that great excitement kept off the effects of chill air and damp. However, the excitement had its own effects, and my eyes were sadly heavy when they opened the next morning to look at Margaret lighting my fire. "Margaret," I said, "shut Miss Pinshon's door, will you?" She obeyed, and then turning to look at me, exclaimed that I was not well. "Did you say you could not read, Margaret?" was my answer. "Read! no, missis. Guess readin' ain't no good for servants. Seems like Miss Daisy ain't lookin' peart this mornin'." "Would you _like_ to read?" "Reckon don't care about it, Miss Daisy. Where'd us get books, most likely?" I said I would get the books; but Margaret turned to the fire and made me no answer. I heard her mutter some ejaculation. "Because, Margaret, don't you know," I said, raising myself on my elbow, "God would like to have you learn to read, so that you might know the Bible and come to heaven." "Reckon folks ain't a heap better that knows the Bible," said the girl. "'Pears as if it don't make no difference. Ain't nobody good in _this_ place, 'cept Uncle Darry." In another minute I was out of bed and standing before the fire, my hand on her shoulder. I told her I wanted _her_ to be good too, and that Jesus would make her good, if she would let Him. Margaret gave me a hasty look and then finished her fire making; but to my great astonishment, a few minutes after, I saw that the tears were running down the girl's face. It astonished me so much that I said no more; and Margaret was as silent, only dressed me with the greatest attention and tenderness. "Ye want your breakfast bad, Miss Daisy," she remarked then in a subdued tone; and I suppose my looks justified her words. They created some excitement when I went downstairs. My aunt exclaimed; Miss Pinshon inquired; Preston inveighed, at things in general. He wanted to get me by myself, I knew, but he had no chance. Immediately after breakfast Miss Pinshon took possession of me. The day was less weary than the day before, only I think because I was tired beyond impatience or nervous excitement. Not much was done; for though I was very willing I had very little power. But the multiplication table, Miss Pinshon said, was easy work; and at that and reading and writing, the morning crept away. My hand was trembling, my voice was faint, my memory grasped nothing so clearly as Margaret's tears that morning, and Preston's behaviour the preceding day. My cheeks were pale, of course. Miss Pinshon said we would begin to set that right with a walk after dinner. The walk was had; but with my hand clasped in Miss Pinshon's I only wished myself at home all the way. At home again, after a while of lying down to rest, I was tried with a beginning of calisthenics. A trial it was to me. The exercises, directed and overseen by Miss Pinshon, seemed to me simply intolerable, a weariness beyond all other weariness. Even the multiplication table I liked better. Miss Pinshon was tired perhaps herself at last. She let me go. It was towards the end of the day. With no life left in me for anything, I strolled out into the sunshine: aimlessly at first; then led by a secret inclination I hardly knew or questioned, my steps slowly made their way round by the avenue to the stables. Darry was busy there as I had found him yesterday. He looked hard at me as I came up; and asked me earnestly how I felt that afternoon? I told him I was tired; and then I sat down on a huge log which lay there and watched him at his work. By turns I watched the sunlight streaming along the turf and lighting the foliage of the trees on the other side of the dell; looking in a kind of dream, as if I were not Daisy nor this Magnolia in any reality. I suddenly started and awoke to realities as Darry began to sing,-- "My Father's house is built on high, Far, far above the starry sky; And though like Lazarus sick and poor, My heavenly mansion is secure. I'm going home,-- I'm going home,-- I'm going home To die no more! To die no more-- To die no more-- I'm going home To die no more!" The word "home" at the end of each line was dwelt upon in a prolonged sonorous note. It filled my ear with its melodious, plaintive breath of repose; it rested and soothed me. I was listening in a sort of trance, when another sound at my side both stopped the song and quite broke up the effect. It was Preston's voice. Now for it. He was all ready for a fight, and I felt miserably battered and shaken and unfit to fight anything. "What are you doing here, Daisy?" "I am doing nothing," I said. "It is almost tea-time. Hadn't you better be walking home, before Medusa comes looking out for you?" I rose up, and bade Uncle Darry good-night. "Good-night, missis," he said heartily, "and de morning dat hab no night, for my dear little missis, by'm by." I gave him my hand, and walked on. "Stuff!" muttered Preston, by my side. "You will not think it 'stuff' when the time comes," I said, no doubt very gravely. Then Preston burst out. "I only wish Aunt Felicia was here! You will spoil these people, Daisy, that's one thing, or you would if you were older. As it is, you are spoiling yourself." I made no answer. He went on with other angry and excited words, wishing to draw me out, perhaps; but I was in no mood to talk to Preston in any tone but one. I went steadily and slowly on, without even turning my head to look at him. I had hardly life enough to talk to him in _that_ tone. "Will you tell me what is the matter with you?" he said, at last, very impatiently. "I am tired, I think." "Think? Medusa is stiffening the life out of you. _Think_ you are tired! You are tired to death; but that is not all. What ails you?" "I do not think anything ails me." "What ails _me_, then? What is the matter? What makes you act so? Speak, Daisy--you must speak!" I turned about and faced him, and I know I did not speak then as a child, but with a gravity befitting fifty years. "Preston, did you strike Uncle Darry yesterday?" "Pooh!" said Preston. But I stood and waited for his answer. "Nonsense, Daisy!" he said again. "What is nonsense?" "Why, _you_. What are you talking about?" "I asked you a question." "A ridiculous question. You are just absurd." "Will you please to answer it?" "I don't know whether I will. What have you to do with it?" "In the first place, Preston, Darry is not your servant." "Upon my word!" said Preston. "But yes, he is; for mamma is regent here now. He must do what I order him anyhow." "And then, Preston, Darry is better than you, and will not defend himself; and somebody ought to defend him; and there is nobody but me." "Defend himself!" echoed Preston. "Yes. You insulted him yesterday." "Insulted him!" "You know you did. You know, Preston, some men would not have borne it. If Darry had been like some men, he would have knocked you down." "Knocked me down!" cried Preston. "The sneaking old scoundrel! He knows that I would shoot him if he did." "I am speaking seriously, Preston. It is no use to talk that way." "I am speaking very seriously," said my cousin. "I would shoot him, upon my honour." "Shoot him!" "Certainly." "What right have you to shoot a man for doing no worse than you do? I would _rather_ somebody would knock me down, than do what you did yesterday." And my heart swelled within me. "Come, Daisy, be a little sensible!" said Preston, who was in a fume of impatience. "Do you think there is no difference between me and an old nigger?" "A great deal of difference," I said. "He is old and good; and you are young, and I wish you were as good as Darry. And then he can't help himself without perhaps losing his place, no matter how you insult him. I think it is cowardly." "Insult!" said Preston. "Lose his place! Heavens and earth, Daisy! are you such a simpleton?" "You insulted him badly yesterday. I wondered how he bore it of you; only Darry is a Christian." "A fiddlestick!" said Preston impatiently. "He knows he must bear whatever I choose to give him; and therein he is wiser than you are." "Because he is a Christian," said I. "I don't know whether he is a Christian or not; and it is nothing to the purpose. I don't care what he is." "Oh, Preston! he is a good man--he is a servant of God; he will wear a crown of gold in heaven; and you have dared to touch him." "Why, hoity, toity!" said Preston, "what concern of mine is all that! All I know is, that he did not do what I ordered him." "What did you order him?" "I ordered him not to show you the saddle I had got for you, till I was here. I was going to surprise you. I am provoked at him!" "I am surprised," I said. But feeling how little I prevailed with Preston, and being weak in body as well as mind, I could not keep back the tears. I began to walk on again, though they blinded me. "Daisy, don't be foolish. If Darry is to wear two crowns in the other world, he is a servant in this, all the same; and he must do his duty." "I asked for the saddle," I said. "Why, Daisy, Daisy!" Preston exclaimed, "don't be such a child. You know nothing about it. I didn't touch Darry to hurt him." "It was a sort of hurt that if he had not been a Christian he would have made you sorry for." "He knows I would shoot him if he did," said Preston coolly. "Preston, don't speak so!" I pleaded. "It is the simple truth. Why shouldn't I speak it?" "You do not mean that you would do it?" I said, scarce opening my eyes to the reality of what he said. "I give you my word, I do. If one of these black fellows laid a hand on me I would put a bullet through him, as quick as a partridge." "But then you would be a murderer," said I. The ground seemed taken away from under my feet. We were standing still now, and facing each other. "No, I shouldn't," said Preston. "The law takes better care of us than that." "The law would hang you," said I. "I tell you, Daisy, it is no such thing! Gentlemen have a right to defend themselves against the insolence of these black fellows." "And have not the black fellows a right to defend themselves against the insolence of gentlemen?" said I. "Daisy, you are talking the most unspeakable nonsense," said Preston, quite put beyond himself now. "_Don't_ you know any better than that? These people are our servants--they are our property--we are to do what we like with them; and of course the law must see that we are protected, or the blacks and the whites could not live together." "A man may be your servant, but he cannot be your property," I said. "Yes he can! They are our property, just as much as the land is; our goods to do as we like with. Didn't you know that?" "Property is something that you can buy and sell," I answered. "And we sell the people, and buy them too, as fast as we like." "_Sell_ them!" I echoed, thinking of Darry. "Certainly." "And who would buy them?" "Why all the world; everybody. There has been nobody sold off the Magnolia estate, I believe, in a long time; but nothing is more common, Daisy; everybody is doing it everywhere, when he has got too many servants, or when he has got too few." "And do you mean," said I, "that Darry and Margaret and Theresa and all the rest here, have been _bought_?" "No; almost all of them have been born on the place." "Then it is not true of these," I said. "Yes, it is; for their mothers and fathers were bought. It is the same thing." "Who bought them?" I asked, hastily. "Why our mothers, and grandfather and great-grandfather." "_Bought_ the fathers and mothers of all these hundreds of people?" said I, a slow horror creeping into my veins, that yet held childish blood, and but half comprehended. "Certainly--ages ago," said Preston. "Why, Daisy, I thought you knew all about it." "But who sold them first?" said I, my mind in its utter rejection of what was told to me, seeking every refuge from accepting it. "Who sold them first?" "Who first? Oh, the people that brought them over from Africa, I suppose; or the people in their own country that sold them to _them_." "They had no right to sell them," I said. "Can't tell about that," said Preston. "We bought them. I suppose we had a right to do that." "But if the fathers and mothers were bought," I insisted, "that gave us no right to have their children." "I would like you to ask Aunt Felicia or my Uncle Randolph such a question," said Preston. "Just see how they would like the idea of giving up all their property! Why, you would be as poor as Job, Daisy." "That land would be here all the same." "Much good the land would do you, without people to work it." "But other people could be hired as well as these," I said, "if any of these wanted to go away." "No, they couldn't. White people cannot bear the climate nor do the work. The crops cannot be raised without coloured labour." "I do not understand," said I, feeling my child's head puzzled. "Maybe none of our people would like to go away?" "I dare say they wouldn't," said Preston, carelessly. "They are better off here than on most plantations. Uncle Randolph never forbids his hands to have meat; and some planters do." "Forbid them to have meat!" I said, in utter bewilderment. "Yes." "Why?" "They think it makes them fractious, and not so easy to manage. Don't you know, it makes a dog savage to feed him on raw meat! I suppose cooked meat has the same effect on men." "But don't they get what they choose to eat?" "Well, I should think not!" said Preston. "Fancy their asking to be fed on chickens and pound cake. That is what they would like." "But cannot they spend their wages for what they like?" "Wages!" said Preston. "Yes," said I. "My dear Daisy," said Preston, "you are talking of what you just utterly don't understand; and I am a fool for bothering you with it. Come! let us make it up and be friends." He stooped to kiss me, but I stepped back. "Stop," I said. "Tell me--can't they do what they like with their wages?" "I don't think they have wages enough to 'do what they like' exactly," said Preston. "Why, they would 'like' to do nothing. These black fellows are the laziest things living. They would 'like' to lie in the sun all day long." "What wages does Darry have?" I asked. "Now, Daisy, this is none of your business. Come, let us go into the house and let it alone." "I want to know, first," said I. "Daisy, I never asked. What have I to do with Darry's wages?" "I will ask himself," I said; and I turned about to go to the stables. "Stop, Daisy," cried Preston. "Daisy, Daisy! you are the most obstinate Daisy that ever was, when once you have taken a thing in your head. Daisy, what have you to do with all this? Look here--these people don't want wages." "Don't want wages?" I repeated. "No; they don't want them. What would they do with wages? they have everything they need given them already; their food and their clothing and their houses. They do not want anything more." "You said they did not have the food they liked," I objected. "Who does?" said Preston. "I am sure _I_ don't--not more than one day in seven, on an average." "But don't they have any wages at all?" I persisted. "Our coachman at Melbourne had thirty dollars a month; and Logan had forty dollars and his house and garden. Why shouldn't Darry have wages, too? Don't they have any wages at all, Preston?" "Why, yes! they have plenty of corn, bread, and bacon, I tell you; and their clothes. Daisy, they _belong_ to you, these people do." Corn, bread, and bacon was not much like chickens and pound cake, I thought; and I remembered our servants at Melbourne were very, very differently dressed from the women I saw about me here, even in the house. I stood bewildered and pondering. Preston tried to get me to go on. "Why shouldn't they have wages?" I asked at length, with lips which I believe were growing old with my thoughts. "Daisy, they are your servants; they _belong_ to you. They have no right to wages. Suppose you had to pay all these creatures--seven hundred of them--as you pay people at Melbourne: how much do you suppose you would have left to live upon yourselves? What nonsense it is to talk!" "But they work for us," I said. "Certainly. There would not be anything for any of us if they didn't. Here, at Magnolia, they raise rice crops and corn, as well as cotton; at our place we grow nothing but cotton and corn." "Well, what pays them for working?" "I told you! they have their living and clothing and no care; and they are the happiest creatures the sun shines on." "Are they willing to work for only that!" I asked. "Willing!" said Preston. "Yes," said I, feeling myself grow sick at heart. "I fancy nobody asks them that question. They have to work, I reckon, whether they like it or no." "You said they _like_ to lie in the sun. What makes them work?" "Makes them!" said Preston, who was getting irritated as well as impatient. "They get a good flogging if they do not work--that is all. They know, if they don't do their part, the lash will come down: and it don't come down easy." I suppose I must have looked as if it had come down on me. Preston stopped talking and began to take care of me, putting his arm round me to support my steps homeward. In the verandah my aunt met us. She immediately decided that I was ill, and ordered me to go to bed at once. It was the thing of all others I would have wished to do. It saved me from the exertion of trying to hold myself up and of speaking and moving and answering questions. I went to bed in dull misery, longing to go to sleep and forget all my troubles of mind and body together; but while the body rested, the mind would not. That kept the consciousness of its burden; and it was that, more than any physical ail, which took away my power of eating, and created instead a wretched sort of half nausea, which made even rest unrefreshing. As for rest in my mind and heart, it seemed at that time as if I should never know it again. Never again! I was a child--I had but vague ideas respecting even what troubled me; nevertheless I had been struck, where may few children be struck! in the very core and quick of my heart's reverence and affection. It had come home to me that papa was somehow doing wrong. My father was in my childish thought and belief, the ideal of chivalrous and high-bred excellence;--and _papa_ was doing wrong. I could not turn my eyes from the truth; it was before me in too visible a form. It did not arrange itself in words, either; not at first; it only pressed upon my heart and brain that seven hundred people on my father's property were injured, and by his will, and for his interests. Dimly the consciousness came to me; slowly it found its way and spread out its details before me; bit by bit one point after another came into my mind to make the whole good; bit by bit one item after another came in to explain and be explained and to add its quota of testimony; all making clear and distinct and dazzling before me the truth which at first it was so hard to grasp. And this is not the less true because my childish thought at first took everything vaguely and received it slowly. I was a child and a simple child; but once getting hold of a clue of truth, my mind never let it go. Step by step, as a child could, I followed it out. And the balance of the golden rule, to which I was accustomed, is an easy one to weigh things in; and even little hands can manage it. For an hour after they put me to bed my heart seemed to grow chill from minute to minute; and my body, in curious sympathy, shook as if I had an ague. My aunt and Miss Pinshon came and went and were busy about me; making me drink negus and putting hot bricks to my feet. Preston stole in to look at me; but I gathered that neither then nor afterwards did he reveal to any one the matter of our conversation the hour before. "Wearied"--"homesick"--"feeble"--"with no sort of strength to bear anything"--they said I was. All true, no doubt; and yet I was not without powers of endurance, even bodily, if my mind gave a little help. Now the trouble was, that all such help was wanting. The dark figures of the servants came and went too, with the others; came and stayed; Margaret and Mammy Theresa took post in my room, and when they could do nothing for me, crouched by the fire and spent their cares and energies in keeping that in full blast. I could hardly bear to see them; but I had no heart to speak even to ask that they might be sent away, or for anything else; and I had a sense besides that it was a gratification to them to be near me; and to gratify any one of the race I could have borne a good deal of pain. It smites my heart now, to think of those hours. The image of them is sharp and fresh as if the time were but last night. I lay with shut eyes, taking in as it seemed to be, additional loads of trouble with each quarter of an hour; as I thought and thought, and put one and another thing together, of things past and present, to help my understanding. A child will carry on that process fast and to far-off results; give her but the key and set her off on the track of truth with a sufficient impetus. My happy childlike ignorance and childlike life was in a measure gone; I had come into the world of vexed questions, of the oppressor and the oppressed, the full and the empty, the rich and the poor. I could make nothing at all of Preston's arguments and reasonings. The logic of expediency and of consequences carried no weight with me, and as little the logic of self-interest. I sometimes think a child's vision is clearer, even in worldly matters, than the eyes of those can be who have lived among the fumes and vapours that rise in these low grounds, unless the eyes be washed day by day in the spring of truth, and anointed with unearthly ointment. The right and the wrong were the two things that presented themselves to my view; and oh, my sorrow and heartbreak was, that papa was in the wrong. I could not believe it, and yet I could not get rid of it. There were oppressors and oppressed in the world; and _he_ was one of the oppressors. There is no sorrow that a child can bear, keener and more gnawingly bitter than this. It has a sting of its own, for which there is neither salve nor remedy; and it had the aggravation, in my case, of the sense of personal dishonour. The wrong done and the oppression inflicted were not the whole; there was besides the intolerable sense of living upon other's gains. It was more than my heart could bear. I could not write as I do--I could not recall these thoughts and that time--if I had not another thought to bring to bear upon them; a thought which at that time I was not able to comprehend. It came to me later with its healing, and I have seen and felt it more clearly as I grew older. I see it very clearly now. I had not been mistaken in my childish notions of the loftiness and generosity of my father's character. He was what I had thought him. Neither was I a whit wrong in my judgment of the things which it grieved me that he did and allowed. But I saw afterwards how he, and others, had grown up and been educated in a system and atmosphere of falsehood, till he failed to perceive that it was false. His eyes had lived in the darkness till it seemed quite comfortably light to him; while to a fresh vision, accustomed to the sun, it was pure and blank darkness, as thick as night. He followed what others did and his father had done before him, without any suspicion that it was an abnormal and morbid condition of things they were all living in; more especially without a tinge of misgiving that it might not be a noble, upright, dignified way of life. But I, his little unreasoning child, bringing the golden rule of the gospel only to judge of the doings of hell, shrank back and fell to the ground, in my heart, to find the one I loved best in the world concerned in them. So when I opened my eyes that night, and looked into the blaze of the firelight, the dark figures that were there before it stung me with pain every time; and every soft word and tender look on their faces--and I had many a one, both words and looks--racked my heart in a way that was strange for a child. The negus put me to sleep at last, or exhaustion did; I think the latter, for it was very late; and the rest of that night wore away. When I awoke, the two women were there still, just as I had left them when I went to sleep. I do not know if they sat there all night, or if they had slept on the floor by my side; but there they were, and talking softly to one another about something that caught my attention. I bounced out of bed--though I was so weak, I remember I reeled as I went from my bed to the fire, and steadied myself by laying my hand on Mammy Theresa's shoulder. I demanded of Margaret _what_ she had been saying. The women both started, with expressions of surprise, alarm, and tender affection, raised by my ghostly looks, and begged me to get back into bed again. I stood fast, bearing on Theresa's shoulder. "What was it?" I asked. "'Twarn't nothin', Miss Daisy, dear!" said the girl. "Hush! don't tell me that," I said. "Tell me what it was--tell me what it was. Nobody shall know; you need not be afraid; nobody shall know." For I saw a cloud of hesitation in Margaret's face. "'Twarn't nothin', Miss Daisy--only about Darry." "What about Darry?" I said, trembling. "He done went and had a praise-meetin'," said Theresa; "and he knowed it war agin the rules; he knowed that. 'Course he did. Rules mus' be kep'." "Whose rules?" I asked. "Laws, honey, 'taint 'cording to rules for we coloured folks to hold meetin's no how. 'Course, we's ought to 'bey de rules; dat's clar." "Who made the rules?" "Who make 'em? Mass' Ed'ards--he made de rules on dis plantation. Reckon Mass' Randolph, he make 'em a heap different." "Does Mr. Edwards make it a rule that you are not to hold prayer-meetings?" "Can't spec' for to have everyt'ing jus like de white folks," said the old woman. "We's no right to spect it. But Uncle Darry, he sot a sight by his praise-meetin'. He's cur'ous, he is. S'pose Darry's cur'ous." "And does anybody say that you shall not have prayer-meetings?" "Laws, honey! what's we got to do wid praise-meetin's or any sort of meetin's? We'se got to work. Mass' Ed'ards, he say dat de meetin's dey makes coloured folks onsettled; and dey don't hoe de corn good if dey has too much prayin' to do." "And does he forbid them then? doesn't he let you have prayer-meetings?" "'Tain't Mr. Edwards alone, Miss Daisy," said Margaret, speaking low. "It's agin the law for us to have meetin's anyhow, 'cept we get leave, and say what house it shall be, and who's a comin', and what we'se comin' for. And it's no use asking Mr. Edwards, 'cause he don't see no reason why black folks should have meetin's." "Did Darry have a prayer-meeting without leave?" I asked. "'Twarn't no count of a meetin'!" said Theresa, a little touch of scorn, or indignation, coming into her voice; "and Darry, he war in his own house prayin'. Dere warn't nobody dere, but Pete and ole 'Liza, and Maria, cook, and dem two Johns dat come from de lower plantation. Dey couldn't get a strong meetin' into Uncle Darry's house; 'tain't big enough to hold 'em." "And what did the overseer do to Darry?" I asked. "Laws, Miss Daisy," said Margaret, with a quick look at the other woman; "he didn't do nothing to hurt Darry; he only want to scare de folks." "Dey's done scared," said Theresa, under her breath. "What is it?" I said, steadying myself by my hold on Theresa's shoulder, and feeling that I must stand till I had finished my inquiry: "how did he know about the meeting? and what did he do to Darry? Tell me! I must know. I must know, Margaret." "Spect he was goin' through the quarters, and he heard Darry at his prayin'," said Margaret. "Darry he don't mind to keep his prayers secret, he don't," she added, with a half laugh. "Spect nothin' but they'll bust the walls o' that little house some day." "Dey's powerful!" added Theresa. "But he warn't prayin' no harm; he was just prayin', 'Dy will be done on de eart' as it be in de heaven'--Pete, he tell me. Darry warn't saying not'ing--he just pray 'Dy will be done.'" "Well?" I said, for Margaret kept silent. "And de oberseer, he say--leastways he swore, he did--dat _his_ will should be done on dis plantation, and he wouldn't have no such work. He say, der's nobody to come togedder after it be dark, if it's two or t'ree, 'cept dey gets his leave, Mass' Ed'ards, he say; and dey won't get it." "But what did he do to Darry?" I could scarcely hold myself on my feet by this time. "He whipped him, I reckon," said Margaret, in a low tone, and with a dark shadow crossing her face, very different from its own brown duskiness. "He don't have a light hand, Mass' Ed'ards," went on Theresa, "and he got a sharp, new whip. De second stripe--Pete, he tell me this evenin'--and it war wet; and it war wet enough before he got through. He war mad, I reckon; certain, Mass' Ed'ards, he war mad." "_Wet?_" said I. "Laws, Miss Daisy," said Margaret, "'tain't nothin'. Them whips, they draws the blood easy. Darry, he don't mind." I have a recollection of the girl's terrified face, but I heard nothing more. Such a deadly sickness came over me that for a minute I must have been near fainting; happily it took another turn amid the various confused feelings which oppressed me, and I burst into tears. My eyes had not been wet through all the hours of the evening and night; my heartache had been dry. I think I was never very easy to move to tears, even as a child. But now, well for me, perhaps, some element of the pain I was suffering found the unguarded point--or broke up the guard. I wept as I have done very few times in my life. I had thrown myself into Mammy Theresa's lap, in the weakness which could not support itself, and in an abandonment of grief which was careless of all the outside world; and there I lay, clasped in her arms and sobbing. Grief, horror, tender sympathy, and utter helplessness, striving together; there was nothing for me at that moment but the woman's refuge and the child's remedy of weeping. But the weeping was so bitter, so violent, and so uncontrollable, that the women were frightened. I believe they shut the doors, to keep the sound of my sobs from reaching other ears; for when I recovered the use of my senses I saw that they were closed. The certain strange relief which tears do bring, they gave to me. I cannot tell why. My pain was not changed, my helplessness was not done away; yet at least I had washed my causes of sorrow in a flood of heart drops, and cleansed them so somehow from any personal stain. Rather I was perfectly exhausted. The women put me to bed, as soon as I would let them; and Margaret whispered an earnest "Do, don't, Miss Daisy, don't say nothin' about the prayer meetin'!" I shook my head; I knew better than to say anything about it. All the better not to betray them, and myself, I shut my eyes, and tried to let my face grow quiet. I had succeeded, I believe, before my Aunt Gary and Miss Pinshon came in. The two stood looking at me; my aunt in some consternation, my governess reserving any expression of what she thought. I fancied she did not trust my honesty. Another time I might have made an effort to right myself in her opinion; but I was past that and everything now. It was decided by my aunt that I had better keep my bed as long as I felt like doing so. So I lay there during the long hours of that day. I was glad to be still, to keep out of the way in a corner, to hear little and see nothing of what was going on; my own small world of thoughts was enough to keep me busy. I grew utterly weary at last of thinking, and gave it up, so far as I could; submitting passively, in a state of pain, sometimes dull and sometimes acute, to what I had no power to change or remedy. But my father _had_, I thought; and at those times my longing was unspeakable to see him. I was very quiet all that day, I believe, in spite of the rage of wishes and sorrows within me; but it was not to be expected I should gain strength. On the contrary, I think I grew feverish. If I could have laid down my troubles in prayer! but at first, these troubles, I could not. The core and root of them being my father's share in the rest. And I was not alone; and I had a certain consciousness that if I allowed myself to go to my little Bible for help, it would unbar my self-restraint, with its sweet and keen words, and I should give way again before Margaret and Theresa: and I did not wish that. "What shall we do with her?" said my Aunt Gary when she came to me towards the evening. "She looks like a mere shadow. I never saw such a change in a child in four weeks--never!" "Try a different regimen to-morrow, I think," said my governess, whose lustrous black eyes looked at me sick, exactly as they looked at me well. "I shall send for the doctor, if she isn't better," said my aunt. "She's feverish now." "Keeping her bed all day," said Miss Pinshon. "Do you think so?" said my aunt. "I have no doubt of it. It is very weakening." "Then we will let her get up to-morrow, and see how that will do." They had been gone half an hour, when Preston stole in and came to the side of my bed, between me and the firelight. "Come, Daisy, let us be friends!" he said. And he was stooping to kiss me; but I put out my hand to keep him back. "Not till you have told Darry you are sorry," I said. Preston was angry instantly, and stood upright. "Ask pardon of a servant!" he said. "You would have the world upside down directly." I thought it was upside down already; but I was too weak and downhearted to say so. "Daisy, Daisy!" said Preston--"And there you lie, looking like a poor little wood flower that has hardly strength to hold up its head; and with about as much colour in your cheeks. Come, Daisy, kiss me, and let us be friends." "If you will do what is right," I said. "I will--always," said Preston; "but this would be wrong, you know." And he stooped again to kiss me. And again I would not suffer him. "Daisy, you are absurd," said Preston, vibrating between pity and anger, I think, as he looked at me. "Darry is a servant, and accustomed to a servant's place. What hurt you so much did not hurt him a bit. He knows where he belongs." "You don't," said I. "What?" "Know anything about it." I remember I spoke very feebly. I had hardly energy left to speak at all. My words must have come with a curious contrast between the meaning and the manner. "Know anything about what, Daisy? You are as oracular and as immovable as one of Egypt's monuments; only they are very hard, and you are very soft, my dear little Daisy!--and they are very brown, according to all I have heard, and you are as white as a wind-flower. One can almost see through you. What is it I don't know anything about?" "I am so tired, Preston!" "Yes; but what is it I don't know anything about?" "Darry's place--and yours," I said. "His place and mine! His place is a servant's, I take it, belonging to Rudolf Randolph, of Magnolia. I am the unworthy representative of an old Southern family, and a gentleman. What have you to say about that?" "He is a servant of the Lord of lords," I said; "and his Master loves him. And He has a house of glory preparing for him, and a crown of gold, and a white robe, such as the King's children wear. And he will sit on a throne himself by and by. Preston, where will _you_ be?" These words were said without the least heat of manner--almost languidly; but they put Preston in a fume. I could not catch his excitement in the least; but I saw it. He stood up again, hesitated, opened his mouth to speak and shut it without speaking, turned and walked away and came back to me. I did not wait for him then. "You have offended one of the King's children," I said; "and the King is offended." "Daisy," said Preston, in a sort of suppressed fury, "one would think you had turned Abolitionist; only you never heard of such a thing." "What is it?" said I, shutting my eyes. "It is just the meanest and most impudent shape a Northerner can take; it is the lowest end of creation, an Abolitionist is; and a Yankee is pretty much the same thing!" "Dr. Sandford is a Yankee," I remarked. "Did you get it from _him_?" Preston asked, fiercely. "What?" said I, opening my eyes. "Your nonsense. Has he taught you to turn Abolitionist?" "I have not _turned_ at all," I said. "I wish you would. It is only the people who are in the wrong that ought to turn." "Daisy," said Preston, "you ought never to be away from Aunt Felicia and my uncle. Nobody else can manage you. I don't know what you will become or what you will do, before they get back." I was silent; and Preston, I suppose, cooled down. He waited awhile, and then again begged that I would kiss and be friends. "You see, I am going away to-morrow morning, little Daisy." "I wish you had gone two days ago," I said. And my mind did not change, even when the morning came. CHAPTER V. IN THE KITCHEN. I was ill for days. It was not due to one thing, doubtless, nor one sorrow, but the whole together. My aunt sent to Baytown for the old family physician. He came up and looked at me, and decided that I ought to "play" as much as possible! "She isn't a child that likes play," said my aunt. "Find some play that she does like, then. Where are her father and mother?" "Just sailed for Europe, a few weeks ago." "The best thing would be for her to sail after them," said the old doctor. And he went. "We shall have to let her do just as they did at Melbourne," said my aunt. "How was that?" said Miss Pinshon. "Let her have just her own way." "And what was that?" "Oh, queer," said my aunt. "She is not like other children. But anything is better than to have her mope to death." "I shall try and not have her mope," said Miss Pinshon. But she had little chance to adopt her reforming regimen for some time. It was plain I was not fit for anything but to be let alone, like a weak plant struggling for its existence. All you can do with it is to put it in the sun; and my aunt and governess tacitly agreed upon the same plan of treatment for me. Now, the only thing wanting was sunshine; and it was long before that could be had. After a day or two I left my bed, and crept about the house, and out of the house under the great oaks, where the material sunshine was warm and bright enough, and caught itself in the grey wreaths of moss that waved over my head, and seemed to come bodily to woo me to life and cheer. It lay in the carpet under my feet, it lingered in the leaves of the thick oaks, it wantoned in the wind, as the long draperies of moss swung and moved gently to and fro; but the very sunshine is cold where the ice meets it; I could get no comfort. The thoughts that had so troubled me the evening after my long talk with Preston were always present with me; they went out and came in with me; I slept with them, and they met me when I woke. The sight of the servants was wearying. I shunned Darry and the stables. I had no heart for my pony. I would have liked to get away from Magnolia. Yet, be I where I might, it would not alter my father's position towards these seven hundred people. And towards how many more? There were his estates in Virginia. One of the first things I did, as soon as I could command my fingers to do it, was to write to him. Not a remonstrance. I knew better than to touch that. All I ventured, was to implore that the people who desired it might be allowed to hold prayer-meetings whenever they liked, and Mr. Edwards be forbidden to interfere. Also I complained that the inside of the cabins were not comfortable; that they were bare and empty. I pleaded for a little bettering of them. It was not a long letter that I wrote. My sorrow I could not tell, and my love and my longing were equally beyond the region of words. I fancy it would have been thought by Miss Pinshon a very cold little epistle, but Miss Pinshon did not see it. I wrote it with weak trembling fingers, and closed it and sealed it and sent it myself. Then I sank into a helpless, careless, listless state of body and mind, which was very bad for me; and there was no physician who could minister to me. I went wandering about, mostly out of doors, alone with myself and my sorrow. When I seemed a little stronger than usual, Miss Pinshon tried the multiplication table; and I tried, but the spring of my mind was for the time broken. All such trials came to an end in such weakness and weariness, that my governess herself was fain to take the book from my hands and send me out into the sunshine again. It was Darry at last who found me one day, and, distressed at my looks, begged that I would let him bring up my pony. He was so earnest that I yielded. I got leave, and went to ride. Darry saddled another horse for himself and went with me. That first ride did not help me much; but the second time a little tide of life began to steal into my veins. Darry encouraged and instructed me; and when we came cantering up to the door of the house, my aunt, who was watching there, cried out that I had a bit of a tinge in my cheeks, and charged Darry to bring the horses up every day. With a little bodily vigour a little strength of mind seemed to come; a little more power of bearing up against evils, or of quietly standing under them. After the third time I went to ride, having come home refreshed, I took my Bible and sat down on the rug before the fire in my room to read. I had not been able to get comfort in my Bible all those days; often I had not liked to try. Right and wrong never met me in more brilliant colours or startling shadows than within the covers of that book. But to-day, soothed somehow, I went along with the familiar words as one listens to old music, with the soothing process going on all along. Right _was_ right, and glorious, and would prevail some time; and nothing could hinder it. And then I came to words which I knew, yet which had never taken such hold of me before. "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven." "_That_ is what I have to do!" I thought immediately. "That is my part. That is clear. What _I_ have to do, is to let my light shine. And if the light shines, perhaps it will fall on something. But what _I_ have to do, is to shine. God has given me nothing else." It was a very simple child's thought; but it brought wonderful comfort with it. Doubtless, I would have liked another part to play. I would have liked--if I could--to have righted all the wrong in the world; to have broken every yoke; to have filled every empty house, and built up a fire on every cold hearth: but that was not what God had given me. All He had given me, that I could see at the minute, was to shine. What a little morsel of a light mine was, to be sure! It was a good deal of a puzzle to me for days after that, _how_ I was to shine. What could I do? I was a little child: my only duties some lessons to learn: not much of that, seeing I had not strength for it. Certainly, I had sorrows to bear; but bearing them well did not seem to me to come within the sphere of _shining_. Who would know that I bore them well? And shining is meant to be seen. I pondered the matter. "When's Christmas, Miss Daisy?" Margaret asked this question one morning as she was on her knees making my fire. Christmas had been so shadowed a point to me in the distance, I had not looked at it. I stopped to calculate the days. "It will be two weeks from Friday, Margaret." "And Friday's to-morrow?" she asked. "The day after to-morrow. What do you do at Christmas, Margaret? all the people?" "There ain't no great doings, Miss Daisy. The people gets four days, most of 'em." "Four days--for what?" "For what they like; they don't do no work, those days." "And is that all?" "No, Miss Daisy, 'tain't just all; the women comes up to the house--it's to the overseer's house now--and every one gets a bowl o' flour, more or less, 'cordin' to size of family--and a quart of molasses, and a piece o' pork." "And what do they do to make the time pleasant?" I asked. "Some on 'em's raised eggs and chickens; and they brings 'em to the house and sells 'em; and they has the best dinner. Most times they gets leave to have a meetin'." "A prayer-meeting?" I said. "Laws, no, Miss Daisy! not 'cept it were Uncle Darry and _his_ set. The others don't make no count of a prayer-meetin'. They likes to have a white-folks' meetin' and 'joy theirselves." I thought very much over these statements; and for the next two weeks bowls of flour and quarts of molasses, as Christmas doings, were mixed up in my mind with the question, how I was to shine? or rather, alternated with it; and plans began to turn themselves over and take shape in my thoughts. "Margaret," said I, a day or two before Christmas, "can't the people have those meetings you spoke of without getting leave of Mr. Edwards?" "Can't have meetin's, no how!" Margaret replied decidedly. "But if _I_ wanted to see them, couldn't they, some of them, come together to see me?" "To see Miss Daisy! Reckon Miss Daisy do what she like. 'Spect Mass' Ed'ards let Miss Daisy 'lone!" I was silent, pondering. "Maria cook wants to see Miss Daisy bad. She bid me tell Miss Daisy won't she come down in de kitchen, and see all the works she's a-doin' for Christmas, and de glorifications?" "I? I'll come if I can," I answered. I asked my aunt and got easy leave; and on Christmas eve I went down to the kitchen. That was the chosen time when Maria wished to see me. There was an assembly of servants gathered in the room, some from out of the house. Darry was there; and one or two other fine-looking men who were his prayer-meeting friends. I supposed they were gathered to make merry for Christmas eve; but, at any rate, they were all eager to see me, and looked at me with smiles as gentle as have ever fallen to my share. I felt it and enjoyed it. The effect was of entering a warm, genial atmosphere, where grace and good-will were on every side; a change very noticeable from the cold and careless habit of things upstairs. And _grace_ is not a misapplied epithet; for these children of a luxurious and beauty-loving race, even in their bondage, had not forgotten all traces of their origin. As I went in, I could not help giving my hand to Darry; and then, in my childish feeling towards them, and in the tenderness of the Christmas-tide, I could not help doing the same by all the others who were present. And I remember now the dignity of mien in some, the frank ease in others, both graceful and gracious, with which my civility was met. If a few were a little shy, the rest more than made it up by their welcome of me, and a sort of politeness which had almost something courtly in it. Darry and Maria together gave me a seat, in the very centre and glow of the kitchen light and warmth; and the rest made a half circle around, leaving Maria's end of the room free for her operations. The kitchen was all aglow with the most splendid fire of pine knots it was ever my lot to see. The illumination was such as threw all gaslights into shade. We were in a great stone-flagged room, low-roofed, with dark cupboard door; not cheerful, I fancy, in the mere light of day: but nothing could resist the influence of those pine-knot flames. Maria herself was a portly fat woman, as far as possible from handsome; but she looked at me with a whole world of kindness in her dark face. Indeed, I saw the same kindness more or less shining out upon me in all the faces there. I cannot tell the mixed joy and pain that it, and they, gave me. I suppose I showed little of either, or of anything. Maria entertained me with all she had. She brought out for my view her various rich and immense stores of cakes and pies and delicacies for the coming festival; told me what was good and what I must be sure and eat; and what would be good for me. And then, when that display was over, she began to be very busy with beating of eggs in a huge wooden bowl; and bade Darry see to the boiling of the kettle at the fire; and sent Jem, the waiter, for things he was to get upstairs; and all the while talked to me. She and Darry and one or two more talked, but especially she and Theresa and Jem; while all the rest listened and laughed and exclaimed, and seemed to find me as entertaining as a play. Maria was asking me about my own little life and experiences before I came to Magnolia; what sort of a place Melbourne was, and how things there differed from the things she and the rest knew and were accustomed to at the South; and about my old June, who had once been an acquaintance of hers. Smiling at me the while, between the thrusts of her curiosity, and over my answers, as if for sheer pleasure she could not keep grave. The other faces were as interested and as gracious. There was Pete, tall and very black, and very grave, as Darry was also. There was Jem, full of life and waggishness, and bright for any exercise of his wits; and grave shadows used to come over his changeable face often enough too. There was Margaret, with her sombre beauty; and old Theresa with her worn old face. I think there was a certain indescribable reserve of gravity upon them all, but there was not one whose lips did not part in a white line when looking at me, nor whose eyes and ears did not watch me with an interest as benign as it was intent. I had been little while seated before the kitchen fire of pine knots before I felt that I was in the midst of a circle of personal friends; and I feel it now, as I look back and remember them. They would have done much for me, every one. Meanwhile Maria beat and mixed and stirred the things in her wooden bowl; and by and by ladled out a glassful of rich-looking, yellow, creamy froth--I did not know what it was, only it looked beautiful--and presented it to me. "Miss Daisy mus' tell Mis' Felissy Maria hain't forgot how to make it--'spect she hain't, anyhow. Dat's for Miss Daisy's Christmas." "It's very nice!" I said. "Reckon it is," was the capable answer. "Won't you give everybody some, Maria?" For Jem had gone upstairs with a tray and glasses, and Maria seemed to be resting upon her labours. "Dere'll come down orders for mo', chile; and 'spose I gives it to de company, what'll Mis' Lisa do wid Maria? I have de 'sponsibility of Christmas." "But you can make some more," I said, holding my glass in waiting. "Do, Maria." "'Spose hain't got de 'terials, hey?" "What do you want? Aunt Gary will give it to you." And I begged Jem to go up again and prefer my request to her for the new filling of Maria's bowl. Jem shrugged his shoulders, but he went; and I suppose he made a good story of it; for he came down with whatever was wanted--my Aunt Gary was in a mood to refuse me nothing then--and Maria went anew about the business of beating and mixing and compounding. There was great enjoyment in the kitchen. It was a time of high festival, what with me and the egg supper. Merriment and jocularity, a little tide-wave of social excitement, swelled and broke on all sides of me; making a soft ripply play of fun and repartee, difficult to describe, and which touched me as much as it amused. It was very unlike the enjoyment of a set of white people holding the same social and intellectual grade. It was the manifestation of another race, less coarse and animal in their original nature, more sensitive and more demonstrative, with a strange touch of the luxurious and refined for a people whose life has had nothing to do with luxury, and whom refinement leaves on one side as quite beyond its sphere. But blood is a strange thing; and Ham's children will show luxurious and æsthetic tastes, take them where you will. "Chillen, I hope you's enjoyed your supper," Maria said, when the last lingering drops had been secured, and mugs and glasses were coming back to the kitchen table. Words and smiles answered her. "We's had a splendid time, Aunt Maria," said one young man as he set down his glass. He was a worker in the garden. "Den I hope's we's all willin' to gib de Lord t'anks for His goodness. Dere ain't a night in de year when it's so proper to gib de Lord t'anks, as it be dis precious night." "It's to-morrow night, Aunt Maria," said Pete. "To-morrow's Christmas night." "I don't care! One night's jus' as good as another, you Pete. And now we's all together, you see, and comfortable together; and I feel like giving t'anks, I do, to de Lord, for all His mercies." "What's Christmas, anyhow?" asked another. "It's jus' de crown o' all the nights in de year. You Solomon, it's a night dat dey keeps up in heaven. You know nothin' about it, you poor critter. I done believe you never hearn no one tell about it. Maybe Miss Daisy wouldn't read us de story, and de angels, and de shepherds, and dat great light what come down, and make us feel good for Christmas; and Uncle Darry, he'll t'ank de Lord." The last words were put in a half-questioning form to me, rather taking for granted that I would readily do what was requested. And hardly anything in the world, I suppose, could have given me such deep gratification at the moment. Margaret was sent upstairs to fetch my Bible; the circle closed in around the fire and me; a circle of listening, waiting, eager, interested faces, some few of them shone with pleasure, or grew grave with reverent love, while I read slowly the chapters that tell of the first Christmas night. I read them from all the gospels, picking the story out first in one, then in another; answered sometimes by low words of praise that echoed but did not interrupt me--words that were but some dropped notes of the song that began that night in heaven, and has been running along the ages since, and is swelling and will swell into a great chorus of earth and heaven by and by. And how glad I was in the words of the story myself, as I went along. How heart-glad that here, in this region of riches and hopes not earthly, those around me had as good welcome, and as open entrance, and as free right as I. "There is neither bond nor free." "And base things of this world, and things which are despised, hath God chosen, yea, and things which are not, to bring to nought things that are." I finished my reading at last, amid the hush of my listening audience. Then Maria called upon Darry to pray, and we all kneeled down. It comes back to me now as I write--the hush and the breathing of the fire, and Darry's low voice and imperfect English. Yes, and the incoming tide of rest and peace and gladness which began to fill the dry places in my heart, and rose and swelled till my heart was full. I lost my troubles and forgot my difficulties. I forgot that my father and mother were away, for the sense of loneliness was gone. I forgot that those around me were in bonds, for I felt them free as I, and inheritors of the same kingdom. I have not often in my life listened to such a prayer, unless from the same lips. He was one of those that make you feel that the door is open to their knocking, and that they always find it so. His words were seconded--not interrupted, even to my feelings--by low-breathed echoes of praise and petition, too soft and deep to leave any doubt of the movement that called them forth. There was a quiet gravity upon all when we rose to our feet again. I knew I must go; but the kitchen had been the pleasantest place to me in all Magnolia. I bade them good-night, answered with bows and curtseys and hearty wishes; and as I passed out of the circle, tall black Pete, looking down upon me with just a glimmer of white between his lips, added, "Hope you'll come again." A thought darted into my head which brought sunshine with it. I seemed to see my way begin to open. The hope was warm in my heart as soon as I was awake the next morning. With more comfort than for many days I had known, I lay and watched Margaret making my fire. Then suddenly I remembered it was Christmas, and what thanksgivings had been in heaven about it, and what should be on earth; and a lingering of the notes of praise I had heard last night made a sort of still music in the air. But I did not expect at all that any of the ordinary Christmas festivities would come home to me, seeing that my father and mother were away. Where should Christmas festivities come from? So, when Margaret rose up and showed all her teeth at me, I only thought last night had given her pleasure, and I suspected nothing, even when she stepped into the next room and brought in a little table covered with a shawl, and set it close to my bedside. "Am I to have breakfast in bed?" I asked. "What is this for?" "Dunno, Miss Daisy," said Margaret, with all her white teeth sparkling;--"'spose Miss Daisy take just a look, and see what 'pears like." I felt the colour come into my face. I raised myself on my elbow and lifted up cautiously one corner of the shawl. Packages--white paper and brown paper--long and short, large and small! "O Margaret, take off the shawl, will you!" I cried; "and let me see what is here." There was a good deal. But "From Papa" caught my eye on a little parcel. I seized it and unfolded. From papa, and he so far away! But I guessed the riddle before I could get to the last of the folds of paper that wrapped and enwrapped a little morocco case. Papa and mamma, leaving me alone, had made provision beforehand, that when this time came I might miss nothing except themselves. They had thought and cared and arranged for me; and now they were thinking about it, perhaps, far away somewhere over the sea. I held the morocco case in my hand a minute or two before I could open it. Then I found a little watch; my dear little watch! which has gone with me ever since, and never failed nor played tricks with me. My mother had put in one of her own chains for me to wear with it. I lay a long time looking and thinking, raised up on my elbow as I was, before I could leave the watch and go on to anything else. Margaret spread round my shoulders the shawl which had covered the Christmas table; and then she stood waiting, with a good deal more impatience and curiosity than I showed. But such a world of pleasure and pain gathered round that first "bit of Christmas"--so many, many thoughts of one and the other kind--that I for awhile had enough with that. At last I closed the case, and keeping it yet in one hand, used the other to make more discoveries. The package labelled "From Mamma," took my attention next; but I could make nothing of it. An elegant little box, that was all, which I could not open; only it felt so very heavy that I was persuaded there must be something extraordinary inside. I could make nothing of it: it was a beautiful box; that was all. Preston had brought me a little riding whip, both costly and elegant. I could not but be much pleased with it. A large, rather soft package, marked with Aunt Gary's name, unfolded a riding cap to match; at least, it was exceeding rich and stylish, with a black feather that waved away in curves that called forth Margaret's delighted admiration. Nevertheless, I wondered, while I admired, at my Aunt Gary's choice of a present. I had a straw hat which served all purposes, even of elegance, for my notions. I was amazed to find that Miss Pinshon had not forgotten me. There was a decorated pen, wreathed with a cord of crimson and gold twist, and supplemented with two dangling tassels. It was excessively pretty, as I thought of Aunt Gary's cap; and _not_ equally convenient. I looked at all these things while Margaret was dressing me; but the case with the watch, for the most part, I remember I kept in my hand. "Ain't you goin' to try it on and see some how pretty it looks, Miss Daisy?" said my unsatisfied attendant. "The cap?" said I. "Oh, I dare say it fits. Aunt Gary knows how big my head is." "Mass' Preston come last night," she went on; "so I reckon Miss Daisy'll want to wear it by and by." "Preston come last night!" I said. "After I was in bed?"--and feeling that it was indeed Christmas, I finished getting ready and went downstairs. I made up my mind I might as well be friends with Preston, and not push any further my displeasure at his behaviour. So we had a comfortable breakfast. My aunt was pleased to see me, she said, look so much better. Miss Pinshon was not given to expressing what she felt; but she looked at me two or three times without saying anything, which I suppose meant satisfaction. Preston was in high feather, making all sorts of plans for my divertisement during the next few days. I, for my part, had my own secret cherished plan, which made my heart beat quicker whenever I thought of it. But I wanted somebody's counsel and help; and on the whole I thought my Aunt Gary's would be the safest. So after breakfast I consulted Preston only about my mysterious little box, which would not open. Was it a paper weight? Preston smiled, took up the box and performed some conjuration upon it, and then--I cannot describe my entranced delight--as he set it down again on the table, the room seemed to grow musical. Softest, most liquid sweet notes came pouring forth one after the other, binding my ears as if I had been in a state of enchantment; binding feet and hands and almost my breath, as I stood hushed and listening to the liquid warbling of delicious things, until the melody had run itself out. It was a melody unknown to me; wild and dainty; it came out of a famous opera, I was told afterward. When the fairy notes sunk into silence, I turned mutely towards Preston. Preston laughed. "I declare!" he said,--"I declare! Hurra! you have got colour in your cheeks, Daisy; absolutely, my little Daisy! there is a real streak of pink there where it was so white before." "_What_ is it?" said I. "Just a little good blood coming up under the skin." "Oh no, Preston--_this_; what is it?" "A musical box." "But where does the music come from?" "Out of the box. See, Daisy; when it has done a tune and is run out, you must wind it up, so,--like a watch." He wound it up and set it on the table again. And again a melody came forth, and this time it was different; not plaintive and thoughtful, but jocund and glad; a little shout and ring of merriment, like the feet of dancers scattering the drops of dew in a bright morning; or like the chime of a thousand little silver bells rung for laughter. A sort of intoxication came into my heart. When Preston would have wound up the box again, I stopped him. I was full of the delight. I could not hear any more just then. "Why, Daisy, there are ever so many more tunes." "Yes. I am glad. I will have them another time," I answered. "How very kind of mamma!" "Hit the right thing this time, didn't she? How's the riding cap, Daisy?" "It is very nice," I said. "Aunt Gary is very good; and I like the whip _very_ much, Preston." "That fat little rascal will want it. Does the cap fit, Daisy?" "I don't know," I said. "Oh yes, I suppose so." Preston made an exclamation, and forthwith would have it tried on to see how it looked. It satisfied him; somehow it did not please me as well; but the ride did, which we had soon after; and I found that my black feather certainly suited everybody else. Darry smiled at me, and the house servants were exultant over my appearance. Amid all these distracting pleasures, I kept on the watch for an opportunity to speak to Aunt Gary alone. Christmas day I could not. I could not get it till near the next day. "Aunt Gary," I said, "I want to consult you about something." "You have always something turning about in your head," was her answer. "Do you think," said I slowly, "Mr. Edwards would have any objection to some of the people coming to the kitchen Sunday evenings to hear me read the Bible?" "To hear _you_ read the Bible!" said my aunt. "Yes, Aunt Gary; I think they would like it. You know they cannot read it for themselves." "_They_ would like it. And you would be delighted, wouldn't you?" "Yes, Aunt Gary. I should like it better than anything." "You are a funny child! There is not a bit of your mother in you--except your obstinacy." And my aunt seemed to ponder my difference. "Would Mr. Edwards object to it, do you think? Would he let them come?" "The question is whether _I_ will let them come. Mr. Edwards has no business with what is done in the house." "But, Aunt Gary, you would not have any objection." "I don't know, I am sure. I wish your father and mother had never left you in my charge; for I don't know how to take care of you." "Aunt Gary," I said, "please don't object! There is nobody to read the Bible to them--and I should like to do it very much." "Yes, I see you would. There--don't get excited about it--every Sunday evening, did you say?" "Yes, ma'am, if you please." "Daisy, it will just tire you; that's what it will do. I know it, just as well as if I had seen it. You are not strong enough." "I am sure it would refresh me, Aunt Gary. It did the other night." "The other night?" "Christmas eve, ma'am." "Did you read to them then?" "Yes, ma'am; they wanted to know what Christmas was about." "And you read to them. You are the oddest child!" "But Aunt Gary, never mind--it would be the greatest pleasure to me. Won't you give leave?" "The servants hear the Bible read, child, every morning and every night." "Yes, but that is only a very few of the house servants. I want some of the others to come--a good many--as many as can come." "I wish your mother and father were here!" sighed my aunt. "Do you think Mr. Edwards would make any objection?" I asked again, presuming on the main question being carried. "Would he let them come?" "Let them come!" echoed my aunt. "Mr. Edwards would be well employed to interfere with anything the family chose to do." "But you know he does not let them meet together, the people, Aunt Gary; not unless they have his permission." "No, I suppose so. That is his business." "Then will you speak to him, ma'am, so that he may not be angry with the people when they come?" "I? No," said my aunt. "I have nothing to do with your father's overseer. It would just make difficulty, maybe, Daisy; you had better let this scheme of yours alone." I could not without bitter disappointment. Yet I did not know how further to press the matter. I sat still and said nothing. "I declare, if she isn't growing pale about it!" exclaimed my aunt. "I know one thing, and that is, your father and mother ought to have taken you along with them. I have not the least idea how to manage you; not the least. What is it you want to do, Daisy?" I explained over again. "And now if you cannot have this trick of your fancy you will just fidget yourself sick! I see it. Just as you went driving all about Melbourne without company to take care of you. I am sure I don't know. It is not in my way to meddle with overseers--How many people do you want to read to at once, Daisy?" "As many as I can, Aunt Gary. But Mr. Edwards will not let two or three meet together anywhere." "Well, I dare say he is right. You can't believe anything in the world these people tell you, child. They will lie just as fast as they will speak." "But if they came to see _me_, Aunt Gary?" I persisted, waiving the other question. "That's another thing, of course. Well, don't worry. Call Preston. Why children cannot be children passes my comprehension." Preston came, and there was a good deal of discussing of my plan; at which Preston frowned and whistled, but on the whole, though I knew against his will, took my part. The end was, my aunt sent for the overseer. She had some difficulty, I judge, in carrying the point; and made capital of my ill-health and delicacy and spoiled-child character. The overseer's unwilling consent was gained at last; the conditions being, that every one who came to hear the reading should have a ticket of leave, written and signed by myself, for each evening; and that I should be present with the assembly from the beginning to the close of it. My delight was very great. And my aunt, grumbling at the whole matter, and especially at her share in it, found an additional cause of grumbling in that, she said, I had looked twenty per cent. better ever since this foolish thing got possession of my head. "I am wondering," she remarked to Miss Pinshon, "whatever Daisy will do when she grows up. I expect nothing but she will be--what do you call them?--one of those people who run wild over the human race." "Pirates?" suggested Preston. "Or corsairs?" "Her mother will be disappointed," went on my aunt. "That is what I confidently expect." Miss Pinshon hinted something about the corrective qualities of mathematics; but I was too happy to heed her or care. I _was_ stronger and better, I believe, from that day; though I had not much to boast of. A true tonic had been administered to me; my fainting energies took a new start. I watched my opportunity, and went down to the kitchen one evening to make my preparations. I found Maria alone and sitting in state before the fire--which I believe was always in the kitchen a regal one. I hardly aver saw it anything else. She welcomed me with great suavity; drew up a chair for me; and finding I had something to say, sat then quite grave and still looking into the blaze, while I unfolded my plan. "De Lord is bery good!" was her subdued comment, made when I had done. "He hab sent His angel, sure!" "Now, Maria," I went on, "you must tell me who would like to come next Sunday, you think; and I must make tickets for them. Every one must have my ticket, with his name on it; and then there will be no fault found." "I s'pose not," said Maria--"wid Miss Daisy's name on it." "Who will come, Maria?" "Laws, chile, dere's heaps. Dere's Darry, and Pete--Pete, he say de meetin' de oder night war 'bout de best meetin' he eber 'tended; he wouldn't miss it for not'ing in de world; he's sure; and dere's ole 'Lize; and de two Jems--no, dere's _tree_ Jems dat is ser'ous; and Stark, and Carl, and Sharlim----" "_Sharlim_?" said I, not knowing that this was the Caffir for Charlemagne. "Sharlim," Maria repeated. "He don' know much; but he has a leanin' for de good t'ings. And Darry, he can tell who'll come. I done forget all de folks' names." "Why, Maria," I said, "I did not know there were so many people at Magnolia that cared about the Bible." "What has 'um to care for, chile, I should like fur to know? Dere ain't much mo' in _dis_ world." "But I thought there were only very few," I said. "'Spose um fifty," said Maria. "Fifty ain't much, I reckon, when dere's all de rest o' de folks what _don't_ care. De Lord's people is a little people yet, for sure; and de world's a big place. When de Lord come Hisself, to look for 'em, 'spect He have to look mighty hard. De world's awful dark." That brought to my mind my question. It was odd, no doubt, to choose an old coloured woman for my adviser, but indeed, I had not much choice; and something had given me a confidence in Maria's practical wisdom, which early as it had been formed, nothing ever happened to shake. So, after considering the fire and the matter a moment, I brought forth my doubt. "Maria," said I, "what is the best way--I mean, how can one let one's light shine?" "What Miss Daisy talkin' about?" "I mean--you know what the Bible says--'Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven.'" "For sure, I knows dat. Ain't much shining in dese yere parts. De people is dark, Miss Daisy; dey don' know. 'Spect dey would try to shine, some on 'em, ef dey knowed. Feel sure dey would." "But that is what I wanted to ask about, Maria. How ought one to let one's light shine?" I remember now the kind of surveying look the woman gave me. I do not know what she was thinking of; but she looked at me, up and down, for a moment, with a wonderfully tender, soft expression. Then turned away. "How let um light shine?" she repeated. "De bestest way, Miss Daisy, is fur to make him burn good." I saw it all immediately; my question never puzzled me again. Take care that the lamp is trimmed; take care that it is full of oil; see that the flame mounts clear and steady towards heaven; and the Lord will set it where its light will fall on what pleases Him, and where it will reach, mayhap, to what you never dream of. CHAPTER VI. WINTER AND SUMMER. From the Christmas holidays I think I began slowly to mend. My aunt watched me, and grumbled that kitchen amusements and rides with Darry should prove the medicines most healing and effectual; but she dared stop neither of them. I believe the overseer remonstrated on the danger of the night gatherings; but my Aunt Gary had her answer ready, and warned him not to do anything to hinder me, for I was the apple of my father's eye. Miss Pinshon, sharing to the full my aunt's discontent, would have got on horseback, I verily believe, to be with me in my rides; but she was no rider. The sound of a horse's four feet always, she confessed, stamped the courage out of her heart. I was let alone; and the Sunday evenings in the kitchen, and the bright morning hours in the pine avenues and oak groves, were my refreshment and my pleasure and my strength. What there was of it; for I had not much strength to boast for many a day. Miss Pinshon tried her favourite recipe whenever she thought she saw a chance, and I did my best with it. But my education that winter was quite in another line. I could not bear much arithmetic. Bending over a desk did not agree with me. Reading aloud to Miss Pinshon never lasted for more than a little while at a time. So it comes, that my remembrance of that winter is not filled with school exercises, and that Miss Pinshon's figure plays but a subordinate part in its pictures. Instead of that, my memory brings back, first and chiefest of all, the circle of dark faces round the kitchen light wood fire, and the yellow blaze on the page from which I read; I, a little figure in white, sitting in the midst amongst them all. That picture--those evenings--come back to me, with a kind of hallowed perfume of truth and hope. Truth, it was in my lips and on my heart; I was giving it out to those who had it not. And hope--it was in more hearts than mine, no doubt; but in mine it beat with as steady a beat as the tickings of my little watch by my side, and breathed sweet as the flowers that start in spring from under the snow. I had often a large circle; and it was part of my plan, and well carried into execution, that these evenings of reading should supply also the place of the missing prayer-meeting. Gradually I drew it on to be so understood; and then my pieces of reading were scattered along between the prayers, or sometimes all came at first, followed by two or three earnest longer prayers from some of those that were present. And then, without any planning of mine, came in the singing. Not too much, lest, as Maria said, we should "make de folks upstairs t'ink dere war somethin' oncommon in de kitchen;" but one or two hymns we would have, so full of spirit and sweetness that often nowadays they come back to me, and I would give very much to hear the like again. So full of music, too. Voices untrained by art, but gifted by nature; melodious and powerful; that took different parts in the tune, and carried them through without the jar of a false note or a false quantity; and a love both of song and of the truth which made the music mighty. It was the greatest delight to me that singing, whether I joined them or only listened. One,--the thought of it comes over me now and brings the water to my eyes,-- "Am I a soldier of the cross-- Of the cross-- Of the cross-- A follower of the Lamb; And shall I fear to own his cause, Own his cause-- Own his cause-- Or blush to speak his name?" The repetitions at the end of every other line were both plaintive and strong; there was no weakness, but some recognition of what it costs in certain circumstances to "own His cause." I loved that dearly. But that was only one of many. Also, the Bible words were wonderful sweet to me, as I was giving them out to those who else had a "famine of the word." Bread to the hungry is quite another thing from bread on the tables of the full. The winter had worn well on, before I received the answer to the letter I had written my father about the prayer-meetings and Mr. Edwards. It was a short answer, not in terms but in actual extent; showing that my father was not strong and well yet. It was very kind and tender, as well as short; I felt that in every word. In substance, however, it told me I had better let Mr. Edwards alone. He knew what he ought to do about the prayer-meetings and about other things; and they were what I could not judge about. So my letter said. It said, too, that things seemed strange to me because I was unused to them; and that when I had lived longer at the South they would cease to be strange, and I would understand them and look upon them as every one else did. I studied and pondered this letter; not greatly disappointed, for I had had but slender hopes that my petition could work anything. Yet I had a disappointment to get over. The first practical use I made of my letter, I went where I could be alone with it--indeed, I was that when I read it,--but I went to a solitary lonely place, where I could not be interrupted; and there I knelt down and prayed, that however long I might live at the South, I might never get to look upon evil as anything but evil, nor ever become accustomed to the things I thought ought not to be, so as not to feel them. I shall never forget that half hour. It broke my heart that my father and I should look on such matters with so different eyes; and with my prayer for myself, which came from the very bottom of my heart, I poured out also a flood of love and tears over him, and of petition that he might have better eyesight one day. Ah yes! and before it should be too late to right the wrong he was unconsciously doing. For now I began to see, in the light of this letter first, that my father's eyes were not clear but blind in regard to these matters. And what he said about me led me to think and believe that his blindness was the effect, not of any particular hardness or fault in him, but of long teaching and habit and custom. For I saw that everybody else around me seemed to take the present condition of things as the true and best one; not only convenient, but natural and proper. Everybody, that is, who did not suffer by it. I had more than suspicions that the seven hundred on the estate were of a different mind here from the half dozen who lived in the mansion; and that the same relative difference existed on the other plantations in the neighbourhood. We made visits occasionally, and the visits were returned. I was not shut out from them, and so had some chance to observe things within a circle of twenty miles. Our "neighbourhood" reached so far. And child as I was, I could not help seeing: and I could not help looking, half unconsciously, for signs of what lay so close on my heart. My father's letter thus held some material of comfort for me, although it refused my request. Papa would not overset the overseer's decision about the prayer-meetings. It held something else. There was a little scrap of a note to Aunt Gary, saying, in the form of an order, that Daisy was to have ten dollars paid to her every quarter; that Mrs. Gary would see it done; and would further see that Daisy was not called upon, by anybody, at any time, to give any account whatever of her way of spending the same. How I thanked papa for this! How I knew the tender affection and knowledge of me which had prompted it. How well I understood what it was meant to do. I had a little private enjoyment of Aunt Gary's disconsolate face and grudging hands as she bestowed upon me the first ten dollars. It was not that she loved money so well, but she thought this was another form of my father's unwise indulging and spoiling of me; and that I was spoiled already. But I--I saw in a vision a large harvest of joy, to be raised from this small seed crop. At first I thought I must lay out a few shillings of my stock upon a nice purse to keep the whole in. I put the purse down at the head of the list of things I was making out, for purchase the first time I should go to Baytown, or have any good chance of sending. I had a good deal of consideration whether I would have a purse or a pocket-book. Then I had an odd secret pleasure in my diplomatic way of finding out from Darry and Maria and Margaret what were the wants most pressing of the sick and the old among the people; or of the industrious and the enterprising. Getting Darry to talk to me in my rides, by degrees I came to know the stories and characters of many of the hands; I picked up hints of a want or a desire here and there, which Darry thought there was no human means of meeting or gratifying. Then, the next time I had a chance, I brought up these persons and cases to Maria, and supplemented Darry's hints with her information. Or I attacked Margaret when she was making my fire, and drew from her what she knew about the parties in whom I was interested. So I learned--and put it down in my notebook accordingly--that Pete could spell out words a little bit, and would like mainly to read; if only he had a Testament in large type. He could not manage little print; it bothered him. Also I learned, that Aunt Sarah, a middle-aged woman who worked in the fields, "wanted terrible to come to de Sabbas meetin's, but she war 'shamed to come, 'cause her feet was mos' half out of her shoes; and Mr. Ed'ards wouldn't give her no more till de time come roun." Sarah had "been and gone and done stuck her feet in de fire for to warm 'em, one time when dey was mighty cold, and she burn her shoes. Learn her better next time." "But does she work every day in the field with her feet only half covered?" I asked. "Laws! she don't care," said Maria. "'Taint no use give dem darkies not'ng; dey not know how to keep um." But this was not Maria's real opinion, I knew. There was often a strange sort of seeming hard edge of feeling put forth which I learned to know pointed a deep, deep, maybe only half-conscious irony, and was in reality a bitter comment upon facts. So a pair of new shoes for Sarah went down in my list with a large print Testament for Pete. Then I found that some of the people, some of the old ones, who in youth had been accustomed to it, like nothing so well as tea; it was ambrosia and Lethe mingled; and a packet of tea was put in my list next to the Testament. But the tea must have sugar; and I could not bear that they should drink it out of mugs, without any teaspoons; so to please myself I sent for a little delf ware and a few pewter spoons. Little by little my list grew. I found that Darry knew something about letters; could write a bit; and would prize the means of writing as a very rare treasure and pleasure. And with fingers that almost trembled with delight, I wrote down paper and pens and a bottle of ink for Darry. Next, I heard of an old woman at the quarters, who was ailing and infirm, and I am afraid ill-treated, who at all events was in need of comfort, and had nothing but straw and the floor to rest her poor bones on at night. A soft pallet for her went down instantly on my list; my ink and tears mingled together as I wrote; and I soon found that my purse must be cut off from the head of my list for that time. I never ventured to put it at the head again; nor found a chance to put it anywhere else. I spent four winters at Magnolia after that; and never had a new purse all the time. I had to wait awhile for an opportunity to make my purchases; then had the best in the world, for Darry was sent to Baytown on business. To him I confided my list and my money, with my mind on the matter; and I was served to a point and with absolute secrecy. For that I had insisted on. Darry and Maria were in my counsels, of course; but the rest of the poor people knew only by guess who their friend was. Old Sarah found her new shoes in her hut one evening, and in her noisy delight declared that "some big angel had come t'rough de quarters." The cups and saucers it was necessary to own, lest more talk should have been made about them than at all suited me; Darry let it be understood that nothing must be said and nobody must know of the matter; and nobody did; but I took the greatest enjoyment in hearing from Maria how the old women (and one or two men) gathered together and were comforted over their cups of tea. And over the _cups_, Maria said: the cups and spoons made the tea twice as good; but I doubt their relish of it was never half so exquisite as mine. I had to give Pete his Testament; he would not think it the same thing if he did not have it from my own hand, Maria said; and Darry's pens and ink likewise. The poor woman for whom I had got the bed was, I fear, beyond enjoying anything; but it was a comfort to me to know that she was lying on it. The people kept my secret perfectly; my aunt and governess never, I believe, heard anything of all these doings; I had my enjoyment to myself. And the Sunday evening prayer-meeting grew, little by little. Old Sarah and her new shoes were there, of course, at once. Those who first came never failed. And week by week, as I went into the kitchen with my Bible, I saw a larger circle; found the room better lined with dark forms and sable faces. They come up before me now as I write, one and another. I loved them all. I love them still, for I look to meet many of them in glory; "where there is neither bond or free." Nay, that is _here_ and at present, to all who are in Christ; we do not wait for heaven, to be all one. And they loved me, those poor people. I think Pete had something the same sort of notion about me that those Ephesians had of their image of Diana, which they insisted had fallen from heaven. I used to feel it then, and be amused by it. But I am too long about my story. No wonder I linger, when the remembrance is so sweet. With this new interest that had come into my life, my whole life brightened. I was no longer spiritless. My strength little by little returned. And with the relief of my heart about my father, my happiness sprung back almost to its former and usual state when I was at Melbourne. For I had by this time submitted to my father's and mother's absence as a thing of necessity, and submitted entirely. Yet my happiness was a subdued sort of thing; and my Aunt Gary still thought it necessary to be as careful of me, she said, "as if I were an egg-shell." As I grew stronger, Miss Pinshon made more and more demands upon my time with her arithmetic lessons and other things; but my rides with Darry were never interfered with, nor my Sunday evening readings; and, indeed, all the winter I continued too delicate and feeble for much school work. My dreaded governess did not have near so much to do with me as I thought she would. The spring was not far advanced before it was necessary for us to quit Magnolia. The climate, after a certain day, or rather the air, was not thought safe for white people. We left Magnolia; and went first to Baytown and then to the North. There our time was spent between one and another of several watering-places. I longed for Melbourne; but the house was shut up; we could not go there. The summer was very wearisome to me. I did not like the houses in which our time was spent, or the way of life led in them. Neither did Miss Pinshon, I think, for she was out of her element, and had no chance to follow her peculiar vocation. Of course, in a public hotel, we could not have a schoolroom; and with the coming on of warm weather my strength failed again so sensibly, that all there was to do was to give me sea air and bathing, and let me alone. The bathing I enjoyed; those curling salt waves breaking over my head are the one image of anything fresh or refreshing which my memory has kept. I should have liked the beach; I did like it; only it was covered with bathers, or else with promenaders in carriages and on foot, at all times when I saw it; and though they were amusing, the beach was spoiled. The hotel rooms were close and hot; I missed all the dainty freedom and purity of my own home; the people I saw were, it seemed to me, entirely in keeping with the rooms; that is, they were stiff and fussy, not quiet and busy. They were busy after their own fashion, indeed; but it always seemed to me busy about nothing. The children I saw too did not attract me; and I fear I did not attract them. I was sober-hearted and low-toned in spirit and strength; while they were as gay as their elders. And I was dressed according to my mother's fancy, in childlike style, without hoops, and with my hair cropped short all over my head. They were stately with crinoline, and rich with embroidery, stiff with fine dresses and plumes; while a white frock and a flat straw were all my adornment, except a sash. I think they did not know what to make of me; and I am sure I had nothing in common with them; so we lived very much apart. There was a little variation in my way of life when Preston came; yet not much. He took me sometimes to drive, and did once go walking with me on the beach; but Preston found a great deal where I found nothing, and was all the time taken up with people and pleasures; boating and yachting and fishing expeditions; and I believe with hops and balls too. But I was always fast asleep at those times. It was a relief to me when the season came to an end, and we went to New York to make purchases before turning southward. I had once hoped, that this time, the year's end might see my father and mother come again. That hope had faded and died a natural death a long while ago. Letters spoke my father's health not restored: he was languid and spiritless and lacked vigour; he would try the air of Switzerland; he would spend the winter in the Pyrenees! If that did not work well, my mother hinted, perhaps he would have to try the effect of a long sea voyage. Hope shrunk into such small dimensions that it filled but a very little corner of my heart. Indeed, for the present I quite put it by and did not look at it. One winter more must pass, at any rate, and maybe a full year, before I could possibly see my father and mother at home. I locked the door for the present upon hope; and turned my thoughts to what things I had left with me. Chiefest of all these were my poor friends at Magnolia. My money had accumulated during the summer; I had a nice little sum to lay out for them, and in New York I had chance to do it well, and to do it myself, which was a great additional pleasure. As I could, bit by bit, when I was with Aunt Gary shopping, when I could get leave to go out alone with a careful servant to attend me, I searched the shops and catered and bought, for the comfort and pleasure of--seven hundred! I could do little. Nay, but it was for so many of those that I could reach with my weak hands; and I did not despise that good because I could not reach them all. A few more large-print Testaments I laid in; some copies of the Gospel of John, in soft covers and good type; a few hymn books. All these cost little. But for Christmas gifts, and for new things to give help and comfort to my poor pensioners, I both plagued and bewitched my brain. It was sweet work. My heart went out towards making _all_ the people happy for once, at Christmas; but my purse would not stretch so far; I had to let that go, with a thought and a sigh. One new thing came very happily into my head, and was worth a Peruvian mine to me, in the pleasure and business it gave. Going into a large greenhouse with my aunt, who wanted to order a bouquet, I went wandering round the place while she made her bargain. For my Aunt Gary made a bargain of everything. Wandering in thought as well, whither the sweet breath of the roses and geraniums led me, I went back to Molly in her cottage at Melbourne, and the Jewess geranium I had carried her, and the rose tree; and suddenly the thought started into my head, might not my dark friends at Magnolia, so quick to see and enjoy anything of beauty that came in their way--so fond of bright colour and grace and elegance--a luxurious race, even in their downtrodden condition; might not _they_ also feel the sweetness of a rose, or delight in the petals of a tulip? It was a great idea; it grew into a full-formed purpose before I was called to follow Aunt Gary out of the greenhouse. The next day I went there on my own account. I was sure I knew what I wanted to do; but I studied a long time the best way of doing it. Roses? I could hardly transport pots and trees so far; they were too cumbersome. Geraniums were open to the same objection, besides being a little tender as to the cold. Flower seeds could not be sown, if the people had them; for no patch of garden belonged to their stone huts, and they had no time to cultivate such a patch if they had it. I must give what would call for no care, to speak of, and make no demands upon overtasked strength and time. Neither could I afford to take anything of such bulk as would draw attention or call on questions and comments. I knew, as well as I know now, what would be thought of any plan of action which supposed a _love of the beautiful_ in creatures the only earthly use of whom was to raise rice and cotton; who in fact were not half so important as the harvests they grew. I knew what unbounded scorn would visit any attempts of mine to minister to an æsthetic taste in these creatures; and I was in no mind to call it out upon myself. All the while I knew better. I knew that Margaret and Stephanie could put on a turban like no white woman I ever saw. I knew that even Maria could take the full effect of my dress when I was decked--as I was sometimes--for a dinner party; and that no fall of lace or knot of ribbon missed its errand to her eye. I knew that a _picture_ raised the liveliest interest in all my circle of Sunday hearers; and that they were quick to understand and keen to take its bearings, far more than Molly Skelton would have been, more than Logan, our Scotch gardener at Melbourne, or than my little old friend Hephzibah and her mother. But the question stood, In what form could I carry beauty to them out of a florist's shop? I was fain to take the florist into my partial confidence. It was well that I did. He at once suggested bulbs. Bulbs! would they require much care? Hardly any; no trouble at all. They could be easily transported: easily kept. All they wanted was a little pot of earth when I was ready to plant them; a little judicious watering; an unbounded supply of sunshine. And what sorts of bulbs were there? I asked diplomatically; not myself knowing, to tell truth, what bulbs were at all. Plenty of sorts, the florist said; there were hyacinths, all colours; and tulips, striped and plain, and very gay; and crocuses, those were of nearly all colours too; and ranunculus, and anemones, and snowdrops. Snowdrops were white; but of several of the other kinds I could have every tint in the rainbow, both alone and mixed. The florist stood waiting my pleasure, and nipped off a dead leaf or two as he spoke, as if there was no hurry and I could take my time. I went into happy calculation, as to how far my funds would reach; gave my orders, very slowly and very carefully; and went away the owner of a nice little stock of tulips, narcissus, crocuses, and above all, hyacinths. I chose gay tints, and at the same time inexpensive kinds; so that my stock was quite large enough for my purposes; it mattered nothing to me whether a sweet double hyacinth was of a new or an old kind, provided it was of first-rate quality; and I confess it matters almost as little to me now. At any rate, I went home a satisfied child; and figuratively speaking, dined and supped off tulips and hyacinths, instead of mutton and bread and butter. That afternoon it fell out that my aunt took me with her to a milliner's on some business. In the course of it, some talk arose about feathers and the value of them; and my aunt made a remark which, like Wat Tyrrell's arrow, glanced from its aim and did execution in a quarter undreamed of. "That feather you put in the little riding cap you sent me," she said to the milliner--"your black feather, Daisy, you know--you charged me but fifteen dollars for that; why is this so much more?" I did not hear the milliner's answer. My whole thought went off upon a track entirely new to me, and never entered before My feather cost fifteen dollars! Fifteen dollars! Supposing I had that to buy tulips with? or in case I had already tulips enough, suppose I had it to buy print gowns for Christmas presents to the women, which I had desired and could not afford? Or that I had it to lay out in tea and sugar, that my poor old friends might oftener have the one solace that was left to them, or that more might share it? Fifteen dollars! It was equal to one quarter and a half's allowance. My fund for more than a third of the year would be doubled, if I could turn that black feather into silver or gold again. And the feather was of no particular use that I could see. It made me look like the heiress of Magnolia, my aunt said; but neither could I see any use in _that_. Everybody knew, that is, all the servants and friends of the family knew, that I was that heiress; I needed no black feather to proclaim it. And now it seemed to me as if my riding cap was heavy with undeveloped bulbs, uncrystallized sugar, unweighed green tea. No transformation of the feather was possible; it must wave over my brow in its old fashion, whether it were a misguided feather or not; but my thoughts, once set a going in this train, found a great deal to do. Truth to tell, they have not done it all yet. "Aunt Gary," I said that same evening, musing over the things in my boxes, "does lace cost much?" "That is like the countryman who asked me once, if it took long to play a piece of music! Daisy, don't you know any more about lace than to ask such a question?" "I don't know what it costs, Aunt Gary. I never bought any." "Bought! No; hardly. You are hardly at the age to _buy_ lace yet. But you have worn a good deal of it." "I cannot tell what it cost by looking at it," I answered. "Well, _I_ can. And you will, one day, I hope; if you ever do anything like other people." "Is it costly, ma'am?" "Your lace is rather costly," my aunt said, with a tone which I felt implied satisfaction. "How much?" I asked. "How much does it cost? Why it is the countryman's question over again, Daisy. Lace is all sorts of prices. But the lace you wear is, I judge, somewhere about three and five, and one of your dresses ten, dollars a yard. That is pretty rich lace for a young lady of your years to wear." I never wore it, I must explain, unless in small quantity, except on state occasions when my mother dressed me as part of herself. "No, I am wrong," my aunt added, presently; "that dress I am thinking of is richer than that; the lace on that robe was never bought for ten dollars, or fifteen either. What do you want to know about it for, Daisy?" I mused a great deal. Three and five, and ten, and fifteen dollars a yard, on lace trimmings for me--and no tea, no cups and saucers, no soft bed, no gardens and flowers, for many who were near me. I began to fill the meshes of my lace with responsibilities too heavy for the delicate fabric to bear. Nobody liked the looks of it better than I did. I always had a fancy for lace, though not for feathers; its rich, delicate, soft falls, to my notion, suited my mother's form and style better than anything else, and suited me. My taste found no fault. But now that so much good was wrought into its slight web, and so much silver lay hidden in every embroidered flower, the thing was changed. Graceful, and becoming, and elegant, more than any other adornment; what then? My mother and father had a great deal of money, too, to spare; enough, I thought, for lace and for the above tea and sugar, too; what then? And what if not enough? I pondered till my Aunt Gary broke out upon me, that I would grow a wizened old woman if I sat musing at that rate, and sent me to bed. It stopped my pondering for that night; but not for all the years since that night. My preparations were quite made before my aunt got her feathers adjusted to her satisfaction; and in the bright days of autumn we went back again to Magnolia. This was a joyful journey and a glad arriving, compared to last year; and the welcome I got was something which puzzled my heart between joy and sorrow many times during the first few days. And now Miss Pinshon's reign fairly began. I was stronger in health, accustomed to my circumstances; there was no longer any reason that the multiplication table and I should be parted. My governess was determined to make up for lost time; and the days of that winter were spent by me between the study table and fire. That is, when I think of that winter my memory finds me there. Multiplication and its correlatives were the staple of existence; and the old book room of my grandfather was the place where my harvests of learning were sown and reaped. Somehow, I do not think the crops were heavy. I tried my best, and Miss Pinshon certainly tried her best. I went through and over immense fields of figures; but I fancy the soil did not suit the growth. I know the fruits were not satisfactory to myself, and, indeed, were not fruits at all, to my sense of them; but rather dry husks and hard nut shells, with the most tasteless of small kernels inside. Yet Miss Pinshon did not seem unsatisfied; and, indeed, occasionally remarked that she believed I meant to be a good child. Perhaps that was something out of my governess's former experience; for it was the only style of commendation I ever knew her indulge in, and I always took it as a compliment. It would not do to tell all my childish life that winter. I should never get through. For a child has as many experiences in her little world as people of fifty years old have in theirs; and to her they are not little experiences. It was not a small trial of mind and body to spend the long mornings in the study over the curious matters Miss Pinshon found for my attention; and after the long morning the shorter afternoon session was un-mixed weariness. Yet I suffered most in the morning; because then there was some life and energy within me which rebelled against confinement, and panted to be free and in the open air, looking after the very different work I could find or make for myself. My feet longed for the turf; my fingers wanted to throw down the slate pencil and gather up the reins. I had a good fire and a pleasant room; but I wanted to be abroad in the open sunshine, to feel the sweet breath of the air in my face, and see the grey moss wave in the wind. That was what I had been used to all my life; a sweet wild roaming about, to pick up whatever pleasure presented itself. I suppose Miss Pinshon herself had never been used to it nor known it; for she did not seem to guess at what was in my mind. But it made my mornings hard to get through. By the afternoon the spirit was so utterly gone out of me and everything, that I took it all in a mechanical stupid way; and only my back's aching made me impatient for the time to end. I think I was fond of knowledge and fond of learning. I am sure of it, for I love it dearly still. But there was no joy about it at Magnolia. History, as I found it with my governess, was not in the least like the history I had planned on my tray of sand, and pointed out with red and black headed pins. There was life and stir in that, and progress. Now there was nothing but a string of names and dates to say to Miss Pinshon. And dates were hard to remember, and did not seem to mean anything. But Miss Pinshon's favourite idea was mathematics. It was not my favourite idea; so every day I wandered through a wilderness of figures and signs which were a weariness to my mind and furnished no food for it. Nothing was pleasant to me in my schoolroom, excepting my writing lessons. They were welcomed as a relief from other things. When the studies for the day were done, the next thing was to prepare for a walk. A walk with Miss Pinshon alone, for my aunt never joined us. Indeed, this winter my aunt was not unfrequently away from Magnolia altogether; finding Baytown more diverting. It made a little difference to me; for when she was not at home, the whole day, morning, afternoon and evening, meal times and all times, seemed under a leaden grey sky. Miss Pinshon discussed natural history to me when we were walking--not the thing, but the science; she asked me questions in geography when we were eating breakfast, and talked over some puzzle in arithmetic when we were at dinner. I think it was refreshing to her; she liked it; but to me, the sky closed over me in lead colour, one unbroken vault, as I said, when my aunt was away. With her at home, all this could not be; and any changes of colour were refreshing. All this was not very good for me. My rides with Darry would have been a great help; but now I only got a chance at them now and then. I grew spiritless and weary. Sundays I would have begged to be allowed to stay at home all day and rest; but I knew if I pleaded fatigue my evenings with the people in the kitchen would be immediately cut off; not my drives to church. Miss Pinshon always drove the six miles to Bolingbroke every Sunday morning, and took me with her. Oh how long the miles were! how weary I was, with my back aching and trying to find a comfortable corner in the carriage; how I wanted to lie down on the soft cushions in the pew and go to sleep during the service. And when the miles home were finished, it seemed to me that so was I. Then I used to pray to have strength in the evening to read with the people. And I always had it; or at least I always did it. I never failed; though the rest of the Sunday hours were often spent on the bed. But, indeed, that Sunday evening reading was the one thing that saved my life from growing, or settling, into a petrifaction. Those hours gave me cheer, and some spirit to begin again on Monday morning. However, I was not thriving. I know I was losing colour, and sinking in strength, day by day; yet very gradually; so that my governess never noticed it. My aunt sometimes, on her return from an absence that had been longer than common, looked at me uneasily. "Miss Pinshon, what ails that child?" she would ask. My governess said, "Nothing." Miss Pinshon was the most immovable person, I think, I have ever known. At least, so far as one could judge from the outside. "She looks to me," my aunt went on, "exactly like a cabbage, or something else, that has been blanched under a barrel. A kind of unhealthy colour. She is not strong." "She has more strength than she shows," my governess answered. "Daisy has a good deal of strength." "Do you think so?" said my aunt, looking doubtfully at me. But she was comforted. And neither of them asked me about it. One thing in the early half of the winter was a great help; and for a while stayed my flitting spirits and strength. My father wrote an order, that Daisy should make arrangements for giving all the people on the plantation a great entertainment at Christmas. I was to do what I liked and have whatever I chose to desire; no one altering or interfering with my word. I shall never forget the overflowing of largest joy, with which my heart swelled as I ran in to tell this news to Aunt Gary. But first I had to kneel down and give thanks for it. I never saw my aunt more displeased about anything. Miss Pinshon only lifted up her black eyes and looked me over. They did not express curiosity or anything else; only observation. My aunt spoke out. "I think there must be some mistake, Daisy." "No, Aunt Gary; papa says just that." "You mean the house servants, child." "No, ma'am; papa says every one; all the people on the place." "He means the white people, you foolish child; everybody's head is not full of the servants, as yours is." "He says the coloured people, Aunt Gary; all of them. It is _only_ the coloured people." "Hear her!" said my aunt. "Now she would rather entertain them, I don't doubt, than the best company that could be gathered of her own sort." I certainly would. Did I not think with joy at that very minute of the words, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of _these_, ye have done it unto me?" I knew what guest would be among my poor despised company. But I said not a word. "Daisy," said my aunt, "you _must_ be under a mistake; you must let me see what your father says. Why, to give all these hundreds an entertainment, it would cost--have you any idea what it would cost?" I had not indeed. But my father's letter had mentioned a sum which was to be the limit of my expenditure; within which I was to be unlimited. It was a large sum, amounting to several hundreds, and amply sufficient for all I could wish to do. I told my aunt. "Well!" she said, twisting herself round to the fire, "if your father has money to fling about like that, I have of course no more to say." Miss Pinshon looked up again at me. Those black eyes were always the same; the eyelids never drooped over them. "What are you going to do, Daisy?" she asked. Truly I did not know, yet. I gave my aunt a note to the overseer from my father, which I begged her to forward; and ran away to take sweet counsel with myself. I had had some little experience of such an entertainment in the strawberry festival at Melbourne. I remembered that good things to eat and drink were sure to be enjoyed, and not these only, but also a pretty and festive air thrown about these things. And much more would this be true among the beauty-loving, and luxurious-natured children of the tropics, than with the comparatively barbarous Celtic blood. But between entertaining thirty and seven hundred there was a difference. And between the season of roses and fruits, and the time of mid-winter, even though in a southern clime, there was another wide difference. I had need of a great deal of counsel-taking with myself, and I took it; and it was very good for me. In every interval between mathematical or arithmetical problems, my mind ran off to this other one, with infinite refreshment. Then I consulted Maria; she was a great help to me. I thought at first I should have to build a place to hold our gatherings in; the home kitchen was not a quarter large enough. But Darry told me of an empty barn not far off, that was roomy and clean. By virtue of my full powers I seized upon this barn. I had it well warmed with stoves; Darry saw to that for me, and that they were well and safely put up; I had it adorned and clothed and made gay with evergreens and flowers, till it was beautiful. The carpenters on the place put up long tables, and fitted plenty of seats. Then I had some rough kitchens extemporised outside of it; and sent for loads of turkeys from Baytown; and for days before and after Christmas my band of cooks were busy, roasting and baking and cake-making. Coffee was brewed without measure, as if we had been a nation of Arabs. And then tickets were furnished to all the people on the place, tickets of admission; and for all the holidays, or for Christmas and three days after, I kept open house at the barn. Night and day I kept open house. I went and came myself, knowing that the sight of me hindered nobody's pleasure; but I let in no other white person, and I believe I gained the lasting ill-will of the overseer by refusing him. I stood responsible for everybody's good behaviour, and had no forfeits to pay. And enjoyment reigned, during those days, in the barn; a gay enjoyment, full of talk and of singing as well as of feasting; full of laughter and jokes, and full of utmost good-humour and kindness from one to another. Again, most unlike a party of Celtic origin. It was enjoyment to me too; very great; though dashed continually by the thought how rare and strange it was to those around me. Only for my sake and dependent on my little hand of power; having no guarantee or security else for its ever coming again. As the holiday drew near its end, my heart grew sore often at the thought of all my poor friends going back into their toil, hopeless and spiritless as it was, without one ray to brighten the whole year before them till Christmas should come round again. Ay, and this feeling was quickened every now and then by a word, or a look, or a tone, which told me that I was not the only one who remembered it. "Christmas is almos' gone, Tony," I heard one fine fellow say to another at the end of the third day; and under the words there was a thread of meaning which gave a twitch to my heartstrings. There were bursts of song mingled with all this, which I could not bear to hear. In the prayer-meetings I did not mind them; here, in the midst of festivities, they almost choked me. "I'm going home" sounded now so much as if it were in a strange land; and once when a chorus of them were singing, deep and slow, the refrain, "In the morning-- Chil'len, in the morning--" I had a great heartbreak, and sat down and cried behind my sugarplums. I can bear to think of it all now. There were years when I could not. After this entertainment was over, and much more stupid ones had been given among polished people at the house, and the New Year had swept in upon us with its fresh breeze of life and congratulations, the winter and Miss Pinshon settled down for unbroken sway. I had little to help me during those months from abroad. That is, I had nothing. My father wrote seldom. My mother's letters had small comfort for me. They said that papa's health mended slowly--was very delicate--he could not bear much exertion--his head would not endure any excitement. They were trying constant changes of scene and air. They were at Spa, at Paris, at Florence, at Vevay, in the Pyrenees; not staying long anywhere. The physicians talked of a long sea voyage. From all which I gradually brought down my hopes into smaller and smaller compass; till finally I packed them up and stowed them away in the hidden furthermost corner of my heart, only to be brought out and looked at when there should be occasion. Spring came without the least prospect that such occasion would be given me soon. My father and mother were making preparation to journey in Norway; and already there was talk of a third winter in Egypt! It was hoped that all these changes were not without some slow and certain effect in the way of improvement. I think on me they had another sort of effect. Spring as usual drove us away from Magnolia. This summer was spent with my Aunt Gary at various pleasant and cool up-country places, where hills were, and brooks, and sweet air, and flowers, and where I might have found much to enjoy. But always Miss Pinshon was with me, and the quiet and freedom of these places, with the comparative cool climate, made it possible for her to carry on all her schemes for my improvement just as steadily as though we had been at Magnolia. And I had not Darry and my pony, which indeed, the latter had been of small use to me this year; and I had not my band of friends on the Sunday evening; and even my own maid Margaret Aunt Gary had chosen to leave behind. Miss Pinshon's reign was absolute. I think some of the Medusa properties Preston used to talk about must have had their effect upon me at this time. I remember little of all that summer, save the work for Miss Pinshon, and the walks with Miss Pinshon, and a general impression of those black eyes and inflexible voice, and mathematics and dates, and a dull round of lesson getting. Not knowledge getting--that would have been quite another affair. I seemed to be all the while putting up a scaffolding, and never coming to work on the actual Temple of Learning itself. I know we were in beautiful regions that summer, but my recollection is not of them but of rows of figures; and of a very grave, I think dull, and very quiet little personage, who went about like a mouse for silentness, and gave no trouble to anybody excepting only to herself. The next winter passed as the winter before had done, only I had no Christmas entertainment. My father and mother were in Egypt--perhaps he did not think of it. Perhaps he did not feel that he could afford it. Perhaps my aunt and the overseer had severally made representations to which my father thought it best to listen. I had no festivities at any rate for my poor coloured people; and it made my own holidays a very shaded thing. I found, however, this winter one source of amusement, and in a measure, of comfort. In the bookcases which held my grandfather's library, there was a pretty large collection of books of travel. I wanted to know just then about Egypt, that I might the better in imagination follow my father and mother. I searched the shelves for Egypt, and was lucky enough to light upon several works of authority and then recent observation. I feasted on these. I began in the middle, then very soon went back to the beginning, and read delightedly, carefully, patiently, through every detail and discussion in which the various authors indulged. Then I turned all their pictures into living panorama; for I fancied my father and mother in every place, looking at every wonder they described; and I enjoyed not merely what they described, but my father's and mother's enjoyment of it. This was a rare delight to me. My favourite place was the corner of the study fire, at dusk, when lessons and tiresome walks for the day were done, and Miss Pinshon was taking her ease elsewhere in some other way. I had the fire made up to burn brightly, and pine knots at hand to throw on if wanted; and with the illumination dancing all over my page, I went off to regions of enchantment, pleasant to me beyond any fairy tale. I never cared much for things that were not true. No chambers of Arabian fancy could have had the fascination for me of those old Egyptian halls, nor all the marvels of magic entranced me like the wonder-working hand of time. Those books made my comfort and my diversion all the winter. For I was not a galloping reader; I went patiently through every page; and the volumes were many enough and interesting enough to last me long. I dreamed under the Sphynx; I wandered over the pyramids; no chamber nor nook escaped me; I could have guided a traveller--in imagination. I knew the prospect from the top, though I never wrote my name there. It seemed to me that _that_ was barbarism. I sailed up the Nile--delightful journeys on board the Nile boats--forgetting Miss Pinshon and mathematics, except when I rather pitied the ancient Egyptians for being so devoted to the latter; forgetting Magnolia, and all the home things I could not do and would have liked to do; forgetting everything, and rapt in the enjoyment of tropical airs, and Eastern skies; hearing the plash of water from the everlasting _shadoof_, and watching the tints and colours on the ranges of hills bordering the Nile valley. All _my_ hills were green; the hues of those others were enough of themselves to make an enchanted land. Still more, as I stopped at the various old temples along the way, my feeling of enchantment increased. I threaded the mazes of rubbish, and traced the plans of the ruins of Thebes, till I was at home in every part of them. I studied the hieroglyphics and the descriptions of the sculptures, till the names of Thothmes III., and Amunoph III., and Sethos and Rameses, Miamun and Rameses III., were as well known to me as the names of the friends whom I met every Sunday evening. I even studied out the old Egyptian mythology, the better to be able to understand the sculptures, as well as the character of those ancient people who wrought them, and to be able to fancy the sort of services that were celebrated by the priests in the splendid enclosures of the temples. And then I went higher up the Nile, and watched at the uncovering of those wonderful colossal figures which stand, or sit, before the temple of Abou-Simbel. I tried to imagine what manner of things such large statues could be; I longed for one sight of the faces, said to be so superb, which showed what the great Rameses looked like. Mamma and papa could see them, that was a great joy. Belzoni was one of my prime favourites; and I liked particularly to travel with him, both there and at the Tombs of the Kings. There were some engravings scattered through the various volumes, and a good many plans, which helped me. I studied them faithfully, and got from them all they could give me. In the Tombs of the Kings, my childish imagination found, I think, its highest point of revelling and delight. Those were something stranger, more wonderful, and more splendid, even than Abou-Simbel and Karnak. Many an evening, while the firelight from a Southern pine knot danced on my page, I was gone on the wings of fancy thousands of miles away; and went with discoverers or explorers up and down the passages and halls and staircases and chambers, to which the entrance is from _Biban el Malook_. I wandered over the empty sarcophagi; held my breath at the pit's sides; and was never tired of going over the scenes and sculptures done in such brilliant colours upon those white walls. Once in there, I quite forgot that mamma and papa could see them; I was so busy seeing them myself. This amusement of mine was one which nobody interfered with, and it lasted, as I said, all winter. All the winter my father and mother were in Egypt. When spring came, I began to look with trembling eagerness for a letter that should say they would turn now homewards. I was disappointed. My father was so much better that his physicians were encouraged to continuing their travelling regimen; and the word came that it was thought best he should try a long sea voyage--he was going to China, my mother would go with him. I think never in my life my spirits sank lower than they did when I heard this news. I was not strong nor very well, which might have been in part the reason. And I was dull-hearted to the last degree under the influence of Miss Pinshon's system of management. There was no power of reaction in me. It was plain that I was failing; and my aunt interrupted the lessons, and took me again to watering-places at the North, from one to another, giving me as much change as possible. It was good for me to be taken off study, which Miss Pinshon had pressed and crowded during the winter. Sea bathing did me good, too; and the change of scene and habits was useful. I did not rise to the level of enjoying anything much; only the sea waves when I was in them; at other times I sat on the bank and watched the distant smokestack of a steamer going out, with an inexpressible longing and soreness of heart. Going where I would so like to go! But there was no word of that. And indeed it would not have been advisable to take me to China. I did think Egypt would not have been bad for me; but it was a thought which I kept shut up in the farthest stores of my heart. The sea voyage however was delayed. My mother took sick, was very ill, and then unable to undertake the going to China. My father chose to wait for her; so the summer was spent by them in Switzerland and the autumn in Paris. With the first of the New Year they expected now to sail. It suddenly entered my Aunt Gary's head that it was a good time for _her_ to see Paris; and she departed, taking Ransom with her, whom my father wished to place in a German university, and meantime in a French school. Preston had been placed at the Military Academy at West Point, my aunt thinking that it made a nice finishing of a gentleman's education, and would keep him out of mischief till he was grown to man's estate. I was left alone with Miss Pinshon to go back to Magnolia and take up my old life there. CHAPTER VII. SINGLEHANDED. As my aunt set sail for the shores of Europe, and Miss Pinshon and I turned our faces towards Magnolia, I seemed to see before me a weary winter. I was alone now; there was nobody to take my part in small or great things; my governess would have her way. I was so much stronger now that no doubt she thought I could bear it. So it was. The full tale of studies and tasks was laid on me; and it lay on me from morning till night. I had expected that. I had looked also for the comfort and refreshment of ministering to my poor friends in the kitchen on the Sunday evenings. I began as usual with them. But as the Sundays came round, I found now and then a gap or two in the circle; and the gaps as time went on did not fill up; or if they did they were succeeded by other gaps. My hearers grew fewer, instead of more; the fact was undoubted. Darry was always on the spot; but the two Jems not always, and Pete was not sure, and Eliza failed sometimes, and others; and this grew worse. Moreover, a certain grave and sad air replaced the enjoying, almost jocund, spirit of gladness which used to welcome me and listen to the reading and join in the prayers and raise the song. The singing was not less good than it used to be; but it fell oftener into the minor key, and then poured along with a steady, powerful volume, deepening and steadying as it went, which somehow swept over my heart like a wind from the desert. I could not well tell why, yet I felt it trouble me; sometimes my heart trembled with the thrill of those sweet and solemn vibrations. I fancied that Darry's prayer had a somewhat different atmosphere from the old. Yet when I once or twice asked Margaret the next morning why such and such a one had not been at the reading, she gave me a careless answer, that she supposed Mr. Edwards had found something for them to do. "But at night, Margaret?" I said. "Mr. Edwards cannot keep them at work at night." To which she made no answer; and I was for some reason unwilling to press the matter. But things went on, not getting better but worse until I could not bear it. I watched my opportunity and got Maria alone. "What is the matter," I asked, "that the people do not come on Sunday evening as they used? Are they tired of the reading, Maria?" "I 'spect dey's as tired as a fish mus' be of de water," said Maria. She had a fine specimen under her hand at the moment, which I suppose suggested the figure. "Then why do they not come as usual, Maria? there were only a few last night." "Dere was so few, it was lonesome," said Maria. "Then what is the reason?" "Dere is more reasons for t'ings, den Maria can make out," she said thoughtfully. "Mebbe it's to make 'em love de priv'lege mo'." "But what keeps them away, Maria? what hinders?" "Chile, de Lord hab His angels, and de debil he hab his ministers; and dey takes all sorts o' shapes, de angels and de ministers too. I reckon dere's some work o' dat sort goin' on." Maria spoke in a sort of sententious wisdom which did not satisfy me at all. I thought there was something behind. "Who is doing the work, Maria?" I asked, after a minute. "Miss Daisy," she said, "dere ain't no happenin' at all widout de Lord lets it happen. Dere is much contrairy in dis world--fact, dere is; but I 'spect de Lord make it up to us by'm by." And she turned her face full upon me with a smile of so much quiet resting in that truth, that for just a moment it silenced me. "Miss Daisy ain't looking quite so peart as she use to look," Maria went on. But I slipped away from that diversion. "Maria," I said, "you don't tell me what is the matter; and I wish to know. What keeps the people, Pete, and Eliza, and all, from coming? What hinders them, Maria? I wish to know." Maria busied herself with her fish for a minute, turning and washing it; then, without looking up from her work, she said, in a lowered tone,-- "'Spect de overseer, he don't hab no favour to such ways and meetin's." "But with _me_?" I said; "and with Aunt Gary's leave?" "'Spose he like to fix t'ings his own way," said Maria. "Does he forbid them to come?" I asked. "I reckon he do," she said, with a sigh. Maria was very even-tempered, quiet, and wise, in her own way. Her sigh went through my heart. I stood thinking what plan I could take. "De Lord is berry good, Miss Daisy," she said, cheerily, a moment after; "and dem dat love Him, dere can be no sort o' separation, no ways." "Does Mr. Edwards forbid them _all_ to come?" I asked. "For a good many do come." "'Spect he don't like de meetin's, nohow," said Maria. "But does he tell all the people they must not come?" "I reckon he make it oncomfor'ble for 'em," Maria answered gravely. "Dere is no end o' de mean ways o' sich folks. Know he ain't no gentleman, nohow!" "What does he do, Maria?" I said, trembling, yet unable to keep back the question. "He can do what he please, Miss Daisy," Maria said, in the same grave way. "'Cept de Lord above, dere no one can hinder--now massa so fur. Bes' pray de Lord, and mebbe He sen' His angel, some time." Maria's fish was ready for the kettle; some of the other servants came in, and I went with a heavy heart up the stairs. "Massa so fur"--yes! I knew that; and Mr. Edwards knew it too. Once sailed for China, and it would be long, long, before my cry for help, in the shape of one of my little letters, could reach him and get back the answer. My heart felt heavy as if I could die, while I slowly mounted the stairs to my room. It was not only that trouble was brought upon my poor friends, nor even that their short enjoyment of the word of life was hindered and interrupted; above this and worse than this was the sense of _wrong_ done to these helpless people, and done by my own father and mother. This sense was something too bitter for a child of my years to bear; it crushed me for a time. Our people had a right to the Bible as great as mine; a right to dispose of themselves as true as my father's right to dispose of himself. Christ, my Lord, had died for them as well as for me; and here was my father--_my father_--practically saying that they should not hear of it, nor know the message He had sent to them. And if anything could have made this more bitter to me, it was the consciousness that the _reason_ of it all was that we might profit by it. Those unpaid hands wrought that our hands might be free to do nothing; those empty cabins were bare, in order that our houses might be full of every soft luxury; those unlettered minds were kept unlettered that the rarest of intellectual wealth might be poured into our treasury. I knew it. For I had written to my father once to beg his leave to establish schools, where the people on the plantation might be taught to read and write. He had sent a very kind answer, saying it was just like his little Daisy to wish such a thing, and that his wish was not against it, if it could be done; but that the laws of the State, and for wise reasons, forbade it. Greatly puzzled by this, I one day carried my puzzle to Preston. He laughed at me as usual, but at the same time explained that it would not be safe; for that if the slaves were allowed books and knowledge, they would soon not be content with their condition, and would be banding together to make themselves free. I knew all this, and I had been brooding over it; and now when the powerful hand of the overseer came in to hinder the little bit of good and comfort I was trying to give the people, my heart was set on fire with a sense of sorrow and wrong that, as I said, no child ought ever to know. I think it made me ill. I could not eat. I studied like a machine, and went and came as Miss Pinshon bade me; all the while brooding by myself and turning over and over in my heart the furrows of thought which seemed at first to promise no harvest. Yet those furrows never break the soil for nothing. In due time the seed fell; and the fruit of a ripened purpose came to maturity. I did not give up my Sunday readings, even although the number of my hearers grew scantier. As many as could, we met together to read and to pray, yes, and to sing. And I shall never in this world hear such singing again. One refrain comes back to me now-- "Oh, had I the wings of the morning-- Oh, had I the wings of the morning-- Oh, had I the wings of the morning-- I'd fly to my Jesus away!" I used to feel so too, as I listened and sometimes sung with them. Meantime, all that I could do with my quarterly ten dollars, I did. And there was many a little bit of pleasure I could give; what with a tulip here and a cup of tea there, and a bright handkerchief, or a pair of shoes. Few of the people had spirit and cultivation enough to care for the flowers. But Maria cherished some red and white tulips and a hyacinth in her kitchen window, as if they had been her children; and to Darry a white rose-tree I had given him seemed almost to take the place of a familiar spirit. Even grave Pete, whom I only saw now and then this winter at my readings, nursed and tended and watched a bed of crocuses with endless delight and care. All the while, my Sunday circle of friends grew constantly fewer; and the songs that were sung at our hindered meetings had a spirit in them, which seemed to me to speak of a deep-lying fire somewhere in the hearts of the singers, hidden, but always ready to burst into a blaze. Was it because the fire was burning in my own heart? I met one of the two Jems in the pine-avenue one day. He greeted me with the pleasantest of broad smiles. "Jem," said I, "why don't you come to the house Sunday evenings any more?" "It don't 'pear practical, missie." Jem was given to large-sized words, when he could get hold of them. "Mr. Edwards hinders you?" "Mass' Ed'ards berry smart man, Miss Daisy. He want massa's work done up all jus' so." "And he says that the prayer-meeting hinders the work, Jem?" "Clar, missis, Mass' Ed'ards got long head; he see furder den me," Jem said, shaking his own head as if the whole thing were beyond him. I let him go. But a day or two after I attacked Margaret on the subject. She and Jem, I knew, were particular friends. Margaret was oracular and mysterious, and looked like a thundercloud. I got nothing from her, except an increase of uneasiness. I was afraid to go further in my inquiries; yet could not rest without. The house servants, I knew, would not be likely to tell me anything that would trouble me if they could help it. The only exception was mammy Theresa; who with all her love for me had either less tact, or had grown from long habit hardened to the state of things in which she had been brought up. From her, by a little cross questioning, I learned that Jem and others had been forbidden to come to the Sunday readings; and their disobeying had been visited with the lash, not once nor twice; till, as mammy Theresa said, "'peared like it warn't no use to try to be good agin de devil." And papa was away on his voyage to China--away on the high seas, where no letter could reach him; and Mr. Edwards knew that. There was a fire in my heart now that burned with sharp pain. I felt as if it would burn my heart out. And now took shape and form one single aim and purpose, which became for years the foremost one of my life. It had been growing and gathering. I set it clear before me from this time. Meanwhile, my mother's daughter was not willing to be entirely baffled by the overseer. I arranged with Darry that I would be at the cemetery-hill on all pleasant Sunday afternoons, and that all who wished to hear me read, or who wished to learn themselves, might meet me there. The Sunday afternoons were often pleasant that winter. I was constantly at my post; and many a one crept round to me from the quarters and made his way through the graves and the trees to where I sat by the iron railing. We were safe there. Nobody but me liked the place. Miss Pinshon and the overseer agreed in shunning it. And there was promise in the blue sky, and hope in the soft sunshine, and sympathy in the sweet rustle of the pine-leaves. Why not? Are they not all God's voices? And the words of the Book were very precious there, to me and many another. I was rather more left to myself of late. My governess gave me my lessons quite as assiduously as ever; but after lesson-time she seemed to have something else to take her attention. She did not walk often with me as the spring drew near; and my Sunday afternoons were absolutely unquestioned. One day in March I had gone to my favourite place to get out a lesson. It was not Sunday afternoon, of course. I was tired with my day's work, or I was not very strong; for though I had work to do, the witcheries of nature prevailed with me to put down my book. The scent of pine-buds and flowers made the air sweet to smell, and the spring sun made it delicious to feel. The light won its way tenderly among the trees, touching the white marble tombstones behind me, but resting with a more gentle ray upon the moss and turf where only little bits of rough board marked the sleeping-places of our dependants. Just out of sight, through the still air I could hear the river, in its rippling, flow past the bank at the top of which I sat. My book hung in my hand, and the course of Universal History was forgotten, while I mused and mused over the two sorts of graves that lay around me, the two races, the diverse fate that attended them, while one blue sky was over, and one sunlight fell down. And "while I was musing the fire burned" more fiercely than ever David's had occasion when he wrote those words, "Then spake I with my tongue." I would have liked to do that. But I could do nothing; only pray. I was very much startled while I sat in my muse to hear a footstep coming. A steady, regular footstep; no light trip of children; and the hands were in the field, and this was not a step like any of them. My first thought was, the overseer's come to spy me out. The next minute I saw through the trees and the iron railings behind me that it was not the overseer. I knew _his_ wideawake; and this head was crowned with some sort of a cap. I turned my head again and sat quiet; willing to be overlooked, if that might be. The steps never slackened. I heard them coming round the railing--then just at the corner--I looked up to see the cap lifted, and a smile coming upon features that I knew; but my own thoughts were so very far away that my visitor had almost reached my side before I could recollect who it was. I remember I got up then in a little hurry. "It is Doctor Sandford!" I exclaimed, as his hand took mine. "Is it, Daisy?" answered the doctor. "I think so," I said. "And I _think_ so," he said, looking at me after the old fashion. "Sit down, and let me make sure." "You must sit on the grass, then," I said. "Not a bad thing, in such a pleasant place," he rejoined, sending his blue eye all round my prospect. "But it is not so pleasant a place as White Lake, Daisy." Such a flood of memories and happy associations came rushing into my mind at these words--he had not given them time to come in slowly. I suppose my face showed it, for the doctor looked at me and smiled as he said, "I see it _is_ Daisy; I think it is certainly Daisy. So you do not like Magnolia?" "Yes, I do," I said, wondering where he got that conclusion. "I like the _place_ very much, if----" "I should like to have the finishing of that 'if'--if you have no objection." "I like the _place_," I repeated. "There are some things about it I do not like." "Climate, perhaps?" "I did not mean the climate. I do not think I meant anything that belonged to the place itself." "How do you do?" was the doctor's next question. "I am very well, sir." "How do you know it?" "I suppose I am," I said. "I am not sick. I always say I am well." "For instance, you are so well that you never get tired?" "Oh I get tired very often. I always did." "What sort of things make you tired? Do you take too long drives in your pony-chaise?" "I have no pony-chaise now, Dr. Sandford. Loupe was left at Melbourne. I don't know what became of him." "Why didn't you bring him along? But any other pony would do, Daisy." "I don't drive at all, Dr. Sandford. My aunt and governess do not like to have me drive as I used to do. I wish I could!" "You would like to use your pony and chaise again?" "Very much. I know it would rest me." "And you have a governess, Daisy? That is something you had not at Melbourne." "No," I said. "A governess is a very nice thing," said the doctor, taking off his hat and leaning back against the iron railing, "if she knows properly how to set people to play." "To play!" I echoed. "I don't know whether Miss Pinshon approves of play." "Oh! She approves of work then, does she?" "She likes work," I answered. "Keeps you busy?" "Most of the day, sir." "The evenings you have to yourself?" "Sometimes. Not always. Sometimes I cannot get through with my lessons, and they stretch on into the evening." "How many lessons does this lady think a person of your age and capacity can manage in the twenty-four hours?" said the doctor, taking out his knife as he spoke and beginning to trim the thorns off a bit of sweetbriar he had cut. I stopped to make the reckoning. "Give me the course of your day, Daisy. And by-the-by when does your day begin?" "It begins at half past seven, Dr. Sandford." "With breakfast?" "No, sir. I have a recitation before breakfast." "Please of what?" "Miss Pinshon always begins with mathematics." "As a bitters. Do you find that it gives you an appetite?" By this time I was very near bursting into tears. The familiar voice and way, the old time they brought back, the contrasts they forced together, the different days of Melbourne and of my Southern home, the forms and voices of mamma and papa, they all came crowding and flitting before me. I was obliged to delay my answer. I knew that Dr. Sandford looked at me; then he went on in a very gentle way-- "Sweetbriar is sweet, Daisy,"--putting it to my nose. "I should like to know how long does mathematics last, before you are allowed to have coffee?" "Mathematics only lasts half an hour. But then I have an hour of study in mental philosophy before breakfast. We breakfast at nine." "It must take a great deal of coffee to wash down all that," said the doctor, lazily trimming his sweetbriar. "Don't you find that you are very hungry when you come to breakfast?" "No, not generally," I said. "How is that? where there is so much sharpening of the wits, people ought to be sharp otherwise." "My wits do not get sharpened," I said, half laughing. "I think they get dull; and I am often dull altogether by breakfast time." "What time in the day do you walk?" "In the afternoon, when we have done with the schoolroom. But lately Miss Pinshon does not walk much." "So you take the best of the day for philosophy?" "No, sir, for mathematics." "Oh! Well, Daisy, _after_ philosophy and mathematics have both had their turn, what then?--when breakfast is over." "Oh, they have two or three more turns in the course of the day," I said. "Astronomy comes after breakfast; then Smith's 'Wealth of Nations;' then chemistry. Then I have a long history lesson to recite; then French. After dinner we have natural philosophy, and physical geography and mathematics; and then we have generally done." "And then what is left of you goes to walk," said the doctor. "No, not very often now," I said. "I don't know why--Miss Pinshon has very much given up walking of late." "Then what becomes of you?" "I do not often want to do much of anything," I said. "To-day I came here." "With a book," said the doctor. "Is it work or play?" "My history lesson," I said, showing the book. "I had not quite time enough at home." "How much of a lesson, for instance?" said the doctor, taking the book and turning over the leaves. "I had to make a synopsis of the state of Europe from the third century to the tenth--synchronising the events and the names." "In writing?" "I might write it if I chose, I often do, but I had to give the synopsis from memory." "Does it take long to prepare, Daisy?" said the doctor, still turning over the leaves. "Pretty long," I said, "when I am stupid. Sometimes I _cannot_ do the synchronising, my head gets so thick; and I have to take two or three days for it." "Don't you get punished for letting your head get thick?" "Sometimes I do." "And what is the system of punishment at Magnolia for such deeds?" "I am kept in the house for the rest of the afternoon sometimes," I said; "or I have an extra problem in mathematics to get out for the next morning." "And _that_ keeps you in, if the governess don't." "Oh no," I said; "I never can work at it then. I get up earlier the next morning." "Do you do nothing for exercise but those walks, which you do not take?" "I used to ride last year," I said; "and this year I was stronger, and Miss Pinshon gave me more studies; and somehow I have not cared to ride so much. I have felt more like being still." "You must have grown tremendously wise, Daisy," said the doctor, looking round at me now with his old pleasant smile. I cannot tell the pleasure and comfort it was to me to see him; but I think I said nothing. "It is near the time now when you always leave Magnolia, is it not?" "Very near now." "Would it trouble you to have the time a little anticipated?" I looked at him, in much doubt what this might mean. The doctor fumbled in his breast pocket and fetched out a letter. "Just before your father sailed for China, he sent me this. It was some time before it reached me; and it was some time longer before I could act upon it." He put a letter in my hand, which I, wondering, read. It said, the letter did, that papa was not at ease about me; that he was not satisfied with my aunt's report of me, nor with the style of my late letters; and begged Dr. Sandford would run down to Magnolia at his earliest convenience and see me, and make inquiry as to my well-being; and if he found things not satisfactory, as my father feared he might, and judge that the rule of Miss Pinshon had not been good for me on the whole, my father desired that Dr. Sandford would take measures to have me removed to the North and placed in one of the best schools there to be found; such a one as Mrs. Sandford might recommend. The letter further desired that Dr. Sandford would keep a regular watch over my health, and suffer no school training nor anything else to interfere with it; expressing the writer's confidence that Dr. Sandford knew better than any one what was good for me. "So you see, Daisy," the doctor said, when I handed him back the letter, "your father has constituted me in some sort your guardian until such time as he comes back." "I am very glad," I said, smiling. "Are you? That is kind. I am going to act upon my authority immediately, and take you away." "From Magnolia?" I said breathlessly. "Yes. Wouldn't you like to go and see Melbourne again for a little while?" "Melbourne!" said I; and I remember how my cheeks grew warm. "But--will Miss Pinshon go to Melbourne?" "No; she will not. Nor anywhere else, Daisy, with my will and permission, where you go. Will that distress you very much?" I could not say yes, and I believe I made no answer, my thoughts were in such a whirl. "Is Mrs. Sandford in Melbourne--I mean, near Melbourne--now?" I asked at length. "No, she is in Washington. But she will be going to the old place before long. Would you like to go, Daisy?" I could hardly tell him. I could hardly think. It began to rush over me, that this parting from Magnolia was likely to be for a longer time than usual. The river murmured by--the sunlight shone on the groves on the hillside. Who would look after my poor people? "You like Magnolia after all?" said the doctor. "I do not wonder, so far as Magnolia goes, you are sorry to leave it." "No," I said, "I am not sorry at all to leave Magnolia; I am very glad. I am only sorry to leave--some friends." "Friends?" said the doctor. "Yes." "How many friends?" "I don't know," said I. "I think there are a hundred or more." "Seriously?" "Oh yes," I said. "They are all on the place here." "How long will you want, Daisy, to take proper leave of these friends?" I had no idea he was in such practical haste; but I found it was so. CHAPTER VIII. EGYPTIAN GLASS. It became necessary for me to think how soon I could be ready, and arrange to get my leave-takings over by a certain time. Dr. Sandford could not wait for me. He was an army surgeon now, I found, and stationed at Washington. He had to return to his post and leave Miss Pinshon to bring me up to Washington. I fancy matters were easily arranged with Miss Pinshon. She was as meek as a lamb. But it never was her way to fight against circumstances. The doctor ordered that I should come up to Washington in a week or two. I did not know till he was gone what a hard week it was going to be. As soon as he had turned his back upon Magnolia, my leave-takings began. I may say they began sooner; for in the morning after his arrival, when Margaret was in my room, she fell to questioning me about the truth of the rumour that had reached the kitchen. Jem said I was going away, not to come back. I do not know how he had got hold of the notion. And when I told her it was true, she dropped the pine splinters out of her hands, and rising to her feet, besought me that I would take her with me. So eagerly she besought me, that I had much difficulty to answer. "I shall be in a school, Margaret," I said. "I could not have anybody there to wait on me." "Miss Daisy won't never do everything for herself?" "Yes, I must," I said. "All the girls do." "I'd hire out then, Miss Daisy, while you don't want me--I'd be right smart--and I'd bring all my earnin's to you regular. 'Deed I will! Till Miss Daisy want me herself." I felt my cheeks flush. She would bring _her_ earnings to _me_. Yes, that was what we were doing. "'Clar, Miss Daisy, do don't leave me behind! I could take washin' and do all Miss Daisy's things up right smart--don't believe they knows how to do things up there!--I'll come to no good if I don't go with Miss Daisy, sure." "You can be good here as well as anywhere, Margaret," I said. "Miss Daisy don' know. Miss Daisy, s'pose the devil walkin' round about a place; think it a nice place fur to be good in?" "The devil is not in Magnolia more than anywhere else," I said. "Dere Mass' Edwards--" Margaret said half under her breath. Even in my room she would not speak the name out loud. The end of it was, that I wrote up to Washington to Dr. Sandford to ask if I might take the girl with me; and his answer came back, that if it were any pleasure to me I certainly might. So that matter was settled. But the parting with the rest was hard. I do not know whether it was hardest for them or for me. Darry blessed me and prayed for me. Maria wept over me. Theresa mourned and lamented. Tears and wailings came from all the poor women who knew me best and used to come to the Sunday readings: and Pete took occasion to make private request, that when I was grown, or when at any time I should want a manservant, I would remember and send for him. He could do anything, he said; he could drive horses or milk cows or take care of a garden, or _cook_. It was said in a subdued voice, and though with a gleam of his white circle of teeth at the last-mentioned accomplishment, it was said with a depth of grave earnestness which troubled me. I promised as well as I could; but my heart was very sore for my poor people, left now without anybody, even so much as a child, to look after their comfort and give them any hopes for one world or the other. Those heavy days were done at last. Margaret was speedy with my packing; a week from the time of Dr. Sandford's coming, I had said my last lesson to Miss Pinshon, read my last reading to my poor people, shaken the last hand-shakings; and we were on the little steamer plying down the Sands river. I think I was wearied out, for I remember no excitement or interest about the journey, which ought to have had so much for me. In a passive state of mind I followed Miss Pinshon from steamer to station; from one train of cars to another; and saw the familiar landscape flit before me as the cars whirled us on. At Baytown we had been joined by a gentleman who went with us all the rest of the way; and I began by degrees to comprehend that my governess had changed her vocation, and instead of taking care, as heretofore, was going to be taken care of. It did not interest me. I saw it, that was all. I saw Margaret's delight, too, shown by every quick and thoughtful movement that could be of any service to me, and by a certain inexpressible air of deliverance which sat on her, I cannot tell how, from her bonnet down to her shoes. But her delight reminded me of those that were not delivered. I think of all the crushing griefs that a young person can be called to bear, one of the sorest is the feeling of wrongdoing on the part of a beloved father or mother. I was sure that my father, blinded by old habit and bound by the laws of the country, did not in the least degree realise the true state of the matter. I knew that the real colour of his gold had never been seen by him. Not the less, _I_ knew now that it was bloody; and what was worse, though I do not know _why_ it should be worse, I knew that it was soiled. I knew that greed and dishonour were the two collectors of our revenue, and _wrong_ our agent. Do I use strong words? They are not too strong for the feelings which constantly bore upon my heart, nor too bitter; though my childish heart never put them into such words at the time. That my father did not know, saved my love and reverence for him; but it did not change anything else. In the last stage of our journey, as we left a station where the train had stopped, I noticed a little book left on one of the empty seats of the car. It lay there and nobody touched it: till we were leaving the car at Alexandria and almost everybody had gone out, and I saw that it lay there still and nobody would claim it. In passing I took it up. It was a neat little book, with gilt edges, no name in it, and having its pages numbered for the days of the year. And each page was full of Bible words. It looked nice. I put the book in my pocket; and on board the ferry-boat opened it again, and looked for the date of the day in March where we were. I found the words--"He preserveth the way of his saints." They were the words heading the page. I had not time for another bit; but as I left the boat this went into my heart like a cordial. It was a damp, dark morning. The air was chill as we left the little boat cabin; the streets were dirty; there was a confusion of people seeking carriages or porters or baggage or custom; then suddenly I felt as if I had lighted on a tower of strength, for Dr. Sandford stood at my side. A good-humoured sort of a tower he looked to me, in his steady, upright bearing; and his military coat helped the impression of that. I can see now his touch of his cap to Miss Pinshon, and then the quick glance which took in Margaret and me. In another minute I had shaken hands with my governess, and was in a carriage with Margaret opposite me; and Dr. Sandford was giving my baggage in charge to somebody. And then he took his place beside me and we drove off. And I drew a long breath. "Punctual to your time, Daisy," said the doctor. "But what made you choose such a time? How much of yourself have you left by the way?" "Miss Pinshon liked better to travel all night," I said, "because there was no place where she liked to stop to spend the night." "What was your opinion on that subject?" "I was more tired than she was, I suppose." "Has she managed things on the same system for the four years past?" The doctor put the question with such a cool gravity, that I could not help laughing. Yet I believe my laughing was very near crying. At first he did so put me in mind of all that was about me when I used to see him in that time long before. And an inexpressible feeling of comfort was in his presence now; a feeling of being taken care of. I had been looked after, undoubtedly, all these years--sharply looked after; there was never a night that I could go to sleep without my governess coming in to see that I was in my room, or in bed, and my clothes in order, and my light where it ought to be. And my aunt had not forgotten me, nor her perplexities about me. And Preston had petted me when he was near. But even Preston sometimes lost sight of me in the urgency of his own pleasure or business. There was a great difference in the strong hand of Dr. Sandford's care; and if you had ever looked into his blue eyes, you would know that they forgot nothing. They had always fascinated me; they did now. Mrs. Sandford was not up when we got to the house where she was staying. It was no matter, for a room was ready for me; and Dr. Sandford had a nice little breakfast brought, and saw me eat it, just as if I were a patient. Then he ordered me to bed, and charged Margaret to watch over me, and he went away, as he said, till luncheon time. I drew two or three long breaths as Margaret was undressing me; I felt so comfortable. "Are Miss Pinshon done gone away, Miss Daisy?" my handmaid asked. "From Magnolia? yes." "Where she gwine to?" "I don't know." "Then she don't go furder along the way we're goin'?" "No. I wonder, Margaret, if they will have any prayer-meetings in Magnolia now?" For with the mention of Magnolia my thoughts swept back. "'Spect the overseer have his ugly old way!" Margaret uttered with great disgust. "Miss Daisy done promise me, I go 'long with Miss Daisy?" she added. "Yes. But what makes _you_ want to get away from home more than all the rest of them?" "Reckon I'd done gone kill myself, s'pose Miss Daisy leave me there," the girl said gloomily. "If dey send me down South, I _would_." "Send you South!" I said; "they would not do that, Margaret." "Dere was man wantin' to buy me--give mighty high price, de overseer said." In excitement Margaret's tongue sometimes grew thick, like those of her neighbours. "Mr. Edwards has no right to sell anybody away from the place," I insisted, in mixed unbelief and horror. "Dunno," said Margaret. "Don't make no difference, Miss Daisy. Who care what he do? Dere's Pete's wife--" "Pete's wife?" said I. "I didn't know Pete was married! What of Pete's wife?" "Dat doctor will kill me, for sure!" said Margaret, looking at me. "Do, don't, Miss Daisy! The doctor say you must go right to bed, now. See! you ain't got your clothes off." "Stop," said I. "What about Pete's wife?" "I done forget. I thought Miss Daisy knowed. Mebbe it's before Miss Daisy come home." "What?" said I. "What?" "It's nothin', Miss Daisy. The overseer he done got mad with Pete's wife and he sold her down South, he did." "Away from Pete?" said I. "Pete, he's to de old place," said Margaret, laconically. "'Spect he forgot all about it by dis time. Miss Daisy please have her clothes off and go to bed?" There was nothing more to wait for. I submitted, was undressed; but the rest and sleep which had been desired were far out of reach now. Pete's wife?--my good, strong, gentle, and I remembered always _grave_, Pete! My heart was on fire with indignation and torn to pieces with sorrow, both at once. Torn with the helpless feeling too that I could not mend the wrong. I do not mean this individual wrong, but the whole state of things under which such wrong was possible. I was restless on my bed, though very weary. I would rather have been up and doing something, than to lie and look at my trouble; only that being there kept me out of the way of seeing people and of talking. Such things done under my father and mother's own authority,--on their own land--to their own helpless dependants; whom yet it was _they_ made helpless and kept subject to such possibilities. I turned and tossed, feeling that I _must_ do something, while yet I knew I could do nothing. Pete's wife! And where was she now? And _that_ was the secret of the unvarying grave shadow that Pete's brow always wore. And now that I had quitted Magnolia, no human friend for the present remained to all that crowd of poor and ignorant and needy humanity. Even their comfort of prayer forbidden; except such comfort as each believer might take by himself alone. I did not know, I never did know till long after, how to many at Magnolia that prohibition wrought no harm. I think Margaret knew, and even then did not dare tell me. How the meetings for prayer were not stopped. How watch was kept on certain nights, till all stir had ceased in the little community; till lights were out in the overseer's house (and at the great house, while we were there); and how then, silently and softly from their several cabins, the people stole away through the woods to a little hill beyond the cemetery, quite far out of hearing or ken of anybody; and there prayed, and sang too, and "praised God and shouted," as my informant told me; not neglecting all the while to keep a picket watch about their meeting-place, to give the alarm in case anybody should come. So under the soft moonlight skies and at depth of night, the meetings which I had supposed broken up, took new life, and grew, and lived; and prayers did not fail; and the Lord hearkened and heard. It would have comforted me greatly if I could have known this at the time. But, as I said, I supposed Margaret dared not tell me. After a long time of weary tossing and heartache, sleep came at last to me; but it brought Pete and his wife and the overseer and Margaret in new combinations of trouble; and I got little refreshment. "Now you have waked up, Miss Daisy?" said Margaret when I opened my eyes. "That poundin' noise has done waked you!" "What noise?" "It's no Christian noise," said Margaret. "What's the use of turnin' the house into a clap of thunder like that? But a man was makin' it o' purpose, for I went out to see; and he telled me it was to call folks to luncheon. Will you get up, Miss Daisy?" Margaret spoke as if she thought I had much better lie still; but I was weary of the comfort I had found there and disposed to try something else. I had just time to be ready before Dr. Sandford came for me and took me to his sister-in-law. Mrs. Sandford welcomed me with great kindness, even tenderness; exclaimed at my growth; but I saw by her glance at the doctor that my appearance in other respects struck her unfavourably. He made no answer to that, but carried us off to the luncheon-room. There were other people lodging in the house besides my friends; a long table was spread. Dr. Sandford, I saw, was an immense favourite. Questions and demands upon his attention came thick and fast from both ends and all sides of the table; about all sorts of subjects and in all manner of tones, grave and gay. And he was at home to them all, but in the midst of it never forgot me. He took careful heed to my luncheon; prepared one thing, and called for another; it reminded me of a time long gone by; but it did not help me to eat. I could not eat. The last thing he did was to call for a fresh raw egg, and break it into a half glass of milk. With this in his hand we left the dining-room. As soon as we got to Mrs. Sandford's parlour he gave it to me and ordered me to swallow it. I suppose I looked dismayed. "Poor child!" said Mrs. Sandford. "Let me have it beaten up for her, Grant, with some sugar; she can't take it so." "Daisy has done harder things," he said. I saw he expected me to drink it, and so I did, I do not know how. "Thank you," he said smiling, as he took the glass. "Now sit down and I will talk to you." "How she is growing tall, Grant!" said Mrs. Sandford. "Yes," said he. "Did you sleep well, Daisy?" "No, sir; I couldn't sleep. And then I dreamed." "Dreaming is not a proper way of resting. So tired you could not sleep?" "I do not think it was that, Dr. Sandford." "Do you know what it was?" "I think I do," I said, a little unwillingly. "She is getting very much the look of her mother," Mrs. Sandford remarked again. "Don't you see it, Grant?" "I see more than that," he answered. "Daisy, do you think this governess of yours has been a good governess?" I looked wearily out of the window, and cast a weary mental look over the four years of algebraics and philosophy at the bright little child I saw at the further end of them. "I think I have grown dull, Dr. Sandford," I said. He came up behind me, and put his arms round me, taking my hand in his, and spoke in quite a different tone. "Daisy, have you found many 'wonderful things' at Magnolia?" I looked up, I remember, with the eagerness of a heart full of thoughts, in his face; but I could not speak then. "Have you looked through a microscope since you have been there, and made discoveries?" "Not in natural things, Dr. Sandford." "Ha!" said the doctor. "Do you want to go and take a drive with me?" "Oh yes!" "Go and get ready then, please." I had a very pleasant, quiet drive; the doctor showing me, as he said, not wonderful things but new things, and taking means to amuse me. And every day for several days I had a drive. Sometimes we went to the country, sometimes got out and examined something in the city. There was a soothing relief in it all, and in the watchful care taken of me at home, and the absence of mathematics and philosophy. All day when not driving or at meals, I lay on Mrs. Sandford's sofa or curled myself up in the depth of a great easy-chair, and turned over her books; or studied my own blue book which I had picked up in the car, and which was so little I had Margaret to make a big pocket in my frock to hold it. But this life was not to last. A few days was all Mrs. Sandford had to spend in Washington. The place I liked best to go to was the Capitol. Several times Dr. Sandford took me there, and showed me the various great rooms, and paintings, and smaller rooms with their beautiful adornments; and I watched the workmen at work; for the renewing of the building was not yet finished. As long as he had time to spare, Dr. Sandford let me amuse myself as I would; and often got me into talks which refreshed me more than anything. Still, though I was soothed, my trouble at heart was not gone. One day we were sitting looking at the pictures in the great vestibule, when Dr. Sandford suddenly started a subject which put the Capitol out of my head. "Daisy," said he, "was it your wish or Margaret's, that she should go North with you?" "Hers," I said, startled. "Then it is not yours particularly." "Yes, it is, Dr. Sandford, _very_ particularly." "How is that?" said he. I hesitated. I shrank from the whole subject; it was so extremely sore to me. "I ought to warn you," he went on, "that if you take her further, she may, if she likes, leave you, and claim her freedom. That is the law. If her owner takes her into the free States, she may remain in them if she will, whether he does or not." I was silent still, for the whole thing choked me. I was quite willing she should have her freedom, get it any way she could; but there was my father, and his pleasure and interest, which might not choose to lose a piece of his property; and my mother and _her_ interest and pleasure; I knew what both would be. I was dumb. "You had not thought of this before?" the doctor went on. "No, sir." "Does it not change your mind about taking her on?" "No, sir." "Did it ever occur to you, or rather, does it not occur to you now, that the girl's design in coming may have been this very purpose of her freedom?" "I do not think it was," I said. "Even if not, it will be surely put in her head by other people before she has been at the North long; and she will know that she is her own mistress." I was silent still. I knew that I wished she might. "Do you think," Dr. Sandford went on, "that in this view of the case we had better send her back to Magnolia when you leave Washington?" "No," I said. "I think it would be better," he repeated. "Oh, no!" I said. "Oh, no, Dr. Sandford. I can't send her back. You will not send her back, will you?" "Be quiet," he said, holding fast the hand which in my earnestness I had put in his; "she is not my servant; she is yours; it is for you to say what you will do." "I will not send her back," I said. "But it may be right to consider what would be Mr. Randolph's wish on the subject. If you take her, he may lose several hundred dollars' worth of property: it is right for me to warn you. Would he choose to run the risk?" I remember now what a fire at my heart sent the blood to my face. But with my hand in Dr. Sandford's, and those blue eyes of his reading me, I could not keep back my thought. "She ought to be her own mistress," I said. A brilliant flash of expression filled the blue eyes and crossed his face--I could hardly tell what, before it was gone. Quick surprise--pleasure--amusement--agreement; the first and the two last certainly; and the pleasure I could not help fancying had lent its colour to that ray of light which had shot for one instant from those impenetrable eyes. He spoke just as usual. "But, Daisy, have you studied this question?" "I think I have studied nothing else, Dr. Sandford." "You know the girl is not yours, but your father's." "She isn't anybody's," I said slowly, and with slow tears gathering in my heart. "How do you mean?" said he, with again the quiver of a smile upon his lips. "I mean," I said, struggling with my thoughts and myself, "I mean that nobody could have a right to her." "Did not her parents belong to your father?" "To my mother." "Then she does." "But, Dr. Sandford," I said, "nobody _can_ belong to anybody--in that way." "How do you make it out, Daisy?" "Because nobody can give anybody a _right_ to anybody else in that way." "Does it not give your mother a right, that the mother of this girl and her grandmother were the property of your ancestors?" "They could not be their property justly," I said, glad to get back to my ancestors. "The law made it so." "Not God's law, Dr. Sandford," I said, looking up at him. "No? Does not that law give a man a right to what he has honestly bought?" "No," I said, "it _can't_--not if it has been dishonestly sold." "Explain, Daisy," said Dr. Sandford, very quietly; but I saw the gleam of that light in his eye again. I had gone too far to stop. I went on, ready to break my heart over the right and wrong I was separating. "I mean, the _first_ people that sold the first of these coloured people," I said. "Well?" said the doctor. "They could not have a right to sell them." "Yes. Well?" "Then the people that bought them could not have a right, any more," I said. "But, Daisy," said Dr. Sandford, "do you know that there are different opinions on this very point?" I was silent. It made no difference to me. "Suppose for the moment that the first people, as you say, had no precise right to sell the men and women they brought to this country; yet those who bought them and paid honest money for them, and possessed them from generation to generation--had not _they_ a right to pass them off upon other hands, receiving their money back again?" "I don't know how to explain it," I said. "I mean--if at first--Dr. Sandford, hadn't the people that were sold, hadn't they rights too?" "Rights of what sort?" "A right to do what they liked with themselves, and to earn money, and to keep their wives?" "But those rights were lost, you know, Daisy." "But _could_ they be?" I said. "I mean--Dr. Sandford, for instance, suppose somebody stole your watch from you; would you lose the right to it?" "It _seems_ to me that I should not, Daisy." "That is what I mean," I said. "But there is another view of the case, Daisy. Take Margaret, for instance. From the time she was a child, your father's, or your mother's money has gone to support her; her food and clothing and living have been wholly at their expense. Does not that give them a right to her services? ought they not to be repaid?" I did not want to speak of my father and mother and Margaret. It was coming too near home. I knew the food and clothing Dr. Sandford spoke of; I knew a very few months of a Northern servant's wages would have paid for it all; was this girl's whole life to be taken from her, and by my father and mother, and for such a cause? The feeling of grief and wrong and shame got possession of me. I was ready to break my heart in tears; but I could not show Dr. Sandford what I felt, nor confess to what I thought of my father's action. I had the greatest struggle with myself not to give way and cry. I was very weak bodily, but I know I stood still and did not shed a tear; till I felt Dr. Sandford's hands take hold of me. They put me gently back in the chair from which I had risen. "What is the matter, Daisy?" he said. I would not speak, and he did not urge it; but I saw that he watched me till I gained command of myself again. "Shall we go home now?" he asked. "In a minute. Dr. Sandford, I do not think papa knows about all this--I do not think he knows about it as I do. I am sure he does not; and when he knows he will think as I do." "Or perhaps you will think as he does." I was silent. I wondered if that could be possible--if I too could have my eyes blinded as I saw other people's were. "Little Daisy," said my friend the doctor, "but you are getting to be not _little_ Daisy. How old are you?" "I shall be fourteen in June." "Fourteen. Well, it is no wonder that my friend whom I left a philosopher at ten years old, I should find a woman at fourteen; but Daisy, you must not take it on your heart that you have to teach all the ignorant and help all the distressed that come in your way; because simply you cannot do it." I looked up at him. I could not tell him what I thought, because he would not, I feared, understand it. Christ came to do just such work, and His servants must have it on their hearts to do the same. I cannot tell what was in my look, but I thought the doctor's face changed. "One Molly Skelton will do for one four years," he said as he rose up. "Come, Daisy." "But, Dr. Sandford," I said, as I followed him, "you will not do anything about sending Margaret back?" "Nothing, till you do, Daisy." Arrived at home, the doctor made me drink a raw egg, and lie down on Mrs. Sandford's sofa; and he sat down and looked at me. "You are the most troublesome patient that ever I had," said he. "I am?" I exclaimed. "Yes. Quite innocently. You cannot help it, Daisy; and you need not be troubled about it. It is all in the way of my profession. It is as if a delicate vessel of Egyptian glass were put to do the work of an iron smelting furnace; and I have to think of all the possible bands and hardening appliances that can be brought into use for the occasion." "I do not understand," I said. "No; I suppose not. That is the worst of it." "But why am I an _Egyptian_ glass?" I asked. "I am not very old." The doctor gave me one of those quick, bright glances and smiles that were very pleasant to get from him and not very common. There came a sort of glow and sparkle in his blue eye then, and a wonderful winsome and gracious trick of the lips. "It is a very doubtful sort of a compliment," said Mrs. Sandford. "I did not mean it for a compliment at all," said the doctor. "I don't believe you did," said his sister; "but what _did_ you mean? Grant, I should like to hear you pay a compliment for once." "You do not know Egyptian glass," said the doctor. "No. What was it?" "Very curious." "Didn't I say that you couldn't pay compliments?" said Mrs. Sandford. "And unlike any that is made nowadays. There were curious patterns wrought in the glass, made, it is supposed, by the fusing together of rods of glass, extremely minute, of different colours; so that the pattern once formed was ineffaceable and indestructible, unless by the destruction of the vessel which contained it. Sometimes a layer of gold was introduced between the layers of glass." "How very curious!" said Mrs. Sandford. "I think I must take you into consultation, Daisy," the doctor went on, turning to me. "It is found that there must be a little delay before you can go up to take a look at Melbourne. Mrs. Sandford is obliged to stop in New York with a sick sister; how long she may be kept there it is impossible to say. Now you would have a dull time, I am afraid; and I am in doubt whether it would not be pleasanter for you to enter school at once. In about three months the school term will end and the summer vacation begin; by that time Mrs. Sandford will be at home and the country ready to receive you. But you shall do whichever you like best." "Mrs. Sandford will be in New York," I said. "Yes." "And I would see you constantly, dear, and have you with me all the Saturdays and Sundays and holidays. And if you like it better, you shall be with me all the time; only I should be obliged to leave you alone too much." "How long does the summer vacation last?" I inquired. "Till some time in September. You can enter school now or then, as you choose." I thought and hesitated, and said I would enter at once. Dr. Sandford said I was not fit for it, but it was on the whole the best plan. So it was arranged, that I should just wait a day or two in New York to get my wardrobe in order and then begin my school experience. But my thoughts went back afterwards, more than once, to the former conversation; and I wondered what it was about me that made Dr. Sandford liken me to Egyptian glass. CHAPTER IX. SHOPPING. It was settled that I should wait a day or two in New York to get my wardrobe arranged, and then begin my school experience. But when we got to New York, we found Mrs. Sandford's sister so ill as to claim her whole time. There was none to spare for me and my wardrobe. Mrs. Sandford said I must attend to it myself as well as I could, and the doctor would go with me. He was off duty, he reported, and at leisure for ladies' affairs. Mrs. Sandford told me what I would need. A warm school dress, she said; for the days would be often cold in this latitude until May, and even later; and schoolrooms not always warm. A warm dress for every day was the first thing. A fine merino, Mrs. Sandford said, would be, she thought, what my mother would choose. I had silks which might be warm enough for other occasions. Then I must have a thick coat or cloak. Long coats, with sleeves, were fashionable then, she told me; the doctor would take me where I would find plenty to choose from. And I needed a hat, or a bonnet. Unless, Mrs. Sandford said, I chose to wear my riding-cap with the feather; that was warm, and very pretty, and would do. How much would it all cost? I asked. Mrs. Sandford made a rapid calculation. The merino would be two dollars a yard, she said; the coat might be got for thirty-five or thereabouts sufficiently good; the hat was entirely what I chose to make it. "But you know, my dear," Mrs. Sandford said, "the sort of quality and style your mother likes, and you will be guided by that." Must I be guided by that?--I questioned with myself. Yes, I knew. I knew very well; but I had other things to think of. I pondered. While I was pondering, Dr. Sandford was quietly opening his pocket-book and unfolding a roll of bills. He put a number of them into my hand. "That will cover it all, Daisy," he said. "It is money your father has made over to my keeping, for this and similar purposes." "Oh, thank you!" I said, breathless; and then I counted the bills. "Oh, thank you, Dr. Sandford: but may I spend all this?" "Certainly. Mr. Randolph desired it should go, this and more of it, to your expenses, of whatever kind. This covers my sister's estimate, and leaves something for your pocket besides." "And when shall we go?" I asked. "To spend it? Now, if you like. Why, Daisy, I did not know--" "What, sir?" I said as he paused. "Really, nothing," he said, smiling. "Somehow I had not fancied that you shared the passion of your sex for what they call _shopping_. You are all alike in some things." "I like it very much to-day," I said. "It would be safe for you to keep Daisy's money in your own pocket, Grant," Mrs. Sandford said. "It will be stolen from her, certainly." The doctor smiled and stretched out his hand; I put the bills into it: and away we went. My head was very busy. I knew, as Mrs. Sandford said, the sort and style of purchases my mother would make and approve; but then on the other hand the remembrance was burnt into me, whence that money came which I was expected to spend so freely, and what other uses and calls for it there were, even in the case of those very people whose hands had earned it for us. Not to go further, Margaret's wardrobe needed refitting quite as much as mine. She was quite as unaccustomed as I to the chills and blasts of a cold climate, and fully as unfurnished to meet them. I had seen her draw her thin checked shawl around her, when I knew it was not enough to save her from the weather, and that she had no more. And her gowns, of thin cotton stuff, such as she wore about her housework at Magnolia, were a bare provision against the nipping bite of the air here at the North. Yet nobody spoke of any addition to _her_ stock of clothes. It was on my heart alone. But now it was in my hand too, and I felt very glad; though just how to manage Dr. Sandford I did not know. I thought a great deal about the whole matter as we went through the streets; as I had also thought long before; and my mind was clear, that while so many whom I knew needed the money, or while _any_ whom I knew needed it, I would spend no useless dollars upon myself. How should I manage Dr. Sandford? There he was, my cash-keeper; and I had not the least wish to unfold my plans to him. "I suppose the dress is the first thing, Daisy," he said, as we entered the great establishment where everything was to be had; and he inquired for the counter where we should find merinoes. I had no objection ready. "What colour, Daisy?" "I want something quiet," I said. "Something dark," said the doctor, seating himself. "And fine quality. Not green, Daisy, if I might advise. It is too cold." "Cold!" said I. "For this season. It is a very nice colour in summer, Daisy," he said, smiling. And he looked on in a kind of amused way, while the clerk of the merinoes and I confronted each other. There was displayed now before me a piece of claret-coloured stuff, dark and bright; a lovely tint and a very beautiful piece of goods. I knew enough of the matter to know that. Fine and thick and lustrous, it just suited my fancy; I knew it was just what my mother would buy; I saw Dr. Sandford's eye watch me in its amusement with a glance of expectation. But the stuff was two dollars and a quarter a yard. Yes, it suited me exactly; but what was to become of others if I were covered so luxuriously? And how could I save money if I spent it? It was hard to speak, too, before that shopman, who held the merino in his hand, expecting me to say I would take it; but I had no way to escape that trouble. I turned from the rich folds of claret stuff to the doctor at my side. "Dr. Sandford," I said, "I want to get something that will not cost so much." "Does it not please you?" he asked. "Yes; I like it: but I want some stuff that will not cost so much." "This is not far above my sister's estimate, Daisy." "No--" I said. "And the difference is a trifle--if you like the piece." "I like it," I said; "but it is very much above _my_ estimate." "You had one of your own!" said the doctor. "Do you like something else here better?--or what is your estimate, Daisy?" "I do not want a poor merino," I said. "I would rather get some other stuff--if I can. I do not want to give more than a dollar." "The young lady may find what will suit her at the plaid counter," said the shopman, letting fall the rich drapery he had been holding up. "Just round that corner, sir, to the left." Dr. Sandford led the way, and I followed. There certainly I found plenty of warm stuffs, in various patterns and colours, and with prices as various. But nothing to match the grave elegance of those claret folds. It was coming down a step, to leave that counter for this. I knew it perfectly well; while I sought out the simplest and prettiest dark small plaid I could find. "Do you like these things better?" the doctor asked me privately. "No, sir," I said. "Then why come here, Daisy? Pardon me, may I ask?" "I have other things to get, Dr. Sandford," I said low. "But Daisy!" said the doctor, rousing up, "I have performed my part ill. You are not restricted--your father has not restricted you. I am your banker for whatever sums you may need--for whatever purposes." "Yes," I said, "I know. Oh no, I know papa has not restricted you; but I think I ought not to spend any more. It is my own affair." "And not mine. Pardon me, Daisy; I submit." "Please, Dr. Sandford, don't speak so!" I said. "I don't mean that. I mean, it is my own affair and not papa's." "Certainly, I have no more to say," said the doctor, smiling. "I will tell you all about it," I said; and then I desired the shopman to cut off the dress I had fixed upon; and we went upstairs to look for cloaks, I feeling hot and confused and half perplexed. I had never worn such a dress as this plaid I had bought in my life. It was nice and good, and pretty too; but it did not match the quality or the elegance of the things my mother always had got for me. _She_ would not have liked it nor let me wear it; I knew that; but then--whence came the wealth that flowed over in such exquisite forms upon her and upon me? Were not its original and proper channels bare? And whence were they to be, even in any measure, refilled, if all the supply must, as usual, be led off in other directions? I mused as I went up the stairs, feeling perplexed, nevertheless, at the strangeness of the work I was doing, and with something in my heart giving a pull at my judgment towards the side of what was undoubtedly "pleasant to the eyes." So I followed Dr. Sandford up the stairs and into the wilderness of the cloak department, where all manner of elegancies, in silk, and velvet, and cloth, were displayed in orderly confusion. It was a wilderness to me, in the mood of my thoughts. Was I going to repeat here the process just gone through downstairs? The doctor seated me, asked what I wanted to see, and gave the order. And forthwith my eyes were regaled with a variety of temptations. A nice little black silk pelisse was hung on the stand opposite me; it was nice; a good gloss was upon the silk, the article was in the neatest style, and trimmed with great simplicity. I would have been well satisfied to wear that. By its side was displayed another of velvet; then yet another of very fine dark cloth; perfect in material and make, faultless in its elegance of finish. But the silk was forty-five and the cloth was forty, and the velvet was sixty dollars. I sat and looked at them. There is no denying that I wanted the silk or the cloth. Either of them would do. Either of them was utterly girl-like and plain, but both of them had the finish of perfection, in make, style, and material. I wanted the one or the other. But, if I had it, what would be left for Margaret? "Are you tired, Daisy?" said Dr. Sandford, bending down to look in my face. "No, sir. At least, that was not what I was thinking of." "When then?" said he. "Will one of these do?" "They would do," I said slowly. "But, Dr. Sandford, I should like to see something else--something that would do for somebody that was poorer than I." "Poorer?" said the doctor, looking funny. "What is the matter, Daisy? Have you suddenly become bankrupt? You need not be afraid, for the bank is in my pocket; and I know it will stand all your demands upon it." "No, but--I would indeed, if you please, Dr. Sandford. These things cost too much for what I want now." "Do you like them?" "I like them very well." "Then take whichever you like best. That is my advice to you, Daisy. The bank will bear it." "I think I must not. Please, Dr. Sandford, I should like to see something that would not cost so much. Do they _all_ cost as much as these?" The doctor gave the order as I desired. The shopman who was serving us cast another comprehensive glance at me--I had seen him give one at the beginning--and tossing off the velvet coat and twisting off the silk one, he walked away. Presently he came back with a brown silk, which he hung in the place of the velvet one, and a blue cloth, which replaced the black silk. Every whit as costly, and almost as pretty, both of them. "No," said the doctor,--"you mistook me. We want to look at some goods fitted for persons who have not long purses." "Something inferior to these--" said the man. He was not uncivil; he just stated the fact. In accordance with which he replaced the last two coats with a little grey dreadnought, and a black cloth; the first neat and rough, the last not to be looked at. It was not in good taste, and a sort of thing that I neither had worn nor could wear. But the grey dreadnought was simple and warm and neat, and would offend nobody. I looked from it to the pretty black cloth which still hung in contrast with it, the one of the first there. Certainly, in style and elegance _this_ looked like my mother's child, and the other did not. But this was forty dollars. The dreadnought was exactly half that sum. I had a little debate with myself--I remember it, for it was my first experience of that kind of thing--and all my mother's training had refined in me the sense of what was elegant and fitting, in dress as well as in other matters. Until now, I had never had my fancy crossed by anything I ever had to wear. The little grey dreadnought--how would it go with my silk dresses? It was like what I had seen other people dressed in; never my mother or me. Yet it was perfectly fitting a lady's child, if she could not afford other; and where was Margaret's cloak to come from? And who had the best right? I pondered and debated, and then I told Dr. Sandford I would have the grey coat. I believe I half wished he would make some objection; but he did not; he paid for the dreadnought and ordered it sent home; and then I began to congratulate myself that Margaret's comfort was secure. "Is that all, Daisy?" my friend asked. "Dr. Sandford," said I, standing up and speaking low, "I want to find--can I find here, do you think?--a good warm cloak and dress for Margaret." "For Margaret?" said the doctor. "Yes; she is not used to the cold, you know; and she has nothing to keep her comfortable." "But, Daisy!" said the doctor,--"sit down here again; I must understand this. Was _Margaret_ at the bottom of all these financial operations?" "I knew she wanted something, ever since we came from Washington," I said. "Daisy, she could have had it." "Yes, Dr. Sandford;--but--" "But what, if you will be so good?" "I think it was right for me to get it." "I am sorry I do not agree with you at all. It was for _me_ to get it--I am supplied with funds, Daisy--and your father has entrusted to me the making of all arrangements which are in any way good for your comfort. I think, with your leave, I shall reverse these bargains. Have you been all this time pleasing Margaret and _not_ yourself?" "No, sir," I said,--"if you please. I cannot explain it, Dr. Sandford, but I know it is right." "What is right, Daisy? My faculties are stupid." "No, sir; but--Let it be as it is, please." "But won't you explain it? I ought to know what I am giving my consent to, Daisy; for just now I am constituted your guardian. What has Margaret to do with your cloaks? There is enough for both." "But," said I, in a great deal of difficulty,--"there is not enough for me and everybody." "Are you going to take care of the wants of everybody?" "I think--I ought to take care of all that I can," I said. "But you have not the power." "I won't do but what I _have_ the power for." "Daisy, what would your father and mother say to such a course of action? would they allow it, do you think?" "But _you_ are my guardian now, Dr. Sandford," I said, looking up at him. He paused a minute doubtfully. "I am conquered!" he said. "You have absolutely conquered me, Daisy. I have not a word to say. I wonder if that is the way you are going through the world in future? What is it now about Margaret?--for I was bewildered and did not understand." "A warm cloak and dress," I said, delighted; "that is what I want. Can I get them here?" "Doubtful, I should say," he answered; "but we will try." And we did succeed in finding the dress, strong and warm and suitable; the cloak we had to go to another shop for. On the way we stopped at the milliner's. My Aunt Gary and Mrs. Sandford employed the same one. "I put it in your hands, Daisy!" Dr. Sandford said, as we went in. "Only let me look on." I kept him waiting a good while, I am afraid; but he was very patient and seemed amused. _I_ was not. The business was very troublesome to me. This was not so easy a matter as to choose between stuffs and have the yards measured off. Bonnets are bonnets, as my aunt always said; and things good in themselves may not be in the least good for you. And I found the thing that suited was even more tempting here than it had been in the cloak wareroom. There was a little velvet hat which I fancied mamma would have bought for me; it was so stylish, and at the same time so simple, and became me so well. But it was of a price corresponding with its beauty. I turned my back on it, though I seemed to see it just as well through the back of my head, and tried to find something else. The milliner would have it there was nothing beside that fitted me. The hat must go on. "She has grown," said the milliner, appealing to Dr. Sandford; "and you see this is the very thing. This tinge of colour inside is just enough to relieve the pale cheeks. Do you see, sir?" "It is without a fault," said the doctor. "Take it off, please," I said. "I want to find something that will not cost so much--something that will not cost near so much." "There is that cap that is too large for Miss Van Allen--" the milliner's assistant remarked. "It would not suit Mrs. Randolph at all," was the answer aside. But I begged to see it. Now this was a comfortable, soft quilted silk cap, with a chinchilla border. Not much style about it, but also nothing to dislike, except its simplicity. The price was moderate, and it fitted me. You are going to be a different Daisy Randolph from what you have been all your life--something whispered to me. And the doctor said, "That makes you look about ten years old again, Daisy." I had a minute of doubt and delay; then I said I would have the cap; and the great business was ended. Margaret's purchases were all found, and we went home, with money still in my bank, Dr. Sandford informed me. I was very tired; but on the whole I was very satisfied, until my things came home, and I saw that Mrs. Sandford did not like them. "I wish I could have been with you!" she said. "What is the matter?" said the doctor. It was the evening, and we were all together for a few minutes, before Mrs. Sandford went to her sister. "Did you choose these things, Grant?" "What is the matter with them?" "They are hardly suitable." "For the third time, what is the matter with them?" said the doctor. "They are neat, but they are not _handsome_." "They will look handsome when they are on," said Dr. Sandford. "No they won't; they will look common. I don't mean _vulgar_--you could not buy anything in bad taste--but they are just what anybody's child might wear." "Then Mrs. Randolph's child might." Mrs. Sandford gave him a look. "That is just the thing," she said. "Mrs. Randolph's child might _not_. I never saw anybody more elegant or more particular about the choice of her dress than Mrs. Randolph; it is always perfect; and Daisy's always was. Mrs. Randolph would not like these." "Shall we change them, Daisy?" said the doctor. I said "No." "Then I hope they will wear out before Mrs. Randolph comes home," he said. All this, somehow, made me uncomfortable. I went off to the room which had been given to me, where a fire was kept; and I sat down to think. Certainly, I would have liked the other coat and hat better, that I had rejected; and the thought of the rich soft folds of that silky merino were not pleasant to me. The plaid I had bought _did_ wear a common look in comparison. I knew it, quite as well as Mrs. Sandford; and that I had never worn common things; and I knew that in the merino, properly made, I should have looked my mother's child; and that in the plaid my mother would not know me. Was I right? was I wrong? I knelt down before the fire, feeling that the straight path was not always easy to find. Yet I had thought I saw it before me. I knelt before the fire, which was the only light in the room, and opened the page of my dear little book that had the Bible lessons for every day. This day's lesson was headed, "That ye adorn the doctrine of God our Saviour in all things." The mist began to clear away. Between adorning and being adorned, the difference was so great, it set my face quite another way directly. I went on. "Let your conversation be as it becometh the gospel of Christ." And how should that be? Certainly, the spirit of that gospel had no regard to self-glorification; and had most tender regard to the wants of others. I began to feel sure that I was in the way and not out of it. Then came--"If ye be reproached for the name of Christ, happy are ye. But let none of you suffer ... _as a thief, or as an evildoer_"--"Let your light so shine before men"--"Let not mercy and truth forsake thee; bind them about thy neck;"--"Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are _just_ ... think on these things." The words came about me, binding up my doubts, making sound my heart, laying a soft touch upon every rough spot in my thoughts. True, honest, just, lovely, and of good report,--yes, I would think on these things, and I would not be turned aside from them. And if I suffered as a Christian, I determined that I would not be ashamed; I prayed that I might never; I would take as no dishonour the laughter or the contempt of those who did not see the two sides of the question; but as a _thief_ I would not suffer. I earnestly prayed that I might not. No beauty of dresses or stylishness of coats or bonnets should adorn me, the price of which God saw belonged and was due to the sufferings of others; more especially to the wants of those whose wants made my supply. That my father and mother, with the usage of old habit, and the influence of universal custom, should be blind to what I saw so clearly, made no difference in my duty. I had the light of the Bible rule, which was not yet, I knew, the lamp to their feet. _I_ must walk by it, all the same. And my thought went back now with great tenderness to Mammy Theresa's rheumatism, which wanted flannel; to Maria's hyacinths, which were her great earthly interest, out of the things of religion; to Darry's lonely cottage, where he had no lamp to read the Bible o' nights, and no oil to burn in it. To Pete's solitary hut, too, where he was struggling to learn to read well, and where a hymn-book would be the greatest comfort to him. To the old people, whose one solace of a cup of tea would be gone unless I gave it them; to the boys who were learning to read, who wanted testaments; to the bed-ridden and sick, who wanted blankets; to the young and well, who wanted gowns (not indeed for decency, but for the natural pleasure of looking neat and smart)--and to Margaret, first and last, who was nearest to me, and who, I began to think, might want some other trifles besides a cloak. The girl come in at the minute. "Margaret," I said, "I have got you a warm gown and a good thick warm cloak, to-day." "A cloak! Miss Daisy--" Margaret's lips just parted and showed the white teeth between them. "Yes. I saw you were not warm in that thin shawl." "It's mighty cold up these ways!--" the girls shoulders drew together with involuntary expression. "And now, Margaret, what other things do you want, to be nice and comfortable? You must tell me now, because after I go to school I cannot see you often, you know." "Reckon I find something to do at the school, Miss Daisy. Ain't there servants?" "Yes, but I am afraid there may not be another wanted. What else ought you to have, Margaret?" "Miss Daisy knows, I'll hire myself out, and reckon I'll get a right smart chance of wages; and then, if Miss Daisy let me take some change, I'd like to get some things--" "You may keep all your wages, Margaret," I said hastily; "you need not bring them to me; but I want to know if you have all you need _now_, to be nice and warm?" "'Spect I'd be better for some underclothes--" Margaret said, half under her breath. Of course! I knew it the moment she said it. I knew the scanty coarse supply which was furnished to the girls and women at Magnolia; I knew that more was needed for neatness as well as for comfort, and something different, now that she was where no evil distinction would arise from her having it. I said I would get what she wanted; and went back again to the parlour. I mused as I went. If I let Margaret keep her wages--and I was very certain I could not receive them from her--I must be prepared to answer it to my father. Perhaps,--yes, I felt sure as I thought about it--I must contrive to save the amount of her wages out of what was given to myself; or else my grant might be reversed and my action disallowed, or at least greatly disapproved. And my father had given me no right to dispose of Margaret's wages, or of herself. So I came into the parlour. Dr. Sandford alone was there, lying on the sofa. He jumped up immediately; pulled a great arm chair near to the fire, and taking hold of me, put me into it. My purchases were lying on the table, where they had been disapproved, but I knew what to think of them now. I could look at them very contentedly. "How do they seem, Daisy?" said the doctor, stretching himself on the cushions again, after asking my permission and pardon. "Very well,"--I said, smiling. "You are satisfied?" I said yes. "Daisy," said he, "you have conquered me to-day--I have yielded--I owned myself conquered; but won't you enlighten me? As a matter of favour?" "About what, Dr. Sandford?" "I don't understand you." I remember looking at him and smiling. It was so curious a thing, both that he should, in his philosophy, be puzzled by a child like me, and that he should care about undoing the puzzle. "There!" said he,--"that is my old little Daisy of ten years old. Daisy, I used to think she was an extremely dainty and particular little person." "Yes--" said I. "Was that correct?" "I don't know," said I. "I think it was." "Then Daisy, honestly--I am asking as a philosopher, and that means a lover of knowledge, you know,--did you choose those articles to-day to please yourself?" "In one way, I did," I answered. "Did they appear to you as they did to Mrs. Sandford,--at the time?" "Yes, Dr. Sandford." "So I thought. Then, Daisy, will you make me understand it? For I am puzzled." I was sorry that he cared about the puzzle, for I did not want to go into it. I was almost sure he would not make it out if I did. However, he lay there looking at me and waiting. "Those other things cost too much, Dr. Sandford--that was all." "There is the puzzle!" said the doctor. "You had the money in your bank for them, and money for Margaret's things too, and more if you wanted it; and no bottom to the bank at all, so far as I could see. And you like pretty things, Daisy, and you did not choose them?" "No, sir." I hesitated, and he waited. How was I to tell him? He would simply find it ridiculous. And then I thought--"If any of you suffer as a Christian, let him not be ashamed." "I thought I should be comfortable in these things, Dr. Sandford," I then said, glancing at the little chinchilla cap which lay on the table;--"and respectable. And there were other people who needed all the money the other things would have cost." "What other people?" said the doctor. "As I am your guardian, Daisy, it is proper for me to ask, and not impertinent." I hesitated again. "I was thinking," I said, "of some of the people I left at Magnolia." "Do you mean the servants?" "Yes, sir." "Daisy, they are cared for." I was silent. "What do you think they want?" "Some that are sick want comfort," I said, "and others who are not sick want help; and others, I think, want a little pleasure." I would fain not have spoken, but how could I help it? The doctor took his feet off the sofa and sat up and confronted me. "In the meantime," he said, "you are to be 'comfortable and respectable.' But, Daisy, do you think your father and mother would be satisfied with such a statement of your condition?" "I suppose not," I was obliged to say. "Then do you think it proper for me to allow such to be the fact?" I looked at him. What there was in my look it is impossible for me to say; but he laughed a little. "Yes," he said,--"I know--you have conquered me to-day. I own myself conquered--but the question I ask you is whether I am justifiable." "I think that depends," I answered, "on whether _I_ am justifiable." "Can you justify yourself, Daisy?" he said, bringing his hand down gently over my smooth hair and touching my cheek. It would have vexed me from anybody else; it did not vex me from him. "Can you justify yourself?" he repeated. "Yes, sir," I said; but I felt troubled. "Then do it." "Dr. Sandford, the Bible says, 'Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.'" "Well," said he, refusing to draw any conclusions for me. "I have more than I want, and they have not enough. I don't think I ought to keep _more_ than I want." "But then arises the question," said he, "how much do you want? Where is the line, beyond which you, or I, for instance, have too much?" "I was not speaking of anybody but myself," I said. "But a rule of action which is the right one for you, would be right for everybody." "Yes, but everybody must apply it for himself," I said. "I was only applying it for myself." "And applying it for yourself, Daisy, is it to cut off for the future--or ought it--all elegance and beauty? Must you restrict yourself to mere 'comfort and respectability'? Are furs and feathers, for instance, wicked things?" He did not speak it mockingly; Dr. Sandford never could do an ungentlemanly thing; he spoke kindly and with a little rallying smile on his face. But I knew what he thought. "Dr. Sandford," said I, "suppose I was a fairy, and that I stripped the gown off a poor woman's back to change it into a feather, and stole away her blankets to make them into fur; what would you think of fur and feathers then?" There came a curious lightning through the doctor's blue eyes. I did not know in the least what it meant. "Do you mean to say, Daisy, that the poor people down yonder at Magnolia want such things as gowns and blankets?" "Some do," I said. "You know, nobody is there, Dr. Sandford, to look after them; and the overseer does not care. It would be different if papa was at home." "I will never interfere with you any more, Daisy," said the doctor,--"any further than by a little very judicious interference; and you shall find in me the best helper I can be to all your plans. You may use me--you have conquered me,"--said he, smiling, and laying himself back on his cushions again. I was very glad it had ended so, for I could hardly have withstood Dr. Sandford if he had taken a different view of the matter. And his help, I knew, might be very good in getting things sent to Magnolia. CHAPTER X. SCHOOL. I had another time the next day between Mrs. Sandford and the mantua-maker. The mantua-maker came to take orders about making my school dress. "How will you have it trimmed?" she asked. "This sort of stuff will make no sort of an appearance unless it is well trimmed. It wants that. You might have a border of dark green leaves--dark green, like the colour of this stripe--going round the skirt; that would have a good effect; the leaves set in and edged with a very small red cord, or green if you like it better. We trimmed a dress so last week, and it made a very good appearance." "What do you say, Daisy?" "How much will it cost?" I asked. "Oh, the cost is not very much," said the milliner. "I suppose we would do it for you, Mrs. Sandford, for twenty-five dollars." "That is too much," I said. "You wouldn't say so, if you knew the work it is to set those leaves round," said the mantua-maker. "It takes hours and hours; and the cording and all. And the silk you know, Mrs. Sandford, _that_ costs nowadays. It takes a full yard of the silk, and no washy lining silk, but good stiff dress silk. Some has 'em made of velvet, but to be sure, that would not be suitable for a common stuff like this. It will be very common, Mrs. Sandford, without you have it handsomely trimmed." "Couldn't you put some other sort of trimming?" "Well, there's no other way that looks _distingué_ on this sort of stuff; that's the most stylish. We could put a band of rows of black velvet--an inch wide, or half an inch; if you have it narrower you must put more of them; and then the sleeves and body to match; but I don't think you would like it so well as the green leaves. A great many people has 'em trimmed so; you like it a little out of the common, Mrs. Sandford. Or, you could have a green ribbon." "How much would _that_ be?" said Mrs. Sandford. "Oh really, I don't just know," the woman answered; "depends on the ribbon; it don't make much difference to you, Mrs. Sandford; it would be--let me see, Oh, I suppose we could do it with velvet for you for fifteen or twenty dollars. You see there must be buttons or rosettes at the joinings of the velvets; and those come very expensive." "How much would it be to make the dress plain?" I asked. "_That_ would be plain," the mantua-maker answered quickly. "The style is, to trim everything very much. Oh, that would be quite plain with the velvet." "But without any trimming at all?" I asked. "How much would that be?" I felt an odd sort of shame at pressing the question: yet I knew I must. "Without trimming!" said the woman. "Oh, you could not have it _without trimming_; there is nothing made without trimming; it would have no appearance at all. People would think you had come out of the country. No young ladies have their dresses made without trimming this winter." "Mrs. Sandford," said I, "I should like to know what the dress would be without trimming." "What would it be, Melinda?" The woman was only a forewoman at her establishment. "Oh, well, Mrs. Sandford, the naked dress I have no doubt could be made for you for five dollars." "You would not have it _so_, Daisy, my dear?" said Mrs. Sandford. But I said I would have it so. It cost me a little difficulty, and a little shrinking, I remember, to choose this and to hold to it in the face of the other two. It was the last battle of that campaign. I had my way; but I wondered privately to myself whether I was going to look very unlike the children of other ladies in my mother's position: and whether such severity over myself was really needed. I turned the question over again in my own room, and tried to find out why it troubled me. I could not quite tell. Yet I thought, as I was doing what I knew to be duty, I had no right to feel this trouble about it. The trouble wore off before a little thought of my poor friends at Magnolia. But the question came up again at dinner. "Daisy," said Mrs. Sandford, "did you ever have anything to do with the Methodists?" "No, ma'am," I said, wondering. "What are the Methodists?" "I don't know, I am sure," she said, laughing, "only they are people who sing hymns a great deal, and teach that nobody ought to wear gay dresses." "Why?" I asked. "I can't say. I believe they hold that the Bible forbids ornamenting ourselves." I wondered if it did; and determined I would look. And I thought the Methodists must be nice people. "What is on the carpet now?" said the doctor. "Singing or dressing? You are attacking Daisy, I see, on some score." "She won't have her dress trimmed," said Mrs. Sandford. The doctor turned round to me, with a wonderful genial pleasant expression of his fine face; and his blue eye, that I always liked to meet full, going through me with a sort of soft power. He was not smiling, yet his look made me smile. "Daisy," said he, "are you going to make yourself unlike other people?" "Only my dress, Dr. Sandford," I said. "L'habit, c'est l'homme!--" he answered gravely, shaking his head. I remembered his question and words many times in the course of the next six months. In a day or two more my dress was done, and Dr. Sandford went with me to introduce me at the school. He had already made the necessary arrangements. It was a large establishment, reckoned the most fashionable, and at the same time one of the most thorough, in the city; the house, or houses, standing in one of the broad clear Avenues, where the streams of human life that went up and down were all of the sort that wore trimmed dresses and rolled about in handsome carriages. Just in the centre and height of the thoroughfare Mme. Ricard's establishment looked over it. We went in at a stately doorway, and were shown into a very elegant parlour; where at a grand piano a young lady was taking a music lesson. The noise was very disagreeable; but that was the only disagreeable thing in the place. Pictures were on the walls, a soft carpet on the floor; the colours of carpet and furniture were dark and rich; books and trinkets and engravings in profusion gave the look of cultivated life and the ease of plenty. It was not what I had expected; nor was Mme. Ricard, who came in noiselessly and stood before us while I was considering the wonderful moustache of the music teacher. I saw a rather short, grave person, very plainly dressed--but indeed I never thought of the dress she wore. The quiet composure of the figure was what attracted me, and the peculiar expression of the face. It was sad, almost severe; so I thought it at first; till a smile once for an instant broke upon the lips, like a flitting sunbeam out of a cloudy sky; then I saw that kindliness was quite at home there, and sympathy and a sense of merriment were not wanting; but the clouds closed again, and the look of care, of sorrow, I could not quite tell what it was, only that it was _unrest_, retook its place on brow and lip. The eye, I think, never lost it. Yet it was a searching and commanding eye; I was sure it knew how to rule. The introduction was soon made, and Dr. Sandford bid me good-bye. I felt as if my best friend was leaving me; the only one I had trusted in since my father and mother had gone away. I said nothing, but perhaps my face showed my thought, for he stooped and kissed me. "Good-bye, Daisy. Remember, I shall expect a letter every fortnight." He had ordered me before to write to him as often as that, and give him a minute account of myself; how many studies I was pursuing, how many hours I gave to them each day, what exercise I took, and what amusement; and how I throve withal. Mme. Ricard had offered to show me my room, and we were mounting the long stairs while I thought this over. "Is Dr. Sandford your cousin, Miss Randolph?" was the question which came in upon my thoughts. "No, ma'am," I answered in extreme surprise. "Is he any relation to you?" "He is my guardian." "I think Dr. Sandford told me that your father and mother are abroad?" "Yes, ma'am; and Dr. Sandford is my guardian." We had climbed two flights of stairs, and I was panting. As we went up, I had noticed a little unusual murmur of noises, which told me I was in a new world. Little indistinguishable noises, the stir and hum of the busy hive into which I had entered. Now and then a door had opened, and a head or a figure came out; but as instantly went back again on seeing Madame, and the door was softly closed. We reached the third floor. There a young lady appeared at the further end of the gallery, and curtseyed to my conductress. "Miss Bentley," said Madame, "this is your new companion, Miss Randolph. Will you be so good as to show Miss Randolph her room?" Madame turned and left us, and the young lady led me into the room she had just quitted. A large room, light and bright, and pleasantly furnished; but the one thing that struck my unaccustomed eyes was the evidence of fulness of occupation. One bed stood opposite the fireplace; another across the head of that, between it and one of the windows; a third was between the doors on the inner side of the room. Moreover, the first and the last of these were furnished with two pillows each. I did not in the moment use my arithmetic; but the feeling which instantly pressed upon me was that of want of breath. "This is the bed prepared for you, I believe," said my companion civilly, pointing to the third one before the window. "There isn't room for anybody to turn round here now." I began mechanically to take off my cap and gloves, looking hard at the little bed, and wondering what other rights of possession were to be given me in this place. I saw a washstand in one window and a large mahogany wardrobe on one side of the fireplace; a dressing table or chest of drawers between the windows. Everything was handsome and nice; everything was in the neatest order; but--where were my clothes to go? Before I had made up my mind to ask, there came a rush into the room; I supposed, of the other inmates. One was a very large, fat, dull-faced girl; I should have thought her a young woman, only that she was here in a school. Another, bright and pretty, and very good-humoured if there was any truth in her smiling black eyes, was much slighter and somewhat younger; a year or two in advance of myself. The third was a girl about my own age, shorter and smaller than I, with also a pretty face, but an eye that I was not so sure of. She was the last one to come in, and she immediately stopped and looked at me; I thought, with no pleasure. "This is Miss Randolph, girls," said Miss Bentley. "Miss Randolph, Miss Macy." I curtseyed to the fat girl, who gave me a little nod. "I am glad she isn't as big as I am," was her comment on the introduction. I was glad, too. "Miss Lansing--" This was bright-eyes, who bowed and smiled--she always smiled--and said, "How do you do?" Then rushed off to a drawer in search of something. "Miss St. Clair, will you come and be introduced to Miss Randolph?" The St. Clair walked up demurely and took my hand. Her words were in abrupt contrast. "Where are her things going, Miss Bentley?" I wondered that pretty lips could be so ungracious. It was not temper which appeared on them, but cool rudeness. "Madame said we must make some room for her," Miss Bentley answered. "I don't know where," remarked Miss Macy. "_I_ have not two inches." "She can't have a peg nor a drawer of mine," said the St. Clair. "Don't you put her there, Bentley." And the young lady left us with that. "We must manage it somehow," said Miss Bentley. "Lansing, look here, can't you take your things out of this drawer? Miss Randolph has no place to lay anything. She _must_ have a little place, you know." Lansing looked up with a perplexed face, and Miss Macy remarked that nobody had a bit of room to lay anything. "I am very sorry," I said. "It is no use being sorry, child," said Miss Macy; "we have got to fix it, somehow. I know who _ought_ to be sorry. Here--I can take this pile of things out of this drawer; that is all _I_ can do. Can't she manage with this half?" But Miss Lansing came and made her arrangements, and then it was found that the smallest of the four drawers was cleared and ready for my occupation. "But if we give you a whole drawer," said Miss Macy, "you must be content with one peg in the wardrobe--will you?" "Oh, and she can have one or two hooks in the closet," said bright-eyes. "Come here, Miss Randolph, I will show you." And there in the closet I found was another place for washing, with cocks for hot and cold water; and a press and plenty of iron hooks; with dresses and hats hanging on them. Miss Lansing moved and changed several of these, till she had cleared a space for me. "There," she said, "now you'll do, won't you? I don't believe you can get a scrape of a corner in the wardrobe; Macy and Bentley and St. Clair take it up so. _I_ haven't but one dress hanging there, but you've got a whole drawer in the bureau." I was not very awkward and clumsy in my belongings, but an elephant could scarcely have been more bewildered if he had been requested to lay his proboscis up in a glove box. "I cannot put a dress in the drawer," I remarked. "Oh, you can hang one up here under your cap; and that is all any of us do. Our things, all except our everyday things, go down stairs in our trunks. Have you many trunks?" I told her no, only one. I did not know why it was a little disagreeable to me to say that. The feeling came and passed. I hung up my coat and cap, and brushed my hair; my new companion looking on. Without any remark, however, she presently rushed off, and I was left alone. I began to appreciate that. I sat down on the side of my little bed; to my fancy the very chairs were appropriated; and looked at my new place in the world. Five of us in that room! I had always had the comfort of great space and ample conveniences about me; was it a _luxury_ I had enjoyed? It had seemed nothing more than a necessity. And now must I dress and undress myself before so many spectators? could I not lock up anything that belonged to me? were all my nice and particular habits to be crushed into one drawer and smothered on one or two clothes-pins? Must everything I did be seen? And, above all, where could I pray? I looked round in a sort of fright. There was but one closet in the room, and that was a washing closet, and held besides a great quantity of other people's belongings. I could not, even for a moment, shut it against them. In a kind of terror, I looked to make sure that I was alone, and fell on my knees. It seemed to me that all I could do was to pray every minute that I should have to myself. They would surely be none too many. Then, hearing a footstep somewhere, I rose again and took from my bag my dear little book. It was so small I could carry it where I had not room for my Bible. I looked for the page of the day, I remember now, with my eyes full of tears. "Be watchful," were the first words that met me. Aye, I was sure I would need it; but how was a watch to be kept up, if I could never be alone to take counsel with myself? I did not see it; this was another matter from Miss Pinshon's unlocked door. After all, that unlocked door had not greatly troubled me; my room had not been of late often invaded. Now I had no room. What more would my dear little book say to me? "Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour." Was the battle to go so hard against me? and what should I do without that old and well-tried weapon of "all-prayer?" Nothing; I should be conquered. I must have and keep that, I resolved; if I lay awake and got up at night to use it. Dr. Sandford would not like such a proceeding; but there were worse dangers than the danger of lessened health. I _would_ pray; but what next? "Take heed to thyself, and keep thy soul diligently."--"What I say unto you I say unto all, Watch." I stood by the side of my bed, dashing the tears from my eyes. Then I heard, as I thought, some one coming, and in haste looked to see what else might be on the page: what further message or warning. And something like a sunbeam of healing flashed into my heart with the next words. "Fear thou not: for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God; I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness." "I, the Lord thy God, will hold thy right hand." I was healed. I put up my little book in my bag again, feeling whole and sound. It did not matter that I was crowded and hindered and watched; for it was written also, "He preserveth the way of his saints;" and I was safe. I sat a little while longer alone. Then came a rush and rustle of many feet upon the stairs, many dresses moving, many voices blending in a soft little roar; as ominous as the roar of the sea which one hears in a shell. My four room-mates poured into the room, accompanied by two others; very busy and eager about their affairs that they were discussing. Meanwhile they all began to put themselves in order. "The bell will ring for tea directly," said Miss Macy, addressing herself to me; "are you ready?" "'Tisn't much trouble to fix _her_ hair," said my friend with the black eyes. Six pair of eyes for a moment were turned upon me. "You are too old to have your hair so," remarked Miss Bentley. "You ought to let it grow." "Why don't you?" said Miss Lansing. "She is a Roundhead," said the St. Clair, brushing her own curls; which were beautiful and crinkled all over her head, while my hair was straight. "I don't suppose she ever saw a Cavalier before." "St. Clair, you are too bad!" said Miss Macy. "Miss Randolph is a stranger." St. Clair made no answer, but finished her hair and ran off; and presently the others filed off after her; and a loud clanging bell giving the signal, I thought best to go too. Every room was pouring forth its inmates; the halls and passages were all alive and astir. In the train of the moving crowd, I had no difficulty to find my way to the place of gathering. This was the school parlour; not the one where I had seen Mme. Ricard. Parlours, rather; there was a suite of them, three deep; for this part of the house had a building added in the rear. The rooms were large and handsome; not like school rooms, I thought; and yet very different from my home; for they were bare. Carpets and curtains, sofas and chairs and tables were in them, to be sure; and even pictures; yet they were bare; for books and matters of art and little social luxuries were wanting, such as I had all my life been accustomed to, and such as filled Mme. Ricard's own rooms. However, this first evening I could hardly see how the rooms looked, for the lining of humanity which ran round all the walls. There was a shimmer as of every colour in the rainbow; and a buzz that could only come from a hive full. I, who had lived all my life where people spoke softly, and where many never spoke together, was bewildered. The buzz hushed suddenly, and I saw Mme. Ricard's figure going slowly down the rooms. She was in the uttermost contrast to all her household. Ladylike always, and always dignified, her style was her own, and I am sure that nobody ever felt that she had not enough. Yet Mme. Ricard had nothing about her that was conformed to the fashions of the day. Her dress was of a soft kind of serge, which fell around her or swept across the rooms in noiseless yielding folds. Hoops were the fashion of the day; but Mme. Ricard wore no hoops; she went with ease and silence where others went with a rustle and a warning to clear the way. The back of her head was covered with a little cap as plain as a nun's cap; and I never saw an ornament about her. Yet criticism never touched Mme. Ricard. Not even the criticism of a set of school-girls; and I had soon to learn that there is none more relentless. The tea-table was set in the further room of the three. Mme. Ricard passed down to that. Presently I heard her low voice saying, "Miss Randolph." Low as it always was, it was always heard. I made my way down through the rooms to her presence; and there I was introduced to the various teachers. Mademoiselle Géneviève, Miss Babbitt, Mme. Jupon, and Miss Dumps. I could not examine them just then. I felt I was on exhibition myself. "Is Miss Randolph to come to me, Madame?" the first of these ladies asked. She was young, bright, black-eyed, and full of energy; I saw so much. "I fancy she will come to all of you," said Madame. "Except Miss Babbitt. You can write and read, I dare say, Miss Randolph?" she went on with a smile. I answered of course. "What have been your principal studies for the past year?" I said mathematics, astronomy, and philosophy and history. "Then she is mine!" exclaimed Mlle. Géneviève. "She is older than she looks," said Miss Babbitt. "Her hair is young, but her eyes are not," said the former speaker, who was a lively lady. "French have you studied?" Madame went on. "Not so much," I said. "Mme. Jupon will want you." "I am sure she is a good child," said Mme. Jupon, who was a good-natured, plain-looking Frenchwoman, without a particle of a Frenchwoman's grace or address. "I will be charmed to have her." "You may go back to your place, Miss Randolph," said my mistress. "We will arrange all the rest to-morrow." "Shall I go back with you?" asked Mlle. Géneviève. "Do you mind going alone?" She spoke very kindly, but I was at a loss for her meaning. I saw the kindness; why it showed itself in such an offer I could not imagine. "I am very much obliged to you, ma'am," I began, when a little burst of laughter stopped me. It came from all the teachers; even Mme. Ricard was smiling. "You are out for once, Géneviève," she said. "La charmante!" said Mme. Jupon. "Voyez l'a plomb!" "No, you don't want me," said Mlle. Géneviève, nodding. "Go--you'll do." I went back to the upper room and presently tea was served. I sat alone; there was nobody near me who knew me; I had nothing to do while munching my bread and butter but to examine the new scene. There was a great deal to move my curiosity. In the first place, I was surprised to see the rooms gay with fine dresses. I had come from the quiet of Magnolia, and accustomed to the simplicity of my mother's taste; which if it sometimes adorned me, did it always in subdued fashion, and never flaunted either its wealth or beauty. But on every side of me I beheld startling costumes; dresses that explained my mantua-maker's eagerness about velvet and green leaves. I saw that she was right; her trimmings would have been "quiet" here. Opposite me was a brown merino, bordered with blocks of blue silk running round the skirt. Near it was a dress of brilliant red picked out with black cord and heavy with large black buttons. Then a black dress caught my eye which had an embattled trimming of black and gold, continued round the waist and completed with a large gold buckle. Then there was a grey cashmere with red stars; and a bronze-coloured silk with black velvet a quarter of a yard wide let into the skirt; the body all of black velvet. I could go on if my memory would serve me. The rooms were full of this sort of thing. Yet more than the dresses the heads surprised me. Just at that time the style of hair dressing was one of those styles which are endurable, and perhaps even very beautiful, in the hands of a first-rate artist and on the heads of those very few women who dress well; but which are more and more hideous the farther you get from that distant pinnacle of the mode, and the lower down they spread among the ranks of society. I thought, as I looked from one to another, I had never seen anything so ill in taste, so outraged in style, so unspeakable in ugliness as well as in pretension. I supposed then it was the fashion principally which was to blame. Since then, I have seen the same fashion on one of those heads that never wear anything but in good style. It gathered a great wealth of rich hair into a mass at the back of the head, yet leaving the top and front of the hair in soft waves; and the bound up mass behind was loose and soft and flowed naturally from the head, it had no hard outline nor regular shape; it was nature's luxuriance just held in there from bursting down over neck and shoulders; and hardly that, for some locks were almost escaping. The whole was to the utmost simple, natural, graceful, rich. But these caricatures! All that they knew was to mass the hair at the back of the head; and that fact was attained. But some looked as if they had a hard round cannon-ball fastened there; others suggested a stuffed pincushion, ready for pins; others had a mortar-shell in place of a cannon-ball, the size was so enormous; in nearly all, the hair was strained tight over or under something; in not one was there an effect which the originator of the fashion would not have abhorred. Girlish grace was nowhere to be seen, either in heads or persons; girlish simplicity had no place. It was a school: but the company looked fitter for the stiff assemblages of ceremony that should be twenty years later in their lives. My heart grew very blank. I felt unspeakably alone; not merely because there was nobody there whom I knew, but because there was nobody whom it seemed to me I ever should know. I took my tea and bits of bread and butter, feeling forlorn. A year in that place seemed to me longer than I could bear. I had exchanged my King Log for King Stork. It was some relief when after tea we were separated into other rooms and sat down to study. But I dreamed over my book. I wondered how heads could study that had so much trouble on the outside. I wandered over the seas to that spot somewhere that was marked by the ship that carried my father and mother. Only now going out towards China; and how long months might pass before China would be done with and the ship be bearing them back again. The lesson given me that night was not difficult enough to bind my attention; and my heart grew very heavy. So heavy, that I felt I _must_ find help somewhere. And when one's need is so shut in, then it looks in the right quarter--the only one left open. My little book was upstairs in my bag: but my thoughts flew to my page of that day and the "Fear thou not, for I am with thee." Nobody knows, who has not wanted them, how good those words are. Nobody else can understand how sweet they were to me. I lost for a little all sight of the study table and the faces round it. I just remembered who was WITH ME; in the freedom and joy of that presence both fears and loneliness seemed to fade away. "I, the Lord, will hold thy right hand." Yes, and I, a weak little child, put my hand in the hand of my great Leader, and felt safe and strong. I found very soon I had enemies to meet that I had not yet reckoned with. The night passed peacefully enough; and the next day I was put in the schoolroom and found my place in the various classes. The schoolrooms were large and pleasant; large they had need to be, for the number of day scholars who attended in them was very great. They were many as well as spacious; different ages being parted off from each other. Besides the schoolrooms proper, there were rooms for recitation, where the classes met their teachers; so we had the change and variety of moving from one part of the house to another. We met Mlle. Géneviève in one room, for mathematics and Italian; Mme. Jupon in another, for French. Miss Dumps seized us in another, for writing and geography, and made the most of us; she was a severe little person in her teaching and in her discipline; but she was good. We called her Miss Maria, in general. Miss Babbitt had the history; and she did nothing to make it intelligible or interesting. My best historical times thus far, by much, had been over my clay map and my red and black headed pins, studying the changes of England and her people. But Mlle. Géneviève put a new life into mathematics. I could never love the study; but she made it a great deal better than Miss Pinshon made it. Indeed, I believe that to learn anything under Mlle. Géneviève would have been pleasant. She had so much fire and energy; she taught with such a will; her black eyes were so keen both for her pupils and her subject. One never thought of the discipline in Mlle. Géneviève's room, but only of the study. I was young to be there, in the class where she put me; but my training had fitted me for it. With Mme. Jupon also I had an easy time. She was good-nature itself, and from the first showed a particular favour and liking for me. And as I had no sort of wish to break rules, with Miss Maria too I got on well. It was out of school and out of study hours that my difficulties came upon me. For a day or two I did not meet them. I was busy with the school routine, and beginning already to take pleasure in it. Knowledge was to be had here; lay waiting to be gathered up; and that gathering I always enjoyed. Miss Pinshon had kept me on short allowance. It was the third or fourth day after my arrival, that going up after dinner to get ready for a walk I missed my chinchilla cap from its peg. I sought for it in vain. "Come, Daisy," said Miss Lansing, "make haste. Babbitt will be after you directly if you aren't ready. Put on your cap." "I can't find it," I said. "I left it here, in its place, but I can't find it." There was a burst of laughter from three of my room-mates, as Miss St. Clair danced out from the closet with the cap on her own brows; and then with a caper of agility, taking it off, flung it up to the chandelier, where it hung on one of the burners. "For shame, Faustina, that's too bad. How can she get it?" said Miss Bentley. "I don't want her to get it," said the St. Clair coolly. "Then how can she go to walk?" "I don't want her to go to walk." "Faustina, that isn't right. Miss Randolph is a stranger; you shouldn't play tricks on her." "Roundheads were always revolutionists," said the girl recklessly. "_A la lanterne!_ Heads or hats--it don't signify which. That is an example of what our Madame calls 'symbolism.'" "Hush--sh! Madame would call it something else. Now how are we going to get the cap down?" For the lamp hung high, having been pushed up out of reach for the day. The St. Clair ran off, and Miss Macy followed; but the two others consulted, and Lansing ran down to waylay the chambermaid and beg a broom. By the help of the broom handle my cap was at length dislodged from its perch, and restored to me. But I was angry. I felt the fiery current running through my veins; and the unspeakable saucy glance of St. Clair's eye, as I passed her to take my place in the procession, threw fuel on the fire. I think for years I had not been angry in such a fashion. The indignation I had at different times felt against the overseer at Magnolia was a justifiable thing. Now I was angry and piqued. The feeling was new to me. I had been without it very long. I swallowed the ground with my feet during my walk; but before the walk came to an end the question began to come up in my mind, what was the matter? and whether I did well? These sprinklings of water on the flame I think made it leap into new life at first; but as they came and came again, I had more to think about than St. Clair when I got back to the house. Yes, and as we were all taking off our things together I was conscious that I shunned her; that the sight of her was disagreeable; and that I would have liked to visit some gentle punishment upon her careless head. The bustle of business swallowed up the feeling for the rest of the time till we went to bed. But then it rose very fresh, and I began to question myself about it in the silence and darkness. Finding myself inclined to justify myself, I bethought me to try this new feeling by some of the words I had been studying in my little book for a few days past. "The entrance of thy words giveth light"--was the leading text for the day that had just gone; now I thought I would try it in my difficulty. The very next words on the page I remembered were these--"God is light, and in him is no darkness at all." It came into my mind as soon, that this feeling of anger and resentment which troubled me had to do with darkness, not with the light. In vain I reasoned to prove the contrary; I _felt_ dark. I could not look up to that clear white light where God dwells, and feel at all that I was "walking in the light as he is in the light." Clearly Daisy Randolph was out of the way. And I went on with bitterness of heart to the next words--"Ye _were_ sometime darkness, but now are ye light in the Lord; walk as children of light." And what then? was I to pass by quietly the insolence of St. Clair? was I to take it quite quietly, and give no sign even of annoyance? take no means of showing my displeasure, or of putting a stop to the naughtiness that called it forth? My mind put these questions impatiently, and still, as it did so, an answer came from somewhere,--"Walk as children of light." I _knew_ that children of light would reprove darkness only with light; and a struggle began. Other words came into my head then, which made the matter only clearer. "If any man smite thee on the one cheek, turn to him the other." "Love your enemies." Ah, but how could I? with what should I put out this fire kindled in my heart, which seemed only to burn the fiercer whatever I threw upon it? And then other words came still sweeping upon me with their sweetness, and I remembered who had said, "I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee." I softly got out of bed, wrapped the coverlid round me, and knelt down to pray. For I had no time to lose. To-morrow I must meet my little companion, and to-morrow I _must_ be ready to walk as a child of light, and to-night the fires of darkness were burning in my heart. I was long on my knees. I remember, in a kind of despair at last I flung myself on the word of Jesus, and cried to Him as Peter did when he saw the wind boisterous. I remember how the fire died out in my heart, till the very coals were dead; and how the day and the sunlight came stealing in, till it was all sunshine. I gave my thanks, and got into bed, and slept without a break the rest of the night. CHAPTER XI. A PLACE IN THE WORLD. I was an humbler child when I got out of bed the next morning, I think, than ever I had been in my life before. But I had another lesson to learn. I was not angry any more at Miss St. Clair. That was gone. Even when she did one or two other mischievous things to me, the rising feeling of offence was quickly got under; and I lived in great charity with her. My new lesson was of another sort. Two or three days passed, and then came Sunday. It was never a comfortable day at Mme. Ricard's. We all went to church of course, under the care of one or other of the teachers; and we had our choice where to go. Miss Babbitt went to a Presbyterian church. Miss Maria to a high Episcopal. Mme. Jupon attended a little French Protestant chapel; and Mlle. Géneviève and Mme. Ricard went to the Catholic church. The first Sunday I had gone with them, not knowing at all whither. I found that would not do; and since then I had tried the other parties. But I was in a strait; for Miss Maria's church seemed to me a faded image of Mlle. Géneviève's; the Presbyterian church which Miss Babbitt went to was stiff and dull; I was not at home in either of them, and could not understand or enjoy what was spoken. The very music had an air of incipient petrification, if I can speak so about sounds. At the little French chapel I could as little comprehend the words that were uttered. But in the pulpit there was a man with a shining face; a face full of love and truth and earnestness. He spoke out of his heart, and no set words; and the singing was simple and sweet and the hymns beautiful. I could understand them, for I had the hymn-book in my hands. Also I had the French Bible, and Mme. Jupon, delighted to have me with her, assured me that if I listened I would very soon begin to understand the minister's preaching just as well as if it were English. So I went with Mme. Jupon, and thereby lost some part of Mlle. Géneviève's favour; but that I did not understand till afterwards. We had all been to church as usual, this Sunday, and we were taking off our hats and things upstairs, after the second service. My simple toilet was soon made; and I sat upon the side of my little bed, watching those of my companions. They were a contrast to mine. The utmost that money could do, to bring girls into the fashion, was done for these girls; for the patrons of Mme. Ricard's establishment were nearly all rich. Costly coats and cloaks, heavily trimmed, were surmounted with every variety of showy head-gear, in every variety of unsuitableness. To study bad taste, one would want no better field than the heads of Mme. Ricard's seventy boarders dressed for church. Not that the articles which were worn on the heads were always bad; some of them came from irreproachable workshops; but there was everywhere the bad taste of overdressing, and nowhere the tact of appropriation. The hats were all on the wrong heads. Everybody was a testimony of what money can do without art. I sat on my little bed, vaguely speculating on all this as I watched my companions disrobing; at intervals humming the sweet French melody to which the last hymn had been sung; when St. Clair paused in her talk and threw a glance in my direction. It lighted on my plain plaid frock and undressed hair. "Don't you come from the country, Miss Randolph?" she said, insolently enough. I answered yes. And I remembered what my mantua-maker had said. "Did you have that dress made there?" "For shame, St. Clair!" said Miss Bentley; "let Miss Randolph alone. I am sure her dress is very neat." "I wonder if women don't wear long hair where she came from?" said the girl, turning away from me again. The others laughed. I was as little pleased at that moment with the defence as with the attack. The instant thought in my mind was, that Miss Bentley knew no more how to conduct the one than Miss St. Clair to make the other; if the latter had no civility, the first had no style. Now the St. Clair was one of the best dressed girls in school and came from one of the most important families. I thought, if she knew where I came from, and who my mother was, she would change her tone. Nevertheless, I wished mamma would order me to let my hair grow, and I began to think whether I might not do it without order. And I thought also that the spring was advancing, and warm weather would soon be upon us; and that these girls would change their talk and their opinion about me when they saw my summer frocks. There was nothing like _them_ in all the school. I ran over in my mind their various elegance, of texture and lace, and fine embroidery, and graceful, simple drapery. And also I thought, if these girls could see Magnolia, its magnificent oaks, and its acres of timber, and its sweeps of rich fields, and its troops of servants, their minds would be enlightened as to me and my belongings. These meditations were a mixture of comfort and discomfort to me; but on the whole I was not comfortable. This process of comparing myself with my neighbours, I was not accustomed to; and even though its results were so favourable, I did not like it. Neither did I quite relish living under a cloud; and my eyes being a little sharpened now, I could see that not by my young companions alone, but by every one of the four teachers, I was looked upon as a harmless little girl whose mother knew nothing about the fashionable world. I do not think that anything in my manner showed either my pique or my disdain; I believe I went out of doors just as usual; but these things were often in my thoughts, and taking by degrees more room in them. It was not till the Sunday came round again, that I got any more light. The afternoon service was over; we had come home and laid off our bonnets and cloaks; for though we were in April it was cold and windy; and my schoolfellows had all gone downstairs to the parlour, where they had the privilege of doing what they pleased before tea. I was left alone. It was almost my only time for being alone in the whole week. I had an hour then; and I used to spend it in my bedroom with my Bible. To-day I was reading the first epistle of John, which I was very fond of; and as my custom was, not reading merely, but pondering and praying over the words verse by verse. So I found that I understood them better and enjoyed them a great deal more. I came to these words,-- "Behold, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should be called the sons of God; therefore the world knoweth us not, because it knew him not." I had dwelt sometime upon the first part of the verse, forgetting all my discomforts of the week past; and came in due course to the next words. I never shall forget how they swept in upon. "_The world knoweth us not._"--What did that mean? "Because it knew him not." How did it not know Him; He was in the midst of men; He lived no hidden life; the world knew Him well enough as a benefactor, a teacher, a reprover; in what sense did it _not_ know Him? And I remembered, it did not know Him as one of its own party. He was "this fellow,"--and "the deceiver;"--"the Nazarene;" "they called the master of the house Beelzebub." And so the world knoweth _us_ not; and I knew well enough why; because we must be like Him. And then, I found an unwillingness in myself to have these words true of me. I had been very satisfied under the slighting tones and looks of the little world around me, thinking that they were mistaken and would by and by know it; they would know that in all that they held so dear, of grace and fashion and elegance and distinguished appearance, my mother, and of course I, were not only their match but above them. Now, must I be content to have them never know it? But, I thought, I could not help their seeing the fact; if I dressed as my mother's child was accustomed to dress, they would know what sphere of life I belonged to. And then the words bore down upon me again, with their uncompromising distinctness,--"_the world knoweth us not_." I saw it was a mark and character of those that belonged to Christ. I saw that, if I belonged to Him, the world must not know me. The conclusion was very plain. And to secure the conclusion, the way was very plain too; I must simply not be like the world. I must not be of the world; and I must let it be known that I was not. Face to face with the issue, I started back. For not to be of the world, meant, not to follow their ways. I did not want to follow some of their ways; I had no desire to break the Sabbath, for example; but I did like to wear pretty and elegant and expensive things, and fashionable things. It is very true, I had just denied myself this pleasure, and bought a plain dress and coat that did not charm me; but that was in favour of Margaret and to save money for her. And I had no objection to do the same thing again and again, for the same motive; and to deny myself to the end of the chapter, so long as others were in need. But that was another matter from shaking hands with the world at once, and being willing that for all my life it should never know me as one of those whom it honoured. Never _know_ me, in fact. I must be something out of the world's consciousness, and of no importance to it. And to begin with, I must never try to enlighten my schoolfellows' eyes about myself. Let them think that Daisy Randolph came from somewhere in the country and was accustomed to wear no better dresses in ordinary than her school plaid. Let them never be aware that I had ponies and servants and lands and treasures. Nay, the force of the words I had read went farther than that. I felt it, down in my heart. Not only I must take no measures to proclaim my title to the world's regard; but I must be such and so unlike it in my whole way of life, dress and all, that the world would not wish to recognize me, nor have anything to do with me. I counted the cost now, and it seemed heavy. There was Miss Bentley, with her clumsy finery, put on as it were one dollar above the other. She patronized me, as a little country-girl who knew nothing. Must I not undeceive her? There was Faustina St. Clair, really of a good family, and insolent on the strength of it; must I never let her know that mine was as good and that my mother had as much knowledge of the proprieties and elegances of life as ever hers had? These girls and plenty of the others looked down upon me as something inferior; not belonging to their part of society; must I be content henceforth to live so simply that these and others who judge by the outside would never be any wiser as to what I really was? Something in me rebelled. Yet the words I had been reading were final and absolute. "The world knoweth us _not_;" and "us," I knew meant the little band in whose hearts Christ is king. Surely I was one of them. But I was unwilling to slip out of the world's view and be seen by it no more. I struggled. It was something very new in my experience. I had certainly felt struggles of duty in other times, but they had never lasted long. This lasted. With an eye made keen by conscience, I looked now in my reading to see what else I might find that would throw light on the matter and perhaps soften off the uncompromising decision of the words of St John. By and by I came to these words-- "If ye were of the world, the world would love his own. But because ye are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, _therefore the world hateth you_." I shut the book. The issue could not be more plainly set forth. I must choose between the one party and the other. Nay, I had chosen;--but I must agree to belong but to one. Would anybody say that a child could not have such a struggle? that fourteen years do not know yet what "the world" means? Alas, it is a relative term; and a child's "world" may be as mighty for her to face, as any other she will ever know. I think I never found any more formidable. Moreover, it is less unlike the big world than some would suppose. On the corner of the street, just opposite to our windows, stood a large handsome house which we always noticed for its flowers. The house stood in a little green courtyard exquisitely kept, which at one side and behind gave room for several patches of flower beds, at this time filled with bulbous plants. I always lingered as much as I could in passing the iron railings, to have a peep at the beauty within. The grass was now of a delicious green, and the tulips and hyacinths and crocuses were in full bloom, in their different oval-shaped beds, framed in with the green. Besides these, from the windows of a greenhouse that stretched back along the street, there looked over a brilliant array of other beauty; I could not tell what; great bunches of scarlet and tufts of white and gleamings of yellow, that made me long to be there. "Who lives in that house?" Miss Bentley asked one evening. It was the hour before tea, and we were all at our room windows gazing down into the avenue. "Why, don't you know?" said slow Miss Macy. "That's Miss Cardigan's house." "I wonder who she is?" said Miss Lansing. "It isn't a New York name." "Yes, it is," said Macy. "She's lived there for ever. She used to be there, and her flowers, when I was four years old." "I guess she isn't anybody, is she?" said Miss Bentley. "I never see any carriages at the door. Hasn't she a carriage of her own, I wonder, or how does she travel? Such a house ought to have a carriage." "I'll tell you," said the St. Clair, coolly as usual. "She goes out in a wagon with an awning to it. _She_ don't know anything about carriages." "But she must have money, you know," urged Miss Bentley. "She couldn't keep up that house, and the flowers, and the greenhouse and all, without money." "She's got money," said the St. Clair. "Her mother made it selling cabbages in the market. Very likely she sold flowers too." There was a general exclamation and laughter at what was supposed to be one of St. Clair's flights of mischief; but the young lady stood her ground calmly, and insisted that it was a thing well known. "My grandmother used to buy vegetables from old Mrs. Cardigan when we lived in Broadway," she said. "It's quite true. That's why she knows nothing about carriages." "That sort of thing don't hinder other people from having carriages," said Miss Lansing. "There's Mr. Mason, next door to Miss Cardigan,--his father was a tailor; and the Steppes, two doors off, do you know what they were? They were millers, a little way out of town; nothing else; had a mill and ground flour. They made a fortune I suppose, and now here they are in the midst of other people." "Plenty of carriages, too," said Miss Macy; "and everything else." "After all," said Miss Bentley, after a pause, "I suppose everybody's money had to be made somehow, in the first instance. I suppose all the Millers in the world came from real millers once; and the Wheelrights from wheelwrights." "And what a world of smiths there must have been first and last," said Miss Lansing. "The world is full of their descendants." "_Everybody's_ money wasn't made, though," said the St. Clair, with an inexpressible attitude of her short upper lip. "I guess it was,--if you go back far enough," said Miss Macy, whom nothing disturbed. But I saw that while Miss Lansing and Miss St. Clair were at ease in the foregoing conversation, Miss Bentley was not. "You _can't_ go back far enough," said the St. Clair, haughtily. "How then?" said the other. "How do you account for it? Where did their money come from?" "It grew," said the St. Clair ineffably. "They were lords of the soil." "Oh!--But it had to be dug out, I suppose?" said Miss Macy. "There were others to do that." "After all," said Miss Macy, "how is money that grew any better than money that is made? it is all made by somebody, too." "If it is made by somebody else, it leaves your hands clean," the St. Clair answered, with an insolence worthy of maturer years; for Miss Macy's family had grown rich by trade. She was of a slow temper however and did not take fire. "My grandfather's hands were clean," she said; "yet he made his own money. Honest hands always are clean." "Do you suppose Miss Cardigan's were when she was handling her cabbages?" said St Clair. "I have no doubt Miss Cardigan's house smells of cabbages now." "O St. Clair!" Miss Lansing said, laughing. "I always smell them when I go past," said the other, elevating her scornful little nose; it was a handsome nose too. "I don't think it makes any difference," said Miss Bentley, "provided people _have_ money, how they came by it. Money buys the same thing for one that it does for another." "Now, my good Bentley, that is just what it _don't_," said St. Clair, drumming up the window-pane with the tips of her fingers. "Why not?" "Because!--people that have always had money know how to use it; and people who have just come into their money _don't_ know. You can tell the one from the other as far off as the head of the avenue." "But what is to hinder their going to the same milliner and mantua-maker, for instance, or the same cabinet-maker,--and buying the same things?" "Or the same jeweller, or the same--anything? So they could if they knew which they were." "Which _what_ were? It is easy to tell which is a fashionable milliner, or mantua-maker; everybody knows that." "It don't do some people any good," said St. Clair, turning away. "When they get in the shop they do not know what to buy; and if they buy it they can't put it on. People that are not fashionable can't _be_ fashionable." I saw the glance that fell, scarcely touching, on my plain plaid frock. I was silly enough to feel it too. I was unused to scorn. St. Clair returned to the window, perhaps sensible that she had gone a little too far. "I can tell you now," she said, "what that old Miss Cardigan has got in her house--just as well as if I saw it." "Did you ever go in?" said Lansing eagerly. "We don't visit," said the other. "But I can tell you just as well; and you can send Daisy Randolph some day to see if it is true." "Well, go on, St. Clair--what is there?" said Miss Macy. "There's a marble hall, of course; that the mason built; it isn't her fault. Then in the parlours there are thick carpets, that cost a great deal of money and are as ugly as they can be, with every colour in the world. The furniture is red satin, or may be blue, staring bright, against a light green wall panelled with gold. The ceilings are gold and white, with enormous chandeliers. On the wall there are some very big picture frames, with nothing in them--to speak of; there is a table in the middle of the floor with a marble top, and the piers are filled with mirrors down to the floor: and the second room is like the first and the third is like the second, and there is nothing else in any of the rooms but what I have told you." "Well, it is a very handsome house, I should think, if you have told true," said Miss Bentley. St. Clair left the window with a scarce perceptible but most wicked smile at her friend Miss Lansing; and the group scattered. Only I remained to think it over and ask myself, could I let go my vantage ground? could I make up my mind to do for ever without the smile and regard of that portion of the world which little St. Clair represented? It is powerful even in a school! I had seen how carelessly this undoubted child of birth and fashion wielded the lash of her tongue; and how others bowed before it. I had seen Miss Bentley wince, and Miss Macy bite her lip; but neither of them dared affront the daughter of Mrs. St. Clair. Miss Lansing was herself of the favoured class, and had listened lightly. Fashion was power, that was plain. Was I willing to forego it? Was I willing to be one of those whom fashion passes by as St. Clair had glanced on my dress--as something not worthy a thought. I was not happy, those days. Something within me was struggling for self assertion. It was new to me; for until then I had never needed to assert my claims to anything. For the first time, I was looked down upon, and I did not like it. I do not quite know why I was made to know this so well. My dress, if not showy or costly, was certainly without blame in its neatness and niceness, and perfectly becoming my place as a schoolgirl. And I had very little to do at that time with my schoolmates, and that little was entirely friendly in its character. I am obliged to think, looking back at it now, that some rivalry was at work. I did not then understand it. But I was taking a high place in all my classes. I had gone past St. Clair in two or three things. Miss Lansing was too far behind in her studies to feel any jealousy on that account; but besides that, I was an unmistakable favourite with all the teachers. They liked to have me do anything for them or with them; if any privilege was to be given, I was sure to be one of the first names called to share it; if I was spoken to for anything, the manner and tone were in contrast with those used towards almost all my fellows. It may have been partly for these reasons that there was a little positive element in the slight which I felt. The effect of the whole was to make a long struggle in my mind. "The world knoweth us not"--gave the character and condition of that party to which I belonged. I was feeling now what those words mean,--and it was not pleasant. This struggle had been going on for several weeks, and growing more and more wearying, when Mrs. Sandford came one day to see me. She said I did not look very well, and obtained leave for me to take a walk with her. I was glad of the change. It was a pleasant bright afternoon; we strolled up the long avenue, then gay and crowded with passers to and fro in every variety and in the height of the mode; for our avenue was a favourite and very fashionable promenade. The gay world nodded and bowed to each other; the sun streamed on satins and laces, flowers and embroidery; elegant toilets passed and repassed each other, with smiling recognition; the street was a show. I walked by Mrs. Sandford's side in my chinchilla cap, for I had not got a straw hat yet, though it was time; thinking--"The world knoweth us not"--and carrying on the struggle in my heart all the while. By and by we turned to come down the avenue. "I want to stop a moment here on some business," said Mrs. Sandford, as we came to Miss Cardigan's corner; "would you like to go in with me, Daisy?" I was pleased, and moreover glad that it was the hour for my companions to be out walking. I did not wish to be seen going in at that house and to have all the questions poured on me that would be sure to come. Moreover, I was curious to see how far Miss St. Clair's judgment would be verified. The marble hall was undoubted; it was large and square, with a handsome staircase going up from it; but the parlour, into which we were ushered the next minute, crossed all my expectations. It was furnished with dark chintz; no satin, red or blue, was anywhere to be seen; even the curtains were chintz. The carpet was not rich; the engravings on the walls were in wooden frames varnished; the long mirror between the windows, for that was there, reflected a very simple mahogany table, on which lay a large work basket, some rolls of muslin and flannel, work cut and uncut, shears and spools of cotton. Another smaller table held books and papers and writing materials. This was shoved up to the corner of the hearth, where a fire--a real, actual fire of sticks--was softly burning. The room was full of the sweet smell of the burning wood. Between the two tables, in a comfortable large chair, sat the lady we had come to see. My heart warmed at the look of her immediately. Such a face of genial gentle benevolence; such a healthy sweet colour in the old cheeks; such a hearty, kind, and withal shrewd and sound, expression of eye and lip. She was stout and dumpy in figure, rather fat; with a little plain cap on her head and a shawl pinned round her shoulders. Somebody who had never been known to the world of fashion. But oh, how homely and comfortable she and her room looked! she and her room and her cat; for a great white cat sat with her paws doubled under her in front of the fire. "My sister begged that I would call and see you, Miss Cardigan," Mrs. Sandford began, "about a poor family named Whittaker, that live somewhere in Ellen Street." "I know them. Be seated," said our hostess. "I know them well. But I don't know this little lady." "A little friend of mine, Miss Cardigan; she is at school with your neighbour opposite,--Miss Daisy Randolph." "If nearness made neighbourhood," said Miss Cardigan, laughing, "Mme. Ricard and I would be neighbours; but I am afraid the rule of the Good Samaritan would put us far apart. Miss Daisy--do you like my cat; or would you like maybe to go in and look at my flowers?--yes?--Step in that way, dear; just go through that room, and on, straight through; you'll smell them before you come to them." I gladly obeyed her, stepping in through the darkened middle room, where already the greeting of the distant flowers met me; then through a third smaller room, light and bright and full of fragrance, and to my surprise, lined with books. From this an open glass door let me into the greenhouse and into the presence of the beauties I had so often looked up to from the street. I lost myself then. Geraniums breathed over me; roses smiled at me; a daphne at one end of the room filled the whole place with its fragrance. Amaryllis bulbs were magnificent; fuchsias dropped with elegance; jonquils were shy and dainty; violets were good; hyacinths were delicious; tulips were splendid. Over and behind all these and others, were wonderful ferns, and heaths most delicate in their simplicity, and myrtles most beautiful with their shining dark foliage and starry white blossoms. I lost myself at first, and wandered past all these new and old friends in a dream; then I waked up to an intense feeling of homesickness. I had not been in such a greenhouse in a long time; the geraniums and roses and myrtles summoned me back to the years when I was a little happy thing at Melbourne House--or summoned the images of that time back to me. Father and mother and home--the delights and freedoms of those days--the carelessness, and the care--the blessed joys of that time before I knew Miss Pinshon, or school, and before I was perplexed with the sorrows and the wants of the world, and before I was alone--above all, when papa and mamma and I were _at home_. The geraniums and the roses set me back there so sharply that I felt it all. I had lost myself at first going into the greenhouse; and now I had quite lost sight of everything else, and stood gazing at the faces of the flowers with some tears on my own, and, I suppose, a good deal of revelation of my feeling; for I was unutterably startled by the touch of two hands upon my shoulders and a soft whisper in my ear, "What is it, my bairn?" It was Miss Cardigan's soft Scotch accent, and it was besides a question of the tenderest sympathy. I looked at her, saw the kind and strong grey eyes which were fixed on me wistfully; and hiding my face in her bosom I sobbed aloud. I don't know how I came to be there, in her arms, nor how I did anything so unlike my habit; but there I was, and it was done, and Miss Cardigan and I were in each other's confidence. It was only for one moment that my tears came; then I recovered myself. "What sort of discourse did the flowers hold to you, little one?" said Miss Cardigan's kind voice; while her stout person hid all view of me that could have been had through the glass door. "Papa is away," I said, forcing myself to speak,--"and mamma:--and we used to have these flowers--" "Yes, yes; I know. I know very well," said my friend. "The flowers didn't know but you were there yet. They hadn't discretion. Mrs. Sandford wants to go, dear. Will you come again and see them? They will say something else next time." "Oh, may I?" I said. "Just whenever you like, and as often as you like. So I'll expect you." I went home, very glad at having escaped notice from my schoolmates, and firmly bent on accepting Miss Cardigan's invitation at the first chance I had. I asked about her of Mrs. Sandford in the first place; and learned that she was "a very good sort of person; a little queer, but very kind; a person that did a great deal of good and had plenty of money. Not in society, of course," Mrs. Sandford added; "but I dare say she don't miss that; and she is just as useful as if she were." "Not in society." That meant, I supposed, that Miss Cardigan would not be asked to companies where Mrs. Randolph would be found, or Mrs. Sandford; that such people would not "know" her, in fact. That would certainly be a loss to Miss Cardigan; but I wondered how much? "The world knoweth us not,"--the lot of all Christ's people,--could it involve anything in itself very bad? My old Juanita, for example, who held herself the heir to a princely inheritance, was it any harm to her that earthly palaces knew her only as a servant? But then, what did not matter to Juanita or Miss Cardigan might matter to somebody who had been used to different things. I knew how it had been with myself for a time past. I was puzzled. I determined to wait and see, if I could, how much it mattered to Miss Cardigan. CHAPTER XII. FRENCH DRESSES. My new friend had given me free permission to come and see her whenever I found myself able. Saturday afternoon we always had to ourselves in the school; and the next Saturday found me at Miss Cardigan's door again as soon as my friends and room-mates were well out of my way. Miss Cardigan was not at home, the servant said, but she would be in presently. I was just as well pleased. I took off my cap, and carrying it in my hand I went back through the rooms to the greenhouse. All still and fresh and sweet, it seemed more delightful than ever, because I knew there was nobody near. Some new flowers were out. An azalea was in splendid beauty, and a white French rose, very large and fair, was just blossoming, and with the red roses and the hyacinths and the violets and the daphne and the geraniums, made a wonderful sweet place of the little greenhouse. I lost myself in delight again; but this time the delight did not issue in homesickness. The flowers had another message for me to-day. I did not heed it at first, busy with examining and drinking in the fragrance and the loveliness about me; but even as I looked and drank, the flowers began to whisper to me. With their wealth of perfume, with all their various, glorious beauty, one and another leaned towards me or bent over me with the question--"Daisy, are you afraid?--Daisy, are you afraid?--The good God who has made us so rich, do you think he will leave you poor? He loves you, Daisy. You needn't be a bit afraid but that HE is enough, even if the world does not know you. He is rich enough for you as well as for us." I heard no voice, but surely I heard that whisper, plain enough. The roses seemed to kiss me with it. The sweet azalea repeated it. The hyacinths stood witnesses of it. The gay tulips and amaryllis held up a banner before me on which it was blazoned. I was so ashamed, and sorry, and glad, all at once, that I fell down on my knees there, on the stone matted floor, and gave up the world from my heart and for ever, and stretched out my hands for the wealth that does not perish and the blessing that has no sorrow with it. I was afraid to stay long on my knees; but I could hardly get my eyes dry again, I was so glad and so sorry. I remember I was wiping a tear or two away when Miss Cardigan came in. She greeted me kindly. "There's a new rose out, did ye see it?" she said; "and this blue hyacinth has opened its flowers. Isn't that bonny?" "What is _bonny_, ma'am?" I asked. Miss Cardigan laughed, the heartiest, sonsiest low laugh. "There's a many things the Lord has made bonny," she said. "I thank Him for it. Look at these violets--they're bonny; and this sweet red rose." She broke it off the tree and gave it to me. "It's bad that it shames your cheeks so. What's the matter wi' 'em, my bairn?" Miss Cardigan's soft finger touched my cheek as she spoke; and the voice and tone of the question were so gently, tenderly kind that it was pleasant to answer. I said I had not been very strong. "Nor just weel in your mind. No, no. Well, what did the flowers say to you to-day, my dear? Eh? They told you something?" "Oh yes!" I said. "Did they tell you that 'the Lord is good; a stronghold in the day of trouble; and he knoweth them that trust in Him?'" "Oh yes," I said, looking up at her in surprise. "How did you know?" For all answer, Miss Cardigan folded her two arms tight about me and kissed me with earnest good will. "But they told me something else," I said, struggling to command myself;--"they told me that I had _not_ 'trusted in Him.'" "Ah, my bairn!" she said. "But the Lord is good." There was so much both of understanding and sympathy in her tones, that I had a great deal of trouble to control myself. I felt unspeakably happy too, that I had found a friend that could understand. I was silent, and Miss Cardigan looked at me. "Is it all right, noo?" she asked. "Except _me_,--" I said with my eyes swimming. "Ah, well!" she said. "You've seen the sky all black and covered with the thick clouds--that's like our sins: but, 'I have blotted out as a thick cloud thy transgressions, and as a cloud thy sins.' You know how it is when the wind comes and clears the clouds all off, and you can look up through the blue, till it seems as if your eye would win into heaven itself. Keep the sky clear, my darling, so that you can always see up straight to God, with never the fleck of a cloud between. But do you ken what will clear the clouds away?" And I looked up now with a smile and answered, "'The precious blood of Christ'"--for the two texts had been close together in one of the pages of my little book not long before. Miss Cardigan clapped her hands together softly and laughed. "Ye've got it!" she said. "Ye have gotten the pearl of great price. And where did ye find it, my dear?" "I had a friend, that taught me in a Sunday-school, four years ago,--" I said. "Ah, there weren't so many Sunday-schools in my day," said Miss Cardigan. "And ye have found, maybe, that this other sort of a school, that ye have gotten to now, isn't helpful altogether? Is it a rough road, my bairn?" "It is my own fault," I said, looking at her gratefully. The tender voice went right into my heart. "Well, noo, ye'll just stop and have tea with me here; and whenever the way is rough, ye'll come over to my flowers and rest yourself. And rest me too; it does me a world o' good to see a young face. So take off your coat, my dear, and let us sit down and be comfortable." I was afraid at first that I could not; I had no liberty to be absent at tea-time. But Miss Cardigan assured me I should be home in good season; the school tea was at seven, and her own was always served at six. So very gladly, with an inexpressible sense of freedom and peace, I took off my coat and gloves, and followed my kind friend back to the parlour where her fire was burning. For although it was late in April, the day was cool and raw; and the fire one saw nowhere else was delightful in Miss Cardigan's parlour. Every minute of that afternoon was as bright as the fire glow. I sat in the midst of that, on an ottoman, and Miss Cardigan, busy between her two tables, made me very much interested in her story of some distressed families for whom she was working. She asked me very little about my own affairs; nothing that the most delicate good breeding did not warrant; but she found out that my father and mother were at a great distance from me, and I almost alone, and she gave me the freedom of her house. I was to come there whenever I could and liked; whenever I wanted to "rest my feet," as she said; especially I might spend as much of every Sunday with her as I could get leave for. And she made this first afternoon so pleasant to me with her gentle beguiling talk, that the permission to come often was like the entrance into a whole world of comfort. She had plenty to talk about; plenty to tell, of the poor people to whom she and others were ministering; of plans and methods to do them good; all which somehow she made exceedingly interesting. There was just a little accent to her words, which made them, in their peculiarity, all the more sweet to me; but she spoke good English; the "noo" which slipped out now and then, with one or two other like words, came only, I found, at times when the fountain of feeling was more full than ordinary, and so flowed over into the disused old channel. And her face was so fresh, rosy, round and sweet, withal strong and sound, that it was a perpetual pleasure to me. As she told her stories of New York needy and suffering, I mentally added my poor people at Magnolia, and began to wonder with myself, was all the world so? Were these two spots but samples of the whole? I got into a brown study, and was waked out of it by Miss Cardigan's "What is it, my dear?" "Ma'am?" I said. "Ye are studying some deep question," she said, smiling. "Maybe it's too big for you." "So it is," said I, sighing. "Is it so everywhere, Miss Cardigan?" "So how, my bairn?" "Is there so much trouble everywhere in the world?" Her face clouded over. "Jesus said, 'The poor ye have always with you, and whensoever ye will ye may do them good.'" "But that is what I don't understand about," I said. "_How much_ ought one to do, Miss Cardigan?" There came a ray of infinite brightness over her features; I can hardly describe it; it was warm with love, and bright with pleasure, and I thought sparkled with a little amusement. "Have you thought upon that?" she said. "Yes," I said,--"very much." "It is a great question!" she said, her face becoming grave again. "I know," I said, "of course one ought to do all one can. But what I want to know is, how much one _can_. How much ought one to spend, for such things?" "It's a great question," Miss Cardigan repeated, more gravely than before. "For when the King comes, to take account of His servants, He will want to know what we have done with every penny. Be sure, He will." "Then how can one tell?" said I, hoping earnestly that now I was going to get some help in my troubles. "How can one know? It is very difficult." "I'll no say it's not difficult," said Miss Cardigan, whose thoughts seemed to have gone into the recesses of her own mind. "Dear, its nigh our tea-time. Let us go in." I followed her, much disappointed, and feeling that if she passed the subject by so, I could not bring it up again. We went through to the inner room; the same from which the glass door opened to the flowers. Here a small table was now spread. This room was cosy. I had hardly seen it before. Low bookcases lined it on every side; and above the bookcases hung maps; maps of the city and of various parts of the world where missionary stations were established. Along with the maps, a few engravings and fine photographs. I remember one of the Colosseum, which I used to study; and a very beautiful engraving of Jerusalem. But the one that fixed my eyes this first evening, perhaps because Miss Cardigan placed me in front of it, was a picture of another sort. It was a good photograph, and had beauty enough besides to hold my eyes. It showed a group of three or four. A boy and girl in front, handsome, careless, and well-to-do, passing along, with wandering eyes. Behind them and disconnected from them by her dress and expression, a tall woman in black robes with a baby on her breast. The hand of the woman was stretched out with a coin which she was about dropping into an iron-bound coffer which stood at the side of the picture. It was "the widow's mite;" and her face, wan, sad, sweet, yet loving and longing, told the story. The two coins were going into the box with all her heart. "You know what it is?" said my hostess. "I see, ma'am," I replied; "it is written under." "That box is the Lord's treasury." "Yes, ma'am," I said,--"I know." "Do you remember how much that woman gave?" "Two mites,"--I said. "It was something more than that," said my hostess. "It was more than anybody else gave that day. Don't you recollect? It was _all her living_." I looked at Miss Cardigan, and she looked at me. Then my eyes went back to the picture, and to the sad yet sweet and most loving face of the poor woman there. "Ma'am," said I, "do you think people that are _rich_ ought to give all they have?" "I only know, my Lord was pleased with her," said Miss Cardigan softly; "and I always think I should like to have Him pleased with me too." I was silent, looking at the picture and thinking. "You know what made that poor widow give her two mites?" Miss Cardigan asked presently. "I suppose she wanted to give them," I said. "Ay," said my hostess, turning away,--"she loved the Lord's glory beyond her own comfort. Come, my love, and let us have some tea. She gave all she had, Miss Daisy, and the Lord liked it; do ye think you and me can do less?" "But that is what I do not understand," I said, following Miss Cardigan to the little tea-table, and watching with great comfort the bright unruffled face which promised to be such a help to me. "Now you'll sit down there," said my hostess, "where you can see my flowers while I can see you. It's poor work eating, if we cannot look at something or hear something at the same time; and maybe we'll do the two things. And ye'll have a bit of honey--here it is. And Lotty will bring us up a bit of hot toast--or is bread the better, my dear? Now ye're at home; and maybe you'll come over and drink tea with me whenever you can run away from over there. I'll have Lotty set a place for you. And then, when ye think of the empty place, you will know you had better come over and fill it. See--you could bring your study book and study here in this quiet little corner by the flowers." I gave my very glad thanks. I knew that I could often do this. "And now for the 'not understanding,'" said Miss Cardigan, when tea was half over. "How was it, my dear?" "I have been puzzled," I said, "about giving--how much one ought to give, and how much one ought to spend--I mean for oneself." "Well," said Miss Cardigan brightly, "we have fixed that. The poor woman gave _all her living_." "But one must spend _some_ money for oneself," I said. "One must have bonnets and cloaks and dresses." "And houses, and books, and pictures," said Miss Cardigan, looking around her. "My lamb, let us go to the Bible again. That says, 'whether ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.' So I suppose we must buy cloaks and bonnets on the same principle." I turned this over in my mind. Had I done this, when I was choosing my chinchilla cap and grey cloak? A little ray of infinite brightness began to steal in upon their quiet colours and despised forms. "If the rich are to give their all, as well as the poor, it doesn't say--mind you--that they are to give it all to the hungry, or all to the destitute; but only, they are to give it all _to Christ_. Then, He will tell them what to do with it; do ye understand, my dear?" Miss Cardigan's eye was watching me, not more kindly than keen. A wise and clear grey eye it was. "But isn't it difficult to know sometimes what to do?" I said. "I have been so puzzled to know about dresses. Mamma is away, and I had to decide." "It's no very difficult," said Miss Cardigan,--"if once ye set your face in the right _airth_--as we speak. My dear, there's a great many sorts of dresses and bonnets and things; and I'd always buy just that bonnet and that gown, in which I thought I could do most work for my Master; and that wouldn't be the same sort of bonnet for you and for me," she said with a merry smile. "Now ye'll have another cup of tea, and ye'll tell me if my tea's good." It was wonderfully good to me. I felt like a plant dried up for want of water, suddenly set in a spring shower. Refreshment was all around me, without and within. The faces of the flowers looked at me through the glass, and the sweet breath of them came from the open door. The room where I was sitting pleased me mightily, in its comfortable and pretty simplicity; and I had found a friend, even better than my old Maria and Darry at Magnolia. It was not very long before I told all about these to my new counsellor. For the friendship between us ripened and grew. I often found a chance to fill my place at the dear little tea-table. Sundays I could always be there; and I went there straight from afternoon church, and rested among Miss Cardigan's books and in her sweet society and in the happy freedom and rest of her house, with an intensity of enjoyment which words can but feebly tell. So in time I came to tell her all my troubles and the perplexities which had filled me; I was willing to talk to Miss Cardigan about things that I would have breathed to no other ear upon earth. She was so removed from all the sphere of my past or present life, so utterly disconnected from all the persons and things with which I had had to do, it was like telling about them to a being of another planet. Yet she was not so removed but that her sympathies and her judgment could be living and full grown for my help; all ready to take hold of the facts and to enter into the circumstances, and to give me precious comfort and counsel. Miss Cardigan and I came to be very dear to each other. All this took time. Nobody noticed at first, or seemed to notice, my visits to the "house with the flowers," as the girls called it. I believe, in my plain dress, I was not thought of importance enough to be watched. I went and came very comfortably; and the weeks that remained before the summer vacation slipped away in quiet order. Just before the vacation, my aunt came home from Europe. With her came the end of my obscurity. She brought me, from my mother, a great supply of all sorts of pretty French dresses hats, gloves, and varieties--chosen by my mother--as pretty and elegant, and simple too, as they could be; but once putting them on, I could never be unnoticed by my schoolmates any more. I knew it, with a certain feeling that was not displeasure. Was it pride? Was it anything more than my pleasure in all pretty things? I thought it was something more. And I determined that I would not put on any of them till school was broken up. If it _was_ pride, I was ashamed of it. But besides French dresses, my aunt brought me a better thing; a promise from my father. "He said I was to tell you, Daisy my dear,--and I hope you will be a good child and take it as you ought--but dear me! how she is growing," said Mrs. Gary, turning to Mme. Ricard; "I cannot talk about Daisy as a 'child' much longer. She's tall." "Not too tall," said madame. "No, but she is going to be tall. She has a right; her mother is tall, and her father. Daisy, my dear, I do believe you are going to look like your mother. You'll be very handsome if you do. And yet, you look different----" "Miss Randolph will not shame anybody belonging to her," said Mme. Ricard, graciously. "Well, I suppose not," said my aunt. "I was going to tell you what your father said, Daisy. He said--you know it takes a long while to get to China and back, and if it does him good he will stay a little while there; and then there's the return voyage, and there may be delays; so altogether it was impossible to say exactly how long he and your mother will be gone. I mean, it was impossible to know certainly that they would be able to come home by next summer; indeed I doubt if your father ever does come home." I waited in silence. "So altogether," my aunt went on, turning for a moment to Mme. Ricard, "there was a doubt about it; and your father said, he charged me to tell Daisy, that if she will make herself contented--that is, supposing they cannot come home next year, you know--if she will make herself happy and be patient and bear one or two years more, and stay at school and do the best she can, _then_, the year after next or the next year he will send for you, your father says, _unless_ they come home themselves--they will send for you; and then, your father says, he will give you any request you like to make of him. Ask anything you can think of, that you would like best, and he will do it or get it, whatever it is. He didn't say like King Herod, 'to the half of his kingdom,' but I suppose he meant that. And meanwhile, you know you have a guardian now, Daisy, and there is no use for me in your affairs; and having conveyed to you your mother's gifts and your father's promises, I suppose there is nothing further for me to do to you." I was silent yet, thinking. Two years more would be a dear purchase of any pleasure that might come after. Two years! And four were gone already. It seemed impossible to wait or to bear it. I heard no more of what my aunt was saying, till she turned to me again and asked, "Where are you going to pass the vacation?" I did not know, for Mrs. Sandford was obliged to be with her sister still, so that I could not go to Melbourne. "Well, if your new guardian thinks well of it--you can consult him if it is necessary--and if he does not object, you can be with me if you like. Preston has leave of absence this summer, I believe; and he will be with us." It was in effect arranged so. My aunt took me about the country from one watering place to another; from Saratoga to the White Mountains; and Preston's being with us made it a gay time. Preston had been for two years at West Point; he was grown and improved everybody said; but to me he was just the same. If anything, _not_ improved; the old grace and graciousness of his manner was edged with an occasional hardness or abruptness which did not use to belong to him, and which I did not understand. There seemed to be a latent cause of irritation somewhere. However, my summer went off smoothly enough. September brought me back to Mme. Ricard's, and in view of Miss Cardigan's late roses and budding chrysanthemums. I was not sorry. I had set my heart on doing as much as could be done in these next two years, if two they must be. I was the first in my room; but before the end of the day they all came pouring in; the two older and the two younger girls. "Here's somebody already," exclaimed Miss Macy as she saw me. "Why, Daisy Randolph! is it possible that's you? Is it Daisy Randolph? What have you done to yourself? How you _have_ improved!" "She is very much improved," said Miss Bentley more soberly. "She has been learning the fashions," said Miss Lansing, her bright eyes dancing as good-humouredly as ever. "Daisy, now when your hair gets long you'll look quite nice. That frock is made very well." "She is changed," said Miss St. Clair, with a look I could not quite make out. "No," I said; "I hope I am not changed." "Your dress is," said St. Clair. I thought of Dr. Sandford's "_L'habit, c'est l'homme_". "My mother had this dress made," I said; "and I ordered the other one; that is all the difference." "You're on the right side of the difference, then," said Miss St. Clair. "Has your mother come back, Daisy?" Miss Lansing asked. "Not yet. She sent me this from Paris." "It's very pretty!" she said, with, I saw, an increase of admiration; but St. Clair gave me another strange look. "How much prettier Paris things are than American!" Lansing went on. "I wish I could have all my dresses from Paris. Why, Daisy, you've grown handsome." "Nonsense!" said Miss Macy; "she always was, only you didn't see it." "Style is more than a face," said Miss St. Clair cavalierly. Somehow I felt that this little lady was not in a good mood awards me. I boded mischief; for being nearly of an age, we were together in most of our classes, studied the same things, and recited at the same times. There was an opportunity for clashing. They soon ran off, all four, to see their friends and acquaintances and learn the news of the school. I was left alone, making my arrangement of clothes and things in my drawer and my corner of the closet; and I found that some disturbance, in those few moments, had quite disarranged the thoughts of my heart. They were peaceful enough before. There was some confusion now. I could not at first tell what was uppermost; only that St. Clair's words were those that most returned to me. "She has changed." _Had_ I changed? or was I going to change? was I going to enter the lists of fashion with my young companions, and try who would win the race? No doubt my mother could dress me better than almost any of their mothers could dress them; what then? would this be a triumph? or was this the sort of name and notoriety that became and befitted a servant of Jesus? I could not help my dresses being pretty; no, but I could help making much display of them. I could wear my own school plaid when the weather grew cooler; and one or two others of my wardrobe were all I need show. "Style is more than a face." No doubt. What _then?_ Did I want style and a face too? Was I wishing to confound St. Clair? Was I escaping already from that bond and a mark of a Christian--"The world knoweth us not?" I was startled and afraid. I fell down on my knees by the side of my bed, and tried to look at the matter as God looked at it. And the Daisy I thought he would be pleased with, was one who ran no race for worldly supremacy. I resolved she should not. The praise of God, I thought, was far better than the praise of men. My mind was quite made up when I rose from my knees; but I looked forward to a less quiet school term than the last had been. Something told me that the rest of the girls would take me up now, for good and for evil. My Paris dress set me in a new position, no longer beneath their notice. I was an object of attention. Even that first evening I felt the difference. "Daisy, when is your mother coming home?" "Oh, she is gone to China; Daisy's mother is gone to China!"--"She'll bring you lots of queer things, won't she?"--"What a sweet dress!"--"_That_ didn't come from China?"--"Daisy, who's head in mathematics, you or St. Clair? I hope you will get before her!" "Why?" I ventured to ask. "Oh, you're the best of the two; everybody knows that. But St. Clair is smart, isn't she?" "She thinks she is," answered another speaker; "she believes she's at the tip-top of creation; but she never had such a pretty dress on as that in her days; and she knows it and she don't like it. It's real fun to see St. Clair beat; she thinks she is so much better than other girls, and she has such a way of twisting that upper lip of hers. Do you know how St. Clair twists her upper lip? Look!--she's doing it now." "She's handsome though, ain't she?" said Miss Macy. "She'll be beautiful." "No," said Mlle. Géneviève; "not that. Never that. She will be handsome; but beauty is a thing of the soul. _She_ will not be beautiful. Daisy, are you going to work hard this year?" "Yes, mademoiselle." "I believe you," she said, taking my face between her two hands and kissing it. "Whoever saw Mlle. Géneviève do that before!" said Miss Macy, as the other left us. "She is not apt to like the scholars." I knew she had always liked me. But everybody had always liked me, I reflected; this time at school was the first of my knowing anything different. And in this there now came a change. Since my wearing and using the Paris things sent to me by my mother, which I dared not fail to use and wear, I noticed that my company was more sought in the school. Also my words were deferred to, in a way they had not been before. I found, and it was not an unpleasant thing, that I had grown to be a person of consequence. Even with the French and English teachers; I observed that they treated me with more consideration. And so I reflected within myself again over Dr. Sandford's observation, "_L'habit, c'est l'homme._" Of course it was a consideration given to my clothes, a consideration also to be given up if I did not wear such clothes. I saw all that. The world _knew me_, just for the moment. Well, the smooth way was very pleasant. I had it with everybody for a time. My little room-mate and classmate St. Clair was perhaps the only exception to the general rule. I never felt that she liked me much. She let me alone, however; until one unlucky day--I do not mean to call it unlucky, either--when we had, as usual, compositions to write, and the theme given out was "Ruins." It was a delightful theme to me. I did not always enjoy writing compositions; this one gave me permission to roam in thoughts and imaginations that I liked. I went back to my old Egyptian studies at Magnolia, and wrote my composition about "Karnak." The subject was full in my memory; I had gone over and over and all through it; I had measured the enormous pillars and great gateways, and studied the sculpture on the walls, and paced up and down the great avenue of sphinxes. Sethos, and Amunoph and Rameses, the second and third, were all known and familiar to me; and I knew just where Shishak had recorded his triumphs over the land of Judea. I wrote my composition with the greatest delight. The only danger was that I might make it too long. One evening I was using the last of the light, writing in the window recess of the school parlour, when I felt a hand laid on my shoulders. "You are so hard at work!" said the voice of Mlle. Géneviève. "Yes, mademoiselle, I like it." "Have you got all the books and all that you want?" "Books, mademoiselle?"--I said wondering. "Yes; have you got all you want?" "I have not got any books," I said; "there are none that I want in the school library." "Have you never been in madame's library?" "No, mademoiselle." "Come!" I jumped up and followed her, up and down stairs and through halls and turnings, till she brought me into a pretty room lined with books from floor to ceiling. Nobody was there. Mademoiselle lit the gas with great energy, and then turned to me, her great black eyes shining. "Now what do you want, _mon enfant_? here is everything." "Is there anything about Egypt?" "Egypt! Are you in Egypt? See here--look, here is Denon--here is Laborde; here are two or three more. Do you like that? Ah! I see by the way your grey eyes grow big--Now sit down, and do what you like. Nobody will disturb you. You can come here every evening for the hour before tea." Mademoiselle scarce stayed for my thanks, and left me alone. I had not seen either Laborde or Denon in my grandfather's library at Magnolia; they were after his time. The engravings and illustrations also had not been very many or very fine in his collection of travellers' books. It was the greatest joy to me to see some of those things in Mme. Ricard's library, that I had read and dreamed about so long in my head. It was adding eyesight to hearsay. I found a good deal too that I wanted to read, in these later authorities. Evening after evening I was in madame's library, lost among the halls of the old Egyptian conquerors. The interest and delight of my work quite filled me, so that the fate of my composition hardly came into my thoughts, or the fact that other people were writing compositions too. And when it was done, I was simply very sorry that it was done. I had not written it for honour or for duty, but for love. I suppose that was the reason why it succeeded. I remember I was anything but satisfied with it myself, as I was reading it aloud for the benefit of my judges. For it was a day of prize compositions; and before the whole school and even some visitors, the writings of the girls were given aloud, each by its author. I thought, as I read mine, how poor it was, and how magnificent my subject demanded that it should be. Under the shade of the great columns, before those fine old sphinxes, my words and myself seemed very small. I sat down in my place again, glad that the reading was over. But there was a little buzz; then a dead expectant silence; then Mme. Ricard arose. My composition had been the last one. I looked up with the rest, to hear the award that she would speak; and was at first very much confounded to hear my own name called. "Miss Randolph--" It did not occur to me what it was spoken for; I sat still a moment in a maze. Mme. Ricard stood waiting; all the room was in a hush. "Don't you hear yourself called?" said a voice behind me. "Why don't you go?" I looked round at Miss Macy, who was my adviser, then doubtfully I looked away from her and caught the eyes of Mlle. Géneviève. She nodded and beckoned me to come forward. I did it hastily then, and found myself curtseying in front of the platform where stood madame. "The prize is yours, Miss Randolph," she said graciously. "Your paper is approved by all the judges." "Quite artistic,"--I heard a gentleman say at her elbow. "And it shows an amount of thorough study and perfect preparation, which I can but hold up as a model to all my young ladies. You deserve this, my dear." I was confounded; and a low curtsey was only a natural relief to my feelings. But madame unhappily took it otherwise. "This is yours," she said, putting into my hands an elegant little bronze standish;--"and if I had another prize to bestow for grace of good manners, I am sure I would have the pleasure of giving you that too." I bent again before madame, and got back to my seat as I could. The great business of the day was over, and we soon scattered to our rooms. And I had not been in mine five minutes before the penalties of being distinguished began to come upon me. "Well, Daisy!" said Miss Lansing,--"you've got it. How pretty! isn't it, Macy?" "It isn't a bit prettier than it ought to be, for a prize in such a school," said Miss Macy. "It will do." "I've seen handsomer prizes," said Miss Bentley. "But you've got it, more ways than one, Daisy," Miss Lansing went on. "I declare! Aren't you a distinguished young lady! Madame, too! why we all used to think we behaved pretty well _before company_,--didn't we, St. Clair?" "I hate favour and favouritism!" said that young lady, her upper lip taking the peculiar turn to which my attention had once been called. "Madame likes whatever is French." "But Randolph is not French, are you, Randolph?" said Blackeyes, who was good-natured through everything. "Madame is not French herself," said Miss Bentley. "I hate everything at school!" St. Clair went on. "It's too bad," said her friend. "Do you know, Daisy, St. Clair always has the prize for compositions. What made you go and write that long stuff about Rameses? the people didn't understand it, and so they thought it was fine." "I am sure there was a great deal finer writing in Faustina's composition," said Miss Bentley. I knew very well that Miss St. Clair had been accustomed to win this half-yearly prize for good writing. I had expected nothing but that she would win it this time. I had counted neither on my own success nor on the displeasure it would raise. I took my hat and went over to my dear Miss Cardigan; hoping that ill-humour would have worked itself out by bed-time. But I was mistaken. St Clair and I had been pretty near each other in our classes, though once or twice lately I had got an advantage over her; but we had kept on terms of cool social distance until now. Now the spirit of rivalry was awake. I think it began to stir at my Paris dresses and things; Karnak and Mme. Ricard finished the mischief. On my first coming to school I had been tempted in my horror at the utter want of privacy to go to bed without prayer; waiting till the rest were all laid down and asleep and the lights out, and then slipping out of bed with great care not to make a noise, and watching that no whisper of my lips should be loud enough to disturb anybody's slumbers. But I was sure after a while, that this was a cowardly way of doing; and I could not bear the words, "Whosoever shall be ashamed of me and of my words, of him shall the Son of man be ashamed, when He cometh in the glory of His Father." I determined in the vacation that I would do so no more, cost what it might the contrary. It cost a tremendous struggle. I think, in all my life I have done few harder things, than it was to me then to kneel down by the side of my bed in full blaze of the gaslights and with four curious pairs of eyes around to look on; to say nothing of the four busy tongues wagging about nothing all the time. I remember what a hush fell upon them the first night; while beyond the posture of prayer I could do little. Only unformed or half formed thoughts and petitions struggled in my mind, through a crowd of jostling regrets and wishes and confusions, in which I could hardly distinguish anything. But no explosion followed, of either ridicule or amusement, and I had been suffered from that night to do as I would, not certainly always in silence, but quite unmolested. I had carried over my standish to Miss Cardigan to ask her to take care of it for me; I had no place to keep it. But Miss Cardigan was not satisfied to see the prize; she wanted to hear the essay read; and was altogether so elated that a little undue elation perhaps crept into my own heart. It was not a good preparation for what was coming. I went home in good time. In the hall, however, Mlle. Géneviève seized upon me; she had several things to say, and before I got up stairs to my room all the rest of its inmates were in bed. I hoped they were asleep. I heard no sound while I was undressing, nor while I knelt, as usual now, by my bedside. But as I rose from my knees I was startled by a sort of grunt that came from St. Clair's corner. "Humph!--Dear me! we're so good,--Grace and Devotion,--Christian grace, too!" "Hold your tongue, St. Clair," said Miss Macy, but not in a way, I thought, to check her; if she could have been checked. "But it's too bad, Macy," said the girl. "We're all so rough, you know. _We_ don't know how to behave ourselves; we can't make curtseys; our mothers never taught us anything,--and dancing masters are no good. We ought to go to Egypt. There isn't anything so truly dignified as a pyramid. There is a great deal of _à plomb_ there!" "Who talked about _à plomb_?" said Miss Bentley. "You have enough of that, at any rate, Faustina," said Lansing. "Mrs. St. Clair's child ought to have that," said Miss Macy. "Ah, but it isn't Christian grace, after all," persisted Faustina. "You want a cross at the top of a pyramid to make it perfect." "Hush, Faustina!" said Miss Macy. "It's fair,"--said Miss Bentley. "You had better not talk about Christian grace, girls. That isn't a matter of opinion." "Oh, isn't it!" cried St. Clair, half rising up in her bed. "What is it, then?" Nobody answered. "I say!--Macy, what _is_ Christian grace--if you know! If you _don't_ know, I'll put you in the way to find out." "How shall I find out?" "Will you do it, if I show it you?" "Yes." "Ask Randolph. That's the first step. Ask her,--yes! just ask her, if you want to know. I wish Mme. Ricard was here to hear the answer." "Nonsense!" said Macy. "Ask her! You said you would. Now ask her." "What is Christian grace, Daisy?" said Miss Bentley. I heard, but I would not answer. I hoped the storm would blow over, after a puff or two. But Blackeyes, without any ill-nature, I think, which was not in her, had got into the gale. She slipped out of bed and came to my side, putting her hand on my shoulder and bringing her laughing mouth down near my ear. A very angry impulse moved me before she spoke. "Daisy!"--she said, laughing, in a loud whisper,--"come, wake up! you're not asleep, you know. Wake up and tell us;--everybody knows _you_ know;--what _is_ Christian grace? Daisy!--" She shook me a little. "If you knew, you would not ask me,"--I said in great displeasure. But a delighted shout from all my room-mates answered this unlucky speech, which I had been too excited to make logical. "Capital!" cried St. Clair. "That's just it--we _don't_ know; and we only want to find out whether she does. Make her tell, Lansing--prick a little pin into her--that will bring it out." I was struggling between anger and sorrow, feeling very hurt, and at the same time determined not to cry. I kept absolutely still, fighting the fight of silence with myself. Then Lansing, in a fit of thoughtless mischief, finding her shakes and questions vain, actually put in practice St. Clair's suggestion, and attacked me with a pin from the dressing table. The first prick of it overthrew the last remnant of my patience. "Miss Lansing!"--I exclaimed, rousing up in bed and confronting her. They all shouted again. "Now we'll have it!" cried St. Clair. "Keep cool, Blackeyes; let's hear--we'll have an exposition now. Theme, Christian grace." Ah, there rushed through my heart with her words a remembrance of other words--a fluttering vision of something "gentle and easy to be entreated"--"first pure, then peaceable"--"gentleness, goodness, meekness."--But the grip of passion held them all down or kept them all back. After St. Clair's first burst, the girls were still and waited for what I would say. I was facing Miss Lansing, who had taken her hand from my shoulder. "Are you not ashamed of yourself?" I said; and I remember I thought how my mother would have spoken to them. "Miss Lansing's good nature"--I went on slowly,--"Miss Macy's kindness--Miss Bentley's independence--and Miss St. Clair's good breeding!"-- "_And_ Miss Randolph's religion!" echoed the last-named, with a quiet distinctness which went into my heart. "What about my independence?" said Miss Bentley. "Now we've got enough, girls,--lie down and go to sleep," said Miss Macy. "There's quite enough of this. There was too much before we began. Stop where you are." They did not stop, however, without a good deal of noisy chaffing and arguing, none of which I heard. Only the words, "Miss Randolph's religion," rung in my ears. I lay down with them lying like lead on my heart. I went to sleep under them. I woke up early, while all the rest were asleep, and began to study them. "Miss Randolph's religion!" If it had been only that, only mine. But the religion I professed was the religion of Christ; the name I was called by was _His_ name, the thing I had brought into discredit was His truth. I hope in all my life I may never know again the heart-pangs that this thought cost me. I studied how to undo the mischief I had done. I could find no way. I had seemed to prove my religion an unsteady, superficial thing; the evidence I had given I could not withdraw; it must stand. I lay thinking, with the heartache, until the rousing bell rang, and the sleepers began to stir from their slumbers. I got up and began to dress with the rest. "What was it all that happened last night?" said Miss Lansing. "Advancement in knowledge,"--said Miss St. Clair. "Now, girls--don't begin again," said Miss Macy. "Knowledge is a good thing," said the other, with pins in her mouth. "I intend to take every opportunity that offers of increasing mine; especially I mean to study Egyptians and Christians. I haven't any Christians among my own family or acquaintance--so you see, naturally, Macy, I am curious; and when a good specimen offers--" "I am not a good specimen," I said. "People are not good judges of themselves, it is said," the girl went on. "Everybody considers Miss Randolph a sample of what that article ought to be." "You don't use the word right," remarked Miss Macy. "A _sample_ is taken from what is,--not from what ought to be." "I don't care," was St. Clair's reply. "I did not behave like a Christian last night," I forced myself to say. "I was impatient." "Like an impatient Christian then, I suppose," said St Clair. I felt myself getting impatient again, with all my sorrow and humiliation of heart. And yet more humbled at the consciousness, I hastened to get out of the room. It was a miserable day, that day of my first school triumphs, and so were several more that followed. I was very busy; I had no time for recollection and prayer; I was in the midst of gratulations and plaudits from my companions and the teachers; and I missed, O how I missed the praise of God. I felt like a traitor. In the heat of the fight I had let my colours come to the ground. I had dishonoured my Captain. Some would say it was a little thing; but I felt then and I know now, there are no little things; I knew I had done harm; how much it was utterly beyond my reach to know. As soon as I could I seized an opportunity to get to Miss Cardigan. I found her among her flowers, nipping off here a leaf and there a flower that had passed its time; so busy, that for a few moments she did not see that I was different from usual. Then came the question which I had been looking for. "Daisy, you are not right to-day?" "I haven't been right since I got that standish," I burst forth. Miss Cardigan looked at me again, and then did what I had not expected; she took my head between her two hands and kissed me. Not loosing her hold, she looked into my face. "What is it, my pet?" "Miss Cardigan," I said, "can any one be a Christian and yet--yet--" "Do something unworthy a Christian?" she said. "I wot well they can! But then, they are weak Christians." I knew that before. But somehow, hearing her say it brought the shame and the sorrow more fresh to the surface. The tears came. Miss Cardigan pulled me into the next room and sat down, drawing me into her arms; and I wept there with her arms about me. "What then, Daisy?" she asked at length, as if the suspense pained her. "I acted so, Miss Cardigan," I said; and I told her all about it. "So the devil has found a weak spot in your armour," she said. "You must guard it well, Daisy." "How can I?" "How can you? Keep your shield before it, my bairn. What is your shield for? The Lord has given you a great strong shield, big enough to cover you from head to foot, if your hands know how to manage it." "What is that, Miss Cardigan?" "The shield of _faith_, dear. Only believe. According to your faith be it unto you." "Believe what?" I asked, lifting my head at last. "Believe that if you are a weak little soldier, your Captain knows all about it; and any fight that you go into for His sake, He will bear you through. I don't care what. Any fight, Daisy." "But I got impatient," I said, "at the girls' way of talking." "And perhaps you were a wee bit set up in your heart because you got the prize of the day." "_Proud!_" said I. "Don't it look like it? Even proud of being a Christian, mayhap." "Could I!" I said. "Was I?" "It wouldn't be the first time one with as little cause had got puffed up a bit. But heavenly charity 'is not puffed up.'" "I know that," I said and my tears started afresh. "How shall I help it in future?" I asked after a while, during which my friend had been silent. "Help it?" she said cheerfully. "You can't help it--but Jesus can." "But my impatience, and--my pride," I said, very downcast. "'Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy; when I fall I shall arise.' But there is no need you should fall, Daisy. Remember 'the Lord is able to make him stand'--may be said of every one of the Lord's people." "But will He keep me from impatience, and take pride out of my heart? Why, I did not know it was there, Miss Cardigan." "Did He say 'Whatsoever you shall ask in my name, I will do it?' And when He has written 'Whatsoever,' are you going to write it over and put 'anything not too hard'? Neither you nor me, Daisy?" "_Whatsoever_, Miss Cardigan," I said slowly. "He said so. Are you going to write it over again?" "No," I said. "But then, may one have _anything_ one asks for." "Anything in the world--if it is not contrary to His will--provided we ask in faith, nothing doubting. 'For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea, driven with the wind and tossed. For let not that man think that he shall receive anything of the Lord.'" "But how can we _know_ what is according to His will?" "_This_ is, at any rate," said Miss Cardigan; "for He has commanded us to be holy as He is holy." "But--other things?" I said. "How can one ask for everything 'in faith, nothing wavering?' How can one be sure?" "Only just this one way, Daisy, my dear," Miss Cardigan answered; and I remember to this day the accent of her native land which touched every word. "If ye're wholly the Lord's--wholly, mind,--ye'll not like aught but what the Lord likes; ye'll know what to ask for, and ye'll know the Lord will give it to you:--that is, if ye want it _enough_. But a 'double-minded man is unstable in all his ways;' and his prayers can't hit the mark, no more than a gun that's twisted when it's going off." "Then,"--I began and stopped, looking at her with my eyes full of tears. "Ay," she said,--"just so. There's no need that you nor me should be under the power of the evil one, for we're _free_. The Lord's words arn't too good to be true: every one of 'em is as high as heaven; and there isn't a sin nor an enemy but you and I may be safe from, if we trust the Lord." I do not remember any more of the conversation. I only know that the sun rose on my difficulties, and the shadows melted away. I had a happy evening with my dear old friend, and went home quite heart-whole. CHAPTER XIII. GREY COATS. I went back to school comforted. I had got strength to face all that might be coming in the future. And life has been a different thing to me ever since. Paul's words, "I can do all things through Christ,"--I have learned are not his words any more than mine. From that time I grew more and more popular in the school. I cannot tell why; but popularity is a thing that grows upon its own growth. It was only a little while before my companions almost all made a pet of me. It is humbling to know that this effect was hastened by some of the French dresses my mother had sent me, and which convenience obliged me to wear. They were extremely pretty; the girls came round me to know where I got them, and talked about who I was; and "Daisy Randolph," was the name most favoured by their lips from that time until school closed. With the exception, I must add, of my four room-mates. Miss St. Clair held herself entirely aloof from me, and the others chose her party rather than mine. St. Clair never lost, I think, any good chance or omitted any fair scheme to provoke me; but all she could do had lost its power. I tried to soften her; but Faustina was a rock to my advances. I knew I had done irreparable wrong that evening; the thought of it was almost the only trouble I had during those months. An old trouble was brought suddenly home to me one day. I was told a person wanted to speak to me in the lower hall. I ran down, and found Margaret. She was in the cloak and dress I had bought for her; looking at first very gleeful, and then very business-like, as she brought out from under her cloak a bit of paper folded with something in it. "What is this?" I said, finding a roll of bills. "It's my wages, Miss Daisy. I only kept out two dollars, ma'am--I wanted a pair of shoes so bad--and I couldn't be let go about the house in them old shoes with holes in 'em; there was holes in both of 'em, Miss Daisy." "But your wages, Margaret?" I said--"I have nothing to do with your wages." "Yes, Miss Daisy--they belongs to master, and I allowed to bring 'em to you. They's all there so fur. It's all right." I felt the hot shame mounting to my face. I put the money back in Margaret's hand, and hurriedly told her to keep it; we were not at Magnolia; she might do what she liked with the money; it was her own earnings. I shall never forget the girl's confounded look, and then her grin of brilliant pleasure. I could have burst into tears as I went up the stairs, thinking of others at home. Yet the question came too, would my father like what I had been doing? He held the girl to be his property and her earnings his earnings. Had I been giving Margaret a lesson in rebellion, and preparing her to claim her rights at some future day? Perhaps. And I made up my mind that I did not care. Live upon stolen money I would not, any more than I could help. But was I not living on it all the while? The old subject brought back! I worried over it all the rest of the day, with many a look forward and back. As the time of the vacation drew near, I looked hard for news of my father and mother, or tidings of their coming home. There were none. Indeed, I got no letters at all. There was nothing to cause uneasiness; the intervals were often long between one packet of letters and the next; but I wanted to hear of some change now that the school year was ended. It had been a good year to me. In that little world I had met and faced some of the hardest temptations of the great world; they could never be new to me again; and I had learned both my weakness and my strength. No summons to happiness reached me that year. My vacation was spent again with my Aunt Gary, and without Preston. September saw me quietly settled at my studies for another school year; to be gone through with what patience I might. That school year had nothing to chronicle. I was very busy, very popular, kindly treated by my teachers, and happy in a smooth course of life. Faustina St. Clair had been removed from the school; to some other I believe; and with her went all my causes of annoyance. The year rolled round, my father and mother in China or on the high seas; and my sixteenth summer opened upon me. A day or two before the close of school, I was called to the parlour to see a lady. Not my aunt; it was Mrs. Sandford; and the doctor was with her. I had not seen Mrs. Sandford, I must explain, for nearly a year; she had been away in another part of the country, far from New York. "Why, Daisy!--is this Daisy?" she exclaimed. "Is it not?" I asked. "Not the old Daisy. You are so grown, my dear!--so--That's right, Grant; let us have a little light to see each other by." "It is Miss Randolph--" said the doctor, after he had drawn up the window shade. "Like her mother! isn't she? and yet, not like--" "Not at all like." "She is, though, Grant; you are mistaken; she _is_ like her mother; though as I said, she isn't. I never saw anybody so improved. My dear, I shall tell all my friends to send their daughters to Mme. Ricard." "Dr. Sandford," said I, "Mme. Ricard does not like to have the sun shine into this room." "It's Daisy, too," said the doctor, smiling, as he drew down the shade again. "Don't _you_ like it, Miss Daisy?" "Yes, of course," I said; "but she does not." "It is not at all a matter of course," said he; "except as you are Daisy. Some people, as you have just told me, are afraid of the sun." "Oh, that is only for the carpets," I said. Dr. Sandford gave me a good look, like one of his looks of old times, that carried me right back somehow to Juanita's cottage. "How do you do, Daisy?" "A little pale," said Mrs. Sandford. "Let her speak for herself." I said I did not know I was pale. "Did you know you had head-ache a good deal of the time?" "Yes, Dr. Sandford, I knew that. It is not very bad." "Does not hinder you from going on with study?" "Oh no, never." "You have a good deal of time for study at night, too, do you not?--after the lights are out." "At night? how did you know that? But it is not always _study_." "No. You consume also a good deal of beef and mutton, nowadays? You prefer substantials in food as in everything else?" I looked at my guardian, very much surprised that he should see all this in my face, and with a little of my childish fascination about those steady blue eyes. I could not deny that in these days I scarcely lived by eating. But in the eagerness and pleasure of my pursuits I had not missed it, and amid my many busy and anxious thoughts I had not cared about it. "That will do," said the doctor. "Daisy, have you heard lately from your father or mother?" My breath came short as I said no. "Nor have I. Failing orders from them, you are bound to respect mine; and I order you change of air, and to go wherever Mrs. Sandford proposes to take you." "Not before school closes, Dr. Sandford?" "Do you care about that?" "My dear child," said Mrs. Sandford, "we are going to West Point--and we want to take you with us. I know you will enjoy it, my dear; and I shall be delighted to have you. But we want to go next week." "Do you care, Daisy?" Dr. Sandford repeated. I had to consider. One week more, and the examination would be over and the school term ended. I was ready for the examination; I expected to keep my standing, which was very high; by going away now I should lose that, and miss some distinction. So at least I thought. I found that several things were at work in my heart that I had not known were there. After a minute I told Mrs. Sandford I would go with her when she pleased. "You have made up your mind that you do not care about staying to the end here?" said the doctor. "Dr. Sandford," I said, "I believe I _do_ care; but not about anything worth while." He took both my hands, standing before me, and looked at me, I thought, as if I were the old little child again. "A course of fresh air," he said, "will do you more good than a course of any other thing just now. And we may find 'wonderful things' at West Point, Daisy." "I expect you will enjoy it, Daisy," Mrs. Sandford repeated. There was no fear. I knew I should see Preston, at any rate; and I had been among brick walls for many months. I winced a little at the thought of missing all I had counted upon at the close of term; but it was mainly pride that winced, so it was no matter. We left the city three or four days later. It was a June day--can I ever forget it? What a brilliance of remembrance comes over me now? The bustle of the close schoolrooms, the heat and dust of the sunny city streets, were all left behind in an hour; and New York was nowhere! The waves of the river sparkled under a summer breeze; the wall of the palisades stretched along, like the barriers of fairyland; so they seemed to me; only the barrier was open and I was about to enter. So till their grey and green ramparts were passed, and the broader reaches of the river beyond, and as evening began to draw in we came to higher shores and a narrower channel, and were threading our way among the lights and shadows of opposing headlands and hilltops. It grew but more fresh and fair as the sun got lower. Then, in a place where the river seemed to come to an end, the "Pipe of Peace" drew close in under the western shore, to a landing. Buildings of grey stone clustered and looked over the bank. Close under the bank's green fringes a little boat-house and large clean wooden pier received us; from the landing a road went steeply sloping up. I see it all now in the colours which clothed it then. I think I entered fairyland when I touched foot to shore. Even down at the landing, everything was clean and fresh and in order. The green branches of that thick fringe which reached to the top of the bank had no dust on them; the rocks were parti-coloured with lichens; the river was bright, flowing and rippling past; the "Pipe of Peace" had pushed off and sped on, and in another minute or two was turning the point, and then--out of sight. Stillness seemed to fill the woods and the air as the beat of her paddles was lost. I breathed stillness. New York was fifty miles away, physically and morally at the antipodes. I find it hard to write without epithets. As I said I was in fairyland; and how shall one describe fairyland? Dr. Sandford broke upon my reverie by putting me into the omnibus. But the omnibus quite belonged to fairyland too; it did not go rattling and jolting, but stole quietly up the long hill; letting me enjoy a view of the river and the hills of the opposite shore, coloured as they were by the setting sun, and crisp and sharp in the cool June air. Then a great round-topped building came in place of my view; the road took a turn behind it. "What is that?" I asked the doctor. "I am sorry, Daisy, I don't know. I am quite as ignorant as yourself." "That's the riding-hall," I heard somebody say. One omnibus full had gone up before us; and there were only two or three people in ours besides our own party. I looked round, and saw that the information had been given by a young man in a sort of uniform; he was all in grey, with large round gilt buttons on his coat, and a soldier's cap. The words had been spoken in a civil tone, that tempted me on. "Thank you!" I said. "The riding-hall!--who rides in it?" "We do," he said, and then smiled,--"The cadets." It was a frank smile and a pleasant face and utterly the look of a gentleman. So, though I saw that he was very much amused, either at himself or me, I went on-- "And those other buildings?" "Those are the stables." I wondered at the neat beautiful order of the place. Then, the omnibus slowly mounting the hill, the riding-hall and stables were lost to sight. Another building, of more pretension, appeared on our left hand, on the brow of the ascent; our road turned the corner round this building, and beneath a grove of young trees the gothic buttresses and windows of grey stone peeped out. Carefully dressed green turf, with gravelled walks leading from different directions to the doors, looked as if this was a place of business. Somebody pulled the string here and the omnibus stopped. "This is the library," my neighbour in grey remarked; and with that rising and lifting his cap, he jumped out. I watched him rapidly walking into the library; he was tall, very erect, with a fine free carriage and firm step. But then the omnibus was moving on and I turned to the other side. And the beauty took away my breath. There was the green plain girded with trees and houses, beset with hills, the tops of which I could see in the distance, with the evening light upon them. The omnibus went straight over the plain; green and smooth and fresh, it lay on the one side and on the other side of us, excepting one broad strip on the right. I wondered what had taken off the grass there; but then we passed within a hedge enclosure and drew up at the hotel steps. "Have you met an acquaintance already, Daisy?" Dr. Sandford asked as he handed me out. "An acquaintance?" said I. "No, but I shall find him soon, I suppose." For I was thinking of Preston. But I forgot Preston the next minute. Mrs. Sandford had seized my hand and drew me up the piazza steps and through the hall, out to the piazza at the north side of the house. I was in fairyland surely! I had thought so before, but I knew it now. Those grand hills, in the evening colours, standing over against each other on the east and on the west, and the full magnificent river lying between them, bright and stately, were like nothing I had ever seen or imagined. My memory goes back now to point after point of delight which bewildered me. There was a dainty little sail sweeping across just at the bend of the river; I have seen many since; I never forget that one. There was a shoulder of one of the eastern hills, thrown out towards the south-west, over which the evening light fell in a mantle of soft gold, with a fold of shadow on the other side. The tops of those eastern hills were warm with sunlight, and here and there a slope of the western hills. There was a point of the lower ground, thrust out into the river, between me and the eastern shore, which lay wholly in shadow, one shadow, one soft mass of dusky green, rounding out into a promontory. Above it, beyond it, at the foot of the hills, a white church spire rose as sharp as a needle. It is all before me, even the summer stillness in which my senses were wrapt. There was a clatter in the house behind me, but I did not hear it then. I was obliged to go away to get ready for tea. The house was full; only one room could be spared for Mrs. Sandford and me. That one had been engaged beforehand, and its window looked over the same view I had seen from the piazza. I took my post at this window while waiting for Mrs. Sandford. Cooler and crisper the lights, cooler and grayer the shadows had grown; the shoulder of the east mountain had lost its mantle of light; just a gleam rested on a peak higher up; and my single white sail was getting small in the distance, beating up the river. I was very happy. My school year, practically, was finished, and I was vaguely expecting some order or turn of affairs which would join me to my father and mother. I remember well what a flood of satisfied joy poured into my heart as I stood at the window. I seemed to my self so very rich, to taste all that delight of hills and river; the richness of God's giving struck me with a sort of wonder. And then being so enriched and tasting the deep treasures of heaven and earth which I had been made to know, happy so exceedingly--it came to my heart with a kind of pang, the longing to make others know what I knew; and the secret determination to use all my strength as Christ's servant--in bringing others to the joy of the knowledge of Him. I was called from my window then, and my view was exchanged for the crowded dining-room, where I could eat nothing. But after tea we got out upon the piazza again, and a soft north-west breeze seemed to be food and refreshment too. Mrs. Sandford soon found a colonel and a general to talk to; but Dr. Sandford sat down by me. "How do you like it, Daisy?" I told him, and thanked him for bringing me. "Are you tired?" "No--I don't think I am tired." "You are not hungry, of course, for you can eat nothing. Do you think you shall sleep?" "I don't feel like it now. I do not generally get sleepy till a great while after this." "You will go to sleep somewhere about nine o'clock," said the doctor; "and not wake up till you are called in the morning." I thought he was mistaken, but as I could not prove it I said nothing. "Are you glad to get away from school?" "On some accounts. I like school too, Dr. Sandford; but there are some things I do not like." "That remark might be made, Daisy, about every condition of life with which I am acquainted." "I could not make it just now," I said. He smiled. "Have you secured a large circle of friends among your schoolmates,--that are to last for ever?" "I do not think they love me well enough for that," I said, wondering somewhat at my guardian's questioning mood. "Nor you them?" "I suppose not." "Why, Daisy," said Mrs. Sandford, "I am surprised! I thought you used to love everybody." I tried to think how that might be, and whether I had changed. Dr. Sandford interrupted my thoughts again-- "How is it with friends out of school?" "Oh, I have none," I said; thinking only of girls like myself. "None?" he said. "Do you really know nobody in New York?" "Nobody,--but one old lady." "Who is that, Daisy?" He asked short and coolly, like one who had a right to know; and then I remembered he had the right. I gave him Miss Cardigan's name and number. "Who is she? and who lives with her?" "Nobody lives with her; she has only her servants." "What do you know about her then, besides what she has told you? Excuse me, and please have the grace to satisfy me." "I know I must," I said half laughing. "_Must?_" "You know I must too, Dr. Sandford." "I don't know it, indeed," said he. "I know I must ask; but I do not know what power can force you to answer." "Isn't it my duty, Dr. Sandford?" "Nobody but Daisy Randolph would have asked that question," he said. "Well, if duty is on my side, I know I am powerful. But, Daisy, you always used to answer me, in times when there was no duty in the case." "I remember," I said, smiling to think of it; "but I was a child then, Dr. Sandford." "Oh!--Well, apropos of duty, you may go on about Miss Cardigan." "I do not know a great deal to tell. Only that she is very good, very kind to me and everybody; very rich, I believe; and very wise, I think. I know nothing more--except the way her money was made." "How was it?" "I have heard that her mother was a marketwoman," I said very unwillingly; for I knew the conclusions that would be drawn. "Is it likely," Dr. Sandford said slowly, "that the daughter of a marketwoman should be a good friend in every respect for the daughter of Mrs. Randolph?" "It may not be _likely_," I answered with equal slowness;--"but it is true." "Can you prove your position, Daisy?" "What is your objection to her, Dr. Sandford?" "Simply what you have told me. The different classes of society are better apart." I was silent. If Miss Cardigan was not of my class, I knew I wanted to be of hers. There were certain words running in my head about "a royal priesthood, a peculiar people," and certain other words too--which I thought it was no use to tell Dr. Sandford. "She has no family, you say, nor friends who live with her, or whom you meet at her house?" "None at all. I think she is quite alone." There was silence again. That is, between the doctor and me. Mrs. Sandford and her officers kept up a great run of talk hard by. "Now, Daisy," said the doctor, "you have studied the matter, and I do not doubt you have formed a philosophy of your own by this time. Pray make me the wiser." "I have no philosophy of my own, Dr. Sandford." "Your own thus far, that nobody shares it with you." "Is that your notion of me?" I said, laughing. "A very good notion. Nothing is worse than commonplace people. Indulge me, Daisy." So I thought I had better. "Dr. Sandford--if you will indulge me. What is _your_ notion of dignity?" He passed his hand over his hair, with a comical face. It was a very fine face, as I knew long ago; even a noble face. A steady, clear, blue eye like his, gives one a sure impression of power in the character, and of sweetness, too. I was glad he had asked me the question, but I waited for him to answer mine first. "My notion of dignity!" he exclaimed. "I don't believe I have any, Daisy." "No, but we are talking seriously." "Very. We always are when you are one of the talkers." "Then please explain your notion of dignity." "I know it when I see it," said the doctor; "but faith! I don't know what makes it." "Yes, but you think some people, or some classes, are set up above others." "So do you." "What do you think makes the highest class, then?" "You are going too deep, or too high, which is the same thing. All I mean is, that certain feet which fate has planted on lofty levels, ought not to come down from them." "But it is good to know where we stand." "Very," said Dr. Sandford, laughing. That is, in his way of laughing. It was never loud. "I will tell you where I want to stand," I went on. "It is the highest level of all. The Lord Jesus said, 'Whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is MY BROTHER, and MY SISTER, and MOTHER.' I want to be one of those." "But, Daisy," said Dr. Sandford, "the society of the world is not arranged on that principle." I knew it very well. I said nothing. "And you cannot, just yet, go out of the world." It was no use to tell Dr. Sandford what I thought. I was silent still. "Daisy," said he, "you are worse than you used to be." And I heard a little concern in his words, only half hid by the tone. "You do not suppose that such words as those you quoted just now, were meant to be a practical guide in the daily affairs of life? Do you?" "How can I help it, Dr. Sandford?" I answered. "I would like to have my friends among those whom the King will call His sisters and brothers." "And what do you think of correct grammar, and clean hands?" he asked. "Clean hands!" I echoed. "You like them," he said, smiling. "The people you mean often go without them--if report says true." "Not the people _I_ mean," I said. "And education, Daisy; and refined manners; and cultivated tastes; what will you do without all these? In the society you speak of they are seldom found." "You do not know the society I speak of, Dr. Sandford; and Miss Cardigan has all these, more or less; besides something a great deal better." Dr. Sandford rose up suddenly and introduced me to a Captain Southgate who came up; and the conversation ran upon West Point things and nothings after that. I was going back over my memory, to find in how far religion had been associated with some other valued things in the instances of my experience, and I heard little of what was said. Mr. Dinwiddie had been a gentleman, as much as any one I ever knew; he was the first. My old Juanita had the manners of a princess, and the tact of a fine lady. Miss Cardigan was a capital compound of sense, goodness, business energies, and gentle wisdom. The others--well, yes, they were of the despised orders of the world. My friend Darry, at the stables of Magnolia--my friend Maria, in the kitchen of the great house--the other sable and sober faces that came around theirs in memory's grouping--they were not educated nor polished nor elegant. Yet well I knew, that having owned Christ before men, He would own them before the angels of heaven; and what would they be in that day! I was satisfied to be numbered with them. I slept, as Dr. Sandford had prophesied I would that night. I awoke to a vision of beauty. My remembrance of those days that followed is like a summer morning, with a diamond hanging to every blade of grass. I awoke suddenly, that first day, and rushed to the window. The light had broken, the sun was up; the crown of the morning was upon the heads of the hills; here and there a light wreath of mist lay along their sides, floating slowly off, or softly dispersing; the river lay in quiet beauty waiting for the gilding that should come upon it. I listened--the brisk notes of a drum and fife came to my ear, playing one after another joyous and dancing melody. I thought that never was a place so utterly delightsome as this place. With all speed I dressed myself, noiselessly, so as not to waken Mrs. Sandford; and then I resolved I would go out and see if I could not find a place where I could be by myself; for in the house there was no chance of it. I took Mr. Dinwiddie's Bible and stole downstairs. From the piazza where we had sat last night, a flight of steps led down. I followed it and found another flight, and still another. The last landed me in a gravelled path; one track went down the steep face of the bank, on the brow of which the hotel stood; another track crossed that and wound away to my right, with a gentle downward slope. I went this way. The air was delicious; the woods were musical with birds; the morning light filled my pathway and glancing from trees or rocks ahead of me, lured me on with a promise of glory. I seemed to gather the promise as I went, and still I was drawn farther and farther. Glimpses of the river began to show through the trees; for all this bank side was thickly wooded. I left walking and took to running. At last I came out upon another gravelled walk, low down on the hillside, lying parallel with the river and open to it. Nothing lay between but some masses of granite rock, grey and lichened, and a soft fringe of green underbrush and small wood in the intervals. Moreover, I presently found a comfortable seat on a huge grey stone, where the view was uninterrupted by any wood growth; and if I thought before that this was fairyland, I now almost thought myself a fairy. The broad river was at my feet; the morning light was on all the shores, sparkled from the granite rocks below me and flashed from the polished leaves, and glittered on the water; filling all the blue above with radiance; touching here and there a little downy cloud; entering in and lying on my heart. I shall never forget it. The taste of the air was as one tastes life and strength and vigour. It all rolled in on me a great burden of joy. It was not the worst time or place in the world to read the Bible. But how all the voices of nature seemed to flow in and mix with the reading, I cannot tell, no more than I can number them; the whirr of a bird's wing, the liquid note of a wood thrush, the stir and movement of a thousand leaves, the gurgle of rippling water, the crow's call, and the song-sparrow's ecstasy. Once or twice the notes of a bugle found their way down the hill, and reminded me that I was in a place of delightful novelty. It was just a fillip to my enjoyment, as I looked on and off my page alternately. By and by I heard footsteps, quick yet light footsteps, sounding on the gravel. Measured and quick they came; then two figures rounded a point close by me. There were two, but their footfalls had sounded as one. They were dressed alike, all in grey, like my friend in the omnibus. As they passed me, the nearest one hastily pulled off his cap, and I caught just a flash from a bright eye. It was the same. I looked after them as they left my point and were soon lost behind another; thinking that probably Preston was dressed so and had been taught to walk so; and with renewed admiration of a place where the inhabitants kept such an exquisite neatness in their dress and moved like music. There was a fulness of content in my mind, as at length I slowly went back up my winding path to the hotel, warned by the furious sounds of a gong that breakfast was in preparation. As I toiled up the last flight of steps I saw Dr. Sandford on the piazza. His blue eye looked me all over and looked me through, I felt. I was accustomed to that, both from the friend and the physician, and rather liked it. "What is on the other side of the house?" I asked. "Let us go and see." And as we went, the doctor took my book from my hand to carry it for me. He opened it, too, and looked at it. On the other side or two sides of the house stretched away the level green plain. At the back of it, stood houses half hidden by trees; indeed all round two sides of the plain there was a border of buildings and of flourishing trees as well. Down the north side, from the hotel where we were, a road went winding: likewise under arching trees; here and there I could see cannon and a bit of some military work. All the centre of the plain was level and green, and empty; and from the hotel to the library stretched a broad strip of bare ground, brown and dusty, alongside of the road by which we had come across last night. In the morning sun, as indeed under all other lights and at all other hours, this scene was one of satisfying beauty. Behind the row of houses at the western edge of the plain, the hills rose up, green and wooded, height above height; and an old fortification stood out now under the eastern illumination, picturesque and grey, high up among them. As Dr. Sandford and I were silent and looking, I saw another grey figure pass down the road. "Who are those people that wear grey, with a black stripe down the leg?" I asked. "Grey?" said the doctor. "Where?" "There is one yonder under the trees," I said, "and there was one in the omnibus yesterday. Are those the cadets?" "I suppose so." "Then Preston wears that dress. I wonder how I shall find him, Dr. Sandford?" "Find whom?" said the doctor, waking up. "My cousin Preston--Preston Gary. He is here." "Here?" repeated the doctor. "Yes--he is a cadet--didn't you know it? He has been here a long while; he has only one more year, I believe. How can we find him, Dr. Sandford?" "I am ignorant, Daisy." "But we must find him," I said, "for of course he will want to see me, and I want to see him, very much." The doctor was silent, and I remember an odd sense I had that he was not pleased. I cannot tell how I got it; he neither did nor said anything to make me think so; he did not even look anywise different from usual; yet I felt it and was sure of it, and unspeakably mystified at it. Could Preston have been doing anything wrong? Yet the doctor would not know that, for he was not even aware that Preston was in the Military Academy till I told him. "I do not know, Daisy," he said at last; "but we can find out. I will ask Captain Southgate or somebody else." "Thank you," I said. "Who are those, Dr. Sandford, those others dressed in dark frock coats, with bright bars over their shoulders?--like that one just now going out of the gate?" "Those are officers of the army." "There are a good many of them. What are they here for? Are there many soldiers here?" "No--" said the doctor, "I believe not. I think these gentlemen are put here to look after the grey coats--the cadets, Daisy, The cadets are here in training, you know." "But that officer who just went out--who is walking over the plain now--he wore a sword, Dr. Sandford; and a red sash. They do not all wear them. What is that for?" "What is under discussion?" said Mrs. Sandford, coming out. "How well Daisy looks this morning, don't she?" "She has caught the military fever already," said the doctor. "I brought her here for a sedative; but I find it is no such matter." "Sedative!" said Mrs. Sandford; but at this instant my ears were "caught" by a burst of music on the plain. Mrs. Sandford broke into a fit of laughter. The doctor's hand touched my shoulder. "Get your hat, Daisy," he said, "I will go with you to hear it." I might tell of pleasure from minute to minute of that day, and of the days following. The breath of the air, the notes of the wind instruments, the flicker of sunlight on the gravel, all come back to me as I write, and I taste them again. Dr. Sandford and I went down the road I have described, leading along the edge of the plain at its northern border; from which the view up over the river, between the hills, was very glorious. Fine young trees shaded this road; on one side a deep hollow or cup in the green plain excited my curiosity; on the other, lying a little down the bank, a military work of some odd sort planted with guns. Then one or two pyramidal heaps of cannon-balls by the side of the road, marked this out as unlike all other roads I had ever traversed. At the farther side of the plain we came to the row of houses I had seen from a distance, which ran north and south, looking eastward over all the plain. The road which skirted these houses was shaded with large old trees, and on the edge of the greensward under the trees we found a number of iron seats placed for the convenience of spectators. And here, among many others, Dr. Sandford and I sat down. There was a long line of the grey uniforms now drawn up in front of us; at some little distance; standing still and doing nothing, that I could see. Nearer to us and facing them stood a single grey figure; I looked hard, but could not make out that it was Preston. Nearer still, stood with arms folded one of those whom the doctor had said were army officers; I thought, the very one I had seen leave the hotel; but all like statues, motionless and fixed. Only the band seemed to have some life in them. "What is it, Dr. Sandford?" I whispered, after a few minutes of intense enjoyment. "Don't know, Daisy." "But what are they doing?" "I don't know, Daisy." I nestled down into silence again, listening, almost with a doubt of my own senses, as the notes of the instruments mingled with the summer breeze and filled the June sunshine. The plain looked most beautiful, edged with trees on three sides, and bounded to the east, in front of me, by a chain of hills soft and wooded, which I afterwards found were beyond the river. Near at hand, the order of military array, the flash of a sword, the glitter of an epaulette, the glance of red sashes here and there, the regularity of a perfect machine. I said nothing more to Dr. Sandford; but I gathered drop by drop the sweetness of the time. The statues broke into life a few minutes later, and there was a stir of business of some sort; but I could make out nothing of what they were doing. I took it on trust, and enjoyed everything to the full till the show was over. CHAPTER XIV. YANKEES. For several days I saw nothing of Preston. He was hardly missed. I found that such a parade as that which pleased me the first morning came off twice daily; and other military displays, more extended and more interesting, were to be looked for every day at irregular times. I failed not of one. So surely as the roll of the drum or a strain of music announced that something of the sort was on hand, I caught up my hat and was ready. And so was Dr. Sandford. Mrs. Sandford would often not go; but the doctor's hat was as easily put on as mine, and as readily; and he attended me, I used to think, as patiently as a great Newfoundland dog. As patient, and as supreme. The evolutions of soldiers and clangour of martial music were nothing to _him_, but he must wait upon his little mistress. I mean of course the Newfoundland dog; not Dr. Sandford. "Will you go for a walk, Daisy?" he said, the morning of the third or fourth day. "There is nothing doing on the plain, I find." "A walk? Oh, yes!" I said. "Where shall we go?" "To look for wonderful things," he said. "Only don't take the child among the rattlesnakes," said Mrs. Sandford. "_They_ are wonderful, I suppose, but not pleasant. You will get her all tanned, Grant!" But I took these hints of danger as coolly as the doctor himself did; and another of my West Point delights began. We went beyond the limits of the post, passed out at one of the gates which shut it in from the common world, and forgot for the moment drums and fifes. Up the mountain side, under the shadow of the trees most of the time, though along a good road; with the wild hill at one hand rising sharp above us. Turning round that, we finally plunged down into a grand dell of the hills, leaving all roads behind and all civilization, and having a whole mountain between us and the West Point plain. I suppose it might have been a region for rattlesnakes, but I never thought of them. I had never seen such a place in my life. From the bottom of the gorge where we were, the opposite mountain side sloped up to a great height; wild, lonely, green with a wealth of wood, stupendous, as it seemed to me, in its towering expanse. At our backs, a rocky and green precipice rose up more steeply yet, though to a lesser elevation, topped with the grey walls of the old fort, the other face of which I had seen from our hotel. A wilderness of nature it was; wild and stern. I feasted on it. Dr. Sandford was moving about, looking for something; he helped me over rocks, and jumped me across morasses, and kept watchful guard of me; but else he let me alone; he did not talk, and I had quite enough without. The strong delight of the novelty, the freedom, the delicious wild things around, the bracing air, the wonderful lofty beauty, made me as happy as I thought I could be. I feasted on the rocks and wild verdure, the mosses and ferns and lichen, the scrub forest and tangled undergrowth, among which we plunged and scrambled: above all, on those vast leafy walls which shut in the glen, and almost took away my breath with their towering lonely grandeur. All this time Dr. Sandford was as busy as a bee, in quest of something. He was a great geologist and mineralogist; a lover of all natural science, but particularly of chemistry and geology. When I stopped to look at him, I thought he must have put his own tastes in his pocket for several days past that he might gratify mine. I was standing on a rock, high and dry and grey with lichen; he was poking about in some swampy ground. "Are you tired, Daisy?" he said, looking up. "My feet are tired," I said. "That is all of you that can be tired. Sit down where you are--I will come to you directly." So I sat down and watched him, and looked off between whiles to the wonderful green walls of the glen. The summer blue was very clear overhead; the stillness of the place very deep; insects, birds, a flutter of leaves, and the grating of Dr. Sandford's boot upon a stone, all the sounds that could be heard. "Why you are warm, as well as tired, Daisy," he said, coming up to my rock at last. "It _is_ warm," I answered. "Warm?" said he. "Look here, Daisy!" "Well, what in the world is that?" I said, laughing. "A little mud or earth is all that I can see." "Ah, your eyes are not good for much, Daisy--except to look at." "Not good for much for _that_," I said, amused; for his eyes were bent upon the earth in his hand. "I don't know," said he, getting up on the rock beside me and sitting down. "I used to find strange things in them once. But this is something you will like, Daisy." "Is it?" "If you like wonderful things as well as ever." "Oh, I do!" I said. "What is it, Dr. Sandford?" He carefully wrapped up his treasure in a bit of paper and put it in his pocket; then he cut down a small hickory branch and began to fan me with it; and while he sat there fanning me he entered upon a lecture such as I had never listened to in my life. I had studied a little geology of course, as well as a little of everything else; but no lesson like this had come in the course of my experience. Taking his text from the very wild glen where we were sitting and the mountain sides upon which I had been gazing, Dr. Sandford spread a clear page of nature before me and interpreted it. He answered unspoken questions; he filled great vacancies of my ignorance; into what had been abysms of thought he poured a whole treasury of intelligence and brought floods of light. All so quietly, so luminously, with such a wealth of knowledge and facility of giving it, that it is a simple thing to say no story of Eastern magic was ever given into more charmed ears around an Arabian desert fire. I listened and he talked and fanned me. He talked like one occupied with his subject and not with me: but he met every half-uttered doubt or question, and before he had done he satisfied it fully. I had always liked Dr. Sandford; I had never liked him so much; I had never, since the old childish times, had such a free talk with him. And now, he did not talk to me as a child or a very young girl, except in bending himself to my ignorance; but as one who loves knowledge likes to give it to others, so he gave it to me. Only I do not remember seeing him like to give it in such manner to anybody else. I think the novelty added to the zest when I thought about it; at the moment I had no time for side thoughts. At the moment my ears could but receive the pearls and diamonds of knowledge which came from the speaker's lips, set in silver of the simplest clear English. I notice that the people who have the most thorough grasp of a subject make ever least difficulty of words about it. The sun was high and hot when we returned, but I cared nothing for that. I was more than ever sure that West Point was fairyland. The old spring of childish glee seemed to have come back to my nerves. "Dinner is just ready," said Mrs. Sandford, meeting us in the hall. "Why, where _have_ you been? And look at the colour of Daisy's face! Oh, Grant, what have you done with her?" "Very good colour--" said the doctor, peering under my hat. "She's all flushed and sunburnt, and overheated." "Daisy is never anything but cool," he said; "unless when she gets hold of a principle, and somebody else gets hold of the other end. We'll look at these things after dinner, Daisy." "Principles?" half exclaimed Mrs. Sandford, with so dismayed an expression that the doctor and I both laughed. "Not exactly," said the doctor, putting his hand in his pocket. "Look here." "I see nothing but a little dirt." "You shall see something else by and by--if you will." "You have never brought your microscope here, Grant? Where in the world will you set it up?" "In your room--after dinner--if you permit." Mrs. Sandford permitted; and though she did not care much about the investigations that followed, the doctor and I did. As delightful as the morning had been, the long afternoon stretched its bright hours along; till Mrs. Sandford insisted I must be dressed, and pushed the microscope into a corner and ordered the doctor away. That was the beginning of the pleasantest course of lessons I ever had in my life. From that time Dr. Sandford and I spent a large part of every day in the hills; and often another large part over the microscope. No palace and gardens in the Arabian nights were ever more enchanting, than the glories of nature through which he led me; nor half so wonderful. "A little dirt," as it seemed to ordinary eyes, was the hidden entrance way ofttimes to halls of knowledge more magnificent and more rich than my fancy had ever dreamed of. Meanwhile, Mrs. Sandford found a great many officers to talk to. It was not till the evening of the next day following my first walk into the mountains, that I saw Preston. It was parade time; and I was sitting as usual on one of the iron settees which are placed for the convenience of spectators. I was almost always there at parade and guardmounting. The picture had a continual fascination for me, whether under the morning sun, or the evening sunset; and the music was charming. This time I was alone, Dr. and Mrs. Sandford being engaged in conversation with friends at a little distance. Following with my ear the variations of the air the band were playing my mind was at the same time dwelling on the riches it had just gained in the natural history researches of the day, and also taking in half consciously the colours of the hills and the light that spread over the plain; musing, in short, in a kind of dream of delight; when a grey figure came between me and my picture. Finding that it did not move, I raised my eyes. "The same Daisy as ever!" said Preston, his eyes all alight with fun and pleasure. "The same as ever! And how came you here? and when did you come? and how did you come?" "We have been here ever since Friday. Why haven't you been to see me? Dr. Sandford sent word to you." "Dr. Sandford!" said Preston, taking the place by my side. "How did you come here, Daisy?" "I came by the boat, last Friday. How should I come?" "Who are you with?" "Dr. Sandford--and Mrs. Sandford." "_Mrs._ Sandford, and Dr. Sandford," said Preston, pointedly. "You are not with the doctor, I suppose." "Why yes, I am," I answered. "He is my guardian--don't you know, Preston? He brought me. How tall you have grown!" "A parcel of Yankees," said Preston. "Poor little Daisy." "What do you mean by 'Yankees'?" I said. "You do not mean just people at the North, for you speak as if it was something bad." "It is. So I do," said Preston. "They are a mean set--fit for nothing but to eat codfish and scrape. I wish you had nothing to do with Yankees." I thought how all the South lived upon stolen earnings. It was a disagreeable turn to my meditations for a moment. "Where have you hid yourself since you have come here?" Preston went on. "I have been to the hotel time and again to find you." "Have you!" I said. "Oh, I suppose I was out walking." "With whom were you walking." "I don't know anybody here, but those I came with. But, Preston, why are you not over yonder with the others?" I was looking at the long grey line formed in front of us on the plain. "I got leave of absence, to come and see you, Daisy. And _you_ have grown, and improved. You're wonderfully improved. Are you the very same Daisy? and what are you going to do here?" "Oh, I'm enjoying myself. Now, Preston why does that man stand so?" "What man?" "That officer--here in front, standing all alone, with the sash and sword. Why does he stand so?" "Hush. That is Captain Percival. He is the officer in charge." "What is that?" "Oh, he looks after the parade, and things." "But why does he stand so, Preston?" "Stand how?" said Preston, unsympathizingly. "That is good standing." "Why, with his shoulders up to his ears," I said; "and his arms lifted up as if he was trying to put his elbows upon a high shelf. It is _very_ awkward." "They all stand so," said Preston. "That's right enough." "It is ungraceful." "It is military." "Must one be ungraceful in order to be military?" "_He_ isn't ungraceful. That is Percival--of South Carolina." "The officer yesterday stood a great deal better," I went on. "Yesterday? That was Blunt. He's a Yankee." "Well, what then, Preston?" I said laughing. "I despise them!" "Aren't there Yankees among the cadets?" "Of course; but they are no count--only here and there there's one of good family. Don't you have anything to do with them, Daisy!--mind;--not with one of them, unless I tell you who he is." "With one of whom? What are you speaking of?" "The cadets." "Why I have nothing to do with them," I said. "How should I?" Preston looked at me curiously. "Nor at the hotel, neither, Daisy--more than you can help. Have nothing to say to the Yankees." I thought Preston had taken a strange fancy. I was silent. "It is not fitting," he went on. "We are going to change all that. I want to have nothing to do with Yankees." "What are you going to change?" I asked. "I don't see how you can help having to do with them. They are among the cadets, and they are among the officers." "We have our own set," said Preston. "I have nothing to do with them in the corps." "Now, Preston, look; what are they about? All the red sashes are getting together." "Parade is dismissed. They are coming up to salute the officer in charge." "It is so pretty!" I said, as the music burst out again, and the measured steps of the advancing line of "red sashes" marked it. "And now Captain Percival will unbend his stiff elbows. Why could not all that be done easily, Preston?" "Nonsense, Daisy!--it is military." "Is it? But Mr. Blunt did it a great deal better. Now they are going. Must you go?" "Yes. What are you going to do to-morrow?" "I don't know--I suppose we shall go into the woods again." "When the examination is over, I can attend to you. I haven't much time just now. But there is really nothing to be done here, since one can't get on horseback out of the hours." "I don't want anything better than I can get on my own feet," I said joyously. "I find plenty to do." "Look here, Daisy," said Preston--"don't you turn into a masculine, muscular woman, that can walk her twenty miles and wear hobnailed shoes--like the Yankees you are among. Don't forget that you are the daughter of a Southern gentleman--" He touched his cap hastily and turned away--walking with those measured steps towards the barracks; whither now all the companies of grey figures were in full retreat. I stood wondering, and then slowly returned with my friends to the hotel; much puzzled to account for Preston's discomposure and strange injunctions. The sunlight had left the tops of the hills; the river slept in the gathering grey shadows, soft, tranquil, reposeful. Before I got to the hotel, I had quite made up my mind that my cousin's eccentricities were of no consequence. They recurred to me, however, and were as puzzling as ever. I had no key at the time. The next afternoon was given to a very lively show: the light artillery drill before the Board of Visitors. We sat out under the trees to behold it; and I found out now the meaning of the broad strip of plain between the hotel and the library, which was brown and dusty in the midst of the universal green. Over this strip, round and round, back, and forth, and across, the light artillery wagons rushed, as if to show what they could do in time of need. It was a beautiful sight, exciting and stirring; with the beat of horses' hoofs, the clatter of harness, the rumble of wheels tearing along over the ground, the flash of a sabre now and then, the ringing words of command, and the soft, shrill echoing bugle which repeated them. I only wanted to understand it all; and in the evening I plied Preston with questions. He explained things to me patiently. "I understand," I said, at last, "I understand what it would do in war time. But we are not at war, Preston." "No." "Nor in the least likely to be." "We can't tell. It is good to be ready." "But what do you mean?" I remember saying. "You speak as if we might be at war. Who is there for us to fight?" "Anybody that wants putting in order," said Preston. "The Indians." "O Preston, Preston!" I exclaimed. "The Indians! when we have been doing them wrong ever since the white men came here; and you want to do them more wrong!" "I want to hinder them from doing us wrong. But I don't care about the Indians, little Daisy. I would just as lief fight the Yankees." "Preston, I think you are very wrong." "You think all the world is," he said. We were silent, and I felt very dissatisfied. What _was_ all this military schooling a preparation for, perhaps? How could we know. Maybe these heads and hands, so gay to-day in their mock fight, would be grimly and sadly at work by and by, in real encounter with some real enemy. "Do you see that man, Daisy?" whispered Preston, suddenly in my ear. "That one talking to a lady in blue." We were on the parade ground, among a crowd of spectators, for the hotels were very full, and the Point very gay now. I said I saw him. "That is a great man." "Is he?" I said, looking and wondering if a great man could hide behind such a physiognomy. "Other people think so, I can tell you," said Preston. "Nobody knows what that man can do. That is Davis of Mississippi." The name meant nothing to me then. I looked at him as I would have looked at another man. And I did not like what I saw. Something of sinister, nothing noble, about the countenance; power there might be--Preston said there was--but the power of the fox and the vulture it seemed to me; sly, crafty, selfish, cruel. "If nobody knows what he can do, how is it so certain that he is a great man?" I asked. Preston did not answer. "I hope there are not many great men that look like him." I went on. "Nonsense, Daisy!" said Preston, in an energetic whisper. "That is Davis of Mississippi." "Well?" said I. "That is no more to me than if he were Jones of New York." "Daisy!" said Preston. "If you are not a true Southerner, I will never love you any more." "What do you mean by a true Southerner? I do not understand." "Yes, you do. A true Southerner is always a Southerner, and takes the part of a Southerner in every dispute--right or wrong." "What makes you dislike Northerners so much?" "Cowardly Yankees!" was Preston's reply. "You must have an uncomfortable time among them, if you feel so," I said. "There are plenty of the true sort here. I wish you were in Paris, Daisy; or somewhere else." "Why?" I said, laughing. "Safe with my mother, or _your_ mother. You want teaching. You are too latitudinarian. And you are too thick with the Yankees, by half." I let this opinion alone, as I could do nothing with it; and our conversation broke off with Preston in a very bad humour. The next day, when we were deep in the woods, I asked Dr. Sandford if he knew Mr. Davis of Mississippi. He answered Yes, rather drily. I knew the doctor knew everybody. I asked why Preston called him a great man. "Does he call him a great man?" Dr. Sandford asked. "Do you?" "No, not I, Daisy. But that may not hinder the fact. And I may not have Mr. Gary's means of judging." "What means can he have?" I said. "Daisy," said Dr. Sandford suddenly, when I had forgotten the question in plunging through a thicket of brushwood, "if the North and the South should split on the subject of slavery, what side would you take?" "What do you mean by a 'split'?" I asked slowly, in my wonderment. "The States are not precisely like a perfect crystal, Daisy, and there is an incipient cleavage somewhere about Mason and Dixon's line." "I do not know what line that is." "No. Well, for practical purposes, you may take it as the line between the slave States and the free." "But how could there be a split?" I asked. "There is a wedge applied even now, Daisy--the question whether the new States forming out of our Western territories, shall have slavery in them or shall be free States." I was silent upon this; and we walked and climbed for a little distance, without my remembering our geological or mineralogical, or any other objects in view. "The North say," Dr. Sandford then went on, "that these States shall be free. The South--or some men at the South--threaten that if they be, the South will split from the North, have nothing to do with us, and set up for themselves." "Who is to decide it?" I asked. "The people. This fall the election will be held for the next President; and that will show. If a slavery man be chosen, we shall know that a majority of the nation go with the Southern view." "If not?"-- "Then there may be trouble, Daisy." "What sort of trouble?" I asked hastily. Dr. Sandford hesitated, and then said, "I do not know how far people will go." I mused, and forgot the sweet flutter of green leaves, and smell of moss and of hemlock, and golden bursts of sunshine, amongst which we were pursuing our way. Preston's strange heat and Southernism, Mr. Davis's wile and greatness, a coming disputed election, quarrels between the people where I was born and the people where I was brought up, divisions and jealousies, floated before my mind in unlovely and confused visions. Then, remembering my father and my mother and Gary McFarlane, and others whom I had known, I spoke again. "Whatever the Southern people say, they will do, Dr. Sandford." "_Provided_--" said the doctor. "What, if you please?" "Provided the North will let them, Daisy." I thought privately they could not hinder. Would there be a trial? Could it be possible there would be a trial? "But you have not answered my question," said the doctor. "Aren't you going to answer it?" "What question?" "As to the side you would take." "I do not want any more slave States, Dr. Sandford." "I thought so. Then you would be with the North." "But people will never be so foolish as to come to what you call a 'split,' Dr. Sandford." "Upon my word, Daisy, as the world is at present, the folly of a thing is no presumptive argument against its coming into existence. Look--here we shall get a nice piece of quartz for your collection." I came back to the primary rocks, and for the present dismissed the subject of the confusions existing on the surface of the earth; hoping sincerely that there would be no occasion for calling it up again. For some time I saw very little of Preston. He was busy, he said. My days flowed on like the summer sunshine, and were as beneficent. I was gaining strength every day. Dr. Sandford decreed that I must stay as long as possible. Then Mr. Sandford came, the doctor's brother, and added his social weight to our party. Hardly needed, for I perceived that we were very much sought after; at least my companions. The doctor in especial was a very great favourite, both with men and women; who I notice are most ready to bestow their favour where it is least cared for. I don't know but Dr. Sandford cared for it; only he did not show that he did. The claims of society however began to interfere with my geological and other lessons. A few days after his brother's arrival, the doctor had been carried off by a party of gentlemen who were going back in the mountains to fish in the White Lakes. I was left to the usual summer delights of the place; which indeed to me were numberless; began with the echo of the morning gun (or before) and ended not till the three taps of the drum at night. The cadets had gone into camp by this time; and the taps of the drum were quite near, as well as the shrill sweet notes of the fife at reveille and tattoo. The camp itself was a great pleasure to me; and at guardmounting or parade I never failed to be in my place. Only to sit in the rear of the guard tents and watch the morning sunlight on the turf, and on the hills over the river, and shining down the camp alleys, was a rich satisfaction. Mrs. Sandford laughed at me; her husband said it was "natural," though I am sure he did not understand it a bit; but the end of all was, that I was left very often to go alone down the little path to the guard tents among the crowd that twice a day poured out there from our hotel and met the crowd that came up from Cozzens's hotel below. So it was, one morning that I remember. Guardmounting was always late enough to let one feel the sun's power; and it was a sultry morning, this. We were in July now, and misty, vaporous clouds moved slowly over the blue sky, seeming to intensify the heat of the unclouded intervals. But wonderful sweet it was; and I under the shade of my flat hat, with a little help from the foliage of a young tree, did not mind it at all. Every bit of the scene was a pleasure to me; I missed none of the details. The files of cadets in the camp alleys getting their arms inspected; the white tents themselves, with curtains tightly done up; here and there an officer crossing the camp ground and stopping to speak to an orderly; then the coming up of the band, the music, the marching out of the companies; the leisurely walk from the camp of the officer in charge, drawing on his white gloves; his stand and his attitude; and then the pretty business of the parade. All under that July sky; all under that flicker of cloud and sun, and the soft sweet breath of air that sometimes stole to us to relieve the hot stillness; and all with that setting and background of cedars and young foliage and bordering hills over which the cloud shadows swept. Then came the mounting-guard business. By and by Preston came to me. "Awfully hot, Daisy!" he said. "Yes, you are out in it," I said, compassionately. "What are _you_ out in it for?" "Why, I like it," I said. "How come you to be one of the red sashes this morning?" "I have been an officer of the guard this last twenty-four hours." "Since yesterday morning?" "Yes." "Do you like it, Preston?" "_Like_ it!" he said. "Like guard duty! Why, Daisy, when a fellow has left his shoe-string untied, or something or other like that, they put him on extra guard duty to punish him." "Did you ever do so, Preston?" "Did I ever do so?" he repeated savagely. "Do you think I have been raised like a Yankee, to take care of my shoes? That Blunt is just fit to stand behind a counter and measure inches!" I was very near laughing, but Preston was not in a mood to bear laughing at. "I don't think it is beneath a gentleman to keep his shoe-strings tied," I said. "A gentleman can't always think of everything!" he replied. "Then you are glad you have only one year more at the Academy?" "Of course I am glad! I'll never be under Yankee rule again; not if I know it." "Suppose they elect a Yankee President?" I said; but Preston's look was so eager and so sharp at me that I was glad to cover my rash suggestion under another subject as soon as possible. "Are you going to be busy this afternoon?" I asked him. "No, I reckon not." "Suppose you come and go up to the fort with me?" "What fort?" "Fort Putnam. I have never been there yet." "There is nothing on earth to go there for," said Preston, shrugging his shoulders. "Just broil yourself in the sun, and get nothing for it. It's an awful pull uphill; rough, and all that; and nothing at the top but an old stone wall." "But there is the view!" I said. "You have got it down here--just as good. Just climb up the hotel stairs fifty times without stopping, and then look out of the thing at the top--and you have been to Fort Putnam." "Why, I want you to go to the top of Crow's Nest," I said. "Yes! I was ass enough to try that once," said Preston, "when I was just come, and thought I must do everything; but if anybody wants to insult me, let him just ask me to do it again!" Preston's mood was unmanageable. I had never seen him so in old times. I thought West Point did not agree with him. I listened to the band, just then playing a fine air, and lamented privately to myself that brass instruments should be so much more harmonious than human tempers. Then the music ceased and the military movements drew my attention again. "They all walk like you," I observed carelessly, as I noticed a measured step crossing the camp ground. "Do they?" said Preston sneeringly. "I flatter myself I do not walk like _all_ of them. If you notice more closely, Daisy, you will see a difference. You can tell a Southerner, on foot or on horseback, from the sons of tailors and farmers--strange if you couldn't!" "I think you are unjust, Preston," I said. "You should not talk so. Major Blunt walks as well and stands much better than any officer I have seen; and he is from Vermont; and Capt. Percival is from South Carolina, and Mr. Hunter is from Virginia, and Col. Forsyth is from Georgia. They are all of them less graceful than Major Blunt." "What do you think of Dr. Sandford?" said Preston in the same tone; but before I could answer I heard a call of "Gary!--Gary!" I looked round. In the midst of the ranks of spectators to our left stood a cadet, my friend of the omnibus. He was looking impatiently our way, and again exclaimed in a sort of suppressed shout--"Gary!" Preston heard him that time; started from my side, and placed himself immediately beside his summoner, in front of the guard tents and spectators. The two were in line, two or three yards separating them, and both facing towards a party drawn up at some little distance on the camp ground, which I believe were the relieving guard. I moved my own position to a place immediately behind them, where I spied an empty camp-stool, and watched the two with curious eyes. Uniforms, and military conformities generally, are queer things if you take the right point of view. Here were these two, a pair, and not a pair. The grey coat and the white pantaloons (they had all gone into white now), the little soldier's cap, were a counterpart in each of the other; the two even stood on the ground as if they were bound to be patterns each of the other; and when my acquaintance raised his arms and folded them after the most approved fashion, to my great amusement Preston's arms copied the movement: and they stood like two brother statues still, from their heels to their cap rims. Except when once the right arm of my unknown friend was unbent to give a military sign, in answer to some demand or address from somebody in front of him which I did not hear. Yet as I watched, I began to discern how individual my two statues really were. I could not see faces, of course. But the grey coat on the one looked as if its shoulders had been more carefully brushed than had been the case with the other; the spotless pantaloons, which seemed to be just out of the laundress's basket, as I suppose they were, sat with a trimmer perfection in one case than in the other. Preston's pocket gaped, and was, I noticed, a little bit ripped; and when my eye got down to the shoes, his had not the black gloss of his companion's. With that one there was not, I think, a thread awry. And then, there was a certain relaxation in the lines of Preston's figure impossible to describe, stiff and motionless though he was; something which prepared one for a lax and careless movement when he moved. Perhaps this was fancy and only arose from my knowledge of the fact; but with the other no such fancy was possible. Still, but alert; motionless, but full of vigour; I expected what came; firm, quick, and easy action, as soon as he should cease to be a statue. So much to a back view of character; which engrossed me till my two statues went away. A little while after Preston came. "Are you here yet?" he said. "Don't you like to have me here?" "It's hot. And it is very stupid for you, I should think. Where is Mrs. Sandford?" "She thinks as you do, that it is stupid." "You ought not to be here without some one." "Why not? What cadet was that who called you, Preston?" "Called me? Nobody called me." "Yes he did. When you were sitting with me. Who was it?" "I don't know!" said Preston. "Good-bye. I shall be busy for a day or two." "Then you cannot go to Fort Putnam this afternoon?" "Fort Putnam? I should think not. It will be broiling to-day." And he left me. Things had gone wrong with Preston lately, I thought. Before I had made up my mind to move, two other cadets came before me. One of them Mrs. Sandford knew, and I slightly. "Miss Randolph, my friend Mr. Thorold has begged me to introduce him to you." It was _my_ friend of the omnibus. I think we liked each other at this very first moment. I looked up at a manly, well-featured face, just then lighted with a little smile of deference and recognition; but permanently lighted with the brightest and quickest hazel eyes that I ever saw. Something about the face pleased me on the instant. I believe it was the frankness. "I have to apologize for my rudeness, in calling a gentleman away from you, Miss Randolph, in a very unceremonious manner, a little while ago." "Oh, I know," I said. "I saw what you did with him." "Did I do anything with him?" "Only called him to his duty, I suppose." "Precisely. He was very excusable for forgetting it; but it might have been inconvenient." "Do you think it is ever excusable to forget duty?" I asked; and I was rewarded with a swift flash of fun in the hazel eyes, that came and went like forked lightning. "It is not easily pardoned here," he answered. "People don't make allowances?" "Not officers," he said, with a smile. "Soldiers lose the character of men, when on duty; they are only reckoned machines." "You do not mean that exactly, I suppose." "Indeed I do!" he said, with another slighter coruscation. "Intelligent machines, of course, and with no more latitude of action. You would not like that life?" "I should think you would not." "Ah, but we hope to rise to the management of the machines, some day." I thought I saw in his face that he did. I remarked that I thought the management of machines could not be very pleasant. "Why not?" "It is degrading to the machines--and so, I should think, it would not be very elevating to those that make them machines." "That is exactly the use they propose them to serve, though," he said, looking amused; "the elevation of themselves." "I know," I said, thinking that the end was ignoble too. "You do not approve it?" he said. I felt those brilliant eyes dancing all over me and, I fancied, over my thoughts too. I felt a little shy of going on to explain myself to one whom I knew so little. He turned the conversation, by asking me if I had seen all the lions yet. I said I supposed not. "Have you been up to the old fort?" "I want to go there," I said; "but somebody told me to-day, there was nothing worth going for." "Has his report taken away your desire to make the trial?" "No, for I do not believe he is right." "Might I offer myself as a guide? I can be disengaged this afternoon; and I know all the ways to the fort. It would give me great pleasure." I felt it would give me great pleasure too, and so I told him. We arranged for the hour, and Mr. Thorold hastened away. CHAPTER XV. FORT PUTNAM. "I am going to Fort Putnam this afternoon, with Mr. Thorold," I announced to Mrs. Sandford, after dinner. "Who is Mr. Thorold?" "One of the cadets." "One of the cadets! So it has got hold of you at last, Daisy!" "What, Mrs. Sandford?" "But Fort Putnam? My dearest child, it is very hot!" "Oh, yes, ma'am--I don't mind it." "Well, I am very glad, if you don't," said Mrs. Sandford. "And I am very glad Grant has taken himself off to the White Lakes. He gave nobody else any chance. It will do you a world of good." "What will?" I asked, wondering. "Amusement, dear--amusement. Something a great deal better than Grant's 'elogies and 'ologies. Now this would never have happened if he had been at home." I did not understand her, but then I knew she did not understand the pursuits she so slighted; and it was beyond my powers to enlighten her. So I did not try. Mr. Thorold was punctual, and so was I; and we set forth at five o'clock, I at least was happy as it was possible to be. Warm it was, yet; we went slowly down the road, in shadow and sunshine; tasting the pleasantness, it seems to me, of every tree, and feeling the sweetness of each breath; in that slight exhilaration of spirits which loses nothing and forgets nothing. At least I have a good memory for such times. There was a little excitement, no doubt, about going this walk with a cadet and a stranger, which helped the whole effect. I made use of my opportunity to gain a great deal of information which Dr. Sandford could not give. I wanted to understand the meaning and the use of many things I saw about the Point. Batteries and fortifications were a mysterious jumble to me; shells were a horrible novelty; the whole art and trade of a soldier, something well worth studying, but difficult to see as a reasonable whole. The adaptation of parts to an end, I could perceive; the end itself puzzled me. "Yet there has always been fighting," said my companion. "Yes," I assented. "Then we must be ready for it." But I was not prepared in this case with my answer. "Suppose we were unjustly attacked?" said Mr. Thorold; and I thought every one of the gilt buttons on his grey jacket repelled the idea of a peaceable composition. "I don't know," said I, pondering. "Why should the rule be different for nations and for individual people?" "What is your rule for individual people?" he asked, laughing, and looking down at me, as he held the gate open. I can see the look and the attitude now. "It is not _my_ rule," I said. "_The_ rule, then. What should a man do, Miss Randolph, when he is unjustly attacked?" I felt I was on very untenable ground, talking to a soldier. If I was right, what was the use of his grey coat, or of West Point itself? We were mounting the little steep pitch beyond the gate, where the road turns; and I waited till I got upon level footing. Then catching a bright inquisitive glance of the hazel eyes, I summoned up my courage and spoke. "I have no rule but the Bible, Mr. Thorold." "The Bible! What does the Bible say? It tells us of a great deal of fighting." "Of bad men." "Yes, but the Jews were commanded to fight, were they not?" "To punish bad men. But we have got another rule since that." "What is it?" "If any man smite thee on the one cheek, turn to him the other also." "Is it possible you think the Bible means that literally?" he said. "Do you think it would say what it did not mean?" "But try it by the moral effect; what sort of a fellow would a man be who did so, Miss Randolph?" "I think he would be fine!" I said; for I was thinking of One who, "when he was reviled, reviled not again; when he suffered, he threatened not." But I could not tell all my thought to Mr. Thorold; no more than I could to Dr. Sandford. "And would you have him stand by and see another injured?" my companion asked. "Wouldn't you have him fight in such a case?" I had not considered that question. I was silent. "Suppose he sees wrong done; wrong that a few well-planted blows, or shots, if you like--shots are but well-directed blows," he said, smiling--"wrong that a few well-planted blows would prevent. Suppose somebody were to attack you now, for instance; ought I not to fight for it?" "I should like to have you," I said. "Come!" he said, laughing, and stretching out his hand to shake mine, "I see you will let me keep my profession, after all. And why should not a nation do, on a larger scale, what a man may do?" "Why it may," I said. "Then West Point is justified." "But very few wars in the world are conducted on that principle," I said. "Very few. In fact I do not at this moment recollect the instances. But you would allow a man, or a nation, to fight in self-defence, would not you?" I pondered the matter. "I suppose he has a right to protect his life," I said. "But, 'if a man smite thee on the cheek,' _that_ does not touch life." "What would you think of a man," said my companion, gravely, "who should suffer some one to give him such a blow, without taking any notice of it?" "If he did it because he was _afraid_," I said, "of course I shouldn't like that. But if he did it to obey the Bible, I should think it was noble. The Bible says, 'it is glory to pass by a transgression.'" "But suppose he was afraid of being thought afraid?" I looked at my companion, and felt instinctively sure that neither this nor my first supposed case would ever be true of him. Further, I felt sure that no one would ever be hardy enough to give the supposed occasion. I can hardly tell how I knew; it was by some of those indescribable natural signs. We were slowly mounting the hill; and in every powerful, lithe movement, in the very set of his shoulders and head, and as well in the sparkle of the bright eye which looked round at me, I read the tokens of a spirit which I thought neither had known nor ever would know the sort of indignity he had described. He was talking for talk's sake. But while I looked, the sparkle of the eye grew very merry. "You are judging me, Miss Randolph," he said. "Judge me gently." "No, indeed," I said. "I was thinking that you are not speaking from experience." "I am not better than you think me," he said, laughing, and shaking his head. And the laugh was so full of merriment that it infected me. I saw he was very much amused; I thought he was a little interested, too. "You know," he went on, "my education has been unfavourable. I have fought for a smaller matter than that you judge insufficient." "Did it do any good?" I asked. He laughed again: picked up a stone and threw it into the midst of a thick tree to dislodge something--I did not see what; and finally looked round at me with the most genial amusement and good nature mixed. I knew he was interested now. "I don't know how much good it did to anybody but myself," he said. "It comforted me--at the time. Afterwards I remember thinking it was hardly worth while. But if a fellow should suffer an insult, as you say, and not take any notice of it, what do you suppose would become of him in the corps--or in the world either?" "He would be a noble man, all the same," I said. "But people like to be well thought of by their friends and society." "I know that." "He would be sent to Coventry unmitigatedly." "I cannot help it, Mr. Thorold," I said. "If anybody does wrong because he is afraid of the consequences of doing right, he is another sort of a coward--that is all." Mr. Thorold laughed, and catching my hand as we came to a turn in the road where the woods fell away right and left, brought me quick round the angle, without letting me go to the edge of the bank to get the view. "You must not look till you get to the top," he said. "What an odd road!" I remarked. "It just goes by zigzags." "The only way to get up at all, without travelling round the hill. That is, for horses." It was steep enough for foot wayfarers, but the road was exceeding comfortable that day. We were under the shade of trees all the way; and talk never lagged. Mr. Thorold was infinitely pleasant to me; as well as unlike any one of all my former acquaintances. There was a wealth of life in him that delighted my quieter nature; an amount of animal spirits that were just a constant little impetus to me; and from the first I got an impression of strength, such as weakness loves to have near. Bodily strength he had also, in perfection; but I mean now the firm, self-reliant nature, quick at resources, ready to act as to decide, and full of the power that has its spring and magazine in character alone. So, enjoying each other, we went slowly up the zigzags of the hill, very steep in places, and very rough to the foot; but the last pitch was smoother, and there the grey old bulwarks of the ruined fortification faced down upon us, just above. "Now," said Mr. Thorold, coming on the outside of me to prevent it, "don't look!"--and we turned into the entrance of the fort, between two outstanding walls. Going through, we hurried up a little steep rise, till we got to a smooth spread of grass, sloping gently to a level with the top of the wall. Where this slope reached its highest, where the parapet (as Mr. Thorold called it) commanded a clear view from the eastern side, there he brought me, and then permitted me to stand still. I do not know how long I stood quite still without speaking. "Will you sit down?" said my companion; and I found he had spread a pocket-handkerchief on the bank for me. The turf in that place was about eighteen inches higher than the top of the wall, making a very convenient seat. I thought of Queen Elizabeth and Sir Walter Raleigh; but I also thought the most queenly thing I could do was to take the offered civility, and I sat down. My eyes were bewildered with the beauty; they turned from one point to another with a sort of wondering, insatiable enjoyment. There, beneath our feet, lay the little level green plain; its roads and trees all before us as in a map, with the lines of building enclosing it on the south and west. A cart and oxen were slowly travelling across the road between the library and the hotel, looking like minute ants dragging a crumb along. Beyond them was the stretch of brown earth, where the cavalry exercises forbade a blade of grass to show itself. And beyond that, at the farther edge of the plain, the little white camp; its straight rows of tents and the alleys between all clearly marked out. Round all this the river curved, making a promontory of it; a promontory with fringed banks, and levelled at top, as it seemed, just to receive the Military Academy. On the other side the river, a long sweep of gentle hills, coloured in the fair colours of the evening; curving towards the north-east into a beautiful circle of soft outlines back of the mountain which rose steep and bold at the water's edge. This mountain was the first of the group I had seen from my hotel window. Houses and churches nestled in the curve of tableland, under the mountain. Due north, the parapet of the fort rising sharply at its northern angle a few feet from where I sat, hindered my full view. Southerly, the hills swept down, marking the course of the river for many a mile; but again from where I sat I could not see how far. With a sigh of pleasure my eye came back to the plain and the white tents. "Is guard duty very disagreeable?" I asked, thinking of Preston's talk in the morning. "Why at mid-day, with the thermometer at 90°, it is not exactly the amusement one would choose," said Mr. Thorold. "I like it at night well enough." "What do you do?" "Nothing, but walk up and down, two hours at a time." "What is the use of it?" "To keep order, and make sure that nothing goes in or out that has no business to do it." "And they have to carry their guns," I said. "Their muskets--yes." "Are they very heavy?" "No. Pretty heavy for an arm that is new to it. I never remember I have mine." "Mr. Caxton said," (Mr. Caxton was the cadet who had introduced Mr. Thorold to me)--"Mr. Caxton told Mrs. Sandford that the new cadets are sometimes so exhausted with their tour of duty that they have to be carried off the ground." Mr. Thorold looked at me, a very keen bright look of his hazel eyes; but he said nothing. "And he said that the little white boxes at the corners of the camp, were monuments to those who had fallen on duty." "Just four of them!" said Mr. Thorold, settling his cap down over his brows; but then he laughed, and I laughed; how we laughed! "Don't you want to see the rest of it?" he said, jumping up. I did not know there was anything more to see. Now however he brought me up on the high angle of the parapet that had intercepted my view to the north. I could hardly get away from there. The full magnificence of the mountains in that quarter; the river's course between them, the blue hills of the distant Shawangunk range, and the woody chasm immediately at my feet, stretching from the height where I stood over to the crest of the Crow's Nest; it took away my breath. I sat down again, while Mr. Thorold pointed out localities; and did not move, till I had to make way for another party of visitors who were coming. Then Mr. Thorold took me all round the edge of the fort. At the south, we looked down into the woody gorge where Dr. Sandford and I had hunted for fossil infusoria. From here the long channel of the river running southernly, with its bordering ridge of hills, and above all, the wealth and glory of the woodland and the unheaved rocks before me, were almost as good as the eastern view. The path along the parapet in places was narrow and dizzy; but I did not care for it, and my companion went like a chamois. He helped me over the hard places; hand in hand we ran down the steep slopes; and as we went we got very well acquainted. At last we climbed up the crumbling masonry to a small platform which commanded the view both east and south. "What is this place for?" I asked. "To plant guns on." "They could not reach to the river, could they?" "Much further--the guns of nowadays." "And the old vaults under here--I saw them as we passed by,--were they prisons, places for prisoners?" "A sort of involuntary prisoners," said Mr. Thorold. "They are only casemates; prisons for our own men occasionally, when shot and shell might be flying too thick; hiding-places, in short. Would you like to go to the laboratory some day, where we learn to make different kinds of shot, and fire-works and such things?" "Oh, very much! But, Mr. Thorold, Mr. Caxton told me that André was confined in one of these places under here; he said his name was written upon the stones in a dark corner, and that I would find it." Mr. Thorold looked at me, with an expression of such contained fun that I understood it at once; and we had another laugh together. I began to wonder whether every one that wore a uniform of grey and white with gilt buttons made it his amusement to play upon the ignorance of uninitiated people; but on reflection I could not think Mr. Thorold had done so. I resolved to be careful how I trusted the rest of the cadets, even Preston; and indeed my companion remarked that I had better not believe anything I heard without asking him. We ran down and inspected the casemates; and then took our seats again for one last look on the eastern parapet. The river and hills were growing lovely in cooler lights; shadow was stealing over the plain. "Shall I see you to-morrow evening?" my companion asked suddenly. "To-morrow evening?" I said. "I don't know. I suppose we shall be at home." "Then I shall _not_ see you. I meant, at the hop." "The hop?" I repeated. "What is that?" "The cadets' hop. During the encampment we have a hop three times a week--a cotillion party. I hope you will be there. Haven't you received an invitation?" "I think not," I said. "I have heard nothing about it." "I will see that that is set right," Mr. Thorold remarked. "And now, do you know we must go down?--that is, _I_ must; and I do not think I can leave you here." "Oh, you have to be on parade!" I exclaimed, starting up; "and it is almost time!" It was indeed, and though my companion put his own concerns in the background very politely, I would be hurried. We ran down the hill, Mr. Thorold's hand helping me over the rough way and securing me from stumbling. In very few minutes we were again at the gate and entered upon the post limits. And there were the band, in dark column, just coming up from below the hill. We walked the rest of the way in orderly fashion enough, till we got to the hotel gate; there Mr. Thorold touched his cap and left me, on a run, for the camp. I watched till I saw he got there in time, and then went slowly in; feeling that a great piece of pleasure was over. I had had a great many pieces of pleasure in my life, but rarely a _companion_. Dr. Sandford, Miss Cardigan, my dear Capt. Drummond, were all much in advance of my own age; my servants were my servants, at Magnolia; and Preston had never associated with me on just the footing of equality. I went upstairs thinking that I should like to see a great deal more of Mr. Thorold. Mrs. Sandford was on the piazza when I came down, and alone; everybody was gone to parade. She gave me a little billet. "Well, my dear Daisy!--are you walked to death? Certainly, West Point agrees with you! What a colour! And what a change! You are not the same creature that we brought away from New York. Well, was it worth going for, all the way to see that old ruin? My dear! I wish your father and mother could see you." I stood still, wishing they could. "There is more pleasure for you," Mrs. Sandford went on. "What is this, ma'am?" "An invitation. The cadets have little parties for dancing, it seems, three times a week, in summer; poor fellows! it is all the recreation they get, I suspect; and of course, they want all the ladies that can be drummed up, to help them to dance. It's quite a charity, they tell me. I expect I shall have to dance myself." I looked at the note, and stood mute, thinking what I should do. Ever since Mr. Thorold had mentioned it, up on the hill, the question had been recurring to me. I had never been to a party in my life, since my childish days at Melbourne. Aunt Gary's parties at Magnolia had been of a different kind from this; not assemblies of young people. At Mme. Ricard's I had taken dancing lessons, at my mother's order; and in her drawing room I had danced quadrilles and waltzes with my schoolfellows; but Mme. Ricard was very particular, and nobody else was ever admitted. I hardly knew what it was to which I was now invited. To dance with the cadets! I knew only three of them; however, I supposed that I might dance with those three. I had an impression that amusements of this kind were rather found in the houses of the gay than the sober-minded; but this was peculiar, to help the cadets' dance, Mrs. Sandford said. I thought Mr. Thorold wished I would come. I wondered Preston had not mentioned it. He, I knew, was very fond of dancing. I mused till the people came back from parade and we were called to tea; but all my musings went no further. I did not decide _not_ to go. "Now, Daisy," said Mrs. Sandford the next morning, "if you are going to the hop to-night, I don't intend to have you out in the sun burning yourself up. It will be terribly hot; and you must keep quiet. I am so thankful Grant is away! he would have you all through the woods, hunting for nobody knows what, and bringing you home scorched." "Dear Mrs. Sandford," I said, "I can dance just as well, if I _am_ burnt." "That's a delusion, Daisy. You are a woman, after all, my dear--or you will be; and you may as well submit to the responsibility. And you may not know it, but you have a wonderfully fine skin, my dear; it always puts me in mind of fresh cream." "Cream is yellow," I said. "Not all the cream that ever _I_ saw," said Mrs. Sandford. "Daisy, you need not laugh. You will be a queen, my dear, when you cease to be a child. What are you going to wear to-night?" "I don't know, ma'am; anything cool, I suppose." "It won't matter much," Mrs. Sandford repeated. But yet I found she cared, and it did matter, when it came to the dressing-time. However she was satisfied with one of the embroidered muslins my mother had sent me from Paris. I think I see myself now, seated in the omnibus and trundling over the plain to the cadets' dancing-rooms. The very hot, still July night seems round me again. Lights were twinkling in the camp, and across the plain in the houses of the professors and officers; lights above in the sky too, myriads of them, mocking the tapers that go out so soon. I was happy with a little flutter of expectation; quietly enjoying meanwhile the novel loveliness of all about me, along with the old familiar beauty of the abiding stars and dark blue sky. It was a five minutes of great enjoyment. But all natural beauty vanished from my thoughts when the omnibus drew up at the door of the Academic Building. I was entering on something untried. At first sight, when we went into the room, it burst upon me that it was very pretty. The room was dressed with flags,--and evergreens,--and with uniforms; and undoubtedly there is charm in colour, and a gilt button and a gold strap do light up the otherwise sombre and heavy figures of our Western masculine costume. The white and rosy and blue draperies and scarfs that were floating around the forms of the ladies, were met and set off by the grey and white of the cadets and the heavier dark blue of the officers. I never anywhere else saw so pretty gatherings. I stood quite enchanted with the pleasure of the eye; till to my startled astonishment, Capt. Percival came up and asked me to dance with him. I had not expected to dance with anybody except Preston, and Mr. Thorold, and perhaps Mr. Caxton. Mr. Thorold came up before the dance began, and I presented him to Mrs. Sandford. He asked me for the first dance, then for the second. And there was no more time for anything, for the dancing began. I had always liked dancing at school. Here the music was far better and the scene infinitely prettier; it was very pleasant, I thought. That is, when Capt. Percival did not talk; for he talked nothings. I did not know how to answer him. Of course it had been very hot to-day; and the rooms were very full; and there were a good many people at the hotel. I had nothing but an insipid affirmative to give to these propositions. Then said Capt. Percival insinuatingly-- "You are from the South?" I had nothing but an insipid assent again. "I was sure of it," he said. "I could not be mistaken." I wondered how he knew, but it did not suit me to ask him; and we danced on again till the dance came to an end. I was glad when it did. In a minute more I was standing by Mrs. Sandford and introduced to Capt. Boulanger, who also asked me to dance, and engaged me for the next but one; and then Mr. Caxton brought up one of his brother cadets and presented him, and _he_ asked me, and looked disappointed when for both the next dances I was obliged to refuse him. I was quite glad when Mr. Thorold came and carried me off. The second quadrille went better than the first; and I was enjoying myself unfeignedly, when in a pause of the dance I remarked to my partner that there seemed to be plenty of ladies here to-night. "Plenty," he said. "It is very kind of them. What then?" "Only--" I said--"so many people came and asked me to dance in the few minutes I stood by Mrs. Sandford, and one of them looked quite disappointed that he could not have me." I was met by a look of the keenest inquiry, followed instantly and superseded by another flash of expression. I could not comprehend it at the time. The eyes, which had startled me by their steely gleam, softened wonderfully with what looked like nothing so much as reverence, along with some other expression which I could neither read at the moment nor fathom afterwards. Both looks were gone before I could ask him what they meant, or perhaps I should have asked; for I was beginning to feel very much at my ease with Mr. Thorold. I trusted him. "Did he want you for this dance?" was all he said. "For this, and for the next," I answered. "Both gone! Well, may I have the third, and so disappoint somebody else?" he said, laughing. If I did not talk much with Mr. Thorold in intervals of dancing, at least we did not talk nonsense. In the next pause he remarked that he saw I was fond of this amusement. "I think I like everything," I told him. "Are the hills better than this?" he whispered. "Oh, yes!" I said. "Don't you think so?" He smiled, and said "truly he did." "You have been over the Flirtation walk, of course?" he added. "I do not know which it is." He smiled again, that quick illuminating smile, which seemed to sparkle in his hazel eyes; and nodded his head a little. "I had the pleasure to see you there, very early one morning." "Oh, is that it?" I said. "I have been down that way from the hotel very often." "That way leads to it. You were upon it, where you were sitting. You have not been through it yet? May I show it to you some day? To-morrow?" I agreed joyfully; and then asked who were certain of the cadets whom I saw about the room, with rosettes of ribbon and long streamers on the breast of their grey coats? "Those are the Managers," said my companion. "You will see enough of them. It is their duty to introduce poor fellows who want partners." I did not see much of them, however, that evening. As soon as I was released from that dance, Capt. Percival brought up Capt. Lascelles; and somebody else, Mr. Sandford, I believe, introduced Lt. Vaux, and Major Fairbairn; and Major Pitt was another, I believe. And Col. Walruss brought up his son, who was in the corps of cadets. They all wanted to dance with me; so it was lucky Mr. Thorold had secured his second dance, or I could not have given it to him. I went over and over again the same succession of topics, in the intervals of standing still. How the day had been warm, and the evening kept up its character; the hotels were full now; the cadets well off to have so many ladies; dancing a pleasant pastime, and West Point a nice place. I got so accustomed to the remarks I might expect, that my mouth was ready with an assenting "yes" before the speaker began. But the talking was a small part of the business, after all; and the evening went merrily for me, till on a sudden a shrill piercing summons of drum and fife, rolling as it were into our very ears, put a stop to proceedings. Midway in the movement the dancers stopped; there was a hurried bow and curtsey, and an instant scattering of all the grey-coated part of the assembly. The "hop" was over. We went home in the warm moonlight, I thinking that I had had a very nice time, and glad that Mr. Thorold was coming to take me to walk to-morrow. CHAPTER XVI. HOPS. The afternoon was very sultry; however, Mr. Thorold came, and we went for our walk. It was so sultry we went very leisurely and also met few people; and instead of looking very carefully at the beauties of nature and art we had come to see, we got into a great talk as we strolled along; indeed, sometimes we stopped and sat down to talk. Mr. Thorold told me about himself, or rather, about his home in Vermont and his old life there. He had no mother, and no brothers nor sisters; only his father. And he described to me the hills of his native country, and the farm his father cultivated, and the people, and the life on the mountains. Strong and free and fresh and independent and intelligent--that was the impression his talk made upon me, of the country and people and life alike. Sometimes my thoughts took a private turn of their own, branching off. "Mr. Thorold," said I, "do you know Mr. Davis of Mississippi?" "Davis? No, I don't know him," he said shortly. "You have seen him?" "Yes, I have seen him often enough; and his wife, too." "Do you like his looks?" "I do not." "He looks to me like a bad man--" I said slowly. I said it to Mr. Thorold; I would hardly have made the remark to another at West Point. "He is about bad business--" was my companion's answer. "And yet I do not know what he is about; but I distrust the man." "Mr. Thorold," said I, beginning cautiously, "do you want to have slavery go into the territories?" "No!" said he. "Do you?" "No. What do you think would happen if a Northern President should be elected in the fall?" "Then slavery would _not_ go into the territories," he said, looking a little surprised at me. "The question would be settled." "But do you know some people say--some people at the South say--that if a Northern President is elected, the Southern States will not submit to him?" "Some people talk a great deal of nonsense," said Mr. Thorold. "How could they help submitting?" "They say--it is said--that they would break off from the North and set up for themselves. It is not foolish people that say it, Mr. Thorold." "Will you pardon me, Miss Randolph, but I think they would be very foolish people that would do it." "Oh, I think so too," I said. "I mean, that some people who are not foolish believe that it might happen." "Perhaps," said Mr. Thorold. "I never heard anything of it before. You are from the South yourself, Miss Randolph?" he added, looking at me. "I was born there," I said. And a little silence fell between us. I was thinking. Some impression, got I suppose from my remembrance of father and mother, Preston, and others whom I had known, forbade me to dismiss quite so lightly, as too absurd to be true, the rumour I had heard. Moreover, I trusted Dr. Sandford's sources of information, living as he did in habits of close social intercourse with men of influence and position at Washington, both Southern and Northern. "Mr. Thorold,"--I broke the silence,--"if the South should do such a thing, what would happen?" "There would be trouble," he said. "What sort of trouble?" "Might be all sorts," said Mr. Thorold, laughing; "it would depend on how far people's folly would carry them." "But suppose the Southern States should just do that;--say they would break off and govern themselves?" "They would be like a bad boy that has to be made to take medicine." "How could you _make_ them?" I asked, feeling unreasonably grave about the question. "You can see, Miss Randolph, that such a thing could not be permitted. A government that would let any part of its subjects break away at their pleasure from its rule, would deserve to go to pieces. If one part might go, another part might go. There would be no nation left." "But how could you _help_ it?" I asked. "I don't know whether we could help it," he said; "but we would try." "You do not mean that it would come to _fighting_?" "I do not think they would be such fools. I hope we are supposing a very unlikely thing, Miss Randolph." I hoped so. But that impression of Southern character troubled me yet. Fighting! I looked at the peaceful hills, feeling as if indeed "all the foundations of the earth" would be "out of course." "What would _you_ do in case it came to fighting?" said my neighbour. The words startled me out of my meditations. "I could not do anything." "I beg your pardon. Your favour--your countenance, would do much; on one side or the other. You would fight--in effect--as surely as I should." I looked up. "Not against you," I said; for I could not bear to be misunderstood. There was a strange sparkle in Mr. Thorold's eye; but those flashes of light came and went so like flashes, that I could not always tell what they meant. The tone of his voice, however, I knew expressed pleasure. "How comes that?" he said. "You _are_ Southern?" "Do I look it?" I asked. "Pardon me--yes." "How, Mr. Thorold?" "You must excuse me. I cannot tell you. But you _are_ South?" "Yes," I said. "At least, all my friends are Southern. I was born there." "You have _one_ Northern friend," said Mr. Thorold, as we rose up to go on. He said it with meaning. I looked up and smiled. There was a smile in his eyes, mixed with something more. I think our compact of friendship was made and settled then and at once. He stretched out his hand, as if for a further ratification. I put mine in it, while he went on,--"How comes it, then, that you take such a view of such a question?" There had sprung up a new tone in our intercourse, of more familiarity, and more intimate trust. It gave infinite content to me; and I went on to answer, telling him about my Northern life. Drawn on, from question to question, I detailed at length my Southern experience also, and put my new friend in possession not only of my opinions, but of the training under which they had been formed. My hand, I remember, remained in his while I talked, as if he had been my brother; till he suddenly put it down and plunged into the bushes for a bunch of wild roses. A party of walkers came round an angle a moment after; and waking up to a consciousness of our surroundings, we found, or _I_ did, that we were just at the end of the rocky walk, where we must mount up and take to the plain. The evening was falling very fair over plain and hill when we got to the upper level. Mr. Thorold proposed that I should go and see the camp, which I liked very much to do. So he took me all through it, and showed and explained all sorts of things about the tents and the manner of life they lived in them. He said he should like it very much, if he only had more room; but three or four in one little tent nine feet by nine, gave hardly, as he said, "a chance to a fellow." The tents and the camp alleys were full of cadets, loitering about, or talking, or busy with their accoutrements; here and there I saw an officer. Captain Percival bowed, Captain Lascelles spoke. I looked for Preston, but I could see him nowhere. Then Mr. Thorold brought me into his own tent, introduced one or two cadets who were loitering there, and who immediately took themselves away; and made me sit down on what he called a "locker." The tent curtains were rolled tight up, as far as they would go, and so were the curtains of every other tent; most beautiful order prevailed everywhere and over every trifling detail. "Well," said Mr. Thorold, sitting down opposite me on a candle-box--"how do you think you would like camp life?" "The tents are too close together," I said. He laughed, with a good deal of amusement. "That will do!" he said. "You begin by knocking the camp to pieces." "But it is beautiful," I went on. "And not comfortable. Well, it is pretty comfortable," he said. "How do you do when it storms very hard--at night?" "Sleep." "Don't you ever get wet?" "_That_ makes no difference." "Sleep in the rain!" said I. And he laughed again at me. It was not banter. The whole look and air of the man testified to a thorough soldierly, manly contempt of little things--of all things that might come in the way of order and his duty. An intrinsic independence and withal control of circumstances, in so far as the mind can control them. I read the power to do it. But I wondered to myself if he never got homesick in that little tent and full camp. It would not do to touch the question. "Do you know Preston Gary?" I asked. "He is a cadet." "I know him." I thought the tone of the words, careless as they were, signified little value for the knowledge. "I have not seen him anywhere," I remarked. "Do you want to see him? He has seen you." "No, he cannot," I said, "or he would have come to speak to me." "He would if he could," replied Mr. Thorold--"no doubt; but the liberty is wanting. He is on guard. We crossed his path as we came into the camp." "On guard!" I said. "Is he? Why, he was on guard only a day or two ago. Does it come so often?" "It comes pretty often in Gary's case," said my companion. "Does it?" I said. "He does not like it." "No," said Mr. Thorold, merrily. "It is not a favourite amusement in most cases." "Then why does he have so much of it?" "Gary is not fond of discipline." I guessed this might be true. I knew enough of Preston for that. But it startled me. "Does he not obey the regulations?" I asked presently, in a lowered tone. Mr. Thorold smiled. "He is a friend of yours, Miss Randolph?" "Yes," I said; "he is my mother's nephew." "Then he is your cousin?" said my companion. Another of those penetrative glances fell on me. They were peculiar; they flashed upon me, or through me, as keen and clear as the flash of a sabre in the sun; and out of eyes in which a sunlight of merriment or benignity was even then glowing. Both glowed upon me just at this moment, so I did not mind the keen investigation. Indeed, I never minded it. I learned to know it as one of Mr. Thorold's peculiarities. Now, Dr. Sandford had a good eye for reading people, but it never flashed, unless under strong excitement. Mr. Thorold's were dancing and flashing and sparkling with fifty things by turns; their fund of amusement and power of observation were the first things that struck me, and they attracted me too. "Then he is your cousin?" "Of course, he is my cousin." I thought Mr. Thorold seemed a little bit grave and silent for a moment; then he rose up, with that benign look of his eyes glowing all over me, and told me there was the drum for parade. "Only the first drum," he added; so I need not be in a hurry. Would I go home before parade? I thought I would. If Preston was pacing up and down the side of the camp ground, I thought I did not want to see him nor to have him see me, as he was there for what I called disgrace. Moreover, I had a secret presentiment of a breezy discussion with him the next time there was a chance. And I was not disappointed. The next day in the afternoon he came to see us. Mrs. Sandford and I were sitting on the piazza, where the heat of an excessive sultry day was now relieved a little by a slender breeze coming out of the north-west. It was very hot still. Preston sat down and made conversation in an abstracted way for a little while. "We did not see you at the hop the other night, Mr. Gary," Mrs. Sandford remarked. "No. Were you there?" said Preston. "Everybody was there--except you." "And Daisy? Were _you_ there, Daisy?" "Certainly," Mrs. Sandford responded. "Everybody else could have been better missed." "I did not know you went there," said Preston, in something so like a growl that Mrs. Sandford lifted her eyes to look at him. "I do not wonder you are jealous," she said composedly. "Jealous!" said Preston, with growl the second. "You had more reason than you knew." Preston grumbled something about the hops being "stupid places." I kept carefully still. "Daisy, did _you_ go?" I looked up and said yes. "Whom did you dance with?" "With everybody," said Mrs. Sandford. "That is, so far as the length of the evening made it possible. Blue and grey, and all colours." "I don't want you to dance with everybody," said Preston, in a more undertone growl. "There is no way to prevent it," said Mrs. Sandford, "but to be there and ask her yourself." I did not thank Mrs. Sandford privately for this suggestion; which Preston immediately followed up by inquiring "if we were going to the hop to-night?" "Certainly," Mrs. Sandford said. "It's too confounded hot!" "Not for us who are accustomed to the climate," Mrs. Sandford said, with spirit. "It's a bore altogether," muttered Preston. "Daisy, are you going to-night?" "I suppose so." "Well, if you must go, you may as well dance with me as with anybody. So tell anybody else that you are engaged. I will take care of you." "Don't you wish to dance with anybody except me?" "I do not," said Preston, slowly. "As I said, it is too hot. I consider the whole thing a bore." "You shall not be bored for me," I said. "I refuse to dance with you. I hope I shall not see you there at all." "Daisy!" "Well?" "Come down and take a little walk with me." "You said it is too hot." "But you will dance?" "You will not dance." "I want to speak to you, Daisy." "You may speak," I said. I did not want to hear him, for there were no indications of anything agreeable in Preston's manner. "Daisy!" he said, "I do not know you." "You used to know her," said Mrs. Sandford; "that is all." "Will you come and walk with me?" said Preston, almost angrily. "I do not think it would be pleasant," I said. "You were walking yesterday afternoon." "Yes." "Come and walk up and down the piazza, anyhow. You can do that." I could, and did not refuse. He chose the sunny western side, because no one was there. However, the sun's rays were obscured under a thick haze and had been all day. "Whom were you with?" Preston inquired, as soon as we were out of earshot. "Do you mean yesterday?" "Of course I mean yesterday! I saw you cross into the camp With whom were you going there?" "Why did you not come to speak to me?" I said. "I was on duty. I could not." "I did not see you anywhere." "I was on guard. You crossed my path not ten feet off." "Then you must know whom I was with, Preston," I said, looking at him. "_You_ don't know--that is the thing. It was that fellow Thorold." "How came you to be on guard again so soon? You were on guard just a day or two before." "That is all right enough. It is about military things that you do not understand. It is all right enough, except these confounded Yankees. And Thorold is another." "Who is _one_!" I said, laughing. "You say he is _another_." "Blunt is one." "I like Major Blunt." "Daisy," said Preston, stopping short, "you ought to be with your mother. There is nobody to take care of you here. How came you to know that Thorold?" "He was introduced to me. What is the matter with him?" "You ought not to be going about with him. He is a regular Yankee, I tell you." "What does that mean?" I said. "You speak it as if you meant something very objectionable." "I do. They are a cowardly set of tailors. They have no idea what a gentleman means, not one of them, unless they have caught the idea from a Southerner. I don't want you to have anything to do with them, Daisy. You _must_ not dance with them, and you must not be seen with this Thorold. Promise me you will not." "Dr. Sandford is another," I said. "I can't help Dr. Sandford. He is your guardian. You must not go again with Thorold!" "Did you ever know _him_ cowardly?" I asked. I was sure that Preston coloured; whether with any feeling beside anger I could not make out; but the anger was certain. "What do you know about it?" he asked. "What do you?" I rejoined. But Preston changed more and more. "Daisy, promise me you will not have anything to do with these fellows. You are too good to dance with them. There are plenty of Southern people here now, and lots of Southern cadets." "Mr. Caxton is one," I said. "I don't like him." "He is of an excellent Georgia family," said Preston. "I cannot help that. He is neither gentlemanly in his habits nor true in his speech." Preston hereupon broke out into an untempered abuse of Northern things in general, and Northern cadets in particular, mingled with a repetition of his demands upon me. At length I turned from him. "This is very tiresome, Preston," I said; "and this side of the house is very warm. Of course, I must dance with whoever asks me." "Well, I have asked you for this evening," he said, following me. "You are not to go," I said. "I shall not dance with you once," and I took my former place by Mrs. Sandford. Preston fumed; declared that I was just like a piece of marble; and went away. I did not feel quite so impassive as he said I looked. "What are you going to wear to-night, Daisy?" Mrs. Sandford asked presently. "I do not know, ma'am." "But you must know soon, my dear. Have you agreed to give your cousin half the evening?" "No, ma'am--I could not; I am engaged for every dance, and more." "More!" said Mrs. Sandford. "Yes, ma'am--for the next time." "Preston has reason!" she said, laughing. "But I think, Daisy, Grant will be the most jealous of all. Do him good. What will become of his sciences and his microscope now?" "Why, I shall be just as ready for them," I said. Mrs. Sandford shook her head. "You will find the hops will take more than that," she said. "But now, Daisy, think what you will wear; for we must go soon and get ready." I did not want to think about it. I expected, of course, to put on the same dress I had worn the last time. But Mrs. Sandford objected very strongly. "You must not wear the same thing twice running," she said, "not if you can help it." I could not imagine why not. "It is quite nice enough," I urged. "It is scarcely the least tumbled in the world." "People will think you have not another, my dear." "What matter would that be?" I said, wholly puzzled. "Now, my dear Daisy!" said Mrs. Sandford, half laughing--"you are the veriest Daisy in the world, and do not understand the world that you grow in. No matter; just oblige me, and put on something else to-night. What have you got?" I had other dresses like the rejected one. I had another still, white like them, but the make and quality were different. I hardly knew what it was, for I had never worn it; to please Mrs. Sandford I took it out now. She was pleased. It was like the rest, out of the store my mother had sent me; a soft India muslin, of beautiful texture, made and trimmed as my mother and a Parisian artist could manage between them. But no Parisian artist could know better than my mother how a thing should be. "That will do!" said Mrs. Sandford approvingly. "Dear me, what lace you Southern ladies do wear, to be sure! A blue sash, now, Daisy?" "No, ma'am, I think not." "Rose? It must be blue or rose." But I thought differently, and kept it white. "_No_ colour?" said Mrs. Sandford. "None at all. Then let me just put this little bit of green in your hair." As I stood before the glass and she tried various positions for some geranium leaves, I felt that would not do either. Any dressing of my head would commonize the whole thing. I watched her fingers and the geranium leaves going from one side of my head to the other, watched how every touch changed the tone of my costume, and felt that I could not suffer it; and then it suddenly occurred to me that I, who a little while before had not cared about my dress for the evening, now did care and that determinedly. I knew I would wear no geranium leaves, not even to please Mrs. Sandford. And for the first time a question stole into my mind, what was I, Daisy, doing? But then I said to myself, that the dress without this head adorning was perfect in its elegance; it suited me; and it was not wrong to like beauty, nor to dislike things in bad taste. Perhaps I was too handsomely dressed, but I could not change that now. Another time I would go back to my embroidered muslins, and stay there. "I like it better without anything, Mrs. Sandford," I said, removing her green decorations and turning away from the glass. Mrs. Sandford sighed, but said "it would do without them," and then we started. I can see it all again; I can almost feel the omnibus roll with me over the plain, that still sultry night. All those nights were sultry. Then, as we came near the Academic Building, I could see the lights in the upper windows; here and there an officer sitting in a window-sill, and the figures of cadets passing back and forth. Then we mounted to the hall above, filled with cadets in a little crowd, and words of recognition came, and Preston, meeting us almost before we got out of the dressing-room. "Daisy, you dance with me?" "I am engaged, Preston, for the first dance." "Already! The second, then, and all the others?" "I am engaged," I repeated, and left him, for Mr. Thorold was at my side. I forgot Preston the next minute. It was easy to forget him, for all the first half of the evening I was honestly happy in dancing. In talking, too, whenever Thorold was my partner; other people's talk was very tiresome. They went over the platitudes of the day; or they started subjects of interest that were not interesting to me. Bits of gossip--discussions of fashionable amusements with which I could have nothing to do; frivolous badinage, which was of all things most distasteful to me. Yet, amid it, I believe there was a subtle incense of admiration which by degrees and insensibly found its way to my senses. But I had two dances with Thorold, and at those times I was myself and enjoyed unalloyed pleasure. And so I thought did he. I saw Preston, when now and then I caught a glimpse of him, looking excessively glum. Midway in the evening it happened that I was standing beside him for a few moments, waiting for my next partner. "You are dancing with nobody but that man whom I hate!" he grumbled. "Who is it now?" "Captain Vaux." "Will you dance with me after that?" "I cannot, Preston. I must dance with Major Banks." "You seem to like it pretty well," he growled. "No wonder," said Mrs. Sandford. "You were quite right about the geranium leaves, Daisy; you do not want them. You do not want anything, my dear," she whispered. At this instant a fresh party entered the room, just as my partner came up to claim me. "There are some handsome girls," said the captain. "Two of them, really!" "People from Cozzens's," said Mrs. Sandford, "who think the cadets keep New York hours." It was Faustina St. Clair and Mary Lansing, with their friends and guardians, I don't know whom. And as I moved to take my place in the dance, I was presently confronted by my school adversary and the partner she had immediately found. The greeting was very slight and cool on her side. "Excessively handsome," whispered the captain. "A friend of yours?" "A schoolfellow," I said. "Must be a pleasant thing, I declare, to have such handsome schoolfellows," said the captain. "Beauty is a great thing, isn't it? I wonder, sometimes, how the ladies can make up their minds to take up with such great rough ugly fellows as we are, for a set. How do you think it is?" I thought it was wonderful, too, when they were like him. But I said nothing. "Dress, too," said the captain. "Now look at our dress! Straight and square and stiff, and no variety in it. While our eyes are delighted, on the other side, with soft draperies and fine colours, and combinations of grace and elegance that are fit to put a man in Elysium!" "Did you notice the colour of the haze in the west, this evening, at sunset?" I asked. "Haze? No, really. I didn't know there was any haze, really, except in my head. I get hazy amidst these combinations. Seriously, Miss Randolph, what do you think of a soldier's life?" "It depends on who the soldier is," I said. "Cool, really!" said the captain. "Cool! Ha! ha!--" And he laughed, till I wondered what I could have said to amuse him so much. "Then you have learned to individualize soldiers already?" was his next question, put with a look which seemed to me inquisitive and impertinent. I did not know how to answer it, and left it unanswered; and the captain and I had the rest of our dance out in silence. Meanwhile, I could not help watching Faustina. She was so very handsome, with a marked, dashing sort of beauty that I saw was prodigiously admired. She took no notice of me, and barely touched the tips of my fingers with her glove as we passed in the dance. As he was leading me back to Mrs. Sandford, the captain stooped his head to mine. "Forgive me," he whispered. "So much gentleness cannot bear revenge. I am only a soldier." "Forgive you what, sir?" I asked. And he drew up his head again, half laughed, muttered that I was worse than grape or round shot, and handed me over to my guardian. "My dear Daisy," said Mrs. Sandford, "If you were not so sweet as you are, you would be a queen. There, now, do not lift up your grey eyes at me like that, or I shall make you a reverence the first thing I do, and fancy that I am one of your _dames d'honneur_. Who is next? Major Banks? Take care, Daisy, or you'll do some mischief." I had not time to think about her words; the dances went forward, and I took my part in them with great pleasure until the tattoo summons broke us up. Indeed, my pleasure lasted until we got home to the hotel, and I heard Mrs. Sandford saying, in an aside to her husband, amid some rejoicing over me--"I was dreadfully afraid she wouldn't go." The words, or something in them, gave me a check. However, I had too many exciting things to think of to take it up just then, and my brain was in a whirl of pleasure till I went to sleep. CHAPTER XVII. OBEYING ORDERS. As I shared Mrs. Sandford's room, of course I had very scant opportunities of being by myself. In the delightful early mornings I was accustomed to take my book, therefore, and go down where I had gone the first morning, to the rocks by the river's side. Nobody came by that way at so early an hour; I had been seen by nobody except that one time, when Thorold and his companion passed me; and I felt quite safe. It was pleasanter down there than can be told. However sultry the air on the heights above, so near the water there was always a savour of freshness; or else I fancied it, in the hearing of the soft liquid murmur of the little wavelets against the shore. But sometimes it was so still I could hear nothing of that; then birds and insects, or the faint notes of a bugle call, were the only things to break the absolute hush; and the light was my refreshment, on river and tree and rock and hill; one day sharp and clear, another day fairylandlike and dreamy through golden mist. It was a good retiring place in any case, so early in the day. I could read and pray there better than in a room, I thought. The next morning after my second dancing party, I was there as usual. It was a sultry July morning, the yellow light in the haze on the hills threatening a very hot day. I was very happy, as usual; but somehow my thoughts went roaming off into the yellow haze, as if the landscape had been my life, and I were trying to pick out points of light here and there, and sporting on the gay surface. I danced my dances over again in the flow of the river; heard soft words of kindness or admiration in the song of the birds; wandered away in mazes of speculative fancy among the thickets of tree stems and underbrush. The sweet wonderful note of a wood-thrush, somewhere far out of sight, assured me, what everything conspired to assure me, that I was certainly in fairyland, not on the common earth. But I could not get on with my Bible at all. Again and again I began to read; then a bird or a bough or a ripple would catch my attention, and straightway I was off on a flight of fancy or memory, dancing over again my dances with Mr. Thorold, dwelling upon the impression of his figure and dress, and the fascination of his brilliant, changing hazel eyes; or recalling Captain Vaux's or somebody else's insipid words and looks, or Faustina St. Clair's manner of ill-will; or on the other hand giving a passing thought to the question how I should dress the next hop night. After a long wandering, I would come back and begin at my Bible again, but only for a little; my fancy could not be held to it; and a few scarcely read verses and a few half-uttered petitions were all I had accomplished before the clangour of the hotel gong, sounding down even to me, warned me that my time was gone. And the note of the wood-thrush, as I slowly mounted the path, struck reproachfully and rebukingly upon the ear of my conscience. How had this come about? I mused as I went up the hill. What was the matter? What had bewitched me? No pleasure in my Bible; no time for prayer; and only the motion of feet moving to music, only the flutter of lace and muslin, and the flashing of hazel eyes, filling my brain. What was wrong? Nay, something. And why had Mrs. Sandford "feared" I would not go to the hops? Were they not places for Christians to go to? What earthly harm? Only pleasure. But what if pleasure that marred better pleasure--that interrupted duty? And why was I ruminating on styles and colours, and proposing to put on another dress that should be more becoming the next time? and thinking that it would be well it should be a contrast to Faustina St. Clair? What! entering the lists with her, on her own field? No, no; I could not think of it. But what then? And what was this little flutter at my heart about gentlemen's words and looks of homage and liking? What could it be to me, that such people as Captain Vaux or Captain Lascelles liked me? Captain Lascelles, who when he was not dancing or flirting was pleased to curl himself up on one of the window seats like a monkey, and take a grinning survey of what went on. Was I flattered by such admiration as his?--or _any_ admiration? I liked to have Mr. Thorold like me; yes, I was not wrong to be pleased with that; besides, that was _liking_; not empty compliments. But for my lace and my India muslin and my "Southern elegance"--I knew Colonel Walrus meant me when he talked about that--was I thinking of admiration for such things as these, and thinking so much that my Bible reading had lost its charm? What was in fault? Not the hops? They were too pleasant. It could not be the hops. I mounted the hill slowly and in a great maze, getting more and more troubled. I entering the lists with Faustina St. Clair, going in her ways? I knew these were her ways. I had heard scraps enough of conversation among the girls about these things, which I then did not understand. And another word came therewith into my mind, powerful once before, and powerful now to disentangle the false from the true. "The world knoweth us not." Did it not know me, last night? Would it not, if I went there again? But the hops were so pleasant! It almost excites a smile in me now to think how pleasant they were. I was only sixteen. I had seen no dancing parties other than the little school assemblages at Mme. Ricard's; and I was fond of the amusement even there. Here, it seemed to me, then, as if all prettiness and pleasantness that could come together in such a gathering met in the dancing room of the cadets. I think not very differently now, as to that point. The pretty accompaniments of uniform; the simple style and hours; the hearty enjoyment of the occasion; were all a little unlike what is found at other places. And to me, and to increase my difficulty, came a crowning pleasure; I met Thorold there. To have a good dance and talk with him was worth certainly all the rest. Must I give it up? I could not bear to think so, but the difficulty helped to prick my conscience. There had been only two hops, and I was so enthralled already. How would it be if I had been to a dozen; and where might it end? And the word stands,--"The world knoweth us _not_." It must not know me, Daisy Randolph, as in any sort belonging to it or mixed up with it; and therefore--Daisy Randolph must go to the hop no more. I felt the certainty of the decision growing over me, even while I was appalled by it. I staved off consideration all that day. In the afternoon Mr. Thorold came and took me to see the laboratory, and explained for me a number of curious things. I should have had great enjoyment, if Preston had not taken it into his head, unasked, to go along; being unluckily with me when Thorold came. He was a thorough marplot; saying nothing of consequence himself, and only keeping a grim watch--I could take it as nothing else--of everything we said and did. Consequently, Mr. Thorold's lecture was very proper and grave, instead of being full of fun and amusement, as well as instruction. I took Preston to task about it when we got home. "You hinder pleasure when you go in that mood," I told him. "What mood?" "You know. You never are pleasant when Mr. Thorold is present or when he is mentioned." "He is a cowardly Yankee!" was Preston's rejoinder. "_Cowardly_, Gary?"--said somebody near; and I saw a cadet whom I did not know, who came from behind us and passed by on the piazza. He did not look at us, and stayed not for any more words; but turning to Preston, I was surprised to see his face violently flushed. "Who was that?" "No matter--impertinence!" he muttered. "But what _is_ the matter? and what did he mean?" "He is one of Thorold's set," said Preston; "and I tell you Daisy, you shall not have anything to do with them. Aunt Felicia would never allow it. She would not look at them herself. You shall not have anything more to do with them." How could I, if I was going no more to the hops? How could I see Thorold, or anybody? The thought struck to my heart, and I made no answer. Company, however, kept me from considering the matter all the evening. But the next day, early, I was in my usual place: near the river side, among the rocks, with my Bible; and I resolved to settle the question there as it ought to be settled. I was resolved; but to do what I had resolved was difficult. For I wanted to go to the hop that evening very much. Visions of it floated before me; snatches of music and gleams of light; figures moving in harmony; words and looks; and--my own white little person. All these made a kind of quaint mosaic with flashes of light on the river, and broad warm bands of sunshine on the hills, and the foliage of trees and bushes, and the grey lichened rocks at my foot. It was confusing; but I turned over the leaves of my Bible to see if I could find some undoubted direction as to what I ought to do, or perhaps rather some clear permission for what I wished to do. I could not remember that the Bible said anything about dancing, _pro_ or _con_; dancing, I thought, could not be wrong; but this confusion in my mind was not right. I fluttered over my leaves a good while with no help; then I thought I might as well take a chapter somewhere and study it through. The whole chapter, it was the third of Colossians, did not seem to me to go favourably for my pleasure; but the seventeenth verse brought me to a point,--"Whatsoever ye do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus." There was no loophole here for excuses or getting off, "_Whatsoever ye do._" Did I wish it otherwise? No, I did not. I was content with the terms of service; but now about dancing, or rather, the dancing party? "In the name of the Lord Jesus." Could I go there in that name? as the servant of my Master, busy about His work, or taking pleasure that He had given me to take? That was the question. And all my visions of gay words and gay scenes, all the flutter of pleased vanity and the hope of it, rose up and answered me. By that thought of the pretty dress I would wear, I knew I should not wear it "in the name of the Lord Jesus;" for my thought was of honour to myself, not to Him. By the fear which darted into my head, that Mr. Thorold might dance with Faustina if I were not there, I knew I should not go "in the name of the Lord," if I went; but to gratify my own selfish pride and emulation. By the confusion which had reigned in my brain these two days, by the tastelessness of my Bible, by the unaptness for prayer, I knew I could not go in the name of my Lord, for it would be to unfit myself for His work. The matter was settled in one way; but the pain of it took longer to come to an end. It is sorrowful to me to remember now how hard it was to get over. My vanity I was heartily ashamed of, and bade that show its head no more; my emulation of Faustina St. Clair gave me some horror; but the pleasure--the real honest pleasure, of the scene, and the music and the excitement and the dancing and the seeing people--all that I did not let go for ever without a hard time of sorrow and some tears. It was not a _struggle_, for I gave that up at once; only I had to fight pain. It was one of the hardest things I ever did in my life. And the worst of all and the most incurable was, I should miss seeing Mr. Thorold. One or two more walks, possibly, I might have with him; but those long, short evenings of seeing and talking and dancing! Mrs. Sandford argued, coaxed, and rallied me; and then said, if I would not go, she should not; and she did not. That evening we spent at home together, and alone; for everybody else had drifted over to the hop. I suppose Mrs. Sandford found it dull; for the next hop night she changed her mind and left me. I had rather a sorrowful evening. Dr. Sandford had not come back from the mountains; indeed, I did not wish for him; and Thorold had not been near us for several days. My fairyland was getting disenchanted a little bit. But I was quite sure I had done right. The next morning, I had hardly been three minutes on my rock by the river, when Mr. Thorold came round the turn of the walk and took a seat beside me. "How do you do?" said he, stretching out his hand. I put mine in it. "What has become of my friend, this seven years?" "I am here--" I said. "I see you. But why have I _not_ seen you, all this while?" "I suppose you have been busy," I answered. "Busy! Of course I have, or I should have been here asking questions. I was not too busy to dance with you: and I was promised--how many dances? Where have you been?" "I have been at home." "Why?" Would Mr. Thorold understand me? Mrs. Sandford did not. My own mother never did. I hesitated, and he repeated his question, and those hazel eyes were sparkling all sorts of queries around me. "I have given up going to the hops," I said. "Given up? Do you mean, you _don't_ mean, that you are never coming any more?" "I am not coming any more." "Don't you sometimes change your decisions?" "I suppose I do," I answered; "but not this one." "I am in a great puzzle," he said. "And very sorry. Aren't you going to be so good as to give me some clue to this mystery? Did you find the hops so dull?" And he looked very serious indeed. "Oh no!" I said. "I liked them very much--I enjoyed them very much. I am sorry to stay away." "Then you will not stay away very long." "Yes--I shall." "Why?" he asked again, with a little sort of imperative curiosity which was somehow very pleasant to me. "I do not think it is right for me to go," I said. Then, seeing grave astonishment and great mystification in his face, I added, "I am a Christian, Mr. Thorold." "A Christian!" he cried, with flashes of light and shadow crossing his brow. "Is _that_ it?" "That is it," I assented. "But my dear Miss Randolph--you know we are friends?" "Yes," I said, smiling, and glad that he had not forgotten it. "Then we may talk about what we like. Christians go to hops." I looked at him without answering. "Don't you know they do?" "I suppose they may--" I answered, slowly. "But they _do_. There was our former colonel's wife--Mrs. Holt; she was a regular church-goer, and a member of the church; she was always at the hop, and her sister; they are both church members. Mrs. Lambkin, General Lambkin's wife, she is another. Major Banks' sisters--those pretty girls--they are always there; and it is the same with visitors. Everybody comes; their being Christians does not make any difference." "Captain Thorold," said I--"I mean Mr. Thorold, don't you obey your orders?" "Yes--general," he said. And he laughed. "So must I." "You are not a soldier." "Yes--I am." "Have you got orders not to come to our hop?" "I think I have. You will not understand me, but this is what I mean, Mr. Thorold. I _am_ a soldier, of another sort from you; and I have orders not to go anywhere that my Captain does not send me, or where I cannot be serving Him." "I wish you would show those orders to me." I gave him the open page which I had been studying, that same chapter of Colossians, and pointed out the words. He looked at them, and turned over the page, and turned it back. "I don't see the orders," he said. I was silent. I had not expected he would. "And I was going to say, I never saw any Christians that were soldiers; but I have, one. And so you are another?" And he bent upon me a look so curiously considering, tender, and wondering, at once, that I could not help smiling. "A soldier!" said he, again. "You? Have you ever been under fire?" I smiled again, and then, I don't know what it was. I cannot tell what, in the question and in the look, touched some weak spot. The question called up such sharp answers; the look spoke so much sympathy. It was very odd for me to do, but I was taken unawares; my eyes fell and filled, and before I could help it were more than full. I do not know, to this day, how I came to cry before Thorold. It was very soon over, my weakness, whatever it was. It seemed to touch him amazingly. He got hold of my hand, put it to his lips, and kissed it over and over, outside and inside. "I can see it all in your face," he said, tenderly: "the strength and the truth to do anything, and bear--whatever is necessary. But I am not so good as you. I cannot bear anything unless it _is_ necessary; and this isn't." "Oh no, nor I!" I said; "but this is necessary, Mr. Thorold." "Prove it--come." "You do not see the orders," I said; "but there they are. 'Do all in the name of the Lord Jesus.' I cannot go to that place 'in His name.'" "I do not think I understand what you mean," he said, gently. "A soldier, the best that ever lived, is his own man when he is off duty. We go to the hop to play--not to work." "Ah, but a soldier of Christ is never 'off duty,'" I said. "See, Mr. Thorold--_'whatsoever_ ye do'--'whether ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do.' That covers all; don't you see?" "That would make it a very heavy thing to be a Christian," he said; "there would be no liberty at all." "Oh, but it is all liberty!" I said,--"When you love Jesus." He looked at me so inquiringly, so inquisitively, that I went on. "You do not think it hard to do things for anybody you love?" "No," said he. "I would like to do things for you." I remember I smiled at that, for it seemed to me very pleasant to hear him say it; but I went on. "Then you understand it, Mr. Thorold." "No," said he, "I do not understand it; for there is this difficulty. I do not see what in the world such an innocent amusement as that we are talking of can have to do with Christian duty, one way or another. Every Christian woman that I know comes to it,--that is young enough; and some that aren't." It was very hard to explain. "Suppose they disobey orders," I said slowly;--"that would be another reason why I should obey them." "Of course. But do they?" "I should," I said. "I am not serving Christ when I am there. I am not doing the work He has given me to do. I cannot go." "I came down here on purpose to persuade you," he said. It was not necessary to answer that, otherwise than by a look. "And you are unpersuadable," he said; "unmanageable, of course, by me; strong as a giant, and gentle as a snowflake. But the snowflake melts; and you--you will go up to the hotel as good a crystal as when you came down." This made me laugh, and we had a good laugh together, holding each other's hand. "Do you know," said he, "I must go? There is a roll of a summons that reaches my ear, and I must be at the top of the bank in one minute and a quarter. I had no leave to be here." "Hadn't you?" I said. "Oh, then, go, go directly, Mr. Thorold!" But I could not immediately release my hand, and holding it and looking at me, Thorold laughed again; his hazel eyes sparkling and dancing and varying with what feelings I could not tell. They looked very steadily, too, till I remember mine went down, and then, lifting his cap, he turned suddenly and sprang away. I sat down to get breath and think. I had come to my place rather sober and sorrowful; and what a pleasant morning I had had! I did not mind at all, now, my not going to the dances. I had explained myself to Mr. Thorold, and we were not any further apart for it, and I had had a chance to speak to him about other things too. And though he did not understand me, perhaps he would some day. The warning gong sounded before I had well got to my Bible reading. My Bible reading was very pleasant this morning, and I could not be baulked of it; so I spent over it near the whole half hour that remained, and rushed up to the hotel in the last five minutes. Of course, I was rather late and quite out of breath; and having no voice and being a little excited, I suppose was the reason that I curtseyed to Dr. Sandford, whom I met at the head of the piazza steps. He looked at me like a man taken aback. "Daisy!" he exclaimed. "Yes, sir," I answered. "Where have you come from?" "From my study," I said. "I have a nice place down by the river which is my study." "Rather a public situation for a private withdrawing place," said the doctor. "Oh no!" said I. "At this hour--" But there I stopped and began again. "It is really very private. And it is the pleasantest study place I think I ever had." "To study what?" I held up my book. "It agrees with you," said the doctor. "What?" said I, laughing. "Daisy!" said Dr. Sandford--"I left a quiet bud of a flower a few days ago--a little demure bit of a schoolgirl, learning geology; and I have got a young princess here, a full rose, prickles and all, I don't doubt. What has Mrs. Sandford done with you?" "I do not know," said I, thinking I had better be demure again. "She took me to the hop." "The hop?--how did you like that?" "I liked it very much." "You did? You liked it? I did not know that you would go, with your peculiar notions." "I went," I said; "I did not know what it was. How could I help liking it? But I am not going again." "Why not, if you like it?" "I am not going again," I repeated. "Shall we have a walk to the hills to-day, Dr. Sandford?" "Grant!" said his sister-in-law's voice, "don't you mean the child shall have any breakfast? What made you so late, Daisy? Come in, and talk afterwards. Grant is uneasy if he can't see at least your shadow all the while." We went in to breakfast, and I took a delightful walk with Dr. Sandford afterward, back in the ravines of the hills; but I had got an odd little impression of two things. First, that he, like Preston, was glad to have me give up going to the hops. I was sure of it from his air and tone of voice, and it puzzled me; for he could not possibly have Preston's dislike of Northerners, nor be unwilling that I should know them. The other thing was, that he would not like my seeing Mr. Thorold. I don't know how I knew it, but I knew it. I thought--it was very odd--but I thought he was _jealous_; or rather, I felt he would be if he had any knowledge of our friendship for each other. So I resolved he should have no such knowledge. Our life went on now as it had done at our first coming. Every day Dr. Sandford and I went to the woods and hills, on a regular naturalist's expedition; and nothing is so pleasant as such expeditions. At home, we were busy with microscopic examinations, preparations, and studies; delightful studies, and beautiful lessons, in which the doctor was the finest of instructors, as I have said, and I was at least the happiest of scholars. Mrs. Sandford fumed a little, and Mr. Sandford laughed; but that did no harm. Everybody went to the hops, except the doctor and me; and every morning and evening, at guardmounting and parade, I was on the ground behind the guard tents to watch the things done and listen to the music and enjoy all the various beauty. Sometimes I had a glimpse of Thorold; for many both of cadets and officers used to come and speak to me and rally me on my seclusion, and endeavour to tempt me out of it. Thorold did not that; he only looked at me, as if I were something to be a little wondered at but wholly approved of. It was not a disagreeable look to meet. "I must have it out with you," he said one evening, when he had just a minute to speak to me. "There is a whole world of things I don't understand, and want to talk about. Let us go Saturday afternoon and take a long walk up to 'Number Four'--do you like hills?" "Yes." "Then let us go up there Saturday--will you?" And when Saturday came, we went. Preston luckily was not there; and Dr. Sandford, also luckily, was gone to dine at the General's with his brother. There were no more shadows on earth than there were clouds in the sky, as we took our way across the plain and along the bank in front of the officers' quarters looking north, and went out at the gate. Then we left civilization and the world behind us, and plunged into a wild mountain region; going up, by a track which few feet ever used, the rough slope to "Number Four." Yet that a few feet used it was plain. "Do people come here to walk much?" I asked, as we slowly made our way up. "Nobody comes here--for anything." "Somebody _goes_ here," I said. "This is a beaten path." "Oh, there is a poor woodcutter's family at the top; they do travel up and down occasionally." "It is pretty," I said. "It is pretty at the top; but we are a long way from that. Is it too rough for you?" "Not at all," I said. "I like it." "You are a good walker for a Southern girl." "Oh, but I have lived at the North; I am only Southern born." Soon, however, he made me stop to rest. There was a good grey rock under the shadow of the trees; Thorold placed me on that and threw himself on the moss at my feet. We were up so high in the world that the hills on the other side of the river rose beautifully before us through the trees, and a sunny bit of the lower ground of the plain looked like a bit of another world that we were leaving. It was a sunny afternoon and a little hazy; every line softened, every colour made richer, under the mellowing atmosphere. "Now you can explain it all to me," said Thorold, as he threw himself down. "You have walked too fast. You are warm." "And you do not look as if it was warm at all." "I! This is nothing to me," he said. "But perhaps it will warm me and cool you if we get into a talk. I want explanations." "About what, Mr. Thorold?" "Well--if you will excuse me--about you," he said, with a very pleasant look, frank and soft at once. "I am quite ready to explain myself. But I am afraid, when I have done it, that you will not understand me, Mr. Thorold." "Think I cannot?" said he. "I am afraid not--without knowing what I know." "Let us see," said Thorold. "I want to know why you judge so differently from other people about the right and the wrong of hops and such things. Somebody is mistaken--that is clear." "But the difficulty is, I cannot give you my point of view." "Please try," said Thorold, contentedly. "Mr. Thorold, I told you, I am a soldier." "Yes," he said, looking up at me, and little sparkles of light seeming to come out of his hazel eyes. "I showed you my orders." "But I did not understand them to be what you said." "Suppose you were in an enemy's country," I said; "a rebel country; and your orders were, to do nothing which could be construed into encouraging the rebels, or which could help them to think that your king would hold friendship with them, or that there was not a perfect gulf of division between you and them." "But this is not such a case?" said Thorold. "That is only part," I said. "Suppose your orders were to keep constant watch and hold yourself at every minute ready for duty, and to go nowhere and do nothing that would unfit you for instant service, or put you off your watch?" "But, Miss Randolph!" said Thorold, a little impatiently, "do these little dances unfit you for duty?" "Yes," I said. "And put me off my watch." "Your watch against what? Oh, pardon me, and _please_ enlighten me. I do not mean to be impertinent." "I mean my watch for orders--my watch against evil." "Won't you explain?" said Thorold, gently and impatiently at once. "What sort of evil can _you_ possibly fear, in connection with such an innocent recreation? What 'orders' are you expecting?" I hesitated. Should I tell him; would he believe; was it best to unveil the working of my own heart to that degree? And how could I evade or shirk the question? "I should not like to tell you," I said at length, "the thoughts and feelings I found stirring in myself, after the last time I went to the dance. I dare say they are something that belongs especially to a woman, and that a man would not know them." Thorold turned on me again a wonderfully gentle look, for a gay, fiery young Vermonter, as I knew him to be. "It wanted only that!" he said. "And the orders, Miss Randolph--what 'orders' are you expecting? You said orders." "Orders may be given by a sign," I said. "They need not be in words." He smiled. "I see, you have studied the subject." "I mean, only, that whenever a duty is plainly put before me--something given me to do--I know I have 'orders' to do it. And then, Mr. Thorold, as the orders are not spoken, nor brought to me by a messenger, only made known to me by a sign of some sort--If I did not keep a good watch, I should be sure to miss the sign sometimes, don't you see?" "This is soldiership!" said Thorold. And getting up, he stood before me in attitude like a soldier as he was, erect, still with arms folded, only not up to his chin, like Capt. Percival, but folded manfully. He had been watching me very intently; now he stood as intently looking off over the farther landscape. Methought I had a sort of pride in his fine appearance; and yet he did in no wise belong to me. Nevertheless, it was pleasant to see the firm, still attitude, the fine proportions, the military nicety of all his dress, which I had before noticed on the parade ground. For as there is a difference between one walk and another, though all trained, so there is a difference between one neatness and another, though all according to regulation: and Preston never looked like this. He turned round at last, and smiled down at me. "Are you rested?" "O yes!" I said, rising. "I was not fatigued." "Are you tired talking?" "No, not at all. Have I talked so very much?" He laughed at that, but went on. "Will you be out of patience with my stupidity?" I said no. "Because I am not fully enlightened yet. I want to ask further questions; and asking questions is very impertinent." "Not if you have leave," I said. "Ask what you like." "I am afraid, nevertheless. But I can never know, if I do not ask. How is it--this is what puzzles me--that other people who call themselves Christians do not think as you do about this matter?" "Soldiership?" I asked. "Well, yes. It comes to that, I suppose." "You know what soldiership ought to be," I said. "But one little soldier cannot be all the rank and file of this army?" he said, looking down at me. "O no!" I said, laughing--"there are a great many more--there are a great many more--only you do not happen to see them." "And these others, that I do see, are not soldiers, then?" "I do not know," I said, feeling sadly what a stumbling-block it was. "Perhaps they are. But you know yourself, Mr. Thorold, there is a difference between soldiers and soldiers." He was silent a while, as we mounted the hill; then he continued-- "But it makes religion a slavery--a bondage--to be _all_ the while under arms, on guard, watching orders. _Always_ on the watch and expecting to be under fire--it is too much; it would make a gloomy, ugly life of it." "But suppose you _are_ under fire?" I said. "What?" said he, looking and laughing again. "If you are a good soldier in an enemy's country, always with work to do; will you wish to be off your guard, or off duty?" "But what a life!" said Thorold. "If you love your Captain?" said I. He stopped and looked at me with one of the keenest looks of scrutiny I ever met. It seemed to scrutinize not me only, but the truth. I thought he was satisfied; for he turned away without adding anything more at that time. His mind was at work, however; for he broke down a small branch in his way and busied himself with it in sweeping the trunks of the trees as we went by; varying the occupation with a careful clearing away of all stones and sticks that would make my path rougher than it need be. Finally, giving me his hand to help me spring over a little rivulet that crossed our way. "Here is an incongruity, now I think of it," said he, smiling. "How is it that you be on such good terms with a rebel? Ought you to have anything to do with me?" "I may be friends with anybody in his private capacity," I answered in the same tone. "That does not compromise anything. It is only when--You know what I mean." "When they are assembled for doubtful purposes." "Or gathered in a place where the wrong colours are displayed," I added. "I must not go there." "There was no false banner hung out on the Academic Building the other night," he said humorously. But I knew my King's banner was not either. I knew people did not think of Him there, nor work for Him, and would have been very much surprised to hear any one speak of Him. Say it was innocent amusement; people did not want Him with them there; and where He was not, I did not wish to be. But I could not tell all this to Mr. Thorold. He was not contented, however, without an answer. "How was it?" he asked. "You cannot understand me and you may laugh at me," I said. "Why may I not understand you?" he asked deferentially. "I suppose, because you do not understand something else," I said; "and you cannot, Mr. Thorold, until you know what the love of Jesus is, and what it is to care for His honour and His service more than for anything else in the world." "But are they compromised?" he asked. "That is the thing. You see, I want you back at the hop." "I would like to come," said I; "but I must not." "On the ground--?" "I told you, Mr. Thorold. I do not find that my orders allow me to go. I must do nothing that I cannot do in my King's name." "That is--" "As His servant--on His errands--following where He leads me." "I never heard it put so before," said Thorold. "It bears the stamp of perfection--only an impossible perfection." "No--" said I. "To ordinary mortals," he rejoined, with one of his quick, brilliant flashes of the eye. Then, as it softened and changed again-- "Miss Randolph, permit me to ask one question--Are you happy?" And with the inquiry came the investigating look, keen as a razor or a rifle ball. I could meet it, though; and I told him it was _this_ made me happy. For the first time his face was troubled. He turned it from me and dropped the conversation. I let it drop, too; and we walked side by side and silently the remainder of the steep way; neither of us, I believe, paying much attention to what there was to be seen below or around us. At the top, however, this changed. We found a good place to rest, and sat there a long time looking at the view; Thorold pointing out its different features, and telling me about them in detail; his visits to them, and exploration of the region generally. And we planned imaginary excursions together, one especially to the top of the Crow's Nest, with an imaginary party, to see the sun rise. We would have to go up, of course, overnight; we must carry a tent along for shelter, and camp-beds, and cooking utensils, at least a pot to boil coffee; and plenty of warm wraps and plenty of provisions, for people always eat terribly in cold regions, Thorold said. And although the top of the Crow's Nest is not Arctic by any means, still, it is cool enough even in a warm day, and would be certainly cool at night. Also the members of our party we debated; they must be people of good tempers and travelling habits, not to be put out for a little; people with large tastes for enjoyment, to whom the glory of the morning would make amends for all the toil of the night; and good talkers, to keep up the tone of the whole thing. Meanwhile, Thorold and I heartily enjoyed Number Four; as also I did his explanations of fortifications, which I drew from him and made him apply to all the fortifications in sight or which I knew. And when the sun's westing told us it was time to go home, we went down all the way talking. I have but little remembrance of the path. I remember the cool, bright freshness of the light, and its brilliant gleam in the distance after it had left the hillside. I have an impression of the calm clear beauty that was underfoot and overhead that afternoon; but I saw it only as I could see it while giving my thought to something else. Sometimes, holding hands, we took runs down the mountain side; then walked demurely again when we got to easier going. We had come to the lower region at last, and were not far from the gate, talking earnestly and walking close together, when I saw Thorold touch his cap. "Was that anybody I knew?" I asked. "I believe it was your friend Dr. Sandford," he said, smiling into my face with a smile of peculiar expression and peculiar beauty. I saw something had pleased him, pleased him very much. It could not have been Dr. Sandford. I cannot say I was pleased, as I had an intuitive assurance the doctor was not. But Thorold's smile almost made amends. That evening the doctor informed us he had got intelligence which obliged him to leave the Point immediately; and as he could go with us part of the way to Niagara, we had better all set off together. I had lost all my wish to go to Niagara; but I said nothing. Mrs. Sandford said there was nothing to be gained by staying at the Point any longer, as I would not go to the hops. So Monday morning we went away. CHAPTER XVIII. SOUTH AND NORTH. We made a round of pleasure after leaving West Point. That is, it was a round of pleasure to the rest of the party. I had left my best pleasure behind me. Certainly, I enjoyed Catskill, and Trenton Falls, and Niagara, after some sort; but there was nothing in them all like my walk to "Number Four." West Point had enough natural beauty to satisfy any one, I thought, even for all summer; and there I had besides what I had not elsewhere and never had before, a companion. All my earlier friends were far older than I, or beneath me in station. Preston was the single exception; and Preston and I were now widely apart in our sympathies; indeed, always had been. Mr. Thorold and I talked to each other on a level; we understood each other and suited each other. I could let out my thoughts to him with a freedom I never could use with anybody else. It grieved me a little that I had been forced to come away so abruptly that I had no chance of letting him know. Courtesy, I thought, demanded of me that I should have done this; and I could not do it; and this was a constant subject of regret to me. At the end of our journey I came back to school. Letters from my father and mother desired that I would do so, and appointed that I was to join them abroad next year. My mother had decided that it was best not to interfere with the regular course of my education; and my father renewed his promise that I should have any reward I chose to claim, to comfort me for the delay. So I bent myself to study with new energies and new hope. I studied more things than school books that winter. The bits of political matter I had heard talked over at West Point were by no means forgotten; and once in a while, when I had time and a chance, I seized one of the papers from Mme. Ricard's library table and examined it. And every time I did so, something urged me to do it again. I was very ignorant. I had no clue to a great deal that was talked of in these prints: but I could perceive the low threatening growl of coming ill weather, which seemed to rise on the ear every time I listened. And a little anxiety began to grow up in my mind. Mme. Ricard, of course, never spoke on these subjects, and probably did not care about them. Dr. Sandford was safe in Washington. I once asked Miss Cardigan what she thought. "There are evil men abroad, dear," she said. "I don't know what they will be permitted to do." "Who do you hope will be elected?" I asked. "I don't vote myself," said Miss Cardigan; "so I do not fash myself much with what I can't help; but I hope the man will be elected that will do the right thing." "And who is that?" I asked. "You do not want slavery to be allowed in the territories?" "I? Not I!" said Miss Cardigan. "And if the people want to keep it out of them, I suppose they will elect Abraham Lincoln. I don't know if he is the right man or no; but he is on the right side. 'Break every yoke, and let the oppressed go free.' That is my maxim, Daisy." I pondered this matter by turns more and more. By and by there began to be audible mutterings of a storm in the air around me. The first I heard was when we were all together in the evening with our work, the half hour before tea. "Lincoln is elected," whispered one of the girls to another. "Who cares?" the other said aloud. "What if he is?" asked a third. "Then," said a gentle, graceful-looking girl, spreading her embroidery out on her lap with her slim white fingers--"_then_ there'll be fighting." It was given, this announcement, with the coolest matter-of-fact assurance. "Who is going to fight?" was the next question. The former speaker gave a glance up to see if her audience was safe, and then replied, as coolly as before,-- "My brother, for one." "What for, Sally?" "Do you think we are going to have these vulgar Northerners rule over _us_? My cousin Marshall is coming back from Europe on purpose that he may be here and be ready. I know my aunt wrote him word that she would disinherit him if he did not." "Daisy Randolph--you are a Southerner," said one of the girls. "Of course, she is a Southerner," said Sally, going on with her embroidery. "She is safe." But if I was safe, I was very uncomfortable. I hardly knew why I was so uncomfortable. Only, I wished ardently that troubles might not break out between the two quarters of the country. I had a sense that the storm would come near home. I could not recollect my mother and my father, without a dread that there would be opposing electricities between them and me. I began to study the daily news more constantly and carefully. I had still the liberty of Madame's library, and the papers were always there. I could give to them only a few minutes now and then; but I felt that the growl of the storm was coming nearer and growing more threatening. Extracts from Southern papers seemed to my mind very violent and very wrong-headed; at the same time, I knew that my mother would endorse and Preston echo them. Then South Carolina passed the ordinance of secession. Six days after, Major Anderson took possession of Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbour, and immediately the fort he had left and Castle Pinckney were garrisoned by the South Carolinians in opposition. I could not tell how much all this signified; but my heart began to give a premonitory beat sometimes. Mississippi followed South Carolina; then United States' forts and arsenals were seized in North Carolina and Georgia and Alabama, one after the other. The tone of the press was very threatening, at least of the Southern press. And not less significant, to my ear, was the whisper I occasionally heard among a portion of our own little community. A secret whisper, intense in its sympathy with the seceding half of the nation, contemptuously hostile to the other part, among whom they were at that very moment receiving Northern education and Northern kindness. The girls even listened and gathered scraps of conversation that passed in their hearing, to retail them in letters sent home; "they did not know," they said, "what might be of use." Later, some of these letters were intercepted by the General Government, and sent back from Washington to Madame Ricard. All this told me much of the depth and breadth of feeling among the community of which these girls formed a part; and my knowledge of my father and mother, Aunt Gary and Preston, and others, told me more. I began to pray that God would not let war come upon the land. Then there was a day, in January, I think, when a bit of public news was read out in presence of the whole family; a thing that rarely happened. It was evening, and we were all in the parlour with our work. I forget who was the reader, but I remember the words: "'The steamer, _Star of the West_ with two hundred and fifty United States troops on board for Fort Sumter, was fired into' (I forget the day) 'by the batteries near Charleston.' Young ladies, do you hear that? The steamer was fired into. That is the beginning." We looked at each other, we girls; startled, sorry, awed, with a strange glance of defiance from some eyes, while some flowed over with tears, and some were eager with a feeling that was not displeasure. All were silent at first. Then whispers began. "I told you so," said Sally. "Well, _they_ have begun it," said Macy, who was a native of New York. "Of course. What business had the _Star of the West_ to be carrying those troops there? South Carolina can take care of her own forts." "Daisy Randolph, you look as solemn as a preacher," said another. "Which side are you on?" "She is on the right side," said another. "Of course," said Sally. "She is the daughter of a Southern gentleman." "I am not on the side of those who fire the first shot," I said. "There is no other way," said Sally, coolly. "If a rat comes in your way you must shoot him. I knew it had got to come. I have heard my uncle talk enough about that." "But what will be the end of it?" said another. "Pooh! It will end like smoke. The Yankees do not like fighting--they would rather be excused, if you please. Their _forte_ is quite in another line--out of the way of powder." I wondered if that was true. I thought of Thorold, and of Major Blunt. I was troubled; and when I went to see Miss Cardigan, next day, I found she could give me little comfort. "I don't know, my dear," she said, "what they may be left to do. They're just daft, down there; clean daft." "If they fight, we shall be obliged to fight," I said, not liking to ask her about Northern courage; and, indeed, she was a Scotswoman, and what should she know? "Aye, just that," she replied; "and fighting between the two parts of one land is just the worst fighting there can be. Pray it may not come, Daisy; but those people are quite daft." The next letters from my mother spoke of my coming out to them as soon as the school year should be over. The country was likely to be disturbed, she said; and it would not suit with my father's health to come home just now. As soon as the school year should be over, and Dr. Sandford could find a proper opportunity for me to make the journey, I should come. I was very glad; yet I was not all glad. I wished they had been able to come to me. I was not, I hardly knew why I was not quite ready to quit America while these troubles threatened. And as days went on, and the cloud grew blacker, my feeling of unwillingness increased. The daily prints were full of fresh instances of the seizure of United States property, of the secession of New States; then the Secession Congress met, and elected Jefferson Davis and Alexander Stephens their president and vice-president; and rebellion was duly organized. Jefferson Davis! How the name took me back to the summer parade on the West Point plain, and my first view of that smooth, sinister, ill-conditioned face. Now _he_ was heading rebellion. Where would Dr. Sandford, and Mr. Thorold, and Preston be? How far would the rebels carry their work? and what opposition would be made to it? Again I asked Miss Cardigan. "It's beyond _me_, Daisy," she said. "I suppose it will depend very much on whether we've got the right man to head us or no; and that nobody can tell till we try. This man, Buchanan, that is over us at present, he is no better than a bit of cotton-wool. I am going to take a look at Mr. Lincoln as he comes through, and see what I think of him." "When is he coming?" "They say to-day," said Miss Cardigan. "There'll be an uncommon crowd, but I'll risk it." A great desire seized me, that I might see him too. I consulted with Miss Cardigan. School hours were over at three; I could get away then, I thought; and by studying the programme of the day we found it possible that it would not be too late then for our object. So it proved; and I have always been glad of it ever since. Miss Cardigan and I went forth and packed ourselves in the dense crowd which had gathered and filled all the way by which the President-elect was expected to pass. A quiet and orderly and most respectable crowd it was. Few Irish, few of the miserable of society, who come out only for a spectacle; there were the yeomanry and the middle classes, men of business, men of character and some substance, who were waiting, like us, to see what promise for the future there might be in the aspect of our new chief. Waiting patiently; and we could only wait patiently like them. I thought of Preston's indignation if he could have seen me, and Dr. Sandford's ready negative on my being there; but well were these thoughts put to flight when the little cavalcade for which we were looking hove in sight and drew near. Intense curiosity and then profound satisfaction seized me. The strong, grave, kindly lineaments of the future Head of the Country gave me instantly a feeling of confidence, which I never lost in all the time that followed. That was, confidence in his honesty and goodness; but another sort of trust was awakened by the keen, searching, shrewd glances of those dark eyes, which seemed to penetrate the masses of human intelligences surrounding him, and seek to know what manner of _material_ he might find them at need. He was not thinking of himself, that was plain; and the homely, expressive features got a place in my heart from that time. The little cavalcade passed on from us; the crowd melted away, and Miss Cardigan and I came slowly again up Fifth Avenue. "Yon's a mon!" quoth Miss Cardigan, speaking, as she did in moments of strong feeling, with a little reminder of her Scottish origin. "Didn't you like him?" I rejoined. "I always like a man when I see him," said my friend. "He had need be that, too, for he has got a man's work to do." And it soon appeared that she spoke true. I watched every action, and weighed every word of Mr. Lincoln now, with a strange interest. I thought great things depended on him. I was glad when he determined to send supplies into Fort Sumter. I was sure that he was right; but I held my breath, as it were, to see what South Carolina would do. The twelfth of April told us. "So they have done it, Daisy!" said Miss Cardigan, that evening. "They are doing it, rather. They have been firing at each other all day." "Well, Major Anderson must defend his fort," I said. "That is his duty." "No doubt," said Miss Cardigan; "but you look pale, Daisy, my bairn. You are from those quarters yourself. Is there anybody in that neighbourhood that is dear to you?" I had the greatest difficulty not to burst into tears, by way of answer, and Miss Cardigan looked concerned at me. I told her there was nobody there I cared for, except some poor coloured people who were in no danger. "There'll be many a sore heart in the country if this goes on," she said, with a sigh. "But it will not go on, will it?" I asked. "They cannot take Fort Sumter; do you think so?" "I know little about it," said my friend, soberly. "I am no soldier. And we never know what is best, Daisy. We must trust the Lord, my dear, to unravel these confusions." And the next night the little news-boys in the streets were crying out the "Fall of Fort Sum--ter!" It rang ominously in my heart. The rebels had succeeded so far; and they would go on. Yes, they would go on now, I felt assured; unless some very serious check should be given them. Could the Yankees give that? I doubted it. Yet _their_ cause was the cause of right, and justice, and humanity; but the right does _not_ always at first triumph, whatever it may do in the end; and good swords, and good shots, and the spirit of a soldier, are things that are allowed to carry their force with them. I knew the South had these. What had the North? Even in our school seclusion, we felt the breath of the tremendous excitement which swayed the public mind next day. Not bluster, nor even passion, but the stir of the people's heart. As we walked to church, we could hear it in half caught words of those we passed by, see it in the grave, intense air which characterised groups and faces; feel it in the atmosphere, which was heavy with indignation and gathering purpose. It was said no Sunday like that had been known in the city. Within our own little community, if parties ran high, they were like those outside, quiet; but when alone, the Southern girls testified an exultation that jarred painfully upon my ears. "Daisy don't care." "Yes, I care," I said. "For shame not to be glad! You see, it is glorious. We have it all our own way. The impertinence of trying to hold our forts for us!" "I don't see anything glorious in fighting," I said. "Not when you are attacked?" "We were not attacked," I said. "South Carolina fired the first guns." "Good for her!" said Sally. "Brave little South Carolina! Nobody will meddle with her and come off without cutting his fingers." "Nobody did meddle with her," I asserted. "It was _she_ who meddled, to break the laws and fight against the government." "What government?" said Sally. "Are we slaves, that we should be ruled by a government we don't choose? We will have our own. Do you think South Carolina and Virginia _gentlemen_ are going to live under a rail-splitter for a President? and take orders from him?" "What do you mean by a 'rail-splitter'?" "I mean this Abe Lincoln the northern mudsills have picked up to make a President of. He used to get his living by splitting rails for a Western fence, Daisy Randolph." "But if he is President, he is President," I said. "For those that like him. _We_ won't have him. Jefferson Davis is my President. And all I can do to help him I will. I can't fight; I wish I could. My brother and my cousins and my uncle will, though, that's one comfort; and what I can do I will." "Then I think you are a traitor," I said. I was hated among the Southern girls from that day. Hated with a bitter, violent hatred, which had indeed little chance to show itself, but was manifested in the scornful, intense avoidance of me. The bitterness of it is surprising to me even now. I cared not very much for it. I was too much engrossed with deeper interests of the time, both public and private. The very next day came the President's call for seventy-five thousand men; and the next, the answer of the governor of Kentucky, that "Kentucky would furnish no troops for the wicked purpose of subduing her sister Southern States." I saw this in the paper in the library; the other girls had no access to the general daily news, or I knew there would have been shoutings of triumph over Governor Magoffin. Other governors of other States followed his example. Jefferson Davis declared in a proclamation that letters of marque and reprisal would be issued. Everything wore the aspect of thickening strife. My heart grew very heavy over these signs of evil, fearing I knew not what for those whom I cared about. Indeed, I would not stop to think what I feared. I tried to bury my fears in my work. Letters from my mother became very explicit now; she said that troublesome times were coming in the country, and she would like me to be out of it. After a little while, when the independence of the South should be assured, we would all come home and be happy together. Meantime, as soon after the close of the school year as Dr. Sandford could find a good chance for me, I was to come out to them at Lausanne, where my mother thought they would be by that time. So I studied with all my strength, with the double motive of gaining all I could and of forgetting what was going on in the political world. Music and French, my mother particularly desired that I should excel in; and I gave many hours to my piano, as many as possible, and talked with Mlle. Géneviève, whenever she would let me. And she was very fond of me and fond of talking to me; it was she who kept for me my library privilege. And my voice was good, as it had promised to be. I had the pleasure of feeling that I was succeeding in what I most wished to attain. It was succeeding over the heads of my schoolfellows; and that earned me wages that were not pleasant among a portion of my companions. Faustina St. Clair was back among us; she would perhaps have forgiven if she could have forgotten me; but my headship had been declared ever since the time of the bronze standish, and even rivalry had been long out of the question. So the old feud was never healed; and now, between the unfriendliness of her party and the defection of all the Southern girls, I was left in a great minority of popular favour. It could not be helped. I studied the harder. I had unlimited favour with all my teachers, and every indulgence I asked for. The news of the attack in Baltimore upon the Massachusetts troops passing through the city, and Governor Andrew's beautiful telegram, shook me out of my pre-occupation. It shook me out of all quiet for a day. Indignation, and fear, and sorrow rolled through my heart. The passions that were astir among men, the mad results to which they were leading, the possible involvement of several of those whom I loved, a general trembling of evil in the air, made study difficult for the moment. What signified the course and fate of nations hundreds of years ago? Our own course and fate filled the horizon. What signified the power or beauty of my voice, when I had not the heart to send it up and down like a bird any longer? Where was Preston, and Dr. Sandford, and Ransom, and what would become of Magnolia? In truth, I did not know what had become of Ransom. I had not heard from him or of him in a long time. But these thoughts would not do. I drove them away. I resolved to mind my work and not read the papers, if I could help it, and not think about politics or my friends' course in them. I could do nothing. And in a few months I should be away, out of the land. I kept my resolve pretty well. Indeed, I think nothing very particular happened to disturb it for the next two or three weeks. I succeeded in filling my head with work and being very happy in it. That is, whenever I could forget more important things. CHAPTER XIX. ENTERED FOR THE WAR. One evening, I think before the end of April, I asked permission to spend the evening at Miss Cardigan's. I had on hand a piece of study for which I wanted to consult certain books which I knew were in her library. Mlle. Géneviève gave me leave gladly. "You do study too persevering, m'amie," she said. "Go, and stop to study for a little while. You are pale. I am afraid your doctor--ce bon Monsieur le docteur--will scold us all by and by. Go, and do not study." But I determined to have my play and my study too. As I passed through Miss Cardigan's hall, the parlour door, standing half open let me see that a gentleman was with her. Not wishing to interrupt any business that might be going on, and not caring also to be bored with it myself, I passed by and went into the inner room where the books were. I would study now, I thought, and take my pleasure with my dear old friend by and by, when she was at leisure. I had found my books, and had thrown myself down on the floor with one, when a laugh that came from the front room laid a spell upon my powers of study. The book fell from my hands; I sat bolt upright, every sense resolved into that of hearing. What, and who had that been? I listened. Another sound of a word spoken, another slight inarticulate suggestion of laughter; and I knew with an assured knowledge that my friend Cadet Thorold, and no other, was the gentleman in Miss Cardigan's parlour with whom she had business. I sat up and forgot my books. The first impulse was to go in immediately and show myself. I can hardly tell what restrained me. I remembered that Miss Cardigan must have business with him, and I had better not interrupt it. But those sounds of laughter had not been very business-like, either. Nor were they business words which came through the open door. I never thought or knew I was listening. I only thought it was Thorold, and held my breath to hear, or rather to feel. My ears seemed sharpened beyond all their usual faculty. "And you haven't gone and fallen in love, callant, meanwhile, just to complicate affairs?" said the voice of Miss Cardigan. "I shall never fall in love," said Thorold, with (I suppose) mock gravity. His voice sounded so. "Why not?" "I require too much." "It's like your conceit!" said Miss Cardigan. "Now, what is it that you require? I would like to know; that is, if you know yourself. It appears that you have thought about it." "I have thought, till I have got it all by heart," said Thorold. "The worst is, I shall never find it in this world." "That's likely. Come, lad, paint your picture, and I'll tell you if _I_ know where to look," said Miss Cardigan. "And then you'll search for me?" "I dinna ken if you deserve it," said Miss Cardigan. "I don't deserve it, of course," said Thorold. "Well--I have painted the likeness a good many times. The first thing is a pair of eyes as deep and grey as our mountain lakes." "I never heard that your Vermont lakes were _grey_," said Miss Cardigan. "Oh, but they are! when the shadow of the mountains closes them in. It is not cold grey, but purple and brown, the shadow of light, as it were; the lake is in shadow. Only, if a bit of blue _does_ show itself there, it is the very heaven." "I hope that it is not going to be in poetry?" said Miss Cardigan's voice, sounding dry and amused. "What is the next thing? It is a very good picture of eyes." "The next thing is a mouth that makes you think of nothing but kissing it; the lines are so sweet, and so mobile, and at the same time so curiously subdued. A mouth that has learned to smile when things don't go right; and that has learned the lesson so well, you cannot help thinking it must have often known things go wrong; to get the habit so well, you know." "Eh?--Why, boy!"--cried Miss Cardigan. "Do you know anybody like it?" said Thorold, laughing. "If you do, you are bound to let me know where, you understand." "What lies between the eyes and mouth?" said Miss Cardigan. "There goes more to a picture." "Between the eyes and mouth," said Thorold, "there is sense and dignity, and delicacy, and refinement to a fastidious point; and a world of strength of character in the little delicate chin." "Character--_that_ shows in the mouth," said Miss Cardigan, slowly. "I told you so," said Thorold. "That is what I told you. Truth, and love, and gentleness, all sit within those little red lips; and a great strength of will, which you cannot help thinking has borne something to try it. The brow is like one of our snowy mountain tops with the sun shining on it." "And the lady's figure is like a pine-tree, isn't it? It sounds gay, as if you'd fallen in love with Nature, and so personified and imaged her in human likeness. Is it real humanity?" Thorold laughed his gay laugh. "The pine-tree will do excellently, Aunt Catherine," he said. "No better embodiment of stately grace could be found." My ears tingled. "Aunt Catherine?" _Aunt!_ Then Thorold must be her relation, her nephew; then he was not come on business; then he would stay to tea. I might as well show myself. But, I thought, if Thorold had some other lady so much in his mind (for I was sure his picture must be in a portrait), he would not care so very much about seeing me, as I had at first fancied he would. However, I could not go away; so I might as well go in; it would not do to wait longer. The evening had quite fallen now. It was April, as I said, but a cold, raw spring day, and had been like that for several days. Houses were chill; and in Miss Cardigan's grate a fine fire of Kennal coals were blazing, making its red illumination all over the room and the two figures who sat in front of it. She had had a grate put in this winter. There was no other light, only that soft red glow and gloom, under favour of which I went in and stood almost beside them before they perceived me. I did not speak to Miss Cardigan. I remember my words were, "How do you do, Mr. Thorold?"--in a very quiet kind of a voice; for I did not now expect him to be very glad. But I was surprised at the change my words made. He sprang up, his eyes flashing a sort of shower of sparks over me, gladness in every line of his face, and surprise, and a kind of inexpressible deference in his manner. "Daisy!" he exclaimed. "Miss Randolph!" "Daisy!" echoed Miss Cardigan. "My dear--do you two know each other? Where did you come from?" I think I did not answer. I am sure Thorold did not. He was caring for me, placing his chair nearer his aunt, and putting me into it, before he let go the hand he had taken. Then, drawing up another chair on the other side of me, he sat down, looking at me (I thought afterwards, I only felt at the moment), as if I had been some precious wonder; the Koh-i-noor diamond, or anything of that sort. "Where did you come from?" was his first question. "I have been in the house a little while," I said. "I thought at first Miss Cardigan had somebody with her on business, so I would not come in." "It is quite true, Daisy," said Miss Cardigan; "it is somebody on business." "Nothing private about it, though," said Thorold, smiling at me. "But where in the world did you and Aunt Catherine come together?" "And what call have ye to search into it?" said Miss Cardigan's good-humoured voice. "I know a great many bodies, callant, that you know not." "I know this one, though," said Thorold. "Miss Randolph--won't you speak? for Aunt Catherine is in no mood to tell me--have you two known each other long?" "It seems long," I said. "It is not very long." "Since last summer?" "Certainly!" "If that's the date of _your_ acquaintanceship," said Miss Cardigan, "we're auld friends to that. Is all well, Daisy?" "All quite well, ma'am. I came to do a bit of study I wanted in your books, and to have a nice time with you, besides." "And here is this fellow in the way. But we cannot turn him out, Daisy; he is going fast enough; on what errand, do you think, is he bent?" _I_ had not thought about it till that minute. Something, some thread of the serious, in Miss Cardigan's voice, made me look suddenly at Thorold. He had turned his eyes from me and had bent them upon the fire, all merriment gone out of his face, too. It was thoroughly grave. "What are you going to do, Mr. Thorold?" I asked. "Do you remember a talk we had down on Flirtation Walk one day last summer, when you asked me about possible political movements at the South, and I asked you what you would do?" "Yes," I said, my heart sinking. "The time has come," he said, facing round upon me. "And you--?" "I shall be on my way to Washington in a few days. Men are wanted now--all the men that have any knowledge to be useful. I may not be very useful. But I am going to try." "I thought"--it was not quite easy to speak, for I was struggling with something which threatened to roughen my voice--"I thought you did not graduate till June?" "Not regularly; not usually; but things are extraordinary this year. We graduate and go on to Washington at once." I believe we were all silent a few minutes. "Daisy," said Miss Cardigan, "you have nobody that is dear to _you_ likely to be engaged in the fray--if there is one?" "I don't know--" I said, rather faintly. I remember I said it; I cannot tell why, for I _did_ know. I knew that Preston and Ransom were both likely to be in the struggle, even if Ransom had been at the moment at the opposite side of the world. But then Thorold roused up and began to talk. He talked to divert us, I think. He told us of things that concerned himself and his class personally, giving details to which we listened eagerly; and he went on from them to things and people in the public line, of which and of whom neither Miss Cardigan nor I had known the thousandth part so much before. We sat and listened, Miss Cardigan often putting in a question, while the warm still glow of the firelight shed over us and all the room its assurance of peace and quiet, woven and compounded of life-long associations. Thorold sat before us and talked, and we looked at him and listened in the fire-shine; and my thoughts made swift sideway flights every now and then from this peace and glow of comfort, and from Thorold's talk, to the changes of the camp and the possible coming strife; spectres of war, guns and swords, exposure and wounds--and sickness--and the battlefield--what could I tell? and Miss Cardigan's servant put another lump of coal on the fire, and Thorold presently broke it, and the jet of illumination sprang forth, mocking and yet revealing in its sweet home glow my visions of terror. They were but momentary visions; I could not bear, of course, to look steadily at them; they were spectres that came and went with a wave of a hand, in a jet of flame, or the shadow of an opening door; but they went and came; and I saw many things in Thorold's face that night besides the manly lines of determination and spirit, the look of thought and power, and the hover of light in his eye when it turned to me. I don't know what Miss Cardigan saw; but several times in the evening I heard her sigh; a thing very unusual and notable with her. Again and again I heard it, a soft long breath. I gave it no heed at the time. My eyes and thoughts were fixed on the other member of the party; and I was like one in a dream. I walked in a dream; till we went into the other room to tea, and I heard Miss Cardigan say, addressing her nephew-- "Sit there, Christian." I was like one in a dream, or I should have known what this meant. I did know two minutes afterwards. But at the moment, falling in with some of my thoughts, the word made me start and look at Thorold. I cannot tell what was in my look; I know what was in my heart; the surprised inquiry and the yearning wish. Thorold's face flushed. He met my eyes with an intense recognition and inquiry in his own, and then, I am almost sure, his were dim. He set my chair for me at the table, and took hold of me and put me in it with a very gentle touch that seemed to thank me. "That is my name, Miss Randolph," he said, "the name given me by my parents." "You'll earn it yet, boy," said Miss Cardigan. "But the sooner the better." There was after that a very deep gravity upon us all for the first minutes at the table. I wondered to myself, how people can go on drinking tea and eating bread and butter through everything; yet they must, and even I was doing it at the moment, and not willing to forego the occupation. By degrees the wonted course of things relieved our minds, which were upon too high a strain. It appeared that Thorold was very hungry, having missed his dinner somehow; and his aunt ordered up everything in the house for his comfort, in which I suppose she found her own. And then Thorold made me eat with him. I was sure I did not want it, but that made no difference. Things were prepared for me and put upon my plate, and a soft little command laid on me to do with them what I was expected to do. It was not like the way Dr. Sandford used to order me, nor in the least like Preston's imperiousness, which I could withstand well enough; there was something in it which nullified all my power and even will to resist, and I was as submissive as possible. Thorold grew very bright again as the meal went on, and began to talk in a somewhat livelier strain than he had been in before tea; and I believe he did wile both his aunt and me out of the sad or grave thoughts we had been indulging. I know that I was obliged to laugh, as I was obliged to eat. Thorold had his own way, and seemed to like it. Even his aunt was amused and interested, and grew lively, like herself. With all that, through the whole supper-time I had an odd feeling of her being on one side; it seemed to be only Thorold and I really there; and in all Thorold was doing and through all he was talking, I had a curious sense that he was occupied only with me. It was not that he said so much directly to me or looked so much at me; I do not know how I got the feeling. There was Miss Cardigan at the head of the table busy and talking as usual, clever and kind; yet the air seemed to be breathed only by Thorold and me. "And how soon, lad," Miss Cardigan broke out suddenly, when a moment's lull in the talk had given her a chance, "how soon will ye be off to that region of disturbance whither ye are going?" "Washington?" said Thorold. "Just as soon as our examination can be pushed through; in a very few days now." "You'll come to me by the way, for another look at you, in your officer's uniform?" "Uniform? nobody will have any uniform, I fancy," said Thorold; "nobody has any time to think of that. No, Aunt Catherine, and I shall not see you, either. I expect we shall rush through without the loss of a train. I can't stop. I don't care what clothes I wear to get there." "How came you to be here now, if you are in such a hurry?" "Nothing on earth would have brought me, but the thing that did bring me," said Thorold. "I was subpoenaed down, to give my evidence in a trial. I must get back again without loss of a minute; should have gone to-night, if there had been a train that stopped. I am very glad there was no train that stopped!" We were all silent for a minute; till the door-bell rang, and the servant came, announcing Mr. Bunsen, to see Miss Cardigan about the tenant houses. Miss Cardigan went off through the open doors that led to the front parlour; and standing by the fire, I watched her figure diminishing in the long distance till it passed into Mr. Bunsen's presence and disappeared. Mr. Thorold and I stood silently on either side of the hearth, looking into the fire, while the servant was clearing the table. The cheerful, hospitable little table, round which we had been so cheerful at least for the moment, was dismantled already, and the wonted cold gleam of the mahogany seemed to tell me that cheer was all over. The talk of the uniform had overset me. All sorts of visions of what it signified, what it portended, where it would go, what it would be doing, were knocking at the door of my heart, and putting their heads in. Before tea these visions had come and vanished; often enough, to be sure; now they came and stayed. I was very quiet, I am certain of that; I was as certainly very sober, with a great and growing sadness at my heart. I think Thorold was grave, too, though I hardly looked at him. We did not speak to each other all the time the servant was busy in the room. We stood silent before the fire. The study I had come to do had all passed away out of my mind, though the books were within three feet of me. I was growing sadder and sadder every minute. "Things have changed, since we talked so lightly last summer of what might be," Thorold said at last. And he said it in a meditative way, as if he were pondering something. "Yes," I assented. "The North does not wish for war. The South have brought it upon themselves." "Yes," I said again, wondering a little what was coming. "However disagreeable my duty may be, it is my duty; and there is no shirking it." "No," I said. "Of course." "And if your friends are on one side and I on the other,--it is not my fault, Miss Randolph." "No," I said; "not at all." "Then you do not blame me for taking the part I _must_ take?" "No," I said. "You must take it." "Are you sorry I take it?" said Thorold with a change of tone, and coming a step nearer. "Sorry?" I said, and I looked up for an instant. "No; how could I be sorry? it is your duty. It is right." But as I looked down again I had the greatest difficulty not to burst into tears. I felt as though my heart would break in two with its burden of pain. It cost a great effort to stand still and quiet, without showing anything. "What is it, then?" said Thorold; and with the next words I knew he had come close to my side and was stooping his head down to my face, while his voice dropped. "What is it, Daisy?--Is it--O Daisy, I love you better than anything else in the world, except my duty! Daisy, do you love me?" Nothing could have been more impossible to me, I think, than to answer a word; but, indeed, Thorold did not seem to want it. As he questioned me, he had put his arm round me and drawn me nearer and nearer, stooping his face to me, till his lips took their own answer at mine; indeed, took answer after answer, and then, in a sort of passion of mute joy, kissed my face all over. I could not forbid him; between excitement and sorrow and happiness and shame, I could do nothing. The best I could do was to hide my face; but the breast of that grey coat was a strange hiding-place for it. With that inconsistent mingling of small things with great in one's perceptions, which everybody knows, I remember the soft feel of the fine grey cloth along with the clasp of Thorold's arms and the touch of his cheek resting upon my hair. And we stood so, quite still, for what seemed both a long and a short time, in which I think happiness got the upper hand with me, and pain for the moment was bid into the background. At last Thorold raised his head and bade me lift up mine. "Look up, darling," he said; "look up, Daisy! let me see your face. Look up, Daisy--we have only a minute, and everything in the world to say to each other. Daisy--I want to see you." I think it was one of the most difficult little things I ever had in my life to do, to raise my face and let him look at it; but I knew it must be done, and I did it. One glance at his I ventured. He was smiling at me; there was a flush upon his cheek; his eye had a light in it, and with that a glow of tenderness which was different from anything I had ever seen; and it was glittering, too, I think, with another sort of suffusion. His hand came smoothing down my hair and then touching my cheek while he looked at me. "What are you going to do with yourself now?" he said softly. "I am going on with my studies for another month or two." "And you belong to me, Daisy?" "Yes." He bent his head and kissed my brow. There is an odd difference of effect between a kiss on the lips and on the forehead, or else it was a difference in the manner. This seemed a sort of taking possession or setting a seal; and it gave me a new feeling of something almost like awe, which I had never associated with the grey coat or with its wearer before. Along with that came another impression that I suppose most women know, and know how sweet it is; the sense of an enveloping protection. Not that I had not been protected all my life; but my mother's had been the protection of authority; my father's also, in some measure; Dr. Sandford's was emphatically that of a _guardian_; he guarded me a little too well. But this new thing that was stealing into my heart, with its subtle delight, was the protection of a champion; of one who set me and mine above all other interests or claims in the world, and who would guard me as if he were a part of myself, only stronger. Altogether Thorold seemed to me different from what he had been the last summer; there was a gravity now in his face and air at times that was new and even stern; the gravity of a man taking stern life work upon him. I felt all this in a minute, while Thorold was smiling down into my face. "And you will write to me?" he said. "Yes." "And I will write to you. And I belong to you, Daisy, and to no other. All I have is yours, and all that I am is yours--after my duty; you may dispose of me, pretty one, just as you like. _You_ would not have that put second, Daisy." A great yearning came over me, so great and strong that it almost took away my breath. I fancy it spoke in my eyes, for Thorold's face grew very grave, I remember, as he looked at me. But I must speak it more plainly than so, at any costs, breath or no breath, and I must not wait. "Christian," I whispered, "won't you earn your right to your name?" He pressed his lips upon mine by way of answer first, and then gave me a quick and firm "Yes." I certainly thought he had found a mouth he was talking of a little while ago. But at that instant the sound of the distant house door closing, and then of steps coming out from the parlour, made me know that Miss Cardigan's business was over, and that she was returning to us. I wanted to free myself from Thorold's arm, but he would not let me; on the contrary, held me closer, and half turned to meet Miss Cardigan as she came in. Certainly men are very different from women. There we stood, awaiting her; and I felt very much ashamed. "Come on, Aunt Catherine," Thorold said, as she paused at the door,--"come in, come in, and kiss her--this little darling is mine." Miss Cardigan came in slowly. I could not look up. "Kiss her, Aunt Catherine," he repeated; "she is mine." And to my great dismay he set her the example; but I think it was partly to reassure me, and cover my confusion, which he saw. "I have kissed Daisy very often before now," said Miss Cardigan. I thought I discerned some concern in her voice. "Then come, do it again," said Thorold, laughing. "You never kissed her as anything belonging to me, Aunt Catherine." And he fairly laid me in Miss Cardigan's arms, till we kissed each other as he desired. But Miss Cardigan's gravity roused me out of my confusion. I was not ashamed before her; only before him. "Now, Aunt Catherine," he said, pulling up a comfortable arm chair to the corner of the hearth, "sit there. And Daisy--come here!" He put me into the fellow chair; and then built up the wood in the fireplace till we had a regular illumination. Then drew himself up before the fire, and looked at his aunt. "It's like you!" broke out Miss Cardigan. "Ever since you were born, I think, you did what you liked, and had what you liked; and threw over everything to get at the best." "On the contrary," said Thorold, "I was always of a very contented disposition." "Contented with your own will, then," said his aunt. "And now, do you mean to tell me that you have got this prize--this prize--it's a first class, Christian--for good and for certain to yourself?" I lifted my eyes one instant, to see the sparkles in Thorold's eyes; they were worth seeing. "You don't think you deserve it?" Miss Cardigan went on. "I do not think I deserve it," said Thorold. "But I think I will." "I know what that means," said his aunt. "You will get worldly glory--just a bit or two more of gold on your coat--to match you with one of the Lord's jewels, that are to be 'all glorious within'; and you think that will fit you to own her." "Aunt Catherine," said Thorold, "I do not precisely think that gold lace is glory. But I mean that I will do my duty. A man can do no more." "Some would have said 'a man can do no less,'" said Miss Cardigan, turning to me. "But you are right, lad; more than our duty we can none of us do; where _all_ is owing, less will not be overpay. But whatever do you think her father will say to you?" "I will ask him when the time comes," said Thorold, contentedly. His tone was perfect, both modest and manly. Truth to say, I could not quite share his content in looking forward to the time he spoke of; but that was far ahead, and it was impossible not to share his confidence. My father and my mother had been practically not my guardians during six and a half long years; I had got out of the habit of looking first to them. "And what are you going to do now in Washington?" said his aunt. "You may as well sit down and tell us." "I don't know. Probably I shall be put to drill new recruits. All these seventy-five thousand men that the President has called for, won't know how to handle a gun or do anything else." "And what is he going to do with these seventy-five thousand men, Christian?" "Put down treason, if he can. Don't you realize yet that we have a civil war on our hands, Aunt Catherine? The Southern States are mustering and sending their forces; we must meet them, or give up the whole question; that is, give up the country." "And what is it that _they_ will try to do?" said Miss Cardigan. "It is a mystery to me what they want; but I suppose I know; only bad men are a mystery to me always." "They will try to defy the laws," said Thorold. "We will try to see them executed." "They seem very fierce," said Miss Cardigan; "to judge by what they say." "And do," added Thorold. "I think there is a sort of madness in Southern blood." He spoke with a manner of disgustful emphasis. I looked up at him to see an expression quite in keeping with his words. Miss Cardigan cried out-- "Hey, lad! ye're confident, surely, to venture your opinions so plainly and so soon!" His face changed, as if sunlight had been suddenly poured over it. He came kneeling on one knee before me, taking my hand and kissing it, and laughing. "And I see ye're not confident without reason!" added Miss Cardigan. "Daisy'll just let ye say your mind, and no punish you for it." "But it is _true_, Miss Cardigan," I said, turning to her. I wished I had held my tongue the next minute, for the words were taken off my lips, as it were. It is something quite different from eating your own words, which I have heard of as not being pleasant; mine seemed to be devoured by somebody else. "But is it true they are coming to attack Washington?" Miss Cardigan went on, when we had all done laughing. "I read it in the prints; and it seems to me I read every other thing there." "I am afraid you read too many prints," said Thorold. "You are thinking of 'hear both sides,' Aunt Catherine? You must know there is but one side to this matter. There never are two sides to treason." "That's true," said Miss Cardigan. "But about Washington, lad? I saw an extract from a letter written from that city, by a lady, and she said the place was in a terror; she said the President sleeps with a hundred men, armed, in the east room, to protect him from the Southern army; and keeps a sentinel before his bedroom door; and often goes clean out of the White House and sleeps somewhere else, in his fear." I had never seen Thorold laugh as he did then. And he asked his aunt "where she had seen that extract?" "It was in one of the papers--it was in an extract itself, I'm thinking." "From a Southern paper," said Thorold. "Well, I believe it was." "I have seen extracts, too," said Thorold. "They say, Alexander H. Stephens is counselling the rebels to lay hold on Washington." "Well, sit down and tell us what you do know, and how to understand things," said Miss Cardigan. "I don't talk to anybody, much, about politics." So Thorold did as he was asked. He sat down on the other side of me, and with my hand in his, talked to us both. We went over the whole ground of the few months past, of the work then doing and preparing, of what might reasonably be looked for in both the South and the North. He said he was not very wise in the matter; but he was infinitely more informed than we; and we listened as to the most absorbing of all tales, till the night was far worn. A sense of the gravity and importance of the crisis; a consciousness that we were embarked in a contest of the most stubborn character, the end of which no man might foretell, pressed itself more and more on my mind as the night and the talk grew deeper. If I may judge from the changes in Miss Cardigan's face, it was the same with her. The conclusion was, the North was gathering and concentrating all her forces to meet the trial that was coming; and the young officers of the graduating class at the Military Academy had been ordered to the seat of war a little before their time of study was out, their help being urgently needed. "And where is Preston?" said I, speaking for the first time in a long while. "Preston?" echoed Thorold. "My Cousin Preston--Gary; your classmate Gary." "Gary! Oh, he is going to Washington, like the rest of us." "Which side will he take?" "You should know, perhaps, better than I," said Thorold. "He always _has_ taken the Southern side, and very exclusively." "_Has_ taken?" said I. "Do you mean that among the cadets there has been a South and a North--until now, lately?" "Aye, Daisy, always, since I have been in the Academy. The Southern clique and the Northern clique have been well defined; there is always an assumption of superiority on the one side, and some resenting of it on the other side. It was on that ground Gary and I split." "Split!" I repeated. But Thorold laughed and kissed me, and would give me no satisfaction. I began to put things together, though. I saw from Christian's eyes that _he_ had nothing to be ashamed of, in looking back; I remembered Preston's virulence, and his sudden flush when somebody had repeated the word "coward," which he had applied to Thorold. I felt certain that more had been between them than mere words, and that Preston found the recollection not flattering, whatever it was; and having come to this settlement of the matter, I looked up at Thorold. "My gentle little Daisy!" he said. "I will never quarrel with him again--if I can help it." "You _must_ quarrel with him, if he is on the wrong side," I answered. "And so must I." "You say you must go immediately back to West Point," said Miss Cardigan. "Leave thanking Daisy's hand, and tell me _when_ you are going; for the night is far past, children." "I am gone when I bid you good-night," said Thorold. "I must set out with the dawn--to catch the train I must take." "With the dawn!--_this_ morning!" cried Miss Cardigan. "Certainly. I should be there this minute, if the colonel had not given me something to do here that kept me." "And when will ye do it?" "Do it! It is done," said Thorold; "before I came here. But I must catch the first train in the morning." "And you'll want some breakfast before that," she said, rising. "No, I shall not," said Thorold, catching hold of her. "I want nothing. I _did_ want my supper. Sit down, Aunt Catherine, and be quiet. I want nothing, I tell you, but more time." "We may as well sit up the rest of the night," I said; "it is so far gone now." "Yes, and what will you be good for to-morrow?" said Miss Cardigan. "You must lie down and take a bit of rest." I felt no weariness; but I remember the grave, tender examination of Thorold's eyes, which seemed to touch me with their love, to find out whether I--and himself--might be indulged or not. It was a bit of the thoughtful, watchful affection which always surrounded me when he was near. I never had it just so from anybody else. "It won't do, Daisy," said he gaily. "You would not have me go in company with self-reproaches all day to-morrow? You must lie down here on the sofa; and, sleep or not, we'll all be still for two hours. Aunt Catherine will thank me to stop talking for that length of time." I was not sleepy, but Miss Cardigan and Thorold would not be resisted. Thorold wheeled up the sofa, piled the cushions, and made me lie down, with the understanding that nobody should speak for the time he had specified. Miss Cardigan, on her part, soon lost herself in her easy chair. Thorold walked perseveringly up and down the room. I closed my eyes and opened my eyes, and lay still and thought. It is all before me now. The firelight fading and brightening: Thorold took care of the fire; the gleam of the gaslight on the rows of books; Miss Cardigan's comfortable figure gone to sleep in the corner of her chair; and the figure which ever and anon came between me and the fire, piling or arranging the logs of wood, and then paced up and down just behind me. There was no sleep for my eyes, of course. How should there be? I seemed to pass all my life in review, and as I took the bearings of my present position I became calm. I rose up the moment the two hours were over, for I could bear the silence no longer, nor the losing any more time. Thorold stopped his walk then, and we had along talk over the fire by ourselves, while Miss Cardigan slept on. Trust her, though, for waking up when there was anything to be done. Long before dawn she roused herself and went to call her servants and order our breakfast. "What are you going to do now, Daisy?" said Thorold, turning to me with a weight of earnestness in his eyes, and a flash of that keen inspection which they sometimes gave me. "You know," I said, "I am going to study as hard as I can for a month or two more,--till my school closes." "What then, Daisy? Perhaps you will find some way to come on and see me at Washington--if the rebels don't take it first?" It must be told. "No--I cannot.--My father and mother wish me to go out to them as soon as I get a chance." "Where?" "In Switzerland." "Switzerland! To stay how long?" "I don't know--till the war is over, I suppose. I do not think they would come back before." "I shall come and fetch you then, Daisy." But it seemed a long way off. And how much might be between. We were both silent. "That is heavy for me," said Thorold at last. "Little Daisy, you do not know how heavy!" He was caressing my hair, smoothing and stroking it as he spoke. I looked up and his eyes flashed fire instantly. "Say that in words!" he exclaimed, taking me in his arms. "Say it, Daisy! say it. It will be worth so much to me." But my lips had hardly a chance to speak. "Say what?" "Daisy, you _have_ said it. Put it in words, that is all." But his eyes were so full of flashing triumph that I thought he had got enough for the time. "Daisy, those eyes of yours are like mountain lakes, deep and still. But when I look quite down to the bottom of them--sometimes I see something--I thought I did then." "What?" I asked, very much amused. "I see it there now, Daisy!" I was afraid he did, for _his_ eyes were like sunbeams, and I thought they went through everything at that minute. I don't know what moved me, the consciousness of this inspection or the consciousness of what it discovered; but I know that floods of shyness seemed to flush my face and brow, and even to the tips of my fingers. I would have escaped if I could, but I could not; and I think Thorold rather liked what he saw. There was no hiding it, unless I hid it on his shoulder, and that I was ashamed to do. I felt that his lips knew just as well as his eyes what state my cheeks were in, and took their own advantage. Though presently their tenderness soothed me too, and even nullified the soft little laugh with which he whispered, "Are you ashamed to show it to _me_, Daisy?" "You know," said I, still keeping my eyes veiled, "you have me at advantage. If you were not going--away--so soon, I would not do a great many things." "Daisy!" said he, laughing--"Daisy!"--And he touched my cheek as one who meant to keep his advantage. Then his voice changed, and he repeated, with a deeper and deepening tone with each word--"Daisy! my Daisy!" I had very nearly burst out into great sobs upon his breast, with the meeting of opposite tides of feeling. Sweet and bitter struggled for the upper hand; struggled, while I was afraid he would feel the laboured breath which went and came, straining me. And the sweetness, for the moment, got the better. I knew he must go, in an hour or little more, away from me. I knew it was for uncertain and maybe dangerous duty. I knew it might at best be long before we could see each other again; and back of all, the thought of my father and mother was not reassuring. But his arms were round me and my head was on his shoulder; and that was but the outward symbol of the inward love and confidence which filled all my heart with its satisfying content. For the moment happiness was uppermost. Not all the clouds on the horizon could dim the brightness of that one sun ray which reached me. I do not know what Thorold thought, but he was as still for a while as I was. "Daisy," he said at last, "my Daisy, you need not grudge any of your goodness to me. Don't you know, you are to be my light and my watchword in what lies before me?" "Oh no!" I said, lifting my head; "Oh no, Christian!" "Why no?" said he. "I want you to have a better watchword and follow a better light. Not me. O Christian, won't you?" "What shall my watchword be?" said he, looking into my eyes. But I was intent on something else then. I answered, "Whatsoever ye do, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus." "A soldier, Daisy?" "A soldier more than anybody," I said; "for He calls us to be soldiers, and you know what it means." "But you forget," said he, not taking his eyes from my face--"in my service I must obey as well as command: I am not my own master exactly." "Let Christ be your Master," I said. "How then with this other service?" "Why it is very plain," I said. "Command in the love of God and obey in the fear of God; that covers all." I did not see the natural sequence of what followed; for it was a succession of kisses that left no chance for a word to get out of my mouth. Then Thorold rose up, and I saw Miss Cardigan enter. "I will not forget, Daisy," he said, in a tone as if we had been talking of business. I thought, neither should I. And then came Miss Cardigan, and the servant behind her bringing coffee and bread and eggs and marmalade--I don't know what beside--and we sat down again to the table, knowing that the next move would be a move apart. But the wave of happiness was at the flood with me, and it bore me over all the underlying roughness of the shore--for the time. I do not think anybody wanted to eat much; we played with cups of coffee and with each other, and dallied with the minutes till the last one was spent. And then came the parting. That was short. THE END. Transcriber's Notes The following items were considered to be typographical errors and have been changed. Other typographic, spelling, punctuation errors and parochial speech has been left as they appear in the book. Page 17--Changed period into comma after the word "too" in the sentence--"But I think it is nice to know things too," said I. Page 37--Corrected "awkward" from "awkard" in the sentence--They were giggling and grinning, hopping on one foot, and going into other awkward antics; not the less that most of them had their arms filled with little black babies. Page 40--Changed question mark to period and deleted quotation mark in the sentence--I asked what they all were." Page 51--Changed single quote to double quote after "light" in the sentence--"They must be very dark if they could not understand light," said my governess. Page 56--Removed superfluous "n" from governess in--Then I remembered that my governess probably did care for some fruit Page 87--Corrected "string" to read "sting" in the sentence--It has a sting of its own, for which there is neither salve nor remedy; and it had the aggravation, in my case, of the sense of personal dishonour. Page 91--Added apostrophe to "girls" in the sentence--I have a recollection of the girl's terrified face, but I heard nothing more. Page 93--removed " from the start of the sentence--They had been gone half an hour, when Preston stole in and came to the side of my bed, between me and the firelight. Page 97--Added " after Melbourne in the sentence--"We shall have to let her do just as they did at Melbourne," said my aunt. Page 110--Added " after the word "by" in the sentence--"Mass' Preston come last night," she went on; "so I reckon Miss Daisy'll want to wear it by and by." Page 163--Changed period to ? in the sentence--"Will that distress you very much?" Page 178--Changed Mr. to Dr. in the sentence--"But, Dr. Sandford," I said, "nobody can belong to anybody--in that way." Page 193--Changed 'be' to 'he' in the sentence starting--I believe I half wished be would make some objection; Page 206--Added "le" to "aves" to make "leaves" in--"You wouldn't say so, if you knew the work it is to set those leaves round," said the mantua-maker. Page 240--Changed "for" into "far" in--but I am afraid the rule of the Good Samaritan would put us far apart. Page 249--Changed exclamation mark to question mark in--"Is there so much trouble everywhere in the world?" Page 250--Changed "I" to "It" in--It was a good photograph, and had beauty enough besides to hold my eyes. Page 257--Capitalised "W" in--Is it Daisy Randolph? What have you done to yourself? Page 266--changed beside to bedside in--I heard no sound while I was undressing, nor while I knelt, as usual now, by my bedside. Page 283--Changed rapidily to rapidly in--I watched him rapidly walking into the library; Page 285--Added question mark instead of period to--"Are you tired?" Page 316--Changed inmediately to immediately in--and placed himself immediately beside his summoner, Page 349--Changed "not" to "nor" in--"I cannot help that. He is neither gentlemanly in his habits nor true in his speech." Page 350--Added comma after "said" in--"You must not wear the same thing twice running," she said, "not if you can help it." Page 355--Changed period to question mark after "next" in--Who is next? Major Banks? Take care, Daisy, or you'll do some mischief." Page 374--Deleted comma after "see" in--Nevertheless, it was pleasant to see the firm, still attitude, the fine proportions, the military nicety of all his dress, which I had before noticed on the parade ground. Page 386--Changed subtance to substance in--men of business, men of character and some substance, Page 407--Changed "weel" to "well" in--"You may as well sit down and tell us." 
59990	----	available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/missmeredith00levy MISS MEREDITH. by AMY LEVY, Author of "A Minor Poet," "Reuben Sachs," etc. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 27, Paternoster Row. MDCCCLXXXIX. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE A FAMILY OF FOUR 7 CHAPTER II. A GREAT EVENT 17 CHAPTER III. NEW AND STRANGE EXPERIENCES 27 CHAPTER IV. THE NEW GOVERNESS AND HER PUPIL 39 CHAPTER V. MAKING FRIENDS 45 CHAPTER VI. COSTANZA MARCHETTI 52 CHAPTER VII. THE HOME-COMING OF THE REBEL 61 CHAPTER VIII. AN ITALIAN BALL 70 CHAPTER IX. "WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO ME?" 84 CHAPTER X. "AS GOOD AS GOLD" 89 CHAPTER XI. "WILL YOU MAKE ME VERY HAPPY?" 98 CHAPTER XII. THE BREAKING OF THE STORM 104 CHAPTER XIII. A SKILFUL DIPLOMATIST 110 CHAPTER XIV. RELEASED FROM HER VOW 117 CHAPTER I. A FAMILY OF FOUR. It was about a week after Christmas, and we--my mother, my two sisters, and myself--were sitting, as usual, in the parlour of the little house at Islington. Tea was over, and Jenny had possession of the table, where she was engaged in making a watercolour sketch of still life by the light of the lamp, whose rays fell effectively on her bent head with its aureole of Titian-coloured hair--the delight of the Slade school--and on her round, earnest young face as she lifted it from time to time in contemplation of her subject. My mother had drawn her chair close to the fire, for the night was very cold, and the fitful crimson beams played about her worn, serene, and gentle face, under its widow's cap, as she bent over the sewing in her hands. A hard fight with fortune had been my mother's from the day when, a girl of eighteen, she had left a comfortable home to marry my father for love. Poverty and sickness--those two redoubtable dragons--had stood ever in the path. Now, even the love which had been by her side for so many years, and helped to comfort them, had vanished into the unknown. But I do not think she was unhappy. The crown of a woman's life was hers; her children rose up and called her blest. At her feet sat my eldest sister, Rosalind, entirely absorbed in correcting a bundle of proof-sheets which had arrived that morning from _Temple Bar_. Rosalind was the genius of the family, a full-blown London B.A., who occasionally supplemented her earnings as coach and lecturer by writing for the magazines. She had been engaged, moreover, for the last year or two, to a clever young journalist, Hubert Andrews by name, and the lovers were beginning to look forward to a speedy termination to their period of waiting. I, Elsie Meredith, who was neither literary nor artistic, neither picturesque like Jenny nor clever like Rosalind, whose middle place in the family had always struck me as a fit symbol of my own mediocrity--I, alone of all these busy people, was sitting idle. Lounging in the arm-chair which faced my mother's, I twisted and retwisted, rolled and unrolled, read and reread a letter which had arrived for me that morning, and whose contents I had been engaged in revolving in my mind throughout the day. "Well, Elsie," said my mother at last, looking up with a smile from her work, "have you come to any decision, after all this hard thinking?" "I suppose it will be 'Yes,'" I answered rather dolefully; "Mrs. Gray seems to think it a quite unusual opportunity." And I turned again to the letter, which contained an offer of an engagement for me as governess in the family of the Marchesa Brogi, at Pisa. "I should certainly say 'Go,'" put in Rosalind, lifting her dark expressive face from her proofs; "if it were not for Hubert I should almost feel inclined to go myself. You will gain all sorts of experience, receive all sorts of new impressions. You are shockingly ill-paid at Miss Cumberland's, and these people offer a very fair salary. And if you don't like it, it is always open to you to come back." "We should all miss you very much, Elsie," added my mother; "but if it is for your good, why, there is no more to be said." "Oh, of course we should miss her horribly," cried Rosalind, in her impetuous fashion, gathering together the scattered proof-sheets as she spoke; "you mustn't think we want to get rid of you." And the little thoughtful pucker between her straight brows disappeared as she laid her hand with a smile on my knee. I pressed the inky, characteristic fingers in my own. I am neither literary nor artistic, as I said before, but I have a little talent for being fond of people. "I'm sure I don't know what I shall do without you," put in Jenny, in her deliberate, serious way, making round, grey eyes at me across the lamplight. "It isn't that you are such a good critic, Elsie, but you have a sort of feeling for art which helps one more than you have any idea of." I received very meekly this qualified compliment, without revealing the humiliating fact that my feeling for art had probably less to do with the matter than my sympathy with the artist; then observed, "It seems much waste, for me, of all of us, to be the first to go to Italy." "I would rather go to Paris," said Jenny, who belonged, at this stage of her career, to a very advanced school of æsthetics, and looked upon Raphael as rather out of date. "If only some one would buy my picture I would have a year at Julian's; it would be the making of me." "For heaven's sake, Jenny, don't take yourself so seriously," cried Rosalind, rising and laying down her proofs; "one day, perhaps, I shall come across an art-student with a sense of humour--growing side by side with a blue rose. Now, Elsie," she went on, turning to me as Jenny, with a reproachful air of superior virtue, lifted up her paint-brush, and, shutting one eye, returned in silence to her measurements--"now, Elsie, let us have further details of this proposed expedition of yours. How many little Brogi shall you be required to teach?" "There is only one pupil, and she is eighteen," I answered; "just three years younger than I." "And you are to instruct her in all the 'ologies?" Rosalind had taken a chair at the table, and, her head resting on her hand, was interrogating me in her quick, eager, half-ironical fashion. "No; Mrs. Grey only says English and music. She says, too, that they are one of the principal families of Pisa. And they live in a palace," I added, with a certain satisfaction. "It sounds quite too delightful and romantic; if it were not for Hubert, as I said before, I should insist on going myself. Pisa, the Leaning Tower, Shelley--a Marchesa in an old, ancestral palace!" And Rosalind's dark eyes shone as she spoke. "Ruskin says that the Leaning Tower is the only ugly one in Italy," said Jenny, not moving her eyes from the Japanese pot, cleft orange, and coral necklace which she was painting. "But the cathedral is one of the most beautiful, and the place is a mine of historical associations," answered Rosalind, her ardour not in the least damped by this piece of information. As for me, I sat silent between these two enthusiasts with an abashed consciousness of the limitations of my own subjective feminine nature. It was neither the beauties or defects of Pisan architecture which at present occupied my mind, nor even the historical associations of the town. My thoughts dwelt solely, it must be owned, on the probable character of the human beings among whom I was to be thrown. But then it was I who was going to Pisa, and not my sisters. "Does Mrs. Grey know the Marchesa Brogi personally?" asked my mother, who also was disposed to take the less abstract view of the matter. "Oh, no, it is all arranged through the friend of a friend." "I don't like the idea of your going so far, alone among strangers," sighed mother; "but, on the other hand, a change is just what you want." "What a pity Hubert is not here to-night--that horrid _première_ at the Lyceum! We must lay the plan before him to-morrow," struck in Rosalind, who, hopeless blue-stocking as she was, consulted her oracle with all the faith of a woman who barely knows how to spell. I went over to my mother and took the stool at her feet which my sister had just vacated. "It's going to be: 'Yes,' mother; I have felt it all along." "My dear, I won't be the one to keep you back. But need you make up your mind so soon?" "Mrs. Grey says that the sooner I can leave the better. They would like me to start in a week or ten days," I answered, suppressing as best I could all signs of the feeling of desolation that came over me at the sound of my own words. "You will have to get clothes," cried Rosalind; "those little mouse-coloured garments of yours will never do for ancestral palaces." "Oh, with some new boots and an ulster--I'm afraid I must have an ulster--I shall be quite set up." "You would pay very well for good dressing," observed Jenny, contemplating me with her air of impartial criticism. "You have a nice figure, and a pretty head, and you know how to walk." "'Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley,'" replied Rosalind with some irony. "My dear Elsie, I have seen it in your eyes--they are highly respectable eyes, by the bye--I have seen it in your eyes from the first moment the letter came, that you meant to go. It is you quiet women who have all the courage, if you will excuse a truism." "Well, yes, perhaps I did feel like going from the first." "And, now that is decided, let me tell you, Elsie, that I perfectly hate the idea of losing you," cried Rosalind with sudden abruptness; then, changing her tone, she went on--"for who knows how or when we shall have you back again? You will descend upon that _palazzo_ resplendent in the new boots and the new ulster; the combined radiance of those two adornments will be too much for some Italian Mr. Rochester who, of course, will be lurking about the damask-hung corridors with their painted ceilings. Jane Eyre will be retained as a fixture, and her native land shall know her no more." "You forget that Jane Eyre would have some voice in the matter. And I have always considered Mr. Rochester the most unpleasant person that ever a woman made herself miserable over," I answered calmly enough, for I was accustomed to these little excursions into the realms of fancy on the part of my sister. "I think there's a little stone, Elsie, where the heart ought to be," and Rosalind, bending forward, poked her finger, with unscientific vagueness, at the left side of my waist. "'Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love,'" I quoted, while there flashed across my mind a vision of Rosalind sobbing helplessly on the floor a month before Hubert proposed to her. "_Men_; it doesn't say anything about women," answered Rosalind, thoughtfully flying off, as usual, at a tangent. "Is it woman's mission to die of a broken heart?" I could not resist saying, for there had been some very confidential passages between us, once upon a time. "The headache is too noble for my sex; you think the heartache would sound pleasanter." "Elsie talking women's rights!" cried Jenny, looking up astonished from her work. "Yes; the effects of a daring and adventurous enterprise are beginning to tell upon her in advance." "We have wandered a long way from Pisa," I said; "but that is the worst of engaged people. Whatever the conversation is, they manage to turn it into sentimental channels." "I sentimental!" cried Rosalind, opening wide her eyes; "I, who unite in my own person the charms of Cornelia Blimber and Mrs. Jellaby, to be accused of sentiment!" I lay awake that night on my little iron bed long after Rosalind was sleeping the sleep of happy labour. I was a coward at heart, though I had contrived to show a brave front to my little world. At the thought of that coming plunge into the unknown, my spirit grew frozen within me, and I began to wish that the fateful letter from Mrs. Grey had never been written. CHAPTER II. A GREAT EVENT. About ten days after the conversation recorded in the last chapter, I was driving down to Victoria station in a four-wheel cab, wearing the new ulster, the new boots, and holding on my knee a brand-new travelling-bag. It was a colourless London morning, neither hot nor cold, but as I looked out with rather dim eyes through the dirty windows, I experienced no pleasure at the thought of exchanging for Italian skies this dear, familiar greyness. At my side sat my mother, silent and pale. Now that we two were alone together--my busy sisters had been at work some hours ago--we had abandoned the rather strained and feverish gaiety which had prevailed that morning at breakfast. "Now, Elsie, keep warm at night; don't forget to eat plenty of Brand's essence of beef--it's the brown parcel, not the white one--and write directly you arrive." Between us we had succeeded in taking my ticket and registering the luggage, and now my mother stood at the door of the carriage, exchanging with me those last farewells which always seem so much too long and so much too short. It must be owned, this journey of mine bore to us both the aspect of a great event. We had always been poor, most of our friends were poor, and we were not familiarized with the easy modern notions of travel, which make nothing of a visit to the North Pole, or a little trip to China by way of Peru. And as the train steamed out at last from the station my heart sank suddenly within me, and I could scarcely see the black-clothed familiar figure on the platform, for the tears which sprang to my eyes blinded me. My first new experience was not a pleasant one, and as I lay moaning with sickness in a second-class cabin, I wondered how I or any one else could ever have complained of anything while we stood on _terra firma_. All past worries and sorrows faded momentarily into nothingness before this present all-engulfing evil. It seemed an age before we reached Calais, where, limp, bewildered, and miserable, I was jostled into a crowded second-class carriage _en route_ for Basle. The train jolted and shook, and I grew more and more unhappy, mentally and physically, with every minute. My fellow-passengers, a sorry, battered-looking assortment of women, produced large untempting supplies of food from their travelling-bags, and fell to with good appetite. I myself, after some hesitation, sought consolation in the little tin of Brand's essence; after which, squeezed in between the window and a perfectly unclassifiable specimen of Englishwoman, I fell asleep. When I awoke it was broad daylight, and the train was gliding slowly into the station at Basle. I was stiff, cramped, and dishevelled, but yesterday's depression had given place to a new, delicious feeling of excitement. The porters hurrying to and fro, and shouting in their guttural Swiss-German, the people standing on the platform, the unfamiliar advertisements and announcements posted and painted about the station, all appeared to me objects of surpassing interest. The glamour of strangeness lay over all. A keen exhilarating morning breeze blew from the mountains, and as I stepped on to the platform it seemed as if I trod on air. With a feeling of adventure, which I firmly believe Columbus himself could never have experienced more keenly, I made my way into the crowded refreshment-room, and ordered breakfast. I was very hungry, and thought that I had never tasted anything better than the coffee and rolls, the shavings of white butter, and the adulterated honey in its little glass pot. As I sat there contentedly I found it difficult to realize that less than twenty-four hours separated me from the familiar life at Islington. It seemed incredible that so short a space of time had sufficed to land me on this strange sea of new experiences, into this dream-like, disorganized life, where night was scarcely divided from day, and the common incident of a morning meal could induce, of itself, a dozen new sensations. The rest of that day was unmixed delight. I scarcely moved my eyes from the window as the train sped on through the St. Gothard pass into Italy. What a wondrous panorama unrolled itself before me! First, the mysterious, silent world of mountains, all black and white, like a photograph, with here and there the still, green waters of a mighty lake; the gentler scenes--trees, meadows, villages; last of all, the wide, blue waters of the Italian lakes, with their fringe of purple hills, and the little white villas clustered round them, and the red, red sunset reflected on their surfaces. The train was late, and I missed the express at Genoa, passing several desolate hours in the great deserted station. It was not till eleven o'clock the next morning that a tired, dishevelled, and decidedly dirty young woman found herself standing on the platform at Pisa, her travelling rug trailing ignominiously behind her as she held out her luggage check in dumb entreaty to a succession of unresponsive porters. The pleasant excitement of yesterday had faded, and I was conscious of being exceedingly tired and rather forlorn. Here was no exhilarating mountain air, but a damp breeze, at once chilly and enervating, made me shiver where I stood. I succeeded at last, in spite of a complete absence of Italian, in conveying myself and my luggage into a fly, and in directing the driver to the Palazzo Brogi. As we jolted along slowly enough, I looked out, expecting every minute to see the Leaning Tower; but I saw only tall, grey streets, narrow and often without sidewalks, in which a sparse but picturesque population was moving to and fro. But I was roused, tired as I was, to considerable interest as we crossed the bridge, and my eye took in the full sweep of the river, with the noble curve of palaces along its bank, the distant mountains, beautiful in the sunshine, and the clear and delicate light which lay over all. I had not long, however, to observe these things, for in another minute the drosky had stopped before a great square house in grey stone, with massive iron scrolls guarding the lower windows, and the driver, coming to the door, announced that this was the Palazzo Brogi. My heart sank as I dismounted, and going up the steps, pulled timidly at the bell. The great door was standing open, and I could see beyond into a gloomy and cavernous vista of corridors. No one answered the bell, but just as I was about to pull for the second time a gentleman, dressed in a grey morning suit _à l'anglais_, strolled out inquiringly into the passage. He was rather stout, of middle height, with black hair parted in the middle, and a pale, good-looking face. The fact that no one had answered the bell seemed neither to disconcert nor surprise him; he called out a few words in Italian, and, advancing towards me, bowed with charming courtesy. "You are Miss Meredith," he said, speaking in English, slowly, with difficulty, but in the softest voice in the world; "my mother did not expect you by the early train." Here his English seemed to break down suddenly, and he looked at me a moment with his dark and gentle eyes. There was something reassuring in his serious, simple dignity of manner; I forgot my fears, forgot also the fact that I was as black as a coal, and had lost nearly all my hair-pins, and said, composedly, "I missed the express from Genoa. The train across the St. Gothard was late." At this point there emerged from the shadowy region at the back a servant in livery, who very deliberately, and without explanation of his tardiness, proceeded to help the driver in carrying my box into the hall. The gentleman bowed himself away, and in another moment I was following the servant up a vast and interminable flight of stone stairs. The vaulted roof rose high above us, half lost to sight in shadow; everywhere were glimpses of galleries and corridors, and over everything hung that indescribable atmosphere of chill stuffiness which I have since learned to connect with Italian palaces. Anything less homelike, less suggestive of a place where ordinary human beings carried on the daily, pleasant avocations of life, it would be impossible to conceive. A stifling sensation rose in my throat as we passed through a folding glass-door, across a dim corridor, into a large room, where my guide left me with a remark which of course I did not understand. With a sense of unutterable relief I perceived the room to be empty, and I sat down on a yellow damask sofa, feeling an ignominious desire to cry. The shutters were closed before the great windows, but through the gloom I could see that the place was furnished very stiffly with yellow damask furniture, while enormous and elaborate chests and writing-tables filled up the corners. A big chandelier shrouded in yellow muslin hung from the ceiling, which rose to a great height, and was painted in fresco. There was no fire, and I looked at the empty gilt stove, which had neither bars nor fire-irons, with a shiver. It was not long before an inner door was thrown open to admit two ladies, who came towards me with greetings in French. The Marchesa Brogi was a small, vivacious, dried-up woman of middle age, with an evident sense of her own dignity, looking very cold and carrying a little muff in her hands. She curtseyed slightly as we shook hands, then motioned me to a seat beside her on the sofa. "This is my daughter Bianca," she said, turning to the girl who had followed her into the room. I looked anxiously at my pupil, whose aspect was not altogether reassuring. She was a tall, pale, high-shouldered young person, elaborately dressed, with a figure so artificially bolstered up that only by a great stretch of imagination could one realize that she was probably built on average anatomical lines. Her hair, dressed on the top of her head and struck through with tortoiseshell combs, produced by its unnatural neatness the same effect of unreality. She was decidedly plain withal, and her manners struck me as being inferior to those of her mother and brother. She took up her seat at some little distance from the sofa, and whenever I glanced in her direction, I saw a pair of sharp eyes fixed on my face, with something of the unsparing criticism of a hostile child in their gaze. I began to be terribly conscious of my disordered appearance--I am not one of those people who can afford to affect the tempestuous petticoat--and grew more and more bewildered in my efforts to follow the little Marchesa through the mazes of her fluent but curiously accentuated French. It was with a feeling of relief that I saw one of the inner doors open, and a stout, good-tempered looking lady, in a loose morning jacket, come smiling into the room. She shook hands with me cordially, and taking a chair opposite the sofa, began to nod and smile in the most reassuring fashion. She spoke no English and very little French, but was determined that so slight an obstacle should not stand in the way of pressing her goodwill towards me. I began to like this fat, silly lady, who showed her gums so unbecomingly when she smiled, and to wonder at her position in the household. The door opened yet again, and in came my first acquaintance, the gentleman in the grey suit. I was growing more and more confused with each fresh arrival, and dimly wondered how long it would be before I fell off the hard yellow sofa from sheer weariness. The strange faces surged before me, an indistinguishable mass; the strange voices reached me, meaningless and incoherent, through a thick veil. "She is very tired," some one said in French; and not long after this I was led across half a dozen rooms to a great bedroom, where, without taking in any details of my surroundings, I undressed, went to bed, and fell asleep till the next morning. CHAPTER III. NEW AND STRANGE EXPERIENCES. When I awoke the sun was streaming in through the chinks of the shutters, and a servant was standing at my bedside with a cup of coffee and some rolls. But I felt no disposition to attack my breakfast, and lay still, with a dreamy sensation as my eyes wandered round the unfamiliar room. I saw a great, dim chamber, with a painted ceiling rising sky-high above me; plaster walls, coarsely stencilled in arabesques; a red-tiled floor, strewn here and there with squares of carpet; a few old and massive pieces of furniture, and not the vestige of a stove. The bed on which I lay was a vast four-post structure, mountains high, with a baldaquin in faded crimson damask, and was reflected, rather libellously, in a glass-front of a wardrobe opposite. "I shall never, never feel that it is a normal, human bedroom," I thought, appalled by the gloomy state of my surroundings. Then I drank my coffee, and, climbing out of bed, went across to the window, and unshuttered it. An exclamation of pleasure rose to my lips at the sight which greeted me. Below flowed the full waters of the Arno, spanned by a massive bridge of shining white marble, and reflecting on its waves the bluest of blue heavens. A brilliant and delicate sunshine was shed over all, bringing out the lights and shades, the differences of tint and surface, of the tall old house on the opposite bank, and falling on the minute spires of a white marble church perched at the very edge of the stream. The sight of this toy-like structure--surely the smallest and daintiest place of worship in the world--served to deepen the sense of unreality which was hourly gaining hold upon me. "I wonder where the Leaning Tower is," I thought, as I hastily drew on my stockings, for standing about on the red-tiled floor had made me very cold, in spite of the sunshine flooding in through the windows; "what would they say at home if they heard I had been twenty-four hours in Pisa without so much as seeing it in the distance." But I did not allow myself to think of home, and devoted my energies to bringing myself up to the high standard of neatness which would certainly be expected of me. I found the ladies sitting together in a large and cold apartment, which was more homelike than the yellow room of yesterday, inasmuch as its bareness was relieved by a variety of modern ornaments, photograph-frames, and other trifles, all as hideous as your latter-day Italian loves to make them. They greeted me with ceremony, making many polite inquiries as to my health and comfort, and invited me to sit down. The room was very cold, in spite of the morning sun, whose light, moreover, was intercepted by venetian blinds. The chilly little Marchesa had her hands in her muff, while her daughter warmed hers over a _scaldino_, a small earthern pot filled with hot wood ashes, which she held in her lap. The amiable lady in the dressing-jacket was evidently a more warm-blooded creature, for she stitched on, undaunted by the cold, at a large and elaborate piece of embroidery, taking her part meanwhile in the ceaseless and rapid flow of chatter. It was rather a shock to me to gather that she was the wife of the charming son of the house; to whom, moreover, a fresh charm was added, when it came out that his name was Romeo. I had put her down for a woman of middle age, but I learned subsequently that she was only twenty-eight years old, and had brought her husband a very handsome dowry. The pair were childless after several years of marriage, and they lived permanently at the Palazzo Brogi, according to the old patriarchal Italian custom, which, like most old customs, is dying out. I sat there, stupidly wondering if I should ever be able to understand Italian, replying lamely enough to the remarks in French which were thrown out to me at decent intervals, and encountering every now and then with some alarm the suspicious glances of the Signorina Bianca. Once the kind Marchesina Annunziata--Romeo's wife--drew my attention with simple pride to a leather chair embroidered with gold, her own handiwork, as I managed to make out. I smiled and nodded the proper amount of admiration, and wished secretly that my feet were not so cold, for the tiled floor struck chill through the carpet. Bianca offered me a scaldino presently, and the Marchesa explained that she wished the English lessons to begin on the following day. After that I sat there in almost unbroken silence till twelve o'clock, when the casual man-servant strolled in and announced that lunch was ready. The dining-room, a large and stony apartment with a vaulted roof, was situated on the ground-floor, and here we found the Marchesino Romeo and the old Marchese, to whom I was introduced. The meal was slight but excellently cooked; and the sweet Tuscan wine I found delicious. Romeo, who sat next to me, and attended to my wants with his air of gentle and serious courtesy, addressed a few remarks to me in English and then subsided into a graceful silence, leaving the conversation entirely in the hands of his womenkind. After lunch, a drive and round of calls was proposed by the ladies, who invited me to join them. The thought of being shut up in a carriage with these three strange women, all speaking their unknown tongue, was too much for me, and gathering courage, the courage of desperation, I announced that unless my services were required I should prefer to go for a walk. The ladies looked at me, and then at one another, and the good-natured Annunziata burst into a laugh. "It is an English custom," she explained. "You must not go beyond the city walls, Miss Meredith, not even into the Casine; it would not be safe," said the Marchesa; while Bianca looked scrutinizingly at my square, low-heeled shoes which contrasted sharply with her own. It was with a feeling of relief, some twenty minutes later, that, peeping from the window of my room, I saw them all drive off, elaborately apparelled, in a closed carriage; Romeo, bareheaded, speeding them from the steps. Then I sat down and wrote off an unnaturally cheerful letter to the people at home, only pausing now and then when the tears rose to my eyes and blurred my sight. "I hope I haven't overdone it," I thought, as I addressed the envelope and proceeded to dress. "I'm not sure that there isn't a slightly inebriated tone about the whole thing, and mother is so quick at reading between the lines." I passed across the corridor and down the stair to the first landing, where I lingered a moment. A covered gallery ran along the back of the house, and through the tall and dingy windows I could see a surging, unequal mass of old red roofs. "How Jenny would love it all," I thought, as I turned away with a sigh. As I reached the street door, Romeo emerged from that mysterious retreat of his on the ground-floor, where he appeared to pass his time in some solitary pursuit, looked at me, bowed, and withdrew. "At last!" I cried, inwardly, as I sped down the steps. At last I could breathe again, at last I was out in the sunlight and in the wind, away from the musty chilliness, the lurking shadows of that stifling palace. Oh, the joy of freedom and of solitude! Was it only hours? Surely it must be years that I had been imprisoned behind those thick old walls and iron guarded windows. On, on I went with rapid foot in the teeth of the biting wind and the glare of the scorching sunlight, scarcely noticing my surroundings in the first rapture of recovered freedom. But by degrees the strangeness, the beauty of what I saw, began to assert themselves. I had turned off from the Lung' Arno, and was threading my way among the old and half-deserted streets which led to the cathedral. What a dead, world-forgotten place, and yet how beautiful in its desolation! Everywhere were signs of a present poverty, everywhere of a past magnificence. The men with their sombreros and cloaks worn toga fashion; their handsome, melancholy faces and stately gait; the women bareheaded, graceful, drawing water from the fountain into copper vessels, moved before me like figures from an old-world drama. Here and there was a little, empty piazza, the tall houses abutting on it at different angles, without sidewalks, the grass growing up between the stones. It seemed only waiting for first gentleman and second gentleman to come forward and carry on their dialogue while the great "set" was being prepared at the back of the stage. The old walls, roughly patched with modern brick and mortar, had bits of exquisite carving imbedded in them like fossils; and at every street corner the house leek sprang from the interstices of a richly wrought moulding. A great palace, with a wonderful façade, had been turned into a wineshop; and the chestnut-sellers dispensed their wares in little gloomy caverns hollowed out beneath the abodes of princes. Already the nameless charm of Italy was beginning to work on me; that magic spell from which--let us once come under its influence--we can never hope to be released. A long and straggling street led me at last to the Piazzi del Duomo, and here for a moment I paused breathless, regardless of the icy blast which swept across from the sea. I thought then, and I think still, that nowhere in the world is there anything which, in its own way, can equal the picture that greeted my astonished vision. The wide and straggling grass-grown piazza, bounded on one side by the city wall, on the other by the low wall of the Campo Santo, with the wind whistling drearily across it, struck me as the very type and symbol of desolation. At one end rose the Leaning Tower, pallid, melancholy, defying the laws of nature in a disappointingly spiritless fashion. Close against it the magnificent bulk of the cathedral reared itself, a marvel of mellow tints, of splendid outline, and richly modelled surfaces. And, divided from this by a strip of rank grass, up sprang the little quaint baptistery, with its extraordinary air of freshness and of fantastic gaiety, looking as though it had been turned out of a mould the day before yesterday. Such richness, such forlornness, struck curiously on the sense. It was as though, wandering along some solitary shore, one had found a heaped treasure glittering undisturbed on the open sand. I strolled for some time spell-bound about the cathedral, not caring to multiply impressions by entering, shivering a little in the wind which held a recollection of the sea, and was at the same time cold and feverish. By and by, however, I made my way into the Campo Santo, lingering fascinated in those strange sculptured arcades, with the visions of life and death, and hell and heaven, painted on the walls. One or two cypresses rose from the little grass-plot in the middle, and in the rank grass the jonquils were already in flower. I plucked a few of these and fastened them in my dress. They had a sweet, peculiar odour, melancholy, enervating. The bright light was beginning to fail as I sped back hurriedly through the streets. It was Epiphany, and the children were blowing on long glass trumpets. Every now and then the harsh sound echoed through the stony thoroughfare. It fell upon my overwrought senses like a sound of doom. The flowers in my bodice smelt of death; there was death, I thought, crying out in every old stone of the city. The palazzo looked almost like home, and I fled up the dim stairs with a greater feeling of relief than that with which an hour or two ago I had hastened down them. After dinner the Marchesa received her friends in the yellow drawing-room. A wood fire was lighted on the flat, open hearth of the stove, and a side table was spread with a few light refreshments--a bottle of Marsala wine, and a round cake covered with bright green sugar, being the most important items. About eight o'clock the visitors began to arrive, and in half an hour nine or ten ladies and three or four gentlemen were clustered on the damask sofas, talking at a great rate, and gesticulating in their graceful, eager fashion. Bianca had withdrawn into a corner with a pair of contemporaries, whose long, stiff waists, high-heeled shoes, and elaborately dressed hair, resembled her own. The old Marchese sat apart, silent and contemplative, as was his wont, and Romeo, drawing a chair close to mine, questioned me in his precise, restricted English as to my afternoon walk. This parliament of gossip, which, as I afterwards discovered, occurred regularly three times a week, was prolonged till midnight, but, kind Annunziata noticing my tired looks, I was able to make my escape by ten o'clock. As I climbed into my bed, worn out by the crowded experiences of the day, there rose before me suddenly a vision of the parlour at home; of mother sewing by the fireside; of Jenny and Rosalind at work in the lamplight; of Hubert coming in with the evening papers and bits of literary gossip. "If they could only see me," I thought, "alone in this unnatural place, with no one to be fond of me, with no one even being aware that I have a Christian name." This last touch struck me as so pathetic that the tears began to pour down my face. But the tall bed, with the faded baldaquin, if oppressive to the imagination, was, it must be confessed, exceedingly comfortable, and it was not long before I forgot my troubles in sleep. CHAPTER IV. THE NEW GOVERNESS AND HER PUPIL. The English lesson next morning proved rather an ordeal. It took place in one of the many sitting-rooms, a large room with an open hearth, on which, however, no fire was lighted. But with a shawl round my shoulders, and a _casseta_, or brass box filled with live charcoal, for my feet, I managed to keep moderately warm. Bianca rather sullenly drew a small collection of reading-books, grammars, and exercise-books, all bearing marks of careless usage, from a cabinet, and placed them on the table. Then drawing a chair opposite mine, she fixed her suspicious, curious eyes on me, and said in French-- "Have you any sisters, Miss Meredith?" "I have two. But we must speak English, Marchesina." "I always spoke French with Miss Clarke," answered Bianca. Miss Clarke, as I subsequently gathered, was my predecessor, who had recently left the palazzo after a sojourn of eighteen months, and who, to judge by results, must have performed her duties in a singularly perfunctory fashion. "Are your sisters married?" Bianca condescended to say in English, looking critically at my grey merino gown, with its banded bodice, and at my hair braided simply round my head. "No; but one is engaged." "And have you any brothers?" "No; not one." "And I have not one sister, and two brothers, signorina," cried Bianca, apparently much struck by the contrast. "It is my brother Andrea who is so anxious for me to learn and to read books, although I am past eighteen. He writes about it to my father, and my father always does what Andrea tells him." "Then you must work hard to please your brother," I said, with my most didactic air, examining the well-thumbed English-Italian grammar as I spoke. "What is the use, when he has been five years in America? Who knows when I may see him? Ah! _molto indipendente_ is Andrea--_molto indipendente_!" And Bianca shook her too-neat head with a sigh of mingled pride and approbation. We made a little attack on the grammars and reading-books in the course of the morning, but it was uphill work, and I sat down to the piano, feeling thoroughly disheartened. But the music lesson was a great improvement on the English. Bianca had some taste, and considerable power of execution, and we rose from the piano better friends. A short walk before lunch was prescribed by the Marchesa, and soon I was re-threading the mazes of the Pisa streets, Bianca hobbling slowly and discontentedly at my side on her high heels. My pupil's one idea with regard to a walk was shops, and now she announced her intention of buying some _torino_, the sweet paste of honey and almonds so dear to Italian palates. As we turned into the narrow street, with its old, old houses and stone arcades, where, such as they are, the principal shops of Pisa are to be found, I could not suppress an exclamation of delight at the sight of so much picturesqueness. "Ah," said Bianca, not in the least understanding my enthusiasm; "you should see the shops at Turin, and the great squares, and the glass arcades, and the wide streets. I have been there twice. Romeo says it is almost as beautiful as Paris." The ladies drove out again after lunch in the closed carriage, and again I set out alone to explore the town. This time I penetrated into the interior of the cathedral, spending two happy hours in the dusky richness of the vast building; lost in admiration, now of the soft rich colour of marble and jasper and painted glass; now of the pictures on walls, roof, and altar; now of the grandeur of line, the mysterious effects of light and shadow planned by the cunning brain of a long departed master. The weather was much milder than on the previous day, and half a dozen tourists, with red guide-books, were making a round of inspection of the buildings on the piazza. Two of these I recognized with a thrill to be my own compatriots. They were, to the outward eye, at least, quite uninteresting; a bride and bridegroom, presumably, of the most commonplace type; but I followed them about the cathedral with a lingering, wistful glance which I am sure, had they been conscious of it, would have melted them to pity. Once, as I was standing before Andrea del Sarto's marvellous St. Catherine, the pair came up behind me. "It's like your sister Nellie," said the man. "Nonsense! Nellie isn't half so fat, and she never did her hair like that in her life. Why, you wouldn't know Nellie without her fringe," answered the woman in a superior way as they moved off to the next object of interest mentioned in Baedecker. They were Philistines, no doubt; but I was in no mood to be critical, and must confess that the sound of their English voices was almost too much for my self-control. The ladies went out after dinner, and I was left to the pains and pleasures of a solitary evening, an almost unprecedented experience in my career. The next day was Sunday: the family drove to early mass, and an hour or two later I made my way to the English church, the sparseness of whose congregation gave it rather a forlorn aspect. The English colony is small, and consists chiefly of invalids attracted by the mildness of the climate, who at the same time are too poor to seek a more fashionable health resort. They did not, as may be imagined, present a very cheerful aspect, but the sight of them filled me with a passing envy. Mothers and daughters, sisters, friends; every one came in in groups or pairs, with the exception of myself; I, the most friendless and forlorn of all these exiles. The chaplain and his wife called on me after I had sent in my name for a sitting, but there was never much intimacy between us. In the evening of this, my first Sunday away from home, the Marchesa again "received," and once more I sat bewildered amid the flood of unintelligible chatter, or exchanged occasional remarks with Bianca, who appeared to have abandoned her suspicions of me, and had taken up her place at my side. CHAPTER V. MAKING FRIENDS. I bought a dictionary and a grammar, and worked hard in my moments of leisure. My daily life, moreover, might be described as an almost unbroken Italian lesson, and it was not long before I began to understand what was said around me, and to express myself more or less haltingly in the language of my land of exile. A means of communication being thus opened up between myself and the Marchesina Annunziata, that open-hearted person began to take me into her confidence, and to pour out for my benefit a dozen little facts and circumstances which I might have lived all my life with the voluble, but reserved, Marchesa without ever having learnt. Of Andrea, the absent son, she spoke often. "Molto indipendente!" she said shaking her head, and using the same expression as her young sister-in-law. This reprobate, it seemed, flying in the face of family tradition, had announced from the first his intention of earning his own living; had studied hard and with distinction for a civil engineer, and five years ago, refusing all offers of help, had accepted a post in America. As for Romeo, the elder brother, he also, said his wife, was very clever; had passed his examinations as a barrister. "But, of course," she added, with naïve pride, "he would never think of practising." Romeo, indeed, to do him justice, was troubled by no disturbing spirit of radicalism, and carried on the ancestral pursuit of doing nothing with a grace and a persistence which one could not help but admire. His mother possessed a fine natural aptitude for the same branch of industry; but the old Marchese, whom, though he spoke but little and was seldom seen, I soon perceived to have a character of his own, passed his days in reading and writing in some obscure retreat on the ground-floor. Bianca, after suspending her judgment for some days, had apparently given a verdict in my favour, for she now followed me about like a dog, a line of conduct which, though flattering, had certainly its drawbacks. The English lessons were always a trial, but they grew better as time went on, and the music lessons were far more satisfactory. As for me, I began to grow fond of my pupil; she was such a crude, instinctive creature, so curiously undeveloped for her time of life, that one could not but take her under one's wing and forgive her her failings as one forgives a little child. I had now been a month in Pisa, and the first sense of desolation and strangeness had worn off. There were moments, even now, when the longing for home grew so desperate that I was on the point of rushing off to England by the next train; but I was growing accustomed to my surroundings; the sense of being imprisoned in an enchanted palace had vanished, and had been followed by a more prosaic, but more comfortable, adaptation to environment. My life moved from day to day in a groove, and I ceased to question the order of things. In the morning were the lessons and the walk with Bianca; the afternoons were looked upon as my own, and these I generally passed in reading, writing letters, and in walking about the city, whose every stone I was getting to know by heart. Often leaning on the bridge and looking across at the palaces curving along the river, I peopled with a visionary company the lofty rooms beyond the lofty windows. Here Shelley came with his wife and the Williams', and here it was that they made acquaintance with Emilia Vivian, the heroine of "Epipsychidion." Byron had a palazzo all to himself, whence he rode out with Trelawney, to the delight of the population. Leigh Hunt lingered here in his many wanderings, and Landor led a hermit life in some hidden corner of the old town. Claire Clairmont, that unfortunate mortal, who where'er she came brought calamity, vibrated discontentedly between here and Florence, and it seemed that sometimes I saw her, a little, unhappy, self-conscious ghost, looking from the upper windows of Shelley's palace. And here, too, after the storm and the shipwreck in which their lives' happiness had gone down, came those two forlorn women, Mary Shelley and Jane Williams. Upon the picture of such sorrow I could not trust myself to gaze; only now and then I heard their shadowy weeping in some dim, great chamber of a half-deserted house. At other times, I returned to my first friend, the great piazza, whose marvels it seemed impossible to exhaust, and for which I grew to entertain a curiously personal affection. But as the spring came on, and the mild, enervating breezes ousted more and more their colder comrades, I began to long with all my soul and body for the country. The brown hills, so near and yet so far, inspired me with a fervour of longing. I had promised never to go beyond the city walls; even the great park, or Casine, where already the trees were burgeoning, was forbidden ground, though sometimes, indeed, I drove out there with the ladies. The cool and distant peaks of the Apennines drew my heart towards them with an ever-growing magnetism. The cypresses and ilexes springing up beyond the high white walls of a garden, the scent of spring flowers borne across to me in passing, filled me with a longing and a melancholy which were new to me. As a matter of fact, the enervating climate, the restricted life and the solitude--for solitude, when all were said, it was--were beginning to tell upon my health. I was not unhappy, but I grew thin and pale, and was developing a hitherto unknown mood of dreamy introspection. In June, I gathered, the whole Brogi household would adjourn to the family villa near the baths of Lucca. It was taken for granted that I was to accompany them, and, indeed, I had determined on making out my full year, should my services be required for so long. After that, no doubt, a husband would be found for Bianca, and I could return to England with a clear conscience and quite a nice little amount of savings. Mother should have a deep arm-chair, and Rosalind a really handsome wedding present; and with my new acquisition of Italian I hoped to be able to command a higher price in the educational market. The evenings were generally passed in chatter, in which I soon learnt to take my part; and I began to be included in the invitations to the houses of the various ladies who "received," like the Marchesa, on certain evenings of the week. No subject of gossip was too trivial for discussion; and I could not but admire the way in which the tiniest incident was taken up, turned inside out, battledored this way and that, and finally wore threadbare before it was allowed to drop, by these highly skilled talkers. Talk, indeed, was the business of their lives, the staple fare of existence. Every one treated me with perfect courtesy, but also, it must be owned, with perfect coldness. Bianca, as I said before, developed a sort of fondness for me; and Annunziata included me in her general benevolence--Annunziata, good soul, who was always laughing, when she was not deluged in tears. I fancy the charming Romeo had his drawbacks as a husband. The Marchesa, with her glib talk, her stately courtesy, was in truth the chilliest and the most reserved of mortals. Of Romeo I saw but little. With the old Marchese, alone, I was conscious of a silent sympathy. CHAPTER VI. COSTANZA MARCHETTI. One morning after breakfast I found the whole family assembled in the yellow drawing-room in a state of unusual excitement. Even the bloodless little Marchesa had a red spot on either shrivelled cheek, and her handsome old husband had thrown off for once his mask of impenetrable and impassive dignity in favour of an air of distinct and lively pleasure. Bianca was chattering, Romeo was smiling, and Annunziata, of course, was smiling too. Beckoning me confidentially towards her, and showing her gums even more freely than usual, she said: "There is great news. The Marchesino Andrea is coming home. We have had a letter this morning, and we are to expect him within a fortnight." I received with genuine interest this piece of information. From the first I had decided that the rebel was probably the most interesting member of his family, and had even gone so far as to "derive" him from his father, in accordance with the latter-day scientific fashion which has infected the most unscientific among us. Bianca was quite unmanageable that morning, and I had finally to abandon all attempts at discipline and let her chat away, in English, to her heart's content. "I cried all day when Andrea went away," she rattled on; "I was quite a little thing, and I did nothing but cry. Even mamma cried, too. When he was home she was often very, very angry with Andrea. Every one was always being angry with him," she added presently, "but every one liked him best. There was often loud talking with papa and Romeo. I used to peep from the door of my nursery and see Andrea stride past with a white face and a great frown." She knitted her own pale brows together in illustration of her own words, and looked so ridiculous that I could not help laughing. I judged it best, moreover, to cut short these confidences, and we adjourned, with some reluctance on her part, to the piano. Lunch was a very cheerful meal that day, and afterwards Bianca thrust her arm in mine and dragged me gaily up to the sitting-room. "Only think," she said, "mamma is writing to Costanza Marchetti at Florence to ask her to stay with us the week after next." "Is the signorina a great friend of yours?" Bianca looked exceedingly sly. "Oh yes, she is a great friend of mine. I stayed with her once at Florence. They have a beautiful, beautiful house on the Lung' Arno, and Costanza has more dresses than she can wear." She spoke with such an air of naïve and important self-consciousness that I could scarcely refrain from smiling. It was impossible not to see through her meaning. The beloved truant was to be permanently trapped; the trap to be baited with a rich, perhaps a beautiful bride. The situation was truly interesting; I foresaw the playing out of a little comedy under my very eyes. Life quickened perceptibly in the palazzo after the receipt of the letter from America. Plans for picnics, balls, and other gaieties were freely discussed. There was a constant dragging about of heavy furniture along the corridors, from which I gathered that rooms were being suitably prepared both for Andrea and his possible bride. At the gossip parliaments, nothing else was talked of but the coming event; the misdemeanours of servants, the rudeness of tradesmen, and the latest Pisan scandal being relegated for the time being to complete obscurity. In about ten days Costanza Marchetti appeared on the scene. We were sitting in the yellow drawing-room after lunch when the carriage drove up, followed by a fly heavily laden with luggage. Bianca had rushed to the window at the sound of wheels, and had hastily described the cavalcade. A few minutes later in came Romeo with a young, or youngish, lady, dressed in the height of fashion, on his arm. She advanced towards the Marchesa with a sort of sliding curtsy, and shook hands from the elbow in a manner worthy of Bond Street. But the meeting between her and Bianca was even more striking. Retreating a little, to allow free play for their operations, the young ladies tilted forward on their high heels, precipitating themselves into one another's arms, where they kissed one another violently on either cheek. Retreating again, they returned once more to the charge, and the performance was gone through for a second time. Then they sat down close together on the sofa, stroking one another's hands. "Costanza powders so thickly with violet powder, it makes me quite ill," Bianca confided to me later in the day; "and she thinks there is nobody like herself in all the world." When the Contessima, for that I discovered was her style and title, had detached her fashionable bird-cage veil from the brim of her large hat, I fell to observing her with some curiosity from my modest corner. She was no longer in her first youth--about twenty-eight, I should say--but she was distinctly handsome, in a rather hard-featured fashion. When she was introduced to me, she bowed very stiffly, and said, "How do you do, Miss?" in the funniest English I had ever heard. "It is so good of you to come to us," said the Marchesa, with her usual stateliness; "to leave your gay Florence before the end of the Carnival for our quiet Pisa. We cannot promise you many parties and balls, Costanza." Perhaps Costanza had seen too many balls in her time--had discovered them, perhaps (who knows?), to be merely dust and ashes. At any rate, she eagerly and gushingly disclaimed her hostess's insinuation, and there was voluble exchange of compliments between the ladies. "Will you give Bianca a holiday for this week, Miss Meredith?" said the Marchesa, presently. "Certainly, if you will allow it," I answered, saying what I knew I was intended to say. Costanza looked across at me coldly, taking in the modest details of my costume. "And when does the Marchesino arrive?" she asked, turning to his mother. "Not till late on Thursday night." Bianca counted upon her fingers. "Three whole days and a half," she cried. "On Friday," said the Marchesa, "we have arranged a little dance. It is so near the end of Carnival we could not put it off till long after his arrival." "Ah, dearest Marchesa," cried Costanza, clasping her hands in a rather mechanical rapture, "it will be too delightful! Do we dance in the ball-room below, or in here?" "In the ball-room," said the Marchesa, while Annunziata nodded across at me, saying-- "Do you dance, Miss Meredith?" "Yes; I am very fond of it," I answered, but it must be owned that I looked forward with but scant interest to the festivity. My insular mind was unable to rise to the idea of Italian partners. Costanza raised her eyeglass, with its long tortoiseshell handle, to her heavy-lidded eyes, and surveyed me scrutinizingly. It had been evident from the first that she had but a poor opinion of me. "I hope you will join us on Friday, Miss Meredith," said the Marchesa, with much ceremony. I could not help feeling snubbed. I had taken it for granted that I was to appear; this formal invitation was inexpressibly chilling. I did not enjoy my holiday of the next few days. I had always been exceedingly grateful for my few hours of daily solitude, and these were mine no more. The fact that the ladies of the household never seemed to need either solitude or silence had impressed me from the first as a curious phenomenon. Now, for the time being, I was dragged into the current of their lives, and throughout the day was forced to share in the ceaseless chatter, without which, it seemed, a guest could not be entertained, a ball given, or even a son received into the bosom of his family. Here, there, and everywhere was the unfortunate Miss Meredith--at everybody's beck and call, "upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's chamber." "It is fortunate that it is only me," I reflected. "I don't know what Jenny or Rosalind would do. They would just pack up and go." For, at home, the liberty of the individual had always been greatly respected, which was, perhaps, the reason why we managed to live together in such complete harmony. As for Bianca and her friend, they clattered about all day long together on their high heels, their arms intertwined, exchanging confidences, comparing possessions, and eating _torino_ till their teeth ached. In the intervals of this absorption in friendship my pupil would come up to me, throw her arms round me, and pour out a flood of the frankest criticisms on the fair Costanza. To these I refused to listen. "How can I tell, Bianca, that you do not rush off to the Contessima and complain of me to her?" "Dearest little signorina, there could be nothing to complain of." "Of course," I said, "we know that. I am perfect. But, seriously, Bianca, I do not understand this kissing and hugging of a person one moment, and saying evil things of her the next." Bianca was getting on for nineteen, but it was necessary to treat her like a child. She hung her head, and took the rebuke very meekly. "But, signorina, say what you will, Costanza does put wadding in her stays because she is so thin, and then pretends to have a fine figure. And she has a bad temper, as every one knows...." "Bianca, you are incorrigible!" I put my hand across her mouth, and ran down the corridor to my own room. CHAPTER VII. THE HOME-COMING OF THE REBEL. The covered gallery which ran along the back of the house was flooded in the afternoon with sunshine. Here, as the day declined, I loved to pace, basking in the warmth and rejoicing in the brightness, for mild and clear as the day might be out of doors, within the thick-walled palace it was always mirk and chill. The long, high wall of the gallery was covered with pictures--chiefly paintings of dead and gone Brogi--most of them worthless, taken singly; taken collectively, interesting as a study of the varieties of family types. Here was Bianca, to the life, painted two centuries ago; the old Marchese looked out from a dingy canvass 300 years old at least, and a curious mixture of Romeo and his sister disported itself in powder amid a florid eighteenth century family group. Conspicuous among so much indifferent workmanship hung a genuine Bronzino of considerable beauty, representing a young man, whose charming aspect was scarcely marred by his stiff and elaborate fifteenth century costume. The dark eyes of this picture had a way of following one up and down the gallery in a rather disconcerting manner; already I had woven a series of little legends about him, and had decided that he left his frame at night, like the creatures in "Ruddygore," to roam the house as a ghost where once he had lived as a man. Opposite the pictures, on which they shed their light, was a row of windows, set close together deep in the thick wall, and rising almost to the ceiling. They were not made open, but through their numerous and dingy panes I could see across the roofs of the town to the hills, or down below to where a neglected bit of territory, enclosed between high walls, did duty as a garden. In one corner of this latter stood a great ilex tree, its massive grey trunk old and gnarled, its blue-green foliage casting a wide shadow. Two or three cypresses, with their broom-like stems, sprang from the overgrown turf, which, at this season of the year, was beginning to be yellow with daffodils, and a thick growth of laurel bushes ran along under the walls. An empty marble basin, approached by broken pavement, marked the site of a forgotten fountain, the stone-crop running riot about its borders; the house-leek thrusting itself every now and then through the interstices of shattered stone. Forlorn, uncared for as was this square of ground, it had for me a mysterious attraction; it seemed to me that there clung to it through all change of times and weathers, something of the beauty in desolation which makes the charm of Italy. It was about four o'clock on Thursday afternoon, and I was wandering up and down the gallery in the sunshine. I was alone for the first time during the last three days, and was making the best of this brief respite from the gregarious life to which I saw myself doomed for some time to come. The ladies were out driving, paying calls and making a few last purchases for the coming festivities. In the evening Andrea was expected, and an atmosphere of excitement pervaded the whole household. "They are really fond of him, it seems," I mused; "these people who, as far as I can make out, are so cold." Then I leaned my forehead disconsolately against the window, and had a little burst of sadness all by myself. The constant strain of the last few days had tired me. I longed intensely for peace, for rest, for affection, for the sweet and simple kindliness of home. I had even lost my interest in the coming event which seemed to accentuate my forlornness. What were other people's brothers to me? Let mother or one of the girls come out to me, and I would not be behindhand in rejoicing. "No one wants me, no one cares for me, and I don't care for any one either," I said to myself gloomily, brushing away a stray tear with the back of my hand. Then I moved from the window and my contemplation of the ilex tree, and began slowly pacing down the gallery, which was getting fuller every minute of the thick golden sunlight. But suddenly my heart seemed to stop beating, my blood froze, loud pulses fell to throbbing in my ears. I remained rooted to the spot with horror, while my eyes fixed themselves on a figure, which, as yet on the further side of a shaft of moted sunlight, was slowly advancing towards me from the distant end of the gallery. "Is it the Bronzino come to life?" whispered a voice in the back recess of my consciousness. The next moment I was laughing at my own fears, and was contemplating with interest and astonishment the very flesh-and-blood presentiment of a modern gentleman which stood bowing before me. "I fear I have startled you," said a decidedly human voice, speaking in English, with a peculiar accent, while the speaker looked straight at me with a pair of dark eyes that were certainly like those of the Bronzino. "Oh, no; it was my own fault for being so stupid," I answered rather breathlessly, shaken out of my self-possession. "I am Andrea Brogi," he said, with a little bow; "and I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Clarke?" "I am Miss Meredith, your sister's governess," I answered, feeling perhaps a little hurt that the substitution of one English teacher for another had not been thought a matter of sufficient importance for mention in the frequent letters which the family had been in the habit of sending to America. Andrea, with great simplicity, went on to explain his presence in the gallery. "I am some hours before my time, you see. I had miscalculated the trains between this and Livorno. Now don't you think this a nice reception, Miss Meredith?" he went on, with a smile and a sadder change of tone. "No one to meet me at the depôt, no one to meet me at home! Father and brother at the club, mother and sister amusing themselves in the town." His remark scarcely seemed to admit of a reply; it was not my place to assure him of his welcome, and I got out of the situation with a smile. He looked at me again, this time more attentively. "But I fear you were really frightened just now. You are pale still and trembling. Did you think I was a ghost?" "I thought--I thought you were the Bronzino come down from its frame," I answered, astonished at my own daring. The complete absence of self-consciousness in my companion, the delight, moreover, of being addressed in fluent English, gave me courage. As I spoke, I moved over half-unconsciously to the picture in question. Andrea, smiling gently, followed me, and planting himself before the canvas contemplated it with a genuine naïve interest that was irresistible. I stood by, uncertain whether to go or stay, furtively regarding him. "Was there ever such a creature," I thought; "with your handsome serious face, your gentle dignified air for all the world like Romeo's; with your sweet Italian voice and your ridiculous American accent--and the general suggestion about you of an old bottle with new wine poured in--only in this case by no means to the detriment of the bottle?" At this point the unconscious object of my meditation broke in upon it. "Why, yes," said Andrea, calmly, "I had never noticed it before, but I really am uncommonly like the fellow." As he spoke, he fixed his eyes, frank as a child's, upon my face. As for me, I could not forbear smiling; whereupon Andrea, struck with the humour of the thing, broke into a radiant and responsive smile. I thought I had never seen any one so funny or so charming. At this point a bell rang through the house. "That must be my mother," he said, growing suddenly alert. "Miss Meredith, you will excuse me." I lingered in the gallery after he had left, but my forlorn and pensive mood of ten minutes ago had vanished. Rather wistfully, but with a certain excitement, I listened to the confused sound of voices which echoed up from below. Then I heard the whole party pass upstairs behind me, the heels of the ladies clattering in a somewhat frenzied manner on the stones. Annunziata was laughing and crying, the Marchesa was talking earnestly, the young ladies scattered ejaculations as they went. Every now and then I caught the clear tones of Andrea's voice. At dinner that night there was high festival. Every one talked incessantly, even Romeo and his father. We had a turkey stuffed with chestnuts, and the Marchese brought forth his choicest wines. At the beginning of the meal I had been introduced to the new arrival, and, for no earthly reason, neither had made mention of the less formal fashion in which we had become acquainted. Some friends dropped in after dinner, and Andrea was again the hero of the hour--a rather trying position, which he bore with astonishing grace. As for me, I sat sewing in a distant corner of the room, content with my spectator's place, growing more and more interested in the spectacle. "That Costanza!" I thought, rather crossly, as I observed the handsome Contessima smiling archly at Andrea above her fan. "I wonder how long the little comedy will be a-playing? As for the end, that, I suppose, is a foregone conclusion." Then I bent my head over my crewelwork again. I was beginning to feel annoyed with Andrea for having passed over our first meeting in silence; I was beginning also to wish I had furred slippers like Bianca's, as a protection against the cold floor. "Miss Meredith," said a voice at my elbow, "you are cold; your teeth will soon begin to chatter in your head." Then, before I knew what was happening, I was led from my corner, and installed close to the kindling logs. And it was Andrea, the hero of the day, who had done this thing; but had done it so quietly, so much as a matter of course, as scarcely to attract attention, though the Marchesa's eye fell on me coldly as I took up my new position. "It really does make the place more alive," I reflected, as I laid my head on my pillow that night. "I am quite glad the Marchesino is here. And I wonder what he thinks of Costanza?" CHAPTER VIII. AN ITALIAN BALL. The next day was exquisitely bright and warm--we seemed to have leapt at a bound into the very heart of spring--and when I came out of my room I was greeted with the news that Andrea and the ladies had gone to drive in the Cascine. Annunziata was my informant. She had stayed at home, and, freed from the rigid eye of her mother-in-law, was sitting very much at her ease, ready to gossip with the first comer. The Marchesina could rise to an occasion as well as any one else; could, when duty called, confine her stout form in the stiffest of stays, and build up her hair into the neatest of bandolined pyramids. But I think she was never so happy as when, the bow unbent, she could expand into a loose morning-jacket and twist up her hair into a vague, unbecoming knot behind. "Dear little signorina," she cried, beckoning me to a seat with her embroidery scissors, "have you heard the good news? Andrea returns no more to America." "He has arranged matters with Costanza pretty quickly," was my reflection; and at the thought of that easy capitulation, he fell distinctly in my esteem. "He has accepted a post in England," went on Annunziata. "We shall see him every year, if not oftener. Every one is overjoyed. It is a step in the right direction. Who knows but one day he may settle in Italy?" And she smiled meaningly, nodding her head as she spoke. The ladies came back at lunch-time without their cavalier, who had stayed to _collazione_ with some relatives in the town. The afternoon was spent upstairs talking over the dance which was to take place that evening, discussing every detail of costume and every expected guest. Costanza was as cross as two sticks, and hadn't a good word for anybody. We dined an hour earlier than usual, but none of the gentlemen put in an appearance at the meal. With a sigh of inexpressible relief I rose from the table, and escaped to the welcome shelter of my room. "I thought I was glad that Andrea had come," was my reflection; "but to-day has been worse than any other day." Then, rather discontentedly, I began the preparations for my toilet. The little black net dress, with the half-low bodice, the tan gloves, the black satin shoes, were already lying on the bed. It is all very well to be Cinderella, if you happen to have a fairy-godmother. Without this convenient relative the situation is far less pleasant, and so common as to be not even picturesque. There are lots of Cinderellas who never went to the ball, or, if they did go, were taken no notice of by the prince, and were completely cut out by the proud sisters. Musing thus, with a pessimism which, to do me justice, was new to me, I proceeded to make myself as fine as the circumstances of the case permitted. "At least my hair is nice," I thought, as I stood before the glass and fastened a knot of daffodils into my bodice; "Jenny always admired it, and the shape of my head as well. I've been pale and ugly, too, for the last few weeks, but my cheeks are red enough to-night. They are only red from crossness, and the same cause has made my eyes so bright, but how is any one to know that?" "Why, Elsie Meredith," said a voice suddenly from some inner region of my being, "what on earth is the matter with you? You, who could never be persuaded to take enough interest in your personal appearance! Surely you have caught the infection from that middle-aged Costanza." With which rather spiteful reflection I blew out the candles, threw a shawl over my shoulders, and ran downstairs into the ball-room. I was the first arrival. The room stood empty, and I halted a moment on the threshold, struck by the beauty of the scene. The walls of the vast chamber were hung from top to bottom with faded tapestry, of good design and soft dim colour. From the painted, vaulted ceiling, which rose to mysterious height, hung a chandelier in antique silver, ablaze with innumerable wax lights. Other lights in silver sconces were placed at intervals along the walls, and narrow sofas in faded gilt and damask bordered the wide space of the floor. At one end of the room was a musician's gallery, whence sounds of tuning were already to be heard. Two other rooms led out from the main apartment, both of smaller size, indeed, but large withal, and characterized by the same severe beauty. There was no attempt at decoration, nor was any needed. Having made a general survey of the premises, I advanced to the middle of the ball-room, and began to feel the floor, across which a faded drugget had been stretched, critically with my foot. Then I circled round on the tips of my toes under the chandelier, humming the air of "Dream Faces" very softly to myself. So absorbed was I in this occupation that I did not notice the entrance of another person, till suddenly a voice sounded quite close to my ear, "Well, is it a good floor?" I stopped, blushing deeply. There before me stood Andrea, looking very nice in his evening clothes. "Not very good, but quite fair," I answered, recovering my self-possession before his complete coolness. He smiled quietly. "I guess you are a person of experience in such matters, Miss Meredith." "I haven't been to many balls, but we are fond of dancing at home." "We?" said Andrea, interrogatively. "My sisters----" "And brothers?" "I haven't any brothers." "And friends?" "Yes, and friends." I could not help laughing; then thinking that he looked rather offended, I added by way of general conversation-- "How beautiful this room looks. It seems quite desecration to dance in it." He looked round, and up and down. "Yes, I suppose it is elegant. I think it very gloomy." Again I found myself smiling. There was something so absurd in this mixture of the soft, sweet Italian tones and the very pronounced American accent, not to speak of the occasional flowers of American idiom. This time, however, Andrea did not appear offended, but smiled back at me most charmingly, then turned to greet his mother, who, the two girls in her wake, came sweeping across the room in violet velvet and diamonds. "You are down early, Miss Meredith," she said to me without moving a muscle of her face, but making me feel that I had committed a breach of propriety in venturing alone downstairs. "You look so nice," cried Bianca, who, in blue-striped silk and a high tortoiseshell comb, had made the very worst of herself. Costanza, shrugging her shoulders, turned and rustled across the room. I was surprised to see how handsome she looked. With her gown of richest brocade, made with a long train and Elizabethan collar, with the rubies gleaming in her dark hair and in the folds of her bodice, she seemed a figure well in harmony with the stately beauty of her surroundings. As though conscious of her effect, she moved over to the entrance of the inner room, and stood there framed in the arched doorway with its hangings of faded damask. Andrea went at once to her side. "It's a long time since we have had a dance together, Contessima." "A long, long time, Marchesino." Then their voices fell, and there was nothing to be heard but a twittering exchange of whispers. Bianca put her arm about my waist and whirled me round and round. "We don't dance the same way," she said, releasing me after a brief but breathless interval. Annunziata in apple-green brocade and a pearl stomacher was the next arrival, laughing heartily, and flourishing her lace handkerchief as she came. Behind her strolled her husband, handsome, indolent, and grave as a judge. The old Marchese brought up the rear. The guests began now to arrive; smart, dignified, voluble matrons; smart, expectant girls; slight, serious young civilians, dandling their hats as they came; pretty little officers in uniform, with an air of being very much at home in a ball-room. Romeo brought me a programme, and wrote his name down for the lancers. Then I stood there rather forlornly while the musicians struck up the first waltz. At the first notes of the music Andrea left Costanza's side and came towards me. "He is going to ask me to dance," was my involuntary reflection; "how nice! I am sure he dances well." "Let me introduce il signor capitano," said Romeo's voice in my ear; and there stood a trim little person in uniform before me, bowing and requesting the honour of the first dance. "One moment," said Andrea, quietly, as, rather disappointed, I began to move away with my partner; "Miss Meredith, may I see your card?" I handed him the little bit of gilt pasteboard, virgin, save for his brother's name. "Will you give me six and ten?" "Yes." He returned to Costanza, his partner for the dance, and I and my officer plunged into the throng. It was not a success. There were no points of agreement in our practice of waltzing, and after a few turns we subsided on to one of the damask sofas, exchanging commonplaces and watching the dancers, whose rapid twists and bounding action filled my heart with despair. "I shall never be able to dance like that," I reflected. It was by no means an ungraceful performance. They leapt high, it is true, but in no vulgar fashion of mere jumping; rather they rose into the air with something of the ease and elasticity of an indiarubber ball, maintaining throughout an appearance of great seriousness and dignity. At the end of the dance, my partner bowed himself away, and I withdrew rather forlornly to a corner, hoping to escape unnoticed. Here, however, Romeo again espied me, and led up to me a rather despondent young gentleman--a student at the University of Pisa, I afterwards learned--whom I had observed nursing his tall silk hat in solitude throughout the previous dance. I explained earnestly that I could not dance Italian fashion; that I preferred, indeed, to be a spectator, and settled down into my corner with some philosophy. "I dare say Andrea can waltz my way," I thought, looking down at my programme, where the initials A.B. stood out clearly on two of the gilt lines. "It is rather disappointing to have to sit still and look on while other people dance to this delightful music, but it is amusing enough, in its way, and I must keep my eyes open and remember things to tell the girls." It annoyed me, I confess, a little to meet Costanza's glance of contemptuous pity as she whirled by with a tall officer, and a mean-spirited desire came over me to explain to her that I was sitting out from choice, and not from necessity. The flood of dancers rushed on--those many-coloured ephemera, on which the old, dim walls looked down so gravely--and still I sat there patiently enough, though my eyes were beginning to ache and my brain to whirl. Annunziata's apple-green skirts, Bianca's blue and white stripes, the Contessima's brocade and rubies, were growing familiar to weariness, so often did they flash before my sight. It was with genuine relief that I welcomed Romeo, who came up to claim the fifth dance, the lancers, for which he had engaged me at the beginning of the evening. But alas! the word "lancers" printed in French on the programme proved a mere will-o'-the-wisp, and I found myself drawn into the intricacies of a quite unknown and elaborate dance. Romeo, gravely piloting me through the confusing maze, was all courtesy and patience; but Andrea, who with Costanza was our _vis-à-vis_, seemed entirely absorbed in observing my stupidity. "And I am really getting through with it very well," was my reflection; "it is all that Costanza who makes him notice the mistakes." The next dance-was Andrea's--a waltz. "Have you been having a good time, Miss Meredith?" he asked, as we stood awaiting the music. "I lost sight of you till the lancers, just now." "I have been sitting in a corner, looking on," I answered dismally, but with a smile. "What!" he drew his brows together. "It is no one's fault but my own. I can't waltz Italian fashion. Perhaps we had better not attempt it." For answer Andrea put his arm scientifically round my waist, piloting me into the middle of the room, where a few couples were already revolving. "I have yet to find the young lady with whom I could not waltz," he observed, quietly, as we glided smoothly and rapidly across the floor. Oh, the delights of that waltz! It was one of the intensely good things of life which cannot happen often even in the happiest careers; one of the little bits of perfection which start up now and then to astonish us, plants of such delicate growth that only by an unforeseen succession of accidents are they ever brought to birth. With what ease my partner skimmed about that crowded hall! How skilfully he steered among the bounding complex! Was ever such music heard out of heaven; and was ever such a kind, comfortable, reassuring presence as that of Andrea? A moment ago I had been bored, wistful, tired; now I had nothing left to wish for. "Well," he said, as, the music coming to an end, we paused for the first time; "that was not so bad for an Italian, was it?" I was so happy that I could only smile, and my partner, apparently not disconcerted by my stupidity, led me into the inner room, installed me in a chair, and seated himself in another opposite. At the same moment Romeo came sauntering up to us, throwing a remark in rapid Italian to his brother. The latter, with a slight frown, rose reluctantly, and the two men went over to the doorway, where they stood talking. I fell to observing them with considerable interest, these handsome, dark-eyed gentlemen, with their grace and air of breeding, who were at the same time so curiously alike and so curiously different. In both the same simplicity and ease was felt to cover a certain inscrutability, the frankness a considerable depth of reserve; and in neither was seen a person to be thwarted with impunity. But whereas in Romeo's case the quiet manner was the unmistakable mark of a genuine indolence and indifference, in Andrea's it only served to bring out more clearly the keen vitality, the alertness, the purpose with which his whole personality was instinct. I had not much time for my observations. In the course of a few minutes Annunziata rustled smilingly past them, and threw herself and her green skirts into the chair just vacated by her brother-in-law. The latter shot a quick glance at her, shrugged his shoulders slightly, resumed his conversation with Romeo, and made no attempt to rejoin me. As for me, my little cup of pleasure was dashed to the ground. Annunziata, fanning herself and talking volubly, made but a poor substitute for Andrea, and I began to be dimly aware of a certain hostility towards myself in the atmosphere. The next dance was played, and the next, and still Annunziata sat there smiling. The two gentlemen had long disappeared into the ball-room, and we had the smaller apartment to ourselves. "I can't stand it any longer," I thought, "even with another waltz with Andrea in prospect." And making an apology to the Marchesina, I stole through a side door upstairs to bed. Sounds of revelry reached me faint through the thick walls for many succeeding hours; and I lay awake on my great bed till the dawn crept in through the shutters. "I have been a wallflower," I reflected, "a wallflower, to do me justice, for the first time in my life. And I'm not so sure that, in some respects, it wasn't the nicest dance I ever was at." CHAPTER IX. "WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO ME?" "Costanza is so cross," said Bianca, drawing me aside, in her childish fashion; "she talks of going back at once to Florence, and I don't know who would be sorry if she did." "Oh, for shame, Bianca; she is your guest," I said, really shocked. It was the morning after the ball, and all the ladies were assembled in the sitting-room, displaying every one of them unmistakable signs of what is sometimes called "hot coppers." I had been greeted coldly on my entrance, a fact which had dashed my own cheerful mood, and had set me seriously considering plans of departure. "If they are going to dislike me, there's an end of the matter," I thought; but I hated the idea of retiring beaten from the field. I did not succeed in making my escape for a single hour throughout the day. Every one wanted Miss Meredith's services; now she must hold a skein of wool, now accompany Costanza's song on the piano, now shout her uncertain Italian down the trumpet of a deaf old visitor. I was quite worn out by dinner-time; and afterwards the whole party drove off to a reception, leaving me behind. "Does not the signorina accompany us?" said Andrea to his mother, as they stood awaiting the carriage. "Miss Meredith is tired and goes to bed," answered the Marchesa in her dry, impenetrable way. I had not been invited, but I made no remark. Andrea opened his eyes wide, and came over deliberately to the sofa where I sat. There was such a determined look about the lines of his mouth, about his whole presence, that I found myself unconsciously thinking: "You are a very, very obstinate person, Marchesino, and I for one should be sorry to defy you. You looked just like that five years ago, when they were trying to tie you to the ancestral apron-strings, and I don't know that Costanza is to be envied, when all is said." "Miss Meredith," said his lowered voice in my ear, "this is the first opportunity you have given me to-day of telling you what I think of your conduct. I do not wonder that you are afraid of me." "Marchesino!" "To make engagements and to break them is not thought good behaviour either in Italy or in America. Perhaps in England it is different." I looked up, and meeting his eyes forgot everything else in the world. Forgot the Marchesa hovering near, only prevented by a certain awe of her son from swooping down on us; forgot Costanza champing the bit, as it were, in the doorway; forgot the cold, unfriendly glances which had made life dark for me throughout the day. "I had no partner for number ten," went on Andrea, "though a lady had promised to dance it with me. Now what do you think of that lady's behaviour?" His gravity was too much for my own, and I smiled. "You suffer from too keen a sense of humour, Miss Meredith," he said, and I scarcely knew whether to take him seriously or not. I only knew that my heart was beating, that my pulses were throbbing as they had never done before. "The carriage is at the door, Andrea," cried Bianca, bouncing up to us, and looking inquisitive and excited. He rose at once, holding out his hand. "Good-night, Miss Meredith," he said, aloud; "I am sorry that you do not accompany us." Costanza flounced across the passage noisily; the Marchesa looked me full in the face, then turned away in silence; and even Annunziata was grave. I felt suddenly that I had been brought up before a court of justice, tried, and found guilty of some heinous but unknown offence. Light still lingered in the gallery, and when the carriage had rolled off I sought shelter there, pacing to and fro with rapid, unequal tread. What had happened to me? What curious change had wrought itself not only in myself, but in my surroundings, during these last two days? Was it only two days since Andrea had come towards me down this very gallery? Unconsciously the thought shaped itself, and then I grew crimson in the solitude. What had Andrea to do with the altered state of things? How could his home-coming affect the little governess, the humblest member of that stately household? There in the glow of the fading sunlight hung the Bronzino, its eyes--so like some other eyes--gazing steadily at me from the canvas. "Beautiful eyes," I thought; "honest eyes, good eyes! There was never anything very bad in that person's life. I think he was good and happy, and that every one was fond of him." And then again I blushed, and turned away suddenly. To blush at a picture! Down in the deserted garden the spring was carrying on her work, in her own rapid, noiseless fashion. No doubt it was the spring also that was stirring in my heart; that was causing all sorts of new, unexpected growths of thought and feeling to sprout into sudden life; that was changing the habitual serenity of my mood into something of the fitfulness of an April day. Alternately happy and miserable, I continued to pace the gallery till the last remnant of sunlight had died away, and the brilliant moonlight came streaming in through the windows. Then my courage faded all at once. The stony place struck chill, my own footsteps echoed unnaturally loud; the eyes of the Bronzino staring through the silver radiance, filled me with unspeakable terror. With a beating heart I gathered up my skirts and fled up the silent stairs, along the corridor, to my room. CHAPTER X. "AS GOOD AS GOLD." Leaning out from the window of my room the next morning, I saw Andrea and his father walking slowly along the Lung' Arno in the sunlight. In the filial relation, Andrea, I had before observed, particularly shone. His charming manner was never so charming as when he was addressing his father; and the presence of his younger son appeared to have a vitalizing, rejuvenating effect on the old Marchese. And now, as I watched them pacing amicably in the delightful spring morning, the tears rose for a moment to my eyes; I remembered that it was Sunday, that a long way off in unromantic Islington my mother was making ready for the walk to church, while I, an exile, looked from my palace window with nothing better in prospect than a solitary journey to the _Chiesa Inglese_. Annunziata had not gone to mass, and when I came downstairs ready dressed she explained that she had a headache, and was in need of a little company to cheer her up. Of course I could not do less than offer to forego my walk and attendance at church, which I did with a wistful recollection of the beauty and sweetness of the day. "Have you heard?" she said. "Costanza goes back to Florence to-night. She prefers not to miss the last two days of Carnival, Monday and Tuesday. So she says," cried the Marchesina, with a frankness that astonished me, even from her; "so she says; but between ourselves, Andrea was very attentive last night to Emilia di Rossa. Costanza ought to understand what he is by now. She has known him all her life; she ought certainly to be aware that his one little weakness--Andrea is as good as gold--is the ladies." I bent my head low over my work, with an indignant, shame-stricken consciousness that I was blushing. "He is evidently engaged to Costanza," I thought, and I wished the earth would open and swallow me. "And a young girl, like Emilia," went on Annunziata; "who knows what construction she might put upon his behaviour? It is not that he says so much, but he has a way with him which is open to misinterpretation. Poor little thing, she has no money to speak of, and, even if she had, who are the Di Rossas? Andrea, for all he is so free and easy, is as proud as the devil, and the very last man to make a _mésalliance_. A convent, say I, will be the end of the Di Rossa." And she sighed contentedly. Was it possible that she was insulting me? Was this a warning, a warning to me, Elsie Meredith? Did she think me an adventuress, setting traps for a rich and noble husband, or merely an eager fool liable to put a misconstruction on the simplest acts of kindliness and courtesy? My blazing cheeks, no doubt, confirmed whichever suspicion she had been indulging in, but I was determined to show her that I was not afraid. Lifting my face--with its hateful crimson--boldly to hers, I said: "We in England regard marriage and--and love in another way. I know it is not so in Italy; but with us the reason for getting married is that you are fond of some one, and that some one is fond of you. Other sorts of marriages are not thought nice," with which bold and sweeping statement on behalf of my native land I returned with trembling fingers to my needlework. To do me justice, I fully believed in my own words. That marriage which had not affection for its basis was shameful had been the simple creed of the little world at home. "Indeed?" said Annunziata, with genuine interest; "but, as you say, it is not so with us." My lips twitched in an irresistible smile. Her round eyes met mine so frankly, her round face was so unruffled in its amiability, that I could not but feel I had made a fool of myself. The guileless lady was prattling on, no doubt as usual, as a relief to her own feelings, and not with any underlying intention. I felt more ashamed than before of my own self-consciousness. "What is the matter with you, Elsie Meredith?" cried a voice within me. "I think your own mother wouldn't know you; your own sisters would pass you by in the street." "Andrea ought to know," went on Annunziata, "that such freedom of manners is not permissible in Italy between a young man and young women. He seems to have forgotten this in America, where, I am told, the licence is something shocking." I wished the good lady would be less confidential--what was all this to me?--and I was almost glad when the ladies came sailing in from mass, all of them evidently in the worst possible tempers. There was an air of constraint about the whole party at lunch that day. Wedged in between the Marchesa and Romeo I sat silent and glum, having returned Andrea's cordial bow very coldly across the table. Every one deplored Costanza's approaching departure, rather mechanically, I thought, and that young lady herself repeatedly expressed her regret at leaving. "Dear Marchesa," she cried, "I am at my wits' end with disappointment; but my mother's letter this morning admits of but one reply. She says she cannot spare me from the gaieties of the next two days." "You might come back after Ash Wednesday," said Bianca, who sat with her arm round her friend between the courses, and whose friendship seemed to have been kindled into a blaze by the coming separation. "Dearest Bianca, if I could only persuade you to return with me!" "Bianca never makes visits," answered her mother, drily. "Were you at church this morning, Miss Meredith?" asked the old Marchese, kindly, as the figs and chestnuts were put on the table. It was the first time that any one had addressed me directly throughout the meal, and I blushed hotly as I gave my answer. The departure of Costanza, her boxes and her maid, was of course the great event of the afternoon. The three gentlemen and Annunziata drove with her to the station, and I was left behind with my pupil and her mother. A stiff bow from Costanza, a glare through her double eyeglass, and a contemptuous "Good-bye, Miss," in English, had not tended to raise my spirits. To be an object of universal dislike was an experience as new as it was unpleasant, and I was losing confidence in myself with every hour. Even Bianca had deserted me, and, ensconced close to her mother, shot glances at me of her early curiosity and criticism. As for the Marchesa, that inscrutable person scarcely stopped talking all the afternoon, rattling on in her dry, colourless way about nothing at all. Speech was to her the shield and buckler which silence is to persons less gifted. Behind her own volubility she could withdraw as behind a bulwark, whence she made observations safe from being herself observed. I was quite worn out by eight o'clock, when the usual Sunday visitors began to arrive. With my work in my hand, I sat on the outskirts of the throng, not working indeed, but pondering deeply. "Miss Meredith, you are very industrious." There before me stood Andrea, a very obstinate look on his face, unmindful of Annunziata's proximity and Romeo's scowls. "As it happens, I haven't put in a stitch for the last ten minutes," I answered quietly, though my heart beat. He drew a chair close to mine. "You are unfair, Andrea, you are unfair," I thought, "to make things worse for Miss Meredith by singling her out in this way, when you know it makes them all so cross. Things are bad enough for her as it is, and you might forego your little bit of amusement." I began really to stitch with unnatural industry, bending an unresponsive face over the work in my hand. "That is very pretty," said Andrea. "No, no, Marchesino," I thought again, "you are as good as gold, any one could see that from your eyes; but you have a little weakness, only one--'the ladies'--and you must not be encouraged." I turned to Annunziata, who, baffled by the English speech, sat perplexed and helpless. "Marchesina," I said aloud in Italian, "the Marchesino admires my work." "I taught her how to do it," cried Annunziata, breaking into a smile. "See, it is not so easy to draw the fine gold thread through the leather, but she is an apt pupil." "Miss Meredith, I am sorry to see you looking so pale." Andrea dropped his voice very low, adhering obstinately to English and fixing his eyes on mine. "I haven't been out to-day." "What, wasting this glorious weather indoors. Is it possible that you are falling into the worst of our Italian ways?" "I generally go for a walk." I rose as I spoke, and turned to the Marchesina. "I am so tired; do you think I may be excused?" "Certainly, dear child." Bowing to the assembled company I made my way deliberately to the door. Andrea was there before me, holding it open, a look of unusual sternness on his face. "Good-night, Miss Meredith," and then before them all he held out his hand. Only for a moment did our fingers join in a firm eager clasp, only for a moment did his eyes meet mine in a strange, mysterious glance. Only for a moment, but as I fled softly, rapidly along the corridor I felt that in that one instant of time all my life's meaning had been changed. "As good as gold; as good as gold." These words went round and round in my head as I lay sobbing on the pillow. Somehow that was the only part of Annunziata's warning which remained with me. CHAPTER XI. "WILL YOU MAKE ME VERY HAPPY?" I rose early next morning, and without waiting for my breakfast, ran downstairs, made Pasquale, the vague servant, open the door for me, and I escaped into the sunshine. In the long and troubled night just passed I had come to a resolution--I would go home. From first to last, I told myself, the experiment had been a failure. From first to last I had been out of touch with the people with whom I had come to dwell; the almost undisguised hostility of the last few days was merely the culmination of a growing feeling. In that atmosphere of suspicion, of disapprobation, I could exist no longer. Defeated, indeed, but in no wise disgraced, I would return whence I came. I would tell them everything at home, and they would understand. That I had committed some mysterious breach of Italian etiquette, outraged some notion of Italian propriety, I could not doubt; but at least I had been guilty of nothing of which, judged by my own standard, I could feel ashamed. But my heart was very heavy as I sped on through the streets, instinctively making my way to the cathedral. It was the second week in March, and the spring was full upon us. The grass in the piazza smelt of clover, and here and there on the brown hills was the flush of blossoming peach or the snow of flowering almonds. In the soft light of the morning, cathedral, tower, and baptistery seemed steeped in a divine calm. Their beauty filled me with a great sadness. They were my friends; I had grown to love them, and now I was leaving them, perhaps for ever. Pacing up and down, and round about, I tried to fix my thoughts on my plans, to consider with calmness my course of action. But this was the upshot of all my endeavours, the one ridiculous irrelevant conclusion at which I could arrive--"He is certainly not engaged to Costanza." As I came round by the main door of the cathedral for perhaps the twentieth time, I saw Andrea walking across the grass towards me. A week ago, I had never seen his face; now as I watched him advancing in the sunlight, it seemed that I had known him all my life. Never was figure more familiar, never presence more reassuring, than that of this stranger. The sight of him neither disturbed nor astonished me; now that he was here, his coming seemed inevitable, part of the natural order of things. "Ah, I have found you," he said quietly, and we turned together and strolled towards the Campo Santo. "Do you often come here?" He stopped and looked at me dreamily. "Often, often. It is all so beautiful and so sad." "It is very sad." "Do you not see how very beautiful it is?" I cried, "that there is nothing like it in the whole world? And I am leaving it, and it breaks my heart!" "You are going away?" "Yes." I was calm no longer, but strangely agitated. I turned away, and began pacing to and fro. "Ah! they have not made you happy?" His eyes flashed as he came up to me. "No," I said, "I am not happy; but it is nobody's fault. They do not like me, and I cannot bear it any more. It has never happened to me before--no one has thought me very wonderful, very clever, very beautiful, very brilliant; but people have always liked me, and if I am not liked I shall die." With which foolish outbreak--which astonished no one more than the speaker--I turned away again with streaming eyes. "Let us come in here," said Andrea, still with that strange calm in voice and manner, and together we passed into the Campo Santo. A bird was singing somewhere among the cypresses; the daffodils rose golden in the grass; the strip of sky between the cloisters was intensely blue. "Miss Meredith," said Andrea, taking my hand, "will you make me very happy--will you be my wife?" We were standing in the grass-plot, face to face, and he was very pale. His words seemed the most natural thing in the world. I ought, perhaps, to have made a protest, to have reminded him of family claims and dues, to have made sure that love, not chivalry, was speaking. But I only said, "Yes," very low, looking at him as we stood there among the tombs, under the blue heavens. * * * * * * "As you came down the gallery, in the sunlight, with the little grey gown, and the frightened look in the modest eyes, I said to myself, 'Here, with the help of God, comes my wife!'" I do not know how long we had been in the cloisters, pacing slowly, hand in hand, almost in silence. The sun was high in the heavens, and the bird in the cypresses sang no more. "Do you know," cried Andrea, stopping suddenly, and laughing, "here is a most ridiculous thing! What is your name? for I haven't the ghost of an idea!" "Elsie." I laughed, too. The joke struck us both as an excellent one. "Elsie! Ah, the sweet name! Elsie, Elsie! Was ever such a dear little name? What shall we do next, Elsie, my friend?" "Take me to the mountains!" I cried, suddenly aware that I was tired to exhaustion, that I had had no sleep and no breakfast. "Take me to the mountains; I have longed, longed for them all these days!" I staggered a little, and closed my eyes. When I opened them he was holding me in his arms, looking down anxiously at my face. "Yes, we will go to the mountains; but first I shall take you home, and give you something to eat and drink, Elsie." CHAPTER XII. THE BREAKING OF THE STORM. "You are not afraid?" said Andrea, as we turned on to the Lung' Arno and came in sight of the house. "No," I answered in all good faith, a little resenting the question. After all, what was there to fear? This was the nineteenth century, when people's marriages were looked upon as their own affairs, and the paternal blessing--since it had ceased to be a _sine quâ non_--was never long withheld. If Andrea's family were disappointed in his choice, and I supposed that at first such would be the case, it lay with me to turn that disappointment into satisfaction. I had but a modest opinion of myself, yet I knew that in making me his wife Andrea was doing nothing to disgrace himself; his good taste, perhaps, was at fault, but that was all. You see, I had been educated in a very primitive and unworldly school of manners, and must ask you to forgive my ignorance. Yet I confess my heart did beat rather fast as we made our way up the steps into the empty hall, and I wished the next few hours well over. I reminded myself that I was under Andrea's wing, safe from harm, but looking up at Andrea I was not quite sure of his own unruffled self-possession. A distant hum of voices greeted us as we entered, growing louder with every stair we mounted, and when we reached the landing leading to the gallery, there stood the whole family assembled like the people in a comedy. To judge from the sounds we heard, they had been engaged in excited discussion, every one speaking at once, but at our appearance a dead and awful silence fell upon the group. Slowly we advanced, the mark of every eye, then came to a stop well in front of the group. It seemed an age, but I believe it was less than a minute, before the Marchesa stepped forward, looking straight at me and away from her son, so as not in the least to include him in her condemnation, and said: "I am truly sorry, Miss Meredith, for I was given to understand that your mother was a very respectable woman." "Mother!" cried Andrea, with a pale face and flashing eyes; "be careful of your words." Then taking my hand, he turned to the old Marchese, who stood helpless and speechless in the background, and said loudly and deliberately: "This lady has promised to be my wife." For an instant no one spoke, but there was no mistaking the meaning of their silence; then Romeo called out in a voice of suppressed fury: "It is impossible!" Andrea, still holding my hand, turned with awful calm upon his brother. Annunziata's ready tears were flowing, and Bianca gazed open-mouthed with horror and excitement upon the scene. "Romeo," said Andrea, tightening his hold of my fingers, "this is no affair of yours. Once before you tried to interfere in my life; I should have thought the result had been too discouraging for a second attempt." "It is the affair of all of us when you try to bring disgrace on the family." "Disgrace! Sir, do you know what word you are using, and in reference to whom?" "Oh, the signorina, of course, is charming. I have nothing to say against her." He bowed low, and, as our eyes met, I knew he was my enemy. "Andrea," said his mother, interposing between her sons, "this is no time and place for discussion. Miss Meredith shall come with me, and you shall endeavour to explain to your father how it is you have insulted him." "My son," said the Marchese, speaking for the first time, with a certain mournful dignity, "never before has such a thing happened in our family as that a wife should be brought home to it without the head of the house being consulted. What am I to think of this want of confidence, of respect, except that you are ashamed of your choice?" "Father," answered Andrea, drawing my hand through his arm, "it has throughout been my intention of asking your consent and your blessing. Nor has there been any concealment on my part. From the first I have expressed my admiration of this lady very openly to you all. What is the result? that she is watched, persecuted like a suspected criminal, and finally driven away--she a young girl, a stranger in a foreign land. Can you expect the man who loves her to stand by and see this without letting her know at the first opportunity that there is one on whose protection she can at once and always rely?" "Andrea," said his mother, "we did but try our best to prevent what we one and all regard as a misfortune. Miss Meredith is no suitable bride for a son of the house of Brogi. Oh" (as he opened his lips as about to protest), "I have nothing to say against her, though indeed you cannot expect me to be lost in admiration of her discretion." The Marchesa shrugged her shoulders and threw out her hands as she spoke, with an impatience which she rarely displayed. Andrea answered very quietly: "My mother, this is no time and place for such a discussion. With your permission, I will retire with my father, and Miss Meredith shall withdraw to her own room." He released my hand very gently from his arm, and stood a moment looking down at me. "You are not afraid, Elsie?" he whispered in English. "Yes, I am frightened to death!" "It will be all right very soon." "Must you leave me, Andrea?" "Yes, dear, I must." He went over to his father and gave him his arm. All this time Annunziata was weeping like the walrus in "Alice," her loud sobs echoing dismally throughout the house. "Elsie," said Andrea, as he prepared to descend with the Marchese, "go straight to your room." I turned without a word, and stunned, astonished, unutterably miserable, fled upstairs without a glance at the hostile group on the landing. Once the door safely shut behind me, my pent up feelings found vent, and I sobbed hysterically. Was ever such a morning in a woman's life? And I had had no breakfast. I was not allowed much time in which to indulge my emotions. Very soon came a knock at the door, and a maid entered with wine, bread, and chestnuts. With the volubility of Italian servants, she pressed me to eat and drink, and when she departed with the empty tray I felt refreshed, and ready to fight my battle to the last. A second knock at the door was not long in following the first, and this time it was the Marchesa who responded to my "Come in." My heart sank considerably as the stately little lady advanced towards me, and I inwardly reproached Andrea for his desertion. CHAPTER XIII. A SKILFUL DIPLOMATIST. "Miss Meredith," said the Marchesa, taking the chair I mechanically offered her, and waving her hand towards another, "pray be seated." I obeyed, feeling secretly much in awe of the rigid little figure sitting very upright opposite me. "What, after all, is the love of a young man but a passing infatuation?" This was the first gun fired into the enemy's camp, but there was no answering volley. That she spoke in all good faith I fully believe, and I felt how useless would be any discussion between us of the point. I looked down in silence. "Miss Meredith," went on the dry, fluent tones, which I was beginning to feel were the tones of doom, "I will refrain from blaming you in this unfortunate matter. I will merely state the case as it stands. You come into this family, are well received, kindly treated, and regarded with esteem by us all. In return for this, I am bound to say, you perform your duties and do what is required of you with amiability. So far all is well. But there are traditions, feelings, sacred customs, and emotions belonging to the family where you have been received of which you can have no knowledge. That is not required, nor expected of you. What is expected of you, as of every right-minded person, is that you should at least respect what is of such importance to others. Is this the case? Have you not rather taken delight in outraging our feelings in their most delicate relations; in trampling, in your selfish ignorance, on all that we hold most dear?" Her words stung me; they were cruel words, but I had sworn inwardly to stand by my guns. With hands interlocked and drooping head, I sat before her without word. "We had looked forward to this home-coming of my son," she went on, branching off into another talk, "as to the beginning of a fresh epoch of our lives, his father and I, we that are no longer young. To him we had looked for the carrying on of our race. From my daughter-in-law we have been obliged to despair of issue. Andrea, suitably married and established in the home of his ancestors, is what we all dreamed one day to see--nor do I even now entirely abandon the hope of seeing it." With burning cheeks, and an awful sense that a web was being woven about me, I rose stiffly from my seat, and went over to a cabinet where stood my mother's portrait. I looked a moment at the pictured eyes, as if for guidance, then said in a low voice: "Marchesa, I have given my word to your son, and only at his bidding can I take it back." "It does not take much penetration," she replied, "to know that my son is the last person to bid you do anything of the kind. That he is the soul of chivalry, that the very fact of a person being in an unfortunate position would of itself attract his regard, a child might easily discover." She spoke with such genuine feeling that for a moment my heart went out towards her; for a moment our eyes met, and not unkindly. "No doubt," she went on, after a pause, and rising from her seat, "no doubt you represented the precautions we thought necessary to adopt, for your own protection as well my son's, as a form of persecution. If you did not actually represent it to him, I feel sure you gave him to understand that such was the case." She had hit the mark. With an agonizing rush of shame, of despair, I remembered my own outbreak on the piazza that morning; how I had confided to Andrea, unasked, my intention of going away, and of the sorrow the prospect gave me. Had I been mistaken? Had the message of his eyes, his voice, his manner, meant nothing? Had I indeed been unmindful of my woman's modesty? The Marchesa was aware at once of having struck home, and the monotonous tones began again. "Of course, Miss Meredith, if you choose to take advantage of my son's chivalry, and of his passing fancy--for Andrea is exceedingly susceptible and, no doubt, believes himself in love with you--if, I say, you choose to do this, there is no more to be said. "Andrea will never take back his word, on that you may rely. But be sure of this, his life will be spoiled, and he will know it. It is not to be expected that you should realize the meaning of ancestral pride, of family honour. Perhaps you think the sentiments which have taken centuries to grow can wither up in a day before the flame of a foolish fancy?" She had conquered. Moving over to her I looked straight in her face. My voice rang strange and hollow: "By marrying your son I should bring no disgrace upon him nor his family. But I do not intend to marry him." She had not anticipated so easy a victory. Her cheek flushed, almost as if with compunction. She held out her hands towards me. But as for me, I turned away ungraciously, and, going up to the chest, began to lift out my under linen, and to pile it on the bed. "Marchesa, do not thank me, do not praise me? I do not know if I am doing right or wrong." "Signorina, you have taken the course of an honourable woman." I went over to the corner where my box stood, and lifted the lid with trembling hands. "Marchesa, will your servant find out what hour of the night the train leaves for Genoa? and will he have a drosky ready in time to take me to the station?" "Miss Meredith, there is no necessity for this haste. You cannot depart like this, and without advising your family." I laid a dress--the little black dress I had worn at the dance--at the bottom of the box. It ought to have gone at the top, but such details did not occupy me at the moment. "I trust," I said, "that there may be no difficulties placed in the way of my immediate departure." She came up to me in some agitation. "But, signorina!" "Marchesa," I answered, "you have my promise. Is not that what you wanted?" I intended a dismissal, I frankly own it, but the Marchesa took my rudeness with such humility that for the moment I felt ashamed of myself. "You have forced me, Miss Meredith, to speak to you as I have never spoken before to a stranger beneath my roof. To fly in the face of the hospitable traditions of the house----" There came a knock at the door, and the servant announced that the Marchesino desired to speak with Miss Meredith. We two women, who both loved Andrea, looked at one another. "You will have to tell him yourself, signorina; from no one else would my son receive your message." The Marchesa turned away as she spoke. "I will write to him." Hastily dismissing the servant with words to the effect that Andrea should be waited on in a few minutes, the Marchesa handed me, in silence, the little paper-case which lay on the table. With uncertain fingers I wrote: "MARCHESINO,--We were both of us hasty and ill-advised this morning. I must thank you for the great honour you have done me, but at the same time I must beg of you to release me from the promise I have made.--ELSIE MEREDITH." I handed the open sheet to the Marchesa, who read it carefully, folded it up, thanked me and went from the room. Then suddenly the great bed began to waltz, the open box in the corner, the painted ceiling, the chest and cabinet to whirl about in hopeless confusion. I don't know how it came about, but for the first time in my life I fainted. CHAPTER XIV. RELEASED FROM HER VOW. It was four o'clock in the afternoon; already the front of the house was in shadow, and the drawing-room was cool and dark. Here Andrea and I were standing face to face; both pale, both resolute, while the Marchesa looked from one to the other with anxious eyes. "You wrote this?" he asked, holding up my unfortunate scrawl. "Yes, I wrote it." "And you meant what you wrote?" "Yes." He came a little nearer to me, speaking, it seemed, with a certain passionate contempt. "And you expected me, Elsie, to accept such an answer?" Before the fire of his glance my eyes fell suddenly. "I have no other answer to give you," I murmured brokenly. The Marchesa, who had stayed in the room by my own request, glanced questioningly from one to the other, evidently unable to follow the rapid English of the dialogue. "Is it possible, Elsie, that you have deceived me? That you, who seemed so true, are falser than words can say? Have you forgotten what you said to me, what your eyes said as well as your lips, a few short hours ago?" "I have not forgotten, but I cannot marry you." "Then you do not love me, Elsie? you have been amusing yourself." "If you choose to think so, I cannot help it." "Elsie, whatever promise you have made to my mother, whatever promise may have been extorted from you, remember that your first promise and your duty were to me." I shivered from head to foot, while my heart echoed his words. But I had given my word, and I would not go back from it. Never should my mother's daughter thrust herself unwelcomed in any house. "Have you nothing to say to me, Elsie?" "Nothing." "Mother," he cried, turning flashing eyes to the Marchesa, "what have you been saying to her, by what means have you so transformed her, how have you succeeded in wringing from her a most unjust promise?" "Stay," I interposed, speaking also in Italian, "no promise has been wrung from me, I gave it freely. Marchesino, it seems you cannot believe it, yet it is true that of my own free will I refuse to marry you, that I take back my unconsidered word of this morning. I am no wife for you, and you no husband for me; a few hours of reflection have sufficed very plainly to show me that." He stood there, paler than ever, looking at me with a piteous air of incredulity. "Elsie, it is not possible--consider, remember--it is not true!" His voice broke, wavered, and fell; from the passionate entreaty of his eyes I turned my own way. "It is true, Marchesino, that I will never, never marry you." Clear, cold, and cruel, though very low, were the tones of my voice; I know not what angel or fiend was giving me strength and utterance; I only know that it was not the normal Elsie who thus spoke and acted. There was a pause, which seemed to last an age, then once again his voice broke the stillness. "Since, then, you choose to spoil my life, Elsie, and perhaps (who knows?) your own, there is no more to be said. Far be it from me to extort a woman's consent from her. The only love worth having is that which is given freely, which has courage, which has pride." Very hard and contemptuous sounded his words. My heart cried out in agony; "Andrea, you are unjust!" but I stood there dumb as a fish, with clasped hands and a drooping head. "Mother," went on Andrea, "will you kindly summon my father and the others. Miss Meredith, oblige me and stay a few moments; I am sorry to trouble you." They came in slowly through the open door, the old man, his son and the two younger ladies, anxious, expectant. Andrea turned towards them. "My father," he said, "this lady refuses to marry me, and no doubt everybody is content. That she declines to face the hostility, the discourtesy of my family, is not perhaps greatly to be wondered at. It is evident that I am not considered worthy of so great a sacrifice on her part; I do not blame her; rather I blame my own credulity in thinking my love returned. But I wish you all to know," he added, "that I have entirely altered my plans. I shall write off my appointment in England, and shall start to-night for Livorno, on my way to America. My mother, you will kindly send for an _orario_ that I may know at what time to order the carriage. Miss Meredith, I bid you good-bye." He turned round suddenly and faced me, holding out his hand with an air of ceremony. As for me, I glanced from the dear hand, the dear eyes, to the circle of dismayed faces beyond, then, without a word, I rushed through the open door to my room. Not daring to allow myself a moment's thought, I fell to immediately packing--fitting in a neat mosaic of stockings and petticoats as though it were the one object of existence. I do not know if it were minutes or hours before the Marchesa came in, pale and unusually agitated, with no air of enjoying her victory. "Signorina," she said, "the train for Genoa leaves at 8; I have ordered the carriage for 7.15. You would prefer, perhaps, to dine in your room?" "I do not wish for dinner, thank you." "You must allow me to thank you once again, Miss Meredith." "Do not thank me," I cried, with sudden passion; "I have done nothing to be thanked for." For, indeed, I was enjoying none of the compensations of martyrdom; for me it was the pang without the palm, as the poet says. I had fallen in a cause in which I did not believe, had been pressed into a service for which I had no enthusiasm. "If you will excuse me, Marchesa," I went on, "there are some books of mine in the schoolroom which I must fetch;" and with a little bow, I swept into the corridor with an air as stately as her own. Andrea's room was on the same floor as my own, but at the other end of the passage, and I had to pass it on my way to the schoolroom. The door stood wide open, and just outside was a large trunk, which Pasquale, the servant, was engaged in packing, while his master gave directions and handed things from the threshold. I heard their voices as I came. "At what time does the train go for Livorno, did you say?" "At 9, _excellenza_. The carriage will be back in time from the station." I glided past as rapidly as possible, filled with a certain mournful humour at this spectacle of the gentleman packing his box at one end of the hall, while the lady packed hers at the other. My room was empty when I regained it, and with a heavy heart I finished my sad task, locking the box, labelling and strapping it. Then I put on my grey travelling dress, my hat, veil, and gloves, and sat down by the window. It was only half-past five, and these preparations were a little premature; but this confused, chaotic day seemed beyond the ordinary measurements of time. A maid-servant, with a dainty little dinner on a tray, was the next arrival on the scene. She set it down on a table near me, but I took no heed. As if I could have swallowed a mouthful! I was quite calm now, only unutterably mournful. "I have spoilt my life," I thought, as my eyes fixed themselves drearily on the river, the old houses opposite, the marble bridge--once all so strange, now grown so dear; "I have spoilt my life, and for what? Ah, if mother had only been here to stand by me! But I was alone. What was I to do? Oh, Andrea, do you hate me?" The tears streamed down my face as I sat. "Oh, my beloved Pisa," I thought again, "how can I bear to leave you!" Once more came a knock at the door--the little, quick knock of the Marchesa; and as I responded duly, I reflected: "No doubt she comes to insult me with my salary. And the worst of it is, I shall have to take it; for if I don't, how am I to get home?" She looked very unlike her usual, self-possessed self as she came towards me. "Miss Meredith, my husband wishes to speak to you." I rose wearily in mechanical obedience, and followed her, silent and dejected, downstairs to the Marchese's room. Here, amid his books and papers, sat the old man, looking the picture of wretchedness. "Ah, signorina," he said, "what will you think of me, of us all? Of the favour which, very humbly, I have to beg of you? I cannot bear thus to part from my son; he is going far away from me, in anger, for an indefinite time. It is you, and you only, who can persuade him to stop!" I look up in sudden astonishment. "My child, go to him; tell him that he can stay." "Marchese, I am sorry, but you ask what is impossible." "I do not wonder," he said, with a most touching yet dignified humility, "I do not wonder at your reply. My wife, it is your part to speak to this lady." With set lips yet unblanching front, the gallant little Marchesa advanced. "Miss Meredith, do not in this matter consider yourself bound by any promise you have made to me. I release you from it." "May not the matter be considered ended?" I cried in very weariness; "that I have come between your son and his family no one regrets more than I. Only let me go away!" The old man rose slowly, left the room, and went to the foot of the stairs. "Andrea, Andrea," I heard him call. "His excellency has not finished packing," answered the voice of Pasquale. "Andrea, Andrea," cried his father again; then came rapid footsteps, and in a few seconds Andrea stood once more before me. He turned from one to the other questioningly. The Marchese took my hand. "My son," he said, "can you not persuade this lady to remain with us." He looked up, my Andrea, and our eyes met; but on neither side was speech or movement. The old man went on. "Andrea, it is possible that we did wrong, your mother and I, in attempting to interfere with you in this matter. You must forgive us if we are slow to understand the new spirit of radicalism which, it seems, is the spirit of the times. Once before our wishes clashed; but, my son, I cannot bear to send you away in anger a second time. As for this lady, she knows how deeply we all respect her. Persuade her to forgive us, if indeed you can." Andrea I saw was deeply moved; he shaded his eyes with his hand, and the tears flowed down my own cheeks unchecked. "Well, Elsie, it is for you to decide." He spoke at last, coldly, in an off-hand manner. I was lacking in pride, perhaps in dignity, for though I said nothing, I held out my hand. "Are you quite sure you love me, Elsie?" "Quite, quite sure, Andrea." * * * * * * "I am so glad," cried Bianca, some ten minutes later, giving me a hug, "I am so glad it is you and not that bad-tempered Costanza." "We are all glad," said the old Marchese, holding out his hand with a smile, while Romeo and his mother stood bearing their defeat with commendable grace. * * * * * * So it came to pass that on the evening of that wonderful day Andrea and I, instead of being borne by express trains to Genoa and Leghorn respectively, were pacing the gallery arm in arm in the sunlight. We had been engaged in this occupation for about an hour, and now he knew all about my mother and sisters, and the details of the happy life at Islington. "We will live in England, but every year we will come to Italy," he was saying, as we paused before the Bronzino, which seemed to have taken in the situation. "I love Italy more than any place in the world," I answered. A pause. "We will be married immediately after Easter, Elsie!" "Andrea, I go home the day after to-morrow." "And to-morrow," he said, "we will go to the mountains." The Gresham Press, UNWIN BROTHERS, CHILWORTH AND LONDON. 
18687	----	DAISY BY ELIZABETH WETHERELL AUTHOR OF "THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD," "QUEECHY," ETC., ETC. LONDON : WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE CONTENTS CHAPTER I. MISS PINSHON CHAPTER II. MY HOME CHAPTER III. THE MULTIPLICATION TABLE CHAPTER IV. SEVEN HUNDRED PEOPLE CHAPTER V. IN THE KITCHEN CHAPTER VI. WINTER AND SUMMER CHAPTER VII. SINGLEHANDED CHAPTER VIII. EGYPTIAN GLASS CHAPTER IX. SHOPPING CHAPTER X. SCHOOL CHAPTER XI. A PLACE IN THE WORLD CHAPTER XII. FRENCH DRESSES CHAPTER XIII. GREY COATS CHAPTER XIV. YANKEES CHAPTER XV. FORT PUTNAM CHAPTER XVI. HOPS CHAPTER XVII. OBEYING ORDERS CHAPTER XVIII. SOUTH AND NORTH CHAPTER XIX. ENTERED FOR THE WAR CHAPTER I. MISS PINSHON. I want an excuse to myself for writing my own life; an excuse for the indulgence of going it all over again, as I have so often gone over bits. It has not been more remarkable than thousands of others. Yet every life has in it a thread of present truth and possible glory. Let me follow out the truth to the glory. The first bright years of my childhood I will pass. They were childishly bright. They lasted till my eleventh summer. Then the light of heavenly truth was woven in with the web of my mortal existence; and whatever the rest of the web has been, those golden threads have always run through it all the rest of the way. Just as I reached my birthday that summer and was ten years old, I became a Christian. For the rest of that summer I was a glad child. The brightness of those days is a treasure safe locked up in a chamber of my memory. I have known other glad times too in my life; other times of even higher enjoyment. But among all the dried flowers of my memory, there is not one that keeps a fresher perfume or a stronger scent of its life than this one. Those were the days without cloud; before life shadows had begun to cast their blackness over the landscape. And even though such shadows do go as well as come, and leave the intervals as sun- lit as ever; yet, after that change of the first life shadow is once seen, it is impossible to forget that it may come again and darken the sun. I do not mean that the days, of that summer were absolutely without things to trouble me; I had changes of light and shade; but on the whole, nothing that did not heighten the light. They were pleasant days I had in Juanita's cottage at the time when my ankle was broken; there were hours of sweetness with crippled Molly; and it was simply delight I had all alone with my pony Loupe, driving over the sunny and shady roads, free to do as I liked and go where I liked. And how I enjoyed studying English history with my cousin Preston. It is all stowed away in my heart, as fresh and sweet as at first. I will not pull it out now. The change, and my first real life shadow came, when my father was thrown from his horse and injured his head. Then the doctors decided he must go abroad and travel, and mamma decided it was best that I should go to Magnolia with aunt Gary and have a governess. There is no pleasure in thinking of those weeks. They went very slowly, and yet very fast; while I counted every minute and noted every step in the preparations. They were all over at last; my little world was gone from me; and I was left alone with aunt Gary. Her preparations had been made too; and the day after the steamer sailed we set off on our journey to the south. I do not know much about that journey. For the most part the things by the way were like objects in a mist to me and no more clearly discerned. Now and then there came a rift in the mist; something woke me up out of my sorrow-dream; and of those points and of what struck my eyes at those minutes I have a most intense and vivid recollection. I can feel yet the still air of one early morning's start, and hear the talk between my aunt and the hotel people about the luggage. My aunt was a great traveller and wanted no one to help her or manage for her. I remember acutely a beggar who spoke to us on the sidewalk at Washington. We staid over a few days in Washington, and then hurried on; for when she was on the road my aunt Gary lost not a minute. We went, I presume, as fast as we could without travelling all night; and our last day's journey added that too. By that time my head was getting steadied, perhaps, from the grief which had bewildered it; or grief was settling down and taking its proper place at the bottom of my heart, leaving the surface as usual. For twelve hours that day we went by a slow railway train through a country of weary monotony. Endless forests of pine seemed all that was to be seen; scarce ever a village; here and there a miserable clearing and forlorn- looking house; here and there stoppages of a few minutes to let somebody out or take somebody in; once, to my great surprise, a stop of rather more than a few minutes to accommodate a lady who wanted some flowers gathered for her. I was surprised to see flowers wild in the woods at that time of year, and much struck with the politeness of the railway train that was willing to delay for such a reason. We got out of the car for dinner, or for a short rest at dinner-time. My aunt had brought her lunch in a basket. Then the forests and the rumble of the cars began again. At one time the pine forests were exchanged for oak, I remember; after that, nothing but pine. It was late in the day, when we left the cars at one of those solitary wayside station-houses. I shall never forget the look and feeling of the place. We had been for some miles going through a region of swamp or swampy woods, where sometimes the rails were laid on piles in the water. This little station- house was in the midst of such a region. The woods were thick and tangled with vines everywhere beyond the edge of the clearing; the ground was wet beneath them and in places showed standing water. There was scarcely a clearing; the forest was all round the house; with only the two breaks in it where on one side and on the other the iron rail track ran off into the distance. It was a lonely place; almost nobody was there waiting for the train; one or two forlorn coloured people and a long lank-looking countryman, were all. Except what at first prevented my seeing anything else � my cousin Preston. He met me just as I was going to get down from the car; lifted me to the platform; and then with his looks and words almost broke up the composure which for several days had been growing upon me. It was not hardened yet to bear attacks. I was like a poor shell-fish, which having lost one coat of armour and defence, craves a place of hiding and shelter for itself until its new coat be grown. While he was begging me to come into the station-house and rest, I stood still looking up the long line of railway by which we had come, feeling as if my life lay at the other end of it, out of sight and quite beyond reach. Yet I asked him not to call me "poor" Daisy. I was very tired, and I suppose my nerves not very steady. Preston said we must wait at that place for another train; there was a fork in the road beyond, and this train would not go the right way. It would not take us to Baytown. So he had me into the station-house. It wearied me, and so did all that my eyes lighted upon, strange though it was. The bare room, not clean; the board partition, with swinging doors, behind which, Preston said, were the cook and the baker; the untidy waiting girls that came and went, with scant gowns and coarse shoes, and no thread of white collar to relieve the dusky throat and head rising out of the dark gown; and no apron at all. Preston did what he could. He sent away the girls with their trays of eatables; he had a table pulled out from the wall and wiped off; and then he ordered a supper of eggs, and johnny cake, and all sorts of things. But I could not eat. As soon as supper was over I went out on the platform to watch the long lines of railway running off through the forest, and wait for the coming train. The evening fell while we looked; the train was late; and at last when it came I could only know it in the distance by the red spark of its locomotive gleaming like a firefly. It was a freight train; there was but one passenger car, and that was full. We got seats with difficulty, and apart from each other. I hardly know whether that, or anything, could have made me more forlorn. I was already stiff and weary with the twelve hours of travelling we had gone through that day; inexpressibly weary in heart. It seemed to me that I could not endure long the rumble and the jar and the closeness of this last car. The passengers, too, had habits which made me draw my clothes as tight around me as I could, and shrink away mentally into the smallest compass possible. I had noticed the like, to be sure, ever since we left Washington; but to-night, in my weary, faint, and tired-out state of mind and body, every unseemly sight or sound struck my nerves with a sense of pain that was hardly endurable. I wondered if the train would go on all night; it went very slowly. And I noticed that nobody seemed impatient or had the air of expecting that it would soon find its journey's end. I felt as if I could not bear it many half hours. My next neighbour was a fat, good- natured old lady, who rather made matters worse by putting her arm round me and hugging me up, and begging me to make a pillow of her and go to sleep. My nerves were twitching with impatience and the desire for relief; when suddenly the thought came to me that I might please the Lord by being patient. I remember what a lull the thought of Him brought; and yet how difficult it was not to be impatient, till I fixed my mind on some Bible words, � they were the words of the twenty-third psalm, � and began to think and pray them over. So good they were, that by and by they rested me. I dropped asleep and forgot my aches and weariness until the train arrived at Baytown. They took me to a hotel then, and put me to bed, and I did not get up for several days. I must have been feverish; for my fancies wandered incessantly in unknown places with papa, in regions of the old world; and sometimes, I think, took both him and myself to rest and home where wanderings are over. After a few days this passed away. I was able to come downstairs; and both Preston and his mother did their best to take good care of me. Especially Preston. He brought me books, and fruit and birds to tempt me to eat; and was my kind and constant companion when his mother was out, and indeed when she was in, too. So I got better, by the help of oranges and rice-birds. I could have got better faster, but for my dread of a governess which was hanging over me. I heard nothing about her, and could not bear to ask. One day Preston brought the matter up and asked if Daisy was going to have a schoolmistress? "Certainly," my aunt Gary said. "She must be educated, you know." "_I_ don't know," said Preston; "but if they say so, I suppose she must. Who is it to be, mamma?" "You do not know anything about it," said aunt Gary. "If my son was going to marry the greatest heiress in the State � and she is very nearly that; � goodness! I did not see you were there, Daisy, my dear; but it makes no difference; � I should think it proper that she should be educated." "I can't see what her being an heiress should have to do with it," said Preston, � "except rather to make it unnecessary as well as a bore. Who is it, mamma?" "I have recommended Miss Pinshon." "Oh, then, it is not fixed yet." "Yes, it is fixed. Miss Pinshon is coming as soon as we get to Magnolia." "I'll be off before that," said Preston. "Who is Miss Pinshon?" "How should _you_ know? She has lived at Jessamine Bank, � educated the Dalzell girls." "What sort of a person, mamma?" "What sort of a person?" said my aunt Gary; "why, a governess sort of person. What sort should she be?" "Any other sort in the world," said Preston, "for my money. That is just the sort to worry poor little Daisy out of her life." "You are a foolish boy!" said aunt Gary. "Of course, if you fill Daisy's head with notions, she will not get them out again. If you have anything of that sort to say, you had better say it where she will not hear." "Daisy has eyes � and a head," said Preston. As soon as I was able for it Preston took me out for short walks; and as I grew stronger he made the walks longer. The city was a strange place to me; very unlike New York; there was much to see and many a story to hear; and Preston and I enjoyed ourselves. Aunt Gary was busy making visits, I think. There was a beautiful walk by the sea, which I liked best of all; and when it was not too cold my greatest pleasure was to sit there looking over the dark waters and sending my whole soul across them to that unknown spot where my father and mother were. "Home," that spot was to me. Preston did not know what I liked the Esplanade for; he sometimes laughed at me for being poetical and meditative; when I was only sending my heart over the water. But he was glad to please me in all that he could; and whenever it was not too cold, our walks always took me there. One day, sitting there, I remember we had a great argument about studying. Preston began with saying that I must not mind this governess that was coming, nor do anything she bade me unless I liked it. As I gave him no answer, he repeated what he had said. "You know, Daisy, you are not obliged to care what she thinks." I said I thought I was. "What for?" said Preston. "I have a great deal to learn, you know," I said, feeling it very gravely indeed in my little heart. "What do you want to know so much?" said Preston. I said, "everything". I was very ignorant. "You are no such thing," said Preston. "Your head is full this minute. I think you have about as much knowledge as is good for you. I mean to take care that you do not get too much." "Oh, Preston," said I, "that is very wrong. I have not any knowledge scarcely." "There is no occasion," said Preston stoutly. "I hate learned women." "Don't you like to learn things?" "That's another matter," said he. "A man must know things, or he can't get along. Women are different." "But I think it is nice to know things too," said I. "I don't see how it is different." "Why, a woman need not be a lawyer, or a doctor, or a professor," said Preston; "all she need do, is to have good sense and dress herself nicely." "Is dressing so important?" said I, with a new light breaking over me. "Certainly. Ribbands of the wrong colour will half kill a woman. And I have heard aunt Randolph say that a particular lady was ruined by her gloves." "Ruined by her gloves!" said I. "Did she buy so many?" Preston went into such a laugh at that, I had to wait some time before I could go on. I saw I had made some mistake, and I would not renew that subject. "Do _you_ mean to be anything of that sort?" I said, with some want of connection. "What sort? Ruined by my gloves? Not if I know it." "No, no! I mean, a lawyer or a doctor or a professor?" "I should think not!" said Preston, with a more emphatic denial. "Then, what are you studying for?" "Because, as I told you, Daisy, a man must know things, or he cannot get on in the world." I pondered the matter, and then I said, I should think good sense would make a woman study too. I did not see the difference. "Besides, Preston," I said, "if she didn't, they would not be equal." "Equal!" cried Preston. "Equal! Oh, Daisy, you ought to have lived in some old times. You are two hundred years old, at least. Now don't go to studying that, but come home. You have sat here long enough." It was my last hour of freedom. Perhaps for that reason I remember every minute so distinctly. On our way home we met a negro funeral. I stopped to look at it. Something, I do not know what, in the long line of dark figures, orderly and even stately in their demeanour, the white dresses of the women, the peculiar faces of men and women both, fascinated my eyes. Preston exclaimed at me again. It was the commonest sight in the world, he said. It was their pride to have a grand funeral. I asked if this was a grand funeral. Preston said "Pretty well; there must be several hundred of them and they were well dressed." And then he grew impatient and hurried me on. But I was thinking; and before we got to the hotel where we lodged, I asked Preston if there were many coloured people at Magnolia. "Lots of them," he said. "There isn't anything else." "Preston," I said presently, "I want to buy some candy somewhere." Preston was very much pleased, I believe, thinking that my thoughts had quite left the current of sober things. He took me to a famous confectioner's; and there I bought sweet things till my little stock of money was all gone. "No more funds?" said Preston. Never mind, � go on, and I'll help you. Why, I never knew you liked sugarplums so much. What next? burnt almonds? this is good, Daisy, � this confection of roses. But you must take all this sugar in small doses, or I am afraid it wouldn't be just beneficial." "Oh, Preston!" I said, � "I do not mean to eat all this myself." "Are you going to propitiate Miss Pinshon with it? I have a presentiment that sweets wont sweeten her, Daisy." "I don't know what "propitiate" means," I said, sighing. "I will not take the almonds, Preston." But he was determined I should; and to the almonds he added a quantity of the delicate confection he spoke of, which I had thought too delicate and costly for the uses I purposed; and after the rose he ordered candied fruits; till a great package of varieties was made up. Preston paid for them � I could not help it � and desired them sent home; but I was bent on taking the package myself. Preston would not let me do that, so he carried it; which was a much more serious token of kindness, in him, than footing the bill. It was but a little way, however, to the hotel. We were in the hall, and I was just taking my sugars from Preston to carry them upstairs, when I heard aunt Gary call my name from the parlour. Instinctively, I cannot tell how, I knew from her tone what she wanted me for. I put back the package in Preston's hands, and walked in; my play over. How well I knew my play was over, when I saw my governess. She was sitting by my aunt on the sofa. Quite different from what I had expected, so different that I walked up to her in a maze, and yet seemed to recognise in that first view all that was coming after. Probably that is fancy; but it seems to me now that all I ever knew or felt about Miss Pinshon in the years that followed, was duly begun and betokened in those. first five minutes. She was a young-looking lady, younger- looking than she was. She had a dark, rich complexion, and a face that I suppose would have been called handsome; it was never handsome to me. Long black curls on each side of her face, and large black eyes, were the features that first struck one; but I immediately decided that Miss Pinshon was not born a lady. I do not mean that I think blood and breeding are unseverable; or that half a dozen lady ancestors in a direct line secure the character to the seventh in descent; though they _do_ often secure the look of it; nevertheless, ladies are born who never know all their lives how to make a curtsey, and curtseys are made with infinite grace by those who have nothing of a lady beyond the trappings. I never saw Miss Pinshon do a rude or an awkward thing, that I remember; nor one which changed my first mind about her. She was handsomely dressed; but there again I felt the same want. Miss Pinshon's dresses made me think always of the mercer's counter and the dressmaker's shop. My mother's robes always seemed part of her own self; and so in a certain true sense they were. My aunt introduced me. Miss Pinshon studied me. Her first remark was that I looked very young. My aunt excused that, on the ground of my having been always a delicate child. Miss Pinshon observed further that the way I wore my hair produced part of the effect. My aunt explained _that_ to be my father's and mother's fancy; and agreed that she thought cropped heads were always ungraceful. If my hair were allowed to fall in ringlets on my neck, I would look very different. Miss Pinshon next inquired how much I knew? turning her great black eyes from me to aunt Gary. My aunt declared she could not tell; delicate health had also here interfered; and she appealed to me to say what knowledge I was possessed of. I could not answer. I could not say. It seemed to me I had not learned anything. Then Preston spoke for me. "Modesty is apt to be silent on its own merits," he said. "My cousin has learned the usual rudiments; and in addition to those the art of driving." "Of _what?_ What did you say?" inquired my governess. "Of driving, ma'am. Daisy is an excellent whip, for her years and strength." Miss Pinshon turned to Preston's mother. My aunt confirmed and enlarged the statement, again throwing the blame on my father and mother. For herself, she always thought it very dangerous for a little girl like me to go about the country in a pony- chaise all alone. Miss Pinshon's eyes could not be said to express anything, but to my fancy they concealed a good deal. She remarked that the roads were easy. "Oh, it was not here," said my aunt; "it was at the North, where the roads are not like our pine forests. However, the roads were not dangerous there, that I know of; not for anybody but a child. But horses and carriages are always dangerous." Miss Pinshon next applied herself to me. What did I know? "beside this whip accomplishment," as she said. I was tongue- tied. It did not seem to me that I knew anything. At last I said so. Preston exclaimed. I looked at him to beg him to be still; and I remember how he smiled at me. "You can read, I suppose?" my governess went on. "Yes, ma'am." "And write, I suppose?" "I do not think you would say I know how to write," I answered. "I cannot do it at all well; and it takes me a long time." "Come back to the driving, Daisy," said Preston. "That is one thing you do know. And English history, I will bear witness." "What have you got there, Preston?" my aunt asked. "Some hoarhound drops, mamma." "You haven't a sore throat?" she asked eagerly. "No, ma'am � not just now, but I had yesterday; and I thought I would be provided." "You seem provided for a long time �" Miss Pinshon remarked. "Can't get anything up at Magnolia � except rice," said Preston, after making the lady a bow which did not promise good fellowship. "You must take with you what you are likely to want there." "You will not want all that," said his mother. "No, ma'am, I hope not," said Preston, looking at his package demurely. "Old uncle Lot, you know, always has a cough; and I purpose delighting him with some of my purchases. I will go and put them away." "Old uncle Lot!" my aunt repeated. "What uncle Lot? I did not know you had been enough at Magnolia to get the servants' names. But I don't remember any uncle Lot." Preston turned to leave the room with his candy, and in turning gave me a look of such supreme fun � and mischief that at another time I could hardly have helped laughing. But Miss Pinshon was asking me if I understood arithmetic? "I think � I know very little about it," I said hesitating. "I can do a sum." "In what?" "On the slate, ma'am." "Yes, but in what?" "I don't know, ma'am � it is adding up the columns." "Oh, in _addition_, then. Do you know the multiplication and division tables?" "No, ma'am." "Go and get off your things, and then come back to me; and I will have some more talk with you." I remember to this day how heavily my feet went up the stairs. I was not very strong yet in body, and now the strength seemed to have gone out of my heart. "I declare," said Preston, who waited for me on the landing, "she falls into position easy! Does she think she is going to take _that_ tone with you?" I made no answer. Preston followed me into my room. "I won't have it, little Daisy. Nobody shall be mistress at Magnolia but you. This woman shall not. See, Daisy � I am going to put these things in my trunk for you, until we get where you want them. That will be safe." I thanked him. "What are you going to do now?" "I am going downstairs, as soon as I am ready." "Do you expect to be under all the commands this High Mightiness may think proper to lay upon you?" I begged him to be still and leave me. "She will turn you into stone!" he exclaimed. "She is a regular Gorgon, with those heavy eyes of hers. I never saw such eyes. I believe she would petrify me if I had to bear them. Don't you give Medusa one of those sweet almonds, Daisy, � not one, do you hear?" I heard too well. I faced round upon him and begged him to remember that it was my _mother_ I must obey in Miss Pinshon's orders; and said that he must not talk to me. Whereupon Preston threw down his candies, and pulled my cloak out of my unsteady hands, and locked his arms about me; kissing me and lamenting over me that it was "too bad." I tried to keep my self-command; but the end was a great burst of tears; and I went down to Miss Pinshon with red eyes and at a disadvantage. I think Preston was pleased. I had need of all my quiet and self-command. My governess stretched out her hand, drew me to her side and kissed me; then with the other hand went on to arrange the ruffle round my neck, stroking it and pulling it into order, and even taking out a little bit of a pin I wore, and putting it in again to suit herself. It annoyed me excessively. I knew all was right about my ruffle and pin; I never left them carelessly arranged; no fingers but mamma's had ever dared to meddle with them before. But Miss Pinshon arranged the ruffle and the pin, and still holding me, looked in my face with those eyes of hers. I began to feel that they were "heavy." They did not waver. They did not seem to wink, like other eyes. They bore down upon my face with a steady power, that was not bright but ponderous. Her first question was, whether I was a good girl? I could not tell how to answer. My aunt answered for me, that she believed Daisy meant to be a good girl, though she liked to have her own way. Miss Pinshon ordered me to bring up a chair and sit down; and then asked if I knew anything about mathematics; told me it was the science of quantity; remarked to my aunt that it was the very best study for teaching children to think, and that she always gave them a great deal of it in the first years of their pupilage. "It puts the mind in order," the black-eyed lady went on; "and other things come so easily after it. Daisy, do you know what I mean by 'quantity'?" I knew what _I _ meant by quantity; but whether the English language had anything in common for Miss Pinshon and me, I had great doubts. I hesitated. "I always teach my little girls to answer promptly when they are asked anything. I notice that you do not answer promptly. You can always tell whether you know a thing or whether you do not." I was not so sure of that. Miss Pinshon desired me now to repeat the multiplication table. Here at least there was certainty. I had never learned it. "It appears to me," said my governess, "you have done very little with the first ten years of your life. It gives you a great deal to do for the next ten." "Health has prevented her applying to her studies," said my aunt. "The want of health. Yes, I suppose so. I hope Daisy will be very well now, for we must make up for lost time." "I do not suppose so much time need have been lost," said my aunt; "but parents are easily alarmed, you know; they think of nothing but one thing." So now there was nobody about me who would be easily alarmed. I took the full force of that. "Of course," said Miss Pinshon, "I shall have a careful regard to her health. Nothing can be done without that. I shall take her out regularly to walk with me, and see that she does not expose herself in any way. Study is no hindrance to health; learning has no malevolent effect upon the body. I think people often get sick for want of something to think of." How sure I felt, as I went up to bed that night, that no such easy cause of sickness would be mine for long years to come! CHAPTER II. MY HOME. The next day we were to go to Magnolia. It was a better day than I expected. Preston kept me with him, away from aunt Gary and my governess; who seemed to have a very comfortable time together. Magnolia lay some miles inland, up a small stream or inlet called the Sands river; the banks of which were studded with gentlemen's houses. The houses were at large distances from one another, miles of plantation often lying between. We went by a small steamer which plied up and down the river; it paddled along slowly, made a good many landings, and kept us on board thus a great part of the day. At last Preston pointed out to me a little wooden pier or jetty ahead, which he said was my landing; and the steamer soon drew up to it. I could see only a broken bank, fifteen feet high, stretching all along the shore. However, a few steps brought us to a receding level bit of ground, where there was a break in the bank; the shore fell in a little, and a wooded dell sloped back from the river. A carriage and servants were waiting here. Preston and I had arranged that we would walk up and let the ladies ride. But as soon as they had taken their places I heard myself called. We declared our purpose, Preston and I; but Miss Pinshon said the ground was damp and she preferred I should ride; and ordered me in. I obeyed, bitterly disappointed; so much disappointed that I had the utmost trouble not to let it be seen. For a little while I did not know what we were passing. Then curiosity recovered itself. The carriage was slowly making its way up a rough road. On each side the wooded banks of the dell shut us in; and these banks seemed to slope upward as well as the road, for though we mounted and mounted, the sides of the dell grew no lower. After a little, then, the hollow of the dell began to grow wider, and its sides softly shelving down; and through the trees on our left we could see a house, standing high above us, but on ground which sloped towards the dell, which rose and widened and spread out to meet it. This sloping ground was studded with magnificent live oaks; each holding its place in independent majesty, making no interference with the growth of the rest. Some of these trees had a girth that half a dozen men with their arms outstretched in a circle could not span; they were green in spite of the winter; branching low, and spreading into stately, beautiful heads of verdure, while grey wreaths of moss hung drooping from some of them. The house was seen not very distinctly among these trees; it showed low, and in a long extent of building. I have never seen a prettier approach to a house than that at Magnolia. My heart was full of the beauty, this first time. "This is Magnolia, Daisy," said my aunt. "This is your house." "It appears a fine place," said Miss Pinshon. "It is one of the finest on the river. This is your property, Daisy." "It is papa's," I answered. "Well, � it belongs to your mother, and so you may say it belongs to your father; but it is yours for all that. The arrangement was, as I know," my aunt went on, addressing Miss Pinshon, � "the arrangement in the marriage settlements was, that the sons should have the father's property, and the daughters the mother's. There is one son and one daughter; so they will each have enough." "But it is mamma's and papa's," I pleaded. "Oh, well � it will be yours. That is what I mean. Ransom will have Melbourne and the Virginia estates; and Magnolia is yours. You ought to have a pretty good education." I was so astonished at this way of looking at things, that again I lost part of what was before me. The carriage went gently along, passing the house, and coming up gradually to the same level; then making a turn we drove at a better pace back under some of those great evergreen oaks, till we drew up at the house door. This was at a corner of the building, which stretched in a long, low line towards the river. A verandah skirted all that long front. As soon as I was out of the carriage I ran to the furthest end. I found the verandah turned the corner; the lawn too. All along the front, it sloped to the dell; at the end of the house, it sloped more gently and to greater distance down to the banks of the river. I could not see the river itself. The view of the dell at my left hand was lovely. A little stream which ran in the bottom had been coaxed to form a clear pool in an open spot, where the sunlight fell upon it, surrounded by a soft wilderness of trees and climbers. Sweet branches of jessamine waved there in their season; and a beautiful magnolia had been planted or cherished there, and carefully kept in view of the house windows. But the wide lawns, on one side and on the other, grew nothing but the oaks; the gentle slope was a playground for sunshine and shadow, as I first saw it; for then the shadows of the oaks were lengthening over the grass, and the waving grey wreaths of moss served sometimes as a foil, sometimes as an her, to the sunbeams. I stood in a trance of joy and sorrow; they were fighting so hard for the mastery; till I knew that my aunt and Miss Pinshon had come up behind me. "This is a proud place!" my governess remarked. I believe I looked at her. My aunt laughed; said she must not teach me that; and led the way back to the entrance of the house. All along the verandah I noticed that the green blinded long windows made other entrances for whoever chose them. The door was open for us already, and within was a row of dark faces of men and women, and a show of white teeth that looked like a welcome. I wondered aunt Gary did not say more to answer the welcome; she only dropped a few careless words as she went in, and asked if dinner was ready. I looked from one to another of the strange faces and gleaming rows of teeth. These were my mother's servants; that was something that came near to my heart. I heard inquiries after "Mis' Felissy," and "Mass' Randolph," and then the question, "Mis' 'Lizy, is this little missis?" It was asked by an old, respectable-looking, grey-haired negress. I did not hear my aunt's answer; but I stopped and turned to the woman and laid my little hand in her withered palm. I don't know what there was in that minute; only I know that whereas I touched one hand, I touched a great many hearts. Then and there began my good understanding with all the coloured people on my mother's estate of Magnolia. There was a general outburst of satisfaction and welcome. Some of the voices blessed me; more than one remarked that I was "like Mass' Randolph;" and I went into the parlour with a warm spot in my heart, which had been very cold. I was oddly at home at once. The room indeed was a room I had never seen before; yet according to the mystery of such things, the inanimate surroundings bore the mark of the tastes and habits I had grown up among all my life. A great splendid fire was blazing in the chimney; a rich carpet was on the floor; the furniture was luxurious though not showy, and there was plenty of it. So there was a plenty of works of art, in home and foreign manufacture. Comfort, elegance, prettiness, all around; and through the clear, glass of the long windows the evergreen oaks on the lawn showed like guardians of the place. I stood at one of them, with the pressure of that joy and sorrow filling my childish heart. My aunt presently called me from the window, and bade me let Margaret take off my things. I got leave to go up stairs with Margaret and take them off there. So I ran up the low easy flight of stairs � they were wooden and uncarpeted � to a matted gallery lit from the roof, with here and there a window in a recess looking upon the lawn. Many rooms opened into this gallery. I went from one to another. Here were great wood fires burning too; here were snowy white beds, with light muslin hangings; and dark cabinets and wardrobes; and mats on the floors, with thick carpets and rugs laid down here and there. And on one side and on the other side the windows looked out upon the wide lawn, with its giant oaks hung with grey wreaths of moss. My heart grew sore straitened. It was a hard evening, that first evening at Magnolia; with the loveliness and the brightness, the warm attraction, and the bitter cold sense of loneliness. I longed to throw myself down and cry. What I did, was to stand by one of the windows and fight myself not to let the tears come. If _they_ were here, it would be so happy! If they were here � oh, if they were here! I believe the girl spoke to me without my hearing her. But then came somebody whom I was obliged to hear, shouting "Daisy" along the gallery. I faced him with a great effort. He wanted to know what I was doing, and how I liked it, and where my room was. "Not found it yet?" said Preston. "Is this it? Whose room is this, hey? � you somebody?" "Maggie, massa," said the girl, dropping a curtsey. "Maggie, where is your mistress's room?" "This is Mis' 'Liza's room, sir." "Nonsense! Mis' 'Liza is only here on a visit � _this_ is your mistress. Where is her room, hey?" "Oh, stop, Preston!" I begged him. "I am not mistress." "Yes, you are. I'll roast anybody who says you ain't. Come along, and you shall choose which room you will have; and if it isn't ready they will get it ready. Come!" I made him understand my choice might depend on where other people's rooms were; and sent him off. Then I sent the girl away � she was a pleasant-faced mulatto, very eager to help me � and left to myself I hurriedly turned the key in the lock. I _must_ have some minutes to myself, if I was to bear the burden of that afternoon; and I knelt down with as heavy a heart, almost, as I ever knew. In all my life I had never felt so castaway and desolate. When my father and mother first went from me, I was at least among the places where they had been; June was with me still, and I knew not Miss Pinshon. The journey had had its excitements and its interest. Now I was alone; for June had decided, with tears and woeful looks, that she would not come to Magnolia; and Preston would be soon on his way back to college. I knew of only one comfort in the world; that wonderful, "Lo, I am with you." Does anybody know what that means, who has not made it the single plank bridge over an abyss? No one found out that anything was the matter with me, except Preston. His caresses were dangerous to my composure. I kept him off; and he ate his dinner with a thundercloud face which foretold war with all governesses. For me, it was hard work enough to maintain my quiet; everything made it hard. Each new room, every arrangement of furniture, every table appointment, though certainly not what I had seen before, yet seemed so like home that I was constantly missing what would have made it home indeed. It was the shell without the kernel. The soup ladle seemed to be by mistake in the wrong hands; Preston seemed to have no business with my father's carving knife and fork; the sense of desolation pressed upon me everywhere. After dinner, the ladies went up stairs to choose their rooms, and Miss Pinshon avowed that she wished to have mine within hers; it would be proper and convenient, she said. Aunt Gary made no objection; but there was some difficulty, because all the rooms had independent openings into the gallery. Miss Pinshon hesitated a moment between one of two that opened into each other and another that was pleasanter and larger but would give her less facility for overlooking my affairs. For one moment I drew a breath of hope; and then my hope was quashed. Miss Pinshon chose one of the two that opened into each other; and my only comfort was in the fact that my own room had two doors and I was not obliged to go through Miss Pinshon's to get to it. Just as this business was settled, Preston called me out into the gallery and asked me to go for a walk. I questioned with myself a second, whether I should ask leave; but I had an inward assurance that to ask leave would be not to go. I felt I must go. I ran back to the room where my things lay, and in two minutes I was out of the house. My first introduction to Magnolia! How well I remember every minute and every foot of the way. It was delicious, the instant I stepped out among the oaks and into the sunshine. Freedom was there, at all events. "Now Daisy, we'll go to the stables," Preston said, "and see if there is anything fit for you. I am afraid there isn't; though Edwards told me he thought there was." "Who is Edwards?" I asked, as we sped joyfully away through the oaks, across shade and sunshine. "Oh, he is the overseer." "What is an overseer?" "What is an overseer? � why, he is the man that looks after things." "What things?" I asked. "All the things � everything, Daisy; all the affairs of the plantation; the rice-fields and the cotton-fields, and the people, and everything." "Where are the stables? and where are we going?" "Here � just here � a little way off. They are just in a dell over here � the other side of the house, where the quarters are." "Quarters"? I repeated. "Yes. Oh, you don't know anything down here, but you'll learn. The stables and quarters are in this dell we are coming to; nicely out of sight. Magnolia is one of the prettiest places on the river." We had passed through the grove of oaks on the further side of the house, and then found the beginning of a dell which, like the one by which we had come up a few hours before, sloped gently down to the river. In its course it widened out to a little low sheltered open ground, where a number of buildings stood. "So the house is between two dells," I said. "Yes; and on that height up there, beyond the quarters, is the cemetery; and from there you can see a great many fields and the river and have a beautiful view. And there are capital rides all about the place, Daisy." When we came to the stables, Preston sent a boy in search of "Darius." Darius, he told me, was the coachman, and chief in charge of the stable department. Darius came presently. He was a grey-headed, fine-looking, most respectable black man. He had driven my mother and my mother's mother; and being a trusted and important man on the place, and for other reasons, he had a manner and bearing that were a model of dignified propriety. Very grave "uncle Darry" was; stately and almost courtly in his respectful courtesy; but he gave me a pleasant smile when Preston presented him. "We's happy to see Miss Daisy at her own home. Hope de Lord bress her." My heart warmed at these words like the ice-bound earth in a spring day. They were not carelessly spoken, nor was the welcome. My feet trod the greensward more firmly. Then all other thoughts were for the moment put to flight by Preston's calling for the pony and asking Darius what he thought of him, and Darry's answer. "Very far, massa; very far. Him no good for not'ing." While I pondered what this judgment might amount to, the pony was brought out. He was larger than Loupe, and had not Loupe's peculiar symmetry of mane and tail; he was a fat dumpy little fellow, sleek and short, dapple grey, with a good long tail and a mild eye. Preston declared he had no shape at all and was a poor concern of a pony; but to my eyes he was beautiful. He took one or two sugarplums from my hand with as much amenity as if we had been old acquaintances. Then a boy was put on him, who rode him up and down with a halter. "He'll do, Darius," said Preston. "For little missis? Just big enough, massa. Got no tricks at all, only he no like work. Not much spring in him." "Daisy must take the whip, then. Come and let us go look at some of the country where you will ride. Are you tired, Daisy?" "Oh, no," I said. "But wait a minute, Preston. Who lives in all those houses?" "The people. The hands. They are away in the fields at work now." "Does Darius live there?" "Of course. They all live here." "I should like to go nearer, and see the houses." "Daisy, it is nothing on earth to see. They are all just alike; and you see them from here." "I want to look in," � I said, moving down the slope. "Daisy," said Preston, you are just as fond of having your own way as �" "As what? I do not think I am, Preston." "I suppose nobody thinks he is," grumbled Preston, following me, � "except the fellows who can't get it." I had by this time almost forgotten Miss Pinshon. I had almost come to think that Magnolia might be a pleasant place. In the intervals, when the pony was out of sight, I had improved my knowledge of the old coachman; and every look added to my liking. There was something I could not read that more and more drew me to him. A simplicity in his good manners, a placid expression in his gravity, a staid reserve in his humility, were all there; and more yet. Also the scene in the dell was charming to me. The ground about the negro cottages was kept neat; they were neatly built of stone and stood round the sides of a quadrangle; while on each side and below the wooded slopes of ground closed in the picture. Sunlight was streaming through and brightening up the cottages and resting on uncle Darry's swarth face. Down through the sunlight I went to the cottages. The first door stood open, and I looked in. At the next I was about to knock, but Preston pushed open the door for me; and so he did for a third and a fourth. Nobody was in them. I was a good deal disappointed. They were empty, bare, dirty, and seemed to me very forlorn. What a set of people my mother's hands must be, I thought. Presently I came upon a ring of girls, a little larger than I was, huddled together behind one of the cottages. There was no manners about them. They were giggling and grinning, hopping on one foot, and going into other awkward antics; not the less that most of them had their arms filled with little black babies. I had got enough for that day, and turning about left the dell with Preston. At the head of the dell, Preston led off in a new direction, along a wide avenue that ran through the woods. Perfectly level and smooth, with the woods closing in on both sides and making long vistas through their boles and under their boughs. By and by we took another path that led off from this one, wide enough for two horses to go abreast. The pine trees were sweet overhead and on each hand, making the light soft and the air fragrant. Preston and I wandered on in delightful roaming; leaving the house and all that it contained at an unremembered distance. Suddenly we came out upon a cleared field. It was many acres large; in the distance a number of people were at work. We turned back again. "Preston," I said, after a silence of a few minutes, � "there seemed to be no women in those cottages. I did not see any." "I suppose not," said Preston; "because there were not any to see." "But had all those little babies no mothers?" "Yes, of course, Daisy; but they were in the field." "The mothers of those little babies?" "Yes. What about it? Look here � are you getting tired?" I said no; and he put his arm round me fondly, so as to hold me up a little; and we wandered gently on, back to the avenue, then down its smooth course further yet from the house, then off by another wood path through the pines on the other side. This was a narrower path, amidst sweeping pine branches and hanging creepers, some of them prickly, which threw themselves all across the way. It was not easy getting along. I remarked that nobody seemed to come there much. "I never came here myself," said Preston, "but I know it must lead out upon the river somewhere, and that's what I am after. � Hollo! we are coming to something. There is something white through the trees. I declare, I believe �" Preston had been out in his reckoning, and a second time had brought me where he did not wish to bring me. We came presently to an open place, or rather a place where the pines stood a little apart; and there in the midst was a small enclosure. A low brick wall surrounded a square bit of ground, with an iron gate in one side of the square; within, the grassy plot was spotted with the white marble of tombstones. There were large and small. Overhead, the great pine trees stood and waved their long branches gently in the wind. The place was lonely and lovely. We had come, as Preston guessed, to the river, and the shore was here high; so that we looked down upon the dark little stream far below us. The sunlight, getting low by this time, hardly touched it; but streamed through the pine trees and over the grass and gilded the white marble with gold. "I did not mean to bring you here," said Preston. "I did not know I was bringing you here. Come, Daisy � we'll go and try again." "Oh, stop!" I said � "I like it. I want to look at it." "It is the cemetery," said Preston. "That tall column is the monument of our great � no, of our great-great-grandfather; and this brown one is for mamma's father. Come, Daisy! �" "Wait a little," I said. "Whose is that with the vase on top?" "Vase?" said Preston � "it's an urn. It is an urn, Daisy. People do not put vases on tombstones." I asked what the difference was. "The difference? Oh, Daisy, Daisy! Why vases are to put flowers in; and urns � I'll tell you, Daisy, � I believe it is because the Romans used to burn the bodies of their friends and gather up the ashes and keep them in a funeral urn. So an urn comes to be appropriate to a tombstone." "I do not see how," I said. "Why, because an urn comes to be an emblem of mortality and all that. Come, Daisy; let us go." "I think a vase of flowers would be a great deal nicer," I said. "We do not keep the ashes of our friends." "We don't put signs of joy over their graves either," said Preston. "I should think we might," I said, meditatively. "When people have gone to Jesus � they must be very glad!" Preston burst out with an expression of hope that Miss Pinshon would "do something" for me; and again would have led me away; but I was not ready to go. My eye, roving beyond the white marble and the low brick wall, had caught what seemed to be a number of meaner monuments, scattered among the pine trees and spreading down the slope of the ground on the further side, where it fell off towards another dell. In one place a bit of board was set up; further on, a cross; then I saw a great many bits of board and crosses; some more and some less carefully made; and still as my eye roved about over the ground they seemed to start up to view in every direction; too low and too humble and too near the colour of the fallen pine leaves to make much show unless they were looked for. I asked what they all were? "Those? Oh, those are for the people, you know." "The people?" � I repeated. "Yes, the people � the hands." "There are a great many of them!" I remarked. "Of course," said Preston. "You see, Daisy, there have been I don't know how many hundreds of hands here for a great many years, ever since mother's grandfather's time." "I should think," said I, looking at the little board slips and crosses among the pine cones on the ground, � "I should think they would like to have something nicer to put up over their graves." "Nicer? those are good enough," said Preston. "Good enough for them." "I should think they would like to have something better," I said. "Poor people at the North have nicer monuments, I know. I never saw such monuments in my life." "Poor people!" cried Preston. "Why, these are the _hands_, Daisy, � the coloured people. What do they want of monuments?" "Don't they care?" said I, wondering. "Who cares if they care? I don't know whether they care," said Preston, quite out of patience with me, I thought. "Only, if they cared, I should think they would have something nicer," I said. "Where do they all go to church, Preston?" "Who?" said Preston. "These people?" "What people? The families along the river, do you mean?" "No, no," said I; "I mean _our_ people � these people; the hands. You say there are hundreds of them. Where do they go to church?" I faced Preston now in my eagerness; for the little board crosses and the forlorn look of the whole burying ground on the side of the hill had given me a strange feeling. "Where do they go to church, Preston?" "Nowhere, I reckon." I was shocked, and Preston was impatient. How should he know, he said; he did not live at Magnolia. And he carried me off. We went back to the avenue and slowly bent our steps again towards the house; slowly, for I was tired, and we both, I think, were busy with our thoughts. Presently I saw a man, a negro, come into the avenue a little before us with a bundle of tools on his back. He went as slowly as we, with an indescribable, purposeless gait. His figure had the same look too, from his lop-sided old white hat to every fold of his clothing, which seemed to hang about him just as if it would as lieve be off as on. I begged Preston to hail him and ask him the question about church going, which sorely troubled me. Preston was unwilling and resisted. "What do you want me to do that for, Daisy?" "Because aunt Gary told Miss Pinshon that we have to drive six miles to go to church. Do ask him where they go!" "They don't go _anywhere_, Daisy," said Preston impatiently; "they don't care a straw about it, either. All the church they care about is when they get together in somebody's house and make a great muss." "Make a muss!" said I. "Yes; a regular muss; shouting and crying and having what they call a good time. That's what some of them do; but I'll wager if I were to ask him about going to church, this fellow here would not know what I mean." This did by no means quiet me. I insisted that Preston should stop the man; and at last he did. I The fellow turned and came back towards us, ducking his old white hat. His face was just like the rest of him: there was no expression in it but an expression of limp submissiveness. "Sambo, your mistress wants to speak to you." "Yes, massa. I's George, massa." "George," said I, "I want to know where you go to church?" "Yes, missis. What missis want to know?" "Where do you and all the rest go to church?" "Reckon don't go nowhar, missis." "Don't you ever go to church?" "Church for white folks, missis; bery far; long ways to ride." "But you and the rest of the people � don't you go anywhere to church? to hear preaching?" "Reckon not, missis. De preachin's don't come dis way, likely." "Can you read the Bible, George?" "Dunno read, missis. Never had no larnin'." "Then don't you know anything about what is in the Bible? don't you know about Jesus?" "Reckon don't know not'ing, missis." "About Jesus?" said I again. " 'Clar, missis, dis nigger don't know not'ing, but de rice and de corn. Missis talk to Darry; he most knowin' nigger on plantation; knows a heap." "There!" exclaimed Preston � "that will do. You go off to your supper, George � and Daisy, you had better come on if you want anything pleasant at home. What on earth have you got now by that? What is the use? Of course they do not know anything; and why should they? They have no time and no use for it." "They have time on Sundays �" I said. "Time to sleep. That is what they do. That is the only thing a negro cares about, to go to sleep in the sun. It's all nonsense, Daisy." "They would care about something else, I dare say," I answered, "if they could get it." "Well, they can't get it. Now, Daisy, I want you to let these fellows alone. You have nothing to do with them, and you did not come to Magnolia for such work. You have nothing on earth to do with them." I had my own thoughts on the subject, but Preston was not a sympathising hearer. I said no more. The evergreen oaks about the house came presently in sight; then the low verandah that ran round three sides of it; then we came to the door, and my walk was over. CHAPTER III. THE MULTIPLICATION TABLE. My life at Magnolia might be said to begin when I came down stairs that evening. My aunt and Miss Pinshon were sitting in the parlour, in the light of a glorious fire of light wood and oak sticks. Miss Pinshon called me to her at once; inquired where I had been; informed me I must not for the future take such diversion without her leave first asked and obtained; and then put me to reading aloud, that she might see how well I could do it. She gave me a philosophical article in a magazine for my proof piece; it was full of long words that I did not know and about matters that I did not understand. I read mechanically, of course; trying with all my might to speak the long words right, that there might be no room for correction; but Miss Pinshon's voice interrupted me again and again. I felt cast away � in a foreign land; further and further from the home feeling every minute; and it seemed besides as if the climate had some power of petrifaction. I could not keep Medusa out of my head. It was a relief at last when the tea was brought in. Miss Pinshon took the magazine out of my hand. "She has a good voice, but she wants expression," was her remark. "I could not understand what she was reading," said my aunt Gary. "Nor anybody else," said Preston. "How are you going to give expression, when there is nothing to express?" "That is where you feel the difference between a good reader and one who is not trained," said my governess. "I presume Daisy has never been trained." "No, not in anything," said my aunt. "I dare say she wants a good deal of it." "We will try �" said Miss Pinshon. It all comes back to me as I write, that beginning of my Magnolia life. I remember how dazed and disheartened I sat at the tea-table, yet letting nobody see it; how Preston made violent efforts to change the character of the evening; and did keep up a stir that at another time would have amused me. And when I was dismissed to bed, Preston came after me to the upper gallery and almost broke up my power of keeping quiet. He gathered me in his arms, kissed me and lamented over me, and denounced ferocious threats against "Medusa;" while I in vain tried to stop him. He would not be sent away, till he had come into my room and seen that the fire was burning and the room warm, and Margaret ready for me. With Margaret there was also an old coloured woman, dark and wrinkled, my faithful old friend Mammy Theresa; but indeed I could scarcely see her just then, for my eyes were full of big tears when Preston left me; and I had to stand still before the fire for some minutes before I could fight down the fresh tears that were welling up and let those which veiled my eyesight scatter away. I was conscious how silently the two women waited upon me. I had a sense even then of the sympathy they were giving. I knew they served me with a respect which would have done for an Eastern princess; but I said nothing hardly, nor they, that night. If the tears came when I was alone, so did sleep too at last; and I waked up the next morning a little revived. It was a cool morning! and my eyes opened to see Margaret on her knees making my fire. Two good oak sticks were on the fire dogs, and a heap of light wood on the floor. I watched her piling and preparing, and then kindling the wood with a splinter of light wood which she lit in the candle. It was all very strange to me. The bare painted and varnished floor; the rugs laid down here and there; the old cupboards in the wall; the unwonted furniture. It did not feel like home. I lay still, until the fire blazed up and Margaret rose to her feet, and seeing my eyes open dropped her curtsey. "Please, missis, may I be Miss Daisy's girl?" "I will ask aunt Gary," I answered; a good deal surprised. "Miss Daisy is the mistress. We all belong to Miss Daisy. It will be as she say." I thought to myself that very little was going to be "as I said." I got out of bed, feeling terribly slim-hearted, and stood in my night-gown before the fire, trying to let the blaze warm me. Margaret did her duties with a zeal of devotion that reminded me of my old June. "I will ask aunt Gary," I said; "and I think she will let you build my fire, Margaret." "Thank'e, ma'am. First rate fires, I'll make, Miss Daisy. We'se all so glad Miss Daisy come to Magnoly." Were they? I thought, and what did she mean by their all "belonging to me"? I was not accustomed to quite so much deference. However, I improved my opportunity by asking Margaret my question of the day before about church. The girl half laughed. "Aint any church big enough to hold all de people," she said. "Guess we coloured folks has to go widout." "But where _is_ the church?" I said. "Aint none, Miss Daisy. People enough to make a church full all himselves." "And don't you want to go?" "Reckon it's o' no consequence, missis. It's a right smart chance of a way to Bo'mbroke, where de white folks' church is. Guess they don't have none for poor folks nor niggers in dese parts." "But Jesus died for poor people," I said, turning round upon my attendant. She met me with a gaze I did not understand, and said nothing. Margaret was not like my old June. She was a clear mulatto, with a fresh colour and rather a handsome face; and her eyes, unlike June's little anxious, restless, almond shaped eyes, were liquid and full. She went on care- fully with the toilet duties which busied her; and I was puzzled. "Did you never hear of Jesus?" I said presently. "Don't you know that He loves poor people?" "Reckon He loves rich people de best, Miss Daisy," the girl said, in a dry tone. I faced about to deny this, and to explain how the Lord had a special love and care for the poor. I saw that my hearer did not believe me. "She had heerd so," she said. The dressing-bell sounded long and loud, and I was obliged to let Margaret go on with my dressing; but in the midst of my puzzled state of mind, I felt childishly sure of the power of that truth, of the Lord's love, to break down any hardness and overcome any coldness. Yet, "how shall they hear without a preacher?" and I had so little chance to speak. "Then, Margaret," said I at last, "is there no place where you can go to hear about the things in the Bible?" "No, missis; I never goes." "And does not anybody, except Darry when he goes with the carriage?" "Can't, Miss Daisy; it's miles and miles; and no place for niggers neither." "Can you read the Bible, Margaret?" "Guess not, missis; we's too stupid; aint good for coloured folks to read." "Does _nobody_, among all the people, read the Bible?" said I, once more stopping Margaret in my dismay. "Uncle Darry � he does," said the girl; "and he � do 'spoun some; but I don't make no count of his 'spoundations." I did not know quite what she meant; but I had no time for anything more. I let her go, locked my door and kneeled down; with the burden on my heart of this new revelation; that there were hundreds of people under the care of my father and mother, who were living without church and without Bible, in desperate ignorance of everything worth knowing. If I papa had only been at Magnolia with me! I thought I could have persuaded him to build a church and let somebody come and teach the people. But now � what could I do? And I asked the Lord, what could I do? but I did not see the answer. Feeling the question on my two shoulders, I went down stairs. To my astonishment, I found the family all gathered in solemn order; the house servants at one end of the room, my aunt, Miss Pinshon and Preston at the other, and before my aunt a little table with books. I got a seat as soon as I could, for it was plain that something was waiting for me. Then my aunt opened the Bible and read a chapter, and followed it with a prayer read out of another book. I was greatly amazed at the whole proceeding. No such ceremony was ever gone through at Melbourne; and certainly nothing had ever given me the notion that my aunt Gary was any more fond of sacred things than the rest of the family. "An excellent plan," said Miss Pinshon, when we had risen from our knees and the servants had filed off. "Yes," my aunt said, somewhat as if it needed an apology; � "it was the custom in my father's and grandfather's time; and we always keep it up. I think old customs always should be kept up." "And do you have the same sort of thing on Sundays, for the out-of-door hands?" "What?" said my aunt. It was somewhat more abrupt than polite; but she probably felt that Miss Pinshon was a governess. "There were only the house servants gathered this morning." "Of course; part of them." "Have you any similar system of teaching for those who are outside? I think you told me they have no church to go to." "I should like to know what "system" you would adopt," said my aunt, "to reach seven hundred people." "A church and a minister would not be a bad thing." "Or we might all turn missionaries," said Preston; "and go among them with bags of Bibles round our necks. We might all turn missionaries." "Colporteurs," said Miss Pinshon. Then I said in my heart, "I will be one." But I went on eating my breakfast and did not look at anybody; only I listened with all my might. "I don't know about that" said my aunt. "I doubt whether a church and a minister would be beneficial." "Then you have a nation of heathen at your doors," said Miss Pinshon. "I don't know but they are just as well off," said my aunt. "I doubt if more light would do them any good. They would not understand it." "They must be very dark, if they could not understand light," said my governess. "Just as people that are very light cannot understand darkness," said Preston. "I think so," my aunt went on. "Our neighbour Colonel Joram, down below here at Crofts, will not allow such a thing as preaching or teaching on his plantation. He says it is bad for them. We always allowed it; but I don't know." "Colonel Joram is a heathen himself, you know, mother," said Preston. "Don't hold _him_ up." "I will hold him up for a gentleman, and a very successful planter," said Mrs. Gary. "No place is better worked or managed than Crofts. If the estate of Magnolia were worked and kept as well, it would be worth half as much again as it ever has been. But there is the difference of the master's eye. My brother-in-law never could be induced to settle at Magnolia, nor at his own estates either. He likes it better in the cold North." Miss Pinshon made no remark whatever in answer to this statement; and the rest of the talk at the breakfast-table was about rice. After breakfast my school life at Magnolia began. It seems as if all the threads of my life there were in a hurry to get into my hand. Ah, I had a handful soon! But this was the fashion of my first day with my governess. � All the days were not quite so bad; however it gave the key of them all. Miss Pinshon bade me come with her to the room she and my aunt had agreed should be the schoolroom. It was the book room of the house, though it had hardly books enough to be called a library. It had been the study or private room of my grandfather; there was a leather-covered table with an old bronze standish; some plain book-cases; a large escritoire; a terrestrial globe; a thermometer and barometer; and the rest of the furniture was an abundance of chintz-covered chairs and lounges. These were very easy and pleasant for use; and long windows opening on the verandah looked off among the evergreen oaks and their floating grey drapery; the light in the room and the whole aspect of it was agreeable. If Miss Pinshon had not been there! But she was there, with a terrible air of business; setting one or two chairs in certain positions by a window, and handling one or two books on the table. I stood meek and helpless, expectant. "Have you read any history, Daisy?" I said no; then I said yes, I had; a little. "What?" "A little of the history of England last summer." "Not of your own country?" "No, ma'am." "And no ancient history?" "No, ma'am." "You know nothing of the Division of the nations, of course?" I answered, nothing. I had no idea what she meant; except that England, and America, and France, were different, and of course divided. Of Peleg the son of Eber and the brother of Joktan, I then knew nothing. "And arithmetic is something you do not understand," pursued Miss Pinshon. "Come here and let me see how you can write." With trembling, stiff little fingers � I feel them yet � I wrote some lines under my governess' eye. "Very unformed," was her comment. "And now, Daisy, you may sit down there in the window and study the multiplication table. See how much of it you can get this morning." Was it to be a morning's work? My heart was heavy as lead. At this hour, at Melbourne, my task would have been to get my flat hat and rush out among the beds of flowers; and a little later, to have up Loupe and go driving whither I would, among the meadows and cornfields. Ah, yes; and there was Molly who might be taught, and Juanita who might be visited; and Dr. Sandford who might come like a pleasant gale of wind into the midst of whatever I was about. I did not stop to think of them now, though a waft of the sunny air through the open window brought a violent rush of such images. I tried to shut them out of my head and gave myself wistfully to "three times one is three; three times two is six." Miss Pinshon helped me by closing the window. I thought she might have let so much sweetness as that come into the multiplication table. However I studied its threes and fours steadily for some time dry; then my attention flagged. It was very uninteresting. I had never in all my life till then been obliged to study what gave me no pleasure. My mind wandered, and then my eyes wandered, to where the sunlight lay so golden under the live oaks. The wreaths of grey moss stirred gently with the wind. I longed to be out there. Miss Pinshon's voice startled me. "Daisy, where are your thoughts?" I hastily brought my eyes and wits home and answered, "Out upon the lawn, ma'am." "Do you find the multiplication table there?" It was so needless to answer! I was mute. I would have come to the rash conclusion that nature and mathematics had nothing to do with each other. "You must learn to command your attention," my governess went on. "You must not let it wander. That is the first lesson you have to learn. I shall give you mathematics till you have learnt it. You can do nothing without attention." I bent myself to the threes and fours again. But I was soon weary; my mind escaped; and without turning my eyes off my book, it swept over the distance between Magnolia and Melbourne, and sat down by Molly Skelton to help her in getting her letters. It was done and I was there. I could hear the hesitating utterances; I could see the dull finger tracing its way along the lines. And then would come the reading _to_ Molly, and the interested look of waiting attention, and once in a while the strange softening of the poor hard face. From there my mind went off to the people around me at Magnolia; were there some to be taught here perhaps? and could I get at them? and was there no other way � could it be there was no other way but by my weak little voice � through which some of them were ever to learn about my dear Saviour? I had got very far from mathematics, and my book fell. I heard Miss Pinshon's voice. "Daisy, come here." I obeyed, and came to the table, where my governess was installed in the leather chair of my grandfather. She always used it. "I should like to know what you are doing." "I was thinking �" I said. "Did I give you thinking to do?" "No, ma'am; not of that kind." "What kind was it?" "I was thinking, and remembering �" "Pray, what were you remembering?" "Things at home � and other things." "Things and things," said Miss Pinshon. "That is not a very elegant way of speaking. Let me hear how much you have learned." I began. About all of the "threes" was on my tongue; the rest had got mixed up hopelessly with Molly Skelton and teaching Bible reading. Miss Pinshon was not pleased. "You must learn attention," she said. "I can do nothing with you until you have succeeded in that. You _must_ attend. Now I shall give you a motive for minding what you are about. Go and sit down again and study this table till you know the threes and the fours and the fives and the sixes, perfectly. Go and sit down." I sat down, and the life was all out of me. Tears in the first place had a great mind to come, and would put themselves between me and the figures in the multiplication table. I governed them back after a while. But I could not study to purpose. I was tired and down-spirited; I had not energy left to spring to my task and accomplish it. Over and over again I tried to put the changes of the numbers in my head; it seemed like writing them in sand. My memory would not take hold of them; could not keep them; with all my trying I grew only more and more stupefied and fagged, and less capable of doing what I had to do. So dinner came, and Miss Pinshon said I might get myself ready for dinner and after dinner come back again to my lesson. The lesson must be finished before anything else was done. I had no appetite. Preston was in a fume of vexation, partly roused by my looks, partly by hearing that I was not yet free. He was enraged beyond prudent speaking, but Miss Pinshon never troubled herself about his words; and when the first and second courses were removed, told me I might go to my work. Preston called to me to stay and have some fruit; but I went on to the study, not caring for fruit or for anything else. I felt very dull and miserable. Then I remembered that my governess probably did care for some fruit and would be delayed a little while; and then I tried what is the best preparation for study or anything else. I got down on my knees, to ask that help which is as willingly given to a child in her troubles as to the general of an army. I prayed that I might be patient and obedient and take disagreeable things pleasantly and do my duty in the multiplication table. And a breath of rest came over my heart, and a sort of perfume of remembered things which I had forgotten; and it quite changed the multiplication table to think that God had given it to me to learn, and so that some good would certainly come of learning it; at least the good of pleasing Him. As long as I dared I staid on my knees; then � I was strong for the fives and sixes. But it was not quick work; and though my patience did not flag again nor my attention fail, the afternoon was well on the way before I was dismissed. I had then permission to do what I liked. Miss Pinshon said she would not go to walk that day; I might follow my own pleasure. I must have been very tired; for it seemed to me there was hardly any pleasure left to follow. I got my flat and went out. The sun was westing; the shadows stretched among the evergreen oaks; the outer air was sweet. I had tried to find Preston first, in the house; but he was not to be found; and all alone I went out into the sunshine. It wooed me on. Sunshine and I were always at home together. Without knowing that I wanted to go anywhere, some secret attraction drew my steps towards the dell where I had seen Darry. I followed one of several well beaten paths that led towards the quarters through the trees, and presently came out upon the stables again. All along the dell the sunshine poured. The ground was kept like a pleasure ground, it was so neat; the grass was as clean as the grass of a park; the little stone houses scattered away down towards the river, with shade trees among them, and oaks lining the sides of the dell. I thought surely Magnolia was a lovely place! if only my father and mother had been there. But then, seeing the many cottages, my trouble of the morning pressed upon me afresh. So many people, so many homes, and the light of the Bible not on them, nor in them? And, child as I was, and little as I knew, I knew the name of Christ too unspeakably precious, for me to think without a sore heart, that all these people were without what was the jewel of my life. � And they my mother's servants! my father's dependents! What could I do? The dell was alone in the yellow sunlight which poured over the slope from the west; and I went musing on till getting to the corner of the stables I saw Darry just round the corner grooming a black horse. He was working energetically and humming to himself as he worked a refrain which I learned afterwards to know well. � "All I could make out was, I'm going home" � several times repeated. I came near before he saw me, and he started; then bid me good evening and "hoped I found Magnolia a pleasant place." Since I have grown older I have read that wonderful story of Mrs. Stowe's _Uncle Tom_; he reminded me of Darry then, and now I never think of the one without thinking of the other. But Darry, having served a different class of people from Uncle Tom's first owners, had a more polished style of manners, which I should almost call courtly; and he was besides a man of higher natural parts, and somewhat more education. But much commerce in the Court which is above all earthly dignities, no doubt had more to do with his peculiarities than any other cause. I asked him what he was singing about home? and where his home was? He turned his face full on me, letting me see how grave and gentle his eye was, and at the same time there was a wistful expression in it that I felt. "Home aint nowheres here, missie," he said. "I'm 'spectin' to go by and by." "Do you mean home up _there?_" said I, lifting my finger towards the sky. Darry fairly laughed. " 'Spect don't want no other home, missie. Heaven good enough." I stood watching him as he rubbed down the black horse, feeling surely that he and I would be friends. "Where is your home here, Darry?" "I got a place down there, little missie � not fur." "When you have done that horse, will you show me your place? I want to see where you live." "Missie want to see Darry's house?" said he, showing his white teeth. "Missie shall see what she mind to. I allus keeps Saddler till the last, 'cause he's ontractable.". The black horse was put in the stable, and I followed my black groom down among the lines of stone huts, to which the working parties had not yet returned. Darry's house was one of the lowest in the dell, out of the quadrangle, and had a glimpse of the river. It stood alone, in a pretty place, but something about it did not satisfy me. It looked square and bare. The stone walls within were rough as the stone-layer had left them; one little four-paned window, or rather casement, stood open; and the air was sweet; for Darry kept his place scrupulously neat and clean. But there was not much to be kept. A low bedstead; a wooden chest; an odd table made of a piece of board on three legs; a shelf with some kitchen ware; that was all the furniture. On the odd table there lay a Bible, that had, I saw, been turned over many a time. "Then you can read, uncle Darry," I said, pitching on the only thing that pleased me. "De good Lord, He give me dat happiness," the man answered gravely. "And you love Jesus, Darry," I said, feeling that we had better come to an understanding as soon as possible. His answer was an energetic � "Bress de Lord! Do Miss Daisy love Him, den?" I would have said yes; I did say yes, I believe; but I did not know how or why, at this question there seemed a coming together of gladness and pain which took away my breath. My head dropped on Darry's little window-sill, and my tears rushed forth, like the head of water behind a broken mill-dam. Darry was startled and greatly concerned. He wanted to know if I was not well � if I would send him for "su'thing" � I could only shake my head and weep. I think Darry was the only creature at Magnolia before whom I would have so broken down. But somehow I felt safe with Darry. The tears cleared away from my voice after a little; and I went on with my inquiries again. It was a good chance. "Uncle Darry, does no one else but you read the Bible?" He looked dark and troubled. "Missie sees � de folks for most part got no learnin'. Dey no read, sure." "Do you read the Bible to them, Darry?" "Miss Daisy knows, dere aint no great time. Dey's in de field all day, most days, and dey hab no time for to hear." "But Sundays? �" I said. "Do try," � he said, looking graver yet. "Me do 'tempt su'thin'. But missie knows, de Sabbat' be de only day de people hab, and dey tink mostly of oder tings." "And there is no church for you all to go to?" "No, missis; no church." There was a sad tone in this answer. I did not know how to go on. I turned to something else. "Uncle Darry, I don't think your home looks very comfortable." Darry almost laughed at that. He said it was good enough; would last very well a little while longer. I insisted that it was not _comfortable_. It was cold. "Sun warm, Miss Daisy. De good Lord, He make His sun warm. And dere be fires enough." "But it is very empty," I said. "You want something more in it, to make it look nice." "It never empty, Miss Daisy, when de Lord Hisself be here. And He not leave His chil'n alone. Miss Daisy know dat?" I stretched forth my little hand and laid it in Darry's great � black palm. There was an absolute confidence established between us. "Uncle Darry" � I said, "I do love him � but sometimes, I want to see papa! �" And therewith my self-command was almost gone. I stood with full eyes and quivering lips, my hand still in Darry's, who on his part was speechless with sympathy. "De time pass quick, and Miss Daisy see her pa'," � he said at last. I did not think the time passed quick. I said so. "Do little missie ask de Lord for help?" Darry said, his eyes by this time as watery as mine. "Do Miss Daisy know, it nebber lonesome where de Lord be? He so good." I could not stand any more. I pulled away my hand and stood still, looking out of the window and seeing nothing, till I could make myself quiet. Then I changed the subject and told Darry I should like to go and see some of the other houses again. I know now, I can see, looking back, how my childish self-control and reserve made some of those impulsive natures around me regard me with something like worshipful reverence. I felt it then, without thinking of it or reasoning about it. From Darry, and from Margaret, and from Mammy Theresa, and from several others, I had a loving, tender reverence, which not only felt for me as a sorrowful child, but bowed before me as something of higher and stronger nature than themselves. Darry silently attended me now from house to house of the quarters; introducing and explaining and doing all he could to make my progress interesting and amusing. Interested I was; but most certainly not amused. I did not like the look of things any better than I had done at first. The places were not "nice;" there was a coarse, uncared-for air of everything within, although the outside was in such well dressed condition. No litter on the grass, no, untidiness of walls or chimneys; and no seeming of comfortable homes when the door was opened. The village, for it amounted to that, was almost deserted at that hour; only a few crooning old women on the sunny side of a wall, and a few half-grown girls, and a quantity of little children, depending for all the care they got upon one or the other of these. "Haven't all these little babies got mothers?" I asked. "For sure, Miss Daisy � dey's got modders." "Where _are_ the mothers of all these babies, Darry?" I asked. "Dey's in de field, Miss Daisy. Home d'rectly." "Are they working like _men_, in the fields?" I asked. "Dey's all at work," said Darry. "Do they do the same work as the men?" "All alike, Miss Daisy." Darry's answers were not hearty. "But don't their little babies want them?" said I, looking at a group of girls in whose hands were some very little babies indeed. I think Darry made me no answer. "But if the men and women both work out," I went on, "papa must give them a great deal of money; I should think they would have things more comfortable, Darry. Why don't they have little carpets, and tables and chairs, and cups and saucers? Hardly anybody has teacups and saucers. Have you _got_ any, uncle Darry?" " 'Spect I'se no good woman to brew de tea for her ole man," said Darry; but I thought he looked at me very oddly. "Couldn't you make it for yourself, uncle Darry?" "Poor folks don't live just like de rich folks," he answered quietly, after a minute's pause. "And I don't count fur to want no good t'ing, missie." I went on with my observations; my questions I thought I would not push any further at that time. I grew more and more dissatisfied, that my father's workpeople should live in no better style and in no better comfort. Even Molly Skelton had a furnished and appointed house, compared with these little bare stone huts; and mothers that would leave their babies for the sake of more wages must, I thought, be very barbarous mothers. This was all because, no doubt, of having no church and no Bible. I grew weary. As we were going up the dell towards the stables, I suddenly remembered my pony; and I asked to see him. Darry was much relieved, I fancy, to have me come back to a child's sphere of action. He had out the fat little grey pony and talked it over to me with great zeal. It came into my head to ask for a saddle. "Dere be a saddle" � Darry said doubtfully � "Massa Preston he done got a saddle dis very day. Dunno where massa Preston can be." I did not heed this. I begged to have the saddle and be allowed to try the pony. Now Preston had laid a plan that nobody but himself should have the pleasure of first mounting me; but I did not know of this plan. Darry hesitated, I saw, but he had not the power to refuse me. The saddle was brought out, put on, and carefully arranged. "Uncle Darry, I want to get on him � may I ?" "O' course � Miss Daisy do what she mind to. Him bery good, only some lazy." So I was mounted. Preston, Miss Pinshon, the servants' quarters, the multiplication table, all were forgotten and lost in a misty distance. I was in the saddle for the first time, and delight held me by both hands. My first moment on horseback! If Darry had guessed it he would have been terribly concerned; but, as it happened, I knew how to take my seat; I had watched my mother so often mounting her horse that every detail was familiar to me; and Darry naturally supposed I knew what I was about after I was in my seat. The reins were a little confusing; however, the pony walked off lazily with me to the head of the glen, and I thought he was an improvement upon the old pony chaise. Finding myself coming out upon the avenue, which I did not wish, it became necessary to get at the practical use of my bridle. I was at some pains to do it; finally I managed to turn the pony's head round, and we walked back in the same sober style we had come up. Darry stood by the stables, smiling and watching me; down among the quarters the children and old people turned out to look after me; I walked down as far as Darry's house, turned and came back again. Darry stood ready to help me dismount; but it was too pleasant. I went on to the avenue. Just as I turned there, I caught, as it seemed to me, a glimpse of two ladies, coming towards me from the house. Involuntarily I gave a sharper pull at the bridle, and I suppose touched the pony's shoulder with the switch Darry had put into my hand. The touch so woke him up, that he shook off his laziness and broke into a short galloping canter to go back to the stables. This was a new experience. I thought for the first minute that I certainly should be thrown off; I seemed to have no hold of anything, and I was tossed up and down on my saddle in a way that boded a landing on the ground every next time. I was not timid with animals, whatever might be true of me in other relations. My first comfort was finding that I did not fall off; then I took heart, and settled myself in the saddle more securely, gave myself to the motion, and began to think I should like it by and by. Nevertheless, for this time I was willing to stop at the stables; but the pony had only just found how good it was to be moving, and he went by at full canter. Down the dell, through the quarters, past the cottages, till I saw Darry's house ahead of me, and began to think how I _should_ get round again. At that pace I could not. Could I stop the fellow? I tried, but there was not much strength in my arms; one or two pulls did no good, and one or two pulls more did no good; pony cantered on, and I saw we were making straight for the river. I knew then I must stop him; I threw so much good will into the handling of my reins that, to my joy, the pony paused, let himself be turned about placidly, and took up his leisurely walk again. But now I was in a hurry, wanting to be dismounted before anybody should come; and I was a little triumphant, having kept my seat and turned my horse. Moreover, the walk was not good after that stirring canter. I would try it again. But it took a little earnestness now and more than one touch of my whip before the pony would mind me. Then he obeyed in good style and we cantered quietly up to where Darry was waiting. The thing was done. The pony and I had come to an understanding. I was a rider from that time, without fear or uncertainty. The first gentle pull on the bridle was obeyed and I came to a stop in front of Darry and my cousin Preston. I have spent a great deal of time to tell of my ride. Yet not more than its place in my life then deserved. It was my last half-hour of pleasure for I think many a day. I had cantered up the slope, all fresh in mind and body, excited and glad with my achievement and with the pleasure of brisk motion; I had forgotten everybody and everything disagreeable, or what I did not forget I disregarded; but just before I stopped I saw what sent another thrill than that of pleasure tingling through all my veins. I saw Preston, who had but a moment before reached the stables, I saw him lift his hand with a light riding switch he carried, and draw the switch across Darry's mouth. I shall never forget the coloured man's face, as he stepped back a pace or two. I understood it afterwards; I _felt_ it then. There was no resentment; there was no fire of anger, which I should have expected; there was no manly and no stolid disregard of what had been done. There was instead a slight smile, which to this day I cannot bear to recall; it spoke so much of patient and helpless humiliation; as of one wincing at the galling of a sore and trying not to show he winced. Preston took me off my horse, and began to speak. I turned away from him to Darry, who now held two horses, Preston having just dismounted; and I thanked him for my pleasure, throwing into my manner all the studied courtesy I could. Then I walked up the dell beside Preston, without looking at him. Preston scolded. He had prepared a surprise for me, and was excited by his disappointment at my mounting without him. Of course I had not known that; and Darry, who was in the secret, had not known how to refuse me. I gave Preston no answer to his charges and reproaches. At last I said I was tired and I wished he would not talk. "Tired! you are something besides tired," he said. "I suppose I am," I answered with great deliberation. He was eager to know what it was; but then we came out upon the avenue and were met flush by my aunt and Miss Pinshon. My aunt inquired, and Preston, who was by no means cool yet, accused me about the doings of the afternoon. I scarcely heeded one or the other; but I did feel Miss Pinshon's taking my I hand and leading me home all the rest of the way. It was not that I wanted to talk to Preston, for I was not ready to talk to him; but this holding me like a little child was excessively distasteful to my habit of freedom. My governess would not loose her clasp when we got to the house; but kept fast hold and led me up stairs to my own room. CHAPTER IV. SEVEN HUNDRED PEOPLE. "Do you think that was a proper thing to do, Daisy?" my governess asked when she released me. "What thing, ma'am?" I asked. "To tear about alone on that great grey pony." "Yes, ma'am," I said. "You think it _was_ proper?" said Miss Pinshon, coolly. "Whom had you with you?" "Nobody was riding with me." "Your cousin was there?" "No, ma'am." "Who then?" "I had Uncle Darry. I was only riding up and down the dell." "The coachman! And were you riding up and down through the quarters all the afternoon?" "No, ma'am." "What were you doing the rest of the time?" "I was going about �" I hesitated. "About where?" "Through the place there." "The quarters? Well, you think it proper amusement for your mother's daughter? You are not to make companions of the servants, Daisy. You are not to go to the quarters without my permission, and I shall not give it frequently. Now get yourself ready for tea." I did feel as if Preston's prophecy were coming true and I in a way to be gradually petrified; some slow, chill work of that kind seemed already to be going on. But a little thing soon stirred all the life there was in me. Miss Pinshon stepped to the door which led from her room into mine, unlocked it, took out the key, and put it on her own side of the door. I sprang forward at that, with a word, I do not know what; and my governess turned her lustrous, unmoved eyes calmly upon me. I remember now how deadening their look was, in their very lustre and moveless calm. I begged, however, for a reversal of her last proceeding; I wanted my door locked sometimes, I said. "You can lock the other door." "But I want both locked." "I do not. This door remains open, Daisy. I must come in here when I please. Now make haste and get ready." I had no time for anything but to obey. I went down stairs, I think, like a machine; my body obeying certain laws, while my mind and spirit were scarcely present. I suppose I behaved myself as usual; save that I would have nothing to do with Preston, nor would I receive anything whatever at the table from his hand. This, however, was known only to him and me. I said nothing; not the less every word that others said fastened itself in my memory. I was like a person dreaming. "You have just tired yourself with mounting that wild thing, Daisy," said my aunt Gary. "Wild!" said Preston. "About as wild as a tame sloth." "I always heard that was very wild indeed," said Miss Pinshon. "The sloth cannot be tamed, can it?" "Being stupid already, I suppose not," said Preston. "Daisy looks pale at any rate," said my aunt. "A little overdone," said Miss Pinshon. "She wants regular exercise; but irregular exercise is very trying to any but a strong person. I think Daisy will be stronger in a few weeks." "What sort of exercise do you think will be good for her, ma'am?" Preston said, with an expression out of all keeping with his words, it was so fierce. "I shall try different sorts," my governess answered, composedly. "Exercise of patience is a very good thing, Master Gary. I think gymnastics will be useful for Daisy, too. I shall try them." "That is what I have often said to my sister," said aunt Gary. "I have no doubt that sort of training would establish Daisy's strength more than anything in the world. She just wants that, to develop her and bring out the muscles." Preston almost groaned; pushed his chair from the table, and I knew sat watching me. I would give him no opportunity, for my opportunity I could not have then. I kept quiet till the ladies moved; I moved with them; and sat all the evening abstracted in my own meditations, without paying Preston any attention; feeling indeed very old and grey, as no doubt I looked. When I was ordered to bed, Miss Pinshon desired I would hold no conversation with anybody. Whereupon Preston took my candle and boldly marched out of the room with me. When we were upstairs, he tried to make me disobey my orders. He declared I was turning to stone already; he said a great many hard words against my governess; threatened he would write to my father; and when he could not prevail to make me talk, dashed off passionately and left me. I went trembling into my room. But my refuge there was gone. I had fallen upon evil times. My door must not be locked, and Miss Pinshon might come in any minute. I could not pray. I undressed and went to bed; and lay there, waiting, all things in order, till my governess looked in. Then the door was closed, and I hear her steps moving about in her room. I lay and listened. At last the door was softly set open again; and then after a few minutes the sound of regular slow breathing proclaimed that those wide-open black eyes were really closed for the night. I got up, went to my governess's door and listened. She was sleeping profoundly. I laid hold of the handle of the door and drew it towards me; pulled out the key softly, put it in my own side of the lock and shut the door. And after all I was afraid to turn the key. The wicked sound of the lock might enter those sleeping ears. But the door was closed; and I went to my old place, the open window. It was not my window at Melbourne, with balmy summer air, and the dewy scent of the honeysuckle coming up, and the moonlight flooding all the world beneath me. But neither was it in the regions of the North. The night was still and mild, if not balmy; and the stars were brilliant; and the evergreen oaks were masses of dark shadow all over the lawn. I do not think I saw them at first; for my look was up to the sky, where the stars shone down to greet me, and where it was furthest from all the troubles on the surface of the earth; and with one thought of the Friend up there, who does not forget the troubles of even His little children, the barrier in my heart gave way, my tears gushed forth; my head lay on the windowsill at Magnolia, more hopelessly than in my childish sorrow it had ever lain at Melbourne. I kept my sobs quiet; I must; but they were deep, heart-breaking sobs, for a long time. Prayer got its chance after a while. I had a great deal to pray for; it seemed to my child's heart now and then as if it could hardly bear its troubles. And very much I felt I wanted patience and wisdom. I thought there was a great deal to do, even for my little hands; and promise of great hindrance and opposition. And the only one pleasant thing I could think of in my new life at Magnolia, was that I might tell of the truth to those poor people who lived in the negro quarters. Why I did not make myself immediately ill, with my night's vigils and sorrow, I cannot tell; unless it were that great excitement kept off the effects of chill air and damp. However, the excitement had its own effects; and my eyes were sadly heavy when they I opened the next morning to look at Margaret lighting my fire. "Margaret," I said, "shut Miss Pinshon's door, will you?" She obeyed, and then turning to look at me, exclaimed that I was not well. "Did you say you could not read, Margaret?" was my answer. "Read"! no, missis, Guess readin' aint no good for servants. Seems like Miss Daisy aint lookin' peart, this mornin'." "Would you _like_ to read?" "Reckon don't care about it, Miss Daisy. Where'd us get books, most likely?" I said I would get the books; but Margaret turned to the fire and made me no answer. I heard her mutter some ejaculation. "Because, Margaret, don't you know," I said, raising myself on my elbow, "God would like to have you learn to read, so that you might know the Bible and come to heaven." "Reckon folks aint a heap better that knows the Bible," said the girl. "Pears as if it don't make no difference. Aint nobody good in _this_ place, 'cept uncle Darry." In another minute I was out of bed and standing before the fire, my hand on her shoulder. I told her I wanted _her_ to be good too, and that Jesus would make her good, if she would let Him. Margaret gave me a hasty look and then finished her fire making; but to my great astonishment, a few minutes after, I saw that the tears were running down the girl's face. It astonished me so much that I said no more; and Margaret was as silent; only dressed me with the greatest attention and tenderness. "Ye want your breakfast bad, Miss Daisy," she remarked then in a subdued tone; and I suppose my looks justified her words. They created some excitement when I went down stairs. My aunt exclaimed; Miss Pinshon inquired; Preston inveighed, at things in general. He wanted to get me by myself, I knew; but he had no chance. Immediately after breakfast Miss Pinshon took possession of me. The day was less weary than the day before, only I think because I was tired beyond impatience or nervous excitement. Not much was done; for though I was very willing I had very little power. But the multiplication table, Miss Pinshon said, was easy work; and at that and reading and writing, the morning crept away. My hand was trembling, my voice was faint; my memory grasped nothing so clearly as Margaret's tears that morning, and Preston's behaviour the preceding day. My cheeks were pale of course. Miss Pinshon said we would begin to set that right with a walk after dinner. The walk was had; but with my hand clasped in Miss Pinshon's I only wished myself at home all the way. At home again, after a while of lying down to rest, I was tried with a beginning of calisthenics. A trial it was to me. The exercises, directed and overseen by Miss Pinshon, seemed to me simply intolerable; a weariness beyond all other weariness. Even the multiplication table I liked better. Miss Pinshon was tired perhaps herself at last. She let me go. It was towards the end of the day. With no life left in me for anything, I strolled out into the sunshine; aimlessly at first; then led by a secret inclination I hardly knew or questioned, my steps slowly made their way round by the avenue to the stables. Darry was busy there as I had found him yesterday. He looked hard at me as I came up; and asked me earnestly how I felt that afternoon? I told him I was tired; and then I sat down, on a huge log which lay there and watched him at his work. By turns I watched the sunlight streaming along the turf and lighting the foliage of the trees on the other side of the dell; looking in a kind of dream, as if I were not Daisy nor this Magnolia in any reality. I suddenly started and awoke to realities as Darry began to sing � "My Father's house is built on high, Far, far above the starry sky; And though like Lazarus sick and poor, My heavenly mansion is secure. I'm going home, � I'm going home, � I'm going home To die no more! To die no more � To die no more � I'm going home To die no more!" The word "home" at the end of each line was dwelt upon in a prolonged sonorous note. It filled my ear with its melodious, plaintive breath of repose; it rested and soothed me. I was listening in a sort of trance, when another sound at my side both stopped the song and quite broke up the effect. It was Preston's voice. Now for it. He was all ready for a fight; and I felt miserably battered and shaken and unfit to fight anything. "What are you doing here, Daisy?" "I am doing nothing," I said. "It is almost tea-time. Hadn't you better be walking come, before Medusa comes looking out for you?" I rose up, and bade uncle Darry good night. "Good night, missis!" he said heartily � "and de morning dat hab no night, for my dear little missis, by'm by." I gave him my hand, and walked on. "Stuff!" muttered Preston, by my side. "You will not think it 'stuff' when the time comes," I said, no doubt very gravely. Then Preston burst out. "I only wish aunt Felicia was here! You will spoil these people, Daisy, that's one thing; or you would if you were older. As it is, you are spoiling yourself." I made no answer. He went on with other angry and excited words, wishing to draw me out perhaps; but I was in no mood to talk to Preston in any tone but one. I went steadily and slowly on, without even turning my head to look at him. I had hardly life enough to talk to him in that tone. "Will you tell me what is the matter with you?" he said, at last, very impatiently. "I am tired, I think." "Think? Medusa is stiffening the life out of you. _Think_ you are tired! You are tired to death; but that is not all. What ails you?" "I do not think anything ails me." "What ails _me_, then? What is the matter? what makes you act so? Speak, Daisy � you must speak!" I turned about and faced him, and I know I did not speak then as a child, but with a gravity befitting fifty years. "Preston, did you strike Uncle Darry yesterday?" "Pooh!" said Preston. But I stood and waited for his answer. "Nonsense, Daisy!" he said again. "What is nonsense?" "Why, _you_. What are you talking about?" "I asked you a question." "A ridiculous question. You are just absurd." "Will you please to answer it?" "I don't know whether I will. What have you to do with it?" "In the first place, Preston, Darry is not your servant." "Upon my word!" said Preston. "But, yes, he is; for mamma is regent here now. He must do what I order him, anyhow." "And then, Preston, Darry is better than you, and will not defend himself; and somebody ought to defend him; and there is nobody but me." "Defend himself!" echoed Preston. "Yes. You insulted him yesterday." "Insulted him!" "You know you did. You know, Preston, some men would not have borne it. If Darry had been like some men, he would have knocked you down." "Knock me down!" cried Preston. "The sneaking old scoundrel! He knows that I would shoot him if he did." "I am speaking seriously, Preston. It is no use to talk that way." "I am speaking very seriously," said my cousin. "I would shoot him, upon my honour." "Shoot him!" "Certainly." "What right have you to shoot a man for doing no worse than you do? I would _rather_ somebody would knock me down, than do what you did yesterday!" And my heart swelled within me. "Come, Daisy, be a little sensible!" said Preston, who was in a fume of impatience. "Do you think there is no difference between me and an old nigger?" "A great deal of difference," I said. "He is old and good; and you are young, and I wish you were as good as Darry. And then he can't help himself without perhaps losing his place, no matter how you insult him. I think it is cowardly." "Insult!" said Preston. "Lose his place! Heavens and earth, Daisy! are you such a simpleton?" "You insulted him very badly yesterday. I wondered how he bore it of you; only Darry is a Christian." "A fiddlestick!" said Preston impatiently. "He knows he must bear whatever I choose to give him; and therein he is wiser than you are." "Because he is a Christian," said I. "I don't know whether he is a Christian or not; and it is nothing to the purpose. I don't care what he is." "Oh, Preston! he is a good man � he is a servant of God; he will wear a crown of gold in heaven; � and you have dared to touch him!" "Why, hoity toity!" said Preston. "What concern of mine is all that! All I know is, that he did not do what I ordered him." "What did you order him?" "I ordered him not to show you the saddle I had got for you, till I was there. I was going to surprise you. I am provoked at him!" "I am surprised �" I said. But feeling how little I prevailed with Preston, and being weak in body as well as mind, I could not keep back the tears. I began to walk on again, though they blinded me. "Daisy, don't be foolish. If Darry is to wear two crowns in the other world, he is a servant in this, all the same; and he must do his duty." "I asked for the saddle �" I said. "Why, Daisy, Daisy!" Preston exclaimed � "don't be such a child. You know nothing about it. I didn't touch Darry to hurt him." "It was a sort of hurt that if he had not been a Christian he would have made you sorry for." "He knows I would shoot him if he did," said Preston coolly. "Preston, don't speak so!" I pleaded. "It is the simple truth. Why shouldn't I speak it?" "You do not mean that you would do it?" I said, scarce opening my eyes to the reality of what he said. "I give you my word, I do! If one of these black fellows laid a hand on me I would put a bullet through him, as quick as a partridge." "But then you would be a murderer �" said I. The ground seemed taken away from under my feet. We were standing still now, and facing each other. "No, I shouldn't," said Preston. "The law takes better care of us than that." "The law would hang you," said I. "I tell you, Daisy, it is no such thing! Gentlemen have a right to defend themselves against the insolence of these black fellows." "And have not the black fellows a right to defend themselves against the insolence of gentlemen?" said I. "Daisy? you are talking the most unspeakable non- sense," said Preston, quite put beyond himself now. "_Don't_ you know any better than that? These people are our servants � they are our property � we are to do what we like with them; and of course the law must see that we are protected, or the blacks and the whites could not live together." "A man may be your servant, but he cannot be your property," I said. "Yes, he can! They are our property, just as much as the land is; our goods, to do what we like with. Didn't you know that?" "Property is something that you can buy and sell," I answered. "And we sell these people, and buy them too, as fast as we like." "_Sell_ them!" I echoed, thinking of Darry. "Certainly." "And who would buy them?" "Why, all the world; everybody. There has been nobody sold off the Magnolia estate, I believe, in a long time; but nothing is more common, Daisy; everybody is doing it everywhere, when he has got too many servants, or when he has got too few." "And do you mean," said I, "that Darry and Margaret and Theresa and all the rest here, have been _bought?_" "No; almost all of them have been born on the place." "Then it is not true of these," I said. "Yes, it is; for their mothers and fathers were bought. It is the same thing." "Who bought them?" I asked hastily. "Why! our mothers, and grandfather and great-grandfather." "_Bought_ the fathers and mothers of all these hundreds of people?" said I, a slow horror creeping into my veins, that yet held childish blood, and but half comprehended. "Certainly � ages ago," said Preston. "Why, Daisy, I thought you knew all about it." "But who sold them first?" said I, my mind in its utter rejection of what was told me, seeking every refuge from accepting it. "Who sold them at first?" "Who first? Oh, the people that brought them over from Africa, I suppose; or the people in their own country that sold them to _them_." "They had no right to sell them," I said. "Can't tell about that," said Preston. "We bought them. I suppose we had a right to do that." "But if the fathers and mothers were bought," I insisted, "that gives us no right to have their children." "I would like you to ask aunt Felicia or my uncle Randolph such a question," said Preston. "Just see how they would like the idea of giving up all their property! Why you would be as poor as Job, Daisy." "The land would be here all the same." "Much good the land would do you, without people to work it." "But other people could be hired as well as these," I said, "if any of these wanted to go away." "No they couldn't. White people cannot bear the climate nor do the work. The crops cannot be raised without coloured labour." "I do not understand," said I, feeling my child's head puzzled. "Maybe none of our people would like to go away?" "I dare say they wouldn't," said Preston carelessly. "They are better off here than on most plantations. Uncle Randolph never forbids his hands to have meat; and some planters do." "Forbid them to have meat!" I said in utter bewilderment. "Yes." "Why?" "They think it makes them fractious, and not so easy to manage. Don't you know, it makes a dog savage to feed him on raw meat? I suppose cooked meat has the same effect on men." "But don't they get what they choose to eat?" "Well, I should think not!" said Preston. "Fancy their asking to be fed on chickens and pound cake. That is what they would like." "But cannot they spend their wages for what they like?" "Wages!" said Preston. "Yes," said I. "My dear Daisy," said Preston, "you are talking of what you just utterly don't understand; and I am a fool for bothering you with it. Come! let us make it up and be friends." He stooped to kiss me, but I stepped back. "Stop," I said. "Tell me � can't they do what they like with their wages?" "I don't think they have wages enough to 'do what they like' exactly," said Preston. "Why, they would 'Iike' to do nothing. These black fellows are the laziest things living. They would 'like' to lie in the sun all day long." "What wages does Darry have?" I asked. "Now, Daisy, this is none of your business. Come, let us go into the house and let it alone." "I want to know, first," said I. "Daisy, I never asked. What have I to do with Darry's wages?" "I will ask himself," I said; and I turned about to go to the stables. "Stop, Daisy," cried Preston. "Daisy, Daisy! you are the most obstinate Daisy that ever was, when once you have taken a thing in your head. Daisy, what have you to do with all this. Look here � these people don't want wages." "Don't want wages!" I repeated. "No; they don't want them. What would they do with wages? they have everything they need given them already; their food and their clothing and their houses. They do not want anything more." "You said they did not have the food they liked," I objected. "Who does?" said Preston. "I am sure I don't, � not more than one day in seven, on an average." "But don't they have any wages at all?" I persisted. "Our coachman at Melbourne had thirty dollars a month; and Logan had forty dollars, and his house and garden. Why shouldn't Darry have wages too? Don't they have any wages at all, Preston?" "Why, yes! they have plenty of corn bread and bacon, I tell you; and their clothes. Daisy, they _belong_ to you, these people do." Corn bread and bacon was not much like chickens and pound cake, I thought; and I remembered our servants at Melbourne were very, very differently dressed from the women I saw about me here; even in the house. I stood bewildered and pondering. Preston tried to get me to go on. "Why shouldn't they have wages?" I asked at length, with lips which I believe were growing old with my thoughts. "Daisy, they are your servants; they _belong_ to you. They have no right to wages. Suppose you had to pay all these creatures � seven hundred of them � as you pay people at Melbourne; how much do you suppose you would have left to live upon yourselves? What nonsense it is to talk!" "But they work for us," I said. "Certainly. There would not be anything for any of us if they didn't. Here, at Magnolia, they raise rice crops and corn, as well as cotton; at our place we grow nothing but cotton and corn." "Well, what pays them for working?" "I told you! they have their living and clothing and no care; and they are the happiest creatures the sun shines on." "Are they willing to work for only that?" I asked. "Willing!" said Preston. "Yes," said I, feeling myself grow sick at heart. "I fancy nobody asks them that question. They have to work, I reckon, whether they like it or no." "You said they _like_ to lie in the sun. What makes them work?" "Makes them!" said Preston, who was getting irritated as well as impatient. "They get a good flogging if they do not work � that is all. They know, if they don't do their part, the lash will come down; and it don't come down easy." I suppose I must have looked as if it had come down: on me. Preston stopped talking and began to take care of me; putting his arm round me to support my steps homeward. In the verandah my aunt met us. She immediately decided that I was ill, and ordered me to go to bed at once. It was the thing of all others I would have wished to do. It saved me from the exertion of trying to hold myself up and of speaking and moving and answering questions. I went to bed in dull misery, longing to go to sleep and forget all my troubles of mind and body together; but while the body vested, the mind would not. That kept the consciousness of its burden; and it was that, more than any physical ail, which took away my power of eating, and created instead a wretched sort of half nausea, which made even rest unrefreshing. As for rest in my mind and heart, it seemed at that time as if I should never know it again. Never again! I was a child � I had but vague ideas respecting even what troubled me; nevertheless I had been struck, where may few children be struck! in the very core and quick of my heart's reverence and affection. It had come home to me that papa was somehow doing wrong. My father was in my childish thought and belief, the ideal of chivalrous and high- bred excellence; � and _papa_ was doing wrong. I could not turn my eyes from the truth; it was before me in too visible a form. It did not arrange itself in words, either; not at first; it only pressed upon my heart and brain that seven hundred people on my father's property were injured, and by his will, and for his interests. Dimly the consciousness came to me; slowly it found its way and spread out; its details before me; bit by bit one point after another came into my mind to make the whole good; bit by bit one item after another came in to explain and be explained and to add its quota of testimony; all making clear and distinct and dazzling before me the truth which at first it was so hard to grasp. And this is not the less true because my childish thought at first took everything vaguely and received it slowly. I was a child and a simple child; but once getting hold of a clue of truth, my mind never let it go. Step by step, as a child could, I followed it out. And the balance of the golden rule, to which I was accustomed, is an easy one to weigh things in; and even little hands can manage it. For an hour after they put me to bed my heart seemed to grow chill from minute to minute; and my body, in curious sympathy, shook as if I had an ague. My aunt and Miss Pinshon came and went and were busy about me; making me drink negus and putting hot bricks to my feet. Preston stole in to look at me; but I gathered that neither then nor afterwards did he reveal to any one the matter of our conversation the hour before. "Wearied" � "homesick" � "feeble" � "with no sort of strength to bear anything" � they said I was. All true, no doubt; and yet I was not without powers of endurance, even bodily, if my mind gave a little help. Now the trouble was, that all such help was wanting. The dark figures of the servants came and went too, with the others; came and stayed; Margaret and Mammy Theresa took post in my room, and when they could do nothing for me, crouched by the fire and spent their cares and energies in keeping that in full blast. I could hardly bear to see them; but I had no heart to speak even to ask that they might be sent away, or for anything else; and I had a sense besides that it was a gratification to them to be near me; and to gratify any one of the race I would have borne a good deal of pain. It smites my heart now, to think of those hours. The image of them is sharp and fresh as if the time were but last night. I lay with shut eyes, taking in as it seemed to me, additional loads of trouble with each quarter of an hour; as I thought and thought and put one and another thing together, of things past and present, to help my understanding. A child will carry on that process fast and to far-off results; give her but the key and set her off on the track of truth with a sufficient impetus. My happy childlike ignorance and childlike life was in a measure gone; I had come into the world of vexed questions, of the oppressor and the oppressed, the full and the empty, the rich and the poor. I could make nothing at all of Preston's arguments and reasonings. The logic of expediency and of consequences carried no weight with me, and as little the logic of self-interest. I sometimes think a child's vision is clearer, even in worldly matters, than the eyes of those can be who have lived long among the fumes and vapours which rise in these low grounds. Unless the eyes be washed day by day in the spring of truth, and anointed with unearthly ointment. The right and the wrong, were the two things that presented themselves to my view; and oh, my sorrow and heartbreak was, that papa was in the wrong. I could not believe it, and yet I could not get rid of it. There were oppressors and oppressed at the world; and he was one of the oppressors. There is no sorrow that a child can bear, keener and more gnawingly bitter than this. It has a sting all its own, for which there is neither salve nor remedy; and it had the aggravation, in my case, of the sense of personal dishonour. The wrong done and the oppression inflicted were not the whole; there was besides the intolerable sense of living upon other's gains. It was more than my heart could bear. I could not write as I do, � I could not recall these thoughts and that time, � if I had not another thought to bring to bear upon them; a thought which at that time I was not able to comprehend. It came to me later with its healing, and I have seen and felt it more clearly as I grew older. I see it very clearly now. I had not been mistaken in my childish notions of the loftiness and generosity of my father's character. He was what I had thought him. Neither was I a whit wrong in my judgment of the things which it grieved me that he did and allowed. But I saw afterwards how he, and others, had grown up and been educated in a system and atmosphere of falsehood, till he failed to perceive that it was false. His eyes had lived in the darkness till it seemed quite comfortably light to him; while to a fresh vision, accustomed to the sun, it was pure and blank darkness, as thick as night. He followed what others did and his father had done before him, without any suspicion that it was an abnormal and morbid condition of things they were all living in; more especially without a tinge of misgiving that it might not be a noble, upright and dignified way of life. But I, his little unreasoning child, bringing the golden rule of the gospel only to judge of the doings of hell, shrank back and fell to the ground, in my heart, to find the one I loved best in the world concerned in them. So when I opened my eyes that night, and looked into the blaze of the firelight, the dark figures that were there before it stung me with pain every time; and a every soft word and tender look on their faces � and I had many a one, both words and looks � racked my heart in a way that was strange for a child. The negus put me to sleep at last, or exhaustion did; I think the latter, for it was very late; and the rest of that night wore away. When I awoke, the two women were there still, just as I had left them when I went to sleep. I do not know if they sat there all night, or if they had slept on the floor by my side; but there they were, and talking softly to one another about something that caught my attention. I bounced out of bed � though I was so weak I remember I reeled as I went from my bed to the fire � and steadied myself by laying my a hand on Mammy Theresa's shoulder. I demanded of Margaret _what_ she had been saying? The women both started, with expressions of surprise, alarm, and tender affection, raised by my ghostly looks, and begged me to get back into bed again. I stood fast, bearing on Theresa's shoulder. "What was it?" I asked. " 'Twarn't nothin', Miss Daisy, dear!" said the girl. "Hush! Don't tell me that," I said. "Tell me what it was � tell me what it was. Nobody shall know; you need not be afraid; nobody shall know." For I saw a cloud of hesitation in Margaret's face. " 'Twarn't nothin', Miss Daisy � only about Darry." "What about Darry?" I said, trembling. "He done went and had a praise-meetin'," said Theresa; "and he knowed it war agin the rules; he knowed that. 'Course he did. Rules mus' be kep'." "Whose rules?" I asked. "Laws, honey, 'taint 'cording to rules for we coloured folks to hold meetin's no how. 'Course, we's ought to 'bey de rules; dat's clar." "Who made the rules?" "Who make 'em? Mass' Ed'ards � he make de rules on dis plantation. Reckon Mass' Randolph, he make 'em a heap different." "Does Mr. Edwards make it a rule that you are not to hold prayer-meetings?" "Can't spec' for to have everyt'ing jus' like de white folks," said the old woman. "We's no right to 'spect it. But Uncle Darry, he sot a sight by his praise-meetin'. He's cur'ous, he is. S'pose Darry's cur'ous." "And does anybody say that you shall not have prayer- meetings?" "Laws, honey! What's we got to do wid praise-meetin's or any sort o' meetin's? We'se got to work. Mass' Ed'ards, he say dat de meetin's dey makes coloured folks onsettled; and dey don't hoe de corn good if dey has too much prayin' to do." "And does he forbid them then? Doesn't he let you have prayer- meetings?" " 'Taint Mr. Edwards alone, Miss Daisy," said Margaret, speaking low. "It's agin the law for us to have meetin's anyhow � 'cept we get leave, and say what house it shall be, and who's a comin', and what we'se a comin' for. And it's no use asking Mr. Edwards, 'cause he don't see no reason why black folks should have meetin's." "Did Darry have a prayer-meeting without leave?" I asked. " 'Twarn't no count of a meetin'!" said Theresa, a little touch of scorn, or indignation, coming into her voice; � "and Darry, he war in his own house prayin'. Dere warn't nobody dere, but Pete and ole 'Liza, and Maria cook, and dem two Johns dat come from de lower plantation. Dey couldn't get a strong meetin' into Uncle Darry's house; 'taint big enough to hold 'em." "And what did the overseer do to Darry?" I asked. "Laws, Miss Daisy," said Margaret, with a quick look at the other woman, � "he didn't do nothin' to hurt Darry; he only want to scare de folks." "Dey's done scared �" said Theresa under her breath. "What is it?" I said, steadying myself by my hold on Theresa's shoulder, and feeling that I must stand till I had finished my enquiry � how did he know about the meeting? and what did he do to Darry? � Tell me! I must know. I must know, Margaret." " 'Spect he was goin' through the quarters, and he heard Darry at his prayin'," said Margaret. "Darry, he don't mind to keep his prayers secret, he don't," � she added with a half laugh. " 'Spect nothin' but they'll bust the walls o' that little house some day." "Dey's powerful!" added Theresa. "But he warn't prayin' no harm; he was just prayin', 'Dy will be done, on de eart' as it be in de heaven' � Pete, he tell me. Darry warn't saying not'ing � he just pray 'Dy will be done.'!" "Well?" I said, for Margaret kept silent. "And de oberseer, he say � leastways he swore, he did, � dat his will should be what is done on dis plantation, and he wouldn't have no such work. He say, dere's nobody to come togedder after it be dark, if it's two or t'ree, 'cept dey gets his leave, Mass' Ed'ards, he say; and dey won't get it." "But what did he do to Darry?" I could scarcely hold myself on my feet by this time. "He whipped him, I reckon," � said Margaret in a low tone, and with a dark shadow crossing her face, very different from its own brown duskiness. "He don't have a light hand, Mass' Ed'ards," went on Theresa; "and he got a sharp new whip. De second stripe, � Pete, he tell me, � he tell me dis evenin' � and it war wet; and it war wet enough before he got through. He war mad, I reckon; certain Mass' Ed'ards, he war mad." "_Wet?_" said I. "Laws, Miss Daisy," said Margaret, " 'tain't nothin'. Them whips, they draws the blood easy. Darry, he don't mind." I have a recollection of the girl's terrified face, but I heard nothing more. Such a deadly sickness came over me that for a minute I must have been near fainting; happily it took another turn amid the various confused feelings which oppressed me, and I burst into tears. My eyes had not been wet through all the hours of the evening and night; my heartache had been dry. I think I was never very easy to move to tears, even as a child. But now, well for me perhaps, some element of the pain I was suffering found the unguarded point � or broke up the guard. I wept as I have done very few times in my life. I had thrown myself into Mammy Theresa's lap, in the weakness which could not support itself, and in an abandonment of grief which was careless of all the outside world; and there I lay, clasped in her arms and sobbing. Grief, horror, tender sympathy, and utter helplessness, striving together; there was nothing for me at that moment but the woman's refuge and the child's remedy of weeping. But the weeping was so bitter, so violent, and so uncontrollable that the women were frightened. I believe they shut the doors, to keep the sound of my sobs from reaching other ears; for when I recovered the use of my senses I saw that they were closed. The certain strange relief which tears do bring, they gave to me. I cannot tell why. My pain was not changed, my helplessness was not done away; yet at least I had washed my causes of sorrow in a flood of heart drops, and cleansed them so somehow from any personal stain. Rather, I was perfectly exhausted. The women put me to bed, as soon as I would let them; and Margaret whispered an earnest, "Do, don't, Miss Daisy, don't say nothin' about the prayer-meetin'!" � I shook my head; I knew better than to say anything about it. All the better not to betray them, and myself, I shut my eyes, and tried to let my face grow quiet. I had succeeded, I believe, before my aunt Gary and Miss Pinshon came in. The two stood looking at me; my aunt in some consternation, my governess reserving any expression of what she thought. I fancied she did not trust my honesty. Another time I might have made an effort to right myself in her opinion; but I was past that and everything now. It was decided by my aunt that I had better keep my bed as long as I felt like doing so. So I lay there during the long hours of that day. I was glad to be still, to keep out of the way in a corner, to hear little and see nothing of what was going on; my own small world of thoughts was enough to keep me busy. I grew utterly weary at last of thinking, and gave it up, so far as I could; submitting passively, in a state of pain sometimes dull and sometimes acute, to what I had no power to change or remedy. But my father had, I thought; and at those times my longing was unspeakable to see him. I was very quiet all that day, I believe, in spite of the rage of wishes and sorrows within me; but it was not to be expected I should gain strength. On the contrary, I think I grew feverish. If I could have laid down my troubles in prayer! but at first, these troubles, I could not. The core and root of them being my father's a share in the rest. And I was not alone; and I had a certain consciousness that if I allowed myself to go to my little Bible for help, it would unbar my self-restraint with its sweet and keen words, and I should give way again before Margaret and Theresa; and I did not wish that. "What shall we do with her?" said my aunt Gary, when she came to me towards the evening. "She looks like a mere shadow. I never saw such a change in a child in four weeks � never!" "Try a different regimen to-morrow, I think," said my governess, whose lustrous black eyes looked at me sick, exactly as they had looked at me well. "I shall send for a doctor, if she isn't better," said my aunt. "She's feverish now." "Keeping her bed all day," � said Miss Pinshon. "Do you think so?" said my aunt. "I have no doubt of it. It is very weakening." "Then we will let her get up to-morrow, and see how that will do." They had been gone half an hour, when Preston stole in and came to the side of my bed, between me and the firelight. "Come, Daisy, let us be friends!" he said. And he was stooping to kiss me; but I put out my hand to keep him back. "Not till you have told Darry you are sorry," I said. Preston was angry instantly, and stood upright. "Ask pardon of a servant!" he said. "You would have the world upside down directly." I thought it was upside down already; but I was too weak and downhearted to say so. "Daisy, Daisy!" said Preston � "And there you lie, looking like a poor little wood flower that has hardly strength to hold up its head; and with about as much colour in your cheeks. Come, Daisy, � kiss me, and let us be friends." "If you will do what is right �" I said. "I will � always," said Preston; "but this would be wrong, you know." And he stooped again to kiss me. And again I would not suffer him. "Daisy, you are absurd," said Preston, vibrating between pity and anger, I think, as he looked at me. "Darry is a servant, and accustomed to a servant's place. What hurt you so much, did not hurt him a bit. He knows where he belongs." "You don't," � said I. "What?" "Know anything about it." I remember I spoke very feebly. I had hardly energy left to speak at all. My words must have come with a curious contrast between the meaning and the manner. "Know anything, about what, Daisy? You are as oracular and as immoveable as one of Egypt's monuments; only they are very hard, and � you are very soft, my dear little Daisy! � and they are very brown, according to all I have heard, and you are as white as a wind-flower. One can almost see through you. What is it I don't know anything about?" "I am so tired, Preston!" "Yes, but what is it I don't know anything about?" "Darry's place � and yours," I said. "His place and mine! His place is a servant's, I take it, belonging to Rudolf Randolph, of Magnolia. I am the unworthy representative of an old Southern family, and a gentleman. What have you to say about that?" "He is a servant of the Lord of lords," I said; "and his Master loves him. And He has a house of glory preparing for him, and a crown of gold, and a white robe, such as the King's children wear. And he will sit on a throne himself by and by. Preston, where will _you_ be?" These words were said without the least heat of manner � almost languidly; but they put Preston in a fume. I could not catch his excitement in the least; but I saw it. He stood up again, hesitated, opened his mouth to speak and shut it without speaking, turned and walked away and came back to me. I did not wait for him then. "You have offended one of the King's children," I said; "and the King is offended." "Daisy!" said Preston, in a sort of suppressed fury, "one would think you had turned Abolitionist; only you never heard of such a thing." "What is it?" said I, shutting my eyes. "It is just the meanest and most impudent shape a Northerner can take; it is the lowest end of creation, an Abolitionist is; and a Yankee is pretty much the same thing." "Dr. Sandford is a Yankee," I remarked. "Did you get it from _him?_" Preston asked fiercely. "What?" said I, opening my eyes. "Your nonsense. Has he taught you to turn Abolitionist?" "I have not _turned_ at all," I said. "I wish you would. It is only the people who are in the wrong that ought to turn." "Daisy," said Preston, "you ought never to be away from aunt Felicia and my uncle. Nobody else can manage you. I don't know what you will become or what you will do, before they get back." I was silent; and Preston, I suppose, cooled down. He waited awhile, and then again begged that I would kiss and be friends. "You see, I am going away to- morrow morning, little Daisy." "I wish you had gone two days ago," I said. And my mind did not change, even when the morning came. CHAPTER V. IN THE KITCHEN. I was ill for days. It was not due to one thing, doubtless, nor one sorrow; but the whole together. My aunt sent to Baytown for the old family physician. He came up and looked at me; and decided that I ought to "play" as much as possible! "She isn't a child that likes play," said my aunt. "Find some play that she does like, then. Where are her father and mother?" "Just sailed for Europe, a few weeks ago." "The best thing would be, for her, to sail after them," said the old doctor. And he went. "We shall have to let her do just as they did at Melbourne," said my aunt. "How was that?" said Miss Pinshon. "Let her have just her own way." "And what was that ?" "Oh, queer," said my aunt. "She is not like other children. But anything is better than to have her mope to death." "I shall try and not have her mope," said Miss Pinshon. But she had little chance to adopt her reforming regimen for some time. It was plain I was not fit for anything but to be let alone; like a weak plant struggling for its existence. All you can do with it is to put it in the sun; and my aunt and governess tacitly agreed upon the same plan of treatment for me. Now the only thing wanting was sunshine; and it was long before that could be had. After a day or two I left my bed, and crept about the house, and out of the house under the great oaks; where the material sunshine was warm and bright enough, and caught itself in the grey wreaths of moss that waved over my head, and seemed to come bodily to woo me to life and cheer. It lay in the carpet under my feet; it lingered in the leaves of the thick oaks; it wantoned in the wind, as the long draperies of moss swung and moved gently to and fro; but the very sunshine is cold where the ice meets it; I could get no comfort. The thoughts that had so troubled me the evening after my long talk with Preston, were always present with me; they went out and came in with me; I slept with them, and they met me when I woke. The sight of the servants was wearying. I shunned Darry and the stables. I had no heart for my pony. I would have liked to get away from Magnolia. Yet, be I where I might, it would not alter my father's position towards these seven hundred people. And towards how many more? There were his estates in Virginia. One of the first things I did, as soon as I could command my fingers to do it, was to write to him. Not a remonstrance. I knew better than to touch that. All I ventured, was to implore that the people who desired it might be allowed to hold prayer-meetings whenever they liked, and Mr. Edwards be forbidden to interfere. Also I complained that the inside of the cabins was not comfortable; that they were bare and empty. I pleaded for a little bettering of them. It was not a long letter that I wrote. My sorrow I could not tell, and my love and my longing were equally beyond the region of words. I fancy it would have I been thought by Miss Pinshon a very cold little epistle; but Miss Pinshon did not see it. I wrote it with weak trembling fingers, and closed it and sealed it and sent it myself. Then I sank into a helpless, careless, listless state of body and mind, which was very bad for me; and there was no physician who could minister to me. I went wandering about, mostly out of doors, alone with myself and my sorrow. When I seemed a little stronger than usual, Miss Pinshon tried the multiplication table; and I tried; but the spring of my mind was for the time broken. All such trials came to an end in such weakness and weariness, that my governess herself was fain to take the book from my hands and send me out into the sunshine again. It was Darry at last who found me one day, and, distressed at my looks, begged that I would let him bring up my pony. He was so earnest that I yielded. I got leave, and went to ride. Darry saddled another horse for himself and went with me. That first ride did not help me much; but the second time, a little tide of life began to steal into my veins. Darry encouraged and instructed me; and when we came, cantering up to the door of the house, my aunt who was watching there, cried out that I had a bit of a tinge in my cheeks; and charged Darry to bring the horses up every day. With a little bodily vigour a little strength of mind seemed to come; a little more power of bearing up against evils, or of quietly standing under them. After the third time I went to ride, having come home refreshed, I took my Bible and sat down on the rug before the fire in my room to read. I had not been able to get comfort in my Bible all those days; often I had not liked to try. Right and wrong never met me in more brilliant colours or startling shadows than within the covers of that book. But to-day, soothed somehow, I went along with the familiar words as one listens to old music, with the soothing process going on all along. Right _was_ right, and glorious, and would prevail some time; and nothing could hinder it. And then I came to words which I knew, yet which had never taken such hold of me before. "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven." "_That_ is what I have to do!" I thought immediately. "That is my part. That is clear. What _I_ have to do, is to let my light shine. And if the light shines, perhaps it will fall on something. But what I have to do, is to shine. God has given me nothing else." It was a very simple, child's thought; but it brought wonderful comfort with it. Doubtless, I would have liked another part to play. I would have liked � if I could � to have righted all the wrong in the world; to have broken every yoke; to have filled every empty house, and built up a fire on every cold hearth; but that was not what God had given me. All He had given me, that I could see at the minute, was to shine. What a little morsel of a light mine was, to be sure! It was a good deal of a puzzle to me for days after that, _how_ I was to shine. What could I do? I was a little child; my only duties some lessons to learn; not much of that, seeing I had not strength for it. Certainly, I had sorrows to bear; but bearing them well did not seem to me to come within the sphere of _shining_. Who would know that I bore them well? And shining is meant to be seen. I pondered the matter. "When's Christmas, Miss Daisy?" Margaret asked this question one morning as she was on her knees making my fire. Christmas had been so shadowed a point to me in the distance, I had not looked at it. I stopped to calculate the days. "It will be two weeks from Friday, Margaret." "And Friday's to-morrow?" she asked. "The day after to-morrow. What do you do at Christmas, Margaret? all the people?" "There aint no great doings, Miss Daisy. The people gets four days, most of 'em." "Four days � for what? �" "For what they likes; they don't do no work, those days." "And is that all?" "No, Miss Daisy, 'taint just all; the women comes up to the house � it's to the overseer's house now � and every one gets a bowl o' flour, more or less, 'cordin' to size of family � and a quart of molasses, and a piece o' pork." "And what do they do to make the time pleasant?" I asked. "Some on 'em's raised eggs and chickens; and they brings 'em to the house and sells 'em; and they has the best dinner. Most times they gets leave to have a meetin'." "A prayer-meeting?" I said. "Laws, no, Miss Daisy! not 'cept it were uncle Darry and _his_ set. The others don't make no count of a prayer-meetin'. They likes to have a white-folks' meetin' and 'joy theirselves." I thought very much over these statements; and for the next two weeks, bowls of flour and quarts of molasses, as Christmas doings, were mixed up in my mind with the question, how I was to shine? or rather, alternated with it; and plans began to turn themselves over and take shape in my thoughts. "Margaret," said I, a day or two before Christmas, "can't the people have those meetings you spoke of, without getting leave of Mr. Edwards?" "Can't have meetin's no how!" Margaret replied decidedly. "But, if _I_ wanted to see them, couldn't they, some of them, come together to see me?" "To see Miss Daisy! Reckon Miss Daisy do what she like. 'Spect Mass' Ed'ards let Miss Daisy 'lone!" I was silent, pondering. "Maria cook wants to see Miss Daisy bad. She bid me tell Miss Daisy won't she come down in de kitchen, and see all the works she's a-doin' for Christmas, and de glorifications?" "I? I'll come if I can," I answered. I asked my aunt and got easy leave; and Christmas eve I went down to the kitchen. That was the chosen time when Maria wished to see me. There was an assembly of servants gathered in the room, some from out of the house. Darry was there; and one or two other fine-looking men who were his prayer-meeting friends. I supposed they were gathered to make merry for Christmas eve; but, at any rate, they were all eager to see we, and looked at me with smiles as gentle as have ever fallen to my share. I felt it and enjoyed it. The effect was of entering a warm, genial atmosphere, where grace and good will were on every side; a change very noticeable from the cold and careless habit of things up stairs. And _grace_ is not a misapplied epithet; for these children of a luxurious and beauty-loving race, even in their bondage had not forgotten all traces of their origin. As I went in, I could not help giving my hand to Darry; and then, in my childish feeling towards them and in the tenderness of the Christmas-tide, I could not help doing the same by all the others who were present. And I remember now the dignity of mien in some, the frank ease in others, both graceful and gracious, with which my civility was met. If a few were a little shy, the rest more than made it up by their welcome of me and a sort of politeness which had almost something courtly in it. Darry and Maria together gave me a seat, in the very centre and glow of the kitchen light and warmth; and the rest made a half circle around, leaving Maria's end of the room free for her operations. The kitchen was all aglow with the most splendid of fire of pine knots it was ever my lot to see. The illumination was such as threw all gaslights into shade. We were in a great, stone-flagged room, low-roofed, with dark cupboard doors; not cheerful, I fancy, in the mere light of day; but nothing could resist the influence of those pine-knot flames. Maria herself was a portly fat woman, as far as possible from handsome; but she looked at me with a whole world of kindness in her dark face. Indeed, I saw the same kindness more or less shining out upon me in all the faces there. I cannot tell the mixed joy and pain that it, and they, gave me. I suppose I showed little of either, or of anything. Maria entertained me with all she had. She brought out for my view her various rich and immense stores of cakes and pies and delicacies for the coming festival; told me what was good and what I must be sure and eat; and what would be good for me. And then, when that display was over, she began to be very busy with beating of eggs in a huge wooden bowl; and bade Darry see to the boiling of the kettle at the fire; and sent Jem the waiter, for things he was to get up stairs; and all the while talked to me. She and Darry and one or two more talked, but especially she and Theresa and Jem; while all the rest listened and laughed and exclaimed, and seemed to find me as entertaining as a play. Maria was asking me about my own little life and experiences before I came to Magnolia; what sort of a place Melbourne was, and how things there differed from the things she and the rest knew and were accustomed to at the South; and about my old June, who had once been an acquaintance of hers. Smiling at me the while, between the thrusts of her curiosity, and over my answers, as if for sheer pleasure she could not keep grave. The other faces were as interested and as gracious. There was Pete, tall and very black, and very grave, as Darry was also. There was Jem, full of life and waggishness, and bright for any exercise of his wits; and grave shadows used to come over his changeable face often enough too. There was Margaret, with her sombre beauty; and old Theresa with her worn old face. I think there was a certain indescribable reserve of gravity upon them all, but there was not one whose lips did not part in a white line when looking at me, nor whose eyes and ears did not watch me with an interest as benign as it was intent. I had been little while seated before the kitchen fire of pine knots before I felt that I was in the midst of a circle of personal friends; and I feel it now, as I look back and remember them. They would have done much for me, every one. Meanwhile Maria beat and mixed and stirred the things in her wooden bowl; and by and by ladled out a glassful of rich- looking, yellow, creamy froth � I did not know what it was, only it looked beautiful � and presented it to me. "Miss Daisy mus' tell Mis' Felissy Maria haint forgot how to make it � 'spect she haint, anyhow. Dat's for Miss Daisy's Christmas." "It's very nice!" I said. "Reckon it is," was the capable answer. "Won't you give everybody some, Maria?" For Jem had gone up stairs with a tray of glasses, and Maria seemed to be resting upon her labours. "Dere'll come down orders for mo', chile; and 'spose I gives it to de company, what'll Mis' Lisa do wid Maria? I have de 'sponsibility of Christmas." "But you can make some more," I said, holding my glass in waiting. "Do, Maria." " 'Spose haint got de 'terials, hey?" "What do you want? Aunt Gary will give it to you." And I begged Jem to go up again and prefer my request to her for the new filling of Maria's bowl. Jem shrugged his shoulders, but he went; and I suppose he made a good story of it; for he came down with whatever was wanted � my aunt Gary was in a mood to refuse me nothing then � and Maria went anew about the business of beating and mixing and compounding. There was great enjoyment in the kitchen. It was a time of high festival, what with me and the egg supper. Merriment and jocularity, a little tide-wave of social excitement, swelled and broke on all sides of me; making a soft ripply play of fun and repartee, difficult to describe, and which touched me as much as it amused. It was very unlike the enjoyment of a set of white people holding the same social and intellectual grade. It was the manifestation of another race, less coarse and animal in their original nature, more sensitive and more demonstrative, with a strange touch of the luxurious and refined, for a people whose life has had nothing to do with luxury and whom refinement leaves on one side as quite beyond its sphere. But blood is a strange thing; and Ham's children will show luxurious and aesthetic tastes, take them where you will. "Chillen, I hope you's enjoyed your supper," Maria said, when the last lingering drops had been secured, and mugs and glasses were coming back to the kitchen table. Words and smiles answered her. "We's had a splendid time, aunt Maria," said one young man as he set down his glass. He was a worker in the garden. "Den I hope we's all willin' to gib de Lord t'anks for his goodness. Dere aint a night in de year when it's so proper to gib de Lord t'anks, as it be dis precious night." "It's to-morrow night, aunt Maria," said Pete. "To-morrow's Christmas night." "I don't care! One night's jus' as good as another, you Pete. And now we's all together, you see, and comfortable together; and I feel like giving t'anks, I do, to de Lord, for all his mercies." "What's Christmas, anyhow?" asked another. "It's jus' de crown o' all de nights in de year. You Solomon, it's a night dat dey keeps up in heaven. You know nothin' about it, you poor critter. I done believe you never hearn no one tell about it. Maybe Miss Daisy wouldn't read us de story, and de angels, and de shepherds, and dat great light what come down, and make us feel good for Christmas; and uncle Darry, he'll t'ank de Lord." The last words Were put in a half-questioning form to me, rather taking for granted that I would readily do what was requested. And hardly anything the world, I suppose, could have given me such deep gratification at the moment. Margaret was sent up stairs to fetch my Bible; the circle closed in around the fire and me; a circle of listening, waiting, eager, interested faces; some few of them shone with pleasure or grew grave with reverent love, while, I read slowly the chapters that tell of the first Christmas night. I read them from all the gospels; picking the story out first in one, then in another; answered sometimes by low words of praise that echoed but did not interrupt me; � words that were but some dropped notes of the song that began that night in heaven, and has been running along the ages since, and is swelling and will swell into a great chorus of earth and heaven, by and by. And how glad I was in the words of the story myself, as I went along. How heart-glad that here, in this region of riches and hopes not earthly, those around me had as good welcome and as open entrance, and as free right as I. "There is neither bond nor free." "And base things of this world, and things which are despised, hath God chosen, yea, and things which are not, to bring to nought things that are." I finished my reading at last, amid the hush of my listening audience. Then Maria called upon Darry to pray, and we all kneeled down. It comes back to me now as I write � the hush, and the breathing of the fire, and Darry's low voice and imperfect English. Yes, and the incoming tide of rest and peace and gladness which began to fill the dry places in my heart, and rose and swelled till my heart was full. I lost my troubles and forgot my difficulties. I forgot that my father and mother were away, for the sense of loneliness was gone. I forgot that those around me were in bonds, for I felt them free as I, and inheritors of the same kingdom. I have not often in my life listened to such a prayer, unless from the same lips. He was one of those that make you feel that the door is open to their knocking, and that they always find it so. His words were seconded � not interrupted, even to my feeling � by low- breathed echoes of praise and petition; too soft and deep to leave any doubt of the movement that called them forth. There was a quiet gravity upon the company when we rose to our feet again. I knew I must go; but the kitchen had been the pleasantest place to me in all Magnolia. I bade them good night, answered with bows and curtseys and hearty wishes; and as I passed out of the circle, tall black Pete, looking down upon me with just a glimmer of white between his lips, added, "Hope you'll come again." A thought darted into my head which brought sunshine with it. I seemed to see my way begin to open. The hope was warm at my heart as soon as I was awake the next morning. With more comfort than for many days I had known, I lay and watched Margaret making my fire. Then suddenly I remembered it was Christmas, and what thanksgivings had been in heaven about it, and what should be on earth; and a lingering of the notes of praise I had heard last night made a sort of still music in the air. But I did not expect at all that any of the ordinary Christmas festivities would come home to me, seeing that my father and mother were away. Where should Christmas festivities come from? So, when Margaret rose up and showed all her teeth at me, I only thought last night had given her pleasure; and I suspected nothing, even when she stepped into the next room and brought in a little table covered with a shawl, and set it close by my bedside. "Am I to have breakfast in bed?" I asked. "What is this for?" "Dunno, Miss Daisy," said Margaret, with all her white teeth sparkling; � 'spose Miss Daisy take just a look, and see what 'pears like." I felt the colour come into my face. I raised myself on my elbow and lifted up cautiously one corner of the shawl. Packages � white paper and brown paper � long and short, large and small! "O Margaret, take off the shawl, won't you!" I cried; � "and let me see what is here." There was a good deal. But "From papa" caught my eye on a little parcel. I seized it and unfolded. From papa, and he so far away! But I guessed the riddle before I could get to the last of the folds of paper that wrapped and enwrapped a little morocco case. Papa and mamma, leaving me alone, had made provision beforehand, that when this time came I might miss nothing except themselves. They had thought and cared and arranged for me; and now they were thinking about it, perhaps, far away somewhere over the sea. I held the morocco case in my hand a minute or two before I could open it. Then I found a little watch; my dear little watch! which has gone with me ever since, and never failed nor played tricks with me. My mother had put in one of her own chains for me to wear with it. I lay a long time looking and thinking, raised up on my elbow as I was, before I could leave the watch and go on to anything else. Margaret spread round my shoulders the shawl which had covered the Christmas table; and then she stood waiting, with a good deal more impatience and curiosity than I showed. But such a world of pleasure and pain gathered round that first "bit of Christmas" � so many, many thoughts of one and the other kind � that I for awhile had enough with that. At last I closed the case, and keeping it yet in one hand, used the other to make more discoveries. The package labelled "From mamma," took my attention next; but I could make nothing of it. An elegant little box, that was all, which I could not open; only it felt so very heavy that I was persuaded there must be something extraordinary inside. I could make nothing of it; it was a beautiful box; that was all. Preston had brought me a little riding whip; both costly and elegant. I could not but be much pleased with it. A large, rather soft package marked with aunt Gary's name, unfolded a riding cap to match; at least it was exceeding rich and stylish, with a black feather that waved away in curves that called forth Margaret's delighted admiration. Nevertheless, I wondered, while I admired, at my aunt Gary's choice of a present. I had a straw hat which served all purposes, even of elegance, for my notions. I was amazed to find that Miss Pinshon had not forgotten me. There was a decorated pen, wreathed with a cord of crimson and gold twist, and supplemented with two dangling tassels. It was excessively pretty, as I thought of aunt Gary's cap; and _not_ equally convenient. I looked at all these things while Margaret was dressing me; but the case with the watch, for the most part, I remember I kept in my hand. "Aint you goin' to try it on and see some how pretty it looks, Miss Daisy?" said my unsatisfied attendant. "The cap?" said I. "Oh, I dare say it fits. Aunt Gary knows how big my head is." "Mass' Preston come last night," she went on; "so I reckon Miss Daisy'll want to wear it by and by." "Preston come last night!" I said. "After I was in bed?" � and feeling that it was indeed Christmas, I finished getting ready and went down stairs. I made up my mind I might as well be friends with Preston, and not push any further my displeasure at his behaviour. So we had a comfortable breakfast. My aunt was pleased to see me, she said, look so much better. Miss Pinshon was not given to expressing what she felt; but she looked at me two or three times without saying anything, which I suppose meant satisfaction. Preston was in high feather; making all sorts of plans for my divertisement during the next few days. I for my part had my own secret cherished plan, which made my heart beat quicker whenever I thought of it. But I wanted somebody's counsel and help; and on the whole I thought my aunt Gary's would be the safest. So after breakfast I consulted Preston only about my mysterious little box, which would not open. Was it a paper weight? Preston smiled, took up the box and performed some conjuration upon it, and then � I cannot describe my entranced delight � as he set it down again on the table, the room seemed to grow musical. Softest, most liquid sweet notes came pouring forth one after the other, binding my ears as if I had been in a state of enchantment. Binding feet and hands and almost my breath, as I stood hushed and listening to the liquid warbling of delicious things, until the melody had run itself out. It was a melody unknown to me; wild and dainty; it came out of a famous opera I was told afterward. When the fairy notes sunk into silence, I turned mutely towards Preston. Preston laughed. "I declare!" he said, � "I declare! Hurra! you have got colour in your cheeks, Daisy; absolutely, my little Daisy! there is a real streak of pink there where it was so white before." "_What_ is it?" said I. "Just a little good blood coming up under the skin." "Oh, no, Preston � _this_; what is it?" "A musical box." "But where does the music come from?" "Out of the box. See, Daisy; when it has done a tune and is run out, you must wind it up, so, � like a watch." He wound it up and set it on the table again. And again a melody came forth, and this time it was different; not plaintive and thoughtful, but jocund and glad; a little shout and ring of merriment, like the feet of dancers scattering the drops of dew in a bright morning; or like the chime of a thousand little silver bells rung for laughter. A sort of intoxication came into my heart. When Preston would have wound up the box again, I stopped him. I was full of the delight. I could not hear any mote just then. "Why, Daisy, there are ever so many more tunes." "Yes. I am glad. I will have them another time," I answered. "How very kind of mamma!" "Hit the right thing this time, didn't she? How's the riding cap, Daisy?" "It is very nice," I said. "Aunt Gary is very good; and I like the whip very much, Preston." "That fat little rascal will want it. Does the cap fit, Daisy?" "I don't know," I said. "Oh, yes, I suppose so." Preston made an exclamation, and forthwith would have it tried on to see how it looked. It satisfied him; somehow it did not please me as well; but the ride did, which we had soon after; and I found that my black feather certainly suited everybody else. Darry smiled at me, and the house servants were exultant over my appearance. Amid all these distracting pleasures, I kept on the watch for an opportunity to speak to aunt Gary alone. Christmas day I could not. I could not get it till near the end of the next day. "Aunt Gary," I said, "I want to consult you about something." "You have always something turning about in your head," � was her answer. "Do you think," said I slowly, "Mr. Edwards would have any objection to some of the people coming to the kitchen Sunday evenings to hear me read the Bible?" "To hear _you_ read the Bible!" said my aunt. "Yes, aunt Gary; I think they would like it. You know they cannot read it for themselves." "_They_ would like it. And you would be delighted, wouldn't you?" "Yes, aunt Gary. I should like it better than anything." "You are a funny child! There is not a bit of your mother in you � except your obstinacy." And my aunt seemed to ponder my difference. "Would Mr. Edwards object to it, do you think? Would he let them come?" "The question is, whether I will let them come. Mr. Edwards has no business with what is done in the house." "But, aunt Gary, you would not have any objection." "I don't know, I am sure. I wish your father and mother had never left you in my charge; for I don't know how to take care of you." "Aunt Gary," I said, "please don't object! There is nobody to read the Bible to them � and I should like to do it very much." "Yes, I see you would. There � don't get excited about it � every Sunday evening, did you say?" "Yes, ma'am � if you please." "Daisy, it will just tire you; that's what it will do. I know it, just as well as if I had seen it. You are not strong enough." "I am sure it would refresh me, aunt Gary. It did the other night." "The other night?" "Christmas eve, ma'am." "Did you read to them then?" "Yes, ma'am; they wanted to know what Christmas was about." "And you read to them. You are the oddest child!" "But, aunt Gary, never mind, � it would be the greatest pleasure to me. Won't you give leave?" "The servants hear the Bible read, child, every morning and every night." "Yes, but that is only a very few of the house servants. I want some of the others to come � a good many, � as many as can come." "I wish your mother and father were here," sighed my aunt. "Do you think Mr. Edwards would make any objection?" I asked again, presuming on the main question being carried. "Would he let them come?" "Let them!" echoed my aunt. "Mr. Edwards would be well employed, to interfere with anything the family choose to do." "But you know he does not let them meet together, the people, aunt Gary; not unless they have his permission." "No, I suppose so. That is his business." "Then will you speak to him, ma'am, so that he may not be angry with the people when they come?" "I? No," said my aunt. "I have nothing to do with your father's overseer. It would just make difficulty maybe, Daisy; you had better let this scheme of yours alone." I could not, without bitter disappointment. Yet I did not know how further to press the matter. I sat still and said nothing. "I declare, if she isn't growing pale about it!" exclaimed my aunt. "I know one thing, and that is, your father and mother ought to have taken you along with them. I have not the least idea how to manage you; not the least. What is it you want to do, Daisy?" I explained, over again. "And now if you cannot have this trick of your fancy you will just fidget yourself sick! I see it. Just as you went driving all about Melbourne without company to take care of you. I am sure I don't know. It is not in my way to meddle with overseers � How many people do you want to read to at once, Daisy?" "As many as I can, aunt Gary. But Mr. Edwards will not let two or three meet together anywhere." "Well, I dare say he is right. You can't believe anything in the world these people tell you, child. They will lie just as fast as they will speak." "But if they came to see _me_, aunt Gary?" I persisted, waiving the other question. "That's another thing, of course. Well, don't worry. Call Preston. Why children cannot be children, passes my comprehension!" Preston came, and there was a good deal of discussing of my plan; at which Preston frowned and whistled, but on the whole, though I knew against his will, took my part. The end was, my aunt sent for the overseer. She had some difficulty, I judge, in carrying the point; and made capital of my ill-health and delicacy and spoiled-child character. The overseer's unwilling consent was gained at last; the conditions being, that every one who came to hear the reading should have a ticket of leave, written and signed by myself, for each evening; and that I should be present with the assembly from the beginning to the close of it. My delight was very great. And my aunt, grumbling at the whole matter and especially at her share in it, found an additional cause of grumbling in that, she said, I had looked twenty per cent. better ever since this foolish thing got possession of my head. "I am wondering," she remarked to Miss Pinshon, "whatever Daisy will do when she grows up. I expect nothing but she will be � what do you call them? � one of those people who run wild over the human race." "Pirates?" suggested Preston. "Or corsairs?" "Her mother will be disappointed," went on my aunt. "That is what I confidently expect." Miss Pinshon hinted something about the corrective qualities of mathematics; but I was too happy to heed her or care. I was stronger and better, I believe, from that day; though I had not much to boast of. A true tonic had been administered to me; my fainting energies took a new start. I watched my opportunity, and went down to the kitchen one evening to make my preparations. I found Maria alone and sitting in state before the fire � which I believe was always in the kitchen a regal one. I hardly ever saw it anything else. She welcomed me with great suavity; drew up a chair for me; and finding I had something to say, sat then quite grave and still looking into the blaze, while I unfolded my plan. "De Lord is bery good!" was her subdued comment, made when I had done. "He hab sent His angel, sure!" "Now, Maria," I went on, "you must tell me who would like to come next Sundays, you think; and I must make tickets for them. Every one must have my ticket, with his name on it; and then there will be no fault found." "I s'pose not," said Maria, � "wid Miss Daisy's name on it." "Who will come, Maria?" "Laws, chile, dere's heaps. Dere's Darry, and Pete � Pete, he say de meetin' de oder night war 'bout de best meetin' he eber 'tended; he wouldn't miss it for not'ing in de world; he's sure; and dere's ole 'Lize; and de two Jems � no, dere's _tree_ Jems dat is ser'ous; and Stark, and Carl and Sharlim �" "_Sharlim?_" said I, not knowing that this was the Caffir for Charlemagne. "Sharlim," Maria repeated. "He don' know much; but he has a leanin' for de good t'ings. And Darry, he can tell who'll come. I done forget all de folks' names." "Why, Maria," I said, "I did not know there were so many people at Magnolia that cared about the Bible." "What has 'um to care for, chile, I should like fur to know. Dere aint much mo' in _dis_ world." "But I thought there were only very few," I said. " 'Spose um fifty," said Maria. "Fifty aint much, I reckon, when dere's all de rest o' de folks what _don't_ care. De Lord's people is a little people yet, for sure; and de world's a big place. When de Lord come Hisself, to look for 'em, 'spect He have to look mighty hard. De world's awful dark." That brought to my mind my question. It was odd, no doubt, to choose an old coloured woman for my adviser; but indeed I had not much choice; and something had given me a confidence in Maria's practical wisdom, which early as it had been formed, nothing ever happened to shake. So, after considering the fire and the matter a moment, I brought forth my doubt. "Maria," said I, "what is the best way � I mean, how can one let one's light shine?" "What Miss Daisy talkin' about?" "I mean, � you know what the Bible says � 'Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven'?" "For sure, I knows dat. Aint much shinin' in dese yere parts. De people is dark, Miss Daisy; dey don' know. 'Spect dey would try to shine, some on 'em, ef dey knowed. Feel sure dey would." "But that is what I wanted to ask about, Maria. How ought one to let one's light shine?" I remember now the kind of surveying look the woman gave me. I do not know what she was thinking of; but she looked at me, up and down, for a moment, with a wonderfully tender, soft expression. Then turned away. "How let um light shine?" she repeated. "De bestest way, Miss Daisy, is fur to make him burn good." I saw it all immediately; my question never puzzled me again. Take care that the lamp is trimmed; take care that it is full of oil; see that the flame mounts clear and steady towards heaven; and the Lord will set it where its light will fall on what pleases Him, and where it will reach mayhap, to what you never dream of. CHAPTER VI. WINTER AND SUMMER. From the Christmas holidays, I think I began slowly to mend. My aunt watched me, and grumbled that kitchen amusements and rides with Darry should prove the medicines most healing and effectual; but she dared stop neither of them. I believe the overseer remonstrated on the danger of the night gatherings; but my aunt Gary had her answer ready, and warned him not to do anything to hinder me, for I was the apple of my father's eye. Miss Pinshon, sharing to the full my aunt's discontent, would have got on horseback, I verily believe, to be with me in my rides; but she was no rider. The sound of a horse's four feet always, she confessed, stamped the courage out of her heart. I was let alone; and the Sunday evenings in the kitchen, and the bright morning hours in the pine avenues and oak groves, were my refreshment and my pleasure, and my strength. What there was of it; for I had not much strength to boast for many a day. Miss Pinshon tried her favorite recipe whenever she thought she saw a chance, and I did my best with it. But my education that winter was quite in another line. I could not bear much arithmetic. Bending over a desk did not agree with me. Reading aloud to Miss Pinshon never lasted for more than a little while at a time. So it comes, that my remembrance of that winter is not filled with school exercises, and that Miss Pinshon's figure plays but a subordinate part in its pictures. Instead of that, my memory brings back first and chiefest of all, the circle of dark faces round the kitchen light wood fire, and the yellow blaze on the page from which I read; I a little figure in white, sitting in the midst among them all. That picture � those evenings � come back to me, with a kind of hallowed perfume of truth and hope. Truth, it was in my lips and on my heart; I was giving it out to those who had it not. And hope, � it was in more hearts than mine, no doubt; but in mine it beat with as steady a beat as the tickings of my little watch by my side, and breathed sweet as the flowers that start in spring from under the snow. I had often a large circle; and it was part of my plan, and well carried into execution, that these evenings of reading should supply also the place of the missing prayer-meeting. Gradually I drew it on to be so understood; and then my pieces of reading were scattered along between the prayers, or sometimes all came at first, followed by two or three earnest longer prayers from some of those that were present. And then, without any planning of mine, came in the singing. Not too much, lest as Maria said, we should "make de folks up stairs t'ink dere war somethin' oncommon in de kitchen;" but one or two hymns we would have, so full of spirit and sweetness that often now-a-days they come back to me, and I would give very much to hear the like again. So full of music too. Voices untrained by art, but gifted by nature; melodious and powerful; that took different parts in the tune, and carried them through without the jar of a false note or a false quantity; and a love both of song and of the truth which made the music mighty. It was the greatest delight to me, that singing, whether I joined them or only listened. One, � the thought of it comes over me now and brings the water to my eyes, � "Am I a soldier of the cross � Of the cross � Of he cross � A follower of the Lamb; And shall I fear to own his cause, Own his cause � Own his cause, � Or blush to speak His name?" The repetitions at the end of every other line were: both plaintive and strong; there was no weakness, but some recognition of what it costs in certain circumstances to "own His cause." I loved that dearly. But that was only one of many. Also the Bible words were wonderful sweet to me, as I was giving them out to those who else had a "famine of the word." Bread to the hungry, is quite another thing from bread on the tables of the full. The winter had worn well on, before I received the answer to the letter I had written my father about the prayer-meetings and Mr. Edwards. It was a short answer, not in terms but in actual extent; showing that my father was not strong and well yet. It was very kind and tender, as well as short; I felt that in every word. In substance, however, it told me I had better let Mr. Edwards alone. He knew what he ought to do, about the prayer-meetings and about other things; and they were what I could not judge about. So my letter said. It said too, that things seemed strange to me because I was unused to them; and that when I had lived longer at the South they would cease to be strange, and I would understand them and look upon them as every one else did. I studied and pondered this letter; not greatly disappointed, for I had had but slender hopes that my petition could work anything. Yet I had a disappointment to get over. The first practical use I made of my letter, I went where I could be alone with it � indeed, I was that when I read it, � but I went to a solitary lonely place, where I could not be interrupted; and there I knelt down and prayed, that however long I might live at the South, I might never get to look upon evil as anything but evil, nor ever become accustomed to the things I thought ought not to be, so as not to feel them. I shall never forget that half hour. It broke my heart that my father and I should look on such matters with so different eyes; and with my prayer for myself, which came from the very bottom of my heart, I poured out also a flood of love and tears over him, and of petition that he might have better eyesight one day. Ah yes! and before it should be too late to right the wrong he was unconsciously doing. For now I began to see, in the light of this letter first, that my father's eyes were not clear but blind in regard to these matters. And what he said about me led me to think and believe that his blindness was the effect, not of any particular hardness or fault in him, but of long teaching and habit and custom. For I saw that everybody else around me seemed to take the present condition of things as the true and best one; only convenient, but natural and proper. Everybody, that is, who did not suffer by it. I had more than suspicions that the seven hundred on the estate were of a different mind here from the half dozen who lived in the mansion; and that the same relative difference existed on the other plantations in the neighbourhood. We made visits occasionally, and the visits were returned. I was not shut out from them, and so had some chance to observe things within a circle of twenty miles. Our "neighbourhood" reached so far. And child as I was, I could not help seeing; and I could not help looking, half unconsciously, for signs of what lay so close on my heart. My father's letter thus held some material of comfort for me, although it refused my request. Papa would not overset the overseer's decision about the prayer-meetings. It held something else. There was a little scrap of a note to aunt Gary, saying, in the form of an order, that Daisy was to have ten dollars paid to her every quarter; that Mrs. Gary would see it done; and would further see that Daisy was not called upon, by anybody, at any time, to give any account whatever of her way of spending the same. How I thanked papa for this! How I knew the tender affection and knowledge of me which had prompted it. How well I understood what it was meant to do. I had a little private enjoyment of aunt Gary's disconsolate face and grudging hands as she bestowed upon me the first ten dollars. It was not that she loved money so well, but she thought this was another form of my father's unwise indulging and spoiling of me; and that I was spoiled already. But I � I saw in vision a large harvest of joy, to be raised from this small seed crop. At first I thought I must lay out a few shillings of my stock upon a nice purse to keep the whole in. I put the purse down at the head of the list of things I was making out, for purchase, the first time I should go to Baytown, or have any good chance of sending. I had a good deal of consideration whether I would have a purse or a pocket-book. Then I had an odd secret pleasure in my diplomatic way of finding out from Darry and Maria and Margaret what were the wants most pressing of the sick and the old among the people; or of the industrious and the enterprising. Getting Darry to talk to me in my rides, by degrees I came to know the stories and characters of many of the hands; I picked up hints of a want or a desire here and there, which Darry thought there was no human means of meeting, or gratifying. Then, the next time I had a chance, I brought up these persons and cases to Maria, and supplemented Darry's hints with her information. Or I attacked Margaret when she was making my fire, and drew from her what she knew about the persons in whom I was interested. So I learned � and put it down in my notebook accordingly � that Pete could spell out words a little bit, and would like mainly to read; if only he had a Testament in large type. He could not manage little print; it bothered him. Also I learned, that aunt Sarah, a middle-aged woman who worked in the fields, "wanted terrible to come to de Sabbas meetin's, but she war' shamed to come, 'cause her feet was mos' half out of her shoes; and Mr. Ed'ards wouldn't give her no more till de time come roun'." Sarah had "been and gone and done stuck her feet in de fire, for to warm 'em, one time when dey was mighty cold; and she burn her shoes. Learn her better next time." "But does she work every day in the field with her feet only half covered?" I asked. "Laws! she don't care," said Maria. "Taint no use give dem darkies not'ing; dey not know how to keep' um." But this was not Maria's real opinion, I knew. There was often a strange sort of seeming hard edge of feeling put forth, which I learned to know pointed a deep, deep, maybe only half- conscious irony, and was in reality a bitter comment upon facts. So a pair of new shoes for Sarah went down in my list with a large print Testament for Pete. Then I found that some of the people, some of the old ones, who in youth had been accustomed to it, liked nothing so well as tea; it was ambrosia and Lethe mingled; and a packet of tea was put in my list next to the Testament. But the tea must have sugar; and I could not bear that they should drink it out of mugs, without any teaspoons; so to please myself I sent for a little delf ware and a few pewter spoons. Little by little my list grew. I found that Darry knew something about letters; could write a bit; and would prize the means of writing as a very rare treasure and pleasure. And with fingers that almost trembled with delight, I wrote down paper and pens and a bottle of ink for Darry. Next, I heard of an old woman at the quarters, who was ailing and infirm, and I am afraid ill-treated, who at all events was in need of comfort, and had nothing but straw and the floor to rest her poor bones on at night. A soft pallet for her went down instantly on my list; my ink and tears mingling together as I wrote; and I soon found that my purse must be cut off from the head of my list for that time. I never ventured to put it at the head again; nor found a chance to put it in anywhere else. I spent four winters at Magnolia after that; and never had a new purse all the time. I had to wait awhile for an opportunity to make my purchases; then had the best in the world, for Darry was sent to Baytown on business. To him I confided my list and my money, with my mind on the matter; and I was served to a point and with absolute secrecy. For that I had insisted on. Darry and Maria were in my counsels, of course; but the rest of the poor people knew only by guess who their friend was. Old Sarah found her new shoes in her hut one evening, and in her noisy delight declared that "some big angel had come t'rough de quarters." The cups and saucers it was necessary to own, lest more talk should have been made about them than at all suited me; Darry let it be understood that nothing must be said and nobody must know of the matter; and nobody did; but I took the greatest enjoyment in hearing from Maria how the old women (and one or two men) gathered together and were comforted over their cups of tea. And over the _cups_, Maria said: the cups and spoons made the tea twice as good; but I doubt their relish of it was never half so exquisite as mine. I had to give Pete his Testament; he would not think it the same thing if he did not have it from my own hand, Maria said; and Darry's pens and ink likewise. The poor woman for whom I had got the bed, was, I fear, beyond enjoying anything; but it was a comfort to me to know that she was lying on it. The people kept my secret perfectly; my aunt and governess never, I believe, heard anything of all these doings; I had my enjoyment to myself. And the Sunday evening prayer-meeting grew. Little by little. Old Sarah and her new shoes were there of course, at once. Those who first came never failed. And week by week, as I went into the kitchen with my Bible, I saw a larger circle; found the room better lined with dark forms and sable faces. They come up before me now as I write, one and another. I loved them all. I love them still, for I look to meet many of them in glory; "where there is neither bond nor free." Nay, that is _here_ and at present, to all who are in Christ; we do not wait for heaven, to be all one. And they loved me, those poor people. I think Pete had something the same sort of notion about me that those Ephesians had of their image of Diana, which they insisted had fallen from heaven. I used to feel it then, and be amused by it. But I am too long about my story. No wonder I linger, when the remembrance is so sweet. With this new interest that had come into my life, my whole life brightened. I was no longer spiritless. My strength little by little returned. And with the relief of my heart about my father, my happiness sprung back almost to its former and usual state when I was at Melbourne. For I had by this time submitted to my father's and mother's absence as a thing of necessity, and submitted entirely. Yet my happiness was a subdued sort of thing; and my aunt Gary still thought it necessary to be as careful of me, she said, "as if I were an egg-shell." As I grew stronger, Miss Pinshon made more and more demands upon my time with her arithmetic lessons, and other things; but my rides with Darry were never interfered with, nor my Sunday evening readings; and indeed all the winter I continued too delicate and feeble for much school work. My dreaded governess did not have near so much to do with me as I thought she would. The spring was not far advanced before it was necessary for us to quit Magnolia. The climate after a certain day, or rather the air, was not thought safe for white people. We left Magnolia; and went first to Baytown and then to the North. There our time was spent between one and another of several watering-places. I longed for Melbourne; but the house was shut up; we could not go there. The summer was very wearisome to me. I did not like the houses in which our time was spent, or the way of life led in them. Neither did Miss Pinshon, I think; for she was out of her element, and had no chance to follow her peculiar vocation. Of course, in a public hotel, we could not have a schoolroom; and with the coming on of warm weather my strength failed again, so sensibly, that all there was to do was to give me sea air and bathing, and let me alone. The bathing I enjoyed; those curling salt waves breaking over my head, are the one image of anything fresh or refreshing which my memory has kept. I should have liked the beach; I did like it; only it was covered with bathers, or else with promenaders in carriages and on foot, at all times when I saw it; and though they were amusing, the beach was spoiled. The hotel rooms were close and hot; I missed all the dainty freedom and purity of my own home; the people I saw were, it seemed to me, entirely in keeping with the rooms; that is, they were stiff and fussy, not quiet and busy. They were busy after their own fashion indeed; but it always seemed to me, busy about nothing. The children I saw, too, did not attract me; and I fear I did not attract them. I was sober- hearted and low-toned in spirits and strength; while they were as gay as their elders. And I was dressed according to my mother's fancy, in childlike style, without hoops, and with my hair cropped short all over my head. They were stately with crinoline, and rich with embroidery, stiff with fine dresses and plumes; while a white frock and a flat straw were all my adornment, except a sash. I think they did not know what to make of me; and I am sure I had nothing in common with them; so we lived very much apart. There was a little variation in my way of life when Preston came; yet not much. He took me sometimes to drive, and did once go walking with me oil the beach; but Preston found a great deal where I found nothing, and was all the time taken up with people and pleasures; boating and yachting and fishing expeditions; and I believe with hops and balls too. But I was always fast asleep at those times. It was a relief to me when the season came to an end, and we went to New York to make purchases before turning southward. I had once hoped, that this time, the year's end, might see my father and mother come home again. That hope had faded and died a natural death a long while ago. Letters spoke my father's health not restored; he was languid and spiritless and lacked vigour; he would try the air of Switzerland; lie would spend the winter in the Pyrenées! If that did not work well, my mother hinted, perhaps he would have to try the effect of a long sea voyage. Hope shrunk into such small dimensions that it filled but a very little corner of my heart. Indeed, for the present I quite put it by and did not look at it. One winter more must pass, at any rate, and maybe a full year, before I could possibly see my father and mother at home. I locked the door for the present upon hope; and turned my thoughts to what things I had left with me. Chiefest of all theses were my poor friends at Magnolia. My money had accumulated during the summer; I had a nice little sum to lay out for them, and in New York I had chance to do it well, and to do it myself; which was a great additional pleasure. As I could, bit by bit, when I was with aunt Gary shopping, when I could get leave to go out alone with a careful servant to attend me, I searched the shops and catered and bought, for the comfort and pleasure of � seven hundred! I could do little. Nay, but it was for so many of those as I could reach with my weak hands; and I did not despise that good because I could not reach them all. A few more large print Testaments I laid in; some copies of the Gospel of John, in soft covers and good type; a few hymn books. All these cost little. But for Christmas gifts, and for new things to give help and comfort to my poor pensioners, I both plagued and bewitched my brain. It was sweet work. My heart went out towards making all the people happy for once, at Christmas; but my purse would not stretch so far; I had to let that go, with a thought and a sigh. One new thing came very happily into my head, and was worth a Peruvian mine to me, in the pleasure and business it gave. Going into a large greenhouse with my aunt, who wanted to order a bouquet, I went wandering round the place while she made her bargain. For my aunt Gary made a bargain of everything. Wandering in thought as well, whither the sweet breath of the roses and geraniums led me, I went back to Molly in her cottage at Melbourne, and the Jewess geranium I had carried her, and the rose tree; and suddenly the thought started into my head, might not my dark friends at Magnolia, so quick to see and enjoy anything of beauty that came in their way � so fond of bright colour and grace and elegance � a luxurious race, even in their downtrodden condition; might not _they_ also feel the sweetness of a rose, or delight in the petals of a tulip? It was a great idea; it grew into a full formed purpose before I was called to follow aunt Gary out of the greenhouse. The next day I went there on my own account. I was sure I knew what I wanted to do; but I studied a long time the best way of doing it. Roses? I could hardly transport pots and trees so far; they were too cumbersome. Geraniums were open to the same objection, besides being a little tender as to the cold. Flower seeds could not be sown, if the people had them; for no patch of garden belonged to their stone huts, and they had no time to cultivate such a patch if they had it. I must give what would call for no care, to speak of, and make no demands upon overtasked strength and time. Neither could I afford to take anything of such bulk as would draw attention or call out questions and comments. I knew, as well as I know now, what would be thought of any plan or action which supposed _a love of the beautiful_ in creatures the only earthly use of whom was to raise rice and cotton; who in fact were not half so important as the harvests they grew. I knew what unbounded scorn would visit any attempts of mine to minister to an aesthetic taste in these creatures; and I was in no mind to call it out upon myself. All the while I knew better. I knew that Margaret and Stephanie could put on a turban like no white woman I ever saw. I knew that even Marie could take the full effect of my dress when I was decked � as I was sometimes � for a dinner party; and that no fall of lace or knot of ribband missed its errand to her eye. I knew that a _picture_ raised the liveliest interest in all my circle of Sunday hearers; and that they were quick to understand and keen to take its bearings, far more then Molly Skelton would have been, more than Logan, our Scotch gardener at Melbourne, or than my little old friend Hephzibah and her mother. But the question stood, in what form could I carry beauty to them out of a florist's shop? I was fain to take the florist into my partial confidence. It was well that I did. He at once suggested bulbs. Bulbs! would they require much care? Hardly any; no trouble at all. They could be easily transported; easily kept. All they wanted, was a little pot of earth when I was ready to plant them; a little judicious watering; an unbounded supply of sunshine. And what sorts of bulbs were there? I asked diplomatically; not myself knowing, to tell truth, what bulbs were at all. Plenty of sorts, the florist said; there were hyacinths � all colours � and tulips, striped and plain, and very gay; and crocuses, those were of nearly all colours too; and ranunculus, and anemones, and snowdrops. Snowdrops were white; but of several of the other kinds I could have every tint in the rainbow, both alone and mixed. The florist stood waiting my pleasure, and nipped off a dead leaf or two as he spoke, as if there was no hurry and I could tale my time. I went into happy calculation, as to how far my funds would reach; gave my orders, very slowly and very carefully; and went away the owner of a nice little stock of tulips, narcissus, crocuses, and above all, hyacinths. I chose gay tints, and at the same time inexpensive kinds; so that my stock was quite large enough for my purposes; it mattered nothing to me whether a sweet double hyacinth was of a new or an old kind, provided it was of first-rate quality; and I confess it matters almost as little to me now. At any rate, I went home a satisfied child; and figuratively speaking, dined and supped off tulips and hyacinths, instead of mutton and bread and butter. That afternoon it fell out that my aunt took me with her to a milliner's on some business. In the course of it, some talk arose about feathers and the value of them; and my aunt made a remark which, like Wat Tyrrell's arrow, glanced from its aim and did execution in a quarter undreamed of. "That feather you put in the little riding cap you sent me," she said to the milliner, � "your black feather, Daisy, you know, � you charged me but fifteen dollars for that; why is this so much more?" I did not hear the milliner's answer. My whole thought went off upon a track entirely new to me, and never entered before. My feather cost fifteen dollars! Fifteen dollars! Supposing I had that to buy tulips with? or in case I had already tulips enough, suppose I had it to buy print gowns for Christmas presents to the women, which I had desired and could not afford? Or that I had it to lay out in tea and sugar, that my poor old friends might oftener have the one solace that was left to them, or that more might share it? Fifteen dollars! It was equal to one quarter and a half's allowance. My fund for more than a third of the year would be doubled, if I could turn that black feather into silver or gold again. And the feather was of no particular use, that I could see. It made me look like the heiress of Magnolia, my aunt said; but neither could I see any use in _that_. Everybody knew, that is, all the servants and friends of the family knew, that I was that heiress; I needed no black feather to proclaim it. And now it seemed to me as if my riding cap was heavy with undeveloped bulbs, uncrystallised sugar, unweighed green tea. No transformation of the feather was possible; it must wave over my brow in its old fashion, whether it were a misguided feather or not; but my thoughts, once set a going in this train, found a great deal to do. Truth to tell, they have not done it all yet. "Aunt Gary," I said that same evening, musing over the things in my boxes, � "does lace cost much?" "That is like the countryman who asked me once, if it took long to play a piece of music! Daisy, don't you know any more about lace than to ask such a question?" "I don't know what it costs, aunt Gary. I never bought any." "Bought! No; hardly. You are hardly at the age to _buy_ lace yet. But you have worn a good deal of it." "I cannot tell what it costs by looking at it," I answered. "Well, _I_ can. And you will, one day, I hope; if you ever do anything like other people." "Is it costly, ma'am?" "Your lace is rather costly," my aunt said, with a tone which I felt implied satisfaction. "How much?" I asked. "How much does it cost? Why it is the countryman's question over again, Daisy. Lace is all sort of prices. But the lace you wear, is, I judge, somewhere about three and five, and one of your dresses, ten, dollars a yard. That is pretty rich lace for a young lady of your years to wear." I never wore it, I must explain, unless in small quantity, except on state occasions when my mother dressed me as a part of herself. "No, I am wrong," my aunt added presently; "that dress I am thinking of is richer than that; the lace on that robe was never bought for ten dollars, or fifteen either. What do you want to know about it for, Daisy?" I mused a great deal. Three and five, and ten, and fifteen dollars a yard, on lace trimmings for me, and no tea, no cups and saucers, no soft bed, no gardens and flowers, for many, who were near me. I began to fill the meshes of my lace with responsibilities too heavy for the delicate fabric to bear. Nobody liked the looks of it better than I did. I always had a fancy for lace, though not for feathers; its rich, delicate, soft falls, to my notion, suited my mother's form and style better than anything else, and suited me. My taste found no fault. But now that so much gold was wrought into its slight web, and so much silver lay hidden in every embroidered flower, the thing was changed. Graceful, and becoming, and elegant, more than any other adornment; what then? My mother and father had a great deal of money too, to spare; enough, I thought, for lace and for the above tea and sugar too; what then? And what if not enough? I pondered, till my aunt Gary broke out upon me, that I would grow a wizened old woman if I sat musing at that rate; and sent me to bed. It stopped my pondering for that night; but not for all the years since that night. My preparations were quite made before my aunt got her feathers adjusted to her satisfaction; and in the bright days of autumn we went back again to Magnolia. This was a joyful journey and a glad arriving, compared to last year; and the welcome I got was something which puzzled my heart between joy and sorrow many times during the first few days. And now Miss Pinshon's reign fairly began. I was stronger in health, accustomed to my circumstances; there was no longer any reason that the multiplication table and I should be parted. My governess was determined to make up for lost time; and the days of that winter were spent by me between the study table and fire. That is, when I think of that winter my memory finds me there. Multiplication and its correlatives were the staple of existence; and the old book room of my grandfather was the place where my harvests of learning were sown and reaped. Somehow, I do not think the crops were heavy. I tried my best; and Miss Pinshon certainly tried her best. I went through and over immense fields of figures; but I fancy the soil did not suit the growth. I know the fruits were not satisfactory to myself, and indeed were not fruits at all, to my sense of them; but rather dry husks and hard nut shells, with the most tasteless of small kernels inside. Yet Miss Pinshon did not seem unsatisfied; and indeed occasionally remarked that she believed I meant to be a good child. Perhaps that was something out of my governess' former experience; for it was the only style of commendation I ever knew her indulge in, and I always took it as a compliment. It would not do to tell all my childish life that winter. I should never get through. For a child has as many experiences in her little world as people of fifty years old have in theirs; and to her they are not little experiences. It was not a small trial of mind and body to spend the long mornings in the study over the curious matters Miss Pinshon found for my attention; and after the long morning the shorter afternoon session was unmixed weariness. Yet I suffered most in the morning; because then there was some life and energy within me which rebelled against confinement, and panted to be free and in the open air, looking after the very different work I could find or make for myself. My feet longed for the turf; my fingers wanted to throw down the slate pencil and gather up the reins. I had a good fire and a pleasant room; but I wanted to be abroad in the open sunshine, to feel the sweet breath of the air in my face, and see the grey moss wave in the wind. That was what I had been used to all my life; a sweet wild roaming about, to pick up whatever pleasure presented itself. I suppose Miss Pinshon herself had never been used to it nor known it; for she did not seem to guess at what was in my mind. But it made my mornings hard to get through. By the afternoon the spirit was so utterly gone out of me and of everything, that I took it all in a mechanical stupid way; and only my back's aching made me impatient for the time to end. I think I was fond of knowledge and fond of learning. I am sure of it, for I love it dearly still. But there was no joy about it at Magnolia. History, as I found it with my governess, was not in the least like the history I had planned on my tray of sand, and pointed out with red and black headed pins. There was life and stir in that, and progress. Now there was nothing but a string of names and dates to say to Miss Pinshon. And dates were hard to remember, and did not seem to mean anything. But Miss Pinshon's favourite idea was mathematics. It was not my favourite idea; so every day I wandered through a wilderness of figures and signs which were a weariness to my mind and furnished no food for it. Nothing was pleasant to me in my schoolroom, excepting my writing lessons. They were welcomed as a relief from other things. When the studies for the day were done, the next thing was to prepare for a walk. A walk with Miss Pinshon alone, for my aunt never joined us. Indeed, this winter my aunt was not infrequently away from Magnolia altogether; finding Baytown more diverting. It made a little difference to me; for when she was not at home, the whole day, morning, afternoon and evening, meal times and all times, seemed under a leaden grey sky. Miss Pinshon discussed natural history to me when we were walking � not the thing but the science; she asked me questions in geography when we were eating breakfast, and talked over some puzzle in arithmetic when we were at dinner. I think it was refreshing to her; she liked it; but to me, the sky closed over me in lead colour, one unbroken vault, as I said, when my aunt was away. With her at home, all this could not be; and any changes of colour were refreshing. All this was not very good for me. My rides with Darry would have been a great help; but now I only got a chance at them now and then. I grew spiritless and weary. Sundays I would have begged to be allowed to stay at home all day and rest; but I knew if I pleaded fatigue my evenings with the people in the kitchen would be immediately cut off; not my drives to church. Miss Pinshon always drove the six miles to Bolingbroke every Sunday morning, and took me with her. Oh how long the miles were! how weary I was, with my back aching, and trying to find a comfortable corner in the carriage; how I wanted to lie down on the soft cushions in the pew and go to sleep during the service. And when the miles home were finished, it seemed to me that so was I. Then I used to pray to have strength in the evening to read with the people. And I always had it; or at least I always did it. I never failed; though the rest of the Sunday hours were often spent on the bed. But indeed, that Sunday evening reading was the one thing that saved my life from growing, or settling, into a petrifaction. Those hours gave me cheer, and some spirit to begin again on Monday morning. However, I was not thriving. I know I was losing colour, and sinking in strength, day by day; yet very gradually; so that my governess never noticed it. My aunt sometimes on her return from an absence that had been longer than common, looked at me uneasily. "Miss Pinshon, what ails that child?" she would ask. My governess said, "nothing." Miss Pinshon was the most immovable person, I think, I have ever known. At least, so far as one could judge from the outside. "She looks to me," my aunt went on, "exactly like a cabbage, or something else, that has been blanched under a barrel. A kind of unhealthy colour. She is not strong." "She has more strength than she shows," my governess answered. "Daisy has a good deal of strength." "Do you think so ?" said my aunt, looking doubtfully at me. But she was comforted. And neither of them asked me about it. One thing in the early half of the winter was a great help; and for awhile stayed my flitting spirits and strength. My father wrote an order, that Daisy should make arrangements for giving all the people on the plantation a great entertainment at Christmas. I was to do what I liked and have whatever I chose too desire; no one altering or interfering with my word. I shall never forget the overflowing of largest joy, with which my heart swelled as I ran in to tell this news to aunt Gary. But first I had to kneel down and give thanks for it. I never saw my aunt more displeased about anything. Miss Pinshon only lifted up her black eyes and looked me over. They did not express curiosity or anything else; only observation. My aunt spoke out. "I think there must be some mistake, Daisy." "No, aunt Gary; papa says just that." "You mean the house servants, child." "No, ma'am; papa, says everyone; all the people on the place." "He means the white people, you foolish child; everybody's head is not full of the servants, as yours is." "He says, the coloured people, aunt Gary; all of them. It is only the coloured people." "Hear her!" said my aunt. "Now she would rather entertain them, I don't doubt, than the best company that could be gathered of her own sort." I certainly would. Did I not think with joy at that very minute of the words, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of _these_, ye have done it unto Me"? I knew what Guest would be among my poor despised company. But I said not a word. "Daisy," said my aunt, "you _must_ be under a mistake; you must let me see what your father says. Why, to give all these hundreds an entertainment, it would cost � have you any idea what it would cost?" I had not indeed. But my father's letter had mentioned a sum which was to be the limit of my expenditure; within which I was to be unlimited. It was a large sum, amounting to several hundreds, and amply sufficient for all I could wish to do. I told my aunt. "Well!" she said, twisting herself round to the fire, "if your father has money to fling about like that, I have of course no more to say." Miss Pinshon looked up again at me. Those black eyes were always the same; the eyelids never drooped over them. "What are you going to do, Daisy?" she asked. Truly I did not know yet. I gave my aunt a note to the overseer from my father, which I begged her to forward; and ran away to take sweet counsel with myself. I had had some little experience of such an entertainment in the strawberry festival at Melbourne. I remembered that good things to eat and drink were sure to be enjoyed, and not these only, but also a pretty and festive air thrown about these things. And much more would this be true among the beauty- loving and luxurious-natured children of the tropics, than with the comparatively barbarous Celtic blood. But between entertaining thirty and seven hundred, there was a difference. And between the season of roses and fruits, and the time of mid-winter, even though in a southern clime, there was another wide difference. I had need of a great deal of counsel-taking with myself; and I took it; and it was very good for me. In every interval between mathematical or arithmetical problems, my mind ran off to this other one, with infinite refreshment. Then I consulted Maria; she was a great help to me. I thought at first I should have to build a place to hold our gatherings in; the home kitchen was not a quarter large enough. But Darry told me of an empty barn not far off, that was roomy and clean. By virtue of my full powers, I seized upon this barn. I had it well warmed with stoves; Darry saw to that for me and that they were well and safely put up; I had it adorned and clothed and made gay with evergreens and flowers, till it was beautiful. The carpenters on the place put up long tables and fitted plenty of seats. Then I had some rough kitchens extemporised outside of it; and sent for loads of turkeys from Baytown; and for days before and after Christmas my band of cooks were busy, roasting and baking and cake-making. Coffee was brewed without measure, as if we had been a nation of Arabs. And then tickets were furnished to all the people on the place, tickets of admission; and for all the holidays, or for Christmas and three days after, I kept open house at the barn. Night and day I kept open house. I went and came myself, knowing that the sight of me hindered nobody's pleasure; but I let in no other white person, and I believe I gained the lasting ill will of the overseer by refusing him. I stood responsible for everybody's good behaviour, and had no forfeits to pay. And enjoyment reigned, during those days in the barn; a gay enjoyment, full of talk and of singing as well as of feasting; full of laughter and jokes, and full of utmost good-humour and kindness from one to another. Again, most unlike a party of Celtic origin. It was enjoyment to me too; very great; � though dashed continually by the thought how rare and strange it was to those around me. Only for my sake, and dependent on my little hand of power; having no guarantee or security else for its ever coming again. As the holiday drew near its end, my heart grew sore often at the thought of all my poor friends going back into their toil, hopeless and spiritless as it was, without one ray to brighten the whole year before them till Christmas should come round again. Ay, and this feeling was quickened every now and then by a word, or a look, or a tone, which told me that I was not the only one who remembered it. "Christmas is almos' gone, Tony," I heard one fine fellow say to another at the end of the third day; and under the words there was a thread of meaning which gave a twitch to my heartstrings. There were bursts of song mingled with all this, which I could not bear to hear. In the prayer-meetings I did not mind them; here, in the midst of festivities, they almost choked me. "I'm going home" � sounded now so much as if it were in a strange land; and once when a chorus of them were singing, deep and slow, the refrain, � "In the morning � Chil'len, in the morning �" I had a great heartbreak, and sat down and cried behind my sugarplums. I can bear to think of it all now. There were years when I could not. After this entertainment was over, and much more stupid ones had been given among polished people at the house, and the New Year had swept in upon us with its fresh breeze of life and congratulations, the winter and Miss Pinshon settled down for unbroken sway. I had little to help me during those months from abroad. That is, I had nothing. My father wrote seldom. My mother's letters had small comfort for me. They said that papa's health mended slowly � was very delicate � he could not bear much exertion � his head would not endure any excitement. They were trying constant changes of scene and air. They were at Spa, at Paris, at Florence, at Vevay, in the Pyrenées; not staying long anywhere. The physicians talked of a long sea voyage. From all which I gradually brought down my hopes into smaller and smaller compass; till finally I packed them up and stowed them away in the hidden furthermost corner of my heart; only to be brought out and looked at when there should be occasion. Spring came without the least prospect that such occasion would be given me soon. My father and mother were making preparation to journey in Norway; and already there was talk of a third winter in Egypt! It was hoped that all these changes were not without some slow and certain effect in the way of improvement. I think on me they had another sort of effect. Spring as usual drove us away from Magnolia. This summer was spent with my aunt Gary, at various pleasant and cool up- country places; where hills were, and brooks, and sweet air, and flowers; and where I might have found much to enjoy. But always Miss Pinshon was with me; and the quiet and freedom of these places, with the comparative cool climate, made it possible for her to carry on all her schemes for my improvement just as steadily as though we had been at Magnolia. And I had not Darry and my pony, which indeed, the latter, had been of small use to me this year; and I had not my band of friends on the Sunday evening; and even my own maid Margaret aunt Gary had chosen to leave behind. Miss Pinshon's reign was absolute. I think some of the Medusa properties Preston used to talk about must have had their effect upon me at this time. I remember little of all that summer, save the work for Miss Pinshon, and the walks with Miss Pinshon, and a general impression of those black eyes and inflexible voice, and mathematics and dates, and a dull round of lesson getting. Not knowledge getting; � that would have been quite another affair. I seemed to be all the while putting up a scaffolding, and never coming to work on the actual Temple of Learning itself. I know we were in beautiful regions that summer; but my recollection is not of them but of rows of figures. And of a very grave, I think dull, and very quiet little personage, who went about like a mouse, for silentness, and gave no trouble to anybody, excepting only to herself. The next winter passed as the winter before had done; only I had no Christmas entertainment. My father and mother were in Egypt; perhaps he did not think of it. Perhaps he did not feel that he could afford it. Perhaps my aunt and the overseer had severally made representations to which my father thought it best to listen. I had no festivities at any rate for my poor coloured people; and it made my own holidays a very shaded thing. I found, however, this winter one source of amusement, and in a measure, of comfort. In the bookcases which held my grandfather's library, there was a pretty large collection of books of travel. I wanted to know just then about Egypt, that I might the better in imagination follow my father and mother. I searched the shelves for Egypt; and was lucky enough to light upon several works of authority and then recent observation. I feasted on these. I began in the middle; then very soon went back to the beginning; and read delightedly, carefully, patiently, through every detail and discussion in which the various authors indulged. Then I turned all their pictures into living panorama; for I fancied my father and mother in every place, looking at every wonder they described; and I enjoyed not merely what they described, but my father's and mother's enjoyment of it. This was a rare delight to me. My favourite place was the corner of the study fire, at dusk, when lessons and tiresome walks for the day were done, and Miss Pinshon was taking her ease elsewhere in some other way. I had the fire made up to burn brightly, and pine knots at hand to throw on if wanted; and with the illumination dancing all over my page, I went off to regions of enchantment, pleasant to me beyond any fairy tale. I never cared much for things that were not true. No chambers of Arabian fancy could have had the fascination for me of those old Egyptian halls; nor all the marvels of magic entranced me like the wonder- working hand of time. Those books made my comfort and my diversion all the winter. For I was not a galloping reader; I went patiently through every page; and the volumes were many enough and interesting enough to last me long. I dreamed under the Sphynx; I wandered over the pyramids; no chamber nor nook escaped me; I could have guided a traveller � in imagination. I knew the prospect from the top, though I never wrote my name there. It seemed to me that _that_ was barbarism. I sailed up the Nile, � delightful journeys on board the Nile boats, � forgetting Miss Pinshon and mathematics, except when I rather pitied the ancient Egyptians for being so devoted to the latter; forgetting Magnolia, and all the home things I could not do and would have liked to do; forgetting everything, and rapt in the enjoyment of tropical airy, and Eastern skies; hearing the plash of water from the everlasting _shadoof_, and watching the tints and colours on the ranges of hills bordering the Nile valley. All _my_ hills were green; the hues of those others were enough of themselves to make an enchanted land. Still more, as I stopped at the various old temples along the way, my feeling of enchantment increased. I threaded the mazes of rubbish, and traced the plans of the ruins of Thebes, till I was at home in every part of them. I studied the hieroglyphics and the descriptions of the sculptures, till the names of Thothmes III, and Amunoph III, and Sethos and Rameses, Miamun and Rameses III, were as well known to me as the names of the friends whom I met every Sunday evening. I even studied out the old Egyptian mythology, the better to be able to understand the sculptures, as well as the character of those ancient people who wrought them; and to be able to fancy the sort of services that were celebrated by the priests in the splendid enclosures of the temples. And then I went higher up the Nile and watched at the uncovering of those wonderful colossal figures which stand, or sit, before the temple of Abou-Simbel. I tried to imagine what manner of things such large statues could be; I longed for one sight of the faces, said to be so superb, which showed what the great Rameses looked like. Mamma and papa could see them; that was a great joy. Belzoni was one of my prime favourites; and I liked particularly to travel with him, both there and at the Tombs of the Kings. There were some engravings scattered through the various volumes, and a good many plans, which helped me. I studied them, faithfully; and got from them all they could give me. In the Tombs of the Kings, my childish imagination found, I think, its highest point of revelling and delight. Those were something stranger, more wonderful, and more splendid, even than Abou-Simbel and Karnak, Many an evening, while the firelight from a Southern pine knot danced on my page, I was gone on the wings of fancy thousands of miles away; and went with discoverers or explorers, up and down the passages and halls and staircases and chambers, to which the entrance is from _Biban el Malook_. I wondered over the empty sarcophagi; held my breath at the pit's sides; and was never tired of going over tile scenes and sculptures done in such brilliant colours upon those white walls. Once in there, I quite forgot that mamma and papa could see them; I was so busy seeing them myself. This amusement of mine was one which nobody interfered with; and it lasted, as I said, all winter. All the winter my father and mother were in Egypt. When spring came, I began to look with trembling eagerness for a letter that should say they would turn now homewards. I was disappointed. My father was so much better that his physicians were encouraged to continue their travelling regimen; and the word came that it was thought best he should try a long sea voyage; he was going to China. My mother would go with him. I think never in my life my spirits sank lower than they did when I heard this news. I was not strong nor very well, which might have been in part the reason. And I was dull-hearted to the last degree under the influence of Miss Pinshon's system of management. There was no power of reaction in me. It was plain that I was failing; and my aunt interrupted the lessons, and took me again to watering places at the North, from one to another, giving me as much change as possible. It was good for me to be taken off study, which Miss Pinshon had pressed and crowded during the winter. Sea bathing did me good, too; and the change of scene and habits was useful. I did not rise to the level of enjoying anything much; only the sea waves when I was in them; at other times I sat on the bank and watched the distant smoke stack of a steamer going out, with an inexpressible longing and soreness of heart. Going, where I would so like to go! But there was no word of that. And indeed it would not have been advisable to take me to China. I did think Egypt would not have been bad for me; but it was a thought which I kept shut up in the furthest stores of my heart. The sea voyage however was delayed. My mother took sick; was very ill; and then unable to undertake the going to China. My father chose to wait for her; so the summer was spent by them in Switzerland and the autumn in Paris. With the first of the New Year they expected now to sail. It suddenly entered my aunt Gary's head that it was a good time for _her_ to see Paris; and she departed, taking Ransom with her, whom my father wished to place in a German University, and meantime in a French school. Preston had been placed at the Military Academy at West Point; my aunt thinking that it made a nice finishing of a gentleman's education, and would keep him out of mischief till he was grown to man's estate. I was left alone with Miss Pinshon to go back to Magnolia and take up my old life there. CHAPTER VII. SINGLEHANDED. As my aunt set sail for the shores of Europe, and Miss Pinshon and I turned our faces towards Magnolia, I seemed to see before me a weary winter. I was alone now; there was nobody to take my part in small or great things; my governess would have her way. I was so much stronger now that no doubt she thought I could bear it. So it was. The full tale of studies and tasks was laid on me; and it lay on me from morning till night. I had expected that. I had looked also for the comfort and refreshment of ministering to my poor friends in the kitchen on the Sunday evenings. I began as usual with them. But as the Sundays came round, I found now and then a gap or two in the circle; and the gaps as time went on did not fill up; or if they did they were succeeded by other gaps. My hearers grew fewer, instead of more; the fact was undoubted. Darry was always on the spot; but the two Jems not always, and Pete was not sure, and Eliza failed sometimes, and others; and this grew worse. Moreover, a certain grave and sad air replaced the enjoying, almost jocund, spirit of gladness which used to welcome me and listen to the reading and join in the prayers and raise the song. The singing was not less good than it used to; but it fell oftener into the minor key, and then pouted along with a steady, powerful volume, deepening and steadying as it went, which somehow swept over my heart like a wind from the desert. I could not well tell why, yet I felt it trouble me; sometimes my heart trembled with the thrill of those sweet and solemn vibrations. I fancied that Darry's prayers had a somewhat different atmosphere from the old. Yet when I once or twice asked Margaret the next morning why such and such a one had not been at the reading, she gave me a careless answer, that she supposed Mr. Edwards had found something for them to do. "But at night, Margaret?" I said. "Mr. Edwards cannot keep them at work at night." To which she made no answer; and I was for some reason unwilling to press the matter. But things went on, not getting better but worse, until I could not bear it. I watched my opportunity and got Maria alone. "What is the matter," I asked, "that the people do not come on Sunday evening as they used? Are they tired of the reading, Maria?" "I 'spect dey's as tired as a fish mus' be of de water," said Maria. She had a fine specimen under her hand at the moment, which I suppose suggested the figure. "Then why do they not come as usual, Maria? there were only a few last night." "Dere was so few, it was lonesome," said Maria. "Then what is the reason?" "Dere is more reasons for t'ings, den Maria can make out," � she said thoughtfully. "Mebbe it's to make 'em love de priv'lege mo'." "But what keeps them away, Maria? what hinders?" "Chile, de Lord hab His angels, and de devil he hab his ministers; and dey takes all sorts o' shapes, de angels and de ministers too. I reckon dere's some work o'dat sort goin'on." Maria spoke in a sort of sententious wisdom which did not satisfy me at all. I thought there was something behind. "Who is doing the work, Maria?" I asked, after a minute. "Miss Daisy," she said, "dere aint no happenin' at all widout de Lord lets it happen. Dere is much contrairy in dis world, � fact, dere is! � but I 'spect de Lord make it all up to us by'm by." And she turned her face full upon me with a smile of so much quiet resting in that truth, that for just a moment it silenced me. "Miss Daisy aint lookin' quite so peart as she use to look," Maria went on. But I slipped away from that diversion. "Maria," I said, "you don't tell me what is the matter; and I wish to know. What keeps the people, Pete, and Eliza and all, from coming? What hinders them, Maria? I wish to know." Maria busied herself with her fish for a minute, turning and washing it; then without looking up from her work she said in a lowered tone, � " 'Spect de overseer, he don't hab no favour to such ways and meetin's." "But, with _me?_" I said; "and with aunt Gary's leave?" "S'pose he like to fix t'ings his own way," said Maria. "Does he forbid them to come?" I asked. "I reckon he do," � she said, with a sigh. Maria was very even-tempered, quiet, and wise, in her own way. Her sigh went through my heart. I stood thinking what plan I could take. "De Lord is bery good, Miss Daisy," she said, cheerily a moment after; "I and dem dat love Him, dcre can be no sort o'separation, no ways." "Does Mr. Edwards forbid them _all_ to come?" I asked. "For a good many do come." " 'Spect he don't like de meetin's, no how," said Maria. "But does he tell all the people they must not come?" "I reckon he make it oncomfor'ble for 'em," Maria answered gravely. "Dere is no end o' de mean ways o' sich folks. Know he aint no gentleman, no how!" "What does he do, Maria?" I said; trembling, yet unable to keep back the question. "He can do what he please, Miss Daisy," Maria said, in the same grave way. " 'Cept de Lord above, dere no one can hinder � now massa so fur. Bes' pray de Lord, and mebbe He sen' his angel, some time." Maria's fish was ready for the kettle; some of the other servants came in; and I went with a heavy heart up the stairs. "Massa so fur" � yes! I knew that; and Mr. Edwards knew it too. Once sailed for China; and it would be long, long, before my cry for help, in the shape of one of my little letters, could reach him and get back the answer. My heart felt heavy as if I could die, while I slowly mounted the stairs to my room. It was not only that trouble was brought upon my poor friends, nor even that their short enjoyment of the Word of life was hindered and interrupted; above this and worse than this was the sense of _wrong_, done to these helpless people, and done by my own father and mother. This sense was something too bitter for a child of my years to bear; it crushed me for a time. Our people had a right to the Bible, as great as mine; a right to dispose of themselves, as true as my father's right to dispose of himself. Christ, my Lord, had died for them as well as for me; and here was my father, � _my father_ � practically saying that they should not hear of it, nor know the message He had sent to them. And if anything could have made this more bitter to me, it was the consciousness that the reason of it all was that we might profit by it. Those unpaid hands wrought that our hands might be free to do nothing; those empty cabins were bare, in order that our houses might be full of every soft luxury; those unlettered minds were kept unlettered that the rarest of intellectual wealth might be poured into our treasury. I knew it. For I had written to my father once to beg his leave to establish schools, where the people on the plantation might be taught to read and write. He had sent a very kind answer, saying it was just like his little Daisy to wish such a thing, and that his wish was not against it, if it could be done; but that the laws of the State, and for wise reasons, forbade it. Greatly puzzled by this, I one day carried my puzzle to Preston. He laughed at me as usual, but at the same time explained that it would not be safe; for that if the slaves were allowed books and knowledge, they would soon not be content with their condition, and would be banding together to make themselves free. I knew all this, and I had been brooding over it; and now when the powerful hand of the overseer came in to hinder the little bit of good and comfort I was trying to give the people, my heart was set on fire with a sense of sorrow and wrong that, as I said, no child ought ever to know. I think it made me ill. I could not eat. I studied like a machine, and went and came as Miss Pinshon bade me; all the while brooding by myself and turning over and over in my heart the furrows of thought, which seemed at first to promise no harvest. Yet those furrows never break the soil for nothing. In due time the seed fell; and the fruit of a ripened purpose came to maturity. I did not give up my Sunday readings; even although the numbers of my hearers grew scantier. As many as could, we met together to read and to pray, yes, and to sing. And I shall never in this world hear such singing again. One refrain comes back to me now � "Oh, had I the wings of the morning � Oh, had I the wings of the morning � Oh, had I the wings of the morning � I'd fly to my Jesus away!" I used to feel so too, as I listened and sometimes sung with them. Meantime, all that I could do with my quarterly ten dollars, I did. And there was many a little bit of pleasure I could give; what with a tulip here and a cup of tea there, and a bright handkerchief, or a pair of shoes. Few of the people had spirit and cultivation enough to care for the flowers. But Maria cherished some red and white tulips and a hyacinth in heir kitchen window, as if they had been her children; and to Darry a white rose-tree I had given him seemed almost to take the place of a familiar spirit. Even grave Pete, whom I only saw now and then this winter at my readings, nursed and tended and watched a bed of crocuses with endless delight and care. All the while, my Sunday circle of friends grew constantly fewer; and the songs that were sung at our hindered meetings had a spirit in them, which seemed to me to speak of a deep-lying fire somewhere in the hearts of the singers, hidden, but always ready to burst into a blaze. Was it because the fire was burning in my own heart? I met one of the two Jems in the pine avenue one day. He greeted me with the pleasantest of broad smiles. "Jem," said I, "why don't you come to the house Sunday evenings, any more?" "It don't 'pear practical, missie." Jem was given to large- sized words, when he could get hold of them. "Mr. Edwards hinders you?" "Mass' Ed'ards bery smart man, Miss Daisy. He want massa's work done up all jus' so." "And he says that the prayer-meeting hinders the work, Jem?" "Clar, missis, Mass' Ed'ards got long head; he see furder den me," Jem said, shaking his own head as, if the whole thing were beyond him. I let him go. But a day or two after I attacked Margaret on the subject. She and Jem, I knew, were particular friends. Margaret was oracular and mysterious, and looked like a thunder cloud. I got nothing from her, except an increase of uneasiness. I was afraid to go further in my inquiries; yet could not rest without. The house servants, I knew, would not be likely to tell me anything that would trouble me, if they could help it. The only exception was mammy Theresa; who with all her love for me had either less tact, or had grown from long habit hardened to the state of things in which she had been brought up. From her, by a little cross questioning, I learned that Jem and others had been forbidden to come to the Sunday readings; and their disobeying had been visited with the lash, not once nor twice; till, as mammy Theresa said, " 'peared like it warn't no use to try to be good agin de devil." And papa was away on his voyage to China, away on the high seas, where no letter could reach him and Mr. Edwards knew that. There was a fire in my heart now, that burned with sharp pain. I felt as if it would burn my heart out. And now took shape and form one single aim and purpose, which became for years the foremost one of my life. It had been growing and gathering. I set it clear before me from this time. Meanwhile, my mother's daughter was not willing to be entirely baffled by the overseer. I arranged with Darry that I would be at the Cemetery hill on all pleasant Sunday afternoons; and that all who wished to hear, me read, or who wished to learn themselves, might meet me there. The Sunday afternoons were often pleasant that winter. I was constantly at my post; and many a one crept round to me from the quarters and made his way through the graves and the trees to where I sat by the iron railing. We were safe there. Nobody but me liked the place. Miss Pinshon and the overseer agreed in shunning it. And there was promise in the blue sky, and hope in the soft sunshine, and sympathy in the sweet rustle of the pine leaves. Why not? Are they not all God's voices. And the words of the Book were very precious there, to me and many another. I was rather more left to myself of late. My governess gave me my lessons quite as assiduously as ever; but after lesson time she seemed to have something else to take her attention. She did not walk often with me, as the spring drew near; and my Sunday afternoons were absolutely unquestioned. One day in March, I had gone to my favourite place to get out a lesson. It was not Sunday afternoon of course. I was tired with my day's work, or I was not very strong; for though I had work to do, the witcheries of nature prevailed with me to put down my book. The scent of pine buds and flowers made the air sweet to smell, and the spring sun made it delicious to feel. The light won its way tenderly among the trees, touching the white marble tombstones behind me, but resting with a more gentle ray upon the moss and turf where only little bits of rough board marked the sleeping places of our dependants. Just out of sight, through the still air I could hear the river, in its rippling, flow past the bank at the top of which I sat. My book hung in my hand, and the course of Universal History was forgotten; while I mused and mused over the two sorts of graves that lay around me, the two races, the diverse fate that attended them; while one blue sky was over, and one sunlight fell down. And "while I was musing, the fire burned," more fiercely than ever. David's had occasion when he wrote those words. "Then spake I with my tongue." I would have liked to do that. But I could do nothing; only pray. I was very much startled while I sat in my muse, to bear a footstep coming. A steady, regular, footstep; no light trip of children; and the hands were in the field, and this was not a step like any of them. My first thought was, the overseer! come to spy me out. The next minute I saw through the trees and the iron railings behind me, that it was not the overseer. I knew _his_ wide-awake; and this head was crowned with some sort of a cap. I turned my head again and sat quiet; willing to be overlooked, if that might be. The steps never slackened. I heard them coming round the railing � then just at the corner � I looked up, to see the cap lifted, and a smile coming upon features that I knew; but my own thoughts were so very far away that my visitor had almost reached my side before I could recollect who it was. I remember I got up then in a little hurry. "It is Doctor Sandford!" I exclaimed, as his hand took mine. "Is it Daisy?" answered the doctor. "I think so," I said. "And I _think so_," he said, looking at me after the old fashion. "Sit down, and let me make sure." "You must sit on the grass, then," I said. "Not a bad thing, in such a pleasant place," he rejoined, sending his blue eye all round my prospect. "But it is not so pleasant a place as White Lake, Daisy." Such a flood of memories and happy associations came rushing into my mind at these words, � he had not given them time to come in slowly, � I suppose my face showed it. The doctor looked at me and smiled. "I see it _is_ Daisy," he said. "I think it certainly Daisy. So you do not like Magnolia?" "Yes, I do," I said, wondering where he got that conclusion. "I like the _place_ very much, if �" "I should like to have the finishing of that 'if' � if you have no objection." "I like the _place_," I repeated. "There are some things about it I do not like." "Climate, perhaps?" "I did not mean the climate. I do not think I meant anything that belonged to the place itself." "How do you do?" was the doctor's next question. "I am very well, sir." "How do you know it?" "I suppose I am," I said. "I am not sick. I always say I am well." "For instance, you are so well that you never get tired?" "Oh, I get tired very often. I always did." "What sort of things make you tired? Do you take too long drives in your pony-chaise?" "I have no pony-chaise now, Dr. Sandford. Loupe was left at Melbourne. I don't know what became of him." "Why didn't you bring him along? But any other pony would do, Daisy." "I don't drive at all, Dr. Sandford. My aunt and governess do not like to have me drive as I used to do. � I wish I could!" "You would like to use your pony-chaise again?" "Very much. I know it would rest me." "And you have a governess, Daisy? That is something you had not at Melbourne." "No �" I said. "A governess is a very nice thing," said the doctor, taking off his hat and leaning back against the iron railing, � "if she knows properly how to set people to play." "To play!" I echoed. I don't know whether Miss Pinshon approves of play." "Oh! She approves of work then, does she?" "She likes work," I answered. "Keeps you busy?" "Most of the day, sir." "The evenings you have to yourself?" "Sometimes. Not always. Sometimes I cannot get through with my lessons, and they stretch on into the evening." "How many lessons does this lady think a person of your age and capacity can manage in the twenty-four hours?" said the doctor, taking out his knife as he spoke and beginning to trim the thorns off a bit of sweet-briar he had cut. I stopped to make the reckoning. "Give me the course of your day, Daisy. And, by the by, when does your day begin?" "It begins at half past seven, Dr. Sandford." "With breakfast?" "No, sir. I have a recitation before breakfast." "Please, of what?" "Miss Pinshon always begins with mathematics." "As a bitters. Do you find that it gives you an appetite?" By this time I was very near bursting into tears. The familiar voice and way, the old time they brought back, the contrasts they forced together, the different days of Melbourne and of my Southern home, the forms and voices of mamma and papa, � they all came crowding and flitting before me. I was obliged to delay my answer. I knew that Dr. Sandford looked at me; then he went on in a very gentle way � "Sweetbriar is sweet, � Daisy" � putting it to my nose. "I should like to know, how long does mathematics last, before you are allowed to have coffee?" "Mathematics only lasts half an hour. But then I have an hour of study in Mental Philosophy before breakfast. We breakfast at nine." "It must take a great deal of coffee to wash down all that," said the doctor lazily trimming his sweetbriar. "Don't you find that you are very hungry when you come to breakfast?" "No, not generally," I said. "How is that? Where there is so much sharpening of the wits, people ought to be sharp otherwise." "My wits do not get sharpened," I said, half laughing. "I think they get dull; and I am often dull altogether by breakfast time." "What time in the day do you walk?" "In the afternoon � when we have done with the schoolroom. But lately Miss Pinshon does not walk much." "So you take the best of the day for philosophy?" "No, sir, for mathematics." "Oh! � Well, Daisy, _after_ philosophy and mathematics have both had their turn; what then? when breakfast is over." "Oh, they have two or three more turns in the course; of the day," I said. "Astronomy comes after breakfast; then Smith's _Wealth of Nations_; then Chemistry. Then I have a long History lesson to recite; then French. After dinner we have Natural Philosophy, and Physical Geography and Mathematics; and then we have generally done." "And then what is left of you goes to walk," said the doctor. "No, not very often now," I said. "I don't know why, Miss Pinshon has very much given up walking of late." "Then what becomes of you?" "I do not often want to do much of anything," I said. "To-day I came here." "With a book," said the doctor. "Is it work or play?" "My History lesson," I said, showing the book. "I had not quite time enough at home." "How much of a lesson, for instance?" said the doctor, taking the book and turning over the leaves. "I had to make a synopsis of the state of Europe from the third century to the tenth; � synchronising the event and the names." "In writing?" "I might write it if I chose, � I often do, � but I have to give the synopsis by memory." "Does it take long to prepare, Daisy?" said the doctor, still turning over the leaves. "Pretty long," I said, "when I am stupid. Sometimes I cannot do the synchronising, my head gets so thick; and I have to take two or three days for it." "Don't you get punished, for letting your head get thick?" "Sometimes I do." "And what is the system of punishment at Magnolia for such deeds?" "I am kept in the house for the rest of the afternoon sometimes," I said; "or I have an extra problem in mathematics to get out for the next morning." "And _that_ keeps you in, if the governess don't." "Oh, no," I said; "I never can work at it then. I get up earlier the next morning." "Do you do nothing for exercise but those walks, which you do not take?" "I used to ride last year," I said; "and this year I was stronger, and Miss Pinshon gave me more studies; and somehow I have not cared to ride so much. I have felt more like being still." "You must have grown tremendously wise, Daisy," said the doctor, looking round at me now with his old pleasant smile. I cannot tell the pleasure and comfort it was to me to see him; but I think I said nothing. "It is near the time now when you always leave Magnolia � is it not?" "Very near now." "Would it trouble you to have the time a little anticipated?" I looked at him, in much doubt what this might mean. The doctor fumbled in his breast pocket and fetched out a letter. "Just before your father sailed for China, he sent me this. It was some time before it reached me; and it was some time longer before I could act upon it." He put a letter in my hand, which I, wondering, read. It said, the letter did, that papa was not at ease about me; that he was not satisfied with my aunt's report of me, nor with the style of my late letters; and begged Dr. Sandford would run down to Magnolia at his earliest convenience and see me, and make enquiry as to my well-being; and if he found things not satisfactory, as my father feared he might and judged that the rule of Miss Pinshon had not been good for me on the whole, my father desired that Dr. Sandford would take measures to have me removed to the North and placed in one of the best schools there to be found; such a one as Mrs. Sandford might recommend. The letter further desired, that Dr. Sandford would keep a regular watch over my health, and suffer no school training nor anything else to interfere with it; expressing the writer's confidence that Dr. Sandford knew better than any one what was good for me. "So you see, Daisy," the doctor said, when I handed him back the letter, "your father has constituted me in some sort your guardian, until such time as he comes back." "I am very glad," I said, smiling. "Are you? That is kind. I am going to act upon my authority immediately, and take you away." "From Magnolia?" I said breathlessly. "Yes. Wouldn't you like to go and see Melbourne again for a little while?" "Melbourne!" said I; and I remember how my cheeks grew warm. "But � will Miss Pinshon go to Melbourne?" "No; she will not. Nor anywhere else, Daisy, with my will and permission, where you go. Will that distress you very much?" I could not say yes, and I believe I made no answer, my thoughts were in such a whirl. "Is Mrs. Sandford in Melbourne � I mean, near Melbourne � now?" I asked at length. "No, she is in Washington. But she will be going to the old place before long. Would you like to go, Daisy?" I could hardly tell him. I could hardly think. It began to rush over me, that this parting from Magnolia was likely to be for a longer time than usual. The river murmured by � the sunlight shone on the groves on the hillside. Who would look after my poor people? "You like Magnolia after all?" said the doctor. "I do not wonder, as far as Magnolia goes. You are sorry to leave it." "No," I said, � "I am not sorry at all to leave Magnolia; I am very glad. I am only sorry to leave � some friends." "Friends �" said the doctor. "Yes." "How many friends?" "I don't know," said I. "I think there are a hundred or more." "Seriously?" "Oh, yes," I said, "They are all on the place here." "How long will you want, Daisy, to take proper leave of these friends?" I had no idea he was in such practical haste; but I found it was so. CHAPTER VIII. EGYPTIAN GLASS. It became necessary for me to think how soon I could be ready, and arrange to get my leave-takings over by a certain time. Dr. Sandford could not wait for me. He was an army surgeon now, I found, and stationed at Washington. He had to return to his post and leave Miss Pinshon to bring me up to Washington. I fancy matters were easily arranged with Miss Pinshon. She was as meek as a lamb. But it never was her way to fight against circumstances. The doctor ordered that I should come up to Washington in a week or two. I did not know till he was gone, what a hard week it was going to be. As soon as he had turned his back upon Magnolia, my leave- takings began. I may say they began sooner: for in the morning after his arrival, when Margaret was in my room, she fell to questioning me about the truth of the rumour that had reached the kitchen. Jim said I was going away, not to come back. I do not know how he had got hold of the notion. And when I told her it was true, she dropped the pine splinters out of her hands, and rising to her feet, besought me that I would take her with me. So eagerly she besought me, that I had much difficulty to answer. "I shall be in a school, Margaret," I said. "I could not have anybody there to wait on me." "Miss Daisy won't never do everything for herself." "Yes, I must," I said. "All the girls do." "I'd hire out then, Miss Daisy, while you don't want me � I'd be right smart � and I'd bring all my earnin's to you regular. 'Deed I will! Till Miss Daisy want me herself." I felt my cheeks flush. She would bring _her_ earnings to _me_. Yes, that was what we were doing. "Clar, Miss Daisy, do don't leave me behind! I could take washin' and do all Miss Daisy's things up right smart � don't believe they knows how to do things up there! � I'll come to no good if I don't go with Miss Daisy, sure." "You can be good here as well as anywhere, Margaret," I said. "Miss Daisy don' know. Miss Daisy, 'spose the devil walkin' round about a place; � think it a nice place fur to be good in?" "The devil is not in Magnolia more than anywhere else," I said. "Dere Mass' Edwards, �" Margaret said half under her breath. Even in my room she would not speak the name out loud. The end of it was, that I wrote up to Washington to Dr Sandford to ask if I might take the girl with me; and his answer came back, that if it were any pleasure to me I certainly might. So that matter was settled. But the parting with the rest was hard. I do not know whether it was hardest for them or for me. Darry blessed me and prayed for me. Maria wept over me. Theresa mourned and lamented. Tears and wailings came from all the poor women who knew me best and used to come to the Sunday readings; and Pete took occasion to make private request, that when I was grown, or when at any time I should want a man servant, I would remember and send for him. He could do anything, he said; he could drive horses or milk cows or take care of a garden, or _cook_. It was said in a subdued voice, and though with a gleam of his white circle of teeth at the last mentioned accomplishment, it was said with a depth of grave earnestness which troubled me. I promised as well as I could; but my heart was very sore for my poor people, left now without anybody, even so much as a child, to look after their comfort and give them any hopes for one world or the other. Those heavy days were done at last. Margaret was speedy with my packing; � a week from the time of Dr. Sandford's coming, I had said my last lesson to Miss Pinshon, read my last reading to my poor people, shaken the last hand-shakings; and we were on the little steamer plying down the Sands river. I think I was wearied out; for I remember no excitement or interest about the journey, which ought to have had so much for me. In a passive state of mind I followed Miss Pinshon from steamer to station; from one train of cars to another; and saw the familiar landscape flit before me as the cars whirled us on. At Baytown we had been joined by a gentleman who went with us all the rest of the way; and I began by degrees to comprehend that my governess had changed her vocation, and instead of taking care, as heretofore, was going to be taken care of. It did not interest me. I saw it, that was all. I saw Margaret's delight, too, shown by every quick and thoughtful movement that could be of any service to me, and by a certain inexpressible air of deliverance which sat on her, I cannot tell how, from her bonnet down to her shoes. But her delight reminded me of those that were not delivered. I think, of all the crushing griefs that a young person can be called to bear, one of the sorest is the feeling of wrong- doing on the part of a beloved father or mother. I was sure that my father, blinded by old habit and bound by the laws of the country, did not in the least degree realise the true state of the matter. I knew that the real colour of his gold had never been seen by him. Not the less, _I_ knew now that it was bloody; and what was worse, though I do not know _why_ it should be worse, I knew that it was soiled. I knew that greed and dishonour were the two collectors of our revenue, and _wrong_ our agent. Do I use strong words? They are not too strong for the feelings which constantly bore upon my heart, nor too bitter; though my childish heart never put them into such words at the time. That my father did not know, saved my love and reverence for him; but it did not change anything else. In the last stage of our journey, as we left a station where the train had stopped, I noticed a little book left on one of the empty seats of the car. It lay there and nobody touched it; till we were leaving the car at Alexandria and almost everybody had gone out, and I saw that it lay there still and nobody would claim it. In passing I took it up. It was a neat little book, with gilt edges; no name in it; and having its pages numbered for the days of the year. And each page was full of Bible words. It looked nice. I put the book in my pocket; and on board the ferryboat opened it again, and looked for the date of the day in March where we were. I found the words � "He preserveth the way of His saints." They were the words heading the page. I had not time for another bit; but as I left the boat this went into my heart like a cordial. It was a damp, dark morning. The air was chill as we left the little boat cabin; the streets were dirty; there was a confusion of people seeking carriages or porters or baggage or custom; then suddenly I felt as if I had lighted on a tower of strength, for Dr. Sandford stood at my side. A good-humoured sort of a tower he looked to me, in his steady, upright bearing; and his military coat helped the impression of that. I can see now his touch of his cap to Miss Pinshon, and then the quick glance which took in Margaret and me. In another minute I had shaken hands with my governess, and was in a carriage with Margaret opposite me; and Dr. Sandford was giving my baggage in charge to somebody. And then he took his place beside me and we drove off. And I drew a long breath. "Punctual to your time, Daisy," said the doctor. "But what made you choose such a time? How much of yourself have you left by the way?" "Miss Pinshon liked better to travel all night," I said, "because there was no place where she liked to stop to spend the night." "What was your opinion on that subject?" "I was more tired than she was, I suppose." "Has she managed things on the same system for the four years past?" The doctor put the question with such a cool gravity, that I could not help laughing. Yet I believe my laughing was very near crying. At first he did so put me in mind of all that was about me when I used to see him in that time long before. And an inexpressible feeling of comfort was in his presence now; a feeling of being taken care of. I had been looked after, undoubtedly, all these years; � sharply looked after; there was never a night that I could go to sleep without my governess coming in to see that I was in my room, or in bed, and my clothes in order, and my light where it ought to be. And my aunt had not forgotten me; nor her perplexities about me. And Preston had petted me, when he was near. But even Preston sometimes lost sight of me in the urgency of his own pleasure or business. There was a great difference in the strong hand of Dr. Sandford's care; and if you had ever looked into his blue eyes, you would know that they forgot nothing. They had always fascinated me; they did now. Mrs. Sandford was not up when we got to the house where she was staying. It was no matter, for a room was ready for me; and Dr. Sandford had a nice little breakfast brought, and saw me eat it, just as if I were a patient. Then he ordered me to bed, and charged Margaret to watch over me, and he went away, as he said, till luncheon time. I drew two or three long breaths as Margaret was undressing me; I felt so comfortable. "Are Miss Pinshon done gone away, Miss Daisy?" my handmaid asked. "From Magnolia? yes." "Where she gwine to?" "I don't know." "Then she don't go no furder along the way we're goin'?" "No. I wonder, Margaret, if they will have any prayer-meetings in Magnolia now?" For with the mention of Magnolia my thoughts swept back. " 'Spect the overseer have his ugly old way!" Margaret uttered with great disgust. "Miss Daisy done promise me, I go 'long with Miss Daisy?" she added anxiously. "Yes. But what makes you want to get away from home more than all the rest of them?" "Reckon I'dc done gone kill myself, s'pose. Miss Daisy leave me there," the girl said gloomily. "If dey send me down South, I _would_." "Send you South!" I said; "they would not do that, Margaret." "Dere was man wantin' to buy me � give mighty high price de overseer said." In excitement Margaret's tongue sometimes grew thick like those of her neighbours. "Mr. Edwards has no right to sell anybody away from the place," I insisted, in mixed unbelief and horror. "Dunno," said Margaret. "Don't make no difference, Miss Daisy. Who care what he do? Dere's Pete's wife �" "Pete's wife?" said I. "I didn't know Pete was married! What of Pete's wife?" "Dat doctor will kill me, for sure!" said Margaret, looking at me. "Do, don't, Miss Daisy! The doctor say you must go right to bed, now. See! you aint got your clothes off." "Stop," said I. "What about Pete's wife?" "I done forget. I thought Miss Daisy knowed. Mebbe it's before Miss Daisy come home." "What?" said I. "What �?" "It's nothin", Miss Daisy. "The overseer he done got mad with Pete's wife and he sold her down South, he did." "Away from Pete?" said I. "Pete, he's to de old place," said Margaret laconically. " 'Spect he forgot all about it by dis time. Miss Daisy please have her clothes off and go to bed?" There was nothing more to wait for. I submitted, was undressed; but the rest and sleep which had been desired were far out of reach now. Pete's wife? � my good, strong, gentle, and I remembered always _grave_, Pete! My heart was on fire with indignation and torn to pieces with sorrow, both at once. Torn with the helpless feeling too that I could not mend the wrong. I do not mean this individual wrong, but the whole state of things under which such wrong was possible. I was restless on my bed, though very weary. I would rather have been up and doing something, than to lie and look at my trouble; only that being there kept me out of the way of seeing people and of talking. Such things done under my father and mother's own authority, � on their own land, � to their own helpless dependants; whom yet it was _they_ made helpless and kept subject to such possibilities. I turned and tossed, feeling that I _must_ do something, while yet I knew I could do nothing. Pete's wife! And where was she now? And _that_ was the secret of the unvarying grave shadow that Pete's brow always wore. And now that I had quitted Magnolia, no human friend for the present remained to all that crowd of poor and ignorant and needy humanity. Even their comfort of prayer forbidden; except such comfort as each believer might take by himself alone. I did not know, I never did know till long after, how to many at Magnolia that prohibition wrought no harm. I think Margaret knew, and even then did not dare tell me. How the meetings for prayer were not stopped. How watch was kept on certain nights, till all stir had ceased in the little community; till lights were out in the overseer's house (and at the great house, while we were there); and how then, silently and softly from their several cabins, the people stole away through the woods, to a little hill beyond the cemetery, quite far out of hearing or ken of anybody; and there prayed, and sang too, and "praised God and shouted," as my informant told me; not neglecting all the while to keep a picket watch about their meeting place, to give the alarm in case anybody should come. So under the soft moonlight skies and at depth of night, the meetings which I had supposed broken up, took new life, and grew, and lived; and prayers did not fail; and the Lord hearkened and heard. It would have comforted me greatly if I could have known this at the time. But as I said, I suppose Margaret dared not tell me. After a long while of weary tossing and heart ache, sleep came at last to me; but it brought Pete and his wife and the overseer and Margaret in new combinations of trouble; and I got little refreshment. "Now you have waked up, Miss Daisy?" said Margaret when I opened my eyes. "That poundin' noise has done waked you!" "What noise?" "It's no Christian noise," said Margaret. "What's the use of turnin' the house into a clap of thunder like that? But a man was makin' it o' purpose, for I went out to see; and he telled me it was to call folks to luncheon. Will you get up, Miss Daisy?" Margaret spoke as if she thought I had much better lie still; but I was weary of the comfort I had found there and disposed to try something else. I had just time to be ready, before Dr. Sandford came for me and took me to his sister-in-law. Mrs. Sandford welcomed me with great kindness, even tenderness; exclaimed at my growth; but I saw by her glance at the doctor that my appearance in other respects struck her unfavourably. He made no answer to that, but carried us off to the luncheon room. There were other people lodging in the house besides my friends; a long table was spread. Dr. Sandford, I saw, was an immense favourite. Questions and demands upon his attention came thick and fast, from both ends and all sides of the table; about all sorts of subjects and in all manner of tones, grave and gay. And he was at home to them all, but in the midst of it never forgot me. He took careful heed to my luncheon; prepared one thing, and called for another; it reminded me of a time long gone by; but it did not help me to eat. I could not eat. The last thing he did was to call for a fresh raw egg, and break it into a half glass of milk. With this in his hand we left the dining-room. As soon as we got to Mrs. Sandford's parlour he gave it to me and ordered me to swallow it. I suppose I looked dismayed. "Poor child!" said Mrs. Sandford. "Let me have it beaten up for her, Grant, with some sugar; she can't take it so." "Daisy has done harder things," he said. I saw he expected me to drink it, and so I did, I do not know how. "Thank you," he said, smiling, as he took the glass. "Now sit down and I will talk to you." "How she is growing tall, Grant!" said Mrs. Sandford. "Yes," said he. "Did you sleep well, Daisy?" "No, sir; I couldn't sleep. And then I dreamed." "Dreaming is not a proper way of resting. So tired you could not sleep?" "I do not think it was that, Dr. Sandford." "Do you know what it was?" "I think I do," � I said, a little unwillingly. "She is getting very much the look of her mother," Mrs. Sandford remarked again. "Don't you see it, Grant?" "I see more than that," he answered. "Daisy, do you think this governess of yours has been a good governess?" I looked wearily out of the window, and cast a weary mental look over the four years of algebraics and philosophy, at the bright little child I saw at the further end of them. "I think I have grown dull, Dr. Sandford," I said. He came up behind me, and put his arms round me, taking my hand in his, and spoke in quite a different tone. "Daisy, have you found many 'wonderful things' at Magnolia?" I looked up, I remember, with the eagerness of a heart full of thoughts, into his face; but I could not speak then. "Have you looked through a microscope since you have been there? and made discoveries?" "Not in natural things, Dr. Sandford." "Ha!" said the doctor. "Do you want to go and take a drive with me?" "Oh, yes!" "Go and get ready then, please." I had a very pleasant, quiet drive; the doctor showing me, as he said, not wonderful things but new things, and taking means to amuse me. And every day for several days I had a drive. Sometimes we went to the country, sometimes got out and examined something in the city. There was a soothing relief in it all, and in the watchful care taken of me at home, and the absence of mathematics and philosophy. All day when not driving or at meals, I lay on Mrs. Sandford's sofa or curled myself up in the depth of a great easy chair, and turned over her books; or studied my own blue book which I had picked up in the car, and which was so little I had Margaret make a big pocket in my frock to hold it. But this life was not to last. A few days was all Mrs. Sandford had to spend in Washington. The place I liked best to go to was the Capitol. Several times Dr. Sandford took me there, and showed me the various great rooms, and paintings, and smaller rooms with their beautiful adornments; and I watched the workmen at work; for the renewing of the building was not yet finished. As long as he had time to spare, Dr. Sandford let me amuse myself as I would; and often got me into talks which refreshed me more than anything. Still, though I was soothed, my trouble at heart was not gone. One day we were sitting looking at the pictures in the great vestibule, when Dr. Sandford suddenly started a subject which put the Capitol out of my head. "Daisy," said he, "was it your wish or Margaret's, that she should go North with you?" "Hers," I said, startled. "Then it is not yours particularly?" "Yes, it is, Dr. Sandford, _very_ particularly." "How is that?" said he. I hesitated. I shrank from the whole subject; it was so extremely sore to me. "I ought to warn you," he went on, "that if you take her further, she may if she likes leave you, and claim her freedom. That is the law. If her owner takes her into the free States, she may remain in them if she will, whether he does or not." I was silent still, for the whole thing choked me. I was quite willing she should have her freedom, get it any way she could; but there was my father, and his pleasure and interest, which might not choose to lose a piece of his property � and my mother and _her_ interest and pleasure; I knew what both would be. I was dumb. "You had not thought of this before?" the doctor went on. "No, sir." "Does it not change your mind about taking her on?" "No, sir." "Did it ever occur to you, or rather, does it not occur to you now, that the girl's design in coming may have been this very purpose of her freedom?" "I do not think it was," I said. "Even if not, it will be surely put in her head by other people before she has been at the North long; and she will know that she is her own mistress." I was silent still. I knew that I wished she might! "Do you not think," Dr. Sandford went on, "that in this view of the case we had better send her back to Magnolia when you leave Washington?" "No," I said. "I think it would be better," he repeated. "Oh, no!" I said. "Oh, no, Dr. Sandford. I can't send her back. You will not send her hack, will you?" "Be quiet," he said, holding fast the hand which in my earnestness I had put in his; "she is not my servant; she is yours; it is for you to say what you will do." "I will not send her back," I said. "But it may be right to consider what would be Mr. Randolph's wish on the subject. If you take her, he may lose several hundred dollars' worth of property; it is right for me to warn you; would he choose to run the risk." I remember now what a fire at my heart sent the blood to my face. But with my hand in Dr. Sandford's, and those blue eyes of his reading me, I could not keep back my thought. "She ought to be her own mistress" � I said. A brilliant flash of expression filled the blue eyes and crossed his face. � I could hardly tell what, before it was gone. Quick surprise � pleasure � amusement - agreement; the first and the two last certainly; and the pleasure I could not help fancying had lent its colour to that ray of light, which had shot for one instant from those impenetrable eyes. He spoke just as usual. "But Daisy, have you studied this question?" "I think, I have studied nothing else, Dr. Sandford!" "You know the girl is not yours, but your father's." "She isn't anybody's �" I said slowly, and with slow tears gathering in my heart. "How do you mean?" said he, with again the quiver of a smile upon his lips. "I mean," I said, struggling with my thoughts and myself, "I mean, that nobody could have a right to her." "Did not her parents belong to your father?" "To my mother." "Then she does." "But, Dr. Sandford," I said, "nobody can belong to anybody in that way." "How do you make it out, Daisy?" "Because, nobody can give anybody a _right_ to anybody else � in that way." "Does it not give your mother a right, that the mother of this girl and probably her grandmother were the property of your ancestors?" "They could not be their property justly," I said, glad to get back to my ancestors. "The law made it so." "Not God's law, Dr. Sandford," I said, looking up at him. "No? Does not that law give a man a right to what he has honestly bought?" "No," I said, "it _can't_ � not if it has been dishonestly sold." "Explain, Daisy," said Dr. Sandford, very quietly; but I saw the gleam of that light in his eye again. I had gone too far to stop. I went on, ready to break my heart over the right and the wrong I was separating. "I mean, the _first_ people that sold the first of these coloured people, �" I said. "Well?" said the doctor. "They could not have a right to sell them." "Yes. Well?" "Then the people that bought them could not have a right, any more," I said. "But, Daisy," said Dr. Sandford, "do you know that there are different opinions on this very point?" I was silent. It made no difference to me. "Suppose for the moment that the first people, as you say, had no precise right to sell the men and women they brought to this country; yet those who bought them and paid honest money for them, and possessed them from generation to generation, � had not they a _right_ to pass them off upon other hands, receiving their money back again?" "I don't know how to explain it," I said. "I mean � if at first � Dr. Sandford, hadn't the people that were sold, hadn't they rights too?" "Rights of what sort?" "A right to do what they liked with themselves, and to earn money, and to keep their wives?" "But those rights were lost, you know, Daisy." "But _could_ they be?" I said. "I mean � Dr. Sandford, for instance, suppose somebody stole your watch from you; would you lose the right to it?" "It _seems_ to me that I should not, Daisy." "That is what I mean," I said. "But there is another view of the case, Daisy. Take Margaret, for instance. From the time she was a child, your father's, or your mother's, money has gone to support her; her food and clothing and living have been wholly at their expense. Does not that give them a right to her services? ought they not to be repaid?" I did not want to speak of my father and mother and Margaret. It was coming too near home. I knew the food and clothing Dr. Sandford spoke of; I knew a very few months of a northern servant's wages would have paid for it all; was this girl's whole life to be taken from her, and by my father and mother, and for such a cause? The feeling of grief and wrong and shame got possession of me. I was ready to break my heart in tears; but I could not show Dr. Sandford what I felt, nor confess to what I thought of my father's action. I had the greatest struggle with myself not to give way and cry. I was very weak bodily, but I know I stood still and did not shed a tear; till I felt Dr. Sandford's hands take hold of me. They put me gently back in the chair from which I had risen. "What is the matter, Daisy?" he said. I would not speak, and he did not urge it; but I saw that he watched me, till I gained command of myself again. "Shall we go home now?" he asked. "In a minute. Dr. Sandford, I do not think papa knows about all this � I do not think he knows about it as I do. I am sure he does not; and when he knows, he will think as I do." "Or perhaps you will think as he does." I was silent. I wondered if that could be possible, if I too could have my eyes blinded as I saw other people's were. "Little Daisy," said my friend the doctor, � "but you are getting to be not _little_ Daisy. How old are you?" "I shall be fourteen in June." "Fourteen. Well, it is no wonder that my friend whom I left a philosopher at ten years old, I should find a woman at fourteen � but, Daisy, you must not take it on your heart that you have to teach all the ignorant and help all the distressed that come in your way; because simply you cannot do it." I looked up at him. I could not tell him what I thought, because he would not, I feared, understand it. Christ came to do just such work, and His servants must have it on their heart to do the same. I cannot tell what was in my look; but I thought the doctor's face changed. "One Molly Skelton will do for one four years," he said as he rose up. "Come, Daisy." "But, Dr. Sandford," I said, as I followed him, "you will not do anything about sending Margaret back?" "Nothing, till you do, Daisy." Arrived at home, the doctor made me drink a raw egg, and lie down on Mrs. Sandford's sofa; and he sat down and looked at me. "You are the most troublesome patient that ever I had," said he. "I am?" I exclaimed. "Yes. Quite innocently. You cannot help it, Daisy; and you need not be troubled about it. It is all in the way of my profession. It is as if a delicate vessel of Egyptian glass were put to do the work of an iron smelting furnace; and I have to think of all the possible bands and hardening appliances that can be brought into use for the occasion." "I do not understand �" I said. "No. I suppose not. That is the worst of it." "But why am I all _Egyptian_ glass?" I asked. "I am not very old." The doctor gave me one of those quick, bright glances and smiles, that were very pleasant to get from him and not very common. There came a sort of glow and sparkle in his blue eye then, and a wonderful winsome and gracious trick of the lips. "It is a very doubtful sort of a compliment," said Mrs. Sandford. "I did not mean it for a compliment at all," said the doctor. "I don't believe you did," said his sister; "but what did you mean? Grant, I should like to hear you pay a compliment for once." "You do not know Egyptian glass," said the doctor. "No. What was it?" "Very curious." "Didn't I say that you couldn't pay compliments," said Mrs. Sandford. "And unlike any that is made now-a-days. There were curious patterns wrought in the glass, made, it is supposed, by the fusing together of rods of glass, extremely minute, of different colours; so that the pattern once formed was ineffaceable and indestructible, unless by the destruction of the vessel which contained it. Sometimes a layer of gold was introduced between the layers of glass." "How very curious!" said Mrs. Sandford. "I think I must take you into consultation, Daisy," the doctor went on, turning to me. "It is found, that there must be a little delay before you can go up to take a look at Melbourne. Mrs. Sandford is obliged to stop in New York with a sick sister; how long she may be kept there it is impossible to say. Now you would have a dull time, I am afraid; and I am in doubt whether it would not be pleasanter for you to enter school at once. In about three months the school term will end and the summer vacation begin; by that time Mrs. Sandford will be at home and the country ready to receive you. But you shall do whichever you like best." "Mrs. Sandford will be in New York?" I said. "Yes." "And I would see you constantly, dear, and have you with me all the Saturdays and Sundays and holidays. And if you like it better, you shall be with me all the time; only I should be obliged to leave you alone too much." "How long does the summer vacation last?" I inquired. "Till some time in September. You can enter school now, or then, as you choose." I thought and hesitated, and said I would enter at once. Dr. Sandford said I was not fit for it, but it was on the whole the best plan. So it was arranged; that I should just wait a day or two in New York to get my wardrobe in order and then begin my school experience. But my thoughts went back afterwards, more than once, to the former conversation; and I wondered what it was about me that made Dr. Sandford liken me to Egyptian glass. CHAPTER IX. SHOPPING. It was settled that I should wait a day or two in New York to get my wardrobe arranged, and then begin my school experience. But when we got to New York, we found Mrs. Sandford's sister so ill as to claim her whole time. There was none to spare for me and my wardrobe. Mrs. Sandford said I must attend to it myself as well as I could, and the doctor would go with me. He was off duty, he reported, and at leisure for ladies' affairs. Mrs. Sandford told me what I would need. A warm school dress, she said; for the days would be often cold in this latitude until May, and even later; and schoolrooms not always warm. A warm dress for every day was the first thing. A fine merino, Mrs. Sandford said, would be, she thought, what my mother would choose. I had silks which might be warm enough for other occasions. Then I must have a thick coat or cloak. Long coats, with sleeves, were fashionable then, she told me; the doctor would take me where I would find plenty to choose from. And I needed a hat, or a bonnet. Unless, Mrs. Sandford said, I chose to wear my riding cap with the feather; that was warm, and very pretty, and would do. How much would it all cost? I asked. Mrs. Sandford made a rapid calculation. The merino would be two dollars a yard, she said; the coat might be got for thirty-five or thereabouts sufficiently good; the hat was entirely what I chose to make it. "But you know, my dear," Mrs. Sandford said, "the sort of quality and style your mother likes, and you will be guided by that." Must I be guided by that? � I questioned with myself. Yes, I knew. I knew very well; but I had other things to think of. I pondered. While I was pondering, Dr. Sandford was quietly opening his pocket-book and unfolding a roll of bills. He put a number of them into my hand. "That will cover it all, Daisy," he said. "It is money your father has made over to my keeping, for this and similar purposes." "Oh, thank you !" I said, breathless; and then I counted the bills. "Oh, thank you, Dr. Sandford! but may I spend all this?" "Certainly. Mr. Randolph desired it should go, this and more of it, to your expenses, of whatever kind. This covers my sister's estimate, and leaves something for your pocket besides." "And when shall we go?" I asked. "To spend it? Now, if you like. Why, Daisy, I did now know �" "What, sir?" I said as he paused. "Really, nothing," he said, smiling. "Somehow I had not fancied that you shared the passion of your sex for what they call _shopping_. You are all alike, in some things." "I like it very much to-day," I said. "It would be safe, for you to keep Daisy's money in your own pocket, Grant," Mrs. Sandford said. "It will be stolen from her, certainly." The doctor smiled and stretched out his hand; I put the bills into it; and away we went. My head was very busy. I knew, as Mrs. Sandford said, the sort and style of purchases my mother would make and approve; but then on the other hand the remembrance was burnt into me, whence that money came which I was expected to spend so freely, and what other uses and calls for it there were, even in the case of those very people whose hands had earned it for us. Not to go further, Margaret's wardrobe needed refitting quite as much as mine. She was quite as unaccustomed as I to the chills and blasts of a cold climate, and full as a unfurnished to meet them. I had seen her draw her thin checked shawl around her, when I knew it was not enough to save her from the weather, and that she had no more. And her gowns, of thin cotton stuff, such as she wore about her housework at Magnolia, were a bare provision against the nipping bite of the air here at the North. Yet nobody spoke of any addition to _her_ stock of clothes. It was on my heart alone. But now it was in my hand too, and I felt very glad; though just how to manage Dr. Sandford I did not know. I thought a great deal about the whole matter as we went through the streets; as I had also thought long before; and my mind was clear, that while so many whom I knew needed the money, or while _any_ whom I knew needed it, I would spend no useless dollars upon myself. How should I manage Dr. Sandford? There he was, my cash-keeper; and I had not the least wish to unfold my plans to him. "I suppose the dress is the first thing, Daisy," he said, as we entered the great establishment where everything was to be had; and he inquired for the counter where we should find merinos. I had no objection ready. "What colour, Daisy?" "I want something dark �" "Something dark and bright," said the doctor, seating himself. "And fine quality. Not green, Daisy, if I might advise. It is too cold." "Cold!" said I. "For this season. It is a very nice colour in summer, Daisy," he said, smiling. And he looked on in a kind of amused way, while the clerk of the merinos and I confronted each other. There was displayed now before me a piece of claret-coloured stuff; "dark and bright ;" a beautiful tint, and a very beautiful piece of goods. I knew enough of the matter to know that. Fine and thick and lustrous, it just suited my fancy; I knew it was just what my mother would buy; I saw Dr. Sandford's eye watch me in its amusement with a glance of expectation. But the stuff was two dollars and a quarter a yard. Yes, it suited me exactly; but what was to become of others if I were covered so luxuriously? And how could I save money if I spent it? It was hard to speak, too, before that shopman, who held the merino in his hand expecting me to say I would take it; but I had no way to escape that trouble. I turned from the rich folds of claret stuff, to the doctor at my side. "Dr. Sandford," I said, "I want to get something that will not cost so much. "Does it not please you?" he asked. "Yes; I like it; but I want some stuff that will not cost so much." "This is not far above my sister's estimate, Daisy." "No �" I said. "And the difference is a trifle � if you like the piece." "I like it," I said; "but it is very much above my estimate." "You had one of your own!" said the doctor. "Do you like something else here better? � or what is your estimate, Daisy?" "I do not want a poor merino," I said. "I would rather get some other stuff � if I can. I do not want to give more than a dollar." "The young lady may find what will suit her at the plaid counter," said the shopman, letting fall the rich drapery he had been holding up. � "Just round that corner, sir, to the left." Dr. Sandford led the way, and I followed. There certainly I found a plenty of warm stuffs, in various patterns and colours, and with prices as various. But nothing to match the grave elegance of those claret folds. It was coming down a step, to leave that counter for this. I knew it perfectly well; while I sought out the simplest and prettiest dark small plaid I could find. "Do you like these things better?" the doctor asked me privately. "No, sir," I said. "Then why come here, Daisy? Pardon me, may I ask?" "I have other things to get, Dr. Sandford," I said low. "But, Daisy!" said the doctor, rousing up, � "I have performed my part ill. You are not restricted � your father has not restricted you. I am your banker for whatever sums you may need � for whatever purposes." "Yes," I said; "I know. Oh no, I know papa has not restricted you; but I think I ought not to spend any more. It is my own affair." "And not mine. Pardon me, Daisy; I submit." "Dr. Sandford, don't speak so!" I said. "I don't mean that. I mean, it is my own affair and not papa's." "Certainly, I have no more to say," said the doctor, smiling. "I will tell you about it," � I said; and then I desired the shopman to cut off the dress I had fixed upon; and we went up stairs to look for cloaks; I feeling hot and confused and half perplexed. I had never worn such a dress as this plaid I had bought, in my life. It was nice and good, and pretty too; but it did not match the quality or the elegance of the things my mother always had got for me. _She_ would not have liked it nor let me wear it; I knew that; but then � whence came the wealth that flowed over in such exquisite forms upon her and upon me? were not its original and proper channels bare? And whence were they to be, even in any measure, refilled, if all the supply must, as usual, be led off in other directions? I mused as I went up the stair, feeling perplexed nevertheless at the strangeness of the work I was doing, and with something in my heart giving a pull to my judgment towards the side of what was undoubtedly "pleasant to the eyes." So I followed Dr. Sandford up the stair and into the wilderness of the cloak department; where all manner of elegancies, in silk and velvet and cloth, were displayed in orderly confusion. It was a wilderness to me, in the mood of my thoughts. Was I going to repeat here the process just gone through down stairs? The doctor seated me, asked what I wanted to see, and gave the order. And forthwith my eyes were regaled with a variety of temptations. A nice little black silk pelisse was hung on the stand opposite me; it was nice; a good gloss was upon the silk, the article was in the neatest style, and trimmed with great simplicity. I would have been well satisfied to wear that. By its side was displayed another of velvet; then yet another of very fine dark cloth; perfect in material and make, faultless in its elegance of finish. But the silk was forty- five, and the cloth was forty, and the velvet was sixty dollars. I sat and looked at them. There is no denying that I wanted the silk or the cloth. Either of them would do. Either of them was utterly girl-like and plain, but both of them had the finish of perfection, in make, style, and material. I wanted the one or the other. But, if I had it, what would be left for Margaret? "Are you tired, Daisy?" said Dr. Sandford, bending down to look in my face. "No, sir. At least, that is not what I was thinking of." "What then?" said he. "Will one of these do?" "They would do," I said slowly. "But, Dr. Sandford, I should like to see something else � something that would do for somebody that was poorer than I." "Poorer?" said the doctor, looking funny. "What is the matter, Daisy? Have you suddenly become bankrupt? You need not be afraid, for the bank is in my pocket; and I know it will stand all your demands upon it." "No, but � I would indeed, if you please, Dr. Sandford. These things cost too much for what I want now." "Do you like them?" "I like them very well." "Then take one, whichever you like best. That is my advice to you, Daisy. The bank will bear it." "I think I must not. Please, Dr. Sandford, I should like to see something that would not cost so much. Do they _all_ cost as much as these?" The doctor gave the order, as I desired. The shopman who was serving us cast another comprehensive glance at me � I had seen him give one at the beginning � and tossing off the velvet coat and twisting off the silk one, he walked away. Presently came back with a brown silk which he hung in the place of the velvet one, and a blue cloth, which replaced the black silk. Every whit as costly, and almost as pretty, both of them. "No," said the doctor, � "you mistook me. We want to look at some goods fitted for persons who have not long purses." "Something inferior to these �" said the man. He was not uncivil; he just stated the fact. In accordance with which he replaced the last two coats with a little grey dreadnought, and a black cloth; the first neat and rough, the last not to be looked at. It was not in good taste, and a sort of thing that I neither had worn nor could wear. But the grey dreadnought was simple and warm and neat, and would offend nobody. I looked from it to the pretty black cloth which still hung opposed to it, the one of the first two. Certainly, in style and elegance _this_ looked like my mother's child, and the other did not. But this was forty dollars. The dreadnought was exactly half that sum. I had a little debate with myself � I remember it, for it was my first experience of that kind of thing � and all my mother's training had refined in me the sense of what was elegant and fitting, in dress as well as in other matters. Until now, I had never had my fancy crossed by anything I ever had to wear. The little grey dreadnought � how would it go with my silk dresses? It was like what I had seen other people dressed in; never my mother or me. Yet it was perfectly fitting a lady's child, if she could not afford other; and where was Margaret's cloak to come from? And who had the best right? I pondered and debated, and then I told Dr. Sandford I would have the grey coat. I believe I half wished he would make some objection; but he did not; he paid for the dreadnought and ordered it sent home; and then I began to congratulate myself that Margaret's comfort was secure. "Is that all, Daisy?" my friend asked. "Dr. Sandford," said I, standing up and speaking low, "I want to find � can I find here, do you think? � a good warm cloak and dress for Margaret." "For Margaret!" said the doctor. "Yes; she is not used to the cold, you know; and she has nothing to keep her comfortable." "But, Daisy!" said the doctor, � "Sit down here again; I must understand this. Was _Margaret_ at the bottom of all these financial operations?" "I knew she wanted something, ever since we came from Washington," I said. "Daisy, she could have had it." "Yes, Dr. Sandford; � but �" "But what, if you will be so good?" "I think it was right for me to get it." "I am sorry I do not agree with you at all. It was for _me_ to get it � I am supplied with funds, Daisy � and your father has entrusted to me the making of all arrangements which are in any way good for your comfort. I think, with your leave, I shall reverse these bargains. Have you been all this time pleasing Margaret and not yourself?" "No, sir," I said, � "if you please. I cannot explain it, Dr. Sandford; but I know it is right." "What is right, Daisy? My faculties are stupid." "No, sir; but � let it be as it is, please." "But won't you explain it? I ought to know what I am giving my consent to, Daisy; for just now I am constituted your guardian. What has Margaret to do with your cloaks? There is enough for both." "But," said I, in a great deal of difficulty, � "there is not enough for me and everybody." "Are you going to take care of the wants of everybody?" "I think � I ought to take care of all that I can," I said. "But you have not the power." "I won't do but what I _have_ the power for." "Daisy, what would your father and mother say to such a course of action? would they allow it, do you think?" "But _you_ are my guardian now, Dr. Sandford," � I said, looking up at him. He paused a minute doubtfully. "I am conquered!" he said. "You have absolutely conquered me, Daisy. I have not a word to say. I wonder if that is the way you are going through the world in future? What is it now about Margaret? � for I was bewildered and did not understand." "A warm cloak and dress," I said, delighted; "that is what I want. Can I get them here?" "Doubtful, I should say," the doctor answered; "but we will try." And we did succeed in finding the dress, strong and warm and suitable; the cloak we had to go to another shop for. On the way we stopped at the milliner's. My aunt Gary and Mrs. Sandford employed the same one. "I put it in your hands, Daisy!" Dr. Sandford said, as we went in. "Only let me look on." I kept him waiting a good while, I am afraid; but he was very patient and seemed amused. I was not. The business was very troublesome to me. This was not so easy a matter as to choose between stuffs and have the yards measured off. Bonnets are bonnets, as my aunt always said; and things good in themselves may not be in the least good for you. And I found the thing that suited was even more tempting here than it had been in the cloak ware-room. There was a little velvet hat which I fancied mamma would have bought for me; it was so stylish, and at the same time so simple, and became me so well. But it was of a price corresponding with its beauty. I turned my back on it, though I seemed to see it just as well through the back of my head, and tried to find something else. The milliner would have it there was nothing beside that fitted me. The hat must go on. "She has grown," said the milliner, appealing to Dr. Sandford; "and you see this is the very thing. This tinge of colour inside is just enough to relieve the pale cheeks. Do you see, sir?" "It is without a fault," said the doctor. "Take it off, please," I said. "I want to find something that will not cost so much � something that will not cost near so much." "There is that cap that is too large for Miss Van Allen �" the milliner's assistant remarked. "It would not suit Mrs. Randolph at all," was the answer aside. But I begged to see it. Now this was a comfortable, soft quilted silk cap, with a chinchilla border. Not much style about it, but also nothing to dislike, except its simplicity. The price was moderate, and it fitted me. You are going to be a different Daisy Randolph from what you have been all your life � something whispered to me. And the doctor said, "That makes you look about ten years old again, Daisy." I had a minute of doubt and delay; then I said I would have the cap; and the great business was ended. Margaret's purchases were all found, and we went home, with money still in my bank, Dr. Sandford informed me. I was very tired; but on the whole I was very satisfied. Till my things came home, and I saw that Mrs. Sandford did not like them. "I wish I could have been with you!" she said. "What is the matter?" said the doctor. It was the evening, and we were all together for a few minutes, before Mrs. Sandford went to her sister. "Did you choose these things, Grant?" "What is the matter with them?" "They are hardly suitable." "For the third time, what is the matter with them?" said the doctor. "They are neat, but they are not _handsome_." "They will look handsome when they are on," said Dr. Sandford. "No, they won't; they will look common. I don't mean _vulgar_ � you could not buy anything in bad taste � but they are just what anybody's child might wear." "Then Mrs. Randolph's child might." Mrs. Sandford gave him a look. "That is just the thing," she said. "Mrs. Randolph's child might _not_. I never saw anybody more elegant or more particular about the choice of her dress than Mrs. Randolph; it is always perfect; and Daisy's always was. Mrs. Randolph would not like these." "Shall we change them, Daisy?" said the doctor. I said "no �". "Then I hope they will wear out before Mrs. Randolph comes home," he said. All this, somehow, made me uncomfortable. I went off to the room which had been given to me, where a fire was kept; and I sat down to think. Certainly, I would have liked the other coat and hat better, that I had rejected; and the thought of the rich soft folds of that silky merino were not pleasant to me. The plaid I had bought _did_ wear a common look in comparison. I knew it, quite as well as Mrs. Sandford; and that I had never worn common things; and I knew that in the merino, properly made; I should have looked my mother's child; and that in the plaid my mother would not know me. Was I right? was I wrong? I knelt down before the fire, feeling that the straight path was not always easy to find. Yet I had thought I saw it before me. I knelt before the fire, which was the only light in the room, and opened the page of my dear little book that had the Bible lessons for every day. This day's lesson was headed, "That ye adorn the doctrine of God our Saviour in all things." The mist began to clear away. Between adorning and being adorned, the difference was so great, it set my face quite another way directly. I went on. "Let your conversation be as it becometh the gospel of Christ." And how should that be? Certainly the spirit of that gospel had no regard to self-glorification; and had most tender regard to the wants of others. I began to feel sure that I was in the way and not out of it. Then came � "If ye be reproached for the name of Christ, happy are ye. But let none of you suffer . . . _as a thief, or as an evildoer_" � "Let your light so shine before men" � "Let not mercy and truth forsake thee; bind them about thy neck;" � "Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are _just_ . . . think on these things." The words came about me, binding up my doubts, making sound my heart, laying a soft touch upon every rough spot in my thoughts. True, honest, just, lovely, and of good report � yes, I would think on these things, and I would not be turned aside from them. And if I suffered as a Christian, I determined that I would not be ashamed; I prayed that I might never; I would take as no dishonour the laughter or the contempt of those who did not see the two sides of the question; but as a _thief_ I would not suffer. I earnestly prayed that I might not. No beauty of dresses or stylishness of coats or bonnets should adorn me, the price of which God saw belonged and was due to the suffering of others; more especially, to the wants of those whose wants made my supply. That my father and mother, with the usage of old habit, and the influence of universal custom, should be blind to what I saw so clearly, made no difference in my duty. I had the light of the Bible rule, which was not yet, I knew, the lamp to their feet. I must walk by it, all the same. And my thought went back now with great tenderness to mammy Theresa's rheumatism, which wanted flannel; to Maria's hyacinths, which were her great earthly interest, out of the things of religion; to Darry's lonely cottage, where he had no lamp to read the Bible o' nights, and no oil to burn in it. To Pete's solitary hut, too, where he was struggling to learn to read well, and where a hymn-book would be the greatest comfort to him. To the old people, whose one solace of a cup of tea would be gone unless I gave it them; to the boys who were learning to read, who wanted testaments; to the bed-ridden and sick who wanted blankets; to the young and well who wanted gowns (not indeed for decency, but for the natural pleasure of looking neat and smart) � and to Margaret, first and last, who was nearest to me, and who, I began to think, might want some other trifles besides a cloak. The girl came in at the minute. "Margaret," I said, "I have got you a warm gown and a good thick warm cloak, to-day." "A cloak! Miss Daisy �" Margaret's lips just parted and showed the white beneath. "Yes. I saw you were not warm in that thin shawl." "It's mighty cold up these ways! �" the girl's shoulders drew together with involuntary expression. "And now, Margaret, what other things do you want, to be nice and comfortable? You must tell me now, because after I go to school I cannot see you often, you know." "Reckon I find something to do at the school, Miss Daisy. Aint there servants?" "Yes, but I am afraid there may not be another wanted. What else ought you to have, Margaret?" "Miss Daisy knows, I'll hire myself out, and reckon I'll get a right smart chance of wages; and then, if Miss Daisy let me take some change, I'd like to get some things �" "You may keep all your wages, Margaret," I said hastily; "you need not bring them to me; but I want to know if you have all you need now, to be nice and warm?" " 'Spect I'd be better for some underclothes �" Margaret said, half under her breath. Of course! I knew it the moment she said it. I knew the scanty, coarse supply which was furnished to the girls and women at Magnolia; I knew that more was needed for neatness as well as for comfort, and something different, now that she was where no evil distinction would arise from her having it. � I said I would get what she wanted; and went away back to the parlour. I mused as I went. If I let Margaret keep her wages � and I was very certain I could not receive them from her � I must be prepared to answer it to my father. Perhaps, � yes, I felt sure as I thought about it � I must contrive to save the amount of her wages out of what was given to myself; or else my grant might be reversed and my action disallowed, or at least greatly disapproved. And my father had given me no right to dispose of Margaret's wages, or of herself. So I came into the parlour. Dr. Sandford alone was there, lying on the sofa. He jumped up immediately; pulled a great arm chair near to the fire, and taking hold of me, put me into it. My purchases were lying on the table, where they had been disapproved; but I knew what to think of them now. I could look at them very contentedly. "How do they seem, Daisy?" said the doctor, stretching himself on the cushions again, after asking my permission and pardon. "Very well" � I said, smiling. "You are satisfied?" I said "yes." "Daisy," said he, "you have conquered me to-day � I have yielded � I own myself conquered; but, won't you enlighten me? As a matter of favour?" "About what, Dr. Sandford?" "I don't understand you." I remember looking at him and smiling. It was so curious a thing, both that he should, in his philosophy, be puzzled by a child like me, and that he should care about undoing the puzzle. "There!" said he, � "that is my old little Daisy of ten years old. Daisy, I used to think she was an extremely dainty and particular little person." "Yes �" said I. "Was that correct?" "I don't know," said I. "I think it was." "Then, Daisy, honestly, � I am asking as a philosopher, and that means a lover of knowledge, you know, � did you choose those articles to-day to please yourself?" "In one way, I did," I answered. "Did they appear to you as they did to Mrs. Sandford, � at the time?" "Yes, Dr. Sandford." "So I thought. � Then, Daisy, will you make me understand it? For I am puzzled." I was sorry that he cared about the puzzle, for I did not want to go into it. I was almost sure he would not make it out if I did. However, he lay there looking at me and waiting. "Those other things cost too much, Dr. Sandford � that was all." "There is the puzzle!" said the doctor. "You had the money in your bank for them, and money for Margaret's things too, and more if you wanted it; and no bottom to the bank at all, so far as I could see. And you like pretty things, Daisy, and you did not choose them." "No, sir." I hesitated, and he waited. How was I to tell him. He would simply find it ridiculous. And then I thought � "If any of you suffer as a Christian, let him not be ashamed." "I thought I should be comfortable in these things, Dr. Sandford," I then said, glancing at the little chinchilla cap which lay on the table; � "and respectable. And there were other people who needed all the money the other things would have cost." "What other people?" said the doctor. "As I am your guardian, Daisy, it is proper for me to ask, and not impertinent." I hesitated again. "I was thinking," I said, "of some of the people I left at Magnolia." "Do you mean the servants?" "Yes, sir." "Daisy, they are cared for." I was silent. "What do you think they want?" "Some that are sick want comfort," I said; "and others who are not sick want help; and others, I think, want a little pleasure." I would fain not have spoken, but how could I help it? The doctor brought his feet off the sofa and sat up and confronted me. "In the meantime," he said, "you are to be 'comfortable and respectable.' But, Daisy, do you think your father and mother would be satisfied with such a statement of your condition?" "I suppose not," I was obliged to say. "Then do you think it is proper for me to allow such to be the fact?" I looked at him. What there was in my look it is impossible for me to say; but he laughed a little. "Yes," he said, � "I know � you have conquered me to-day. I own myself conquered � but the question I ask you is, whether I am justifiable?" "I think that depends," I answered, on whether I am justifiable." "Can you justify yourself, Daisy?" � he said, bringing his hand clown gently over my smooth hair and touching my cheek. It would have vexed me from anybody else; it did not vex me from him. "Can you justify yourself, Daisy?" he repeated. "Yes, sir," I said; but I felt troubled. "Then do it." "Dr. Sandford, the Bible says, 'Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.' " "Well?" said he, refusing to draw any conclusions for me. "I have more than I want, and they have not enough. I don't think I ought to keep more than I want." "But then arises the question," said he, "how much do you want? Where is the line, beyond which you, or I, for instance, have too much?" "I was not speaking of anybody but myself," I said. "But a rule of action which is the right one for you, would be right for everybody." "Yes, but everybody must apply it for himself," I said. "I was only applying it for myself." "And applying it for yourself, Daisy, is it to cut off for the future � or ought it � all elegance and beauty? Must you restrict yourself to mere 'comfort and respectability'? Are fur and feathers for instance wicked things?" He did not speak mockingly; Dr. Sandford never could do an ungentlemanly thing; he spoke kindly and with a little rallying smile on his face. But I knew what he thought. "Dr. Sandford," said I, "suppose I was a fairy, and that I stripped the gown off a poor woman's back to change it into a feather, and stole away her blankets to make them into fur; what would you think of fur and feathers then?" There came a curious lightning through the doctor's blue eyes. I did not know in the least what it meant. "Do you mean to say, Daisy, that the poor people down yonder at Magnolia want such things as gowns and blankets?" "Some do," I said. "You know, nobody is there, Dr. Sandford, to look after them; and the overseer does not care. It would be different if papa was at home." "I will never interfere with you any more, Daisy," said the doctor, � "any further than by a little very judicious interference; and you shall find in me the best helper I can be to all your plans. You may use me � you have conquered me," � said he, smiling, and laying himself back on his cushions again. I was very glad it had ended so, for I could hardly have withstood Dr. Sandford if he had taken a different view of the matter. And his help, I knew, might be very good in getting things sent to Magnolia. CHAPTER X. SCHOOL. I had another time the next day between Mrs Sandford and the mantua-maker. The mantua-maker came to take orders about making my school dress. "How will you have it trimmed?" she asked. "This sort of stuff will make no sort of an appearance unless it is well trimmed. It wants that. You might have a border of dark green leaves � dark green, like the colour of this stripe � going round the skirt; that would have a good effect; the leaves set in and edged with a very small red cord, or green if you like it better. We trimmed a dress so last week, and it made a very good appearance." "What do you say, Daisy?" "How much will it cost?" I asked. "Oh, the cost is not very much," said the milliner. "I suppose we would do it for you, Mrs. Sandford, for twenty-five dollars." "That is too much," I said. "You wouldn't say so, if you knew the work it is to set those leaves round," said the mantua-maker. "It takes hours and hours; and the cording and all. And the silk, you know, Mrs. Sandford, _that_ costs now-a-days. It takes a full yard of the silk, and no washy lining silk, but good stiff dress silk. Some has 'em made of velvet, but to be sure that would not be suitable for a common stuff like this. It will be very common, Mrs. Sandford, without you have it handsomely trimmed." "Couldn't you put some other sort of trimming?" "Well, there's no other way that looks _distingué_ on this sort of stuff; that's the most stylish. We could put a band of rows of black velvet � an inch wide, or half an inch; if you have it narrower you must put more of them; and then the sleeves and body to match; but I don't think you would like it so well as the green leaves. A great many people has 'em trimmed so; you like it a little out of the common, Mrs. Sandford. Or, you could have a green ribband." "How much would _that_ be?" said Mrs. Sandford. "Oh, really I don't just know," the woman answered; "depends on the ribband; it don't make much difference to you, Mrs. Sandford; it would be � let me see, � Oh, I suppose we could do it with velvet for you for fifteen or twenty dollars. You see, there must be buttons or rosettes at the joinings of the velvets; and those come very expensive." "How much would it be, to make the dress plain?" I asked. "_That_ would be plain," the mantua-maker answered quickly. "The style is, to trim everything very much. Oh, that would be quite plain, with the velvet." "But without any trimming at all?" I asked. "How much would that be?" I felt an odd sort of shame at pressing the question; yet I knew I must. "Without trimming!" said the woman. "Oh, you could not have it _without trimming;_ there is nothing made without trimming; it would have no appearance at all. People would think you had come out of the country. No young ladies have their dresses made without trimming this winter." "Mrs. Sandford," said I, "I should like to know what the dress would be without trimming." "What would it be, Melinda?" The woman was only a forewoman of her establishment. "Oh, well, Mrs. Sandford, the naked dress I have no doubt could be made for you for five dollars." "You would not have it _so_, Daisy, my dear?" said Mrs. Sandford. But I said I would have it so. It cost me a little difficulty, and a little shrinking, I remember, to choose this and to hold to it in the face of the other two. It was the last battle of that campaign. I had my way; but I wondered privately to myself whether I was going to look very unlike the children of other ladies in my mother's position; and whether such severity over myself was really needed. I turned the question over again in my own room, and tried to find out why it troubled me. I could not quite tell. Yet I thought, as I was doing what I knew to be duty, I had no right to feel this trouble about it. The trouble wore off before a little thought of my poor friends at Magnolia. But the question came up again at dinner. "Daisy," said Mrs. Sandford, "did you ever have anything to do with the Methodists?" "No, ma'am," I said, wondering. "What are the Methodists?" "I don't know, I am sure," she said, laughing; "only they are people who sing hymns a great deal, and teach that nobody ought to wear gay dresses." "Why?" I asked. "I can't say. I believe they hold that the Bible forbids ornamenting ourselves." I wondered if it did; and determined I would look, And I thought the Methodists must be nice people. "What is on the carpet now?" said the doctor. "Singing or dressing? You are attacking Daisy, I see, on some score." "She won't have her dress trimmed," said Mrs. Sandford. The doctor turned round to me, with a wonderful genial pleasant expression of his fine face; and his blue eye, that I always liked to meet full, going through me with a sort of soft power. He was not smiling, yet his look made me smile. "Daisy," said he, "are you going to make yourself unlike other people?" "Only my dress, Dr. Sandford," I said. "L'habit, c'est l'homme! �" he answered gravely, shaking his head. I remembered his question and words many times in the course of the next six months. In a day or two more my dress was done, and Dr. Sandford went with me to introduce me at the school. He had already made the necessary arrangements. It was a large establishment, reckoned the most fashionable, and at the same time one of the most thorough, in the city; the house, or houses, standing in one of the broad clear Avenues, where the streams of human life that went up and down were all of the sort that wore trimmed dresses and rolled about in handsome carriages. Just in the centre and height of the thoroughfare Mme. Ricard's establishment looked over it. We went in at a stately doorway, and were shown into a very elegant parlour; where at a grand piano a young lady was taking a music lesson. The noise was very disagreeable; but that was the only disagreeable thing in the place. Pictures were on the walls, a soft carpet on the floor; the colours of carpet and furniture were dark and rich; books and trinkets and engravings in profusion gave the look of cultivated life and the ease of plenty. It was not what I had expected; nor was Mme. Ricard, who came in noiselessly and stood before us while I was considering the wonderful moustache of the music teacher. I saw a rather short, grave person, very plainly dressed, � but indeed I never thought of the dress she wore. The quiet composure of the figure, was what attracted me, and the peculiar expression of the face. It was sad, almost severe; so I thought it at first; till a smile once for an instant broke upon the lips, like a flitting sunbeam out of a cloudy sky; then I saw that kindliness was quite at home there, and sympathy and a sense of merriment were not wanting; but the clouds closed again, and the look of care, or sorrow, I could not quite tell what it was, only that it was unrest, retook its place on brow and lip. The eye I think never lost it. Yet it was a searching and commanding eye; I was sure it knew how to rule. The introduction was soon made, and Dr. Sandford bid me good bye. I felt as if my best friend was leaving me; the only one I had trusted in since my father and mother had gone away. I said nothing, but perhaps my face showed my thought, for he stooped and kissed me. "Good bye, Daisy. Remember, I shall expect a letter every fortnight." He had ordered me before to write him as often as that, and give him a minute account of myself; how many studies I was pursuing, how many hours I gave to them each day, what exercise I took, and what amusement; and how I throve withal. Mme. Ricard had offered to show me my room, and we were mounting the long stairs while I thought this over. "Is Dr. Sandford your cousin, Miss Randolph?" was the question which came in upon my thoughts. "No, ma'am," I answered in extreme surprise. "Is he any relation to you?" "He is my guardian." "I think Dr. Sandford told me that your father and mother are abroad?" "Yes, ma'am; and Dr. Sandford is my guardian." We had climbed two flights of stairs, and I was panting. As we went up, I had noticed a little unusual murmur of noises which told me I was in a new world. Little indistinguishable noises, the stir and hum of the busy hive into which I had entered. Now and then a door had opened, and a head or a figure came out; but as instantly went back again on seeing Madame, and the door was softly closed. We reached the third floor. There a young lady appeared at the further end of the gallery, and curtseyed to my conductress. "Miss Bentley," said Madame, "this is your new companion, Miss Randolph. Will you be so good as to show Miss Randolph her room?" Madame turned and left us, and the young lady led me into the room she had just quitted. A large room, light and bright, and pleasantly furnished; but the one thing that struck my unaccustomed eyes was the evidence of fulness of occupation. One bed stood opposite the fireplace; another across the head of that, between it and one of the windows; a third was between the doors on the inner side of the room. Moreover, the first and the last of these were furnished with two pillows each. I did not in the moment use my arithmetic; but the feeling which instantly pressed upon me was that of want of breath. "This is the bed prepared for you, I believe," said my companion civilly, pointing to the third one before the window. "There isn't room for anybody to turn, round here now." I began mechanically to take off my cap and gloves, looking hard at the little bed, and wondering what other rights of possession were to be given me in this place. I saw a washstand in one window and a large mahogany wardrobe on one side of the fireplace; a dressing table or chest of drawers between the windows. Everything was handsome and nice; everything was in the neatest order; but � where were my clothes to go? Before I had made up my mind to ask, there came a rush into the room; I supposed, of the other inmates. One was a very large, fat, dull-faced girl; I should have thought her a young woman, only that she was here in a school. Another, bright and pretty and very good-humoured if there was any truth ill her smiling black eyes, was much slighter and somewhat younger; a year or two in advance of myself. The third was a girl about my own age, shorter and smaller than I, with also a pretty face, but an eye that I was not so sure of. She was the last one to come in, and she immediately stopped and looked at me; I thought, with no pleasure. "This is Miss Randolph, girls," said Miss Bentley. "Miss Randolph, Miss Macy." I curtseyed to the fat girl, who gave me a little nod. "I am glad she isn't as big as I am," was her comment on the introduction. I was glad, too. "Miss Lansing �" This was bright-eyes, who bowed and smiled � she always smiled � and said, "How do you do?" Then rushed off to a drawer in search of something. "Miss St. Clair, will you come and be introduced to Miss Randolph?" The St. Clair walked up demurely and took my hand. Her words were in abrupt contrast. "Where are her things going, Miss Bentley?" I wondered that pretty lips could be so ungracious. It was not temper which appeared on them, but cool rudeness. "Madame said we must make some room for her," Miss Bentley answered. "I don't know where," remarked Miss Macy. "_I_ have not two inches." "She can't have a peg nor a drawer of mine," said the St. Clair. "Don't you put her there, Bentley." And the young lady left us with that. "We must manage it somehow," said Miss Bentley. "Lansing, look here, � can't you take your things out of this drawer? Miss Randolph has no place to lay anything. She must have a little place, you know." Lansing looked up with a perplexed face, and Miss Macy remarked that nobody had a bit of room to lay anything. "I am very sorry �" I said. "It is no use being sorry, child," said Miss Macy, "we have got to fix it, somehow. I know who _ought_ to be sorry. Here � I can take this pile of things out of this drawer; that is all I can do. Can't she manage with this half?" But Miss Lansing came and made her arrangements, and then it was found that the smallest of the four drawers was cleared and ready for my occupation. "But if we give you a whole drawer," said Miss Macy, "you must be content with one peg in the wardrobe � will you?" "Oh, and she can have one or two hooks in the closet," said bright-eyes. "Come here, Miss Randolph � I will show you �" And there in the closet I found was another place for washing, with cocks for hot and cold water; and a press and plenty of iron hooks; with also plenty of dresses and hats hanging on them. Miss Lansing moved and changed several of these, till she had cleared a space for me. "There �" she said, "now you'll do, won't you? I don't believe you can get a scrap of a corner in the wardrobe; Macy and Bentley and St. Clair take it up so. _I_ haven't but one dress hanging there, but you've got a whole drawer in the bureau." I was not very awkward and clumsy in my belongings, but an elephant could scarcely have been more bewildered if he had been requested to lay his proboscis up in a glove box. "I cannot put a dress in the drawer," I remarked. "Oh, you can hang one up, here, under your cap; and that is all any of us do. Our things, all except our everyday things, go down stairs in our trunks. Have you many trunks?" I told her no, only one. I did not know why it was a little disagreeable to me to say that. The feeling came and passed. I hung up my coat and cap, and brushed my hair; my new companion looking on. Without any remark, however, she presently rushed off, and I was left alone. I began to appreciate that. I sat down on the side of my little bed, � to my fancy the very chairs were appropriated, � and looked at my new place in the world. Five of us in that room! I had always had the comfort of great space and ample conveniences about me; was it a luxury I had enjoyed? It had seemed nothing more than a necessity. And now, must I dress and undress myself before so many spectators? could I not lock up anything that belonged to me? were all my nice and particular habits to be crushed into one drawer and smothered on one or two clothes pins? Must everything I did be seen? And above all, where could I pray? I looked round in a sort of fright. There was but one closet in the room, and that was a washing closet, and held besides a great quantity of other people's belongings. I could not, even for a moment, shut it against them. In a kind of terror, I looked to make sure that I was alone, and fell on my knees. It seemed to me that all I could do was to pray every minute that I should have to myself. They would surely be none too many. Then hearing a footstep somewhere, I rose again and took from my bag my dear little book. It was so small I could carry it where I had not room for my Bible. I looked for the page of the day, I remember now, with my eyes full of tears. "Be watchful" � were the first words that met me. Ay, I was sure I would need it; but how was a watch to be kept up, if I could never be alone to take counsel with myself? I did not see it; this was another matter from Miss Pinshon's unlocked door. After all, that door had not greatly troubled me; my room had not been of late often invaded. Now I had no room. What more would my dear little book say to me? "Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour." Was the battle to go so hard against me? and what should I do without that old and well-tried weapon of "all-prayer"? Nothing; I should be conquered. I must have and keep that, I resolved; if I lay awake and got up at night to use it. Dr. Sandford would not like such a proceeding; but there were worse dangers than the danger of lessened health. I _would_ pray; but what next? "Take heed to thyself, and keep thy soul diligently." � "What I say unto you I say unto all, Watch." I stood by the side of my bed, dashing the tears from my eyes. Then I heard, as I thought, some one coming, and in haste looked to see what else might be on the page; what further message or warning. And something like a sunbeam of healing flashed into my heart with the next words. "Fear thou not: for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God; I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of My righteousness." "I, the Lord thy God, will hold thy right hand." I was healed. I put up my little book in my bag again, feeling whole and sound. It did not matter that I was crowded and hindered and watched; for it was written also, "He preserveth the way of his saints;" and I was safe. I sat a little while longer alone. Then came a rush and rustle of many feet upon the stairs, many dresses moving, many voices blending in a little soft roar; as ominous as the roar of the sea which one hears in a shell. My four room-mates poured into the room, accompanied by one or two others; very busy and eager about their affairs that they were discussing. Meanwhile they all began to put themselves in order. "The bell will ring for tea directly," said Miss Macy, addressing herself to me, � "are you ready?" "Tisn't much trouble to fix _her_ hair �" said my friend with the black eyes. Six pair of eyes for a moment were turned upon me. "You are too old to have your hair so," remarked Miss Bentley. "You ought to let it grow." "Why don't you?" said Miss Lansing. "She is a Roundhead," said the St. Clair, brushing her own curls; which were beautiful and crinkled all over her head, while my hair was straight. "I don't suppose she ever saw a Cavalier before." "St. Clair, you are too bad!" said Miss Mary. "Miss Randolph is a stranger." St. Clair made no answer, but finished her hair and ran off; and presently the others filed off after her; and a loud clanging bell giving the signal, I thought best to go too. Every room was pouring forth its inmates; the halls and passages were all alive and astir. In the train of the moving crowd, I had no difficulty to find my way to the place of gathering. This was the school parlour; not the one where I had seen Mme. Ricard. Parlours, rather; there was a suite of them, three deep; for this part of the house had a building added in the rear. The rooms were large and handsome; not like school rooms, I thought; and yet very different from my home; for they were bare. Carpets and curtains, sofas and chairs and tables, were in them to be sure; and even pictures; yet they were bare; for books and matters of art and little social luxuries were wanting, such as I had all my life been accustomed to, and such as filled Mme. Ricard's own rooms. However, this first evening I could hardly see how the rooms looked, for the lining of humanity which ran round all the walls. There was a shimmer as of every colour in the rainbow; and a buzz that could only come from a hive full. I, who had lived all my life where people spoke softly, and where many never spoke together, was bewildered. The buzz hushed suddenly, and I saw Mme. Ricard's figure going slowly down the rooms. She was in the uttermost contrast to all her household. Ladylike always, and always dignified, her style was her own, and I am sure that nobody ever felt that she had not enough. Yet Mme. Ricard had nothing about her that was conformed to the fashions of the day. Her dress was of a soft kind of serge, which fell around her or swept across the rooms in noiseless yielding folds. Hoops were the fashion of the day; but Mme. Ricard wore no hoops; she went with ease and silence where others went with a rustle and a warning to clear the way. The back of her head was covered with a little cap as plain as a nun's cap; and I never saw an ornament about her. Yet criticism never touched Mme. Ricard. Not even the criticism of a set of school-girls; and I had soon to learn that there is none more relentless. The tea-table was set in the further room of the three. Mime. Ricard passed down to that. Presently I heard her low voice saying, "Miss Randolph". Low as it always was, it was always heard. I made my way down through the rooms to her presence; and there I was introduced to the various teachers. Mademoiselle Genevieve, Miss Babbitt, Mme. Jupon, and Miss Dumps. I could not examine them just then. I felt I was on exhibition myself. "Is Miss Randolph to come to me, Madame?" the first of these ladies asked. She was young, bright, black-eyed, and full of energy; I saw so much. "I fancy she will come to all of you," said Madame. "Except Miss Babbitt. You can write and read, I dare say, Miss Randolph?" she went on with a smile. I answered of course. "What have been your principal studies for the past year?" I said, mathematics, astronomy, and philosophy and history. "Then she is mine!" exclaimed Mlle. Genevieve. "She is older than she looks," said Miss Babbitt. "Her hair is young, but her eyes are not," said the former speaker; who was a lively lady. "French have you studied?" Madame went on. "Not so much," I said. "Mme. Jupon will want you." "I am sure she is a good child," said Mme. Jupon, who was a good-natured, plain-looking Frenchwoman without a particle of a Frenchwoman's grace or address. "I will be charmed to have her." "You may go back to your place, Miss Randolph," said my mistress. "We will arrange all the rest to-morrow." "Shall I go back with you?" asked Mlle. Genevieve. "Do you mind going alone?" She spoke very kindly, but I was at a loss for her meaning. I saw the kindness; why it showed itself in such an offer I could not imagine. "I am very much obliged to you, ma'am," � I began, when a little burst of laughter stopped me. It came from all the teachers; even Mme. Ricard was smiling. "You are out for once, Genevieve," she said. "La charmante!" said Mme. Jupon. "Voyez l'aplomb!" "No, you don't want me," said Mlle. Genevieve nodding. "Go � you'll do." I went back to the upper room, and presently tea was served. I sat alone; there was nobody near me who knew me; I had nothing to do while munching my bread and butter but to examine the new scene. There was a great deal to move my curiosity. In the first place, I was surprised to see the rooms gay with fine dresses. I had come from the quiet of Magnolia, and accustomed to the simplicity of my mother's taste; which if it sometimes adorned me, did it always in subdued fashion, and never flaunted either its wealth or beauty. But on every side of me I beheld startling costumes; dresses that explained my mantua- maker's eagerness about velvet and green leaves. I saw that she was right; her trimmings would have been "quiet" here. Opposite me was a brown merino, bordered with blocks of blue silk running round the skirt. Near it was a dress of brilliant red picked out with black cord and heavy with large black buttons. Then a black dress caught my eye which had an embattled trimming of black and gold, continued round the waist and completed with a large gold buckle. Then there was a grey cashmere with red stars and a bronze-coloured silk with black velvet a quarter of a yard wide let into the skirt; the body all of black velvet. I could go on, if my memory would serve me. The rooms were full of this sort of thing. Yet more than the dresses the heads surprised me. Just at that time the style of hair-dressing was one of those styles which are endurable, and perhaps even very beautiful, in the hands of a first-rate artist and on the heads of the few women who dress well; but which are more and more hideous the further you get from that distant pinnacle of the mode, and the lower down they spread among the ranks of society. I thought, as I looked from one to another, I had never seen anything so ill in taste, so outraged in style, so unspeakable in ugliness as well as in pretension. I supposed then it was the fashion principally which was to blame. Since then, I have seen the same fashion on one of those heads that never wear anything but in good style. It gathered a great wealth of rich hair into a mass at the back of the head, yet leaving the top and front of the hair in soft waves; and the bound up mass behind was loose and soft and flowed naturally from the head; it had no hard outline nor regular shape; it was nature's luxuriance just held in there from bursting down over neck and shoulders; and hardly that, for some locks were almost escaping. The whole was to the utmost simple, natural, graceful, rich. But these caricatures! All that they knew was to mass the hair at the back of the head; and that fact was attained. But some looked as if they had a hard round cannon-ball fastened there; others suggested a stuffed pincushion, ready for pins; others had a mortar shell in place of a cannon-ball, the size was so enormous; in nearly all, the hair was strained tight over or under something; in not one was there an effect which the originator of the fashion would not have abhorred. Girlish grace was nowhere to be seen, either in heads or persons; girlish simplicity had no place. It was a school; but the company looked fitter for the stiff assemblages of ceremony that should be twenty years later in their lives. My heart grew very blank. I felt unspeakably alone; not merely because there was nobody there whom I knew, but because there was nobody whom it seemed to me I ever should know. I took my tea and bits of bread and butter, feeling forlorn. A year in that place seemed to me longer than I could bear. I had exchanged my King Log for King Stork. It was some relief when after tea we were separated into other rooms and sat down to study. But I dreamed over my book. I wondered how heads could study that had so much trouble on the outside. I wandered over the seas to that spot somewhere that was marked by the ship that carried my father and another. Only now going out towards China; and low long months might pass before China would be lone with and the ship be bearing them back again. The lesson given me that night was not difficult enough to bind my attention; and my heart grew very heavy. So heavy, that I felt I must find help somewhere. And when one's need is so shut in, then it looks in the right quarter � the only one left open. My little book was up stairs in my bag; but my thoughts flew to my page of that day and the "Fear thou not, for I am with thee." Nobody knows, who has not wanted them, how good those words are. Nobody else can understand how sweet they were to me. I lost for a little all sight of the study table and the faces round it. I just remembered who was WITH ME; in the freedom and joy of that presence both fears and loneliness seemed to fade away. "I, the Lord, will hold thy right hand." Yes, and I, a poor little child, put my hand in the hand of my great Leader, and felt safe and strong. I found very soon I had enemies to meet that I had not yet reckoned with. The night passed peacefully enough; and the next day I was put in the schoolroom and found my place in the various classes. The schoolrooms were large and pleasant; large they had need to be, for the number of day scholars who attended in them was very great. They were many as well as spacious; different ages being parted off from each other. Besides the schoolrooms proper, there were rooms for recitation, where the classes met their teachers; so we had the change and variety of moving from one part of the house to another. We met Mlle. Genevieve in one room, for mathematics and Italian; Mme. Jupon in another, for French. Miss Dumps seized us in another, for writing and geography, and made the most of us; she was a severe little person in her teaching and in her discipline; but she was good. We called her Miss Maria, in general. Miss Babbitt had the history; and she did nothing to make it intelligible or interesting. My best historical times thus far, by much, had been over my clay map and my red- headed and black-headed pins, studying the changes of England and her people. But Mlle. Genevieve put a new life into mathematics. I could never love the study; but she made it a great deal better than Miss Pinshon made it. Indeed I believe that to learn anything under Mlle. Genevieve, would have been pleasant. She had so much fire and energy; she taught with such a will; her black eyes were so keen both for her pupils and her subject. One never thought of the discipline in Mlle. Genevieve's room, but only of the study. I was young to be there, in the class where she put me; but my training had fitted me for it. With Mme. Jupon also I had an easy time. She was good nature itself, and from the first showed a particular favour and liking for me. And as I had no sort of wish to break rules, with Miss Maria too I got on well. It was out of school and out of study hours that my difficulties came upon me. For a day or two I did not meet them. I was busy with the school routine, and beginning already to take pleasure in it. Knowledge was to be had here; lay waiting to be gathered up; and that gathering I always enjoyed. Miss Pinshon had kept me on short allowance. It was the third or fourth day after my arrival, that going up after dinner to get ready for a walk I missed my chinchilla cap from its peg. I sought for it in vain. "Come, Daisy," said Miss Lansing, make haste. Babbitt will be after you directly if you aren't ready. Put on your cap." "I can't find it," I said. "I left it here, in its place, but I can't find it." There was a burst of laughter from three of my room-mates, as Miss St. Clair danced out from the closet with the cap on her own brows; and then with a caper of agility, taking it off, flung it up to the chandelier, where it hung on one of the burners. "For shame, Faustina, that's too bad. How call she get it?" said Miss Bentley. "I don't want her to get it," said the St. Clair coolly. "Then how can she go to walk?" "I don't want her to go to walk." "Faustina, that isn't right. Miss Randolph is a stranger; you shouldn't play tricks on her." "Roundheads were always revolutionists," said the girl recklessly. "_A la lanterne!_ Heads or hats � it don't signify which. That is an example of what our Madame calls 'symbolism.' " "Hush � sh! Madame would call it something else. Now how are we going to get the cap down?" For the lamp hung high, having been pushed up out of reach for the day. The St. Clair ran off, and Miss Macy followed; but the two others consulted, and Lansing ran down to waylay the chambermaid and beg a broom. By the help of the broom handle my cap was at length dislodged from its perch, and restored to me. But I was angry. I felt the fiery current running through my veins; and the unspeakable saucy glance of St. Clair's eye, as I passed her to take my place in the procession, threw fuel on the fire. I think for years I had not been angry in such a fashion. The indignation I had at different times felt against the overseer at Magnolia was a justifiable thing. Now I was angry and piqued. The feeling was new to me. � I had been without it very long. I swallowed the ground with my feet during that walk; but before the walk came to an end the question began to come up in my mind, what was the matter? and whether I did well? These sprinklings of water on the flame I think made it leap into new life at first; but as they came and came again, I had more to think about than St. Clair, when I got back to the house. Yes, and as we were all taking off our things together I was conscious that I shunned her; that the sight of her was disagreeable; and that I would have liked to visit some gentle punishment upon her careless head. The bustle of business swallowed up the feeling for the rest of the time till we went to bed. But then it rose very fresh, and I began to question myself about it in the silence and darkness. Finding myself inclined to justify myself, I bethought me to try this new feeling by some of the words I had been studying in my little book for a few days past. "The entrance of Thy words giveth light" � was the leading test for the day that had just gone; now I thought I would try it in my difficulty. The very nest words on the page, I remembered were these. "God is light, and in him is no darkness at all." It came into my mind as soon, that this feeling of anger and resentment which troubled me had to do with darkness, not with the light. In vain I reasoned; to prove the contrary; I _felt_ dark. I could not look up to that clear white light where God dwells, and feel at all that I was "walking in the light as He is in the light." Clearly Daisy Randolph was out of the way. And I went on with bitterness of heart to the next words � "Ye _were_ sometime darkness, but now are ye light in the Lord; walk as children of light." And what then? was I to pass by quietly the insolence of St. Clair? was I to take it quite quietly, and give no sign even of annoyance? take no means of showing my displeasure, or of putting a stop to the naughtiness that called it forth? My mind put these questions impatiently, and still, as it did so, an answer came from somewhere, � "Walk as children of light." I _knew_ that children of light would reprove darkness only with light; and a struggle began. Other words came into my head then, which made the matter only clearer. "If any man smite thee on the one cheek, turn to him the other." "Love your enemies." Ah, but how could I? with what should I put out this fire kindled in my heart, which seemed only to burn the fiercer whatever I threw upon it? And then, other words still came sweeping upon me with their sweetness, and I remembered who had said, "I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee." I softly got out of bed, wrapped the coverlid round me, and knelt down to pray. For I had no time to lose. To-morrow I must meet my little companion, and to-morrow I _must_ be ready to walk as a child of light, and to-night the fires of darkness were burning in my heart. I was long on my knees. I remember, in a kind of despair at last I flung myself on the word of Jesus, and cried to Him as Peter did when he saw the wind boisterous. I remember, how the fire died out in my heart, till the very coals were dead; and how the day and the sunlight came stealing in, till it was all sunshine. I gave my thanks, and got into bed, and slept without a break the rest of the night. CHAPTER XI. A PLACE IN THE WORLD. I was a humbler child when I got out of bed the next morning, I think, than ever I had been in my life before. But I had another lesson to learn. I was not angry any more at Miss St. Clair. That was gone. Even when she did one or two other mischievous things to me, the rising feeling of offence was quickly got under; and I lived in great charity with her. My new lesson was of another sort. Two or three days passed, and then came Sunday. It was never a comfortable day at Mme. Ricard's. We all went to church of course, under the care of one or other of the teachers; and we had our choice where to go. Miss Babbitt went to a Presbyterian church. Miss Maria to a high Episcopal. Mme. Jupon attended a little French Protestant chapel; and Mlle. Genevieve and Mme. Ricard went to the Catholic church. The first Sunday I had gone with them, not knowing at all whither. I found that would not do; and since then I had tried the other parties. But I was in a strait; for Miss Maria's church seemed to me a faded image of Mlle. Genevieve's; the Presbyterian church which Miss Babbitt went to was stiff and dull; I was not at home in either of them, and could not understand or enjoy what was spoken. The very music had an air of incipient petrification, if I can speak so about sounds. At the little French chapel I could as little comprehend the words that were uttered. But in the pulpit there was a man with a shining face; a face full of love and truth and earnestness. He spoke out of his heart, and no set words; and the singing was simple and sweet and the hymns beautiful. I could understand them, for I had the hymn-book in my hands. Also I had the French Bible, and Mme. Jupon, delighted to have me with her, assured me that if I listened I would very soon begin to understand the minister's preaching just as well as if it were English. So I went with Mme. Jupon, and thereby lost some part of Mlle. Genevieve's favour; but that I did not understand till afterwards. We had all been to church as usual, this Sunday, and we were taking off our hats and things up stairs, after the second service. My simple toilet was soon made; and I sat upon the side of my little bed, watching those of my companions. They were a contrast to mine. The utmost that money could do, to bring girls into the fashion, was done for these girls; for the patrons of Mme. Ricard's establishment were nearly all rich. Costly coats and cloaks, heavy trimmed, were surmounted with every variety of showy head gear, in every variety of unsuitableness. To study bad taste, one would want no better field than the heads of Mme. Ricard's seventy boarders dressed for church. Not that the articles which were worn on the heads were always bad; some of them came from irreproachable workshops; but there was everywhere the bad taste of overdressing, and nowhere the tact of appropriation. The hats were all on the wrong heads. Everybody was a testimony of what money can do without art. I sat on my little bed, vaguely speculating on all this as I watched my companions' disrobing; at intervals humming the sweet French melody to which the last hymn had been sung; when St. Clair paused in her talk and threw a glance in my direction. It lighted on my plain plaid frock and undressed hair. "Don't you come from the country, Miss Randolph?" she said, insolently enough. I answered yes. And I remembered what my mantua-maker had said. "Did you have that dress made there?" "For shame, St. Clair!" said Miss Bentley; "let Miss Randolph alone. I am sure her dress is very neat." "I wonder if women don't wear long hair where she came from �" said the girl, turning away from me again. The others laughed. I was as little pleased at that moment with the defence as with the attack. The instant thought in my mind was, that Miss Bentley knew no more how to conduct the one than Miss St. Clair to make the other; if the latter had no civility, the first had no style. Now the St. Clair was one of the best dressed girls in school and came from one of the most important families. I thought, if she knew where I came from, and who my mother was, she would change her tone. Nevertheless, I wished mamma would order me to let my hair grow, and I began to think whether I might not do it without order. And I thought also that the spring was advancing, and warm weather would soon be upon us; and that these girls would change their talk and their opinion about me when they saw my summer frocks. There was nothing like _them_ in all the school. I ran over in my mind their various elegance, of texture, and lace, and fine embroidery, and graceful, simple drapery. And also I thought, if these girls could see Magnolia, its magnificent oaks, and its acres of timber, and its sweeps of rich fields, and its troops of servants, their minds would be enlightened as to me and my belongings. These meditations were a mixture of comfort and discomfort to me; but on the whole I was not comfortable. This process of comparing myself with my neighbours, I was not accustomed to; and even though its results were so favourable, I did not like it. Neither did I quite relish living under a cloud; and my eyes being a little sharpened now, I could see that not by my young companions alone, but by every one of the four teachers, I was looked upon as a harmless little girl whose mother knew nothing about the fashionable world. I do not think that anything in my manner showed either my pique or my disdain; I believe I went about just as usual; but these things were often in my thoughts, and taking by degrees more room in them. It was not till the Sunday came round again, that I got any more light. The afternoon service was over; we had come home and laid off our bonnets and cloaks; for though we were in April it was cold and windy; and my school-fellows had all gone down stairs to the parlour, where they had the privilege of doing what they pleased before tea. I was left alone. It was almost my only time for being alone in the whole week. I had an hour then; and I used to spend it in my bedroom with my Bible. To-day I was reading the first epistle of John, which I was very fond of, and as my custom was, not reading merely, but pondering and praying over the words verse by verse. So I found that I understood them better and enjoyed them a great deal more. I came to these words, � "Behold, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should be called the sons of God; therefore the world knoweth us not, because it knew Him not." I had dwelt some time upon the first part of the verse, forgetting all my discomforts of the week past; and came in due course to the next words. I never shall forget how they swept in upon me. "_The world knoweth us not_." � What did that mean? "Because it knew Him not." How did it not know Him? He was in the midst of men; He lived no hidden life; the world knew Him well enough as a benefactor, a teacher, a reprover; in what sense did it _not_ know Him? And I remembered, it did not know Him as one of its own party. He was "this fellow," � and "the deceiver;" � "the Nazarene;" "they called the Master of the house Beelzebub." And so, the world knoweth _us_ not; and I knew well enough why; because we must be like Him. And then, I found an unwillingness in myself to have these words true of me. I had been very satisfied under the slighting tones and looks of the little world around me, thinking that they were mistaken and would by and by know it; they would know that in all that they held so dear, of grace and fashion and elegance and distinguished appearance, my mother, and of course I, were not only their match but above them. Now, must I be content to have them never know it? But, I thought, I could not help their seeing the fact; if I dressed as my mother's child was accustomed to dress, they would know what sphere of life I belonged to. And then the words bore down upon me again, with their uncompromising distinctness, � "_the world knoweth us not_." I saw it was a mark and character of those that belonged to Christ. I saw that, if I belonged to Him, the world must not know me. The conclusion was very plain. And to secure the conclusion, the way was very plain too; I must simply not be like the world. I must not be of the world; and I must let it be known that I was not. Face to face with the issue, I started back. For not to be of the world, meant, not to follow their ways. I did not want to follow some of their ways; I had no desire to break the Sabbath, for example; but I did like to wear pretty and elegant and expensive things, and fashionable things. It is very true, I had just denied myself this pleasure, and bought a plain dress and coat that did not charm me; but that was in favour of Margaret and to save money for her. And I had no objection to do the same thing again and again, for the same motive; and to deny myself to the end of the chapter, so long as others were in need. But that was another matter from shaking hands with the world at once, and being willing that for all my life it should never know me as one of those whom it honoured. Never _know_ me, in fact. I must be something out of the world's consciousness, and of no importance to it. And to begin with, I must never try to enlighten my school- fellows' eyes about myself. Let them think that Daisy Randolph came from somewhere in the country, and was accustomed to wear no better dresses in ordinary than her school plaid. Let them never be aware that I had ponies and servants and lands and treasures. Nay, the force of the words I had read went further than that. I felt it, down in my heart. Not only I must take no measures to proclaim my title to the world's regard; but I must be such and so unlike it in my whole way of life, dress and all, that the world would not wish to recognise me, nor have anything to do with me. I counted the cost now, and it seemed heavy. There was Miss Bentley, with her clumsy finery, put on as it were one dollar above the other. She patronised me, as a little country-girl who knew nothing. Must I not undeceive her? There was Faustina St. Clair, really of a good family, and insolent on the strength of it; must I never let her know that mine was as good, and that my mother had as much knowledge of the proprieties and elegancies of life as ever hers had? These girls and plenty of the others looked down upon me as something inferior; not belonging to their part of society; must I be content henceforth to live so simply that these and others who judge by the outside would never be any wiser as to what I really was? Something in me rebelled. Yet the words I had been reading were final and absolute. "The world knoweth us _not_;" and "us," I knew, meant the little band in whose hearts Christ is king. Surely I was one of them. But I was unwilling to slip out of the world's view and be seen by it no more. I struggled. It was something very new in my experience. I had certainly felt struggles of duty in other times, but they had never lasted long. This lasted. With an eye made keen by conscience, I looked now in my reading to see what else I might find that would throw light on the matter and perhaps soften off the uncompromising decision of the words of St. John. By and by I came to these words � "If ye were of the world, the world would love his own. But because ye are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, _therefore the world hateth you_." I shut the book. The issue could not be more plainly set forth. I must choose between the one party and the other. Nay, I had chosen; � but I must agree to belong but to one. Would anybody say that a child could not have such a struggle? that fourteen years do not know yet what "the world" means? Alas, it is a relative term; and a child's "world" may be as mighty for her to face, as any other she will ever know. I think I never found any more formidable. Moreover, it is less unlike the big world than some would suppose. On the corner of the street, just opposite to our windows, stood a large handsome house which we always noticed for its flowers. The house stood in a little green courtyard, exquisitely kept, which at one side and behind gave room for several patches of flower beds, at this time filled with bulbous plants. I always lingered as much as I could in passing the iron railings, to have a peep at the beauty within. The grass was now of a delicious green, and the tulips and hyacinths and crocuses were in full bloom, in their different oval-shaped beds, framed in with the green. Besides these, from the windows of a greenhouse that stretched back along the street, there looked over a brilliant array of other beauty; I could not tell what; great bunches of scarlet and tufts of white and gleamings of yellow, that made me long to be there. "Who lives in that house?" Miss Bentley asked one evening. It was the hour before tea, and we were all at our room windows gazing down into the avenue. "Why don't you know?" said slow Miss Macy. That's Miss Cardigan's house." "I wonder who she is," said Miss Lansing. "It isn't a New York name." "Yes, it is," said Macy. "She's lived there forever. She used to be there, and her flowers, when I was four years old." "I guess she isn't anybody, is she?" said Miss Bentley. "I never see any carriages at her door. Hasn't she a carriage of her own, I wonder, or how does she travel? Such a house ought to have a carriage." "I'll tell you," said the St. Clair, coolly as usual. "She goes out in a wagon with an awning to it. _She_ don't know anything about carriages." "But she must have money, you know," urged Miss Bentley. "She couldn't keep up that house, and the flowers, and the greenhouse and all, without money." "She's got money," said the St. Clair. "Her mother made it selling cabbages in the market. Very likely she sold flowers too." There was a general exclamation and laughter at what was supposed to be one of St. Clair's flights of mischief; but the young lady stood her ground calmly, and insisted that it was a thing well known. "My grandmother used to buy vegetables from old Mrs. Cardigan when we lived in Broadway," she said. "It's quite true. That's why she knows nothing about carriages." "That sort of thing don't hinder other people from having carriages," said Miss Lansing. "There's Mr. Mason, next door to Miss Cardigan, � his father was a tailor; and the Steppes, two doors off, do you know what they were? They were millers, a little way out of town; nothing else; had a mill and ground flour. They made a fortune I suppose, and now here they are in the midst of other people." "Plenty of carriages, too," said Miss Macy; "and everything else." "After all," said Miss Bentley, after a pause, "I suppose everybody's money had to be made somehow, in the first instance. I suppose all the Millers in the world came from real millers once; and the Wheelwrights from wheelwrights." "And what a world of smiths there must have been, first and last," said Miss Lansing. "The world is full of their descendants." "_Everybody's_ money wasn't made, though," said the St. Clair, with an inexpressible attitude, of her short upper lip. "I guess it was, � if you go back far enough," said Miss Macy, whom nothing disturbed. But I saw that while Miss Lansing and Miss St. Clair were at ease in the foregoing conversation, Miss Bentley was not. "You _can't_ go back far enough," said the St. Clair haughtily. "How then?" said the other. "How do you account for it? Where did their money come from?" "It grew," said the St. Clair ineffably. "They were lords of the soil." "Oh! � But it had to be dug out, I suppose," said Miss Macy. "There were others to do that." "After all," said Miss Macy, "how is money that grew any better than money that is made? It is all made by somebody, too." "If it is made by somebody else, it leaves your hands clean," the St. Clair answered, with an insolence worthy of maturer years; for Miss Macy's family had grown rich by trade. She was of a slow temper, however, and did not take fire." "My grandfather's hands were clean," she said; "yet he made his own money. Honest hands always are clean." "Do you suppose Miss Cardigan's were when she was handling her cabbages?" said St. Clair. "I have no doubt Miss Cardigan's house smells of cabbages now." "O St. Clair!" � Miss Lansing said, laughing. "I always smell them when I go past," said the other, elevating her scornful little nose; it was a handsome nose too. "I don't think it makes any difference," said Miss Bentley, "provided people _have_ money, how they came by it. Money buys the same things for one that it does for another." "Now, my good Bentley, that is just what it _don't_," said St. Clair, drumming upon the window-pane with the tips of her fingers. "Why not?" "Because! � people that have always had money know how to use it; and people that have just come into their money, _don't_ know. You can tell the one from the other as far off as the head of the avenue." "But what is to hinder their going to the same milliner and mantua-maker, for instance, or the same cabinet-maker, � and buying the same things?" "Or the same jeweller, or the same � anything? So they could, if they knew which they were." "Which _what_ were? It is easy to tell which is a fashionable milliner, or mantua-maker; everybody knows that." "It don't do some people any good," said St. Clair, turning away. "When they get in the shop, they do not know what to buy; and if they buy it they can't put it on. People that are not fashionable can't _be_ fashionable." I saw the glance that fell, scarcely touching, on my plain plaid frock. I was silly enough to feel it too. I was unused to scorn. St. Clair returned to the window, perhaps sensible that she had gone a little too far. "I can tell you now," she said, "what that old Miss Cardigan has got in her house � just as well as if I saw it." "Did you ever go in?" said Lansing eagerly. "We don't visit," said the other. "But I can tell you, just as well; and you can send Daisy Randolph some day to see if it is true." "Well, go on, St. Clair � what is there?" said Miss Macy. "There's a marble hall of course; that the mason built; it isn't her fault. Then in the parlours there are thick carpets, that cost a great deal of money and are as ugly as they can be, with every colour in the world. The furniture is red satin, or maybe blue, staring bright, against a light green wall panelled with gold. The ceilings are gold and white, with enormous chandeliers. On the wall there are some very big picture frames, with nothing in them � to speak of; there is a table in the middle of the floor with a marble top, and the piers are filled with mirrors down to the floor; and the second room is like the first and the third is like the second, and there is nothing else in any of the rooms but what I have told you." "Well, it is a very handsome house, I should think, if you have told true," said Miss Bentley. St. Clair left the window with a scarce perceptible but most wicked smile at her friend Miss Lansing; and the group scattered. Only I remained to think it over and ask myself, could I let go my vantage ground? could I make up my mind to do forever without the smile and regard of that portion of the world which little St. Clair represented? It is powerful, even in a school! I had seen how carelessly this undoubted child of birth and fashion wielded the lash of her tongue; and how others bowed before it. I had seen Miss Bentley wince, and Miss Macy bite her lip; but neither of them dared affront the daughter of Mrs. St. Clair. Miss Lansing was herself of the favoured class, and had listened lightly. Fashion was power, that was plain. Was I willing to forego it? was I willing to be one of those whom fashion passes by as St. Clair had glanced on my dress � as something not worthy a thought? I was not happy, those days. Something within me was struggling for self-assertion. It was new to me; for until then I had never needed to assert my claims to anything. For the first time, I was looked down upon, and I did not like it. I do not quite know why I was made to know this so well. My dress, if not showy or costly, was certainly without blame in its neatness and niceness, and perfectly becoming my place as a school-girl. And I had very little to do at that time with my schoolmates, and that little was entirely friendly in its character. I am obliged to think, looking back at it now, that some rivalry was at work. I did not then understand it. But I was taking a high place in all my classes. I had gone past St. Clair in two or three things. Miss Lansing was too far behind in her studies to feel any jealousy on that account; but besides that, I was an unmistakeable favourite with all the teachers. They liked to have me do anything for them or with them; if any privilege was to be given, I was sure to be one of the first names called to share it; if I was spoken to for anything, the manner and tone were in contrast with those used towards almost all my fellows. It may have been partly for these reasons that there was a little positive element in the slights which I felt. The effect of the whole was to make a long struggle in my mind. "The world knoweth us not" � gave the character and condition of that party to which I belonged. I was feeling now what those words mean, � and it was not pleasant. This struggle had been going on for several weeks, and growing more and more wearying, when Mrs. Sandford came one day to see me. She said I did not look very well, and obtained leave for me to take a walk with her. I was glad of the change. It was a pleasant, bright afternoon; we strolled up the long avenue, then gay and crowded with passers to and fro in every variety and in the height of the mode; for our avenue was a favourite and very fashionable promenade. The gay world nodded and bowed to each other; the sun streamed on satins and laces, flowers and embroidery; elegant toilettes passed and repassed each other, with smiling recognition; the street was a show. I walked by Mrs. Sandford's side in my chinchilla cap, for I had not got a straw hat yet, though it was time; thinking, � "_The world knoweth us not_" � and carrying on the struggle in my heart all the while. By and by we turned to come down the avenue. "I want to stop a moment here on some business," said Mrs. Sandford, as we came to Miss Cardigan's corner; "would you like to go in with me, Daisy?" I was pleased, and moreover glad that it was the hour for my companions to be out walking. I did not wish to be seen going in at that house and to have all the questions poured on me that would be sure to come. Moreover I was curious to see how far Miss St. Clair's judgment would be verified. The marble hall was undoubted; it was large and square, with a handsome staircase going up from it; but the parlour, into which we were ushered the next minute, crossed all my expectations. It was furnished with dark chintz; no satin, red or blue, was anywhere to be seen; even the curtains were chintz. The carpet was not rich; the engravings on the walls were in wooden frames varnished; the long mirror between the windows, for that was there, reflected a very simple mahogany table, on which lay a large work basket, some rolls of muslin and flannel, work cut and uncut, shears and spools of cotton. Another smaller table held books and papers and writing materials. This was shoved up to the corner of the hearth, where a fire � a real, actual fire of sticks � was softly burning. The room was full of the sweet smell of the burning wood. Between the two tables, in a comfortable large chair, sat the lady we had come to see. My heart warmed at the look of her immediately. Such a face of genial gentle benevolence; such a healthy sweet colour in the old cheeks; such a hearty, kind, and withal shrewd and sound, expression of eye and lip. She was stout and dumpy in figure, rather fat; with a little plain cap on her head and a shawl pinned round her shoulders. Somebody who had never been known to the world of fashion. But oh, how homely and comfortable she and her room looked! she and her room and her cat; for a great white cat sat with her paws doubled under her in front of the fire. "My sister begged that I would call and see you, Miss Cardigan," Mrs. Sandford began, "about a poor family named Whittaker, that live somewhere in Ellen Street." "I know them. Be seated," said our hostess. "I know them well. But I don't know this little lady." "A little friend of mine, Miss Cardigan; she is at school with your neighbour opposite, � Miss Daisy Randolph." "If nearness made neighbourhood," said Miss Cardigan, laughing, "Mme. Ricard and I would be neighbours; but I am afraid the rule of the Good Samaritan would put us far apart. Miss Daisy � do you like my cat; or would you like maybe to go in and look at my flowers? � yes? � Step in that way, dear; just go through that room, and on, straight through; you'll smell them before you come to them." I gladly obeyed her, stepping in through the darkened middle room where already the greeting of the distant flowers met me; then through a third smaller room, light and bright and full of fragrance, and to my surprise, lined with books. From this an open glass door let me into the greenhouse, and into the presence of the beauties I had so often looked up to from the street. I lost myself then. Geraniums breathed over me; roses smiled at me; a daphne at one end of the room filled the whole place with its fragrance. Amaryllis bulbs were magnificent; fuchsias dropped with elegance; jonquils were shy and dainty; violets were good; hyacinths were delicious; tulips were splendid. Over and behind all these and others, were wonderful ferns, and heaths most delicate in their simplicity, and myrtles most beautiful with their shining dark foliage and starry white blossoms. I lost myself at first, and wandered past all these new and old friends in a dream; then I waked up to an intense feeling of homesickness. I had not been in such a greenhouse in a long time; the geraniums and roses and myrtles summoned me back to the years when I was a little happy thing at Melbourne House � or summoned the images of that time back to me. Father and mother and home � the delights and the freedoms of those days � the carelessness, and the care � the blessed joys of that time before I knew Miss Pinshon, or school, and before I was perplexed with the sorrows and the wants of the world, and before I was alone � above all, when papa and mamma and I were _at home_. The geraniums and the roses set me back there so sharply that I felt it all. I had lost myself at first going into the greenhouse; and now I had quite lost sight of everything else, and stood gazing at the faces of the flowers with some tears on my own, and, I suppose, a good deal of revelation of my feeling; for I was unutterably startled by the touch of two hands upon my shoulders and a soft whisper in my ear. "What is it, my bairn?" It was Miss Cardigan's soft Scotch accent, and it was, besides, a question of the tenderest sympathy. I looked at her, saw the kind and strong grey eyes which were fixed on me wistfully; and hiding my face in her bosom I sobbed aloud. I don't know how I came to be there, in her arms, nor how I did anything so unlike my habit; but there I was, and it was done, and Miss Cardigan and I were in each other's confidence. It was only for one moment that my tears came; then I recovered myself. "What sort of discourse did the flowers hold to you, little one?" said Miss Cardigan's kind voice; while her stout person hid all view of me that could have been had through the glass door. "Papa is away," I said, forcing myself to speak, � "and mamma; � and we used to have these flowers �" "Yes, yes; I know. I know very well," said my friend. "The flowers didn't know but you were there yet. They hadn't discretion. Mrs. Sandford wants to go, clear. � Will you come again and see them? They will say something else next time." "Oh, may I?" I said. "Just whenever you like, and as often as you like. So I'll expect you." I went home, very glad at having escaped notice from my schoolmates, and firmly bent on accepting Miss Cardigan's invitation at the first chance I had. I asked about her of Mrs. Sandford in the first place; and learned that she was "a very good sort of person; a little queer, but very kind; a person that did a great deal of good and had plenty of money. Not in society, of course," Mrs. Sandford added; "but I dare say she don't miss that; and she is just as useful as if she were." "Not in society." That meant, I supposed, that Miss Cardigan would not be asked to companies where Mrs. Randolph would be found, or Mrs. Sandford; that such people would not "know" her, in fact. That would certainly be a loss to Miss Cardigan; but I wondered how much? "The world knoweth us not," � the lot of all Christ's people, � could it involve anything in itself very bad? My old Juanita, for example, who held herself the heir to a princely inheritance, was it any harm to her that earthly palaces knew her only as a servant? But then, what did not matter to Juanita or Miss Cardigan, might matter to somebody who had been used to different things. I knew how it had been with myself for a time past. I was puzzled. I determined to wait and see, if I could, how much it mattered to Miss Cardigan. CHAPTER XII. FRENCH DRESSES. My new friend had given me free permission to come and see her whenever I found myself able. Saturday afternoon we always had to ourselves in the school; and the next Saturday found me at Miss Cardigan's door again as soon as my friends and room- mates were well out of my way. Miss Cardigan was not at home, the servant said, but she would be in presently. I was just as well pleased. I took off my cap, and carrying it in my hand I went back through the rooms to the greenhouse. All still and fresh and sweet, it seemed more delightful than ever, because I knew there was nobody near. Some new flowers were out. An azalea was in splendid beauty, and a white French rose, very large and fair, was just blossoming, and with the red roses and the hyacinths and the violets and the daphne and the geraniums, made a wonderful sweet place of the little greenhouse. I lost myself in delight again; but this time the delight did not issue in homesickness. The flowers had another message for me to-day. I did not heed it at first, busy with examining and drinking in the fragrance and the loveliness about me; but even as I looked and drank, the flowers began to whisper to me. With their wealth of perfume, with all their various, glorious beauty, one and another leaned towards me or bent over me with the question � "Daisy are you afraid? � Daisy, are you afraid? � The good God who has made us so rich, do you think He will leave you poor? He loves you, Daisy. You needn't be a bit afraid but that HE is enough, even if the world does not know you. He is rich enough for you as well as for us." I heard no voice, but surely I heard that whisper, plain enough. The roses seemed to kiss me with it. The sweet azalea repeated it. The hyacinths stood witnesses of it. The gay tulips and amaryllis held up a banner before me on which it was blazoned. I was so ashamed, and sorry, and glad, all at once, that I fell down on my knees there, on the stone matted floor, and gave up the world from my heart and for ever, and stretched out my hands for the wealth that does not perish and the blessing that has no sorrow with it. I was afraid to stay long on my knees; but I could hardly get my eyes dry again, I was so glad and so sorry. I remember I was wiping a tear or two away when Miss Cardigan came in. She greeted me kindly. "There's a new rose out, did ye see it?" she said; "and this blue hyacinth has opened its flowers. Isn't that bonny?" "What is _bonny_, ma'am?" I asked. Miss Cardigan laughed, the heartiest, sonsiest low laugh. "There's a many things the Lord has made bonny," she said; "I thank Him for it. Look at these violets � they're bonny; and this sweet red rose." She broke it off the tree and gave it to me. "It's bad that it shames your cheeks so. What's the matter wi' em, my bairn?" Miss Cardigan's soft finger touched my cheek as she spoke; and the voice and tone of the question were so gently, tenderly kind that it was pleasant to answer. I said I had not been very strong. "Nor just well in your mind. No, no. Well, what did the flowers say to you to-day, my dear? Eh? They told you something?" "Oh, yes!" I said. "Did they tell you that 'the Lord is good; a stronghold in the day of trouble; and He knoweth them that trust in Him'?" "Oh, yes," I said, looking up at her in surprise. "How did you know?" For all answer, Miss Cardigan folded her two arms tight about me and kissed me with earnest good will. "But they told me something else," I said, struggling to command myself; � "they told me that I had _not_ 'trusted in Him.' " "Ah, my bairn!" she said. "But the Lord is good." There was so much both of understanding and sympathy in her tones, that I had a great deal of trouble to control myself. I felt unspeakably happy too, that I had found a friend that could understand. I was silent, and Miss Cardigan looked at me. "Is it all right, noo?" she asked. "Except _me_, �" I said, with my eyes swimming. "Ah, well!" she said. "You've seen the sky all black and covered with the thick clouds � that's like our sins; but, 'I have blotted out as a thick cloud thy transgressions, and as a cloud thy sins.' You know how it is when the wind comes and clears the clouds off, and you can look up through the blue, till it seems as if your eye would win into heaven itself. Keep the sky clear, my darling, so that you can always see up straight to God, with never the fleck of a cloud between. But do you ken what will clear the clouds away?" And I looked up now with a smile and answered, " 'The precious blood of Christ' " � for the two texts had been close together in one of the pages of my little book not long before. Miss Cardigan clapped her hands together softly and laughed. "Ye've got it!" she said. "Ye have gotten the pearl of great price. And where did ye find it, my dear?" "I had a friend, that taught me in a Sunday school, four years ago, �" I said. "Ah, there weren't so many Sunday schools in my day," said Miss Cardigan. "And ye have found, maybe, that this other sort of a school, that ye have gotten to now, isn't helpful altogether? Is it a rough road, my bairn?" "It is my own fault," I said, looking at her gratefully. The tender voice went right into my heart. "Well, noo, ye'll just stop and have tea with me here; and whenever the way is rough, ye'll come over to my flowers and rest yourself. And rest me too; it does me a world o' good to see a young face. So take off your coat, my dear, and let us sit down and be comfortable." I was afraid at first that I could not; I had no liberty to be absent at tea-time. But Miss Cardigan assured me I should be home in good season; the school tea was at seven, and her own was always served at six. So very gladly, with an inexpressible sense of freedom and peace, I took off my coat, and gloves, and followed my kind friend back to the parlour where her fire was burning. For although it was late in April, the day was cool and raw; and the fire one saw nowhere else was delightful in Miss Cardigan's parlour. Every minute of that afternoon was as bright as the fire glow. I sat in the midst of that, on an ottoman, and Miss Cardigan, busy between her two tables, made me very much interested in her story of some distressed families for whom she was working. She asked me very little about my own affairs; nothing that the most delicate good breeding did not warrant; but she found out that my father and mother were at a great distance from me and I almost alone, and she gave me the freedom of her house. I was to come there whenever I could and liked; whenever I wanted to "rest my feet", as she said; especially I might spend as much of every Sunday with her as I could get leave for. And she made this first afternoon so pleasant to me with her gentle beguiling talk, that the permission to come often was like the entrance into a whole world of comfort. She had plenty to talk about; plenty to tell, of the poor people to whom she and others were ministering; of plans and methods to do them good; all which somehow she made exceedingly interesting. There was just a little accent to her words, which made them, in their peculiarity, all the more sweet to me; but she spoke good English; the "noo" which slipped out now and then, with one or two other like words, came only, I found, at times when the fountain of feeling was more full than ordinary, and so flowed over into the disused old channel. And her face was so fresh, rosy, round and sweet, withal strong and sound, that it was a perpetual pleasure to me. As she told her stories of New York needy and suffering, I mentally added my poor people at Magnolia, and began to wonder with myself, was all the world so? Were these two spots but samples of the whole? I got into a brown study, and was waked out of it by Miss Cardigan's "What is it, my dear?" "Ma'am?" I said. "Ye are studying some deep question," she said, smiling. "Maybe it's too big for you." "So it is," said I, sighing. "Is it so everywhere, Miss Cardigan?" "So how, my bairn?" "Is there so much trouble everywhere in the world?" Her face clouded over. "Jesus said, 'The poor ye have always with you, and whensoever ye will ye may do them good.' " "But that is what I don't understand about," I said. "_How much_ ought one to do, Miss Cardigan?" There came a ray of infinite brightness over her features; I can hardly describe it; it was warm with love, and bright with pleasure, and � I thought sparkled with a little amusement. "Have you thought upon that?" she said. "Yes," I said, � "very much." "It is a great question!" she said, her face becoming grave again. "I know," I said, "of course one ought to do all one can. But what I want to know is, how much one _can_. How much ought one to spend for such things?" "It's a great question," Miss Cardigan repeated, more gravely than before. "For when the King comes, to take account of His servants, He will want to know what we have done with every penny. Be sure, He will." "Then how can one tell?" said I, hoping earnestly that now I was going to get some help in my troubles. "How can one know? It is very difficult." "I'll no say it's not difficult," said Miss Cardigan, whose thoughts seemed to have gone into the recesses of her own mind. "Dear, it's nigh our tea-time. Let us go in." I followed her, much disappointed, and feeling that if she passed the subject by so, I could not bring it up again. We went through to the inner room; the same from which the glass door opened to the flowers. Here a small table was now spread. This room was cosy. I had hardly seen it before. Low bookcases lined it on every side; and above the bookcases hung maps; maps of the city and of various parts of the world where missionary stations were established. Along with the maps, a few engravings and fine photographs. I remember one of the Colosseum, which I used to study; and a very beautiful engraving of Jerusalem. But the one that fixed my eyes this first evening, perhaps because Miss Cardigan placed me in front of it, was a picture of another sort. It was a good photograph, and had beauty enough besides to hold my eyes. It showed a group of three or four. A boy and girl in front, handsome, careless, and well-to-do, passing along, with wandering eyes. Behind them and disconnected from them by her dress and expression, a tall woman in black robes with a baby on her breast. The hand of the woman was stretched out with a coin which she was about dropping into an iron-bound coffer which stood at the side of the picture. It was "the widow's mite;" and her face, wan, sad, sweet, yet loving and longing, told the story. The two coin were going into the box with all her heart. "You know what it is?" said my hostess. "I see, ma'am," I replied; "it is written under." "That box is the Lord's treasury." "Yes, ma'am," I said, � "I know." "Do you remember how much that woman gave?" "Two mites," � I said. "It was something more than that," said my hostess. "It was more than anybody else gave that day. Don't you recollect? It was _all her living_." I looked at Miss Cardigan, and she looked at me. Then my eyes went back to the picture, and to the sad yet sweet and most loving face of the poor woman there. "Ma'am," said I, "do you think people that are _rich_ ought to give all they have?" "I only know, my Lord was pleased with her," said Miss Cardigan softly; "and I always think I should like to have Him pleased with me too." I was silent, looking at the picture and thinking. "You know what made that poor widow give her two mites?" Miss Cardigan asked presently. "I suppose she wanted to give them," I said. "Ay," said my hostess, turning away, � "she loved the Lord's glory beyond her own comfort. Come, my love, and let us have some tea. She gave all she had, Miss Daisy, and the Lord liked it; do ye think you and me can do less?" "But that is what I do not understand," I said, following Miss Cardigan to the little tea-table, and watching with great comfort the bright unruffled face which promised to be such a help to me. "Now you'll sit down there," said my hostess, "where you can see my flowers while I can see you. It's poor work eating, if we cannot look at something or hear something at the same time; and maybe we'll do the two things. And ye'll have a bit of honey � here it is. And Lotty will bring us up a bit of hot toast � or is the bread better, my dear? Now ye're at home; and maybe you'll come over and drink tea with me whenever you can run away from over there. I'll have Lotty set a place for you. And then, when ye think of the empty place, you will know you had better come over and fill it. See � you could bring your study book and study here in this quiet little corner by the flowers." I gave my very glad thanks. I knew I could often do this. "And now for the 'not understanding,' " said Miss Cardigan, when tea was half over. "How was it, my dear?" "I have been puzzled," I said, "about giving � how much one ought to give, and how much one ought to spend � I mean, for oneself." "Well," said Miss Cardigan brightly, "we have fixed that. The poor woman gave _all her living_." "But one must spend some money for oneself," I said. "One must have bonnets and cloaks and dresses." "And houses, and books, and pictures," said Miss Cardigan, looking around her. "My lamb, let us go to the Bible again. That says, 'whether ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.' So I suppose we must buy cloaks and bonnets on the same principle." I turned this over in mind. Had I done this, when I was choosing my chinchilla cap and grey cloak? A little ray of infinite brightness began to steal in upon their quiet colours and despised forms. "If the rich are to give their all, as well as the poor, it doesn't say � mind you � that they are to give it all to the hungry, or all to the destitute; but only, they are to give it all _to Christ_. Then, he will tell them what to do with it; do ye understand, my dear?" Miss Cardigan's eye was watching me, not more kindly than keen. A wise and clear grey eye it was. "But isn't it difficult to know sometimes what to do?" I said. "I have been so puzzled to know about dresses. Mamma is away, and I had to decide." "It's no very difficult," said Miss Cardigan, � "if once ye set your face in the right _airth_ � as we speak. My dear, there's a great many sorts of dresses and bonnets and things; and I'd always buy just that bonnet and that gown, in which I thought I could do most work for my Master; and that wouldn't be the same sort of bonnet for you and for me," she said with a merry smile. "Now ye'll have another cup of tea, and ye'll tell me if my tea's good." It was wonderfully good to me. I felt like a plant dried up for want of water, suddenly set in a spring shower. Refreshment was all around me, without and within. The faces of the flowers looked at me through the glass, and the sweet breath of them came from the open door. The room where I was sitting pleased me mightily, in its comfortable and pretty simplicity; and I had found a friend, even better than my old Maria and Darry at Magnolia. It was not very long before I told all about these to my new counsellor. For the friendship between us ripened and grew. I often found a chance to fill my place at the dear little tea-table. Sundays I could always be there; and I went there straight from afternoon church, and rested among Miss Cardigan's books and in her sweet society and in the happy freedom and rest of her house, with an intensity of enjoyment which words can but feebly tell. So in time I came to tell her all my troubles and the perplexities which had filled me; I was willing to talk to Miss Cardigan about things that I would have breathed to no other ear upon earth. She was so removed from all the sphere of my past or present life, so utterly disconnected from all the persons and things with which I had had to do, it was like telling about them to a being of another planet. Yet she was not so removed but that her sympathies and her judgment could be living and full grown for my help; all ready to take hold of the facts and to enter into the circumstances, and to give me precious comfort and counsel. Miss Cardigan and I came to be very dear to each other. All this took time. Nobody noticed at first, or seemed to notice, my visits to the "house with the flowers," as the girls called it. I believe, in my plain dress, I was not thought of importance enough to be watched. I went and came very comfortably; and the weeks that remained before the summer vacation slipped away ill quiet order. Just before the vacation, my aunt came home from Europe. With her came the end of my obscurity. She brought me, from my mother, a great supply of all sorts of pretty French dresses, hats, gloves, and varieties. � Chosen by my mother; � as pretty and elegant, and simple too, as they could be; but once putting them on, I could never be unnoticed by my schoolmates any more. I knew it, with a certain feeling that was not displeasure. Was it pride? Was it anything more than my pleasure in all pretty things? I thought it was something more. And I determined that I would not put on any of them till school was broken up. If it _was_ pride, I was ashamed of it. But besides French dresses, my aunt brought me a better thing; a promise from my father. "He said I was to tell you, Daisy my dear, � and I hope you will be a good child and take it as you ought, � but dear me! how she is growing," said Mrs. Gary, turning to Mme. Ricard; "I cannot talk about Daisy as a 'child' much longer. She's tall." "Not too tall," said Madame. "No, but she is going to be tall. She has a right; her mother is tall, and her father. Daisy, my dear, I do believe you are going to look like your mother. You'll be very handsome if you do. And yet, you look different �" "Miss Randolph will not shame anybody belonging to her," said Mme. Ricard, graciously. "Well, I suppose not," said my aunt. "I was going to tell you what your father said, Daisy. He said � you know it takes a long while to get to China and back, and if it does him good he will stay a little while there; and then there's the return voyage, and there may be delays; so altogether it was impossible to say exactly how long he and your mother will be gone. I mean, it was impossible to know certainly that they would be able to come home by next summer; indeed I doubt if your father ever does come home." I waited, in silence. "So altogether," my aunt went on, turning for a moment to Mme. Ricard, "there was a doubt about it; and your father said, he charged me to tell Daisy, that if she will make herself contented � that is, supposing they cannot come home next year, you know, � if she will make herself happy and be patient and bear one or two years more, and stay at school and do the best she can, then, the year after next or the next year, he will send for you, your father says, unless they come home themselves, � they will send, for you; and then, your father says, he will give you any request you like to make of him. Ask anything you can think of, that you would like best, and he will do it or get it, whatever it is. He didn't say like king Herod, 'to the half of his kingdom,' but I suppose he meant that. And meanwhile, you know you have a guardian now, Daisy, and there is no use for me in your affairs; and having conveyed to you your mother's gifts and your father's promises, I suppose there is nothing further for me to do." I was silent yet, thinking. Two years more would be a dear purchase of any pleasure that might come after. Two years! And four were gone already. It seemed impossible to wait or to bear it. I heard no more of what my aunt was saying, till she turned to me again and asked, � "Where are you going to pass the vacation?" I did not know, for Mrs. Sandford was obliged to be with her sister still, so that I could not go to Melbourne. "Well, if your new guardian thinks well of it � you can consult him if it is necessary � and if he does not object, you can be with me if you like. Preston has leave of absence this summer, I believe; and he will be with us." It was in effect arranged so. My aunt took me about the country from one watering place to another; from Saratoga to the White Mountains; and Preston's being with us made it a gay time. Preston had been for two years at West Point; he was grown and improved everybody said; but to me he was just the same. If anything, _not_ improved; the old grace and graciousness of his manner was edged with an occasional hardness or abruptness which did not use to belong to him; and which I did not understand. There seemed to be a latent cause of irritation somewhere. However, my summer went off smoothly enough. September brought me back to Mme. Ricard's, and in view of Miss Cardigan's late roses and budding chrysanthemums. I was not sorry. I had set my heart on doing as much as could be done in these next two years, if two they must be. I was the first in my room; but before the end of the day they all came pouring in; the two older and the two younger girls. "Here's somebody already," exclaimed Miss Macy as she saw me. "Why, Daisy Randolph! is it possible that's you? Is it Daisy Randolph? what have you done to yourself? How you _have_ improved!" "She is very much improved," said Miss Bentley more soberly. "She has been learning the fashions," said Miss Lansing, her bright eyes dancing as good-humouredly as ever. "Daisy, now when your hair gets long you'll look quite nice. That frock is made very well." "She is changed �" said Miss St. Clair, with a look I could not quite make out. "No," I said, � "I hope I am not changed." "Your dress is," said St. Clair. I thought of Dr. Sandford's "_L'habit c'est l'homme_." "My mother had this dress made," I said; "and I ordered the other one; that is all the difference." "You're on the right side of the difference, then," said Miss St. Clair. "Has your mother come back, Daisy?" Miss Lansing asked. "Not yet. She sent me this from Paris." "It's very pretty!" she said; with, I saw, an increase of admiration; but St. Clair gave me another strange look. "How much prettier Paris things are than American!" Lansing went on. "I wish I could have all my dresses from Paris. Why, Daisy, you've grown handsome." "Nonsense!" said Miss Macy; "she always was, only you didn't see it." "Style is more than a face," remarked Miss St. Clair cavalierly. Somehow I felt that this little lady was not in a good mood towards me. I boded mischief; for being nearly of an age, we were together in most of our classes, studied the same things and recited at the same times. There was an opportunity for clashing. They soon ran off, all four, to see their friends and acquaintances and learn the news of the school. I was left alone, making my arrangement of clothes and things in my drawer and my corner of the closet; and I found that some disturbance, in those few moments, had quite disarranged the thoughts in my heart. They were peaceful enough before. There was some confusion now. I could not at first tell what was uppermost; only that St. Clair's words were those that most returned to me. "She has changed. "_Had_ I changed? or was I going to change? was I going to enter the lists of fashion with my young companions, and try who would win the race? No doubt my mother could dress me better than almost any of their mothers could dress them; what then? would this be a triumph? or was this the sort of name and notoriety that became and befitted a servant of Jesus? I could not help my dresses being pretty; no, but I could help making much display of them. I could wear my own school plaid when the weather grew cooler; and one or two others of my wardrobe were all I need show. "Style is more than a face." No doubt. What _then?_ Did I want style and a face too? Was I wishing to confound St. Clair? Was I escaping already from that bond and mark of a Christian, � "The world knoweth us not"? I was startled and afraid. I fell down on my knees by the side of my bed, and tried to look at the matter as God looked at it. And the Daisy I thought He would be pleased with, was one who ran no race for worldly supremacy. I resolved she should not. The praise of God, I thought, was far better than the praise of men. My mind was quite made up when I rose from my knees; but I looked forward to a less quiet school term than the last had been. Something told me that the rest of the girls would take me up now, for good and for evil. My Paris dress set me in a new position, no longer beneath their notice. I was an object of attention. Even that first evening I felt the difference. "Daisy, when is your mother coming home?" � "Oh, she is gone to China; Daisy's mother is gone to China!" � "She'll bring you lots of queer things, won't she?" � "What a sweet dress!" � "_That_ didn't come from China?" � "Daisy, who's head in mathematics, you or St. Clair? I hope you will get before her!" "Why?" I ventured to ask. "Oh, you're the best of the two; everybody knows that. But St. Clair is smart, isn't she?" "She thinks she is," answered another speaker; "she believes she's at the tip top of creation; but she never had such a pretty dress on as that in her days; and she knows it and she don't like it. It's real fun to see St. Clair beat! she thinks she is so much better than other girls, and she has such a way of twisting that upper lip of hers. Do you know how St. Clair twists her upper lip? Look! � she's doing it now." "She's handsome though, aint she?" said Miss Macy. "She'll be beautiful." "No," said Mlle. Genevieve; "not that. Never that. She will be handsome; but beauty is a thing of the soul. She will not be beautiful. Daisy, are you going to work hard this year?" "Yes, mademoiselle." "I believe you," she said, taking my face between her two hands and kissing it. "Who ever saw Mlle. Genevieve do that before!" said Miss Macy, as the other left us. "She is not apt to like the scholars." I knew she had always liked me. But everybody had always liked me, I reflected; this time at school was the first of my knowing anything different. And in this there now came a change. Since my wearing and using the Paris things sent me by my mother, which I dared not fail to use and wear, I noticed that my company was more sought in the school. Also my words were deferred to, in a way they had not been before. I found, and it was lot an unpleasant thing, that I had grown to be a person of consequence. Even with the French and English teachers; I observed that they treated me with more consideration. And so, I reflected within myself again over Dr. Sandford's observation, "_L'habit, c'est l'homme_." Of course, it was a consideration given to my clothes, a consideration also to be given up if I did not wear such clothes. I saw all that. The world _knew me_, just for the moment. Well, the smooth way was very pleasant. I had it with everybody for a time. My little room-mate and classmate St. Clair was perhaps the only exception to the general rule. I never felt that she liked me much. She let me alone, however; until one unlucky day � I do not mean to call it unlucky, either � when we had, as usual, compositions to write, and the theme given out was "Ruins." It was a delightful theme to me. I did not always enjoy writing compositions; this one gave me permission to roam in thoughts and imaginations that I liked. I went back to my old Egyptian studies at Magnolia, and wrote my composition about "Karnak." The subject was full in my memory; I had gone over and over and all through it; I had measured the enormous pillars and great gateways, and studied the sculptures on the walls, and paced up and down the great avenue of sphinxes. Sethos, and Amunoph and Rameses, the second and third, were all known and familiar to me; and I knew just where Shishak had recorded his triumphs over the land of Judea. I wrote my composition with the greatest delight. The only danger was that I might make it too long. One evening I was using the last of the light, writing in the window recess of the school parlour, when I felt a hand laid on my shoulders. "You are so hard at work!" said the voice of Mlle. Genevieve. "Yes, mademoiselle, I like it." "Have you got all the books and all that you want?" "Books, mademoiselle?" � I said, wondering. "Yes; have you got all you want?" "I have not got any books," I said; "there are none that I want in the school library." "Have you never been in Madame's library?" "No, mademoiselle." "Come!" I jumped up and followed her, up and down stairs and through halls and turnings, till she brought me into a pretty room lined with books from floor to ceiling. Nobody was there. Mademoiselle lit the gas with great energy, and then turned to me, her great black eyes shining. "Now what do you want, _mon enfant?_ here is everything." "Is there anything about Egypt?" "Egypt! Are you in Egypt? � See here � look, here is Denon � here is Laborde; here is two or three more. Do you like that? Ah! I see by the way your grey eyes grow big. � Now sit down, and do what you like. Nobody will disturb you. You can come here every evening for the hour before tea." Mademoiselle scarce staid for my thanks, and left me alone. I had not seen either Laborde or Denon in my grandfather's library at Magnolia; they were after his time. The engravings and illustrations also had not been very many or very fine in his collection of travellers' books. It was the greatest joy to me to see some of those things in Mme. Ricard's library, that I had read and dreamed about so long in my head. It was adding eyesight to hearsay. I found a good deal too that I wanted to read, in these later authorities. Evening after evening I was in Madame's library, lost among the halls of the old Egyptian conquerors. The interest and delight of my work quite filled me, so that the fate of my composition hardly came into my thoughts, or the fact that other people were writing compositions too. And when it was done, I was simply very sorry that it was done. I had not written it for honour or for duty, but for love. I suppose that was the reason why it succeeded. I remember I was anything but satisfied with it myself, as I was reading it aloud for the benefit of my judges. For it was a day of prize compositions; and before the whole school and even some visitors, the writings of the girls were given aloud, each by its author. I thought, as I read mine, how poor it was, and how magnificent my subject demanded that it should be. Under the shade of the great columns, before those fine old sphinxes, my words and myself seemed very small. I sat down in my place again, glad that the reading was over. But there was a little buzz; then a dead expectant silence; then Mme. Ricard arose. My composition had been the last one. I looked up, with the rest, to hear the award that she would speak; and was at first very much confounded to hear my own name called. "Miss Randolph �" It did not occur to me what it was spoken for; I sat still a moment in a maze. Mme. Ricard stood waiting; all the room was in a hush. "Don't you hear yourself called?" said a voice behind me. "Why don't you go?" I looked round at Miss Macy, who was my adviser, then doubtfully I looked away from her and caught the eyes of Mlle. Genevieve. She nodded and beckoned me to come forward. I did it hastily then, and found myself curtseying in front of the platform where stood Madame. "The prize is yours, Miss Randolph," she said graciously. "Your paper is approved by all the judges." "Quite artistic," � I heard a gentleman say at her elbow. "And it shows an amount of thorough study and perfect preparation, which I can but hold up as a model to all my young ladies. You deserve this, my dear." I was confounded; and a low curtsey was only a natural relief to my feelings. But Madame unhappily took it otherwise. "This is yours," she said, putting into my hands an elegant little bronze standish; � "and if I had another prize to bestow for grace of good manners, I am sure I would have the pleasure of giving you that too." I bent again before Madame, and got back to my seat as I could. The great business of the day was over, and we soon scattered to our rooms. And I had not been in mine five minutes before the penalties of being distinguished began to come upon me. "Well, Daisy! �" said Miss Lansing � "you've got it. How pretty! Isn't it, Macy?" "It isn't a bit prettier than it ought to be, for a prize in such a school," said Miss Macy. "It will do." "I've seen handsomer prizes," said Miss Bentley. "But you've got it, more ways than one, Daisy," Miss Lansing went on. "I declare! Aren't you a distinguished young lady! Madame, too! Why, we all used to think we behaved pretty well _before company_, � didn't we, St. Clair?" "I hate favour and favouritism!" said that young lady, her upper lip taking the peculiar turn to which my attention had once been called. "Madame likes whatever is French." "But Randolph is not French, are you, Randolph ?" said Black- eyes, who was good-natured through everything. "Madame is not French herself," said Miss Bentley. "I hate everything at school!" St. Clair went on. "It is too bad," said her friend. "Do you know, Daisy, St. Clair always has the prize for compositions. What made you go and write that long stuff about Rameses? the people didn't understand it, and so they thought it was fine." "I am sure there was a great deal finer writing in Faustina's composition," said Miss Bentley. I knew very well that Miss St. Clair had been accustomed to win this half yearly prize for good writing. I had expected nothing but that she would win it this time. I had counted neither o n my own success nor on the displeasure it would raise. I took my hat and went over to my dear Miss Cardigan; hoping that ill-humour would have worked itself out by bedtime. But I was mistaken. St. Clair and I had been pretty near each other in our classes, though once or twice lately I had got an advantage over her; but we had kept on terms of cool social distance until now. Now the spirit of rivalry was awake. I think it began to stir at my Paris dresses and things; Karnak and Mme. Ricard finished the mischief. On my first coming to school I had been tempted, in my horror at the utter want of privacy, to go to bed without prayer; waiting till the rest were all laid down and asleep and the lights out, and then slipping out of bed with great care not to make a noise, and watching that no whisper of my lips should be loud enough to disturb anybody's slumbers. But I was sure, after a while, that this was a cowardly way of doing; and I could not bear the words, "Whosoever shall be ashamed of Me, and of My words, of him shall the Son of man be ashamed, when He cometh in the glory of His Father." I determined in the vacation that I would do so no more, cost what it might the contrary. It cost a tremendous struggle. I think, in all my life I have done few harder things, than it was to me then to kneel down by the side of my bed in full blaze of the gaslights and with four curious pairs of eyes around to look on; to say nothing of the four busy tongues wagging about nothing all the time. I remember what a hush fell upon them the first night; while beyond the posture of prayer I could do little. Only unformed or half formed thoughts and petitions struggled in my mind, through a crowd of jostling regrets and wishes and confusions, in which I could hardly distinguish anything. But no explosion followed, of either ridicule or amusement, and I had been suffered from that night to do as I would, not certainly always in silence, but quite unmolested. I had carried over my standish to Miss Cardigan to ask her to take care of it for me; I had no place to keep it. But Miss Cardigan was not satisfied to see the prize; she wanted to hear the essay read; and was altogether so elated that a little undue elation perhaps crept into my own heart. It was not a good preparation for what was coming. I went home in good time. In the hall, however, Mlle. Genevieve seized upon me; she had several things to say, and before I got up stairs to my room all the rest of its inmates were in bed. I hoped they were asleep. I heard no sound while I was undressing, nor while I knelt, as usual now, by my bedside. But as I rose from my knees I was startled by a sort of grunt that came from St. Clair's corner. "Humph! � Dear me! We're so good, � Grace and Devotion, � Christian grace, too!" "Hold your tongue, St. Clair," said Miss Macy, but not in a way, I thought, to check her; if she could have been checked. "But it's too bad, Macy," said the girl. "We're all so rough, you know. We don't know how to behave ourselves; we can't make curtsies; our mothers never taught us anything, � and dancing masters are no good. We ought to go to Egypt. There isn't anything so truly dignified as a pyramid. There is a great deal of _à plomb_ there!" "Who talked about _à plomb_?" said Miss Bentley. "You have enough of that, at any rate, Faustina," said Lansing. "Mrs. St. Clair's child ought to have that," said Miss Macy. "Ah, but it isn't Christian grace, after all," persisted Faustina. "You want a cross at the top of a pyramid to make it perfect." "Hush, Faustina!" said Miss Macy. "It's fair," said Miss Bentley. "You had better not talk about Christian grace, girls. That isn't a matter of opinion." "Oh, isn't it!" cried St. Clair, half rising up in her bed. "What is it, then?" Nobody answered. "I say! � Macy, what _is_ Christian grace � if you know? If you _don't_ know, I'll put you in the way to find out." "How shall I find out?" "Will you do it, if I show it to you?" "Yes." "Ask Randolph. That's the first step. Ask her, � yes! just ask her, if you want to know. I wish Mme. Ricard was here to hear the answer." "Nonsense!" said Macy. "Ask her! You said you would. Now ask her." "What _is_ Christian grace, Daisy?" said Miss Bentley. I heard, but I would not answer. I hoped the storm would blow over, after a puff or two. But Black-eyes, without any ill- nature, I think, which was not in her, had got into the gale. She slipped out of bed and came to my side, putting her hand on my shoulder and bringing her laughing mouth down near my ear. A very angry impulse moved me before she spoke. "Daisy!" � she said, laughing, in a loud whisper, � "come, wake up! You're not asleep, you know. Wake up and tell us; � everybody knows _you_ know; � what _is_ Christian grace? Daisy! �" She shook me a little. "If you knew, you would not ask me," � I said in great displeasure. But a delighted shout from all my room-mates answered this unlucky speech, which I had been too excited to make logical. "Capital!" cried St. Clair. "That's just it � we _don't_ know; and we only want to find out whether she a does. Make her tell, Lansing � prick a little pin into her � that will bring it out." I was struggling between anger and sorrow, feeling very hurt, and at the same time determined not to cry. I kept absolutely still, fighting the fight of silence with myself. Then Lansing, in a fit of thoughtless mischief, finding her shakes and questions vain, actually put in practice St. Clair's suggestion and attacked me with a pin from the dressing table. The first prick of it overthrew the last remnant of my patience. "Miss Lansing!" � I exclaimed, rousing up in bed and confronting her. They all shouted again. "Now we'll have it!" cried St. Clair. "Keep cool, Black-eyes; let's hear � we'll have an exposition now. Theme, Christian grace." Ah, there rushed through my heart with her words a remembrance of other words � a fluttering vision of something "gentle and easy to be entreated" � "first pure, then peaceable" � "gentleness, goodness, meekness." � But the grip of passion held them all down or kept them all back. After St. Clair's first burst, the girls were still and waited for what I would say. I was facing Miss Lansing, who had taken her hand from my shoulder. "Are you not ashamed of yourself?" I said; and I remember I thought how my mother would have spoken to them. "Miss Lansing's good nature" � I went on slowly, � "Miss Macy's kindness � Miss Bentley's independence � and Miss St. Clair's good breeding!" � "_And_ Miss Randolph's religion!" echoed the last-named, with a quiet distinctness which went into my heart. "What about my independence?" said Miss Bentley. "Now we've got enough, girls, � lie down and go to sleep," said Miss Macy. "There's quite enough of this. There was too much before we began. Stop where you are." They did not stop, however, without a good deal of noisy chaffing and arguing, none of which I heard. Only the words, "Miss Randolph's religion," rung in my ears. I lay down with them lying like lead on my heart. I went to sleep under them. I woke up early, while all the rest were asleep, and began to study them. "Miss Randolph's religion!" If it had been only that, only mine. But the religion I professed was the religion of Christ; the name I was called by was His name; the thing I had brought into discredit was His truth. I hope in all my life I may never know again the heart-pangs that this thought cost me. I studied how to undo the mischief I had done. I could find no way. I had seemed to prove my religion an unsteady, superficial thing; the evidence I had given I could not withdraw; it must stand. I lay thinking, with the heartache, until the rousing bell rang, and the sleepers began to stir from their slumbers. I got up and began, to dress with the rest. "What was it all that happened last night?" said Miss Lansing. "Advancement in knowledge," � said. Miss St. Clair. "Now, girls � don't begin again," said Miss Macy. "Knowledge is a good thing," said the other, with pins in her mouth. "I intend to take every opportunity that offers of increasing mine; especially I mean to study Egyptians and Christians. I haven't any Christians among my own family or acquaintance � so you see, naturally, Macy, I am curious; and when a good specimen offers �" "I am not a good specimen," I said. "People are not good judges of themselves, it is said," the girl went on. "Everybody considers Miss Randolph a sample of what that article ought to be." "You don't use the word right," remarked Miss Macy. "A _sample_ is taken from what is, � not from what ought to be." "I don't care," was St. Clair's reply. "I did not behave like a Christian last night," I forced myself to say. "I was impatient." "Like an impatient Christian then, I suppose," said St. Clair. I felt myself getting impatient again, with all my sorrow and humiliation of heart. And yet more humbled at the consciousness, I hastened to get out of the room. It was a miserable day, that day of my first school triumphs, and so were several more that followed. I was very busy; I had no time for recollection and prayer; I was in the midst of gratulations and plaudits from my companions and the teachers; and I missed, Oh how I missed, the praise of God. I felt like a traitor. In the heat of the fight, I had let my colours come to the ground. I had dishonoured my Captain. Some would say it was a little thing; but I felt then and I know now, there are no little things; I knew I had done harm; how much, it was utterly beyond my reach to know. As soon as I could I seized an opportunity to get to Miss Cardigan. I found her among her flowers, nipping off here a leaf and there a flower that had passed its time; so busy, that for a few moments she did not see that I was different from usual. Then came the question which I had been looking for. "Daisy, you are not right to-day?" "I haven't been right since I got that standish," I burst forth. Miss Cardigan looked at me again, and then did what I had not expected; she took my head between her two hands and kissed me. Not loosing her hold, she looked into my face. "What is it, my pet?" "Miss Cardigan," I said, "can any one be a Christian and yet � yet �" "Do something unworthy a Christian?" she said. "I wot well, they can! But then, they are weak Christians." I knew that before. But somehow, hearing her say it brought the shame and the sorrow more fresh to the surface. The tears came. Miss Cardigan pulled me into the next room and sat down, drawing me into her arms; and I wept there with her arms about me. "What then, Daisy?" she asked at length, as if the suspense pained her. "I acted so, Miss Cardigan," I said; and I told her about it. "So the devil has found a weak spot in your armour," she said. "You must guard it well, Daisy." "How can I?" "How can you? Keep your shield before it, my bairn. What is your shield for? The Lord has given you a great strong shield, big enough to cover you from head to foot, if your hands know how to manage it." "What is that, Miss Cardigan?" "The shield of _faith_, dear. Only believe. According to your faith be it unto you." "Believe what?" I asked, lifting my head at last. "Believe that if you are a weak little soldier, your Captain knows all about it; and any fight that you go into for his sake, he will bear you through. I don't care what. Any fight, Daisy." "But I got impatient," I said, "at the girls' way of talking." "And perhaps you were a wee bit set up in your heart because you had got the prize of the day." "_Proud?_" said I. "Don't it look like it? Even proud of being a Christian, mayhap." "Could I!" � I said. "Was I?" "It wouldn't be the first time one with as little cause had got puffed up a bit. But heavenly charity 'is not puffed up.' " "I know that," � I said; and my tears started afresh. "How shall I help it in future?" I asked after a while, during which my friend had been silent. "Help it?" she said cheerfully. "You can't help it, � but Jesus can." "But my impatience, and � my pride," I said, very downcast. " 'Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy; when I fall I shall arise.' But there is no need you should fall, Daisy. Remember, 'The Lord is able to make him stand' � may be said of every one of the Lord's people." "But will He keep me from impatience, and take pride out of my heart? Why, I did not know it was there, Miss Cardigan." "Did He say, 'Whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, I will do it?' And when He has written 'Whatsoever,' are you going to write it over and put 'anything not too hard'? Neither you nor me, Daisy!" " '_Whatsoever_' � Miss Cardigan?" I said slowly. "He said so. Are you going to write it over again?" "No," I said. "But then, may one have _anything_ one asks for?" "Anything in the world � if it is not contrary to His will � provided we ask in faith, nothing doubting. 'For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea, driven with the wind and tossed. For let not that man think that he shall receive anything of the Lord.' " "But how can we _know_ what is according to His will?" "_This_ is, at any rate," said Miss Cardigan; "for He has commanded us to be holy as He is holy." "But � other things?" I said. "How can one for everything 'in faith, nothing wavering'? How can one be sure?" "Only just this one way, Daisy my dear," Miss Cardigan answered; � and I remember to this day the accent of her native land which touched every word. "If ye're wholly the Lord's � wholly, mind, � ye'll not like aught but what the Lord likes; ye'll know what to ask for, and ye'll know the Lord will give it to you; � that is, if ye want it _enough_. But a 'double-minded man is unstable in all his ways;' and his prayers can't hit the mark, no more than a gun that's twisted when it's going off." "Then," � I began and stopped, looking at her with my eyes full of tears. "Ay!" she said, � "just so. There's no need that you nor me should be under the power of the evil one, for we're _free_. The Lord's words aren't too good to be true; every one of 'em is as high as heaven; and there isn't a sin nor an enemy but you and I may be safe from, if we trust the Lord." I do not remember any more of the conversation. I only know that the sun rose on my difficulties, and the shadows melted away. I had a happy evening with my dear old friend, and went home quite heart-whole. CHAPTER XIII. GREY COATS. I went back to school comforted. I had got strength to face all that might be coming in the future. And life has been a different thing to me ever since. Paul's words, "I can do all things through Christ," � I have learned are not his words any more than mine. From that time I grew more and more popular in the school. I cannot tell why; but, popularity is a thing that grows upon its own growth. It was only a little while before my companions almost all made a pet of me. It is humbling to know that this effect was hastened by some of the French dresses my mother had sent me, and which convenience obliged me to wear. They were extremely pretty; the girls came round me to know where I got them, and talked about who I was; and "Daisy Randolph," was the name most favoured by their lips from that time until school closed. � With the exception, I must add, of my four room-mates. Miss St. Clair held herself entirely aloof from me, and the others chose her party rather than mine. St. Clair never lost, I think, any good chance or omitted any fair scheme to provoke me; but all she could do had lost its power. I tried to soften her; but Faustina was a rock to my advances. I knew I had done irreparable wrong that evening; the thought of it was almost the only trouble I had during those months. An old trouble was brought suddenly home to me one day. I was told a person wanted to speak to me in the lower hall. I ran down, and found Margaret. She was in the cloak and dress I had bought for her; looking at first very gleeful, and then very business-like, as she brought out from under her cloak a bit of paper folded with something in it. "What is this?" I said, finding a roll of bills. "It's my wages, Miss Daisy. I only kept out two dollars, ma'am � I wanted a pair of shoes so bad � and I couldn't be let go about the house in them old shoes with holes in 'em; there was holes in both of 'em, Miss Daisy." "But your wages, Margaret?" I said; "I have nothing to do with your wages." "Yes, Miss Daisy � they belongs to master, and I allowed to bring 'em to you. They's all there so fur. It's all right." I felt the hot shame mounting to my face. I put the money back in Margaret's hand, and hurriedly told her to keep it; we were not at Magnolia; she might do what she liked with the money; it was her own earnings. I shall never forget the girl's confounded look, and then her grin of brilliant pleasure. I could have burst into tears as I went up the stairs, thinking of others at home. Yet the question came too, would my father like what I had been doing? He held the girl to be his property and her earnings his earnings. Had I been giving Margaret a lesson in rebellion, and preparing her to claim her rights at some future day? Perhaps. And I made up my mind that I did not care. Live upon stolen money I would not, � any more than I could help. But was I not living on it all the while? The old subject brought back! I worried over it all the rest of the day, with many a look forward and back. As the time of the vacation drew near, I looked hard for news of my father and mother, or tidings of their coming home. There were none. Indeed, I got no letters at all. That was nothing to cause uneasiness; the intervals were often long between one packet of letters and the next; but now I wanted to hear of some change, now that the school year was ended. It had been a good year to me. In that little world I had met and faced some of the hardest temptations of the great world; they could never be new to me again; and I had learned both my weakness and my strength. No summons to happiness reached me that year. My vacation was spent again with my aunt Gary, and without Preston. September saw me quietly settled at my studies for another school year; to be gone through with what patience I might. That school year had nothing to chronicle. I was very busy, very popular, kindly treated by my teachers, and happy in a smooth course of life. Faustina St. Clair had been removed from the school; to some other I believe; and with her went all my causes of annoyance. The year rolled round, my father and mother in China or on the high seas; and my sixteenth summer opened upon me. A day or two before the close of school, I was called to the parlour to see a lady. Not my aunt; it was Mrs. Sandford; and the doctor was with her. I had not seen Mrs. Sandford, I must explain, for nearly a year; she had been away in another part of the country, far from New York. "Why, Daisy! � is this Daisy?" she exclaimed. "Is it not?" I asked. "Not the old Daisy. You are so grown, my dear! � so � That's right, Grant; let us have a little light to see each other by." "It is Miss Randolph �" said the doctor, after he had drawn up the window shade. "Like her mother! Isn't she? and yet, not like �" "Not at all like." "She is, though, Grant; you are mistaken; she is like her mother; though as I said, she isn't. I never saw anybody so improved. My dear, I shall tell all my friends to send their daughters to Mme. Ricard." "Dr. Sandford," said I, "Mme. Ricard does not like to have the sun shine into this room." "It's Daisy too," said the doctor, smiling, as he drew clown the shade again. "Don't you like it, Miss Daisy?" "Yes, of course," I said; "but she does not." "It is not at all a matter of course," said he; "except as you are Daisy. Some people, as you have just told me, are afraid of the sun." "Oh, that is only for the carpets," I said. Dr. Sandford gave me a good look, like one of his looks of old times, that carried me right back somehow to Juanita's cottage. "How do you do, Daisy?" "A little pale," said Mrs. Sandford. "Let her speak for herself." I said I did not know I was pale. "Did you know you had headache a good deal of the time?" "Yes, Dr. Sandford, I knew that. It is not very bad." "Does not hinder you from going on with study?" "Oh no, never." "You have a good deal of time for study at night, too, do you not? � after the lights are out?" "At night? how did you know that? But it is not always _study_." "No. You consume also a good deal of beef and mutton, now-a- days? you prefer substantials in food as in everything else?" I looked at my guardian, very much surprised that he should see all this in my face, and with a little of my childish fascination about those steady blue eyes. I could not deny that in these days I scarcely lived by eating. But in the eagerness and pleasure of my pursuits I had not missed it, and amid my many busy and anxious thoughts I had not cared about it. "That will do," said the doctor. "Daisy, have you heard lately from your father or mother?" My breath came short, as I said no. "Nor have I. Failing orders from them, you are bound to respect mine; and I order you change of air, and to go wherever Mrs. Sandford proposes to take you." "Not before school closes, Dr. Sandford?" "Do you care about that?" "My dear child," said Mrs. Sandford, "we are going to West Point � and we want to take you with us. I know you will enjoy it, my dear; and I shall be delighted to have you. But we want to go next week." "Do you care, Daisy?" Dr. Sandford repeated. I had to consider. One week more, and the examination would be over and the school term ended. I was ready for the examination; I expected to keep my standing, which was very high; by going away now I should lose that, and miss some distinction. So at least I thought. I found that several things were at work in my heart that I had not known were there. After a minute I told Mrs. Sandford I would go with her when she pleased. "You have made up your mind that you do not care about staying to the end here?" said the doctor. "Dr. Sandford," I said, "I believe I _do_ care; but not about anything worth while." He took both my hands, standing before me, and looked at me, I thought, as if I were the old little child again. "A course of fresh air," he said, "will do you more good than a course of any other thing just now. And we may find 'wonderful things' at West Point, Daisy." "I expect you will enjoy it, Daisy," Mrs. Sandford repeated. There was no fear. I knew I should see Preston at any rate; and I had been among brick walls for many months. I winced a little at thought of missing all I had counted upon at the close of term; but it was mainly pride that winced, so it was no matter. We left the city three or four days later. It was a June day � can I ever forget it? What a brilliance of remembrance comes over me now! The bustle of the close schoolrooms, the heat and dust of the sunny city streets, were all left behind in an hour; and New York was nowhere! The waves of the river sparkled under a summer breeze; the wall of the palisades stretched along, like the barriers of fairyland; so they seemed to me; only the barrier was open and I was about to enter. So till their grey and green ramparts were passed, and the broader reaches of the river beyond, and as evening began to draw in we came to higher shores and a narrower channel, and were threading our way among the lights and shadows of opposing headlands and hilltops. It grew but more fresh and fair as the sun got lower. Then, in a place where the river seemed to come to an end, the _Pipe of Peace_ drew close, in under the western shore, to a landing. Buildings of grey stone clustered and looked over the bank. Close under the bank's green fringes a little boat-house and large clean wooden pier received us; from the landing a road went steeply sloping up. I see it all now in the colours which clothed it then. I think I entered fairyland when I touched foot to shore. Even down at the landing, everything was clean and fresh and in order. The green branches of that thick fringe which reached to the top of the bank had no dust on them; the rocks were parti-coloured with lichens; the river was bright, flowing and rippling past; the _Pipe of Peace_ had pushed off and sped on, and in another minute or two was turning the point, and then � out of sight. Stillness seemed to fill the woods and the air as the beat of her paddles was lost. I breathed stillness. New York was fifty miles away, physically and morally at the antipodes. I find it hard to write without epithets. As I said I was in fairyland; and how shall one describe fairyland? Dr. Sandford broke upon my reverie by putting me into the omnibus. But the omnibus quite belonged to fairyland too; it did not go rattling and jolting, but stole quietly up the long hill; letting me enjoy a view of the river and the hills of the opposite shore, coloured as they were by the setting sun, and crisp and sharp in the cool June air. Then a great round- topped building came in place of my view; the road took a turn behind it. "What is that?" I asked the doctor. "I am sorry, Daisy, I don't know. I am quite as ignorant as yourself." "That is the riding-hall," I heard somebody say. One omnibus full had gone up before us; and there, were only two or three people in ours besides our own party. I looked round, and saw that the information had been given by a young man in a sort of uniform; he was all in grey, with large round gilt buttons on his coat, and a soldier's cap. The words had been spoken in a civil tone, that tempted me on. "Thank you!" I said. "The riding-hall! � who rides in it?" "We do," he said, and then smiled, � "the cadets." It was a frank smile and a pleasant face and utterly the look of a gentleman. So, though I saw that he was very much amused, either at himself or me, I went on � "And those other buildings ?" "Those are the stables." I wondered at the neat, beautiful order of the place. Then, the omnibus slowly mounting the hill, the riding-hall and stables were lost to sight. Another building, of more pretension, appeared on our left hand, on the brow of the ascent; our road turned the corner round this building, and beneath a grove of young trees the gothic buttresses and windows of grey stone peeped out. Carefully dressed green turf, with gravelled walks leading front different directions to the doors, looked as if this was a place of business. Somebody pulled the string here and the omnibus stopped. "This is the library," my neighbour in grey remarked � and with that rising and lifting his cap, he jumped out. I watched him rapidly walking into the library; he was tall, very erect, with a fine free carriage and firm step. But then the omnibus was moving on and I turned to the other side. And the beauty took away my breath. There was the green plain, girdled with trees and houses, beset with hills, the tops of which I could see in the distance, with the evening light upon them. The omnibus went straight over the plain; green and smooth and fresh, it lay on the one side and on the other side of us, excepting one broad strip on the right. I wondered what had taken off the grass there; but then we passed within a hedge enclosure and drew up at the hotel steps. "Have you met an acquaintance already, Daisy?" Dr. Sandford asked as he handed me out. "An acquaintance?" said I. "No, but I shall fine him soon, I suppose." For I was thinking of Preston. But I forgot Preston the next minute. Mrs. Sandford had seized my hand and drew me up the piazza steps and through the hall, out to the piazza at the north side of the house. I was in fairyland surely! I had thought so before, but I knew it now. Those grand hills, in the evening colours, standing over against each other on the east and on the west, and the full magnificent river lying between them, bright and stately, were like nothing I had ever seen or imagined. My memory goes back now to point after point of delight which bewildered me. There was a dainty little sail sweeping across just at the bend of the river; I have seen many since; I never forget that one. There was a shoulder of one of the eastern hills, thrown out towards the south-west, over which the evening light fell in a mantle of soft gold, with a fold of shadow on the other side. The tops of those eastern hills were warm with sunlight, and here and there a slope of the western hills. There was a point of lower ground, thrust out into the river between me and the eastern shore, which lay wholly in shadow, one soft mass of dusky green, rounding out into a promontory. Above it, beyond it, at the foot of the hills, a white church spire rose sharp as a needle. It is all before me, even the summer stillness in which my senses were rapt. There was a clatter in the house behind me, but I did not hear it then. I was obliged to go away to get ready for tea. The house was full; only one room could be spared for Mrs. Sandford and me. That one had been engaged beforehand, and its window looked over the same view I had seen from the piazza. I took my post at this window while waiting for Mrs. Sandford. Cooler and crisper the lights, cooler and grayer the shadows had grown; the shoulder of the east mountain had lost its mantle of light; just a gleam rested on a peak higher up; and my single white sail was getting small in the distance, beating up the river. I was very happy. My school year, practically, was finished, and I was vaguely expecting some order or turn of affairs which would join me to my father and mother. I remember well what a flood of satisfied joy poured into my heart as I stood at the window. I seemed to myself so very rich, to taste all that delight of hills and river; the richness of God's giving struck me with a sort of wonder. And then, being so enriched, and tasting the deep treasures of heaven and earth which I had been made to know, happy so exceedingly, � it came to my heart with a kind of pang, the longing to make others know what I knew; and the secret determination to use all my strength as Christ's servant, � in bringing others to the joy of the knowledge of him. I was called from my window then, and my view was exchanged for the crowded dining-room, where I could eat nothing. But after tea we got out upon the piazza again, and a soft north- west breeze seemed to be food and refreshment too. Mrs. Sandford soon found a colonel and a general to talk to; but Dr. Sandford sat down by me. "How do you like it, Daisy?" I told him, and thanked him for bringing me. "Are you tired?" "No � I don't think I am tired." "You are not hungry of course, for you can eat nothing. Do you think you shall sleep?" "I don't feel like it now. I do not generally get sleepy till a great while after this." "You will go to sleep somewhere about nine o'clock," said the doctor; "and not wake up till you are called in the morning." I thought he was mistaken, but as I could not prove it I said nothing. "Are you glad to get away from school?" "On some accounts. I like school too, Dr. Sandford; but there are some things I do not like." "That remark might be made, Daisy, about every condition of life with which I am acquainted." "I could not make it just now," I said. He smiled. "Have you secured a large circle of friends among your schoolmates, � that are to last for ever?" "I do not think they love me well enough for that," I said, wondering somewhat at my guardian's questioning mood. "Nor you them?" "I suppose not." "Why, Daisy," said Mrs. Sandford, "I am surprised! I thought you used to love everybody." I tried to think how that might be, and whether I had changed. Dr. Sandford interrupted my thoughts again � "How is it with friends out of school?" "I have none," I said; thinking only of girls like myself. "None?" he said. "Do you really know nobody in New York?" "Nobody, � but one old lady." "Who is that, Daisy?" He asked short and coolly, like one who had a right to know; and then I remembered he had the right. I gave him Miss Cardigan's name and number. "Who is she? and who lives with her?" "Nobody lives with her; she has only her servants." "What do you know about her then, besides what she has told you? Excuse me, and please have the grace to satisfy me." "I know I must," I said half laughing. "_Must?_" "You know I must too, Dr. Sandford." "I don't know it indeed," said he. "I know I must ask; but I do not know what power can force you to answer." "Isn't it my duty, Dr. Sandford?" "Nobody but Daisy Randolph would have asked that question," he said. "Well, if duty is on my side, I know I am powerful. But, Daisy, you always used to answer me, in times when there was no duty in the case." "I remember," I said, smiling to think of it; "but I was a child then, Dr. Sandford." "Oh! � Well, apropos of duty, you may go on about Miss Cardigan." "I do not know a great deal to tell. Only that she is very good, very kind to me and everybody; very rich, I believe; and very wise, I think. I know nothing more � except the way her money was made." "How was it ?" "I have heard that her mother was a market-woman," I said very unwillingly; for I knew the conclusions that would be drawn. "Is it likely," Dr. Sandford said slowly, "that the daughter of a market-woman should be a good friend in every respect for the daughter of Mrs. Randolph?" "It may not be _likely_," I answered with equal slowness; � "but it is true." "Can you prove your position, Daisy?" "What is your objection to her, Dr. Sandford?" "Simply what you have told me. The different classes of society are better apart." I was silent. If Miss Cardigan was not of my class, I knew I wanted to be of hers. There were certain words running in my head about "a royal priesthood, a peculiar people," and certain other words too � which I thought it was no use to tell Dr. Sandford. "She has no family, you say, nor friends who live with her, or whom you meet at her house?" "None at all. I think she is quite alone." There was silence again. That is, between the doctor and me. Mrs. Sandford and her officers kept up a great run of talk hard by. "Now, Daisy," said the doctor, "you have studied the matter, and I do not doubt have formed a philosophy of your own by this time. Pray make me the wiser." "I have no philosophy of my own, Dr. Sandford." "Your own thus far, that nobody shares it with you." "Is that your notion of me," I said, laughing. "A very good notion. Nothing is worse than commonplace people. Indulge me, Daisy." So I thought I had better. "Dr. Sandford, � if you will indulge me. What is _your_ notion of dignity ?" He passed his hand over his hair, with a comical face. It was a very fine face, as I knew long ago; even a noble face. A steady, clear blue eye like his, gives one a sure impression of power in the character, and of sweetness too. I was glad he had asked me the question, but I waited for him to answer mine first. "My notion of dignity!" he exclaimed. "I don't believe I have any, Daisy." "No, but we are talking seriously." "Very. We always are, when you are one of the talkers." "Then please explain your notion of dignity." "I know it when I see it," said the doctor; "but faith! I don't know what makes it." "Yes, but you think some people, or some classes, are set up above others." "So do you." "What do you think makes the highest class, then?" "You are going too deep, or too high, which is the same thing. All I mean is, that certain feet which fate has planted on lofty levels, ought not to come down from them." "But it is good to know where we stand." "Very," said Dr. Sandford, laughing. That is, in his way of laughing. It was never loud. "I will tell you where I want to stand," I went on. "It is the highest level of all. The Lord Jesus said, 'Whosoever shall do the will of My Father which is in heaven, the same is MY BROTHER, and MY SISTER, and MOTHER.' I want to be one of those." "But, Daisy," said Dr. Sandford, "the society of the world is not arranged on that principle." I knew it very well. I said nothing. "And you cannot, just yet, go out of the world." It was no use to tell Dr. Sandford what I thought. I was silent still. "Daisy," said he, "you are worse than you used to be." And I heard a little concern in his words, only half hid by the tone. "You do not suppose that such words as those you quoted just now, were meant to be a practical guide in the daily affairs of life? Do you ?" "How can I help it, Dr. Sandford?" I answered. "I would like to have my friends among those whom the King will call His sisters and brothers." "And what do you think of correct grammar, and clean hands?" he asked. "Clean hands!" I echoed. "You like them," he said smiling. "The people you mean often go without them � if report says true." "Not the people _I_ mean," I said. "And education, Daisy; and refined manners; and cultivated tastes; what will you do without all these? In the society you speak of they are seldom found." "You do not know the society I speak of, Dr. Sandford; and Miss Cardigan has all these, more or less; besides something a great deal better." Dr. Sandford rose up suddenly and introduced me to a Captain Southgate who came up; and the conversation ran upon West Point things and nothings after that. I was going back over my memory, to find in how far religion had been associated with some other valued things in the instances of my experience, and I heard little of what was said. Mr. Dinwiddie had been a gentleman, as much as any one I ever knew; he was the first. My old Juanita had the manners of a princess, and the tact of a fine lady. Miss Cardigan was a capital compound of sense, goodness, business energies, and gentle wisdom. The others, � well, yes, they were of the despised orders of the world. My friend Darry, at the stables of Magnolia, � my friend Maria, in the kitchen of the great house, � the other sable and sober faces that came around theirs in memory's grouping, � they were not educated nor polished nor elegant. Yet well I knew, that having owned Christ before me, He would own them before the angels of heaven; and what would they be in that day! I was satisfied to be numbered with them. I slept, as Dr. Sandford had prophesied I would, that night. I awoke to a vision of beauty. My remembrance of those days that followed is like a summer morning, with a diamond hanging to every blade of grass. I awoke suddenly, that first day, and rushed to the window. The light had broken, the sun was up; the crown of the morning was upon the heads of the hills; here and there a light wreath of mist lay along their sides, floating slowly off, or softly dispersing; the river lay in quiet beauty waiting for the gilding that should come upon it. I listened � the brisk notes of a drum and fife came to my ear, playing one after another joyous and dancing melody. I thought that never was a place so utterly delightsome as this place. With all speed I dressed myself, noiselessly, so as not to waken Mrs. Sandford; and then I resolved I would go out and see if I could not find a place where I could be by myself; for in the house there was no chance of it. I took Mr. Dinwiddie's Bible and stole down stairs. From the piazza where we had sat last night, a flight of steps led down. I followed it, and found another flight, and still another. The last landed me in a gravelled path; one track went down the steep face of the bank, on the brow of which the hotel stood; another track crossed that and wound away to my right, with a gentle downward slope. I went this way. The air was delicious; the woods were musical with birds the morning light filled my pathway and, glancing from trees or rocks ahead of me, lured me on with a promise of glory. I seemed to gather the promise as I went, and still I was drawn further and further. Glimpses of the river began to show through the trees; for all this bank side was thickly wooded. I left walking and took to running. At last I came out upon another gravelled walk, low down on the hillside, lying parallel with the river and open to it. Nothing lay between but some masses of granite rock, grey and lichened, and a soft fringe of green underbrush and small wood in the intervals. Moreover, I presently found a comfortable seat on a huge grey stone, where the view was uninterrupted, by any wood growth; and if I thought before that this was fairyland, I now almost thought myself a fairy. The broad river was at my feet; the morning light was on all the shores, sparkled from the granite rocks below me and flashed from the polished leaves, and glittered on the water; filling all the blue above with radiance; touching here and there a little downy cloud; entering in and lying on my heart. I shall never forget it. The taste of the air was as one tastes life and strength and vigour. It all rolled in on me a great burden of joy. It was not the worst time or place in the world to read the Bible. But how all the voices of nature seemed to flow in and mix with the reading, I cannot tell, no more than I can number them; the whirr of a bird's wing, the liquid note of a wood thrush, the stir and movement of a thousand leaves, the gurgle of rippling water, the crow's call, and the song-sparrow's ecstasy. Once or twice the notes of a bugle found their way down the hill, and reminded me that I was in a place of delightful novelty. It was just a fillip to my enjoyment, as I looked on and off my page alternately. By and by I heard footsteps, quick yet light footsteps, sounding on the gravel. Measured and quick they came; then two figures rounded a point close by me. There were two, but their footfalls had sounded as one. They were dressed alike, all in grey, like my friend in the omnibus. As they passed me, the nearest one hastily pulled off his cap, and I caught just a flash from a bright eye. It was the same. I looked after them as they left my point and were soon lost behind another; thinking that probably Preston was dressed so and had been taught to walk so; and with renewed admiration of a place where the inhabitants kept such an exquisite neatness in their dress and moved like music. There was a fulness of content in my mind, as at length I slowly went back up my winding path to the hotel, warned by the furious sounds of a gong that breakfast was in preparation. As I toiled up the last flight of steps I saw Dr. Sandford on the piazza. His blue eye looked me all over and looked me through, I felt. I was accustomed to that, both from the friend and the physician, and rather liked it. "What is on the other side of the house?" I asked. "Let us go and see." And as we went, the doctor took my book from my hand to carry it for me. He opened it, too, and looked at it. On the other side or two sides of the house stretched away the level green plain. At the back of it, stood houses half hidden by trees; indeed all round two sides of the plain there vas a border of buildings and of flourishing trees as yell. Down the north side, from the hotel where we were, a road went winding; likewise under arching trees; here and there I could see cannon and a bit of some military work. All the centre of the plain was level and green, and empty; and from the hotel to the library stretched a broad strip of bare ground, brown and dusty, alongside of the road by which we had come across last night. In the morning sun, as indeed under all other lights and at all other hours, this scene was one of satisfying beauty. Behind the row of houses at the western edge of the plain, the hills rose up, green and wooded, height above height; and an old fortification stood out now under the eastern illumination, picturesque and grey, high up among them. As Dr. Sandford and I were silent and looking, I saw another grey figure pass down the road. "Who are those people that wear grey, with a black stripe down the leg?" I asked. "Grey?" said the doctor. "Where?" "There is one yonder under the trees," I said, "and there was one in the omnibus yesterday. Are those the cadets?" "I suppose so." "Then Preston wears that dress. I wonder how I shall find him, Dr. Sandford?" "Find whom?" said the doctor, waking up. "My cousin Preston � Preston Gary. He is here." "Here?" repeated the doctor. "Yes � he is a cadet � didn't you know it? He has been here a long while; he has only one more year, I believe. How can we find him, Dr. Sandford?" "I am ignorant, Daisy." "But we must find him," I said, "for of course he will want to see me, and I want to see him, very much." The doctor was silent, and I remember an odd sense I had that he was not pleased. I cannot tell how I got it; he neither did nor said anything to make me think so; he did not even look anywise different from usual; yet I felt it and was sure of it, and unspeakably mystified at it. Could Preston have been doing anything wrong? Yet the doctor would not know that, for he was not even aware that Preston was in the Military Academy till I told him. "I do not know, Daisy," he said at last; "but we can find out. I will ask Captain Southgate or somebody else." "Thank you," I said. "Who are those, Dr. Sandford, those others dressed in dark frock coats, with bright bars over their shoulders? � like that one just now going out of the gate?" "Those are officers of the army." "There are a good many of them. What are they here for? Are there many soldiers here?" "No �" said the doctor � "I believe not. I think these gentlemen are put here to look after the grey coats � the cadets, Daisy. The cadets are here in training, you know." "But that officer who just went out � who is walking over the plain now � he wore a sword, Dr. Sandford, and a red sash. They do not all wear them. What is that for?" "What is under discussion?" said Mrs. Sandford, coming out. "How well Daisy looks this morning, don't she?" "She has caught the military fever already," said the doctor. "I brought her here for a sedative; but I find it is no such matter." "Sedative!" � said Mrs. Sandford; but at this instant my ears were "caught" by a burst of music on the plain. Mrs. Sandford broke into a fit of laughter. The doctor's hand touched my shoulder. "Get your hat, Daisy," he said. "I will go with you to hear it." I might tell of pleasure from minute to minute of that day, and of the days following. The breath of the air, the notes of the wind instruments, the flicker of sunlight on the gravel, all come back to me as I write, and I taste them again. Dr. Sandford and I went down the road I have described, leading along the edge of the plain at its northern border; from which the view up over the river, between the hills, was very glorious. Fine young trees shaded this road; on one side a deep hollow or cup in the green plain excited my curiosity; on the other, lying a little down the bank, a military work of some odd sort planted with guns. Then one or two little pyramidal heaps of cannon-balls by the side of the road, marked this out as unlike all other roads I had ever traversed. At the further side of the plain we came to the row of houses I had seen from a distance, which ran north and south, looking eastward over all the plain. The road which skirted these houses was shaded with large old trees; and on the edge of the greensward under the trees, we found a number of iron seats placed for the convenience of spectators. And here, among many others, Dr. Sandford and I sat down. There was a long line of the grey uniforms now drawn up in front of us; at some little distance; standing still and doing nothing, that I could see. Nearer to us and facing them stood a single grey figure; I looked hard, but could not make out that it was Preston. Nearer still, stood with arms folded one of those who the doctor had said were army officers; I thought, the very one I had seen leave the hotel; but all like statues, motionless and fixed. Only the band seemed to have some life in them. "What is it, Dr. Sandford?" I whispered, after a few minutes of intense enjoyment. "Don't know, Daisy." "But what are they doing?" "I don't know, Daisy." I nestled down into silence again, listening, almost with a doubt of my own senses, as the notes of the instruments mingled with the summer breeze and filled the June sunshine. The plain looked most beautiful, edged with trees on three sides, and bounded to the east, in front of me, by a chain of hills soft and wooded, which I afterwards found were beyond the river. Near at hand, the order of military array, the flash of a sword, the glitter of an epaulette, the glance of red sashes here and there, the regularity of a perfect machine. I said nothing more to Dr. Sandford; but I gathered drop by drop the sweetness of the time. The statues broke into life a few minutes later, and there was a stir of business of some sort; but I could make out nothing of what they were doing. I took it on trust, and enjoyed everything to the full till the show was over. CHAPTER XIV. YANKEES. For several days I saw nothing of Preston. He was hardly missed. I found that such a parade as that which pleased me the first morning, came off twice daily; and other military displays, more extended and more interesting, were to be looked for every day at irregular times. I failed not of one. So surely as the roll of the drum or a strain of music announced that something of the sort was on hand, I caught up my hat and was ready. And so was Dr. Sandford. Mrs. Sandford would often not go; but the doctor's hat was as easily put on as mine, and as readily; and he attended me, I used to think, as patiently as a great Newfoundland dog. As patient, and as supreme. The evolutions of soldiers and clangour of martial music were nothing to _him;_ but he must wait upon his little mistress. I mean of course the Newfoundland dog; not Dr. Sandford. "Will you go for a walk, Daisy?" he said, the morning of the third or fourth day. "There is nothing doing on the plain, I find." "A walk? Oh, yes!" I said. "Where shall we go?" "To look for wonderful things," he said. "Only don't take the child among the rattlesnakes," said Mrs. Sandford. "_They_ are wonderful, I suppose, but not pleasant. You will get her all tanned, Grant!" But I took these hints of danger as coolly as the doctor himself did; and another of my West-Point delights began. We went beyond the limits of the post, passed out at one of the gates which shut it in from the common world, and forgot for the moment drums and fifes. Up the mountain side, under the shadow of the trees most of the time, though along a good road; with the wild hill at one hand rising sharp above us. Turning round that, we finally plunged down into a grand dell of the hills, leaving all roads behind and all civilisation, and having a whole mountain between us and the West-Point plain. I suppose it might have been a region for rattlesnakes, but I never thought of them. I had never seen such a place in my life. From the bottom of the gorge where we were, the opposite mountain side sloped up to a great height; wild, lonely, green with a wealth of wood, stupendous, as it seemed to me, in its towering expanse. At our backs, a rocky and green precipice rose up more steeply yet, though to a lesser elevation, topped with the grey walls of the old fort, the other face of which I had seen from our hotel. A wilderness of nature it was; � wild and stern. I feasted on it. Dr. Sandford was moving about, looking for something; he helped me over rocks, and jumped me across morasses, and kept watchful guard of me; but else he let me alone; he did lot talk; and I had quite enough without. The strong delight of the novelty, the freedom, the delicious wild things around, the bracing air, the wonderful lofty beauty, made me as happy as I thought I could be. I feasted on the rocks and wild verdure, the mosses and ferns and lichen, the scrub forest and tangled undergrowth, among which we plunged and scrambled; above all, on those vast leafy walls which shut in the glen, and almost took away my breath with their towering lonely grandeur. All this time Dr. Sandford was as busy as a bee, in quest of something. He was a great geologist and mineralogist; a lover of all natural science, but particularly of chemistry and geology. When I stopped to look at him, I thought he must have put his own tastes in his pocket for several days past, that he might gratify mine. I was standing on a rock, high and dry and grey with lichen; he was poking about in some swampy ground. "Are you tired, Daisy?" he said, looking up. "My feet are tired," I said. "That is all of you that can be tired. Sit down where you are � I will come to you directly." So I sat down, and watched him, and looked off between whiles to the wonderful green walls of the glen. The summer blue was very clear overhead; the stillness of the place very deep; insects, birds, a flutter of leaves, and the grating of Dr. Sandford's boot upon a stone, all the sound that could be heard. "Why, you are warm, as well as tired, Daisy," he said, coming up to my rock at last. "It is warm," I answered. "Warm?" said he. "Look here, Daisy!" "Well, what in the world is that?" I said laughing. "A little mud or earth is all that I can see." "Ah, your eyes are not good for much, Daisy � except to look at." "Not good for much for _that_," I said, amused; for his eyes were bent upon the earth in his hand. "I don't know" � said he, getting up on the rock beside me and sitting down. "I used to find strange things in them once. But this is something you will like, Daisy." "Is it?" "If you like wonderful things as well as ever." "Oh, I do!" I said. "What is it, Dr. Sandford?" He carefully wrapped up his treasure in a bit of paper and put it in his pocket; then he cut down a small hickory branch and began to fan me with it; and while he sat there fanning me he entered upon a lecture such as I had never listened to in my life. I had studied a little geology of course, as well as a little of everything else; but no lesson like this had come in the course of my experience. Taking his text from the very wild glen where we were sitting and the mountain sides upon which I had been gazing, Dr. Sandford spread a clear page of nature before me and interpreted it. He answered unspoken questions; he filled great vacancies of my ignorance; into what had been abysms of thought he poured a whole treasury of intelligence and brought floods of light. All so quietly, so luminously, with such a wealth of knowledge and facility of giving it, that it is a simple thing to say no story of Eastern magic was ever given into more charmed ears around an Arabian desert fire. I listened, and he talked and fanned me. He talked like one occupied with his subject and not with me; but he met every half uttered doubt or question, and before he had done he satisfied it fully. I had always liked Dr. Sandford; I had never liked him so much. I had never, since the old childish times, had such a free talk with him. And now, he did not talk to me as a child or a very young girl, except in bending himself to my ignorance; but as one who loves knowledge likes to give it to others, so he gave it to me. Only I do not remember seeing him like to give it in such manner to anybody else. I think the novelty added to the zest when I thought about: it; at the moment I had no time for side thoughts. At the moment my ears could but receive the pearls and diamonds of knowledge which came from the speaker's lips, set in silver of the simplest clear English. I notice that the people who have the most thorough grasp of a subject make ever least difficulty of words about it. The sun was high and hot when we returned, but I cared nothing for that. I was more than ever sure that West Point was fairyland. The old spring of childish glee seemed to have come back to my nerves. "Dinner is just ready," said Mrs. Sandford, meeting us in the hall. "Why, where _have_ you been? And look at the colour of Daisy's face! Oh, Grant, what have you done with her?" "Very good colour �" said the doctor, peering under my hat. "She's all flushed and sunburnt, and overheated." "Daisy is never anything but cool;" he said, "unless when she gets hold of a principle, and somebody else gets hold of the other end. We'll look at these things after dinner, Daisy." "Principles?" half exclaimed Mrs. Sandford, with so dismayed an expression that the doctor and I both laughed. "Not exactly," � said the doctor, putting his hand in his pocket. "Look here." "I see nothing but a little dirt." "You shall see something else by and by � if you will." "You have never brought your microscope here, Grant? Where in the world will you set it up?" "In your room � after dinner � if you permit." Mrs. Sandford permitted; and though she did not care much about the investigations that followed, the doctor and I did. As delightful as the morning had been, the long afternoon stretched its bright hours along; till Mrs. Sandford insisted I must be dressed, and pushed the microscope into a corner and ordered the doctor away. That was the beginning of the pleasantest course of lessons I ever had in my life. From that time Dr. Sandford and I spent a large part of every day in the hills; and often another large part over the microscope. No palace and gardens in the Arabian nights were ever more enchanting, than the glories of nature through which he led me; nor half so wonderful. "A little dirt," as it seemed to ordinary eyes, was the hidden entrance way ofttimes to halls of knowledge more magnificent and more rich than my fancy had ever dreamed of. Meanwhile, Mrs. Sandford found a great many officers to talk to. It was not till the evening of the next day following my first walk into the mountains, that I saw Preston. � It was parade time; and I was sitting as usual on one of the iron settees which are placed for the convenience of spectators. I was almost always there at parade and guard-mounting. The picture had a continual fascination for me, whether under the morning sun, or the evening sunset; and the music was charming. This time I was alone, Dr. and Mrs. Sandford being engaged in conversation with friends at a little distance. Following with my ear the variations of the air the band were playing, my mind was at the same time dwelling on the riches it had just gained in the natural history researches of the day, and also taking in half consciously the colours of the hills and the light that spread over the plain; musing, in short, in a kind of dream of delight; when a grey figure came between me and my picture. Finding that it did not move, I raised my eyes. "The same Daisy as ever!" said Preston, his eyes all alight with fun and pleasure. "The same as ever! And how came you here? and when did you come? and how did you come?" "We have been here ever since Friday. Why haven't you been to see me? Dr. Sandford sent word to you." "Dr. Sandford!" said Preston, taking the place by my side. "How did you come here, Daisy?" "I came by the boat, last Friday. How should I come?" "Who are you with?" "Dr. Sandford � and Mrs. Sandford." "_Mrs_. Sandford, and Dr. Sandford," said Preston, pointedly. "You are not with the doctor, I suppose." "Why, yes, I am," I answered. "He is my guardian � don't you know, Preston? He brought me. How tall you have grown!" "A parcel of Yankees," said Preston. "Poor little Daisy." "What do you mean by 'Yankees'?" I said. "You do not mean just people at the North, for you speak as if it was something bad." "It is. So I do," said Preston. "They are a mean set � fit for nothing but to eat codfish and scrape. I wish you had nothing to do with Yankees." I thought how all the South lived upon stolen earnings. It was a disagreeable turn to my meditations for a moment. "Where have you hid yourself since you have come here?" Preston went on. "I have been to the hotel time and again to find you." "Have you!" I said. "Oh, I suppose I was out walking." "With whom were you walking?" "I don't know anybody here, but those I came with. But Preston, why are you not over yonder with the others?" I was looking at the long grey line formed in front of us on the plain. "I got leave of absence, to come and see you, Daisy. And _you_ have grown, and improved. You're wonderfully improved. Are you the very same Daisy? and what are you going to do here?" "Oh, I'm enjoying myself. Now, Preston, why does that man stand so?" "What man?" "That officer � here in front, standing all alone, with the sash and sword. Why does he stand so?" "Hush. That is Captain Percival. He is the officer in charge." "What is that?" "Oh, he looks after the parade, and things." "But why does he stand so, Preston?" "Stand how?" said Preston, unsympathisingly. "That is good standing." "Why, with his shoulders up to his ears," I said; "and his arms lifted up as if he was trying to put his elbows upon a high shelf. It is _very_ awkward." "They all stand so," said Preston. "That's right enough." "It is ungraceful." "It is military." "Must one be ungraceful in order to be military?" "_He_ isn't ungraceful. That is Percival � of South Carolina." "The officer yesterday stood a great deal better," I went on. "Yesterday? That was Blunt. He's a Yankee." "Well, what then, Preston?" I said, laughing. "I despise them!" "Aren't there Yankees among the cadets?" "Of course; but they are no count � only here and there there's one of good family. Don't you have anything to do with them, Daisy � mind; � not with one of them, unless I tell you who he is." "With one of whom? what are you speaking of?" "The cadets." "Why, I have nothing to do with them," I said. "How should I?" Preston looked at me curiously. "Nor at the hotel, neither, Daisy � more than you can help. Have nothing to say to the Yankees." I thought Preston had taken a strange fancy. I was silent. "It is not fitting," he went on. "We are going to change all that. I want to have nothing to do with Yankees." "What are you going to change?" I asked. "I don't see how you can help having to do with them. They are among the cadets, and they are among the officers." "We have our own set," said Preston. "I have nothing to do with them in the corps." "Now, Preston, look; what are they about? All the red sashes are getting together." "Parade is dismissed. They are coming up to salute the officer in charge." "It is so pretty!" I said, as the music burst out again, and the measured steps of the advancing line of "red sashes" marked it. "And now Captain Percival will unbend his stiff elbows. Why could not all that be done easily, Preston?" "Nonsense, Daisy! � it is military." "Is it? But Mr. Blunt did it a great deal better. Now they are going. � Must you go?" "Yes. What are you going to do to-morrow?" "I don't know � I suppose, we shall go into the woods again." "When the examination is over, I can attend to you. I haven't much time just now. But there is really nothing to be done here, since one can't get on horseback out of the hours." "I don't want anything better than I can get on my own feet," I said joyously. "I find plenty to do." "Look here, Daisy," said Preston � "don't you turn into a masculine, muscular woman, that can walk her twenty miles and wear hob-nailed shoes � like the Yankees you are among. Don't forget that you are the daughter of a Southern gentleman �" He touched his cap hastily and turned away � walking with those measured steps towards the barracks; whither now all the companies of grey figures were in full retreat. I stood wondering, and then slowly returned with my friends to the hotel; much puzzled to account for Preston's discomposure and strange injunctions. The sunlight had left the tops of the hills; the river slept in the gathering grey shadows, soft, tranquil, reposeful. Before I got to the hotel, I had quite made up my mind that my cousin's eccentricities were of no consequence. They recurred to me, however, and were as puzzling as ever. I had no key at the time. The next afternoon was given to a very lively show: the light artillery drill before the Board of Visitors. We sat out under the trees to behold it; and I found out now the meaning of the broad strip of plain between the hotel and the library, which was brown and dusty in the midst of the universal green. Over this strip, round and round, back and forth and across, the light artillery wagons rushed, as if to show what they could do in time of need. It was a beautiful sight, exciting and stirring; with the beat of horses' hoofs, the clatter of harness, the rumble of wheels tearing along over the ground, the flash of a sabre now and then, the ringing words of command, and the soft shrill echoing bugle which repeated them. I only wanted to understand it all; and in the evening I plied Preston with questions. He explained things to me patiently. "I understand," I said, at last, � "I understand what it would do in war time. But we are not at war, Preston." "No." "Nor in the least likely to be." "We can't tell. It is good to be ready." "But what do you mean?" I remember saying. "You speak as if we might be at war. Who is there for us to fight?" "Anybody that wants putting in order," said Preston. "The Indians." "O Preston, Preston!" I exclaimed. "The Indians! when we have been doing them wrong ever since the white men came here; and you want to do them more wrong!" "I want to hinder them from doing us wrong. But I don't care about the Indians, little Daisy. I would just as lief fight the Yankees." "Preston, I think you are very wrong." "You think all the world is," he said. We were silent, and I felt very dissatisfied. What was all this military schooling a preparation for, perhaps? How could we know. Maybe these heads and hands, so gay to-day in their mock fight, would be grimly and sadly at work by and by, in real encounter with some real enemy. "Do you see that man, Daisy?" whispered Preston suddenly in my ear. "That one talking to a lady in blue �" We were on the parade ground, among a crowd of spectators, for the hotels were very full, and the Point very gay now. I said I saw him. "That is a great man." "Is he?" I said, looking and wondering if a great man could hide behind such a physiognomy. "Other people think so, I can tell you," said Preston. "Nobody knows what that man can do. That is Davis of Mississippi." The name meant nothing to me then. I looked at him as I would have looked at another man. And I did not like what I saw. Something of sinister, nothing noble, about the countenance; power there might be � Preston said there was � but the power of the fox and the vulture it seemed to me; sly, crafty, false, selfish, cruel. "If nobody knows what he can do, how is it so certain that he is a great man?" I asked. Preston did not answer. "I hope there are not many great men that look like him," I went on. "Nonsense, Daisy!" said Preston, in an energetic whisper. "That is Davis of Mississippi." "Well?" said I. "That is no more to me than if he were Jones of New York." "Daisy!" said Preston. "If you are not a true Southerner, I will never love you any more." "What do you mean by a true Southerner? I do not understand." "Yes, you do. A true Southerner is always a Southerner, and takes the part of a Southerner in every dispute, � right or wrong." "What makes you dislike Northerners so much?" "Cowardly Yankees!" was Preston's reply. "You must have an uncomfortable time among them, if you feel so," I said. "There are plenty of the true sort here. I wish you were in Paris, Daisy; or somewhere else." "Why?" I said, laughing. "Safe with my mother, or your mother. Yon want teaching. You are too latitudinarian. And you are too thick with the Yankees, by half." I let this opinion alone, as I could do nothing with it; and our conversation broke off with Preston in a very bad humour. The next day, when we were deep in the woods, I asked Dr. Sandford if he knew Mr. Davis of Mississippi. He answered yes, rather drily. I knew the doctor knew everybody. I asked, why Preston called him a great man. "Does he call him a great man?" Dr. Sandford asked. "Do you?" "No, not I, Daisy. But that may not hinder the fact. And I may not have Mr. Gary's means of judging." "What means can he have?" I said. "Daisy," said Dr. Sandford suddenly, when I had forgotten the question in plunging through a thicket of brushwood, � "if the North and the South should split on the subject of slavery, what side would you take?" "What do you mean by a 'split'?" I asked slowly, in my wonderment. "The States are not precisely like a perfect crystal, Daisy; and there is an incipient cleavage somewhere about Mason and Dixon's line." "I do not know what line that is." "No. Well, for practical purposes, you may take it as the line between the slave States and the free." "But how could there be a split?" I asked. "There is a wedge applied even now, Daisy � the question whether the new States forming out of our Western territories, shall have slavery in them or shall be free States." I was silent upon this; and we walked and climbed for a little distance, without my remembering our geological or mineralogical, or any other objects in view. "The North say," Dr. Sandford then went on, "that these States shall be free. The South � or some men at the South � threaten that if they be, the South will split from the North, have nothing to do with us, and set up for themselves." "Who is to decide it?" I asked. "The people. This fall the election will be held for the next President; and that will show. If a slavery man is chosen, we shall know that a majority of the nation go with the Southern view." "If not?" � "Then there may be trouble, Daisy." "What sort of trouble?" I asked hastily. Dr. Sandford hesitated, and then said, "I do not know how far people will go." I mused, and forgot the sweet flutter of green leaves, and smell of moss and of hemlock, and golden bursts of sunshine, amongst which we were pursuing our way. Preston's strange heat and sudden Southernism, Mr. Davis's wile and greatness, a coming disputed election, quarrels between the people where I was born and the people where I was brought up, divisions and jealousies, floated before my mind in unlovely and confused visions. Then, remembering my father and my mother and Gary Mc Farlane, and others whom I had known, I spoke again. "Whatever the Southern people say, they will do, Dr. Sandford." "_Provided_ �" said the doctor. "What, if you please?" "Provided the North will let them, Daisy." I thought privately they could not hinder. I thought they could not. Would there be a trial? Could it be possible there would be a trial? "But you have not answered my question," said the doctor. "Aren't you going to answer it?" "What question?" "As to the side you would take." "I do not want any more slave States, Dr. Sandford." "I thought so. Then you would be with the North." "But people will never be so foolish as to come to what you call a 'split,' Dr. Sandford." "Upon my word, Daisy, as the world is at present, the folly of a thing is no presumptive argument against its coming into existence. Look � here we shall get a nice piece of quartz for your collection." I came back to the primary rocks, and for the present dismissed the subject of the confusions existing on the surface of the earth; hoping sincerely that there would be no occasion for calling it up again. For some time I saw very little of Preston. He was busy, he said. My days flowed on like the summer sunshine, and were as beneficent. I was gaining strength every day. Dr. Sandford decreed that I must stay as long as possible. Then Mr. Sandford came, the doctor's brother, and added his social weight to ours party. Hardly needed, for I perceived that we were very much sought after; at least my companions. The doctor in especial was a very great favourite, both with men and women; who I notice are most ready to bestow their favour where it is least cared for. I don't know but Dr. Sandford cared for it; only he did not show that he did. The claims of society however began to interfere with my geological and other lessons. A few days after his brother's arrival, the doctor had been carried off by a party of gentlemen who were going back in the mountains to fish in the White Lakes. I was left to the usual summer delights of the place; which indeed to me were numberless; began with the echo of the morning gun, (or before) and ended not till the three taps of the drum at night. The cadets had gone into camp by this time; and the taps of the drum were quite near, as well as the shrill sweet notes of the fife at reveille and tattoo. The camp itself was a great pleasure to me; and at guard-mounting or parade I never failed to be in my place. Only to sit in the rear of the guard tents and watch the morning sunlight on the turf, and on the hills over the river, and shining down the camp alleys, was a rich satisfaction. Mrs. Sandford laughed at me; her husband said it was "natural," though I am sure he did not understand it a bit; but the end of all was, that I was left very often to go alone down the little path to the guard-tents among the crowd that twice a day poured out there from our hotel and met the crowd that came up from Cozzens's hotel below. So it was, one morning that I remember. Guard-mounting was always late enough to let one feel the sun's power; and it was a sultry morning, this. We were in July now, and misty, vapourous clouds moved slowly over the blue sky, seeming to intensify the heat of the unclouded intervals. But wonderful sweet it was; and I under the shade of my flat hat, with a little help from the foliage of a young tree, did not mind it at all. Every bit of the scene was a pleasure to me; I missed none of the details. The files of cadets in the camp alleys getting their arms inspected; the white tents themselves, with curtains tightly done up; here and there an officer crossing the camp ground and stopping to speak to an orderly; then the coming up of the band, the music, the marching out of the companies; the leisurely walk from the camp of the officer in charge, drawing on his white gloves; his stand and his attitude; and then the pretty business of the parade. All under that July sky; all under that flicker of cloud and sun, and the soft, sweet breath of air that sometimes stole to us to relieve the hot stillness; and all with that setting and background of cedars and young foliage and bordering hills over which the cloud shadows swept. Then came the mounting guard business. By and by Preston came to me. "Awfully hot, Daisy!" he said. "Yes, you are out in it," I said, compassionately. "What are _you_ out in it for?" "Why, I like it," I said. "How come you to be one of the red sashes this morning?" "I have been an officer of the guard this last twenty-four hours." "Since yesterday morning?" "Yes." "Do you like it, Preston?" "_Like_ it!" he said. "Like guard duty! Why, Daisy, when a fellow has left his shoe-string untied, or something or other like that, they put him on extra guard duty to punish him." "Did you ever do so, Preston?" "Did I ever do so?" he repeated savagely. "Do you think I have been raised like a Yankee, to take care of my shoes? That Blunt is just fit to stand behind a counter and measure inches!" I was very near laughing, but Preston's mood would not bear that. "I don't think it is beneath a gentleman to keep his shoe- strings tied," I said. "A gentleman can't always think of everything!" was Preston's answer. "Then you are glad you have only one year more at the Academy?" "Of course I am glad! I'll never be under Yankee rule again; not if I know it." "Suppose they elect a Yankee President?" I said; but Preston's look was so eager and so sharp at me that I was glad to cover my rash suggestion under another subject as soon as possible. "Are you going to be busy this afternoon?" I asked him. "No, I reckon not." "Suppose you come and go up to the Fort with me?" "What fort?" "Fort Putnam. I have never been there yet." "There is nothing on earth to go there for," said Preston shrugging his shoulders. "Just broil yourself in the sun, and get nothing for it. It's an awful pull up hill; rough, and all that; and nothing at the top but an old stone wall." "But there is the view!" I said. "You have got it down here � just as good. Just climb up the hotel stairs fifty times without stopping, and then look out of the thing at top � and you have been to Fort Putnam." "Why, I want to go to the top of Crow's Nest," I said. "Yes! I was ass enough to try that once," said Preston, "when I was just come, and thought I must do everything; but if anybody wants to insult me, let him just ask me to do it again!" Preston's mood was unmanageable. I had never seen him so in old times. I thought West Point did not agree with him. I listened to the bland, just then playing a fine air, and lamented privately to myself that brass instruments should be so much more harmonious than human tempers. Then the music ceased and the military movements drew my attention again. "They all walk like you," I observed carelessly, as I noticed a measured step crossing the camp ground. "Do they?" said Preston sneeringly. "I flatter myself I do not walk like all of them. If you notice more closely, Daisy, you will see a difference. You can tell a Southerner, on foot or on horseback, from the sons of tailors and farmers � strange if you couldn't!" "I think you are unjust, Preston," I said. "You should not talk so. Major Blunt walks as well and stands much better than any officer I have seen; and he is from Vermont; and Captain Percival is from South Carolina, and Mr. Hunter is from Virginia, and Colonel Forsyth is from Georgia. They are all of them less graceful than Major Blunt." "What do you think of Dr. Sandford?" said Preston in the same tone; but before I could answer I heard a call of "Gary! � Gary!" I looked round. In the midst of the ranks of spectators to our left stood a cadet, my friend of the omnibus. He was looking impatiently our way, and again exclaimed in a sort of suppressed shout � "Gary!" Preston heard him that time; started from my side, and placed himself immediately beside his summoner, in front of the guard tents and spectators. The two were in line, two or three yards separating them, and both facing towards a party drawn up at some little distance on the camp ground, which I believe were the relieving guard. I moved my own position to a place immediately behind them, where I spied an empty camp stool, and watched the two with curious eyes. Uniforms, and military conformities generally, are queer things, if you take the right point of view. Here were these two, a pair, and not a pair. The grey coat, and the white pantaloons, (they had all gone into white now) the little soldier's cap, were a counterpart in each of the other; the two even stood on the ground as if they were bound to be patterns each of the other; and when my acquaintance raised his arms and folded them after the approved fashion, to my great amusement Preston's arms copied the movement; and they stood like two brother statues, still from their heels to their cap rims. Except when once the right arm of my unknown friend was unbent to give a military sign, in answer to some demand or address from somebody, in front of him, which I did not hear. Yet as I watched, I began to discern how individual my two statues really were. I could not see faces, of course. But the grey coat on the one looked as if its shoulders had been more carefully brushed than had been the case with the other; the spotless pantaloons, which seemed to be just out of the laundress's basket, as I suppose they were, sat with a trimmer perfection in one case than in the other. Preston's pocket gaped, and was, I noticed, a little bit ripped; and when my eye got down to the shoes, his had not the black gloss of his companion's. With that one there was not, I think, a thread awry. And then, there was a certain relaxation in the lines of Preston's figure impossible to describe, stiff and motionless though he was; something which prepared one for a lax and careless movement when he moved. Perhaps this was fancy and only arose from my knowledge of the fact; but with the other no such fancy was possible. Still, but alert; motionless, but full of vigour; I expected what came; firm, quick, and easy action, as soon as he should cease to be a statue. So much for a back view of character; which engrossed me till my two statues went away. A little while after Preston came to me. "Are you here yet?" he said. "Don't you like to have me here?" "It's hot. And it is very stupid for you, I should think. Where is Mrs. Sandford?" "She thinks as you do, that it is stupid." "You ought not to be here without some one." "Why not? What cadet was that who called you, Preston?" "Called me? Nobody called me." "Yes he did. When you were sitting with me. Who was it?" "I don't know!" said Preston. "Goodbye. I shall be busy for a day or two." "Then you cannot go to Fort Putnam this afternoon?" "Fort Putnam! I should think not. It is going to be broiling to-day." And he left me. Things had gone wrong with Preston lately, I thought. But before I had made up my mind to move, two other cadets came before me. One of them Mrs. Sandford knew, and I slightly. "Miss Randolph, my friend Mr. Thorold has begged me to introduce him to you." It was _my_ friend of the omnibus. I think we liked each other at this very first moment. I looked up at a manly, well- featured face, just then lighted with a little smile of deference and recognition; but permanently lighted with the brightest and quickest hazel eyes that I ever saw. Something about the face pleased me on the instant. I believe it was the frankness. "I have to apologise for my rudeness, in calling a gentleman away from you, Miss Randolph, in a very unceremonious manner, a little while ago." "Oh, I know," I said. "I saw what you did with him." "Did I do anything with him?" "Only called him to his duty, I suppose." "Precisely. He was very excusable for forgetting it; but it might have been inconvenient." "Do you think it is ever excusable to forget duty?" I asked; and I was rewarded with a swift flash of fun in the hazel eyes, that came and went like forked lightning. "It is not easily pardoned here," he answered. "People don't make allowances?" "Not officers," he said, with a smile. "Soldiers lose the character of men, when they are on duty; they are only reckoned machines." "You do not mean that exactly, I suppose." "Indeed I do!" he said, with another slighter corruscation. "Intelligent machines, of course, but with no more latitude of action. � You would not like that life?" "I should think you would not." "Ah, but we hope to rise to the management of the machines, some day." I thought I saw in his face that he did. I remarked that I should not think the management of mere machines could be very pleasant. "Why not?" "It is degrading to the machines, � and so, I should think, it would not be very elevating to those who make them machines." "That is exactly the use they propose them to serve, though," he said, looking amused; "the elevation of themselves." "I know" � I said, thinking that the end was ignoble too. "You do not approve it?" he said. I felt those brilliant eyes dancing all over me, and, I fancied, over my thoughts too. I felt a little shy of going on to explain myself to one whom I knew so little. He turned the conversation, by asking me if I had seen all the lions yet? I said, I supposed not. "Have you been up to the old fort?" "I want to go there," I said; "but somebody told me to-day, there was nothing worth going for." "Has his report taken away your desire to make the trial?" "No, for I do not believe he is right." "Might I offer myself as a guide? I can be disengaged this afternoon; and I know all the ways to the fort. It would give me great pleasure." I felt it would give me great pleasure too, and so I told him. We arranged for the hour, and Mr. Thorold hastened away. CHAPTER XV. FORT PUTNAM. "I am going to Fort Putnam this afternoon, with Mr. Thorold," � I announced to Mrs. Sandford, after dinner. "Who is Mr. Thorold?" "One of the cadets." "One of the cadets! So it has got hold of you at last, Daisy!" "What, Mrs. Sandford?" "But Fort Putnam? My dearest child, it is very hot!" "Oh, yes, ma'am � I don't mind it." "Well, I am very glad, if you don't," said Mrs. Sandford. "And I am very glad Grant has taken himself off to the White Lakes. He gave nobody else any chance. It will do you a world of good." "What will?" I asked, wondering. "Amusement, dear, � amusement. Something a great deal better than Grant's 'elegies and 'ologies. Now this would never have happened if he had been at home." I did not understand her, but then I knew she did not understand the pursuits she so slighted; and it was beyond my powers to enlighten her. So I did not try. Mr. Thorold was punctual, and so was I; and we set forth at five o'clock, I at least as happy as it was possible to be. Warm � it was, yet; we went slowly down the road, in shadow and sunshine; tasting the pleasantness, it seems to me, of every tree, and feeling the sweetness of each breath; in that slight exhilaration of spirits which loses nothing and forgets nothing. At least I have a good memory for such times. There was a little excitement, no doubt, about going this walk with a cadet and a stranger, which helped the whole effect. I made use of my opportunity to gain a great deal of information which Dr. Sandford could not give. I wanted to understand the meaning and the use of many things I saw about the Point. Batteries and fortifications were a mysterious jumble to me; shells were a horrible novelty; the whole art and trade of a soldier, something well worth studying, but difficult to see as a reasonable whole. The adaptation of parts to an end, I could perceive; the end itself puzzled me. "Yet there has always been fighting," � said my companion. "Yes," � I assented. "Then we must be ready for it." But I was not prepared in this case with my answer. "Suppose we were unjustly attacked?" � said Mr. Thorold; and I thought every one of the gilt buttons on his grey jacket repelled the idea of a peaceable composition. "I don't know," � said I, pondering. "Why should the rule be different for nations and for individual people?" "What is your rule for individual people?" he asked, laughing, and looking down at me, as he held the gate open. I can see the look and the attitude now. "It is not my rule," I said. "_The_ rule, then. What should a man do, Miss Randolph, when he is unjustly attacked?" I felt I was on very untenable ground, talking to a soldier. If I was right, what was the use of his grey coat, or of West Point itself. We were mounting the little steep pitch beyond the gate, where the road turns; and I waited till I got upon level footing. Then catching a bright inquisitive glance of the hazel eyes, I summoned up my courage and spoke. "I have no rule but the Bible, Mr. Thorold." "The Bible! What does the Bible say? It tells of a great deal of fighting." "Of bad men." "Yes, but the Jews were commanded to fight, were they not?" "To punish bad men. But we have got another rule since that." "What is it?" " 'If any man smite thee on the one cheek, turn to him the other also.' " "Is it possible you think the Bible means that literally?" he said. "Do you think it would say what it did not mean?" "But try it by the moral effect; what sort of a fellow would a man be who did so, Miss Randolph?" "I think he would be fine!" � I said; for I was thinking of One who, "when He was reviled, reviled not again; when He suffered, He threatened not." But I could not tell all my thought to Mr. Thorold; no more than I could to Dr. Sandford. "And would you have him stand by and see another injured?" my companion asked. "Wouldn't you have him fight in such a case?" I had not considered that question. I was silent. "Suppose he sees wrong done; wrong that a few well planted blows � or shots, if you like; shots are but well directed blows," he said, smiling; � "wrong that a few well planted blows would prevent. � Suppose somebody were to attack you now, for instance; ought I not to fight for it?" "I should like to have you," I said. "Come!" he said, laughing, and stretching out his hand to shake mine, � "I see you will let me keep my profession, after all. And why should not a nation do, on a larger scale, what a man may do?" "Why it may," I said. "Then � West Point is justified." "But very few wars in the world are conducted on that principle," I said. "Very few. In fact I do not at this moment recollect the instances. But you would allow a man, or a nation to fight in self-defence, � would not you?" I pondered the matter. "I suppose � he has a right to protect his life," I said. "But 'if a man smite thee on the cheek,' � _that_ does not touch life." "What would you think of a man," said my companion gravely, � "who should suffer some one to give him such a blow, without taking any notice of it?" "If he did it because he was _afraid_," I said, "of course I shouldn't like that. But if he did it to obey the Bible � I should think it was noble. The Bible says 'it is glory, to pass by a transgression.' " "But suppose he was afraid of being thought afraid?" I looked at my companion, and felt instinctively sure that neither this nor my first supposed case would ever be true of him. Further, I felt sure that no one would ever be hardy enough to give the supposed occasion. I can hardly tell how I knew; it was by some of those indescribable natural signs. We were slowly mounting the hill; and in every powerful, lithe movement, in the very set of his shoulders and head, and as well in the sparkle of the bright eye which looked round at me, I read the tokens of a spirit which I thought neither had known nor ever would know the sort of indignity he had described. He was talking for talk's sake. But while I looked, the sparkle of the eye grew very merry. "You are judging me, Miss Randolph," he said. "Judge me gently." "No indeed," I said. "I was thinking that you are not speaking from experience." "I am not better than you think me," he said, laughing and shaking his head. And the laugh was so full of merriment that it infected me. I saw he was very much amused; I thought he was a little interested too. "You know," he went on, "my education has been unfavourable. I have fought for a smaller matter than that you judge insufficient." "Did it do any good?" I asked. He laughed again; picked up a stone and threw it into the midst of a thick tree to dislodge something � I did not see what; and finally looked round at me with the most genial amusement and good nature mixed. I knew he was interested now. "I don't know how much good it did to anybody but myself," he said. "It comforted me � at the time. Afterwards, I remember thinking it was hardly worth while. But if a fellow should suffer an insult, as you say, and not take any notice of it, what do you suppose would become of him in the corps � or in the world either?" "He would be a noble man, all the same," I said. "But people like to be well thought of by their friends and society." "I know that." "He would be sent to Coventry unmitigatedly." "I cannot help it, Mr. Thorold," I said. "If anybody does wrong because he is afraid of the consequences of doing right, he is another sort of a coward � that is all!" Mr. Thorold laughed, and catching my hand as we came to a turn in the road where the woods fell away right and left, brought me quick round the angle, without letting me go to the edge of the bank to get the view. "You must not look till you get to the top," he said. "What an odd road!" I remarked. "It just goes by zigzags." "The only way to get up at all, without travelling round the hill. That is, for horses." It was steep enough for foot wayfarers, but the road was exceeding comfortable that day. We were under the shade of trees all the way; and talk never lagged. Mr. Thorold was infinitely pleasant to me; as well as unlike any one of all my former acquaintances. There was a wealth of life in him, that delighted my quieter nature; an amount of animal spirits that were just a constant little impetus to me; and from the first I got an impression of strength, such as weakness loves to have near. Bodily strength he had also, in perfection; but I mean now the firm self-reliant nature, quick at resources, ready to act as to decide, and full of the power that has its spring and magazine in character alone. So, enjoying each other, we went slowly up the zigzags of the hill, very steep in places, and very rough to the foot; but the last pitch was smoother, and there the grey old bulwarks of the ruined fortification faced down upon us, just above. "Now," said Mr. Thorold, coming on the outside of me to prevent it, � "don't look!" � and we turned into the entrance of the fort, between two outstanding walls. Going through, we hurried up a little steep rise, till we got to a smooth spread of grass, sloping gently to a level with the top of the wall. Where this slope reached its highest, where the parapet (as Mr Thorold called it) commanded a clear view from the eastern side, there he brought me, and then permitted me to stand still. I do not know how long I stood quite still without speaking. "Will you sit down?" said my companion; and I found he had spread a pocket-handkerchief on the bank for me. The turf in that place was about eighteen inches higher than the top of the wall, making a very convenient seat. I thought of Queen Elizabeth and Sir Walter Raleigh; but I also thought the most queenly thing I could do was to take the offered civility, and I sat down. My eyes were bewildered with the beauty; they turned from one point to another with a sort of wondering, insatiable enjoyment. There, beneath our feet, lay the little level green- plain; its roads and trees all before us as in a map, with the lines of building enclosing it on the south and west. A cart and oxen were slowly travelling across the road between the library and the hotel, looking like minute ants dragging a crumb along. Beyond them was the stretch of brown earth, where the cavalry exercises forbade a blade of grass to show itself. And beyond that, at the further edge of the plain, the little white camp; its straight rows of tents and the alleys between all clearly marked out. Round all this the river curved, making a promontory of it; a promontory with fringed banks, and levelled at top, as it seemed, just to receive the Military Academy. On the other side the river, a long sweep of gentle hills, coloured in the fair colours of the evening; curving towards the north-east into a beautiful circle of soft outlines back of the mountain which rose steep and bold at the water's edge. This mountain was the first of the group I had seen from my hotel window. Houses and churches nestled in the curve of tableland, under the mountain. Due north, the parapet of the fort rising sharply at its northern angle a few feet from where I sat, hindered my full view. Southerly, the hills swept down, marking the course of the river for many a mile; but again from where I sat I could not see how far. With a sigh of pleasure my eye came back to the plain and the white tents. "Is guard duty very disagreeable?" I asked, thinking of Preston's talk in the morning. "Why, at mid-day, with the thermometer at 90, it is not exactly the amusement one would choose," said Mr. Thorold. "I like it at night well enough." "What do you do?" "Nothing, but walk up and down, two hours at a time." "What is the use of it?" "To keep order, and make sure that nothing goes in or out that has no business to do it." "And they have to carry their guns," I said. "Their muskets � yes." "Are they very heavy?" "No. Pretty heavy for an arm that is new to it. I never remember I have mine." "Mr. Caxton said," (Mr. Caxton was the cadet who had introduced Mr. Thorold to me) � "Mr. Caxton told Mrs. Sandford that the new cadets are sometimes so exhausted with their tour of duty that they have to be carried off the ground." Mr. Thorold looked at me, a very keen bright look of his hazel eyes; but he said nothing. "And he said, that the little white boxes at the corners of the camp, were monuments to those who had fallen on duty." "Just four of them!" � said Mr. Thorold, settling his cap down over his brows; but then he laughed, and I laughed; how we laughed! "Don't you want to see the rest of it?" he said, jumping up. I did not know there was anything more to see. Now, however, he brought me up to the high angle of the parapet that had intercepted my view to the north. I could hardly get away from there. The full magnificence of the mountains in that quarter; the river's course between them, the blue hills of the distant Shawangunk range, and the woody chasm immediately at my feet, stretching from the height where I stood over to the crest of the Crow's nest; it took away my breath. I sat down again, while Mr. Thorold pointed out localities; and did not move, till I had to make way for another party of visitors who were coming. Then Mr. Thorold took me all round the edge of the fort. At the south, we looked down into the woody gorge where Dr. Sandford and I had hunted for fossil infusoria. From here the long channel of the river running southerly, with its bordering ridge of hills, and above all, the wealth and glory of the woodland and the upheaved rocks before me, were almost as good as the eastern view. The path along the parapet in places was narrow and dizzy; but I did not care for it, and my companion went like a chamois. He helped me over the hard places; hand in hand we ran down the steep slopes; and as we went we got very well acquainted. At last we climbed up the crumbling masonry to a small platform which commanded the view both east and south. "What is this place for?" I asked. "To plant guns on." "They could not reach to the river, could they?" "Much further � the guns of now-a-days." "And the old vaults under here � I saw them as we passed by, � were they prisons, places for prisoners?" "A sort of involuntary prisoners," said Mr. Thorold. "They are only casemates; prisons for our own men occasionally, when shot and shell might be flying too thick; hiding places, in short. Would you like to go to the laboratory some day, where we learn to make different kinds of shot, and fire-works and such things?" "Oh, very much! But, Mr. Thorold, Mr. Caxton told me that André was confined in one of these places under here; he said his name was written upon the stones in a dark corner, and that I would find it." Mr. Thorold looked at me, with an expression of such contained fun that I understood it at once; and we bad another laugh together. I began to wonder whether every one that wore a uniform of grey and white with gilt buttons made it his amusement to play upon the ignorance of uninitiated people; but on reflection I could not think Mr. Thorold had done so. I resolved to be careful how I trusted the rest of the cadets, even Preston; and indeed, my companion remarked that I had better not believe anything I heard without asking him. We ran down and inspected the casemates; and then took our seats again for one last look on the eastern parapet. The river and hills were growing lovely in cooler lights; shadow was stealing over the plain. "Shall I see you to-morrow evening?" my companion asked suddenly. "To-morrow evening?" I said. "I don't know. I suppose we shall be at home." "Then I shall _not_ see you. I meant, at the hop." "The hop?" I repeated. "What is that?" "The cadets' hop. During the encampment we have a hop three times a week � a cotillion party. I hope you will be there. Haven't you received an invitation?" "I think not," I said. "I have heard nothing about it." "I will see that that is set right," Mr. Thorold remarked. "And now, do you know we must go down? � that is, _I_ must; and I do not think I can leave you here." "Oh, you have to be on parade!" I exclaimed, starting up; "and it is almost time! �" It was indeed, and though my companion put his own concerns in the background very politely, I would be hurried. We ran down the hill, Mr. Thorold's hand helping me over the rough way and securing me from stumbling. In very few minutes we were again at the gate and entered upon the post limits. And there were the band, in dark column, just coming up from below the hill. We walked the rest of the way in orderly fashion enough, till we got to the hotel gate; there Mr. Thorold touched his cap and left me, on a run, for the camp. I watched till I saw he got there in time; and then went slowly in; feeling that a great piece of pleasure was over. I had had a great many pieces of pleasure in my life, but rarely a _companion_. Dr. Sandford, Miss Cardigan, my dear Captain Drummond, were all much in advance of my own age; my servants were my servants, at Magnolia; and Preston had never associated with me on just the footing of equality. I went up stairs thinking that I should like to see a great deal more of Mr. Thorold. Mrs. Sandford was on the piazza when I came down, and alone; everybody was gone to parade. She gave me a little billet. "Well, Daisy! � are you walked to death, my dear? Certainly, West Point agrees with you! What a colour! And what a change! You are not the same creature that we brought away from New York. Well, was it worth going for, all the way to see that old ruin? My dear! I wish your father and mother could see you." I stood still, wishing they could. "There is more pleasure for you," � Mrs. Sandford went on. "What is this, ma'am?" "An invitation. The cadets have little parties for dancing, it seems, three times a week, in summer; poor fellows! it is all the recreation they get, I suspect; and, of course, they want all the ladies that can be drummed up, to help them dance. It's quite a charity, they tell me. I expect I shall have to dance myself." I looked at the note, and stood mute, thinking what I should do. Ever since Mr. Thorold had mentioned it, up on the hill, the question had been recurring to me. I had never been to a party in my life, since my childish days at Melbourne. Aunt Gary's parties at Magnolia had been of a different kind from this; not assemblies of young people. At Mme. Ricard's I had taken dancing lessons, at my mother's order; and in her drawing room I had danced quadrilles and waltzes with my schoolfellows; but Mme. Ricard was very particular, and nobody else was ever admitted. I hardly knew what it was to which I was now invited. To dance with the cadets! I knew only three of them; however, I supposed that I might dance with those three. I had an impression that amusements of this kind were rather found in the houses of the gay than the sober-minded; but this was peculiar, to help the cadets dance, Mrs. Sandford said. I thought Mr. Thorold wished I would come. I wondered Preston had not mentioned it. He, I knew, was very fond of dancing. I mused till the people came back from parade and we were called to tea; but all my musings went no further. I did not decide not to go. "Now, Daisy," said Mrs. Sandford the next morning, "if you are going to the hop to-night, I don't intend to have you out in the sun burning yourself up. It will be terribly hot; and you must keep quiet. I am so thankful Grant is away! he would have you all through the woods, hunting for nobody knows what, and bring you home scorched." "Dear Mrs. Sandford," I said, "I can dance just as well, if I _am_ burnt." "That's a delusion, Daisy. You are a woman, after all, my dear, � or you will be; and you may as well submit to the responsibility. And you may not know it, but you have a wonderfully fine skin, my dear; it always puts me in mind of fresh cream." "Cream is yellow," I said. "Not all the cream that ever _I_ saw," said Mrs. Sandford. "Daisy, you need not laugh. You will be a queen, my dear, when you cease to be a child. What are you going to wear to-night?" "I don't know, ma'am; anything cool, I suppose." "It won't matter much," Mrs. Sandford repeated. But yet I found she cared and it did matter, when it came to the dressing time. However she was satisfied with one of the embroidered muslins my mother had sent me from Paris. I think I see myself now, seated in the omnibus and trundling over the plain to the cadets' dancing rooms. The very hot, still July night seems round me again. Lights were twinkling in the camp, and across the plain in the houses of the professors and officers; lights above in the sky too, myriads of them, mocking the tapers that go out so soon. I was happy with a little flutter of expectation; quietly enjoying meanwhile the novel loveliness of all about me, along with the old familiar beauty of the abiding stars and dark blue sky. It was a five minutes of great enjoyment. But all natural beauty vanished from my thoughts when the omnibus drew up at the door of the Academic Building. I was entering on something untried. At first sight, when we went into the room, it burst upon me that it was very pretty. The room was dressed with flags, � and evergreens, � and with uniforms; and undoubtedly there is charm in colour, and a gilt button and a gold strap do light up the otherwise sombre and heavy figures of our Western masculine costume. The white and rosy and blue draperies and scarfs that were floating around the forms of the ladies, were met and set off by the grey and white of the cadets and the heavier dark blue of the officers. I never anywhere else saw so pretty gatherings. I stood quite enchanted with the pleasure of the eye; till to my startled astonishment, Captain Pcrcival came up and asked me to dance the first dance with him. I had not expected to dance with anybody except Preston and Mr. Thorold, and perhaps Mr. Caxton. Mr. Thorold came up before the dance began, and I presented him to Mrs. Sandford. He asked me for the first dance, then for the second. And there was no more time for anything, for the dancing began. I had always liked dancing at school. Here the music was far better and the scene infinitely prettier; it was very pleasant, I thought. That is, when Captain Percival did not talk; for he talked nothings. I did not know how to answer him. Of course it had been very hot to-day; and the rooms were very full; and there were a good many people at the hotel. I had nothing but an insipid affirmative to give to these propositions. Then said Captain Percival insinuatingly � "You are from the South?" I had nothing but an insipid assent again. "I was sure of it," he said. "I could not be mistaken." I wondered how he knew, but it did not suit me to ask him; and we danced on again till the dance came to an end. I was glad when it did. In a minute more I was standing by Mrs. Sandford and introduced to Captain Boulanger, who also asked me to dance, and engaged me for the next but one; and then Mr. Caxton brought up one of his brother cadets and presented him, and he asked me, and looked disappointed when for both the next dances I was obliged to refuse him. I was quite glad when Mr. Thorold came and carried me off. The second quadrille went better than the first; and I was enjoying myself unfeignedly, when in a pause of the dance I remarked to my partner that there seemed to be plenty of ladies here to-night. "Plenty," he said. "It is very kind of them. What then?" "Only �" I said � "so many people came and asked me to dance in the few minutes I stood by Mrs. Sandford, and one of them looked quite disappointed that he could not have me." I was met by a look of the keenest inquiry, followed instantly and superseded by another flash of expression. I could not comprehend it at the time. The eyes, which had startled me by their steely gleam, softened wonderfully with what looked like nothing so much as reverence, along with some other expression which I could neither read at the moment nor fathom afterwards. Both looks were gone before I could ask him what they meant, or perhaps I should have asked; for I was beginning to feel very much at my ease with Mr. Thorold. I trusted him. "Did he want you for this dance?" was all he said. "For this, and for the next," I answered. "Both gone! Well, may I have the third, and so disappoint somebody else?" he said laughing. If I did not talk much with Mr. Thorold in intervals of dancing, at least we did not talk nonsense. In the next pause he remarked that he saw I was fond of this amusement. "I think I like everything," I told him. "Are the hills better than this?" he whispered. "Oh, yes!" I said. "Don't you think so?" He smiled, and said "truly he did." "You have been over the Flirtation walk, of course?" he added. "I do not know which it is." He smiled again, that quick illuminating smile which seemed to sparkle in his hazel eyes; and nodded his head a little. "I had the pleasure to see you there, very early one morning." "Oh, is that it?" I said. "I have been down that way from the hotel very often." "That way leads to it. You were upon it, where you were sitting. You have not been through it yet? May I show it to you some day? To-morrow?" I agreed joyfully; and then asked who were certain of the cadets whom I saw about the room, with rosettes of ribbon and long streamers on the breast of their grey coats? "Those are the Managers," said my companion. "You will see enough of them. It is their duty to introduce poor fellows who want partners." I did not see much of them, however, that evening. As soon as I was released from that dance, Captain Percival brought up Captain Lascelles; and somebody else, Mr. Sandford, I believe, introduced Lt. Vaux, and Major Fairbairn; and Major Pitt was another, I believe. And Colonel Walruss brought up his son, who was in the corps of cadets. They all wanted to dance with me; so it was lucky Mr. Thorold had secured his second dance, or I could not have given it to him. I went over and over again the same succession of topics, in the intervals of standing still. How the day had been warm, and the evening kept up its character; the hotels were full now; the cadets well off to have so many ladies; dancing a pleasant pastime, and West Point a nice place. I got so accustomed to the remarks I might expect, that my mouth was ready with an assenting "yes" before the speaker began. But the talking was a small part of the business after all; and the evening went merrily for me, till on a sudden a shrill piercing summons of drum and fife, rolling as it were into our very ears, put a stop to proceedings. Midway in the movement the dancers stopped; there was a hurried bow and curtsey, and an instant scattering of all the grey-coated part of the assembly. The "hop" was over. We went home in the warm moonlight, I thinking that I had had a very nice time, and glad that Mr. Thorold was coming to take me to walk to-morrow. CHAPTER XVI. HOPS. The afternoon was very sultry; however Mr. Thorold came, and we went for our walk. It was so sultry we went very leisurely, and also met few people; and instead of looking very carefully at the beauties of nature and art we had come to see, we got into a great talk as we strolled along; indeed, sometimes we stopped and sat down to talk. Mr. Thorold told me about himself, or rather, about his home in Vermont and his old life there. He had no mother, and no brothers nor sisters; only his father. And he described to me the hills of his native country, and the farm his father cultivated, and the people, and the life on the mountains. Strong and free and fresh and independent and intelligent � that was the impression his talk made upon me, of the country and people and life alike. Sometimes my thoughts took a private turn of their own, branching off. "Mr. Thorold," said I, "do you know Mr. Davis, of Mississippi?" "Davis? No, I don't know him," he said shortly. "You have seen him?" "Yes, I have seen him often enough; and his wife, too." "Do you like his looks?" "I do not." "He looks to me like a bad man �" I said slowly. I said it to Mr. Thorold; I would hardly have made the remark to another at West Point. "He is about bad business �" was my companion's answer. "And yet � I do not know what he is about; but I distrust the man." "Mr. Thorold," said I, beginning cautiously, "do you want to have slavery go into the territories?" "No," said he. "Do you?" "No. What do you think would happen if a Northern President should be elected in the fall?" "Then slavery would _not_ go into the territories," he said, looking a little surprised at me. "The question would be settled." "But do you know some people say � some people at the South say � that if a Northern President is elected, the Southern States will not submit to him?" "Some people talk a great deal of nonsense," said Mr. Thorold. "How could they help submitting?" "They say � it is said � that they would break off from the North and set up for themselves. It is not foolish people that say it, Mr. Thorold." "Will you pardon me, Miss Randolph, but I think they would be very foolish people that would do it." "Oh, I think so too," I said. "I mean, that some people who are not foolish, believe that it might happen." "Perhaps," said Mr. Thorold. "I never heard anything of it before. You are from the South yourself, Miss Randolph?" he added, looking at me. "I was born there," I said. And a little silence fell between us. I was thinking. Some impression, got I suppose from my remembrance of father and mother, Preston, and others whom I had known, forbade me to dismiss quite so lightly, as too absurd to be true, the rumour I had heard. Moreover, I trusted Dr. Sandford's sources of information, living as he did in habits of close social intercourse with men of influence and position at Washington, both Southern and Northern. "Mr. Thorold" � I broke the silence, � "if the South should do such a thing, what would happen?" "There would be trouble," he said. "What sort of trouble?" "Might be all sorts," said Mr. Thorold, laughing; "it would depend on how far people's folly would carry them." "But suppose the Southern States should just do that; � say they would break off and govern themselves?" "They would be like a bad boy that has to be made to take medicine." "How could you _make_ them?" I asked, feeling unreasonably grave about the question. "You can see, Miss Randolph, that such a thing could not be permitted. A Government that would let any part of its subjects break away at their pleasure from its rule, would deserve to go to pieces. If one part might go, another part might go. There would be no nation left." "But how could you _help_ it?" I asked. "I don't know whether we could help it," he said; "but we would try." "You do not mean, that it would come to _fighting?_" "I do not think they would be such fools. I hope we are supposing a very unlikely thing, Miss Randolph." I hoped so. But that impression of Southern character troubled me yet. Fighting! I looked at the peaceful hills, feeling as if indeed "all the foundations of the earth" would be "out of course." "What would _you_ do in case it came to fighting?" said my neighbour. The words startled me out of my meditations. "I could not do anything." "I beg your pardon. Your favour � your countenance, would do much; on one side or the other. You would fight � in effect � as surely as I should." I looked up. "Not against you," I said; for I could not bear to be misunderstood. There was a strange sparkle in Mr. Thorold's eye; but those flashes of light came and went so like flashes, that I could not always tell what they meant. The tone of his voice however I knew expressed pleasure. "How comes that?" he said. "You _are_ Southern?" "Do I look it?" I asked. "Pardon me � yes." "How, Mr. Thorold?" "You must excuse me. I cannot tell you. But you _are_ South?" "Yes," I said. "At least all my friends are Southern. I was born there." "You have one Northern friend," said Mr. Thorold, as we rose up to go on. He said it with meaning. I looked up and smiled. There was a smile in his eyes, mixed with something more. I think our compact of friendship was made and settled then and at once. He stretched out his hand as if for a further ratification. I put mine in it, while he went on, "How comes it then that you take such a view of such a question?" There had sprung up a new tone in our intercourse, of more familiarity, and more intimate trust. It gave infinite content to me; and I went on to answer, telling him about my Northern life. Drawn on, from question to question, I detailed at length my Southern experience also, and put my new friend in possession not only of my opinions, but of the training under which they had been formed. My hand, I remember, remained in his while I talked, as if he had been my brother; till he suddenly put it down and plunged into the bushes for a bunch of wild roses. A party of walkers came round an angle a moment after; and, waking up to a consciousness of our surroundings, we found, or _I_ did, that we were just at the end of the rocky walk, where we must mount up and take to the plain. The evening was falling very fair over plain and hill when we got to the upper level. Mr. Thorold proposed that I should go and see the camp, which I liked very much to do. So he took me all through it, and showed and explained all sorts of things about the tents and the way of life they lived in them. He said he should like it very much, if he only had more room; but three or four in one little tent nine feet by nine, gave hardly, as he said, "a chance to a fellow." The tents and the camp alleys were full of cadets, loitering about, or talking, or busy with their accoutrements; here and there I saw an officer. Captain Percival bowed, Captain Lascelles spoke. I looked for Preston, but I could see him nowhere. Then Mr. Thorold brought me into his own tent, introduced one or two cadets who were loitering there and who immediately took themselves away; and made me sit down on what he called a "locker." The tent curtains were rolled tight up, as far as they would go, and so were the curtains of every other tent; most beautiful order prevailed everywhere and over every trifling detail. "Well," said Mr. Thorold, sitting down opposite me on a candle-box � "how do you think you would like camp life?" "The tents are too close together," I said. He laughed, with a good deal of amusement. "That will do!" he said. "You begin by knocking the camp to pieces." "But it is beautiful," I went on. "And not comfortable. Well, it is pretty comfortable," he said. "How do you do when it storms very hard � at night?" "Sleep." "Don't you ever get wet?" "_That_ makes no difference." "Sleep in the wet!" said I. And he laughed again at me. It was not banter. The whole look and air of the man testified to a thorough soldierly, manly contempt of little things � of all things that might come in the way of order and his duty. An intrinsic independence and withal control of circumstances, in so far as the mind can control them. I read the power to do it. But I wondered to myself if he never got homesick in that little tent and full camp. It would not do to touch the question. "Do you know Preston Gary?" I asked. "He is a cadet." "I know him." I thought the tone of the words, careless as they were, signified little value for the knowledge. "I have not seen him anywhere," I remarked. "Do you want to see him? He has seen you." "No, he cannot," I said, "or he would have come to speak to me." "He would if he could," replied Mr. Thorold, � "no doubt; but the liberty is wanting. He is on guard. We crossed his path as we came into the camp." "On guard!" I said. "Is he? Why, he was on guard only a day or two ago. Does it come so often?" "It comes pretty often in Gary's case," said my companion. "Does it?" I said. "He does not like it." "No," said Mr. Thorold merrily. "It is not a favourite amusement in most cases." "Then why does he have so much of it?" "Gary is not fond of discipline." I guessed this might be true. I knew enough of Preston for that. But it startled me. "Does he not obey the regulations?" I asked presently, in a lowered tone. Mr. Thorold smiled. "He is a friend of yours, Miss Randolph?" "Yes," I said. "He is my mother's nephew." "Then he is your cousin?" said my companion. Another of those penetrative glances fell on me. They were peculiar; they flashed upon me, or through me, as keen and clear as the flash of a sabre in the sun; and out of eyes in which a sunlight of merriment or benignity was even then glowing. Both glowed upon me just at this moment, so I did not mind the keen investigation. Indeed I never minded it. I learned to know it as one of Mr. Thorold's peculiarities. Now, Dr. Sandford had a good eye for reading people, but it never flashed, unless under strong excitement. Mr. Thorold's were dancing and flashing and sparkling with fifty things by turns; their fund of amusement and power of observation were the first things that struck me, and they attracted me too. "Then he is your cousin?" "Of course, he is my cousin." I thought Mr. Thorold seemed a little bit grave and silent for a moment; then he rose up, with that benign look of his eyes glowing all over me, and told me there was the drum for parade. "Only the first drum," he added; so I need not be in a hurry. Would I go home before parade? I thought I would. If Preston was pacing up and down the side of the camp ground, I thought I did not want to see him nor to have him see me; as he was there for what I called disgrace. Moreover I had a secret presentiment of a breezy discussion with him the next time there was a chance. And I was not disappointed. The next day, in the afternoon he came to see us. Mrs. Sandford and I were sitting on the piazza, where the heat of an excessively sultry day was now relieved a little by a slender breeze coming out of the north- west. It was very hot still. Preston sat down and made conversation in an abstracted way for a little while. "We did not see you at the hop the other night, Mr. Gary," Mrs. Sandford remarked. "No. Were you there?" said Preston. "Everybody was there � except you." "And Daisy? Were _you_ there, Daisy?" "Certainly," Mrs. Sandford responded. "Everybody else could have been better missed." "I did not know you went there," said Preston, in something so like a growl that Mrs. Sandford lifted her eyes to look at him. "I do not wonder you are jealous," she said composedly. "Jealous!" said Preston, with growl the second. "You had more reason than you knew." Preston grumbled something about the hops being "stupid places." I kept carefully still. "Daisy, did _you_ go?" I looked up, and said yes. "Whom did you dance with?" "With everybody," said Mrs. Sandford. "That is, so far as the length of the evening made it possible. Blue and grey, and all colours." "I don't want you to dance with everybody," said Preston, in a more undertone growl. "There is no way to prevent it," said Mrs. Sandford, "but to be there and ask her yourself." I did not thank Mrs. Sandford, privately for this suggestion; which Preston immediately followed up by enquiring "if we were going to the hop to-night?" "Certainly," Mrs. Sandford said. "It's too confounded hot!" "Not for us who are accustomed to the climate," Mrs. Sandford said, with spirit. "It's a bore altogether," muttered Preston. "Daisy, are you going to-night?" "I suppose so." "Well, if you must go, you may as well dance with me as with anybody. So tell anybody else that you are engaged. I will take care of you." "Don't you wish to dance with anybody except me?" "I do not," said Preston slowly. "As I said, it is too hot. I consider the whole thing a bore." "You shall not be bored for me," I said. "I refuse to dance with you. I hope I shall not see you there at all." "Daisy!" "Well?" "Come down and take a little walk with me." "You said, it is too hot." "But you will dance?" "You will not dance." "I want to speak to you, Daisy." "You may speak," I said. I did not want to hear him, for there were no indications of anything agreeable in Preston's manner. "Daisy!" he said, � "I do not know you." "You used to know her," said Mrs. Sandford; "that is all." "Will you come and walk with me?" said Preston, almost angrily. "I do not think it would be pleasant," I said. "You were walking yesterday afternoon." "Yes!" "Come and walk up and down the piazza, anyhow. You can do that." I could, and did not refuse. He chose the sunny western side, because no one was there. However, the sun's rays were obscured under a thick haze and had been all day. "Whom were you with?" Preston enquired, as soon as we were out of earshot. "Do you mean yesterday?" "Of course I mean yesterday! I saw you cross in to the camp. With whom were you going there?" "Why did you not come to speak to me?" I said. "I was on duty. I could not." "I did not see you anywhere." "I was on guard. You crossed my path not ten feet off." "Then you must know whom I was with, Preston," I said, looking at him. "_You_ don't know � that is the thing. It was that fellow Thorold." "How came you to be on guard again so soon? You were on guard just a day or two before." "That is all right enough. It is about military things, that you do not understand. It is all right enough, except these confounded Yankees. And Thorold is another." "Who is _one?_" I said, laughing. "You say he is _another_." "Blunt is one." "I like Major Blunt." "Daisy," said Preston, stopping short, "you ought to be with your mother. There is nobody to take care of you here. How came you to know that Thorold?" "He was introduced to me. What is the matter with him?" "You ought not to be going about with him. He is a regular Yankee, I tell you." "What does that mean?" I said. "You speak it as if you meant something very objectionable. "I do. They are a cowardly set of tailors. They have no idea what a gentleman means, not one of them, unless they have caught the idea from a Southerner. I don't want you to have anything to do with them, Daisy. You must not dance with them, and you must not be seen with this Thorold. Promise me you will not." "Dr. Sandford is another," I said. "I can't help Dr. Sandford. He is your guardian. You must not go again with Thorold!" "Did you ever know _him_ cowardly?" I asked. I was sure that Preston coloured; whether with any feeling beside anger I could not make out; but the anger was certain. "What do you know about it?" he asked. "What do you?" I rejoined. But Preston changed more and more. "Daisy, promise me you will not have anything to do with these fellows. You are too good to dance with them. There are plenty of Southern people here now, and lots of Southern cadets." "Mr. Caxton is one," I said. "I don't like him." "He is of an excellent Georgia family," said Preston. "I cannot help that. He is neither gentlemanly in his habits, nor true in his speech." Preston hereupon broke out into an untempered abuse of Northern things in general and Northern cadets in particular, mingled with a repetition of his demands upon me. At length I turned from him. "This is very tiresome, Preston," I said; "and this side of the house is very warm. Of course I must dance with whoever asks me." "Well, I have asked you for this evening," he said, following me. "You are not to go," I said. "I shall not dance with you once," and I took my former place by Mrs. Sandford. Preston fumed; declared I was just like a piece of marble; and went away. I did not feel quite so impassive as he said I looked. "What are you going to wear to-night, Daisy?" Mrs. Sandford asked presently. "I don't know, ma'am." "But you must know soon, my dear. Have you agreed to give your cousin half the evening?" "No, ma'am � I could not � I am engaged for every dance, and more." "More!" said Mrs. Sandford. "Yes ma'am � for the next time." "Preston has reason!" she said, laughing. "But I think, Daisy, Grant will be the most jealous of all. Do him good. What will become of his sciences and his microscope now?" "Why, I shall be just as ready for them," I said. Mrs. Sandford shook her head. "You will find the hops will take more than that," she said. "But now, Daisy, think what you will wear; for we must go soon and get ready." I did not want to think about it. I expected, of course, to put on the same dress I had worn the last time. But Mrs. Sandford objected very strongly. "You must not wear the same thing twice running," she said; "not if you can help it." I could not imagine why not. "It is quite nice enough," I urged. "It is scarcely the least mussed in the world." "People will think you have not another, my dear." "What matter would that be?" I said, wholly puzzled. "Now, my dear Daisy!" said Mrs. Sandford, half laughing, � "you are the veriest Daisy in the world, and do not understand the world that you grow in. No matter; just oblige me, and put on something else to-night. What have you got?" I had other dresses like the rejected one. I had another still, white like them, but of different make and quality. I hardly knew what it was, for I had never worn it; to please Mrs. Sandford I took it out now. She was pleased. It was, like the rest, out of the store my mother had sent me; a soft India muslin, of beautiful texture, made and trimmed as my mother and a Parisian artist could manage between them. But no Parisian artist could know better than my mother how a thing should be. "That will do!" said Mrs. Sandford approvingly. "Dear me, what lace! What lace you Southern ladies do wear, to be sure! A blue sash, now, Daisy?" "No ma'am, I think not." "Rose? It must be blue or rose." But I thought differently, and kept it white. "_No_ colour?" said Mrs. Sandford. "None at all? Then just let me put this little bit of green in your hair." As I stood before the glass and she tried various positions for some geranium leaves, I felt that would not do either. Any dressing of my head would commonise the whole thing. I watched her fingers and the geranium leaves going from one side of my head to the other, watched how every touch changed the tone of my costume, and felt that I could not suffer it; and then it suddenly occurred to me that I, who a little while before had not cared about my dress for the evening, now did care, and that determinedly. I knew I would wear no geranium leaves, not even to please Mrs. Sandford. And for the first time a question stole into my mind, what was I, Daisy, doing? But then I said to myself, that the dress without this head adorning was perfect in its elegance; it suited me; and it was not wrong to like beauty nor to dislike things in bad taste. Perhaps I was too handsomely dressed, but I could not change that now. Another time I would go back to my embroidered muslins, and stay there. "I like it better without anything, Mrs. Sandford," I said, removing her green decorations and turning away from the glass. Mrs. Sandford sighed, but said "it would do without them," and away we went. I can see it all again; I can almost feel the omnibus roll with me over the plain, that still sultry night. All those nights were sultry. Then as we came near the Academic Building, I could see the lights in the upper windows; here and there an officer sitting in a window-sill, and the figures of cadets passing back and forth. Then we mounted to the hall above, filled with cadets in a little crowd, and words of recognition came, and Preston, meeting us almost before we got out of the dressing room. "Daisy, you dance with me?" "I am engaged, Preston, for the first dance." "Already! The second, then, and all the others?" "I am engaged," � I repeated, and left him, for Mr. Thorold was at my side. I forgot Preston the next minute. It was easy to forget him, for all the first half of the evening I was honestly happy in dancing. In talking too, whenever Thorold was my partner; other people's talk was very tiresome. They went over the platitudes of the day; or they started subjects of interest that were not interesting to me. Bits of gossip � discussions of fashionable amusements with which I could have nothing to do; frivolous badinage, which was of all things most distasteful to me. Yet, amid it all, I believe, there was a subtle incense of admiration which by degrees and insensibly found its way to my senses. But I had two dances with Thorold, and at those times I was myself and enjoyed unalloyed pleasure. And so I thought did he. I saw Preston, when now and then I caught a glimpse of him, looking excessively glum. Midway in the evening it happened that I was standing beside him for a few moments, waiting for my next partner. "You are dancing with nobody but that man whom I hate!" he grumbled. "Who is it now?" "Captain Vaux." "Will you dance with me after that?" "I cannot, Preston. I must dance with Major Banks." "You seem to like it pretty well," he growled. "No wonder," said Mrs. Sandford. "You were quite right about the geranium leaves, Daisy; you do not want them. You do not want anything, my dear," she whispered. At this instant a fresh party entered the room, just as my partner came up to claim me. "There are some handsome girls," said the captain. "Two of them, really!" "People from Cozzens's," said Mrs. Sandford, "who think the cadets keep New York hours." It was Faustina St. Clair and Mary Lansing, with their friends and guardians, I don't know whom. And as I moved to take my place in the dance, I was presently confronted by my school adversary and the partner she had immediately found. The greeting was very slight and cool on her side. "Excessively handsome," whispered the captain. "A friend of yours?" "A schoolfellow," I said. "Must be a pleasant thing, I declare, to have such handsome schoolfellows," said the captain. "Beauty is a great thing, isn't it? I wonder sometimes how the ladies can make up their minds to take up with such great rough ugly fellows as we are, for a set. How do you think it is?" I thought it was wonderful too, when they were like him. But I said nothing. "Dress too," said the captain. "Now look at our dress! Straight and square and stiff; and no variety in it. While our eyes are delighted, on the other side, with soft draperies and fine colours, and combinations of grace and elegance, that are fit to put a man in Elysium!" "Did you notice the colour of the haze in the west, this evening at sunset?" I asked. "Haze? No, really. I didn't know there was any haze, really, except in my head. I get hazy amidst these combinations. Seriously, Miss Randolph, what do you think of a soldier's life?" "It depends on who the soldier is," I said. "Cool, really!" said the captain. "Cool! Ha! ha! �" And he laughed, till I wondered what I could have said to amuse him so much. "Then you have learned to individualise soldiers already?" was his next question, put with a look which seemed to me inquisitive and impertinent. I did not know how to answer it, and left it unanswered; � and the captain and I had the rest of our dance out in silence. Meanwhile, I could not help watching Faustina. � She was so very handsome, with a marked, dashing sort of beauty that I saw was prodigiously admired. She took no notice of me, and barely touched the tips of my fingers with her glove as we passed in the dance. As he was leading me back to Mrs. Sandford, the captain stooped his head to mine. "Forgive me?" � he whispered. "So much gentleness cannot bear revenge. I am only a soldier." "Forgive you what, sir?" I asked. And he drew up his head again, half laughed, muttered that I was worse than grape or round shot, and handed me over to my guardian. "My dear Daisy," said Mrs. Sandford, "if you were not so sweet as you are, you would be a queen. There, now! do not lift up your grey eyes at me like that, or I shall make you a reverence the first thing I do, and fancy that I am one of your _dames d'honneur_. Who is next? Major Banks? Take care, Daisy, or you'll do some mischief." I had not time to think about her words; the dances went forward, and I took my part in them with great pleasure until the tattoo summons broke us up. Indeed my pleasure lasted until we got home to the hotel, and I heard Mrs. Sandford saying, in an aside to her husband, amid some rejoicing over me, � "I was dreadfully afraid she wouldn't go." The words, or something in them, gave me a check. However, I had too many exciting things to think of to take it up just then; and my brain was in a whirl of pleasure till I went to sleep. CHAPTER XVII. OBEYING ORDERS. As I roomed with Mrs. Sandford, of course I had very scant opportunities of being by myself. In the delightful early mornings I was accustomed to take my book, therefore, and go down where I had gone the first morning, to the rocks by the river's side. Nobody came by that way at so early an hour; I had been seen by nobody except that one time, when Thorold and his companion passed me; and I felt quite safe. It was pleasanter down there than can be told. However sultry the air on the heights above, so near the water there was always a savour of freshness; or else I fancied it, in the hearing of the soft liquid murmur of the little wavelets against the shore. But sometimes it was so still I could hear nothing of that; then birds and insects, or the faint notes of a bugle call, were the only things to break the absolute hush; and the light was my refreshment, on river and tree and rock and hill; one day sharp and clear, another day fairyland- like and dreamy through golden mist. It was a good retiring place in any case, so early in the day. I could read and pray there better than in a room, I thought. The next morning after my second dancing party, I was there as usual. It was a sultry July morning, the yellow light in the haze on the hills threatening a very hot day. I was very happy, as usual; but somehow my thoughts went roaming off into the yellow haze as if the landscape had been my life, and I were trying to pick out points of light here and there, and sporting on the gay surface. I danced my dances over again in the flow of the river; heard soft words of kindness or admiration in the song of the birds; wandered away in mazes of speculative fancy among the thickets of tree stems and under- brush. The sweet wonderful note of a wood thrush, somewhere far out of sight, assured me, what everything conspired to assure me, that I was certainly in fairyland, not on the common earth. But I could not somehow get on with my Bible. Again and again I began to read; then a bird or a bough or a ripple would catch my attention, and straightway I was off on a flight of fancy or memory, dancing over again my dances with Mr. Thorold, dwelling upon the impression of his figure and dress, and the fascination of his brilliant, changing hazel eyes; or recalling Captain Vaux's or somebody else's insipid words and looks, or Faustina St. Clair's manner of ill will; or on the other hand giving a passing thought to the question, how I should dress the next hop night. After a long wandering I would come back and begin at my Bible again, but only for a little; my fancy could not be held to it; and a few scarcely read verses and a few half-uttered petitions were all I had accomplished before the clangour of the hotel gong sounding down even to me, warned me that my time was gone. And the note of the wood-thrush as I slowly mounted the path, struck reproachfully and rebukingly upon the ear of my conscience. How had this come about? I mused as I went up the hill. What was the matter? What had bewitched me? No pleasure in my Bible; no time for prayer; and only the motion of feet moving to music, only the flutter of lace and muslin, and the flashing of hazel eyes, filling my brain? What was wrong? Nay, something! And why had Mrs. Sandford "feared" I would not go to the hops? Were they not places for Christians to go to? What earthly harm? Only pleasure. But what if pleasure that marred better pleasure � that interrupted duty? And why was I ruminating on styles and colours, and proposing to put on another dress that should be more becoming the next time? and thinking that it would be well it should be a contrast to Faustina St. Clair? What! entering the lists with her, on her own field? No, no; I could not think it. But what then? And what was this little flutter at my heart about gentlemen's words and looks of homage and liking? What could it be to me, that such people as Captain Vaux or Captain Lascelles liked me? Captain Lascelles, who when he was not dancing or flirting was pleased to curl himself up on one of the window seats like a monkey, and take a grinning survey of what went on. Was I flattered by such admiration as his? � or _any_ admiration? I liked to have Mr. Thorold like me; yes, I was not wrong to be pleased with that; besides, that was _liking;_ not empty compliments. But for my lace and my India muslin and my "Southern elegance" � I knew Colonel Walrus meant me when he talked about that, � was I thinking of admiration for such things as these, and thinking so much, that my Bible reading had lost its charm? What was in fault? Not the hops? They were too pleasant. It could not be the hops. I mounted the hill slowly and in a great maze, getting more and more troubled. I entering the lists with Faustina St. Clair, going in her ways? I knew these were her ways. I had heard scraps enough of conversation among the girls about these things, which I then did not understand. And another word came therewith into my mind, powerful once before and powerful now to disentangle the false from the true. "The world knoweth us not." Did it not know me, last night? Would it not, if I went there again? But the hops were so pleasant! It almost excites a smile in me now to think how pleasant they were. I was only sixteen. I had seen no dancing parties other than the little school assemblages at Mme. Ricard's; and I was fond of the amusement even there. Here, it seemed to me then as if all prettiness and pleasantness that could come together in such a gathering, met, in the dancing room of the cadets. I think not very differently now, as to that point. The pretty accompaniments of uniform; the simple style and hours; the hearty enjoyment of the occasion; were all a little unlike what is found at other places. And to me, and to increase my difficulty, came a crowning pleasure; I met Thorold there. To have a good dance and talk with him was worth certainly all the rest. Must I give it up? I could not bear to think so, but the difficulty helped to prick my conscience. There had been only two fops, and I was so enthralled already. How would it be if I had been to a dozen? and where might it end? And the word stands, � "the world knoweth us _not_." It must not know me, Daisy Randolph, as in any sort belonging to it or mixed up with it; and therefore � Daisy Randolph must go to the hop no more. I felt the certainty of the decision growing over me, even while I was appalled by it. I staved off consideration all that day. In the afternoon Mr. Thorold came and took me to see the laboratory, and explained for me a number of curious things. I should have had great enjoyment, if Preston had not taken it into his head, unasked, to go along; being unluckily with me when Thorold came. He was a thorough marplot; saying nothing of consequence himself, and only keeping a grim watch � I could take it as nothing else � of everything we said and did. Consequently, Mr. Thorold's lecture was very proper and grave, instead of being full of fun and amusement as well as instruction. I took Preston to task about it when we got home. "You hinder pleasure when you go in that mood," I told him. "What mood?" "You know. You never are pleasant when Mr. Thorold is present or when he is mentioned." "He is a cowardly Yankee!" was Preston's rejoinder. "_Cowardly_, Gary?" � said somebody near; and I saw a cadet whom I did not know, who came from behind us and passed by on the piazza. He did not look at us, and stayed not for any more words; but turning to Preston, I was surprised to see his face violently flushed. "Who was that?" "No matter � impertinence!" he muttered. "But what _is_ the matter? and what did he mean?" "He is one of Thorold's set," said Preston; "and I tell you, Daisy, you shall not have anything to do with them. Aunt Felicia would never allow it. She would not look at them herself. You shall not have anything more to do with them." How could I, if I was going no more to the hops? How could I see Thorold, or anybody? The thought struck to my heart, and I made no answer. Company, however, kept me from considering the matter all the evening. But the next day, early, I was in my usual place; near the river side, among the rocks, with my Bible; and I resolved to settle the question there as it ought to be settled. I was resolved; but to do what I had resolved, was difficult. For I wanted to go to the hop that evening very much. Visions of it floated before me; snatches of music and gleams of light; figures moving in harmony; words, and looks; and � my own white little person. All these made a kind of quaint mosaic with flashes of light on the river, and broad warm bands of sunshine on the hills, and the foliage of trees and bushes, and the grey lichened rocks at my foot. It was confusing; but I turned over the leaves of my Bible to see if I could find some undoubted direction as to what I ought to do, or perhaps rather some clear permission for what I wished to do. I could not remember that the Bible said anything about dancing, _pro_ or _con_; dancing, I thought, could not be wrong; but this confusion in my mind was not right. I fluttered over my leaves a good while with no help; than I thought I might as well take a chapter somewhere and study it through. The whole chapter, it was the third of Colossians, did not seem to me to go favourably for my pleasure; but the seventeenth verse brought me to a point, � "Whatsoever ye do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus." There was no loophole here for excuses or getting off, "_Whatsoever ye do_." Did I wish it otherwise? No, I did not. I was content with the terms of service; but now about dancing, or rather the dancing party? "In the name of the Lord Jesus." Could I go there in that name? as the servant of my Master, busy about His work, or taking pleasure that He had given me to take? That was the question. And all my visions of gay words and gay scenes, all the flutter of pleased vanity and the hope of it, rose up and answered me. By that thought of the pretty dress I would wear, I knew I should not wear it "in the name of the Lord Jesus;" for my thought was of honour to myself, not to Him. By the fear which darted into my head, that Mr. Thorold might dance with Faustina if I were not there, I knew I should not go "in the name of the Lord," if I went; but to gratify my own selfish pride and emulation. By the confusion which had reigned in my brain these two days, by the tastelessness of my Bible, by the unaptness for prayer, I knew, I knew, I could not go in the name of my Lord, for it would be to unfit myself for his work. The matter was settled in one way; but the pain of it took longer to come to an end. It is sorrowful to me to remember now how hard it was to get over. My vanity I was heartily ashamed of, and bade that show its head no more; my emulation of Faustina St. Clair gave me some horror; but the pleasure, � the real honest pleasure, of the scene and the music and the excitement and the dancing and the seeing people, � all that, I did not let go forever without a hard time of sorrow and some tears. It was not a _struggle_, for I gave that up at once; only I had to fight pain. � It was one of the hardest things I ever did in my life. And the worst of all and the, most incurable was, I should miss seeing Mr. Thorold. One or two more walks, possibly, I might have with him; but those long, short, evenings of seeing and talking and dancing! Mrs. Sandford argued, coaxed, and rallied me; and then said, if I would not go, she should not; and she did not. That evening we spent at home together, and alone; for everybody else had drifted over to the hop. I suppose Mrs. Sandford found it dull; for the next hop night she changed her mind and left me. I had rather a sorrowful evening. Dr. Sandford had not come back from the mountains; indeed I did not wish for him; and Thorold had not been near us for several days. My fairyland was getting disenchanted a little bit. But I was quite sure I had done right. The next morning I had hardly been three minutes on my rock by the river, when Mr. Thorold came round the turn of the walk and took a seat beside me. "How do you do?" said he, stretching out his hand. I put mine in it. "What has become of my friend, this seven years?" "I am here �" I said. "I see you. But why have I not _seen_ you, all this while?" "I supposed you had been busy," I answered. "Busy! Of course I have, or I should have been here asking questions. I was not too busy to dance with you; and I was promised � how many dances? Where have you been?" "I have been at home." "Why?" Would Mr. Thorold understand me? Mrs. Sandford did not. My own mother never did. I hesitated, and he repeated his question, and those hazel eyes were sparkling all sorts of queries around me. "I have given up going to the hops," I said. "Given up? Do you mean, you _don't_ mean, that you are never coming any more?" "I am not coming any more." "Don't you sometimes change your decisions?" "I suppose I do," I answered; "but not this one." "I am in a great puzzle," he said. "And very sorry. Aren't you going to be so good as to give me some clue to this mystery? Did you find the hops so dull?" And he looked very serious indeed. "O no! �" I said. "I liked them very much � I enjoyed them very much. I am sorry to stay away." "Then you will not stay away very long." "Yes � I shall." "Why?" � he asked again, with a little sort of imperative curiosity which was somehow very pleasant to me. "I do not think it is right for me to go," I said. Then, seeing grave astonishment and great mystification in his face, I added, "I am a Christian, Mr. Thorold." "A Christian!" he cried, with flashes of light and shadow crossing his brow. "Is _that_ it?" "That is it," I assented. "But, my dear Miss Randolph � you know we are friends?" "Yes," I said, smiling, and glad that he had not forgotten it. "Then we may talk about what we like. Christians go to hops." I looked at him without answering. "Don't you know they do?" "I suppose they may," � I answered slowly. "But they _do_. There was our former colonel's wife � Mrs. Holt; she was a regular church-goer, and a member of the church; she was always at the hop, and her sister; they are both church members. Mrs. Lambkin, General Lambkin's wife, she is another. Major Banks's sisters � those pretty girls, � they are always there; and it is the same with visitors. Everybody comes; their being Christians does not make any difference." "Captain Thorold," said I, � "I mean Mr. Thorold, don't you obey your orders?" "Yes � generally," he said. And he laughed. "So must I." "You are not a soldier." "Yes � I am." "Have you got orders not to come to our hop?" "I think I have. You will not understand me, but this is what I mean, Mr. Thorold. I _am_ a soldier, of another sort from you; and I have orders not to go anywhere that my Captain does not send me or where I cannot be serving Him." "I wish you would show those orders to me." I gave him the open page which I had been studying, that same chapter of Colossians, and pointed out the words. He looked at them, and turned over the page, and turned it back. "I don't see the orders," he said. I was silent. I had not expected he would. "And I was going to say, I never saw any Christians that were soldiers; but I have, one. And so you are another?" And he bent upon me a look so curiously considering, tender, and wondering, at once, that I could not help smiling. "A soldier!" said he, again, � "You? Have you ever been under fire?" I smiled again, and then, I don't know what it was. I cannot tell what, in the question and in the look, touched some weak spot. The question called up such sharp answers; the look spoke so much sympathy. It was very odd for me to do; but I was taken unawares; my eyes fell and filled, and before I could help it were more than full. I do not know, to this day, how � I came to cry before Thorold. It was very soon over, my weakness, whatever it was. It seemed to touch him amazingly. He got hold of my hand, put it to his lips, and kissed it over and over, outside and inside. "I can see it all in your face!" he said, tenderly; "the strength and the truth to do anything, and bear � whatever is necessary. But I am not so good as you. I cannot bear anything unless it _is_ necessary; and this isn't." "Oh, no, nor I!" I said; "but this is necessary, Mr. Thorold." "Prove it � come." "You do not see the orders," I said; "but there they are. 'Do all in the name of the Lord Jesus.' I cannot go to that place 'in His name.' " "I do not think I understand what you mean," he said, gently. "A soldier, the best that ever lived, is his own man when he is off duty. We go to the hop to play � not to work." "Ah, but a soldier of Christ is never 'off duty,' " I said. "See, Mr. Thorold � '_whatsoever_ ye do' � 'whether ye eat or drink or whatsoever ye do' � That covers all; don't you see?" "That would make it a very heavy thing to be a Christian," he said; "there would be no liberty at all." "Oh, but it is all liberty!" I said. � "When you love Jesus." He looked at me so enquiringly, so inquisitively, that I went on. "You do not think it hard to do things for anybody you love?" "No," said he. "I would like to do things for you." I remember I smiled at that, for it seemed to me very pleasant to hear him say it; but I went on. "Then you understand it, Mr. Thorold." "No," said he, "I do not understand it; for there is this difficulty. I do not see what in the world such an innocent amusement as that we are talking of, can have to do with Christian duty, one way or another. Every Christian woman that I know comes to it, � that is young enough; and some that aren't." It was very hard to explain. "Suppose they disobey orders," I said slowly; � "that would be another reason why I should obey them." "Of course. But do they?" "I should," I said. "I am not serving Christ when I am there. I am not doing the work He has given me to do. I cannot go." "I came down here on purpose to persuade you," he said. It was not necessary to answer that, otherwise than by a look. "And you are unpersuadable," he said; "unmanageable, of course, by me; strong as a giant, and gentle as a snowflake. But the snowflake melts; and you � you will go up to the hotel as good a crystal as when you came down." This made me laugh, and we had a good laugh together, holding each other's hand. "Do you know," said he, "I must go? There is a roll of a summons that reaches my ear, and I must be at the top of the bank in one minute and a quarter. I had no leave to be here." "Hadn't you?" I said. "Oh, then, go, go directly, Mr. Thorold!" But I could not immediately release, my hand, and holding it and looking at me Thorold laughed again; his hazel eyes sparkling and dancing and varying with what feelings I could not tell. They looked very steadily, too, till I remember mine went down, and then, lifting his cap, he turned suddenly and sprang away. I sat down to get breath and think. I had come to my place rather sober and sorrowful; and what a pleasant morning I had had! I did not mind at all, now, my not going to the dances. I had explained myself to Mr. Thorold, and we were not any further apart for it, and I had had a chance to speak to him about other things too. And though he did not understand me, perhaps he would some day. The warning gong sounded before I had well got to my Bible reading. My Bible reading was very pleasant this morning, and I could not be balked of it; so I spent over it near the whole half hour that remained, and rushed up to the hotel in the last five minutes. Of course I was rather late and quite out of breath; and having no voice and being a little excited, I suppose was the reason that I curtseyed to Dr. Sandford, whom I met at the head of the piazza steps. He looked at me like a man taken aback. "Daisy!" he exclaimed. "Yes, sir," I answered. "Where have you come from?" "From my study," I said. "I have a nice place down by the river which is my study." "Rather a public situation for a private withdrawing place," said the doctor. "Oh, no!" said I. "At this hour �" But there I stopped and began again. "It is really very private. And it is the pleasantest study place I think I ever had." "To study what?" I held up my book. "It agrees with you," said the doctor. "What?" said I, laughing. "Daisy!" said Dr. Sandford � "I left a quiet bud of a flower a few days ago � a little demure bit of a schoolgirl, learning geology; and I have got a young princess here, a full rose, prickles and all, I don't doubt. What has Mrs. Sandford done with you?" "I do not know," said I, thinking I had better be demure again. "She took me to the hop." "The hop? � How did you like that?" "I liked it very much." "You did? You liked it? I did not know that you would go, with your peculiar notions." "I went," I said; "I did not know what it was. How could I help liking it? But I am not going again." "Why not, if you liked it?" "I am not going again," I repeated. "Shall we have a walk to the hills to-day, Dr. Sandford?" "Grant!" said his sister-in-law's voice, "don't you mean the child shall have any breakfast? What made you so late, Daisy? Come in, and talk afterwards. Grant is uneasy if he can't see at least your shadow all the while." We went in to breakfast, and I took a delightful walk with Dr. Sandford afterward, back in the ravines of the hills; but I had got an odd little impression of two things. First, that he, like Preston, was glad to have me give up going to the hops. I was sure of it from his air and tone of voice, and it puzzled me; for he could not possibly have Preston's dislike of Northerners, nor be unwilling that I should know them. The other thing was, that he would not like my seeing Mr. Thorold. I don't know how I knew it, but I knew it. I thought � it was very odd � but I thought he was _jealous;_ or rather, I felt he would be if he had any knowledge of our friendship for each other. So I resolved he should have no such knowledge. Our life went on now as it had done at our first coming. Every day Dr. Sandford and I went to the woods and hills, on a regular naturalist's expedition; and nothing is so pleasant as such expeditions. At home, we were busy with microscopic examinations, preparations, and studies; delightful studies, and beautiful lessons, in which the doctor was the finest of instructors, as I have said, and I was at least the happiest of scholars. Mrs. Sandford fumed a little, and Mr. Sandford laughed; but that did no harm. Everybody went to the hops, except the doctor and me; and every morning and evening, at guard-mounting and at parade, I was on the ground behind the guard tents to watch the things done and listen to the music and enjoy all the various beauty. Sometimes I had a glimpse of Thorold; for many both of cadets and officers used to come and speak to me and rally me on my seclusion, and endeavour to tempt me out of it. Thorold did not that; he only looked at me, as if I were something to be a little wondered at but wholly approved of. It was not a disagreeable look to meet. "I must have it out with you," he said one evening, when he had just a minute to speak to me. "There is a whole world, of things I don't understand, and want to talk about. Let us go Saturday afternoon and take a good, long walk up to 'Number Four' � do you like hills?" "Yes." "Then let us go up there Saturday � will you?" And when Saturday came, we went. Preston luckily was not on hand; and Dr. Sandford, also luckily, was gone to dine at the General's with his brother. There were no more shadows on earth than there were clouds in the sky, as we took our way across the plain and along the bank in front of the officers' quarters looking north, and went out at the gate. Then we left civilisation and the world behind us, and plunged into a wild mountain region; going up by a track which few feet ever used, the rough slope to "Number Four." Yet that a few feet used it was plain. "Do people come here to walk, much?" I asked, as we slowly made our way up. "Nobody comes here � for anything." "Somebody _goes_ here," I said. "This is a beaten path." "Oh, there is a poor woodcutter's family at the top; they do travel up and down occasionally." "It is pretty," I said. "It is pretty at the top; but we are a long way from that. Is it too rough for you?" "Not at all," I said. "I like it." "You are a good walker, for a Southern girl." "Oh, but I have lived at the North," I said; "I am only Southern born." Soon, however, he made me stop to rest. There was a good grey rock under the shadow of the trees; Thorold placed me on that and threw himself on the moss at my feet. We were up so high in the world that the hills on the other side of the river rose beautifully before us through the trees, and a sunny bit of the lower ground of the plain looked like a bit of another world that we were leaving. It was a sunny afternoon and a little hazy; every line softened, every colour made richer under the mellowing atmosphere. "Now you can explain it all to me," said Thorold, as he threw himself down. "You have walked too fast. You are warm." "And you do not look as if it was warm at all." "I! This is nothing to me," he said. "But perhaps it will warm me and cool you, if we get into a talk. I want explanations." "About what, Mr. Thorold?" "Well � if you will excuse me � about you," he said, with a very pleasant look, frank and soft at once. "I am quite ready to explain myself," I said. "But I am afraid, when I have done it, that you will not understand me, Mr. Thorold." "Think I cannot?" said he. "I am afraid not, � without knowing what I know." "Let us see," said Thorold. "I want to know why you judge so differently from other people about the right and the wrong of hops and such things. Somebody is mistaken � that is clear." "But the difficulty is, I cannot give you my point of view." "Please try �" said Thorold contentedly, resting his elbow in a soft cushion of moss. "Mr. Thorold, I told you, I am a soldier." "Yes," he said, looking up at me, and little sparkles of light seeming to come out of his hazel eyes. "I showed you my orders." "But I did not understand them to be what you said." "Suppose you were in an enemy's country," I said; � "a rebel country; and your orders were, to do nothing which could be construed into encouraging the rebels, or which could help them to think that your king would hold friendship with them, or that there was not a perfect gulf of division between you and them." "But this is not such a case?" said Thorold. "That is only part," I said. "Suppose your orders were, to keep constant watch and hold yourself at every minute ready for duty, and to go nowhere and do nothing that would unfit you for instant service, or put you off your watch." "But, Miss Randolph!" said Thorold, a little impatiently � "do these little dances unfit you for duty?" "Yes," I said. "And put me off my watch." "Your watch against what? Oh, pardon me! and _please_ enlighten me. I do not mean to be impertinent." "I mean my watch for orders � my watch against evil." "Won't you explain?" said Thorold, gently and impatiently at once. "What sort of evil can _you_ possibly fear, in connection with such an innocent little recreation? What sort of 'orders' are you expecting?" I hesitated. Should I tell him? would he believe? was it best to unveil the working of my own heart to that degree? And how could I evade or shirk the question? "I should not like to tell you," I said at length, "the thoughts and feelings I found stirring in myself, after the last time I went to the hop. I dare say they are something that belongs especially to a woman, and that a man would not know them." Thorold turned on me again a wonderfully gentle look, for a gay fiery young Vermonter, as I knew him to be. "It wanted only that!" he said. � "And the orders, Miss Randolph � what 'orders' are you expecting? You said, orders." "Orders may be given by a sign," I said. "They need not be in words." He smiled. "I see, you have studied the subject." "I mean, only, that whenever a duty is plainly put before me � something given me to do � I know I have 'orders' to do it. And then, Mr. Thorold, as the orders are not spoken, nor brought to me by a messenger, only made known to me by a sign of some sort, � if I did not keep a good watch, I should be sure to miss the sign sometimes, don't you see?" "This is soldiership!" said Thorold. And getting up, he stood before me in attitude like a soldier as he was, erect, still, with arms folded, only not up to his chin like Captain Percival, but folded manfully. He had been watching me very intently; now he stood as intently looking off over the further landscape. Methought I had a sort of pride in his fine appearance; and yet he did in no wise belong to me. Nevertheless it was pleasant to see, the firm, still attitude, the fine proportions, the military nicety of all his dress, which I had before noticed on the parade ground. For as there is a difference between one walk and another, though all trained; so there is a difference between one neatness and another, though all according to regulation; and Preston never looked like this. He turned round at last, and smiled down at me. "Are you rested?" "Oh, yes!" I said, rising. "I was not fatigued." "Are you tired talking?" "No, not at all. Have I talked so very much?" He laughed at that, but went on. "Will you be out of patience with my stupidity?" I said no. "Because I am not fully enlightened yet. I want to ask further questions; and asking questions is very impertinent." "Not if you have leave," I said. "Ask what you like." "I am afraid, nevertheless. But I can never know, if I do not ask. How is it � this is what puzzles me, � that other people who call themselves Christians do not think as you think about all this matter?" "Soldiership?" I asked. "Well, yes. It comes to that, I suppose." "You know what soldiership ought to be," I said. "But one little soldier cannot be all the rank and file of this army?" he said, looking down at me. "Oh, no!" I said, laughing, � "there are a great many more, � there are a great many more, � only you do not happen to see them." "And these others, that I do see, are not soldiers then?" "I do not know," I said, feeling sadly what a stumbling block it was. "Perhaps. they are. But you know yourself, Mr. Thorold, there is a difference between soldiers and soldiers." He was silent a while, as we mounted the hill, and then suddenly broke out again. "But it makes religion a slavery � a bondage � to be _all_ the while under arms, on guard, watching orders. _Always_ on the watch and expecting to be under fire � it is too much; it would make a gloomy, ugly life of it." "But suppose you _are_ under fire?" I said. "What?" said he, looking and laughing again. "If you are a good soldier in an enemy's country, always with work to do; will you wish to be off your guard, or off duty?" "But what a life!" said Thorold. "If you love your Captain?" said I. He stopped and looked at me with one of the keenest looks of scrutiny I ever met. It seemed to scrutinise not me only, but the truth. I thought he was satisfied; for he turned away without adding anything more at that time. His mind was at work, however; for he broke down a small branch in his way and busied himself with it in sweeping the trunks of the trees as we went by; varying the occupation with a careful clearing away of all stones and sticks that would make my path rougher than it need be. Finally, giving me his hand to help me spring over a little rivulet that crossed our way. "Here is an incongruity, now I think of it," said he, smiling. "How is it that you can be on such good terms with a rebel? Ought you to have anything to do with me?" "I may be friends with anybody in his private capacity," I answered in the same tone. "That does not compromise anything. It is only when � You know what I mean." "When they are assembled for doubtful purposes." "Or gathered in a place where the wrong colours are displayed," I added. "I must not go there." "There was no false banner hung out on the Academic Building the other night," he said humorously. But I knew my King's banner was not either. I knew, people did not think of Him there, nor work for Him, and would have been very much surprised to hear any one speak of Him. Say it was innocent amusement; people did not want Him with them there; and where He was not, I did not wish to be. But I could not tell all this to Mr. Thorold. He was not contented, however, without an answer. "How was it?" he asked. "You cannot understand me," I said, "and you may laugh at me." "Why may I not understand you?" he said gently, with the utmost deference of manner. "I suppose, because you do not understand something else," I said; "and you cannot, Mr. Thorold, until you know what the love of Jesus is, and what it is to care for His honour and His service more than for anything else in the world." "But are they compromised?" he asked. "That is the thing. You see, I want you back at the hop." "I would like to come," said I; "but I must not." "On the ground �?" "I told you, Mr. Thorold. I do not find that my orders allow me to go there. I must do nothing that I cannot do in my King's name." "That is �" "As His servant � on His errands � following where He leads me." "I never heard it put so before," said Thorold. "It bears the stamp of perfection � only an impossible perfection." "No �" said I. "To ordinary mortals," he rejoined, with one of his quick brilliant flashes of the eye. Then as it softened and changed again, � "Miss Randolph, permit me to ask a not irrelevant question � Are you happy?" And with the inquiry came the investigating look, keen as a razor or a rifle ball. I could meet it though; and I told him, it was _this_ made me happy. For the first time his face was troubled. He turned it from me and dropped the conversation. I let it drop too; and we walked side by side and silently the remainder of the steep way; neither of us, I believe, paying much attention to what there was to be seen below or around us. At the top however this changed. We found a good place to rest, and sat there a long time looking at the view; Thorold pointing out its different features, and telling me about them in detail; his visits to them, and exploration of the region generally. And we planned imaginary excursions together; one especially to the top of the Crow's Nest, with an imaginary party, to see the sun rise. We would have to go up of course over night; we must carry a tent along for shelter, and camp beds, and cooking utensils, at least a pot to boil coffee; and plenty of warm wraps and plenty of provisions, for people always eat terribly in cold regions, Thorold said. And although the top of the Crow's Nest is not Arctic by any means, still it is cool enough even in a warm day, and would be certainly cool at night. Also the members of our party we debated; they must be people of good tempers and travelling habits, not to be put out for a little; people with large tastes for enjoyment, to whom the glory of the morning would make amends for all the toil of the night; and good talkers, to keep up the tone of the whole thing. Meanwhile, Thorold and I heartily enjoyed Number Four; as also I did his explanations of fortifications, which I drew from him and made him apply to all the fortifications in sight or which I knew. And when the sun's westing told us it was time to go home, we went down all the way talking. I have but little remembrance of the path. The cool bright freshness of the light in the trees, and its brilliant gleams in the distance after it had left our hillside, � I remember that. I have an impression of the calm clear beauty that was under foot and overhead, that afternoon; but I saw it only as I could see it while giving my thought to something else. Sometimes, holding hands, we took runs down the mountain side; then walked demurely again when we got to easier going. We had come to the lower region at last and were not far from the gate, talking earnestly and walking close together, when I saw Thorold touch his cap. I do not know what made me ask, "Was that anybody I knew?". "I believe it was your friend Dr. Sandford," he said, smiling into my face with a smile of peculiar expression and peculiar beauty. I saw something had pleased him, pleased him very much. It could not have been Dr. Sandford. I cannot say I was pleased, as I had an intuitive assurance the doctor was not. But Thorold's smile almost made amends. That evening the doctor informed us he had got intelligence which obliged him to leave the Point immediately; and as he could go with us part of the way to Niagara, we had better all set off together. I had lost all my wish to go to Niagara; but I said nothing. Mrs. Sandford said there was nothing to be gained by staying at the Point any longer, as I would not go to the hops. So Monday morning we went away. CHAPTER XVIII. SOUTH AND NORTH. We made a round of pleasure after leaving West Point. That is, it was a round of pleasure to the rest of the party. I had left my best pleasure behind me. Certainly I enjoyed Catskill, and Trenton Falls, and Niagara, after some sort; but there was nothing in them all like my walk to Number Four. West Point had enough natural beauty to satisfy; any one, I thought, even for all summer; and there I had besides what I had not elsewhere and never had before, a companion. All my earlier friends were far older than I, or beneath me in station. Preston was the single exception; and Preston and I were now widely apart in our sympathies; indeed always had been. Mr. Thorold and I talked to each other on a level; we understood each other and suited each other. I could let out my thoughts to him with a freedom I never could use with anybody else. It grieved me a little that I had been forced to come away so abruptly that I had no chance of letting him know. Courtesy, I thought, demanded of me that I should have done this; and I could not do it; and this was a constant subject of regret to me. At the end of our journey I came back to school. Letters from my father and mother desired that I would do so, and appointed that I was to join them abroad next year. My mother had decided that it was best not to interfere with the regular course of my education; and my father renewed his promise that I should have any reward I chose to claim, to comfort me for the delay. So I bent myself to study with new energies and new hope. I studied more things than school books that winter. The bits of political matter I had heard talked over at West Point were by no means forgotten; and once in a while, when I had time and a chance, I seized one of the papers from Mme. Ricard's library table and examined it. And every time I did so, something urged me to do it again. I was very ignorant. I had no clue to a great deal that was talked of in these prints; but I could perceive the low threatening growl of coming ill weather, which seemed to rise on the ear every time I listened. And a little anxiety began to grow up in my mind. Mme. Ricard, of course, never spoke on these subjects and probably did not care about them. Dr. Sandford was safe in Washington. I once asked Miss Cardigan what she thought. "There are evil men abroad, dear," she said. "I don't know what they will be permitted to do." "Who do you hope will be elected?" I asked. "I don't vote myself," said Miss Cardigan; "so I do not fash myself much with what I can't help; but I hope the man will be elected that will do the right thing." "And who is that?" I asked. "You do not want slavery to be allowed in the territories?" "I? Not I!" said Miss Cardigan. "And if the people want to keep it out of them, I suppose they will elect Abraham Lincoln. I don't know if he is the right man or no; but he is on the right side. 'Break every yoke, and let the oppressed go free.' That is my maxim, Daisy." I pondered this matter by turns more and more. By and by there began to be audible mutterings of a storm in the air around me. The first I heard was when we were all together in the evening with our work, the half hour before tea. "Lincoln is elected" � whispered one of the girls to another. "Who cares?" the other said aloud. "What if he is?" asked a third. "Then," said a gentle, graceful looking girl, spreading her embroidery out on her lap with her slim white fingers, � "_then_ there'll be fighting." It was given, this announcement, with the coolest matter-of- fact assurance. "Who is going to fight?" was the next question. The former speaker gave a glance up to see if her audience was safe, and then replied as coolly as before. "My brother, for one." "What for, Sally?" "Do you think we are going to have these vulgar Northerners rule over us? My cousin Marshall is coming back from Europe on purpose that he may be here and be ready. I know my aunt wrote him word that she would disinherit him if he did not." "Daisy Randolph � you are a Southerner," said one of the girls. "Of course, she is a Southerner," said Sally, going on with her embroidery. "She is safe." But if I was safe, I was very uncomfortable. I hardly knew why I was so uncomfortable. Only, I wished ardently that troubles might not break out between the two quarters of the country. I had a sense that the storm would come near home. I could not recollect my mother and my father, without a dread that there would be opposing electricities between them and me. I began to study the daily news more constantly and carefully. I had still the liberty of Mme.'s library, and the papers were always there. I could give to them only a few minutes now and then; but I felt that the growl of the storm was coming nearer and growing more threatening. Extracts from Southern papers seemed to me very violent and very wrong-headed; at the same time I knew that my mother would endorse them and Preston would echo them. Then South Carolina passed the ordinance of secession. Six days after, Major Anderson took possession of Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbour, and immediately the fort he had left and Castle Pinckney were garrisoned by the South Carolinians in opposition. I could not tell how much all this signified; but my heart began to give a premonitory beat sometimes. Mississippi followed South Carolina; then United States' forts and Arsenals were seized in North Carolina and Georgia, and Alabama, one after the other. The tone of the press was very threatening, at least of the Southern press. And not less significant, to my ear, was the whisper I occasionally heard among a portion of our own little community. A secret whisper, intense in its sympathy with the seceding half of the nation, contemptuously hostile to the other part, among whom they were at that very moment receiving Northern education and Northern kindness. The girls even listened and gathered scraps of conversation that passed in their hearing, to retail them in letters sent home; "they did not know," they said, "what might be of use." Later, some of these letters were intercepted by the General Government and sent back from Washington to Mme. Ricard. All this told me much of the depth and breadth of feeling among the community of which these girls formed a part; and my knowledge of my own father and mother, aunt Gary and Preston, and others, told me more. I began to pray that God would not let war come in the land. Then there was a day, in January I think, when a bit of public news was read out in presence of the whole family; a thing that rarely happened. It was evening, and we were all in the parlour with our work. I forget who was the reader, but I remember the words. " 'The steamer, "Star of the West," with two hundred and fifty United States troops on board for Fort Sumter, was fired into' (I forget the day) 'by the batteries near Charleston.' Young ladies, do you hear that? The steamer was fired into. That is the beginning." We looked at each other, we girls; startled, sorry, awed, with a strange glance of defiance from some eyes, while some flowed over with tears, and some were eager with a feeling that was not displeasure. All were silent at first. Then whispers began. "I told you so," said Sally. "Well, _they_ have begun it," said Macy, who was a new York girl. "Of course. What business had the 'Star of the West' to be carrying those troops there? South Carolina can take care of her own forts." "Daisy Randolph, you look as solemn as a preacher," said another. "Which side are you on?" "She is on the right side," said another. "Of course," said Sally. "She is the daughter of a Southern gentleman!" "I am not on the side of those who fire the first shot," I said. "There is no other way," said Sally, coolly. "If a rat comes in your way, you must shoot him. I knew it had got to come. I have heard my uncle talk enough about that." "But what will be the end of it?" said another. "Pooh! it will end like smoke. The Yankees do not like fighting � they would rather be excused if you please. Their _forte_ is quite in another line � out of the way of powder." I wondered if that was true. I thought of Thorold, and of Major Blunt. I was troubled; and when I went to see Miss Cardigan, next day, I found she could give me little comfort. "I don't know, my dear," she said, "what they may be left to do. They're just daft down there; clean daft." "If they fight, we shall be obliged to fight," I said, not liking to ask her about Northern courage; and, indeed, she was a Scotswoman, and what should she know? "Ay, just that," she replied; "and fighting between the two parts of one land is even the worst fighting there can be. Pray it may not come, Daisy; but those people are just daft." The next letters from my mother spoke of my coming out to them as soon as the school year should be over. The country was likely to be disturbed, she said; and it would not suit with my father's health to come home just now. As soon as the school year should be over, and Dr. Sandford could find a proper opportunity for me to make the journey, I should come. I was very glad; yet I was not all glad. I wished they could have come to me rather. I was not, I hardly knew why I was not, quite ready to quit America while these troubles threatened. And as days went on, and the cloud grew blacker, my feeling of unwillingness increased. The daily prints were full of fresh instances of the seizure of United States property, of the secession of new States; then the Secession Congress met, and elected Jefferson Davis and Alexander Stephens their President and Vice President; and rebellion was duly organised. Jefferson Davis! How the name took me back to the summer parade on the West Point plain, and my first view of that smooth, sinister, ill-conditioned face. Now he was heading rebellion. Where would Dr. Sandford, and Mr. Thorold, and Preston be? How far would the rebels carry their work? and what opposition would be made to it? Again I asked Miss Cardigan. "It's beyond _me_, Daisy," she said. "I suppose it will depend very much on whether we've got the right man to head us or no; and that nobody can tell till we try. This man Buchanan, that is over us at present, he is no better than a bit of cotton wool. I am going to take a look at Mr. Lincoln as he comes through, and see what I think of him. "When is he coming?" "They say, to-day," said Miss Cardigan. "There'll be an uncommon crowd; but I'll risk it." A great desire seized me, that I might see him too. I consulted with Miss Cardigan. School hours were over at three; I could get away then, I thought; and by studying the programme of the day we found it possible that it would not be too late then for our object. So it proved; and I have always been glad of it ever since. Miss Cardigan and I went forth and packed ourselves in the dense crowd which had gathered and filled all the way by which the President elect was expected to pass. A quiet and orderly and most respectable crowd it was. Few Irish, few of the miserable of society, who come out only for a spectacle; these were the yeomanry and the middle classes, men of business, men of character and some substance, who were waiting like us, to see what promise for the future there might be in the aspect of our new Chief. Waiting patiently; and we could only wait patiently like them. I thought of Preston's indignation if he could have seen me, and Dr. Sandford's ready negative on my being there, but well were these thoughts put to flight when the little cavalcade for which we were looking hove in sight and drew near. Intense curiosity and then profound satisfaction seized me. The strong, grave, kindly lineaments of the future Head of the Country, gave me instantly a feeling of confidence, which I never lost in all the time that followed. That was confidence in his honesty and goodness; but another sort of trust was awakened by the keen, searching. shrewd glances of those dark eyes, which seemed to penetrate the masses of human intelligences surrounding him, and seek to know what manner of _material_ he might find them at need. He was not thinking of himself, that was plain; and the homely, expressive features got a place in my heart from that time. The little cavalcade passed on from us; the crowd melted away, and Miss Cardigan and I came slowly again up Fifth Avenue. "Yon's a mon!" quoth Miss Cardigan, speaking as she did in moments of strong feeling, with a little reminder of her Scottish origin. "Didn't you like him?" I rejoined. "I always like a man when I see him," said my friend. "He had need be that too, for, he has got a man's work to do." And it soon appeared that she spoke true. I watched every action, and weighed every word of Mr. Lincoln now, with a strange interest. I thought great things depended on him. I was glad when he determined to send supplies into Fort Sumter. I was sure that he was right; but I held my breath as it were to see what South Carolina would do. The twelfth of April told us. "So they have done it, Daisy!" said Miss Cardigan, that evening. "They are doing it, rather. They have been firing at each other all day." "Well, Major Anderson must defend his fort," I said. "That is his duty." "No doubt," said Miss Cardigan; "but you look pale, Daisy, my bairn. You are from those quarters yourself. Is there anybody in that neighbourhood that is dear to you?" I had the greatest difficulty not to burst into tears, by way of answer, and Miss Cardigan looked concerned at me. I told her there was nobody there I cared for, except some poor coloured people who were in no danger. "There'll be many a sore heart in the country if this goes on," she said, with a sigh. "But it will not go on, will it?" I asked. "They cannot take Fort Sumter, do you think so?" "I know little about it," said my friend, soberly. "I am no soldier. And we never know what is best, Daisy. We must trust the Lord, my dear, to unravel these confusions." And the next night the little news-boys in the streets were crying out the "Fall of Fort Sum � ter!" It rang ominously in my heart. The rebels had succeeded so far; and they would go on. Yes, they would go on now, I felt assured; unless some very serious check should be given them. Could the Yankees give that? I doubted it. Yet _their_ cause was the cause of right, and justice, and humanity; but the right does _not_ always at first triumph, whatever it may do in the end; and good swords, and good shots, and the spirit of a soldier, are things that are allowed to carry their force with them. I knew the South had these. What had the North? Even in our school seclusion, we felt the breath of the tremendous excitement which swayed the public mind next day. Not bluster, nor even passion, but the stir of the people's heart. As we walked to church, we could hear it in half-caught words of those we passed by, see it in the grave, intense air which characterised groups and faces; feel it in the atmosphere, which was heavy with indignation and gathering purpose. It was said, no Sunday like that had been known in the city. Within our own little community, if parties ran high, they were like those outside, quiet; but when alone, the Southern girls testified an exultation that jarred painfully upon my ears. "Daisy don't care." "Yes, I care," I said. "For shame not to be glad! You see, it is glorious. We have it all our own way. The impertinence of trying to hold our forts for us!" "I don't see anything glorious in fighting," I said. "Not when you are attacked?" "We were not attacked," I said. "South Carolina fired the first guns." "Good for her!" said Sally. "Brave little South Carolina! Nobody will meddle with her and come off without cutting his fingers." "Nobody did meddle with her," I asserted. "It was _she_ who meddled, to break the laws and fight against the government." "What government?" said Sally. "Are we slaves, that we should be ruled by a government we don't choose? We will have our own. Do you think South Carolina and Virginia _gentlemen_ are going to live under a rail-splitter for a President? and take orders from him?" "What do you mean by a 'rail-splitter'?" "I mean this Abe Lincoln the Northern mudsills have picked up to make a President of. He used to get his living by splitting rails for a Western fence, Daisy Randolph." "But if he is President, he is President," I said. "For those that like him. We won't have him. Jefferson Davis is my President. And all I can do to help him, I will. I can't fight; I wish I could. My brother and my cousins and my uncle will, though, that's one comfort; and what I can do I will." "Then I think you are a traitor," I said. I was hated among the Southern girls from that day. Hated with a bitter violent hatred, which had indeed little chance to show itself, but was manifested in a scornful, intense avoidance of me. The bitterness of it is surprising to me even now. I cared not very much for it. I was too much engrossed with deeper interests of the time, both public and private. The very next day came the President's call for seventy-five thousand men; and the next the answer of the governor of Kentucky, that "Kentucky would furnish no troops for the wicked purpose of subduing her sister Southern States." I saw this in the paper in the library; the other girls had no access to the general daily news, or I knew there would have been shoutings of triumph over Governor Magoffin. Other governors of other States followed his example. Jefferson Davis declared in a proclamation that letters of marque and reprisal would be issued. Everything wore the aspect of thickening strife. My heart grew very heavy over these signs of evil, fearing I knew not what for those whom I cared about. Indeed, I would not stop to think what I feared. I tried to bury my fears in my work. Letters from my mother became very explicit now; she said that troublesome times were coming in the country, and she would like me to be out of it. After a little while, when the independence of the South should be assured, we would all come home � and be happy together. Meantime, as soon after the close of the school year as Dr. Sandford could find a good chance for me, I was to come out to them at Lausanne, where my mother thought they would be by that time. So I studied with all my strength, with the double motive of gaining all I could and of forgetting what was going on in the political World. Music and French, my mother particularly desired that I should excel in; and I gave many hours to my piano, as many as possible, and talked with Mlle. Genevieve whenever she would let me. And she was very fond of me and fond of talking to me; it was she who kept for me my library privilege. And my voice was good, as it had promised to be. I had the pleasure of feeling that I was succeeding in what I most wished to attain. It was succeeding over the heads of my school-fellows; and that earned me wages that were not pleasant among a portion of my companions. Faustina St. Clair was back among us; she would perhaps have forgiven if she could have forgotten me; but my headship had been declared ever since the time of the bronze standish, and even rivalry had been long out of the question. So the old feud was never healed; and now, between the unfriendliness of her party and the defection of all the Southern girls, I was left in a great minority of popular favour. It could not be helped. I studied the harder. I had unlimited favour with all my teachers, and every indulgence I asked for. The news of the attack in Baltimore upon the Massachusetts troops passing through the city, and Governor Andrew's beautiful telegram, shook me out of my preocupation. It shook me out of all quiet for a day. Indignation, and fear, and sorrow, rolled through my heart. The passions that were astir among men, the mad results to which they were leading, the possible involvement of several of those whom I loved, a general trembling of evil in the air, made study difficult for the moment. What signified the course and fate of nations hundreds of years ago? Our own course and fate filled the horizon. What signified the power or beauty of my voice, when I had not the heart to send it up and down like a bird any longer? Where was Preston, and Dr. Sandford, and Ransom, and what would become of Magnolia? In truth I did not know what had become of Ransom. I had not heard from him or of him in a long time. But these thoughts would not do. I drove them away. I resolved to mind my work and not read the papers, if I could help it, and not think about politics or my friends' course in them. I could do nothing. And in a few months I should be away, out of the land. I kept my resolve pretty well. Indeed, I think nothing very particular happened to disturb it for the next two or three weeks. I succeeded in filling my head with work and being very happy in it. That is, whenever I could forget more important things. CHAPTER XIX. ENTERED FOR THE WAR. One evening, I think before the end of April, I asked permission to spend the evening at Miss Cardigan's. I had on hand a piece of study for which I wanted to consult certain books which I knew were in her library. Mlle. Genevieve gave me leave gladly. "You do study too persevering, m'amie," she said. "Go, and stop to study for a little while. You are pale. I am afraid your doctor � _ce bon Monsieur le docteur_ � will scold us all by and by. Go, and do not study." But I determined to have my play and my study too. As I passed through Miss Cardigan's hall, the parlour door standing half open let me see that a gentleman was with her. Not wishing to interrupt any business that might be going on, and not caring also to be bored with it myself, I passed by and went into the inner room where the books were. I would study now, I thought, and take my pleasure with my dear old friend by and by when she was at leisure. I found my books, and had thrown myself down on the floor with one of them; when a laugh that came from the front room laid a spell upon my powers of study. The book fell from my hands; I sat bolt upright, every sense resolved into that of hearing. What and who had that been? I listened. Another sound of a word spoken, another slight inarticulate suggestion of laughter; and I knew with an assured knowledge that my friend Cadet Thorold, and no other, was the gentleman in Miss Cardigan's parlour with whom she had business. I sat up and forgot my books. The first impulse was to go in immediately and show myself. I can hardly tell what restrained me. I remembered that Miss Cardigan must have business with him, and I had better not interrupt it. But those sounds of laughter had not been very business-like, either. Nor were they business words which came to me next through the open door. I never thought or knew I was listening. I only thought it was Thorold, and held my breath to hear, or rather to feel. My ears seemed sharpened beyond all their usual faculty. "And you haven't gone and fallen in love, callant, meanwhile, just to complicate affairs?" said the voice of Miss Cardigan. "I shall never fall in love," said Thorold, with (I suppose) mock gravity. His voice sounded so. "Why not?" "I require too much." "It's like your conceit!" said Miss Cardigan. "Now, what is it that you require? I would like to know; that is, if you know yourself. It appears you have thought about it." "I have thought, till I have got it all by heart," said Thorold. "The worst is, I shall never find it in this world." "That's likely. Come, lad, paint your picture, and I'll tell you if _I_ know where to look," said Miss Cardigan. "And then, you'll search for me?" "I dinna ken if you deserve it," said Miss Cardigan. "I don't deserve it, of course," said Thorold. "Well � I have painted the likeness a good many times. The first thing is a pair of eyes as deep and grey as our mountain lakes." "I never heard that your Vermont lakes were _grey_," said Miss Cardigan. "Oh, but they are! when the shadow of the mountains closes them in. It is not cold grey, but purple and brown, the shadow of light as it were; the lake is in shadow. Only, if a bit of blue _does_ show itself there, it is the very Heaven." "I hope it is not going to be in poetry?" said Miss Cardigan's voice, sounding dry and amused. "What is the next thing? It is a very good picture of eyes." "The next thing is a mouth that makes you think of nothing but kissing it; the lines are so sweet, and so mobile, and at the same time so curiously subdued. A mouth that has learned to smile when things don't go right; and that has learned the lesson so well, you cannot help thinking it must have often known things go wrong; to get the habit so well, you know." "Eh? � Why, boy!" � cried Miss Cardigan. "Do you know anybody like it?" said Thorold, laughing. "If you do, you are bound to let me know where, you understand." "What lies between the eyes and mouth?" said Miss Cardigan. "There goes more to a picture." "Between the eyes and mouth," said Thorold, "there is sense, and dignity, and delicacy, and refinement to a fastidious point; and a world of strength of character in the little delicate chin." "Character � _that_ shows in the mouth," said Miss Cardigan slowly. "I told you so," said Thorold. "That is what I told you. Truth, and love, and gentleness, all sit within those little red lips; and a great strength of will, which you cannot help thinking has borne something to try it. The brow is like one of our snowy mountain tops with the sun shining on it." "And the lady's figure is like a pine tree, isn't it? It sounds gay as if you'd fallen in love with Nature, and so personified and imaged her in human likeness. Is it real humanity?" Thorold laughed his gay laugh. "The pine-tree will do excellently, aunt Catherine," he said. "No better embodiment of stately grace could be found." My ears tingled. "Aunt Catherine?" _Aunt!_ then Thorold must be her relation, her nephew; then he was not come on business; then he would stay to tea. I might as well show myself. But, I thought, if Thorold had some other lady so much in his mind, (for I was sure his picture must be a portrait) he would not care so very much about seeing me, as I had at first fancied he would. However, I could not go away; so I might as well go in; it would not do to wait longer. The evening had quite fallen now. It was April, as I said, but a cold raw spring day, and had been like that for several days. Houses were chill; and in Miss Cardigan's grate a fine fire of Kennal coals was blazing, making its red illumination all over the room and the two figures who sat in front of it. She had had a grate put in this winter. There was no other light, only that soft red glow and gloom, under favour of which I went in and stood almost beside them before they perceived me. I did not speak to Miss Cardigan. I remember my words were, "How do you do, Mr. Thorold?" � in a very quiet kind of a voice; for I did not now expect him to be very glad. But I was surprised at the change my words made. He sprang up, his eyes flashing a sort of shower of sparks over me, gladness in every line of his face, and surprise, and a kind of inexpressible deference in his manner. "Daisy!" � he exclaimed � "Miss Randolph!" "Daisy!" echoed Miss Cardigan. "My dear! � do you two know each other? Where did you come from?" I think I did not answer. I am sure Thorold did not. He was caring for me, placing his chair nearer his aunt and putting me into it, before he let go the hand he had taken. Then, drawing up another chair on the other side of me, he sat down and looked at me (I thought afterward, I only felt at the moment) as if I had been some precious wonder; the Koh-i-noor diamond, or anything of that sort. "Where did you come from?" was his first question. "I have been in the house a little while," I said. "I thought at first Miss Cardigan had somebody with her on business, so I would not come in." "It is quite true, Daisy," said Miss Cardigan; "it is somebody on business." "Nothing private about it, though," said Thorold, smiling at me. "But where in the world did you and aunt Catherine come together?" "And what call have ye to search into it?" said Miss Cardigan's good-humoured voice. "I know a great many bodies, callant, that you know not." "I know this one though," said Thorold. "Miss Randolph � won't you speak? for aunt Catherine is in no mood to let me. � Have you two known each other long?" "It seems long," I said. "It is not very long." "Since before last summer?" "Certainly!" "If that's the date of _your_ acquaintanceship," said Miss Cardigan, "we're auld friends to that. Is all well, Daisy?" "All quite well, ma'am. I came to do a bit of study I wanted in your books, and to have a nice time with you, besides." "And here is this fellow in the way. But we cannot turn him out, Daisy; he is going fast enough; on what errand, do you think, is he bent?" _I_ had not thought about it till that minute. Something, some thread of the serious, in Miss Cardigan's voice made me look suddenly at Thorold. He had turned his eyes away from me and had bent them upon the fire, all merriment gone out of his face too. It was thoroughly grave. "What are you going to do, Mr. Thorold?" I asked. "Do you remember a talk we had down on Flirtation walk one day last summer, when you asked me about possible political movements at the South, and I asked you what you would do?" "Yes," I said, my heart sinking. "The time has come," he said, facing round upon me. "And you �" "I shall be on my way to Washington in a few days. Men are wanted now � all the men that have any knowledge to be useful. I may not be very useful. But I am going to try." "I thought," � it was not quite easy to speak, for I was struggling with something which threatened to roughen my voice, � "I thought, you did not graduate till June?" "Not regularly; not usually; but things are extraordinary this year. We graduate and go on to Washington at once." I believe we were all silent a few minutes. "Daisy," said Miss Cardigan, "you have nobody that is dear to _you_, likely to be engaged in the fray � if there is one?" "I don't know, �" I said, rather faintly. I remember I said it; I cannot tell why, for I _did_ know. I knew that Preston and Ransom were both likely to be in the struggle, even if Ransom had been at the moment at the opposite side of the world. But then Thorold roused up and began to talk. He talked to divert us, I think. He told us of things that concerned himself and his class personally, giving details to which we listened eagerly; and he went on from them to things and people in the public line, of which and of whom neither Miss Cardigan nor I had known the thousandth part so much before. We sat and listened, Miss Cardigan often putting in a question, while the warm still glow of the firelight shed over us and all the room its assurance of peace and quiet, woven and compounded of life-long associations. Thorold sat before us and talked, and we looked at him and listened in the fire-shine; and my thoughts made swift sideway flights every now and then from this peace and glow of comfort, and from Thorold's talk, to the changes of the camp, and the possible coming strife; spectres of war, guns and swords, exposure and wounds � and sickness � and the battlefield � what could I tell? and Miss Cardigan's servant put another lump of coal on the fire, and Thorold presently broke it, and the jet of illumination sprang forth, mocking and yet revealing in its sweet home glow my visions of terror. They were but momentary visions; I could not bear of course to look steadily at them; they were spectres that came and went with a wave of a hand, in a jet of flame, or the shadow of an opening door; but they went, and came; and I saw many things in Thorold's face that night beside the manly lines of determination and spirit, the look of thought and power, and the hover of light in his eye when it turned to me. I don't know what Miss Cardigan saw; but several times in the evening I heard her sigh; a thing very unusual and notable with her. Again and again I heard it, a soft long breath. I gave it no heed at the time. My eyes and thoughts were fixed on the other member of the party; and I was like one in a dream. I walked in a dream; till we went into the other room to tea, and I heard Miss Cardigan say, addressing her nephew, � "Sit there, Christian." I was like one in a dream, or I should have known what this meant. I did know, two minutes afterwards. But at the moment, falling in with some of my thoughts, the word made me start and look at Thorold. I cannot tell what was in my look; I know what was in my heart; the surprised inquiry and the yearning wish. Thorold's face flushed. He met my eyes with an intense recognition and inquiry in his own, and then, I am almost sure, his were dim. He set my chair for me at the table, and took hold of me and put me in it with a very gentle touch that seemed to thank me. "That is my name, Miss Randolph," he said, � "the name given me by my parents." "You'll earn it yet, boy," said Miss Cardigan. "But the sooner the better." There was after that a very deep gravity upon us all for the first minutes at table. I wondered to myself, how people can go on drinking tea and eating bread and butter through everything; yet they must, and even I was doing it at the moment, and not willing to forego the occupation. By degrees the wonted course of things relieved our minds, which were upon too high a strain. It appeared that Thorold was very hungry, having, missed his dinner somehow; and his aunt ordered up everything in the house for his comfort, in which I suppose she found her own. And then Thorold made me eat with him. I was sure I did not want it, but that made no difference. Things were prepared for me and put upon my plate, and a soft little command laid on me to do with them what I was expected to do. It was not like the way Dr. Sandford used to order me, nor in the least like Preston's imperiousness which I could withstand well enough; there was something in it which nullified all my power and even will to resist, and I was as submissive as possible. Thorold grew very bright again as the meal went on, and began to talk in a somewhat livelier strain than he had been in before tea; and I believe he did wile both his aunt and me out of the sad or grave thoughts we had been indulging. I know that I was obliged to laugh, as I was obliged to eat. Thorold had his own way, and seemed to like it. Even his aunt was amused and interested, and grew lively, like herself. With all that, through the whole supper- time I had an odd feeling of her being on one side; it seemed to be only Thorold and I really there; and in all Thorold was doing and through all he was talking, I had a curious sense that he was occupied only with me. It was not that he said so much directly to me or looked so much at me; I do not know how I got the feeling. There was Miss Cardigan at the head of the table, busy and talking as usual, clever and kind; yet the air seemed to be breathed only by Thorold and me. "And how soon, lad," Miss Cardigan broke out suddenly, when a moment's lull in the talk had given her a chance, "how soon will ye be off to that region of disturbance whither ye are going?" "Washington?" said Thorold. "Just as soon as our examination can be pushed through; � in a very few days now." "You'll come to me by the way, for another look at you, in your officer's uniform?" "Uniform? nobody will have any uniform, I fancy," said Thorold, "nobody has any time to think of that. No, aunt Catherine, and I shall not see you, either. I expect we shall rush through without the loss of a train. I can't stop. I don't care what clothes I wear to get there." "How came you to be here now, if you are in such a hurry?" "Nothing on earth would have brought me, but the thing that did bring me," said Thorold. "I was subpoenaed down, to give my evidence in a trial. I must get back again without loss of a minute; should have one to-night, if there had been a train that stopped. I am very glad there was no train that stopped!" We were all silent for a minute; till the door bell rang, and the servant came announcing Mr. Bunsen, to see Miss Cardigan about the tenant houses. Miss Cardigan went off through the open doors that led to the front parlour; and standing by the fire, I watched her figure diminishing in the long distance till it passed into Mr. Bunsen's presence and disappeared. Mr. Thorold and I stood silently on either side of the hearth, looking into the fire, while the servant was clearing the table. The cheerful, hospitable little table, round which we had been so cheerful at least for the moment, was dismantled already, and the wonted cold gleam of the mahogany seemed to tell me that cheer was all over. The talk of the uniform had overset me. All sorts of visions of what it signified, what it portended, where it would go, what it would be doing, were knocking at the door of my heart, and putting their heads in. Before tea these visions had come and vanished; often enough, to be sure; now they came and stayed. I was very quiet, I am certain of that; I was as certainly very sober, with a great and growing sadness at my heart. I think Thorold was grave, too, though I hardly looked at him. We did not speak to each other, all the time the servant was busy in the room. We stood silent before the fire. The study I had come to do had all passed away out of my mind, though the books were within three feet of me. I was growing sadder and sadder every minute. "Things have changed, since we talked so lightly last summer of what might be," � Thorold said at last. � And he said it in a meditative way, as if he were pondering something. "Yes" � I assented. "The North does not wish for war. The South have brought it upon themselves." "Yes" � I said again; wondering a little what was coming. "However disagreeable my duty may be, it is my duty; and there is no shirking it." "No," I said. "Of course." "And if your friends are on one side and I on the other, � it is not my fault, Miss Randolph." "No," I said; "not at all." "Then you do not blame me for taking the part I _must_ take?" "No," I said. "You must take it." "Are you sorry I take it?" said Thorold with a change of tone, and coming a step nearer. "Sorry?" I said; and I looked up for an instant. "No; how could I be sorry? It is your duty. It is right." But as I looked down again I had the greatest difficulty not to burst into tears. I felt as though my heart would break in two with its burden of pain. It cost a great effort to stand still and quiet, without showing anything. "What is it then?" said Thorold; and with the next words I knew he had come close to my side and was stooping his head down to my face, while his voice dropped. "What is it, Daisy? � Is it � Oh, Daisy, I love you better than anything else in the world, except my duty; � Daisy, do you love me?" Nothing could have been more impossible to me, I think, than to answer a word; but, indeed, Thorold did not seem to want it. As he questioned me, he had put his arm round me and drawn me nearer and nearer, stooping his face to me, till his lips took their own answer at mine; indeed took answer after answer, and then, in a sort of passion of mute joy, kissed my face all over. I could not forbid him; between excitement and sorrow and happiness and shame, I could do nothing; the best I could do was to hide my face, but the breast of that grey coat was a strange hiding-place for it. With that inconsistent mingling of small things with great in one's perceptions, which everybody knows, I remember the soft feel of the fine grey cloth along with the clasp of Thorold's arms and the touch of his cheek resting upon my hair. And we stood so, quite still, for what seemed both a long and a short time, in which I think happiness got the upper hand with me, and pain for the moment was bid into the background. At last Thorold raised his head and bade me, lift up mine. "Look up, darling," he said; "look up, Daisy! let me see your face. Look up, Daisy � we have only a minute, and everything in the world to say to each other. Daisy � I want to see you." I think it was one of the most difficult little things I ever had in my life to do, to raise my face and let him look at it; but I knew it must be done, and I did it. One glance at his I ventured. He was smiling at me; there was a flush upon his cheek; his eye had a light in it, and with that a glow of tenderness which was different from anything I had ever seen; and it was glittering too, I think, with another sort of suffusion. His hand came smoothing down my hair and then touching my cheek while he looked at me. "What are you going to do with yourself now?" he said softly. "I am going on with my studies for another month or two." "And you belong to me, Daisy?" "Yes." He bent his head and kissed my brow. There is an odd difference of effect between a kiss on the lips and on the forehead, or else it was a difference in the manner. This seemed a sort of taking possession or setting a seal; and it gave me a new feeling of something almost like awe, which I had never associated with the grey coat or with its wearer before. Along with that came another impression, that I suppose most women know, and know how sweet it is; the sense of an enveloping protection. Not that I had not been protected all my life; but my mother's had been the protection of authority; my father's also, in some measure; Dr. Sandford's was emphatically that of a _guardian;_ he guarded me a little too well. But this new thing that was stealing into my heart, with its subtle delight, was the protection of a champion; of one who set me and mine above all other interests or claims in the world, and who would guard me as if he were a part of myself, only stronger. Altogether Thorold seemed to me different from what he had been the last summer; there was a gravity now in his face and air at times that was new and even stern; the gravity of a man taking stern life-work upon him. I felt all this in a minute, while Thorold was smiling down into my face. "And you will write to me?" he said. "Yes!" "And I will write to you. And I belong to you, Daisy, and to no other. All I have is yours, and all that I am is yours, � after my duty; you may dispose of me, pretty one, just as you like. _You_ would not have that put second, Daisy." A great yearning came over me, so great and strong that it almost took away my breath. I fancy it spoke in my eyes, for Thorold's face grew very grave, I remember, as he looked at me. But I must speak it more plainly than so, at any costs, breath or no breath, and I must not wait. "Christian," I whispered, � "won't you earn your right to your name?" He pressed his lips upon mine by way of answer first, and then gave me a quick and firm "Yes." I certainly thought he had found the mouth he was talking of a little while ago. But at that instant the sound of the distant house door closing, and then of steps coming out from the parlour, made me know that Miss Cardigan's business was over, and that she was returning to us. I wanted to free myself from Thorold's arm, but he would not let me; on the contrary, held me closer, and half turned to meet Miss Cardigan as she came in. Certainly men are very different from women. There we stood awaiting her; and I felt very much ashamed. "Come on, aunt Catherine," Thorold said, as she paused at the door, � "come in! Come in and kiss her; � this little darling is mine." Miss Cardigan came in slowly. I could not look up. "Kiss her, aunt Catherine," he repeated; "she is mine." And to my great dismay he set her the example; but I think it was partly to reassure me, and cover my confusion, which he saw. "I have kissed Daisy very often before now," said Miss Cardigan. I thought I discerned some concern in her voice. "Then come, do it again," said Thorold, laughing. "You never kissed her as anything belonging to me, aunt Catherine." And he fairly laid me in Miss Cardigan's arms, till we kissed each other as he desired. But Miss Cardigan's gravity roused me out of my confusion. I was not ashamed before her; only before him. "Now, aunt Catherine," he said, pulling up a comfortable armchair to the corner of the hearth, � "sit there. And Daisy, � come here!" He put me into the fellow chair; and then built up the wood in the fireplace till we had a regular illumination. Then drew himself up before the fire, and looked at his aunt. "It's like you!" broke out Miss Cardigan. "Ever since you were born, I think, you did what you liked, and had what you liked; and threw over everything to get at the best." "On the contrary," said Thorold, "I was always of a very contented disposition." "Contented with your own will, then," said his aunt. "And now, do you mean to tell me that you have got this prize � this prize � it's a first-class, Christian � for good and for certain to yourself?" I lifted my eyes one instant, to see the sparkles in Thorold's eyes; they were worth seeing. "You don't think you deserve it?" Miss Cardigan went on. "I do not think I deserve it," said Thorold. "But I think I will." "I know what that means," said his aunt. "You will get worldly glory � just a bit or two more of gold on your coat � to match you with one of the Lord's jewels, that are to be 'all glorious within;' and you think that will fit you to own her." "Aunt Catherine," said Thorold, "I do not precisely think that gold lace is glory. But I mean that I will do my duty. A man can do no more." "Some would have said, 'a man can do no less,' " said Miss Cardigan, turning to me. "But you are right, lad; more than our duty we can none of us do; where _all_ is owing, less will not be overpay. But whatever do you think her father will say to you?" "I will ask him, when the time comes," said Thorold, contentedly. His tone was perfect; both modest and manly. Truth to say, I could not quite share his content, in looking forward to the time he spoke of; but that was far ahead, and it was impossible not to share his confidence. My father and my mother had been practically not my guardians during six and a half long years; I had got out of the habit of looking first to them. "And what are you going to do now in Washington?" said his aunt. "You may as weel sit down and tell us." "I don't know. Probably I shall be put to drill new recruits. All these seventy-five thousand men that the President has called for, won't know how to handle a gun or do anything else." "And what is he going to do with these seventy-fire thousand men, Christian?" "Put down treason, if he can. Don't you realise yet that we have a civil war on our hands, aunt Catherine? The Southern States are mustering and sending their forces; we must meet them, or give up the whole question; that is, give up the Country." "And what is it that _they_ will try to do?" said Miss Cardigan. "It is a mystery to me what they want; but I suppose I know; only bad men are a mystery to me always." "They will try to defy the laws," said Thorold. "We will try to see them executed." "They seem very fierce," said Miss Cardigan; "to judge by what they say." "And do," added Thorold. "I think there is a sort of madness in Southern blood!" He spoke with a manner of disgustful emphasis. I looked up at him, to see an expression quite in keeping with his words. Miss Cardigan cried out, � "Hey, lad! Ye're confident, surely, to venture your opinions so plainly and so soon!" His face changed, as if sunlight had been suddenly poured over it. He came kneeling on one knee before me, taking my hand and kissing it, and laughing. "And I see ye're not confident without reason!" added Miss Cardigan. "Daisy'll just let ye say your mind, and no punish you for it." "But it is _true_, Miss Cardigan," � I said, turning to her. I wished I had held my tongue the next minute, for the words were taken off my lips, as it were. It is something quite different from eating your own words, which I have heard of as not pleasant; mine seemed to be devoured by somebody else. "But is it true they are coming to attack Washington?" Miss Cardigan went on, when we had all done laughing. "I read it in the prints; and it seems to me I read every other thing there." "I am afraid you read too many prints," said Thorold. "You are thinking of 'hear both sides,' aunt Catherine? � you must know there is but one side to this matter. There never are two sides to treason." "That's true," said Miss Cardigan. "But about Washington, lad? I saw an extract from a letter written from that city, by a lady, and she said the place was in terror; she said the President sleeps with a hundred men, armed, in the east room, to protect him from the Southern army; and keeps a sentinel before his bedroom door; and often goes clean out of the White House and sleeps somewhere else, in his fear." I had never seen Thorold laugh as he did then. And he asked his aunt "where she had seen that extract?" "It was in one of the papers � it was in an extract; itself, I'm thinking." "From a Southern paper," said Thorold. "Well, I believe it was." "I have seen extracts too," said Thorold. "They say, Alexander H. Stephens is counselling the rebels to lay hold on Washington." "Well, sit down and tell us what you do know, and how to understand things!" said Miss Cardigan. "I don't talk to anybody, much, about politics." So Thorold did as he was asked. He sat down on the other side of me, and with my hand in his, talked to us both. We went over the whole ground of the few months past, of the work then doing and preparing, of what might reasonably be looked for in both the South and the North. He said he was not very wise in the matter; but he was infinitely more informed than we; and we listened as to the most absorbing of all tales, till the night was far worn. A sense of the gravity and importance of the crisis; a consciousness that we were embarked in a contest of the most stubborn character, the end of which no man might foretell, pressed itself more and more on my mind as the night and the talk grew deeper. If I may judge from the changes in Miss Cardigan's face, it was the same with her. The conclusion was, the North was gathering and concentrating all her forces to meet the trial that was coming; and the young officers of the graduating class at the Military Academy had been ordered to the seat of war a little before their time of study was out; their help being urgently needed. "And where is Preston?" said I, speaking for the first time in a long while. "Preston?" � echoed Thorold. "My cousin Preston, � Gary; your classmate Gary." "Gary! � Oh, he is going to Washington, like the rest of us." "Which side will he take?" "You should know, perhaps, better than I," said Thorold. "He always _has_ taken the Southern side, and very exclusively." "_Has_ taken?" said I. "Do you mean that among the cadets, there has been a South and a North � until now lately?" "Ay, Daisy, always, since I have been in the Academy. The Southern clique and the Northern clique have been well defined; there is always an assumption of superiority on the one side, and some resenting of it on the other side. It was on that ground Gary and I split." "Split!" I repeated. But Thorold laughed and kissed me, and would give me no satisfaction. I began to put things together though. I saw from Christian's eyes that _he_ had nothing to be ashamed of, in looking back; I remembered Preston's virulence, and his sudden flush when somebody had repeated the word "coward," which he had applied to Thorold. I felt certain that more had been between them than mere words, and that Preston found the recollection not flattering, whatever it was; and having come to this settlement of the matter, I looked up at Thorold. "My gentle little Daisy!" he said. "I will never quarrel with him again � if I can help it." "You _must_ quarrel with him, if he is on the wrong side," I answered. "And so must I." "You say, you must go immediately back to West Point," said Miss Cardigan. "Leave thanking Daisy's hand, and tell me _when_ you are going; for the night is far past, children." "I am gone when I bid you good-night," said Thorold. "I must set out with the dawn � to catch the train I must take." "With the dawn! � _this_ morning!" cried Miss Cardigan. "Certainly. I should be there this minute, if the colonel had not given me something to do here that kept me." "And when will ye do it?" "Do it! It is done," said Thorold; "before I came here. But I must catch the first train in the morning." "And you'll want some breakfast before that," she said rising. "No, I shall not," said Thorold, catching hold of her. "I want nothing. I did want my supper. Sit down, aunt Catherine, and be quiet. I want nothing, I tell you, but more time." "We may as well sit up the rest of the night," I said; "it is so far gone now." "Yes, and what will you be good for to-morrow?" said Miss Cardigan. "You must lie down and take a bit of rest." I felt no weariness; but I remember the grave, tender, examination of Thorold's eyes, which seemed to touch me with their love, to find out whether I � and himself � might be indulged or not. It was a bit of the thoughtful, watchful affection, which always surrounded me when he was near. I never had it just so from anybody else. "It won't do, Daisy," said he gaily. "You would not have me go in company with self-reproaches all day to-morrow? You must lie down here on the sofa; and sleep or not, we'll all be still for two hours. Aunt Catherine will thank me to stop talking for that length of time." I was not sleepy, but Miss Cardigan and Thorold would not be resisted. Thorold wheeled up the sofa, piled the cushions, and made me lie down, with the understanding that nobody should speak for the time he had specified. Miss Cardigan, on her part, soon lost herself in her easy chair. Thorold walked perseveringly up and down the room. I closed my eyes and opened my eyes, and lay still and thought. It is all before me now. The firelight fading and brightening; Thorold took care of the fire; the gleam of the gaslight on the rows of books; Miss Cardigan's comfortable figure gone to sleep in the corner of her chair; and the figure which ever and anon came between me and the fire, piling or arranging the logs of wood, and then paced up and down just behind me. There was no sleep for my eyes; of course. How should there be? I seemed to pass all my life in review, and took the bearings of my present position, and got calmed and quieted. I think they were silver hours while I lay there, if time is ever made of such material; not golden, for my happiness was not quite so perfect. There were many things to temper it. I rose up the minute the hours were over, for I could bear the silence no longer, nor the losing any more time. Thorold stopped his walk then, and we had a long talk over the fire by ourselves, while Miss Cardigan slept on. Trust her, though, for waking up when there was anything to be done. Long before dawn she roused herself and went to call her servants and order our early breakfast. "What are you going to do now, Daisy?" said Thorold, turning to me with a weight of earnestness in his eyes, and a flash of that keen inspection which they sometimes gave me. "You know �" I said, "I am going to study as hard as I can for a month or two more, � till my school closes." "Then?" � I was silent. "What then, Daisy? Perhaps you will find some way to come on and see me at Washington � if the rebels don't take it first?" It must be told. "No � I cannot. � My father and mother wish me to come out to them as soon as I get a chance." "Where?" "In Switzerland." "Switzerland! To stay how long?" "I don't know � till the war is over, I suppose. I do not think they would come back before." "I shall come and fetch you, then, Daisy." But it seemed a long way off. And how much might be between. We were both silent. "That is heavy, for me," said Thorold at last. "Little Daisy, you do not know how heavy!" He was caressing my hair, smoothing and stroking it as he spoke. I looked up, and his eyes flashed fire instantly. "Say that in words!" he exclaimed, taking me in his arms. "Say it, Daisy! say it. It will be worth so much to me." But my lips had hardly a chance to speak. "Say what?" "Daisy, you _have_ said it. Put it in words, that is all." But his eyes were so fill of flashing triumph that I thought he had got enough for the time. "Daisy, those eyes of yours are like mountain lakes, deep and still. But when I look quite down to the bottom of them � sometimes I see something � I thought I did then." "What?" I asked, very much amused. "I see it there now, Daisy!" "I was afraid he did, for _his_ eyes were like sunbeams, and I thought they went through everything at that minute. I don't know what moved me, the consciousness of this inspection or the consciousness of what it discovered; but I know that floods of shyness seemed to flush my face and brow, and even to the tips of my fingers. I would have escaped if I could, but I could not; and I think Thorold rather liked what he saw. There was no hiding it, unless I hid it on his shoulder; and I was ashamed to have to do that, but he liked it. I felt that his lips knew just as well as his eyes what state my cheeks were in, and took their own advantage. Though presently their tenderness soothed me too, and even nullified the soft little laugh with which he whispered, "Are you ashamed to show it to _me_, Daisy?" "You know," said I, still keeping my eyes hid, "you have me at advantage. If you were not going � away � so soon, I would not do a great many things." "Daisy!" said he, laughing, � "Daisy!" � And touching my cheek as one who meant to keep his advantage. But then his voice changed, and he repeated, with a deeper and deepening tone with each word � "Daisy! � my Daisy!" I had very nearly burst out into great sobs upon his breast, with the meeting of opposite tides of feeling. Sweet and bitter struggled for the upper hand; struggled, while I was afraid he would feel the laboured breath which went and came, straining me. And the sweetness, for the moment, got the better. I knew he must go, in an hour or little more, away from me. I knew it was for uncertain and maybe dangerous duty. I knew it might at best be long before we could see each other again; and, back of all, the thought of my father and mother was not reassuring. But his arms were round me and my head was on his shoulder; and that was but the outward symbol of the inward love and confidence which filled all my heart with its satisfying content. For the moment happiness was uppermost. Not all the clouds on the horizon could dim the brightness of that one sun-ray which reached me. I do not know what Thorold thought, but he was as still as I for a while. "Daisy," he said at last, "my Daisy, you need not grudge any of your goodness to me. Don't you know, you are to be my light and my watchword in what lies before me?" "Oh, no!" I said, lifting my head; "Oh, no, Christian!" "Why no?" said he. "I want you to have a better watchword and follow a better light. Not me. Oh, Christian, won't you?" "What shall my watchword be?" � said he, looking into my eyes. But I was intent on something else then. "Whatsoever ye do, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus," I answered. "A soldier, Daisy? �" "A soldier more than anybody," I said; "for He calls us to be soldiers, and you know what it means." "But you forget," said he, not taking his eyes from my face, � "in my service I must obey as well as command; I am not my own master exactly." "Let Christ be your Master," I said. "How then with this other service?" "Why, it is very plain," I said. "Command in the love of God, and obey in the fear of God; that covers all." I did not see the natural sequence of what followed; for it was a succession of kisses that left no chance for a word to get out of my mouth. Then Thorold rose up, straightened himself, and I saw Miss Cardigan just entering. "I will not forget, Daisy," he said, in a tone as if we had been talking of business. I thought, neither should I. And then came Miss Cardigan, and the servant behind her bringing coffee and bread and eggs and marmalade � I don't know what beside � and we sat down again to the table, knowing that the next move would be a move apart. But the wave of happiness was at the flood with me, and it bore me over all the underlying roughnesses of the shore � for the time. I do not think anybody wanted to eat much; we played with cups of coffee and with each other, and dallied with the minutes till the last one was spent. And then came the parting. That was short. THE END Note by the transcriber : DAISY is the continuation of MELBOURNE HOUSE. There is a further continuation as DAISY IN THE FIELD. 
1260	----	Transcribed from the 1897 Service & Paton edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org JANE EYRE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE _ILLUSTRATED BY F. H. TOWNSEND_ London SERVICE & PATON 5 HENRIETTA STREET 1897 _The Illustrations_ _in this Volume are the copyright of_ SERVICE & PATON, _London_ TO W. M. THACKERAY, ESQ., This Work IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR PREFACE A preface to the first edition of "Jane Eyre" being unnecessary, I gave none: this second edition demands a few words both of acknowledgment and miscellaneous remark. My thanks are due in three quarters. To the Public, for the indulgent ear it has inclined to a plain tale with few pretensions. To the Press, for the fair field its honest suffrage has opened to an obscure aspirant. To my Publishers, for the aid their tact, their energy, their practical sense and frank liberality have afforded an unknown and unrecommended Author. The Press and the Public are but vague personifications for me, and I must thank them in vague terms; but my Publishers are definite: so are certain generous critics who have encouraged me as only large-hearted and high-minded men know how to encourage a struggling stranger; to them, _i.e._, to my Publishers and the select Reviewers, I say cordially, Gentlemen, I thank you from my heart. Having thus acknowledged what I owe those who have aided and approved me, I turn to another class; a small one, so far as I know, but not, therefore, to be overlooked. I mean the timorous or carping few who doubt the tendency of such books as "Jane Eyre:" in whose eyes whatever is unusual is wrong; whose ears detect in each protest against bigotry--that parent of crime--an insult to piety, that regent of God on earth. I would suggest to such doubters certain obvious distinctions; I would remind them of certain simple truths. Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee, is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns. These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they are as distinct as is vice from virtue. Men too often confound them: they should not be confounded: appearance should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human doctrines, that only tend to elate and magnify a few, should not be substituted for the world-redeeming creed of Christ. There is--I repeat it--a difference; and it is a good, and not a bad action to mark broadly and clearly the line of separation between them. The world may not like to see these ideas dissevered, for it has been accustomed to blend them; finding it convenient to make external show pass for sterling worth--to let white-washed walls vouch for clean shrines. It may hate him who dares to scrutinise and expose--to rase the gilding, and show base metal under it--to penetrate the sepulchre, and reveal charnel relics: but hate as it will, it is indebted to him. Ahab did not like Micaiah, because he never prophesied good concerning him, but evil; probably he liked the sycophant son of Chenaannah better; yet might Ahab have escaped a bloody death, had he but stopped his ears to flattery, and opened them to faithful counsel. There is a man in our own days whose words are not framed to tickle delicate ears: who, to my thinking, comes before the great ones of society, much as the son of Imlah came before the throned Kings of Judah and Israel; and who speaks truth as deep, with a power as prophet-like and as vital--a mien as dauntless and as daring. Is the satirist of "Vanity Fair" admired in high places? I cannot tell; but I think if some of those amongst whom he hurls the Greek fire of his sarcasm, and over whom he flashes the levin-brand of his denunciation, were to take his warnings in time--they or their seed might yet escape a fatal Rimoth-Gilead. Why have I alluded to this man? I have alluded to him, Reader, because I think I see in him an intellect profounder and more unique than his contemporaries have yet recognised; because I regard him as the first social regenerator of the day--as the very master of that working corps who would restore to rectitude the warped system of things; because I think no commentator on his writings has yet found the comparison that suits him, the terms which rightly characterise his talent. They say he is like Fielding: they talk of his wit, humour, comic powers. He resembles Fielding as an eagle does a vulture: Fielding could stoop on carrion, but Thackeray never does. His wit is bright, his humour attractive, but both bear the same relation to his serious genius that the mere lambent sheet-lightning playing under the edge of the summer- cloud does to the electric death-spark hid in its womb. Finally, I have alluded to Mr. Thackeray, because to him--if he will accept the tribute of a total stranger--I have dedicated this second edition of "JANE EYRE." CURRER BELL. _December_ 21_st_, 1847. NOTE TO THE THIRD EDITION I avail myself of the opportunity which a third edition of "Jane Eyre" affords me, of again addressing a word to the Public, to explain that my claim to the title of novelist rests on this one work alone. If, therefore, the authorship of other works of fiction has been attributed to me, an honour is awarded where it is not merited; and consequently, denied where it is justly due. This explanation will serve to rectify mistakes which may already have been made, and to prevent future errors. CURRER BELL. _April_ 13_th_, 1848. CHAPTER I There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question. I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed. The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the group; saying, "She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner--something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were--she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy, little children." "What does Bessie say I have done?" I asked. "Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent." A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the window- seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement. Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast. I returned to my book--Bewick's History of British Birds: the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of "the solitary rocks and promontories" by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape-- "Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls, Boils round the naked, melancholy isles Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge Pours in among the stormy Hebrides." Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with "the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space,--that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of extreme cold." Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children's brains, but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking. I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its newly-risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide. The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine phantoms. The fiend pinning down the thief's pack behind him, I passed over quickly: it was an object of terror. So was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows. Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be in good humour; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed's lace frills, and crimped her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads; or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland. With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast- room door opened. "Boh! Madam Mope!" cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he found the room apparently empty. "Where the dickens is she!" he continued. "Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run out into the rain--bad animal!" "It is well I drew the curtain," thought I; and I wished fervently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor would John Reed have found it out himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza just put her head in at the door, and said at once-- "She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack." And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack. "What do you want?" I asked, with awkward diffidence. "Say, 'What do you want, Master Reed?'" was the answer. "I want you to come here;" and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated by a gesture that I was to approach and stand before him. John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than I, for I was but ten: large and stout for his age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, which made him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He ought now to have been at school; but his mama had taken him home for a month or two, "on account of his delicate health." Mr. Miles, the master, affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him from home; but the mother's heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that John's sallowness was owing to over-application and, perhaps, to pining after home. John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like to offend their young master by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence, more frequently, however, behind her back. Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could without damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my face; for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibrium retired back a step or two from his chair. "That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile since," said he, "and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes since, you rat!" Accustomed to John Reed's abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it; my care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult. "What were you doing behind the curtain?" he asked. "I was reading." "Show the book." I returned to the window and fetched it thence. "You have no business to take our books; you are a dependent, mama says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gentlemen's children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mama's expense. Now, I'll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they _are_ mine; all the house belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows." I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded. "Wicked and cruel boy!" I said. "You are like a murderer--you are like a slave-driver--you are like the Roman emperors!" I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero, Caligula, etc. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I never thought thus to have declared aloud. "What! what!" he cried. "Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won't I tell mama? but first--" He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort. I don't very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me "Rat! Rat!" and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she now came upon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the words-- "Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!" "Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!" Then Mrs. Reed subjoined-- "Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there." Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs. CHAPTER II I resisted all the way: a new thing for me, and a circumstance which greatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie and Miss Abbot were disposed to entertain of me. The fact is, I was a trifle beside myself; or rather _out_ of myself, as the French would say: I was conscious that a moment's mutiny had already rendered me liable to strange penalties, and, like any other rebel slave, I felt resolved, in my desperation, to go all lengths. "Hold her arms, Miss Abbot: she's like a mad cat." "For shame! for shame!" cried the lady's-maid. "What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman, your benefactress's son! Your young master." "Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?" "No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for your keep. There, sit down, and think over your wickedness." They had got me by this time into the apartment indicated by Mrs. Reed, and had thrust me upon a stool: my impulse was to rise from it like a spring; their two pair of hands arrested me instantly. "If you don't sit still, you must be tied down," said Bessie. "Miss Abbot, lend me your garters; she would break mine directly." Miss Abbot turned to divest a stout leg of the necessary ligature. This preparation for bonds, and the additional ignominy it inferred, took a little of the excitement out of me. "Don't take them off," I cried; "I will not stir." In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by my hands. "Mind you don't," said Bessie; and when she had ascertained that I was really subsiding, she loosened her hold of me; then she and Miss Abbot stood with folded arms, looking darkly and doubtfully on my face, as incredulous of my sanity. "She never did so before," at last said Bessie, turning to the Abigail. "But it was always in her," was the reply. "I've told Missis often my opinion about the child, and Missis agreed with me. She's an underhand little thing: I never saw a girl of her age with so much cover." Bessie answered not; but ere long, addressing me, she said--"You ought to be aware, Miss, that you are under obligations to Mrs. Reed: she keeps you: if she were to turn you off, you would have to go to the poorhouse." I had nothing to say to these words: they were not new to me: my very first recollections of existence included hints of the same kind. This reproach of my dependence had become a vague sing-song in my ear: very painful and crushing, but only half intelligible. Miss Abbot joined in-- "And you ought not to think yourself on an equality with the Misses Reed and Master Reed, because Missis kindly allows you to be brought up with them. They will have a great deal of money, and you will have none: it is your place to be humble, and to try to make yourself agreeable to them." "What we tell you is for your good," added Bessie, in no harsh voice, "you should try to be useful and pleasant, then, perhaps, you would have a home here; but if you become passionate and rude, Missis will send you away, I am sure." "Besides," said Miss Abbot, "God will punish her: He might strike her dead in the midst of her tantrums, and then where would she go? Come, Bessie, we will leave her: I wouldn't have her heart for anything. Say your prayers, Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself; for if you don't repent, something bad might be permitted to come down the chimney and fetch you away." They went, shutting the door, and locking it behind them. The red-room was a square chamber, very seldom slept in, I might say never, indeed, unless when a chance influx of visitors at Gateshead Hall rendered it necessary to turn to account all the accommodation it contained: yet it was one of the largest and stateliest chambers in the mansion. A bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany, hung with curtains of deep red damask, stood out like a tabernacle in the centre; the two large windows, with their blinds always drawn down, were half shrouded in festoons and falls of similar drapery; the carpet was red; the table at the foot of the bed was covered with a crimson cloth; the walls were a soft fawn colour with a blush of pink in it; the wardrobe, the toilet-table, the chairs were of darkly polished old mahogany. Out of these deep surrounding shades rose high, and glared white, the piled- up mattresses and pillows of the bed, spread with a snowy Marseilles counterpane. Scarcely less prominent was an ample cushioned easy-chair near the head of the bed, also white, with a footstool before it; and looking, as I thought, like a pale throne. This room was chill, because it seldom had a fire; it was silent, because remote from the nursery and kitchen; solemn, because it was known to be so seldom entered. The house-maid alone came here on Saturdays, to wipe from the mirrors and the furniture a week's quiet dust: and Mrs. Reed herself, at far intervals, visited it to review the contents of a certain secret drawer in the wardrobe, where were stored divers parchments, her jewel-casket, and a miniature of her deceased husband; and in those last words lies the secret of the red-room--the spell which kept it so lonely in spite of its grandeur. Mr. Reed had been dead nine years: it was in this chamber he breathed his last; here he lay in state; hence his coffin was borne by the undertaker's men; and, since that day, a sense of dreary consecration had guarded it from frequent intrusion. My seat, to which Bessie and the bitter Miss Abbot had left me riveted, was a low ottoman near the marble chimney-piece; the bed rose before me; to my right hand there was the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued, broken reflections varying the gloss of its panels; to my left were the muffled windows; a great looking-glass between them repeated the vacant majesty of the bed and room. I was not quite sure whether they had locked the door; and when I dared move, I got up and went to see. Alas! yes: no jail was ever more secure. Returning, I had to cross before the looking- glass; my fascinated glance involuntarily explored the depth it revealed. All looked colder and darker in that visionary hollow than in reality: and the strange little figure there gazing at me, with a white face and arms specking the gloom, and glittering eyes of fear moving where all else was still, had the effect of a real spirit: I thought it like one of the tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, Bessie's evening stories represented as coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors, and appearing before the eyes of belated travellers. I returned to my stool. Superstition was with me at that moment; but it was not yet her hour for complete victory: my blood was still warm; the mood of the revolted slave was still bracing me with its bitter vigour; I had to stem a rapid rush of retrospective thought before I quailed to the dismal present. All John Reed's violent tyrannies, all his sisters' proud indifference, all his mother's aversion, all the servants' partiality, turned up in my disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well. Why was I always suffering, always browbeaten, always accused, for ever condemned? Why could I never please? Why was it useless to try to win any one's favour? Eliza, who was headstrong and selfish, was respected. Georgiana, who had a spoiled temper, a very acrid spite, a captious and insolent carriage, was universally indulged. Her beauty, her pink cheeks and golden curls, seemed to give delight to all who looked at her, and to purchase indemnity for every fault. John no one thwarted, much less punished; though he twisted the necks of the pigeons, killed the little pea-chicks, set the dogs at the sheep, stripped the hothouse vines of their fruit, and broke the buds off the choicest plants in the conservatory: he called his mother "old girl," too; sometimes reviled her for her dark skin, similar to his own; bluntly disregarded her wishes; not unfrequently tore and spoiled her silk attire; and he was still "her own darling." I dared commit no fault: I strove to fulfil every duty; and I was termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and sneaking, from morning to noon, and from noon to night. My head still ached and bled with the blow and fall I had received: no one had reproved John for wantonly striking me; and because I had turned against him to avert farther irrational violence, I was loaded with general opprobrium. "Unjust!--unjust!" said my reason, forced by the agonising stimulus into precocious though transitory power: and Resolve, equally wrought up, instigated some strange expedient to achieve escape from insupportable oppression--as running away, or, if that could not be effected, never eating or drinking more, and letting myself die. What a consternation of soul was mine that dreary afternoon! How all my brain was in tumult, and all my heart in insurrection! Yet in what darkness, what dense ignorance, was the mental battle fought! I could not answer the ceaseless inward question--_why_ I thus suffered; now, at the distance of--I will not say how many years, I see it clearly. I was a discord in Gateshead Hall: I was like nobody there; I had nothing in harmony with Mrs. Reed or her children, or her chosen vassalage. If they did not love me, in fact, as little did I love them. They were not bound to regard with affection a thing that could not sympathise with one amongst them; a heterogeneous thing, opposed to them in temperament, in capacity, in propensities; a useless thing, incapable of serving their interest, or adding to their pleasure; a noxious thing, cherishing the germs of indignation at their treatment, of contempt of their judgment. I know that had I been a sanguine, brilliant, careless, exacting, handsome, romping child--though equally dependent and friendless--Mrs. Reed would have endured my presence more complacently; her children would have entertained for me more of the cordiality of fellow-feeling; the servants would have been less prone to make me the scapegoat of the nursery. Daylight began to forsake the red-room; it was past four o'clock, and the beclouded afternoon was tending to drear twilight. I heard the rain still beating continuously on the staircase window, and the wind howling in the grove behind the hall; I grew by degrees cold as a stone, and then my courage sank. My habitual mood of humiliation, self-doubt, forlorn depression, fell damp on the embers of my decaying ire. All said I was wicked, and perhaps I might be so; what thought had I been but just conceiving of starving myself to death? That certainly was a crime: and was I fit to die? Or was the vault under the chancel of Gateshead Church an inviting bourne? In such vault I had been told did Mr. Reed lie buried; and led by this thought to recall his idea, I dwelt on it with gathering dread. I could not remember him; but I knew that he was my own uncle--my mother's brother--that he had taken me when a parentless infant to his house; and that in his last moments he had required a promise of Mrs. Reed that she would rear and maintain me as one of her own children. Mrs. Reed probably considered she had kept this promise; and so she had, I dare say, as well as her nature would permit her; but how could she really like an interloper not of her race, and unconnected with her, after her husband's death, by any tie? It must have been most irksome to find herself bound by a hard-wrung pledge to stand in the stead of a parent to a strange child she could not love, and to see an uncongenial alien permanently intruded on her own family group. A singular notion dawned upon me. I doubted not--never doubted--that if Mr. Reed had been alive he would have treated me kindly; and now, as I sat looking at the white bed and overshadowed walls--occasionally also turning a fascinated eye towards the dimly gleaming mirror--I began to recall what I had heard of dead men, troubled in their graves by the violation of their last wishes, revisiting the earth to punish the perjured and avenge the oppressed; and I thought Mr. Reed's spirit, harassed by the wrongs of his sister's child, might quit its abode--whether in the church vault or in the unknown world of the departed--and rise before me in this chamber. I wiped my tears and hushed my sobs, fearful lest any sign of violent grief might waken a preternatural voice to comfort me, or elicit from the gloom some haloed face, bending over me with strange pity. This idea, consolatory in theory, I felt would be terrible if realised: with all my might I endeavoured to stifle it--I endeavoured to be firm. Shaking my hair from my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly round the dark room; at this moment a light gleamed on the wall. Was it, I asked myself, a ray from the moon penetrating some aperture in the blind? No; moonlight was still, and this stirred; while I gazed, it glided up to the ceiling and quivered over my head. I can now conjecture readily that this streak of light was, in all likelihood, a gleam from a lantern carried by some one across the lawn: but then, prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as my nerves were by agitation, I thought the swift darting beam was a herald of some coming vision from another world. My heart beat thick, my head grew hot; a sound filled my ears, which I deemed the rushing of wings; something seemed near me; I was oppressed, suffocated: endurance broke down; I rushed to the door and shook the lock in desperate effort. Steps came running along the outer passage; the key turned, Bessie and Abbot entered. "Miss Eyre, are you ill?" said Bessie. "What a dreadful noise! it went quite through me!" exclaimed Abbot. "Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!" was my cry. "What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?" again demanded Bessie. "Oh! I saw a light, and I thought a ghost would come." I had now got hold of Bessie's hand, and she did not snatch it from me. "She has screamed out on purpose," declared Abbot, in some disgust. "And what a scream! If she had been in great pain one would have excused it, but she only wanted to bring us all here: I know her naughty tricks." "What is all this?" demanded another voice peremptorily; and Mrs. Reed came along the corridor, her cap flying wide, her gown rustling stormily. "Abbot and Bessie, I believe I gave orders that Jane Eyre should be left in the red-room till I came to her myself." "Miss Jane screamed so loud, ma'am," pleaded Bessie. "Let her go," was the only answer. "Loose Bessie's hand, child: you cannot succeed in getting out by these means, be assured. I abhor artifice, particularly in children; it is my duty to show you that tricks will not answer: you will now stay here an hour longer, and it is only on condition of perfect submission and stillness that I shall liberate you then." "O aunt! have pity! Forgive me! I cannot endure it--let me be punished some other way! I shall be killed if--" "Silence! This violence is all most repulsive:" and so, no doubt, she felt it. I was a precocious actress in her eyes; she sincerely looked on me as a compound of virulent passions, mean spirit, and dangerous duplicity. Bessie and Abbot having retreated, Mrs. Reed, impatient of my now frantic anguish and wild sobs, abruptly thrust me back and locked me in, without farther parley. I heard her sweeping away; and soon after she was gone, I suppose I had a species of fit: unconsciousness closed the scene. CHAPTER III The next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as if I had had a frightful nightmare, and seeing before me a terrible red glare, crossed with thick black bars. I heard voices, too, speaking with a hollow sound, and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water: agitation, uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror confused my faculties. Ere long, I became aware that some one was handling me; lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture, and that more tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before. I rested my head against a pillow or an arm, and felt easy. In five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knew quite well that I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was the nursery fire. It was night: a candle burnt on the table; Bessie stood at the bed- foot with a basin in her hand, and a gentleman sat in a chair near my pillow, leaning over me. I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of protection and security, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room, an individual not belonging to Gateshead, and not related to Mrs. Reed. Turning from Bessie (though her presence was far less obnoxious to me than that of Abbot, for instance, would have been), I scrutinised the face of the gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr. Lloyd, an apothecary, sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the servants were ailing: for herself and the children she employed a physician. "Well, who am I?" he asked. I pronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand: he took it, smiling and saying, "We shall do very well by-and-by." Then he laid me down, and addressing Bessie, charged her to be very careful that I was not disturbed during the night. Having given some further directions, and intimates that he should call again the next day, he departed; to my grief: I felt so sheltered and befriended while he sat in the chair near my pillow; and as he closed the door after him, all the room darkened and my heart again sank: inexpressible sadness weighed it down. "Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?" asked Bessie, rather softly. Scarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next sentence might be rough. "I will try." "Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?" "No, thank you, Bessie." "Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o'clock; but you may call me if you want anything in the night." Wonderful civility this! It emboldened me to ask a question. "Bessie, what is the matter with me? Am I ill?" "You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you'll be better soon, no doubt." Bessie went into the housemaid's apartment, which was near. I heard her say-- "Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I daren't for my life be alone with that poor child to-night: she might die; it's such a strange thing she should have that fit: I wonder if she saw anything. Missis was rather too hard." Sarah came back with her; they both went to bed; they were whispering together for half-an-hour before they fell asleep. I caught scraps of their conversation, from which I was able only too distinctly to infer the main subject discussed. "Something passed her, all dressed in white, and vanished"--"A great black dog behind him"--"Three loud raps on the chamber door"--"A light in the churchyard just over his grave," etc., etc. At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For me, the watches of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness; strained by dread: such dread as children only can feel. No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the red- room; it only gave my nerves a shock of which I feel the reverberation to this day. Yes, Mrs. Reed, to you I owe some fearful pangs of mental suffering, but I ought to forgive you, for you knew not what you did: while rending my heart-strings, you thought you were only uprooting my bad propensities. Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a shawl by the nursery hearth. I felt physically weak and broken down: but my worse ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a wretchedness which kept drawing from me silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one salt drop from my cheek than another followed. Yet, I thought, I ought to have been happy, for none of the Reeds were there, they were all gone out in the carriage with their mama. Abbot, too, was sewing in another room, and Bessie, as she moved hither and thither, putting away toys and arranging drawers, addressed to me every now and then a word of unwonted kindness. This state of things should have been to me a paradise of peace, accustomed as I was to a life of ceaseless reprimand and thankless fagging; but, in fact, my racked nerves were now in such a state that no calm could soothe, and no pleasure excite them agreeably. Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought up with her a tart on a certain brightly painted china plate, whose bird of paradise, nestling in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had been wont to stir in me a most enthusiastic sense of admiration; and which plate I had often petitioned to be allowed to take in my hand in order to examine it more closely, but had always hitherto been deemed unworthy of such a privilege. This precious vessel was now placed on my knee, and I was cordially invited to eat the circlet of delicate pastry upon it. Vain favour! coming, like most other favours long deferred and often wished for, too late! I could not eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird, the tints of the flowers, seemed strangely faded: I put both plate and tart away. Bessie asked if I would have a book: the word _book_ acted as a transient stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver's Travels from the library. This book I had again and again perused with delight. I considered it a narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper than what I found in fairy tales: for as to the elves, having sought them in vain among foxglove leaves and bells, under mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall-nooks, I had at length made up my mind to the sad truth, that they were all gone out of England to some savage country where the woods were wilder and thicker, and the population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdignag being, in my creed, solid parts of the earth's surface, I doubted not that I might one day, by taking a long voyage, see with my own eyes the little fields, houses, and trees, the diminutive people, the tiny cows, sheep, and birds of the one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the mighty mastiffs, the monster cats, the tower-like men and women, of the other. Yet, when this cherished volume was now placed in my hand--when I turned over its leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures the charm I had, till now, never failed to find--all was eerie and dreary; the giants were gaunt goblins, the pigmies malevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver a most desolate wanderer in most dread and dangerous regions. I closed the book, which I dared no longer peruse, and put it on the table, beside the untasted tart. Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and having washed her hands, she opened a certain little drawer, full of splendid shreds of silk and satin, and began making a new bonnet for Georgiana's doll. Meantime she sang: her song was-- "In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago." I had often heard the song before, and always with lively delight; for Bessie had a sweet voice,--at least, I thought so. But now, though her voice was still sweet, I found in its melody an indescribable sadness. Sometimes, preoccupied with her work, she sang the refrain very low, very lingeringly; "A long time ago" came out like the saddest cadence of a funeral hymn. She passed into another ballad, this time a really doleful one. "My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary; Long is the way, and the mountains are wild; Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary Over the path of the poor orphan child. Why did they send me so far and so lonely, Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled? Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child. Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing, Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild, God, in His mercy, protection is showing, Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child. Ev'n should I fall o'er the broken bridge passing, Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled, Still will my Father, with promise and blessing, Take to His bosom the poor orphan child. There is a thought that for strength should avail me, Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled; Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me; God is a friend to the poor orphan child." "Come, Miss Jane, don't cry," said Bessie as she finished. She might as well have said to the fire, "don't burn!" but how could she divine the morbid suffering to which I was a prey? In the course of the morning Mr. Lloyd came again. "What, already up!" said he, as he entered the nursery. "Well, nurse, how is she?" Bessie answered that I was doing very well. "Then she ought to look more cheerful. Come here, Miss Jane: your name is Jane, is it not?" "Yes, sir, Jane Eyre." "Well, you have been crying, Miss Jane Eyre; can you tell me what about? Have you any pain?" "No, sir." "Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out with Missis in the carriage," interposed Bessie. "Surely not! why, she is too old for such pettishness." I thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the false charge, I answered promptly, "I never cried for such a thing in my life: I hate going out in the carriage. I cry because I am miserable." "Oh fie, Miss!" said Bessie. The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was standing before him; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were small and grey; not very bright, but I dare say I should think them shrewd now: he had a hard-featured yet good-natured looking face. Having considered me at leisure, he said-- "What made you ill yesterday?" "She had a fall," said Bessie, again putting in her word. "Fall! why, that is like a baby again! Can't she manage to walk at her age? She must be eight or nine years old." "I was knocked down," was the blunt explanation, jerked out of me by another pang of mortified pride; "but that did not make me ill," I added; while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff. As he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a loud bell rang for the servants' dinner; he knew what it was. "That's for you, nurse," said he; "you can go down; I'll give Miss Jane a lecture till you come back." Bessie would rather have stayed, but she was obliged to go, because punctuality at meals was rigidly enforced at Gateshead Hall. "The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?" pursued Mr. Lloyd when Bessie was gone. "I was shut up in a room where there is a ghost till after dark." I saw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown at the same time. "Ghost! What, you are a baby after all! You are afraid of ghosts?" "Of Mr. Reed's ghost I am: he died in that room, and was laid out there. Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into it at night, if they can help it; and it was cruel to shut me up alone without a candle,--so cruel that I think I shall never forget it." "Nonsense! And is it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraid now in daylight?" "No: but night will come again before long: and besides,--I am unhappy,--very unhappy, for other things." "What other things? Can you tell me some of them?" How much I wished to reply fully to this question! How difficult it was to frame any answer! Children can feel, but they cannot analyse their feelings; and if the analysis is partially effected in thought, they know not how to express the result of the process in words. Fearful, however, of losing this first and only opportunity of relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame a meagre, though, as far as it went, true response. "For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sisters." "You have a kind aunt and cousins." Again I paused; then bunglingly enounced-- "But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the red-room." Mr. Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box. "Don't you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?" asked he. "Are you not very thankful to have such a fine place to live at?" "It is not my house, sir; and Abbot says I have less right to be here than a servant." "Pooh! you can't be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendid place?" "If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it; but I can never get away from Gateshead till I am a woman." "Perhaps you may--who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs. Reed?" "I think not, sir." "None belonging to your father?" "I don't know. I asked Aunt Reed once, and she said possibly I might have some poor, low relations called Eyre, but she knew nothing about them." "If you had such, would you like to go to them?" I reflected. Poverty looks grim to grown people; still more so to children: they have not much idea of industrious, working, respectable poverty; they think of the word only as connected with ragged clothes, scanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, and debasing vices: poverty for me was synonymous with degradation. "No; I should not like to belong to poor people," was my reply. "Not even if they were kind to you?" I shook my head: I could not see how poor people had the means of being kind; and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt their manners, to be uneducated, to grow up like one of the poor women I saw sometimes nursing their children or washing their clothes at the cottage doors of the village of Gateshead: no, I was not heroic enough to purchase liberty at the price of caste. "But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working people?" "I cannot tell; Aunt Reed says if I have any, they must be a beggarly set: I should not like to go a begging." "Would you like to go to school?" Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: Bessie sometimes spoke of it as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks, wore backboards, and were expected to be exceedingly genteel and precise: John Reed hated his school, and abused his master; but John Reed's tastes were no rule for mine, and if Bessie's accounts of school-discipline (gathered from the young ladies of a family where she had lived before coming to Gateshead) were somewhat appalling, her details of certain accomplishments attained by these same young ladies were, I thought, equally attractive. She boasted of beautiful paintings of landscapes and flowers by them executed; of songs they could sing and pieces they could play, of purses they could net, of French books they could translate; till my spirit was moved to emulation as I listened. Besides, school would be a complete change: it implied a long journey, an entire separation from Gateshead, an entrance into a new life. "I should indeed like to go to school," was the audible conclusion of my musings. "Well, well! who knows what may happen?" said Mr. Lloyd, as he got up. "The child ought to have change of air and scene," he added, speaking to himself; "nerves not in a good state." Bessie now returned; at the same moment the carriage was heard rolling up the gravel-walk. "Is that your mistress, nurse?" asked Mr. Lloyd. "I should like to speak to her before I go." Bessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the way out. In the interview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed, I presume, from after-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured to recommend my being sent to school; and the recommendation was no doubt readily enough adopted; for as Abbot said, in discussing the subject with Bessie when both sat sewing in the nursery one night, after I was in bed, and, as they thought, asleep, "Missis was, she dared say, glad enough to get rid of such a tiresome, ill-conditioned child, who always looked as if she were watching everybody, and scheming plots underhand." Abbot, I think, gave me credit for being a sort of infantine Guy Fawkes. On that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from Miss Abbot's communications to Bessie, that my father had been a poor clergyman; that my mother had married him against the wishes of her friends, who considered the match beneath her; that my grandfather Reed was so irritated at her disobedience, he cut her off without a shilling; that after my mother and father had been married a year, the latter caught the typhus fever while visiting among the poor of a large manufacturing town where his curacy was situated, and where that disease was then prevalent: that my mother took the infection from him, and both died within a month of each other. Bessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said, "Poor Miss Jane is to be pitied, too, Abbot." "Yes," responded Abbot; "if she were a nice, pretty child, one might compassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for such a little toad as that." "Not a great deal, to be sure," agreed Bessie: "at any rate, a beauty like Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the same condition." "Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!" cried the fervent Abbot. "Little darling!--with her long curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweet colour as she has; just as if she were painted!--Bessie, I could fancy a Welsh rabbit for supper." "So could I--with a roast onion. Come, we'll go down." They went. CHAPTER IV From my discourse with Mr. Lloyd, and from the above reported conference between Bessie and Abbot, I gathered enough of hope to suffice as a motive for wishing to get well: a change seemed near,--I desired and waited it in silence. It tarried, however: days and weeks passed: I had regained my normal state of health, but no new allusion was made to the subject over which I brooded. Mrs. Reed surveyed me at times with a severe eye, but seldom addressed me: since my illness, she had drawn a more marked line of separation than ever between me and her own children; appointing me a small closet to sleep in by myself, condemning me to take my meals alone, and pass all my time in the nursery, while my cousins were constantly in the drawing-room. Not a hint, however, did she drop about sending me to school: still I felt an instinctive certainty that she would not long endure me under the same roof with her; for her glance, now more than ever, when turned on me, expressed an insuperable and rooted aversion. Eliza and Georgiana, evidently acting according to orders, spoke to me as little as possible: John thrust his tongue in his cheek whenever he saw me, and once attempted chastisement; but as I instantly turned against him, roused by the same sentiment of deep ire and desperate revolt which had stirred my corruption before, he thought it better to desist, and ran from me tittering execrations, and vowing I had burst his nose. I had indeed levelled at that prominent feature as hard a blow as my knuckles could inflict; and when I saw that either that or my look daunted him, I had the greatest inclination to follow up my advantage to purpose; but he was already with his mama. I heard him in a blubbering tone commence the tale of how "that nasty Jane Eyre" had flown at him like a mad cat: he was stopped rather harshly-- "Don't talk to me about her, John: I told you not to go near her; she is not worthy of notice; I do not choose that either you or your sisters should associate with her." Here, leaning over the banister, I cried out suddenly, and without at all deliberating on my words-- "They are not fit to associate with me." Mrs. Reed was rather a stout woman; but, on hearing this strange and audacious declaration, she ran nimbly up the stair, swept me like a whirlwind into the nursery, and crushing me down on the edge of my crib, dared me in an emphatic voice to rise from that place, or utter one syllable during the remainder of the day. "What would Uncle Reed say to you, if he were alive?" was my scarcely voluntary demand. I say scarcely voluntary, for it seemed as if my tongue pronounced words without my will consenting to their utterance: something spoke out of me over which I had no control. "What?" said Mrs. Reed under her breath: her usually cold composed grey eye became troubled with a look like fear; she took her hand from my arm, and gazed at me as if she really did not know whether I were child or fiend. I was now in for it. "My Uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and think; and so can papa and mama: they know how you shut me up all day long, and how you wish me dead." Mrs. Reed soon rallied her spirits: she shook me most soundly, she boxed both my ears, and then left me without a word. Bessie supplied the hiatus by a homily of an hour's length, in which she proved beyond a doubt that I was the most wicked and abandoned child ever reared under a roof. I half believed her; for I felt indeed only bad feelings surging in my breast. November, December, and half of January passed away. Christmas and the New Year had been celebrated at Gateshead with the usual festive cheer; presents had been interchanged, dinners and evening parties given. From every enjoyment I was, of course, excluded: my share of the gaiety consisted in witnessing the daily apparelling of Eliza and Georgiana, and seeing them descend to the drawing-room, dressed out in thin muslin frocks and scarlet sashes, with hair elaborately ringletted; and afterwards, in listening to the sound of the piano or the harp played below, to the passing to and fro of the butler and footman, to the jingling of glass and china as refreshments were handed, to the broken hum of conversation as the drawing-room door opened and closed. When tired of this occupation, I would retire from the stairhead to the solitary and silent nursery: there, though somewhat sad, I was not miserable. To speak truth, I had not the least wish to go into company, for in company I was very rarely noticed; and if Bessie had but been kind and companionable, I should have deemed it a treat to spend the evenings quietly with her, instead of passing them under the formidable eye of Mrs. Reed, in a room full of ladies and gentlemen. But Bessie, as soon as she had dressed her young ladies, used to take herself off to the lively regions of the kitchen and housekeeper's room, generally bearing the candle along with her. I then sat with my doll on my knee till the fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure that nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room; and when the embers sank to a dull red, I undressed hastily, tugging at knots and strings as I best might, and sought shelter from cold and darkness in my crib. To this crib I always took my doll; human beings must love something, and, in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to find a pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded graven image, shabby as a miniature scarecrow. It puzzles me now to remember with what absurd sincerity I doated on this little toy, half fancying it alive and capable of sensation. I could not sleep unless it was folded in my night-gown; and when it lay there safe and warm, I was comparatively happy, believing it to be happy likewise. Long did the hours seem while I waited the departure of the company, and listened for the sound of Bessie's step on the stairs: sometimes she would come up in the interval to seek her thimble or her scissors, or perhaps to bring me something by way of supper--a bun or a cheese-cake--then she would sit on the bed while I ate it, and when I had finished, she would tuck the clothes round me, and twice she kissed me, and said, "Good night, Miss Jane." When thus gentle, Bessie seemed to me the best, prettiest, kindest being in the world; and I wished most intensely that she would always be so pleasant and amiable, and never push me about, or scold, or task me unreasonably, as she was too often wont to do. Bessie Lee must, I think, have been a girl of good natural capacity, for she was smart in all she did, and had a remarkable knack of narrative; so, at least, I judge from the impression made on me by her nursery tales. She was pretty too, if my recollections of her face and person are correct. I remember her as a slim young woman, with black hair, dark eyes, very nice features, and good, clear complexion; but she had a capricious and hasty temper, and indifferent ideas of principle or justice: still, such as she was, I preferred her to any one else at Gateshead Hall. It was the fifteenth of January, about nine o'clock in the morning: Bessie was gone down to breakfast; my cousins had not yet been summoned to their mama; Eliza was putting on her bonnet and warm garden-coat to go and feed her poultry, an occupation of which she was fond: and not less so of selling the eggs to the housekeeper and hoarding up the money she thus obtained. She had a turn for traffic, and a marked propensity for saving; shown not only in the vending of eggs and chickens, but also in driving hard bargains with the gardener about flower-roots, seeds, and slips of plants; that functionary having orders from Mrs. Reed to buy of his young lady all the products of her parterre she wished to sell: and Eliza would have sold the hair off her head if she could have made a handsome profit thereby. As to her money, she first secreted it in odd corners, wrapped in a rag or an old curl-paper; but some of these hoards having been discovered by the housemaid, Eliza, fearful of one day losing her valued treasure, consented to intrust it to her mother, at a usurious rate of interest--fifty or sixty per cent.; which interest she exacted every quarter, keeping her accounts in a little book with anxious accuracy. Georgiana sat on a high stool, dressing her hair at the glass, and interweaving her curls with artificial flowers and faded feathers, of which she had found a store in a drawer in the attic. I was making my bed, having received strict orders from Bessie to get it arranged before she returned (for Bessie now frequently employed me as a sort of under- nurserymaid, to tidy the room, dust the chairs, &c.). Having spread the quilt and folded my night-dress, I went to the window-seat to put in order some picture-books and doll's house furniture scattered there; an abrupt command from Georgiana to let her playthings alone (for the tiny chairs and mirrors, the fairy plates and cups, were her property) stopped my proceedings; and then, for lack of other occupation, I fell to breathing on the frost-flowers with which the window was fretted, and thus clearing a space in the glass through which I might look out on the grounds, where all was still and petrified under the influence of a hard frost. From this window were visible the porter's lodge and the carriage-road, and just as I had dissolved so much of the silver-white foliage veiling the panes as left room to look out, I saw the gates thrown open and a carriage roll through. I watched it ascending the drive with indifference; carriages often came to Gateshead, but none ever brought visitors in whom I was interested; it stopped in front of the house, the door-bell rang loudly, the new-comer was admitted. All this being nothing to me, my vacant attention soon found livelier attraction in the spectacle of a little hungry robin, which came and chirruped on the twigs of the leafless cherry-tree nailed against the wall near the casement. The remains of my breakfast of bread and milk stood on the table, and having crumbled a morsel of roll, I was tugging at the sash to put out the crumbs on the window-sill, when Bessie came running upstairs into the nursery. "Miss Jane, take off your pinafore; what are you doing there? Have you washed your hands and face this morning?" I gave another tug before I answered, for I wanted the bird to be secure of its bread: the sash yielded; I scattered the crumbs, some on the stone sill, some on the cherry-tree bough, then, closing the window, I replied-- "No, Bessie; I have only just finished dusting." "Troublesome, careless child! and what are you doing now? You look quite red, as if you had been about some mischief: what were you opening the window for?" I was spared the trouble of answering, for Bessie seemed in too great a hurry to listen to explanations; she hauled me to the washstand, inflicted a merciless, but happily brief scrub on my face and hands with soap, water, and a coarse towel; disciplined my head with a bristly brush, denuded me of my pinafore, and then hurrying me to the top of the stairs, bid me go down directly, as I was wanted in the breakfast-room. I would have asked who wanted me: I would have demanded if Mrs. Reed was there; but Bessie was already gone, and had closed the nursery-door upon me. I slowly descended. For nearly three months, I had never been called to Mrs. Reed's presence; restricted so long to the nursery, the breakfast, dining, and drawing-rooms were become for me awful regions, on which it dismayed me to intrude. I now stood in the empty hall; before me was the breakfast-room door, and I stopped, intimidated and trembling. What a miserable little poltroon had fear, engendered of unjust punishment, made of me in those days! I feared to return to the nursery, and feared to go forward to the parlour; ten minutes I stood in agitated hesitation; the vehement ringing of the breakfast-room bell decided me; I _must_ enter. "Who could want me?" I asked inwardly, as with both hands I turned the stiff door-handle, which, for a second or two, resisted my efforts. "What should I see besides Aunt Reed in the apartment?--a man or a woman?" The handle turned, the door unclosed, and passing through and curtseying low, I looked up at--a black pillar!--such, at least, appeared to me, at first sight, the straight, narrow, sable-clad shape standing erect on the rug: the grim face at the top was like a carved mask, placed above the shaft by way of capital. Mrs. Reed occupied her usual seat by the fireside; she made a signal to me to approach; I did so, and she introduced me to the stony stranger with the words: "This is the little girl respecting whom I applied to you." _He_, for it was a man, turned his head slowly towards where I stood, and having examined me with the two inquisitive-looking grey eyes which twinkled under a pair of bushy brows, said solemnly, and in a bass voice, "Her size is small: what is her age?" "Ten years." "So much?" was the doubtful answer; and he prolonged his scrutiny for some minutes. Presently he addressed me--"Your name, little girl?" "Jane Eyre, sir." In uttering these words I looked up: he seemed to me a tall gentleman; but then I was very little; his features were large, and they and all the lines of his frame were equally harsh and prim. "Well, Jane Eyre, and are you a good child?" Impossible to reply to this in the affirmative: my little world held a contrary opinion: I was silent. Mrs. Reed answered for me by an expressive shake of the head, adding soon, "Perhaps the less said on that subject the better, Mr. Brocklehurst." "Sorry indeed to hear it! she and I must have some talk;" and bending from the perpendicular, he installed his person in the arm-chair opposite Mrs. Reed's. "Come here," he said. I stepped across the rug; he placed me square and straight before him. What a face he had, now that it was almost on a level with mine! what a great nose! and what a mouth! and what large prominent teeth! "No sight so sad as that of a naughty child," he began, "especially a naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?" "They go to hell," was my ready and orthodox answer. "And what is hell? Can you tell me that?" "A pit full of fire." "And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?" "No, sir." "What must you do to avoid it?" I deliberated a moment; my answer, when it did come, was objectionable: "I must keep in good health, and not die." "How can you keep in good health? Children younger than you die daily. I buried a little child of five years old only a day or two since,--a good little child, whose soul is now in heaven. It is to be feared the same could not be said of you were you to be called hence." Not being in a condition to remove his doubt, I only cast my eyes down on the two large feet planted on the rug, and sighed, wishing myself far enough away. "I hope that sigh is from the heart, and that you repent of ever having been the occasion of discomfort to your excellent benefactress." "Benefactress! benefactress!" said I inwardly: "they all call Mrs. Reed my benefactress; if so, a benefactress is a disagreeable thing." "Do you say your prayers night and morning?" continued my interrogator. "Yes, sir." "Do you read your Bible?" "Sometimes." "With pleasure? Are you fond of it?" "I like Revelations, and the book of Daniel, and Genesis and Samuel, and a little bit of Exodus, and some parts of Kings and Chronicles, and Job and Jonah." "And the Psalms? I hope you like them?" "No, sir." "No? oh, shocking! I have a little boy, younger than you, who knows six Psalms by heart: and when you ask him which he would rather have, a gingerbread-nut to eat or a verse of a Psalm to learn, he says: 'Oh! the verse of a Psalm! angels sing Psalms;' says he, 'I wish to be a little angel here below;' he then gets two nuts in recompense for his infant piety." "Psalms are not interesting," I remarked. "That proves you have a wicked heart; and you must pray to God to change it: to give you a new and clean one: to take away your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh." I was about to propound a question, touching the manner in which that operation of changing my heart was to be performed, when Mrs. Reed interposed, telling me to sit down; she then proceeded to carry on the conversation herself. "Mr. Brocklehurst, I believe I intimated in the letter which I wrote to you three weeks ago, that this little girl has not quite the character and disposition I could wish: should you admit her into Lowood school, I should be glad if the superintendent and teachers were requested to keep a strict eye on her, and, above all, to guard against her worst fault, a tendency to deceit. I mention this in your hearing, Jane, that you may not attempt to impose on Mr. Brocklehurst." Well might I dread, well might I dislike Mrs. Reed; for it was her nature to wound me cruelly; never was I happy in her presence; however carefully I obeyed, however strenuously I strove to please her, my efforts were still repulsed and repaid by such sentences as the above. Now, uttered before a stranger, the accusation cut me to the heart; I dimly perceived that she was already obliterating hope from the new phase of existence which she destined me to enter; I felt, though I could not have expressed the feeling, that she was sowing aversion and unkindness along my future path; I saw myself transformed under Mr. Brocklehurst's eye into an artful, noxious child, and what could I do to remedy the injury? "Nothing, indeed," thought I, as I struggled to repress a sob, and hastily wiped away some tears, the impotent evidences of my anguish. "Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child," said Mr. Brocklehurst; "it is akin to falsehood, and all liars will have their portion in the lake burning with fire and brimstone; she shall, however, be watched, Mrs. Reed. I will speak to Miss Temple and the teachers." "I should wish her to be brought up in a manner suiting her prospects," continued my benefactress; "to be made useful, to be kept humble: as for the vacations, she will, with your permission, spend them always at Lowood." "Your decisions are perfectly judicious, madam," returned Mr. Brocklehurst. "Humility is a Christian grace, and one peculiarly appropriate to the pupils of Lowood; I, therefore, direct that especial care shall be bestowed on its cultivation amongst them. I have studied how best to mortify in them the worldly sentiment of pride; and, only the other day, I had a pleasing proof of my success. My second daughter, Augusta, went with her mama to visit the school, and on her return she exclaimed: 'Oh, dear papa, how quiet and plain all the girls at Lowood look, with their hair combed behind their ears, and their long pinafores, and those little holland pockets outside their frocks--they are almost like poor people's children! and,' said she, 'they looked at my dress and mama's, as if they had never seen a silk gown before.'" "This is the state of things I quite approve," returned Mrs. Reed; "had I sought all England over, I could scarcely have found a system more exactly fitting a child like Jane Eyre. Consistency, my dear Mr. Brocklehurst; I advocate consistency in all things." "Consistency, madam, is the first of Christian duties; and it has been observed in every arrangement connected with the establishment of Lowood: plain fare, simple attire, unsophisticated accommodations, hardy and active habits; such is the order of the day in the house and its inhabitants." "Quite right, sir. I may then depend upon this child being received as a pupil at Lowood, and there being trained in conformity to her position and prospects?" "Madam, you may: she shall be placed in that nursery of chosen plants, and I trust she will show herself grateful for the inestimable privilege of her election." "I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr. Brocklehurst; for, I assure you, I feel anxious to be relieved of a responsibility that was becoming too irksome." "No doubt, no doubt, madam; and now I wish you good morning. I shall return to Brocklehurst Hall in the course of a week or two: my good friend, the Archdeacon, will not permit me to leave him sooner. I shall send Miss Temple notice that she is to expect a new girl, so that there will be no difficulty about receiving her. Good-bye." "Good-bye, Mr. Brocklehurst; remember me to Mrs. and Miss Brocklehurst, and to Augusta and Theodore, and Master Broughton Brocklehurst." "I will, madam. Little girl, here is a book entitled the 'Child's Guide,' read it with prayer, especially that part containing 'An account of the awfully sudden death of Martha G---, a naughty child addicted to falsehood and deceit.'" With these words Mr. Brocklehurst put into my hand a thin pamphlet sewn in a cover, and having rung for his carriage, he departed. Mrs. Reed and I were left alone: some minutes passed in silence; she was sewing, I was watching her. Mrs. Reed might be at that time some six or seven and thirty; she was a woman of robust frame, square-shouldered and strong-limbed, not tall, and, though stout, not obese: she had a somewhat large face, the under jaw being much developed and very solid; her brow was low, her chin large and prominent, mouth and nose sufficiently regular; under her light eyebrows glimmered an eye devoid of ruth; her skin was dark and opaque, her hair nearly flaxen; her constitution was sound as a bell--illness never came near her; she was an exact, clever manager; her household and tenantry were thoroughly under her control; her children only at times defied her authority and laughed it to scorn; she dressed well, and had a presence and port calculated to set off handsome attire. Sitting on a low stool, a few yards from her arm-chair, I examined her figure; I perused her features. In my hand I held the tract containing the sudden death of the Liar, to which narrative my attention had been pointed as to an appropriate warning. What had just passed; what Mrs. Reed had said concerning me to Mr. Brocklehurst; the whole tenor of their conversation, was recent, raw, and stinging in my mind; I had felt every word as acutely as I had heard it plainly, and a passion of resentment fomented now within me. Mrs. Reed looked up from her work; her eye settled on mine, her fingers at the same time suspended their nimble movements. "Go out of the room; return to the nursery," was her mandate. My look or something else must have struck her as offensive, for she spoke with extreme though suppressed irritation. I got up, I went to the door; I came back again; I walked to the window, across the room, then close up to her. _Speak_ I must: I had been trodden on severely, and _must_ turn: but how? What strength had I to dart retaliation at my antagonist? I gathered my energies and launched them in this blunt sentence-- "I am not deceitful: if I were, I should say I loved you; but I declare I do not love you: I dislike you the worst of anybody in the world except John Reed; and this book about the liar, you may give to your girl, Georgiana, for it is she who tells lies, and not I." Mrs. Reed's hands still lay on her work inactive: her eye of ice continued to dwell freezingly on mine. "What more have you to say?" she asked, rather in the tone in which a person might address an opponent of adult age than such as is ordinarily used to a child. That eye of hers, that voice stirred every antipathy I had. Shaking from head to foot, thrilled with ungovernable excitement, I continued-- "I am glad you are no relation of mine: I will never call you aunt again as long as I live. I will never come to see you when I am grown up; and if any one asks me how I liked you, and how you treated me, I will say the very thought of you makes me sick, and that you treated me with miserable cruelty." "How dare you affirm that, Jane Eyre?" "How dare I, Mrs. Reed? How dare I? Because it is the _truth_. You think I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or kindness; but I cannot live so: and you have no pity. I shall remember how you thrust me back--roughly and violently thrust me back--into the red-room, and locked me up there, to my dying day; though I was in agony; though I cried out, while suffocating with distress, 'Have mercy! Have mercy, Aunt Reed!' And that punishment you made me suffer because your wicked boy struck me--knocked me down for nothing. I will tell anybody who asks me questions, this exact tale. People think you a good woman, but you are bad, hard-hearted. _You_ are deceitful!" {How dare I, Mrs. Reed? How dare I? Because it is the truth: p30.jpg} Ere I had finished this reply, my soul began to expand, to exult, with the strangest sense of freedom, of triumph, I ever felt. It seemed as if an invisible bond had burst, and that I had struggled out into unhoped- for liberty. Not without cause was this sentiment: Mrs. Reed looked frightened; her work had slipped from her knee; she was lifting up her hands, rocking herself to and fro, and even twisting her face as if she would cry. "Jane, you are under a mistake: what is the matter with you? Why do you tremble so violently? Would you like to drink some water?" "No, Mrs. Reed." "Is there anything else you wish for, Jane? I assure you, I desire to be your friend." "Not you. You told Mr. Brocklehurst I had a bad character, a deceitful disposition; and I'll let everybody at Lowood know what you are, and what you have done." "Jane, you don't understand these things: children must be corrected for their faults." "Deceit is not my fault!" I cried out in a savage, high voice. "But you are passionate, Jane, that you must allow: and now return to the nursery--there's a dear--and lie down a little." "I am not your dear; I cannot lie down: send me to school soon, Mrs. Reed, for I hate to live here." "I will indeed send her to school soon," murmured Mrs. Reed _sotto voce_; and gathering up her work, she abruptly quitted the apartment. I was left there alone--winner of the field. It was the hardest battle I had fought, and the first victory I had gained: I stood awhile on the rug, where Mr. Brocklehurst had stood, and I enjoyed my conqueror's solitude. First, I smiled to myself and felt elate; but this fierce pleasure subsided in me as fast as did the accelerated throb of my pulses. A child cannot quarrel with its elders, as I had done; cannot give its furious feelings uncontrolled play, as I had given mine, without experiencing afterwards the pang of remorse and the chill of reaction. A ridge of lighted heath, alive, glancing, devouring, would have been a meet emblem of my mind when I accused and menaced Mrs. Reed: the same ridge, black and blasted after the flames are dead, would have represented as meetly my subsequent condition, when half-an-hour's silence and reflection had shown me the madness of my conduct, and the dreariness of my hated and hating position. Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavour, metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned. Willingly would I now have gone and asked Mrs. Reed's pardon; but I knew, partly from experience and partly from instinct, that was the way to make her repulse me with double scorn, thereby re-exciting every turbulent impulse of my nature. I would fain exercise some better faculty than that of fierce speaking; fain find nourishment for some less fiendish feeling than that of sombre indignation. I took a book--some Arabian tales; I sat down and endeavoured to read. I could make no sense of the subject; my own thoughts swam always between me and the page I had usually found fascinating. I opened the glass-door in the breakfast-room: the shrubbery was quite still: the black frost reigned, unbroken by sun or breeze, through the grounds. I covered my head and arms with the skirt of my frock, and went out to walk in a part of the plantation which was quite sequestrated; but I found no pleasure in the silent trees, the falling fir-cones, the congealed relics of autumn, russet leaves, swept by past winds in heaps, and now stiffened together. I leaned against a gate, and looked into an empty field where no sheep were feeding, where the short grass was nipped and blanched. It was a very grey day; a most opaque sky, "onding on snaw," canopied all; thence flakes felt it intervals, which settled on the hard path and on the hoary lea without melting. I stood, a wretched child enough, whispering to myself over and over again, "What shall I do?--what shall I do?" All at once I heard a clear voice call, "Miss Jane! where are you? Come to lunch!" It was Bessie, I knew well enough; but I did not stir; her light step came tripping down the path. "You naughty little thing!" she said. "Why don't you come when you are called?" Bessie's presence, compared with the thoughts over which I had been brooding, seemed cheerful; even though, as usual, she was somewhat cross. The fact is, after my conflict with and victory over Mrs. Reed, I was not disposed to care much for the nursemaid's transitory anger; and I _was_ disposed to bask in her youthful lightness of heart. I just put my two arms round her and said, "Come, Bessie! don't scold." The action was more frank and fearless than any I was habituated to indulge in: somehow it pleased her. "You are a strange child, Miss Jane," she said, as she looked down at me; "a little roving, solitary thing: and you are going to school, I suppose?" I nodded. "And won't you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?" "What does Bessie care for me? She is always scolding me." "Because you're such a queer, frightened, shy little thing. You should be bolder." "What! to get more knocks?" "Nonsense! But you are rather put upon, that's certain. My mother said, when she came to see me last week, that she would not like a little one of her own to be in your place.--Now, come in, and I've some good news for you." "I don't think you have, Bessie." "Child! what do you mean? What sorrowful eyes you fix on me! Well, but Missis and the young ladies and Master John are going out to tea this afternoon, and you shall have tea with me. I'll ask cook to bake you a little cake, and then you shall help me to look over your drawers; for I am soon to pack your trunk. Missis intends you to leave Gateshead in a day or two, and you shall choose what toys you like to take with you." "Bessie, you must promise not to scold me any more till I go." "Well, I will; but mind you are a very good girl, and don't be afraid of me. Don't start when I chance to speak rather sharply; it's so provoking." "I don't think I shall ever be afraid of you again, Bessie, because I have got used to you, and I shall soon have another set of people to dread." "If you dread them they'll dislike you." "As you do, Bessie?" "I don't dislike you, Miss; I believe I am fonder of you than of all the others." "You don't show it." "You little sharp thing! you've got quite a new way of talking. What makes you so venturesome and hardy?" "Why, I shall soon be away from you, and besides"--I was going to say something about what had passed between me and Mrs. Reed, but on second thoughts I considered it better to remain silent on that head. "And so you're glad to leave me?" "Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I'm rather sorry." "Just now! and rather! How coolly my little lady says it! I dare say now if I were to ask you for a kiss you wouldn't give it me: you'd say you'd _rather_ not." "I'll kiss you and welcome: bend your head down." Bessie stooped; we mutually embraced, and I followed her into the house quite comforted. That afternoon lapsed in peace and harmony; and in the evening Bessie told me some of her most enchanting stories, and sang me some of her sweetest songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine. CHAPTER V Five o'clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th of January, when Bessie brought a candle into my closet and found me already up and nearly dressed. I had risen half-an-hour before her entrance, and had washed my face, and put on my clothes by the light of a half-moon just setting, whose rays streamed through the narrow window near my crib. I was to leave Gateshead that day by a coach which passed the lodge gates at six a.m. Bessie was the only person yet risen; she had lit a fire in the nursery, where she now proceeded to make my breakfast. Few children can eat when excited with the thoughts of a journey; nor could I. Bessie, having pressed me in vain to take a few spoonfuls of the boiled milk and bread she had prepared for me, wrapped up some biscuits in a paper and put them into my bag; then she helped me on with my pelisse and bonnet, and wrapping herself in a shawl, she and I left the nursery. As we passed Mrs. Reed's bedroom, she said, "Will you go in and bid Missis good- bye?" "No, Bessie: she came to my crib last night when you were gone down to supper, and said I need not disturb her in the morning, or my cousins either; and she told me to remember that she had always been my best friend, and to speak of her and be grateful to her accordingly." "What did you say, Miss?" "Nothing: I covered my face with the bedclothes, and turned from her to the wall." "That was wrong, Miss Jane." "It was quite right, Bessie. Your Missis has not been my friend: she has been my foe." "O Miss Jane! don't say so!" "Good-bye to Gateshead!" cried I, as we passed through the hall and went out at the front door. The moon was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a lantern, whose light glanced on wet steps and gravel road sodden by a recent thaw. Raw and chill was the winter morning: my teeth chattered as I hastened down the drive. There was a light in the porter's lodge: when we reached it, we found the porter's wife just kindling her fire: my trunk, which had been carried down the evening before, stood corded at the door. It wanted but a few minutes of six, and shortly after that hour had struck, the distant roll of wheels announced the coming coach; I went to the door and watched its lamps approach rapidly through the gloom. "Is she going by herself?" asked the porter's wife. "Yes." "And how far is it?" "Fifty miles." "What a long way! I wonder Mrs. Reed is not afraid to trust her so far alone." The coach drew up; there it was at the gates with its four horses and its top laden with passengers: the guard and coachman loudly urged haste; my trunk was hoisted up; I was taken from Bessie's neck, to which I clung with kisses. "Be sure and take good care of her," cried she to the guard, as he lifted me into the inside. "Ay, ay!" was the answer: the door was slapped to, a voice exclaimed "All right," and on we drove. Thus was I severed from Bessie and Gateshead; thus whirled away to unknown, and, as I then deemed, remote and mysterious regions. I remember but little of the journey; I only know that the day seemed to me of a preternatural length, and that we appeared to travel over hundreds of miles of road. We passed through several towns, and in one, a very large one, the coach stopped; the horses were taken out, and the passengers alighted to dine. I was carried into an inn, where the guard wanted me to have some dinner; but, as I had no appetite, he left me in an immense room with a fireplace at each end, a chandelier pendent from the ceiling, and a little red gallery high up against the wall filled with musical instruments. Here I walked about for a long time, feeling very strange, and mortally apprehensive of some one coming in and kidnapping me; for I believed in kidnappers, their exploits having frequently figured in Bessie's fireside chronicles. At last the guard returned; once more I was stowed away in the coach, my protector mounted his own seat, sounded his hollow horn, and away we rattled over the "stony street" of L-. The afternoon came on wet and somewhat misty: as it waned into dusk, I began to feel that we were getting very far indeed from Gateshead: we ceased to pass through towns; the country changed; great grey hills heaved up round the horizon: as twilight deepened, we descended a valley, dark with wood, and long after night had overclouded the prospect, I heard a wild wind rushing amongst trees. Lulled by the sound, I at last dropped asleep; I had not long slumbered when the sudden cessation of motion awoke me; the coach-door was open, and a person like a servant was standing at it: I saw her face and dress by the light of the lamps. "Is there a little girl called Jane Eyre here?" she asked. I answered "Yes," and was then lifted out; my trunk was handed down, and the coach instantly drove away. I was stiff with long sitting, and bewildered with the noise and motion of the coach: Gathering my faculties, I looked about me. Rain, wind, and darkness filled the air; nevertheless, I dimly discerned a wall before me and a door open in it; through this door I passed with my new guide: she shut and locked it behind her. There was now visible a house or houses--for the building spread far--with many windows, and lights burning in some; we went up a broad pebbly path, splashing wet, and were admitted at a door; then the servant led me through a passage into a room with a fire, where she left me alone. I stood and warmed my numbed fingers over the blaze, then I looked round; there was no candle, but the uncertain light from the hearth showed, by intervals, papered walls, carpet, curtains, shining mahogany furniture: it was a parlour, not so spacious or splendid as the drawing-room at Gateshead, but comfortable enough. I was puzzling to make out the subject of a picture on the wall, when the door opened, and an individual carrying a light entered; another followed close behind. The first was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale and large forehead; her figure was partly enveloped in a shawl, her countenance was grave, her bearing erect. "The child is very young to be sent alone," said she, putting her candle down on the table. She considered me attentively for a minute or two, then further added-- "She had better be put to bed soon; she looks tired: are you tired?" she asked, placing her hand on my shoulder. "A little, ma'am." "And hungry too, no doubt: let her have some supper before she goes to bed, Miss Miller. Is this the first time you have left your parents to come to school, my little girl?" I explained to her that I had no parents. She inquired how long they had been dead: then how old I was, what was my name, whether I could read, write, and sew a little: then she touched my cheek gently with her forefinger, and saying, "She hoped I should be a good child," dismissed me along with Miss Miller. The lady I had left might be about twenty-nine; the one who went with me appeared some years younger: the first impressed me by her voice, look, and air. Miss Miller was more ordinary; ruddy in complexion, though of a careworn countenance; hurried in gait and action, like one who had always a multiplicity of tasks on hand: she looked, indeed, what I afterwards found she really was, an under-teacher. Led by her, I passed from compartment to compartment, from passage to passage, of a large and irregular building; till, emerging from the total and somewhat dreary silence pervading that portion of the house we had traversed, we came upon the hum of many voices, and presently entered a wide, long room, with great deal tables, two at each end, on each of which burnt a pair of candles, and seated all round on benches, a congregation of girls of every age, from nine or ten to twenty. Seen by the dim light of the dips, their number to me appeared countless, though not in reality exceeding eighty; they were uniformly dressed in brown stuff frocks of quaint fashion, and long holland pinafores. It was the hour of study; they were engaged in conning over their to-morrow's task, and the hum I had heard was the combined result of their whispered repetitions. Miss Miller signed to me to sit on a bench near the door, then walking up to the top of the long room she cried out-- "Monitors, collect the lesson-books and put them away!" Four tall girls arose from different tables, and going round, gathered the books and removed them. Miss Miller again gave the word of command-- "Monitors, fetch the supper-trays!" The tall girls went out and returned presently, each bearing a tray, with portions of something, I knew not what, arranged thereon, and a pitcher of water and mug in the middle of each tray. The portions were handed round; those who liked took a draught of the water, the mug being common to all. When it came to my turn, I drank, for I was thirsty, but did not touch the food, excitement and fatigue rendering me incapable of eating: I now saw, however, that it was a thin oaten cake shared into fragments. The meal over, prayers were read by Miss Miller, and the classes filed off, two and two, upstairs. Overpowered by this time with weariness, I scarcely noticed what sort of a place the bedroom was, except that, like the schoolroom, I saw it was very long. To-night I was to be Miss Miller's bed-fellow; she helped me to undress: when laid down I glanced at the long rows of beds, each of which was quickly filled with two occupants; in ten minutes the single light was extinguished, and amidst silence and complete darkness I fell asleep. The night passed rapidly. I was too tired even to dream; I only once awoke to hear the wind rave in furious gusts, and the rain fall in torrents, and to be sensible that Miss Miller had taken her place by my side. When I again unclosed my eyes, a loud bell was ringing; the girls were up and dressing; day had not yet begun to dawn, and a rushlight or two burned in the room. I too rose reluctantly; it was bitter cold, and I dressed as well as I could for shivering, and washed when there was a basin at liberty, which did not occur soon, as there was but one basin to six girls, on the stands down the middle of the room. Again the bell rang: all formed in file, two and two, and in that order descended the stairs and entered the cold and dimly lit schoolroom: here prayers were read by Miss Miller; afterwards she called out-- "Form classes!" A great tumult succeeded for some minutes, during which Miss Miller repeatedly exclaimed, "Silence!" and "Order!" When it subsided, I saw them all drawn up in four semicircles, before four chairs, placed at the four tables; all held books in their hands, and a great book, like a Bible, lay on each table, before the vacant seat. A pause of some seconds succeeded, filled up by the low, vague hum of numbers; Miss Miller walked from class to class, hushing this indefinite sound. A distant bell tinkled: immediately three ladies entered the room, each walked to a table and took her seat. Miss Miller assumed the fourth vacant chair, which was that nearest the door, and around which the smallest of the children were assembled: to this inferior class I was called, and placed at the bottom of it. Business now began, the day's Collect was repeated, then certain texts of Scripture were said, and to these succeeded a protracted reading of chapters in the Bible, which lasted an hour. By the time that exercise was terminated, day had fully dawned. The indefatigable bell now sounded for the fourth time: the classes were marshalled and marched into another room to breakfast: how glad I was to behold a prospect of getting something to eat! I was now nearly sick from inanition, having taken so little the day before. The refectory was a great, low-ceiled, gloomy room; on two long tables smoked basins of something hot, which, however, to my dismay, sent forth an odour far from inviting. I saw a universal manifestation of discontent when the fumes of the repast met the nostrils of those destined to swallow it; from the van of the procession, the tall girls of the first class, rose the whispered words-- "Disgusting! The porridge is burnt again!" "Silence!" ejaculated a voice; not that of Miss Miller, but one of the upper teachers, a little and dark personage, smartly dressed, but of somewhat morose aspect, who installed herself at the top of one table, while a more buxom lady presided at the other. I looked in vain for her I had first seen the night before; she was not visible: Miss Miller occupied the foot of the table where I sat, and a strange, foreign-looking, elderly lady, the French teacher, as I afterwards found, took the corresponding seat at the other board. A long grace was said and a hymn sung; then a servant brought in some tea for the teachers, and the meal began. Ravenous, and now very faint, I devoured a spoonful or two of my portion without thinking of its taste; but the first edge of hunger blunted, I perceived I had got in hand a nauseous mess; burnt porridge is almost as bad as rotten potatoes; famine itself soon sickens over it. The spoons were moved slowly: I saw each girl taste her food and try to swallow it; but in most cases the effort was soon relinquished. Breakfast was over, and none had breakfasted. Thanks being returned for what we had not got, and a second hymn chanted, the refectory was evacuated for the schoolroom. I was one of the last to go out, and in passing the tables, I saw one teacher take a basin of the porridge and taste it; she looked at the others; all their countenances expressed displeasure, and one of them, the stout one, whispered-- "Abominable stuff! How shameful!" A quarter of an hour passed before lessons again began, during which the schoolroom was in a glorious tumult; for that space of time it seemed to be permitted to talk loud and more freely, and they used their privilege. The whole conversation ran on the breakfast, which one and all abused roundly. Poor things! it was the sole consolation they had. Miss Miller was now the only teacher in the room: a group of great girls standing about her spoke with serious and sullen gestures. I heard the name of Mr. Brocklehurst pronounced by some lips; at which Miss Miller shook her head disapprovingly; but she made no great effort to check the general wrath; doubtless she shared in it. A clock in the schoolroom struck nine; Miss Miller left her circle, and standing in the middle of the room, cried-- "Silence! To your seats!" Discipline prevailed: in five minutes the confused throng was resolved into order, and comparative silence quelled the Babel clamour of tongues. The upper teachers now punctually resumed their posts: but still, all seemed to wait. Ranged on benches down the sides of the room, the eighty girls sat motionless and erect; a quaint assemblage they appeared, all with plain locks combed from their faces, not a curl visible; in brown dresses, made high and surrounded by a narrow tucker about the throat, with little pockets of holland (shaped something like a Highlander's purse) tied in front of their frocks, and destined to serve the purpose of a work-bag: all, too, wearing woollen stockings and country-made shoes, fastened with brass buckles. Above twenty of those clad in this costume were full-grown girls, or rather young women; it suited them ill, and gave an air of oddity even to the prettiest. I was still looking at them, and also at intervals examining the teachers--none of whom precisely pleased me; for the stout one was a little coarse, the dark one not a little fierce, the foreigner harsh and grotesque, and Miss Miller, poor thing! looked purple, weather-beaten, and over-worked--when, as my eye wandered from face to face, the whole school rose simultaneously, as if moved by a common spring. What was the matter? I had heard no order given: I was puzzled. Ere I had gathered my wits, the classes were again seated: but as all eyes were now turned to one point, mine followed the general direction, and encountered the personage who had received me last night. She stood at the bottom of the long room, on the hearth; for there was a fire at each end; she surveyed the two rows of girls silently and gravely. Miss Miller approaching, seemed to ask her a question, and having received her answer, went back to her place, and said aloud-- "Monitor of the first class, fetch the globes!" While the direction was being executed, the lady consulted moved slowly up the room. I suppose I have a considerable organ of veneration, for I retain yet the sense of admiring awe with which my eyes traced her steps. Seen now, in broad daylight, she looked tall, fair, and shapely; brown eyes with a benignant light in their irids, and a fine pencilling of long lashes round, relieved the whiteness of her large front; on each of her temples her hair, of a very dark brown, was clustered in round curls, according to the fashion of those times, when neither smooth bands nor long ringlets were in vogue; her dress, also in the mode of the day, was of purple cloth, relieved by a sort of Spanish trimming of black velvet; a gold watch (watches were not so common then as now) shone at her girdle. Let the reader add, to complete the picture, refined features; a complexion, if pale, clear; and a stately air and carriage, and he will have, at least, as clearly as words can give it, a correct idea of the exterior of Miss Temple--Maria Temple, as I afterwards saw the name written in a prayer-book intrusted to me to carry to church. The superintendent of Lowood (for such was this lady) having taken her seat before a pair of globes placed on one of the tables, summoned the first class round her, and commenced giving a lesson on geography; the lower classes were called by the teachers: repetitions in history, grammar, &c., went on for an hour; writing and arithmetic succeeded, and music lessons were given by Miss Temple to some of the elder girls. The duration of each lesson was measured by the clock, which at last struck twelve. The superintendent rose-- "I have a word to address to the pupils," said she. The tumult of cessation from lessons was already breaking forth, but it sank at her voice. She went on-- "You had this morning a breakfast which you could not eat; you must be hungry:--I have ordered that a lunch of bread and cheese shall be served to all." The teachers looked at her with a sort of surprise. "It is to be done on my responsibility," she added, in an explanatory tone to them, and immediately afterwards left the room. The bread and cheese was presently brought in and distributed, to the high delight and refreshment of the whole school. The order was now given "To the garden!" Each put on a coarse straw bonnet, with strings of coloured calico, and a cloak of grey frieze. I was similarly equipped, and, following the stream, I made my way into the open air. The garden was a wide inclosure, surrounded with walls so high as to exclude every glimpse of prospect; a covered verandah ran down one side, and broad walks bordered a middle space divided into scores of little beds: these beds were assigned as gardens for the pupils to cultivate, and each bed had an owner. When full of flowers they would doubtless look pretty; but now, at the latter end of January, all was wintry blight and brown decay. I shuddered as I stood and looked round me: it was an inclement day for outdoor exercise; not positively rainy, but darkened by a drizzling yellow fog; all under foot was still soaking wet with the floods of yesterday. The stronger among the girls ran about and engaged in active games, but sundry pale and thin ones herded together for shelter and warmth in the verandah; and amongst these, as the dense mist penetrated to their shivering frames, I heard frequently the sound of a hollow cough. As yet I had spoken to no one, nor did anybody seem to take notice of me; I stood lonely enough: but to that feeling of isolation I was accustomed; it did not oppress me much. I leant against a pillar of the verandah, drew my grey mantle close about me, and, trying to forget the cold which nipped me without, and the unsatisfied hunger which gnawed me within, delivered myself up to the employment of watching and thinking. My reflections were too undefined and fragmentary to merit record: I hardly yet knew where I was; Gateshead and my past life seemed floated away to an immeasurable distance; the present was vague and strange, and of the future I could form no conjecture. I looked round the convent-like garden, and then up at the house--a large building, half of which seemed grey and old, the other half quite new. The new part, containing the schoolroom and dormitory, was lit by mullioned and latticed windows, which gave it a church-like aspect; a stone tablet over the door bore this inscription:-- "Lowood Institution.--This portion was rebuilt A.D. ---, by Naomi Brocklehurst, of Brocklehurst Hall, in this county." "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven."--St. Matt. v. 16. I read these words over and over again: I felt that an explanation belonged to them, and was unable fully to penetrate their import. I was still pondering the signification of "Institution," and endeavouring to make out a connection between the first words and the verse of Scripture, when the sound of a cough close behind me made me turn my head. I saw a girl sitting on a stone bench near; she was bent over a book, on the perusal of which she seemed intent: from where I stood I could see the title--it was "Rasselas;" a name that struck me as strange, and consequently attractive. In turning a leaf she happened to look up, and I said to her directly-- "Is your book interesting?" I had already formed the intention of asking her to lend it to me some day. "I like it," she answered, after a pause of a second or two, during which she examined me. "What is it about?" I continued. I hardly know where I found the hardihood thus to open a conversation with a stranger; the step was contrary to my nature and habits: but I think her occupation touched a chord of sympathy somewhere; for I too liked reading, though of a frivolous and childish kind; I could not digest or comprehend the serious or substantial. "You may look at it," replied the girl, offering me the book. I did so; a brief examination convinced me that the contents were less taking than the title: "Rasselas" looked dull to my trifling taste; I saw nothing about fairies, nothing about genii; no bright variety seemed spread over the closely-printed pages. I returned it to her; she received it quietly, and without saying anything she was about to relapse into her former studious mood: again I ventured to disturb her-- "Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means? What is Lowood Institution?" "This house where you are come to live." "And why do they call it Institution? Is it in any way different from other schools?" "It is partly a charity-school: you and I, and all the rest of us, are charity-children. I suppose you are an orphan: are not either your father or your mother dead?" "Both died before I can remember." "Well, all the girls here have lost either one or both parents, and this is called an institution for educating orphans." "Do we pay no money? Do they keep us for nothing?" "We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each." "Then why do they call us charity-children?" "Because fifteen pounds is not enough for board and teaching, and the deficiency is supplied by subscription." "Who subscribes?" "Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighbourhood and in London." "Who was Naomi Brocklehurst?" "The lady who built the new part of this house as that tablet records, and whose son overlooks and directs everything here." "Why?" "Because he is treasurer and manager of the establishment." "Then this house does not belong to that tall lady who wears a watch, and who said we were to have some bread and cheese?" "To Miss Temple? Oh, no! I wish it did: she has to answer to Mr. Brocklehurst for all she does. Mr. Brocklehurst buys all our food and all our clothes." "Does he live here?" "No--two miles off, at a large hall." "Is he a good man?" "He is a clergyman, and is said to do a great deal of good." "Did you say that tall lady was called Miss Temple?" "Yes." "And what are the other teachers called?" "The one with red cheeks is called Miss Smith; she attends to the work, and cuts out--for we make our own clothes, our frocks, and pelisses, and everything; the little one with black hair is Miss Scatcherd; she teaches history and grammar, and hears the second class repetitions; and the one who wears a shawl, and has a pocket-handkerchief tied to her side with a yellow ribband, is Madame Pierrot: she comes from Lisle, in France, and teaches French." "Do you like the teachers?" "Well enough." "Do you like the little black one, and the Madame ---?--I cannot pronounce her name as you do." "Miss Scatcherd is hasty--you must take care not to offend her; Madame Pierrot is not a bad sort of person." "But Miss Temple is the best--isn't she?" "Miss Temple is very good and very clever; she is above the rest, because she knows far more than they do." "Have you been long here?" "Two years." "Are you an orphan?" "My mother is dead." "Are you happy here?" "You ask rather too many questions. I have given you answers enough for the present: now I want to read." But at that moment the summons sounded for dinner; all re-entered the house. The odour which now filled the refectory was scarcely more appetising than that which had regaled our nostrils at breakfast: the dinner was served in two huge tin-plated vessels, whence rose a strong steam redolent of rancid fat. I found the mess to consist of indifferent potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat, mixed and cooked together. Of this preparation a tolerably abundant plateful was apportioned to each pupil. I ate what I could, and wondered within myself whether every day's fare would be like this. After dinner, we immediately adjourned to the schoolroom: lessons recommenced, and were continued till five o'clock. The only marked event of the afternoon was, that I saw the girl with whom I had conversed in the verandah dismissed in disgrace by Miss Scatcherd from a history class, and sent to stand in the middle of the large schoolroom. The punishment seemed to me in a high degree ignominious, especially for so great a girl--she looked thirteen or upwards. I expected she would show signs of great distress and shame; but to my surprise she neither wept nor blushed: composed, though grave, she stood, the central mark of all eyes. "How can she bear it so quietly--so firmly?" I asked of myself. "Were I in her place, it seems to me I should wish the earth to open and swallow me up. She looks as if she were thinking of something beyond her punishment--beyond her situation: of something not round her nor before her. I have heard of day-dreams--is she in a day-dream now? Her eyes are fixed on the floor, but I am sure they do not see it--her sight seems turned in, gone down into her heart: she is looking at what she can remember, I believe; not at what is really present. I wonder what sort of a girl she is--whether good or naughty." Soon after five p.m. we had another meal, consisting of a small mug of coffee, and half-a-slice of brown bread. I devoured my bread and drank my coffee with relish; but I should have been glad of as much more--I was still hungry. Half-an-hour's recreation succeeded, then study; then the glass of water and the piece of oat-cake, prayers, and bed. Such was my first day at Lowood. CHAPTER VI The next day commenced as before, getting up and dressing by rushlight; but this morning we were obliged to dispense with the ceremony of washing; the water in the pitchers was frozen. A change had taken place in the weather the preceding evening, and a keen north-east wind, whistling through the crevices of our bedroom windows all night long, had made us shiver in our beds, and turned the contents of the ewers to ice. Before the long hour and a half of prayers and Bible-reading was over, I felt ready to perish with cold. Breakfast-time came at last, and this morning the porridge was not burnt; the quality was eatable, the quantity small. How small my portion seemed! I wished it had been doubled. In the course of the day I was enrolled a member of the fourth class, and regular tasks and occupations were assigned me: hitherto, I had only been a spectator of the proceedings at Lowood; I was now to become an actor therein. At first, being little accustomed to learn by heart, the lessons appeared to me both long and difficult; the frequent change from task to task, too, bewildered me; and I was glad when, about three o'clock in the afternoon, Miss Smith put into my hands a border of muslin two yards long, together with needle, thimble, &c., and sent me to sit in a quiet corner of the schoolroom, with directions to hem the same. At that hour most of the others were sewing likewise; but one class still stood round Miss Scatcherd's chair reading, and as all was quiet, the subject of their lessons could be heard, together with the manner in which each girl acquitted herself, and the animadversions or commendations of Miss Scatcherd on the performance. It was English history: among the readers I observed my acquaintance of the verandah: at the commencement of the lesson, her place had been at the top of the class, but for some error of pronunciation, or some inattention to stops, she was suddenly sent to the very bottom. Even in that obscure position, Miss Scatcherd continued to make her an object of constant notice: she was continually addressing to her such phrases as the following:-- "Burns" (such it seems was her name: the girls here were all called by their surnames, as boys are elsewhere), "Burns, you are standing on the side of your shoe; turn your toes out immediately." "Burns, you poke your chin most unpleasantly; draw it in." "Burns, I insist on your holding your head up; I will not have you before me in that attitude," &c. &c. A chapter having been read through twice, the books were closed and the girls examined. The lesson had comprised part of the reign of Charles I., and there were sundry questions about tonnage and poundage and ship- money, which most of them appeared unable to answer; still, every little difficulty was solved instantly when it reached Burns: her memory seemed to have retained the substance of the whole lesson, and she was ready with answers on every point. I kept expecting that Miss Scatcherd would praise her attention; but, instead of that, she suddenly cried out-- "You dirty, disagreeable girl! you have never cleaned your nails this morning!" Burns made no answer: I wondered at her silence. "Why," thought I, "does she not explain that she could neither clean her nails nor wash her face, as the water was frozen?" My attention was now called off by Miss Smith desiring me to hold a skein of thread: while she was winding it, she talked to me from time to time, asking whether I had ever been at school before, whether I could mark, stitch, knit, &c.; till she dismissed me, I could not pursue my observations on Miss Scatcherd's movements. When I returned to my seat, that lady was just delivering an order of which I did not catch the import; but Burns immediately left the class, and going into the small inner room where the books were kept, returned in half a minute, carrying in her hand a bundle of twigs tied together at one end. This ominous tool she presented to Miss Scatcherd with a respectful curtesy; then she quietly, and without being told, unloosed her pinafore, and the teacher instantly and sharply inflicted on her neck a dozen strokes with the bunch of twigs. Not a tear rose to Burns' eye; and, while I paused from my sewing, because my fingers quivered at this spectacle with a sentiment of unavailing and impotent anger, not a feature of her pensive face altered its ordinary expression. "Hardened girl!" exclaimed Miss Scatcherd; "nothing can correct you of your slatternly habits: carry the rod away." Burns obeyed: I looked at her narrowly as she emerged from the book-closet; she was just putting back her handkerchief into her pocket, and the trace of a tear glistened on her thin cheek. The play-hour in the evening I thought the pleasantest fraction of the day at Lowood: the bit of bread, the draught of coffee swallowed at five o'clock had revived vitality, if it had not satisfied hunger: the long restraint of the day was slackened; the schoolroom felt warmer than in the morning--its fires being allowed to burn a little more brightly, to supply, in some measure, the place of candles, not yet introduced: the ruddy gloaming, the licensed uproar, the confusion of many voices gave one a welcome sense of liberty. On the evening of the day on which I had seen Miss Scatcherd flog her pupil, Burns, I wandered as usual among the forms and tables and laughing groups without a companion, yet not feeling lonely: when I passed the windows, I now and then lifted a blind, and looked out; it snowed fast, a drift was already forming against the lower panes; putting my ear close to the window, I could distinguish from the gleeful tumult within, the disconsolate moan of the wind outside. Probably, if I had lately left a good home and kind parents, this would have been the hour when I should most keenly have regretted the separation; that wind would then have saddened my heart; this obscure chaos would have disturbed my peace! as it was, I derived from both a strange excitement, and reckless and feverish, I wished the wind to howl more wildly, the gloom to deepen to darkness, and the confusion to rise to clamour. Jumping over forms, and creeping under tables, I made my way to one of the fire-places; there, kneeling by the high wire fender, I found Burns, absorbed, silent, abstracted from all round her by the companionship of a book, which she read by the dim glare of the embers. "Is it still 'Rasselas'?" I asked, coming behind her. "Yes," she said, "and I have just finished it." And in five minutes more she shut it up. I was glad of this. "Now," thought I, "I can perhaps get her to talk." I sat down by her on the floor. "What is your name besides Burns?" "Helen." "Do you come a long way from here?" "I come from a place farther north, quite on the borders of Scotland." "Will you ever go back?" "I hope so; but nobody can be sure of the future." "You must wish to leave Lowood?" "No! why should I? I was sent to Lowood to get an education; and it would be of no use going away until I have attained that object." "But that teacher, Miss Scatcherd, is so cruel to you?" "Cruel? Not at all! She is severe: she dislikes my faults." "And if I were in your place I should dislike her; I should resist her. If she struck me with that rod, I should get it from her hand; I should break it under her nose." "Probably you would do nothing of the sort: but if you did, Mr. Brocklehurst would expel you from the school; that would be a great grief to your relations. It is far better to endure patiently a smart which nobody feels but yourself, than to commit a hasty action whose evil consequences will extend to all connected with you; and besides, the Bible bids us return good for evil." "But then it seems disgraceful to be flogged, and to be sent to stand in the middle of a room full of people; and you are such a great girl: I am far younger than you, and I could not bear it." "Yet it would be your duty to bear it, if you could not avoid it: it is weak and silly to say you _cannot bear_ what it is your fate to be required to bear." I heard her with wonder: I could not comprehend this doctrine of endurance; and still less could I understand or sympathise with the forbearance she expressed for her chastiser. Still I felt that Helen Burns considered things by a light invisible to my eyes. I suspected she might be right and I wrong; but I would not ponder the matter deeply; like Felix, I put it off to a more convenient season. "You say you have faults, Helen: what are they? To me you seem very good." "Then learn from me, not to judge by appearances: I am, as Miss Scatcherd said, slatternly; I seldom put, and never keep, things, in order; I am careless; I forget rules; I read when I should learn my lessons; I have no method; and sometimes I say, like you, I cannot _bear_ to be subjected to systematic arrangements. This is all very provoking to Miss Scatcherd, who is naturally neat, punctual, and particular." "And cross and cruel," I added; but Helen Burns would not admit my addition: she kept silence. "Is Miss Temple as severe to you as Miss Scatcherd?" At the utterance of Miss Temple's name, a soft smile flitted over her grave face. "Miss Temple is full of goodness; it pains her to be severe to any one, even the worst in the school: she sees my errors, and tells me of them gently; and, if I do anything worthy of praise, she gives me my meed liberally. One strong proof of my wretchedly defective nature is, that even her expostulations, so mild, so rational, have not influence to cure me of my faults; and even her praise, though I value it most highly, cannot stimulate me to continued care and foresight." "That is curious," said I, "it is so easy to be careful." "For _you_ I have no doubt it is. I observed you in your class this morning, and saw you were closely attentive: your thoughts never seemed to wander while Miss Miller explained the lesson and questioned you. Now, mine continually rove away; when I should be listening to Miss Scatcherd, and collecting all she says with assiduity, often I lose the very sound of her voice; I fall into a sort of dream. Sometimes I think I am in Northumberland, and that the noises I hear round me are the bubbling of a little brook which runs through Deepden, near our house;--then, when it comes to my turn to reply, I have to be awakened; and having heard nothing of what was read for listening to the visionary brook, I have no answer ready." "Yet how well you replied this afternoon." "It was mere chance; the subject on which we had been reading had interested me. This afternoon, instead of dreaming of Deepden, I was wondering how a man who wished to do right could act so unjustly and unwisely as Charles the First sometimes did; and I thought what a pity it was that, with his integrity and conscientiousness, he could see no farther than the prerogatives of the crown. If he had but been able to look to a distance, and see how what they call the spirit of the age was tending! Still, I like Charles--I respect him--I pity him, poor murdered king! Yes, his enemies were the worst: they shed blood they had no right to shed. How dared they kill him!" Helen was talking to herself now: she had forgotten I could not very well understand her--that I was ignorant, or nearly so, of the subject she discussed. I recalled her to my level. "And when Miss Temple teaches you, do your thoughts wander then?" "No, certainly, not often; because Miss Temple has generally something to say which is newer than my own reflections; her language is singularly agreeable to me, and the information she communicates is often just what I wished to gain." "Well, then, with Miss Temple you are good?" "Yes, in a passive way: I make no effort; I follow as inclination guides me. There is no merit in such goodness." "A great deal: you are good to those who are good to you. It is all I ever desire to be. If people were always kind and obedient to those who are cruel and unjust, the wicked people would have it all their own way: they would never feel afraid, and so they would never alter, but would grow worse and worse. When we are struck at without a reason, we should strike back again very hard; I am sure we should--so hard as to teach the person who struck us never to do it again." "You will change your mind, I hope, when you grow older: as yet you are but a little untaught girl." "But I feel this, Helen; I must dislike those who, whatever I do to please them, persist in disliking me; I must resist those who punish me unjustly. It is as natural as that I should love those who show me affection, or submit to punishment when I feel it is deserved." "Heathens and savage tribes hold that doctrine, but Christians and civilised nations disown it." "How? I don't understand." "It is not violence that best overcomes hate--nor vengeance that most certainly heals injury." "What then?" "Read the New Testament, and observe what Christ says, and how He acts; make His word your rule, and His conduct your example." "What does He say?" "Love your enemies; bless them that curse you; do good to them that hate you and despitefully use you." "Then I should love Mrs. Reed, which I cannot do; I should bless her son John, which is impossible." In her turn, Helen Burns asked me to explain, and I proceeded forthwith to pour out, in my own way, the tale of my sufferings and resentments. Bitter and truculent when excited, I spoke as I felt, without reserve or softening. Helen heard me patiently to the end: I expected she would then make a remark, but she said nothing. "Well," I asked impatiently, "is not Mrs. Reed a hard-hearted, bad woman?" "She has been unkind to you, no doubt; because you see, she dislikes your cast of character, as Miss Scatcherd does mine; but how minutely you remember all she has done and said to you! What a singularly deep impression her injustice seems to have made on your heart! No ill-usage so brands its record on my feelings. Would you not be happier if you tried to forget her severity, together with the passionate emotions it excited? Life appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity or registering wrongs. We are, and must be, one and all, burdened with faults in this world: but the time will soon come when, I trust, we shall put them off in putting off our corruptible bodies; when debasement and sin will fall from us with this cumbrous frame of flesh, and only the spark of the spirit will remain,--the impalpable principle of light and thought, pure as when it left the Creator to inspire the creature: whence it came it will return; perhaps again to be communicated to some being higher than man--perhaps to pass through gradations of glory, from the pale human soul to brighten to the seraph! Surely it will never, on the contrary, be suffered to degenerate from man to fiend? No; I cannot believe that: I hold another creed: which no one ever taught me, and which I seldom mention; but in which I delight, and to which I cling: for it extends hope to all: it makes Eternity a rest--a mighty home, not a terror and an abyss. Besides, with this creed, I can so clearly distinguish between the criminal and his crime; I can so sincerely forgive the first while I abhor the last: with this creed revenge never worries my heart, degradation never too deeply disgusts me, injustice never crushes me too low: I live in calm, looking to the end." Helen's head, always drooping, sank a little lower as she finished this sentence. I saw by her look she wished no longer to talk to me, but rather to converse with her own thoughts. She was not allowed much time for meditation: a monitor, a great rough girl, presently came up, exclaiming in a strong Cumberland accent-- "Helen Burns, if you don't go and put your drawer in order, and fold up your work this minute, I'll tell Miss Scatcherd to come and look at it!" Helen sighed as her reverie fled, and getting up, obeyed the monitor without reply as without delay. CHAPTER VII My first quarter at Lowood seemed an age; and not the golden age either; it comprised an irksome struggle with difficulties in habituating myself to new rules and unwonted tasks. The fear of failure in these points harassed me worse than the physical hardships of my lot; though these were no trifles. During January, February, and part of March, the deep snows, and, after their melting, the almost impassable roads, prevented our stirring beyond the garden walls, except to go to church; but within these limits we had to pass an hour every day in the open air. Our clothing was insufficient to protect us from the severe cold: we had no boots, the snow got into our shoes and melted there: our ungloved hands became numbed and covered with chilblains, as were our feet: I remember well the distracting irritation I endured from this cause every evening, when my feet inflamed; and the torture of thrusting the swelled, raw, and stiff toes into my shoes in the morning. Then the scanty supply of food was distressing: with the keen appetites of growing children, we had scarcely sufficient to keep alive a delicate invalid. From this deficiency of nourishment resulted an abuse, which pressed hardly on the younger pupils: whenever the famished great girls had an opportunity, they would coax or menace the little ones out of their portion. Many a time I have shared between two claimants the precious morsel of brown bread distributed at tea-time; and after relinquishing to a third half the contents of my mug of coffee, I have swallowed the remainder with an accompaniment of secret tears, forced from me by the exigency of hunger. Sundays were dreary days in that wintry season. We had to walk two miles to Brocklebridge Church, where our patron officiated. We set out cold, we arrived at church colder: during the morning service we became almost paralysed. It was too far to return to dinner, and an allowance of cold meat and bread, in the same penurious proportion observed in our ordinary meals, was served round between the services. At the close of the afternoon service we returned by an exposed and hilly road, where the bitter winter wind, blowing over a range of snowy summits to the north, almost flayed the skin from our faces. I can remember Miss Temple walking lightly and rapidly along our drooping line, her plaid cloak, which the frosty wind fluttered, gathered close about her, and encouraging us, by precept and example, to keep up our spirits, and march forward, as she said, "like stalwart soldiers." The other teachers, poor things, were generally themselves too much dejected to attempt the task of cheering others. How we longed for the light and heat of a blazing fire when we got back! But, to the little ones at least, this was denied: each hearth in the schoolroom was immediately surrounded by a double row of great girls, and behind them the younger children crouched in groups, wrapping their starved arms in their pinafores. A little solace came at tea-time, in the shape of a double ration of bread--a whole, instead of a half, slice--with the delicious addition of a thin scrape of butter: it was the hebdomadal treat to which we all looked forward from Sabbath to Sabbath. I generally contrived to reserve a moiety of this bounteous repast for myself; but the remainder I was invariably obliged to part with. The Sunday evening was spent in repeating, by heart, the Church Catechism, and the fifth, sixth, and seventh chapters of St. Matthew; and in listening to a long sermon, read by Miss Miller, whose irrepressible yawns attested her weariness. A frequent interlude of these performances was the enactment of the part of Eutychus by some half-dozen of little girls, who, overpowered with sleep, would fall down, if not out of the third loft, yet off the fourth form, and be taken up half dead. The remedy was, to thrust them forward into the centre of the schoolroom, and oblige them to stand there till the sermon was finished. Sometimes their feet failed them, and they sank together in a heap; they were then propped up with the monitors' high stools. I have not yet alluded to the visits of Mr. Brocklehurst; and indeed that gentleman was from home during the greater part of the first month after my arrival; perhaps prolonging his stay with his friend the archdeacon: his absence was a relief to me. I need not say that I had my own reasons for dreading his coming: but come he did at last. One afternoon (I had then been three weeks at Lowood), as I was sitting with a slate in my hand, puzzling over a sum in long division, my eyes, raised in abstraction to the window, caught sight of a figure just passing: I recognised almost instinctively that gaunt outline; and when, two minutes after, all the school, teachers included, rose _en masse_, it was not necessary for me to look up in order to ascertain whose entrance they thus greeted. A long stride measured the schoolroom, and presently beside Miss Temple, who herself had risen, stood the same black column which had frowned on me so ominously from the hearthrug of Gateshead. I now glanced sideways at this piece of architecture. Yes, I was right: it was Mr. Brocklehurst, buttoned up in a surtout, and looking longer, narrower, and more rigid than ever. I had my own reasons for being dismayed at this apparition; too well I remembered the perfidious hints given by Mrs. Reed about my disposition, &c.; the promise pledged by Mr. Brocklehurst to apprise Miss Temple and the teachers of my vicious nature. All along I had been dreading the fulfilment of this promise,--I had been looking out daily for the "Coming Man," whose information respecting my past life and conversation was to brand me as a bad child for ever: now there he was. He stood at Miss Temple's side; he was speaking low in her ear: I did not doubt he was making disclosures of my villainy; and I watched her eye with painful anxiety, expecting every moment to see its dark orb turn on me a glance of repugnance and contempt. I listened too; and as I happened to be seated quite at the top of the room, I caught most of what he said: its import relieved me from immediate apprehension. "I suppose, Miss Temple, the thread I bought at Lowton will do; it struck me that it would be just of the quality for the calico chemises, and I sorted the needles to match. You may tell Miss Smith that I forgot to make a memorandum of the darning needles, but she shall have some papers sent in next week; and she is not, on any account, to give out more than one at a time to each pupil: if they have more, they are apt to be careless and lose them. And, O ma'am! I wish the woollen stockings were better looked to!--when I was here last, I went into the kitchen-garden and examined the clothes drying on the line; there was a quantity of black hose in a very bad state of repair: from the size of the holes in them I was sure they had not been well mended from time to time." He paused. "Your directions shall be attended to, sir," said Miss Temple. "And, ma'am," he continued, "the laundress tells me some of the girls have two clean tuckers in the week: it is too much; the rules limit them to one." "I think I can explain that circumstance, sir. Agnes and Catherine Johnstone were invited to take tea with some friends at Lowton last Thursday, and I gave them leave to put on clean tuckers for the occasion." Mr. Brocklehurst nodded. "Well, for once it may pass; but please not to let the circumstance occur too often. And there is another thing which surprised me; I find, in settling accounts with the housekeeper, that a lunch, consisting of bread and cheese, has twice been served out to the girls during the past fortnight. How is this? I looked over the regulations, and I find no such meal as lunch mentioned. Who introduced this innovation? and by what authority?" "I must be responsible for the circumstance, sir," replied Miss Temple: "the breakfast was so ill prepared that the pupils could not possibly eat it; and I dared not allow them to remain fasting till dinner-time." "Madam, allow me an instant. You are aware that my plan in bringing up these girls is, not to accustom them to habits of luxury and indulgence, but to render them hardy, patient, self-denying. Should any little accidental disappointment of the appetite occur, such as the spoiling of a meal, the under or the over dressing of a dish, the incident ought not to be neutralised by replacing with something more delicate the comfort lost, thus pampering the body and obviating the aim of this institution; it ought to be improved to the spiritual edification of the pupils, by encouraging them to evince fortitude under temporary privation. A brief address on those occasions would not be mistimed, wherein a judicious instructor would take the opportunity of referring to the sufferings of the primitive Christians; to the torments of martyrs; to the exhortations of our blessed Lord Himself, calling upon His disciples to take up their cross and follow Him; to His warnings that man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God; to His divine consolations, "If ye suffer hunger or thirst for My sake, happy are ye." Oh, madam, when you put bread and cheese, instead of burnt porridge, into these children's mouths, you may indeed feed their vile bodies, but you little think how you starve their immortal souls!" Mr. Brocklehurst again paused--perhaps overcome by his feelings. Miss Temple had looked down when he first began to speak to her; but she now gazed straight before her, and her face, naturally pale as marble, appeared to be assuming also the coldness and fixity of that material; especially her mouth, closed as if it would have required a sculptor's chisel to open it, and her brow settled gradually into petrified severity. Meantime, Mr. Brocklehurst, standing on the hearth with his hands behind his back, majestically surveyed the whole school. Suddenly his eye gave a blink, as if it had met something that either dazzled or shocked its pupil; turning, he said in more rapid accents than he had hitherto used-- "Miss Temple, Miss Temple, what--_what_ is that girl with curled hair? Red hair, ma'am, curled--curled all over?" And extending his cane he pointed to the awful object, his hand shaking as he did so. "It is Julia Severn," replied Miss Temple, very quietly. "Julia Severn, ma'am! And why has she, or any other, curled hair? Why, in defiance of every precept and principle of this house, does she conform to the world so openly--here in an evangelical, charitable establishment--as to wear her hair one mass of curls?" "Julia's hair curls naturally," returned Miss Temple, still more quietly. "Naturally! Yes, but we are not to conform to nature; I wish these girls to be the children of Grace: and why that abundance? I have again and again intimated that I desire the hair to be arranged closely, modestly, plainly. Miss Temple, that girl's hair must be cut off entirely; I will send a barber to-morrow: and I see others who have far too much of the excrescence--that tall girl, tell her to turn round. Tell all the first form to rise up and direct their faces to the wall." Miss Temple passed her handkerchief over her lips, as if to smooth away the involuntary smile that curled them; she gave the order, however, and when the first class could take in what was required of them, they obeyed. Leaning a little back on my bench, I could see the looks and grimaces with which they commented on this manoeuvre: it was a pity Mr. Brocklehurst could not see them too; he would perhaps have felt that, whatever he might do with the outside of the cup and platter, the inside was further beyond his interference than he imagined. He scrutinised the reverse of these living medals some five minutes, then pronounced sentence. These words fell like the knell of doom-- "All those top-knots must be cut off." Miss Temple seemed to remonstrate. "Madam," he pursued, "I have a Master to serve whose kingdom is not of this world: my mission is to mortify in these girls the lusts of the flesh; to teach them to clothe themselves with shame-facedness and sobriety, not with braided hair and costly apparel; and each of the young persons before us has a string of hair twisted in plaits which vanity itself might have woven; these, I repeat, must be cut off; think of the time wasted, of--" Mr. Brocklehurst was here interrupted: three other visitors, ladies, now entered the room. They ought to have come a little sooner to have heard his lecture on dress, for they were splendidly attired in velvet, silk, and furs. The two younger of the trio (fine girls of sixteen and seventeen) had grey beaver hats, then in fashion, shaded with ostrich plumes, and from under the brim of this graceful head-dress fell a profusion of light tresses, elaborately curled; the elder lady was enveloped in a costly velvet shawl, trimmed with ermine, and she wore a false front of French curls. These ladies were deferentially received by Miss Temple, as Mrs. and the Misses Brocklehurst, and conducted to seats of honour at the top of the room. It seems they had come in the carriage with their reverend relative, and had been conducting a rummaging scrutiny of the room upstairs, while he transacted business with the housekeeper, questioned the laundress, and lectured the superintendent. They now proceeded to address divers remarks and reproofs to Miss Smith, who was charged with the care of the linen and the inspection of the dormitories: but I had no time to listen to what they said; other matters called off and enchanted my attention. Hitherto, while gathering up the discourse of Mr. Brocklehurst and Miss Temple, I had not, at the same time, neglected precautions to secure my personal safety; which I thought would be effected, if I could only elude observation. To this end, I had sat well back on the form, and while seeming to be busy with my sum, had held my slate in such a manner as to conceal my face: I might have escaped notice, had not my treacherous slate somehow happened to slip from my hand, and falling with an obtrusive crash, directly drawn every eye upon me; I knew it was all over now, and, as I stooped to pick up the two fragments of slate, I rallied my forces for the worst. It came. "A careless girl!" said Mr. Brocklehurst, and immediately after--"It is the new pupil, I perceive." And before I could draw breath, "I must not forget I have a word to say respecting her." Then aloud: how loud it seemed to me! "Let the child who broke her slate come forward!" Of my own accord I could not have stirred; I was paralysed: but the two great girls who sit on each side of me, set me on my legs and pushed me towards the dread judge, and then Miss Temple gently assisted me to his very feet, and I caught her whispered counsel-- "Don't be afraid, Jane, I saw it was an accident; you shall not be punished." The kind whisper went to my heart like a dagger. "Another minute, and she will despise me for a hypocrite," thought I; and an impulse of fury against Reed, Brocklehurst, and Co. bounded in my pulses at the conviction. I was no Helen Burns. "Fetch that stool," said Mr. Brocklehurst, pointing to a very high one from which a monitor had just risen: it was brought. "Place the child upon it." And I was placed there, by whom I don't know: I was in no condition to note particulars; I was only aware that they had hoisted me up to the height of Mr. Brocklehurst's nose, that he was within a yard of me, and that a spread of shot orange and purple silk pelisses and a cloud of silvery plumage extended and waved below me. Mr. Brocklehurst hemmed. "Ladies," said he, turning to his family, "Miss Temple, teachers, and children, you all see this girl?" Of course they did; for I felt their eyes directed like burning-glasses against my scorched skin. "You see she is yet young; you observe she possesses the ordinary form of childhood; God has graciously given her the shape that He has given to all of us; no signal deformity points her out as a marked character. Who would think that the Evil One had already found a servant and agent in her? Yet such, I grieve to say, is the case." A pause--in which I began to steady the palsy of my nerves, and to feel that the Rubicon was passed; and that the trial, no longer to be shirked, must be firmly sustained. "My dear children," pursued the black marble clergyman, with pathos, "this is a sad, a melancholy occasion; for it becomes my duty to warn you, that this girl, who might be one of God's own lambs, is a little castaway: not a member of the true flock, but evidently an interloper and an alien. You must be on your guard against her; you must shun her example; if necessary, avoid her company, exclude her from your sports, and shut her out from your converse. Teachers, you must watch her: keep your eyes on her movements, weigh well her words, scrutinise her actions, punish her body to save her soul: if, indeed, such salvation be possible, for (my tongue falters while I tell it) this girl, this child, the native of a Christian land, worse than many a little heathen who says its prayers to Brahma and kneels before Juggernaut--this girl is--a liar!" Now came a pause of ten minutes, during which I, by this time in perfect possession of my wits, observed all the female Brocklehursts produce their pocket-handkerchiefs and apply them to their optics, while the elderly lady swayed herself to and fro, and the two younger ones whispered, "How shocking!" Mr. Brocklehurst resumed. "This I learned from her benefactress; from the pious and charitable lady who adopted her in her orphan state, reared her as her own daughter, and whose kindness, whose generosity the unhappy girl repaid by an ingratitude so bad, so dreadful, that at last her excellent patroness was obliged to separate her from her own young ones, fearful lest her vicious example should contaminate their purity: she has sent her here to be healed, even as the Jews of old sent their diseased to the troubled pool of Bethesda; and, teachers, superintendent, I beg of you not to allow the waters to stagnate round her." With this sublime conclusion, Mr. Brocklehurst adjusted the top button of his surtout, muttered something to his family, who rose, bowed to Miss Temple, and then all the great people sailed in state from the room. Turning at the door, my judge said-- "Let her stand half-an-hour longer on that stool, and let no one speak to her during the remainder of the day." There was I, then, mounted aloft; I, who had said I could not bear the shame of standing on my natural feet in the middle of the room, was now exposed to general view on a pedestal of infamy. What my sensations were no language can describe; but just as they all rose, stifling my breath and constricting my throat, a girl came up and passed me: in passing, she lifted her eyes. What a strange light inspired them! What an extraordinary sensation that ray sent through me! How the new feeling bore me up! It was as if a martyr, a hero, had passed a slave or victim, and imparted strength in the transit. I mastered the rising hysteria, lifted up my head, and took a firm stand on the stool. Helen Burns asked some slight question about her work of Miss Smith, was chidden for the triviality of the inquiry, returned to her place, and smiled at me as she again went by. What a smile! I remember it now, and I know that it was the effluence of fine intellect, of true courage; it lit up her marked lineaments, her thin face, her sunken grey eye, like a reflection from the aspect of an angel. Yet at that moment Helen Burns wore on her arm "the untidy badge;" scarcely an hour ago I had heard her condemned by Miss Scatcherd to a dinner of bread and water on the morrow because she had blotted an exercise in copying it out. Such is the imperfect nature of man! such spots are there on the disc of the clearest planet; and eyes like Miss Scatcherd's can only see those minute defects, and are blind to the full brightness of the orb. CHAPTER VIII Ere the half-hour ended, five o'clock struck; school was dismissed, and all were gone into the refectory to tea. I now ventured to descend: it was deep dusk; I retired into a corner and sat down on the floor. The spell by which I had been so far supported began to dissolve; reaction took place, and soon, so overwhelming was the grief that seized me, I sank prostrate with my face to the ground. Now I wept: Helen Burns was not here; nothing sustained me; left to myself I abandoned myself, and my tears watered the boards. I had meant to be so good, and to do so much at Lowood: to make so many friends, to earn respect and win affection. Already I had made visible progress: that very morning I had reached the head of my class; Miss Miller had praised me warmly; Miss Temple had smiled approbation; she had promised to teach me drawing, and to let me learn French, if I continued to make similar improvement two months longer: and then I was well received by my fellow-pupils; treated as an equal by those of my own age, and not molested by any; now, here I lay again crushed and trodden on; and could I ever rise more? "Never," I thought; and ardently I wished to die. While sobbing out this wish in broken accents, some one approached: I started up--again Helen Burns was near me; the fading fires just showed her coming up the long, vacant room; she brought my coffee and bread. "Come, eat something," she said; but I put both away from me, feeling as if a drop or a crumb would have choked me in my present condition. Helen regarded me, probably with surprise: I could not now abate my agitation, though I tried hard; I continued to weep aloud. She sat down on the ground near me, embraced her knees with her arms, and rested her head upon them; in that attitude she remained silent as an Indian. I was the first who spoke-- "Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom everybody believes to be a liar?" "Everybody, Jane? Why, there are only eighty people who have heard you called so, and the world contains hundreds of millions." "But what have I to do with millions? The eighty, I know, despise me." "Jane, you are mistaken: probably not one in the school either despises or dislikes you: many, I am sure, pity you much." "How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst has said?" "Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god: nor is he even a great and admired man: he is little liked here; he never took steps to make himself liked. Had he treated you as an especial favourite, you would have found enemies, declared or covert, all around you; as it is, the greater number would offer you sympathy if they dared. Teachers and pupils may look coldly on you for a day or two, but friendly feelings are concealed in their hearts; and if you persevere in doing well, these feelings will ere long appear so much the more evidently for their temporary suppression. Besides, Jane"--she paused. "Well, Helen?" said I, putting my hand into hers: she chafed my fingers gently to warm them, and went on-- "If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved you, and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends." "No; I know I should think well of myself; but that is not enough: if others don't love me I would rather die than live--I cannot bear to be solitary and hated, Helen. Look here; to gain some real affection from you, or Miss Temple, or any other whom I truly love, I would willingly submit to have the bone of my arm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or to stand behind a kicking horse, and let it dash its hoof at my chest--" "Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings; you are too impulsive, too vehement; the sovereign hand that created your frame, and put life into it, has provided you with other resources than your feeble self, or than creatures feeble as you. Besides this earth, and besides the race of men, there is an invisible world and a kingdom of spirits: that world is round us, for it is everywhere; and those spirits watch us, for they are commissioned to guard us; and if we were dying in pain and shame, if scorn smote us on all sides, and hatred crushed us, angels see our tortures, recognise our innocence (if innocent we be: as I know you are of this charge which Mr. Brocklehurst has weakly and pompously repeated at second-hand from Mrs. Reed; for I read a sincere nature in your ardent eyes and on your clear front), and God waits only the separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a full reward. Why, then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress, when life is so soon over, and death is so certain an entrance to happiness--to glory?" I was silent; Helen had calmed me; but in the tranquillity she imparted there was an alloy of inexpressible sadness. I felt the impression of woe as she spoke, but I could not tell whence it came; and when, having done speaking, she breathed a little fast and coughed a short cough, I momentarily forgot my own sorrows to yield to a vague concern for her. Resting my head on Helen's shoulder, I put my arms round her waist; she drew me to her, and we reposed in silence. We had not sat long thus, when another person came in. Some heavy clouds, swept from the sky by a rising wind, had left the moon bare; and her light, streaming in through a window near, shone full both on us and on the approaching figure, which we at once recognised as Miss Temple. "I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre," said she; "I want you in my room; and as Helen Burns is with you, she may come too." We went; following the superintendent's guidance, we had to thread some intricate passages, and mount a staircase before we reached her apartment; it contained a good fire, and looked cheerful. Miss Temple told Helen Burns to be seated in a low arm-chair on one side of the hearth, and herself taking another, she called me to her side. "Is it all over?" she asked, looking down at my face. "Have you cried your grief away?" "I am afraid I never shall do that." "Why?" "Because I have been wrongly accused; and you, ma'am, and everybody else, will now think me wicked." "We shall think you what you prove yourself to be, my child. Continue to act as a good girl, and you will satisfy us." "Shall I, Miss Temple?" "You will," said she, passing her arm round me. "And now tell me who is the lady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your benefactress?" "Mrs. Reed, my uncle's wife. My uncle is dead, and he left me to her care." "Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord?" "No, ma'am; she was sorry to have to do it: but my uncle, as I have often heard the servants say, got her to promise before he died that she would always keep me." "Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that when a criminal is accused, he is always allowed to speak in his own defence. You have been charged with falsehood; defend yourself to me as well as you can. Say whatever your memory suggests is true; but add nothing and exaggerate nothing." I resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most moderate--most correct; and, having reflected a few minutes in order to arrange coherently what I had to say, I told her all the story of my sad childhood. Exhausted by emotion, my language was more subdued than it generally was when it developed that sad theme; and mindful of Helen's warnings against the indulgence of resentment, I infused into the narrative far less of gall and wormwood than ordinary. Thus restrained and simplified, it sounded more credible: I felt as I went on that Miss Temple fully believed me. In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having come to see me after the fit: for I never forgot the, to me, frightful episode of the red-room: in detailing which, my excitement was sure, in some degree, to break bounds; for nothing could soften in my recollection the spasm of agony which clutched my heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my wild supplication for pardon, and locked me a second time in the dark and haunted chamber. I had finished: Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence; she then said-- "I know something of Mr. Lloyd; I shall write to him; if his reply agrees with your statement, you shall be publicly cleared from every imputation; to me, Jane, you are clear now." She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side (where I was well contented to stand, for I derived a child's pleasure from the contemplation of her face, her dress, her one or two ornaments, her white forehead, her clustered and shining curls, and beaming dark eyes), she proceeded to address Helen Burns. "How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much to-day?" "Not quite so much, I think, ma'am." "And the pain in your chest?" "It is a little better." Miss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her pulse; then she returned to her own seat: as she resumed it, I heard her sigh low. She was pensive a few minutes, then rousing herself, she said cheerfully-- "But you two are my visitors to-night; I must treat you as such." She rang her bell. "Barbara," she said to the servant who answered it, "I have not yet had tea; bring the tray and place cups for these two young ladies." And a tray was soon brought. How pretty, to my eyes, did the china cups and bright teapot look, placed on the little round table near the fire! How fragrant was the steam of the beverage, and the scent of the toast! of which, however, I, to my dismay (for I was beginning to be hungry) discerned only a very small portion: Miss Temple discerned it too. "Barbara," said she, "can you not bring a little more bread and butter? There is not enough for three." Barbara went out: she returned soon-- "Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual quantity." Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a woman after Mr. Brocklehurst's own heart, made up of equal parts of whalebone and iron. "Oh, very well!" returned Miss Temple; "we must make it do, Barbara, I suppose." And as the girl withdrew she added, smiling, "Fortunately, I have it in my power to supply deficiencies for this once." Having invited Helen and me to approach the table, and placed before each of us a cup of tea with one delicious but thin morsel of toast, she got up, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a parcel wrapped in paper, disclosed presently to our eyes a good-sized seed-cake. "I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you," said she, "but as there is so little toast, you must have it now," and she proceeded to cut slices with a generous hand. We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and not the least delight of the entertainment was the smile of gratification with which our hostess regarded us, as we satisfied our famished appetites on the delicate fare she liberally supplied. Tea over and the tray removed, she again summoned us to the fire; we sat one on each side of her, and now a conversation followed between her and Helen, which it was indeed a privilege to be admitted to hear. Miss Temple had always something of serenity in her air, of state in her mien, of refined propriety in her language, which precluded deviation into the ardent, the excited, the eager: something which chastened the pleasure of those who looked on her and listened to her, by a controlling sense of awe; and such was my feeling now: but as to Helen Burns, I was struck with wonder. The refreshing meal, the brilliant fire, the presence and kindness of her beloved instructress, or, perhaps, more than all these, something in her own unique mind, had roused her powers within her. They woke, they kindled: first, they glowed in the bright tint of her cheek, which till this hour I had never seen but pale and bloodless; then they shone in the liquid lustre of her eyes, which had suddenly acquired a beauty more singular than that of Miss Temple's--a beauty neither of fine colour nor long eyelash, nor pencilled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of radiance. Then her soul sat on her lips, and language flowed, from what source I cannot tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart large enough, vigorous enough, to hold the swelling spring of pure, full, fervid eloquence? Such was the characteristic of Helen's discourse on that, to me, memorable evening; her spirit seemed hastening to live within a very brief span as much as many live during a protracted existence. They conversed of things I had never heard of; of nations and times past; of countries far away; of secrets of nature discovered or guessed at: they spoke of books: how many they had read! What stores of knowledge they possessed! Then they seemed so familiar with French names and French authors: but my amazement reached its climax when Miss Temple asked Helen if she sometimes snatched a moment to recall the Latin her father had taught her, and taking a book from a shelf, bade her read and construe a page of Virgil; and Helen obeyed, my organ of veneration expanding at every sounding line. She had scarcely finished ere the bell announced bedtime! no delay could be admitted; Miss Temple embraced us both, saying, as she drew us to her heart-- "God bless you, my children!" Helen she held a little longer than me: she let her go more reluctantly; it was Helen her eye followed to the door; it was for her she a second time breathed a sad sigh; for her she wiped a tear from her cheek. On reaching the bedroom, we heard the voice of Miss Scatcherd: she was examining drawers; she had just pulled out Helen Burns's, and when we entered Helen was greeted with a sharp reprimand, and told that to-morrow she should have half-a-dozen of untidily folded articles pinned to her shoulder. "My things were indeed in shameful disorder," murmured Helen to me, in a low voice: "I intended to have arranged them, but I forgot." Next morning, Miss Scatcherd wrote in conspicuous characters on a piece of pasteboard the word "Slattern," and bound it like a phylactery round Helen's large, mild, intelligent, and benign-looking forehead. She wore it till evening, patient, unresentful, regarding it as a deserved punishment. The moment Miss Scatcherd withdrew after afternoon school, I ran to Helen, tore it off, and thrust it into the fire: the fury of which she was incapable had been burning in my soul all day, and tears, hot and large, had continually been scalding my cheek; for the spectacle of her sad resignation gave me an intolerable pain at the heart. About a week subsequently to the incidents above narrated, Miss Temple, who had written to Mr. Lloyd, received his answer: it appeared that what he said went to corroborate my account. Miss Temple, having assembled the whole school, announced that inquiry had been made into the charges alleged against Jane Eyre, and that she was most happy to be able to pronounce her completely cleared from every imputation. The teachers then shook hands with me and kissed me, and a murmur of pleasure ran through the ranks of my companions. Thus relieved of a grievous load, I from that hour set to work afresh, resolved to pioneer my way through every difficulty: I toiled hard, and my success was proportionate to my efforts; my memory, not naturally tenacious, improved with practice; exercise sharpened my wits; in a few weeks I was promoted to a higher class; in less than two months I was allowed to commence French and drawing. I learned the first two tenses of the verb _Etre_, and sketched my first cottage (whose walls, by-the- bye, outrivalled in slope those of the leaning tower of Pisa), on the same day. That night, on going to bed, I forgot to prepare in imagination the Barmecide supper of hot roast potatoes, or white bread and new milk, with which I was wont to amuse my inward cravings: I feasted instead on the spectacle of ideal drawings, which I saw in the dark; all the work of my own hands: freely pencilled houses and trees, picturesque rocks and ruins, Cuyp-like groups of cattle, sweet paintings of butterflies hovering over unblown roses, of birds picking at ripe cherries, of wren's nests enclosing pearl-like eggs, wreathed about with young ivy sprays. I examined, too, in thought, the possibility of my ever being able to translate currently a certain little French story which Madame Pierrot had that day shown me; nor was that problem solved to my satisfaction ere I fell sweetly asleep. Well has Solomon said--"Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith." I would not now have exchanged Lowood with all its privations for Gateshead and its daily luxuries. CHAPTER IX But the privations, or rather the hardships, of Lowood lessened. Spring drew on: she was indeed already come; the frosts of winter had ceased; its snows were melted, its cutting winds ameliorated. My wretched feet, flayed and swollen to lameness by the sharp air of January, began to heal and subside under the gentler breathings of April; the nights and mornings no longer by their Canadian temperature froze the very blood in our veins; we could now endure the play-hour passed in the garden: sometimes on a sunny day it began even to be pleasant and genial, and a greenness grew over those brown beds, which, freshening daily, suggested the thought that Hope traversed them at night, and left each morning brighter traces of her steps. Flowers peeped out amongst the leaves; snow-drops, crocuses, purple auriculas, and golden-eyed pansies. On Thursday afternoons (half-holidays) we now took walks, and found still sweeter flowers opening by the wayside, under the hedges. I discovered, too, that a great pleasure, an enjoyment which the horizon only bounded, lay all outside the high and spike-guarded walls of our garden: this pleasure consisted in prospect of noble summits girdling a great hill-hollow, rich in verdure and shadow; in a bright beck, full of dark stones and sparkling eddies. How different had this scene looked when I viewed it laid out beneath the iron sky of winter, stiffened in frost, shrouded with snow!--when mists as chill as death wandered to the impulse of east winds along those purple peaks, and rolled down "ing" and holm till they blended with the frozen fog of the beck! That beck itself was then a torrent, turbid and curbless: it tore asunder the wood, and sent a raving sound through the air, often thickened with wild rain or whirling sleet; and for the forest on its banks, _that_ showed only ranks of skeletons. April advanced to May: a bright serene May it was; days of blue sky, placid sunshine, and soft western or southern gales filled up its duration. And now vegetation matured with vigour; Lowood shook loose its tresses; it became all green, all flowery; its great elm, ash, and oak skeletons were restored to majestic life; woodland plants sprang up profusely in its recesses; unnumbered varieties of moss filled its hollows, and it made a strange ground-sunshine out of the wealth of its wild primrose plants: I have seen their pale gold gleam in overshadowed spots like scatterings of the sweetest lustre. All this I enjoyed often and fully, free, unwatched, and almost alone: for this unwonted liberty and pleasure there was a cause, to which it now becomes my task to advert. Have I not described a pleasant site for a dwelling, when I speak of it as bosomed in hill and wood, and rising from the verge of a stream? Assuredly, pleasant enough: but whether healthy or not is another question. That forest-dell, where Lowood lay, was the cradle of fog and fog-bred pestilence; which, quickening with the quickening spring, crept into the Orphan Asylum, breathed typhus through its crowded schoolroom and dormitory, and, ere May arrived, transformed the seminary into an hospital. Semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of the pupils to receive infection: forty-five out of the eighty girls lay ill at one time. Classes were broken up, rules relaxed. The few who continued well were allowed almost unlimited license; because the medical attendant insisted on the necessity of frequent exercise to keep them in health: and had it been otherwise, no one had leisure to watch or restrain them. Miss Temple's whole attention was absorbed by the patients: she lived in the sick-room, never quitting it except to snatch a few hours' rest at night. The teachers were fully occupied with packing up and making other necessary preparations for the departure of those girls who were fortunate enough to have friends and relations able and willing to remove them from the seat of contagion. Many, already smitten, went home only to die: some died at the school, and were buried quietly and quickly, the nature of the malady forbidding delay. While disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood, and death its frequent visitor; while there was gloom and fear within its walls; while its rooms and passages steamed with hospital smells, the drug and the pastille striving vainly to overcome the effluvia of mortality, that bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills and beautiful woodland out of doors. Its garden, too, glowed with flowers: hollyhocks had sprung up tall as trees, lilies had opened, tulips and roses were in bloom; the borders of the little beds were gay with pink thrift and crimson double daisies; the sweetbriars gave out, morning and evening, their scent of spice and apples; and these fragrant treasures were all useless for most of the inmates of Lowood, except to furnish now and then a handful of herbs and blossoms to put in a coffin. But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the beauties of the scene and season; they let us ramble in the wood, like gipsies, from morning till night; we did what we liked, went where we liked: we lived better too. Mr. Brocklehurst and his family never came near Lowood now: household matters were not scrutinised into; the cross housekeeper was gone, driven away by the fear of infection; her successor, who had been matron at the Lowton Dispensary, unused to the ways of her new abode, provided with comparative liberality. Besides, there were fewer to feed; the sick could eat little; our breakfast-basins were better filled; when there was no time to prepare a regular dinner, which often happened, she would give us a large piece of cold pie, or a thick slice of bread and cheese, and this we carried away with us to the wood, where we each chose the spot we liked best, and dined sumptuously. My favourite seat was a smooth and broad stone, rising white and dry from the very middle of the beck, and only to be got at by wading through the water; a feat I accomplished barefoot. The stone was just broad enough to accommodate, comfortably, another girl and me, at that time my chosen comrade--one Mary Ann Wilson; a shrewd, observant personage, whose society I took pleasure in, partly because she was witty and original, and partly because she had a manner which set me at my ease. Some years older than I, she knew more of the world, and could tell me many things I liked to hear: with her my curiosity found gratification: to my faults also she gave ample indulgence, never imposing curb or rein on anything I said. She had a turn for narrative, I for analysis; she liked to inform, I to question; so we got on swimmingly together, deriving much entertainment, if not much improvement, from our mutual intercourse. And where, meantime, was Helen Burns? Why did I not spend these sweet days of liberty with her? Had I forgotten her? or was I so worthless as to have grown tired of her pure society? Surely the Mary Ann Wilson I have mentioned was inferior to my first acquaintance: she could only tell me amusing stories, and reciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I chose to indulge in; while, if I have spoken truth of Helen, she was qualified to give those who enjoyed the privilege of her converse a taste of far higher things. True, reader; and I knew and felt this: and though I am a defective being, with many faults and few redeeming points, yet I never tired of Helen Burns; nor ever ceased to cherish for her a sentiment of attachment, as strong, tender, and respectful as any that ever animated my heart. How could it be otherwise, when Helen, at all times and under all circumstances, evinced for me a quiet and faithful friendship, which ill-humour never soured, nor irritation never troubled? But Helen was ill at present: for some weeks she had been removed from my sight to I knew not what room upstairs. She was not, I was told, in the hospital portion of the house with the fever patients; for her complaint was consumption, not typhus: and by consumption I, in my ignorance, understood something mild, which time and care would be sure to alleviate. I was confirmed in this idea by the fact of her once or twice coming downstairs on very warm sunny afternoons, and being taken by Miss Temple into the garden; but, on these occasions, I was not allowed to go and speak to her; I only saw her from the schoolroom window, and then not distinctly; for she was much wrapped up, and sat at a distance under the verandah. One evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late with Mary Ann in the wood; we had, as usual, separated ourselves from the others, and had wandered far; so far that we lost our way, and had to ask it at a lonely cottage, where a man and woman lived, who looked after a herd of half-wild swine that fed on the mast in the wood. When we got back, it was after moonrise: a pony, which we knew to be the surgeon's, was standing at the garden door. Mary Ann remarked that she supposed some one must be very ill, as Mr. Bates had been sent for at that time of the evening. She went into the house; I stayed behind a few minutes to plant in my garden a handful of roots I had dug up in the forest, and which I feared would wither if I left them till the morning. This done, I lingered yet a little longer: the flowers smelt so sweet as the dew fell; it was such a pleasant evening, so serene, so warm; the still glowing west promised so fairly another fine day on the morrow; the moon rose with such majesty in the grave east. I was noting these things and enjoying them as a child might, when it entered my mind as it had never done before:-- "How sad to be lying now on a sick bed, and to be in danger of dying! This world is pleasant--it would be dreary to be called from it, and to have to go who knows where?" And then my mind made its first earnest effort to comprehend what had been infused into it concerning heaven and hell; and for the first time it recoiled, baffled; and for the first time glancing behind, on each side, and before it, it saw all round an unfathomed gulf: it felt the one point where it stood--the present; all the rest was formless cloud and vacant depth; and it shuddered at the thought of tottering, and plunging amid that chaos. While pondering this new idea, I heard the front door open; Mr. Bates came out, and with him was a nurse. After she had seen him mount his horse and depart, she was about to close the door, but I ran up to her. "How is Helen Burns?" "Very poorly," was the answer. "Is it her Mr. Bates has been to see?" "Yes." "And what does he say about her?" "He says she'll not be here long." This phrase, uttered in my hearing yesterday, would have only conveyed the notion that she was about to be removed to Northumberland, to her own home. I should not have suspected that it meant she was dying; but I knew instantly now! It opened clear on my comprehension that Helen Burns was numbering her last days in this world, and that she was going to be taken to the region of spirits, if such region there were. I experienced a shock of horror, then a strong thrill of grief, then a desire--a necessity to see her; and I asked in what room she lay. "She is in Miss Temple's room," said the nurse. "May I go up and speak to her?" "Oh no, child! It is not likely; and now it is time for you to come in; you'll catch the fever if you stop out when the dew is falling." The nurse closed the front door; I went in by the side entrance which led to the schoolroom: I was just in time; it was nine o'clock, and Miss Miller was calling the pupils to go to bed. It might be two hours later, probably near eleven, when I--not having been able to fall asleep, and deeming, from the perfect silence of the dormitory, that my companions were all wrapt in profound repose--rose softly, put on my frock over my night-dress, and, without shoes, crept from the apartment, and set off in quest of Miss Temple's room. It was quite at the other end of the house; but I knew my way; and the light of the unclouded summer moon, entering here and there at passage windows, enabled me to find it without difficulty. An odour of camphor and burnt vinegar warned me when I came near the fever room: and I passed its door quickly, fearful lest the nurse who sat up all night should hear me. I dreaded being discovered and sent back; for I _must_ see Helen,--I must embrace her before she died,--I must give her one last kiss, exchange with her one last word. Having descended a staircase, traversed a portion of the house below, and succeeded in opening and shutting, without noise, two doors, I reached another flight of steps; these I mounted, and then just opposite to me was Miss Temple's room. A light shone through the keyhole and from under the door; a profound stillness pervaded the vicinity. Coming near, I found the door slightly ajar; probably to admit some fresh air into the close abode of sickness. Indisposed to hesitate, and full of impatient impulses--soul and senses quivering with keen throes--I put it back and looked in. My eye sought Helen, and feared to find death. Close by Miss Temple's bed, and half covered with its white curtains, there stood a little crib. I saw the outline of a form under the clothes, but the face was hid by the hangings: the nurse I had spoken to in the garden sat in an easy-chair asleep; an unsnuffed candle burnt dimly on the table. Miss Temple was not to be seen: I knew afterwards that she had been called to a delirious patient in the fever-room. I advanced; then paused by the crib side: my hand was on the curtain, but I preferred speaking before I withdrew it. I still recoiled at the dread of seeing a corpse. "Helen!" I whispered softly, "are you awake?" She stirred herself, put back the curtain, and I saw her face, pale, wasted, but quite composed: she looked so little changed that my fear was instantly dissipated. "Can it be you, Jane?" she asked, in her own gentle voice. "Oh!" I thought, "she is not going to die; they are mistaken: she could not speak and look so calmly if she were." I got on to her crib and kissed her: her forehead was cold, and her cheek both cold and thin, and so were her hand and wrist; but she smiled as of old. "Why are you come here, Jane? It is past eleven o'clock: I heard it strike some minutes since." "I came to see you, Helen: I heard you were very ill, and I could not sleep till I had spoken to you." "You came to bid me good-bye, then: you are just in time probably." "Are you going somewhere, Helen? Are you going home?" "Yes; to my long home--my last home." "No, no, Helen!" I stopped, distressed. While I tried to devour my tears, a fit of coughing seized Helen; it did not, however, wake the nurse; when it was over, she lay some minutes exhausted; then she whispered-- "Jane, your little feet are bare; lie down and cover yourself with my quilt." I did so: she put her arm over me, and I nestled close to her. After a long silence, she resumed, still whispering-- "I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead, you must be sure and not grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. We all must die one day, and the illness which is removing me is not painful; it is gentle and gradual: my mind is at rest. I leave no one to regret me much: I have only a father; and he is lately married, and will not miss me. By dying young, I shall escape great sufferings. I had not qualities or talents to make my way very well in the world: I should have been continually at fault." "But where are you going to, Helen? Can you see? Do you know?" "I believe; I have faith: I am going to God." "Where is God? What is God?" "My Maker and yours, who will never destroy what He created. I rely implicitly on His power, and confide wholly in His goodness: I count the hours till that eventful one arrives which shall restore me to Him, reveal Him to me." "You are sure, then, Helen, that there is such a place as heaven, and that our souls can get to it when we die?" "I am sure there is a future state; I believe God is good; I can resign my immortal part to Him without any misgiving. God is my father; God is my friend: I love Him; I believe He loves me." "And shall I see you again, Helen, when I die?" "You will come to the same region of happiness: be received by the same mighty, universal Parent, no doubt, dear Jane." Again I questioned, but this time only in thought. "Where is that region? Does it exist?" And I clasped my arms closer round Helen; she seemed dearer to me than ever; I felt as if I could not let her go; I lay with my face hidden on her neck. Presently she said, in the sweetest tone-- "How comfortable I am! That last fit of coughing has tired me a little; I feel as if I could sleep: but don't leave me, Jane; I like to have you near me." "I'll stay with you, _dear_ Helen: no one shall take me away." "Are you warm, darling?" "Yes." "Good-night, Jane." "Good-night, Helen." She kissed me, and I her, and we both soon slumbered. When I awoke it was day: an unusual movement roused me; I looked up; I was in somebody's arms; the nurse held me; she was carrying me through the passage back to the dormitory. I was not reprimanded for leaving my bed; people had something else to think about; no explanation was afforded then to my many questions; but a day or two afterwards I learned that Miss Temple, on returning to her own room at dawn, had found me laid in the little crib; my face against Helen Burns's shoulder, my arms round her neck. I was asleep, and Helen was--dead. Her grave is in Brocklebridge churchyard: for fifteen years after her death it was only covered by a grassy mound; but now a grey marble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with her name, and the word "Resurgam." CHAPTER X Hitherto I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificant existence: to the first ten years of my life I have given almost as many chapters. But this is not to be a regular autobiography. I am only bound to invoke Memory where I know her responses will possess some degree of interest; therefore I now pass a space of eight years almost in silence: a few lines only are necessary to keep up the links of connection. When the typhus fever had fulfilled its mission of devastation at Lowood, it gradually disappeared from thence; but not till its virulence and the number of its victims had drawn public attention on the school. Inquiry was made into the origin of the scourge, and by degrees various facts came out which excited public indignation in a high degree. The unhealthy nature of the site; the quantity and quality of the children's food; the brackish, fetid water used in its preparation; the pupils' wretched clothing and accommodations--all these things were discovered, and the discovery produced a result mortifying to Mr. Brocklehurst, but beneficial to the institution. Several wealthy and benevolent individuals in the county subscribed largely for the erection of a more convenient building in a better situation; new regulations were made; improvements in diet and clothing introduced; the funds of the school were intrusted to the management of a committee. Mr. Brocklehurst, who, from his wealth and family connections, could not be overlooked, still retained the post of treasurer; but he was aided in the discharge of his duties by gentlemen of rather more enlarged and sympathising minds: his office of inspector, too, was shared by those who knew how to combine reason with strictness, comfort with economy, compassion with uprightness. The school, thus improved, became in time a truly useful and noble institution. I remained an inmate of its walls, after its regeneration, for eight years: six as pupil, and two as teacher; and in both capacities I bear my testimony to its value and importance. During these eight years my life was uniform: but not unhappy, because it was not inactive. I had the means of an excellent education placed within my reach; a fondness for some of my studies, and a desire to excel in all, together with a great delight in pleasing my teachers, especially such as I loved, urged me on: I availed myself fully of the advantages offered me. In time I rose to be the first girl of the first class; then I was invested with the office of teacher; which I discharged with zeal for two years: but at the end of that time I altered. Miss Temple, through all changes, had thus far continued superintendent of the seminary: to her instruction I owed the best part of my acquirements; her friendship and society had been my continual solace; she had stood me in the stead of mother, governess, and, latterly, companion. At this period she married, removed with her husband (a clergyman, an excellent man, almost worthy of such a wife) to a distant county, and consequently was lost to me. From the day she left I was no longer the same: with her was gone every settled feeling, every association that had made Lowood in some degree a home to me. I had imbibed from her something of her nature and much of her habits: more harmonious thoughts: what seemed better regulated feelings had become the inmates of my mind. I had given in allegiance to duty and order; I was quiet; I believed I was content: to the eyes of others, usually even to my own, I appeared a disciplined and subdued character. But destiny, in the shape of the Rev. Mr. Nasmyth, came between me and Miss Temple: I saw her in her travelling dress step into a post-chaise, shortly after the marriage ceremony; I watched the chaise mount the hill and disappear beyond its brow; and then retired to my own room, and there spent in solitude the greatest part of the half-holiday granted in honour of the occasion. I walked about the chamber most of the time. I imagined myself only to be regretting my loss, and thinking how to repair it; but when my reflections were concluded, and I looked up and found that the afternoon was gone, and evening far advanced, another discovery dawned on me, namely, that in the interval I had undergone a transforming process; that my mind had put off all it had borrowed of Miss Temple--or rather that she had taken with her the serene atmosphere I had been breathing in her vicinity--and that now I was left in my natural element, and beginning to feel the stirring of old emotions. It did not seem as if a prop were withdrawn, but rather as if a motive were gone: it was not the power to be tranquil which had failed me, but the reason for tranquillity was no more. My world had for some years been in Lowood: my experience had been of its rules and systems; now I remembered that the real world was wide, and that a varied field of hopes and fears, of sensations and excitements, awaited those who had courage to go forth into its expanse, to seek real knowledge of life amidst its perils. I went to my window, opened it, and looked out. There were the two wings of the building; there was the garden; there were the skirts of Lowood; there was the hilly horizon. My eye passed all other objects to rest on those most remote, the blue peaks; it was those I longed to surmount; all within their boundary of rock and heath seemed prison-ground, exile limits. I traced the white road winding round the base of one mountain, and vanishing in a gorge between two; how I longed to follow it farther! I recalled the time when I had travelled that very road in a coach; I remembered descending that hill at twilight; an age seemed to have elapsed since the day which brought me first to Lowood, and I had never quitted it since. My vacations had all been spent at school: Mrs. Reed had never sent for me to Gateshead; neither she nor any of her family had ever been to visit me. I had had no communication by letter or message with the outer world: school-rules, school-duties, school-habits and notions, and voices, and faces, and phrases, and costumes, and preferences, and antipathies--such was what I knew of existence. And now I felt that it was not enough; I tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon. I desired liberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it and framed a humbler supplication; for change, stimulus: that petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space: "Then," I cried, half desperate, "grant me at least a new servitude!" Here a bell, ringing the hour of supper, called me downstairs. I was not free to resume the interrupted chain of my reflections till bedtime: even then a teacher who occupied the same room with me kept me from the subject to which I longed to recur, by a prolonged effusion of small talk. How I wished sleep would silence her. It seemed as if, could I but go back to the idea which had last entered my mind as I stood at the window, some inventive suggestion would rise for my relief. Miss Gryce snored at last; she was a heavy Welshwoman, and till now her habitual nasal strains had never been regarded by me in any other light than as a nuisance; to-night I hailed the first deep notes with satisfaction; I was debarrassed of interruption; my half-effaced thought instantly revived. "A new servitude! There is something in that," I soliloquised (mentally, be it understood; I did not talk aloud), "I know there is, because it does not sound too sweet; it is not like such words as Liberty, Excitement, Enjoyment: delightful sounds truly; but no more than sounds for me; and so hollow and fleeting that it is mere waste of time to listen to them. But Servitude! That must be matter of fact. Any one may serve: I have served here eight years; now all I want is to serve elsewhere. Can I not get so much of my own will? Is not the thing feasible? Yes--yes--the end is not so difficult; if I had only a brain active enough to ferret out the means of attaining it." I sat up in bed by way of arousing this said brain: it was a chilly night; I covered my shoulders with a shawl, and then I proceeded _to think_ again with all my might. "What do I want? A new place, in a new house, amongst new faces, under new circumstances: I want this because it is of no use wanting anything better. How do people do to get a new place? They apply to friends, I suppose: I have no friends. There are many others who have no friends, who must look about for themselves and be their own helpers; and what is their resource?" I could not tell: nothing answered me; I then ordered my brain to find a response, and quickly. It worked and worked faster: I felt the pulses throb in my head and temples; but for nearly an hour it worked in chaos; and no result came of its efforts. Feverish with vain labour, I got up and took a turn in the room; undrew the curtain, noted a star or two, shivered with cold, and again crept to bed. A kind fairy, in my absence, had surely dropped the required suggestion on my pillow; for as I lay down, it came quietly and naturally to my mind.--"Those who want situations advertise; you must advertise in the _---shire Herald_." "How? I know nothing about advertising." Replies rose smooth and prompt now:-- "You must enclose the advertisement and the money to pay for it under a cover directed to the editor of the _Herald_; you must put it, the first opportunity you have, into the post at Lowton; answers must be addressed to J.E., at the post-office there; you can go and inquire in about a week after you send your letter, if any are come, and act accordingly." This scheme I went over twice, thrice; it was then digested in my mind; I had it in a clear practical form: I felt satisfied, and fell asleep. With earliest day, I was up: I had my advertisement written, enclosed, and directed before the bell rang to rouse the school; it ran thus:-- "A young lady accustomed to tuition" (had I not been a teacher two years?) "is desirous of meeting with a situation in a private family where the children are under fourteen" (I thought that as I was barely eighteen, it would not do to undertake the guidance of pupils nearer my own age). "She is qualified to teach the usual branches of a good English education, together with French, Drawing, and Music" (in those days, reader, this now narrow catalogue of accomplishments, would have been held tolerably comprehensive). "Address, J.E., Post-office, Lowton, --- shire." This document remained locked in my drawer all day: after tea, I asked leave of the new superintendent to go to Lowton, in order to perform some small commissions for myself and one or two of my fellow-teachers; permission was readily granted; I went. It was a walk of two miles, and the evening was wet, but the days were still long; I visited a shop or two, slipped the letter into the post-office, and came back through heavy rain, with streaming garments, but with a relieved heart. The succeeding week seemed long: it came to an end at last, however, like all sublunary things, and once more, towards the close of a pleasant autumn day, I found myself afoot on the road to Lowton. A picturesque track it was, by the way; lying along the side of the beck and through the sweetest curves of the dale: but that day I thought more of the letters, that might or might not be awaiting me at the little burgh whither I was bound, than of the charms of lea and water. My ostensible errand on this occasion was to get measured for a pair of shoes; so I discharged that business first, and when it was done, I stepped across the clean and quiet little street from the shoemaker's to the post-office: it was kept by an old dame, who wore horn spectacles on her nose, and black mittens on her hands. "Are there any letters for J.E.?" I asked. She peered at me over her spectacles, and then she opened a drawer and fumbled among its contents for a long time, so long that my hopes began to falter. At last, having held a document before her glasses for nearly five minutes, she presented it across the counter, accompanying the act by another inquisitive and mistrustful glance--it was for J.E. "Is there only one?" I demanded. "There are no more," said she; and I put it in my pocket and turned my face homeward: I could not open it then; rules obliged me to be back by eight, and it was already half-past seven. Various duties awaited me on my arrival. I had to sit with the girls during their hour of study; then it was my turn to read prayers; to see them to bed: afterwards I supped with the other teachers. Even when we finally retired for the night, the inevitable Miss Gryce was still my companion: we had only a short end of candle in our candlestick, and I dreaded lest she should talk till it was all burnt out; fortunately, however, the heavy supper she had eaten produced a soporific effect: she was already snoring before I had finished undressing. There still remained an inch of candle: I now took out my letter; the seal was an initial F.; I broke it; the contents were brief. "If J.E., who advertised in the _---shire Herald_ of last Thursday, possesses the acquirements mentioned, and if she is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered her where there is but one pupil, a little girl, under ten years of age; and where the salary is thirty pounds per annum. J.E. is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars to the direction:-- "Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield, near Millcote, ---shire." I examined the document long: the writing was old-fashioned and rather uncertain, like that of an elderly lady. This circumstance was satisfactory: a private fear had haunted me, that in thus acting for myself, and by my own guidance, I ran the risk of getting into some scrape; and, above all things, I wished the result of my endeavours to be respectable, proper, _en regle_. I now felt that an elderly lady was no bad ingredient in the business I had on hand. Mrs. Fairfax! I saw her in a black gown and widow's cap; frigid, perhaps, but not uncivil: a model of elderly English respectability. Thornfield! that, doubtless, was the name of her house: a neat orderly spot, I was sure; though I failed in my efforts to conceive a correct plan of the premises. Millcote, ---shire; I brushed up my recollections of the map of England, yes, I saw it; both the shire and the town. ---shire was seventy miles nearer London than the remote county where I now resided: that was a recommendation to me. I longed to go where there was life and movement: Millcote was a large manufacturing town on the banks of the A-; a busy place enough, doubtless: so much the better; it would be a complete change at least. Not that my fancy was much captivated by the idea of long chimneys and clouds of smoke--"but," I argued, "Thornfield will, probably, be a good way from the town." Here the socket of the candle dropped, and the wick went out. Next day new steps were to be taken; my plans could no longer be confined to my own breast; I must impart them in order to achieve their success. Having sought and obtained an audience of the superintendent during the noontide recreation, I told her I had a prospect of getting a new situation where the salary would be double what I now received (for at Lowood I only got 15 pounds per annum); and requested she would break the matter for me to Mr. Brocklehurst, or some of the committee, and ascertain whether they would permit me to mention them as references. She obligingly consented to act as mediatrix in the matter. The next day she laid the affair before Mr. Brocklehurst, who said that Mrs. Reed must be written to, as she was my natural guardian. A note was accordingly addressed to that lady, who returned for answer, that "I might do as I pleased: she had long relinquished all interference in my affairs." This note went the round of the committee, and at last, after what appeared to me most tedious delay, formal leave was given me to better my condition if I could; and an assurance added, that as I had always conducted myself well, both as teacher and pupil, at Lowood, a testimonial of character and capacity, signed by the inspectors of that institution, should forthwith be furnished me. This testimonial I accordingly received in about a month, forwarded a copy of it to Mrs. Fairfax, and got that lady's reply, stating that she was satisfied, and fixing that day fortnight as the period for my assuming the post of governess in her house. I now busied myself in preparations: the fortnight passed rapidly. I had not a very large wardrobe, though it was adequate to my wants; and the last day sufficed to pack my trunk,--the same I had brought with me eight years ago from Gateshead. The box was corded, the card nailed on. In half-an-hour the carrier was to call for it to take it to Lowton, whither I myself was to repair at an early hour the next morning to meet the coach. I had brushed my black stuff travelling-dress, prepared my bonnet, gloves, and muff; sought in all my drawers to see that no article was left behind; and now having nothing more to do, I sat down and tried to rest. I could not; though I had been on foot all day, I could not now repose an instant; I was too much excited. A phase of my life was closing to-night, a new one opening to-morrow: impossible to slumber in the interval; I must watch feverishly while the change was being accomplished. "Miss," said a servant who met me in the lobby, where I was wandering like a troubled spirit, "a person below wishes to see you." "The carrier, no doubt," I thought, and ran downstairs without inquiry. I was passing the back-parlour or teachers' sitting-room, the door of which was half open, to go to the kitchen, when some one ran out-- "It's her, I am sure!--I could have told her anywhere!" cried the individual who stopped my progress and took my hand. I looked: I saw a woman attired like a well-dressed servant, matronly, yet still young; very good-looking, with black hair and eyes, and lively complexion. "Well, who is it?" she asked, in a voice and with a smile I half recognised; "you've not quite forgotten me, I think, Miss Jane?" In another second I was embracing and kissing her rapturously: "Bessie! Bessie! Bessie!" that was all I said; whereat she half laughed, half cried, and we both went into the parlour. By the fire stood a little fellow of three years old, in plaid frock and trousers. "That is my little boy," said Bessie directly. "Then you are married, Bessie?" "Yes; nearly five years since to Robert Leaven, the coachman; and I've a little girl besides Bobby there, that I've christened Jane." "And you don't live at Gateshead?" "I live at the lodge: the old porter has left." "Well, and how do they all get on? Tell me everything about them, Bessie: but sit down first; and, Bobby, come and sit on my knee, will you?" but Bobby preferred sidling over to his mother. "You're not grown so very tall, Miss Jane, nor so very stout," continued Mrs. Leaven. "I dare say they've not kept you too well at school: Miss Reed is the head and shoulders taller than you are; and Miss Georgiana would make two of you in breadth." "Georgiana is handsome, I suppose, Bessie?" "Very. She went up to London last winter with her mama, and there everybody admired her, and a young lord fell in love with her: but his relations were against the match; and--what do you think?--he and Miss Georgiana made it up to run away; but they were found out and stopped. It was Miss Reed that found them out: I believe she was envious; and now she and her sister lead a cat and dog life together; they are always quarrelling--" "Well, and what of John Reed?" "Oh, he is not doing so well as his mama could wish. He went to college, and he got--plucked, I think they call it: and then his uncles wanted him to be a barrister, and study the law: but he is such a dissipated young man, they will never make much of him, I think." "What does he look like?" "He is very tall: some people call him a fine-looking young man; but he has such thick lips." "And Mrs. Reed?" "Missis looks stout and well enough in the face, but I think she's not quite easy in her mind: Mr. John's conduct does not please her--he spends a deal of money." "Did she send you here, Bessie?" "No, indeed: but I have long wanted to see you, and when I heard that there had been a letter from you, and that you were going to another part of the country, I thought I'd just set off, and get a look at you before you were quite out of my reach." "I am afraid you are disappointed in me, Bessie." I said this laughing: I perceived that Bessie's glance, though it expressed regard, did in no shape denote admiration. "No, Miss Jane, not exactly: you are genteel enough; you look like a lady, and it is as much as ever I expected of you: you were no beauty as a child." I smiled at Bessie's frank answer: I felt that it was correct, but I confess I was not quite indifferent to its import: at eighteen most people wish to please, and the conviction that they have not an exterior likely to second that desire brings anything but gratification. "I dare say you are clever, though," continued Bessie, by way of solace. "What can you do? Can you play on the piano?" "A little." There was one in the room; Bessie went and opened it, and then asked me to sit down and give her a tune: I played a waltz or two, and she was charmed. "The Miss Reeds could not play as well!" said she exultingly. "I always said you would surpass them in learning: and can you draw?" "That is one of my paintings over the chimney-piece." It was a landscape in water colours, of which I had made a present to the superintendent, in acknowledgment of her obliging mediation with the committee on my behalf, and which she had framed and glazed. "Well, that is beautiful, Miss Jane! It is as fine a picture as any Miss Reed's drawing-master could paint, let alone the young ladies themselves, who could not come near it: and have you learnt French?" "Yes, Bessie, I can both read it and speak it." "And you can work on muslin and canvas?" "I can." "Oh, you are quite a lady, Miss Jane! I knew you would be: you will get on whether your relations notice you or not. There was something I wanted to ask you. Have you ever heard anything from your father's kinsfolk, the Eyres?" "Never in my life." "Well, you know Missis always said they were poor and quite despicable: and they may be poor; but I believe they are as much gentry as the Reeds are; for one day, nearly seven years ago, a Mr. Eyre came to Gateshead and wanted to see you; Missis said you were at school fifty miles off; he seemed so much disappointed, for he could not stay: he was going on a voyage to a foreign country, and the ship was to sail from London in a day or two. He looked quite a gentleman, and I believe he was your father's brother." "What foreign country was he going to, Bessie?" "An island thousands of miles off, where they make wine--the butler did tell me--" "Madeira?" I suggested. "Yes, that is it--that is the very word." "So he went?" "Yes; he did not stay many minutes in the house: Missis was very high with him; she called him afterwards a 'sneaking tradesman.' My Robert believes he was a wine-merchant." "Very likely," I returned; "or perhaps clerk or agent to a wine-merchant." Bessie and I conversed about old times an hour longer, and then she was obliged to leave me: I saw her again for a few minutes the next morning at Lowton, while I was waiting for the coach. We parted finally at the door of the Brocklehurst Arms there: each went her separate way; she set off for the brow of Lowood Fell to meet the conveyance which was to take her back to Gateshead, I mounted the vehicle which was to bear me to new duties and a new life in the unknown environs of Millcote. CHAPTER XI A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play; and when I draw up the curtain this time, reader, you must fancy you see a room in the George Inn at Millcote, with such large figured papering on the walls as inn rooms have; such a carpet, such furniture, such ornaments on the mantelpiece, such prints, including a portrait of George the Third, and another of the Prince of Wales, and a representation of the death of Wolfe. All this is visible to you by the light of an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, and by that of an excellent fire, near which I sit in my cloak and bonnet; my muff and umbrella lie on the table, and I am warming away the numbness and chill contracted by sixteen hours' exposure to the rawness of an October day: I left Lowton at four o'clock a.m., and the Millcote town clock is now just striking eight. Reader, though I look comfortably accommodated, I am not very tranquil in my mind. I thought when the coach stopped here there would be some one to meet me; I looked anxiously round as I descended the wooden steps the "boots" placed for my convenience, expecting to hear my name pronounced, and to see some description of carriage waiting to convey me to Thornfield. Nothing of the sort was visible; and when I asked a waiter if any one had been to inquire after a Miss Eyre, I was answered in the negative: so I had no resource but to request to be shown into a private room: and here I am waiting, while all sorts of doubts and fears are troubling my thoughts. It is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth to feel itself quite alone in the world, cut adrift from every connection, uncertain whether the port to which it is bound can be reached, and prevented by many impediments from returning to that it has quitted. The charm of adventure sweetens that sensation, the glow of pride warms it; but then the throb of fear disturbs it; and fear with me became predominant when half-an-hour elapsed and still I was alone. I bethought myself to ring the bell. "Is there a place in this neighbourhood called Thornfield?" I asked of the waiter who answered the summons. "Thornfield? I don't know, ma'am; I'll inquire at the bar." He vanished, but reappeared instantly-- "Is your name Eyre, Miss?" "Yes." "Person here waiting for you." I jumped up, took my muff and umbrella, and hastened into the inn-passage: a man was standing by the open door, and in the lamp-lit street I dimly saw a one-horse conveyance. "This will be your luggage, I suppose?" said the man rather abruptly when he saw me, pointing to my trunk in the passage. "Yes." He hoisted it on to the vehicle, which was a sort of car, and then I got in; before he shut me up, I asked him how far it was to Thornfield. "A matter of six miles." "How long shall we be before we get there?" "Happen an hour and a half." He fastened the car door, climbed to his own seat outside, and we set off. Our progress was leisurely, and gave me ample time to reflect; I was content to be at length so near the end of my journey; and as I leaned back in the comfortable though not elegant conveyance, I meditated much at my ease. "I suppose," thought I, "judging from the plainness of the servant and carriage, Mrs. Fairfax is not a very dashing person: so much the better; I never lived amongst fine people but once, and I was very miserable with them. I wonder if she lives alone except this little girl; if so, and if she is in any degree amiable, I shall surely be able to get on with her; I will do my best; it is a pity that doing one's best does not always answer. At Lowood, indeed, I took that resolution, kept it, and succeeded in pleasing; but with Mrs. Reed, I remember my best was always spurned with scorn. I pray God Mrs. Fairfax may not turn out a second Mrs. Reed; but if she does, I am not bound to stay with her! let the worst come to the worst, I can advertise again. How far are we on our road now, I wonder?" I let down the window and looked out; Millcote was behind us; judging by the number of its lights, it seemed a place of considerable magnitude, much larger than Lowton. We were now, as far as I could see, on a sort of common; but there were houses scattered all over the district; I felt we were in a different region to Lowood, more populous, less picturesque; more stirring, less romantic. The roads were heavy, the night misty; my conductor let his horse walk all the way, and the hour and a half extended, I verily believe, to two hours; at last he turned in his seat and said-- "You're noan so far fro' Thornfield now." Again I looked out: we were passing a church; I saw its low broad tower against the sky, and its bell was tolling a quarter; I saw a narrow galaxy of lights too, on a hillside, marking a village or hamlet. About ten minutes after, the driver got down and opened a pair of gates: we passed through, and they clashed to behind us. We now slowly ascended a drive, and came upon the long front of a house: candlelight gleamed from one curtained bow-window; all the rest were dark. The car stopped at the front door; it was opened by a maid-servant; I alighted and went in. "Will you walk this way, ma'am?" said the girl; and I followed her across a square hall with high doors all round: she ushered me into a room whose double illumination of fire and candle at first dazzled me, contrasting as it did with the darkness to which my eyes had been for two hours inured; when I could see, however, a cosy and agreeable picture presented itself to my view. A snug small room; a round table by a cheerful fire; an arm-chair high- backed and old-fashioned, wherein sat the neatest imaginable little elderly lady, in widow's cap, black silk gown, and snowy muslin apron; exactly like what I had fancied Mrs. Fairfax, only less stately and milder looking. She was occupied in knitting; a large cat sat demurely at her feet; nothing in short was wanting to complete the beau-ideal of domestic comfort. A more reassuring introduction for a new governess could scarcely be conceived; there was no grandeur to overwhelm, no stateliness to embarrass; and then, as I entered, the old lady got up and promptly and kindly came forward to meet me. "How do you do, my dear? I am afraid you have had a tedious ride; John drives so slowly; you must be cold, come to the fire." "Mrs. Fairfax, I suppose?" said I. "Yes, you are right: do sit down." She conducted me to her own chair, and then began to remove my shawl and untie my bonnet-strings; I begged she would not give herself so much trouble. "Oh, it is no trouble; I dare say your own hands are almost numbed with cold. Leah, make a little hot negus and cut a sandwich or two: here are the keys of the storeroom." And she produced from her pocket a most housewifely bunch of keys, and delivered them to the servant. "Now, then, draw nearer to the fire," she continued. "You've brought your luggage with you, haven't you, my dear?" "Yes, ma'am." "I'll see it carried into your room," she said, and bustled out. "She treats me like a visitor," thought I. "I little expected such a reception; I anticipated only coldness and stiffness: this is not like what I have heard of the treatment of governesses; but I must not exult too soon." She returned; with her own hands cleared her knitting apparatus and a book or two from the table, to make room for the tray which Leah now brought, and then herself handed me the refreshments. I felt rather confused at being the object of more attention than I had ever before received, and, that too, shown by my employer and superior; but as she did not herself seem to consider she was doing anything out of her place, I thought it better to take her civilities quietly. "Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfax to-night?" I asked, when I had partaken of what she offered me. "What did you say, my dear? I am a little deaf," returned the good lady, approaching her ear to my mouth. I repeated the question more distinctly. "Miss Fairfax? Oh, you mean Miss Varens! Varens is the name of your future pupil." "Indeed! Then she is not your daughter?" "No,--I have no family." I should have followed up my first inquiry, by asking in what way Miss Varens was connected with her; but I recollected it was not polite to ask too many questions: besides, I was sure to hear in time. "I am so glad," she continued, as she sat down opposite to me, and took the cat on her knee; "I am so glad you are come; it will be quite pleasant living here now with a companion. To be sure it is pleasant at any time; for Thornfield is a fine old hall, rather neglected of late years perhaps, but still it is a respectable place; yet you know in winter-time one feels dreary quite alone in the best quarters. I say alone--Leah is a nice girl to be sure, and John and his wife are very decent people; but then you see they are only servants, and one can't converse with them on terms of equality: one must keep them at due distance, for fear of losing one's authority. I'm sure last winter (it was a very severe one, if you recollect, and when it did not snow, it rained and blew), not a creature but the butcher and postman came to the house, from November till February; and I really got quite melancholy with sitting night after night alone; I had Leah in to read to me sometimes; but I don't think the poor girl liked the task much: she felt it confining. In spring and summer one got on better: sunshine and long days make such a difference; and then, just at the commencement of this autumn, little Adela Varens came and her nurse: a child makes a house alive all at once; and now you are here I shall be quite gay." My heart really warmed to the worthy lady as I heard her talk; and I drew my chair a little nearer to her, and expressed my sincere wish that she might find my company as agreeable as she anticipated. "But I'll not keep you sitting up late to-night," said she; "it is on the stroke of twelve now, and you have been travelling all day: you must feel tired. If you have got your feet well warmed, I'll show you your bedroom. I've had the room next to mine prepared for you; it is only a small apartment, but I thought you would like it better than one of the large front chambers: to be sure they have finer furniture, but they are so dreary and solitary, I never sleep in them myself." I thanked her for her considerate choice, and as I really felt fatigued with my long journey, expressed my readiness to retire. She took her candle, and I followed her from the room. First she went to see if the hall-door was fastened; having taken the key from the lock, she led the way upstairs. The steps and banisters were of oak; the staircase window was high and latticed; both it and the long gallery into which the bedroom doors opened looked as if they belonged to a church rather than a house. A very chill and vault-like air pervaded the stairs and gallery, suggesting cheerless ideas of space and solitude; and I was glad, when finally ushered into my chamber, to find it of small dimensions, and furnished in ordinary, modern style. When Mrs. Fairfax had bidden me a kind good-night, and I had fastened my door, gazed leisurely round, and in some measure effaced the eerie impression made by that wide hall, that dark and spacious staircase, and that long, cold gallery, by the livelier aspect of my little room, I remembered that, after a day of bodily fatigue and mental anxiety, I was now at last in safe haven. The impulse of gratitude swelled my heart, and I knelt down at the bedside, and offered up thanks where thanks were due; not forgetting, ere I rose, to implore aid on my further path, and the power of meriting the kindness which seemed so frankly offered me before it was earned. My couch had no thorns in it that night; my solitary room no fears. At once weary and content, I slept soon and soundly: when I awoke it was broad day. The chamber looked such a bright little place to me as the sun shone in between the gay blue chintz window curtains, showing papered walls and a carpeted floor, so unlike the bare planks and stained plaster of Lowood, that my spirits rose at the view. Externals have a great effect on the young: I thought that a fairer era of life was beginning for me, one that was to have its flowers and pleasures, as well as its thorns and toils. My faculties, roused by the change of scene, the new field offered to hope, seemed all astir. I cannot precisely define what they expected, but it was something pleasant: not perhaps that day or that month, but at an indefinite future period. I rose; I dressed myself with care: obliged to be plain--for I had no article of attire that was not made with extreme simplicity--I was still by nature solicitous to be neat. It was not my habit to be disregardful of appearance or careless of the impression I made: on the contrary, I ever wished to look as well as I could, and to please as much as my want of beauty would permit. I sometimes regretted that I was not handsomer; I sometimes wished to have rosy cheeks, a straight nose, and small cherry mouth; I desired to be tall, stately, and finely developed in figure; I felt it a misfortune that I was so little, so pale, and had features so irregular and so marked. And why had I these aspirations and these regrets? It would be difficult to say: I could not then distinctly say it to myself; yet I had a reason, and a logical, natural reason too. However, when I had brushed my hair very smooth, and put on my black frock--which, Quakerlike as it was, at least had the merit of fitting to a nicety--and adjusted my clean white tucker, I thought I should do respectably enough to appear before Mrs. Fairfax, and that my new pupil would not at least recoil from me with antipathy. Having opened my chamber window, and seen that I left all things straight and neat on the toilet table, I ventured forth. Traversing the long and matted gallery, I descended the slippery steps of oak; then I gained the hall: I halted there a minute; I looked at some pictures on the walls (one, I remember, represented a grim man in a cuirass, and one a lady with powdered hair and a pearl necklace), at a bronze lamp pendent from the ceiling, at a great clock whose case was of oak curiously carved, and ebon black with time and rubbing. Everything appeared very stately and imposing to me; but then I was so little accustomed to grandeur. The hall-door, which was half of glass, stood open; I stepped over the threshold. It was a fine autumn morning; the early sun shone serenely on embrowned groves and still green fields; advancing on to the lawn, I looked up and surveyed the front of the mansion. It was three storeys high, of proportions not vast, though considerable: a gentleman's manor-house, not a nobleman's seat: battlements round the top gave it a picturesque look. Its grey front stood out well from the background of a rookery, whose cawing tenants were now on the wing: they flew over the lawn and grounds to alight in a great meadow, from which these were separated by a sunk fence, and where an array of mighty old thorn trees, strong, knotty, and broad as oaks, at once explained the etymology of the mansion's designation. Farther off were hills: not so lofty as those round Lowood, nor so craggy, nor so like barriers of separation from the living world; but yet quiet and lonely hills enough, and seeming to embrace Thornfield with a seclusion I had not expected to find existent so near the stirring locality of Millcote. A little hamlet, whose roofs were blent with trees, straggled up the side of one of these hills; the church of the district stood nearer Thornfield: its old tower-top looked over a knoll between the house and gates. I was yet enjoying the calm prospect and pleasant fresh air, yet listening with delight to the cawing of the rooks, yet surveying the wide, hoary front of the hall, and thinking what a great place it was for one lonely little dame like Mrs. Fairfax to inhabit, when that lady appeared at the door. "What! out already?" said she. "I see you are an early riser." I went up to her, and was received with an affable kiss and shake of the hand. "How do you like Thornfield?" she asked. I told her I liked it very much. "Yes," she said, "it is a pretty place; but I fear it will be getting out of order, unless Mr. Rochester should take it into his head to come and reside here permanently; or, at least, visit it rather oftener: great houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor." "Mr. Rochester!" I exclaimed. "Who is he?" "The owner of Thornfield," she responded quietly. "Did you not know he was called Rochester?" Of course I did not--I had never heard of him before; but the old lady seemed to regard his existence as a universally understood fact, with which everybody must be acquainted by instinct. "I thought," I continued, "Thornfield belonged to you." "To me? Bless you, child; what an idea! To me! I am only the housekeeper--the manager. To be sure I am distantly related to the Rochesters by the mother's side, or at least my husband was; he was a clergyman, incumbent of Hay--that little village yonder on the hill--and that church near the gates was his. The present Mr. Rochester's mother was a Fairfax, and second cousin to my husband: but I never presume on the connection--in fact, it is nothing to me; I consider myself quite in the light of an ordinary housekeeper: my employer is always civil, and I expect nothing more." "And the little girl--my pupil!" "She is Mr. Rochester's ward; he commissioned me to find a governess for her. He intended to have her brought up in ---shire, I believe. Here she comes, with her 'bonne,' as she calls her nurse." The enigma then was explained: this affable and kind little widow was no great dame; but a dependant like myself. I did not like her the worse for that; on the contrary, I felt better pleased than ever. The equality between her and me was real; not the mere result of condescension on her part: so much the better--my position was all the freer. As I was meditating on this discovery, a little girl, followed by her attendant, came running up the lawn. I looked at my pupil, who did not at first appear to notice me: she was quite a child, perhaps seven or eight years old, slightly built, with a pale, small-featured face, and a redundancy of hair falling in curls to her waist. "Good morning, Miss Adela," said Mrs. Fairfax. "Come and speak to the lady who is to teach you, and to make you a clever woman some day." She approached. "C'est la ma gouverante!" said she, pointing to me, and addressing her nurse; who answered-- "Mais oui, certainement." "Are they foreigners?" I inquired, amazed at hearing the French language. "The nurse is a foreigner, and Adela was born on the Continent; and, I believe, never left it till within six months ago. When she first came here she could speak no English; now she can make shift to talk it a little: I don't understand her, she mixes it so with French; but you will make out her meaning very well, I dare say." Fortunately I had had the advantage of being taught French by a French lady; and as I had always made a point of conversing with Madame Pierrot as often as I could, and had besides, during the last seven years, learnt a portion of French by heart daily--applying myself to take pains with my accent, and imitating as closely as possible the pronunciation of my teacher, I had acquired a certain degree of readiness and correctness in the language, and was not likely to be much at a loss with Mademoiselle Adela. She came and shook hand with me when she heard that I was her governess; and as I led her in to breakfast, I addressed some phrases to her in her own tongue: she replied briefly at first, but after we were seated at the table, and she had examined me some ten minutes with her large hazel eyes, she suddenly commenced chattering fluently. "Ah!" cried she, in French, "you speak my language as well as Mr. Rochester does: I can talk to you as I can to him, and so can Sophie. She will be glad: nobody here understands her: Madame Fairfax is all English. Sophie is my nurse; she came with me over the sea in a great ship with a chimney that smoked--how it did smoke!--and I was sick, and so was Sophie, and so was Mr. Rochester. Mr. Rochester lay down on a sofa in a pretty room called the salon, and Sophie and I had little beds in another place. I nearly fell out of mine; it was like a shelf. And Mademoiselle--what is your name?" "Eyre--Jane Eyre." "Aire? Bah! I cannot say it. Well, our ship stopped in the morning, before it was quite daylight, at a great city--a huge city, with very dark houses and all smoky; not at all like the pretty clean town I came from; and Mr. Rochester carried me in his arms over a plank to the land, and Sophie came after, and we all got into a coach, which took us to a beautiful large house, larger than this and finer, called an hotel. We stayed there nearly a week: I and Sophie used to walk every day in a great green place full of trees, called the Park; and there were many children there besides me, and a pond with beautiful birds in it, that I fed with crumbs." "Can you understand her when she runs on so fast?" asked Mrs. Fairfax. I understood her very well, for I had been accustomed to the fluent tongue of Madame Pierrot. "I wish," continued the good lady, "you would ask her a question or two about her parents: I wonder if she remembers them?" "Adele," I inquired, "with whom did you live when you were in that pretty clean town you spoke of?" "I lived long ago with mama; but she is gone to the Holy Virgin. Mama used to teach me to dance and sing, and to say verses. A great many gentlemen and ladies came to see mama, and I used to dance before them, or to sit on their knees and sing to them: I liked it. Shall I let you hear me sing now?" She had finished her breakfast, so I permitted her to give a specimen of her accomplishments. Descending from her chair, she came and placed herself on my knee; then, folding her little hands demurely before her, shaking back her curls and lifting her eyes to the ceiling, she commenced singing a song from some opera. It was the strain of a forsaken lady, who, after bewailing the perfidy of her lover, calls pride to her aid; desires her attendant to deck her in her brightest jewels and richest robes, and resolves to meet the false one that night at a ball, and prove to him, by the gaiety of her demeanour, how little his desertion has affected her. The subject seemed strangely chosen for an infant singer; but I suppose the point of the exhibition lay in hearing the notes of love and jealousy warbled with the lisp of childhood; and in very bad taste that point was: at least I thought so. Adele sang the canzonette tunefully enough, and with the _naivete_ of her age. This achieved, she jumped from my knee and said, "Now, Mademoiselle, I will repeat you some poetry." Assuming an attitude, she began, "La Ligue des Rats: fable de La Fontaine." She then declaimed the little piece with an attention to punctuation and emphasis, a flexibility of voice and an appropriateness of gesture, very unusual indeed at her age, and which proved she had been carefully trained. "Was it your mama who taught you that piece?" I asked. "Yes, and she just used to say it in this way: 'Qu' avez vous donc? lui dit un de ces rats; parlez!' She made me lift my hand--so--to remind me to raise my voice at the question. Now shall I dance for you?" "No, that will do: but after your mama went to the Holy Virgin, as you say, with whom did you live then?" "With Madame Frederic and her husband: she took care of me, but she is nothing related to me. I think she is poor, for she had not so fine a house as mama. I was not long there. Mr. Rochester asked me if I would like to go and live with him in England, and I said yes; for I knew Mr. Rochester before I knew Madame Frederic, and he was always kind to me and gave me pretty dresses and toys: but you see he has not kept his word, for he has brought me to England, and now he is gone back again himself, and I never see him." After breakfast, Adele and I withdrew to the library, which room, it appears, Mr. Rochester had directed should be used as the schoolroom. Most of the books were locked up behind glass doors; but there was one bookcase left open containing everything that could be needed in the way of elementary works, and several volumes of light literature, poetry, biography, travels, a few romances, &c. I suppose he had considered that these were all the governess would require for her private perusal; and, indeed, they contented me amply for the present; compared with the scanty pickings I had now and then been able to glean at Lowood, they seemed to offer an abundant harvest of entertainment and information. In this room, too, there was a cabinet piano, quite new and of superior tone; also an easel for painting and a pair of globes. I found my pupil sufficiently docile, though disinclined to apply: she had not been used to regular occupation of any kind. I felt it would be injudicious to confine her too much at first; so, when I had talked to her a great deal, and got her to learn a little, and when the morning had advanced to noon, I allowed her to return to her nurse. I then proposed to occupy myself till dinner-time in drawing some little sketches for her use. As I was going upstairs to fetch my portfolio and pencils, Mrs. Fairfax called to me: "Your morning school-hours are over now, I suppose," said she. She was in a room the folding-doors of which stood open: I went in when she addressed me. It was a large, stately apartment, with purple chairs and curtains, a Turkey carpet, walnut-panelled walls, one vast window rich in slanted glass, and a lofty ceiling, nobly moulded. Mrs. Fairfax was dusting some vases of fine purple spar, which stood on a sideboard. "What a beautiful room!" I exclaimed, as I looked round; for I had never before seen any half so imposing. "Yes; this is the dining-room. I have just opened the window, to let in a little air and sunshine; for everything gets so damp in apartments that are seldom inhabited; the drawing-room yonder feels like a vault." She pointed to a wide arch corresponding to the window, and hung like it with a Tyrian-dyed curtain, now looped up. Mounting to it by two broad steps, and looking through, I thought I caught a glimpse of a fairy place, so bright to my novice-eyes appeared the view beyond. Yet it was merely a very pretty drawing-room, and within it a boudoir, both spread with white carpets, on which seemed laid brilliant garlands of flowers; both ceiled with snowy mouldings of white grapes and vine-leaves, beneath which glowed in rich contrast crimson couches and ottomans; while the ornaments on the pale Parian mantelpiece were of sparkling Bohemian glass, ruby red; and between the windows large mirrors repeated the general blending of snow and fire. "In what order you keep these rooms, Mrs. Fairfax!" said I. "No dust, no canvas coverings: except that the air feels chilly, one would think they were inhabited daily." "Why, Miss Eyre, though Mr. Rochester's visits here are rare, they are always sudden and unexpected; and as I observed that it put him out to find everything swathed up, and to have a bustle of arrangement on his arrival, I thought it best to keep the rooms in readiness." "Is Mr. Rochester an exacting, fastidious sort of man?" "Not particularly so; but he has a gentleman's tastes and habits, and he expects to have things managed in conformity to them." "Do you like him? Is he generally liked?" "Oh, yes; the family have always been respected here. Almost all the land in this neighbourhood, as far as you can see, has belonged to the Rochesters time out of mind." "Well, but, leaving his land out of the question, do you like him? Is he liked for himself?" "I have no cause to do otherwise than like him; and I believe he is considered a just and liberal landlord by his tenants: but he has never lived much amongst them." "But has he no peculiarities? What, in short, is his character?" "Oh! his character is unimpeachable, I suppose. He is rather peculiar, perhaps: he has travelled a great deal, and seen a great deal of the world, I should think. I dare say he is clever, but I never had much conversation with him." "In what way is he peculiar?" "I don't know--it is not easy to describe--nothing striking, but you feel it when he speaks to you; you cannot be always sure whether he is in jest or earnest, whether he is pleased or the contrary; you don't thoroughly understand him, in short--at least, I don't: but it is of no consequence, he is a very good master." This was all the account I got from Mrs. Fairfax of her employer and mine. There are people who seem to have no notion of sketching a character, or observing and describing salient points, either in persons or things: the good lady evidently belonged to this class; my queries puzzled, but did not draw her out. Mr. Rochester was Mr. Rochester in her eyes; a gentleman, a landed proprietor--nothing more: she inquired and searched no further, and evidently wondered at my wish to gain a more definite notion of his identity. When we left the dining-room, she proposed to show me over the rest of the house; and I followed her upstairs and downstairs, admiring as I went; for all was well arranged and handsome. The large front chambers I thought especially grand: and some of the third-storey rooms, though dark and low, were interesting from their air of antiquity. The furniture once appropriated to the lower apartments had from time to time been removed here, as fashions changed: and the imperfect light entering by their narrow casement showed bedsteads of a hundred years old; chests in oak or walnut, looking, with their strange carvings of palm branches and cherubs' heads, like types of the Hebrew ark; rows of venerable chairs, high-backed and narrow; stools still more antiquated, on whose cushioned tops were yet apparent traces of half-effaced embroideries, wrought by fingers that for two generations had been coffin-dust. All these relics gave to the third storey of Thornfield Hall the aspect of a home of the past: a shrine of memory. I liked the hush, the gloom, the quaintness of these retreats in the day; but I by no means coveted a night's repose on one of those wide and heavy beds: shut in, some of them, with doors of oak; shaded, others, with wrought old English hangings crusted with thick work, portraying effigies of strange flowers, and stranger birds, and strangest human beings,--all which would have looked strange, indeed, by the pallid gleam of moonlight. "Do the servants sleep in these rooms?" I asked. "No; they occupy a range of smaller apartments to the back; no one ever sleeps here: one would almost say that, if there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall, this would be its haunt." "So I think: you have no ghost, then?" "None that I ever heard of," returned Mrs. Fairfax, smiling. "Nor any traditions of one? no legends or ghost stories?" "I believe not. And yet it is said the Rochesters have been rather a violent than a quiet race in their time: perhaps, though, that is the reason they rest tranquilly in their graves now." "Yes--'after life's fitful fever they sleep well,'" I muttered. "Where are you going now, Mrs. Fairfax?" for she was moving away. "On to the leads; will you come and see the view from thence?" I followed still, up a very narrow staircase to the attics, and thence by a ladder and through a trap-door to the roof of the hall. I was now on a level with the crow colony, and could see into their nests. Leaning over the battlements and looking far down, I surveyed the grounds laid out like a map: the bright and velvet lawn closely girdling the grey base of the mansion; the field, wide as a park, dotted with its ancient timber; the wood, dun and sere, divided by a path visibly overgrown, greener with moss than the trees were with foliage; the church at the gates, the road, the tranquil hills, all reposing in the autumn day's sun; the horizon bounded by a propitious sky, azure, marbled with pearly white. No feature in the scene was extraordinary, but all was pleasing. When I turned from it and repassed the trap-door, I could scarcely see my way down the ladder; the attic seemed black as a vault compared with that arch of blue air to which I had been looking up, and to that sunlit scene of grove, pasture, and green hill, of which the hall was the centre, and over which I had been gazing with delight. Mrs. Fairfax stayed behind a moment to fasten the trap-door; I, by drift of groping, found the outlet from the attic, and proceeded to descend the narrow garret staircase. I lingered in the long passage to which this led, separating the front and back rooms of the third storey: narrow, low, and dim, with only one little window at the far end, and looking, with its two rows of small black doors all shut, like a corridor in some Bluebeard's castle. While I paced softly on, the last sound I expected to hear in so still a region, a laugh, struck my ear. It was a curious laugh; distinct, formal, mirthless. I stopped: the sound ceased, only for an instant; it began again, louder: for at first, though distinct, it was very low. It passed off in a clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every lonely chamber; though it originated but in one, and I could have pointed out the door whence the accents issued. "Mrs. Fairfax!" I called out: for I now heard her descending the great stairs. "Did you hear that loud laugh? Who is it?" "Some of the servants, very likely," she answered: "perhaps Grace Poole." "Did you hear it?" I again inquired. "Yes, plainly: I often hear her: she sews in one of these rooms. Sometimes Leah is with her; they are frequently noisy together." The laugh was repeated in its low, syllabic tone, and terminated in an odd murmur. "Grace!" exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax. I really did not expect any Grace to answer; for the laugh was as tragic, as preternatural a laugh as any I ever heard; and, but that it was high noon, and that no circumstance of ghostliness accompanied the curious cachinnation; but that neither scene nor season favoured fear, I should have been superstitiously afraid. However, the event showed me I was a fool for entertaining a sense even of surprise. The door nearest me opened, and a servant came out,--a woman of between thirty and forty; a set, square-made figure, red-haired, and with a hard, plain face: any apparition less romantic or less ghostly could scarcely be conceived. "Too much noise, Grace," said Mrs. Fairfax. "Remember directions!" Grace curtseyed silently and went in. "She is a person we have to sew and assist Leah in her housemaid's work," continued the widow; "not altogether unobjectionable in some points, but she does well enough. By-the-bye, how have you got on with your new pupil this morning?" The conversation, thus turned on Adele, continued till we reached the light and cheerful region below. Adele came running to meet us in the hall, exclaiming-- "Mesdames, vous etes servies!" adding, "J'ai bien faim, moi!" We found dinner ready, and waiting for us in Mrs. Fairfax's room. CHAPTER XII The promise of a smooth career, which my first calm introduction to Thornfield Hall seemed to pledge, was not belied on a longer acquaintance with the place and its inmates. Mrs. Fairfax turned out to be what she appeared, a placid-tempered, kind-natured woman, of competent education and average intelligence. My pupil was a lively child, who had been spoilt and indulged, and therefore was sometimes wayward; but as she was committed entirely to my care, and no injudicious interference from any quarter ever thwarted my plans for her improvement, she soon forgot her little freaks, and became obedient and teachable. She had no great talents, no marked traits of character, no peculiar development of feeling or taste which raised her one inch above the ordinary level of childhood; but neither had she any deficiency or vice which sunk her below it. She made reasonable progress, entertained for me a vivacious, though perhaps not very profound, affection; and by her simplicity, gay prattle, and efforts to please, inspired me, in return, with a degree of attachment sufficient to make us both content in each other's society. This, _par parenthese_, will be thought cool language by persons who entertain solemn doctrines about the angelic nature of children, and the duty of those charged with their education to conceive for them an idolatrous devotion: but I am not writing to flatter parental egotism, to echo cant, or prop up humbug; I am merely telling the truth. I felt a conscientious solicitude for Adele's welfare and progress, and a quiet liking for her little self: just as I cherished towards Mrs. Fairfax a thankfulness for her kindness, and a pleasure in her society proportionate to the tranquil regard she had for me, and the moderation of her mind and character. Anybody may blame me who likes, when I add further, that, now and then, when I took a walk by myself in the grounds; when I went down to the gates and looked through them along the road; or when, while Adele played with her nurse, and Mrs. Fairfax made jellies in the storeroom, I climbed the three staircases, raised the trap-door of the attic, and having reached the leads, looked out afar over sequestered field and hill, and along dim sky-line--that then I longed for a power of vision which might overpass that limit; which might reach the busy world, towns, regions full of life I had heard of but never seen--that then I desired more of practical experience than I possessed; more of intercourse with my kind, of acquaintance with variety of character, than was here within my reach. I valued what was good in Mrs. Fairfax, and what was good in Adele; but I believed in the existence of other and more vivid kinds of goodness, and what I believed in I wished to behold. Who blames me? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called discontented. I could not help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the corridor of the third storey, backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and solitude of the spot, and allow my mind's eye to dwell on whatever bright visions rose before it--and, certainly, they were many and glowing; to let my heart be heaved by the exultant movement, which, while it swelled it in trouble, expanded it with life; and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was never ended--a tale my imagination created, and narrated continuously; quickened with all of incident, life, fire, feeling, that I desired and had not in my actual existence. It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquillity: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine, and millions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex. When thus alone, I not unfrequently heard Grace Poole's laugh: the same peal, the same low, slow ha! ha! which, when first heard, had thrilled me: I heard, too, her eccentric murmurs; stranger than her laugh. There were days when she was quite silent; but there were others when I could not account for the sounds she made. Sometimes I saw her: she would come out of her room with a basin, or a plate, or a tray in her hand, go down to the kitchen and shortly return, generally (oh, romantic reader, forgive me for telling the plain truth!) bearing a pot of porter. Her appearance always acted as a damper to the curiosity raised by her oral oddities: hard-featured and staid, she had no point to which interest could attach. I made some attempts to draw her into conversation, but she seemed a person of few words: a monosyllabic reply usually cut short every effort of that sort. The other members of the household, viz., John and his wife, Leah the housemaid, and Sophie the French nurse, were decent people; but in no respect remarkable; with Sophie I used to talk French, and sometimes I asked her questions about her native country; but she was not of a descriptive or narrative turn, and generally gave such vapid and confused answers as were calculated rather to check than encourage inquiry. October, November, December passed away. One afternoon in January, Mrs. Fairfax had begged a holiday for Adele, because she had a cold; and, as Adele seconded the request with an ardour that reminded me how precious occasional holidays had been to me in my own childhood, I accorded it, deeming that I did well in showing pliability on the point. It was a fine, calm day, though very cold; I was tired of sitting still in the library through a whole long morning: Mrs. Fairfax had just written a letter which was waiting to be posted, so I put on my bonnet and cloak and volunteered to carry it to Hay; the distance, two miles, would be a pleasant winter afternoon walk. Having seen Adele comfortably seated in her little chair by Mrs. Fairfax's parlour fireside, and given her her best wax doll (which I usually kept enveloped in silver paper in a drawer) to play with, and a story-book for change of amusement; and having replied to her "Revenez bientot, ma bonne amie, ma chere Mdlle. Jeannette," with a kiss I set out. The ground was hard, the air was still, my road was lonely; I walked fast till I got warm, and then I walked slowly to enjoy and analyse the species of pleasure brooding for me in the hour and situation. It was three o'clock; the church bell tolled as I passed under the belfry: the charm of the hour lay in its approaching dimness, in the low-gliding and pale-beaming sun. I was a mile from Thornfield, in a lane noted for wild roses in summer, for nuts and blackberries in autumn, and even now possessing a few coral treasures in hips and haws, but whose best winter delight lay in its utter solitude and leafless repose. If a breath of air stirred, it made no sound here; for there was not a holly, not an evergreen to rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were as still as the white, worn stones which causewayed the middle of the path. Far and wide, on each side, there were only fields, where no cattle now browsed; and the little brown birds, which stirred occasionally in the hedge, looked like single russet leaves that had forgotten to drop. This lane inclined up-hill all the way to Hay; having reached the middle, I sat down on a stile which led thence into a field. Gathering my mantle about me, and sheltering my hands in my muff, I did not feel the cold, though it froze keenly; as was attested by a sheet of ice covering the causeway, where a little brooklet, now congealed, had overflowed after a rapid thaw some days since. From my seat I could look down on Thornfield: the grey and battlemented hall was the principal object in the vale below me; its woods and dark rookery rose against the west. I lingered till the sun went down amongst the trees, and sank crimson and clear behind them. I then turned eastward. On the hill-top above me sat the rising moon; pale yet as a cloud, but brightening momentarily, she looked over Hay, which, half lost in trees, sent up a blue smoke from its few chimneys: it was yet a mile distant, but in the absolute hush I could hear plainly its thin murmurs of life. My ear, too, felt the flow of currents; in what dales and depths I could not tell: but there were many hills beyond Hay, and doubtless many becks threading their passes. That evening calm betrayed alike the tinkle of the nearest streams, the sough of the most remote. A rude noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisperings, at once so far away and so clear: a positive tramp, tramp, a metallic clatter, which effaced the soft wave-wanderings; as, in a picture, the solid mass of a crag, or the rough boles of a great oak, drawn in dark and strong on the foreground, efface the aerial distance of azure hill, sunny horizon, and blended clouds where tint melts into tint. The din was on the causeway: a horse was coming; the windings of the lane yet hid it, but it approached. I was just leaving the stile; yet, as the path was narrow, I sat still to let it go by. In those days I was young, and all sorts of fancies bright and dark tenanted my mind: the memories of nursery stories were there amongst other rubbish; and when they recurred, maturing youth added to them a vigour and vividness beyond what childhood could give. As this horse approached, and as I watched for it to appear through the dusk, I remembered certain of Bessie's tales, wherein figured a North-of-England spirit called a "Gytrash," which, in the form of horse, mule, or large dog, haunted solitary ways, and sometimes came upon belated travellers, as this horse was now coming upon me. It was very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to the tramp, tramp, I heard a rush under the hedge, and close down by the hazel stems glided a great dog, whose black and white colour made him a distinct object against the trees. It was exactly one form of Bessie's Gytrash--a lion-like creature with long hair and a huge head: it passed me, however, quietly enough; not staying to look up, with strange pretercanine eyes, in my face, as I half expected it would. The horse followed,--a tall steed, and on its back a rider. The man, the human being, broke the spell at once. Nothing ever rode the Gytrash: it was always alone; and goblins, to my notions, though they might tenant the dumb carcasses of beasts, could scarce covet shelter in the commonplace human form. No Gytrash was this,--only a traveller taking the short cut to Millcote. He passed, and I went on; a few steps, and I turned: a sliding sound and an exclamation of "What the deuce is to do now?" and a clattering tumble, arrested my attention. Man and horse were down; they had slipped on the sheet of ice which glazed the causeway. The dog came bounding back, and seeing his master in a predicament, and hearing the horse groan, barked till the evening hills echoed the sound, which was deep in proportion to his magnitude. He snuffed round the prostrate group, and then he ran up to me; it was all he could do,--there was no other help at hand to summon. I obeyed him, and walked down to the traveller, by this time struggling himself free of his steed. His efforts were so vigorous, I thought he could not be much hurt; but I asked him the question-- "Are you injured, sir?" I think he was swearing, but am not certain; however, he was pronouncing some formula which prevented him from replying to me directly. "Can I do anything?" I asked again. "You must just stand on one side," he answered as he rose, first to his knees, and then to his feet. I did; whereupon began a heaving, stamping, clattering process, accompanied by a barking and baying which removed me effectually some yards' distance; but I would not be driven quite away till I saw the event. This was finally fortunate; the horse was re-established, and the dog was silenced with a "Down, Pilot!" The traveller now, stooping, felt his foot and leg, as if trying whether they were sound; apparently something ailed them, for he halted to the stile whence I had just risen, and sat down. I was in the mood for being useful, or at least officious, I think, for I now drew near him again. "If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch some one either from Thornfield Hall or from Hay." "Thank you: I shall do: I have no broken bones,--only a sprain;" and again he stood up and tried his foot, but the result extorted an involuntary "Ugh!" Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing bright: I could see him plainly. His figure was enveloped in a riding cloak, fur collared and steel clasped; its details were not apparent, but I traced the general points of middle height and considerable breadth of chest. He had a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow; his eyes and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted just now; he was past youth, but had not reached middle-age; perhaps he might be thirty-five. I felt no fear of him, and but little shyness. Had he been a handsome, heroic- looking young gentleman, I should not have dared to stand thus questioning him against his will, and offering my services unasked. I had hardly ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life spoken to one. I had a theoretical reverence and homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry, fascination; but had I met those qualities incarnate in masculine shape, I should have known instinctively that they neither had nor could have sympathy with anything in me, and should have shunned them as one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is bright but antipathetic. If even this stranger had smiled and been good-humoured to me when I addressed him; if he had put off my offer of assistance gaily and with thanks, I should have gone on my way and not felt any vocation to renew inquiries: but the frown, the roughness of the traveller, set me at my ease: I retained my station when he waved to me to go, and announced-- "I cannot think of leaving you, sir, at so late an hour, in this solitary lane, till I see you are fit to mount your horse." He looked at me when I said this; he had hardly turned his eyes in my direction before. "I should think you ought to be at home yourself," said he, "if you have a home in this neighbourhood: where do you come from?" "From just below; and I am not at all afraid of being out late when it is moonlight: I will run over to Hay for you with pleasure, if you wish it: indeed, I am going there to post a letter." "You live just below--do you mean at that house with the battlements?" pointing to Thornfield Hall, on which the moon cast a hoary gleam, bringing it out distinct and pale from the woods that, by contrast with the western sky, now seemed one mass of shadow. "Yes, sir." "Whose house is it?" "Mr. Rochester's." "Do you know Mr. Rochester?" "No, I have never seen him." "He is not resident, then?" "No." "Can you tell me where he is?" "I cannot." "You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are--" He stopped, ran his eye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple: a black merino cloak, a black beaver bonnet; neither of them half fine enough for a lady's-maid. He seemed puzzled to decide what I was; I helped him. "I am the governess." "Ah, the governess!" he repeated; "deuce take me, if I had not forgotten! The governess!" and again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In two minutes he rose from the stile: his face expressed pain when he tried to move. "I cannot commission you to fetch help," he said; "but you may help me a little yourself, if you will be so kind." "Yes, sir." "You have not an umbrella that I can use as a stick?" "No." "Try to get hold of my horse's bridle and lead him to me: you are not afraid?" I should have been afraid to touch a horse when alone, but when told to do it, I was disposed to obey. I put down my muff on the stile, and went up to the tall steed; I endeavoured to catch the bridle, but it was a spirited thing, and would not let me come near its head; I made effort on effort, though in vain: meantime, I was mortally afraid of its trampling fore-feet. The traveller waited and watched for some time, and at last he laughed. {I was mortally afraid of its trampling forefeet: p107.jpg} "I see," he said, "the mountain will never be brought to Mahomet, so all you can do is to aid Mahomet to go to the mountain; I must beg of you to come here." I came. "Excuse me," he continued: "necessity compels me to make you useful." He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning on me with some stress, limped to his horse. Having once caught the bridle, he mastered it directly and sprang to his saddle; grimacing grimly as he made the effort, for it wrenched his sprain. "Now," said he, releasing his under lip from a hard bite, "just hand me my whip; it lies there under the hedge." I sought it and found it. "Thank you; now make haste with the letter to Hay, and return as fast as you can." A touch of a spurred heel made his horse first start and rear, and then bound away; the dog rushed in his traces; all three vanished, "Like heath that, in the wilderness, The wild wind whirls away." I took up my muff and walked on. The incident had occurred and was gone for me: it _was_ an incident of no moment, no romance, no interest in a sense; yet it marked with change one single hour of a monotonous life. My help had been needed and claimed; I had given it: I was pleased to have done something; trivial, transitory though the deed was, it was yet an active thing, and I was weary of an existence all passive. The new face, too, was like a new picture introduced to the gallery of memory; and it was dissimilar to all the others hanging there: firstly, because it was masculine; and, secondly, because it was dark, strong, and stern. I had it still before me when I entered Hay, and slipped the letter into the post-office; I saw it as I walked fast down-hill all the way home. When I came to the stile, I stopped a minute, looked round and listened, with an idea that a horse's hoofs might ring on the causeway again, and that a rider in a cloak, and a Gytrash-like Newfoundland dog, might be again apparent: I saw only the hedge and a pollard willow before me, rising up still and straight to meet the moonbeams; I heard only the faintest waft of wind roaming fitful among the trees round Thornfield, a mile distant; and when I glanced down in the direction of the murmur, my eye, traversing the hall-front, caught a light kindling in a window: it reminded me that I was late, and I hurried on. I did not like re-entering Thornfield. To pass its threshold was to return to stagnation; to cross the silent hall, to ascend the darksome staircase, to seek my own lonely little room, and then to meet tranquil Mrs. Fairfax, and spend the long winter evening with her, and her only, was to quell wholly the faint excitement wakened by my walk,--to slip again over my faculties the viewless fetters of an uniform and too still existence; of an existence whose very privileges of security and ease I was becoming incapable of appreciating. What good it would have done me at that time to have been tossed in the storms of an uncertain struggling life, and to have been taught by rough and bitter experience to long for the calm amidst which I now repined! Yes, just as much good as it would do a man tired of sitting still in a "too easy chair" to take a long walk: and just as natural was the wish to stir, under my circumstances, as it would be under his. I lingered at the gates; I lingered on the lawn; I paced backwards and forwards on the pavement; the shutters of the glass door were closed; I could not see into the interior; and both my eyes and spirit seemed drawn from the gloomy house--from the grey-hollow filled with rayless cells, as it appeared to me--to that sky expanded before me,--a blue sea absolved from taint of cloud; the moon ascending it in solemn march; her orb seeming to look up as she left the hill-tops, from behind which she had come, far and farther below her, and aspired to the zenith, midnight dark in its fathomless depth and measureless distance; and for those trembling stars that followed her course; they made my heart tremble, my veins glow when I viewed them. Little things recall us to earth; the clock struck in the hall; that sufficed; I turned from moon and stars, opened a side- door, and went in. The hall was not dark, nor yet was it lit, only by the high-hung bronze lamp; a warm glow suffused both it and the lower steps of the oak staircase. This ruddy shine issued from the great dining-room, whose two- leaved door stood open, and showed a genial fire in the grate, glancing on marble hearth and brass fire-irons, and revealing purple draperies and polished furniture, in the most pleasant radiance. It revealed, too, a group near the mantelpiece: I had scarcely caught it, and scarcely become aware of a cheerful mingling of voices, amongst which I seemed to distinguish the tones of Adele, when the door closed. I hastened to Mrs. Fairfax's room; there was a fire there too, but no candle, and no Mrs. Fairfax. Instead, all alone, sitting upright on the rug, and gazing with gravity at the blaze, I beheld a great black and white long-haired dog, just like the Gytrash of the lane. It was so like it that I went forward and said--"Pilot" and the thing got up and came to me and snuffed me. I caressed him, and he wagged his great tail; but he looked an eerie creature to be alone with, and I could not tell whence he had come. I rang the bell, for I wanted a candle; and I wanted, too, to get an account of this visitant. Leah entered. "What dog is this?" "He came with master." "With whom?" "With master--Mr. Rochester--he is just arrived." "Indeed! and is Mrs. Fairfax with him?" "Yes, and Miss Adele; they are in the dining-room, and John is gone for a surgeon; for master has had an accident; his horse fell and his ankle is sprained." "Did the horse fall in Hay Lane?" "Yes, coming down-hill; it slipped on some ice." "Ah! Bring me a candle will you Leah?" Leah brought it; she entered, followed by Mrs. Fairfax, who repeated the news; adding that Mr. Carter the surgeon was come, and was now with Mr. Rochester: then she hurried out to give orders about tea, and I went upstairs to take off my things. CHAPTER XIII Mr. Rochester, it seems, by the surgeon's orders, went to bed early that night; nor did he rise soon next morning. When he did come down, it was to attend to business: his agent and some of his tenants were arrived, and waiting to speak with him. Adele and I had now to vacate the library: it would be in daily requisition as a reception-room for callers. A fire was lit in an apartment upstairs, and there I carried our books, and arranged it for the future schoolroom. I discerned in the course of the morning that Thornfield Hall was a changed place: no longer silent as a church, it echoed every hour or two to a knock at the door, or a clang of the bell; steps, too, often traversed the hall, and new voices spoke in different keys below; a rill from the outer world was flowing through it; it had a master: for my part, I liked it better. Adele was not easy to teach that day; she could not apply: she kept running to the door and looking over the banisters to see if she could get a glimpse of Mr. Rochester; then she coined pretexts to go downstairs, in order, as I shrewdly suspected, to visit the library, where I knew she was not wanted; then, when I got a little angry, and made her sit still, she continued to talk incessantly of her "ami, Monsieur Edouard Fairfax _de_ Rochester," as she dubbed him (I had not before heard his prenomens), and to conjecture what presents he had brought her: for it appears he had intimated the night before, that when his luggage came from Millcote, there would be found amongst it a little box in whose contents she had an interest. "Et cela doit signifier," said she, "qu'il y aura la dedans un cadeau pour moi, et peut-etre pour vous aussi, mademoiselle. Monsieur a parle de vous: il m'a demande le nom de ma gouvernante, et si elle n'etait pas une petite personne, assez mince et un peu pale. J'ai dit qu'oui: car c'est vrai, n'est-ce pas, mademoiselle?" I and my pupil dined as usual in Mrs. Fairfax's parlour; the afternoon was wild and snowy, and we passed it in the schoolroom. At dark I allowed Adele to put away books and work, and to run downstairs; for, from the comparative silence below, and from the cessation of appeals to the door-bell, I conjectured that Mr. Rochester was now at liberty. Left alone, I walked to the window; but nothing was to be seen thence: twilight and snowflakes together thickened the air, and hid the very shrubs on the lawn. I let down the curtain and went back to the fireside. In the clear embers I was tracing a view, not unlike a picture I remembered to have seen of the castle of Heidelberg, on the Rhine, when Mrs. Fairfax came in, breaking up by her entrance the fiery mosaic I had been piercing together, and scattering too some heavy unwelcome thoughts that were beginning to throng on my solitude. "Mr. Rochester would be glad if you and your pupil would take tea with him in the drawing-room this evening," said she: "he has been so much engaged all day that he could not ask to see you before." "When is his tea-time?" I inquired. "Oh, at six o'clock: he keeps early hours in the country. You had better change your frock now; I will go with you and fasten it. Here is a candle." "Is it necessary to change my frock?" "Yes, you had better: I always dress for the evening when Mr. Rochester is here." This additional ceremony seemed somewhat stately; however, I repaired to my room, and, with Mrs. Fairfax's aid, replaced my black stuff dress by one of black silk; the best and the only additional one I had, except one of light grey, which, in my Lowood notions of the toilette, I thought too fine to be worn, except on first-rate occasions. "You want a brooch," said Mrs. Fairfax. I had a single little pearl ornament which Miss Temple gave me as a parting keepsake: I put it on, and then we went downstairs. Unused as I was to strangers, it was rather a trial to appear thus formally summoned in Mr. Rochester's presence. I let Mrs. Fairfax precede me into the dining-room, and kept in her shade as we crossed that apartment; and, passing the arch, whose curtain was now dropped, entered the elegant recess beyond. Two wax candles stood lighted on the table, and two on the mantelpiece; basking in the light and heat of a superb fire, lay Pilot--Adele knelt near him. Half reclined on a couch appeared Mr. Rochester, his foot supported by the cushion; he was looking at Adele and the dog: the fire shone full on his face. I knew my traveller with his broad and jetty eyebrows; his square forehead, made squarer by the horizontal sweep of his black hair. I recognised his decisive nose, more remarkable for character than beauty; his full nostrils, denoting, I thought, choler; his grim mouth, chin, and jaw--yes, all three were very grim, and no mistake. His shape, now divested of cloak, I perceived harmonised in squareness with his physiognomy: I suppose it was a good figure in the athletic sense of the term--broad chested and thin flanked, though neither tall nor graceful. Mr. Rochester must have been aware of the entrance of Mrs. Fairfax and myself; but it appeared he was not in the mood to notice us, for he never lifted his head as we approached. "Here is Miss Eyre, sir," said Mrs. Fairfax, in her quiet way. He bowed, still not taking his eyes from the group of the dog and child. "Let Miss Eyre be seated," said he: and there was something in the forced stiff bow, in the impatient yet formal tone, which seemed further to express, "What the deuce is it to me whether Miss Eyre be there or not? At this moment I am not disposed to accost her." I sat down quite disembarrassed. A reception of finished politeness would probably have confused me: I could not have returned or repaid it by answering grace and elegance on my part; but harsh caprice laid me under no obligation; on the contrary, a decent quiescence, under the freak of manner, gave me the advantage. Besides, the eccentricity of the proceeding was piquant: I felt interested to see how he would go on. He went on as a statue would, that is, he neither spoke nor moved. Mrs. Fairfax seemed to think it necessary that some one should be amiable, and she began to talk. Kindly, as usual--and, as usual, rather trite--she condoled with him on the pressure of business he had had all day; on the annoyance it must have been to him with that painful sprain: then she commended his patience and perseverance in going through with it. "Madam, I should like some tea," was the sole rejoinder she got. She hastened to ring the bell; and when the tray came, she proceeded to arrange the cups, spoons, &c., with assiduous celerity. I and Adele went to the table; but the master did not leave his couch. "Will you hand Mr. Rochester's cup?" said Mrs. Fairfax to me; "Adele might perhaps spill it." I did as requested. As he took the cup from my hand, Adele, thinking the moment propitious for making a request in my favour, cried out-- "N'est-ce pas, monsieur, qu'il y a un cadeau pour Mademoiselle Eyre dans votre petit coffre?" "Who talks of cadeaux?" said he gruffly. "Did you expect a present, Miss Eyre? Are you fond of presents?" and he searched my face with eyes that I saw were dark, irate, and piercing. "I hardly know, sir; I have little experience of them: they are generally thought pleasant things." "Generally thought? But what do _you_ think?" "I should be obliged to take time, sir, before I could give you an answer worthy of your acceptance: a present has many faces to it, has it not? and one should consider all, before pronouncing an opinion as to its nature." "Miss Eyre, you are not so unsophisticated as Adele: she demands a 'cadeau,' clamorously, the moment she sees me: you beat about the bush." "Because I have less confidence in my deserts than Adele has: she can prefer the claim of old acquaintance, and the right too of custom; for she says you have always been in the habit of giving her playthings; but if I had to make out a case I should be puzzled, since I am a stranger, and have done nothing to entitle me to an acknowledgment." "Oh, don't fall back on over-modesty! I have examined Adele, and find you have taken great pains with her: she is not bright, she has no talents; yet in a short time she has made much improvement." "Sir, you have now given me my 'cadeau;' I am obliged to you: it is the meed teachers most covet--praise of their pupils' progress." "Humph!" said Mr. Rochester, and he took his tea in silence. "Come to the fire," said the master, when the tray was taken away, and Mrs. Fairfax had settled into a corner with her knitting; while Adele was leading me by the hand round the room, showing me the beautiful books and ornaments on the consoles and chiffonnieres. We obeyed, as in duty bound; Adele wanted to take a seat on my knee, but she was ordered to amuse herself with Pilot. "You have been resident in my house three months?" "Yes, sir." "And you came from--?" "From Lowood school, in ---shire." "Ah! a charitable concern. How long were you there?" "Eight years." "Eight years! you must be tenacious of life. I thought half the time in such a place would have done up any constitution! No wonder you have rather the look of another world. I marvelled where you had got that sort of face. When you came on me in Hay Lane last night, I thought unaccountably of fairy tales, and had half a mind to demand whether you had bewitched my horse: I am not sure yet. Who are your parents?" "I have none." "Nor ever had, I suppose: do you remember them?" "No." "I thought not. And so you were waiting for your people when you sat on that stile?" "For whom, sir?" "For the men in green: it was a proper moonlight evening for them. Did I break through one of your rings, that you spread that damned ice on the causeway?" I shook my head. "The men in green all forsook England a hundred years ago," said I, speaking as seriously as he had done. "And not even in Hay Lane, or the fields about it, could you find a trace of them. I don't think either summer or harvest, or winter moon, will ever shine on their revels more." Mrs. Fairfax had dropped her knitting, and, with raised eyebrows, seemed wondering what sort of talk this was. "Well," resumed Mr. Rochester, "if you disown parents, you must have some sort of kinsfolk: uncles and aunts?" "No; none that I ever saw." "And your home?" "I have none." "Where do your brothers and sisters live?" "I have no brothers or sisters." "Who recommended you to come here?" "I advertised, and Mrs. Fairfax answered my advertisement." "Yes," said the good lady, who now knew what ground we were upon, "and I am daily thankful for the choice Providence led me to make. Miss Eyre has been an invaluable companion to me, and a kind and careful teacher to Adele." "Don't trouble yourself to give her a character," returned Mr. Rochester: "eulogiums will not bias me; I shall judge for myself. She began by felling my horse." "Sir?" said Mrs. Fairfax. "I have to thank her for this sprain." The widow looked bewildered. "Miss Eyre, have you ever lived in a town?" "No, sir." "Have you seen much society?" "None but the pupils and teachers of Lowood, and now the inmates of Thornfield." "Have you read much?" "Only such books as came in my way; and they have not been numerous or very learned." "You have lived the life of a nun: no doubt you are well drilled in religious forms;--Brocklehurst, who I understand directs Lowood, is a parson, is he not?" "Yes, sir." "And you girls probably worshipped him, as a convent full of religieuses would worship their director." "Oh, no." "You are very cool! No! What! a novice not worship her priest! That sounds blasphemous." "I disliked Mr. Brocklehurst; and I was not alone in the feeling. He is a harsh man; at once pompous and meddling; he cut off our hair; and for economy's sake bought us bad needles and thread, with which we could hardly sew." "That was very false economy," remarked Mrs. Fairfax, who now again caught the drift of the dialogue. "And was that the head and front of his offending?" demanded Mr. Rochester. "He starved us when he had the sole superintendence of the provision department, before the committee was appointed; and he bored us with long lectures once a week, and with evening readings from books of his own inditing, about sudden deaths and judgments, which made us afraid to go to bed." "What age were you when you went to Lowood?" "About ten." "And you stayed there eight years: you are now, then, eighteen?" I assented. "Arithmetic, you see, is useful; without its aid, I should hardly have been able to guess your age. It is a point difficult to fix where the features and countenance are so much at variance as in your case. And now what did you learn at Lowood? Can you play?" "A little." "Of course: that is the established answer. Go into the library--I mean, if you please.--(Excuse my tone of command; I am used to say, 'Do this,' and it is done: I cannot alter my customary habits for one new inmate.)--Go, then, into the library; take a candle with you; leave the door open; sit down to the piano, and play a tune." I departed, obeying his directions. "Enough!" he called out in a few minutes. "You play _a little_, I see; like any other English school-girl; perhaps rather better than some, but not well." I closed the piano and returned. Mr. Rochester continued--"Adele showed me some sketches this morning, which she said were yours. I don't know whether they were entirely of your doing; probably a master aided you?" "No, indeed!" I interjected. "Ah! that pricks pride. Well, fetch me your portfolio, if you can vouch for its contents being original; but don't pass your word unless you are certain: I can recognise patchwork." "Then I will say nothing, and you shall judge for yourself, sir." I brought the portfolio from the library. "Approach the table," said he; and I wheeled it to his couch. Adele and Mrs. Fairfax drew near to see the pictures. "No crowding," said Mr. Rochester: "take the drawings from my hand as I finish with them; but don't push your faces up to mine." He deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting. Three he laid aside; the others, when he had examined them, he swept from him. "Take them off to the other table, Mrs. Fairfax," said he, "and look at them with Adele;--you" (glancing at me) "resume your seat, and answer my questions. I perceive those pictures were done by one hand: was that hand yours?" "Yes." "And when did you find time to do them? They have taken much time, and some thought." "I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood, when I had no other occupation." "Where did you get your copies?" "Out of my head." "That head I see now on your shoulders?" "Yes, sir." "Has it other furniture of the same kind within?" "I should think it may have: I should hope--better." He spread the pictures before him, and again surveyed them alternately. While he is so occupied, I will tell you, reader, what they are: and first, I must premise that they are nothing wonderful. The subjects had, indeed, risen vividly on my mind. As I saw them with the spiritual eye, before I attempted to embody them, they were striking; but my hand would not second my fancy, and in each case it had wrought out but a pale portrait of the thing I had conceived. These pictures were in water-colours. The first represented clouds low and livid, rolling over a swollen sea: all the distance was in eclipse; so, too, was the foreground; or rather, the nearest billows, for there was no land. One gleam of light lifted into relief a half-submerged mast, on which sat a cormorant, dark and large, with wings flecked with foam; its beak held a gold bracelet set with gems, that I had touched with as brilliant tints as my palette could yield, and as glittering distinctness as my pencil could impart. Sinking below the bird and mast, a drowned corpse glanced through the green water; a fair arm was the only limb clearly visible, whence the bracelet had been washed or torn. The second picture contained for foreground only the dim peak of a hill, with grass and some leaves slanting as if by a breeze. Beyond and above spread an expanse of sky, dark blue as at twilight: rising into the sky was a woman's shape to the bust, portrayed in tints as dusk and soft as I could combine. The dim forehead was crowned with a star; the lineaments below were seen as through the suffusion of vapour; the eyes shone dark and wild; the hair streamed shadowy, like a beamless cloud torn by storm or by electric travail. On the neck lay a pale reflection like moonlight; the same faint lustre touched the train of thin clouds from which rose and bowed this vision of the Evening Star. The third showed the pinnacle of an iceberg piercing a polar winter sky: a muster of northern lights reared their dim lances, close serried, along the horizon. Throwing these into distance, rose, in the foreground, a head,--a colossal head, inclined towards the iceberg, and resting against it. Two thin hands, joined under the forehead, and supporting it, drew up before the lower features a sable veil, a brow quite bloodless, white as bone, and an eye hollow and fixed, blank of meaning but for the glassiness of despair, alone were visible. Above the temples, amidst wreathed turban folds of black drapery, vague in its character and consistency as cloud, gleamed a ring of white flame, gemmed with sparkles of a more lurid tinge. This pale crescent was "the likeness of a kingly crown;" what it diademed was "the shape which shape had none." "Were you happy when you painted these pictures?" asked Mr. Rochester presently. "I was absorbed, sir: yes, and I was happy. To paint them, in short, was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known." "That is not saying much. Your pleasures, by your own account, have been few; but I daresay you did exist in a kind of artist's dreamland while you blent and arranged these strange tints. Did you sit at them long each day?" "I had nothing else to do, because it was the vacation, and I sat at them from morning till noon, and from noon till night: the length of the midsummer days favoured my inclination to apply." "And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours?" "Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and my handiwork: in each case I had imagined something which I was quite powerless to realise." "Not quite: you have secured the shadow of your thought; but no more, probably. You had not enough of the artist's skill and science to give it full being: yet the drawings are, for a school-girl, peculiar. As to the thoughts, they are elfish. These eyes in the Evening Star you must have seen in a dream. How could you make them look so clear, and yet not at all brilliant? for the planet above quells their rays. And what meaning is that in their solemn depth? And who taught you to paint wind? There is a high gale in that sky, and on this hill-top. Where did you see Latmos? For that is Latmos. There! put the drawings away!" I had scarce tied the strings of the portfolio, when, looking at his watch, he said abruptly-- "It is nine o'clock: what are you about, Miss Eyre, to let Adele sit up so long? Take her to bed." Adele went to kiss him before quitting the room: he endured the caress, but scarcely seemed to relish it more than Pilot would have done, nor so much. "I wish you all good-night, now," said he, making a movement of the hand towards the door, in token that he was tired of our company, and wished to dismiss us. Mrs. Fairfax folded up her knitting: I took my portfolio: we curtseyed to him, received a frigid bow in return, and so withdrew. "You said Mr. Rochester was not strikingly peculiar, Mrs. Fairfax," I observed, when I rejoined her in her room, after putting Adele to bed. "Well, is he?" "I think so: he is very changeful and abrupt." "True: no doubt he may appear so to a stranger, but I am so accustomed to his manner, I never think of it; and then, if he has peculiarities of temper, allowance should be made." "Why?" "Partly because it is his nature--and we can none of us help our nature; and partly because he has painful thoughts, no doubt, to harass him, and make his spirits unequal." "What about?" "Family troubles, for one thing." "But he has no family." "Not now, but he has had--or, at least, relatives. He lost his elder brother a few years since." "His _elder_ brother?" "Yes. The present Mr. Rochester has not been very long in possession of the property; only about nine years." "Nine years is a tolerable time. Was he so very fond of his brother as to be still inconsolable for his loss?" "Why, no--perhaps not. I believe there were some misunderstandings between them. Mr. Rowland Rochester was not quite just to Mr. Edward; and perhaps he prejudiced his father against him. The old gentleman was fond of money, and anxious to keep the family estate together. He did not like to diminish the property by division, and yet he was anxious that Mr. Edward should have wealth, too, to keep up the consequence of the name; and, soon after he was of age, some steps were taken that were not quite fair, and made a great deal of mischief. Old Mr. Rochester and Mr. Rowland combined to bring Mr. Edward into what he considered a painful position, for the sake of making his fortune: what the precise nature of that position was I never clearly knew, but his spirit could not brook what he had to suffer in it. He is not very forgiving: he broke with his family, and now for many years he has led an unsettled kind of life. I don't think he has ever been resident at Thornfield for a fortnight together, since the death of his brother without a will left him master of the estate; and, indeed, no wonder he shuns the old place." "Why should he shun it?" "Perhaps he thinks it gloomy." The answer was evasive. I should have liked something clearer; but Mrs. Fairfax either could not, or would not, give me more explicit information of the origin and nature of Mr. Rochester's trials. She averred they were a mystery to herself, and that what she knew was chiefly from conjecture. It was evident, indeed, that she wished me to drop the subject, which I did accordingly. CHAPTER XIV For several subsequent days I saw little of Mr. Rochester. In the mornings he seemed much engaged with business, and, in the afternoon, gentlemen from Millcote or the neighbourhood called, and sometimes stayed to dine with him. When his sprain was well enough to admit of horse exercise, he rode out a good deal; probably to return these visits, as he generally did not come back till late at night. During this interval, even Adele was seldom sent for to his presence, and all my acquaintance with him was confined to an occasional rencontre in the hall, on the stairs, or in the gallery, when he would sometimes pass me haughtily and coldly, just acknowledging my presence by a distant nod or a cool glance, and sometimes bow and smile with gentlemanlike affability. His changes of mood did not offend me, because I saw that I had nothing to do with their alternation; the ebb and flow depended on causes quite disconnected with me. One day he had had company to dinner, and had sent for my portfolio; in order, doubtless, to exhibit its contents: the gentlemen went away early, to attend a public meeting at Millcote, as Mrs. Fairfax informed me; but the night being wet and inclement, Mr. Rochester did not accompany them. Soon after they were gone he rang the bell: a message came that I and Adele were to go downstairs. I brushed Adele's hair and made her neat, and having ascertained that I was myself in my usual Quaker trim, where there was nothing to retouch--all being too close and plain, braided locks included, to admit of disarrangement--we descended, Adele wondering whether the _petit coffre_ was at length come; for, owing to some mistake, its arrival had hitherto been delayed. She was gratified: there it stood, a little carton, on the table when we entered the dining-room. She appeared to know it by instinct. "Ma boite! ma boite!" exclaimed she, running towards it. "Yes, there is your 'boite' at last: take it into a corner, you genuine daughter of Paris, and amuse yourself with disembowelling it," said the deep and rather sarcastic voice of Mr. Rochester, proceeding from the depths of an immense easy-chair at the fireside. "And mind," he continued, "don't bother me with any details of the anatomical process, or any notice of the condition of the entrails: let your operation be conducted in silence: tiens-toi tranquille, enfant; comprends-tu?" Adele seemed scarcely to need the warning--she had already retired to a sofa with her treasure, and was busy untying the cord which secured the lid. Having removed this impediment, and lifted certain silvery envelopes of tissue paper, she merely exclaimed-- "Oh ciel! Que c'est beau!" and then remained absorbed in ecstatic contemplation. "Is Miss Eyre there?" now demanded the master, half rising from his seat to look round to the door, near which I still stood. "Ah! well, come forward; be seated here." He drew a chair near his own. "I am not fond of the prattle of children," he continued; "for, old bachelor as I am, I have no pleasant associations connected with their lisp. It would be intolerable to me to pass a whole evening _tete-a-tete_ with a brat. Don't draw that chair farther off, Miss Eyre; sit down exactly where I placed it--if you please, that is. Confound these civilities! I continually forget them. Nor do I particularly affect simple-minded old ladies. By-the-bye, I must have mine in mind; it won't do to neglect her; she is a Fairfax, or wed to one; and blood is said to be thicker than water." He rang, and despatched an invitation to Mrs. Fairfax, who soon arrived, knitting-basket in hand. "Good evening, madam; I sent to you for a charitable purpose. I have forbidden Adele to talk to me about her presents, and she is bursting with repletion: have the goodness to serve her as auditress and interlocutrice; it will be one of the most benevolent acts you ever performed." Adele, indeed, no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax, than she summoned her to her sofa, and there quickly filled her lap with the porcelain, the ivory, the waxen contents of her "boite;" pouring out, meantime, explanations and raptures in such broken English as she was mistress of. "Now I have performed the part of a good host," pursued Mr. Rochester, "put my guests into the way of amusing each other, I ought to be at liberty to attend to my own pleasure. Miss Eyre, draw your chair still a little farther forward: you are yet too far back; I cannot see you without disturbing my position in this comfortable chair, which I have no mind to do." I did as I was bid, though I would much rather have remained somewhat in the shade; but Mr. Rochester had such a direct way of giving orders, it seemed a matter of course to obey him promptly. We were, as I have said, in the dining-room: the lustre, which had been lit for dinner, filled the room with a festal breadth of light; the large fire was all red and clear; the purple curtains hung rich and ample before the lofty window and loftier arch; everything was still, save the subdued chat of Adele (she dared not speak loud), and, filling up each pause, the beating of winter rain against the panes. Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask-covered chair, looked different to what I had seen him look before; not quite so stern--much less gloomy. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled, whether with wine or not, I am not sure; but I think it very probable. He was, in short, in his after-dinner mood; more expanded and genial, and also more self- indulgent than the frigid and rigid temper of the morning; still he looked preciously grim, cushioning his massive head against the swelling back of his chair, and receiving the light of the fire on his granite- hewn features, and in his great, dark eyes; for he had great, dark eyes, and very fine eyes, too--not without a certain change in their depths sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded you, at least, of that feeling. He had been looking two minutes at the fire, and I had been looking the same length of time at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught my gaze fastened on his physiognomy. "You examine me, Miss Eyre," said he: "do you think me handsome?" I should, if I had deliberated, have replied to this question by something conventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow slipped from my tongue before I was aware--"No, sir." "Ah! By my word! there is something singular about you," said he: "you have the air of a little _nonnette_; quaint, quiet, grave, and simple, as you sit with your hands before you, and your eyes generally bent on the carpet (except, by-the-bye, when they are directed piercingly to my face; as just now, for instance); and when one asks you a question, or makes a remark to which you are obliged to reply, you rap out a round rejoinder, which, if not blunt, is at least brusque. What do you mean by it?" "Sir, I was too plain; I beg your pardon. I ought to have replied that it was not easy to give an impromptu answer to a question about appearances; that tastes mostly differ; and that beauty is of little consequence, or something of that sort." "You ought to have replied no such thing. Beauty of little consequence, indeed! And so, under pretence of softening the previous outrage, of stroking and soothing me into placidity, you stick a sly penknife under my ear! Go on: what fault do you find with me, pray? I suppose I have all my limbs and all my features like any other man?" "Mr. Rochester, allow me to disown my first answer: I intended no pointed repartee: it was only a blunder." "Just so: I think so: and you shall be answerable for it. Criticise me: does my forehead not please you?" He lifted up the sable waves of hair which lay horizontally over his brow, and showed a solid enough mass of intellectual organs, but an abrupt deficiency where the suave sign of benevolence should have risen. "Now, ma'am, am I a fool?" "Far from it, sir. You would, perhaps, think me rude if I inquired in return whether you are a philanthropist?" "There again! Another stick of the penknife, when she pretended to pat my head: and that is because I said I did not like the society of children and old women (low be it spoken!). No, young lady, I am not a general philanthropist; but I bear a conscience;" and he pointed to the prominences which are said to indicate that faculty, and which, fortunately for him, were sufficiently conspicuous; giving, indeed, a marked breadth to the upper part of his head: "and, besides, I once had a kind of rude tenderness of heart. When I was as old as you, I was a feeling fellow enough, partial to the unfledged, unfostered, and unlucky; but Fortune has knocked me about since: she has even kneaded me with her knuckles, and now I flatter myself I am hard and tough as an India-rubber ball; pervious, though, through a chink or two still, and with one sentient point in the middle of the lump. Yes: does that leave hope for me?" "Hope of what, sir?" "Of my final re-transformation from India-rubber back to flesh?" "Decidedly he has had too much wine," I thought; and I did not know what answer to make to his queer question: how could I tell whether he was capable of being re-transformed? "You looked very much puzzled, Miss Eyre; and though you are not pretty any more than I am handsome, yet a puzzled air becomes you; besides, it is convenient, for it keeps those searching eyes of yours away from my physiognomy, and busies them with the worsted flowers of the rug; so puzzle on. Young lady, I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-night." With this announcement he rose from his chair, and stood, leaning his arm on the marble mantelpiece: in that attitude his shape was seen plainly as well as his face; his unusual breadth of chest, disproportionate almost to his length of limb. I am sure most people would have thought him an ugly man; yet there was so much unconscious pride in his port; so much ease in his demeanour; such a look of complete indifference to his own external appearance; so haughty a reliance on the power of other qualities, intrinsic or adventitious, to atone for the lack of mere personal attractiveness, that, in looking at him, one inevitably shared the indifference, and, even in a blind, imperfect sense, put faith in the confidence. "I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-night," he repeated, "and that is why I sent for you: the fire and the chandelier were not sufficient company for me; nor would Pilot have been, for none of these can talk. Adele is a degree better, but still far below the mark; Mrs. Fairfax ditto; you, I am persuaded, can suit me if you will: you puzzled me the first evening I invited you down here. I have almost forgotten you since: other ideas have driven yours from my head; but to-night I am resolved to be at ease; to dismiss what importunes, and recall what pleases. It would please me now to draw you out--to learn more of you--therefore speak." Instead of speaking, I smiled; and not a very complacent or submissive smile either. "Speak," he urged. "What about, sir?" "Whatever you like. I leave both the choice of subject and the manner of treating it entirely to yourself." Accordingly I sat and said nothing: "If he expects me to talk for the mere sake of talking and showing off, he will find he has addressed himself to the wrong person," I thought. "You are dumb, Miss Eyre." I was dumb still. He bent his head a little towards me, and with a single hasty glance seemed to dive into my eyes. "Stubborn?" he said, "and annoyed. Ah! it is consistent. I put my request in an absurd, almost insolent form. Miss Eyre, I beg your pardon. The fact is, once for all, I don't wish to treat you like an inferior: that is" (correcting himself), "I claim only such superiority as must result from twenty years' difference in age and a century's advance in experience. This is legitimate, _et j'y tiens_, as Adele would say; and it is by virtue of this superiority, and this alone, that I desire you to have the goodness to talk to me a little now, and divert my thoughts, which are galled with dwelling on one point--cankering as a rusty nail." He had deigned an explanation, almost an apology, and I did not feel insensible to his condescension, and would not seem so. "I am willing to amuse you, if I can, sir--quite willing; but I cannot introduce a topic, because how do I know what will interest you? Ask me questions, and I will do my best to answer them." "Then, in the first place, do you agree with me that I have a right to be a little masterful, abrupt, perhaps exacting, sometimes, on the grounds I stated, namely, that I am old enough to be your father, and that I have battled through a varied experience with many men of many nations, and roamed over half the globe, while you have lived quietly with one set of people in one house?" "Do as you please, sir." "That is no answer; or rather it is a very irritating, because a very evasive one. Reply clearly." "I don't think, sir, you have a right to command me, merely because you are older than I, or because you have seen more of the world than I have; your claim to superiority depends on the use you have made of your time and experience." "Humph! Promptly spoken. But I won't allow that, seeing that it would never suit my case, as I have made an indifferent, not to say a bad, use of both advantages. Leaving superiority out of the question, then, you must still agree to receive my orders now and then, without being piqued or hurt by the tone of command. Will you?" I smiled: I thought to myself Mr. Rochester _is_ peculiar--he seems to forget that he pays me 30 pounds per annum for receiving his orders. "The smile is very well," said he, catching instantly the passing expression; "but speak too." "I was thinking, sir, that very few masters would trouble themselves to inquire whether or not their paid subordinates were piqued and hurt by their orders." "Paid subordinates! What! you are my paid subordinate, are you? Oh yes, I had forgotten the salary! Well then, on that mercenary ground, will you agree to let me hector a little?" "No, sir, not on that ground; but, on the ground that you did forget it, and that you care whether or not a dependent is comfortable in his dependency, I agree heartily." "And will you consent to dispense with a great many conventional forms and phrases, without thinking that the omission arises from insolence?" "I am sure, sir, I should never mistake informality for insolence: one I rather like, the other nothing free-born would submit to, even for a salary." "Humbug! Most things free-born will submit to anything for a salary; therefore, keep to yourself, and don't venture on generalities of which you are intensely ignorant. However, I mentally shake hands with you for your answer, despite its inaccuracy; and as much for the manner in which it was said, as for the substance of the speech; the manner was frank and sincere; one does not often see such a manner: no, on the contrary, affectation, or coldness, or stupid, coarse-minded misapprehension of one's meaning are the usual rewards of candour. Not three in three thousand raw school-girl-governesses would have answered me as you have just done. But I don't mean to flatter you: if you are cast in a different mould to the majority, it is no merit of yours: Nature did it. And then, after all, I go too fast in my conclusions: for what I yet know, you may be no better than the rest; you may have intolerable defects to counterbalance your few good points." "And so may you," I thought. My eye met his as the idea crossed my mind: he seemed to read the glance, answering as if its import had been spoken as well as imagined-- "Yes, yes, you are right," said he; "I have plenty of faults of my own: I know it, and I don't wish to palliate them, I assure you. God wot I need not be too severe about others; I have a past existence, a series of deeds, a colour of life to contemplate within my own breast, which might well call my sneers and censures from my neighbours to myself. I started, or rather (for like other defaulters, I like to lay half the blame on ill fortune and adverse circumstances) was thrust on to a wrong tack at the age of one-and-twenty, and have never recovered the right course since: but I might have been very different; I might have been as good as you--wiser--almost as stainless. I envy you your peace of mind, your clean conscience, your unpolluted memory. Little girl, a memory without blot or contamination must be an exquisite treasure--an inexhaustible source of pure refreshment: is it not?" "How was your memory when you were eighteen, sir?" "All right then; limpid, salubrious: no gush of bilge water had turned it to fetid puddle. I was your equal at eighteen--quite your equal. Nature meant me to be, on the whole, a good man, Miss Eyre; one of the better kind, and you see I am not so. You would say you don't see it; at least I flatter myself I read as much in your eye (beware, by-the-bye, what you express with that organ; I am quick at interpreting its language). Then take my word for it,--I am not a villain: you are not to suppose that--not to attribute to me any such bad eminence; but, owing, I verily believe, rather to circumstances than to my natural bent, I am a trite commonplace sinner, hackneyed in all the poor petty dissipations with which the rich and worthless try to put on life. Do you wonder that I avow this to you? Know, that in the course of your future life you will often find yourself elected the involuntary confidant of your acquaintances' secrets: people will instinctively find out, as I have done, that it is not your forte to tell of yourself, but to listen while others talk of themselves; they will feel, too, that you listen with no malevolent scorn of their indiscretion, but with a kind of innate sympathy; not the less comforting and encouraging because it is very unobtrusive in its manifestations." "How do you know?--how can you guess all this, sir?" "I know it well; therefore I proceed almost as freely as if I were writing my thoughts in a diary. You would say, I should have been superior to circumstances; so I should--so I should; but you see I was not. When fate wronged me, I had not the wisdom to remain cool: I turned desperate; then I degenerated. Now, when any vicious simpleton excites my disgust by his paltry ribaldry, I cannot flatter myself that I am better than he: I am forced to confess that he and I are on a level. I wish I had stood firm--God knows I do! Dread remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Eyre; remorse is the poison of life." "Repentance is said to be its cure, sir." "It is not its cure. Reformation may be its cure; and I could reform--I have strength yet for that--if--but where is the use of thinking of it, hampered, burdened, cursed as I am? Besides, since happiness is irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure out of life: and I _will_ get it, cost what it may." "Then you will degenerate still more, sir." "Possibly: yet why should I, if I can get sweet, fresh pleasure? And I may get it as sweet and fresh as the wild honey the bee gathers on the moor." "It will sting--it will taste bitter, sir." "How do you know?--you never tried it. How very serious--how very solemn you look: and you are as ignorant of the matter as this cameo head" (taking one from the mantelpiece). "You have no right to preach to me, you neophyte, that have not passed the porch of life, and are absolutely unacquainted with its mysteries." "I only remind you of your own words, sir: you said error brought remorse, and you pronounced remorse the poison of existence." "And who talks of error now? I scarcely think the notion that flittered across my brain was an error. I believe it was an inspiration rather than a temptation: it was very genial, very soothing--I know that. Here it comes again! It is no devil, I assure you; or if it be, it has put on the robes of an angel of light. I think I must admit so fair a guest when it asks entrance to my heart." "Distrust it, sir; it is not a true angel." "Once more, how do you know? By what instinct do you pretend to distinguish between a fallen seraph of the abyss and a messenger from the eternal throne--between a guide and a seducer?" "I judged by your countenance, sir, which was troubled when you said the suggestion had returned upon you. I feel sure it will work you more misery if you listen to it." "Not at all--it bears the most gracious message in the world: for the rest, you are not my conscience-keeper, so don't make yourself uneasy. Here, come in, bonny wanderer!" He said this as if he spoke to a vision, viewless to any eye but his own; then, folding his arms, which he had half extended, on his chest, he seemed to enclose in their embrace the invisible being. "Now," he continued, again addressing me, "I have received the pilgrim--a disguised deity, as I verily believe. Already it has done me good: my heart was a sort of charnel; it will now be a shrine." "To speak truth, sir, I don't understand you at all: I cannot keep up the conversation, because it has got out of my depth. Only one thing, I know: you said you were not as good as you should like to be, and that you regretted your own imperfection;--one thing I can comprehend: you intimated that to have a sullied memory was a perpetual bane. It seems to me, that if you tried hard, you would in time find it possible to become what you yourself would approve; and that if from this day you began with resolution to correct your thoughts and actions, you would in a few years have laid up a new and stainless store of recollections, to which you might revert with pleasure." "Justly thought; rightly said, Miss Eyre; and, at this moment, I am paving hell with energy." "Sir?" "I am laying down good intentions, which I believe durable as flint. Certainly, my associates and pursuits shall be other than they have been." "And better?" "And better--so much better as pure ore is than foul dross. You seem to doubt me; I don't doubt myself: I know what my aim is, what my motives are; and at this moment I pass a law, unalterable as that of the Medes and Persians, that both are right." "They cannot be, sir, if they require a new statute to legalise them." "They are, Miss Eyre, though they absolutely require a new statute: unheard-of combinations of circumstances demand unheard-of rules." "That sounds a dangerous maxim, sir; because one can see at once that it is liable to abuse." "Sententious sage! so it is: but I swear by my household gods not to abuse it." "You are human and fallible." "I am: so are you--what then?" "The human and fallible should not arrogate a power with which the divine and perfect alone can be safely intrusted." "What power?" "That of saying of any strange, unsanctioned line of action,--'Let it be right.'" "'Let it be right'--the very words: you have pronounced them." "_May_ it be right then," I said, as I rose, deeming it useless to continue a discourse which was all darkness to me; and, besides, sensible that the character of my interlocutor was beyond my penetration; at least, beyond its present reach; and feeling the uncertainty, the vague sense of insecurity, which accompanies a conviction of ignorance. "Where are you going?" "To put Adele to bed: it is past her bedtime." "You are afraid of me, because I talk like a Sphynx." "Your language is enigmatical, sir: but though I am bewildered, I am certainly not afraid." "You _are_ afraid--your self-love dreads a blunder." "In that sense I do feel apprehensive--I have no wish to talk nonsense." "If you did, it would be in such a grave, quiet manner, I should mistake it for sense. Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre? Don't trouble yourself to answer--I see you laugh rarely; but you can laugh very merrily: believe me, you are not naturally austere, any more than I am naturally vicious. The Lowood constraint still clings to you somewhat; controlling your features, muffling your voice, and restricting your limbs; and you fear in the presence of a man and a brother--or father, or master, or what you will--to smile too gaily, speak too freely, or move too quickly: but, in time, I think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it impossible to be conventional with you; and then your looks and movements will have more vivacity and variety than they dare offer now. I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high. You are still bent on going?" "It has struck nine, sir." "Never mind,--wait a minute: Adele is not ready to go to bed yet. My position, Miss Eyre, with my back to the fire, and my face to the room, favours observation. While talking to you, I have also occasionally watched Adele (I have my own reasons for thinking her a curious study,--reasons that I may, nay, that I shall, impart to you some day). She pulled out of her box, about ten minutes ago, a little pink silk frock; rapture lit her face as she unfolded it; coquetry runs in her blood, blends with her brains, and seasons the marrow of her bones. 'Il faut que je l'essaie!' cried she, 'et a l'instant meme!' and she rushed out of the room. She is now with Sophie, undergoing a robing process: in a few minutes she will re-enter; and I know what I shall see,--a miniature of Celine Varens, as she used to appear on the boards at the rising of--But never mind that. However, my tenderest feelings are about to receive a shock: such is my presentiment; stay now, to see whether it will be realised." Ere long, Adele's little foot was heard tripping across the hall. She entered, transformed as her guardian had predicted. A dress of rose-coloured satin, very short, and as full in the skirt as it could be gathered, replaced the brown frock she had previously worn; a wreath of rosebuds circled her forehead; her feet were dressed in silk stockings and small white satin sandals. "Est-ce que ma robe va bien?" cried she, bounding forwards; "et mes souliers? et mes bas? Tenez, je crois que je vais danser!" And spreading out her dress, she chasseed across the room till, having reached Mr. Rochester, she wheeled lightly round before him on tip-toe, then dropped on one knee at his feet, exclaiming-- "Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonte;" then rising, she added, "C'est comme cela que maman faisait, n'est-ce pas, monsieur?" "Pre-cise-ly!" was the answer; "and, 'comme cela,' she charmed my English gold out of my British breeches' pocket. I have been green, too, Miss Eyre,--ay, grass green: not a more vernal tint freshens you now than once freshened me. My Spring is gone, however, but it has left me that French floweret on my hands, which, in some moods, I would fain be rid of. Not valuing now the root whence it sprang; having found that it was of a sort which nothing but gold dust could manure, I have but half a liking to the blossom, especially when it looks so artificial as just now. I keep it and rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of expiating numerous sins, great or small, by one good work. I'll explain all this some day. Good-night." CHAPTER XV Mr. Rochester did, on a future occasion, explain it. It was one afternoon, when he chanced to meet me and Adele in the grounds: and while she played with Pilot and her shuttlecock, he asked me to walk up and down a long beech avenue within sight of her. He then said that she was the daughter of a French opera-dancer, Celine Varens, towards whom he had once cherished what he called a "_grande passion_." This passion Celine had professed to return with even superior ardour. He thought himself her idol, ugly as he was: he believed, as he said, that she preferred his "_taille d'athlete_" to the elegance of the Apollo Belvidere. "And, Miss Eyre, so much was I flattered by this preference of the Gallic sylph for her British gnome, that I installed her in an hotel; gave her a complete establishment of servants, a carriage, cashmeres, diamonds, dentelles, &c. In short, I began the process of ruining myself in the received style, like any other spoony. I had not, it seems, the originality to chalk out a new road to shame and destruction, but trode the old track with stupid exactness not to deviate an inch from the beaten centre. I had--as I deserved to have--the fate of all other spoonies. Happening to call one evening when Celine did not expect me, I found her out; but it was a warm night, and I was tired with strolling through Paris, so I sat down in her boudoir; happy to breathe the air consecrated so lately by her presence. No,--I exaggerate; I never thought there was any consecrating virtue about her: it was rather a sort of pastille perfume she had left; a scent of musk and amber, than an odour of sanctity. I was just beginning to stifle with the fumes of conservatory flowers and sprinkled essences, when I bethought myself to open the window and step out on to the balcony. It was moonlight and gaslight besides, and very still and serene. The balcony was furnished with a chair or two; I sat down, and took out a cigar,--I will take one now, if you will excuse me." Here ensued a pause, filled up by the producing and lighting of a cigar; having placed it to his lips and breathed a trail of Havannah incense on the freezing and sunless air, he went on-- "I liked bonbons too in those days, Miss Eyre, and I was _croquant_--(overlook the barbarism)--_croquant_ chocolate comfits, and smoking alternately, watching meantime the equipages that rolled along the fashionable streets towards the neighbouring opera-house, when in an elegant close carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of English horses, and distinctly seen in the brilliant city-night, I recognised the 'voiture' I had given Celine. She was returning: of course my heart thumped with impatience against the iron rails I leant upon. The carriage stopped, as I had expected, at the hotel door; my flame (that is the very word for an opera inamorata) alighted: though muffed in a cloak--an unnecessary encumbrance, by-the-bye, on so warm a June evening--I knew her instantly by her little foot, seen peeping from the skirt of her dress, as she skipped from the carriage-step. Bending over the balcony, I was about to murmur 'Mon ange'--in a tone, of course, which should be audible to the ear of love alone--when a figure jumped from the carriage after her; cloaked also; but that was a spurred heel which had rung on the pavement, and that was a hatted head which now passed under the arched _porte cochere_ of the hotel. "You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course not: I need not ask you; because you never felt love. You have both sentiments yet to experience: your soul sleeps; the shock is yet to be given which shall waken it. You think all existence lapses in as quiet a flow as that in which your youth has hitherto slid away. Floating on with closed eyes and muffled ears, you neither see the rocks bristling not far off in the bed of the flood, nor hear the breakers boil at their base. But I tell you--and you may mark my words--you will come some day to a craggy pass in the channel, where the whole of life's stream will be broken up into whirl and tumult, foam and noise: either you will be dashed to atoms on crag points, or lifted up and borne on by some master-wave into a calmer current--as I am now. "I like this day; I like that sky of steel; I like the sternness and stillness of the world under this frost. I like Thornfield, its antiquity, its retirement, its old crow-trees and thorn-trees, its grey facade, and lines of dark windows reflecting that metal welkin: and yet how long have I abhorred the very thought of it, shunned it like a great plague-house? How I do still abhor--" He ground his teeth and was silent: he arrested his step and struck his boot against the hard ground. Some hated thought seemed to have him in its grip, and to hold him so tightly that he could not advance. We were ascending the avenue when he thus paused; the hall was before us. Lifting his eye to its battlements, he cast over them a glare such as I never saw before or since. Pain, shame, ire, impatience, disgust, detestation, seemed momentarily to hold a quivering conflict in the large pupil dilating under his ebon eyebrow. Wild was the wrestle which should be paramount; but another feeling rose and triumphed: something hard and cynical: self-willed and resolute: it settled his passion and petrified his countenance: he went on-- "During the moment I was silent, Miss Eyre, I was arranging a point with my destiny. She stood there, by that beech-trunk--a hag like one of those who appeared to Macbeth on the heath of Forres. 'You like Thornfield?' she said, lifting her finger; and then she wrote in the air a memento, which ran in lurid hieroglyphics all along the house-front, between the upper and lower row of windows, 'Like it if you can! Like it if you dare!' "'I will like it,' said I; 'I dare like it;' and" (he subjoined moodily) "I will keep my word; I will break obstacles to happiness, to goodness--yes, goodness. I wish to be a better man than I have been, than I am; as Job's leviathan broke the spear, the dart, and the habergeon, hindrances which others count as iron and brass, I will esteem but straw and rotten wood." Adele here ran before him with her shuttlecock. "Away!" he cried harshly; "keep at a distance, child; or go in to Sophie!" Continuing then to pursue his walk in silence, I ventured to recall him to the point whence he had abruptly diverged-- "Did you leave the balcony, sir," I asked, "when Mdlle. Varens entered?" I almost expected a rebuff for this hardly well-timed question, but, on the contrary, waking out of his scowling abstraction, he turned his eyes towards me, and the shade seemed to clear off his brow. "Oh, I had forgotten Celine! Well, to resume. When I saw my charmer thus come in accompanied by a cavalier, I seemed to hear a hiss, and the green snake of jealousy, rising on undulating coils from the moonlit balcony, glided within my waistcoat, and ate its way in two minutes to my heart's core. Strange!" he exclaimed, suddenly starting again from the point. "Strange that I should choose you for the confidant of all this, young lady; passing strange that you should listen to me quietly, as if it were the most usual thing in the world for a man like me to tell stories of his opera-mistresses to a quaint, inexperienced girl like you! But the last singularity explains the first, as I intimated once before: you, with your gravity, considerateness, and caution were made to be the recipient of secrets. Besides, I know what sort of a mind I have placed in communication with my own: I know it is one not liable to take infection: it is a peculiar mind: it is a unique one. Happily I do not mean to harm it: but, if I did, it would not take harm from me. The more you and I converse, the better; for while I cannot blight you, you may refresh me." After this digression he proceeded-- "I remained in the balcony. 'They will come to her boudoir, no doubt,' thought I: 'let me prepare an ambush.' So putting my hand in through the open window, I drew the curtain over it, leaving only an opening through which I could take observations; then I closed the casement, all but a chink just wide enough to furnish an outlet to lovers' whispered vows: then I stole back to my chair; and as I resumed it the pair came in. My eye was quickly at the aperture. Celine's chamber-maid entered, lit a lamp, left it on the table, and withdrew. The couple were thus revealed to me clearly: both removed their cloaks, and there was 'the Varens,' shining in satin and jewels,--my gifts of course,--and there was her companion in an officer's uniform; and I knew him for a young roue of a vicomte--a brainless and vicious youth whom I had sometimes met in society, and had never thought of hating because I despised him so absolutely. On recognising him, the fang of the snake Jealousy was instantly broken; because at the same moment my love for Celine sank under an extinguisher. A woman who could betray me for such a rival was not worth contending for; she deserved only scorn; less, however, than I, who had been her dupe. "They began to talk; their conversation eased me completely: frivolous, mercenary, heartless, and senseless, it was rather calculated to weary than enrage a listener. A card of mine lay on the table; this being perceived, brought my name under discussion. Neither of them possessed energy or wit to belabour me soundly, but they insulted me as coarsely as they could in their little way: especially Celine, who even waxed rather brilliant on my personal defects--deformities she termed them. Now it had been her custom to launch out into fervent admiration of what she called my '_beaute male_:' wherein she differed diametrically from you, who told me point-blank, at the second interview, that you did not think me handsome. The contrast struck me at the time and--" Adele here came running up again. "Monsieur, John has just been to say that your agent has called and wishes to see you." "Ah! in that case I must abridge. Opening the window, I walked in upon them; liberated Celine from my protection; gave her notice to vacate her hotel; offered her a purse for immediate exigencies; disregarded screams, hysterics, prayers, protestations, convulsions; made an appointment with the vicomte for a meeting at the Bois de Boulogne. Next morning I had the pleasure of encountering him; left a bullet in one of his poor etiolated arms, feeble as the wing of a chicken in the pip, and then thought I had done with the whole crew. But unluckily the Varens, six months before, had given me this filette Adele, who, she affirmed, was my daughter; and perhaps she may be, though I see no proofs of such grim paternity written in her countenance: Pilot is more like me than she. Some years after I had broken with the mother, she abandoned her child, and ran away to Italy with a musician or singer. I acknowledged no natural claim on Adele's part to be supported by me, nor do I now acknowledge any, for I am not her father; but hearing that she was quite destitute, I e'en took the poor thing out of the slime and mud of Paris, and transplanted it here, to grow up clean in the wholesome soil of an English country garden. Mrs. Fairfax found you to train it; but now you know that it is the illegitimate offspring of a French opera-girl, you will perhaps think differently of your post and protegee: you will be coming to me some day with notice that you have found another place--that you beg me to look out for a new governess, &c.--Eh?" "No: Adele is not answerable for either her mother's faults or yours: I have a regard for her; and now that I know she is, in a sense, parentless--forsaken by her mother and disowned by you, sir--I shall cling closer to her than before. How could I possibly prefer the spoilt pet of a wealthy family, who would hate her governess as a nuisance, to a lonely little orphan, who leans towards her as a friend?" "Oh, that is the light in which you view it! Well, I must go in now; and you too: it darkens." But I stayed out a few minutes longer with Adele and Pilot--ran a race with her, and played a game of battledore and shuttlecock. When we went in, and I had removed her bonnet and coat, I took her on my knee; kept her there an hour, allowing her to prattle as she liked: not rebuking even some little freedoms and trivialities into which she was apt to stray when much noticed, and which betrayed in her a superficiality of character, inherited probably from her mother, hardly congenial to an English mind. Still she had her merits; and I was disposed to appreciate all that was good in her to the utmost. I sought in her countenance and features a likeness to Mr. Rochester, but found none: no trait, no turn of expression announced relationship. It was a pity: if she could but have been proved to resemble him, he would have thought more of her. It was not till after I had withdrawn to my own chamber for the night, that I steadily reviewed the tale Mr. Rochester had told me. As he had said, there was probably nothing at all extraordinary in the substance of the narrative itself: a wealthy Englishman's passion for a French dancer, and her treachery to him, were every-day matters enough, no doubt, in society; but there was something decidedly strange in the paroxysm of emotion which had suddenly seized him when he was in the act of expressing the present contentment of his mood, and his newly revived pleasure in the old hall and its environs. I meditated wonderingly on this incident; but gradually quitting it, as I found it for the present inexplicable, I turned to the consideration of my master's manner to myself. The confidence he had thought fit to repose in me seemed a tribute to my discretion: I regarded and accepted it as such. His deportment had now for some weeks been more uniform towards me than at the first. I never seemed in his way; he did not take fits of chilling hauteur: when he met me unexpectedly, the encounter seemed welcome; he had always a word and sometimes a smile for me: when summoned by formal invitation to his presence, I was honoured by a cordiality of reception that made me feel I really possessed the power to amuse him, and that these evening conferences were sought as much for his pleasure as for my benefit. I, indeed, talked comparatively little, but I heard him talk with relish. It was his nature to be communicative; he liked to open to a mind unacquainted with the world glimpses of its scenes and ways (I do not mean its corrupt scenes and wicked ways, but such as derived their interest from the great scale on which they were acted, the strange novelty by which they were characterised); and I had a keen delight in receiving the new ideas he offered, in imagining the new pictures he portrayed, and following him in thought through the new regions he disclosed, never startled or troubled by one noxious allusion. The ease of his manner freed me from painful restraint: the friendly frankness, as correct as cordial, with which he treated me, drew me to him. I felt at times as if he were my relation rather than my master: yet he was imperious sometimes still; but I did not mind that; I saw it was his way. So happy, so gratified did I become with this new interest added to life, that I ceased to pine after kindred: my thin crescent-destiny seemed to enlarge; the blanks of existence were filled up; my bodily health improved; I gathered flesh and strength. And was Mr. Rochester now ugly in my eyes? No, reader: gratitude, and many associations, all pleasurable and genial, made his face the object I best liked to see; his presence in a room was more cheering than the brightest fire. Yet I had not forgotten his faults; indeed, I could not, for he brought them frequently before me. He was proud, sardonic, harsh to inferiority of every description: in my secret soul I knew that his great kindness to me was balanced by unjust severity to many others. He was moody, too; unaccountably so; I more than once, when sent for to read to him, found him sitting in his library alone, with his head bent on his folded arms; and, when he looked up, a morose, almost a malignant, scowl blackened his features. But I believed that his moodiness, his harshness, and his former faults of morality (I say _former_, for now he seemed corrected of them) had their source in some cruel cross of fate. I believed he was naturally a man of better tendencies, higher principles, and purer tastes than such as circumstances had developed, education instilled, or destiny encouraged. I thought there were excellent materials in him; though for the present they hung together somewhat spoiled and tangled. I cannot deny that I grieved for his grief, whatever that was, and would have given much to assuage it. Though I had now extinguished my candle and was laid down in bed, I could not sleep for thinking of his look when he paused in the avenue, and told how his destiny had risen up before him, and dared him to be happy at Thornfield. "Why not?" I asked myself. "What alienates him from the house? Will he leave it again soon? Mrs. Fairfax said he seldom stayed here longer than a fortnight at a time; and he has now been resident eight weeks. If he does go, the change will be doleful. Suppose he should be absent spring, summer, and autumn: how joyless sunshine and fine days will seem!" I hardly know whether I had slept or not after this musing; at any rate, I started wide awake on hearing a vague murmur, peculiar and lugubrious, which sounded, I thought, just above me. I wished I had kept my candle burning: the night was drearily dark; my spirits were depressed. I rose and sat up in bed, listening. The sound was hushed. I tried again to sleep; but my heart beat anxiously: my inward tranquillity was broken. The clock, far down in the hall, struck two. Just then it seemed my chamber-door was touched; as if fingers had swept the panels in groping a way along the dark gallery outside. I said, "Who is there?" Nothing answered. I was chilled with fear. All at once I remembered that it might be Pilot, who, when the kitchen- door chanced to be left open, not unfrequently found his way up to the threshold of Mr. Rochester's chamber: I had seen him lying there myself in the mornings. The idea calmed me somewhat: I lay down. Silence composes the nerves; and as an unbroken hush now reigned again through the whole house, I began to feel the return of slumber. But it was not fated that I should sleep that night. A dream had scarcely approached my ear, when it fled affrighted, scared by a marrow-freezing incident enough. This was a demoniac laugh--low, suppressed, and deep--uttered, as it seemed, at the very keyhole of my chamber door. The head of my bed was near the door, and I thought at first the goblin-laugher stood at my bedside--or rather, crouched by my pillow: but I rose, looked round, and could see nothing; while, as I still gazed, the unnatural sound was reiterated: and I knew it came from behind the panels. My first impulse was to rise and fasten the bolt; my next, again to cry out, "Who is there?" Something gurgled and moaned. Ere long, steps retreated up the gallery towards the third-storey staircase: a door had lately been made to shut in that staircase; I heard it open and close, and all was still. "Was that Grace Poole? and is she possessed with a devil?" thought I. Impossible now to remain longer by myself: I must go to Mrs. Fairfax. I hurried on my frock and a shawl; I withdrew the bolt and opened the door with a trembling hand. There was a candle burning just outside, and on the matting in the gallery. I was surprised at this circumstance: but still more was I amazed to perceive the air quite dim, as if filled with smoke; and, while looking to the right hand and left, to find whence these blue wreaths issued, I became further aware of a strong smell of burning. Something creaked: it was a door ajar; and that door was Mr. Rochester's, and the smoke rushed in a cloud from thence. I thought no more of Mrs. Fairfax; I thought no more of Grace Poole, or the laugh: in an instant, I was within the chamber. Tongues of flame darted round the bed: the curtains were on fire. In the midst of blaze and vapour, Mr. Rochester lay stretched motionless, in deep sleep. "Wake! wake!" I cried. I shook him, but he only murmured and turned: the smoke had stupefied him. Not a moment could be lost: the very sheets were kindling, I rushed to his basin and ewer; fortunately, one was wide and the other deep, and both were filled with water. I heaved them up, deluged the bed and its occupant, flew back to my own room, brought my own water-jug, baptized the couch afresh, and, by God's aid, succeeded in extinguishing the flames which were devouring it. The hiss of the quenched element, the breakage of a pitcher which I flung from my hand when I had emptied it, and, above all, the splash of the shower-bath I had liberally bestowed, roused Mr. Rochester at last. Though it was now dark, I knew he was awake; because I heard him fulminating strange anathemas at finding himself lying in a pool of water. "Is there a flood?" he cried. "No, sir," I answered; "but there has been a fire: get up, do; you are quenched now; I will fetch you a candle." "In the name of all the elves in Christendom, is that Jane Eyre?" he demanded. "What have you done with me, witch, sorceress? Who is in the room besides you? Have you plotted to drown me?" "I will fetch you a candle, sir; and, in Heaven's name, get up. Somebody has plotted something: you cannot too soon find out who and what it is." "There! I am up now; but at your peril you fetch a candle yet: wait two minutes till I get into some dry garments, if any dry there be--yes, here is my dressing-gown. Now run!" I did run; I brought the candle which still remained in the gallery. He took it from my hand, held it up, and surveyed the bed, all blackened and scorched, the sheets drenched, the carpet round swimming in water. "What is it? and who did it?" he asked. I briefly related to him what had transpired: the strange laugh I had heard in the gallery: the step ascending to the third storey; the smoke,--the smell of fire which had conducted me to his room; in what state I had found matters there, and how I had deluged him with all the water I could lay hands on. {"What is it and who did it?" he asked: p140.jpg} He listened very gravely; his face, as I went on, expressed more concern than astonishment; he did not immediately speak when I had concluded. "Shall I call Mrs. Fairfax?" I asked. "Mrs. Fairfax? No; what the deuce would you call her for? What can she do? Let her sleep unmolested." "Then I will fetch Leah, and wake John and his wife." "Not at all: just be still. You have a shawl on. If you are not warm enough, you may take my cloak yonder; wrap it about you, and sit down in the arm-chair: there,--I will put it on. Now place your feet on the stool, to keep them out of the wet. I am going to leave you a few minutes. I shall take the candle. Remain where you are till I return; be as still as a mouse. I must pay a visit to the second storey. Don't move, remember, or call any one." He went: I watched the light withdraw. He passed up the gallery very softly, unclosed the staircase door with as little noise as possible, shut it after him, and the last ray vanished. I was left in total darkness. I listened for some noise, but heard nothing. A very long time elapsed. I grew weary: it was cold, in spite of the cloak; and then I did not see the use of staying, as I was not to rouse the house. I was on the point of risking Mr. Rochester's displeasure by disobeying his orders, when the light once more gleamed dimly on the gallery wall, and I heard his unshod feet tread the matting. "I hope it is he," thought I, "and not something worse." He re-entered, pale and very gloomy. "I have found it all out," said he, setting his candle down on the washstand; "it is as I thought." "How, sir?" He made no reply, but stood with his arms folded, looking on the ground. At the end of a few minutes he inquired in rather a peculiar tone-- "I forget whether you said you saw anything when you opened your chamber door." "No, sir, only the candlestick on the ground." "But you heard an odd laugh? You have heard that laugh before, I should think, or something like it?" "Yes, sir: there is a woman who sews here, called Grace Poole,--she laughs in that way. She is a singular person." "Just so. Grace Poole--you have guessed it. She is, as you say, singular--very. Well, I shall reflect on the subject. Meantime, I am glad that you are the only person, besides myself, acquainted with the precise details of to-night's incident. You are no talking fool: say nothing about it. I will account for this state of affairs" (pointing to the bed): "and now return to your own room. I shall do very well on the sofa in the library for the rest of the night. It is near four:--in two hours the servants will be up." "Good-night, then, sir," said I, departing. He seemed surprised--very inconsistently so, as he had just told me to go. "What!" he exclaimed, "are you quitting me already, and in that way?" "You said I might go, sir." "But not without taking leave; not without a word or two of acknowledgment and good-will: not, in short, in that brief, dry fashion. Why, you have saved my life!--snatched me from a horrible and excruciating death! and you walk past me as if we were mutual strangers! At least shake hands." He held out his hand; I gave him mine: he took it first in one, them in both his own. "You have saved my life: I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a debt. I cannot say more. Nothing else that has being would have been tolerable to me in the character of creditor for such an obligation: but you: it is different;--I feel your benefits no burden, Jane." He paused; gazed at me: words almost visible trembled on his lips,--but his voice was checked. "Good-night again, sir. There is no debt, benefit, burden, obligation, in the case." "I knew," he continued, "you would do me good in some way, at some time;--I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you: their expression and smile did not"--(again he stopped)--"did not" (he proceeded hastily) "strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing. People talk of natural sympathies; I have heard of good genii: there are grains of truth in the wildest fable. My cherished preserver, goodnight!" Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look. "I am glad I happened to be awake," I said: and then I was going. "What! you _will_ go?" "I am cold, sir." "Cold? Yes,--and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane; go!" But he still retained my hand, and I could not free it. I bethought myself of an expedient. "I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax move, sir," said I. "Well, leave me:" he relaxed his fingers, and I was gone. I regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till morning dawned I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters a shore, sweet as the hills of Beulah; and now and then a freshening gale, wakened by hope, bore my spirit triumphantly towards the bourne: but I could not reach it, even in fancy--a counteracting breeze blew off land, and continually drove me back. Sense would resist delirium: judgment would warn passion. Too feverish to rest, I rose as soon as day dawned. CHAPTER XVI I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day which followed this sleepless night: I wanted to hear his voice again, yet feared to meet his eye. During the early part of the morning, I momentarily expected his coming; he was not in the frequent habit of entering the schoolroom, but he did step in for a few minutes sometimes, and I had the impression that he was sure to visit it that day. But the morning passed just as usual: nothing happened to interrupt the quiet course of Adele's studies; only soon after breakfast, I heard some bustle in the neighbourhood of Mr. Rochester's chamber, Mrs. Fairfax's voice, and Leah's, and the cook's--that is, John's wife--and even John's own gruff tones. There were exclamations of "What a mercy master was not burnt in his bed!" "It is always dangerous to keep a candle lit at night." "How providential that he had presence of mind to think of the water-jug!" "I wonder he waked nobody!" "It is to be hoped he will not take cold with sleeping on the library sofa," &c. To much confabulation succeeded a sound of scrubbing and setting to rights; and when I passed the room, in going downstairs to dinner, I saw through the open door that all was again restored to complete order; only the bed was stripped of its hangings. Leah stood up in the window-seat, rubbing the panes of glass dimmed with smoke. I was about to address her, for I wished to know what account had been given of the affair: but, on advancing, I saw a second person in the chamber--a woman sitting on a chair by the bedside, and sewing rings to new curtains. That woman was no other than Grace Poole. There she sat, staid and taciturn-looking, as usual, in her brown stuff gown, her check apron, white handkerchief, and cap. She was intent on her work, in which her whole thoughts seemed absorbed: on her hard forehead, and in her commonplace features, was nothing either of the paleness or desperation one would have expected to see marking the countenance of a woman who had attempted murder, and whose intended victim had followed her last night to her lair, and (as I believed), charged her with the crime she wished to perpetrate. I was amazed--confounded. She looked up, while I still gazed at her: no start, no increase or failure of colour betrayed emotion, consciousness of guilt, or fear of detection. She said "Good morning, Miss," in her usual phlegmatic and brief manner; and taking up another ring and more tape, went on with her sewing. "I will put her to some test," thought I: "such absolute impenetrability is past comprehension." "Good morning, Grace," I said. "Has anything happened here? I thought I heard the servants all talking together a while ago." "Only master had been reading in his bed last night; he fell asleep with his candle lit, and the curtains got on fire; but, fortunately, he awoke before the bed-clothes or the wood-work caught, and contrived to quench the flames with the water in the ewer." "A strange affair!" I said, in a low voice: then, looking at her fixedly--"Did Mr. Rochester wake nobody? Did no one hear him move?" She again raised her eyes to me, and this time there was something of consciousness in their expression. She seemed to examine me warily; then she answered-- "The servants sleep so far off, you know, Miss, they would not be likely to hear. Mrs. Fairfax's room and yours are the nearest to master's; but Mrs. Fairfax said she heard nothing: when people get elderly, they often sleep heavy." She paused, and then added, with a sort of assumed indifference, but still in a marked and significant tone--"But you are young, Miss; and I should say a light sleeper: perhaps you may have heard a noise?" "I did," said I, dropping my voice, so that Leah, who was still polishing the panes, could not hear me, "and at first I thought it was Pilot: but Pilot cannot laugh; and I am certain I heard a laugh, and a strange one." She took a new needleful of thread, waxed it carefully, threaded her needle with a steady hand, and then observed, with perfect composure-- "It is hardly likely master would laugh, I should think, Miss, when he was in such danger: You must have been dreaming." "I was not dreaming," I said, with some warmth, for her brazen coolness provoked me. Again she looked at me; and with the same scrutinising and conscious eye. "Have you told master that you heard a laugh?" she inquired. "I have not had the opportunity of speaking to him this morning." "You did not think of opening your door and looking out into the gallery?" she further asked. She appeared to be cross-questioning me, attempting to draw from me information unawares. The idea struck me that if she discovered I knew or suspected her guilt, she would be playing of some of her malignant pranks on me; I thought it advisable to be on my guard. "On the contrary," said I, "I bolted my door." "Then you are not in the habit of bolting your door every night before you get into bed?" "Fiend! she wants to know my habits, that she may lay her plans accordingly!" Indignation again prevailed over prudence: I replied sharply, "Hitherto I have often omitted to fasten the bolt: I did not think it necessary. I was not aware any danger or annoyance was to be dreaded at Thornfield Hall: but in future" (and I laid marked stress on the words) "I shall take good care to make all secure before I venture to lie down." "It will be wise so to do," was her answer: "this neighbourhood is as quiet as any I know, and I never heard of the hall being attempted by robbers since it was a house; though there are hundreds of pounds' worth of plate in the plate-closet, as is well known. And you see, for such a large house, there are very few servants, because master has never lived here much; and when he does come, being a bachelor, he needs little waiting on: but I always think it best to err on the safe side; a door is soon fastened, and it is as well to have a drawn bolt between one and any mischief that may be about. A deal of people, Miss, are for trusting all to Providence; but I say Providence will not dispense with the means, though He often blesses them when they are used discreetly." And here she closed her harangue: a long one for her, and uttered with the demureness of a Quakeress. I still stood absolutely dumfoundered at what appeared to me her miraculous self-possession and most inscrutable hypocrisy, when the cook entered. "Mrs. Poole," said she, addressing Grace, "the servants' dinner will soon be ready: will you come down?" "No; just put my pint of porter and bit of pudding on a tray, and I'll carry it upstairs." "You'll have some meat?" "Just a morsel, and a taste of cheese, that's all." "And the sago?" "Never mind it at present: I shall be coming down before teatime: I'll make it myself." The cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. Fairfax was waiting for me: so I departed. I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax's account of the curtain conflagration during dinner, so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the enigmatical character of Grace Poole, and still more in pondering the problem of her position at Thornfield and questioning why she had not been given into custody that morning, or, at the very least, dismissed from her master's service. He had almost as much as declared his conviction of her criminality last night: what mysterious cause withheld him from accusing her? Why had he enjoined me, too, to secrecy? It was strange: a bold, vindictive, and haughty gentleman seemed somehow in the power of one of the meanest of his dependants; so much in her power, that even when she lifted her hand against his life, he dared not openly charge her with the attempt, much less punish her for it. Had Grace been young and handsome, I should have been tempted to think that tenderer feelings than prudence or fear influenced Mr. Rochester in her behalf; but, hard-favoured and matronly as she was, the idea could not be admitted. "Yet," I reflected, "she has been young once; her youth would be contemporary with her master's: Mrs. Fairfax told me once, she had lived here many years. I don't think she can ever have been pretty; but, for aught I know, she may possess originality and strength of character to compensate for the want of personal advantages. Mr. Rochester is an amateur of the decided and eccentric: Grace is eccentric at least. What if a former caprice (a freak very possible to a nature so sudden and headstrong as his) has delivered him into her power, and she now exercises over his actions a secret influence, the result of his own indiscretion, which he cannot shake off, and dare not disregard?" But, having reached this point of conjecture, Mrs. Poole's square, flat figure, and uncomely, dry, even coarse face, recurred so distinctly to my mind's eye, that I thought, "No; impossible! my supposition cannot be correct. Yet," suggested the secret voice which talks to us in our own hearts, "you are not beautiful either, and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves you: at any rate, you have often felt as if he did; and last night--remember his words; remember his look; remember his voice!" I well remembered all; language, glance, and tone seemed at the moment vividly renewed. I was now in the schoolroom; Adele was drawing; I bent over her and directed her pencil. She looked up with a sort of start. "Qu' avez-vous, mademoiselle?" said she. "Vos doigts tremblent comme la feuille, et vos joues sont rouges: mais, rouges comme des cerises!" "I am hot, Adele, with stooping!" She went on sketching; I went on thinking. I hastened to drive from my mind the hateful notion I had been conceiving respecting Grace Poole; it disgusted me. I compared myself with her, and found we were different. Bessie Leaven had said I was quite a lady; and she spoke truth--I was a lady. And now I looked much better than I did when Bessie saw me; I had more colour and more flesh, more life, more vivacity, because I had brighter hopes and keener enjoyments. "Evening approaches," said I, as I looked towards the window. "I have never heard Mr. Rochester's voice or step in the house to-day; but surely I shall see him before night: I feared the meeting in the morning; now I desire it, because expectation has been so long baffled that it is grown impatient." When dusk actually closed, and when Adele left me to go and play in the nursery with Sophie, I did most keenly desire it. I listened for the bell to ring below; I listened for Leah coming up with a message; I fancied sometimes I heard Mr. Rochester's own tread, and I turned to the door, expecting it to open and admit him. The door remained shut; darkness only came in through the window. Still it was not late; he often sent for me at seven and eight o'clock, and it was yet but six. Surely I should not be wholly disappointed to-night, when I had so many things to say to him! I wanted again to introduce the subject of Grace Poole, and to hear what he would answer; I wanted to ask him plainly if he really believed it was she who had made last night's hideous attempt; and if so, why he kept her wickedness a secret. It little mattered whether my curiosity irritated him; I knew the pleasure of vexing and soothing him by turns; it was one I chiefly delighted in, and a sure instinct always prevented me from going too far; beyond the verge of provocation I never ventured; on the extreme brink I liked well to try my skill. Retaining every minute form of respect, every propriety of my station, I could still meet him in argument without fear or uneasy restraint; this suited both him and me. A tread creaked on the stairs at last. Leah made her appearance; but it was only to intimate that tea was ready in Mrs. Fairfax's room. Thither I repaired, glad at least to go downstairs; for that brought me, I imagined, nearer to Mr. Rochester's presence. "You must want your tea," said the good lady, as I joined her; "you ate so little at dinner. I am afraid," she continued, "you are not well to- day: you look flushed and feverish." "Oh, quite well! I never felt better." "Then you must prove it by evincing a good appetite; will you fill the teapot while I knit off this needle?" Having completed her task, she rose to draw down the blind, which she had hitherto kept up, by way, I suppose, of making the most of daylight, though dusk was now fast deepening into total obscurity. "It is fair to-night," said she, as she looked through the panes, "though not starlight; Mr. Rochester has, on the whole, had a favourable day for his journey." "Journey!--Is Mr. Rochester gone anywhere? I did not know he was out." "Oh, he set off the moment he had breakfasted! He is gone to the Leas, Mr. Eshton's place, ten miles on the other side Millcote. I believe there is quite a party assembled there; Lord Ingram, Sir George Lynn, Colonel Dent, and others." "Do you expect him back to-night?" "No--nor to-morrow either; I should think he is very likely to stay a week or more: when these fine, fashionable people get together, they are so surrounded by elegance and gaiety, so well provided with all that can please and entertain, they are in no hurry to separate. Gentlemen especially are often in request on such occasions; and Mr. Rochester is so talented and so lively in society, that I believe he is a general favourite: the ladies are very fond of him; though you would not think his appearance calculated to recommend him particularly in their eyes: but I suppose his acquirements and abilities, perhaps his wealth and good blood, make amends for any little fault of look." "Are there ladies at the Leas?" "There are Mrs. Eshton and her three daughters--very elegant young ladies indeed; and there are the Honourable Blanche and Mary Ingram, most beautiful women, I suppose: indeed I have seen Blanche, six or seven years since, when she was a girl of eighteen. She came here to a Christmas ball and party Mr. Rochester gave. You should have seen the dining-room that day--how richly it was decorated, how brilliantly lit up! I should think there were fifty ladies and gentlemen present--all of the first county families; and Miss Ingram was considered the belle of the evening." "You saw her, you say, Mrs. Fairfax: what was she like?" "Yes, I saw her. The dining-room doors were thrown open; and, as it was Christmas-time, the servants were allowed to assemble in the hall, to hear some of the ladies sing and play. Mr. Rochester would have me to come in, and I sat down in a quiet corner and watched them. I never saw a more splendid scene: the ladies were magnificently dressed; most of them--at least most of the younger ones--looked handsome; but Miss Ingram was certainly the queen." "And what was she like?" "Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders; long, graceful neck: olive complexion, dark and clear; noble features; eyes rather like Mr. Rochester's: large and black, and as brilliant as her jewels. And then she had such a fine head of hair; raven-black and so becomingly arranged: a crown of thick plaits behind, and in front the longest, the glossiest curls I ever saw. She was dressed in pure white; an amber-coloured scarf was passed over her shoulder and across her breast, tied at the side, and descending in long, fringed ends below her knee. She wore an amber-coloured flower, too, in her hair: it contrasted well with the jetty mass of her curls." "She was greatly admired, of course?" "Yes, indeed: and not only for her beauty, but for her accomplishments. She was one of the ladies who sang: a gentleman accompanied her on the piano. She and Mr. Rochester sang a duet." "Mr. Rochester? I was not aware he could sing." "Oh! he has a fine bass voice, and an excellent taste for music." "And Miss Ingram: what sort of a voice had she?" "A very rich and powerful one: she sang delightfully; it was a treat to listen to her;--and she played afterwards. I am no judge of music, but Mr. Rochester is; and I heard him say her execution was remarkably good." "And this beautiful and accomplished lady, she is not yet married?" "It appears not: I fancy neither she nor her sister have very large fortunes. Old Lord Ingram's estates were chiefly entailed, and the eldest son came in for everything almost." "But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gentleman has taken a fancy to her: Mr. Rochester, for instance. He is rich, is he not?" "Oh! yes. But you see there is a considerable difference in age: Mr. Rochester is nearly forty; she is but twenty-five." "What of that? More unequal matches are made every day." "True: yet I should scarcely fancy Mr. Rochester would entertain an idea of the sort. But you eat nothing: you have scarcely tasted since you began tea." "No: I am too thirsty to eat. Will you let me have another cup?" I was about again to revert to the probability of a union between Mr. Rochester and the beautiful Blanche; but Adele came in, and the conversation was turned into another channel. When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked into my heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and endeavoured to bring back with a strict hand such as had been straying through imagination's boundless and trackless waste, into the safe fold of common sense. Arraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the hopes, wishes, sentiments I had been cherishing since last night--of the general state of mind in which I had indulged for nearly a fortnight past; Reason having come forward and told, in her own quiet way a plain, unvarnished tale, showing how I had rejected the real, and rabidly devoured the ideal;--I pronounced judgment to this effect:-- That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life; that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar. "_You_," I said, "a favourite with Mr. Rochester? _You_ gifted with the power of pleasing him? _You_ of importance to him in any way? Go! your folly sickens me. And you have derived pleasure from occasional tokens of preference--equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of family and a man of the world to a dependent and a novice. How dared you? Poor stupid dupe!--Could not even self-interest make you wiser? You repeated to yourself this morning the brief scene of last night?--Cover your face and be ashamed! He said something in praise of your eyes, did he? Blind puppy! Open their bleared lids and look on your own accursed senselessness! It does good to no woman to be flattered by her superior, who cannot possibly intend to marry her; and it is madness in all women to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and unknown, must devour the life that feeds it; and, if discovered and responded to, must lead, _ignis-fatuus_-like, into miry wilds whence there is no extrication. "Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: to-morrow, place the glass before you, and draw in chalk your own picture, faithfully, without softening one defect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no displeasing irregularity; write under it, 'Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain.' "Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory--you have one prepared in your drawing-box: take your palette, mix your freshest, finest, clearest tints; choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils; delineate carefully the loveliest face you can imagine; paint it in your softest shades and sweetest lines, according to the description given by Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche Ingram; remember the raven ringlets, the oriental eye;--What! you revert to Mr. Rochester as a model! Order! No snivel!--no sentiment!--no regret! I will endure only sense and resolution. Recall the august yet harmonious lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust; let the round and dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omit neither diamond ring nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire, aerial lace and glistening satin, graceful scarf and golden rose; call it 'Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank.' "Whenever, in future, you should chance to fancy Mr. Rochester thinks well of you, take out these two pictures and compare them: say, 'Mr. Rochester might probably win that noble lady's love, if he chose to strive for it; is it likely he would waste a serious thought on this indigent and insignificant plebeian?'" "I'll do it," I resolved: and having framed this determination, I grew calm, and fell asleep. I kept my word. An hour or two sufficed to sketch my own portrait in crayons; and in less than a fortnight I had completed an ivory miniature of an imaginary Blanche Ingram. It looked a lovely face enough, and when compared with the real head in chalk, the contrast was as great as self- control could desire. I derived benefit from the task: it had kept my head and hands employed, and had given force and fixedness to the new impressions I wished to stamp indelibly on my heart. Ere long, I had reason to congratulate myself on the course of wholesome discipline to which I had thus forced my feelings to submit. Thanks to it, I was able to meet subsequent occurrences with a decent calm, which, had they found me unprepared, I should probably have been unequal to maintain, even externally. CHAPTER XVII A week passed, and no news arrived of Mr. Rochester: ten days, and still he did not come. Mrs. Fairfax said she should not be surprised if he were to go straight from the Leas to London, and thence to the Continent, and not show his face again at Thornfield for a year to come; he had not unfrequently quitted it in a manner quite as abrupt and unexpected. When I heard this, I was beginning to feel a strange chill and failing at the heart. I was actually permitting myself to experience a sickening sense of disappointment; but rallying my wits, and recollecting my principles, I at once called my sensations to order; and it was wonderful how I got over the temporary blunder--how I cleared up the mistake of supposing Mr. Rochester's movements a matter in which I had any cause to take a vital interest. Not that I humbled myself by a slavish notion of inferiority: on the contrary, I just said-- "You have nothing to do with the master of Thornfield, further than to receive the salary he gives you for teaching his protegee, and to be grateful for such respectful and kind treatment as, if you do your duty, you have a right to expect at his hands. Be sure that is the only tie he seriously acknowledges between you and him; so don't make him the object of your fine feelings, your raptures, agonies, and so forth. He is not of your order: keep to your caste, and be too self-respecting to lavish the love of the whole heart, soul, and strength, where such a gift is not wanted and would be despised." I went on with my day's business tranquilly; but ever and anon vague suggestions kept wandering across my brain of reasons why I should quit Thornfield; and I kept involuntarily framing advertisements and pondering conjectures about new situations: these thoughts I did not think to check; they might germinate and bear fruit if they could. Mr. Rochester had been absent upwards of a fortnight, when the post brought Mrs. Fairfax a letter. "It is from the master," said she, as she looked at the direction. "Now I suppose we shall know whether we are to expect his return or not." And while she broke the seal and perused the document, I went on taking my coffee (we were at breakfast): it was hot, and I attributed to that circumstance a fiery glow which suddenly rose to my face. Why my hand shook, and why I involuntarily spilt half the contents of my cup into my saucer, I did not choose to consider. "Well, I sometimes think we are too quiet; but we run a chance of being busy enough now: for a little while at least," said Mrs. Fairfax, still holding the note before her spectacles. Ere I permitted myself to request an explanation, I tied the string of Adele's pinafore, which happened to be loose: having helped her also to another bun and refilled her mug with milk, I said, nonchalantly-- "Mr. Rochester is not likely to return soon, I suppose?" "Indeed he is--in three days, he says: that will be next Thursday; and not alone either. I don't know how many of the fine people at the Leas are coming with him: he sends directions for all the best bedrooms to be prepared; and the library and drawing-rooms are to be cleaned out; I am to get more kitchen hands from the George Inn, at Millcote, and from wherever else I can; and the ladies will bring their maids and the gentlemen their valets: so we shall have a full house of it." And Mrs. Fairfax swallowed her breakfast and hastened away to commence operations. The three days were, as she had foretold, busy enough. I had thought all the rooms at Thornfield beautifully clean and well arranged; but it appears I was mistaken. Three women were got to help; and such scrubbing, such brushing, such washing of paint and beating of carpets, such taking down and putting up of pictures, such polishing of mirrors and lustres, such lighting of fires in bedrooms, such airing of sheets and feather-beds on hearths, I never beheld, either before or since. Adele ran quite wild in the midst of it: the preparations for company and the prospect of their arrival, seemed to throw her into ecstasies. She would have Sophie to look over all her "toilettes," as she called frocks; to furbish up any that were "_passees_," and to air and arrange the new. For herself, she did nothing but caper about in the front chambers, jump on and off the bedsteads, and lie on the mattresses and piled-up bolsters and pillows before the enormous fires roaring in the chimneys. From school duties she was exonerated: Mrs. Fairfax had pressed me into her service, and I was all day in the storeroom, helping (or hindering) her and the cook; learning to make custards and cheese-cakes and French pastry, to truss game and garnish desert-dishes. The party were expected to arrive on Thursday afternoon, in time for dinner at six. During the intervening period I had no time to nurse chimeras; and I believe I was as active and gay as anybody--Adele excepted. Still, now and then, I received a damping check to my cheerfulness; and was, in spite of myself, thrown back on the region of doubts and portents, and dark conjectures. This was when I chanced to see the third-storey staircase door (which of late had always been kept locked) open slowly, and give passage to the form of Grace Poole, in prim cap, white apron, and handkerchief; when I watched her glide along the gallery, her quiet tread muffled in a list slipper; when I saw her look into the bustling, topsy-turvy bedrooms,--just say a word, perhaps, to the charwoman about the proper way to polish a grate, or clean a marble mantelpiece, or take stains from papered walls, and then pass on. She would thus descend to the kitchen once a day, eat her dinner, smoke a moderate pipe on the hearth, and go back, carrying her pot of porter with her, for her private solace, in her own gloomy, upper haunt. Only one hour in the twenty-four did she pass with her fellow-servants below; all the rest of her time was spent in some low-ceiled, oaken chamber of the second storey: there she sat and sewed--and probably laughed drearily to herself,--as companionless as a prisoner in his dungeon. The strangest thing of all was, that not a soul in the house, except me, noticed her habits, or seemed to marvel at them: no one discussed her position or employment; no one pitied her solitude or isolation. I once, indeed, overheard part of a dialogue between Leah and one of the charwomen, of which Grace formed the subject. Leah had been saying something I had not caught, and the charwoman remarked-- "She gets good wages, I guess?" "Yes," said Leah; "I wish I had as good; not that mine are to complain of,--there's no stinginess at Thornfield; but they're not one fifth of the sum Mrs. Poole receives. And she is laying by: she goes every quarter to the bank at Millcote. I should not wonder but she has saved enough to keep her independent if she liked to leave; but I suppose she's got used to the place; and then she's not forty yet, and strong and able for anything. It is too soon for her to give up business." "She is a good hand, I daresay," said the charwoman. "Ah!--she understands what she has to do,--nobody better," rejoined Leah significantly; "and it is not every one could fill her shoes--not for all the money she gets." "That it is not!" was the reply. "I wonder whether the master--" The charwoman was going on; but here Leah turned and perceived me, and she instantly gave her companion a nudge. "Doesn't she know?" I heard the woman whisper. Leah shook her head, and the conversation was of course dropped. All I had gathered from it amounted to this,--that there was a mystery at Thornfield; and that from participation in that mystery I was purposely excluded. Thursday came: all work had been completed the previous evening; carpets were laid down, bed-hangings festooned, radiant white counterpanes spread, toilet tables arranged, furniture rubbed, flowers piled in vases: both chambers and saloons looked as fresh and bright as hands could make them. The hall, too, was scoured; and the great carved clock, as well as the steps and banisters of the staircase, were polished to the brightness of glass; in the dining-room, the sideboard flashed resplendent with plate; in the drawing-room and boudoir, vases of exotics bloomed on all sides. Afternoon arrived: Mrs. Fairfax assumed her best black satin gown, her gloves, and her gold watch; for it was her part to receive the company,--to conduct the ladies to their rooms, &c. Adele, too, would be dressed: though I thought she had little chance of being introduced to the party that day at least. However, to please her, I allowed Sophie to apparel her in one of her short, full muslin frocks. For myself, I had no need to make any change; I should not be called upon to quit my sanctum of the schoolroom; for a sanctum it was now become to me,--"a very pleasant refuge in time of trouble." It had been a mild, serene spring day--one of those days which, towards the end of March or the beginning of April, rise shining over the earth as heralds of summer. It was drawing to an end now; but the evening was even warm, and I sat at work in the schoolroom with the window open. "It gets late," said Mrs. Fairfax, entering in rustling state. "I am glad I ordered dinner an hour after the time Mr. Rochester mentioned; for it is past six now. I have sent John down to the gates to see if there is anything on the road: one can see a long way from thence in the direction of Millcote." She went to the window. "Here he is!" said she. "Well, John" (leaning out), "any news?" "They're coming, ma'am," was the answer. "They'll be here in ten minutes." Adele flew to the window. I followed, taking care to stand on one side, so that, screened by the curtain, I could see without being seen. The ten minutes John had given seemed very long, but at last wheels were heard; four equestrians galloped up the drive, and after them came two open carriages. Fluttering veils and waving plumes filled the vehicles; two of the cavaliers were young, dashing-looking gentlemen; the third was Mr. Rochester, on his black horse, Mesrour, Pilot bounding before him; at his side rode a lady, and he and she were the first of the party. Her purple riding-habit almost swept the ground, her veil streamed long on the breeze; mingling with its transparent folds, and gleaming through them, shone rich raven ringlets. "Miss Ingram!" exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax, and away she hurried to her post below. The cavalcade, following the sweep of the drive, quickly turned the angle of the house, and I lost sight of it. Adele now petitioned to go down; but I took her on my knee, and gave her to understand that she must not on any account think of venturing in sight of the ladies, either now or at any other time, unless expressly sent for: that Mr. Rochester would be very angry, &c. "Some natural tears she shed" on being told this; but as I began to look very grave, she consented at last to wipe them. A joyous stir was now audible in the hall: gentlemen's deep tones and ladies' silvery accents blent harmoniously together, and distinguishable above all, though not loud, was the sonorous voice of the master of Thornfield Hall, welcoming his fair and gallant guests under its roof. Then light steps ascended the stairs; and there was a tripping through the gallery, and soft cheerful laughs, and opening and closing doors, and, for a time, a hush. "Elles changent de toilettes," said Adele; who, listening attentively, had followed every movement; and she sighed. "Chez maman," said she, "quand il y avait du monde, je le suivais partout, au salon et a leurs chambres; souvent je regardais les femmes de chambre coiffer et habiller les dames, et c'etait si amusant: comme cela on apprend." "Don't you feel hungry, Adele?" "Mais oui, mademoiselle: voila cinq ou six heures que nous n'avons pas mange." "Well now, while the ladies are in their rooms, I will venture down and get you something to eat." And issuing from my asylum with precaution, I sought a back-stairs which conducted directly to the kitchen. All in that region was fire and commotion; the soup and fish were in the last stage of projection, and the cook hung over her crucibles in a frame of mind and body threatening spontaneous combustion. In the servants' hall two coachmen and three gentlemen's gentlemen stood or sat round the fire; the abigails, I suppose, were upstairs with their mistresses; the new servants, that had been hired from Millcote, were bustling about everywhere. Threading this chaos, I at last reached the larder; there I took possession of a cold chicken, a roll of bread, some tarts, a plate or two and a knife and fork: with this booty I made a hasty retreat. I had regained the gallery, and was just shutting the back-door behind me, when an accelerated hum warned me that the ladies were about to issue from their chambers. I could not proceed to the schoolroom without passing some of their doors, and running the risk of being surprised with my cargo of victualage; so I stood still at this end, which, being windowless, was dark: quite dark now, for the sun was set and twilight gathering. Presently the chambers gave up their fair tenants one after another: each came out gaily and airily, with dress that gleamed lustrous through the dusk. For a moment they stood grouped together at the other extremity of the gallery, conversing in a key of sweet subdued vivacity: they then descended the staircase almost as noiselessly as a bright mist rolls down a hill. Their collective appearance had left on me an impression of high- born elegance, such as I had never before received. I found Adele peeping through the schoolroom door, which she held ajar. "What beautiful ladies!" cried she in English. "Oh, I wish I might go to them! Do you think Mr. Rochester will send for us by-and-bye, after dinner?" "No, indeed, I don't; Mr. Rochester has something else to think about. Never mind the ladies to-night; perhaps you will see them to-morrow: here is your dinner." She was really hungry, so the chicken and tarts served to divert her attention for a time. It was well I secured this forage, or both she, I, and Sophie, to whom I conveyed a share of our repast, would have run a chance of getting no dinner at all: every one downstairs was too much engaged to think of us. The dessert was not carried out till after nine and at ten footmen were still running to and fro with trays and coffee- cups. I allowed Adele to sit up much later than usual; for she declared she could not possibly go to sleep while the doors kept opening and shutting below, and people bustling about. Besides, she added, a message might possibly come from Mr. Rochester when she was undressed; "et alors quel dommage!" I told her stories as long as she would listen to them; and then for a change I took her out into the gallery. The hall lamp was now lit, and it amused her to look over the balustrade and watch the servants passing backwards and forwards. When the evening was far advanced, a sound of music issued from the drawing-room, whither the piano had been removed; Adele and I sat down on the top step of the stairs to listen. Presently a voice blent with the rich tones of the instrument; it was a lady who sang, and very sweet her notes were. The solo over, a duet followed, and then a glee: a joyous conversational murmur filled up the intervals. I listened long: suddenly I discovered that my ear was wholly intent on analysing the mingled sounds, and trying to discriminate amidst the confusion of accents those of Mr. Rochester; and when it caught them, which it soon did, it found a further task in framing the tones, rendered by distance inarticulate, into words. The clock struck eleven. I looked at Adele, whose head leant against my shoulder; her eyes were waxing heavy, so I took her up in my arms and carried her off to bed. It was near one before the gentlemen and ladies sought their chambers. The next day was as fine as its predecessor: it was devoted by the party to an excursion to some site in the neighbourhood. They set out early in the forenoon, some on horseback, the rest in carriages; I witnessed both the departure and the return. Miss Ingram, as before, was the only lady equestrian; and, as before, Mr. Rochester galloped at her side; the two rode a little apart from the rest. I pointed out this circumstance to Mrs. Fairfax, who was standing at the window with me-- "You said it was not likely they should think of being married," said I, "but you see Mr. Rochester evidently prefers her to any of the other ladies." "Yes, I daresay: no doubt he admires her." "And she him," I added; "look how she leans her head towards him as if she were conversing confidentially; I wish I could see her face; I have never had a glimpse of it yet." "You will see her this evening," answered Mrs. Fairfax. "I happened to remark to Mr. Rochester how much Adele wished to be introduced to the ladies, and he said: 'Oh! let her come into the drawing-room after dinner; and request Miss Eyre to accompany her.'" "Yes; he said that from mere politeness: I need not go, I am sure," I answered. "Well, I observed to him that as you were unused to company, I did not think you would like appearing before so gay a party--all strangers; and he replied, in his quick way--'Nonsense! If she objects, tell her it is my particular wish; and if she resists, say I shall come and fetch her in case of contumacy.'" "I will not give him that trouble," I answered. "I will go, if no better may be; but I don't like it. Shall you be there, Mrs. Fairfax?" "No; I pleaded off, and he admitted my plea. I'll tell you how to manage so as to avoid the embarrassment of making a formal entrance, which is the most disagreeable part of the business. You must go into the drawing- room while it is empty, before the ladies leave the dinner-table; choose your seat in any quiet nook you like; you need not stay long after the gentlemen come in, unless you please: just let Mr. Rochester see you are there and then slip away--nobody will notice you." "Will these people remain long, do you think?" "Perhaps two or three weeks, certainly not more. After the Easter recess, Sir George Lynn, who was lately elected member for Millcote, will have to go up to town and take his seat; I daresay Mr. Rochester will accompany him: it surprises me that he has already made so protracted a stay at Thornfield." It was with some trepidation that I perceived the hour approach when I was to repair with my charge to the drawing-room. Adele had been in a state of ecstasy all day, after hearing she was to be presented to the ladies in the evening; and it was not till Sophie commenced the operation of dressing her that she sobered down. Then the importance of the process quickly steadied her, and by the time she had her curls arranged in well-smoothed, drooping clusters, her pink satin frock put on, her long sash tied, and her lace mittens adjusted, she looked as grave as any judge. No need to warn her not to disarrange her attire: when she was dressed, she sat demurely down in her little chair, taking care previously to lift up the satin skirt for fear she should crease it, and assured me she would not stir thence till I was ready. This I quickly was: my best dress (the silver-grey one, purchased for Miss Temple's wedding, and never worn since) was soon put on; my hair was soon smoothed; my sole ornament, the pearl brooch, soon assumed. We descended. Fortunately there was another entrance to the drawing-room than that through the saloon where they were all seated at dinner. We found the apartment vacant; a large fire burning silently on the marble hearth, and wax candles shining in bright solitude, amid the exquisite flowers with which the tables were adorned. The crimson curtain hung before the arch: slight as was the separation this drapery formed from the party in the adjoining saloon, they spoke in so low a key that nothing of their conversation could be distinguished beyond a soothing murmur. Adele, who appeared to be still under the influence of a most solemnising impression, sat down, without a word, on the footstool I pointed out to her. I retired to a window-seat, and taking a book from a table near, endeavoured to read. Adele brought her stool to my feet; ere long she touched my knee. "What is it, Adele?" "Est-ce que je ne puis pas prendrie une seule de ces fleurs magnifiques, mademoiselle? Seulement pour completer ma toilette." "You think too much of your 'toilette,' Adele: but you may have a flower." And I took a rose from a vase and fastened it in her sash. She sighed a sigh of ineffable satisfaction, as if her cup of happiness were now full. I turned my face away to conceal a smile I could not suppress: there was something ludicrous as well as painful in the little Parisienne's earnest and innate devotion to matters of dress. A soft sound of rising now became audible; the curtain was swept back from the arch; through it appeared the dining-room, with its lit lustre pouring down light on the silver and glass of a magnificent dessert-service covering a long table; a band of ladies stood in the opening; they entered, and the curtain fell behind them. There were but eight; yet, somehow, as they flocked in, they gave the impression of a much larger number. Some of them were very tall; many were dressed in white; and all had a sweeping amplitude of array that seemed to magnify their persons as a mist magnifies the moon. I rose and curtseyed to them: one or two bent their heads in return, the others only stared at me. They dispersed about the room, reminding me, by the lightness and buoyancy of their movements, of a flock of white plumy birds. Some of them threw themselves in half-reclining positions on the sofas and ottomans: some bent over the tables and examined the flowers and books: the rest gathered in a group round the fire: all talked in a low but clear tone which seemed habitual to them. I knew their names afterwards, and may as well mention them now. First, there was Mrs. Eshton and two of her daughters. She had evidently been a handsome woman, and was well preserved still. Of her daughters, the eldest, Amy, was rather little: naive, and child-like in face and manner, and piquant in form; her white muslin dress and blue sash became her well. The second, Louisa, was taller and more elegant in figure; with a very pretty face, of that order the French term _minois chiffone_: both sisters were fair as lilies. Lady Lynn was a large and stout personage of about forty, very erect, very haughty-looking, richly dressed in a satin robe of changeful sheen: her dark hair shone glossily under the shade of an azure plume, and within the circlet of a band of gems. Mrs. Colonel Dent was less showy; but, I thought, more lady-like. She had a slight figure, a pale, gentle face, and fair hair. Her black satin dress, her scarf of rich foreign lace, and her pearl ornaments, pleased me better than the rainbow radiance of the titled dame. But the three most distinguished--partly, perhaps, because the tallest figures of the band--were the Dowager Lady Ingram and her daughters, Blanche and Mary. They were all three of the loftiest stature of women. The Dowager might be between forty and fifty: her shape was still fine; her hair (by candle-light at least) still black; her teeth, too, were still apparently perfect. Most people would have termed her a splendid woman of her age: and so she was, no doubt, physically speaking; but then there was an expression of almost insupportable haughtiness in her bearing and countenance. She had Roman features and a double chin, disappearing into a throat like a pillar: these features appeared to me not only inflated and darkened, but even furrowed with pride; and the chin was sustained by the same principle, in a position of almost preternatural erectness. She had, likewise, a fierce and a hard eye: it reminded me of Mrs. Reed's; she mouthed her words in speaking; her voice was deep, its inflections very pompous, very dogmatical,--very intolerable, in short. A crimson velvet robe, and a shawl turban of some gold-wrought Indian fabric, invested her (I suppose she thought) with a truly imperial dignity. Blanche and Mary were of equal stature,--straight and tall as poplars. Mary was too slim for her height, but Blanche was moulded like a Dian. I regarded her, of course, with special interest. First, I wished to see whether her appearance accorded with Mrs. Fairfax's description; secondly, whether it at all resembled the fancy miniature I had painted of her; and thirdly--it will out!--whether it were such as I should fancy likely to suit Mr. Rochester's taste. As far as person went, she answered point for point, both to my picture and Mrs. Fairfax's description. The noble bust, the sloping shoulders, the graceful neck, the dark eyes and black ringlets were all there;--but her face? Her face was like her mother's; a youthful unfurrowed likeness: the same low brow, the same high features, the same pride. It was not, however, so saturnine a pride! she laughed continually; her laugh was satirical, and so was the habitual expression of her arched and haughty lip. Genius is said to be self-conscious. I cannot tell whether Miss Ingram was a genius, but she was self-conscious--remarkably self-conscious indeed. She entered into a discourse on botany with the gentle Mrs. Dent. It seemed Mrs. Dent had not studied that science: though, as she said, she liked flowers, "especially wild ones;" Miss Ingram had, and she ran over its vocabulary with an air. I presently perceived she was (what is vernacularly termed) _trailing_ Mrs. Dent; that is, playing on her ignorance--her _trail_ might be clever, but it was decidedly not good- natured. She played: her execution was brilliant; she sang: her voice was fine; she talked French apart to her mamma; and she talked it well, with fluency and with a good accent. Mary had a milder and more open countenance than Blanche; softer features too, and a skin some shades fairer (Miss Ingram was dark as a Spaniard)--but Mary was deficient in life: her face lacked expression, her eye lustre; she had nothing to say, and having once taken her seat, remained fixed like a statue in its niche. The sisters were both attired in spotless white. And did I now think Miss Ingram such a choice as Mr. Rochester would be likely to make? I could not tell--I did not know his taste in female beauty. If he liked the majestic, she was the very type of majesty: then she was accomplished, sprightly. Most gentlemen would admire her, I thought; and that he _did_ admire her, I already seemed to have obtained proof: to remove the last shade of doubt, it remained but to see them together. You are not to suppose, reader, that Adele has all this time been sitting motionless on the stool at my feet: no; when the ladies entered, she rose, advanced to meet them, made a stately reverence, and said with gravity-- "Bon jour, mesdames." And Miss Ingram had looked down at her with a mocking air, and exclaimed, "Oh, what a little puppet!" Lady Lynn had remarked, "It is Mr. Rochester's ward, I suppose--the little French girl he was speaking of." Mrs. Dent had kindly taken her hand, and given her a kiss. Amy and Louisa Eshton had cried out simultaneously--"What a love of a child!" And then they had called her to a sofa, where she now sat, ensconced between them, chattering alternately in French and broken English; absorbing not only the young ladies' attention, but that of Mrs. Eshton and Lady Lynn, and getting spoilt to her heart's content. At last coffee is brought in, and the gentlemen are summoned. I sit in the shade--if any shade there be in this brilliantly-lit apartment; the window-curtain half hides me. Again the arch yawns; they come. The collective appearance of the gentlemen, like that of the ladies, is very imposing: they are all costumed in black; most of them are tall, some young. Henry and Frederick Lynn are very dashing sparks indeed; and Colonel Dent is a fine soldierly man. Mr. Eshton, the magistrate of the district, is gentleman-like: his hair is quite white, his eyebrows and whiskers still dark, which gives him something of the appearance of a "pere noble de theatre." Lord Ingram, like his sisters, is very tall; like them, also, he is handsome; but he shares Mary's apathetic and listless look: he seems to have more length of limb than vivacity of blood or vigour of brain. And where is Mr. Rochester? He comes in last: I am not looking at the arch, yet I see him enter. I try to concentrate my attention on those netting-needles, on the meshes of the purse I am forming--I wish to think only of the work I have in my hands, to see only the silver beads and silk threads that lie in my lap; whereas, I distinctly behold his figure, and I inevitably recall the moment when I last saw it; just after I had rendered him, what he deemed, an essential service, and he, holding my hand, and looking down on my face, surveyed me with eyes that revealed a heart full and eager to overflow; in whose emotions I had a part. How near had I approached him at that moment! What had occurred since, calculated to change his and my relative positions? Yet now, how distant, how far estranged we were! So far estranged, that I did not expect him to come and speak to me. I did not wonder, when, without looking at me, he took a seat at the other side of the room, and began conversing with some of the ladies. No sooner did I see that his attention was riveted on them, and that I might gaze without being observed, than my eyes were drawn involuntarily to his face; I could not keep their lids under control: they would rise, and the irids would fix on him. I looked, and had an acute pleasure in looking,--a precious yet poignant pleasure; pure gold, with a steely point of agony: a pleasure like what the thirst-perishing man might feel who knows the well to which he has crept is poisoned, yet stoops and drinks divine draughts nevertheless. Most true is it that "beauty is in the eye of the gazer." My master's colourless, olive face, square, massive brow, broad and jetty eyebrows, deep eyes, strong features, firm, grim mouth,--all energy, decision, will,--were not beautiful, according to rule; but they were more than beautiful to me; they were full of an interest, an influence that quite mastered me,--that took my feelings from my own power and fettered them in his. I had not intended to love him; the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected; and now, at the first renewed view of him, they spontaneously arrived, green and strong! He made me love him without looking at me. I compared him with his guests. What was the gallant grace of the Lynns, the languid elegance of Lord Ingram,--even the military distinction of Colonel Dent, contrasted with his look of native pith and genuine power? I had no sympathy in their appearance, their expression: yet I could imagine that most observers would call them attractive, handsome, imposing; while they would pronounce Mr. Rochester at once harsh-featured and melancholy-looking. I saw them smile, laugh--it was nothing; the light of the candles had as much soul in it as their smile; the tinkle of the bell as much significance as their laugh. I saw Mr. Rochester smile:--his stern features softened; his eye grew both brilliant and gentle, its ray both searching and sweet. He was talking, at the moment, to Louisa and Amy Eshton. I wondered to see them receive with calm that look which seemed to me so penetrating: I expected their eyes to fall, their colour to rise under it; yet I was glad when I found they were in no sense moved. "He is not to them what he is to me," I thought: "he is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine;--I am sure he is--I feel akin to him--I understand the language of his countenance and movements: though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. Did I say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do with him but to receive my salary at his hands? Did I forbid myself to think of him in any other light than as a paymaster? Blasphemy against nature! Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him. I know I must conceal my sentiments: I must smother hope; I must remember that he cannot care much for me. For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his force to influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I have certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must, then, repeat continually that we are for ever sundered:--and yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him." Coffee is handed. The ladies, since the gentlemen entered, have become lively as larks; conversation waxes brisk and merry. Colonel Dent and Mr. Eshton argue on politics; their wives listen. The two proud dowagers, Lady Lynn and Lady Ingram, confabulate together. Sir George--whom, by-the-bye, I have forgotten to describe,--a very big, and very fresh-looking country gentleman, stands before their sofa, coffee- cup in hand, and occasionally puts in a word. Mr. Frederick Lynn has taken a seat beside Mary Ingram, and is showing her the engravings of a splendid volume: she looks, smiles now and then, but apparently says little. The tall and phlegmatic Lord Ingram leans with folded arms on the chair-back of the little and lively Amy Eshton; she glances up at him, and chatters like a wren: she likes him better than she does Mr. Rochester. Henry Lynn has taken possession of an ottoman at the feet of Louisa: Adele shares it with him: he is trying to talk French with her, and Louisa laughs at his blunders. With whom will Blanche Ingram pair? She is standing alone at the table, bending gracefully over an album. She seems waiting to be sought; but she will not wait too long: she herself selects a mate. Mr. Rochester, having quitted the Eshtons, stands on the hearth as solitary as she stands by the table: she confronts him, taking her station on the opposite side of the mantelpiece. "Mr. Rochester, I thought you were not fond of children?" "Nor am I." "Then, what induced you to take charge of such a little doll as that?" (pointing to Adele). "Where did you pick her up?" "I did not pick her up; she was left on my hands." "You should have sent her to school." "I could not afford it: schools are so dear." "Why, I suppose you have a governess for her: I saw a person with her just now--is she gone? Oh, no! there she is still, behind the window- curtain. You pay her, of course; I should think it quite as expensive,--more so; for you have them both to keep in addition." I feared--or should I say, hoped?--the allusion to me would make Mr. Rochester glance my way; and I involuntarily shrank farther into the shade: but he never turned his eyes. "I have not considered the subject," said he indifferently, looking straight before him. "No, you men never do consider economy and common sense. You should hear mama on the chapter of governesses: Mary and I have had, I should think, a dozen at least in our day; half of them detestable and the rest ridiculous, and all incubi--were they not, mama?" "Did you speak, my own?" The young lady thus claimed as the dowager's special property, reiterated her question with an explanation. "My dearest, don't mention governesses; the word makes me nervous. I have suffered a martyrdom from their incompetency and caprice. I thank Heaven I have now done with them!" Mrs. Dent here bent over to the pious lady and whispered something in her ear; I suppose, from the answer elicited, it was a reminder that one of the anathematised race was present. "Tant pis!" said her Ladyship, "I hope it may do her good!" Then, in a lower tone, but still loud enough for me to hear, "I noticed her; I am a judge of physiognomy, and in hers I see all the faults of her class." "What are they, madam?" inquired Mr. Rochester aloud. "I will tell you in your private ear," replied she, wagging her turban three times with portentous significancy. "But my curiosity will be past its appetite; it craves food now." "Ask Blanche; she is nearer you than I." "Oh, don't refer him to me, mama! I have just one word to say of the whole tribe; they are a nuisance. Not that I ever suffered much from them; I took care to turn the tables. What tricks Theodore and I used to play on our Miss Wilsons, and Mrs. Greys, and Madame Jouberts! Mary was always too sleepy to join in a plot with spirit. The best fun was with Madame Joubert: Miss Wilson was a poor sickly thing, lachrymose and low- spirited, not worth the trouble of vanquishing, in short; and Mrs. Grey was coarse and insensible; no blow took effect on her. But poor Madame Joubert! I see her yet in her raging passions, when we had driven her to extremities--spilt our tea, crumbled our bread and butter, tossed our books up to the ceiling, and played a charivari with the ruler and desk, the fender and fire-irons. Theodore, do you remember those merry days?" "Yaas, to be sure I do," drawled Lord Ingram; "and the poor old stick used to cry out 'Oh you villains childs!'--and then we sermonised her on the presumption of attempting to teach such clever blades as we were, when she was herself so ignorant." "We did; and, Tedo, you know, I helped you in prosecuting (or persecuting) your tutor, whey-faced Mr. Vining--the parson in the pip, as we used to call him. He and Miss Wilson took the liberty of falling in love with each other--at least Tedo and I thought so; we surprised sundry tender glances and sighs which we interpreted as tokens of 'la belle passion,' and I promise you the public soon had the benefit of our discovery; we employed it as a sort of lever to hoist our dead-weights from the house. Dear mama, there, as soon as she got an inkling of the business, found out that it was of an immoral tendency. Did you not, my lady-mother?" "Certainly, my best. And I was quite right: depend on that: there are a thousand reasons why liaisons between governesses and tutors should never be tolerated a moment in any well-regulated house; firstly--" "Oh, gracious, mama! Spare us the enumeration! _Au reste_, we all know them: danger of bad example to innocence of childhood; distractions and consequent neglect of duty on the part of the attached--mutual alliance and reliance; confidence thence resulting--insolence accompanying--mutiny and general blow-up. Am I right, Baroness Ingram, of Ingram Park?" "My lily-flower, you are right now, as always." "Then no more need be said: change the subject." Amy Eshton, not hearing or not heeding this dictum, joined in with her soft, infantine tone: "Louisa and I used to quiz our governess too; but she was such a good creature, she would bear anything: nothing put her out. She was never cross with us; was she, Louisa?" "No, never: we might do what we pleased; ransack her desk and her workbox, and turn her drawers inside out; and she was so good-natured, she would give us anything we asked for." "I suppose, now," said Miss Ingram, curling her lip sarcastically, "we shall have an abstract of the memoirs of all the governesses extant: in order to avert such a visitation, I again move the introduction of a new topic. Mr. Rochester, do you second my motion?" "Madam, I support you on this point, as on every other." "Then on me be the onus of bringing it forward. Signior Eduardo, are you in voice to-night?" "Donna Bianca, if you command it, I will be." "Then, signior, I lay on you my sovereign behest to furbish up your lungs and other vocal organs, as they will be wanted on my royal service." "Who would not be the Rizzio of so divine a Mary?" "A fig for Rizzio!" cried she, tossing her head with all its curls, as she moved to the piano. "It is my opinion the fiddler David must have been an insipid sort of fellow; I like black Bothwell better: to my mind a man is nothing without a spice of the devil in him; and history may say what it will of James Hepburn, but I have a notion, he was just the sort of wild, fierce, bandit hero whom I could have consented to gift with my hand." "Gentlemen, you hear! Now which of you most resembles Bothwell?" cried Mr. Rochester. "I should say the preference lies with you," responded Colonel Dent. "On my honour, I am much obliged to you," was the reply. Miss Ingram, who had now seated herself with proud grace at the piano, spreading out her snowy robes in queenly amplitude, commenced a brilliant prelude; talking meantime. She appeared to be on her high horse to-night; both her words and her air seemed intended to excite not only the admiration, but the amazement of her auditors: she was evidently bent on striking them as something very dashing and daring indeed. "Oh, I am so sick of the young men of the present day!" exclaimed she, rattling away at the instrument. "Poor, puny things, not fit to stir a step beyond papa's park gates: nor to go even so far without mama's permission and guardianship! Creatures so absorbed in care about their pretty faces, and their white hands, and their small feet; as if a man had anything to do with beauty! As if loveliness were not the special prerogative of woman--her legitimate appanage and heritage! I grant an ugly _woman_ is a blot on the fair face of creation; but as to the _gentlemen_, let them be solicitous to possess only strength and valour: let their motto be:--Hunt, shoot, and fight: the rest is not worth a fillip. Such should be my device, were I a man." "Whenever I marry," she continued after a pause which none interrupted, "I am resolved my husband shall not be a rival, but a foil to me. I will suffer no competitor near the throne; I shall exact an undivided homage: his devotions shall not be shared between me and the shape he sees in his mirror. Mr. Rochester, now sing, and I will play for you." "I am all obedience," was the response. "Here then is a Corsair-song. Know that I doat on Corsairs; and for that reason, sing it _con spirito_." "Commands from Miss Ingram's lips would put spirit into a mug of milk and water." "Take care, then: if you don't please me, I will shame you by showing how such things _should_ be done." "That is offering a premium on incapacity: I shall now endeavour to fail." "Gardez-vous en bien! If you err wilfully, I shall devise a proportionate punishment." "Miss Ingram ought to be clement, for she has it in her power to inflict a chastisement beyond mortal endurance." "Ha! explain!" commanded the lady. "Pardon me, madam: no need of explanation; your own fine sense must inform you that one of your frowns would be a sufficient substitute for capital punishment." "Sing!" said she, and again touching the piano, she commenced an accompaniment in spirited style. "Now is my time to slip away," thought I: but the tones that then severed the air arrested me. Mrs. Fairfax had said Mr. Rochester possessed a fine voice: he did--a mellow, powerful bass, into which he threw his own feeling, his own force; finding a way through the ear to the heart, and there waking sensation strangely. I waited till the last deep and full vibration had expired--till the tide of talk, checked an instant, had resumed its flow; I then quitted my sheltered corner and made my exit by the side-door, which was fortunately near. Thence a narrow passage led into the hall: in crossing it, I perceived my sandal was loose; I stopped to tie it, kneeling down for that purpose on the mat at the foot of the staircase. I heard the dining-room door unclose; a gentleman came out; rising hastily, I stood face to face with him: it was Mr. Rochester. "How do you do?" he asked. "I am very well, sir." "Why did you not come and speak to me in the room?" I thought I might have retorted the question on him who put it: but I would not take that freedom. I answered-- "I did not wish to disturb you, as you seemed engaged, sir." "What have you been doing during my absence?" "Nothing particular; teaching Adele as usual." "And getting a good deal paler than you were--as I saw at first sight. What is the matter?" "Nothing at all, sir." "Did you take any cold that night you half drowned me?" "Not the least." "Return to the drawing-room: you are deserting too early." "I am tired, sir." He looked at me for a minute. "And a little depressed," he said. "What about? Tell me." "Nothing--nothing, sir. I am not depressed." "But I affirm that you are: so much depressed that a few more words would bring tears to your eyes--indeed, they are there now, shining and swimming; and a bead has slipped from the lash and fallen on to the flag. If I had time, and was not in mortal dread of some prating prig of a servant passing, I would know what all this means. Well, to-night I excuse you; but understand that so long as my visitors stay, I expect you to appear in the drawing-room every evening; it is my wish; don't neglect it. Now go, and send Sophie for Adele. Good-night, my--" He stopped, bit his lip, and abruptly left me. CHAPTER XVIII Merry days were these at Thornfield Hall; and busy days too: how different from the first three months of stillness, monotony, and solitude I had passed beneath its roof! All sad feelings seemed now driven from the house, all gloomy associations forgotten: there was life everywhere, movement all day long. You could not now traverse the gallery, once so hushed, nor enter the front chambers, once so tenantless, without encountering a smart lady's-maid or a dandy valet. The kitchen, the butler's pantry, the servants' hall, the entrance hall, were equally alive; and the saloons were only left void and still when the blue sky and halcyon sunshine of the genial spring weather called their occupants out into the grounds. Even when that weather was broken, and continuous rain set in for some days, no damp seemed cast over enjoyment: indoor amusements only became more lively and varied, in consequence of the stop put to outdoor gaiety. I wondered what they were going to do the first evening a change of entertainment was proposed: they spoke of "playing charades," but in my ignorance I did not understand the term. The servants were called in, the dining-room tables wheeled away, the lights otherwise disposed, the chairs placed in a semicircle opposite the arch. While Mr. Rochester and the other gentlemen directed these alterations, the ladies were running up and down stairs ringing for their maids. Mrs. Fairfax was summoned to give information respecting the resources of the house in shawls, dresses, draperies of any kind; and certain wardrobes of the third storey were ransacked, and their contents, in the shape of brocaded and hooped petticoats, satin sacques, black modes, lace lappets, &c., were brought down in armfuls by the abigails; then a selection was made, and such things as were chosen were carried to the boudoir within the drawing-room. Meantime, Mr. Rochester had again summoned the ladies round him, and was selecting certain of their number to be of his party. "Miss Ingram is mine, of course," said he: afterwards he named the two Misses Eshton, and Mrs. Dent. He looked at me: I happened to be near him, as I had been fastening the clasp of Mrs. Dent's bracelet, which had got loose. "Will you play?" he asked. I shook my head. He did not insist, which I rather feared he would have done; he allowed me to return quietly to my usual seat. He and his aids now withdrew behind the curtain: the other party, which was headed by Colonel Dent, sat down on the crescent of chairs. One of the gentlemen, Mr. Eshton, observing me, seemed to propose that I should be asked to join them; but Lady Ingram instantly negatived the notion. "No," I heard her say: "she looks too stupid for any game of the sort." Ere long a bell tinkled, and the curtain drew up. Within the arch, the bulky figure of Sir George Lynn, whom Mr. Rochester had likewise chosen, was seen enveloped in a white sheet: before him, on a table, lay open a large book; and at his side stood Amy Eshton, draped in Mr. Rochester's cloak, and holding a book in her hand. Somebody, unseen, rang the bell merrily; then Adele (who had insisted on being one of her guardian's party), bounded forward, scattering round her the contents of a basket of flowers she carried on her arm. Then appeared the magnificent figure of Miss Ingram, clad in white, a long veil on her head, and a wreath of roses round her brow; by her side walked Mr. Rochester, and together they drew near the table. They knelt; while Mrs. Dent and Louisa Eshton, dressed also in white, took up their stations behind them. A ceremony followed, in dumb show, in which it was easy to recognise the pantomime of a marriage. At its termination, Colonel Dent and his party consulted in whispers for two minutes, then the Colonel called out-- "Bride!" Mr. Rochester bowed, and the curtain fell. A considerable interval elapsed before it again rose. Its second rising displayed a more elaborately prepared scene than the last. The drawing- room, as I have before observed, was raised two steps above the dining- room, and on the top of the upper step, placed a yard or two back within the room, appeared a large marble basin--which I recognised as an ornament of the conservatory--where it usually stood, surrounded by exotics, and tenanted by gold fish--and whence it must have been transported with some trouble, on account of its size and weight. Seated on the carpet, by the side of this basin, was seen Mr. Rochester, costumed in shawls, with a turban on his head. His dark eyes and swarthy skin and Paynim features suited the costume exactly: he looked the very model of an Eastern emir, an agent or a victim of the bowstring. Presently advanced into view Miss Ingram. She, too, was attired in oriental fashion: a crimson scarf tied sash-like round the waist: an embroidered handkerchief knotted about her temples; her beautifully-moulded arms bare, one of them upraised in the act of supporting a pitcher, poised gracefully on her head. Both her cast of form and feature, her complexion and her general air, suggested the idea of some Israelitish princess of the patriarchal days; and such was doubtless the character she intended to represent. She approached the basin, and bent over it as if to fill her pitcher; she again lifted it to her head. The personage on the well-brink now seemed to accost her; to make some request:--"She hasted, let down her pitcher on her hand, and gave him to drink." From the bosom of his robe he then produced a casket, opened it and showed magnificent bracelets and earrings; she acted astonishment and admiration; kneeling, he laid the treasure at her feet; incredulity and delight were expressed by her looks and gestures; the stranger fastened the bracelets on her arms and the rings in her ears. It was Eliezer and Rebecca: the camels only were wanting. The divining party again laid their heads together: apparently they could not agree about the word or syllable the scene illustrated. Colonel Dent, their spokesman, demanded "the tableau of the whole;" whereupon the curtain again descended. On its third rising only a portion of the drawing-room was disclosed; the rest being concealed by a screen, hung with some sort of dark and coarse drapery. The marble basin was removed; in its place, stood a deal table and a kitchen chair: these objects were visible by a very dim light proceeding from a horn lantern, the wax candles being all extinguished. Amidst this sordid scene, sat a man with his clenched hands resting on his knees, and his eyes bent on the ground. I knew Mr. Rochester; though the begrimed face, the disordered dress (his coat hanging loose from one arm, as if it had been almost torn from his back in a scuffle), the desperate and scowling countenance, the rough, bristling hair might well have disguised him. As he moved, a chain clanked; to his wrists were attached fetters. "Bridewell!" exclaimed Colonel Dent, and the charade was solved. A sufficient interval having elapsed for the performers to resume their ordinary costume, they re-entered the dining-room. Mr. Rochester led in Miss Ingram; she was complimenting him on his acting. "Do you know," said she, "that, of the three characters, I liked you in the last best? Oh, had you but lived a few years earlier, what a gallant gentleman-highwayman you would have made!" "Is all the soot washed from my face?" he asked, turning it towards her. "Alas! yes: the more's the pity! Nothing could be more becoming to your complexion than that ruffian's rouge." "You would like a hero of the road then?" "An English hero of the road would be the next best thing to an Italian bandit; and that could only be surpassed by a Levantine pirate." "Well, whatever I am, remember you are my wife; we were married an hour since, in the presence of all these witnesses." She giggled, and her colour rose. "Now, Dent," continued Mr. Rochester, "it is your turn." And as the other party withdrew, he and his band took the vacated seats. Miss Ingram placed herself at her leader's right hand; the other diviners filled the chairs on each side of him and her. I did not now watch the actors; I no longer waited with interest for the curtain to rise; my attention was absorbed by the spectators; my eyes, erewhile fixed on the arch, were now irresistibly attracted to the semicircle of chairs. What charade Colonel Dent and his party played, what word they chose, how they acquitted themselves, I no longer remember; but I still see the consultation which followed each scene: I see Mr. Rochester turn to Miss Ingram, and Miss Ingram to him; I see her incline her head towards him, till the jetty curls almost touch his shoulder and wave against his cheek; I hear their mutual whisperings; I recall their interchanged glances; and something even of the feeling roused by the spectacle returns in memory at this moment. I have told you, reader, that I had learnt to love Mr. Rochester: I could not unlove him now, merely because I found that he had ceased to notice me--because I might pass hours in his presence, and he would never once turn his eyes in my direction--because I saw all his attentions appropriated by a great lady, who scorned to touch me with the hem of her robes as she passed; who, if ever her dark and imperious eye fell on me by chance, would withdraw it instantly as from an object too mean to merit observation. I could not unlove him, because I felt sure he would soon marry this very lady--because I read daily in her a proud security in his intentions respecting her--because I witnessed hourly in him a style of courtship which, if careless and choosing rather to be sought than to seek, was yet, in its very carelessness, captivating, and in its very pride, irresistible. There was nothing to cool or banish love in these circumstances, though much to create despair. Much too, you will think, reader, to engender jealousy: if a woman, in my position, could presume to be jealous of a woman in Miss Ingram's. But I was not jealous: or very rarely;--the nature of the pain I suffered could not be explained by that word. Miss Ingram was a mark beneath jealousy: she was too inferior to excite the feeling. Pardon the seeming paradox; I mean what I say. She was very showy, but she was not genuine: she had a fine person, many brilliant attainments; but her mind was poor, her heart barren by nature: nothing bloomed spontaneously on that soil; no unforced natural fruit delighted by its freshness. She was not good; she was not original: she used to repeat sounding phrases from books: she never offered, nor had, an opinion of her own. She advocated a high tone of sentiment; but she did not know the sensations of sympathy and pity; tenderness and truth were not in her. Too often she betrayed this, by the undue vent she gave to a spiteful antipathy she had conceived against little Adele: pushing her away with some contumelious epithet if she happened to approach her; sometimes ordering her from the room, and always treating her with coldness and acrimony. Other eyes besides mine watched these manifestations of character--watched them closely, keenly, shrewdly. Yes; the future bridegroom, Mr. Rochester himself, exercised over his intended a ceaseless surveillance; and it was from this sagacity--this guardedness of his--this perfect, clear consciousness of his fair one's defects--this obvious absence of passion in his sentiments towards her, that my ever- torturing pain arose. I saw he was going to marry her, for family, perhaps political reasons, because her rank and connections suited him; I felt he had not given her his love, and that her qualifications were ill adapted to win from him that treasure. This was the point--this was where the nerve was touched and teased--this was where the fever was sustained and fed: _she could not charm him_. If she had managed the victory at once, and he had yielded and sincerely laid his heart at her feet, I should have covered my face, turned to the wall, and (figuratively) have died to them. If Miss Ingram had been a good and noble woman, endowed with force, fervour, kindness, sense, I should have had one vital struggle with two tigers--jealousy and despair: then, my heart torn out and devoured, I should have admired her--acknowledged her excellence, and been quiet for the rest of my days: and the more absolute her superiority, the deeper would have been my admiration--the more truly tranquil my quiescence. But as matters really stood, to watch Miss Ingram's efforts at fascinating Mr. Rochester, to witness their repeated failure--herself unconscious that they did fail; vainly fancying that each shaft launched hit the mark, and infatuatedly pluming herself on success, when her pride and self-complacency repelled further and further what she wished to allure--to witness _this_, was to be at once under ceaseless excitation and ruthless restraint. Because, when she failed, I saw how she might have succeeded. Arrows that continually glanced off from Mr. Rochester's breast and fell harmless at his feet, might, I knew, if shot by a surer hand, have quivered keen in his proud heart--have called love into his stern eye, and softness into his sardonic face; or, better still, without weapons a silent conquest might have been won. "Why can she not influence him more, when she is privileged to draw so near to him?" I asked myself. "Surely she cannot truly like him, or not like him with true affection! If she did, she need not coin her smiles so lavishly, flash her glances so unremittingly, manufacture airs so elaborate, graces so multitudinous. It seems to me that she might, by merely sitting quietly at his side, saying little and looking less, get nigher his heart. I have seen in his face a far different expression from that which hardens it now while she is so vivaciously accosting him; but then it came of itself: it was not elicited by meretricious arts and calculated manoeuvres; and one had but to accept it--to answer what he asked without pretension, to address him when needful without grimace--and it increased and grew kinder and more genial, and warmed one like a fostering sunbeam. How will she manage to please him when they are married? I do not think she will manage it; and yet it might be managed; and his wife might, I verily believe, be the very happiest woman the sun shines on." I have not yet said anything condemnatory of Mr. Rochester's project of marrying for interest and connections. It surprised me when I first discovered that such was his intention: I had thought him a man unlikely to be influenced by motives so commonplace in his choice of a wife; but the longer I considered the position, education, &c., of the parties, the less I felt justified in judging and blaming either him or Miss Ingram for acting in conformity to ideas and principles instilled into them, doubtless, from their childhood. All their class held these principles: I supposed, then, they had reasons for holding them such as I could not fathom. It seemed to me that, were I a gentleman like him, I would take to my bosom only such a wife as I could love; but the very obviousness of the advantages to the husband's own happiness offered by this plan convinced me that there must be arguments against its general adoption of which I was quite ignorant: otherwise I felt sure all the world would act as I wished to act. But in other points, as well as this, I was growing very lenient to my master: I was forgetting all his faults, for which I had once kept a sharp look-out. It had formerly been my endeavour to study all sides of his character: to take the bad with the good; and from the just weighing of both, to form an equitable judgment. Now I saw no bad. The sarcasm that had repelled, the harshness that had startled me once, were only like keen condiments in a choice dish: their presence was pungent, but their absence would be felt as comparatively insipid. And as for the vague something--was it a sinister or a sorrowful, a designing or a desponding expression?--that opened upon a careful observer, now and then, in his eye, and closed again before one could fathom the strange depth partially disclosed; that something which used to make me fear and shrink, as if I had been wandering amongst volcanic-looking hills, and had suddenly felt the ground quiver and seen it gape: that something, I, at intervals, beheld still; and with throbbing heart, but not with palsied nerves. Instead of wishing to shun, I longed only to dare--to divine it; and I thought Miss Ingram happy, because one day she might look into the abyss at her leisure, explore its secrets and analyse their nature. Meantime, while I thought only of my master and his future bride--saw only them, heard only their discourse, and considered only their movements of importance--the rest of the party were occupied with their own separate interests and pleasures. The Ladies Lynn and Ingram continued to consort in solemn conferences, where they nodded their two turbans at each other, and held up their four hands in confronting gestures of surprise, or mystery, or horror, according to the theme on which their gossip ran, like a pair of magnified puppets. Mild Mrs. Dent talked with good-natured Mrs. Eshton; and the two sometimes bestowed a courteous word or smile on me. Sir George Lynn, Colonel Dent, and Mr. Eshton discussed politics, or county affairs, or justice business. Lord Ingram flirted with Amy Eshton; Louisa played and sang to and with one of the Messrs. Lynn; and Mary Ingram listened languidly to the gallant speeches of the other. Sometimes all, as with one consent, suspended their by-play to observe and listen to the principal actors: for, after all, Mr. Rochester and--because closely connected with him--Miss Ingram were the life and soul of the party. If he was absent from the room an hour, a perceptible dulness seemed to steal over the spirits of his guests; and his re-entrance was sure to give a fresh impulse to the vivacity of conversation. The want of his animating influence appeared to be peculiarly felt one day that he had been summoned to Millcote on business, and was not likely to return till late. The afternoon was wet: a walk the party had proposed to take to see a gipsy camp, lately pitched on a common beyond Hay, was consequently deferred. Some of the gentlemen were gone to the stables: the younger ones, together with the younger ladies, were playing billiards in the billiard-room. The dowagers Ingram and Lynn sought solace in a quiet game at cards. Blanche Ingram, after having repelled, by supercilious taciturnity, some efforts of Mrs. Dent and Mrs. Eshton to draw her into conversation, had first murmured over some sentimental tunes and airs on the piano, and then, having fetched a novel from the library, had flung herself in haughty listlessness on a sofa, and prepared to beguile, by the spell of fiction, the tedious hours of absence. The room and the house were silent: only now and then the merriment of the billiard-players was heard from above. It was verging on dusk, and the clock had already given warning of the hour to dress for dinner, when little Adele, who knelt by me in the drawing-room window-seat, suddenly exclaimed-- "Voila, Monsieur Rochester, qui revient!" I turned, and Miss Ingram darted forwards from her sofa: the others, too, looked up from their several occupations; for at the same time a crunching of wheels and a splashing tramp of horse-hoofs became audible on the wet gravel. A post-chaise was approaching. "What can possess him to come home in that style?" said Miss Ingram. "He rode Mesrour (the black horse), did he not, when he went out? and Pilot was with him:--what has he done with the animals?" As she said this, she approached her tall person and ample garments so near the window, that I was obliged to bend back almost to the breaking of my spine: in her eagerness she did not observe me at first, but when she did, she curled her lip and moved to another casement. The post-chaise stopped; the driver rang the door-bell, and a gentleman alighted attired in travelling garb; but it was not Mr. Rochester; it was a tall, fashionable-looking man, a stranger. "How provoking!" exclaimed Miss Ingram: "you tiresome monkey!" (apostrophising Adele), "who perched you up in the window to give false intelligence?" and she cast on me an angry glance, as if I were in fault. Some parleying was audible in the hall, and soon the new-comer entered. He bowed to Lady Ingram, as deeming her the eldest lady present. "It appears I come at an inopportune time, madam," said he, "when my friend, Mr. Rochester, is from home; but I arrive from a very long journey, and I think I may presume so far on old and intimate acquaintance as to instal myself here till he returns." His manner was polite; his accent, in speaking, struck me as being somewhat unusual,--not precisely foreign, but still not altogether English: his age might be about Mr. Rochester's,--between thirty and forty; his complexion was singularly sallow: otherwise he was a fine-looking man, at first sight especially. On closer examination, you detected something in his face that displeased, or rather that failed to please. His features were regular, but too relaxed: his eye was large and well cut, but the life looking out of it was a tame, vacant life--at least so I thought. The sound of the dressing-bell dispersed the party. It was not till after dinner that I saw him again: he then seemed quite at his ease. But I liked his physiognomy even less than before: it struck me as being at the same time unsettled and inanimate. His eye wandered, and had no meaning in its wandering: this gave him an odd look, such as I never remembered to have seen. For a handsome and not an unamiable-looking man, he repelled me exceedingly: there was no power in that smooth-skinned face of a full oval shape: no firmness in that aquiline nose and small cherry mouth; there was no thought on the low, even forehead; no command in that blank, brown eye. As I sat in my usual nook, and looked at him with the light of the girandoles on the mantelpiece beaming full over him--for he occupied an arm-chair drawn close to the fire, and kept shrinking still nearer, as if he were cold, I compared him with Mr. Rochester. I think (with deference be it spoken) the contrast could not be much greater between a sleek gander and a fierce falcon: between a meek sheep and the rough-coated keen-eyed dog, its guardian. He had spoken of Mr. Rochester as an old friend. A curious friendship theirs must have been: a pointed illustration, indeed, of the old adage that "extremes meet." Two or three of the gentlemen sat near him, and I caught at times scraps of their conversation across the room. At first I could not make much sense of what I heard; for the discourse of Louisa Eshton and Mary Ingram, who sat nearer to me, confused the fragmentary sentences that reached me at intervals. These last were discussing the stranger; they both called him "a beautiful man." Louisa said he was "a love of a creature," and she "adored him;" and Mary instanced his "pretty little mouth, and nice nose," as her ideal of the charming. "And what a sweet-tempered forehead he has!" cried Louisa,--"so smooth--none of those frowning irregularities I dislike so much; and such a placid eye and smile!" And then, to my great relief, Mr. Henry Lynn summoned them to the other side of the room, to settle some point about the deferred excursion to Hay Common. I was now able to concentrate my attention on the group by the fire, and I presently gathered that the new-comer was called Mr. Mason; then I learned that he was but just arrived in England, and that he came from some hot country: which was the reason, doubtless, his face was so sallow, and that he sat so near the hearth, and wore a surtout in the house. Presently the words Jamaica, Kingston, Spanish Town, indicated the West Indies as his residence; and it was with no little surprise I gathered, ere long, that he had there first seen and become acquainted with Mr. Rochester. He spoke of his friend's dislike of the burning heats, the hurricanes, and rainy seasons of that region. I knew Mr. Rochester had been a traveller: Mrs. Fairfax had said so; but I thought the continent of Europe had bounded his wanderings; till now I had never heard a hint given of visits to more distant shores. I was pondering these things, when an incident, and a somewhat unexpected one, broke the thread of my musings. Mr. Mason, shivering as some one chanced to open the door, asked for more coal to be put on the fire, which had burnt out its flame, though its mass of cinder still shone hot and red. The footman who brought the coal, in going out, stopped near Mr. Eshton's chair, and said something to him in a low voice, of which I heard only the words, "old woman,"--"quite troublesome." "Tell her she shall be put in the stocks if she does not take herself off," replied the magistrate. "No--stop!" interrupted Colonel Dent. "Don't send her away, Eshton; we might turn the thing to account; better consult the ladies." And speaking aloud, he continued--"Ladies, you talked of going to Hay Common to visit the gipsy camp; Sam here says that one of the old Mother Bunches is in the servants' hall at this moment, and insists upon being brought in before 'the quality,' to tell them their fortunes. Would you like to see her?" "Surely, colonel," cried Lady Ingram, "you would not encourage such a low impostor? Dismiss her, by all means, at once!" "But I cannot persuade her to go away, my lady," said the footman; "nor can any of the servants: Mrs. Fairfax is with her just now, entreating her to be gone; but she has taken a chair in the chimney-corner, and says nothing shall stir her from it till she gets leave to come in here." "What does she want?" asked Mrs. Eshton. "'To tell the gentry their fortunes,' she says, ma'am; and she swears she must and will do it." "What is she like?" inquired the Misses Eshton, in a breath. "A shockingly ugly old creature, miss; almost as black as a crock." "Why, she's a real sorceress!" cried Frederick Lynn. "Let us have her in, of course." "To be sure," rejoined his brother; "it would be a thousand pities to throw away such a chance of fun." "My dear boys, what are you thinking about?" exclaimed Mrs. Lynn. "I cannot possibly countenance any such inconsistent proceeding," chimed in the Dowager Ingram. "Indeed, mama, but you can--and will," pronounced the haughty voice of Blanche, as she turned round on the piano-stool; where till now she had sat silent, apparently examining sundry sheets of music. "I have a curiosity to hear my fortune told: therefore, Sam, order the beldame forward." "My darling Blanche! recollect--" "I do--I recollect all you can suggest; and I must have my will--quick, Sam!" "Yes--yes--yes!" cried all the juveniles, both ladies and gentlemen. "Let her come--it will be excellent sport!" The footman still lingered. "She looks such a rough one," said he. "Go!" ejaculated Miss Ingram, and the man went. Excitement instantly seized the whole party: a running fire of raillery and jests was proceeding when Sam returned. "She won't come now," said he. "She says it's not her mission to appear before the 'vulgar herd' (them's her words). I must show her into a room by herself, and then those who wish to consult her must go to her one by one." "You see now, my queenly Blanche," began Lady Ingram, "she encroaches. Be advised, my angel girl--and--" "Show her into the library, of course," cut in the "angel girl." "It is not my mission to listen to her before the vulgar herd either: I mean to have her all to myself. Is there a fire in the library?" "Yes, ma'am--but she looks such a tinkler." "Cease that chatter, blockhead! and do my bidding." Again Sam vanished; and mystery, animation, expectation rose to full flow once more. "She's ready now," said the footman, as he reappeared. "She wishes to know who will be her first visitor." "I think I had better just look in upon her before any of the ladies go," said Colonel Dent. "Tell her, Sam, a gentleman is coming." Sam went and returned. "She says, sir, that she'll have no gentlemen; they need not trouble themselves to come near her; nor," he added, with difficulty suppressing a titter, "any ladies either, except the young, and single." "By Jove, she has taste!" exclaimed Henry Lynn. Miss Ingram rose solemnly: "I go first," she said, in a tone which might have befitted the leader of a forlorn hope, mounting a breach in the van of his men. "Oh, my best! oh, my dearest! pause--reflect!" was her mama's cry; but she swept past her in stately silence, passed through the door which Colonel Dent held open, and we heard her enter the library. A comparative silence ensued. Lady Ingram thought it "le cas" to wring her hands: which she did accordingly. Miss Mary declared she felt, for her part, she never dared venture. Amy and Louisa Eshton tittered under their breath, and looked a little frightened. The minutes passed very slowly: fifteen were counted before the library- door again opened. Miss Ingram returned to us through the arch. Would she laugh? Would she take it as a joke? All eyes met her with a glance of eager curiosity, and she met all eyes with one of rebuff and coldness; she looked neither flurried nor merry: she walked stiffly to her seat, and took it in silence. "Well, Blanche?" said Lord Ingram. "What did she say, sister?" asked Mary. "What did you think? How do you feel?--Is she a real fortune-teller?" demanded the Misses Eshton. "Now, now, good people," returned Miss Ingram, "don't press upon me. Really your organs of wonder and credulity are easily excited: you seem, by the importance of you all--my good mama included--ascribe to this matter, absolutely to believe we have a genuine witch in the house, who is in close alliance with the old gentleman. I have seen a gipsy vagabond; she has practised in hackneyed fashion the science of palmistry and told me what such people usually tell. My whim is gratified; and now I think Mr. Eshton will do well to put the hag in the stocks to-morrow morning, as he threatened." Miss Ingram took a book, leant back in her chair, and so declined further conversation. I watched her for nearly half-an-hour: during all that time she never turned a page, and her face grew momently darker, more dissatisfied, and more sourly expressive of disappointment. She had obviously not heard anything to her advantage: and it seemed to me, from her prolonged fit of gloom and taciturnity, that she herself, notwithstanding her professed indifference, attached undue importance to whatever revelations had been made her. {During all that time she never turned a page: p184.jpg} Meantime, Mary Ingram, Amy and Louisa Eshton, declared they dared not go alone; and yet they all wished to go. A negotiation was opened through the medium of the ambassador, Sam; and after much pacing to and fro, till, I think, the said Sam's calves must have ached with the exercise, permission was at last, with great difficulty, extorted from the rigorous Sibyl, for the three to wait upon her in a body. Their visit was not so still as Miss Ingram's had been: we heard hysterical giggling and little shrieks proceeding from the library; and at the end of about twenty minutes they burst the door open, and came running across the hall, as if they were half-scared out of their wits. "I am sure she is something not right!" they cried, one and all. "She told us such things! She knows all about us!" and they sank breathless into the various seats the gentlemen hastened to bring them. Pressed for further explanation, they declared she had told them of things they had said and done when they were mere children; described books and ornaments they had in their boudoirs at home: keepsakes that different relations had presented to them. They affirmed that she had even divined their thoughts, and had whispered in the ear of each the name of the person she liked best in the world, and informed them of what they most wished for. Here the gentlemen interposed with earnest petitions to be further enlightened on these two last-named points; but they got only blushes, ejaculations, tremors, and titters, in return for their importunity. The matrons, meantime, offered vinaigrettes and wielded fans; and again and again reiterated the expression of their concern that their warning had not been taken in time; and the elder gentlemen laughed, and the younger urged their services on the agitated fair ones. In the midst of the tumult, and while my eyes and ears were fully engaged in the scene before me, I heard a hem close at my elbow: I turned, and saw Sam. "If you please, miss, the gipsy declares that there is another young single lady in the room who has not been to her yet, and she swears she will not go till she has seen all. I thought it must be you: there is no one else for it. What shall I tell her?" "Oh, I will go by all means," I answered: and I was glad of the unexpected opportunity to gratify my much-excited curiosity. I slipped out of the room, unobserved by any eye--for the company were gathered in one mass about the trembling trio just returned--and I closed the door quietly behind me. "If you like, miss," said Sam, "I'll wait in the hall for you; and if she frightens you, just call and I'll come in." "No, Sam, return to the kitchen: I am not in the least afraid." Nor was I; but I was a good deal interested and excited. CHAPTER XIX The library looked tranquil enough as I entered it, and the Sibyl--if Sibyl she were--was seated snugly enough in an easy-chair at the chimney- corner. She had on a red cloak and a black bonnet: or rather, a broad- brimmed gipsy hat, tied down with a striped handkerchief under her chin. An extinguished candle stood on the table; she was bending over the fire, and seemed reading in a little black book, like a prayer-book, by the light of the blaze: she muttered the words to herself, as most old women do, while she read; she did not desist immediately on my entrance: it appeared she wished to finish a paragraph. I stood on the rug and warmed my hands, which were rather cold with sitting at a distance from the drawing-room fire. I felt now as composed as ever I did in my life: there was nothing indeed in the gipsy's appearance to trouble one's calm. She shut her book and slowly looked up; her hat-brim partially shaded her face, yet I could see, as she raised it, that it was a strange one. It looked all brown and black: elf- locks bristled out from beneath a white band which passed under her chin, and came half over her cheeks, or rather jaws: her eye confronted me at once, with a bold and direct gaze. "Well, and you want your fortune told?" she said, in a voice as decided as her glance, as harsh as her features. "I don't care about it, mother; you may please yourself: but I ought to warn you, I have no faith." "It's like your impudence to say so: I expected it of you; I heard it in your step as you crossed the threshold." "Did you? You've a quick ear." "I have; and a quick eye and a quick brain." "You need them all in your trade." "I do; especially when I've customers like you to deal with. Why don't you tremble?" "I'm not cold." "Why don't you turn pale?" "I am not sick." "Why don't you consult my art?" "I'm not silly." The old crone "nichered" a laugh under her bonnet and bandage; she then drew out a short black pipe, and lighting it began to smoke. Having indulged a while in this sedative, she raised her bent body, took the pipe from her lips, and while gazing steadily at the fire, said very deliberately--"You are cold; you are sick; and you are silly." "Prove it," I rejoined. "I will, in few words. You are cold, because you are alone: no contact strikes the fire from you that is in you. You are sick; because the best of feelings, the highest and the sweetest given to man, keeps far away from you. You are silly, because, suffer as you may, you will not beckon it to approach, nor will you stir one step to meet it where it waits you." She again put her short black pipe to her lips, and renewed her smoking with vigour. "You might say all that to almost any one who you knew lived as a solitary dependent in a great house." "I might say it to almost any one: but would it be true of almost any one?" "In my circumstances." "Yes; just so, in _your_ circumstances: but find me another precisely placed as you are." "It would be easy to find you thousands." "You could scarcely find me one. If you knew it, you are peculiarly situated: very near happiness; yes, within reach of it. The materials are all prepared; there only wants a movement to combine them. Chance laid them somewhat apart; let them be once approached and bliss results." "I don't understand enigmas. I never could guess a riddle in my life." "If you wish me to speak more plainly, show me your palm." "And I must cross it with silver, I suppose?" "To be sure." I gave her a shilling: she put it into an old stocking-foot which she took out of her pocket, and having tied it round and returned it, she told me to hold out my hand. I did. She approached her face to the palm, and pored over it without touching it. "It is too fine," said she. "I can make nothing of such a hand as that; almost without lines: besides, what is in a palm? Destiny is not written there." "I believe you," said I. "No," she continued, "it is in the face: on the forehead, about the eyes, in the lines of the mouth. Kneel, and lift up your head." "Ah! now you are coming to reality," I said, as I obeyed her. "I shall begin to put some faith in you presently." I knelt within half a yard of her. She stirred the fire, so that a ripple of light broke from the disturbed coal: the glare, however, as she sat, only threw her face into deeper shadow: mine, it illumined. "I wonder with what feelings you came to me to-night," she said, when she had examined me a while. "I wonder what thoughts are busy in your heart during all the hours you sit in yonder room with the fine people flitting before you like shapes in a magic-lantern: just as little sympathetic communion passing between you and them as if they were really mere shadows of human forms, and not the actual substance." "I feel tired often, sleepy sometimes, but seldom sad." "Then you have some secret hope to buoy you up and please you with whispers of the future?" "Not I. The utmost I hope is, to save money enough out of my earnings to set up a school some day in a little house rented by myself." "A mean nutriment for the spirit to exist on: and sitting in that window- seat (you see I know your habits )--" "You have learned them from the servants." "Ah! you think yourself sharp. Well, perhaps I have: to speak truth, I have an acquaintance with one of them, Mrs. Poole--" I started to my feet when I heard the name. "You have--have you?" thought I; "there is diablerie in the business after all, then!" "Don't be alarmed," continued the strange being; "she's a safe hand is Mrs. Poole: close and quiet; any one may repose confidence in her. But, as I was saying: sitting in that window-seat, do you think of nothing but your future school? Have you no present interest in any of the company who occupy the sofas and chairs before you? Is there not one face you study? one figure whose movements you follow with at least curiosity?" "I like to observe all the faces and all the figures." "But do you never single one from the rest--or it may be, two?" "I do frequently; when the gestures or looks of a pair seem telling a tale: it amuses me to watch them." "What tale do you like best to hear?" "Oh, I have not much choice! They generally run on the same theme--courtship; and promise to end in the same catastrophe--marriage." "And do you like that monotonous theme?" "Positively, I don't care about it: it is nothing to me." "Nothing to you? When a lady, young and full of life and health, charming with beauty and endowed with the gifts of rank and fortune, sits and smiles in the eyes of a gentleman you--" "I what?" "You know--and perhaps think well of." "I don't know the gentlemen here. I have scarcely interchanged a syllable with one of them; and as to thinking well of them, I consider some respectable, and stately, and middle-aged, and others young, dashing, handsome, and lively: but certainly they are all at liberty to be the recipients of whose smiles they please, without my feeling disposed to consider the transaction of any moment to me." "You don't know the gentlemen here? You have not exchanged a syllable with one of them? Will you say that of the master of the house!" "He is not at home." "A profound remark! A most ingenious quibble! He went to Millcote this morning, and will be back here to-night or to-morrow: does that circumstance exclude him from the list of your acquaintance--blot him, as it were, out of existence?" "No; but I can scarcely see what Mr. Rochester has to do with the theme you had introduced." "I was talking of ladies smiling in the eyes of gentlemen; and of late so many smiles have been shed into Mr. Rochester's eyes that they overflow like two cups filled above the brim: have you never remarked that?" "Mr. Rochester has a right to enjoy the society of his guests." "No question about his right: but have you never observed that, of all the tales told here about matrimony, Mr. Rochester has been favoured with the most lively and the most continuous?" "The eagerness of a listener quickens the tongue of a narrator." I said this rather to myself than to the gipsy, whose strange talk, voice, manner, had by this time wrapped me in a kind of dream. One unexpected sentence came from her lips after another, till I got involved in a web of mystification; and wondered what unseen spirit had been sitting for weeks by my heart watching its workings and taking record of every pulse. "Eagerness of a listener!" repeated she: "yes; Mr. Rochester has sat by the hour, his ear inclined to the fascinating lips that took such delight in their task of communicating; and Mr. Rochester was so willing to receive and looked so grateful for the pastime given him; you have noticed this?" "Grateful! I cannot remember detecting gratitude in his face." "Detecting! You have analysed, then. And what did you detect, if not gratitude?" I said nothing. "You have seen love: have you not?--and, looking forward, you have seen him married, and beheld his bride happy?" "Humph! Not exactly. Your witch's skill is rather at fault sometimes." "What the devil have you seen, then?" "Never mind: I came here to inquire, not to confess. Is it known that Mr. Rochester is to be married?" "Yes; and to the beautiful Miss Ingram." "Shortly?" "Appearances would warrant that conclusion: and, no doubt (though, with an audacity that wants chastising out of you, you seem to question it), they will be a superlatively happy pair. He must love such a handsome, noble, witty, accomplished lady; and probably she loves him, or, if not his person, at least his purse. I know she considers the Rochester estate eligible to the last degree; though (God pardon me!) I told her something on that point about an hour ago which made her look wondrous grave: the corners of her mouth fell half an inch. I would advise her blackaviced suitor to look out: if another comes, with a longer or clearer rent-roll,--he's dished--" "But, mother, I did not come to hear Mr. Rochester's fortune: I came to hear my own; and you have told me nothing of it." "Your fortune is yet doubtful: when I examined your face, one trait contradicted another. Chance has meted you a measure of happiness: that I know. I knew it before I came here this evening. She has laid it carefully on one side for you. I saw her do it. It depends on yourself to stretch out your hand, and take it up: but whether you will do so, is the problem I study. Kneel again on the rug." "Don't keep me long; the fire scorches me." {She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed, leaning back in her chair: p190.jpg} I knelt. She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed, leaning back in her chair. She began muttering,-- "The flame flickers in the eye; the eye shines like dew; it looks soft and full of feeling; it smiles at my jargon: it is susceptible; impression follows impression through its clear sphere; where it ceases to smile, it is sad; an unconscious lassitude weighs on the lid: that signifies melancholy resulting from loneliness. It turns from me; it will not suffer further scrutiny; it seems to deny, by a mocking glance, the truth of the discoveries I have already made,--to disown the charge both of sensibility and chagrin: its pride and reserve only confirm me in my opinion. The eye is favourable. "As to the mouth, it delights at times in laughter; it is disposed to impart all that the brain conceives; though I daresay it would be silent on much the heart experiences. Mobile and flexible, it was never intended to be compressed in the eternal silence of solitude: it is a mouth which should speak much and smile often, and have human affection for its interlocutor. That feature too is propitious. "I see no enemy to a fortunate issue but in the brow; and that brow professes to say,--'I can live alone, if self-respect, and circumstances require me so to do. I need not sell my soul to buy bliss. I have an inward treasure born with me, which can keep me alive if all extraneous delights should be withheld, or offered only at a price I cannot afford to give.' The forehead declares, 'Reason sits firm and holds the reins, and she will not let the feelings burst away and hurry her to wild chasms. The passions may rage furiously, like true heathens, as they are; and the desires may imagine all sorts of vain things: but judgment shall still have the last word in every argument, and the casting vote in every decision. Strong wind, earthquake-shock, and fire may pass by: but I shall follow the guiding of that still small voice which interprets the dictates of conscience.' "Well said, forehead; your declaration shall be respected. I have formed my plans--right plans I deem them--and in them I have attended to the claims of conscience, the counsels of reason. I know how soon youth would fade and bloom perish, if, in the cup of bliss offered, but one dreg of shame, or one flavour of remorse were detected; and I do not want sacrifice, sorrow, dissolution--such is not my taste. I wish to foster, not to blight--to earn gratitude, not to wring tears of blood--no, nor of brine: my harvest must be in smiles, in endearments, in sweet--That will do. I think I rave in a kind of exquisite delirium. I should wish now to protract this moment _ad infinitum_; but I dare not. So far I have governed myself thoroughly. I have acted as I inwardly swore I would act; but further might try me beyond my strength. Rise, Miss Eyre: leave me; the play is played out'." Where was I? Did I wake or sleep? Had I been dreaming? Did I dream still? The old woman's voice had changed: her accent, her gesture, and all were familiar to me as my own face in a glass--as the speech of my own tongue. I got up, but did not go. I looked; I stirred the fire, and I looked again: but she drew her bonnet and her bandage closer about her face, and again beckoned me to depart. The flame illuminated her hand stretched out: roused now, and on the alert for discoveries, I at once noticed that hand. It was no more the withered limb of eld than my own; it was a rounded supple member, with smooth fingers, symmetrically turned; a broad ring flashed on the little finger, and stooping forward, I looked at it, and saw a gem I had seen a hundred times before. Again I looked at the face; which was no longer turned from me--on the contrary, the bonnet was doffed, the bandage displaced, the head advanced. "Well, Jane, do you know me?" asked the familiar voice. "Only take off the red cloak, sir, and then--" "But the string is in a knot--help me." "Break it, sir." "There, then--'Off, ye lendings!'" And Mr. Rochester stepped out of his disguise. "Now, sir, what a strange idea!" "But well carried out, eh? Don't you think so?" "With the ladies you must have managed well." "But not with you?" "You did not act the character of a gipsy with me." "What character did I act? My own?" "No; some unaccountable one. In short, I believe you have been trying to draw me out--or in; you have been talking nonsense to make me talk nonsense. It is scarcely fair, sir." "Do you forgive me, Jane?" "I cannot tell till I have thought it all over. If, on reflection, I find I have fallen into no great absurdity, I shall try to forgive you; but it was not right." "Oh, you have been very correct--very careful, very sensible." I reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had. It was a comfort; but, indeed, I had been on my guard almost from the beginning of the interview. Something of masquerade I suspected. I knew gipsies and fortune-tellers did not express themselves as this seeming old woman had expressed herself; besides I had noted her feigned voice, her anxiety to conceal her features. But my mind had been running on Grace Poole--that living enigma, that mystery of mysteries, as I considered her. I had never thought of Mr. Rochester. "Well," said he, "what are you musing about? What does that grave smile signify?" "Wonder and self-congratulation, sir. I have your permission to retire now, I suppose?" "No; stay a moment; and tell me what the people in the drawing-room yonder are doing." "Discussing the gipsy, I daresay." "Sit down!--Let me hear what they said about me." "I had better not stay long, sir; it must be near eleven o'clock. Oh, are you aware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger has arrived here since you left this morning?" "A stranger!--no; who can it be? I expected no one; is he gone?" "No; he said he had known you long, and that he could take the liberty of installing himself here till you returned." "The devil he did! Did he give his name?" "His name is Mason, sir; and he comes from the West Indies; from Spanish Town, in Jamaica, I think." Mr. Rochester was standing near me; he had taken my hand, as if to lead me to a chair. As I spoke he gave my wrist a convulsive grip; the smile on his lips froze: apparently a spasm caught his breath. "Mason!--the West Indies!" he said, in the tone one might fancy a speaking automaton to enounce its single words; "Mason!--the West Indies!" he reiterated; and he went over the syllables three times, growing, in the intervals of speaking, whiter than ashes: he hardly seemed to know what he was doing. "Do you feel ill, sir?" I inquired. "Jane, I've got a blow; I've got a blow, Jane!" He staggered. "Oh, lean on me, sir." "Jane, you offered me your shoulder once before; let me have it now." "Yes, sir, yes; and my arm." He sat down, and made me sit beside him. Holding my hand in both his own, he chafed it; gazing on me, at the same time, with the most troubled and dreary look. "My little friend!" said he, "I wish I were in a quiet island with only you; and trouble, and danger, and hideous recollections removed from me." "Can I help you, sir?--I'd give my life to serve you." "Jane, if aid is wanted, I'll seek it at your hands; I promise you that." "Thank you, sir. Tell me what to do,--I'll try, at least, to do it." "Fetch me now, Jane, a glass of wine from the dining-room: they will be at supper there; and tell me if Mason is with them, and what he is doing." I went. I found all the party in the dining-room at supper, as Mr. Rochester had said; they were not seated at table,--the supper was arranged on the sideboard; each had taken what he chose, and they stood about here and there in groups, their plates and glasses in their hands. Every one seemed in high glee; laughter and conversation were general and animated. Mr. Mason stood near the fire, talking to Colonel and Mrs. Dent, and appeared as merry as any of them. I filled a wine-glass (I saw Miss Ingram watch me frowningly as I did so: she thought I was taking a liberty, I daresay), and I returned to the library. Mr. Rochester's extreme pallor had disappeared, and he looked once more firm and stern. He took the glass from my hand. "Here is to your health, ministrant spirit!" he said. He swallowed the contents and returned it to me. "What are they doing, Jane?" "Laughing and talking, sir." "They don't look grave and mysterious, as if they had heard something strange?" "Not at all: they are full of jests and gaiety." "And Mason?" "He was laughing too." "If all these people came in a body and spat at me, what would you do, Jane?" "Turn them out of the room, sir, if I could." He half smiled. "But if I were to go to them, and they only looked at me coldly, and whispered sneeringly amongst each other, and then dropped off and left me one by one, what then? Would you go with them?" "I rather think not, sir: I should have more pleasure in staying with you." "To comfort me?" "Yes, sir, to comfort you, as well as I could." "And if they laid you under a ban for adhering to me?" "I, probably, should know nothing about their ban; and if I did, I should care nothing about it." "Then, you could dare censure for my sake?" "I could dare it for the sake of any friend who deserved my adherence; as you, I am sure, do." "Go back now into the room; step quietly up to Mason, and whisper in his ear that Mr. Rochester is come and wishes to see him: show him in here and then leave me." "Yes, sir." I did his behest. The company all stared at me as I passed straight among them. I sought Mr. Mason, delivered the message, and preceded him from the room: I ushered him into the library, and then I went upstairs. At a late hour, after I had been in bed some time, I heard the visitors repair to their chambers: I distinguished Mr. Rochester's voice, and heard him say, "This way, Mason; this is your room." He spoke cheerfully: the gay tones set my heart at ease. I was soon asleep. CHAPTER XX I had forgotten to draw my curtain, which I usually did, and also to let down my window-blind. The consequence was, that when the moon, which was full and bright (for the night was fine), came in her course to that space in the sky opposite my casement, and looked in at me through the unveiled panes, her glorious gaze roused me. Awaking in the dead of night, I opened my eyes on her disk--silver-white and crystal clear. It was beautiful, but too solemn; I half rose, and stretched my arm to draw the curtain. Good God! What a cry! The night--its silence--its rest, was rent in twain by a savage, a sharp, a shrilly sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield Hall. My pulse stopped: my heart stood still; my stretched arm was paralysed. The cry died, and was not renewed. Indeed, whatever being uttered that fearful shriek could not soon repeat it: not the widest-winged condor on the Andes could, twice in succession, send out such a yell from the cloud shrouding his eyrie. The thing delivering such utterance must rest ere it could repeat the effort. It came out of the third storey; for it passed overhead. And overhead--yes, in the room just above my chamber-ceiling--I now heard a struggle: a deadly one it seemed from the noise; and a half-smothered voice shouted-- "Help! help! help!" three times rapidly. "Will no one come?" it cried; and then, while the staggering and stamping went on wildly, I distinguished through plank and plaster:-- "Rochester! Rochester! for God's sake, come!" A chamber-door opened: some one ran, or rushed, along the gallery. Another step stamped on the flooring above and something fell; and there was silence. I had put on some clothes, though horror shook all my limbs; I issued from my apartment. The sleepers were all aroused: ejaculations, terrified murmurs sounded in every room; door after door unclosed; one looked out and another looked out; the gallery filled. Gentlemen and ladies alike had quitted their beds; and "Oh! what is it?"--"Who is hurt?"--"What has happened?"--"Fetch a light!"--"Is it fire?"--"Are there robbers?"--"Where shall we run?" was demanded confusedly on all hands. But for the moonlight they would have been in complete darkness. They ran to and fro; they crowded together: some sobbed, some stumbled: the confusion was inextricable. "Where the devil is Rochester?" cried Colonel Dent. "I cannot find him in his bed." "Here! here!" was shouted in return. "Be composed, all of you: I'm coming." And the door at the end of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester advanced with a candle: he had just descended from the upper storey. One of the ladies ran to him directly; she seized his arm: it was Miss Ingram. "What awful event has taken place?" said she. "Speak! let us know the worst at once!" "But don't pull me down or strangle me," he replied: for the Misses Eshton were clinging about him now; and the two dowagers, in vast white wrappers, were bearing down on him like ships in full sail. "All's right!--all's right!" he cried. "It's a mere rehearsal of Much Ado about Nothing. Ladies, keep off, or I shall wax dangerous." And dangerous he looked: his black eyes darted sparks. Calming himself by an effort, he added-- "A servant has had the nightmare; that is all. She's an excitable, nervous person: she construed her dream into an apparition, or something of that sort, no doubt; and has taken a fit with fright. Now, then, I must see you all back into your rooms; for, till the house is settled, she cannot be looked after. Gentlemen, have the goodness to set the ladies the example. Miss Ingram, I am sure you will not fail in evincing superiority to idle terrors. Amy and Louisa, return to your nests like a pair of doves, as you are. Mesdames" (to the dowagers), "you will take cold to a dead certainty, if you stay in this chill gallery any longer." And so, by dint of alternate coaxing and commanding, he contrived to get them all once more enclosed in their separate dormitories. I did not wait to be ordered back to mine, but retreated unnoticed, as unnoticed I had left it. Not, however, to go to bed: on the contrary, I began and dressed myself carefully. The sounds I had heard after the scream, and the words that had been uttered, had probably been heard only by me; for they had proceeded from the room above mine: but they assured me that it was not a servant's dream which had thus struck horror through the house; and that the explanation Mr. Rochester had given was merely an invention framed to pacify his guests. I dressed, then, to be ready for emergencies. When dressed, I sat a long time by the window looking out over the silent grounds and silvered fields and waiting for I knew not what. It seemed to me that some event must follow the strange cry, struggle, and call. No: stillness returned: each murmur and movement ceased gradually, and in about an hour Thornfield Hall was again as hushed as a desert. It seemed that sleep and night had resumed their empire. Meantime the moon declined: she was about to set. Not liking to sit in the cold and darkness, I thought I would lie down on my bed, dressed as I was. I left the window, and moved with little noise across the carpet; as I stooped to take off my shoes, a cautious hand tapped low at the door. "Am I wanted?" I asked. "Are you up?" asked the voice I expected to hear, viz., my master's. "Yes, sir." "And dressed?" "Yes." "Come out, then, quietly." I obeyed. Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a light. "I want you," he said: "come this way: take your time, and make no noise." My slippers were thin: I could walk the matted floor as softly as a cat. He glided up the gallery and up the stairs, and stopped in the dark, low corridor of the fateful third storey: I had followed and stood at his side. "Have you a sponge in your room?" he asked in a whisper. "Yes, sir." "Have you any salts--volatile salts?" "Yes." "Go back and fetch both." I returned, sought the sponge on the washstand, the salts in my drawer, and once more retraced my steps. He still waited; he held a key in his hand: approaching one of the small, black doors, he put it in the lock; he paused, and addressed me again. "You don't turn sick at the sight of blood?" "I think I shall not: I have never been tried yet." I felt a thrill while I answered him; but no coldness, and no faintness. "Just give me your hand," he said: "it will not do to risk a fainting fit." I put my fingers into his. "Warm and steady," was his remark: he turned the key and opened the door. I saw a room I remembered to have seen before, the day Mrs. Fairfax showed me over the house: it was hung with tapestry; but the tapestry was now looped up in one part, and there was a door apparent, which had then been concealed. This door was open; a light shone out of the room within: I heard thence a snarling, snatching sound, almost like a dog quarrelling. Mr. Rochester, putting down his candle, said to me, "Wait a minute," and he went forward to the inner apartment. A shout of laughter greeted his entrance; noisy at first, and terminating in Grace Poole's own goblin ha! ha! _She_ then was there. He made some sort of arrangement without speaking, though I heard a low voice address him: he came out and closed the door behind him. "Here, Jane!" he said; and I walked round to the other side of a large bed, which with its drawn curtains concealed a considerable portion of the chamber. An easy-chair was near the bed-head: a man sat in it, dressed with the exception of his coat; he was still; his head leant back; his eyes were closed. Mr. Rochester held the candle over him; I recognised in his pale and seemingly lifeless face--the stranger, Mason: I saw too that his linen on one side, and one arm, was almost soaked in blood. "Hold the candle," said Mr. Rochester, and I took it: he fetched a basin of water from the washstand: "Hold that," said he. I obeyed. He took the sponge, dipped it in, and moistened the corpse-like face; he asked for my smelling-bottle, and applied it to the nostrils. Mr. Mason shortly unclosed his eyes; he groaned. Mr. Rochester opened the shirt of the wounded man, whose arm and shoulder were bandaged: he sponged away blood, trickling fast down. "Is there immediate danger?" murmured Mr. Mason. "Pooh! No--a mere scratch. Don't be so overcome, man: bear up! I'll fetch a surgeon for you now, myself: you'll be able to be removed by morning, I hope. Jane," he continued. "Sir?" "I shall have to leave you in this room with this gentleman, for an hour, or perhaps two hours: you will sponge the blood as I do when it returns: if he feels faint, you will put the glass of water on that stand to his lips, and your salts to his nose. You will not speak to him on any pretext--and--Richard, it will be at the peril of your life if you speak to her: open your lips--agitate yourself--and I'll not answer for the consequences." Again the poor man groaned; he looked as if he dared not move; fear, either of death or of something else, appeared almost to paralyse him. Mr. Rochester put the now bloody sponge into my hand, and I proceeded to use it as he had done. He watched me a second, then saying, "Remember!--No conversation," he left the room. I experienced a strange feeling as the key grated in the lock, and the sound of his retreating step ceased to be heard. Here then I was in the third storey, fastened into one of its mystic cells; night around me; a pale and bloody spectacle under my eyes and hands; a murderess hardly separated from me by a single door: yes--that was appalling--the rest I could bear; but I shuddered at the thought of Grace Poole bursting out upon me. I must keep to my post, however. I must watch this ghastly countenance--these blue, still lips forbidden to unclose--these eyes now shut, now opening, now wandering through the room, now fixing on me, and ever glazed with the dulness of horror. I must dip my hand again and again in the basin of blood and water, and wipe away the trickling gore. I must see the light of the unsnuffed candle wane on my employment; the shadows darken on the wrought, antique tapestry round me, and grow black under the hangings of the vast old bed, and quiver strangely over the doors of a great cabinet opposite--whose front, divided into twelve panels, bore, in grim design, the heads of the twelve apostles, each enclosed in its separate panel as in a frame; while above them at the top rose an ebon crucifix and a dying Christ. According as the shifting obscurity and flickering gleam hovered here or glanced there, it was now the bearded physician, Luke, that bent his brow; now St. John's long hair that waved; and anon the devilish face of Judas, that grew out of the panel, and seemed gathering life and threatening a revelation of the arch-traitor--of Satan himself--in his subordinate's form. Amidst all this, I had to listen as well as watch: to listen for the movements of the wild beast or the fiend in yonder side den. But since Mr. Rochester's visit it seemed spellbound: all the night I heard but three sounds at three long intervals,--a step creak, a momentary renewal of the snarling, canine noise, and a deep human groan. Then my own thoughts worried me. What crime was this that lived incarnate in this sequestered mansion, and could neither be expelled nor subdued by the owner?--what mystery, that broke out now in fire and now in blood, at the deadest hours of night? What creature was it, that, masked in an ordinary woman's face and shape, uttered the voice, now of a mocking demon, and anon of a carrion-seeking bird of prey? And this man I bent over--this commonplace, quiet stranger--how had he become involved in the web of horror? and why had the Fury flown at him? What made him seek this quarter of the house at an untimely season, when he should have been asleep in bed? I had heard Mr. Rochester assign him an apartment below--what brought him here! And why, now, was he so tame under the violence or treachery done him? Why did he so quietly submit to the concealment Mr. Rochester enforced? Why _did_ Mr. Rochester enforce this concealment? His guest had been outraged, his own life on a former occasion had been hideously plotted against; and both attempts he smothered in secrecy and sank in oblivion! Lastly, I saw Mr. Mason was submissive to Mr. Rochester; that the impetuous will of the latter held complete sway over the inertness of the former: the few words which had passed between them assured me of this. It was evident that in their former intercourse, the passive disposition of the one had been habitually influenced by the active energy of the other: whence then had arisen Mr. Rochester's dismay when he heard of Mr. Mason's arrival? Why had the mere name of this unresisting individual--whom his word now sufficed to control like a child--fallen on him, a few hours since, as a thunderbolt might fall on an oak? Oh! I could not forget his look and his paleness when he whispered: "Jane, I have got a blow--I have got a blow, Jane." I could not forget how the arm had trembled which he rested on my shoulder: and it was no light matter which could thus bow the resolute spirit and thrill the vigorous frame of Fairfax Rochester. "When will he come? When will he come?" I cried inwardly, as the night lingered and lingered--as my bleeding patient drooped, moaned, sickened: and neither day nor aid arrived. I had, again and again, held the water to Mason's white lips; again and again offered him the stimulating salts: my efforts seemed ineffectual: either bodily or mental suffering, or loss of blood, or all three combined, were fast prostrating his strength. He moaned so, and looked so weak, wild, and lost, I feared he was dying; and I might not even speak to him. The candle, wasted at last, went out; as it expired, I perceived streaks of grey light edging the window curtains: dawn was then approaching. Presently I heard Pilot bark far below, out of his distant kennel in the courtyard: hope revived. Nor was it unwarranted: in five minutes more the grating key, the yielding lock, warned me my watch was relieved. It could not have lasted more than two hours: many a week has seemed shorter. Mr. Rochester entered, and with him the surgeon he had been to fetch. "Now, Carter, be on the alert," he said to this last: "I give you but half-an-hour for dressing the wound, fastening the bandages, getting the patient downstairs and all." "But is he fit to move, sir?" "No doubt of it; it is nothing serious; he is nervous, his spirits must be kept up. Come, set to work." Mr. Rochester drew back the thick curtain, drew up the holland blind, let in all the daylight he could; and I was surprised and cheered to see how far dawn was advanced: what rosy streaks were beginning to brighten the east. Then he approached Mason, whom the surgeon was already handling. "Now, my good fellow, how are you?" he asked. "She's done for me, I fear," was the faint reply. "Not a whit!--courage! This day fortnight you'll hardly be a pin the worse of it: you've lost a little blood; that's all. Carter, assure him there's no danger." "I can do that conscientiously," said Carter, who had now undone the bandages; "only I wish I could have got here sooner: he would not have bled so much--but how is this? The flesh on the shoulder is torn as well as cut. This wound was not done with a knife: there have been teeth here!" "She bit me," he murmured. "She worried me like a tigress, when Rochester got the knife from her." "You should not have yielded: you should have grappled with her at once," said Mr. Rochester. "But under such circumstances, what could one do?" returned Mason. "Oh, it was frightful!" he added, shuddering. "And I did not expect it: she looked so quiet at first." "I warned you," was his friend's answer; "I said--be on your guard when you go near her. Besides, you might have waited till to-morrow, and had me with you: it was mere folly to attempt the interview to-night, and alone." "I thought I could have done some good." "You thought! you thought! Yes, it makes me impatient to hear you: but, however, you have suffered, and are likely to suffer enough for not taking my advice; so I'll say no more. Carter--hurry!--hurry! The sun will soon rise, and I must have him off." "Directly, sir; the shoulder is just bandaged. I must look to this other wound in the arm: she has had her teeth here too, I think." "She sucked the blood: she said she'd drain my heart," said Mason. I saw Mr. Rochester shudder: a singularly marked expression of disgust, horror, hatred, warped his countenance almost to distortion; but he only said-- "Come, be silent, Richard, and never mind her gibberish: don't repeat it." "I wish I could forget it," was the answer. "You will when you are out of the country: when you get back to Spanish Town, you may think of her as dead and buried--or rather, you need not think of her at all." "Impossible to forget this night!" "It is not impossible: have some energy, man. You thought you were as dead as a herring two hours since, and you are all alive and talking now. There!--Carter has done with you or nearly so; I'll make you decent in a trice. Jane" (he turned to me for the first time since his re-entrance), "take this key: go down into my bedroom, and walk straight forward into my dressing-room: open the top drawer of the wardrobe and take out a clean shirt and neck-handkerchief: bring them here; and be nimble." I went; sought the repository he had mentioned, found the articles named, and returned with them. "Now," said he, "go to the other side of the bed while I order his toilet; but don't leave the room: you may be wanted again." I retired as directed. "Was anybody stirring below when you went down, Jane?" inquired Mr. Rochester presently. "No, sir; all was very still." "We shall get you off cannily, Dick: and it will be better, both for your sake, and for that of the poor creature in yonder. I have striven long to avoid exposure, and I should not like it to come at last. Here, Carter, help him on with his waist-coat. Where did you leave your furred cloak? You can't travel a mile without that, I know, in this damned cold climate. In your room?--Jane, run down to Mr. Mason's room,--the one next mine,--and fetch a cloak you will see there." Again I ran, and again returned, bearing an immense mantle lined and edged with fur. "Now, I've another errand for you," said my untiring master; "you must away to my room again. What a mercy you are shod with velvet, Jane!--a clod-hopping messenger would never do at this juncture. You must open the middle drawer of my toilet-table and take out a little phial and a little glass you will find there,--quick!" I flew thither and back, bringing the desired vessels. "That's well! Now, doctor, I shall take the liberty of administering a dose myself, on my own responsibility. I got this cordial at Rome, of an Italian charlatan--a fellow you would have kicked, Carter. It is not a thing to be used indiscriminately, but it is good upon occasion: as now, for instance. Jane, a little water." He held out the tiny glass, and I half filled it from the water-bottle on the washstand. "That will do;--now wet the lip of the phial." I did so; he measured twelve drops of a crimson liquid, and presented it to Mason. "Drink, Richard: it will give you the heart you lack, for an hour or so." "But will it hurt me?--is it inflammatory?" "Drink! drink! drink!" Mr. Mason obeyed, because it was evidently useless to resist. He was dressed now: he still looked pale, but he was no longer gory and sullied. Mr. Rochester let him sit three minutes after he had swallowed the liquid; he then took his arm-- "Now I am sure you can get on your feet," he said--"try." The patient rose. "Carter, take him under the other shoulder. Be of good cheer, Richard; step out--that's it!" "I do feel better," remarked Mr. Mason. "I am sure you do. Now, Jane, trip on before us away to the backstairs; unbolt the side-passage door, and tell the driver of the post-chaise you will see in the yard--or just outside, for I told him not to drive his rattling wheels over the pavement--to be ready; we are coming: and, Jane, if any one is about, come to the foot of the stairs and hem." It was by this time half-past five, and the sun was on the point of rising; but I found the kitchen still dark and silent. The side-passage door was fastened; I opened it with as little noise as possible: all the yard was quiet; but the gates stood wide open, and there was a post-chaise, with horses ready harnessed, and driver seated on the box, stationed outside. I approached him, and said the gentlemen were coming; he nodded: then I looked carefully round and listened. The stillness of early morning slumbered everywhere; the curtains were yet drawn over the servants' chamber windows; little birds were just twittering in the blossom-blanched orchard trees, whose boughs drooped like white garlands over the wall enclosing one side of the yard; the carriage horses stamped from time to time in their closed stables: all else was still. The gentlemen now appeared. Mason, supported by Mr. Rochester and the surgeon, seemed to walk with tolerable ease: they assisted him into the chaise; Carter followed. "Take care of him," said Mr. Rochester to the latter, "and keep him at your house till he is quite well: I shall ride over in a day or two to see how he gets on. Richard, how is it with you?" "The fresh air revives me, Fairfax." "Leave the window open on his side, Carter; there is no wind--good-bye, Dick." "Fairfax--" "Well what is it?" "Let her be taken care of; let her be treated as tenderly as may be: let her--" he stopped and burst into tears. "I do my best; and have done it, and will do it," was the answer: he shut up the chaise door, and the vehicle drove away. "Yet would to God there was an end of all this!" added Mr. Rochester, as he closed and barred the heavy yard-gates. This done, he moved with slow step and abstracted air towards a door in the wall bordering the orchard. I, supposing he had done with me, prepared to return to the house; again, however, I heard him call "Jane!" He had opened the portal and stood at it, waiting for me. "Come where there is some freshness, for a few moments," he said; "that house is a mere dungeon: don't you feel it so?" "It seems to me a splendid mansion, sir." "The glamour of inexperience is over your eyes," he answered; "and you see it through a charmed medium: you cannot discern that the gilding is slime and the silk draperies cobwebs; that the marble is sordid slate, and the polished woods mere refuse chips and scaly bark. Now _here_" (he pointed to the leafy enclosure we had entered) "all is real, sweet, and pure." He strayed down a walk edged with box, with apple trees, pear trees, and cherry trees on one side, and a border on the other full of all sorts of old-fashioned flowers, stocks, sweet-williams, primroses, pansies, mingled with southernwood, sweet-briar, and various fragrant herbs. They were fresh now as a succession of April showers and gleams, followed by a lovely spring morning, could make them: the sun was just entering the dappled east, and his light illumined the wreathed and dewy orchard trees and shone down the quiet walks under them. "Jane, will you have a flower?" He gathered a half-blown rose, the first on the bush, and offered it to me. "Thank you, sir." "Do you like this sunrise, Jane? That sky with its high and light clouds which are sure to melt away as the day waxes warm--this placid and balmly atmosphere?" "I do, very much." "You have passed a strange night, Jane." "Yes, sir." "And it has made you look pale--were you afraid when I left you alone with Mason?" "I was afraid of some one coming out of the inner room." "But I had fastened the door--I had the key in my pocket: I should have been a careless shepherd if I had left a lamb--my pet lamb--so near a wolf's den, unguarded: you were safe." "Will Grace Poole live here still, sir?" "Oh yes! don't trouble your head about her--put the thing out of your thoughts." "Yet it seems to me your life is hardly secure while she stays." "Never fear--I will take care of myself." "Is the danger you apprehended last night gone by now, sir?" "I cannot vouch for that till Mason is out of England: nor even then. To live, for me, Jane, is to stand on a crater-crust which may crack and spue fire any day." "But Mr. Mason seems a man easily led. Your influence, sir, is evidently potent with him: he will never set you at defiance or wilfully injure you." "Oh, no! Mason will not defy me; nor, knowing it, will he hurt me--but, unintentionally, he might in a moment, by one careless word, deprive me, if not of life, yet for ever of happiness." "Tell him to be cautious, sir: let him know what you fear, and show him how to avert the danger." He laughed sardonically, hastily took my hand, and as hastily threw it from him. "If I could do that, simpleton, where would the danger be? Annihilated in a moment. Ever since I have known Mason, I have only had to say to him 'Do that,' and the thing has been done. But I cannot give him orders in this case: I cannot say 'Beware of harming me, Richard;' for it is imperative that I should keep him ignorant that harm to me is possible. Now you look puzzled; and I will puzzle you further. You are my little friend, are you not?" "I like to serve you, sir, and to obey you in all that is right." "Precisely: I see you do. I see genuine contentment in your gait and mien, your eye and face, when you are helping me and pleasing me--working for me, and with me, in, as you characteristically say, '_all that is right_:' for if I bid you do what you thought wrong, there would be no light-footed running, no neat-handed alacrity, no lively glance and animated complexion. My friend would then turn to me, quiet and pale, and would say, 'No, sir; that is impossible: I cannot do it, because it is wrong;' and would become immutable as a fixed star. Well, you too have power over me, and may injure me: yet I dare not show you where I am vulnerable, lest, faithful and friendly as you are, you should transfix me at once." "If you have no more to fear from Mr. Mason than you have from me, sir, you are very safe." "God grant it may be so! Here, Jane, is an arbour; sit down." The arbour was an arch in the wall, lined with ivy; it contained a rustic seat. Mr. Rochester took it, leaving room, however, for me: but I stood before him. "Sit," he said; "the bench is long enough for two. You don't hesitate to take a place at my side, do you? Is that wrong, Jane?" I answered him by assuming it: to refuse would, I felt, have been unwise. "Now, my little friend, while the sun drinks the dew--while all the flowers in this old garden awake and expand, and the birds fetch their young ones' breakfast out of the Thornfield, and the early bees do their first spell of work--I'll put a case to you, which you must endeavour to suppose your own: but first, look at me, and tell me you are at ease, and not fearing that I err in detaining you, or that you err in staying." "No, sir; I am content." "Well then, Jane, call to aid your fancy:--suppose you were no longer a girl well reared and disciplined, but a wild boy indulged from childhood upwards; imagine yourself in a remote foreign land; conceive that you there commit a capital error, no matter of what nature or from what motives, but one whose consequences must follow you through life and taint all your existence. Mind, I don't say a _crime_; I am not speaking of shedding of blood or any other guilty act, which might make the perpetrator amenable to the law: my word is _error_. The results of what you have done become in time to you utterly insupportable; you take measures to obtain relief: unusual measures, but neither unlawful nor culpable. Still you are miserable; for hope has quitted you on the very confines of life: your sun at noon darkens in an eclipse, which you feel will not leave it till the time of setting. Bitter and base associations have become the sole food of your memory: you wander here and there, seeking rest in exile: happiness in pleasure--I mean in heartless, sensual pleasure--such as dulls intellect and blights feeling. Heart-weary and soul-withered, you come home after years of voluntary banishment: you make a new acquaintance--how or where no matter: you find in this stranger much of the good and bright qualities which you have sought for twenty years, and never before encountered; and they are all fresh, healthy, without soil and without taint. Such society revives, regenerates: you feel better days come back--higher wishes, purer feelings; you desire to recommence your life, and to spend what remains to you of days in a way more worthy of an immortal being. To attain this end, are you justified in overleaping an obstacle of custom--a mere conventional impediment which neither your conscience sanctifies nor your judgment approves?" He paused for an answer: and what was I to say? Oh, for some good spirit to suggest a judicious and satisfactory response! Vain aspiration! The west wind whispered in the ivy round me; but no gentle Ariel borrowed its breath as a medium of speech: the birds sang in the tree-tops; but their song, however sweet, was inarticulate. Again Mr. Rochester propounded his query: "Is the wandering and sinful, but now rest-seeking and repentant, man justified in daring the world's opinion, in order to attach to him for ever this gentle, gracious, genial stranger, thereby securing his own peace of mind and regeneration of life?" "Sir," I answered, "a wanderer's repose or a sinner's reformation should never depend on a fellow-creature. Men and women die; philosophers falter in wisdom, and Christians in goodness: if any one you know has suffered and erred, let him look higher than his equals for strength to amend and solace to heal." "But the instrument--the instrument! God, who does the work, ordains the instrument. I have myself--I tell it you without parable--been a worldly, dissipated, restless man; and I believe I have found the instrument for my cure in--" He paused: the birds went on carolling, the leaves lightly rustling. I almost wondered they did not check their songs and whispers to catch the suspended revelation; but they would have had to wait many minutes--so long was the silence protracted. At last I looked up at the tardy speaker: he was looking eagerly at me. "Little friend," said he, in quite a changed tone--while his face changed too, losing all its softness and gravity, and becoming harsh and sarcastic--"you have noticed my tender penchant for Miss Ingram: don't you think if I married her she would regenerate me with a vengeance?" He got up instantly, went quite to the other end of the walk, and when he came back he was humming a tune. "Jane, Jane," said he, stopping before me, "you are quite pale with your vigils: don't you curse me for disturbing your rest?" "Curse you? No, sir." "Shake hands in confirmation of the word. What cold fingers! They were warmer last night when I touched them at the door of the mysterious chamber. Jane, when will you watch with me again?" "Whenever I can be useful, sir." "For instance, the night before I am married! I am sure I shall not be able to sleep. Will you promise to sit up with me to bear me company? To you I can talk of my lovely one: for now you have seen her and know her." "Yes, sir." "She's a rare one, is she not, Jane?" "Yes, sir." "A strapper--a real strapper, Jane: big, brown, and buxom; with hair just such as the ladies of Carthage must have had. Bless me! there's Dent and Lynn in the stables! Go in by the shrubbery, through that wicket." As I went one way, he went another, and I heard him in the yard, saying cheerfully-- "Mason got the start of you all this morning; he was gone before sunrise: I rose at four to see him off." CHAPTER XXI Presentiments are strange things! and so are sympathies; and so are signs; and the three combined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key. I never laughed at presentiments in my life, because I have had strange ones of my own. Sympathies, I believe, exist (for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly estranged relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, the unity of the source to which each traces his origin) whose workings baffle mortal comprehension. And signs, for aught we know, may be but the sympathies of Nature with man. When I was a little girl, only six years old, I one night heard Bessie Leaven say to Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about a little child; and that to dream of children was a sure sign of trouble, either to one's self or one's kin. The saying might have worn out of my memory, had not a circumstance immediately followed which served indelibly to fix it there. The next day Bessie was sent for home to the deathbed of her little sister. Of late I had often recalled this saying and this incident; for during the past week scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had not brought with it a dream of an infant, which I sometimes hushed in my arms, sometimes dandled on my knee, sometimes watched playing with daisies on a lawn, or again, dabbling its hands in running water. It was a wailing child this night, and a laughing one the next: now it nestled close to me, and now it ran from me; but whatever mood the apparition evinced, whatever aspect it wore, it failed not for seven successive nights to meet me the moment I entered the land of slumber. I did not like this iteration of one idea--this strange recurrence of one image, and I grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hour of the vision drew near. It was from companionship with this baby-phantom I had been roused on that moonlight night when I heard the cry; and it was on the afternoon of the day following I was summoned downstairs by a message that some one wanted me in Mrs. Fairfax's room. On repairing thither, I found a man waiting for me, having the appearance of a gentleman's servant: he was dressed in deep mourning, and the hat he held in his hand was surrounded with a crape band. "I daresay you hardly remember me, Miss," he said, rising as I entered; "but my name is Leaven: I lived coachman with Mrs. Reed when you were at Gateshead, eight or nine years since, and I live there still." "Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well: you used to give me a ride sometimes on Miss Georgiana's bay pony. And how is Bessie? You are married to Bessie?" "Yes, Miss: my wife is very hearty, thank you; she brought me another little one about two months since--we have three now--and both mother and child are thriving." "And are the family well at the house, Robert?" "I am sorry I can't give you better news of them, Miss: they are very badly at present--in great trouble." "I hope no one is dead," I said, glancing at his black dress. He too looked down at the crape round his hat and replied-- "Mr. John died yesterday was a week, at his chambers in London." "Mr. John?" "Yes." "And how does his mother bear it?" "Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a common mishap: his life has been very wild: these last three years he gave himself up to strange ways, and his death was shocking." "I heard from Bessie he was not doing well." "Doing well! He could not do worse: he ruined his health and his estate amongst the worst men and the worst women. He got into debt and into jail: his mother helped him out twice, but as soon as he was free he returned to his old companions and habits. His head was not strong: the knaves he lived amongst fooled him beyond anything I ever heard. He came down to Gateshead about three weeks ago and wanted missis to give up all to him. Missis refused: her means have long been much reduced by his extravagance; so he went back again, and the next news was that he was dead. How he died, God knows!--they say he killed himself." I was silent: the things were frightful. Robert Leaven resumed-- "Missis had been out of health herself for some time: she had got very stout, but was not strong with it; and the loss of money and fear of poverty were quite breaking her down. The information about Mr. John's death and the manner of it came too suddenly: it brought on a stroke. She was three days without speaking; but last Tuesday she seemed rather better: she appeared as if she wanted to say something, and kept making signs to my wife and mumbling. It was only yesterday morning, however, that Bessie understood she was pronouncing your name; and at last she made out the words, 'Bring Jane--fetch Jane Eyre: I want to speak to her.' Bessie is not sure whether she is in her right mind, or means anything by the words; but she told Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, and advised them to send for you. The young ladies put it off at first; but their mother grew so restless, and said, 'Jane, Jane,' so many times, that at last they consented. I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you can get ready, Miss, I should like to take you back with me early to-morrow morning." "Yes, Robert, I shall be ready: it seems to me that I ought to go." "I think so too, Miss. Bessie said she was sure you would not refuse: but I suppose you will have to ask leave before you can get off?" "Yes; and I will do it now;" and having directed him to the servants' hall, and recommended him to the care of John's wife, and the attentions of John himself, I went in search of Mr. Rochester. He was not in any of the lower rooms; he was not in the yard, the stables, or the grounds. I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had seen him;--yes: she believed he was playing billiards with Miss Ingram. To the billiard- room I hastened: the click of balls and the hum of voices resounded thence; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram, the two Misses Eshton, and their admirers, were all busied in the game. It required some courage to disturb so interesting a party; my errand, however, was one I could not defer, so I approached the master where he stood at Miss Ingram's side. She turned as I drew near, and looked at me haughtily: her eyes seemed to demand, "What can the creeping creature want now?" and when I said, in a low voice, "Mr. Rochester," she made a movement as if tempted to order me away. I remember her appearance at the moment--it was very graceful and very striking: she wore a morning robe of sky-blue crape; a gauzy azure scarf was twisted in her hair. She had been all animation with the game, and irritated pride did not lower the expression of her haughty lineaments. "Does that person want you?" she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr. Rochester turned to see who the "person" was. He made a curious grimace--one of his strange and equivocal demonstrations--threw down his cue and followed me from the room. "Well, Jane?" he said, as he rested his back against the schoolroom door, which he had shut. "If you please, sir, I want leave of absence for a week or two." "What to do?--where to go?" "To see a sick lady who has sent for me." "What sick lady?--where does she live?" "At Gateshead; in ---shire." "-shire? That is a hundred miles off! Who may she be that sends for people to see her that distance?" "Her name is Reed, sir--Mrs. Reed." "Reed of Gateshead? There was a Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate." "It is his widow, sir." "And what have you to do with her? How do you know her?" "Mr. Reed was my uncle--my mother's brother." "The deuce he was! You never told me that before: you always said you had no relations." "None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me off." "Why?" "Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me." "But Reed left children?--you must have cousins? Sir George Lynn was talking of a Reed of Gateshead yesterday, who, he said, was one of the veriest rascals on town; and Ingram was mentioning a Georgiana Reed of the same place, who was much admired for her beauty a season or two ago in London." "John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined himself and half-ruined his family, and is supposed to have committed suicide. The news so shocked his mother that it brought on an apoplectic attack." "And what good can you do her? Nonsense, Jane! I would never think of running a hundred miles to see an old lady who will, perhaps, be dead before you reach her: besides, you say she cast you off." "Yes, sir, but that is long ago; and when her circumstances were very different: I could not be easy to neglect her wishes now." "How long will you stay?" "As short a time as possible, sir." "Promise me only to stay a week--" "I had better not pass my word: I might be obliged to break it." "At all events you _will_ come back: you will not be induced under any pretext to take up a permanent residence with her?" "Oh, no! I shall certainly return if all be well." "And who goes with you? You don't travel a hundred miles alone." "No, sir, she has sent her coachman." "A person to be trusted?" "Yes, sir, he has lived ten years in the family." Mr. Rochester meditated. "When do you wish to go?" "Early to-morrow morning, sir." "Well, you must have some money; you can't travel without money, and I daresay you have not much: I have given you no salary yet. How much have you in the world, Jane?" he asked, smiling. I drew out my purse; a meagre thing it was. "Five shillings, sir." He took the purse, poured the hoard into his palm, and chuckled over it as if its scantiness amused him. Soon he produced his pocket-book: "Here," said he, offering me a note; it was fifty pounds, and he owed me but fifteen. I told him I had no change. "I don't want change; you know that. Take your wages." I declined accepting more than was my due. He scowled at first; then, as if recollecting something, he said-- "Right, right! Better not give you all now: you would, perhaps, stay away three months if you had fifty pounds. There are ten; is it not plenty?" "Yes, sir, but now you owe me five." "Come back for it, then; I am your banker for forty pounds." "Mr. Rochester, I may as well mention another matter of business to you while I have the opportunity." "Matter of business? I am curious to hear it." "You have as good as informed me, sir, that you are going shortly to be married?" "Yes; what then?" "In that case, sir, Adele ought to go to school: I am sure you will perceive the necessity of it." "To get her out of my bride's way, who might otherwise walk over her rather too emphatically? There's sense in the suggestion; not a doubt of it. Adele, as you say, must go to school; and you, of course, must march straight to--the devil?" "I hope not, sir; but I must seek another situation somewhere." "In course!" he exclaimed, with a twang of voice and a distortion of features equally fantastic and ludicrous. He looked at me some minutes. "And old Madam Reed, or the Misses, her daughters, will be solicited by you to seek a place, I suppose?" "No, sir; I am not on such terms with my relatives as would justify me in asking favours of them--but I shall advertise." "You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt!" he growled. "At your peril you advertise! I wish I had only offered you a sovereign instead of ten pounds. Give me back nine pounds, Jane; I've a use for it." "And so have I, sir," I returned, putting my hands and my purse behind me. "I could not spare the money on any account." "Little niggard!" said he, "refusing me a pecuniary request! Give me five pounds, Jane." "Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence." "Just let me look at the cash." "No, sir; you are not to be trusted." "Jane!" "Sir?" "Promise me one thing." "I'll promise you anything, sir, that I think I am likely to perform." "Not to advertise: and to trust this quest of a situation to me. I'll find you one in time." "I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your turn, will promise that I and Adele shall be both safe out of the house before your bride enters it." "Very well! very well! I'll pledge my word on it. You go to-morrow, then?" "Yes, sir; early." "Shall you come down to the drawing-room after dinner?" "No, sir, I must prepare for the journey." "Then you and I must bid good-bye for a little while?" "I suppose so, sir." "And how do people perform that ceremony of parting, Jane? Teach me; I'm not quite up to it." "They say, Farewell, or any other form they prefer." "Then say it." "Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present." "What must I say?" "The same, if you like, sir." "Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present; is that all?" "Yes?" "It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry, and unfriendly. I should like something else: a little addition to the rite. If one shook hands, for instance; but no--that would not content me either. So you'll do no more than say Farewell, Jane?" "It is enough, sir: as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as in many." "Very likely; but it is blank and cool--'Farewell.'" "How long is he going to stand with his back against that door?" I asked myself; "I want to commence my packing." The dinner-bell rang, and suddenly away he bolted, without another syllable: I saw him no more during the day, and was off before he had risen in the morning. I reached the lodge at Gateshead about five o'clock in the afternoon of the first of May: I stepped in there before going up to the hall. It was very clean and neat: the ornamental windows were hung with little white curtains; the floor was spotless; the grate and fire-irons were burnished bright, and the fire burnt clear. Bessie sat on the hearth, nursing her last-born, and Robert and his sister played quietly in a corner. "Bless you!--I knew you would come!" exclaimed Mrs. Leaven, as I entered. "Yes, Bessie," said I, after I had kissed her; "and I trust I am not too late. How is Mrs. Reed?--Alive still, I hope." "Yes, she is alive; and more sensible and collected than she was. The doctor says she may linger a week or two yet; but he hardly thinks she will finally recover." "Has she mentioned me lately?" "She was talking of you only this morning, and wishing you would come, but she is sleeping now, or was ten minutes ago, when I was up at the house. She generally lies in a kind of lethargy all the afternoon, and wakes up about six or seven. Will you rest yourself here an hour, Miss, and then I will go up with you?" Robert here entered, and Bessie laid her sleeping child in the cradle and went to welcome him: afterwards she insisted on my taking off my bonnet and having some tea; for she said I looked pale and tired. I was glad to accept her hospitality; and I submitted to be relieved of my travelling garb just as passively as I used to let her undress me when a child. Old times crowded fast back on me as I watched her bustling about--setting out the tea-tray with her best china, cutting bread and butter, toasting a tea-cake, and, between whiles, giving little Robert or Jane an occasional tap or push, just as she used to give me in former days. Bessie had retained her quick temper as well as her light foot and good looks. Tea ready, I was going to approach the table; but she desired me to sit still, quite in her old peremptory tones. I must be served at the fireside, she said; and she placed before me a little round stand with my cup and a plate of toast, absolutely as she used to accommodate me with some privately purloined dainty on a nursery chair: and I smiled and obeyed her as in bygone days. She wanted to know if I was happy at Thornfield Hall, and what sort of a person the mistress was; and when I told her there was only a master, whether he was a nice gentleman, and if I liked him. I told her he was rather an ugly man, but quite a gentleman; and that he treated me kindly, and I was content. Then I went on to describe to her the gay company that had lately been staying at the house; and to these details Bessie listened with interest: they were precisely of the kind she relished. In such conversation an hour was soon gone: Bessie restored to me my bonnet, &c., and, accompanied by her, I quitted the lodge for the hall. It was also accompanied by her that I had, nearly nine years ago, walked down the path I was now ascending. On a dark, misty, raw morning in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate and embittered heart--a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation--to seek the chilly harbourage of Lowood: that bourne so far away and unexplored. The same hostile roof now again rose before me: my prospects were doubtful yet; and I had yet an aching heart. I still felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth; but I experienced firmer trust in myself and my own powers, and less withering dread of oppression. The gaping wound of my wrongs, too, was now quite healed; and the flame of resentment extinguished. "You shall go into the breakfast-room first," said Bessie, as she preceded me through the hall; "the young ladies will be there." In another moment I was within that apartment. There was every article of furniture looking just as it did on the morning I was first introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst: the very rug he had stood upon still covered the hearth. Glancing at the bookcases, I thought I could distinguish the two volumes of Bewick's British Birds occupying their old place on the third shelf, and Gulliver's Travels and the Arabian Nights ranged just above. The inanimate objects were not changed; but the living things had altered past recognition. Two young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as tall as Miss Ingram--very thin too, with a sallow face and severe mien. There was something ascetic in her look, which was augmented by the extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress, a starched linen collar, hair combed away from the temples, and the nun-like ornament of a string of ebony beads and a crucifix. This I felt sure was Eliza, though I could trace little resemblance to her former self in that elongated and colourless visage. The other was as certainly Georgiana: but not the Georgiana I remembered--the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven. This was a full-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork, with handsome and regular features, languishing blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair. The hue of her dress was black too; but its fashion was so different from her sister's--so much more flowing and becoming--it looked as stylish as the other's looked puritanical. In each of the sisters there was one trait of the mother--and only one; the thin and pallid elder daughter had her parent's Cairngorm eye: the blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her contour of jaw and chin--perhaps a little softened, but still imparting an indescribable hardness to the countenance otherwise so voluptuous and buxom. Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to welcome me, and both addressed me by the name of "Miss Eyre." Eliza's greeting was delivered in a short, abrupt voice, without a smile; and then she sat down again, fixed her eyes on the fire, and seemed to forget me. Georgiana added to her "How d'ye do?" several commonplaces about my journey, the weather, and so on, uttered in rather a drawling tone: and accompanied by sundry side-glances that measured me from head to foot--now traversing the folds of my drab merino pelisse, and now lingering on the plain trimming of my cottage bonnet. Young ladies have a remarkable way of letting you know that they think you a "quiz" without actually saying the words. A certain superciliousness of look, coolness of manner, nonchalance of tone, express fully their sentiments on the point, without committing them by any positive rudeness in word or deed. A sneer, however, whether covert or open, had now no longer that power over me it once possessed: as I sat between my cousins, I was surprised to find how easy I felt under the total neglect of the one and the semi- sarcastic attentions of the other--Eliza did not mortify, nor Georgiana ruffle me. The fact was, I had other things to think about; within the last few months feelings had been stirred in me so much more potent than any they could raise--pains and pleasures so much more acute and exquisite had been excited than any it was in their power to inflict or bestow--that their airs gave me no concern either for good or bad. "How is Mrs. Reed?" I asked soon, looking calmly at Georgiana, who thought fit to bridle at the direct address, as if it were an unexpected liberty. "Mrs. Reed? Ah! mama, you mean; she is extremely poorly: I doubt if you can see her to-night." "If," said I, "you would just step upstairs and tell her I am come, I should be much obliged to you." Georgiana almost started, and she opened her blue eyes wild and wide. "I know she had a particular wish to see me," I added, "and I would not defer attending to her desire longer than is absolutely necessary." "Mama dislikes being disturbed in an evening," remarked Eliza. I soon rose, quietly took off my bonnet and gloves, uninvited, and said I would just step out to Bessie--who was, I dared say, in the kitchen--and ask her to ascertain whether Mrs. Reed was disposed to receive me or not to- night. I went, and having found Bessie and despatched her on my errand, I proceeded to take further measures. It had heretofore been my habit always to shrink from arrogance: received as I had been to-day, I should, a year ago, have resolved to quit Gateshead the very next morning; now, it was disclosed to me all at once that that would be a foolish plan. I had taken a journey of a hundred miles to see my aunt, and I must stay with her till she was better--or dead: as to her daughters' pride or folly, I must put it on one side, make myself independent of it. So I addressed the housekeeper; asked her to show me a room, told her I should probably be a visitor here for a week or two, had my trunk conveyed to my chamber, and followed it thither myself: I met Bessie on the landing. "Missis is awake," said she; "I have told her you are here: come and let us see if she will know you." I did not need to be guided to the well-known room, to which I had so often been summoned for chastisement or reprimand in former days. I hastened before Bessie; I softly opened the door: a shaded light stood on the table, for it was now getting dark. There was the great four-post bed with amber hangings as of old; there the toilet-table, the armchair, and the footstool, at which I had a hundred times been sentenced to kneel, to ask pardon for offences by me uncommitted. I looked into a certain corner near, half-expecting to see the slim outline of a once dreaded switch which used to lurk there, waiting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm or shrinking neck. I approached the bed; I opened the curtains and leant over the high-piled pillows. Well did I remember Mrs. Reed's face, and I eagerly sought the familiar image. It is a happy thing that time quells the longings of vengeance and hushes the promptings of rage and aversion. I had left this woman in bitterness and hate, and I came back to her now with no other emotion than a sort of ruth for her great sufferings, and a strong yearning to forget and forgive all injuries--to be reconciled and clasp hands in amity. The well-known face was there: stern, relentless as ever--there was that peculiar eye which nothing could melt, and the somewhat raised, imperious, despotic eyebrow. How often had it lowered on me menace and hate! and how the recollection of childhood's terrors and sorrows revived as I traced its harsh line now! And yet I stooped down and kissed her: she looked at me. "Is this Jane Eyre?" she said. "Yes, Aunt Reed. How are you, dear aunt?" I had once vowed that I would never call her aunt again: I thought it no sin to forget and break that vow now. My fingers had fastened on her hand which lay outside the sheet: had she pressed mine kindly, I should at that moment have experienced true pleasure. But unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are natural antipathies so readily eradicated. Mrs. Reed took her hand away, and, turning her face rather from me, she remarked that the night was warm. Again she regarded me so icily, I felt at once that her opinion of me--her feeling towards me--was unchanged and unchangeable. I knew by her stony eye--opaque to tenderness, indissoluble to tears--that she was resolved to consider me bad to the last; because to believe me good would give her no generous pleasure: only a sense of mortification. I felt pain, and then I felt ire; and then I felt a determination to subdue her--to be her mistress in spite both of her nature and her will. My tears had risen, just as in childhood: I ordered them back to their source. I brought a chair to the bed-head: I sat down and leaned over the pillow. "You sent for me," I said, "and I am here; and it is my intention to stay till I see how you get on." "Oh, of course! You have seen my daughters?" "Yes." "Well, you may tell them I wish you to stay till I can talk some things over with you I have on my mind: to-night it is too late, and I have a difficulty in recalling them. But there was something I wished to say--let me see--" The wandering look and changed utterance told what wreck had taken place in her once vigorous frame. Turning restlessly, she drew the bedclothes round her; my elbow, resting on a corner of the quilt, fixed it down: she was at once irritated. "Sit up!" said she; "don't annoy me with holding the clothes fast. Are you Jane Eyre?" "I am Jane Eyre." "I have had more trouble with that child than any one would believe. Such a burden to be left on my hands--and so much annoyance as she caused me, daily and hourly, with her incomprehensible disposition, and her sudden starts of temper, and her continual, unnatural watchings of one's movements! I declare she talked to me once like something mad, or like a fiend--no child ever spoke or looked as she did; I was glad to get her away from the house. What did they do with her at Lowood? The fever broke out there, and many of the pupils died. She, however, did not die: but I said she did--I wish she had died!" "A strange wish, Mrs. Reed; why do you hate her so?" "I had a dislike to her mother always; for she was my husband's only sister, and a great favourite with him: he opposed the family's disowning her when she made her low marriage; and when news came of her death, he wept like a simpleton. He would send for the baby; though I entreated him rather to put it out to nurse and pay for its maintenance. I hated it the first time I set my eyes on it--a sickly, whining, pining thing! It would wail in its cradle all night long--not screaming heartily like any other child, but whimpering and moaning. Reed pitied it; and he used to nurse it and notice it as if it had been his own: more, indeed, than he ever noticed his own at that age. He would try to make my children friendly to the little beggar: the darlings could not bear it, and he was angry with them when they showed their dislike. In his last illness, he had it brought continually to his bedside; and but an hour before he died, he bound me by vow to keep the creature. I would as soon have been charged with a pauper brat out of a workhouse: but he was weak, naturally weak. John does not at all resemble his father, and I am glad of it: John is like me and like my brothers--he is quite a Gibson. Oh, I wish he would cease tormenting me with letters for money? I have no more money to give him: we are getting poor. I must send away half the servants and shut up part of the house; or let it off. I can never submit to do that--yet how are we to get on? Two-thirds of my income goes in paying the interest of mortgages. John gambles dreadfully, and always loses--poor boy! He is beset by sharpers: John is sunk and degraded--his look is frightful--I feel ashamed for him when I see him." She was getting much excited. "I think I had better leave her now," said I to Bessie, who stood on the other side of the bed. "Perhaps you had, Miss: but she often talks in this way towards night--in the morning she is calmer." I rose. "Stop!" exclaimed Mrs. Reed, "there is another thing I wished to say. He threatens me--he continually threatens me with his own death, or mine: and I dream sometimes that I see him laid out with a great wound in his throat, or with a swollen and blackened face. I am come to a strange pass: I have heavy troubles. What is to be done? How is the money to be had?" Bessie now endeavoured to persuade her to take a sedative draught: she succeeded with difficulty. Soon after, Mrs. Reed grew more composed, and sank into a dozing state. I then left her. More than ten days elapsed before I had again any conversation with her. She continued either delirious or lethargic; and the doctor forbade everything which could painfully excite her. Meantime, I got on as well as I could with Georgiana and Eliza. They were very cold, indeed, at first. Eliza would sit half the day sewing, reading, or writing, and scarcely utter a word either to me or her sister. Georgiana would chatter nonsense to her canary bird by the hour, and take no notice of me. But I was determined not to seem at a loss for occupation or amusement: I had brought my drawing materials with me, and they served me for both. Provided with a case of pencils, and some sheets of paper, I used to take a seat apart from them, near the window, and busy myself in sketching fancy vignettes, representing any scene that happened momentarily to shape itself in the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of imagination: a glimpse of sea between two rocks; the rising moon, and a ship crossing its disk; a group of reeds and water-flags, and a naiad's head, crowned with lotus- flowers, rising out of them; an elf sitting in a hedge-sparrow's nest, under a wreath of hawthorn-bloom. One morning I fell to sketching a face: what sort of a face it was to be, I did not care or know. I took a soft black pencil, gave it a broad point, and worked away. Soon I had traced on the paper a broad and prominent forehead and a square lower outline of visage: that contour gave me pleasure; my fingers proceeded actively to fill it with features. Strongly-marked horizontal eyebrows must be traced under that brow; then followed, naturally, a well-defined nose, with a straight ridge and full nostrils; then a flexible-looking mouth, by no means narrow; then a firm chin, with a decided cleft down the middle of it: of course, some black whiskers were wanted, and some jetty hair, tufted on the temples, and waved above the forehead. Now for the eyes: I had left them to the last, because they required the most careful working. I drew them large; I shaped them well: the eyelashes I traced long and sombre; the irids lustrous and large. "Good! but not quite the thing," I thought, as I surveyed the effect: "they want more force and spirit;" and I wrought the shades blacker, that the lights might flash more brilliantly--a happy touch or two secured success. There, I had a friend's face under my gaze; and what did it signify that those young ladies turned their backs on me? I looked at it; I smiled at the speaking likeness: I was absorbed and content. "Is that a portrait of some one you know?" asked Eliza, who had approached me unnoticed. I responded that it was merely a fancy head, and hurried it beneath the other sheets. Of course, I lied: it was, in fact, a very faithful representation of Mr. Rochester. But what was that to her, or to any one but myself? Georgiana also advanced to look. The other drawings pleased her much, but she called that "an ugly man." They both seemed surprised at my skill. I offered to sketch their portraits; and each, in turn, sat for a pencil outline. Then Georgiana produced her album. I promised to contribute a water-colour drawing: this put her at once into good humour. She proposed a walk in the grounds. Before we had been out two hours, we were deep in a confidential conversation: she had favoured me with a description of the brilliant winter she had spent in London two seasons ago--of the admiration she had there excited--the attention she had received; and I even got hints of the titled conquest she had made. In the course of the afternoon and evening these hints were enlarged on: various soft conversations were reported, and sentimental scenes represented; and, in short, a volume of a novel of fashionable life was that day improvised by her for my benefit. The communications were renewed from day to day: they always ran on the same theme--herself, her loves, and woes. It was strange she never once adverted either to her mother's illness, or her brother's death, or the present gloomy state of the family prospects. Her mind seemed wholly taken up with reminiscences of past gaiety, and aspirations after dissipations to come. She passed about five minutes each day in her mother's sick-room, and no more. Eliza still spoke little: she had evidently no time to talk. I never saw a busier person than she seemed to be; yet it was difficult to say what she did: or rather, to discover any result of her diligence. She had an alarm to call her up early. I know not how she occupied herself before breakfast, but after that meal she divided her time into regular portions, and each hour had its allotted task. Three times a day she studied a little book, which I found, on inspection, was a Common Prayer Book. I asked her once what was the great attraction of that volume, and she said, "the Rubric." Three hours she gave to stitching, with gold thread, the border of a square crimson cloth, almost large enough for a carpet. In answer to my inquiries after the use of this article, she informed me it was a covering for the altar of a new church lately erected near Gateshead. Two hours she devoted to her diary; two to working by herself in the kitchen-garden; and one to the regulation of her accounts. She seemed to want no company; no conversation. I believe she was happy in her way: this routine sufficed for her; and nothing annoyed her so much as the occurrence of any incident which forced her to vary its clockwork regularity. She told me one evening, when more disposed to be communicative than usual, that John's conduct, and the threatened ruin of the family, had been a source of profound affliction to her: but she had now, she said, settled her mind, and formed her resolution. Her own fortune she had taken care to secure; and when her mother died--and it was wholly improbable, she tranquilly remarked, that she should either recover or linger long--she would execute a long-cherished project: seek a retirement where punctual habits would be permanently secured from disturbance, and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolous world. I asked if Georgiana would accompany her. "Of course not. Georgiana and she had nothing in common: they never had had. She would not be burdened with her society for any consideration. Georgiana should take her own course; and she, Eliza, would take hers." Georgiana, when not unburdening her heart to me, spent most of her time in lying on the sofa, fretting about the dulness of the house, and wishing over and over again that her aunt Gibson would send her an invitation up to town. "It would be so much better," she said, "if she could only get out of the way for a month or two, till all was over." I did not ask what she meant by "all being over," but I suppose she referred to the expected decease of her mother and the gloomy sequel of funeral rites. Eliza generally took no more notice of her sister's indolence and complaints than if no such murmuring, lounging object had been before her. One day, however, as she put away her account-book and unfolded her embroidery, she suddenly took her up thus-- "Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was certainly never allowed to cumber the earth. You had no right to be born, for you make no use of life. Instead of living for, in, and with yourself, as a reasonable being ought, you seek only to fasten your feebleness on some other person's strength: if no one can be found willing to burden her or himself with such a fat, weak, puffy, useless thing, you cry out that you are ill-treated, neglected, miserable. Then, too, existence for you must be a scene of continual change and excitement, or else the world is a dungeon: you must be admired, you must be courted, you must be flattered--you must have music, dancing, and society--or you languish, you die away. Have you no sense to devise a system which will make you independent of all efforts, and all wills, but your own? Take one day; share it into sections; to each section apportion its task: leave no stray unemployed quarters of an hour, ten minutes, five minutes--include all; do each piece of business in its turn with method, with rigid regularity. The day will close almost before you are aware it has begun; and you are indebted to no one for helping you to get rid of one vacant moment: you have had to seek no one's company, conversation, sympathy, forbearance; you have lived, in short, as an independent being ought to do. Take this advice: the first and last I shall offer you; then you will not want me or any one else, happen what may. Neglect it--go on as heretofore, craving, whining, and idling--and suffer the results of your idiocy, however bad and insuperable they may be. I tell you this plainly; and listen: for though I shall no more repeat what I am now about to say, I shall steadily act on it. After my mother's death, I wash my hands of you: from the day her coffin is carried to the vault in Gateshead Church, you and I will be as separate as if we had never known each other. You need not think that because we chanced to be born of the same parents, I shall suffer you to fasten me down by even the feeblest claim: I can tell you this--if the whole human race, ourselves excepted, were swept away, and we two stood alone on the earth, I would leave you in the old world, and betake myself to the new." She closed her lips. "You might have spared yourself the trouble of delivering that tirade," answered Georgiana. "Everybody knows you are the most selfish, heartless creature in existence: and _I_ know your spiteful hatred towards me: I have had a specimen of it before in the trick you played me about Lord Edwin Vere: you could not bear me to be raised above you, to have a title, to be received into circles where you dare not show your face, and so you acted the spy and informer, and ruined my prospects for ever." Georgiana took out her handkerchief and blew her nose for an hour afterwards; Eliza sat cold, impassable, and assiduously industrious. True, generous feeling is made small account of by some, but here were two natures rendered, the one intolerably acrid, the other despicably savourless for the want of it. Feeling without judgment is a washy draught indeed; but judgment untempered by feeling is too bitter and husky a morsel for human deglutition. It was a wet and windy afternoon: Georgiana had fallen asleep on the sofa over the perusal of a novel; Eliza was gone to attend a saint's-day service at the new church--for in matters of religion she was a rigid formalist: no weather ever prevented the punctual discharge of what she considered her devotional duties; fair or foul, she went to church thrice every Sunday, and as often on week-days as there were prayers. I bethought myself to go upstairs and see how the dying woman sped, who lay there almost unheeded: the very servants paid her but a remittent attention: the hired nurse, being little looked after, would slip out of the room whenever she could. Bessie was faithful; but she had her own family to mind, and could only come occasionally to the hall. I found the sick-room unwatched, as I had expected: no nurse was there; the patient lay still, and seemingly lethargic; her livid face sunk in the pillows: the fire was dying in the grate. I renewed the fuel, re-arranged the bedclothes, gazed awhile on her who could not now gaze on me, and then I moved away to the window. The rain beat strongly against the panes, the wind blew tempestuously: "One lies there," I thought, "who will soon be beyond the war of earthly elements. Whither will that spirit--now struggling to quit its material tenement--flit when at length released?" In pondering the great mystery, I thought of Helen Burns, recalled her dying words--her faith--her doctrine of the equality of disembodied souls. I was still listening in thought to her well-remembered tones--still picturing her pale and spiritual aspect, her wasted face and sublime gaze, as she lay on her placid deathbed, and whispered her longing to be restored to her divine Father's bosom--when a feeble voice murmured from the couch behind: "Who is that?" I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days: was she reviving? I went up to her. "It is I, Aunt Reed." "Who--I?" was her answer. "Who are you?" looking at me with surprise and a sort of alarm, but still not wildly. "You are quite a stranger to me--where is Bessie?" "She is at the lodge, aunt." "Aunt," she repeated. "Who calls me aunt? You are not one of the Gibsons; and yet I know you--that face, and the eyes and forehead, are quiet familiar to me: you are like--why, you are like Jane Eyre!" I said nothing: I was afraid of occasioning some shock by declaring my identity. "Yet," said she, "I am afraid it is a mistake: my thoughts deceive me. I wished to see Jane Eyre, and I fancy a likeness where none exists: besides, in eight years she must be so changed." I now gently assured her that I was the person she supposed and desired me to be: and seeing that I was understood, and that her senses were quite collected, I explained how Bessie had sent her husband to fetch me from Thornfield. "I am very ill, I know," she said ere long. "I was trying to turn myself a few minutes since, and find I cannot move a limb. It is as well I should ease my mind before I die: what we think little of in health, burdens us at such an hour as the present is to me. Is the nurse here? or is there no one in the room but you?" I assured her we were alone. "Well, I have twice done you a wrong which I regret now. One was in breaking the promise which I gave my husband to bring you up as my own child; the other--" she stopped. "After all, it is of no great importance, perhaps," she murmured to herself: "and then I may get better; and to humble myself so to her is painful." She made an effort to alter her position, but failed: her face changed; she seemed to experience some inward sensation--the precursor, perhaps, of the last pang. "Well, I must get it over. Eternity is before me: I had better tell her.--Go to my dressing-case, open it, and take out a letter you will see there." I obeyed her directions. "Read the letter," she said. It was short, and thus conceived:-- "Madam,--Will you have the goodness to send me the address of my niece, Jane Eyre, and to tell me how she is? It is my intention to write shortly and desire her to come to me at Madeira. Providence has blessed my endeavours to secure a competency; and as I am unmarried and childless, I wish to adopt her during my life, and bequeath her at my death whatever I may have to leave.--I am, Madam, &c., &c., "JOHN EYRE, Madeira." It was dated three years back. "Why did I never hear of this?" I asked. "Because I disliked you too fixedly and thoroughly ever to lend a hand in lifting you to prosperity. I could not forget your conduct to me, Jane--the fury with which you once turned on me; the tone in which you declared you abhorred me the worst of anybody in the world; the unchildlike look and voice with which you affirmed that the very thought of me made you sick, and asserted that I had treated you with miserable cruelty. I could not forget my own sensations when you thus started up and poured out the venom of your mind: I felt fear as if an animal that I had struck or pushed had looked up at me with human eyes and cursed me in a man's voice.--Bring me some water! Oh, make haste!" "Dear Mrs. Reed," said I, as I offered her the draught she required, "think no more of all this, let it pass away from your mind. Forgive me for my passionate language: I was a child then; eight, nine years have passed since that day." She heeded nothing of what I said; but when she had tasted the water and drawn breath, she went on thus-- "I tell you I could not forget it; and I took my revenge: for you to be adopted by your uncle, and placed in a state of ease and comfort, was what I could not endure. I wrote to him; I said I was sorry for his disappointment, but Jane Eyre was dead: she had died of typhus fever at Lowood. Now act as you please: write and contradict my assertion--expose my falsehood as soon as you like. You were born, I think, to be my torment: my last hour is racked by the recollection of a deed which, but for you, I should never have been tempted to commit." "If you could but be persuaded to think no more of it, aunt, and to regard me with kindness and forgiveness" "You have a very bad disposition," said she, "and one to this day I feel it impossible to understand: how for nine years you could be patient and quiescent under any treatment, and in the tenth break out all fire and violence, I can never comprehend." "My disposition is not so bad as you think: I am passionate, but not vindictive. Many a time, as a little child, I should have been glad to love you if you would have let me; and I long earnestly to be reconciled to you now: kiss me, aunt." I approached my cheek to her lips: she would not touch it. She said I oppressed her by leaning over the bed, and again demanded water. As I laid her down--for I raised her and supported her on my arm while she drank--I covered her ice-cold and clammy hand with mine: the feeble fingers shrank from my touch--the glazing eyes shunned my gaze. "Love me, then, or hate me, as you will," I said at last, "you have my full and free forgiveness: ask now for God's, and be at peace." Poor, suffering woman! it was too late for her to make now the effort to change her habitual frame of mind: living, she had ever hated me--dying, she must hate me still. The nurse now entered, and Bessie followed. I yet lingered half-an-hour longer, hoping to see some sign of amity: but she gave none. She was fast relapsing into stupor; nor did her mind again rally: at twelve o'clock that night she died. I was not present to close her eyes, nor were either of her daughters. They came to tell us the next morning that all was over. She was by that time laid out. Eliza and I went to look at her: Georgiana, who had burst out into loud weeping, said she dared not go. There was stretched Sarah Reed's once robust and active frame, rigid and still: her eye of flint was covered with its cold lid; her brow and strong traits wore yet the impress of her inexorable soul. A strange and solemn object was that corpse to me. I gazed on it with gloom and pain: nothing soft, nothing sweet, nothing pitying, or hopeful, or subduing did it inspire; only a grating anguish for _her_ woes--not _my_ loss--and a sombre tearless dismay at the fearfulness of death in such a form. Eliza surveyed her parent calmly. After a silence of some minutes she observed-- "With her constitution she should have lived to a good old age: her life was shortened by trouble." And then a spasm constricted her mouth for an instant: as it passed away she turned and left the room, and so did I. Neither of us had dropt a tear. CHAPTER XXII Mr. Rochester had given me but one week's leave of absence: yet a month elapsed before I quitted Gateshead. I wished to leave immediately after the funeral, but Georgiana entreated me to stay till she could get off to London, whither she was now at last invited by her uncle, Mr. Gibson, who had come down to direct his sister's interment and settle the family affairs. Georgiana said she dreaded being left alone with Eliza; from her she got neither sympathy in her dejection, support in her fears, nor aid in her preparations; so I bore with her feeble-minded wailings and selfish lamentations as well as I could, and did my best in sewing for her and packing her dresses. It is true, that while I worked, she would idle; and I thought to myself, "If you and I were destined to live always together, cousin, we would commence matters on a different footing. I should not settle tamely down into being the forbearing party; I should assign you your share of labour, and compel you to accomplish it, or else it should be left undone: I should insist, also, on your keeping some of those drawling, half-insincere complaints hushed in your own breast. It is only because our connection happens to be very transitory, and comes at a peculiarly mournful season, that I consent thus to render it so patient and compliant on my part." At last I saw Georgiana off; but now it was Eliza's turn to request me to stay another week. Her plans required all her time and attention, she said; she was about to depart for some unknown bourne; and all day long she stayed in her own room, her door bolted within, filling trunks, emptying drawers, burning papers, and holding no communication with any one. She wished me to look after the house, to see callers, and answer notes of condolence. One morning she told me I was at liberty. "And," she added, "I am obliged to you for your valuable services and discreet conduct! There is some difference between living with such an one as you and with Georgiana: you perform your own part in life and burden no one. To-morrow," she continued, "I set out for the Continent. I shall take up my abode in a religious house near Lisle--a nunnery you would call it; there I shall be quiet and unmolested. I shall devote myself for a time to the examination of the Roman Catholic dogmas, and to a careful study of the workings of their system: if I find it to be, as I half suspect it is, the one best calculated to ensure the doing of all things decently and in order, I shall embrace the tenets of Rome and probably take the veil." I neither expressed surprise at this resolution nor attempted to dissuade her from it. "The vocation will fit you to a hair," I thought: "much good may it do you!" When we parted, she said: "Good-bye, cousin Jane Eyre; I wish you well: you have some sense." I then returned: "You are not without sense, cousin Eliza; but what you have, I suppose, in another year will be walled up alive in a French convent. However, it is not my business, and so it suits you, I don't much care." "You are in the right," said she; and with these words we each went our separate way. As I shall not have occasion to refer either to her or her sister again, I may as well mention here, that Georgiana made an advantageous match with a wealthy worn-out man of fashion, and that Eliza actually took the veil, and is at this day superior of the convent where she passed the period of her novitiate, and which she endowed with her fortune. How people feel when they are returning home from an absence, long or short, I did not know: I had never experienced the sensation. I had known what it was to come back to Gateshead when a child after a long walk, to be scolded for looking cold or gloomy; and later, what it was to come back from church to Lowood, to long for a plenteous meal and a good fire, and to be unable to get either. Neither of these returnings was very pleasant or desirable: no magnet drew me to a given point, increasing in its strength of attraction the nearer I came. The return to Thornfield was yet to be tried. My journey seemed tedious--very tedious: fifty miles one day, a night spent at an inn; fifty miles the next day. During the first twelve hours I thought of Mrs. Reed in her last moments; I saw her disfigured and discoloured face, and heard her strangely altered voice. I mused on the funeral day, the coffin, the hearse, the black train of tenants and servants--few was the number of relatives--the gaping vault, the silent church, the solemn service. Then I thought of Eliza and Georgiana; I beheld one the cynosure of a ball-room, the other the inmate of a convent cell; and I dwelt on and analysed their separate peculiarities of person and character. The evening arrival at the great town of--scattered these thoughts; night gave them quite another turn: laid down on my traveller's bed, I left reminiscence for anticipation. I was going back to Thornfield: but how long was I to stay there? Not long; of that I was sure. I had heard from Mrs. Fairfax in the interim of my absence: the party at the hall was dispersed; Mr. Rochester had left for London three weeks ago, but he was then expected to return in a fortnight. Mrs. Fairfax surmised that he was gone to make arrangements for his wedding, as he had talked of purchasing a new carriage: she said the idea of his marrying Miss Ingram still seemed strange to her; but from what everybody said, and from what she had herself seen, she could no longer doubt that the event would shortly take place. "You would be strangely incredulous if you did doubt it," was my mental comment. "I don't doubt it." The question followed, "Where was I to go?" I dreamt of Miss Ingram all the night: in a vivid morning dream I saw her closing the gates of Thornfield against me and pointing me out another road; and Mr. Rochester looked on with his arms folded--smiling sardonically, as it seemed, at both her and me. I had not notified to Mrs. Fairfax the exact day of my return; for I did not wish either car or carriage to meet me at Millcote. I proposed to walk the distance quietly by myself; and very quietly, after leaving my box in the ostler's care, did I slip away from the George Inn, about six o'clock of a June evening, and take the old road to Thornfield: a road which lay chiefly through fields, and was now little frequented. It was not a bright or splendid summer evening, though fair and soft: the haymakers were at work all along the road; and the sky, though far from cloudless, was such as promised well for the future: its blue--where blue was visible--was mild and settled, and its cloud strata high and thin. The west, too, was warm: no watery gleam chilled it--it seemed as if there was a fire lit, an altar burning behind its screen of marbled vapour, and out of apertures shone a golden redness. I felt glad as the road shortened before me: so glad that I stopped once to ask myself what that joy meant: and to remind reason that it was not to my home I was going, or to a permanent resting-place, or to a place where fond friends looked out for me and waited my arrival. "Mrs. Fairfax will smile you a calm welcome, to be sure," said I; "and little Adele will clap her hands and jump to see you: but you know very well you are thinking of another than they, and that he is not thinking of you." But what is so headstrong as youth? What so blind as inexperience? These affirmed that it was pleasure enough to have the privilege of again looking on Mr. Rochester, whether he looked on me or not; and they added--"Hasten! hasten! be with him while you may: but a few more days or weeks, at most, and you are parted from him for ever!" And then I strangled a new-born agony--a deformed thing which I could not persuade myself to own and rear--and ran on. They are making hay, too, in Thornfield meadows: or rather, the labourers are just quitting their work, and returning home with their rakes on their shoulders, now, at the hour I arrive. I have but a field or two to traverse, and then I shall cross the road and reach the gates. How full the hedges are of roses! But I have no time to gather any; I want to be at the house. I passed a tall briar, shooting leafy and flowery branches across the path; I see the narrow stile with stone steps; and I see--Mr. Rochester sitting there, a book and a pencil in his hand; he is writing. Well, he is not a ghost; yet every nerve I have is unstrung: for a moment I am beyond my own mastery. What does it mean? I did not think I should tremble in this way when I saw him, or lose my voice or the power of motion in his presence. I will go back as soon as I can stir: I need not make an absolute fool of myself. I know another way to the house. It does not signify if I knew twenty ways; for he has seen me. "Hillo!" he cries; and he puts up his book and his pencil. "There you are! Come on, if you please." I suppose I do come on; though in what fashion I know not; being scarcely cognisant of my movements, and solicitous only to appear calm; and, above all, to control the working muscles of my face--which I feel rebel insolently against my will, and struggle to express what I had resolved to conceal. But I have a veil--it is down: I may make shift yet to behave with decent composure. "And this is Jane Eyre? Are you coming from Millcote, and on foot? Yes--just one of your tricks: not to send for a carriage, and come clattering over street and road like a common mortal, but to steal into the vicinage of your home along with twilight, just as if you were a dream or a shade. What the deuce have you done with yourself this last month?" "I have been with my aunt, sir, who is dead." "A true Janian reply! Good angels be my guard! She comes from the other world--from the abode of people who are dead; and tells me so when she meets me alone here in the gloaming! If I dared, I'd touch you, to see if you are substance or shadow, you elf!--but I'd as soon offer to take hold of a blue _ignis fatuus_ light in a marsh. Truant! truant!" he added, when he had paused an instant. "Absent from me a whole month, and forgetting me quite, I'll be sworn!" I knew there would be pleasure in meeting my master again, even though broken by the fear that he was so soon to cease to be my master, and by the knowledge that I was nothing to him: but there was ever in Mr. Rochester (so at least I thought) such a wealth of the power of communicating happiness, that to taste but of the crumbs he scattered to stray and stranger birds like me, was to feast genially. His last words were balm: they seemed to imply that it imported something to him whether I forgot him or not. And he had spoken of Thornfield as my home--would that it were my home! He did not leave the stile, and I hardly liked to ask to go by. I inquired soon if he had not been to London. "Yes; I suppose you found that out by second-sight." "Mrs. Fairfax told me in a letter." "And did she inform you what I went to do?" "Oh, yes, sir! Everybody knew your errand." "You must see the carriage, Jane, and tell me if you don't think it will suit Mrs. Rochester exactly; and whether she won't look like Queen Boadicea, leaning back against those purple cushions. I wish, Jane, I were a trifle better adapted to match with her externally. Tell me now, fairy as you are--can't you give me a charm, or a philter, or something of that sort, to make me a handsome man?" "It would be past the power of magic, sir;" and, in thought, I added, "A loving eye is all the charm needed: to such you are handsome enough; or rather your sternness has a power beyond beauty." Mr. Rochester had sometimes read my unspoken thoughts with an acumen to me incomprehensible: in the present instance he took no notice of my abrupt vocal response; but he smiled at me with a certain smile he had of his own, and which he used but on rare occasions. He seemed to think it too good for common purposes: it was the real sunshine of feeling--he shed it over me now. "Pass, Janet," said he, making room for me to cross the stile: "go up home, and stay your weary little wandering feet at a friend's threshold." All I had now to do was to obey him in silence: no need for me to colloquise further. I got over the stile without a word, and meant to leave him calmly. An impulse held me fast--a force turned me round. I said--or something in me said for me, and in spite of me-- "Thank you, Mr. Rochester, for your great kindness. I am strangely glad to get back again to you: and wherever you are is my home--my only home." I walked on so fast that even he could hardly have overtaken me had he tried. Little Adele was half wild with delight when she saw me. Mrs. Fairfax received me with her usual plain friendliness. Leah smiled, and even Sophie bid me "bon soir" with glee. This was very pleasant; there is no happiness like that of being loved by your fellow-creatures, and feeling that your presence is an addition to their comfort. I that evening shut my eyes resolutely against the future: I stopped my ears against the voice that kept warning me of near separation and coming grief. When tea was over and Mrs. Fairfax had taken her knitting, and I had assumed a low seat near her, and Adele, kneeling on the carpet, had nestled close up to me, and a sense of mutual affection seemed to surround us with a ring of golden peace, I uttered a silent prayer that we might not be parted far or soon; but when, as we thus sat, Mr. Rochester entered, unannounced, and looking at us, seemed to take pleasure in the spectacle of a group so amicable--when he said he supposed the old lady was all right now that she had got her adopted daughter back again, and added that he saw Adele was "prete a croquer sa petite maman Anglaise"--I half ventured to hope that he would, even after his marriage, keep us together somewhere under the shelter of his protection, and not quite exiled from the sunshine of his presence. A fortnight of dubious calm succeeded my return to Thornfield Hall. Nothing was said of the master's marriage, and I saw no preparation going on for such an event. Almost every day I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had yet heard anything decided: her answer was always in the negative. Once she said she had actually put the question to Mr. Rochester as to when he was going to bring his bride home; but he had answered her only by a joke and one of his queer looks, and she could not tell what to make of him. One thing specially surprised me, and that was, there were no journeyings backward and forward, no visits to Ingram Park: to be sure it was twenty miles off, on the borders of another county; but what was that distance to an ardent lover? To so practised and indefatigable a horseman as Mr. Rochester, it would be but a morning's ride. I began to cherish hopes I had no right to conceive: that the match was broken off; that rumour had been mistaken; that one or both parties had changed their minds. I used to look at my master's face to see if it were sad or fierce; but I could not remember the time when it had been so uniformly clear of clouds or evil feelings. If, in the moments I and my pupil spent with him, I lacked spirits and sank into inevitable dejection, he became even gay. Never had he called me more frequently to his presence; never been kinder to me when there--and, alas! never had I loved him so well. CHAPTER XXIII A splendid Midsummer shone over England: skies so pure, suns so radiant as were then seen in long succession, seldom favour even singly, our wave- girt land. It was as if a band of Italian days had come from the South, like a flock of glorious passenger birds, and lighted to rest them on the cliffs of Albion. The hay was all got in; the fields round Thornfield were green and shorn; the roads white and baked; the trees were in their dark prime; hedge and wood, full-leaved and deeply tinted, contrasted well with the sunny hue of the cleared meadows between. On Midsummer-eve, Adele, weary with gathering wild strawberries in Hay Lane half the day, had gone to bed with the sun. I watched her drop asleep, and when I left her, I sought the garden. It was now the sweetest hour of the twenty-four:--"Day its fervid fires had wasted," and dew fell cool on panting plain and scorched summit. Where the sun had gone down in simple state--pure of the pomp of clouds--spread a solemn purple, burning with the light of red jewel and furnace flame at one point, on one hill-peak, and extending high and wide, soft and still softer, over half heaven. The east had its own charm or fine deep blue, and its own modest gem, a casino and solitary star: soon it would boast the moon; but she was yet beneath the horizon. I walked a while on the pavement; but a subtle, well-known scent--that of a cigar--stole from some window; I saw the library casement open a handbreadth; I knew I might be watched thence; so I went apart into the orchard. No nook in the grounds more sheltered and more Eden-like; it was full of trees, it bloomed with flowers: a very high wall shut it out from the court, on one side; on the other, a beech avenue screened it from the lawn. At the bottom was a sunk fence; its sole separation from lonely fields: a winding walk, bordered with laurels and terminating in a giant horse-chestnut, circled at the base by a seat, led down to the fence. Here one could wander unseen. While such honey-dew fell, such silence reigned, such gloaming gathered, I felt as if I could haunt such shade for ever; but in threading the flower and fruit parterres at the upper part of the enclosure, enticed there by the light the now rising moon cast on this more open quarter, my step is stayed--not by sound, not by sight, but once more by a warning fragrance. Sweet-briar and southernwood, jasmine, pink, and rose have long been yielding their evening sacrifice of incense: this new scent is neither of shrub nor flower; it is--I know it well--it is Mr. Rochester's cigar. I look round and I listen. I see trees laden with ripening fruit. I hear a nightingale warbling in a wood half a mile off; no moving form is visible, no coming step audible; but that perfume increases: I must flee. I make for the wicket leading to the shrubbery, and I see Mr. Rochester entering. I step aside into the ivy recess; he will not stay long: he will soon return whence he came, and if I sit still he will never see me. But no--eventide is as pleasant to him as to me, and this antique garden as attractive; and he strolls on, now lifting the gooseberry-tree branches to look at the fruit, large as plums, with which they are laden; now taking a ripe cherry from the wall; now stooping towards a knot of flowers, either to inhale their fragrance or to admire the dew-beads on their petals. A great moth goes humming by me; it alights on a plant at Mr. Rochester's foot: he sees it, and bends to examine it. "Now, he has his back towards me," thought I, "and he is occupied too; perhaps, if I walk softly, I can slip away unnoticed." I trode on an edging of turf that the crackle of the pebbly gravel might not betray me: he was standing among the beds at a yard or two distant from where I had to pass; the moth apparently engaged him. "I shall get by very well," I meditated. As I crossed his shadow, thrown long over the garden by the moon, not yet risen high, he said quietly, without turning-- "Jane, come and look at this fellow." I had made no noise: he had not eyes behind--could his shadow feel? I started at first, and then I approached him. "Look at his wings," said he, "he reminds me rather of a West Indian insect; one does not often see so large and gay a night-rover in England; there! he is flown." The moth roamed away. I was sheepishly retreating also; but Mr. Rochester followed me, and when we reached the wicket, he said-- "Turn back: on so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the house; and surely no one can wish to go to bed while sunset is thus at meeting with moonrise." It is one of my faults, that though my tongue is sometimes prompt enough at an answer, there are times when it sadly fails me in framing an excuse; and always the lapse occurs at some crisis, when a facile word or plausible pretext is specially wanted to get me out of painful embarrassment. I did not like to walk at this hour alone with Mr. Rochester in the shadowy orchard; but I could not find a reason to allege for leaving him. I followed with lagging step, and thoughts busily bent on discovering a means of extrication; but he himself looked so composed and so grave also, I became ashamed of feeling any confusion: the evil--if evil existent or prospective there was--seemed to lie with me only; his mind was unconscious and quiet. "Jane," he recommenced, as we entered the laurel walk, and slowly strayed down in the direction of the sunk fence and the horse-chestnut, "Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, is it not?" "Yes, sir." "You must have become in some degree attached to the house,--you, who have an eye for natural beauties, and a good deal of the organ of Adhesiveness?" "I am attached to it, indeed." "And though I don't comprehend how it is, I perceive you have acquired a degree of regard for that foolish little child Adele, too; and even for simple dame Fairfax?" "Yes, sir; in different ways, I have an affection for both." "And would be sorry to part with them?" "Yes." "Pity!" he said, and sighed and paused. "It is always the way of events in this life," he continued presently: "no sooner have you got settled in a pleasant resting-place, than a voice calls out to you to rise and move on, for the hour of repose is expired." "Must I move on, sir?" I asked. "Must I leave Thornfield?" "I believe you must, Jane. I am sorry, Janet, but I believe indeed you must." This was a blow: but I did not let it prostrate me. "Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order to march comes." "It is come now--I must give it to-night." "Then you _are_ going to be married, sir?" "Ex-act-ly--pre-cise-ly: with your usual acuteness, you have hit the nail straight on the head." "Soon, sir?" "Very soon, my--that is, Miss Eyre: and you'll remember, Jane, the first time I, or Rumour, plainly intimated to you that it was my intention to put my old bachelor's neck into the sacred noose, to enter into the holy estate of matrimony--to take Miss Ingram to my bosom, in short (she's an extensive armful: but that's not to the point--one can't have too much of such a very excellent thing as my beautiful Blanche): well, as I was saying--listen to me, Jane! You're not turning your head to look after more moths, are you? That was only a lady-clock, child, 'flying away home.' I wish to remind you that it was you who first said to me, with that discretion I respect in you--with that foresight, prudence, and humility which befit your responsible and dependent position--that in case I married Miss Ingram, both you and little Adele had better trot forthwith. I pass over the sort of slur conveyed in this suggestion on the character of my beloved; indeed, when you are far away, Janet, I'll try to forget it: I shall notice only its wisdom; which is such that I have made it my law of action. Adele must go to school; and you, Miss Eyre, must get a new situation." "Yes, sir, I will advertise immediately: and meantime, I suppose--" I was going to say, "I suppose I may stay here, till I find another shelter to betake myself to:" but I stopped, feeling it would not do to risk a long sentence, for my voice was not quite under command. "In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom," continued Mr. Rochester; "and in the interim, I shall myself look out for employment and an asylum for you." "Thank you, sir; I am sorry to give--" "Oh, no need to apologise! I consider that when a dependent does her duty as well as you have done yours, she has a sort of claim upon her employer for any little assistance he can conveniently render her; indeed I have already, through my future mother-in-law, heard of a place that I think will suit: it is to undertake the education of the five daughters of Mrs. Dionysius O'Gall of Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland. You'll like Ireland, I think: they're such warm-hearted people there, they say." "It is a long way off, sir." "No matter--a girl of your sense will not object to the voyage or the distance." "Not the voyage, but the distance: and then the sea is a barrier--" "From what, Jane?" "From England and from Thornfield: and--" "Well?" "From _you_, sir." I said this almost involuntarily, and, with as little sanction of free will, my tears gushed out. I did not cry so as to be heard, however; I avoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs. O'Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my heart; and colder the thought of all the brine and foam, destined, as it seemed, to rush between me and the master at whose side I now walked, and coldest the remembrance of the wider ocean--wealth, caste, custom intervened between me and what I naturally and inevitably loved. "It is a long way," I again said. "It is, to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland, I shall never see you again, Jane: that's morally certain. I never go over to Ireland, not having myself much of a fancy for the country. We have been good friends, Jane; have we not?" "Yes, sir." "And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to spend the little time that remains to them close to each other. Come! we'll talk over the voyage and the parting quietly half-an-hour or so, while the stars enter into their shining life up in heaven yonder: here is the chestnut tree: here is the bench at its old roots. Come, we will sit there in peace to-night, though we should never more be destined to sit there together." He seated me and himself. "It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my little friend on such weary travels: but if I can't do better, how is it to be helped? Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane?" I could risk no sort of answer by this time: my heart was still. "Because," he said, "I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you--especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you,--you'd forget me." "That I _never_ should, sir: you know--" Impossible to proceed. "Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood? Listen!" In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I endured no longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot with acute distress. When I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield. "Because you are sorry to leave it?" The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway, and asserting a right to predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last: yes,--and to speak. "I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield:--I love it, because I have lived in it a full and delightful life,--momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic and high. I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, with what I delight in,--with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have known you, Mr. Rochester; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of death." "Where do you see the necessity?" he asked suddenly. "Where? You, sir, have placed it before me." "In what shape?" "In the shape of Miss Ingram; a noble and beautiful woman,--your bride." "My bride! What bride? I have no bride!" "But you will have." "Yes;--I will!--I will!" He set his teeth. "Then I must go:--you have said it yourself." "No: you must stay! I swear it--and the oath shall be kept." "I tell you I must go!" I retorted, roused to something like passion. "Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you think I am an automaton?--a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!--I have as much soul as you,--and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh;--it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God's feet, equal,--as we are!" "As we are!" repeated Mr. Rochester--"so," he added, enclosing me in his arms. Gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips: "so, Jane!" "Yes, so, sir," I rejoined: "and yet not so; for you are a married man--or as good as a married man, and wed to one inferior to you--to one with whom you have no sympathy--whom I do not believe you truly love; for I have seen and heard you sneer at her. I would scorn such a union: therefore I am better than you--let me go!" "Where, Jane? To Ireland?" "Yes--to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now." "Jane, be still; don't struggle so, like a wild frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation." "I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you." Another effort set me at liberty, and I stood erect before him. "And your will shall decide your destiny," he said: "I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions." "You play a farce, which I merely laugh at." "I ask you to pass through life at my side--to be my second self, and best earthly companion." "For that fate you have already made your choice, and must abide by it." "Jane, be still a few moments: you are over-excited: I will be still too." A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk, and trembled through the boughs of the chestnut: it wandered away--away--to an indefinite distance--it died. The nightingale's song was then the only voice of the hour: in listening to it, I again wept. Mr. Rochester sat quiet, looking at me gently and seriously. Some time passed before he spoke; he at last said-- "Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and understand one another." "I will never again come to your side: I am torn away now, and cannot return." "But, Jane, I summon you as my wife: it is you only I intend to marry." I was silent: I thought he mocked me. "Come, Jane--come hither." "Your bride stands between us." He rose, and with a stride reached me. "My bride is here," he said, again drawing me to him, "because my equal is here, and my likeness. Jane, will you marry me?" Still I did not answer, and still I writhed myself from his grasp: for I was still incredulous. "Do you doubt me, Jane?" "Entirely." "You have no faith in me?" "Not a whit." "Am I a liar in your eyes?" he asked passionately. "Little sceptic, you _shall_ be convinced. What love have I for Miss Ingram? None: and that you know. What love has she for me? None: as I have taken pains to prove: I caused a rumour to reach her that my fortune was not a third of what was supposed, and after that I presented myself to see the result; it was coldness both from her and her mother. I would not--I could not--marry Miss Ingram. You--you strange, you almost unearthly thing!--I love as my own flesh. You--poor and obscure, and small and plain as you are--I entreat to accept me as a husband." "What, me!" I ejaculated, beginning in his earnestness--and especially in his incivility--to credit his sincerity: "me who have not a friend in the world but you--if you are my friend: not a shilling but what you have given me?" "You, Jane, I must have you for my own--entirely my own. Will you be mine? Say yes, quickly." "Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face: turn to the moonlight." "Why?" "Because I want to read your countenance--turn!" "There! you will find it scarcely more legible than a crumpled, scratched page. Read on: only make haste, for I suffer." His face was very much agitated and very much flushed, and there were strong workings in the features, and strange gleams in the eyes. "Oh, Jane, you torture me!" he exclaimed. "With that searching and yet faithful and generous look, you torture me!" "How can I do that? If you are true, and your offer real, my only feelings to you must be gratitude and devotion--they cannot torture." "Gratitude!" he ejaculated; and added wildly--"Jane accept me quickly. Say, Edward--give me my name--Edward--I will marry you." "Are you in earnest? Do you truly love me? Do you sincerely wish me to be your wife?" "I do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy you, I swear it." "Then, sir, I will marry you." "Edward--my little wife!" "Dear Edward!" "Come to me--come to me entirely now," said he; and added, in his deepest tone, speaking in my ear as his cheek was laid on mine, "Make my happiness--I will make yours." "God pardon me!" he subjoined ere long; "and man meddle not with me: I have her, and will hold her." "There is no one to meddle, sir. I have no kindred to interfere." "No--that is the best of it," he said. And if I had loved him less I should have thought his accent and look of exultation savage; but, sitting by him, roused from the nightmare of parting--called to the paradise of union--I thought only of the bliss given me to drink in so abundant a flow. Again and again he said, "Are you happy, Jane?" And again and again I answered, "Yes." After which he murmured, "It will atone--it will atone. Have I not found her friendless, and cold, and comfortless? Will I not guard, and cherish, and solace her? Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves? It will expiate at God's tribunal. I know my Maker sanctions what I do. For the world's judgment--I wash my hands thereof. For man's opinion--I defy it." But what had befallen the night? The moon was not yet set, and we were all in shadow: I could scarcely see my master's face, near as I was. And what ailed the chestnut tree? it writhed and groaned; while wind roared in the laurel walk, and came sweeping over us. "We must go in," said Mr. Rochester: "the weather changes. I could have sat with thee till morning, Jane." "And so," thought I, "could I with you." I should have said so, perhaps, but a livid, vivid spark leapt out of a cloud at which I was looking, and there was a crack, a crash, and a close rattling peal; and I thought only of hiding my dazzled eyes against Mr. Rochester's shoulder. The rain rushed down. He hurried me up the walk, through the grounds, and into the house; but we were quite wet before we could pass the threshold. He was taking off my shawl in the hall, and shaking the water out of my loosened hair, when Mrs. Fairfax emerged from her room. I did not observe her at first, nor did Mr. Rochester. The lamp was lit. The clock was on the stroke of twelve. "Hasten to take off your wet things," said he; "and before you go, good- night--good-night, my darling!" He kissed me repeatedly. When I looked up, on leaving his arms, there stood the widow, pale, grave, and amazed. I only smiled at her, and ran upstairs. "Explanation will do for another time," thought I. Still, when I reached my chamber, I felt a pang at the idea she should even temporarily misconstrue what she had seen. But joy soon effaced every other feeling; and loud as the wind blew, near and deep as the thunder crashed, fierce and frequent as the lightning gleamed, cataract-like as the rain fell during a storm of two hours' duration, I experienced no fear and little awe. Mr. Rochester came thrice to my door in the course of it, to ask if I was safe and tranquil: and that was comfort, that was strength for anything. Before I left my bed in the morning, little Adele came running in to tell me that the great horse-chestnut at the bottom of the orchard had been struck by lightning in the night, and half of it split away. CHAPTER XXIV As I rose and dressed, I thought over what had happened, and wondered if it were a dream. I could not be certain of the reality till I had seen Mr. Rochester again, and heard him renew his words of love and promise. While arranging my hair, I looked at my face in the glass, and felt it was no longer plain: there was hope in its aspect and life in its colour; and my eyes seemed as if they had beheld the fount of fruition, and borrowed beams from the lustrous ripple. I had often been unwilling to look at my master, because I feared he could not be pleased at my look; but I was sure I might lift my face to his now, and not cool his affection by its expression. I took a plain but clean and light summer dress from my drawer and put it on: it seemed no attire had ever so well become me, because none had I ever worn in so blissful a mood. I was not surprised, when I ran down into the hall, to see that a brilliant June morning had succeeded to the tempest of the night; and to feel, through the open glass door, the breathing of a fresh and fragrant breeze. Nature must be gladsome when I was so happy. A beggar-woman and her little boy--pale, ragged objects both--were coming up the walk, and I ran down and gave them all the money I happened to have in my purse--some three or four shillings: good or bad, they must partake of my jubilee. The rooks cawed, and blither birds sang; but nothing was so merry or so musical as my own rejoicing heart. Mrs. Fairfax surprised me by looking out of the window with a sad countenance, and saying gravely--"Miss Eyre, will you come to breakfast?" During the meal she was quiet and cool: but I could not undeceive her then. I must wait for my master to give explanations; and so must she. I ate what I could, and then I hastened upstairs. I met Adele leaving the schoolroom. "Where are you going? It is time for lessons." "Mr. Rochester has sent me away to the nursery." "Where is he?" "In there," pointing to the apartment she had left; and I went in, and there he stood. "Come and bid me good-morning," said he. I gladly advanced; and it was not merely a cold word now, or even a shake of the hand that I received, but an embrace and a kiss. It seemed natural: it seemed genial to be so well loved, so caressed by him. "Jane, you look blooming, and smiling, and pretty," said he: "truly pretty this morning. Is this my pale, little elf? Is this my mustard- seed? This little sunny-faced girl with the dimpled cheek and rosy lips; the satin-smooth hazel hair, and the radiant hazel eyes?" (I had green eyes, reader; but you must excuse the mistake: for him they were new-dyed, I suppose.) "It is Jane Eyre, sir." "Soon to be Jane Rochester," he added: "in four weeks, Janet; not a day more. Do you hear that?" I did, and I could not quite comprehend it: it made me giddy. The feeling, the announcement sent through me, was something stronger than was consistent with joy--something that smote and stunned. It was, I think almost fear. "You blushed, and now you are white, Jane: what is that for?" "Because you gave me a new name--Jane Rochester; and it seems so strange." "Yes, Mrs. Rochester," said he; "young Mrs. Rochester--Fairfax Rochester's girl-bride." "It can never be, sir; it does not sound likely. Human beings never enjoy complete happiness in this world. I was not born for a different destiny to the rest of my species: to imagine such a lot befalling me is a fairy tale--a day-dream." "Which I can and will realise. I shall begin to-day. This morning I wrote to my banker in London to send me certain jewels he has in his keeping,--heirlooms for the ladies of Thornfield. In a day or two I hope to pour them into your lap: for every privilege, every attention shall be yours that I would accord a peer's daughter, if about to marry her." "Oh, sir!--never rain jewels! I don't like to hear them spoken of. Jewels for Jane Eyre sounds unnatural and strange: I would rather not have them." "I will myself put the diamond chain round your neck, and the circlet on your forehead,--which it will become: for nature, at least, has stamped her patent of nobility on this brow, Jane; and I will clasp the bracelets on these fine wrists, and load these fairy-like fingers with rings." "No, no, sir! think of other subjects, and speak of other things, and in another strain. Don't address me as if I were a beauty; I am your plain, Quakerish governess." "You are a beauty in my eyes, and a beauty just after the desire of my heart,--delicate and aerial." "Puny and insignificant, you mean. You are dreaming, sir,--or you are sneering. For God's sake don't be ironical!" "I will make the world acknowledge you a beauty, too," he went on, while I really became uneasy at the strain he had adopted, because I felt he was either deluding himself or trying to delude me. "I will attire my Jane in satin and lace, and she shall have roses in her hair; and I will cover the head I love best with a priceless veil." "And then you won't know me, sir; and I shall not be your Jane Eyre any longer, but an ape in a harlequin's jacket--a jay in borrowed plumes. I would as soon see you, Mr. Rochester, tricked out in stage-trappings, as myself clad in a court-lady's robe; and I don't call you handsome, sir, though I love you most dearly: far too dearly to flatter you. Don't flatter me." He pursued his theme, however, without noticing my deprecation. "This very day I shall take you in the carriage to Millcote, and you must choose some dresses for yourself. I told you we shall be married in four weeks. The wedding is to take place quietly, in the church down below yonder; and then I shall waft you away at once to town. After a brief stay there, I shall bear my treasure to regions nearer the sun: to French vineyards and Italian plains; and she shall see whatever is famous in old story and in modern record: she shall taste, too, of the life of cities; and she shall learn to value herself by just comparison with others." "Shall I travel?--and with you, sir?" "You shall sojourn at Paris, Rome, and Naples: at Florence, Venice, and Vienna: all the ground I have wandered over shall be re-trodden by you: wherever I stamped my hoof, your sylph's foot shall step also. Ten years since, I flew through Europe half mad; with disgust, hate, and rage as my companions: now I shall revisit it healed and cleansed, with a very angel as my comforter." I laughed at him as he said this. "I am not an angel," I asserted; "and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself. Mr. Rochester, you must neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me--for you will not get it, any more than I shall get it of you: which I do not at all anticipate." "What do you anticipate of me?" "For a little while you will perhaps be as you are now,--a very little while; and then you will turn cool; and then you will be capricious; and then you will be stern, and I shall have much ado to please you: but when you get well used to me, you will perhaps like me again,--_like_ me, I say, not _love_ me. I suppose your love will effervesce in six months, or less. I have observed in books written by men, that period assigned as the farthest to which a husband's ardour extends. Yet, after all, as a friend and companion, I hope never to become quite distasteful to my dear master." "Distasteful! and like you again! I think I shall like you again, and yet again: and I will make you confess I do not only _like_, but _love_ you--with truth, fervour, constancy." "Yet are you not capricious, sir?" "To women who please me only by their faces, I am the very devil when I find out they have neither souls nor hearts--when they open to me a perspective of flatness, triviality, and perhaps imbecility, coarseness, and ill-temper: but to the clear eye and eloquent tongue, to the soul made of fire, and the character that bends but does not break--at once supple and stable, tractable and consistent--I am ever tender and true." "Had you ever experience of such a character, sir? Did you ever love such an one?" "I love it now." "But before me: if I, indeed, in any respect come up to your difficult standard?" "I never met your likeness. Jane, you please me, and you master me--you seem to submit, and I like the sense of pliancy you impart; and while I am twining the soft, silken skein round my finger, it sends a thrill up my arm to my heart. I am influenced--conquered; and the influence is sweeter than I can express; and the conquest I undergo has a witchery beyond any triumph I can win. Why do you smile, Jane? What does that inexplicable, that uncanny turn of countenance mean?" "I was thinking, sir (you will excuse the idea; it was involuntary), I was thinking of Hercules and Samson with their charmers--" "You were, you little elfish--" "Hush, sir! You don't talk very wisely just now; any more than those gentlemen acted very wisely. However, had they been married, they would no doubt by their severity as husbands have made up for their softness as suitors; and so will you, I fear. I wonder how you will answer me a year hence, should I ask a favour it does not suit your convenience or pleasure to grant." "Ask me something now, Jane,--the least thing: I desire to be entreated--" "Indeed I will, sir; I have my petition all ready." "Speak! But if you look up and smile with that countenance, I shall swear concession before I know to what, and that will make a fool of me." "Not at all, sir; I ask only this: don't send for the jewels, and don't crown me with roses: you might as well put a border of gold lace round that plain pocket handkerchief you have there." "I might as well 'gild refined gold.' I know it: your request is granted then--for the time. I will remand the order I despatched to my banker. But you have not yet asked for anything; you have prayed a gift to be withdrawn: try again." "Well then, sir, have the goodness to gratify my curiosity, which is much piqued on one point." He looked disturbed. "What? what?" he said hastily. "Curiosity is a dangerous petition: it is well I have not taken a vow to accord every request--" "But there can be no danger in complying with this, sir." "Utter it, Jane: but I wish that instead of a mere inquiry into, perhaps, a secret, it was a wish for half my estate." "Now, King Ahasuerus! What do I want with half your estate? Do you think I am a Jew-usurer, seeking good investment in land? I would much rather have all your confidence. You will not exclude me from your confidence if you admit me to your heart?" "You are welcome to all my confidence that is worth having, Jane; but for God's sake, don't desire a useless burden! Don't long for poison--don't turn out a downright Eve on my hands!" "Why not, sir? You have just been telling me how much you liked to be conquered, and how pleasant over-persuasion is to you. Don't you think I had better take advantage of the confession, and begin and coax and entreat--even cry and be sulky if necessary--for the sake of a mere essay of my power?" "I dare you to any such experiment. Encroach, presume, and the game is up." "Is it, sir? You soon give in. How stern you look now! Your eyebrows have become as thick as my finger, and your forehead resembles what, in some very astonishing poetry, I once saw styled, 'a blue-piled thunderloft.' That will be your married look, sir, I suppose?" "If that will be _your_ married look, I, as a Christian, will soon give up the notion of consorting with a mere sprite or salamander. But what had you to ask, thing,--out with it?" "There, you are less than civil now; and I like rudeness a great deal better than flattery. I had rather be a _thing_ than an angel. This is what I have to ask,--Why did you take such pains to make me believe you wished to marry Miss Ingram?" "Is that all? Thank God it is no worse!" And now he unknit his black brows; looked down, smiling at me, and stroked my hair, as if well pleased at seeing a danger averted. "I think I may confess," he continued, "even although I should make you a little indignant, Jane--and I have seen what a fire-spirit you can be when you are indignant. You glowed in the cool moonlight last night, when you mutinied against fate, and claimed your rank as my equal. Janet, by-the-bye, it was you who made me the offer." "Of course I did. But to the point if you please, sir--Miss Ingram?" "Well, I feigned courtship of Miss Ingram, because I wished to render you as madly in love with me as I was with you; and I knew jealousy would be the best ally I could call in for the furtherance of that end." "Excellent! Now you are small--not one whit bigger than the end of my little finger. It was a burning shame and a scandalous disgrace to act in that way. Did you think nothing of Miss Ingram's feelings, sir?" "Her feelings are concentrated in one--pride; and that needs humbling. Were you jealous, Jane?" "Never mind, Mr. Rochester: it is in no way interesting to you to know that. Answer me truly once more. Do you think Miss Ingram will not suffer from your dishonest coquetry? Won't she feel forsaken and deserted?" "Impossible!--when I told you how she, on the contrary, deserted me: the idea of my insolvency cooled, or rather extinguished, her flame in a moment." "You have a curious, designing mind, Mr. Rochester. I am afraid your principles on some points are eccentric." "My principles were never trained, Jane: they may have grown a little awry for want of attention." "Once again, seriously; may I enjoy the great good that has been vouchsafed to me, without fearing that any one else is suffering the bitter pain I myself felt a while ago?" "That you may, my good little girl: there is not another being in the world has the same pure love for me as yourself--for I lay that pleasant unction to my soul, Jane, a belief in your affection." I turned my lips to the hand that lay on my shoulder. I loved him very much--more than I could trust myself to say--more than words had power to express. "Ask something more," he said presently; "it is my delight to be entreated, and to yield." I was again ready with my request. "Communicate your intentions to Mrs. Fairfax, sir: she saw me with you last night in the hall, and she was shocked. Give her some explanation before I see her again. It pains me to be misjudged by so good a woman." "Go to your room, and put on your bonnet," he replied. "I mean you to accompany me to Millcote this morning; and while you prepare for the drive, I will enlighten the old lady's understanding. Did she think, Janet, you had given the world for love, and considered it well lost?" "I believe she thought I had forgotten my station, and yours, sir." "Station! station!--your station is in my heart, and on the necks of those who would insult you, now or hereafter.--Go." I was soon dressed; and when I heard Mr. Rochester quit Mrs. Fairfax's parlour, I hurried down to it. The old lady, had been reading her morning portion of Scripture--the Lesson for the day; her Bible lay open before her, and her spectacles were upon it. Her occupation, suspended by Mr. Rochester's announcement, seemed now forgotten: her eyes, fixed on the blank wall opposite, expressed the surprise of a quiet mind stirred by unwonted tidings. Seeing me, she roused herself: she made a sort of effort to smile, and framed a few words of congratulation; but the smile expired, and the sentence was abandoned unfinished. She put up her spectacles, shut the Bible, and pushed her chair back from the table. "I feel so astonished," she began, "I hardly know what to say to you, Miss Eyre. I have surely not been dreaming, have I? Sometimes I half fall asleep when I am sitting alone and fancy things that have never happened. It has seemed to me more than once when I have been in a doze, that my dear husband, who died fifteen years since, has come in and sat down beside me; and that I have even heard him call me by my name, Alice, as he used to do. Now, can you tell me whether it is actually true that Mr. Rochester has asked you to marry him? Don't laugh at me. But I really thought he came in here five minutes ago, and said that in a month you would be his wife." "He has said the same thing to me," I replied. "He has! Do you believe him? Have you accepted him?" "Yes." She looked at me bewildered. "I could never have thought it. He is a proud man: all the Rochesters were proud: and his father, at least, liked money. He, too, has always been called careful. He means to marry you?" "He tells me so." She surveyed my whole person: in her eyes I read that they had there found no charm powerful enough to solve the enigma. "It passes me!" she continued; "but no doubt, it is true since you say so. How it will answer, I cannot tell: I really don't know. Equality of position and fortune is often advisable in such cases; and there are twenty years of difference in your ages. He might almost be your father." "No, indeed, Mrs. Fairfax!" exclaimed I, nettled; "he is nothing like my father! No one, who saw us together, would suppose it for an instant. Mr. Rochester looks as young, and is as young, as some men at five-and- twenty." "Is it really for love he is going to marry you?" she asked. I was so hurt by her coldness and scepticism, that the tears rose to my eyes. "I am sorry to grieve you," pursued the widow; "but you are so young, and so little acquainted with men, I wished to put you on your guard. It is an old saying that 'all is not gold that glitters;' and in this case I do fear there will be something found to be different to what either you or I expect." "Why?--am I a monster?" I said: "is it impossible that Mr. Rochester should have a sincere affection for me?" "No: you are very well; and much improved of late; and Mr. Rochester, I daresay, is fond of you. I have always noticed that you were a sort of pet of his. There are times when, for your sake, I have been a little uneasy at his marked preference, and have wished to put you on your guard: but I did not like to suggest even the possibility of wrong. I knew such an idea would shock, perhaps offend you; and you were so discreet, and so thoroughly modest and sensible, I hoped you might be trusted to protect yourself. Last night I cannot tell you what I suffered when I sought all over the house, and could find you nowhere, nor the master either; and then, at twelve o'clock, saw you come in with him." "Well, never mind that now," I interrupted impatiently; "it is enough that all was right." "I hope all will be right in the end," she said: "but believe me, you cannot be too careful. Try and keep Mr. Rochester at a distance: distrust yourself as well as him. Gentlemen in his station are not accustomed to marry their governesses." I was growing truly irritated: happily, Adele ran in. "Let me go,--let me go to Millcote too!" she cried. "Mr. Rochester won't: though there is so much room in the new carriage. Beg him to let me go mademoiselle." "That I will, Adele;" and I hastened away with her, glad to quit my gloomy monitress. The carriage was ready: they were bringing it round to the front, and my master was pacing the pavement, Pilot following him backwards and forwards. "Adele may accompany us, may she not, sir?" "I told her no. I'll have no brats!--I'll have only you." "Do let her go, Mr. Rochester, if you please: it would be better." "Not it: she will be a restraint." He was quite peremptory, both in look and voice. The chill of Mrs. Fairfax's warnings, and the damp of her doubts were upon me: something of unsubstantiality and uncertainty had beset my hopes. I half lost the sense of power over him. I was about mechanically to obey him, without further remonstrance; but as he helped me into the carriage, he looked at my face. "What is the matter?" he asked; "all the sunshine is gone. Do you really wish the bairn to go? Will it annoy you if she is left behind?" "I would far rather she went, sir." "Then off for your bonnet, and back like a flash of lightning!" cried he to Adele. She obeyed him with what speed she might. "After all, a single morning's interruption will not matter much," said he, "when I mean shortly to claim you--your thoughts, conversation, and company--for life." Adele, when lifted in, commenced kissing me, by way of expressing her gratitude for my intercession: she was instantly stowed away into a corner on the other side of him. She then peeped round to where I sat; so stern a neighbour was too restrictive to him, in his present fractious mood, she dared whisper no observations, nor ask of him any information. "Let her come to me," I entreated: "she will, perhaps, trouble you, sir: there is plenty of room on this side." He handed her over as if she had been a lapdog. "I'll send her to school yet," he said, but now he was smiling. Adele heard him, and asked if she was to go to school "sans mademoiselle?" "Yes," he replied, "absolutely sans mademoiselle; for I am to take mademoiselle to the moon, and there I shall seek a cave in one of the white valleys among the volcano-tops, and mademoiselle shall live with me there, and only me." "She will have nothing to eat: you will starve her," observed Adele. "I shall gather manna for her morning and night: the plains and hillsides in the moon are bleached with manna, Adele." "She will want to warm herself: what will she do for a fire?" "Fire rises out of the lunar mountains: when she is cold, I'll carry her up to a peak, and lay her down on the edge of a crater." "Oh, qu' elle y sera mal--peu comfortable! And her clothes, they will wear out: how can she get new ones?" Mr. Rochester professed to be puzzled. "Hem!" said he. "What would you do, Adele? Cudgel your brains for an expedient. How would a white or a pink cloud answer for a gown, do you think? And one could cut a pretty enough scarf out of a rainbow." "She is far better as she is," concluded Adele, after musing some time: "besides, she would get tired of living with only you in the moon. If I were mademoiselle, I would never consent to go with you." "She has consented: she has pledged her word." "But you can't get her there; there is no road to the moon: it is all air; and neither you nor she can fly." "Adele, look at that field." We were now outside Thornfield gates, and bowling lightly along the smooth road to Millcote, where the dust was well laid by the thunderstorm, and, where the low hedges and lofty timber trees on each side glistened green and rain-refreshed. "In that field, Adele, I was walking late one evening about a fortnight since--the evening of the day you helped me to make hay in the orchard meadows; and, as I was tired with raking swaths, I sat down to rest me on a stile; and there I took out a little book and a pencil, and began to write about a misfortune that befell me long ago, and a wish I had for happy days to come: I was writing away very fast, though daylight was fading from the leaf, when something came up the path and stopped two yards off me. I looked at it. It was a little thing with a veil of gossamer on its head. I beckoned it to come near me; it stood soon at my knee. I never spoke to it, and it never spoke to me, in words; but I read its eyes, and it read mine; and our speechless colloquy was to this effect-- "It was a fairy, and come from Elf-land, it said; and its errand was to make me happy: I must go with it out of the common world to a lonely place--such as the moon, for instance--and it nodded its head towards her horn, rising over Hay-hill: it told me of the alabaster cave and silver vale where we might live. I said I should like to go; but reminded it, as you did me, that I had no wings to fly. "'Oh,' returned the fairy, 'that does not signify! Here is a talisman will remove all difficulties;' and she held out a pretty gold ring. 'Put it,' she said, 'on the fourth finger of my left hand, and I am yours, and you are mine; and we shall leave earth, and make our own heaven yonder.' She nodded again at the moon. The ring, Adele, is in my breeches-pocket, under the disguise of a sovereign: but I mean soon to change it to a ring again." "But what has mademoiselle to do with it? I don't care for the fairy: you said it was mademoiselle you would take to the moon?" "Mademoiselle is a fairy," he said, whispering mysteriously. Whereupon I told her not to mind his badinage; and she, on her part, evinced a fund of genuine French scepticism: denominating Mr. Rochester "un vrai menteur," and assuring him that she made no account whatever of his "contes de fee," and that "du reste, il n'y avait pas de fees, et quand meme il y en avait:" she was sure they would never appear to him, nor ever give him rings, or offer to live with him in the moon. The hour spent at Millcote was a somewhat harassing one to me. Mr. Rochester obliged me to go to a certain silk warehouse: there I was ordered to choose half-a-dozen dresses. I hated the business, I begged leave to defer it: no--it should be gone through with now. By dint of entreaties expressed in energetic whispers, I reduced the half-dozen to two: these however, he vowed he would select himself. With anxiety I watched his eye rove over the gay stores: he fixed on a rich silk of the most brilliant amethyst dye, and a superb pink satin. I told him in a new series of whispers, that he might as well buy me a gold gown and a silver bonnet at once: I should certainly never venture to wear his choice. With infinite difficulty, for he was stubborn as a stone, I persuaded him to make an exchange in favour of a sober black satin and pearl-grey silk. "It might pass for the present," he said; "but he would yet see me glittering like a parterre." Glad was I to get him out of the silk warehouse, and then out of a jewellers shop: the more he bought me, the more my cheek burned with a sense of annoyance and degradation. As we re-entered the carriage, and I sat back feverish and fagged, I remembered what, in the hurry of events, dark and bright, I had wholly forgotten--the letter of my uncle, John Eyre, to Mrs. Reed: his intention to adopt me and make me his legatee. "It would, indeed, be a relief," I thought, "if I had ever so small an independency; I never can bear being dressed like a doll by Mr. Rochester, or sitting like a second Danae with the golden shower falling daily round me. I will write to Madeira the moment I get home, and tell my uncle John I am going to be married, and to whom: if I had but a prospect of one day bringing Mr. Rochester an accession of fortune, I could better endure to be kept by him now." And somewhat relieved by this idea (which I failed not to execute that day), I ventured once more to meet my master's and lover's eye, which most pertinaciously sought mine, though I averted both face and gaze. He smiled; and I thought his smile was such as a sultan might, in a blissful and fond moment, bestow on a slave his gold and gems had enriched: I crushed his hand, which was ever hunting mine, vigorously, and thrust it back to him red with the passionate pressure. "You need not look in that way," I said; "if you do, I'll wear nothing but my old Lowood frocks to the end of the chapter. I'll be married in this lilac gingham: you may make a dressing-gown for yourself out of the pearl-grey silk, and an infinite series of waistcoats out of the black satin." He chuckled; he rubbed his hands. "Oh, it is rich to see and hear her?" he exclaimed. "Is she original? Is she piquant? I would not exchange this one little English girl for the Grand Turk's whole seraglio, gazelle- eyes, houri forms, and all!" The Eastern allusion bit me again. "I'll not stand you an inch in the stead of a seraglio," I said; "so don't consider me an equivalent for one. If you have a fancy for anything in that line, away with you, sir, to the bazaars of Stamboul without delay, and lay out in extensive slave- purchases some of that spare cash you seem at a loss to spend satisfactorily here." "And what will you do, Janet, while I am bargaining for so many tons of flesh and such an assortment of black eyes?" "I'll be preparing myself to go out as a missionary to preach liberty to them that are enslaved--your harem inmates amongst the rest. I'll get admitted there, and I'll stir up mutiny; and you, three-tailed bashaw as you are, sir, shall in a trice find yourself fettered amongst our hands: nor will I, for one, consent to cut your bonds till you have signed a charter, the most liberal that despot ever yet conferred." "I would consent to be at your mercy, Jane." "I would have no mercy, Mr. Rochester, if you supplicated for it with an eye like that. While you looked so, I should be certain that whatever charter you might grant under coercion, your first act, when released, would be to violate its conditions." "Why, Jane, what would you have? I fear you will compel me to go through a private marriage ceremony, besides that performed at the altar. You will stipulate, I see, for peculiar terms--what will they be?" "I only want an easy mind, sir; not crushed by crowded obligations. Do you remember what you said of Celine Varens?--of the diamonds, the cashmeres you gave her? I will not be your English Celine Varens. I shall continue to act as Adele's governess; by that I shall earn my board and lodging, and thirty pounds a year besides. I'll furnish my own wardrobe out of that money, and you shall give me nothing but--" "Well, but what?" "Your regard; and if I give you mine in return, that debt will be quit." "Well, for cool native impudence and pure innate pride, you haven't your equal," said he. We were now approaching Thornfield. "Will it please you to dine with me to-day?" he asked, as we re-entered the gates. "No, thank you, sir." "And what for, 'no, thank you?' if one may inquire." "I never have dined with you, sir: and I see no reason why I should now: till--" "Till what? You delight in half-phrases." "Till I can't help it." "Do you suppose I eat like an ogre or a ghoul, that you dread being the companion of my repast?" "I have formed no supposition on the subject, sir; but I want to go on as usual for another month." "You will give up your governessing slavery at once." "Indeed, begging your pardon, sir, I shall not. I shall just go on with it as usual. I shall keep out of your way all day, as I have been accustomed to do: you may send for me in the evening, when you feel disposed to see me, and I'll come then; but at no other time." "I want a smoke, Jane, or a pinch of snuff, to comfort me under all this, 'pour me donner une contenance,' as Adele would say; and unfortunately I have neither my cigar-case, nor my snuff-box. But listen--whisper. It is your time now, little tyrant, but it will be mine presently; and when once I have fairly seized you, to have and to hold, I'll just--figuratively speaking--attach you to a chain like this" (touching his watch-guard). "Yes, bonny wee thing, I'll wear you in my bosom, lest my jewel I should tyne." He said this as he helped me to alight from the carriage, and while he afterwards lifted out Adele, I entered the house, and made good my retreat upstairs. He duly summoned me to his presence in the evening. I had prepared an occupation for him; for I was determined not to spend the whole time in a _tete-a-tete_ conversation. I remembered his fine voice; I knew he liked to sing--good singers generally do. I was no vocalist myself, and, in his fastidious judgment, no musician, either; but I delighted in listening when the performance was good. No sooner had twilight, that hour of romance, began to lower her blue and starry banner over the lattice, than I rose, opened the piano, and entreated him, for the love of heaven, to give me a song. He said I was a capricious witch, and that he would rather sing another time; but I averred that no time was like the present. "Did I like his voice?" he asked. "Very much." I was not fond of pampering that susceptible vanity of his; but for once, and from motives of expediency, I would e'en soothe and stimulate it. "Then, Jane, you must play the accompaniment." "Very well, sir, I will try." I did try, but was presently swept off the stool and denominated "a little bungler." Being pushed unceremoniously to one side--which was precisely what I wished--he usurped my place, and proceeded to accompany himself: for he could play as well as sing. I hied me to the window-recess. And while I sat there and looked out on the still trees and dim lawn, to a sweet air was sung in mellow tones the following strain:-- "The truest love that ever heart Felt at its kindled core, Did through each vein, in quickened start, The tide of being pour. Her coming was my hope each day, Her parting was my pain; The chance that did her steps delay Was ice in every vein. I dreamed it would be nameless bliss, As I loved, loved to be; And to this object did I press As blind as eagerly. But wide as pathless was the space That lay our lives between, And dangerous as the foamy race Of ocean-surges green. And haunted as a robber-path Through wilderness or wood; For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath, Between our spirits stood. I dangers dared; I hindrance scorned; I omens did defy: Whatever menaced, harassed, warned, I passed impetuous by. On sped my rainbow, fast as light; I flew as in a dream; For glorious rose upon my sight That child of Shower and Gleam. Still bright on clouds of suffering dim Shines that soft, solemn joy; Nor care I now, how dense and grim Disasters gather nigh. I care not in this moment sweet, Though all I have rushed o'er Should come on pinion, strong and fleet, Proclaiming vengeance sore: Though haughty Hate should strike me down, Right, bar approach to me, And grinding Might, with furious frown, Swear endless enmity. My love has placed her little hand With noble faith in mine, And vowed that wedlock's sacred band Our nature shall entwine. My love has sworn, with sealing kiss, With me to live--to die; I have at last my nameless bliss. As I love--loved am I!" He rose and came towards me, and I saw his face all kindled, and his full falcon-eye flashing, and tenderness and passion in every lineament. I quailed momentarily--then I rallied. Soft scene, daring demonstration, I would not have; and I stood in peril of both: a weapon of defence must be prepared--I whetted my tongue: as he reached me, I asked with asperity, "whom he was going to marry now?" "That was a strange question to be put by his darling Jane." "Indeed! I considered it a very natural and necessary one: he had talked of his future wife dying with him. What did he mean by such a pagan idea? _I_ had no intention of dying with him--he might depend on that." "Oh, all he longed, all he prayed for, was that I might live with him! Death was not for such as I." "Indeed it was: I had as good a right to die when my time came as he had: but I should bide that time, and not be hurried away in a suttee." "Would I forgive him for the selfish idea, and prove my pardon by a reconciling kiss?" "No: I would rather be excused." Here I heard myself apostrophised as a "hard little thing;" and it was added, "any other woman would have been melted to marrow at hearing such stanzas crooned in her praise." I assured him I was naturally hard--very flinty, and that he would often find me so; and that, moreover, I was determined to show him divers rugged points in my character before the ensuing four weeks elapsed: he should know fully what sort of a bargain he had made, while there was yet time to rescind it. "Would I be quiet and talk rationally?" "I would be quiet if he liked, and as to talking rationally, I flattered myself I was doing that now." He fretted, pished, and pshawed. "Very good," I thought; "you may fume and fidget as you please: but this is the best plan to pursue with you, I am certain. I like you more than I can say; but I'll not sink into a bathos of sentiment: and with this needle of repartee I'll keep you from the edge of the gulf too; and, moreover, maintain by its pungent aid that distance between you and myself most conducive to our real mutual advantage." From less to more, I worked him up to considerable irritation; then, after he had retired, in dudgeon, quite to the other end of the room, I got up, and saying, "I wish you good-night, sir," in my natural and wonted respectful manner, I slipped out by the side-door and got away. The system thus entered on, I pursued during the whole season of probation; and with the best success. He was kept, to be sure, rather cross and crusty; but on the whole I could see he was excellently entertained, and that a lamb-like submission and turtle-dove sensibility, while fostering his despotism more, would have pleased his judgment, satisfied his common-sense, and even suited his taste less. In other people's presence I was, as formerly, deferential and quiet; any other line of conduct being uncalled for: it was only in the evening conferences I thus thwarted and afflicted him. He continued to send for me punctually the moment the clock struck seven; though when I appeared before him now, he had no such honeyed terms as "love" and "darling" on his lips: the best words at my service were "provoking puppet," "malicious elf," "sprite," "changeling," &c. For caresses, too, I now got grimaces; for a pressure of the hand, a pinch on the arm; for a kiss on the cheek, a severe tweak of the ear. It was all right: at present I decidedly preferred these fierce favours to anything more tender. Mrs. Fairfax, I saw, approved me: her anxiety on my account vanished; therefore I was certain I did well. Meantime, Mr. Rochester affirmed I was wearing him to skin and bone, and threatened awful vengeance for my present conduct at some period fast coming. I laughed in my sleeve at his menaces. "I can keep you in reasonable check now," I reflected; "and I don't doubt to be able to do it hereafter: if one expedient loses its virtue, another must be devised." Yet after all my task was not an easy one; often I would rather have pleased than teased him. My future husband was becoming to me my whole world; and more than the world: almost my hope of heaven. He stood between me and every thought of religion, as an eclipse intervenes between man and the broad sun. I could not, in those days, see God for His creature: of whom I had made an idol. CHAPTER XXV The month of courtship had wasted: its very last hours were being numbered. There was no putting off the day that advanced--the bridal day; and all preparations for its arrival were complete. _I_, at least, had nothing more to do: there were my trunks, packed, locked, corded, ranged in a row along the wall of my little chamber; to-morrow, at this time, they would be far on their road to London: and so should I (D.V.),--or rather, not I, but one Jane Rochester, a person whom as yet I knew not. The cards of address alone remained to nail on: they lay, four little squares, in the drawer. Mr. Rochester had himself written the direction, "Mrs. Rochester, --- Hotel, London," on each: I could not persuade myself to affix them, or to have them affixed. Mrs. Rochester! She did not exist: she would not be born till to-morrow, some time after eight o'clock a.m.; and I would wait to be assured she had come into the world alive before I assigned to her all that property. It was enough that in yonder closet, opposite my dressing-table, garments said to be hers had already displaced my black stuff Lowood frock and straw bonnet: for not to me appertained that suit of wedding raiment; the pearl-coloured robe, the vapoury veil pendent from the usurped portmanteau. I shut the closet to conceal the strange, wraith-like apparel it contained; which, at this evening hour--nine o'clock--gave out certainly a most ghostly shimmer through the shadow of my apartment. "I will leave you by yourself, white dream," I said. "I am feverish: I hear the wind blowing: I will go out of doors and feel it." It was not only the hurry of preparation that made me feverish; not only the anticipation of the great change--the new life which was to commence to-morrow: both these circumstances had their share, doubtless, in producing that restless, excited mood which hurried me forth at this late hour into the darkening grounds: but a third cause influenced my mind more than they. I had at heart a strange and anxious thought. Something had happened which I could not comprehend; no one knew of or had seen the event but myself: it had taken place the preceding night. Mr. Rochester that night was absent from home; nor was he yet returned: business had called him to a small estate of two or three farms he possessed thirty miles off--business it was requisite he should settle in person, previous to his meditated departure from England. I waited now his return; eager to disburthen my mind, and to seek of him the solution of the enigma that perplexed me. Stay till he comes, reader; and, when I disclose my secret to him, you shall share the confidence. I sought the orchard, driven to its shelter by the wind, which all day had blown strong and full from the south, without, however, bringing a speck of rain. Instead of subsiding as night drew on, it seemed to augment its rush and deepen its roar: the trees blew steadfastly one way, never writhing round, and scarcely tossing back their boughs once in an hour; so continuous was the strain bending their branchy heads northward--the clouds drifted from pole to pole, fast following, mass on mass: no glimpse of blue sky had been visible that July day. It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind, delivering my trouble of mind to the measureless air-torrent thundering through space. Descending the laurel walk, I faced the wreck of the chestnut-tree; it stood up black and riven: the trunk, split down the centre, gasped ghastly. The cloven halves were not broken from each other, for the firm base and strong roots kept them unsundered below; though community of vitality was destroyed--the sap could flow no more: their great boughs on each side were dead, and next winter's tempests would be sure to fell one or both to earth: as yet, however, they might be said to form one tree--a ruin, but an entire ruin. "You did right to hold fast to each other," I said: as if the monster- splinters were living things, and could hear me. "I think, scathed as you look, and charred and scorched, there must be a little sense of life in you yet, rising out of that adhesion at the faithful, honest roots: you will never have green leaves more--never more see birds making nests and singing idyls in your boughs; the time of pleasure and love is over with you: but you are not desolate: each of you has a comrade to sympathise with him in his decay." As I looked up at them, the moon appeared momentarily in that part of the sky which filled their fissure; her disk was blood-red and half overcast; she seemed to throw on me one bewildered, dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly in the deep drift of cloud. The wind fell, for a second, round Thornfield; but far away over wood and water, poured a wild, melancholy wail: it was sad to listen to, and I ran off again. Here and there I strayed through the orchard, gathered up the apples with which the grass round the tree roots was thickly strewn; then I employed myself in dividing the ripe from the unripe; I carried them into the house and put them away in the store-room. Then I repaired to the library to ascertain whether the fire was lit, for, though summer, I knew on such a gloomy evening Mr. Rochester would like to see a cheerful hearth when he came in: yes, the fire had been kindled some time, and burnt well. I placed his arm-chair by the chimney-corner: I wheeled the table near it: I let down the curtain, and had the candles brought in ready for lighting. More restless than ever, when I had completed these arrangements I could not sit still, nor even remain in the house: a little time-piece in the room and the old clock in the hall simultaneously struck ten. "How late it grows!" I said. "I will run down to the gates: it is moonlight at intervals; I can see a good way on the road. He may be coming now, and to meet him will save some minutes of suspense." The wind roared high in the great trees which embowered the gates; but the road as far as I could see, to the right hand and the left, was all still and solitary: save for the shadows of clouds crossing it at intervals as the moon looked out, it was but a long pale line, unvaried by one moving speck. A puerile tear dimmed my eye while I looked--a tear of disappointment and impatience; ashamed of it, I wiped it away. I lingered; the moon shut herself wholly within her chamber, and drew close her curtain of dense cloud: the night grew dark; rain came driving fast on the gale. "I wish he would come! I wish he would come!" I exclaimed, seized with hypochondriac foreboding. I had expected his arrival before tea; now it was dark: what could keep him? Had an accident happened? The event of last night again recurred to me. I interpreted it as a warning of disaster. I feared my hopes were too bright to be realised; and I had enjoyed so much bliss lately that I imagined my fortune had passed its meridian, and must now decline. "Well, I cannot return to the house," I thought; "I cannot sit by the fireside, while he is abroad in inclement weather: better tire my limbs than strain my heart; I will go forward and meet him." I set out; I walked fast, but not far: ere I had measured a quarter of a mile, I heard the tramp of hoofs; a horseman came on, full gallop; a dog ran by his side. Away with evil presentiment! It was he: here he was, mounted on Mesrour, followed by Pilot. He saw me; for the moon had opened a blue field in the sky, and rode in it watery bright: he took his hat off, and waved it round his head. I now ran to meet him. "There!" he exclaimed, as he stretched out his hand and bent from the saddle: "You can't do without me, that is evident. Step on my boot-toe; give me both hands: mount!" I obeyed: joy made me agile: I sprang up before him. A hearty kissing I got for a welcome, and some boastful triumph, which I swallowed as well as I could. He checked himself in his exultation to demand, "But is there anything the matter, Janet, that you come to meet me at such an hour? Is there anything wrong?" "No, but I thought you would never come. I could not bear to wait in the house for you, especially with this rain and wind." "Rain and wind, indeed! Yes, you are dripping like a mermaid; pull my cloak round you: but I think you are feverish, Jane: both your cheek and hand are burning hot. I ask again, is there anything the matter?" "Nothing now; I am neither afraid nor unhappy." "Then you have been both?" "Rather: but I'll tell you all about it by-and-bye, sir; and I daresay you will only laugh at me for my pains." "I'll laugh at you heartily when to-morrow is past; till then I dare not: my prize is not certain. This is you, who have been as slippery as an eel this last month, and as thorny as a briar-rose? I could not lay a finger anywhere but I was pricked; and now I seem to have gathered up a stray lamb in my arms. You wandered out of the fold to seek your shepherd, did you, Jane?" "I wanted you: but don't boast. Here we are at Thornfield: now let me get down." He landed me on the pavement. As John took his horse, and he followed me into the hall, he told me to make haste and put something dry on, and then return to him in the library; and he stopped me, as I made for the staircase, to extort a promise that I would not be long: nor was I long; in five minutes I rejoined him. I found him at supper. "Take a seat and bear me company, Jane: please God, it is the last meal but one you will eat at Thornfield Hall for a long time." I sat down near him, but told him I could not eat. "Is it because you have the prospect of a journey before you, Jane? Is it the thoughts of going to London that takes away your appetite?" "I cannot see my prospects clearly to-night, sir; and I hardly know what thoughts I have in my head. Everything in life seems unreal." "Except me: I am substantial enough--touch me." "You, sir, are the most phantom-like of all: you are a mere dream." He held out his hand, laughing. "Is that a dream?" said he, placing it close to my eyes. He had a rounded, muscular, and vigorous hand, as well as a long, strong arm. "Yes; though I touch it, it is a dream," said I, as I put it down from before my face. "Sir, have you finished supper?" "Yes, Jane." I rang the bell and ordered away the tray. When we were again alone, I stirred the fire, and then took a low seat at my master's knee. "It is near midnight," I said. "Yes: but remember, Jane, you promised to wake with me the night before my wedding." "I did; and I will keep my promise, for an hour or two at least: I have no wish to go to bed." "Are all your arrangements complete?" "All, sir." "And on my part likewise," he returned, "I have settled everything; and we shall leave Thornfield to-morrow, within half-an-hour after our return from church." "Very well, sir." "With what an extraordinary smile you uttered that word--'very well,' Jane! What a bright spot of colour you have on each cheek! and how strangely your eyes glitter! Are you well?" "I believe I am." "Believe! What is the matter? Tell me what you feel." "I could not, sir: no words could tell you what I feel. I wish this present hour would never end: who knows with what fate the next may come charged?" "This is hypochondria, Jane. You have been over-excited, or over-fatigued." "Do you, sir, feel calm and happy?" "Calm?--no: but happy--to the heart's core." I looked up at him to read the signs of bliss in his face: it was ardent and flushed. "Give me your confidence, Jane," he said: "relieve your mind of any weight that oppresses it, by imparting it to me. What do you fear?--that I shall not prove a good husband?" "It is the idea farthest from my thoughts." "Are you apprehensive of the new sphere you are about to enter?--of the new life into which you are passing?" "No." "You puzzle me, Jane: your look and tone of sorrowful audacity perplex and pain me. I want an explanation." "Then, sir, listen. You were from home last night?" "I was: I know that; and you hinted a while ago at something which had happened in my absence:--nothing, probably, of consequence; but, in short, it has disturbed you. Let me hear it. Mrs. Fairfax has said something, perhaps? or you have overheard the servants talk?--your sensitive self-respect has been wounded?" "No, sir." It struck twelve--I waited till the time-piece had concluded its silver chime, and the clock its hoarse, vibrating stroke, and then I proceeded. "All day yesterday I was very busy, and very happy in my ceaseless bustle; for I am not, as you seem to think, troubled by any haunting fears about the new sphere, et cetera: I think it a glorious thing to have the hope of living with you, because I love you. No, sir, don't caress me now--let me talk undisturbed. Yesterday I trusted well in Providence, and believed that events were working together for your good and mine: it was a fine day, if you recollect--the calmness of the air and sky forbade apprehensions respecting your safety or comfort on your journey. I walked a little while on the pavement after tea, thinking of you; and I beheld you in imagination so near me, I scarcely missed your actual presence. I thought of the life that lay before me--_your_ life, sir--an existence more expansive and stirring than my own: as much more so as the depths of the sea to which the brook runs are than the shallows of its own strait channel. I wondered why moralists call this world a dreary wilderness: for me it blossomed like a rose. Just at sunset, the air turned cold and the sky cloudy: I went in, Sophie called me upstairs to look at my wedding-dress, which they had just brought; and under it in the box I found your present--the veil which, in your princely extravagance, you sent for from London: resolved, I suppose, since I would not have jewels, to cheat me into accepting something as costly. I smiled as I unfolded it, and devised how I would tease you about your aristocratic tastes, and your efforts to masque your plebeian bride in the attributes of a peeress. I thought how I would carry down to you the square of unembroidered blond I had myself prepared as a covering for my low-born head, and ask if that was not good enough for a woman who could bring her husband neither fortune, beauty, nor connections. I saw plainly how you would look; and heard your impetuous republican answers, and your haughty disavowal of any necessity on your part to augment your wealth, or elevate your standing, by marrying either a purse or a coronet." "How well you read me, you witch!" interposed Mr. Rochester: "but what did you find in the veil besides its embroidery? Did you find poison, or a dagger, that you look so mournful now?" "No, no, sir; besides the delicacy and richness of the fabric, I found nothing save Fairfax Rochester's pride; and that did not scare me, because I am used to the sight of the demon. But, sir, as it grew dark, the wind rose: it blew yesterday evening, not as it blows now--wild and high--but 'with a sullen, moaning sound' far more eerie. I wished you were at home. I came into this room, and the sight of the empty chair and fireless hearth chilled me. For some time after I went to bed, I could not sleep--a sense of anxious excitement distressed me. The gale still rising, seemed to my ear to muffle a mournful under-sound; whether in the house or abroad I could not at first tell, but it recurred, doubtful yet doleful at every lull; at last I made out it must be some dog howling at a distance. I was glad when it ceased. On sleeping, I continued in dreams the idea of a dark and gusty night. I continued also the wish to be with you, and experienced a strange, regretful consciousness of some barrier dividing us. During all my first sleep, I was following the windings of an unknown road; total obscurity environed me; rain pelted me; I was burdened with the charge of a little child: a very small creature, too young and feeble to walk, and which shivered in my cold arms, and wailed piteously in my ear. I thought, sir, that you were on the road a long way before me; and I strained every nerve to overtake you, and made effort on effort to utter your name and entreat you to stop--but my movements were fettered, and my voice still died away inarticulate; while you, I felt, withdrew farther and farther every moment." "And these dreams weigh on your spirits now, Jane, when I am close to you? Little nervous subject! Forget visionary woe, and think only of real happiness! You say you love me, Janet: yes--I will not forget that; and you cannot deny it. _Those_ words did not die inarticulate on your lips. I heard them clear and soft: a thought too solemn perhaps, but sweet as music--'I think it is a glorious thing to have the hope of living with you, Edward, because I love you.' Do you love me, Jane?--repeat it." "I do, sir--I do, with my whole heart." "Well," he said, after some minutes' silence, "it is strange; but that sentence has penetrated my breast painfully. Why? I think because you said it with such an earnest, religious energy, and because your upward gaze at me now is the very sublime of faith, truth, and devotion: it is too much as if some spirit were near me. Look wicked, Jane: as you know well how to look: coin one of your wild, shy, provoking smiles; tell me you hate me--tease me, vex me; do anything but move me: I would rather be incensed than saddened." "I will tease you and vex you to your heart's content, when I have finished my tale: but hear me to the end." "I thought, Jane, you had told me all. I thought I had found the source of your melancholy in a dream." I shook my head. "What! is there more? But I will not believe it to be anything important. I warn you of incredulity beforehand. Go on." The disquietude of his air, the somewhat apprehensive impatience of his manner, surprised me: but I proceeded. "I dreamt another dream, sir: that Thornfield Hall was a dreary ruin, the retreat of bats and owls. I thought that of all the stately front nothing remained but a shell-like wall, very high and very fragile-looking. I wandered, on a moonlight night, through the grass- grown enclosure within: here I stumbled over a marble hearth, and there over a fallen fragment of cornice. Wrapped up in a shawl, I still carried the unknown little child: I might not lay it down anywhere, however tired were my arms--however much its weight impeded my progress, I must retain it. I heard the gallop of a horse at a distance on the road; I was sure it was you; and you were departing for many years and for a distant country. I climbed the thin wall with frantic perilous haste, eager to catch one glimpse of you from the top: the stones rolled from under my feet, the ivy branches I grasped gave way, the child clung round my neck in terror, and almost strangled me; at last I gained the summit. I saw you like a speck on a white track, lessening every moment. The blast blew so strong I could not stand. I sat down on the narrow ledge; I hushed the scared infant in my lap: you turned an angle of the road: I bent forward to take a last look; the wall crumbled; I was shaken; the child rolled from my knee, I lost my balance, fell, and woke." "Now, Jane, that is all." "All the preface, sir; the tale is yet to come. On waking, a gleam dazzled my eyes; I thought--Oh, it is daylight! But I was mistaken; it was only candlelight. Sophie, I supposed, had come in. There was a light in the dressing-table, and the door of the closet, where, before going to bed, I had hung my wedding-dress and veil, stood open; I heard a rustling there. I asked, 'Sophie, what are you doing?' No one answered; but a form emerged from the closet; it took the light, held it aloft, and surveyed the garments pendent from the portmanteau. 'Sophie! Sophie!' I again cried: and still it was silent. I had risen up in bed, I bent forward: first surprise, then bewilderment, came over me; and then my blood crept cold through my veins. Mr. Rochester, this was not Sophie, it was not Leah, it was not Mrs. Fairfax: it was not--no, I was sure of it, and am still--it was not even that strange woman, Grace Poole." "It must have been one of them," interrupted my master. "No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary. The shape standing before me had never crossed my eyes within the precincts of Thornfield Hall before; the height, the contour were new to me." "Describe it, Jane." "It seemed, sir, a woman, tall and large, with thick and dark hair hanging long down her back. I know not what dress she had on: it was white and straight; but whether gown, sheet, or shroud, I cannot tell." "Did you see her face?" "Not at first. But presently she took my veil from its place; she held it up, gazed at it long, and then she threw it over her own head, and turned to the mirror. At that moment I saw the reflection of the visage and features quite distinctly in the dark oblong glass." "And how were they?" "Fearful and ghastly to me--oh, sir, I never saw a face like it! It was a discoloured face--it was a savage face. I wish I could forget the roll of the red eyes and the fearful blackened inflation of the lineaments!" "Ghosts are usually pale, Jane." "This, sir, was purple: the lips were swelled and dark; the brow furrowed: the black eyebrows widely raised over the bloodshot eyes. Shall I tell you of what it reminded me?" "You may." "Of the foul German spectre--the Vampyre." "Ah!--what did it do?" "Sir, it removed my veil from its gaunt head, rent it in two parts, and flinging both on the floor, trampled on them." {It removed my veil from its gaunt head, rent it in two parts, and flinging both on the floor, trampled on them: p272.jpg} "Afterwards?" "It drew aside the window-curtain and looked out; perhaps it saw dawn approaching, for, taking the candle, it retreated to the door. Just at my bedside, the figure stopped: the fiery eyes glared upon me--she thrust up her candle close to my face, and extinguished it under my eyes. I was aware her lurid visage flamed over mine, and I lost consciousness: for the second time in my life--only the second time--I became insensible from terror." "Who was with you when you revived?" "No one, sir, but the broad day. I rose, bathed my head and face in water, drank a long draught; felt that though enfeebled I was not ill, and determined that to none but you would I impart this vision. Now, sir, tell me who and what that woman was?" "The creature of an over-stimulated brain; that is certain. I must be careful of you, my treasure: nerves like yours were not made for rough handling." "Sir, depend on it, my nerves were not in fault; the thing was real: the transaction actually took place." "And your previous dreams, were they real too? Is Thornfield Hall a ruin? Am I severed from you by insuperable obstacles? Am I leaving you without a tear--without a kiss--without a word?" "Not yet." "Am I about to do it? Why, the day is already commenced which is to bind us indissolubly; and when we are once united, there shall be no recurrence of these mental terrors: I guarantee that." "Mental terrors, sir! I wish I could believe them to be only such: I wish it more now than ever; since even you cannot explain to me the mystery of that awful visitant." "And since I cannot do it, Jane, it must have been unreal." "But, sir, when I said so to myself on rising this morning, and when I looked round the room to gather courage and comfort from the cheerful aspect of each familiar object in full daylight, there--on the carpet--I saw what gave the distinct lie to my hypothesis,--the veil, torn from top to bottom in two halves!" I felt Mr. Rochester start and shudder; he hastily flung his arms round me. "Thank God!" he exclaimed, "that if anything malignant did come near you last night, it was only the veil that was harmed. Oh, to think what might have happened!" He drew his breath short, and strained me so close to him, I could scarcely pant. After some minutes' silence, he continued, cheerily-- "Now, Janet, I'll explain to you all about it. It was half dream, half reality. A woman did, I doubt not, enter your room: and that woman was--must have been--Grace Poole. You call her a strange being yourself: from all you know, you have reason so to call her--what did she do to me? what to Mason? In a state between sleeping and waking, you noticed her entrance and her actions; but feverish, almost delirious as you were, you ascribed to her a goblin appearance different from her own: the long dishevelled hair, the swelled black face, the exaggerated stature, were figments of imagination; results of nightmare: the spiteful tearing of the veil was real: and it is like her. I see you would ask why I keep such a woman in my house: when we have been married a year and a day, I will tell you; but not now. Are you satisfied, Jane? Do you accept my solution of the mystery?" I reflected, and in truth it appeared to me the only possible one: satisfied I was not, but to please him I endeavoured to appear so--relieved, I certainly did feel; so I answered him with a contented smile. And now, as it was long past one, I prepared to leave him. "Does not Sophie sleep with Adele in the nursery?" he asked, as I lit my candle. "Yes, sir." "And there is room enough in Adele's little bed for you. You must share it with her to-night, Jane: it is no wonder that the incident you have related should make you nervous, and I would rather you did not sleep alone: promise me to go to the nursery." "I shall be very glad to do so, sir." "And fasten the door securely on the inside. Wake Sophie when you go upstairs, under pretence of requesting her to rouse you in good time to- morrow; for you must be dressed and have finished breakfast before eight. And now, no more sombre thoughts: chase dull care away, Janet. Don't you hear to what soft whispers the wind has fallen? and there is no more beating of rain against the window-panes: look here" (he lifted up the curtain)--"it is a lovely night!" It was. Half heaven was pure and stainless: the clouds, now trooping before the wind, which had shifted to the west, were filing off eastward in long, silvered columns. The moon shone peacefully. "Well," said Mr. Rochester, gazing inquiringly into my eyes, "how is my Janet now?" "The night is serene, sir; and so am I." "And you will not dream of separation and sorrow to-night; but of happy love and blissful union." This prediction was but half fulfilled: I did not indeed dream of sorrow, but as little did I dream of joy; for I never slept at all. With little Adele in my arms, I watched the slumber of childhood--so tranquil, so passionless, so innocent--and waited for the coming day: all my life was awake and astir in my frame: and as soon as the sun rose I rose too. I remember Adele clung to me as I left her: I remember I kissed her as I loosened her little hands from my neck; and I cried over her with strange emotion, and quitted her because I feared my sobs would break her still sound repose. She seemed the emblem of my past life; and here I was now to array myself to meet, the dread, but adored, type of my unknown future day. CHAPTER XXVI Sophie came at seven to dress me: she was very long indeed in accomplishing her task; so long that Mr. Rochester, grown, I suppose, impatient of my delay, sent up to ask why I did not come. She was just fastening my veil (the plain square of blond after all) to my hair with a brooch; I hurried from under her hands as soon as I could. "Stop!" she cried in French. "Look at yourself in the mirror: you have not taken one peep." So I turned at the door: I saw a robed and veiled figure, so unlike my usual self that it seemed almost the image of a stranger. "Jane!" called a voice, and I hastened down. I was received at the foot of the stairs by Mr. Rochester. "Lingerer!" he said, "my brain is on fire with impatience, and you tarry so long!" He took me into the dining-room, surveyed me keenly all over, pronounced me "fair as a lily, and not only the pride of his life, but the desire of his eyes," and then telling me he would give me but ten minutes to eat some breakfast, he rang the bell. One of his lately hired servants, a footman, answered it. "Is John getting the carriage ready?" "Yes, sir." "Is the luggage brought down?" "They are bringing it down, sir." "Go you to the church: see if Mr. Wood (the clergyman) and the clerk are there: return and tell me." The church, as the reader knows, was but just beyond the gates; the footman soon returned. "Mr. Wood is in the vestry, sir, putting on his surplice." "And the carriage?" "The horses are harnessing." "We shall not want it to go to church; but it must be ready the moment we return: all the boxes and luggage arranged and strapped on, and the coachman in his seat." "Yes, sir." "Jane, are you ready?" I rose. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to wait for or marshal: none but Mr. Rochester and I. Mrs. Fairfax stood in the hall as we passed. I would fain have spoken to her, but my hand was held by a grasp of iron: I was hurried along by a stride I could hardly follow; and to look at Mr. Rochester's face was to feel that not a second of delay would be tolerated for any purpose. I wonder what other bridegroom ever looked as he did--so bent up to a purpose, so grimly resolute: or who, under such steadfast brows, ever revealed such flaming and flashing eyes. I know not whether the day was fair or foul; in descending the drive, I gazed neither on sky nor earth: my heart was with my eyes; and both seemed migrated into Mr. Rochester's frame. I wanted to see the invisible thing on which, as we went along, he appeared to fasten a glance fierce and fell. I wanted to feel the thoughts whose force he seemed breasting and resisting. At the churchyard wicket he stopped: he discovered I was quite out of breath. "Am I cruel in my love?" he said. "Delay an instant: lean on me, Jane." And now I can recall the picture of the grey old house of God rising calm before me, of a rook wheeling round the steeple, of a ruddy morning sky beyond. I remember something, too, of the green grave-mounds; and I have not forgotten, either, two figures of strangers straying amongst the low hillocks and reading the mementoes graven on the few mossy head-stones. I noticed them, because, as they saw us, they passed round to the back of the church; and I doubted not they were going to enter by the side-aisle door and witness the ceremony. By Mr. Rochester they were not observed; he was earnestly looking at my face from which the blood had, I daresay, momentarily fled: for I felt my forehead dewy, and my cheeks and lips cold. When I rallied, which I soon did, he walked gently with me up the path to the porch. We entered the quiet and humble temple; the priest waited in his white surplice at the lowly altar, the clerk beside him. All was still: two shadows only moved in a remote corner. My conjecture had been correct: the strangers had slipped in before us, and they now stood by the vault of the Rochesters, their backs towards us, viewing through the rails the old time-stained marble tomb, where a kneeling angel guarded the remains of Damer de Rochester, slain at Marston Moor in the time of the civil wars, and of Elizabeth, his wife. Our place was taken at the communion rails. Hearing a cautious step behind me, I glanced over my shoulder: one of the strangers--a gentleman, evidently--was advancing up the chancel. The service began. The explanation of the intent of matrimony was gone through; and then the clergyman came a step further forward, and, bending slightly towards Mr. Rochester, went on. "I require and charge you both (as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed), that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God's Word doth allow, are not joined together by God, neither is their matrimony lawful." He paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that sentence ever broken by reply? Not, perhaps, once in a hundred years. And the clergyman, who had not lifted his eyes from his book, and had held his breath but for a moment, was proceeding: his hand was already stretched towards Mr. Rochester, as his lips unclosed to ask, "Wilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife?"--when a distinct and near voice said-- "The marriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an impediment." The clergyman looked up at the speaker and stood mute; the clerk did the same; Mr. Rochester moved slightly, as if an earthquake had rolled under his feet: taking a firmer footing, and not turning his head or eyes, he said, "Proceed." Profound silence fell when he had uttered that word, with deep but low intonation. Presently Mr. Wood said-- "I cannot proceed without some investigation into what has been asserted, and evidence of its truth or falsehood." "The ceremony is quite broken off," subjoined the voice behind us. "I am in a condition to prove my allegation: an insuperable impediment to this marriage exists." Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not: he stood stubborn and rigid, making no movement but to possess himself of my hand. What a hot and strong grasp he had! and how like quarried marble was his pale, firm, massive front at this moment! How his eye shone, still watchful, and yet wild beneath! Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. "What is the nature of the impediment?" he asked. "Perhaps it may be got over--explained away?" "Hardly," was the answer. "I have called it insuperable, and I speak advisedly." The speaker came forward and leaned on the rails. He continued, uttering each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly-- "It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr. Rochester has a wife now living." My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated to thunder--my blood felt their subtle violence as it had never felt frost or fire; but I was collected, and in no danger of swooning. I looked at Mr. Rochester: I made him look at me. His whole face was colourless rock: his eye was both spark and flint. He disavowed nothing: he seemed as if he would defy all things. Without speaking, without smiling, without seeming to recognise in me a human being, he only twined my waist with his arm and riveted me to his side. "Who are you?" he asked of the intruder. "My name is Briggs, a solicitor of --- Street, London." "And you would thrust on me a wife?" "I would remind you of your lady's existence, sir, which the law recognises, if you do not." "Favour me with an account of her--with her name, her parentage, her place of abode." "Certainly." Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and read out in a sort of official, nasal voice:-- "'I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October A.D. --- (a date of fifteen years back), Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, in the county of ---, and of Ferndean Manor, in ---shire, England, was married to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason, merchant, and of Antoinetta his wife, a Creole, at --- church, Spanish Town, Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be found in the register of that church--a copy of it is now in my possession. Signed, Richard Mason.'" "That--if a genuine document--may prove I have been married, but it does not prove that the woman mentioned therein as my wife is still living." "She was living three months ago," returned the lawyer. "How do you know?" "I have a witness to the fact, whose testimony even you, sir, will scarcely controvert." "Produce him--or go to hell." "I will produce him first--he is on the spot. Mr. Mason, have the goodness to step forward." Mr. Rochester, on hearing the name, set his teeth; he experienced, too, a sort of strong convulsive quiver; near to him as I was, I felt the spasmodic movement of fury or despair run through his frame. The second stranger, who had hitherto lingered in the background, now drew near; a pale face looked over the solicitor's shoulder--yes, it was Mason himself. Mr. Rochester turned and glared at him. His eye, as I have often said, was a black eye: it had now a tawny, nay, a bloody light in its gloom; and his face flushed--olive cheek and hueless forehead received a glow as from spreading, ascending heart-fire: and he stirred, lifted his strong arm--he could have struck Mason, dashed him on the church-floor, shocked by ruthless blow the breath from his body--but Mason shrank away, and cried faintly, "Good God!" Contempt fell cool on Mr. Rochester--his passion died as if a blight had shrivelled it up: he only asked--"What have _you_ to say?" An inaudible reply escaped Mason's white lips. "The devil is in it if you cannot answer distinctly. I again demand, what have you to say?" "Sir--sir," interrupted the clergyman, "do not forget you are in a sacred place." Then addressing Mason, he inquired gently, "Are you aware, sir, whether or not this gentleman's wife is still living?" "Courage," urged the lawyer,--"speak out." "She is now living at Thornfield Hall," said Mason, in more articulate tones: "I saw her there last April. I am her brother." "At Thornfield Hall!" ejaculated the clergyman. "Impossible! I am an old resident in this neighbourhood, sir, and I never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield Hall." I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester's lips, and he muttered-- "No, by God! I took care that none should hear of it--or of her under that name." He mused--for ten minutes he held counsel with himself: he formed his resolve, and announced it-- "Enough! all shall bolt out at once, like the bullet from the barrel. Wood, close your book and take off your surplice; John Green (to the clerk), leave the church: there will be no wedding to-day." The man obeyed. Mr. Rochester continued, hardily and recklessly: "Bigamy is an ugly word!--I meant, however, to be a bigamist; but fate has out-manoeuvred me, or Providence has checked me,--perhaps the last. I am little better than a devil at this moment; and, as my pastor there would tell me, deserve no doubt the sternest judgments of God, even to the quenchless fire and deathless worm. Gentlemen, my plan is broken up:--what this lawyer and his client say is true: I have been married, and the woman to whom I was married lives! You say you never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at the house up yonder, Wood; but I daresay you have many a time inclined your ear to gossip about the mysterious lunatic kept there under watch and ward. Some have whispered to you that she is my bastard half-sister: some, my cast-off mistress. I now inform you that she is my wife, whom I married fifteen years ago,--Bertha Mason by name; sister of this resolute personage, who is now, with his quivering limbs and white cheeks, showing you what a stout heart men may bear. Cheer up, Dick!--never fear me!--I'd almost as soon strike a woman as you. Bertha Mason is mad; and she came of a mad family; idiots and maniacs through three generations! Her mother, the Creole, was both a madwoman and a drunkard!--as I found out after I had wed the daughter: for they were silent on family secrets before. Bertha, like a dutiful child, copied her parent in both points. I had a charming partner--pure, wise, modest: you can fancy I was a happy man. I went through rich scenes! Oh! my experience has been heavenly, if you only knew it! But I owe you no further explanation. Briggs, Wood, Mason, I invite you all to come up to the house and visit Mrs. Poole's patient, and _my wife_! You shall see what sort of a being I was cheated into espousing, and judge whether or not I had a right to break the compact, and seek sympathy with something at least human. This girl," he continued, looking at me, "knew no more than you, Wood, of the disgusting secret: she thought all was fair and legal and never dreamt she was going to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch, already bound to a bad, mad, and embruted partner! Come all of you--follow!" Still holding me fast, he left the church: the three gentlemen came after. At the front door of the hall we found the carriage. "Take it back to the coach-house, John," said Mr. Rochester coolly; "it will not be wanted to-day." At our entrance, Mrs. Fairfax, Adele, Sophie, Leah, advanced to meet and greet us. "To the right-about--every soul!" cried the master; "away with your congratulations! Who wants them? Not I!--they are fifteen years too late!" He passed on and ascended the stairs, still holding my hand, and still beckoning the gentlemen to follow him, which they did. We mounted the first staircase, passed up the gallery, proceeded to the third storey: the low, black door, opened by Mr. Rochester's master-key, admitted us to the tapestried room, with its great bed and its pictorial cabinet. "You know this place, Mason," said our guide; "she bit and stabbed you here." He lifted the hangings from the wall, uncovering the second door: this, too, he opened. In a room without a window, there burnt a fire guarded by a high and strong fender, and a lamp suspended from the ceiling by a chain. Grace Poole bent over the fire, apparently cooking something in a saucepan. In the deep shade, at the farther end of the room, a figure ran backwards and forwards. What it was, whether beast or human being, one could not, at first sight, tell: it grovelled, seemingly, on all fours; it snatched and growled like some strange wild animal: but it was covered with clothing, and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face. "Good-morrow, Mrs. Poole!" said Mr. Rochester. "How are you? and how is your charge to-day?" "We're tolerable, sir, I thank you," replied Grace, lifting the boiling mess carefully on to the hob: "rather snappish, but not 'rageous." A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favourable report: the clothed hyena rose up, and stood tall on its hind-feet. "Ah! sir, she sees you!" exclaimed Grace: "you'd better not stay." "Only a few moments, Grace: you must allow me a few moments." "Take care then, sir!--for God's sake, take care!" The maniac bellowed: she parted her shaggy locks from her visage, and gazed wildly at her visitors. I recognised well that purple face,--those bloated features. Mrs. Poole advanced. "Keep out of the way," said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside: "she has no knife now, I suppose, and I'm on my guard." "One never knows what she has, sir: she is so cunning: it is not in mortal discretion to fathom her craft." "We had better leave her," whispered Mason. "Go to the devil!" was his brother-in-law's recommendation. "'Ware!" cried Grace. The three gentlemen retreated simultaneously. Mr. Rochester flung me behind him: the lunatic sprang and grappled his throat viciously, and laid her teeth to his cheek: they struggled. She was a big woman, in stature almost equalling her husband, and corpulent besides: she showed virile force in the contest--more than once she almost throttled him, athletic as he was. He could have settled her with a well-planted blow; but he would not strike: he would only wrestle. At last he mastered her arms; Grace Poole gave him a cord, and he pinioned them behind her: with more rope, which was at hand, he bound her to a chair. The operation was performed amidst the fiercest yells and the most convulsive plunges. Mr. Rochester then turned to the spectators: he looked at them with a smile both acrid and desolate. "That is _my wife_," said he. "Such is the sole conjugal embrace I am ever to know--such are the endearments which are to solace my leisure hours! And _this_ is what I wished to have" (laying his hand on my shoulder): "this young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell, looking collectedly at the gambols of a demon, I wanted her just as a change after that fierce ragout. Wood and Briggs, look at the difference! Compare these clear eyes with the red balls yonder--this face with that mask--this form with that bulk; then judge me, priest of the gospel and man of the law, and remember with what judgment ye judge ye shall be judged! Off with you now. I must shut up my prize." We all withdrew. Mr. Rochester stayed a moment behind us, to give some further order to Grace Poole. The solicitor addressed me as he descended the stair. "You, madam," said he, "are cleared from all blame: your uncle will be glad to hear it--if, indeed, he should be still living--when Mr. Mason returns to Madeira." "My uncle! What of him? Do you know him?" "Mr. Mason does. Mr. Eyre has been the Funchal correspondent of his house for some years. When your uncle received your letter intimating the contemplated union between yourself and Mr. Rochester, Mr. Mason, who was staying at Madeira to recruit his health, on his way back to Jamaica, happened to be with him. Mr. Eyre mentioned the intelligence; for he knew that my client here was acquainted with a gentleman of the name of Rochester. Mr. Mason, astonished and distressed as you may suppose, revealed the real state of matters. Your uncle, I am sorry to say, is now on a sick bed; from which, considering the nature of his disease--decline--and the stage it has reached, it is unlikely he will ever rise. He could not then hasten to England himself, to extricate you from the snare into which you had fallen, but he implored Mr. Mason to lose no time in taking steps to prevent the false marriage. He referred him to me for assistance. I used all despatch, and am thankful I was not too late: as you, doubtless, must be also. Were I not morally certain that your uncle will be dead ere you reach Madeira, I would advise you to accompany Mr. Mason back; but as it is, I think you had better remain in England till you can hear further, either from or of Mr. Eyre. Have we anything else to stay for?" he inquired of Mr. Mason. "No, no--let us be gone," was the anxious reply; and without waiting to take leave of Mr. Rochester, they made their exit at the hall door. The clergyman stayed to exchange a few sentences, either of admonition or reproof, with his haughty parishioner; this duty done, he too departed. I heard him go as I stood at the half-open door of my own room, to which I had now withdrawn. The house cleared, I shut myself in, fastened the bolt that none might intrude, and proceeded--not to weep, not to mourn, I was yet too calm for that, but--mechanically to take off the wedding dress, and replace it by the stuff gown I had worn yesterday, as I thought, for the last time. I then sat down: I felt weak and tired. I leaned my arms on a table, and my head dropped on them. And now I thought: till now I had only heard, seen, moved--followed up and down where I was led or dragged--watched event rush on event, disclosure open beyond disclosure: but _now_, _I thought_. The morning had been a quiet morning enough--all except the brief scene with the lunatic: the transaction in the church had not been noisy; there was no explosion of passion, no loud altercation, no dispute, no defiance or challenge, no tears, no sobs: a few words had been spoken, a calmly pronounced objection to the marriage made; some stern, short questions put by Mr. Rochester; answers, explanations given, evidence adduced; an open admission of the truth had been uttered by my master; then the living proof had been seen; the intruders were gone, and all was over. I was in my own room as usual--just myself, without obvious change: nothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or maimed me. And yet where was the Jane Eyre of yesterday?--where was her life?--where were her prospects? Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman--almost a bride, was a cold, solitary girl again: her life was pale; her prospects were desolate. A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white December storm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts crushed the blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay a frozen shroud: lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were pathless with untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve hours since waved leafy and flagrant as groves between the tropics, now spread, waste, wild, and white as pine-forests in wintry Norway. My hopes were all dead--struck with a subtle doom, such as, in one night, fell on all the first-born in the land of Egypt. I looked on my cherished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing; they lay stark, chill, livid corpses that could never revive. I looked at my love: that feeling which was my master's--which he had created; it shivered in my heart, like a suffering child in a cold cradle; sickness and anguish had seized it; it could not seek Mr. Rochester's arms--it could not derive warmth from his breast. Oh, never more could it turn to him; for faith was blighted--confidence destroyed! Mr. Rochester was not to me what he had been; for he was not what I had thought him. I would not ascribe vice to him; I would not say he had betrayed me; but the attribute of stainless truth was gone from his idea, and from his presence I must go: _that_ I perceived well. When--how--whither, I could not yet discern; but he himself, I doubted not, would hurry me from Thornfield. Real affection, it seemed, he could not have for me; it had been only fitful passion: that was balked; he would want me no more. I should fear even to cross his path now: my view must be hateful to him. Oh, how blind had been my eyes! How weak my conduct! My eyes were covered and closed: eddying darkness seemed to swim round me, and reflection came in as black and confused a flow. Self-abandoned, relaxed, and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down in the dried-up bed of a great river; I heard a flood loosened in remote mountains, and felt the torrent come: to rise I had no will, to flee I had no strength. I lay faint, longing to be dead. One idea only still throbbed life-like within me--a remembrance of God: it begot an unuttered prayer: these words went wandering up and down in my rayless mind, as something that should be whispered, but no energy was found to express them-- "Be not far from me, for trouble is near: there is none to help." It was near: and as I had lifted no petition to Heaven to avert it--as I had neither joined my hands, nor bent my knees, nor moved my lips--it came: in full heavy swing the torrent poured over me. The whole consciousness of my life lorn, my love lost, my hope quenched, my faith death-struck, swayed full and mighty above me in one sullen mass. That bitter hour cannot be described: in truth, "the waters came into my soul; I sank in deep mire: I felt no standing; I came into deep waters; the floods overflowed me." CHAPTER XXVII Some time in the afternoon I raised my head, and looking round and seeing the western sun gilding the sign of its decline on the wall, I asked, "What am I to do?" But the answer my mind gave--"Leave Thornfield at once"--was so prompt, so dread, that I stopped my ears. I said I could not bear such words now. "That I am not Edward Rochester's bride is the least part of my woe," I alleged: "that I have wakened out of most glorious dreams, and found them all void and vain, is a horror I could bear and master; but that I must leave him decidedly, instantly, entirely, is intolerable. I cannot do it." But, then, a voice within me averred that I could do it and foretold that I should do it. I wrestled with my own resolution: I wanted to be weak that I might avoid the awful passage of further suffering I saw laid out for me; and Conscience, turned tyrant, held Passion by the throat, told her tauntingly, she had yet but dipped her dainty foot in the slough, and swore that with that arm of iron he would thrust her down to unsounded depths of agony. "Let me be torn away," then I cried. "Let another help me!" "No; you shall tear yourself away, none shall help you: you shall yourself pluck out your right eye; yourself cut off your right hand: your heart shall be the victim, and you the priest to transfix it." I rose up suddenly, terror-struck at the solitude which so ruthless a judge haunted,--at the silence which so awful a voice filled. My head swam as I stood erect. I perceived that I was sickening from excitement and inanition; neither meat nor drink had passed my lips that day, for I had taken no breakfast. And, with a strange pang, I now reflected that, long as I had been shut up here, no message had been sent to ask how I was, or to invite me to come down: not even little Adele had tapped at the door; not even Mrs. Fairfax had sought me. "Friends always forget those whom fortune forsakes," I murmured, as I undrew the bolt and passed out. I stumbled over an obstacle: my head was still dizzy, my sight was dim, and my limbs were feeble. I could not soon recover myself. I fell, but not on to the ground: an outstretched arm caught me. I looked up--I was supported by Mr. Rochester, who sat in a chair across my chamber threshold. "You come out at last," he said. "Well, I have been waiting for you long, and listening: yet not one movement have I heard, nor one sob: five minutes more of that death-like hush, and I should have forced the lock like a burglar. So you shun me?--you shut yourself up and grieve alone! I would rather you had come and upbraided me with vehemence. You are passionate. I expected a scene of some kind. I was prepared for the hot rain of tears; only I wanted them to be shed on my breast: now a senseless floor has received them, or your drenched handkerchief. But I err: you have not wept at all! I see a white cheek and a faded eye, but no trace of tears. I suppose, then, your heart has been weeping blood?" "Well, Jane! not a word of reproach? Nothing bitter--nothing poignant? Nothing to cut a feeling or sting a passion? You sit quietly where I have placed you, and regard me with a weary, passive look." "Jane, I never meant to wound you thus. If the man who had but one little ewe lamb that was dear to him as a daughter, that ate of his bread and drank of his cup, and lay in his bosom, had by some mistake slaughtered it at the shambles, he would not have rued his bloody blunder more than I now rue mine. Will you ever forgive me?" Reader, I forgave him at the moment and on the spot. There was such deep remorse in his eye, such true pity in his tone, such manly energy in his manner; and besides, there was such unchanged love in his whole look and mien--I forgave him all: yet not in words, not outwardly; only at my heart's core. "You know I am a scoundrel, Jane?" ere long he inquired wistfully--wondering, I suppose, at my continued silence and tameness, the result rather of weakness than of will. "Yes, sir." "Then tell me so roundly and sharply--don't spare me." "I cannot: I am tired and sick. I want some water." He heaved a sort of shuddering sigh, and taking me in his arms, carried me downstairs. At first I did not know to what room he had borne me; all was cloudy to my glazed sight: presently I felt the reviving warmth of a fire; for, summer as it was, I had become icy cold in my chamber. He put wine to my lips; I tasted it and revived; then I ate something he offered me, and was soon myself. I was in the library--sitting in his chair--he was quite near. "If I could go out of life now, without too sharp a pang, it would be well for me," I thought; "then I should not have to make the effort of cracking my heart-strings in rending them from among Mr. Rochester's. I must leave him, it appears. I do not want to leave him--I cannot leave him." "How are you now, Jane?" "Much better, sir; I shall be well soon." "Taste the wine again, Jane." I obeyed him; then he put the glass on the table, stood before me, and looked at me attentively. Suddenly he turned away, with an inarticulate exclamation, full of passionate emotion of some kind; he walked fast through the room and came back; he stooped towards me as if to kiss me; but I remembered caresses were now forbidden. I turned my face away and put his aside. "What!--How is this?" he exclaimed hastily. "Oh, I know! you won't kiss the husband of Bertha Mason? You consider my arms filled and my embraces appropriated?" "At any rate, there is neither room nor claim for me, sir." "Why, Jane? I will spare you the trouble of much talking; I will answer for you--Because I have a wife already, you would reply.--I guess rightly?" "Yes." "If you think so, you must have a strange opinion of me; you must regard me as a plotting profligate--a base and low rake who has been simulating disinterested love in order to draw you into a snare deliberately laid, and strip you of honour and rob you of self-respect. What do you say to that? I see you can say nothing in the first place, you are faint still, and have enough to do to draw your breath; in the second place, you cannot yet accustom yourself to accuse and revile me, and besides, the flood-gates of tears are opened, and they would rush out if you spoke much; and you have no desire to expostulate, to upbraid, to make a scene: you are thinking how _to act_--_talking_ you consider is of no use. I know you--I am on my guard." "Sir, I do not wish to act against you," I said; and my unsteady voice warned me to curtail my sentence. "Not in your sense of the word, but in mine you are scheming to destroy me. You have as good as said that I am a married man--as a married man you will shun me, keep out of my way: just now you have refused to kiss me. You intend to make yourself a complete stranger to me: to live under this roof only as Adele's governess; if ever I say a friendly word to you, if ever a friendly feeling inclines you again to me, you will say,--'That man had nearly made me his mistress: I must be ice and rock to him;' and ice and rock you will accordingly become." I cleared and steadied my voice to reply: "All is changed about me, sir; I must change too--there is no doubt of that; and to avoid fluctuations of feeling, and continual combats with recollections and associations, there is only one way--Adele must have a new governess, sir." "Oh, Adele will go to school--I have settled that already; nor do I mean to torment you with the hideous associations and recollections of Thornfield Hall--this accursed place--this tent of Achan--this insolent vault, offering the ghastliness of living death to the light of the open sky--this narrow stone hell, with its one real fiend, worse than a legion of such as we imagine. Jane, you shall not stay here, nor will I. I was wrong ever to bring you to Thornfield Hall, knowing as I did how it was haunted. I charged them to conceal from you, before I ever saw you, all knowledge of the curse of the place; merely because I feared Adele never would have a governess to stay if she knew with what inmate she was housed, and my plans would not permit me to remove the maniac elsewhere--though I possess an old house, Ferndean Manor, even more retired and hidden than this, where I could have lodged her safely enough, had not a scruple about the unhealthiness of the situation, in the heart of a wood, made my conscience recoil from the arrangement. Probably those damp walls would soon have eased me of her charge: but to each villain his own vice; and mine is not a tendency to indirect assassination, even of what I most hate. "Concealing the mad-woman's neighbourhood from you, however, was something like covering a child with a cloak and laying it down near a upas-tree: that demon's vicinage is poisoned, and always was. But I'll shut up Thornfield Hall: I'll nail up the front door and board the lower windows: I'll give Mrs. Poole two hundred a year to live here with _my wife_, as you term that fearful hag: Grace will do much for money, and she shall have her son, the keeper at Grimsby Retreat, to bear her company and be at hand to give her aid in the paroxysms, when _my wife_ is prompted by her familiar to burn people in their beds at night, to stab them, to bite their flesh from their bones, and so on--" "Sir," I interrupted him, "you are inexorable for that unfortunate lady: you speak of her with hate--with vindictive antipathy. It is cruel--she cannot help being mad." "Jane, my little darling (so I will call you, for so you are), you don't know what you are talking about; you misjudge me again: it is not because she is mad I hate her. If you were mad, do you think I should hate you?" "I do indeed, sir." "Then you are mistaken, and you know nothing about me, and nothing about the sort of love of which I am capable. Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my treasure still: if you raved, my arms should confine you, and not a strait waistcoat--your grasp, even in fury, would have a charm for me: if you flew at me as wildly as that woman did this morning, I should receive you in an embrace, at least as fond as it would be restrictive. I should not shrink from you with disgust as I did from her: in your quiet moments you should have no watcher and no nurse but me; and I could hang over you with untiring tenderness, though you gave me no smile in return; and never weary of gazing into your eyes, though they had no longer a ray of recognition for me.--But why do I follow that train of ideas? I was talking of removing you from Thornfield. All, you know, is prepared for prompt departure: to-morrow you shall go. I only ask you to endure one more night under this roof, Jane; and then, farewell to its miseries and terrors for ever! I have a place to repair to, which will be a secure sanctuary from hateful reminiscences, from unwelcome intrusion--even from falsehood and slander." "And take Adele with you, sir," I interrupted; "she will be a companion for you." "What do you mean, Jane? I told you I would send Adele to school; and what do I want with a child for a companion, and not my own child,--a French dancer's bastard? Why do you importune me about her! I say, why do you assign Adele to me for a companion?" "You spoke of a retirement, sir; and retirement and solitude are dull: too dull for you." "Solitude! solitude!" he reiterated with irritation. "I see I must come to an explanation. I don't know what sphynx-like expression is forming in your countenance. You are to share my solitude. Do you understand?" I shook my head: it required a degree of courage, excited as he was becoming, even to risk that mute sign of dissent. He had been walking fast about the room, and he stopped, as if suddenly rooted to one spot. He looked at me long and hard: I turned my eyes from him, fixed them on the fire, and tried to assume and maintain a quiet, collected aspect. "Now for the hitch in Jane's character," he said at last, speaking more calmly than from his look I had expected him to speak. "The reel of silk has run smoothly enough so far; but I always knew there would come a knot and a puzzle: here it is. Now for vexation, and exasperation, and endless trouble! By God! I long to exert a fraction of Samson's strength, and break the entanglement like tow!" He recommenced his walk, but soon again stopped, and this time just before me. "Jane! will you hear reason?" (he stooped and approached his lips to my ear); "because, if you won't, I'll try violence." His voice was hoarse; his look that of a man who is just about to burst an insufferable bond and plunge headlong into wild license. I saw that in another moment, and with one impetus of frenzy more, I should be able to do nothing with him. The present--the passing second of time--was all I had in which to control and restrain him--a movement of repulsion, flight, fear would have sealed my doom,--and his. But I was not afraid: not in the least. I felt an inward power; a sense of influence, which supported me. The crisis was perilous; but not without its charm: such as the Indian, perhaps, feels when he slips over the rapid in his canoe. I took hold of his clenched hand, loosened the contorted fingers, and said to him, soothingly-- "Sit down; I'll talk to you as long as you like, and hear all you have to say, whether reasonable or unreasonable." He sat down: but he did not get leave to speak directly. I had been struggling with tears for some time: I had taken great pains to repress them, because I knew he would not like to see me weep. Now, however, I considered it well to let them flow as freely and as long as they liked. If the flood annoyed him, so much the better. So I gave way and cried heartily. Soon I heard him earnestly entreating me to be composed. I said I could not while he was in such a passion. "But I am not angry, Jane: I only love you too well; and you had steeled your little pale face with such a resolute, frozen look, I could not endure it. Hush, now, and wipe your eyes." His softened voice announced that he was subdued; so I, in my turn, became calm. Now he made an effort to rest his head on my shoulder, but I would not permit it. Then he would draw me to him: no. "Jane! Jane!" he said, in such an accent of bitter sadness it thrilled along every nerve I had; "you don't love me, then? It was only my station, and the rank of my wife, that you valued? Now that you think me disqualified to become your husband, you recoil from my touch as if I were some toad or ape." These words cut me: yet what could I do or I say? I ought probably to have done or said nothing; but I was so tortured by a sense of remorse at thus hurting his feelings, I could not control the wish to drop balm where I had wounded. "I _do_ love you," I said, "more than ever: but I must not show or indulge the feeling: and this is the last time I must express it." "The last time, Jane! What! do you think you can live with me, and see me daily, and yet, if you still love me, be always cold and distant?" "No, sir; that I am certain I could not; and therefore I see there is but one way: but you will be furious if I mention it." "Oh, mention it! If I storm, you have the art of weeping." "Mr. Rochester, I must leave you." "For how long, Jane? For a few minutes, while you smooth your hair--which is somewhat dishevelled; and bathe your face--which looks feverish?" "I must leave Adele and Thornfield. I must part with you for my whole life: I must begin a new existence among strange faces and strange scenes." "Of course: I told you you should. I pass over the madness about parting from me. You mean you must become a part of me. As to the new existence, it is all right: you shall yet be my wife: I am not married. You shall be Mrs. Rochester--both virtually and nominally. I shall keep only to you so long as you and I live. You shall go to a place I have in the south of France: a whitewashed villa on the shores of the Mediterranean. There you shall live a happy, and guarded, and most innocent life. Never fear that I wish to lure you into error--to make you my mistress. Why did you shake your head? Jane, you must be reasonable, or in truth I shall again become frantic." His voice and hand quivered: his large nostrils dilated; his eye blazed: still I dared to speak. "Sir, your wife is living: that is a fact acknowledged this morning by yourself. If I lived with you as you desire, I should then be your mistress: to say otherwise is sophistical--is false." "Jane, I am not a gentle-tempered man--you forget that: I am not long- enduring; I am not cool and dispassionate. Out of pity to me and yourself, put your finger on my pulse, feel how it throbs, and--beware!" He bared his wrist, and offered it to me: the blood was forsaking his cheek and lips, they were growing livid; I was distressed on all hands. To agitate him thus deeply, by a resistance he so abhorred, was cruel: to yield was out of the question. I did what human beings do instinctively when they are driven to utter extremity--looked for aid to one higher than man: the words "God help me!" burst involuntarily from my lips. "I am a fool!" cried Mr. Rochester suddenly. "I keep telling her I am not married, and do not explain to her why. I forget she knows nothing of the character of that woman, or of the circumstances attending my infernal union with her. Oh, I am certain Jane will agree with me in opinion, when she knows all that I know! Just put your hand in mine, Janet--that I may have the evidence of touch as well as sight, to prove you are near me--and I will in a few words show you the real state of the case. Can you listen to me?" "Yes, sir; for hours if you will." "I ask only minutes. Jane, did you ever hear or know that I was not the eldest son of my house: that I had once a brother older than I?" "I remember Mrs. Fairfax told me so once." "And did you ever hear that my father was an avaricious, grasping man?" "I have understood something to that effect." "Well, Jane, being so, it was his resolution to keep the property together; he could not bear the idea of dividing his estate and leaving me a fair portion: all, he resolved, should go to my brother, Rowland. Yet as little could he endure that a son of his should be a poor man. I must be provided for by a wealthy marriage. He sought me a partner betimes. Mr. Mason, a West India planter and merchant, was his old acquaintance. He was certain his possessions were real and vast: he made inquiries. Mr. Mason, he found, had a son and daughter; and he learned from him that he could and would give the latter a fortune of thirty thousand pounds: that sufficed. When I left college, I was sent out to Jamaica, to espouse a bride already courted for me. My father said nothing about her money; but he told me Miss Mason was the boast of Spanish Town for her beauty: and this was no lie. I found her a fine woman, in the style of Blanche Ingram: tall, dark, and majestic. Her family wished to secure me because I was of a good race; and so did she. They showed her to me in parties, splendidly dressed. I seldom saw her alone, and had very little private conversation with her. She flattered me, and lavishly displayed for my pleasure her charms and accomplishments. All the men in her circle seemed to admire her and envy me. I was dazzled, stimulated: my senses were excited; and being ignorant, raw, and inexperienced, I thought I loved her. There is no folly so besotted that the idiotic rivalries of society, the prurience, the rashness, the blindness of youth, will not hurry a man to its commission. Her relatives encouraged me; competitors piqued me; she allured me: a marriage was achieved almost before I knew where I was. Oh, I have no respect for myself when I think of that act!--an agony of inward contempt masters me. I never loved, I never esteemed, I did not even know her. I was not sure of the existence of one virtue in her nature: I had marked neither modesty, nor benevolence, nor candour, nor refinement in her mind or manners--and, I married her:--gross, grovelling, mole-eyed blockhead that I was! With less sin I might have--But let me remember to whom I am speaking." "My bride's mother I had never seen: I understood she was dead. The honeymoon over, I learned my mistake; she was only mad, and shut up in a lunatic asylum. There was a younger brother, too--a complete dumb idiot. The elder one, whom you have seen (and whom I cannot hate, whilst I abhor all his kindred, because he has some grains of affection in his feeble mind, shown in the continued interest he takes in his wretched sister, and also in a dog-like attachment he once bore me), will probably be in the same state one day. My father and my brother Rowland knew all this; but they thought only of the thirty thousand pounds, and joined in the plot against me." "These were vile discoveries; but except for the treachery of concealment, I should have made them no subject of reproach to my wife, even when I found her nature wholly alien to mine, her tastes obnoxious to me, her cast of mind common, low, narrow, and singularly incapable of being led to anything higher, expanded to anything larger--when I found that I could not pass a single evening, nor even a single hour of the day with her in comfort; that kindly conversation could not be sustained between us, because whatever topic I started, immediately received from her a turn at once coarse and trite, perverse and imbecile--when I perceived that I should never have a quiet or settled household, because no servant would bear the continued outbreaks of her violent and unreasonable temper, or the vexations of her absurd, contradictory, exacting orders--even then I restrained myself: I eschewed upbraiding, I curtailed remonstrance; I tried to devour my repentance and disgust in secret; I repressed the deep antipathy I felt. "Jane, I will not trouble you with abominable details: some strong words shall express what I have to say. I lived with that woman upstairs four years, and before that time she had tried me indeed: her character ripened and developed with frightful rapidity; her vices sprang up fast and rank: they were so strong, only cruelty could check them, and I would not use cruelty. What a pigmy intellect she had, and what giant propensities! How fearful were the curses those propensities entailed on me! Bertha Mason, the true daughter of an infamous mother, dragged me through all the hideous and degrading agonies which must attend a man bound to a wife at once intemperate and unchaste. "My brother in the interval was dead, and at the end of the four years my father died too. I was rich enough now--yet poor to hideous indigence: a nature the most gross, impure, depraved I ever saw, was associated with mine, and called by the law and by society a part of me. And I could not rid myself of it by any legal proceedings: for the doctors now discovered that _my wife_ was mad--her excesses had prematurely developed the germs of insanity. Jane, you don't like my narrative; you look almost sick--shall I defer the rest to another day?" "No, sir, finish it now; I pity you--I do earnestly pity you." "Pity, Jane, from some people is a noxious and insulting sort of tribute, which one is justified in hurling back in the teeth of those who offer it; but that is the sort of pity native to callous, selfish hearts; it is a hybrid, egotistical pain at hearing of woes, crossed with ignorant contempt for those who have endured them. But that is not your pity, Jane; it is not the feeling of which your whole face is full at this moment--with which your eyes are now almost overflowing--with which your heart is heaving--with which your hand is trembling in mine. Your pity, my darling, is the suffering mother of love: its anguish is the very natal pang of the divine passion. I accept it, Jane; let the daughter have free advent--my arms wait to receive her." "Now, sir, proceed; what did you do when you found she was mad?" "Jane, I approached the verge of despair; a remnant of self-respect was all that intervened between me and the gulf. In the eyes of the world, I was doubtless covered with grimy dishonour; but I resolved to be clean in my own sight--and to the last I repudiated the contamination of her crimes, and wrenched myself from connection with her mental defects. Still, society associated my name and person with hers; I yet saw her and heard her daily: something of her breath (faugh!) mixed with the air I breathed; and besides, I remembered I had once been her husband--that recollection was then, and is now, inexpressibly odious to me; moreover, I knew that while she lived I could never be the husband of another and better wife; and, though five years my senior (her family and her father had lied to me even in the particular of her age), she was likely to live as long as I, being as robust in frame as she was infirm in mind. Thus, at the age of twenty-six, I was hopeless. "One night I had been awakened by her yells--(since the medical men had pronounced her mad, she had, of course, been shut up)--it was a fiery West Indian night; one of the description that frequently precede the hurricanes of those climates. Being unable to sleep in bed, I got up and opened the window. The air was like sulphur-steams--I could find no refreshment anywhere. Mosquitoes came buzzing in and hummed sullenly round the room; the sea, which I could hear from thence, rumbled dull like an earthquake--black clouds were casting up over it; the moon was setting in the waves, broad and red, like a hot cannon-ball--she threw her last bloody glance over a world quivering with the ferment of tempest. I was physically influenced by the atmosphere and scene, and my ears were filled with the curses the maniac still shrieked out; wherein she momentarily mingled my name with such a tone of demon-hate, with such language!--no professed harlot ever had a fouler vocabulary than she: though two rooms off, I heard every word--the thin partitions of the West India house opposing but slight obstruction to her wolfish cries. "'This life,' said I at last, 'is hell: this is the air--those are the sounds of the bottomless pit! I have a right to deliver myself from it if I can. The sufferings of this mortal state will leave me with the heavy flesh that now cumbers my soul. Of the fanatic's burning eternity I have no fear: there is not a future state worse than this present one--let me break away, and go home to God!' "I said this whilst I knelt down at, and unlocked a trunk which contained a brace of loaded pistols: I mean to shoot myself. I only entertained the intention for a moment; for, not being insane, the crisis of exquisite and unalloyed despair, which had originated the wish and design of self-destruction, was past in a second. "A wind fresh from Europe blew over the ocean and rushed through the open casement: the storm broke, streamed, thundered, blazed, and the air grew pure. I then framed and fixed a resolution. While I walked under the dripping orange-trees of my wet garden, and amongst its drenched pomegranates and pine-apples, and while the refulgent dawn of the tropics kindled round me--I reasoned thus, Jane--and now listen; for it was true Wisdom that consoled me in that hour, and showed me the right path to follow. "The sweet wind from Europe was still whispering in the refreshed leaves, and the Atlantic was thundering in glorious liberty; my heart, dried up and scorched for a long time, swelled to the tone, and filled with living blood--my being longed for renewal--my soul thirsted for a pure draught. I saw hope revive--and felt regeneration possible. From a flowery arch at the bottom of my garden I gazed over the sea--bluer than the sky: the old world was beyond; clear prospects opened thus:-- "'Go,' said Hope, 'and live again in Europe: there it is not known what a sullied name you bear, nor what a filthy burden is bound to you. You may take the maniac with you to England; confine her with due attendance and precautions at Thornfield: then travel yourself to what clime you will, and form what new tie you like. That woman, who has so abused your long- suffering, so sullied your name, so outraged your honour, so blighted your youth, is not your wife, nor are you her husband. See that she is cared for as her condition demands, and you have done all that God and humanity require of you. Let her identity, her connection with yourself, be buried in oblivion: you are bound to impart them to no living being. Place her in safety and comfort: shelter her degradation with secrecy, and leave her.' "I acted precisely on this suggestion. My father and brother had not made my marriage known to their acquaintance; because, in the very first letter I wrote to apprise them of the union--having already begun to experience extreme disgust of its consequences, and, from the family character and constitution, seeing a hideous future opening to me--I added an urgent charge to keep it secret: and very soon the infamous conduct of the wife my father had selected for me was such as to make him blush to own her as his daughter-in-law. Far from desiring to publish the connection, he became as anxious to conceal it as myself. "To England, then, I conveyed her; a fearful voyage I had with such a monster in the vessel. Glad was I when I at last got her to Thornfield, and saw her safely lodged in that third-storey room, of whose secret inner cabinet she has now for ten years made a wild beast's den--a goblin's cell. I had some trouble in finding an attendant for her, as it was necessary to select one on whose fidelity dependence could be placed; for her ravings would inevitably betray my secret: besides, she had lucid intervals of days--sometimes weeks--which she filled up with abuse of me. At last I hired Grace Poole from the Grimbsy Retreat. She and the surgeon, Carter (who dressed Mason's wounds that night he was stabbed and worried), are the only two I have ever admitted to my confidence. Mrs. Fairfax may indeed have suspected something, but she could have gained no precise knowledge as to facts. Grace has, on the whole, proved a good keeper; though, owing partly to a fault of her own, of which it appears nothing can cure her, and which is incident to her harassing profession, her vigilance has been more than once lulled and baffled. The lunatic is both cunning and malignant; she has never failed to take advantage of her guardian's temporary lapses; once to secrete the knife with which she stabbed her brother, and twice to possess herself of the key of her cell, and issue therefrom in the night-time. On the first of these occasions, she perpetrated the attempt to burn me in my bed; on the second, she paid that ghastly visit to you. I thank Providence, who watched over you, that she then spent her fury on your wedding apparel, which perhaps brought back vague reminiscences of her own bridal days: but on what might have happened, I cannot endure to reflect. When I think of the thing which flew at my throat this morning, hanging its black and scarlet visage over the nest of my dove, my blood curdles--" "And what, sir," I asked, while he paused, "did you do when you had settled her here? Where did you go?" "What did I do, Jane? I transformed myself into a will-o'-the-wisp. Where did I go? I pursued wanderings as wild as those of the March-spirit. I sought the Continent, and went devious through all its lands. My fixed desire was to seek and find a good and intelligent woman, whom I could love: a contrast to the fury I left at Thornfield--" "But you could not marry, sir." "I had determined and was convinced that I could and ought. It was not my original intention to deceive, as I have deceived you. I meant to tell my tale plainly, and make my proposals openly: and it appeared to me so absolutely rational that I should be considered free to love and be loved, I never doubted some woman might be found willing and able to understand my case and accept me, in spite of the curse with which I was burdened." "Well, sir?" "When you are inquisitive, Jane, you always make me smile. You open your eyes like an eager bird, and make every now and then a restless movement, as if answers in speech did not flow fast enough for you, and you wanted to read the tablet of one's heart. But before I go on, tell me what you mean by your 'Well, sir?' It is a small phrase very frequent with you; and which many a time has drawn me on and on through interminable talk: I don't very well know why." "I mean,--What next? How did you proceed? What came of such an event?" "Precisely! and what do you wish to know now?" "Whether you found any one you liked: whether you asked her to marry you; and what she said." "I can tell you whether I found any one I liked, and whether I asked her to marry me: but what she said is yet to be recorded in the book of Fate. For ten long years I roved about, living first in one capital, then another: sometimes in St. Petersburg; oftener in Paris; occasionally in Rome, Naples, and Florence. Provided with plenty of money and the passport of an old name, I could choose my own society: no circles were closed against me. I sought my ideal of a woman amongst English ladies, French countesses, Italian signoras, and German grafinnen. I could not find her. Sometimes, for a fleeting moment, I thought I caught a glance, heard a tone, beheld a form, which announced the realisation of my dream: but I was presently undeserved. You are not to suppose that I desired perfection, either of mind or person. I longed only for what suited me--for the antipodes of the Creole: and I longed vainly. Amongst them all I found not one whom, had I been ever so free, I--warned as I was of the risks, the horrors, the loathings of incongruous unions--would have asked to marry me. Disappointment made me reckless. I tried dissipation--never debauchery: that I hated, and hate. That was my Indian Messalina's attribute: rooted disgust at it and her restrained me much, even in pleasure. Any enjoyment that bordered on riot seemed to approach me to her and her vices, and I eschewed it. "Yet I could not live alone; so I tried the companionship of mistresses. The first I chose was Celine Varens--another of those steps which make a man spurn himself when he recalls them. You already know what she was, and how my liaison with her terminated. She had two successors: an Italian, Giacinta, and a German, Clara; both considered singularly handsome. What was their beauty to me in a few weeks? Giacinta was unprincipled and violent: I tired of her in three months. Clara was honest and quiet; but heavy, mindless, and unimpressible: not one whit to my taste. I was glad to give her a sufficient sum to set her up in a good line of business, and so get decently rid of her. But, Jane, I see by your face you are not forming a very favourable opinion of me just now. You think me an unfeeling, loose-principled rake: don't you?" "I don't like you so well as I have done sometimes, indeed, sir. Did it not seem to you in the least wrong to live in that way, first with one mistress and then another? You talk of it as a mere matter of course." "It was with me; and I did not like it. It was a grovelling fashion of existence: I should never like to return to it. Hiring a mistress is the next worse thing to buying a slave: both are often by nature, and always by position, inferior: and to live familiarly with inferiors is degrading. I now hate the recollection of the time I passed with Celine, Giacinta, and Clara." I felt the truth of these words; and I drew from them the certain inference, that if I were so far to forget myself and all the teaching that had ever been instilled into me, as--under any pretext--with any justification--through any temptation--to become the successor of these poor girls, he would one day regard me with the same feeling which now in his mind desecrated their memory. I did not give utterance to this conviction: it was enough to feel it. I impressed it on my heart, that it might remain there to serve me as aid in the time of trial. "Now, Jane, why don't you say 'Well, sir?' I have not done. You are looking grave. You disapprove of me still, I see. But let me come to the point. Last January, rid of all mistresses--in a harsh, bitter frame of mind, the result of a useless, roving, lonely life--corroded with disappointment, sourly disposed against all men, and especially against all womankind (for I began to regard the notion of an intellectual, faithful, loving woman as a mere dream), recalled by business, I came back to England. "On a frosty winter afternoon, I rode in sight of Thornfield Hall. Abhorred spot! I expected no peace--no pleasure there. On a stile in Hay Lane I saw a quiet little figure sitting by itself. I passed it as negligently as I did the pollard willow opposite to it: I had no presentiment of what it would be to me; no inward warning that the arbitress of my life--my genius for good or evil--waited there in humble guise. I did not know it, even when, on the occasion of Mesrour's accident, it came up and gravely offered me help. Childish and slender creature! It seemed as if a linnet had hopped to my foot and proposed to bear me on its tiny wing. I was surly; but the thing would not go: it stood by me with strange perseverance, and looked and spoke with a sort of authority. I must be aided, and by that hand: and aided I was. "When once I had pressed the frail shoulder, something new--a fresh sap and sense--stole into my frame. It was well I had learnt that this elf must return to me--that it belonged to my house down below--or I could not have felt it pass away from under my hand, and seen it vanish behind the dim hedge, without singular regret. I heard you come home that night, Jane, though probably you were not aware that I thought of you or watched for you. The next day I observed you--myself unseen--for half-an- hour, while you played with Adele in the gallery. It was a snowy day, I recollect, and you could not go out of doors. I was in my room; the door was ajar: I could both listen and watch. Adele claimed your outward attention for a while; yet I fancied your thoughts were elsewhere: but you were very patient with her, my little Jane; you talked to her and amused her a long time. When at last she left you, you lapsed at once into deep reverie: you betook yourself slowly to pace the gallery. Now and then, in passing a casement, you glanced out at the thick-falling snow; you listened to the sobbing wind, and again you paced gently on and dreamed. I think those day visions were not dark: there was a pleasurable illumination in your eye occasionally, a soft excitement in your aspect, which told of no bitter, bilious, hypochondriac brooding: your look revealed rather the sweet musings of youth when its spirit follows on willing wings the flight of Hope up and on to an ideal heaven. The voice of Mrs. Fairfax, speaking to a servant in the hall, wakened you: and how curiously you smiled to and at yourself, Janet! There was much sense in your smile: it was very shrewd, and seemed to make light of your own abstraction. It seemed to say--'My fine visions are all very well, but I must not forget they are absolutely unreal. I have a rosy sky and a green flowery Eden in my brain; but without, I am perfectly aware, lies at my feet a rough tract to travel, and around me gather black tempests to encounter.' You ran downstairs and demanded of Mrs. Fairfax some occupation: the weekly house accounts to make up, or something of that sort, I think it was. I was vexed with you for getting out of my sight. "Impatiently I waited for evening, when I might summon you to my presence. An unusual--to me--a perfectly new character I suspected was yours: I desired to search it deeper and know it better. You entered the room with a look and air at once shy and independent: you were quaintly dressed--much as you are now. I made you talk: ere long I found you full of strange contrasts. Your garb and manner were restricted by rule; your air was often diffident, and altogether that of one refined by nature, but absolutely unused to society, and a good deal afraid of making herself disadvantageously conspicuous by some solecism or blunder; yet when addressed, you lifted a keen, a daring, and a glowing eye to your interlocutor's face: there was penetration and power in each glance you gave; when plied by close questions, you found ready and round answers. Very soon you seemed to get used to me: I believe you felt the existence of sympathy between you and your grim and cross master, Jane; for it was astonishing to see how quickly a certain pleasant ease tranquillised your manner: snarl as I would, you showed no surprise, fear, annoyance, or displeasure at my moroseness; you watched me, and now and then smiled at me with a simple yet sagacious grace I cannot describe. I was at once content and stimulated with what I saw: I liked what I had seen, and wished to see more. Yet, for a long time, I treated you distantly, and sought your company rarely. I was an intellectual epicure, and wished to prolong the gratification of making this novel and piquant acquaintance: besides, I was for a while troubled with a haunting fear that if I handled the flower freely its bloom would fade--the sweet charm of freshness would leave it. I did not then know that it was no transitory blossom, but rather the radiant resemblance of one, cut in an indestructible gem. Moreover, I wished to see whether you would seek me if I shunned you--but you did not; you kept in the schoolroom as still as your own desk and easel; if by chance I met you, you passed me as soon, and with as little token of recognition, as was consistent with respect. Your habitual expression in those days, Jane, was a thoughtful look; not despondent, for you were not sickly; but not buoyant, for you had little hope, and no actual pleasure. I wondered what you thought of me, or if you ever thought of me, and resolved to find this out. "I resumed my notice of you. There was something glad in your glance, and genial in your manner, when you conversed: I saw you had a social heart; it was the silent schoolroom--it was the tedium of your life--that made you mournful. I permitted myself the delight of being kind to you; kindness stirred emotion soon: your face became soft in expression, your tones gentle; I liked my name pronounced by your lips in a grateful happy accent. I used to enjoy a chance meeting with you, Jane, at this time: there was a curious hesitation in your manner: you glanced at me with a slight trouble--a hovering doubt: you did not know what my caprice might be--whether I was going to play the master and be stern, or the friend and be benignant. I was now too fond of you often to simulate the first whim; and, when I stretched my hand out cordially, such bloom and light and bliss rose to your young, wistful features, I had much ado often to avoid straining you then and there to my heart." "Don't talk any more of those days, sir," I interrupted, furtively dashing away some tears from my eyes; his language was torture to me; for I knew what I must do--and do soon--and all these reminiscences, and these revelations of his feelings only made my work more difficult. "No, Jane," he returned: "what necessity is there to dwell on the Past, when the Present is so much surer--the Future so much brighter?" I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion. "You see now how the case stands--do you not?" he continued. "After a youth and manhood passed half in unutterable misery and half in dreary solitude, I have for the first time found what I can truly love--I have found you. You are my sympathy--my better self--my good angel. I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you, and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one. "It was because I felt and knew this, that I resolved to marry you. To tell me that I had already a wife is empty mockery: you know now that I had but a hideous demon. I was wrong to attempt to deceive you; but I feared a stubbornness that exists in your character. I feared early instilled prejudice: I wanted to have you safe before hazarding confidences. This was cowardly: I should have appealed to your nobleness and magnanimity at first, as I do now--opened to you plainly my life of agony--described to you my hunger and thirst after a higher and worthier existence--shown to you, not my _resolution_ (that word is weak), but my resistless _bent_ to love faithfully and well, where I am faithfully and well loved in return. Then I should have asked you to accept my pledge of fidelity and to give me yours. Jane--give it me now." A pause. "Why are you silent, Jane?" I was experiencing an ordeal: a hand of fiery iron grasped my vitals. Terrible moment: full of struggle, blackness, burning! Not a human being that ever lived could wish to be loved better than I was loved; and him who thus loved me I absolutely worshipped: and I must renounce love and idol. One drear word comprised my intolerable duty--"Depart!" "Jane, you understand what I want of you? Just this promise--'I will be yours, Mr. Rochester.'" "Mr. Rochester, I will _not_ be yours." Another long silence. "Jane!" recommenced he, with a gentleness that broke me down with grief, and turned me stone-cold with ominous terror--for this still voice was the pant of a lion rising--"Jane, do you mean to go one way in the world, and to let me go another?" "I do." "Jane" (bending towards and embracing me), "do you mean it now?" "I do." "And now?" softly kissing my forehead and cheek. "I do," extricating myself from restraint rapidly and completely. "Oh, Jane, this is bitter! This--this is wicked. It would not be wicked to love me." "It would to obey you." A wild look raised his brows--crossed his features: he rose; but he forebore yet. I laid my hand on the back of a chair for support: I shook, I feared--but I resolved. "One instant, Jane. Give one glance to my horrible life when you are gone. All happiness will be torn away with you. What then is left? For a wife I have but the maniac upstairs: as well might you refer me to some corpse in yonder churchyard. What shall I do, Jane? Where turn for a companion and for some hope?" "Do as I do: trust in God and yourself. Believe in heaven. Hope to meet again there." "Then you will not yield?" "No." "Then you condemn me to live wretched and to die accursed?" His voice rose. "I advise you to live sinless, and I wish you to die tranquil." "Then you snatch love and innocence from me? You fling me back on lust for a passion--vice for an occupation?" "Mr. Rochester, I no more assign this fate to you than I grasp at it for myself. We were born to strive and endure--you as well as I: do so. You will forget me before I forget you." "You make me a liar by such language: you sully my honour. I declared I could not change: you tell me to my face I shall change soon. And what a distortion in your judgment, what a perversity in your ideas, is proved by your conduct! Is it better to drive a fellow-creature to despair than to transgress a mere human law, no man being injured by the breach? for you have neither relatives nor acquaintances whom you need fear to offend by living with me?" This was true: and while he spoke my very conscience and reason turned traitors against me, and charged me with crime in resisting him. They spoke almost as loud as Feeling: and that clamoured wildly. "Oh, comply!" it said. "Think of his misery; think of his danger--look at his state when left alone; remember his headlong nature; consider the recklessness following on despair--soothe him; save him; love him; tell him you love him and will be his. Who in the world cares for _you_? or who will be injured by what you do?" Still indomitable was the reply--"_I_ care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man. I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad--as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth--so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane--quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot." I did. Mr. Rochester, reading my countenance, saw I had done so. His fury was wrought to the highest: he must yield to it for a moment, whatever followed; he crossed the floor and seized my arm and grasped my waist. He seemed to devour me with his flaming glance: physically, I felt, at the moment, powerless as stubble exposed to the draught and glow of a furnace: mentally, I still possessed my soul, and with it the certainty of ultimate safety. The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter--often an unconscious, but still a truthful interpreter--in the eye. My eye rose to his; and while I looked in his fierce face I gave an involuntary sigh; his gripe was painful, and my over-taxed strength almost exhausted. "Never," said he, as he ground his teeth, "never was anything at once so frail and so indomitable. A mere reed she feels in my hand!" (And he shook me with the force of his hold.) "I could bend her with my finger and thumb: and what good would it do if I bent, if I uptore, if I crushed her? Consider that eye: consider the resolute, wild, free thing looking out of it, defying me, with more than courage--with a stern triumph. Whatever I do with its cage, I cannot get at it--the savage, beautiful creature! If I tear, if I rend the slight prison, my outrage will only let the captive loose. Conqueror I might be of the house; but the inmate would escape to heaven before I could call myself possessor of its clay dwelling-place. And it is you, spirit--with will and energy, and virtue and purity--that I want: not alone your brittle frame. Of yourself you could come with soft flight and nestle against my heart, if you would: seized against your will, you will elude the grasp like an essence--you will vanish ere I inhale your fragrance. Oh! come, Jane, come!" As he said this, he released me from his clutch, and only looked at me. The look was far worse to resist than the frantic strain: only an idiot, however, would have succumbed now. I had dared and baffled his fury; I must elude his sorrow: I retired to the door. "You are going, Jane?" "I am going, sir." "You are leaving me?" "Yes." "You will not come? You will not be my comforter, my rescuer? My deep love, my wild woe, my frantic prayer, are all nothing to you?" What unutterable pathos was in his voice! How hard it was to reiterate firmly, "I am going." "Jane!" "Mr. Rochester!" "Withdraw, then,--I consent; but remember, you leave me here in anguish. Go up to your own room; think over all I have said, and, Jane, cast a glance on my sufferings--think of me." He turned away; he threw himself on his face on the sofa. "Oh, Jane! my hope--my love--my life!" broke in anguish from his lips. Then came a deep, strong sob. I had already gained the door; but, reader, I walked back--walked back as determinedly as I had retreated. I knelt down by him; I turned his face from the cushion to me; I kissed his cheek; I smoothed his hair with my hand. "God bless you, my dear master!" I said. "God keep you from harm and wrong--direct you, solace you--reward you well for your past kindness to me." "Little Jane's love would have been my best reward," he answered; "without it, my heart is broken. But Jane will give me her love: yes--nobly, generously." Up the blood rushed to his face; forth flashed the fire from his eyes; erect he sprang; he held his arms out; but I evaded the embrace, and at once quitted the room. "Farewell!" was the cry of my heart as I left him. Despair added, "Farewell for ever!" * * * * * That night I never thought to sleep; but a slumber fell on me as soon as I lay down in bed. I was transported in thought to the scenes of childhood: I dreamt I lay in the red-room at Gateshead; that the night was dark, and my mind impressed with strange fears. The light that long ago had struck me into syncope, recalled in this vision, seemed glidingly to mount the wall, and tremblingly to pause in the centre of the obscured ceiling. I lifted up my head to look: the roof resolved to clouds, high and dim; the gleam was such as the moon imparts to vapours she is about to sever. I watched her come--watched with the strangest anticipation; as though some word of doom were to be written on her disk. She broke forth as never moon yet burst from cloud: a hand first penetrated the sable folds and waved them away; then, not a moon, but a white human form shone in the azure, inclining a glorious brow earthward. It gazed and gazed on me. It spoke to my spirit: immeasurably distant was the tone, yet so near, it whispered in my heart-- "My daughter, flee temptation." "Mother, I will." So I answered after I had waked from the trance-like dream. It was yet night, but July nights are short: soon after midnight, dawn comes. "It cannot be too early to commence the task I have to fulfil," thought I. I rose: I was dressed; for I had taken off nothing but my shoes. I knew where to find in my drawers some linen, a locket, a ring. In seeking these articles, I encountered the beads of a pearl necklace Mr. Rochester had forced me to accept a few days ago. I left that; it was not mine: it was the visionary bride's who had melted in air. The other articles I made up in a parcel; my purse, containing twenty shillings (it was all I had), I put in my pocket: I tied on my straw bonnet, pinned my shawl, took the parcel and my slippers, which I would not put on yet, and stole from my room. "Farewell, kind Mrs. Fairfax!" I whispered, as I glided past her door. "Farewell, my darling Adele!" I said, as I glanced towards the nursery. No thought could be admitted of entering to embrace her. I had to deceive a fine ear: for aught I knew it might now be listening. I would have got past Mr. Rochester's chamber without a pause; but my heart momentarily stopping its beat at that threshold, my foot was forced to stop also. No sleep was there: the inmate was walking restlessly from wall to wall; and again and again he sighed while I listened. There was a heaven--a temporary heaven--in this room for me, if I chose: I had but to go in and to say-- "Mr. Rochester, I will love you and live with you through life till death," and a fount of rapture would spring to my lips. I thought of this. That kind master, who could not sleep now, was waiting with impatience for day. He would send for me in the morning; I should be gone. He would have me sought for: vainly. He would feel himself forsaken; his love rejected: he would suffer; perhaps grow desperate. I thought of this too. My hand moved towards the lock: I caught it back, and glided on. Drearily I wound my way downstairs: I knew what I had to do, and I did it mechanically. I sought the key of the side-door in the kitchen; I sought, too, a phial of oil and a feather; I oiled the key and the lock. I got some water, I got some bread: for perhaps I should have to walk far; and my strength, sorely shaken of late, must not break down. All this I did without one sound. I opened the door, passed out, shut it softly. Dim dawn glimmered in the yard. The great gates were closed and locked; but a wicket in one of them was only latched. Through that I departed: it, too, I shut; and now I was out of Thornfield. A mile off, beyond the fields, lay a road which stretched in the contrary direction to Millcote; a road I had never travelled, but often noticed, and wondered where it led: thither I bent my steps. No reflection was to be allowed now: not one glance was to be cast back; not even one forward. Not one thought was to be given either to the past or the future. The first was a page so heavenly sweet--so deadly sad--that to read one line of it would dissolve my courage and break down my energy. The last was an awful blank: something like the world when the deluge was gone by. I skirted fields, and hedges, and lanes till after sunrise. I believe it was a lovely summer morning: I know my shoes, which I had put on when I left the house, were soon wet with dew. But I looked neither to rising sun, nor smiling sky, nor wakening nature. He who is taken out to pass through a fair scene to the scaffold, thinks not of the flowers that smile on his road, but of the block and axe-edge; of the disseverment of bone and vein; of the grave gaping at the end: and I thought of drear flight and homeless wandering--and oh! with agony I thought of what I left. I could not help it. I thought of him now--in his room--watching the sunrise; hoping I should soon come to say I would stay with him and be his. I longed to be his; I panted to return: it was not too late; I could yet spare him the bitter pang of bereavement. As yet my flight, I was sure, was undiscovered. I could go back and be his comforter--his pride; his redeemer from misery, perhaps from ruin. Oh, that fear of his self-abandonment--far worse than my abandonment--how it goaded me! It was a barbed arrow-head in my breast; it tore me when I tried to extract it; it sickened me when remembrance thrust it farther in. Birds began singing in brake and copse: birds were faithful to their mates; birds were emblems of love. What was I? In the midst of my pain of heart and frantic effort of principle, I abhorred myself. I had no solace from self-approbation: none even from self-respect. I had injured--wounded--left my master. I was hateful in my own eyes. Still I could not turn, nor retrace one step. God must have led me on. As to my own will or conscience, impassioned grief had trampled one and stifled the other. I was weeping wildly as I walked along my solitary way: fast, fast I went like one delirious. A weakness, beginning inwardly, extending to the limbs, seized me, and I fell: I lay on the ground some minutes, pressing my face to the wet turf. I had some fear--or hope--that here I should die: but I was soon up; crawling forwards on my hands and knees, and then again raised to my feet--as eager and as determined as ever to reach the road. When I got there, I was forced to sit to rest me under the hedge; and while I sat, I heard wheels, and saw a coach come on. I stood up and lifted my hand; it stopped. I asked where it was going: the driver named a place a long way off, and where I was sure Mr. Rochester had no connections. I asked for what sum he would take me there; he said thirty shillings; I answered I had but twenty; well, he would try to make it do. He further gave me leave to get into the inside, as the vehicle was empty: I entered, was shut in, and it rolled on its way. Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agonised as in that hour left my lips; for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love. CHAPTER XXVIII Two days are passed. It is a summer evening; the coachman has set me down at a place called Whitcross; he could take me no farther for the sum I had given, and I was not possessed of another shilling in the world. The coach is a mile off by this time; I am alone. At this moment I discover that I forgot to take my parcel out of the pocket of the coach, where I had placed it for safety; there it remains, there it must remain; and now, I am absolutely destitute. Whitcross is no town, nor even a hamlet; it is but a stone pillar set up where four roads meet: whitewashed, I suppose, to be more obvious at a distance and in darkness. Four arms spring from its summit: the nearest town to which these point is, according to the inscription, distant ten miles; the farthest, above twenty. From the well-known names of these towns I learn in what county I have lighted; a north-midland shire, dusk with moorland, ridged with mountain: this I see. There are great moors behind and on each hand of me; there are waves of mountains far beyond that deep valley at my feet. The population here must be thin, and I see no passengers on these roads: they stretch out east, west, north, and south--white, broad, lonely; they are all cut in the moor, and the heather grows deep and wild to their very verge. Yet a chance traveller might pass by; and I wish no eye to see me now: strangers would wonder what I am doing, lingering here at the sign-post, evidently objectless and lost. I might be questioned: I could give no answer but what would sound incredible and excite suspicion. Not a tie holds me to human society at this moment--not a charm or hope calls me where my fellow-creatures are--none that saw me would have a kind thought or a good wish for me. I have no relative but the universal mother, Nature: I will seek her breast and ask repose. I struck straight into the heath; I held on to a hollow I saw deeply furrowing the brown moorside; I waded knee-deep in its dark growth; I turned with its turnings, and finding a moss-blackened granite crag in a hidden angle, I sat down under it. High banks of moor were about me; the crag protected my head: the sky was over that. Some time passed before I felt tranquil even here: I had a vague dread that wild cattle might be near, or that some sportsman or poacher might discover me. If a gust of wind swept the waste, I looked up, fearing it was the rush of a bull; if a plover whistled, I imagined it a man. Finding my apprehensions unfounded, however, and calmed by the deep silence that reigned as evening declined at nightfall, I took confidence. As yet I had not thought; I had only listened, watched, dreaded; now I regained the faculty of reflection. What was I to do? Where to go? Oh, intolerable questions, when I could do nothing and go nowhere!--when a long way must yet be measured by my weary, trembling limbs before I could reach human habitation--when cold charity must be entreated before I could get a lodging: reluctant sympathy importuned, almost certain repulse incurred, before my tale could be listened to, or one of my wants relieved! I touched the heath: it was dry, and yet warm with the heat of the summer day. I looked at the sky; it was pure: a kindly star twinkled just above the chasm ridge. The dew fell, but with propitious softness; no breeze whispered. Nature seemed to me benign and good; I thought she loved me, outcast as I was; and I, who from man could anticipate only mistrust, rejection, insult, clung to her with filial fondness. To-night, at least, I would be her guest, as I was her child: my mother would lodge me without money and without price. I had one morsel of bread yet: the remnant of a roll I had bought in a town we passed through at noon with a stray penny--my last coin. I saw ripe bilberries gleaming here and there, like jet beads in the heath: I gathered a handful and ate them with the bread. My hunger, sharp before, was, if not satisfied, appeased by this hermit's meal. I said my evening prayers at its conclusion, and then chose my couch. {I said my evening prayers: p311.jpg} Beside the crag the heath was very deep: when I lay down my feet were buried in it; rising high on each side, it left only a narrow space for the night-air to invade. I folded my shawl double, and spread it over me for a coverlet; a low, mossy swell was my pillow. Thus lodged, I was not, at least--at the commencement of the night, cold. My rest might have been blissful enough, only a sad heart broke it. It plained of its gaping wounds, its inward bleeding, its riven chords. It trembled for Mr. Rochester and his doom; it bemoaned him with bitter pity; it demanded him with ceaseless longing; and, impotent as a bird with both wings broken, it still quivered its shattered pinions in vain attempts to seek him. Worn out with this torture of thought, I rose to my knees. Night was come, and her planets were risen: a safe, still night: too serene for the companionship of fear. We know that God is everywhere; but certainly we feel His presence most when His works are on the grandest scale spread before us; and it is in the unclouded night-sky, where His worlds wheel their silent course, that we read clearest His infinitude, His omnipotence, His omnipresence. I had risen to my knees to pray for Mr. Rochester. Looking up, I, with tear-dimmed eyes, saw the mighty Milky- way. Remembering what it was--what countless systems there swept space like a soft trace of light--I felt the might and strength of God. Sure was I of His efficiency to save what He had made: convinced I grew that neither earth should perish, nor one of the souls it treasured. I turned my prayer to thanksgiving: the Source of Life was also the Saviour of spirits. Mr. Rochester was safe; he was God's, and by God would he be guarded. I again nestled to the breast of the hill; and ere long in sleep forgot sorrow. But next day, Want came to me pale and bare. Long after the little birds had left their nests; long after bees had come in the sweet prime of day to gather the heath honey before the dew was dried--when the long morning shadows were curtailed, and the sun filled earth and sky--I got up, and I looked round me. What a still, hot, perfect day! What a golden desert this spreading moor! Everywhere sunshine. I wished I could live in it and on it. I saw a lizard run over the crag; I saw a bee busy among the sweet bilberries. I would fain at the moment have become bee or lizard, that I might have found fitting nutriment, permanent shelter here. But I was a human being, and had a human being's wants: I must not linger where there was nothing to supply them. I rose; I looked back at the bed I had left. Hopeless of the future, I wished but this--that my Maker had that night thought good to require my soul of me while I slept; and that this weary frame, absolved by death from further conflict with fate, had now but to decay quietly, and mingle in peace with the soil of this wilderness. Life, however, was yet in my possession, with all its requirements, and pains, and responsibilities. The burden must be carried; the want provided for; the suffering endured; the responsibility fulfilled. I set out. Whitcross regained, I followed a road which led from the sun, now fervent and high. By no other circumstance had I will to decide my choice. I walked a long time, and when I thought I had nearly done enough, and might conscientiously yield to the fatigue that almost overpowered me--might relax this forced action, and, sitting down on a stone I saw near, submit resistlessly to the apathy that clogged heart and limb--I heard a bell chime--a church bell. I turned in the direction of the sound, and there, amongst the romantic hills, whose changes and aspect I had ceased to note an hour ago, I saw a hamlet and a spire. All the valley at my right hand was full of pasture- fields, and cornfields, and wood; and a glittering stream ran zig-zag through the varied shades of green, the mellowing grain, the sombre woodland, the clear and sunny lea. Recalled by the rumbling of wheels to the road before me, I saw a heavily-laden waggon labouring up the hill, and not far beyond were two cows and their drover. Human life and human labour were near. I must struggle on: strive to live and bend to toil like the rest. About two o'clock p.m. I entered the village. At the bottom of its one street there was a little shop with some cakes of bread in the window. I coveted a cake of bread. With that refreshment I could perhaps regain a degree of energy: without it, it would be difficult to proceed. The wish to have some strength and some vigour returned to me as soon as I was amongst my fellow-beings. I felt it would be degrading to faint with hunger on the causeway of a hamlet. Had I nothing about me I could offer in exchange for one of these rolls? I considered. I had a small silk handkerchief tied round my throat; I had my gloves. I could hardly tell how men and women in extremities of destitution proceeded. I did not know whether either of these articles would be accepted: probably they would not; but I must try. I entered the shop: a woman was there. Seeing a respectably-dressed person, a lady as she supposed, she came forward with civility. How could she serve me? I was seized with shame: my tongue would not utter the request I had prepared. I dared not offer her the half-worn gloves, the creased handkerchief: besides, I felt it would be absurd. I only begged permission to sit down a moment, as I was tired. Disappointed in the expectation of a customer, she coolly acceded to my request. She pointed to a seat; I sank into it. I felt sorely urged to weep; but conscious how unseasonable such a manifestation would be, I restrained it. Soon I asked her "if there were any dressmaker or plain-workwoman in the village?" "Yes; two or three. Quite as many as there was employment for." I reflected. I was driven to the point now. I was brought face to face with Necessity. I stood in the position of one without a resource, without a friend, without a coin. I must do something. What? I must apply somewhere. Where? "Did she know of any place in the neighbourhood where a servant was wanted?" "Nay; she couldn't say." "What was the chief trade in this place? What did most of the people do?" "Some were farm labourers; a good deal worked at Mr. Oliver's needle-factory, and at the foundry." "Did Mr. Oliver employ women?" "Nay; it was men's work." "And what do the women do?" "I knawn't," was the answer. "Some does one thing, and some another. Poor folk mun get on as they can." She seemed to be tired of my questions: and, indeed, what claim had I to importune her? A neighbour or two came in; my chair was evidently wanted. I took leave. I passed up the street, looking as I went at all the houses to the right hand and to the left; but I could discover no pretext, nor see an inducement to enter any. I rambled round the hamlet, going sometimes to a little distance and returning again, for an hour or more. Much exhausted, and suffering greatly now for want of food, I turned aside into a lane and sat down under the hedge. Ere many minutes had elapsed, I was again on my feet, however, and again searching something--a resource, or at least an informant. A pretty little house stood at the top of the lane, with a garden before it, exquisitely neat and brilliantly blooming. I stopped at it. What business had I to approach the white door or touch the glittering knocker? In what way could it possibly be the interest of the inhabitants of that dwelling to serve me? Yet I drew near and knocked. A mild-looking, cleanly-attired young woman opened the door. In such a voice as might be expected from a hopeless heart and fainting frame--a voice wretchedly low and faltering--I asked if a servant was wanted here? "No," said she; "we do not keep a servant." "Can you tell me where I could get employment of any kind?" I continued. "I am a stranger, without acquaintance in this place. I want some work: no matter what." But it was not her business to think for me, or to seek a place for me: besides, in her eyes, how doubtful must have appeared my character, position, tale. She shook her head, she "was sorry she could give me no information," and the white door closed, quite gently and civilly: but it shut me out. If she had held it open a little longer, I believe I should have begged a piece of bread; for I was now brought low. I could not bear to return to the sordid village, where, besides, no prospect of aid was visible. I should have longed rather to deviate to a wood I saw not far off, which appeared in its thick shade to offer inviting shelter; but I was so sick, so weak, so gnawed with nature's cravings, instinct kept me roaming round abodes where there was a chance of food. Solitude would be no solitude--rest no rest--while the vulture, hunger, thus sank beak and talons in my side. I drew near houses; I left them, and came back again, and again I wandered away: always repelled by the consciousness of having no claim to ask--no right to expect interest in my isolated lot. Meantime, the afternoon advanced, while I thus wandered about like a lost and starving dog. In crossing a field, I saw the church spire before me: I hastened towards it. Near the churchyard, and in the middle of a garden, stood a well-built though small house, which I had no doubt was the parsonage. I remembered that strangers who arrive at a place where they have no friends, and who want employment, sometimes apply to the clergyman for introduction and aid. It is the clergyman's function to help--at least with advice--those who wished to help themselves. I seemed to have something like a right to seek counsel here. Renewing then my courage, and gathering my feeble remains of strength, I pushed on. I reached the house, and knocked at the kitchen-door. An old woman opened: I asked was this the parsonage? "Yes." "Was the clergyman in?" "No." "Would he be in soon?" "No, he was gone from home." "To a distance?" "Not so far--happen three mile. He had been called away by the sudden death of his father: he was at Marsh End now, and would very likely stay there a fortnight longer." "Was there any lady of the house?" "Nay, there was naught but her, and she was housekeeper;" and of her, reader, I could not bear to ask the relief for want of which I was sinking; I could not yet beg; and again I crawled away. Once more I took off my handkerchief--once more I thought of the cakes of bread in the little shop. Oh, for but a crust! for but one mouthful to allay the pang of famine! Instinctively I turned my face again to the village; I found the shop again, and I went in; and though others were there besides the woman I ventured the request--"Would she give me a roll for this handkerchief?" She looked at me with evident suspicion: "Nay, she never sold stuff i' that way." Almost desperate, I asked for half a cake; she again refused. "How could she tell where I had got the handkerchief?" she said. "Would she take my gloves?" "No! what could she do with them?" Reader, it is not pleasant to dwell on these details. Some say there is enjoyment in looking back to painful experience past; but at this day I can scarcely bear to review the times to which I allude: the moral degradation, blent with the physical suffering, form too distressing a recollection ever to be willingly dwelt on. I blamed none of those who repulsed me. I felt it was what was to be expected, and what could not be helped: an ordinary beggar is frequently an object of suspicion; a well-dressed beggar inevitably so. To be sure, what I begged was employment; but whose business was it to provide me with employment? Not, certainly, that of persons who saw me then for the first time, and who knew nothing about my character. And as to the woman who would not take my handkerchief in exchange for her bread, why, she was right, if the offer appeared to her sinister or the exchange unprofitable. Let me condense now. I am sick of the subject. A little before dark I passed a farm-house, at the open door of which the farmer was sitting, eating his supper of bread and cheese. I stopped and said-- "Will you give me a piece of bread? for I am very hungry." He cast on me a glance of surprise; but without answering, he cut a thick slice from his loaf, and gave it to me. I imagine he did not think I was a beggar, but only an eccentric sort of lady, who had taken a fancy to his brown loaf. As soon as I was out of sight of his house, I sat down and ate it. I could not hope to get a lodging under a roof, and sought it in the wood I have before alluded to. But my night was wretched, my rest broken: the ground was damp, the air cold: besides, intruders passed near me more than once, and I had again and again to change my quarters; no sense of safety or tranquillity befriended me. Towards morning it rained; the whole of the following day was wet. Do not ask me, reader, to give a minute account of that day; as before, I sought work; as before, I was repulsed; as before, I starved; but once did food pass my lips. At the door of a cottage I saw a little girl about to throw a mess of cold porridge into a pig trough. "Will you give me that?" I asked. {"Will you give me that?" I asked: p316.jpg} She stared at me. "Mother!" she exclaimed, "there is a woman wants me to give her these porridge." "Well lass," replied a voice within, "give it her if she's a beggar. T' pig doesn't want it." The girl emptied the stiffened mould into my hand, and I devoured it ravenously. As the wet twilight deepened, I stopped in a solitary bridle-path, which I had been pursuing an hour or more. "My strength is quite failing me," I said in a soliloquy. "I feel I cannot go much farther. Shall I be an outcast again this night? While the rain descends so, must I lay my head on the cold, drenched ground? I fear I cannot do otherwise: for who will receive me? But it will be very dreadful, with this feeling of hunger, faintness, chill, and this sense of desolation--this total prostration of hope. In all likelihood, though, I should die before morning. And why cannot I reconcile myself to the prospect of death? Why do I struggle to retain a valueless life? Because I know, or believe, Mr. Rochester is living: and then, to die of want and cold is a fate to which nature cannot submit passively. Oh, Providence! sustain me a little longer! Aid!--direct me!" My glazed eye wandered over the dim and misty landscape. I saw I had strayed far from the village: it was quite out of sight. The very cultivation surrounding it had disappeared. I had, by cross-ways and by- paths, once more drawn near the tract of moorland; and now, only a few fields, almost as wild and unproductive as the heath from which they were scarcely reclaimed, lay between me and the dusky hill. "Well, I would rather die yonder than in a street or on a frequented road," I reflected. "And far better that crows and ravens--if any ravens there be in these regions--should pick my flesh from my bones, than that they should be prisoned in a workhouse coffin and moulder in a pauper's grave." To the hill, then, I turned. I reached it. It remained now only to find a hollow where I could lie down, and feel at least hidden, if not secure. But all the surface of the waste looked level. It showed no variation but of tint: green, where rush and moss overgrew the marshes; black, where the dry soil bore only heath. Dark as it was getting, I could still see these changes, though but as mere alternations of light and shade; for colour had faded with the daylight. My eye still roved over the sullen swell and along the moor-edge, vanishing amidst the wildest scenery, when at one dim point, far in among the marshes and the ridges, a light sprang up. "That is an _ignis fatuus_," was my first thought; and I expected it would soon vanish. It burnt on, however, quite steadily, neither receding nor advancing. "Is it, then, a bonfire just kindled?" I questioned. I watched to see whether it would spread: but no; as it did not diminish, so it did not enlarge. "It may be a candle in a house," I then conjectured; "but if so, I can never reach it. It is much too far away: and were it within a yard of me, what would it avail? I should but knock at the door to have it shut in my face." And I sank down where I stood, and hid my face against the ground. I lay still a while: the night-wind swept over the hill and over me, and died moaning in the distance; the rain fell fast, wetting me afresh to the skin. Could I but have stiffened to the still frost--the friendly numbness of death--it might have pelted on; I should not have felt it; but my yet living flesh shuddered at its chilling influence. I rose ere long. The light was yet there, shining dim but constant through the rain. I tried to walk again: I dragged my exhausted limbs slowly towards it. It led me aslant over the hill, through a wide bog, which would have been impassable in winter, and was splashy and shaking even now, in the height of summer. Here I fell twice; but as often I rose and rallied my faculties. This light was my forlorn hope: I must gain it. Having crossed the marsh, I saw a trace of white over the moor. I approached it; it was a road or a track: it led straight up to the light, which now beamed from a sort of knoll, amidst a clump of trees--firs, apparently, from what I could distinguish of the character of their forms and foliage through the gloom. My star vanished as I drew near: some obstacle had intervened between me and it. I put out my hand to feel the dark mass before me: I discriminated the rough stones of a low wall--above it, something like palisades, and within, a high and prickly hedge. I groped on. Again a whitish object gleamed before me: it was a gate--a wicket; it moved on its hinges as I touched it. On each side stood a sable bush-holly or yew. Entering the gate and passing the shrubs, the silhouette of a house rose to view, black, low, and rather long; but the guiding light shone nowhere. All was obscurity. Were the inmates retired to rest? I feared it must be so. In seeking the door, I turned an angle: there shot out the friendly gleam again, from the lozenged panes of a very small latticed window, within a foot of the ground, made still smaller by the growth of ivy or some other creeping plant, whose leaves clustered thick over the portion of the house wall in which it was set. The aperture was so screened and narrow, that curtain or shutter had been deemed unnecessary; and when I stooped down and put aside the spray of foliage shooting over it, I could see all within. I could see clearly a room with a sanded floor, clean scoured; a dresser of walnut, with pewter plates ranged in rows, reflecting the redness and radiance of a glowing peat-fire. I could see a clock, a white deal table, some chairs. The candle, whose ray had been my beacon, burnt on the table; and by its light an elderly woman, somewhat rough-looking, but scrupulously clean, like all about her, was knitting a stocking. I noticed these objects cursorily only--in them there was nothing extraordinary. A group of more interest appeared near the hearth, sitting still amidst the rosy peace and warmth suffusing it. Two young, graceful women--ladies in every point--sat, one in a low rocking-chair, the other on a lower stool; both wore deep mourning of crape and bombazeen, which sombre garb singularly set off very fair necks and faces: a large old pointer dog rested its massive head on the knee of one girl--in the lap of the other was cushioned a black cat. A strange place was this humble kitchen for such occupants! Who were they? They could not be the daughters of the elderly person at the table; for she looked like a rustic, and they were all delicacy and cultivation. I had nowhere seen such faces as theirs: and yet, as I gazed on them, I seemed intimate with every lineament. I cannot call them handsome--they were too pale and grave for the word: as they each bent over a book, they looked thoughtful almost to severity. A stand between them supported a second candle and two great volumes, to which they frequently referred, comparing them, seemingly, with the smaller books they held in their hands, like people consulting a dictionary to aid them in the task of translation. This scene was as silent as if all the figures had been shadows and the firelit apartment a picture: so hushed was it, I could hear the cinders fall from the grate, the clock tick in its obscure corner; and I even fancied I could distinguish the click-click of the woman's knitting-needles. When, therefore, a voice broke the strange stillness at last, it was audible enough to me. "Listen, Diana," said one of the absorbed students; "Franz and old Daniel are together in the night-time, and Franz is telling a dream from which he has awakened in terror--listen!" And in a low voice she read something, of which not one word was intelligible to me; for it was in an unknown tongue--neither French nor Latin. Whether it were Greek or German I could not tell. "That is strong," she said, when she had finished: "I relish it." The other girl, who had lifted her head to listen to her sister, repeated, while she gazed at the fire, a line of what had been read. At a later day, I knew the language and the book; therefore, I will here quote the line: though, when I first heard it, it was only like a stroke on sounding brass to me--conveying no meaning:-- "'Da trat hervor Einer, anzusehen wie die Sternen Nacht.' Good! good!" she exclaimed, while her dark and deep eye sparkled. "There you have a dim and mighty archangel fitly set before you! The line is worth a hundred pages of fustian. 'Ich wage die Gedanken in der Schale meines Zornes und die Werke mit dem Gewichte meines Grimms.' I like it!" Both were again silent. "Is there ony country where they talk i' that way?" asked the old woman, looking up from her knitting. "Yes, Hannah--a far larger country than England, where they talk in no other way." "Well, for sure case, I knawn't how they can understand t' one t'other: and if either o' ye went there, ye could tell what they said, I guess?" "We could probably tell something of what they said, but not all--for we are not as clever as you think us, Hannah. We don't speak German, and we cannot read it without a dictionary to help us." "And what good does it do you?" "We mean to teach it some time--or at least the elements, as they say; and then we shall get more money than we do now." "Varry like: but give ower studying; ye've done enough for to-night." "I think we have: at least I'm tired. Mary, are you?" "Mortally: after all, it's tough work fagging away at a language with no master but a lexicon." "It is, especially such a language as this crabbed but glorious Deutsch. I wonder when St. John will come home." "Surely he will not be long now: it is just ten (looking at a little gold watch she drew from her girdle). It rains fast, Hannah: will you have the goodness to look at the fire in the parlour?" The woman rose: she opened a door, through which I dimly saw a passage: soon I heard her stir a fire in an inner room; she presently came back. "Ah, childer!" said she, "it fair troubles me to go into yond' room now: it looks so lonesome wi' the chair empty and set back in a corner." She wiped her eyes with her apron: the two girls, grave before, looked sad now. "But he is in a better place," continued Hannah: "we shouldn't wish him here again. And then, nobody need to have a quieter death nor he had." "You say he never mentioned us?" inquired one of the ladies. "He hadn't time, bairn: he was gone in a minute, was your father. He had been a bit ailing like the day before, but naught to signify; and when Mr. St. John asked if he would like either o' ye to be sent for, he fair laughed at him. He began again with a bit of a heaviness in his head the next day--that is, a fortnight sin'--and he went to sleep and niver wakened: he wor a'most stark when your brother went into t' chamber and fand him. Ah, childer! that's t' last o' t' old stock--for ye and Mr. St. John is like of different soart to them 'at's gone; for all your mother wor mich i' your way, and a'most as book-learned. She wor the pictur' o' ye, Mary: Diana is more like your father." I thought them so similar I could not tell where the old servant (for such I now concluded her to be) saw the difference. Both were fair complexioned and slenderly made; both possessed faces full of distinction and intelligence. One, to be sure, had hair a shade darker than the other, and there was a difference in their style of wearing it; Mary's pale brown locks were parted and braided smooth: Diana's duskier tresses covered her neck with thick curls. The clock struck ten. "Ye'll want your supper, I am sure," observed Hannah; "and so will Mr. St. John when he comes in." And she proceeded to prepare the meal. The ladies rose; they seemed about to withdraw to the parlour. Till this moment, I had been so intent on watching them, their appearance and conversation had excited in me so keen an interest, I had half-forgotten my own wretched position: now it recurred to me. More desolate, more desperate than ever, it seemed from contrast. And how impossible did it appear to touch the inmates of this house with concern on my behalf; to make them believe in the truth of my wants and woes--to induce them to vouchsafe a rest for my wanderings! As I groped out the door, and knocked at it hesitatingly, I felt that last idea to be a mere chimera. Hannah opened. "What do you want?" she inquired, in a voice of surprise, as she surveyed me by the light of the candle she held. "May I speak to your mistresses?" I said. "You had better tell me what you have to say to them. Where do you come from?" "I am a stranger." "What is your business here at this hour?" "I want a night's shelter in an out-house or anywhere, and a morsel of bread to eat." Distrust, the very feeling I dreaded, appeared in Hannah's face. "I'll give you a piece of bread," she said, after a pause; "but we can't take in a vagrant to lodge. It isn't likely." "Do let me speak to your mistresses." "No, not I. What can they do for you? You should not be roving about now; it looks very ill." "But where shall I go if you drive me away? What shall I do?" "Oh, I'll warrant you know where to go and what to do. Mind you don't do wrong, that's all. Here is a penny; now go--" "A penny cannot feed me, and I have no strength to go farther. Don't shut the door:--oh, don't, for God's sake!" "I must; the rain is driving in--" "Tell the young ladies. Let me see them--" "Indeed, I will not. You are not what you ought to be, or you wouldn't make such a noise. Move off." "But I must die if I am turned away." "Not you. I'm fear'd you have some ill plans agate, that bring you about folk's houses at this time o' night. If you've any followers--housebreakers or such like--anywhere near, you may tell them we are not by ourselves in the house; we have a gentleman, and dogs, and guns." Here the honest but inflexible servant clapped the door to and bolted it within. This was the climax. A pang of exquisite suffering--a throe of true despair--rent and heaved my heart. Worn out, indeed, I was; not another step could I stir. I sank on the wet doorstep: I groaned--I wrung my hands--I wept in utter anguish. Oh, this spectre of death! Oh, this last hour, approaching in such horror! Alas, this isolation--this banishment from my kind! Not only the anchor of hope, but the footing of fortitude was gone--at least for a moment; but the last I soon endeavoured to regain. "I can but die," I said, "and I believe in God. Let me try to wait His will in silence." These words I not only thought, but uttered; and thrusting back all my misery into my heart, I made an effort to compel it to remain there--dumb and still. "All men must die," said a voice quite close at hand; "but all are not condemned to meet a lingering and premature doom, such as yours would be if you perished here of want." "Who or what speaks?" I asked, terrified at the unexpected sound, and incapable now of deriving from any occurrence a hope of aid. A form was near--what form, the pitch-dark night and my enfeebled vision prevented me from distinguishing. With a loud long knock, the new-comer appealed to the door. "Is it you, Mr. St. John?" cried Hannah. "Yes--yes; open quickly." "Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a wild night as it is! Come in--your sisters are quite uneasy about you, and I believe there are bad folks about. There has been a beggar-woman--I declare she is not gone yet!--laid down there. Get up! for shame! Move off, I say!" "Hush, Hannah! I have a word to say to the woman. You have done your duty in excluding, now let me do mine in admitting her. I was near, and listened to both you and her. I think this is a peculiar case--I must at least examine into it. Young woman, rise, and pass before me into the house." {Hush, Hannah; I have a word to say to the woman: p323.jpg} With difficulty I obeyed him. Presently I stood within that clean, bright kitchen--on the very hearth--trembling, sickening; conscious of an aspect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and weather-beaten. The two ladies, their brother, Mr. St. John, the old servant, were all gazing at me. "St. John, who is it?" I heard one ask. "I cannot tell: I found her at the door," was the reply. "She does look white," said Hannah. "As white as clay or death," was responded. "She will fall: let her sit." And indeed my head swam: I dropped, but a chair received me. I still possessed my senses, though just now I could not speak. "Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch some. But she is worn to nothing. How very thin, and how very bloodless!" "A mere spectre!" "Is she ill, or only famished?" "Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk? Give it me, and a piece of bread." Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw drooping between me and the fire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it in milk, and put it to my lips. Her face was near mine: I saw there was pity in it, and I felt sympathy in her hurried breathing. In her simple words, too, the same balm-like emotion spoke: "Try to eat." "Yes--try," repeated Mary gently; and Mary's hand removed my sodden bonnet and lifted my head. I tasted what they offered me: feebly at first, eagerly soon. "Not too much at first--restrain her," said the brother; "she has had enough." And he withdrew the cup of milk and the plate of bread. "A little more, St. John--look at the avidity in her eyes." "No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak now--ask her her name." I felt I could speak, and I answered--"My name is Jane Elliott." Anxious as ever to avoid discovery, I had before resolved to assume an _alias_. "And where do you live? Where are your friends?" I was silent. "Can we send for any one you know?" I shook my head. "What account can you give of yourself?" Somehow, now that I had once crossed the threshold of this house, and once was brought face to face with its owners, I felt no longer outcast, vagrant, and disowned by the wide world. I dared to put off the mendicant--to resume my natural manner and character. I began once more to know myself; and when Mr. St. John demanded an account--which at present I was far too weak to render--I said after a brief pause-- "Sir, I can give you no details to-night." "But what, then," said he, "do you expect me to do for you?" "Nothing," I replied. My strength sufficed for but short answers. Diana took the word-- "Do you mean," she asked, "that we have now given you what aid you require? and that we may dismiss you to the moor and the rainy night?" I looked at her. She had, I thought, a remarkable countenance, instinct both with power and goodness. I took sudden courage. Answering her compassionate gaze with a smile, I said--"I will trust you. If I were a masterless and stray dog, I know that you would not turn me from your hearth to-night: as it is, I really have no fear. Do with me and for me as you like; but excuse me from much discourse--my breath is short--I feel a spasm when I speak." All three surveyed me, and all three were silent. "Hannah," said Mr. St. John, at last, "let her sit there at present, and ask her no questions; in ten minutes more, give her the remainder of that milk and bread. Mary and Diana, let us go into the parlour and talk the matter over." They withdrew. Very soon one of the ladies returned--I could not tell which. A kind of pleasant stupor was stealing over me as I sat by the genial fire. In an undertone she gave some directions to Hannah. Ere long, with the servant's aid, I contrived to mount a staircase; my dripping clothes were removed; soon a warm, dry bed received me. I thanked God--experienced amidst unutterable exhaustion a glow of grateful joy--and slept. CHAPTER XXIX The recollection of about three days and nights succeeding this is very dim in my mind. I can recall some sensations felt in that interval; but few thoughts framed, and no actions performed. I knew I was in a small room and in a narrow bed. To that bed I seemed to have grown; I lay on it motionless as a stone; and to have torn me from it would have been almost to kill me. I took no note of the lapse of time--of the change from morning to noon, from noon to evening. I observed when any one entered or left the apartment: I could even tell who they were; I could understand what was said when the speaker stood near to me; but I could not answer; to open my lips or move my limbs was equally impossible. Hannah, the servant, was my most frequent visitor. Her coming disturbed me. I had a feeling that she wished me away: that she did not understand me or my circumstances; that she was prejudiced against me. Diana and Mary appeared in the chamber once or twice a day. They would whisper sentences of this sort at my bedside-- "It is very well we took her in." "Yes; she would certainly have been found dead at the door in the morning had she been left out all night. I wonder what she has gone through?" "Strange hardships, I imagine--poor, emaciated, pallid wanderer?" "She is not an uneducated person, I should think, by her manner of speaking; her accent was quite pure; and the clothes she took off, though splashed and wet, were little worn and fine." "She has a peculiar face; fleshless and haggard as it is, I rather like it; and when in good health and animated, I can fancy her physiognomy would be agreeable." Never once in their dialogues did I hear a syllable of regret at the hospitality they had extended to me, or of suspicion of, or aversion to, myself. I was comforted. Mr. St. John came but once: he looked at me, and said my state of lethargy was the result of reaction from excessive and protracted fatigue. He pronounced it needless to send for a doctor: nature, he was sure, would manage best, left to herself. He said every nerve had been overstrained in some way, and the whole system must sleep torpid a while. There was no disease. He imagined my recovery would be rapid enough when once commenced. These opinions he delivered in a few words, in a quiet, low voice; and added, after a pause, in the tone of a man little accustomed to expansive comment, "Rather an unusual physiognomy; certainly, not indicative of vulgarity or degradation." "Far otherwise," responded Diana. "To speak truth, St. John, my heart rather warms to the poor little soul. I wish we may be able to benefit her permanently." "That is hardly likely," was the reply. "You will find she is some young lady who has had a misunderstanding with her friends, and has probably injudiciously left them. We may, perhaps, succeed in restoring her to them, if she is not obstinate: but I trace lines of force in her face which make me sceptical of her tractability." He stood considering me some minutes; then added, "She looks sensible, but not at all handsome." "She is so ill, St. John." "Ill or well, she would always be plain. The grace and harmony of beauty are quite wanting in those features." On the third day I was better; on the fourth, I could speak, move, rise in bed, and turn. Hannah had brought me some gruel and dry toast, about, as I supposed, the dinner-hour. I had eaten with relish: the food was good--void of the feverish flavour which had hitherto poisoned what I had swallowed. When she left me, I felt comparatively strong and revived: ere long satiety of repose and desire for action stirred me. I wished to rise; but what could I put on? Only my damp and bemired apparel; in which I had slept on the ground and fallen in the marsh. I felt ashamed to appear before my benefactors so clad. I was spared the humiliation. On a chair by the bedside were all my own things, clean and dry. My black silk frock hung against the wall. The traces of the bog were removed from it; the creases left by the wet smoothed out: it was quite decent. My very shoes and stockings were purified and rendered presentable. There were the means of washing in the room, and a comb and brush to smooth my hair. After a weary process, and resting every five minutes, I succeeded in dressing myself. My clothes hung loose on me; for I was much wasted, but I covered deficiencies with a shawl, and once more, clean and respectable looking--no speck of the dirt, no trace of the disorder I so hated, and which seemed so to degrade me, left--I crept down a stone staircase with the aid of the banisters, to a narrow low passage, and found my way presently to the kitchen. It was full of the fragrance of new bread and the warmth of a generous fire. Hannah was baking. Prejudices, it is well known, are most difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been loosened or fertilised by education: they grow there, firm as weeds among stones. Hannah had been cold and stiff, indeed, at the first: latterly she had begun to relent a little; and when she saw me come in tidy and well-dressed, she even smiled. "What, you have got up!" she said. "You are better, then. You may sit you down in my chair on the hearthstone, if you will." She pointed to the rocking-chair: I took it. She bustled about, examining me every now and then with the corner of her eye. Turning to me, as she took some loaves from the oven, she asked bluntly-- "Did you ever go a-begging afore you came here?" I was indignant for a moment; but remembering that anger was out of the question, and that I had indeed appeared as a beggar to her, I answered quietly, but still not without a certain marked firmness-- "You are mistaken in supposing me a beggar. I am no beggar; any more than yourself or your young ladies." After a pause she said, "I dunnut understand that: you've like no house, nor no brass, I guess?" "The want of house or brass (by which I suppose you mean money) does not make a beggar in your sense of the word." "Are you book-learned?" she inquired presently. "Yes, very." "But you've never been to a boarding-school?" "I was at a boarding-school eight years." She opened her eyes wide. "Whatever cannot ye keep yourself for, then?" "I have kept myself; and, I trust, shall keep myself again. What are you going to do with these gooseberries?" I inquired, as she brought out a basket of the fruit. "Mak' 'em into pies." "Give them to me and I'll pick them." "Nay; I dunnut want ye to do nought." "But I must do something. Let me have them." She consented; and she even brought me a clean towel to spread over my dress, "lest," as she said, "I should mucky it." "Ye've not been used to sarvant's wark, I see by your hands," she remarked. "Happen ye've been a dressmaker?" "No, you are wrong. And now, never mind what I have been: don't trouble your head further about me; but tell me the name of the house where we are." "Some calls it Marsh End, and some calls it Moor House." "And the gentleman who lives here is called Mr. St. John?" "Nay; he doesn't live here: he is only staying a while. When he is at home, he is in his own parish at Morton." "That village a few miles off? "Aye." "And what is he?" "He is a parson." I remembered the answer of the old housekeeper at the parsonage, when I had asked to see the clergyman. "This, then, was his father's residence?" "Aye; old Mr. Rivers lived here, and his father, and grandfather, and gurt (great) grandfather afore him." "The name, then, of that gentleman, is Mr. St. John Rivers?" "Aye; St. John is like his kirstened name." "And his sisters are called Diana and Mary Rivers?" "Yes." "Their father is dead?" "Dead three weeks sin' of a stroke." "They have no mother?" "The mistress has been dead this mony a year." "Have you lived with the family long?" "I've lived here thirty year. I nursed them all three." "That proves you must have been an honest and faithful servant. I will say so much for you, though you have had the incivility to call me a beggar." She again regarded me with a surprised stare. "I believe," she said, "I was quite mista'en in my thoughts of you: but there is so mony cheats goes about, you mun forgie me." "And though," I continued, rather severely, "you wished to turn me from the door, on a night when you should not have shut out a dog." "Well, it was hard: but what can a body do? I thought more o' th' childer nor of mysel: poor things! They've like nobody to tak' care on 'em but me. I'm like to look sharpish." I maintained a grave silence for some minutes. "You munnut think too hardly of me," she again remarked. "But I do think hardly of you," I said; "and I'll tell you why--not so much because you refused to give me shelter, or regarded me as an impostor, as because you just now made it a species of reproach that I had no 'brass' and no house. Some of the best people that ever lived have been as destitute as I am; and if you are a Christian, you ought not to consider poverty a crime." "No more I ought," said she: "Mr. St. John tells me so too; and I see I wor wrang--but I've clear a different notion on you now to what I had. You look a raight down dacent little crater." "That will do--I forgive you now. Shake hands." She put her floury and horny hand into mine; another and heartier smile illumined her rough face, and from that moment we were friends. Hannah was evidently fond of talking. While I picked the fruit, and she made the paste for the pies, she proceeded to give me sundry details about her deceased master and mistress, and "the childer," as she called the young people. Old Mr. Rivers, she said, was a plain man enough, but a gentleman, and of as ancient a family as could be found. Marsh End had belonged to the Rivers ever since it was a house: and it was, she affirmed, "aboon two hundred year old--for all it looked but a small, humble place, naught to compare wi' Mr. Oliver's grand hall down i' Morton Vale. But she could remember Bill Oliver's father a journeyman needlemaker; and th' Rivers wor gentry i' th' owd days o' th' Henrys, as onybody might see by looking into th' registers i' Morton Church vestry." Still, she allowed, "the owd maister was like other folk--naught mich out o' t' common way: stark mad o' shooting, and farming, and sich like." The mistress was different. She was a great reader, and studied a deal; and the "bairns" had taken after her. There was nothing like them in these parts, nor ever had been; they had liked learning, all three, almost from the time they could speak; and they had always been "of a mak' of their own." Mr. St. John, when he grew up, would go to college and be a parson; and the girls, as soon as they left school, would seek places as governesses: for they had told her their father had some years ago lost a great deal of money by a man he had trusted turning bankrupt; and as he was now not rich enough to give them fortunes, they must provide for themselves. They had lived very little at home for a long while, and were only come now to stay a few weeks on account of their father's death; but they did so like Marsh End and Morton, and all these moors and hills about. They had been in London, and many other grand towns; but they always said there was no place like home; and then they were so agreeable with each other--never fell out nor "threaped." She did not know where there was such a family for being united. Having finished my task of gooseberry picking, I asked where the two ladies and their brother were now. "Gone over to Morton for a walk; but they would be back in half-an-hour to tea." They returned within the time Hannah had allotted them: they entered by the kitchen door. Mr. St. John, when he saw me, merely bowed and passed through; the two ladies stopped: Mary, in a few words, kindly and calmly expressed the pleasure she felt in seeing me well enough to be able to come down; Diana took my hand: she shook her head at me. "You should have waited for my leave to descend," she said. "You still look very pale--and so thin! Poor child!--poor girl!" Diana had a voice toned, to my ear, like the cooing of a dove. She possessed eyes whose gaze I delighted to encounter. Her whole face seemed to me full of charm. Mary's countenance was equally intelligent--her features equally pretty; but her expression was more reserved, and her manners, though gentle, more distant. Diana looked and spoke with a certain authority: she had a will, evidently. It was my nature to feel pleasure in yielding to an authority supported like hers, and to bend, where my conscience and self-respect permitted, to an active will. "And what business have you here?" she continued. "It is not your place. Mary and I sit in the kitchen sometimes, because at home we like to be free, even to license--but you are a visitor, and must go into the parlour." "I am very well here." "Not at all, with Hannah bustling about and covering you with flour." "Besides, the fire is too hot for you," interposed Mary. "To be sure," added her sister. "Come, you must be obedient." And still holding my hand she made me rise, and led me into the inner room. "Sit there," she said, placing me on the sofa, "while we take our things off and get the tea ready; it is another privilege we exercise in our little moorland home--to prepare our own meals when we are so inclined, or when Hannah is baking, brewing, washing, or ironing." She closed the door, leaving me solus with Mr. St. John, who sat opposite, a book or newspaper in his hand. I examined first, the parlour, and then its occupant. The parlour was rather a small room, very plainly furnished, yet comfortable, because clean and neat. The old-fashioned chairs were very bright, and the walnut-wood table was like a looking-glass. A few strange, antique portraits of the men and women of other days decorated the stained walls; a cupboard with glass doors contained some books and an ancient set of china. There was no superfluous ornament in the room--not one modern piece of furniture, save a brace of workboxes and a lady's desk in rosewood, which stood on a side-table: everything--including the carpet and curtains--looked at once well worn and well saved. Mr. St. John--sitting as still as one of the dusty pictures on the walls, keeping his eyes fixed on the page he perused, and his lips mutely sealed--was easy enough to examine. Had he been a statue instead of a man, he could not have been easier. He was young--perhaps from twenty- eight to thirty--tall, slender; his face riveted the eye; it was like a Greek face, very pure in outline: quite a straight, classic nose; quite an Athenian mouth and chin. It is seldom, indeed, an English face comes so near the antique models as did his. He might well be a little shocked at the irregularity of my lineaments, his own being so harmonious. His eyes were large and blue, with brown lashes; his high forehead, colourless as ivory, was partially streaked over by careless locks of fair hair. This is a gentle delineation, is it not, reader? Yet he whom it describes scarcely impressed one with the idea of a gentle, a yielding, an impressible, or even of a placid nature. Quiescent as he now sat, there was something about his nostril, his mouth, his brow, which, to my perceptions, indicated elements within either restless, or hard, or eager. He did not speak to me one word, nor even direct to me one glance, till his sisters returned. Diana, as she passed in and out, in the course of preparing tea, brought me a little cake, baked on the top of the oven. "Eat that now," she said: "you must be hungry. Hannah says you have had nothing but some gruel since breakfast." I did not refuse it, for my appetite was awakened and keen. Mr. Rivers now closed his book, approached the table, and, as he took a seat, fixed his blue pictorial-looking eyes full on me. There was an unceremonious directness, a searching, decided steadfastness in his gaze now, which told that intention, and not diffidence, had hitherto kept it averted from the stranger. "You are very hungry," he said. "I am, sir." It is my way--it always was my way, by instinct--ever to meet the brief with brevity, the direct with plainness. "It is well for you that a low fever has forced you to abstain for the last three days: there would have been danger in yielding to the cravings of your appetite at first. Now you may eat, though still not immoderately." "I trust I shall not eat long at your expense, sir," was my very clumsily- contrived, unpolished answer. "No," he said coolly: "when you have indicated to us the residence of your friends, we can write to them, and you may be restored to home." "That, I must plainly tell you, is out of my power to do; being absolutely without home and friends." The three looked at me, but not distrustfully; I felt there was no suspicion in their glances: there was more of curiosity. I speak particularly of the young ladies. St. John's eyes, though clear enough in a literal sense, in a figurative one were difficult to fathom. He seemed to use them rather as instruments to search other people's thoughts, than as agents to reveal his own: the which combination of keenness and reserve was considerably more calculated to embarrass than to encourage. "Do you mean to say," he asked, "that you are completely isolated from every connection?" "I do. Not a tie links me to any living thing: not a claim do I possess to admittance under any roof in England." "A most singular position at your age!" Here I saw his glance directed to my hands, which were folded on the table before me. I wondered what he sought there: his words soon explained the quest. "You have never been married? You are a spinster?" Diana laughed. "Why, she can't be above seventeen or eighteen years old, St. John," said she. "I am near nineteen: but I am not married. No." I felt a burning glow mount to my face; for bitter and agitating recollections were awakened by the allusion to marriage. They all saw the embarrassment and the emotion. Diana and Mary relieved me by turning their eyes elsewhere than to my crimsoned visage; but the colder and sterner brother continued to gaze, till the trouble he had excited forced out tears as well as colour. "Where did you last reside?" he now asked. "You are too inquisitive, St. John," murmured Mary in a low voice; but he leaned over the table and required an answer by a second firm and piercing look. "The name of the place where, and of the person with whom I lived, is my secret," I replied concisely. "Which, if you like, you have, in my opinion, a right to keep, both from St. John and every other questioner," remarked Diana. "Yet if I know nothing about you or your history, I cannot help you," he said. "And you need help, do you not?" "I need it, and I seek it so far, sir, that some true philanthropist will put me in the way of getting work which I can do, and the remuneration for which will keep me, if but in the barest necessaries of life." "I know not whether I am a true philanthropist; yet I am willing to aid you to the utmost of my power in a purpose so honest. First, then, tell me what you have been accustomed to do, and what you _can_ do." I had now swallowed my tea. I was mightily refreshed by the beverage; as much so as a giant with wine: it gave new tone to my unstrung nerves, and enabled me to address this penetrating young judge steadily. "Mr. Rivers," I said, turning to him, and looking at him, as he looked at me, openly and without diffidence, "you and your sisters have done me a great service--the greatest man can do his fellow-being; you have rescued me, by your noble hospitality, from death. This benefit conferred gives you an unlimited claim on my gratitude, and a claim, to a certain extent, on my confidence. I will tell you as much of the history of the wanderer you have harboured, as I can tell without compromising my own peace of mind--my own security, moral and physical, and that of others. "I am an orphan, the daughter of a clergyman. My parents died before I could know them. I was brought up a dependant; educated in a charitable institution. I will even tell you the name of the establishment, where I passed six years as a pupil, and two as a teacher--Lowood Orphan Asylum, ---shire: you will have heard of it, Mr. Rivers?--the Rev. Robert Brocklehurst is the treasurer." "I have heard of Mr. Brocklehurst, and I have seen the school." "I left Lowood nearly a year since to become a private governess. I obtained a good situation, and was happy. This place I was obliged to leave four days before I came here. The reason of my departure I cannot and ought not to explain: it would be useless, dangerous, and would sound incredible. No blame attached to me: I am as free from culpability as any one of you three. Miserable I am, and must be for a time; for the catastrophe which drove me from a house I had found a paradise was of a strange and direful nature. I observed but two points in planning my departure--speed, secrecy: to secure these, I had to leave behind me everything I possessed except a small parcel; which, in my hurry and trouble of mind, I forgot to take out of the coach that brought me to Whitcross. To this neighbourhood, then, I came, quite destitute. I slept two nights in the open air, and wandered about two days without crossing a threshold: but twice in that space of time did I taste food; and it was when brought by hunger, exhaustion, and despair almost to the last gasp, that you, Mr. Rivers, forbade me to perish of want at your door, and took me under the shelter of your roof. I know all your sisters have done for me since--for I have not been insensible during my seeming torpor--and I owe to their spontaneous, genuine, genial compassion as large a debt as to your evangelical charity." "Don't make her talk any more now, St. John," said Diana, as I paused; "she is evidently not yet fit for excitement. Come to the sofa and sit down now, Miss Elliott." I gave an involuntary half start at hearing the _alias_: I had forgotten my new name. Mr. Rivers, whom nothing seemed to escape, noticed it at once. "You said your name was Jane Elliott?" he observed. "I did say so; and it is the name by which I think it expedient to be called at present, but it is not my real name, and when I hear it, it sounds strange to me." "Your real name you will not give?" "No: I fear discovery above all things; and whatever disclosure would lead to it, I avoid." "You are quite right, I am sure," said Diana. "Now do, brother, let her be at peace a while." But when St. John had mused a few moments he recommenced as imperturbably and with as much acumen as ever. "You would not like to be long dependent on our hospitality--you would wish, I see, to dispense as soon as may be with my sisters' compassion, and, above all, with my _charity_ (I am quite sensible of the distinction drawn, nor do I resent it--it is just): you desire to be independent of us?" "I do: I have already said so. Show me how to work, or how to seek work: that is all I now ask; then let me go, if it be but to the meanest cottage; but till then, allow me to stay here: I dread another essay of the horrors of homeless destitution." "Indeed you _shall_ stay here," said Diana, putting her white hand on my head. "You _shall_," repeated Mary, in the tone of undemonstrative sincerity which seemed natural to her. "My sisters, you see, have a pleasure in keeping you," said Mr. St. John, "as they would have a pleasure in keeping and cherishing a half-frozen bird, some wintry wind might have driven through their casement. I feel more inclination to put you in the way of keeping yourself, and shall endeavour to do so; but observe, my sphere is narrow. I am but the incumbent of a poor country parish: my aid must be of the humblest sort. And if you are inclined to despise the day of small things, seek some more efficient succour than such as I can offer." "She has already said that she is willing to do anything honest she can do," answered Diana for me; "and you know, St. John, she has no choice of helpers: she is forced to put up with such crusty people as you." "I will be a dressmaker; I will be a plain-workwoman; I will be a servant, a nurse-girl, if I can be no better," I answered. "Right," said Mr. St. John, quite coolly. "If such is your spirit, I promise to aid you, in my own time and way." He now resumed the book with which he had been occupied before tea. I soon withdrew, for I had talked as much, and sat up as long, as my present strength would permit. CHAPTER XXX The more I knew of the inmates of Moor House, the better I liked them. In a few days I had so far recovered my health that I could sit up all day, and walk out sometimes. I could join with Diana and Mary in all their occupations; converse with them as much as they wished, and aid them when and where they would allow me. There was a reviving pleasure in this intercourse, of a kind now tasted by me for the first time--the pleasure arising from perfect congeniality of tastes, sentiments, and principles. I liked to read what they liked to read: what they enjoyed, delighted me; what they approved, I reverenced. They loved their sequestered home. I, too, in the grey, small, antique structure, with its low roof, its latticed casements, its mouldering walls, its avenue of aged firs--all grown aslant under the stress of mountain winds; its garden, dark with yew and holly--and where no flowers but of the hardiest species would bloom--found a charm both potent and permanent. They clung to the purple moors behind and around their dwelling--to the hollow vale into which the pebbly bridle-path leading from their gate descended, and which wound between fern-banks first, and then amongst a few of the wildest little pasture-fields that ever bordered a wilderness of heath, or gave sustenance to a flock of grey moorland sheep, with their little mossy- faced lambs:--they clung to this scene, I say, with a perfect enthusiasm of attachment. I could comprehend the feeling, and share both its strength and truth. I saw the fascination of the locality. I felt the consecration of its loneliness: my eye feasted on the outline of swell and sweep--on the wild colouring communicated to ridge and dell by moss, by heath-bell, by flower-sprinkled turf, by brilliant bracken, and mellow granite crag. These details were just to me what they were to them--so many pure and sweet sources of pleasure. The strong blast and the soft breeze; the rough and the halcyon day; the hours of sunrise and sunset; the moonlight and the clouded night, developed for me, in these regions, the same attraction as for them--wound round my faculties the same spell that entranced theirs. Indoors we agreed equally well. They were both more accomplished and better read than I was; but with eagerness I followed in the path of knowledge they had trodden before me. I devoured the books they lent me: then it was full satisfaction to discuss with them in the evening what I had perused during the day. Thought fitted thought; opinion met opinion: we coincided, in short, perfectly. If in our trio there was a superior and a leader, it was Diana. Physically, she far excelled me: she was handsome; she was vigorous. In her animal spirits there was an affluence of life and certainty of flow, such as excited my wonder, while it baffled my comprehension. I could talk a while when the evening commenced, but the first gush of vivacity and fluency gone, I was fain to sit on a stool at Diana's feet, to rest my head on her knee, and listen alternately to her and Mary, while they sounded thoroughly the topic on which I had but touched. Diana offered to teach me German. I liked to learn of her: I saw the part of instructress pleased and suited her; that of scholar pleased and suited me no less. Our natures dovetailed: mutual affection--of the strongest kind--was the result. They discovered I could draw: their pencils and colour-boxes were immediately at my service. My skill, greater in this one point than theirs, surprised and charmed them. Mary would sit and watch me by the hour together: then she would take lessons; and a docile, intelligent, assiduous pupil she made. Thus occupied, and mutually entertained, days passed like hours, and weeks like days. As to Mr. St John, the intimacy which had arisen so naturally and rapidly between me and his sisters did not extend to him. One reason of the distance yet observed between us was, that he was comparatively seldom at home: a large proportion of his time appeared devoted to visiting the sick and poor among the scattered population of his parish. No weather seemed to hinder him in these pastoral excursions: rain or fair, he would, when his hours of morning study were over, take his hat, and, followed by his father's old pointer, Carlo, go out on his mission of love or duty--I scarcely know in which light he regarded it. Sometimes, when the day was very unfavourable, his sisters would expostulate. He would then say, with a peculiar smile, more solemn than cheerful-- "And if I let a gust of wind or a sprinkling of rain turn me aside from these easy tasks, what preparation would such sloth be for the future I propose to myself?" Diana and Mary's general answer to this question was a sigh, and some minutes of apparently mournful meditation. But besides his frequent absences, there was another barrier to friendship with him: he seemed of a reserved, an abstracted, and even of a brooding nature. Zealous in his ministerial labours, blameless in his life and habits, he yet did not appear to enjoy that mental serenity, that inward content, which should be the reward of every sincere Christian and practical philanthropist. Often, of an evening, when he sat at the window, his desk and papers before him, he would cease reading or writing, rest his chin on his hand, and deliver himself up to I know not what course of thought; but that it was perturbed and exciting might be seen in the frequent flash and changeful dilation of his eye. I think, moreover, that Nature was not to him that treasury of delight it was to his sisters. He expressed once, and but once in my hearing, a strong sense of the rugged charm of the hills, and an inborn affection for the dark roof and hoary walls he called his home; but there was more of gloom than pleasure in the tone and words in which the sentiment was manifested; and never did he seem to roam the moors for the sake of their soothing silence--never seek out or dwell upon the thousand peaceful delights they could yield. Incommunicative as he was, some time elapsed before I had an opportunity of gauging his mind. I first got an idea of its calibre when I heard him preach in his own church at Morton. I wish I could describe that sermon: but it is past my power. I cannot even render faithfully the effect it produced on me. It began calm--and indeed, as far as delivery and pitch of voice went, it was calm to the end: an earnestly felt, yet strictly restrained zeal breathed soon in the distinct accents, and prompted the nervous language. This grew to force--compressed, condensed, controlled. The heart was thrilled, the mind astonished, by the power of the preacher: neither were softened. Throughout there was a strange bitterness; an absence of consolatory gentleness; stern allusions to Calvinistic doctrines--election, predestination, reprobation--were frequent; and each reference to these points sounded like a sentence pronounced for doom. When he had done, instead of feeling better, calmer, more enlightened by his discourse, I experienced an inexpressible sadness; for it seemed to me--I know not whether equally so to others--that the eloquence to which I had been listening had sprung from a depth where lay turbid dregs of disappointment--where moved troubling impulses of insatiate yearnings and disquieting aspirations. I was sure St. John Rivers--pure-lived, conscientious, zealous as he was--had not yet found that peace of God which passeth all understanding: he had no more found it, I thought, than had I with my concealed and racking regrets for my broken idol and lost elysium--regrets to which I have latterly avoided referring, but which possessed me and tyrannised over me ruthlessly. Meantime a month was gone. Diana and Mary were soon to leave Moor House, and return to the far different life and scene which awaited them, as governesses in a large, fashionable, south-of-England city, where each held a situation in families by whose wealthy and haughty members they were regarded only as humble dependants, and who neither knew nor sought out their innate excellences, and appreciated only their acquired accomplishments as they appreciated the skill of their cook or the taste of their waiting-woman. Mr. St. John had said nothing to me yet about the employment he had promised to obtain for me; yet it became urgent that I should have a vocation of some kind. One morning, being left alone with him a few minutes in the parlour, I ventured to approach the window-recess--which his table, chair, and desk consecrated as a kind of study--and I was going to speak, though not very well knowing in what words to frame my inquiry--for it is at all times difficult to break the ice of reserve glassing over such natures as his--when he saved me the trouble by being the first to commence a dialogue. Looking up as I drew near--"You have a question to ask of me?" he said. "Yes; I wish to know whether you have heard of any service I can offer myself to undertake?" "I found or devised something for you three weeks ago; but as you seemed both useful and happy here--as my sisters had evidently become attached to you, and your society gave them unusual pleasure--I deemed it inexpedient to break in on your mutual comfort till their approaching departure from Marsh End should render yours necessary." "And they will go in three days now?" I said. "Yes; and when they go, I shall return to the parsonage at Morton: Hannah will accompany me; and this old house will be shut up." I waited a few moments, expecting he would go on with the subject first broached: but he seemed to have entered another train of reflection: his look denoted abstraction from me and my business. I was obliged to recall him to a theme which was of necessity one of close and anxious interest to me. "What is the employment you had in view, Mr. Rivers? I hope this delay will not have increased the difficulty of securing it." "Oh, no; since it is an employment which depends only on me to give, and you to accept." He again paused: there seemed a reluctance to continue. I grew impatient: a restless movement or two, and an eager and exacting glance fastened on his face, conveyed the feeling to him as effectually as words could have done, and with less trouble. "You need be in no hurry to hear," he said: "let me frankly tell you, I have nothing eligible or profitable to suggest. Before I explain, recall, if you please, my notice, clearly given, that if I helped you, it must be as the blind man would help the lame. I am poor; for I find that, when I have paid my father's debts, all the patrimony remaining to me will be this crumbling grange, the row of scathed firs behind, and the patch of moorish soil, with the yew-trees and holly-bushes in front. I am obscure: Rivers is an old name; but of the three sole descendants of the race, two earn the dependant's crust among strangers, and the third considers himself an alien from his native country--not only for life, but in death. Yes, and deems, and is bound to deem, himself honoured by the lot, and aspires but after the day when the cross of separation from fleshly ties shall be laid on his shoulders, and when the Head of that church-militant of whose humblest members he is one, shall give the word, 'Rise, follow Me!'" St. John said these words as he pronounced his sermons, with a quiet, deep voice; with an unflushed cheek, and a coruscating radiance of glance. He resumed-- "And since I am myself poor and obscure, I can offer you but a service of poverty and obscurity. _You_ may even think it degrading--for I see now your habits have been what the world calls refined: your tastes lean to the ideal, and your society has at least been amongst the educated; but _I_ consider that no service degrades which can better our race. I hold that the more arid and unreclaimed the soil where the Christian labourer's task of tillage is appointed him--the scantier the meed his toil brings--the higher the honour. His, under such circumstances, is the destiny of the pioneer; and the first pioneers of the Gospel were the Apostles--their captain was Jesus, the Redeemer, Himself." "Well?" I said, as he again paused--"proceed." He looked at me before he proceeded: indeed, he seemed leisurely to read my face, as if its features and lines were characters on a page. The conclusions drawn from this scrutiny he partially expressed in his succeeding observations. "I believe you will accept the post I offer you," said he, "and hold it for a while: not permanently, though: any more than I could permanently keep the narrow and narrowing--the tranquil, hidden office of English country incumbent; for in your nature is an alloy as detrimental to repose as that in mine, though of a different kind." "Do explain," I urged, when he halted once more. "I will; and you shall hear how poor the proposal is,--how trivial--how cramping. I shall not stay long at Morton, now that my father is dead, and that I am my own master. I shall leave the place probably in the course of a twelve-month; but while I do stay, I will exert myself to the utmost for its improvement. Morton, when I came to it two years ago, had no school: the children of the poor were excluded from every hope of progress. I established one for boys: I mean now to open a second school for girls. I have hired a building for the purpose, with a cottage of two rooms attached to it for the mistress's house. Her salary will be thirty pounds a year: her house is already furnished, very simply, but sufficiently, by the kindness of a lady, Miss Oliver; the only daughter of the sole rich man in my parish--Mr. Oliver, the proprietor of a needle- factory and iron-foundry in the valley. The same lady pays for the education and clothing of an orphan from the workhouse, on condition that she shall aid the mistress in such menial offices connected with her own house and the school as her occupation of teaching will prevent her having time to discharge in person. Will you be this mistress?" He put the question rather hurriedly; he seemed half to expect an indignant, or at least a disdainful rejection of the offer: not knowing all my thoughts and feelings, though guessing some, he could not tell in what light the lot would appear to me. In truth it was humble--but then it was sheltered, and I wanted a safe asylum: it was plodding--but then, compared with that of a governess in a rich house, it was independent; and the fear of servitude with strangers entered my soul like iron: it was not ignoble--not unworthy--not mentally degrading, I made my decision. "I thank you for the proposal, Mr. Rivers, and I accept it with all my heart." "But you comprehend me?" he said. "It is a village school: your scholars will be only poor girls--cottagers' children--at the best, farmers' daughters. Knitting, sewing, reading, writing, ciphering, will be all you will have to teach. What will you do with your accomplishments? What, with the largest portion of your mind--sentiments--tastes?" "Save them till they are wanted. They will keep." "You know what you undertake, then?" "I do." He now smiled: and not a bitter or a sad smile, but one well pleased and deeply gratified. "And when will you commence the exercise of your function?" "I will go to my house to-morrow, and open the school, if you like, next week." "Very well: so be it." He rose and walked through the room. Standing still, he again looked at me. He shook his head. "What do you disapprove of, Mr. Rivers?" I asked. "You will not stay at Morton long: no, no!" "Why? What is your reason for saying so?" "I read it in your eye; it is not of that description which promises the maintenance of an even tenor in life." "I am not ambitious." He started at the word "ambitious." He repeated, "No. What made you think of ambition? Who is ambitious? I know I am: but how did you find it out?" "I was speaking of myself." "Well, if you are not ambitious, you are--" He paused. "What?" "I was going to say, impassioned: but perhaps you would have misunderstood the word, and been displeased. I mean, that human affections and sympathies have a most powerful hold on you. I am sure you cannot long be content to pass your leisure in solitude, and to devote your working hours to a monotonous labour wholly void of stimulus: any more than I can be content," he added, with emphasis, "to live here buried in morass, pent in with mountains--my nature, that God gave me, contravened; my faculties, heaven-bestowed, paralysed--made useless. You hear now how I contradict myself. I, who preached contentment with a humble lot, and justified the vocation even of hewers of wood and drawers of water in God's service--I, His ordained minister, almost rave in my restlessness. Well, propensities and principles must be reconciled by some means." He left the room. In this brief hour I had learnt more of him than in the whole previous month: yet still he puzzled me. Diana and Mary Rivers became more sad and silent as the day approached for leaving their brother and their home. They both tried to appear as usual; but the sorrow they had to struggle against was one that could not be entirely conquered or concealed. Diana intimated that this would be a different parting from any they had ever yet known. It would probably, as far as St. John was concerned, be a parting for years: it might be a parting for life. "He will sacrifice all to his long-framed resolves," she said: "natural affection and feelings more potent still. St. John looks quiet, Jane; but he hides a fever in his vitals. You would think him gentle, yet in some things he is inexorable as death; and the worst of it is, my conscience will hardly permit me to dissuade him from his severe decision: certainly, I cannot for a moment blame him for it. It is right, noble, Christian: yet it breaks my heart!" And the tears gushed to her fine eyes. Mary bent her head low over her work. "We are now without father: we shall soon be without home and brother," she murmured. At that moment a little accident supervened, which seemed decreed by fate purposely to prove the truth of the adage, that "misfortunes never come singly," and to add to their distresses the vexing one of the slip between the cup and the lip. St. John passed the window reading a letter. He entered. "Our uncle John is dead," said he. Both the sisters seemed struck: not shocked or appalled; the tidings appeared in their eyes rather momentous than afflicting. "Dead?" repeated Diana. "Yes." She riveted a searching gaze on her brother's face. "And what then?" she demanded, in a low voice. "What then, Die?" he replied, maintaining a marble immobility of feature. "What then? Why--nothing. Read." He threw the letter into her lap. She glanced over it, and handed it to Mary. Mary perused it in silence, and returned it to her brother. All three looked at each other, and all three smiled--a dreary, pensive smile enough. "Amen! We can yet live," said Diana at last. "At any rate, it makes us no worse off than we were before," remarked Mary. "Only it forces rather strongly on the mind the picture of what _might have been_," said Mr. Rivers, "and contrasts it somewhat too vividly with what _is_." He folded the letter, locked it in his desk, and again went out. For some minutes no one spoke. Diana then turned to me. "Jane, you will wonder at us and our mysteries," she said, "and think us hard-hearted beings not to be more moved at the death of so near a relation as an uncle; but we have never seen him or known him. He was my mother's brother. My father and he quarrelled long ago. It was by his advice that my father risked most of his property in the speculation that ruined him. Mutual recrimination passed between them: they parted in anger, and were never reconciled. My uncle engaged afterwards in more prosperous undertakings: it appears he realised a fortune of twenty thousand pounds. He was never married, and had no near kindred but ourselves and one other person, not more closely related than we. My father always cherished the idea that he would atone for his error by leaving his possessions to us; that letter informs us that he has bequeathed every penny to the other relation, with the exception of thirty guineas, to be divided between St. John, Diana, and Mary Rivers, for the purchase of three mourning rings. He had a right, of course, to do as he pleased: and yet a momentary damp is cast on the spirits by the receipt of such news. Mary and I would have esteemed ourselves rich with a thousand pounds each; and to St. John such a sum would have been valuable, for the good it would have enabled him to do." This explanation given, the subject was dropped, and no further reference made to it by either Mr. Rivers or his sisters. The next day I left Marsh End for Morton. The day after, Diana and Mary quitted it for distant B-. In a week, Mr. Rivers and Hannah repaired to the parsonage: and so the old grange was abandoned. CHAPTER XXXI My home, then, when I at last find a home,--is a cottage; a little room with whitewashed walls and a sanded floor, containing four painted chairs and a table, a clock, a cupboard, with two or three plates and dishes, and a set of tea-things in delf. Above, a chamber of the same dimensions as the kitchen, with a deal bedstead and chest of drawers; small, yet too large to be filled with my scanty wardrobe: though the kindness of my gentle and generous friends has increased that, by a modest stock of such things as are necessary. It is evening. I have dismissed, with the fee of an orange, the little orphan who serves me as a handmaid. I am sitting alone on the hearth. This morning, the village school opened. I had twenty scholars. But three of the number can read: none write or cipher. Several knit, and a few sew a little. They speak with the broadest accent of the district. At present, they and I have a difficulty in understanding each other's language. Some of them are unmannered, rough, intractable, as well as ignorant; but others are docile, have a wish to learn, and evince a disposition that pleases me. I must not forget that these coarsely-clad little peasants are of flesh and blood as good as the scions of gentlest genealogy; and that the germs of native excellence, refinement, intelligence, kind feeling, are as likely to exist in their hearts as in those of the best-born. My duty will be to develop these germs: surely I shall find some happiness in discharging that office. Much enjoyment I do not expect in the life opening before me: yet it will, doubtless, if I regulate my mind, and exert my powers as I ought, yield me enough to live on from day to day. Was I very gleeful, settled, content, during the hours I passed in yonder bare, humble schoolroom this morning and afternoon? Not to deceive myself, I must reply--No: I felt desolate to a degree. I felt--yes, idiot that I am--I felt degraded. I doubted I had taken a step which sank instead of raising me in the scale of social existence. I was weakly dismayed at the ignorance, the poverty, the coarseness of all I heard and saw round me. But let me not hate and despise myself too much for these feelings; I know them to be wrong--that is a great step gained; I shall strive to overcome them. To-morrow, I trust, I shall get the better of them partially; and in a few weeks, perhaps, they will be quite subdued. In a few months, it is possible, the happiness of seeing progress, and a change for the better in my scholars may substitute gratification for disgust. Meantime, let me ask myself one question--Which is better?--To have surrendered to temptation; listened to passion; made no painful effort--no struggle;--but to have sunk down in the silken snare; fallen asleep on the flowers covering it; wakened in a southern clime, amongst the luxuries of a pleasure villa: to have been now living in France, Mr. Rochester's mistress; delirious with his love half my time--for he would--oh, yes, he would have loved me well for a while. He _did_ love me--no one will ever love me so again. I shall never more know the sweet homage given to beauty, youth, and grace--for never to any one else shall I seem to possess these charms. He was fond and proud of me--it is what no man besides will ever be.--But where am I wandering, and what am I saying, and above all, feeling? Whether is it better, I ask, to be a slave in a fool's paradise at Marseilles--fevered with delusive bliss one hour--suffocating with the bitterest tears of remorse and shame the next--or to be a village-schoolmistress, free and honest, in a breezy mountain nook in the healthy heart of England? Yes; I feel now that I was right when I adhered to principle and law, and scorned and crushed the insane promptings of a frenzied moment. God directed me to a correct choice: I thank His providence for the guidance! Having brought my eventide musings to this point, I rose, went to my door, and looked at the sunset of the harvest-day, and at the quiet fields before my cottage, which, with the school, was distant half a mile from the village. The birds were singing their last strains-- "The air was mild, the dew was balm." While I looked, I thought myself happy, and was surprised to find myself ere long weeping--and why? For the doom which had reft me from adhesion to my master: for him I was no more to see; for the desperate grief and fatal fury--consequences of my departure--which might now, perhaps, be dragging him from the path of right, too far to leave hope of ultimate restoration thither. At this thought, I turned my face aside from the lovely sky of eve and lonely vale of Morton--I say _lonely_, for in that bend of it visible to me there was no building apparent save the church and the parsonage, half-hid in trees, and, quite at the extremity, the roof of Vale Hall, where the rich Mr. Oliver and his daughter lived. I hid my eyes, and leant my head against the stone frame of my door; but soon a slight noise near the wicket which shut in my tiny garden from the meadow beyond it made me look up. A dog--old Carlo, Mr. Rivers' pointer, as I saw in a moment--was pushing the gate with his nose, and St. John himself leant upon it with folded arms; his brow knit, his gaze, grave almost to displeasure, fixed on me. I asked him to come in. "No, I cannot stay; I have only brought you a little parcel my sisters left for you. I think it contains a colour-box, pencils, and paper." I approached to take it: a welcome gift it was. He examined my face, I thought, with austerity, as I came near: the traces of tears were doubtless very visible upon it. "Have you found your first day's work harder than you expected?" he asked. "Oh, no! On the contrary, I think in time I shall get on with my scholars very well." "But perhaps your accommodations--your cottage--your furniture--have disappointed your expectations? They are, in truth, scanty enough; but--" I interrupted-- "My cottage is clean and weather-proof; my furniture sufficient and commodious. All I see has made me thankful, not despondent. I am not absolutely such a fool and sensualist as to regret the absence of a carpet, a sofa, and silver plate; besides, five weeks ago I had nothing--I was an outcast, a beggar, a vagrant; now I have acquaintance, a home, a business. I wonder at the goodness of God; the generosity of my friends; the bounty of my lot. I do not repine." "But you feel solitude an oppression? The little house there behind you is dark and empty." "I have hardly had time yet to enjoy a sense of tranquillity, much less to grow impatient under one of loneliness." "Very well; I hope you feel the content you express: at any rate, your good sense will tell you that it is too soon yet to yield to the vacillating fears of Lot's wife. What you had left before I saw you, of course I do not know; but I counsel you to resist firmly every temptation which would incline you to look back: pursue your present career steadily, for some months at least." "It is what I mean to do," I answered. St. John continued-- "It is hard work to control the workings of inclination and turn the bent of nature; but that it may be done, I know from experience. God has given us, in a measure, the power to make our own fate; and when our energies seem to demand a sustenance they cannot get--when our will strains after a path we may not follow--we need neither starve from inanition, nor stand still in despair: we have but to seek another nourishment for the mind, as strong as the forbidden food it longed to taste--and perhaps purer; and to hew out for the adventurous foot a road as direct and broad as the one Fortune has blocked up against us, if rougher than it. "A year ago I was myself intensely miserable, because I thought I had made a mistake in entering the ministry: its uniform duties wearied me to death. I burnt for the more active life of the world--for the more exciting toils of a literary career--for the destiny of an artist, author, orator; anything rather than that of a priest: yes, the heart of a politician, of a soldier, of a votary of glory, a lover of renown, a luster after power, beat under my curate's surplice. I considered; my life was so wretched, it must be changed, or I must die. After a season of darkness and struggling, light broke and relief fell: my cramped existence all at once spread out to a plain without bounds--my powers heard a call from heaven to rise, gather their full strength, spread their wings, and mount beyond ken. God had an errand for me; to bear which afar, to deliver it well, skill and strength, courage and eloquence, the best qualifications of soldier, statesman, and orator, were all needed: for these all centre in the good missionary. "A missionary I resolved to be. From that moment my state of mind changed; the fetters dissolved and dropped from every faculty, leaving nothing of bondage but its galling soreness--which time only can heal. My father, indeed, imposed the determination, but since his death, I have not a legitimate obstacle to contend with; some affairs settled, a successor for Morton provided, an entanglement or two of the feelings broken through or cut asunder--a last conflict with human weakness, in which I know I shall overcome, because I have vowed that I _will_ overcome--and I leave Europe for the East." He said this, in his peculiar, subdued, yet emphatic voice; looking, when he had ceased speaking, not at me, but at the setting sun, at which I looked too. Both he and I had our backs towards the path leading up the field to the wicket. We had heard no step on that grass-grown track; the water running in the vale was the one lulling sound of the hour and scene; we might well then start when a gay voice, sweet as a silver bell, exclaimed-- "Good evening, Mr. Rivers. And good evening, old Carlo. Your dog is quicker to recognise his friends than you are, sir; he pricked his ears and wagged his tail when I was at the bottom of the field, and you have your back towards me now." It was true. Though Mr. Rivers had started at the first of those musical accents, as if a thunderbolt had split a cloud over his head, he stood yet, at the close of the sentence, in the same attitude in which the speaker had surprised him--his arm resting on the gate, his face directed towards the west. He turned at last, with measured deliberation. A vision, as it seemed to me, had risen at his side. There appeared, within three feet of him, a form clad in pure white--a youthful, graceful form: full, yet fine in contour; and when, after bending to caress Carlo, it lifted up its head, and threw back a long veil, there bloomed under his glance a face of perfect beauty. Perfect beauty is a strong expression; but I do not retrace or qualify it: as sweet features as ever the temperate clime of Albion moulded; as pure hues of rose and lily as ever her humid gales and vapoury skies generated and screened, justified, in this instance, the term. No charm was wanting, no defect was perceptible; the young girl had regular and delicate lineaments; eyes shaped and coloured as we see them in lovely pictures, large, and dark, and full; the long and shadowy eyelash which encircles a fine eye with so soft a fascination; the pencilled brow which gives such clearness; the white smooth forehead, which adds such repose to the livelier beauties of tint and ray; the cheek oval, fresh, and smooth; the lips, fresh too, ruddy, healthy, sweetly formed; the even and gleaming teeth without flaw; the small dimpled chin; the ornament of rich, plenteous tresses--all advantages, in short, which, combined, realise the ideal of beauty, were fully hers. I wondered, as I looked at this fair creature: I admired her with my whole heart. Nature had surely formed her in a partial mood; and, forgetting her usual stinted step-mother dole of gifts, had endowed this, her darling, with a grand-dame's bounty. What did St. John Rivers think of this earthly angel? I naturally asked myself that question as I saw him turn to her and look at her; and, as naturally, I sought the answer to the inquiry in his countenance. He had already withdrawn his eye from the Peri, and was looking at a humble tuft of daisies which grew by the wicket. "A lovely evening, but late for you to be out alone," he said, as he crushed the snowy heads of the closed flowers with his foot. "Oh, I only came home from S-" (she mentioned the name of a large town some twenty miles distant) "this afternoon. Papa told me you had opened your school, and that the new mistress was come; and so I put on my bonnet after tea, and ran up the valley to see her: this is she?" pointing to me. "It is," said St. John. "Do you think you shall like Morton?" she asked of me, with a direct and naive simplicity of tone and manner, pleasing, if child-like. "I hope I shall. I have many inducements to do so." "Did you find your scholars as attentive as you expected?" "Quite." "Do you like your house?" "Very much." "Have I furnished it nicely?" "Very nicely, indeed." "And made a good choice of an attendant for you in Alice Wood?" "You have indeed. She is teachable and handy." (This then, I thought, is Miss Oliver, the heiress; favoured, it seems, in the gifts of fortune, as well as in those of nature! What happy combination of the planets presided over her birth, I wonder?) "I shall come up and help you to teach sometimes," she added. "It will be a change for me to visit you now and then; and I like a change. Mr. Rivers, I have been _so_ gay during my stay at S-. Last night, or rather this morning, I was dancing till two o'clock. The ---th regiment are stationed there since the riots; and the officers are the most agreeable men in the world: they put all our young knife-grinders and scissor merchants to shame." It seemed to me that Mr. St. John's under lip protruded, and his upper lip curled a moment. His mouth certainly looked a good deal compressed, and the lower part of his face unusually stern and square, as the laughing girl gave him this information. He lifted his gaze, too, from the daisies, and turned it on her. An unsmiling, a searching, a meaning gaze it was. She answered it with a second laugh, and laughter well became her youth, her roses, her dimples, her bright eyes. As he stood, mute and grave, she again fell to caressing Carlo. "Poor Carlo loves me," said she. "_He_ is not stern and distant to his friends; and if he could speak, he would not be silent." As she patted the dog's head, bending with native grace before his young and austere master, I saw a glow rise to that master's face. I saw his solemn eye melt with sudden fire, and flicker with resistless emotion. Flushed and kindled thus, he looked nearly as beautiful for a man as she for a woman. His chest heaved once, as if his large heart, weary of despotic constriction, had expanded, despite the will, and made a vigorous bound for the attainment of liberty. But he curbed it, I think, as a resolute rider would curb a rearing steed. He responded neither by word nor movement to the gentle advances made him. "Papa says you never come to see us now," continued Miss Oliver, looking up. "You are quite a stranger at Vale Hall. He is alone this evening, and not very well: will you return with me and visit him?" "It is not a seasonable hour to intrude on Mr. Oliver," answered St. John. "Not a seasonable hour! But I declare it is. It is just the hour when papa most wants company: when the works are closed and he has no business to occupy him. Now, Mr. Rivers, _do_ come. Why are you so very shy, and so very sombre?" She filled up the hiatus his silence left by a reply of her own. "I forgot!" she exclaimed, shaking her beautiful curled head, as if shocked at herself. "I am so giddy and thoughtless! _Do_ excuse me. It had slipped my memory that you have good reasons to be indisposed for joining in my chatter. Diana and Mary have left you, and Moor House is shut up, and you are so lonely. I am sure I pity you. Do come and see papa." "Not to-night, Miss Rosamond, not to-night." Mr. St. John spoke almost like an automaton: himself only knew the effort it cost him thus to refuse. "Well, if you are so obstinate, I will leave you; for I dare not stay any longer: the dew begins to fall. Good evening!" She held out her hand. He just touched it. "Good evening!" he repeated, in a voice low and hollow as an echo. She turned, but in a moment returned. "Are you well?" she asked. Well might she put the question: his face was blanched as her gown. "Quite well," he enunciated; and, with a bow, he left the gate. She went one way; he another. She turned twice to gaze after him as she tripped fairy-like down the field; he, as he strode firmly across, never turned at all. This spectacle of another's suffering and sacrifice rapt my thoughts from exclusive meditation on my own. Diana Rivers had designated her brother "inexorable as death." She had not exaggerated. CHAPTER XXXII I continued the labours of the village-school as actively and faithfully as I could. It was truly hard work at first. Some time elapsed before, with all my efforts, I could comprehend my scholars and their nature. Wholly untaught, with faculties quite torpid, they seemed to me hopelessly dull; and, at first sight, all dull alike: but I soon found I was mistaken. There was a difference amongst them as amongst the educated; and when I got to know them, and they me, this difference rapidly developed itself. Their amazement at me, my language, my rules, and ways, once subsided, I found some of these heavy-looking, gaping rustics wake up into sharp-witted girls enough. Many showed themselves obliging, and amiable too; and I discovered amongst them not a few examples of natural politeness, and innate self-respect, as well as of excellent capacity, that won both my goodwill and my admiration. These soon took a pleasure in doing their work well, in keeping their persons neat, in learning their tasks regularly, in acquiring quiet and orderly manners. The rapidity of their progress, in some instances, was even surprising; and an honest and happy pride I took in it: besides, I began personally to like some of the best girls; and they liked me. I had amongst my scholars several farmers' daughters: young women grown, almost. These could already read, write, and sew; and to them I taught the elements of grammar, geography, history, and the finer kinds of needlework. I found estimable characters amongst them--characters desirous of information and disposed for improvement--with whom I passed many a pleasant evening hour in their own homes. Their parents then (the farmer and his wife) loaded me with attentions. There was an enjoyment in accepting their simple kindness, and in repaying it by a consideration--a scrupulous regard to their feelings--to which they were not, perhaps, at all times accustomed, and which both charmed and benefited them; because, while it elevated them in their own eyes, it made them emulous to merit the deferential treatment they received. I felt I became a favourite in the neighbourhood. Whenever I went out, I heard on all sides cordial salutations, and was welcomed with friendly smiles. To live amidst general regard, though it be but the regard of working people, is like "sitting in sunshine, calm and sweet;" serene inward feelings bud and bloom under the ray. At this period of my life, my heart far oftener swelled with thankfulness than sank with dejection: and yet, reader, to tell you all, in the midst of this calm, this useful existence--after a day passed in honourable exertion amongst my scholars, an evening spent in drawing or reading contentedly alone--I used to rush into strange dreams at night: dreams many-coloured, agitated, full of the ideal, the stirring, the stormy--dreams where, amidst unusual scenes, charged with adventure, with agitating risk and romantic chance, I still again and again met Mr. Rochester, always at some exciting crisis; and then the sense of being in his arms, hearing his voice, meeting his eye, touching his hand and cheek, loving him, being loved by him--the hope of passing a lifetime at his side, would be renewed, with all its first force and fire. Then I awoke. Then I recalled where I was, and how situated. Then I rose up on my curtainless bed, trembling and quivering; and then the still, dark night witnessed the convulsion of despair, and heard the burst of passion. By nine o'clock the next morning I was punctually opening the school; tranquil, settled, prepared for the steady duties of the day. Rosamond Oliver kept her word in coming to visit me. Her call at the school was generally made in the course of her morning ride. She would canter up to the door on her pony, followed by a mounted livery servant. Anything more exquisite than her appearance, in her purple habit, with her Amazon's cap of black velvet placed gracefully above the long curls that kissed her cheek and floated to her shoulders, can scarcely be imagined: and it was thus she would enter the rustic building, and glide through the dazzled ranks of the village children. She generally came at the hour when Mr. Rivers was engaged in giving his daily catechising lesson. Keenly, I fear, did the eye of the visitress pierce the young pastor's heart. A sort of instinct seemed to warn him of her entrance, even when he did not see it; and when he was looking quite away from the door, if she appeared at it, his cheek would glow, and his marble-seeming features, though they refused to relax, changed indescribably, and in their very quiescence became expressive of a repressed fervour, stronger than working muscle or darting glance could indicate. Of course, she knew her power: indeed, he did not, because he could not, conceal it from her. In spite of his Christian stoicism, when she went up and addressed him, and smiled gaily, encouragingly, even fondly in his face, his hand would tremble and his eye burn. He seemed to say, with his sad and resolute look, if he did not say it with his lips, "I love you, and I know you prefer me. It is not despair of success that keeps me dumb. If I offered my heart, I believe you would accept it. But that heart is already laid on a sacred altar: the fire is arranged round it. It will soon be no more than a sacrifice consumed." And then she would pout like a disappointed child; a pensive cloud would soften her radiant vivacity; she would withdraw her hand hastily from his, and turn in transient petulance from his aspect, at once so heroic and so martyr-like. St. John, no doubt, would have given the world to follow, recall, retain her, when she thus left him; but he would not give one chance of heaven, nor relinquish, for the elysium of her love, one hope of the true, eternal Paradise. Besides, he could not bind all that he had in his nature--the rover, the aspirant, the poet, the priest--in the limits of a single passion. He could not--he would not--renounce his wild field of mission warfare for the parlours and the peace of Vale Hall. I learnt so much from himself in an inroad I once, despite his reserve, had the daring to make on his confidence. Miss Oliver already honoured me with frequent visits to my cottage. I had learnt her whole character, which was without mystery or disguise: she was coquettish but not heartless; exacting, but not worthlessly selfish. She had been indulged from her birth, but was not absolutely spoilt. She was hasty, but good-humoured; vain (she could not help it, when every glance in the glass showed her such a flush of loveliness), but not affected; liberal-handed; innocent of the pride of wealth; ingenuous; sufficiently intelligent; gay, lively, and unthinking: she was very charming, in short, even to a cool observer of her own sex like me; but she was not profoundly interesting or thoroughly impressive. A very different sort of mind was hers from that, for instance, of the sisters of St. John. Still, I liked her almost as I liked my pupil Adele; except that, for a child whom we have watched over and taught, a closer affection is engendered than we can give an equally attractive adult acquaintance. She had taken an amiable caprice to me. She said I was like Mr. Rivers, only, certainly, she allowed, "not one-tenth so handsome, though I was a nice neat little soul enough, but he was an angel." I was, however, good, clever, composed, and firm, like him. I was a _lusus naturae_, she affirmed, as a village schoolmistress: she was sure my previous history, if known, would make a delightful romance. One evening, while, with her usual child-like activity, and thoughtless yet not offensive inquisitiveness, she was rummaging the cupboard and the table-drawer of my little kitchen, she discovered first two French books, a volume of Schiller, a German grammar and dictionary, and then my drawing-materials and some sketches, including a pencil-head of a pretty little cherub-like girl, one of my scholars, and sundry views from nature, taken in the Vale of Morton and on the surrounding moors. She was first transfixed with surprise, and then electrified with delight. "Had I done these pictures? Did I know French and German? What a love--what a miracle I was! I drew better than her master in the first school in S-. Would I sketch a portrait of her, to show to papa?" "With pleasure," I replied; and I felt a thrill of artist-delight at the idea of copying from so perfect and radiant a model. She had then on a dark-blue silk dress; her arms and her neck were bare; her only ornament was her chestnut tresses, which waved over her shoulders with all the wild grace of natural curls. I took a sheet of fine card-board, and drew a careful outline. I promised myself the pleasure of colouring it; and, as it was getting late then, I told her she must come and sit another day. She made such a report of me to her father, that Mr. Oliver himself accompanied her next evening--a tall, massive-featured, middle-aged, and grey-headed man, at whose side his lovely daughter looked like a bright flower near a hoary turret. He appeared a taciturn, and perhaps a proud personage; but he was very kind to me. The sketch of Rosamond's portrait pleased him highly: he said I must make a finished picture of it. He insisted, too, on my coming the next day to spend the evening at Vale Hall. I went. I found it a large, handsome residence, showing abundant evidences of wealth in the proprietor. Rosamond was full of glee and pleasure all the time I stayed. Her father was affable; and when he entered into conversation with me after tea, he expressed in strong terms his approbation of what I had done in Morton school, and said he only feared, from what he saw and heard, I was too good for the place, and would soon quit it for one more suitable. "Indeed," cried Rosamond, "she is clever enough to be a governess in a high family, papa." I thought I would far rather be where I am than in any high family in the land. Mr. Oliver spoke of Mr. Rivers--of the Rivers family--with great respect. He said it was a very old name in that neighbourhood; that the ancestors of the house were wealthy; that all Morton had once belonged to them; that even now he considered the representative of that house might, if he liked, make an alliance with the best. He accounted it a pity that so fine and talented a young man should have formed the design of going out as a missionary; it was quite throwing a valuable life away. It appeared, then, that her father would throw no obstacle in the way of Rosamond's union with St. John. Mr. Oliver evidently regarded the young clergyman's good birth, old name, and sacred profession as sufficient compensation for the want of fortune. It was the 5th of November, and a holiday. My little servant, after helping me to clean my house, was gone, well satisfied with the fee of a penny for her aid. All about me was spotless and bright--scoured floor, polished grate, and well-rubbed chairs. I had also made myself neat, and had now the afternoon before me to spend as I would. The translation of a few pages of German occupied an hour; then I got my palette and pencils, and fell to the more soothing, because easier occupation, of completing Rosamond Oliver's miniature. The head was finished already: there was but the background to tint and the drapery to shade off; a touch of carmine, too, to add to the ripe lips--a soft curl here and there to the tresses--a deeper tinge to the shadow of the lash under the azured eyelid. I was absorbed in the execution of these nice details, when, after one rapid tap, my door unclosed, admitting St. John Rivers. "I am come to see how you are spending your holiday," he said. "Not, I hope, in thought? No, that is well: while you draw you will not feel lonely. You see, I mistrust you still, though you have borne up wonderfully so far. I have brought you a book for evening solace," and he laid on the table a new publication--a poem: one of those genuine productions so often vouchsafed to the fortunate public of those days--the golden age of modern literature. Alas! the readers of our era are less favoured. But courage! I will not pause either to accuse or repine. I know poetry is not dead, nor genius lost; nor has Mammon gained power over either, to bind or slay: they will both assert their existence, their presence, their liberty and strength again one day. Powerful angels, safe in heaven! they smile when sordid souls triumph, and feeble ones weep over their destruction. Poetry destroyed? Genius banished? No! Mediocrity, no: do not let envy prompt you to the thought. No; they not only live, but reign and redeem: and without their divine influence spread everywhere, you would be in hell--the hell of your own meanness. While I was eagerly glancing at the bright pages of "Marmion" (for "Marmion" it was), St. John stooped to examine my drawing. His tall figure sprang erect again with a start: he said nothing. I looked up at him: he shunned my eye. I knew his thoughts well, and could read his heart plainly; at the moment I felt calmer and cooler than he: I had then temporarily the advantage of him, and I conceived an inclination to do him some good, if I could. "With all his firmness and self-control," thought I, "he tasks himself too far: locks every feeling and pang within--expresses, confesses, imparts nothing. I am sure it would benefit him to talk a little about this sweet Rosamond, whom he thinks he ought not to marry: I will make him talk." I said first, "Take a chair, Mr. Rivers." But he answered, as he always did, that he could not stay. "Very well," I responded, mentally, "stand if you like; but you shall not go just yet, I am determined: solitude is at least as bad for you as it is for me. I'll try if I cannot discover the secret spring of your confidence, and find an aperture in that marble breast through which I can shed one drop of the balm of sympathy." "Is this portrait like?" I asked bluntly. "Like! Like whom? I did not observe it closely." "You did, Mr. Rivers." He almost started at my sudden and strange abruptness: he looked at me astonished. "Oh, that is nothing yet," I muttered within. "I don't mean to be baffled by a little stiffness on your part; I'm prepared to go to considerable lengths." I continued, "You observed it closely and distinctly; but I have no objection to your looking at it again," and I rose and placed it in his hand. "A well-executed picture," he said; "very soft, clear colouring; very graceful and correct drawing." "Yes, yes; I know all that. But what of the resemblance? Who is it like?" Mastering some hesitation, he answered, "Miss Oliver, I presume." "Of course. And now, sir, to reward you for the accurate guess, I will promise to paint you a careful and faithful duplicate of this very picture, provided you admit that the gift would be acceptable to you. I don't wish to throw away my time and trouble on an offering you would deem worthless." He continued to gaze at the picture: the longer he looked, the firmer he held it, the more he seemed to covet it. "It is like!" he murmured; "the eye is well managed: the colour, light, expression, are perfect. It smiles!" "Would it comfort, or would it wound you to have a similar painting? Tell me that. When you are at Madagascar, or at the Cape, or in India, would it be a consolation to have that memento in your possession? or would the sight of it bring recollections calculated to enervate and distress?" He now furtively raised his eyes: he glanced at me, irresolute, disturbed: he again surveyed the picture. "That I should like to have it is certain: whether it would be judicious or wise is another question." Since I had ascertained that Rosamond really preferred him, and that her father was not likely to oppose the match, I--less exalted in my views than St. John--had been strongly disposed in my own heart to advocate their union. It seemed to me that, should he become the possessor of Mr. Oliver's large fortune, he might do as much good with it as if he went and laid his genius out to wither, and his strength to waste, under a tropical sun. With this persuasion I now answered-- "As far as I can see, it would be wiser and more judicious if you were to take to yourself the original at once." By this time he had sat down: he had laid the picture on the table before him, and with his brow supported on both hands, hung fondly over it. I discerned he was now neither angry nor shocked at my audacity. I saw even that to be thus frankly addressed on a subject he had deemed unapproachable--to hear it thus freely handled--was beginning to be felt by him as a new pleasure--an unhoped-for relief. Reserved people often really need the frank discussion of their sentiments and griefs more than the expansive. The sternest-seeming stoic is human after all; and to "burst" with boldness and good-will into "the silent sea" of their souls is often to confer on them the first of obligations. "She likes you, I am sure," said I, as I stood behind his chair, "and her father respects you. Moreover, she is a sweet girl--rather thoughtless; but you would have sufficient thought for both yourself and her. You ought to marry her." "_Does_ she like me?" he asked. "Certainly; better than she likes any one else. She talks of you continually: there is no subject she enjoys so much or touches upon so often." "It is very pleasant to hear this," he said--"very: go on for another quarter of an hour." And he actually took out his watch and laid it upon the table to measure the time. "But where is the use of going on," I asked, "when you are probably preparing some iron blow of contradiction, or forging a fresh chain to fetter your heart?" "Don't imagine such hard things. Fancy me yielding and melting, as I am doing: human love rising like a freshly opened fountain in my mind and overflowing with sweet inundation all the field I have so carefully and with such labour prepared--so assiduously sown with the seeds of good intentions, of self-denying plans. And now it is deluged with a nectarous flood--the young germs swamped--delicious poison cankering them: now I see myself stretched on an ottoman in the drawing-room at Vale Hall at my bride Rosamond Oliver's feet: she is talking to me with her sweet voice--gazing down on me with those eyes your skilful hand has copied so well--smiling at me with these coral lips. She is mine--I am hers--this present life and passing world suffice to me. Hush! say nothing--my heart is full of delight--my senses are entranced--let the time I marked pass in peace." I humoured him: the watch ticked on: he breathed fast and low: I stood silent. Amidst this hush the quartet sped; he replaced the watch, laid the picture down, rose, and stood on the hearth. "Now," said he, "that little space was given to delirium and delusion. I rested my temples on the breast of temptation, and put my neck voluntarily under her yoke of flowers. I tasted her cup. The pillow was burning: there is an asp in the garland: the wine has a bitter taste: her promises are hollow--her offers false: I see and know all this." I gazed at him in wonder. "It is strange," pursued he, "that while I love Rosamond Oliver so wildly--with all the intensity, indeed, of a first passion, the object of which is exquisitely beautiful, graceful, fascinating--I experience at the same time a calm, unwarped consciousness that she would not make me a good wife; that she is not the partner suited to me; that I should discover this within a year after marriage; and that to twelve months' rapture would succeed a lifetime of regret. This I know." "Strange indeed!" I could not help ejaculating. "While something in me," he went on, "is acutely sensible to her charms, something else is as deeply impressed with her defects: they are such that she could sympathise in nothing I aspired to--co-operate in nothing I undertook. Rosamond a sufferer, a labourer, a female apostle? Rosamond a missionary's wife? No!" "But you need not be a missionary. You might relinquish that scheme." "Relinquish! What! my vocation? My great work? My foundation laid on earth for a mansion in heaven? My hopes of being numbered in the band who have merged all ambitions in the glorious one of bettering their race--of carrying knowledge into the realms of ignorance--of substituting peace for war--freedom for bondage--religion for superstition--the hope of heaven for the fear of hell? Must I relinquish that? It is dearer than the blood in my veins. It is what I have to look forward to, and to live for." After a considerable pause, I said--"And Miss Oliver? Are her disappointment and sorrow of no interest to you?" "Miss Oliver is ever surrounded by suitors and flatterers: in less than a month, my image will be effaced from her heart. She will forget me; and will marry, probably, some one who will make her far happier than I should do." "You speak coolly enough; but you suffer in the conflict. You are wasting away." "No. If I get a little thin, it is with anxiety about my prospects, yet unsettled--my departure, continually procrastinated. Only this morning, I received intelligence that the successor, whose arrival I have been so long expecting, cannot be ready to replace me for three months to come yet; and perhaps the three months may extend to six." "You tremble and become flushed whenever Miss Oliver enters the schoolroom." Again the surprised expression crossed his face. He had not imagined that a woman would dare to speak so to a man. For me, I felt at home in this sort of discourse. I could never rest in communication with strong, discreet, and refined minds, whether male or female, till I had passed the outworks of conventional reserve, and crossed the threshold of confidence, and won a place by their heart's very hearthstone. "You are original," said he, "and not timid. There is something brave in your spirit, as well as penetrating in your eye; but allow me to assure you that you partially misinterpret my emotions. You think them more profound and potent than they are. You give me a larger allowance of sympathy than I have a just claim to. When I colour, and when I shade before Miss Oliver, I do not pity myself. I scorn the weakness. I know it is ignoble: a mere fever of the flesh: not, I declare, the convulsion of the soul. _That_ is just as fixed as a rock, firm set in the depths of a restless sea. Know me to be what I am--a cold hard man." I smiled incredulously. "You have taken my confidence by storm," he continued, "and now it is much at your service. I am simply, in my original state--stripped of that blood-bleached robe with which Christianity covers human deformity--a cold, hard, ambitious man. Natural affection only, of all the sentiments, has permanent power over me. Reason, and not feeling, is my guide; my ambition is unlimited: my desire to rise higher, to do more than others, insatiable. I honour endurance, perseverance, industry, talent; because these are the means by which men achieve great ends and mount to lofty eminence. I watch your career with interest, because I consider you a specimen of a diligent, orderly, energetic woman: not because I deeply compassionate what you have gone through, or what you still suffer." "You would describe yourself as a mere pagan philosopher," I said. "No. There is this difference between me and deistic philosophers: I believe; and I believe the Gospel. You missed your epithet. I am not a pagan, but a Christian philosopher--a follower of the sect of Jesus. As His disciple I adopt His pure, His merciful, His benignant doctrines. I advocate them: I am sworn to spread them. Won in youth to religion, she has cultivated my original qualities thus:--From the minute germ, natural affection, she has developed the overshadowing tree, philanthropy. From the wild stringy root of human uprightness, she has reared a due sense of the Divine justice. Of the ambition to win power and renown for my wretched self, she has formed the ambition to spread my Master's kingdom; to achieve victories for the standard of the cross. So much has religion done for me; turning the original materials to the best account; pruning and training nature. But she could not eradicate nature: nor will it be eradicated 'till this mortal shall put on immortality.'" Having said this, he took his hat, which lay on the table beside my palette. Once more he looked at the portrait. "She _is_ lovely," he murmured. "She is well named the Rose of the World, indeed!" "And may I not paint one like it for you?" "_Cui bono_? No." He drew over the picture the sheet of thin paper on which I was accustomed to rest my hand in painting, to prevent the cardboard from being sullied. What he suddenly saw on this blank paper, it was impossible for me to tell; but something had caught his eye. He took it up with a snatch; he looked at the edge; then shot a glance at me, inexpressibly peculiar, and quite incomprehensible: a glance that seemed to take and make note of every point in my shape, face, and dress; for it traversed all, quick, keen as lightning. His lips parted, as if to speak: but he checked the coming sentence, whatever it was. "What is the matter?" I asked. "Nothing in the world," was the reply; and, replacing the paper, I saw him dexterously tear a narrow slip from the margin. It disappeared in his glove; and, with one hasty nod and "good-afternoon," he vanished. "Well!" I exclaimed, using an expression of the district, "that caps the globe, however!" I, in my turn, scrutinised the paper; but saw nothing on it save a few dingy stains of paint where I had tried the tint in my pencil. I pondered the mystery a minute or two; but finding it insolvable, and being certain it could not be of much moment, I dismissed, and soon forgot it. CHAPTER XXXIII When Mr. St. John went, it was beginning to snow; the whirling storm continued all night. The next day a keen wind brought fresh and blinding falls; by twilight the valley was drifted up and almost impassable. I had closed my shutter, laid a mat to the door to prevent the snow from blowing in under it, trimmed my fire, and after sitting nearly an hour on the hearth listening to the muffled fury of the tempest, I lit a candle, took down "Marmion," and beginning-- "Day set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone; The massive towers, the donjon keep, The flanking walls that round them sweep, In yellow lustre shone"-- I soon forgot storm in music. I heard a noise: the wind, I thought, shook the door. No; it was St. John Rivers, who, lifting the latch, came in out of the frozen hurricane--the howling darkness--and stood before me: the cloak that covered his tall figure all white as a glacier. I was almost in consternation, so little had I expected any guest from the blocked-up vale that night. "Any ill news?" I demanded. "Has anything happened?" "No. How very easily alarmed you are!" he answered, removing his cloak and hanging it up against the door, towards which he again coolly pushed the mat which his entrance had deranged. He stamped the snow from his boots. "I shall sully the purity of your floor," said he, "but you must excuse me for once." Then he approached the fire. "I have had hard work to get here, I assure you," he observed, as he warmed his hands over the flame. "One drift took me up to the waist; happily the snow is quite soft yet." "But why are you come?" I could not forbear saying. "Rather an inhospitable question to put to a visitor; but since you ask it, I answer simply to have a little talk with you; I got tired of my mute books and empty rooms. Besides, since yesterday I have experienced the excitement of a person to whom a tale has been half-told, and who is impatient to hear the sequel." He sat down. I recalled his singular conduct of yesterday, and really I began to fear his wits were touched. If he were insane, however, his was a very cool and collected insanity: I had never seen that handsome-featured face of his look more like chiselled marble than it did just now, as he put aside his snow-wet hair from his forehead and let the firelight shine free on his pale brow and cheek as pale, where it grieved me to discover the hollow trace of care or sorrow now so plainly graved. I waited, expecting he would say something I could at least comprehend; but his hand was now at his chin, his finger on his lip: he was thinking. It struck me that his hand looked wasted like his face. A perhaps uncalled-for gush of pity came over my heart: I was moved to say-- "I wish Diana or Mary would come and live with you: it is too bad that you should be quite alone; and you are recklessly rash about your own health." "Not at all," said he: "I care for myself when necessary. I am well now. What do you see amiss in me?" This was said with a careless, abstracted indifference, which showed that my solicitude was, at least in his opinion, wholly superfluous. I was silenced. He still slowly moved his finger over his upper lip, and still his eye dwelt dreamily on the glowing grate; thinking it urgent to say something, I asked him presently if he felt any cold draught from the door, which was behind him. "No, no!" he responded shortly and somewhat testily. "Well," I reflected, "if you won't talk, you may be still; I'll let you alone now, and return to my book." So I snuffed the candle and resumed the perusal of "Marmion." He soon stirred; my eye was instantly drawn to his movements; he only took out a morocco pocket-book, thence produced a letter, which he read in silence, folded it, put it back, relapsed into meditation. It was vain to try to read with such an inscrutable fixture before me; nor could I, in impatience, consent to be dumb; he might rebuff me if he liked, but talk I would. "Have you heard from Diana and Mary lately?" "Not since the letter I showed you a week ago." "There has not been any change made about your own arrangements? You will not be summoned to leave England sooner than you expected?" "I fear not, indeed: such chance is too good to befall me." Baffled so far, I changed my ground. I bethought myself to talk about the school and my scholars. "Mary Garrett's mother is better, and Mary came back to the school this morning, and I shall have four new girls next week from the Foundry Close--they would have come to-day but for the snow." "Indeed!" "Mr. Oliver pays for two." "Does he?" "He means to give the whole school a treat at Christmas." "I know." "Was it your suggestion?" "No." "Whose, then?" "His daughter's, I think." "It is like her: she is so good-natured." "Yes." Again came the blank of a pause: the clock struck eight strokes. It aroused him; he uncrossed his legs, sat erect, turned to me. "Leave your book a moment, and come a little nearer the fire," he said. Wondering, and of my wonder finding no end, I complied. "Half-an-hour ago," he pursued, "I spoke of my impatience to hear the sequel of a tale: on reflection, I find the matter will be better managed by my assuming the narrator's part, and converting you into a listener. Before commencing, it is but fair to warn you that the story will sound somewhat hackneyed in your ears; but stale details often regain a degree of freshness when they pass through new lips. For the rest, whether trite or novel, it is short. "Twenty years ago, a poor curate--never mind his name at this moment--fell in love with a rich man's daughter; she fell in love with him, and married him, against the advice of all her friends, who consequently disowned her immediately after the wedding. Before two years passed, the rash pair were both dead, and laid quietly side by side under one slab. (I have seen their grave; it formed part of the pavement of a huge churchyard surrounding the grim, soot-black old cathedral of an overgrown manufacturing town in ---shire.) They left a daughter, which, at its very birth, Charity received in her lap--cold as that of the snow-drift I almost stuck fast in to-night. Charity carried the friendless thing to the house of its rich maternal relations; it was reared by an aunt-in- law, called (I come to names now) Mrs. Reed of Gateshead. You start--did you hear a noise? I daresay it is only a rat scrambling along the rafters of the adjoining schoolroom: it was a barn before I had it repaired and altered, and barns are generally haunted by rats.--To proceed. Mrs. Reed kept the orphan ten years: whether it was happy or not with her, I cannot say, never having been told; but at the end of that time she transferred it to a place you know--being no other than Lowood School, where you so long resided yourself. It seems her career there was very honourable: from a pupil, she became a teacher, like yourself--really it strikes me there are parallel points in her history and yours--she left it to be a governess: there, again, your fates were analogous; she undertook the education of the ward of a certain Mr. Rochester." "Mr. Rivers!" I interrupted. "I can guess your feelings," he said, "but restrain them for a while: I have nearly finished; hear me to the end. Of Mr. Rochester's character I know nothing, but the one fact that he professed to offer honourable marriage to this young girl, and that at the very altar she discovered he had a wife yet alive, though a lunatic. What his subsequent conduct and proposals were is a matter of pure conjecture; but when an event transpired which rendered inquiry after the governess necessary, it was discovered she was gone--no one could tell when, where, or how. She had left Thornfield Hall in the night; every research after her course had been vain: the country had been scoured far and wide; no vestige of information could be gathered respecting her. Yet that she should be found is become a matter of serious urgency: advertisements have been put in all the papers; I myself have received a letter from one Mr. Briggs, a solicitor, communicating the details I have just imparted. Is it not an odd tale?" "Just tell me this," said I, "and since you know so much, you surely can tell it me--what of Mr. Rochester? How and where is he? What is he doing? Is he well?" "I am ignorant of all concerning Mr. Rochester: the letter never mentions him but to narrate the fraudulent and illegal attempt I have adverted to. You should rather ask the name of the governess--the nature of the event which requires her appearance." "Did no one go to Thornfield Hall, then? Did no one see Mr. Rochester?" "I suppose not." "But they wrote to him?" "Of course." "And what did he say? Who has his letters?" "Mr. Briggs intimates that the answer to his application was not from Mr. Rochester, but from a lady: it is signed 'Alice Fairfax.'" I felt cold and dismayed: my worst fears then were probably true: he had in all probability left England and rushed in reckless desperation to some former haunt on the Continent. And what opiate for his severe sufferings--what object for his strong passions--had he sought there? I dared not answer the question. Oh, my poor master--once almost my husband--whom I had often called "my dear Edward!" "He must have been a bad man," observed Mr. Rivers. "You don't know him--don't pronounce an opinion upon him," I said, with warmth. "Very well," he answered quietly: "and indeed my head is otherwise occupied than with him: I have my tale to finish. Since you won't ask the governess's name, I must tell it of my own accord. Stay! I have it here--it is always more satisfactory to see important points written down, fairly committed to black and white." And the pocket-book was again deliberately produced, opened, sought through; from one of its compartments was extracted a shabby slip of paper, hastily torn off: I recognised in its texture and its stains of ultra-marine, and lake, and vermillion, the ravished margin of the portrait-cover. He got up, held it close to my eyes: and I read, traced in Indian ink, in my own handwriting, the words "JANE EYRE"--the work doubtless of some moment of abstraction. "Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre:" he said, "the advertisements demanded a Jane Eyre: I knew a Jane Elliott.--I confess I had my suspicions, but it was only yesterday afternoon they were at once resolved into certainty. You own the name and renounce the _alias_?" "Yes--yes; but where is Mr. Briggs? He perhaps knows more of Mr. Rochester than you do." "Briggs is in London. I should doubt his knowing anything at all about Mr. Rochester; it is not in Mr. Rochester he is interested. Meantime, you forget essential points in pursuing trifles: you do not inquire why Mr. Briggs sought after you--what he wanted with you." "Well, what did he want?" "Merely to tell you that your uncle, Mr. Eyre of Madeira, is dead; that he has left you all his property, and that you are now rich--merely that--nothing more." "I!--rich?" "Yes, you, rich--quite an heiress." Silence succeeded. "You must prove your identity of course," resumed St. John presently: "a step which will offer no difficulties; you can then enter on immediate possession. Your fortune is vested in the English funds; Briggs has the will and the necessary documents." Here was a new card turned up! It is a fine thing, reader, to be lifted in a moment from indigence to wealth--a very fine thing; but not a matter one can comprehend, or consequently enjoy, all at once. And then there are other chances in life far more thrilling and rapture-giving: _this_ is solid, an affair of the actual world, nothing ideal about it: all its associations are solid and sober, and its manifestations are the same. One does not jump, and spring, and shout hurrah! at hearing one has got a fortune; one begins to consider responsibilities, and to ponder business; on a base of steady satisfaction rise certain grave cares, and we contain ourselves, and brood over our bliss with a solemn brow. Besides, the words Legacy, Bequest, go side by side with the words, Death, Funeral. My uncle I had heard was dead--my only relative; ever since being made aware of his existence, I had cherished the hope of one day seeing him: now, I never should. And then this money came only to me: not to me and a rejoicing family, but to my isolated self. It was a grand boon doubtless; and independence would be glorious--yes, I felt that--that thought swelled my heart. "You unbend your forehead at last," said Mr. Rivers. "I thought Medusa had looked at you, and that you were turning to stone. Perhaps now you will ask how much you are worth?" "How much am I worth?" "Oh, a trifle! Nothing of course to speak of--twenty thousand pounds, I think they say--but what is that?" "Twenty thousand pounds?" Here was a new stunner--I had been calculating on four or five thousand. This news actually took my breath for a moment: Mr. St. John, whom I had never heard laugh before, laughed now. "Well," said he, "if you had committed a murder, and I had told you your crime was discovered, you could scarcely look more aghast." "It is a large sum--don't you think there is a mistake?" "No mistake at all." "Perhaps you have read the figures wrong--it may be two thousand!" "It is written in letters, not figures,--twenty thousand." I again felt rather like an individual of but average gastronomical powers sitting down to feast alone at a table spread with provisions for a hundred. Mr. Rivers rose now and put his cloak on. "If it were not such a very wild night," he said, "I would send Hannah down to keep you company: you look too desperately miserable to be left alone. But Hannah, poor woman! could not stride the drifts so well as I: her legs are not quite so long: so I must e'en leave you to your sorrows. Good-night." He was lifting the latch: a sudden thought occurred to me. "Stop one minute!" I cried. "Well?" "It puzzles me to know why Mr. Briggs wrote to you about me; or how he knew you, or could fancy that you, living in such an out-of-the-way place, had the power to aid in my discovery." "Oh! I am a clergyman," he said; "and the clergy are often appealed to about odd matters." Again the latch rattled. "No; that does not satisfy me!" I exclaimed: and indeed there was something in the hasty and unexplanatory reply which, instead of allaying, piqued my curiosity more than ever. "It is a very strange piece of business," I added; "I must know more about it." "Another time." "No; to-night!--to-night!" and as he turned from the door, I placed myself between it and him. He looked rather embarrassed. "You certainly shall not go till you have told me all," I said. "I would rather not just now." "You shall!--you must!" "I would rather Diana or Mary informed you." Of course these objections wrought my eagerness to a climax: gratified it must be, and that without delay; and I told him so. "But I apprised you that I was a hard man," said he, "difficult to persuade." "And I am a hard woman,--impossible to put off." {And I am a hard woman,--impossible to put off: p369.jpg} "And then," he pursued, "I am cold: no fervour infects me." "Whereas I am hot, and fire dissolves ice. The blaze there has thawed all the snow from your cloak; by the same token, it has streamed on to my floor, and made it like a trampled street. As you hope ever to be forgiven, Mr. Rivers, the high crime and misdemeanour of spoiling a sanded kitchen, tell me what I wish to know." "Well, then," he said, "I yield; if not to your earnestness, to your perseverance: as stone is worn by continual dropping. Besides, you must know some day,--as well now as later. Your name is Jane Eyre?" "Of course: that was all settled before." "You are not, perhaps, aware that I am your namesake?--that I was christened St. John Eyre Rivers?" "No, indeed! I remember now seeing the letter E. comprised in your initials written in books you have at different times lent me; but I never asked for what name it stood. But what then? Surely--" I stopped: I could not trust myself to entertain, much less to express, the thought that rushed upon me--that embodied itself,--that, in a second, stood out a strong, solid probability. Circumstances knit themselves, fitted themselves, shot into order: the chain that had been lying hitherto a formless lump of links was drawn out straight,--every ring was perfect, the connection complete. I knew, by instinct, how the matter stood, before St. John had said another word; but I cannot expect the reader to have the same intuitive perception, so I must repeat his explanation. "My mother's name was Eyre; she had two brothers; one a clergyman, who married Miss Jane Reed, of Gateshead; the other, John Eyre, Esq., merchant, late of Funchal, Madeira. Mr. Briggs, being Mr. Eyre's solicitor, wrote to us last August to inform us of our uncle's death, and to say that he had left his property to his brother the clergyman's orphan daughter, overlooking us, in consequence of a quarrel, never forgiven, between him and my father. He wrote again a few weeks since, to intimate that the heiress was lost, and asking if we knew anything of her. A name casually written on a slip of paper has enabled me to find her out. You know the rest." Again he was going, but I set my back against the door. "Do let me speak," I said; "let me have one moment to draw breath and reflect." I paused--he stood before me, hat in hand, looking composed enough. I resumed-- "Your mother was my father's sister?" "Yes." "My aunt, consequently?" He bowed. "My uncle John was your uncle John? You, Diana, and Mary are his sister's children, as I am his brother's child?" "Undeniably." "You three, then, are my cousins; half our blood on each side flows from the same source?" "We are cousins; yes." I surveyed him. It seemed I had found a brother: one I could be proud of,--one I could love; and two sisters, whose qualities were such, that, when I knew them but as mere strangers, they had inspired me with genuine affection and admiration. The two girls, on whom, kneeling down on the wet ground, and looking through the low, latticed window of Moor House kitchen, I had gazed with so bitter a mixture of interest and despair, were my near kinswomen; and the young and stately gentleman who had found me almost dying at his threshold was my blood relation. Glorious discovery to a lonely wretch! This was wealth indeed!--wealth to the heart!--a mine of pure, genial affections. This was a blessing, bright, vivid, and exhilarating;--not like the ponderous gift of gold: rich and welcome enough in its way, but sobering from its weight. I now clapped my hands in sudden joy--my pulse bounded, my veins thrilled. "Oh, I am glad!--I am glad!" I exclaimed. St. John smiled. "Did I not say you neglected essential points to pursue trifles?" he asked. "You were serious when I told you you had got a fortune; and now, for a matter of no moment, you are excited." "What can you mean? It may be of no moment to you; you have sisters and don't care for a cousin; but I had nobody; and now three relations,--or two, if you don't choose to be counted,--are born into my world full-grown. I say again, I am glad!" I walked fast through the room: I stopped, half suffocated with the thoughts that rose faster than I could receive, comprehend, settle them:--thoughts of what might, could, would, and should be, and that ere long. I looked at the blank wall: it seemed a sky thick with ascending stars,--every one lit me to a purpose or delight. Those who had saved my life, whom, till this hour, I had loved barrenly, I could now benefit. They were under a yoke,--I could free them: they were scattered,--I could reunite them: the independence, the affluence which was mine, might be theirs too. Were we not four? Twenty thousand pounds shared equally would be five thousand each, justice--enough and to spare: justice would be done,--mutual happiness secured. Now the wealth did not weigh on me: now it was not a mere bequest of coin,--it was a legacy of life, hope, enjoyment. How I looked while these ideas were taking my spirit by storm, I cannot tell; but I perceived soon that Mr. Rivers had placed a chair behind me, and was gently attempting to make me sit down on it. He also advised me to be composed; I scorned the insinuation of helplessness and distraction, shook off his hand, and began to walk about again. "Write to Diana and Mary to-morrow," I said, "and tell them to come home directly. Diana said they would both consider themselves rich with a thousand pounds, so with five thousand they will do very well." "Tell me where I can get you a glass of water," said St. John; "you must really make an effort to tranquillise your feelings." "Nonsense! and what sort of an effect will the bequest have on you? Will it keep you in England, induce you to marry Miss Oliver, and settle down like an ordinary mortal?" "You wander: your head becomes confused. I have been too abrupt in communicating the news; it has excited you beyond your strength." "Mr. Rivers! you quite put me out of patience: I am rational enough; it is you who misunderstand, or rather who affect to misunderstand." "Perhaps, if you explained yourself a little more fully, I should comprehend better." "Explain! What is there to explain? You cannot fail to see that twenty thousand pounds, the sum in question, divided equally between the nephew and three nieces of our uncle, will give five thousand to each? What I want is, that you should write to your sisters and tell them of the fortune that has accrued to them." "To you, you mean." "I have intimated my view of the case: I am incapable of taking any other. I am not brutally selfish, blindly unjust, or fiendishly ungrateful. Besides, I am resolved I will have a home and connections. I like Moor House, and I will live at Moor House; I like Diana and Mary, and I will attach myself for life to Diana and Mary. It would please and benefit me to have five thousand pounds; it would torment and oppress me to have twenty thousand; which, moreover, could never be mine in justice, though it might in law. I abandon to you, then, what is absolutely superfluous to me. Let there be no opposition, and no discussion about it; let us agree amongst each other, and decide the point at once." "This is acting on first impulses; you must take days to consider such a matter, ere your word can be regarded as valid." "Oh! if all you doubt is my sincerity, I am easy: you see the justice of the case?" "I _do_ see a certain justice; but it is contrary to all custom. Besides, the entire fortune is your right: my uncle gained it by his own efforts; he was free to leave it to whom he would: he left it to you. After all, justice permits you to keep it: you may, with a clear conscience, consider it absolutely your own." "With me," said I, "it is fully as much a matter of feeling as of conscience: I must indulge my feelings; I so seldom have had an opportunity of doing so. Were you to argue, object, and annoy me for a year, I could not forego the delicious pleasure of which I have caught a glimpse--that of repaying, in part, a mighty obligation, and winning to myself lifelong friends." "You think so now," rejoined St. John, "because you do not know what it is to possess, nor consequently to enjoy wealth: you cannot form a notion of the importance twenty thousand pounds would give you; of the place it would enable you to take in society; of the prospects it would open to you: you cannot--" "And you," I interrupted, "cannot at all imagine the craving I have for fraternal and sisterly love. I never had a home, I never had brothers or sisters; I must and will have them now: you are not reluctant to admit me and own me, are you?" "Jane, I will be your brother--my sisters will be your sisters--without stipulating for this sacrifice of your just rights." "Brother? Yes; at the distance of a thousand leagues! Sisters? Yes; slaving amongst strangers! I, wealthy--gorged with gold I never earned and do not merit! You, penniless! Famous equality and fraternisation! Close union! Intimate attachment!" "But, Jane, your aspirations after family ties and domestic happiness may be realised otherwise than by the means you contemplate: you may marry." "Nonsense, again! Marry! I don't want to marry, and never shall marry." "That is saying too much: such hazardous affirmations are a proof of the excitement under which you labour." "It is not saying too much: I know what I feel, and how averse are my inclinations to the bare thought of marriage. No one would take me for love; and I will not be regarded in the light of a mere money speculation. And I do not want a stranger--unsympathising, alien, different from me; I want my kindred: those with whom I have full fellow- feeling. Say again you will be my brother: when you uttered the words I was satisfied, happy; repeat them, if you can, repeat them sincerely." "I think I can. I know I have always loved my own sisters; and I know on what my affection for them is grounded,--respect for their worth and admiration of their talents. You too have principle and mind: your tastes and habits resemble Diana's and Mary's; your presence is always agreeable to me; in your conversation I have already for some time found a salutary solace. I feel I can easily and naturally make room in my heart for you, as my third and youngest sister." "Thank you: that contents me for to-night. Now you had better go; for if you stay longer, you will perhaps irritate me afresh by some mistrustful scruple." "And the school, Miss Eyre? It must now be shut up, I suppose?" "No. I will retain my post of mistress till you get a substitute." He smiled approbation: we shook hands, and he took leave. I need not narrate in detail the further struggles I had, and arguments I used, to get matters regarding the legacy settled as I wished. My task was a very hard one; but, as I was absolutely resolved--as my cousins saw at length that my mind was really and immutably fixed on making a just division of the property--as they must in their own hearts have felt the equity of the intention; and must, besides, have been innately conscious that in my place they would have done precisely what I wished to do--they yielded at length so far as to consent to put the affair to arbitration. The judges chosen were Mr. Oliver and an able lawyer: both coincided in my opinion: I carried my point. The instruments of transfer were drawn out: St. John, Diana, Mary, and I, each became possessed of a competency. CHAPTER XXXIV It was near Christmas by the time all was settled: the season of general holiday approached. I now closed Morton school, taking care that the parting should not be barren on my side. Good fortune opens the hand as well as the heart wonderfully; and to give somewhat when we have largely received, is but to afford a vent to the unusual ebullition of the sensations. I had long felt with pleasure that many of my rustic scholars liked me, and when we parted, that consciousness was confirmed: they manifested their affection plainly and strongly. Deep was my gratification to find I had really a place in their unsophisticated hearts: I promised them that never a week should pass in future that I did not visit them, and give them an hour's teaching in their school. Mr. Rivers came up as, having seen the classes, now numbering sixty girls, file out before me, and locked the door, I stood with the key in my hand, exchanging a few words of special farewell with some half-dozen of my best scholars: as decent, respectable, modest, and well-informed young women as could be found in the ranks of the British peasantry. And that is saying a great deal; for after all, the British peasantry are the best taught, best mannered, most self-respecting of any in Europe: since those days I have seen paysannes and Bauerinnen; and the best of them seemed to me ignorant, coarse, and besotted, compared with my Morton girls. "Do you consider you have got your reward for a season of exertion?" asked Mr. Rivers, when they were gone. "Does not the consciousness of having done some real good in your day and generation give pleasure?" "Doubtless." "And you have only toiled a few months! Would not a life devoted to the task of regenerating your race be well spent?" "Yes," I said; "but I could not go on for ever so: I want to enjoy my own faculties as well as to cultivate those of other people. I must enjoy them now; don't recall either my mind or body to the school; I am out of it and disposed for full holiday." He looked grave. "What now? What sudden eagerness is this you evince? What are you going to do?" "To be active: as active as I can. And first I must beg you to set Hannah at liberty, and get somebody else to wait on you." "Do you want her?" "Yes, to go with me to Moor House. Diana and Mary will be at home in a week, and I want to have everything in order against their arrival." "I understand. I thought you were for flying off on some excursion. It is better so: Hannah shall go with you." "Tell her to be ready by to-morrow then; and here is the schoolroom key: I will give you the key of my cottage in the morning." He took it. "You give it up very gleefully," said he; "I don't quite understand your light-heartedness, because I cannot tell what employment you propose to yourself as a substitute for the one you are relinquishing. What aim, what purpose, what ambition in life have you now?" "My first aim will be to _clean down_ (do you comprehend the full force of the expression?)--to _clean down_ Moor House from chamber to cellar; my next to rub it up with bees-wax, oil, and an indefinite number of cloths, till it glitters again; my third, to arrange every chair, table, bed, carpet, with mathematical precision; afterwards I shall go near to ruin you in coals and peat to keep up good fires in every room; and lastly, the two days preceding that on which your sisters are expected will be devoted by Hannah and me to such a beating of eggs, sorting of currants, grating of spices, compounding of Christmas cakes, chopping up of materials for mince-pies, and solemnising of other culinary rites, as words can convey but an inadequate notion of to the uninitiated like you. My purpose, in short, is to have all things in an absolutely perfect state of readiness for Diana and Mary before next Thursday; and my ambition is to give them a beau-ideal of a welcome when they come." St. John smiled slightly: still he was dissatisfied. "It is all very well for the present," said he; "but seriously, I trust that when the first flush of vivacity is over, you will look a little higher than domestic endearments and household joys." "The best things the world has!" I interrupted. "No, Jane, no: this world is not the scene of fruition; do not attempt to make it so: nor of rest; do not turn slothful." "I mean, on the contrary, to be busy." "Jane, I excuse you for the present: two months' grace I allow you for the full enjoyment of your new position, and for pleasing yourself with this late-found charm of relationship; but _then_, I hope you will begin to look beyond Moor House and Morton, and sisterly society, and the selfish calm and sensual comfort of civilised affluence. I hope your energies will then once more trouble you with their strength." I looked at him with surprise. "St. John," I said, "I think you are almost wicked to talk so. I am disposed to be as content as a queen, and you try to stir me up to restlessness! To what end?" "To the end of turning to profit the talents which God has committed to your keeping; and of which He will surely one day demand a strict account. Jane, I shall watch you closely and anxiously--I warn you of that. And try to restrain the disproportionate fervour with which you throw yourself into commonplace home pleasures. Don't cling so tenaciously to ties of the flesh; save your constancy and ardour for an adequate cause; forbear to waste them on trite transient objects. Do you hear, Jane?" "Yes; just as if you were speaking Greek. I feel I have adequate cause to be happy, and I _will_ be happy. Goodbye!" Happy at Moor House I was, and hard I worked; and so did Hannah: she was charmed to see how jovial I could be amidst the bustle of a house turned topsy-turvy--how I could brush, and dust, and clean, and cook. And really, after a day or two of confusion worse confounded, it was delightful by degrees to invoke order from the chaos ourselves had made. I had previously taken a journey to S--- to purchase some new furniture: my cousins having given me _carte blanche_ to effect what alterations I pleased, and a sum having been set aside for that purpose. The ordinary sitting-room and bedrooms I left much as they were: for I knew Diana and Mary would derive more pleasure from seeing again the old homely tables, and chairs, and beds, than from the spectacle of the smartest innovations. Still some novelty was necessary, to give to their return the piquancy with which I wished it to be invested. Dark handsome new carpets and curtains, an arrangement of some carefully selected antique ornaments in porcelain and bronze, new coverings, and mirrors, and dressing-cases, for the toilet tables, answered the end: they looked fresh without being glaring. A spare parlour and bedroom I refurnished entirely, with old mahogany and crimson upholstery: I laid canvas on the passage, and carpets on the stairs. When all was finished, I thought Moor House as complete a model of bright modest snugness within, as it was, at this season, a specimen of wintry waste and desert dreariness without. The eventful Thursday at length came. They were expected about dark, and ere dusk fires were lit upstairs and below; the kitchen was in perfect trim; Hannah and I were dressed, and all was in readiness. St. John arrived first. I had entreated him to keep quite clear of the house till everything was arranged: and, indeed, the bare idea of the commotion, at once sordid and trivial, going on within its walls sufficed to scare him to estrangement. He found me in the kitchen, watching the progress of certain cakes for tea, then baking. Approaching the hearth, he asked, "If I was at last satisfied with housemaid's work?" I answered by inviting him to accompany me on a general inspection of the result of my labours. With some difficulty, I got him to make the tour of the house. He just looked in at the doors I opened; and when he had wandered upstairs and downstairs, he said I must have gone through a great deal of fatigue and trouble to have effected such considerable changes in so short a time: but not a syllable did he utter indicating pleasure in the improved aspect of his abode. This silence damped me. I thought perhaps the alterations had disturbed some old associations he valued. I inquired whether this was the case: no doubt in a somewhat crest-fallen tone. "Not at all; he had, on the contrary, remarked that I had scrupulously respected every association: he feared, indeed, I must have bestowed more thought on the matter than it was worth. How many minutes, for instance, had I devoted to studying the arrangement of this very room?--By-the-bye, could I tell him where such a book was?" I showed him the volume on the shelf: he took it down, and withdrawing to his accustomed window recess, he began to read it. Now, I did not like this, reader. St. John was a good man; but I began to feel he had spoken truth of himself when he said he was hard and cold. The humanities and amenities of life had no attraction for him--its peaceful enjoyments no charm. Literally, he lived only to aspire--after what was good and great, certainly; but still he would never rest, nor approve of others resting round him. As I looked at his lofty forehead, still and pale as a white stone--at his fine lineaments fixed in study--I comprehended all at once that he would hardly make a good husband: that it would be a trying thing to be his wife. I understood, as by inspiration, the nature of his love for Miss Oliver; I agreed with him that it was but a love of the senses. I comprehended how he should despise himself for the feverish influence it exercised over him; how he should wish to stifle and destroy it; how he should mistrust its ever conducting permanently to his happiness or hers. I saw he was of the material from which nature hews her heroes--Christian and Pagan--her lawgivers, her statesmen, her conquerors: a steadfast bulwark for great interests to rest upon; but, at the fireside, too often a cold cumbrous column, gloomy and out of place. "This parlour is not his sphere," I reflected: "the Himalayan ridge or Caffre bush, even the plague-cursed Guinea Coast swamp would suit him better. Well may he eschew the calm of domestic life; it is not his element: there his faculties stagnate--they cannot develop or appear to advantage. It is in scenes of strife and danger--where courage is proved, and energy exercised, and fortitude tasked--that he will speak and move, the leader and superior. A merry child would have the advantage of him on this hearth. He is right to choose a missionary's career--I see it now." "They are coming! they are coming!" cried Hannah, throwing open the parlour door. At the same moment old Carlo barked joyfully. Out I ran. It was now dark; but a rumbling of wheels was audible. Hannah soon had a lantern lit. The vehicle had stopped at the wicket; the driver opened the door: first one well-known form, then another, stepped out. In a minute I had my face under their bonnets, in contact first with Mary's soft cheek, then with Diana's flowing curls. They laughed--kissed me--then Hannah: patted Carlo, who was half wild with delight; asked eagerly if all was well; and being assured in the affirmative, hastened into the house. They were stiff with their long and jolting drive from Whitcross, and chilled with the frosty night air; but their pleasant countenances expanded to the cheerful firelight. While the driver and Hannah brought in the boxes, they demanded St. John. At this moment he advanced from the parlour. They both threw their arms round his neck at once. He gave each one quiet kiss, said in a low tone a few words of welcome, stood a while to be talked to, and then, intimating that he supposed they would soon rejoin him in the parlour, withdrew there as to a place of refuge. I had lit their candles to go upstairs, but Diana had first to give hospitable orders respecting the driver; this done, both followed me. They were delighted with the renovation and decorations of their rooms; with the new drapery, and fresh carpets, and rich tinted china vases: they expressed their gratification ungrudgingly. I had the pleasure of feeling that my arrangements met their wishes exactly, and that what I had done added a vivid charm to their joyous return home. Sweet was that evening. My cousins, full of exhilaration, were so eloquent in narrative and comment, that their fluency covered St. John's taciturnity: he was sincerely glad to see his sisters; but in their glow of fervour and flow of joy he could not sympathise. The event of the day--that is, the return of Diana and Mary--pleased him; but the accompaniments of that event, the glad tumult, the garrulous glee of reception irked him: I saw he wished the calmer morrow was come. In the very meridian of the night's enjoyment, about an hour after tea, a rap was heard at the door. Hannah entered with the intimation that "a poor lad was come, at that unlikely time, to fetch Mr. Rivers to see his mother, who was drawing away." "Where does she live, Hannah?" "Clear up at Whitcross Brow, almost four miles off, and moor and moss all the way." "Tell him I will go." "I'm sure, sir, you had better not. It's the worst road to travel after dark that can be: there's no track at all over the bog. And then it is such a bitter night--the keenest wind you ever felt. You had better send word, sir, that you will be there in the morning." But he was already in the passage, putting on his cloak; and without one objection, one murmur, he departed. It was then nine o'clock: he did not return till midnight. Starved and tired enough he was: but he looked happier than when he set out. He had performed an act of duty; made an exertion; felt his own strength to do and deny, and was on better terms with himself. I am afraid the whole of the ensuing week tried his patience. It was Christmas week: we took to no settled employment, but spent it in a sort of merry domestic dissipation. The air of the moors, the freedom of home, the dawn of prosperity, acted on Diana and Mary's spirits like some life-giving elixir: they were gay from morning till noon, and from noon till night. They could always talk; and their discourse, witty, pithy, original, had such charms for me, that I preferred listening to, and sharing in it, to doing anything else. St. John did not rebuke our vivacity; but he escaped from it: he was seldom in the house; his parish was large, the population scattered, and he found daily business in visiting the sick and poor in its different districts. One morning at breakfast, Diana, after looking a little pensive for some minutes, asked him, "If his plans were yet unchanged." "Unchanged and unchangeable," was the reply. And he proceeded to inform us that his departure from England was now definitively fixed for the ensuing year. "And Rosamond Oliver?" suggested Mary, the words seeming to escape her lips involuntarily: for no sooner had she uttered them, than she made a gesture as if wishing to recall them. St. John had a book in his hand--it was his unsocial custom to read at meals--he closed it, and looked up. "Rosamond Oliver," said he, "is about to be married to Mr. Granby, one of the best connected and most estimable residents in S-, grandson and heir to Sir Frederic Granby: I had the intelligence from her father yesterday." His sisters looked at each other and at me; we all three looked at him: he was serene as glass. "The match must have been got up hastily," said Diana: "they cannot have known each other long." "But two months: they met in October at the county ball at S-. But where there are no obstacles to a union, as in the present case, where the connection is in every point desirable, delays are unnecessary: they will be married as soon as S--- Place, which Sir Frederic gives up to them, can he refitted for their reception." The first time I found St. John alone after this communication, I felt tempted to inquire if the event distressed him: but he seemed so little to need sympathy, that, so far from venturing to offer him more, I experienced some shame at the recollection of what I had already hazarded. Besides, I was out of practice in talking to him: his reserve was again frozen over, and my frankness was congealed beneath it. He had not kept his promise of treating me like his sisters; he continually made little chilling differences between us, which did not at all tend to the development of cordiality: in short, now that I was acknowledged his kinswoman, and lived under the same roof with him, I felt the distance between us to be far greater than when he had known me only as the village schoolmistress. When I remembered how far I had once been admitted to his confidence, I could hardly comprehend his present frigidity. Such being the case, I felt not a little surprised when he raised his head suddenly from the desk over which he was stooping, and said-- "You see, Jane, the battle is fought and the victory won." Startled at being thus addressed, I did not immediately reply: after a moment's hesitation I answered-- "But are you sure you are not in the position of those conquerors whose triumphs have cost them too dear? Would not such another ruin you?" "I think not; and if I were, it does not much signify; I shall never be called upon to contend for such another. The event of the conflict is decisive: my way is now clear; I thank God for it!" So saying, he returned to his papers and his silence. As our mutual happiness (_i.e._, Diana's, Mary's, and mine) settled into a quieter character, and we resumed our usual habits and regular studies, St. John stayed more at home: he sat with us in the same room, sometimes for hours together. While Mary drew, Diana pursued a course of encyclopaedic reading she had (to my awe and amazement) undertaken, and I fagged away at German, he pondered a mystic lore of his own: that of some Eastern tongue, the acquisition of which he thought necessary to his plans. Thus engaged, he appeared, sitting in his own recess, quiet and absorbed enough; but that blue eye of his had a habit of leaving the outlandish- looking grammar, and wandering over, and sometimes fixing upon us, his fellow-students, with a curious intensity of observation: if caught, it would be instantly withdrawn; yet ever and anon, it returned searchingly to our table. I wondered what it meant: I wondered, too, at the punctual satisfaction he never failed to exhibit on an occasion that seemed to me of small moment, namely, my weekly visit to Morton school; and still more was I puzzled when, if the day was unfavourable, if there was snow, or rain, or high wind, and his sisters urged me not to go, he would invariably make light of their solicitude, and encourage me to accomplish the task without regard to the elements. "Jane is not such a weakling as you would make her," he would say: "she can bear a mountain blast, or a shower, or a few flakes of snow, as well as any of us. Her constitution is both sound and elastic;--better calculated to endure variations of climate than many more robust." And when I returned, sometimes a good deal tired, and not a little weather-beaten, I never dared complain, because I saw that to murmur would be to vex him: on all occasions fortitude pleased him; the reverse was a special annoyance. One afternoon, however, I got leave to stay at home, because I really had a cold. His sisters were gone to Morton in my stead: I sat reading Schiller; he, deciphering his crabbed Oriental scrolls. As I exchanged a translation for an exercise, I happened to look his way: there I found myself under the influence of the ever-watchful blue eye. How long it had been searching me through and through, and over and over, I cannot tell: so keen was it, and yet so cold, I felt for the moment superstitious--as if I were sitting in the room with something uncanny. "Jane, what are you doing?" "Learning German." "I want you to give up German and learn Hindostanee." "You are not in earnest?" "In such earnest that I must have it so: and I will tell you why." He then went on to explain that Hindostanee was the language he was himself at present studying; that, as he advanced, he was apt to forget the commencement; that it would assist him greatly to have a pupil with whom he might again and again go over the elements, and so fix them thoroughly in his mind; that his choice had hovered for some time between me and his sisters; but that he had fixed on me because he saw I could sit at a task the longest of the three. Would I do him this favour? I should not, perhaps, have to make the sacrifice long, as it wanted now barely three months to his departure. St. John was not a man to be lightly refused: you felt that every impression made on him, either for pain or pleasure, was deep-graved and permanent. I consented. When Diana and Mary returned, the former found her scholar transferred from her to her brother: she laughed, and both she and Mary agreed that St. John should never have persuaded them to such a step. He answered quietly-- "I know it." I found him a very patient, very forbearing, and yet an exacting master: he expected me to do a great deal; and when I fulfilled his expectations, he, in his own way, fully testified his approbation. By degrees, he acquired a certain influence over me that took away my liberty of mind: his praise and notice were more restraining than his indifference. I could no longer talk or laugh freely when he was by, because a tiresomely importunate instinct reminded me that vivacity (at least in me) was distasteful to him. I was so fully aware that only serious moods and occupations were acceptable, that in his presence every effort to sustain or follow any other became vain: I fell under a freezing spell. When he said "go," I went; "come," I came; "do this," I did it. But I did not love my servitude: I wished, many a time, he had continued to neglect me. One evening when, at bedtime, his sisters and I stood round him, bidding him good-night, he kissed each of them, as was his custom; and, as was equally his custom, he gave me his hand. Diana, who chanced to be in a frolicsome humour (_she_ was not painfully controlled by his will; for hers, in another way, was as strong), exclaimed-- "St. John! you used to call Jane your third sister, but you don't treat her as such: you should kiss her too." She pushed me towards him. I thought Diana very provoking, and felt uncomfortably confused; and while I was thus thinking and feeling, St. John bent his head; his Greek face was brought to a level with mine, his eyes questioned my eyes piercingly--he kissed me. There are no such things as marble kisses or ice kisses, or I should say my ecclesiastical cousin's salute belonged to one of these classes; but there may be experiment kisses, and his was an experiment kiss. When given, he viewed me to learn the result; it was not striking: I am sure I did not blush; perhaps I might have turned a little pale, for I felt as if this kiss were a seal affixed to my fetters. He never omitted the ceremony afterwards, and the gravity and quiescence with which I underwent it, seemed to invest it for him with a certain charm. As for me, I daily wished more to please him; but to do so, I felt daily more and more that I must disown half my nature, stifle half my faculties, wrest my tastes from their original bent, force myself to the adoption of pursuits for which I had no natural vocation. He wanted to train me to an elevation I could never reach; it racked me hourly to aspire to the standard he uplifted. The thing was as impossible as to mould my irregular features to his correct and classic pattern, to give to my changeable green eyes the sea-blue tint and solemn lustre of his own. Not his ascendancy alone, however, held me in thrall at present. Of late it had been easy enough for me to look sad: a cankering evil sat at my heart and drained my happiness at its source--the evil of suspense. Perhaps you think I had forgotten Mr. Rochester, reader, amidst these changes of place and fortune. Not for a moment. His idea was still with me, because it was not a vapour sunshine could disperse, nor a sand-traced effigy storms could wash away; it was a name graven on a tablet, fated to last as long as the marble it inscribed. The craving to know what had become of him followed me everywhere; when I was at Morton, I re-entered my cottage every evening to think of that; and now at Moor House, I sought my bedroom each night to brood over it. In the course of my necessary correspondence with Mr. Briggs about the will, I had inquired if he knew anything of Mr. Rochester's present residence and state of health; but, as St. John had conjectured, he was quite ignorant of all concerning him. I then wrote to Mrs. Fairfax, entreating information on the subject. I had calculated with certainty on this step answering my end: I felt sure it would elicit an early answer. I was astonished when a fortnight passed without reply; but when two months wore away, and day after day the post arrived and brought nothing for me, I fell a prey to the keenest anxiety. I wrote again: there was a chance of my first letter having missed. Renewed hope followed renewed effort: it shone like the former for some weeks, then, like it, it faded, flickered: not a line, not a word reached me. When half a year wasted in vain expectancy, my hope died out, and then I felt dark indeed. A fine spring shone round me, which I could not enjoy. Summer approached; Diana tried to cheer me: she said I looked ill, and wished to accompany me to the sea-side. This St. John opposed; he said I did not want dissipation, I wanted employment; my present life was too purposeless, I required an aim; and, I suppose, by way of supplying deficiencies, he prolonged still further my lessons in Hindostanee, and grew more urgent in requiring their accomplishment: and I, like a fool, never thought of resisting him--I could not resist him. One day I had come to my studies in lower spirits than usual; the ebb was occasioned by a poignantly felt disappointment. Hannah had told me in the morning there was a letter for me, and when I went down to take it, almost certain that the long-looked for tidings were vouchsafed me at last, I found only an unimportant note from Mr. Briggs on business. The bitter check had wrung from me some tears; and now, as I sat poring over the crabbed characters and flourishing tropes of an Indian scribe, my eyes filled again. St. John called me to his side to read; in attempting to do this my voice failed me: words were lost in sobs. He and I were the only occupants of the parlour: Diana was practising her music in the drawing-room, Mary was gardening--it was a very fine May day, clear, sunny, and breezy. My companion expressed no surprise at this emotion, nor did he question me as to its cause; he only said-- "We will wait a few minutes, Jane, till you are more composed." And while I smothered the paroxysm with all haste, he sat calm and patient, leaning on his desk, and looking like a physician watching with the eye of science an expected and fully understood crisis in a patient's malady. Having stifled my sobs, wiped my eyes, and muttered something about not being very well that morning, I resumed my task, and succeeded in completing it. St. John put away my books and his, locked his desk, and said-- "Now, Jane, you shall take a walk; and with me." "I will call Diana and Mary." "No; I want only one companion this morning, and that must be you. Put on your things; go out by the kitchen-door: take the road towards the head of Marsh Glen: I will join you in a moment." I know no medium: I never in my life have known any medium in my dealings with positive, hard characters, antagonistic to my own, between absolute submission and determined revolt. I have always faithfully observed the one, up to the very moment of bursting, sometimes with volcanic vehemence, into the other; and as neither present circumstances warranted, nor my present mood inclined me to mutiny, I observed careful obedience to St. John's directions; and in ten minutes I was treading the wild track of the glen, side by side with him. The breeze was from the west: it came over the hills, sweet with scents of heath and rush; the sky was of stainless blue; the stream descending the ravine, swelled with past spring rains, poured along plentiful and clear, catching golden gleams from the sun, and sapphire tints from the firmament. As we advanced and left the track, we trod a soft turf, mossy fine and emerald green, minutely enamelled with a tiny white flower, and spangled with a star-like yellow blossom: the hills, meantime, shut us quite in; for the glen, towards its head, wound to their very core. "Let us rest here," said St. John, as we reached the first stragglers of a battalion of rocks, guarding a sort of pass, beyond which the beck rushed down a waterfall; and where, still a little farther, the mountain shook off turf and flower, had only heath for raiment and crag for gem--where it exaggerated the wild to the savage, and exchanged the fresh for the frowning--where it guarded the forlorn hope of solitude, and a last refuge for silence. I took a seat: St. John stood near me. He looked up the pass and down the hollow; his glance wandered away with the stream, and returned to traverse the unclouded heaven which coloured it: he removed his hat, let the breeze stir his hair and kiss his brow. He seemed in communion with the genius of the haunt: with his eye he bade farewell to something. "And I shall see it again," he said aloud, "in dreams when I sleep by the Ganges: and again in a more remote hour--when another slumber overcomes me--on the shore of a darker stream!" Strange words of a strange love! An austere patriot's passion for his fatherland! He sat down; for half-an-hour we never spoke; neither he to me nor I to him: that interval past, he recommenced-- "Jane, I go in six weeks; I have taken my berth in an East Indiaman which sails on the 20th of June." "God will protect you; for you have undertaken His work," I answered. "Yes," said he, "there is my glory and joy. I am the servant of an infallible Master. I am not going out under human guidance, subject to the defective laws and erring control of my feeble fellow-worms: my king, my lawgiver, my captain, is the All-perfect. It seems strange to me that all round me do not burn to enlist under the same banner,--to join in the same enterprise." "All have not your powers, and it would be folly for the feeble to wish to march with the strong." "I do not speak to the feeble, or think of them: I address only such as are worthy of the work, and competent to accomplish it." "Those are few in number, and difficult to discover." "You say truly; but when found, it is right to stir them up--to urge and exhort them to the effort--to show them what their gifts are, and why they were given--to speak Heaven's message in their ear,--to offer them, direct from God, a place in the ranks of His chosen." "If they are really qualified for the task, will not their own hearts be the first to inform them of it?" I felt as if an awful charm was framing round and gathering over me: I trembled to hear some fatal word spoken which would at once declare and rivet the spell. "And what does _your_ heart say?" demanded St. John. "My heart is mute,--my heart is mute," I answered, struck and thrilled. "Then I must speak for it," continued the deep, relentless voice. "Jane, come with me to India: come as my helpmeet and fellow-labourer." The glen and sky spun round: the hills heaved! It was as if I had heard a summons from Heaven--as if a visionary messenger, like him of Macedonia, had enounced, "Come over and help us!" But I was no apostle,--I could not behold the herald,--I could not receive his call. "Oh, St. John!" I cried, "have some mercy!" I appealed to one who, in the discharge of what he believed his duty, knew neither mercy nor remorse. He continued-- "God and nature intended you for a missionary's wife. It is not personal, but mental endowments they have given you: you are formed for labour, not for love. A missionary's wife you must--shall be. You shall be mine: I claim you--not for my pleasure, but for my Sovereign's service." "I am not fit for it: I have no vocation," I said. He had calculated on these first objections: he was not irritated by them. Indeed, as he leaned back against the crag behind him, folded his arms on his chest, and fixed his countenance, I saw he was prepared for a long and trying opposition, and had taken in a stock of patience to last him to its close--resolved, however, that that close should be conquest for him. "Humility, Jane," said he, "is the groundwork of Christian virtues: you say right that you are not fit for the work. Who is fit for it? Or who, that ever was truly called, believed himself worthy of the summons? I, for instance, am but dust and ashes. With St. Paul, I acknowledge myself the chiefest of sinners; but I do not suffer this sense of my personal vileness to daunt me. I know my Leader: that He is just as well as mighty; and while He has chosen a feeble instrument to perform a great task, He will, from the boundless stores of His providence, supply the inadequacy of the means to the end. Think like me, Jane--trust like me. It is the Rock of Ages I ask you to lean on: do not doubt but it will bear the weight of your human weakness." "I do not understand a missionary life: I have never studied missionary labours." "There I, humble as I am, can give you the aid you want: I can set you your task from hour to hour; stand by you always; help you from moment to moment. This I could do in the beginning: soon (for I know your powers) you would be as strong and apt as myself, and would not require my help." "But my powers--where are they for this undertaking? I do not feel them. Nothing speaks or stirs in me while you talk. I am sensible of no light kindling--no life quickening--no voice counselling or cheering. Oh, I wish I could make you see how much my mind is at this moment like a rayless dungeon, with one shrinking fear fettered in its depths--the fear of being persuaded by you to attempt what I cannot accomplish!" "I have an answer for you--hear it. I have watched you ever since we first met: I have made you my study for ten months. I have proved you in that time by sundry tests: and what have I seen and elicited? In the village school I found you could perform well, punctually, uprightly, labour uncongenial to your habits and inclinations; I saw you could perform it with capacity and tact: you could win while you controlled. In the calm with which you learnt you had become suddenly rich, I read a mind clear of the vice of Demas:--lucre had no undue power over you. In the resolute readiness with which you cut your wealth into four shares, keeping but one to yourself, and relinquishing the three others to the claim of abstract justice, I recognised a soul that revelled in the flame and excitement of sacrifice. In the tractability with which, at my wish, you forsook a study in which you were interested, and adopted another because it interested me; in the untiring assiduity with which you have since persevered in it--in the unflagging energy and unshaken temper with which you have met its difficulties--I acknowledge the complement of the qualities I seek. Jane, you are docile, diligent, disinterested, faithful, constant, and courageous; very gentle, and very heroic: cease to mistrust yourself--I can trust you unreservedly. As a conductress of Indian schools, and a helper amongst Indian women, your assistance will be to me invaluable." My iron shroud contracted round me; persuasion advanced with slow sure step. Shut my eyes as I would, these last words of his succeeded in making the way, which had seemed blocked up, comparatively clear. My work, which had appeared so vague, so hopelessly diffuse, condensed itself as he proceeded, and assumed a definite form under his shaping hand. He waited for an answer. I demanded a quarter of an hour to think, before I again hazarded a reply. "Very willingly," he rejoined; and rising, he strode a little distance up the pass, threw himself down on a swell of heath, and there lay still. {He threw himself down on a swell of heath, and there lay still: p389.jpg} "I _can_ do what he wants me to do: I am forced to see and acknowledge that," I meditated,--"that is, if life be spared me. But I feel mine is not the existence to be long protracted under an Indian sun. What then? He does not care for that: when my time came to die, he would resign me, in all serenity and sanctity, to the God who gave me. The case is very plain before me. In leaving England, I should leave a loved but empty land--Mr. Rochester is not there; and if he were, what is, what can that ever be to me? My business is to live without him now: nothing so absurd, so weak as to drag on from day to day, as if I were waiting some impossible change in circumstances, which might reunite me to him. Of course (as St. John once said) I must seek another interest in life to replace the one lost: is not the occupation he now offers me truly the most glorious man can adopt or God assign? Is it not, by its noble cares and sublime results, the one best calculated to fill the void left by uptorn affections and demolished hopes? I believe I must say, Yes--and yet I shudder. Alas! If I join St. John, I abandon half myself: if I go to India, I go to premature death. And how will the interval between leaving England for India, and India for the grave, be filled? Oh, I know well! That, too, is very clear to my vision. By straining to satisfy St. John till my sinews ache, I _shall_ satisfy him--to the finest central point and farthest outward circle of his expectations. If I _do_ go with him--if I _do_ make the sacrifice he urges, I will make it absolutely: I will throw all on the altar--heart, vitals, the entire victim. He will never love me; but he shall approve me; I will show him energies he has not yet seen, resources he has never suspected. Yes, I can work as hard as he can, and with as little grudging. "Consent, then, to his demand is possible: but for one item--one dreadful item. It is--that he asks me to be his wife, and has no more of a husband's heart for me than that frowning giant of a rock, down which the stream is foaming in yonder gorge. He prizes me as a soldier would a good weapon; and that is all. Unmarried to him, this would never grieve me; but can I let him complete his calculations--coolly put into practice his plans--go through the wedding ceremony? Can I receive from him the bridal ring, endure all the forms of love (which I doubt not he would scrupulously observe) and know that the spirit was quite absent? Can I bear the consciousness that every endearment he bestows is a sacrifice made on principle? No: such a martyrdom would be monstrous. I will never undergo it. As his sister, I might accompany him--not as his wife: I will tell him so." I looked towards the knoll: there he lay, still as a prostrate column; his face turned to me: his eye beaming watchful and keen. He started to his feet and approached me. "I am ready to go to India, if I may go free." "Your answer requires a commentary," he said; "it is not clear." "You have hitherto been my adopted brother--I, your adopted sister: let us continue as such: you and I had better not marry." He shook his head. "Adopted fraternity will not do in this case. If you were my real sister it would be different: I should take you, and seek no wife. But as it is, either our union must be consecrated and sealed by marriage, or it cannot exist: practical obstacles oppose themselves to any other plan. Do you not see it, Jane? Consider a moment--your strong sense will guide you." I did consider; and still my sense, such as it was, directed me only to the fact that we did not love each other as man and wife should: and therefore it inferred we ought not to marry. I said so. "St. John," I returned, "I regard you as a brother--you, me as a sister: so let us continue." "We cannot--we cannot," he answered, with short, sharp determination: "it would not do. You have said you will go with me to India: remember--you have said that." "Conditionally." "Well--well. To the main point--the departure with me from England, the co-operation with me in my future labours--you do not object. You have already as good as put your hand to the plough: you are too consistent to withdraw it. You have but one end to keep in view--how the work you have undertaken can best be done. Simplify your complicated interests, feelings, thoughts, wishes, aims; merge all considerations in one purpose: that of fulfilling with effect--with power--the mission of your great Master. To do so, you must have a coadjutor: not a brother--that is a loose tie--but a husband. I, too, do not want a sister: a sister might any day be taken from me. I want a wife: the sole helpmeet I can influence efficiently in life, and retain absolutely till death." I shuddered as he spoke: I felt his influence in my marrow--his hold on my limbs. "Seek one elsewhere than in me, St. John: seek one fitted to you." "One fitted to my purpose, you mean--fitted to my vocation. Again I tell you it is not the insignificant private individual--the mere man, with the man's selfish senses--I wish to mate: it is the missionary." "And I will give the missionary my energies--it is all he wants--but not myself: that would be only adding the husk and shell to the kernel. For them he has no use: I retain them." "You cannot--you ought not. Do you think God will be satisfied with half an oblation? Will He accept a mutilated sacrifice? It is the cause of God I advocate: it is under His standard I enlist you. I cannot accept on His behalf a divided allegiance: it must be entire." "Oh! I will give my heart to God," I said. "_You_ do not want it." I will not swear, reader, that there was not something of repressed sarcasm both in the tone in which I uttered this sentence, and in the feeling that accompanied it. I had silently feared St. John till now, because I had not understood him. He had held me in awe, because he had held me in doubt. How much of him was saint, how much mortal, I could not heretofore tell: but revelations were being made in this conference: the analysis of his nature was proceeding before my eyes. I saw his fallibilities: I comprehended them. I understood that, sitting there where I did, on the bank of heath, and with that handsome form before me, I sat at the feet of a man, caring as I. The veil fell from his hardness and despotism. Having felt in him the presence of these qualities, I felt his imperfection and took courage. I was with an equal--one with whom I might argue--one whom, if I saw good, I might resist. He was silent after I had uttered the last sentence, and I presently risked an upward glance at his countenance. His eye, bent on me, expressed at once stern surprise and keen inquiry. "Is she sarcastic, and sarcastic to _me_!" it seemed to say. "What does this signify?" "Do not let us forget that this is a solemn matter," he said ere long; "one of which we may neither think nor talk lightly without sin. I trust, Jane, you are in earnest when you say you will serve your heart to God: it is all I want. Once wrench your heart from man, and fix it on your Maker, the advancement of that Maker's spiritual kingdom on earth will be your chief delight and endeavour; you will be ready to do at once whatever furthers that end. You will see what impetus would be given to your efforts and mine by our physical and mental union in marriage: the only union that gives a character of permanent conformity to the destinies and designs of human beings; and, passing over all minor caprices--all trivial difficulties and delicacies of feeling--all scruple about the degree, kind, strength or tenderness of mere personal inclination--you will hasten to enter into that union at once." "Shall I?" I said briefly; and I looked at his features, beautiful in their harmony, but strangely formidable in their still severity; at his brow, commanding but not open; at his eyes, bright and deep and searching, but never soft; at his tall imposing figure; and fancied myself in idea _his wife_. Oh! it would never do! As his curate, his comrade, all would be right: I would cross oceans with him in that capacity; toil under Eastern suns, in Asian deserts with him in that office; admire and emulate his courage and devotion and vigour; accommodate quietly to his masterhood; smile undisturbed at his ineradicable ambition; discriminate the Christian from the man: profoundly esteem the one, and freely forgive the other. I should suffer often, no doubt, attached to him only in this capacity: my body would be under rather a stringent yoke, but my heart and mind would be free. I should still have my unblighted self to turn to: my natural unenslaved feelings with which to communicate in moments of loneliness. There would be recesses in my mind which would be only mine, to which he never came, and sentiments growing there fresh and sheltered which his austerity could never blight, nor his measured warrior-march trample down: but as his wife--at his side always, and always restrained, and always checked--forced to keep the fire of my nature continually low, to compel it to burn inwardly and never utter a cry, though the imprisoned flame consumed vital after vital--_this_ would be unendurable. "St. John!" I exclaimed, when I had got so far in my meditation. "Well?" he answered icily. "I repeat I freely consent to go with you as your fellow-missionary, but not as your wife; I cannot marry you and become part of you." "A part of me you must become," he answered steadily; "otherwise the whole bargain is void. How can I, a man not yet thirty, take out with me to India a girl of nineteen, unless she be married to me? How can we be for ever together--sometimes in solitudes, sometimes amidst savage tribes--and unwed?" "Very well," I said shortly; "under the circumstances, quite as well as if I were either your real sister, or a man and a clergyman like yourself." "It is known that you are not my sister; I cannot introduce you as such: to attempt it would be to fasten injurious suspicions on us both. And for the rest, though you have a man's vigorous brain, you have a woman's heart and--it would not do." "It would do," I affirmed with some disdain, "perfectly well. I have a woman's heart, but not where you are concerned; for you I have only a comrade's constancy; a fellow-soldier's frankness, fidelity, fraternity, if you like; a neophyte's respect and submission to his hierophant: nothing more--don't fear." "It is what I want," he said, speaking to himself; "it is just what I want. And there are obstacles in the way: they must be hewn down. Jane, you would not repent marrying me--be certain of that; we _must_ be married. I repeat it: there is no other way; and undoubtedly enough of love would follow upon marriage to render the union right even in your eyes." "I scorn your idea of love," I could not help saying, as I rose up and stood before him, leaning my back against the rock. "I scorn the counterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St. John, and I scorn you when you offer it." He looked at me fixedly, compressing his well-cut lips while he did so. Whether he was incensed or surprised, or what, it was not easy to tell: he could command his countenance thoroughly. "I scarcely expected to hear that expression from you," he said: "I think I have done and uttered nothing to deserve scorn." I was touched by his gentle tone, and overawed by his high, calm mien. "Forgive me the words, St. John; but it is your own fault that I have been roused to speak so unguardedly. You have introduced a topic on which our natures are at variance--a topic we should never discuss: the very name of love is an apple of discord between us. If the reality were required, what should we do? How should we feel? My dear cousin, abandon your scheme of marriage--forget it." "No," said he; "it is a long-cherished scheme, and the only one which can secure my great end: but I shall urge you no further at present. To-morrow, I leave home for Cambridge: I have many friends there to whom I should wish to say farewell. I shall be absent a fortnight--take that space of time to consider my offer: and do not forget that if you reject it, it is not me you deny, but God. Through my means, He opens to you a noble career; as my wife only can you enter upon it. Refuse to be my wife, and you limit yourself for ever to a track of selfish ease and barren obscurity. Tremble lest in that case you should be numbered with those who have denied the faith, and are worse than infidels!" He had done. Turning from me, he once more "Looked to river, looked to hill." But this time his feelings were all pent in his heart: I was not worthy to hear them uttered. As I walked by his side homeward, I read well in his iron silence all he felt towards me: the disappointment of an austere and despotic nature, which has met resistance where it expected submission--the disapprobation of a cool, inflexible judgment, which has detected in another feelings and views in which it has no power to sympathise: in short, as a man, he would have wished to coerce me into obedience: it was only as a sincere Christian he bore so patiently with my perversity, and allowed so long a space for reflection and repentance. That night, after he had kissed his sisters, he thought proper to forget even to shake hands with me, but left the room in silence. I--who, though I had no love, had much friendship for him--was hurt by the marked omission: so much hurt that tears started to my eyes. "I see you and St. John have been quarrelling, Jane," said Diana, "during your walk on the moor. But go after him; he is now lingering in the passage expecting you--he will make it up." I have not much pride under such circumstances: I would always rather be happy than dignified; and I ran after him--he stood at the foot of the stairs. "Good-night, St. John," said I. "Good-night, Jane," he replied calmly. "Then shake hands," I added. What a cold, loose touch, he impressed on my fingers! He was deeply displeased by what had occurred that day; cordiality would not warm, nor tears move him. No happy reconciliation was to be had with him--no cheering smile or generous word: but still the Christian was patient and placid; and when I asked him if he forgave me, he answered that he was not in the habit of cherishing the remembrance of vexation; that he had nothing to forgive, not having been offended. And with that answer he left me. I would much rather he had knocked me down. CHAPTER XXXV He did not leave for Cambridge the next day, as he had said he would. He deferred his departure a whole week, and during that time he made me feel what severe punishment a good yet stern, a conscientious yet implacable man can inflict on one who has offended him. Without one overt act of hostility, one upbraiding word, he contrived to impress me momently with the conviction that I was put beyond the pale of his favour. Not that St. John harboured a spirit of unchristian vindictiveness--not that he would have injured a hair of my head, if it had been fully in his power to do so. Both by nature and principle, he was superior to the mean gratification of vengeance: he had forgiven me for saying I scorned him and his love, but he had not forgotten the words; and as long as he and I lived he never would forget them. I saw by his look, when he turned to me, that they were always written on the air between me and him; whenever I spoke, they sounded in my voice to his ear, and their echo toned every answer he gave me. He did not abstain from conversing with me: he even called me as usual each morning to join him at his desk; and I fear the corrupt man within him had a pleasure unimparted to, and unshared by, the pure Christian, in evincing with what skill he could, while acting and speaking apparently just as usual, extract from every deed and every phrase the spirit of interest and approval which had formerly communicated a certain austere charm to his language and manner. To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a speaking instrument--nothing more. All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime. Especially I felt this when I made any attempt to propitiate him. No ruth met my ruth. _He_ experienced no suffering from estrangement--no yearning after reconciliation; and though, more than once, my fast falling tears blistered the page over which we both bent, they produced no more effect on him than if his heart had been really a matter of stone or metal. To his sisters, meantime, he was somewhat kinder than usual: as if afraid that mere coldness would not sufficiently convince me how completely I was banished and banned, he added the force of contrast; and this I am sure he did not by force, but on principle. The night before he left home, happening to see him walking in the garden about sunset, and remembering, as I looked at him, that this man, alienated as he now was, had once saved my life, and that we were near relations, I was moved to make a last attempt to regain his friendship. I went out and approached him as he stood leaning over the little gate; I spoke to the point at once. "St. John, I am unhappy because you are still angry with me. Let us be friends." "I hope we are friends," was the unmoved reply; while he still watched the rising of the moon, which he had been contemplating as I approached. "No, St. John, we are not friends as we were. You know that." "Are we not? That is wrong. For my part, I wish you no ill and all good." "I believe you, St. John; for I am sure you are incapable of wishing any one ill; but, as I am your kinswoman, I should desire somewhat more of affection than that sort of general philanthropy you extend to mere strangers." "Of course," he said. "Your wish is reasonable, and I am far from regarding you as a stranger." This, spoken in a cool, tranquil tone, was mortifying and baffling enough. Had I attended to the suggestions of pride and ire, I should immediately have left him; but something worked within me more strongly than those feelings could. I deeply venerated my cousin's talent and principle. His friendship was of value to me: to lose it tried me severely. I would not so soon relinquish the attempt to reconquer it. "Must we part in this way, St. John? And when you go to India, will you leave me so, without a kinder word than you have yet spoken?" He now turned quite from the moon and faced me. "When I go to India, Jane, will I leave you! What! do you not go to India?" "You said I could not unless I married you." "And you will not marry me! You adhere to that resolution?" Reader, do you know, as I do, what terror those cold people can put into the ice of their questions? How much of the fall of the avalanche is in their anger? of the breaking up of the frozen sea in their displeasure? "No. St. John, I will not marry you. I adhere to my resolution." The avalanche had shaken and slid a little forward, but it did not yet crash down. "Once more, why this refusal?" he asked. "Formerly," I answered, "because you did not love me; now, I reply, because you almost hate me. If I were to marry you, you would kill me. You are killing me now." His lips and cheeks turned white--quite white. "_I should kill you_--_I am killing you_? Your words are such as ought not to be used: violent, unfeminine, and untrue. They betray an unfortunate state of mind: they merit severe reproof: they would seem inexcusable, but that it is the duty of man to forgive his fellow even until seventy-and-seven times." I had finished the business now. While earnestly wishing to erase from his mind the trace of my former offence, I had stamped on that tenacious surface another and far deeper impression, I had burnt it in. "Now you will indeed hate me," I said. "It is useless to attempt to conciliate you: I see I have made an eternal enemy of you." A fresh wrong did these words inflict: the worse, because they touched on the truth. That bloodless lip quivered to a temporary spasm. I knew the steely ire I had whetted. I was heart-wrung. "You utterly misinterpret my words," I said, at once seizing his hand: "I have no intention to grieve or pain you--indeed, I have not." Most bitterly he smiled--most decidedly he withdrew his hand from mine. "And now you recall your promise, and will not go to India at all, I presume?" said he, after a considerable pause. "Yes, I will, as your assistant," I answered. A very long silence succeeded. What struggle there was in him between Nature and Grace in this interval, I cannot tell: only singular gleams scintillated in his eyes, and strange shadows passed over his face. He spoke at last. "I before proved to you the absurdity of a single woman of your age proposing to accompany abroad a single man of mine. I proved it to you in such terms as, I should have thought, would have prevented your ever again alluding to the plan. That you have done so, I regret--for your sake." I interrupted him. Anything like a tangible reproach gave me courage at once. "Keep to common sense, St. John: you are verging on nonsense. You pretend to be shocked by what I have said. You are not really shocked: for, with your superior mind, you cannot be either so dull or so conceited as to misunderstand my meaning. I say again, I will be your curate, if you like, but never your wife." Again he turned lividly pale; but, as before, controlled his passion perfectly. He answered emphatically but calmly-- "A female curate, who is not my wife, would never suit me. With me, then, it seems, you cannot go: but if you are sincere in your offer, I will, while in town, speak to a married missionary, whose wife needs a coadjutor. Your own fortune will make you independent of the Society's aid; and thus you may still be spared the dishonour of breaking your promise and deserting the band you engaged to join." Now I never had, as the reader knows, either given any formal promise or entered into any engagement; and this language was all much too hard and much too despotic for the occasion. I replied-- "There is no dishonour, no breach of promise, no desertion in the case. I am not under the slightest obligation to go to India, especially with strangers. With you I would have ventured much, because I admire, confide in, and, as a sister, I love you; but I am convinced that, go when and with whom I would, I should not live long in that climate." "Ah! you are afraid of yourself," he said, curling his lip. "I am. God did not give me my life to throw away; and to do as you wish me would, I begin to think, be almost equivalent to committing suicide. Moreover, before I definitively resolve on quitting England, I will know for certain whether I cannot be of greater use by remaining in it than by leaving it." "What do you mean?" "It would be fruitless to attempt to explain; but there is a point on which I have long endured painful doubt, and I can go nowhere till by some means that doubt is removed." "I know where your heart turns and to what it clings. The interest you cherish is lawless and unconsecrated. Long since you ought to have crushed it: now you should blush to allude to it. You think of Mr. Rochester?" It was true. I confessed it by silence. "Are you going to seek Mr. Rochester?" "I must find out what is become of him." "It remains for me, then," he said, "to remember you in my prayers, and to entreat God for you, in all earnestness, that you may not indeed become a castaway. I had thought I recognised in you one of the chosen. But God sees not as man sees: _His_ will be done--" He opened the gate, passed through it, and strayed away down the glen. He was soon out of sight. On re-entering the parlour, I found Diana standing at the window, looking very thoughtful. Diana was a great deal taller than I: she put her hand on my shoulder, and, stooping, examined my face. "Jane," she said, "you are always agitated and pale now. I am sure there is something the matter. Tell me what business St. John and you have on hands. I have watched you this half hour from the window; you must forgive my being such a spy, but for a long time I have fancied I hardly know what. St. John is a strange being--" She paused--I did not speak: soon she resumed-- "That brother of mine cherishes peculiar views of some sort respecting you, I am sure: he has long distinguished you by a notice and interest he never showed to any one else--to what end? I wish he loved you--does he, Jane?" I put her cool hand to my hot forehead; "No, Die, not one whit." "Then why does he follow you so with his eyes, and get you so frequently alone with him, and keep you so continually at his side? Mary and I had both concluded he wished you to marry him." "He does--he has asked me to be his wife." Diana clapped her hands. "That is just what we hoped and thought! And you will marry him, Jane, won't you? And then he will stay in England." "Far from that, Diana; his sole idea in proposing to me is to procure a fitting fellow-labourer in his Indian toils." "What! He wishes you to go to India?" "Yes." "Madness!" she exclaimed. "You would not live three months there, I am certain. You never shall go: you have not consented, have you, Jane?" "I have refused to marry him--" "And have consequently displeased him?" she suggested. "Deeply: he will never forgive me, I fear: yet I offered to accompany him as his sister." "It was frantic folly to do so, Jane. Think of the task you undertook--one of incessant fatigue, where fatigue kills even the strong, and you are weak. St. John--you know him--would urge you to impossibilities: with him there would be no permission to rest during the hot hours; and unfortunately, I have noticed, whatever he exacts, you force yourself to perform. I am astonished you found courage to refuse his hand. You do not love him then, Jane?" "Not as a husband." "Yet he is a handsome fellow." "And I am so plain, you see, Die. We should never suit." "Plain! You? Not at all. You are much too pretty, as well as too good, to be grilled alive in Calcutta." And again she earnestly conjured me to give up all thoughts of going out with her brother. "I must indeed," I said; "for when just now I repeated the offer of serving him for a deacon, he expressed himself shocked at my want of decency. He seemed to think I had committed an impropriety in proposing to accompany him unmarried: as if I had not from the first hoped to find in him a brother, and habitually regarded him as such." "What makes you say he does not love you, Jane?" "You should hear himself on the subject. He has again and again explained that it is not himself, but his office he wishes to mate. He has told me I am formed for labour--not for love: which is true, no doubt. But, in my opinion, if I am not formed for love, it follows that I am not formed for marriage. Would it not be strange, Die, to be chained for life to a man who regarded one but as a useful tool?" "Insupportable--unnatural--out of the question!" "And then," I continued, "though I have only sisterly affection for him now, yet, if forced to be his wife, I can imagine the possibility of conceiving an inevitable, strange, torturing kind of love for him, because he is so talented; and there is often a certain heroic grandeur in his look, manner, and conversation. In that case, my lot would become unspeakably wretched. He would not want me to love him; and if I showed the feeling, he would make me sensible that it was a superfluity, unrequired by him, unbecoming in me. I know he would." "And yet St. John is a good man," said Diana. "He is a good and a great man; but he forgets, pitilessly, the feelings and claims of little people, in pursuing his own large views. It is better, therefore, for the insignificant to keep out of his way, lest, in his progress, he should trample them down. Here he comes! I will leave you, Diana." And I hastened upstairs as I saw him entering the garden. But I was forced to meet him again at supper. During that meal he appeared just as composed as usual. I had thought he would hardly speak to me, and I was certain he had given up the pursuit of his matrimonial scheme: the sequel showed I was mistaken on both points. He addressed me precisely in his ordinary manner, or what had, of late, been his ordinary manner--one scrupulously polite. No doubt he had invoked the help of the Holy Spirit to subdue the anger I had roused in him, and now believed he had forgiven me once more. For the evening reading before prayers, he selected the twenty-first chapter of Revelation. It was at all times pleasant to listen while from his lips fell the words of the Bible: never did his fine voice sound at once so sweet and full--never did his manner become so impressive in its noble simplicity, as when he delivered the oracles of God: and to-night that voice took a more solemn tone--that manner a more thrilling meaning--as he sat in the midst of his household circle (the May moon shining in through the uncurtained window, and rendering almost unnecessary the light of the candle on the table): as he sat there, bending over the great old Bible, and described from its page the vision of the new heaven and the new earth--told how God would come to dwell with men, how He would wipe away all tears from their eyes, and promised that there should be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, nor any more pain, because the former things were passed away. The succeeding words thrilled me strangely as he spoke them: especially as I felt, by the slight, indescribable alteration in sound, that in uttering them, his eye had turned on me. "He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son. But," was slowly, distinctly read, "the fearful, the unbelieving, &c., shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second death." Henceforward, I knew what fate St. John feared for me. A calm, subdued triumph, blent with a longing earnestness, marked his enunciation of the last glorious verses of that chapter. The reader believed his name was already written in the Lamb's book of life, and he yearned after the hour which should admit him to the city to which the kings of the earth bring their glory and honour; which has no need of sun or moon to shine in it, because the glory of God lightens it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. In the prayer following the chapter, all his energy gathered--all his stern zeal woke: he was in deep earnest, wrestling with God, and resolved on a conquest. He supplicated strength for the weak-hearted; guidance for wanderers from the fold: a return, even at the eleventh hour, for those whom the temptations of the world and the flesh were luring from the narrow path. He asked, he urged, he claimed the boon of a brand snatched from the burning. Earnestness is ever deeply solemn: first, as I listened to that prayer, I wondered at his; then, when it continued and rose, I was touched by it, and at last awed. He felt the greatness and goodness of his purpose so sincerely: others who heard him plead for it, could not but feel it too. The prayer over, we took leave of him: he was to go at a very early hour in the morning. Diana and Mary having kissed him, left the room--in compliance, I think, with a whispered hint from him: I tendered my hand, and wished him a pleasant journey. "Thank you, Jane. As I said, I shall return from Cambridge in a fortnight: that space, then, is yet left you for reflection. If I listened to human pride, I should say no more to you of marriage with me; but I listen to my duty, and keep steadily in view my first aim--to do all things to the glory of God. My Master was long-suffering: so will I be. I cannot give you up to perdition as a vessel of wrath: repent--resolve, while there is yet time. Remember, we are bid to work while it is day--warned that 'the night cometh when no man shall work.' Remember the fate of Dives, who had his good things in this life. God give you strength to choose that better part which shall not be taken from you!" He laid his hand on my head as he uttered the last words. He had spoken earnestly, mildly: his look was not, indeed, that of a lover beholding his mistress, but it was that of a pastor recalling his wandering sheep--or better, of a guardian angel watching the soul for which he is responsible. All men of talent, whether they be men of feeling or not; whether they be zealots, or aspirants, or despots--provided only they be sincere--have their sublime moments, when they subdue and rule. I felt veneration for St. John--veneration so strong that its impetus thrust me at once to the point I had so long shunned. I was tempted to cease struggling with him--to rush down the torrent of his will into the gulf of his existence, and there lose my own. I was almost as hard beset by him now as I had been once before, in a different way, by another. I was a fool both times. To have yielded then would have been an error of principle; to have yielded now would have been an error of judgment. So I think at this hour, when I look back to the crisis through the quiet medium of time: I was unconscious of folly at the instant. I stood motionless under my hierophant's touch. My refusals were forgotten--my fears overcome--my wrestlings paralysed. The Impossible--_i.e._, my marriage with St. John--was fast becoming the Possible. All was changing utterly with a sudden sweep. Religion called--Angels beckoned--God commanded--life rolled together like a scroll--death's gates opening, showed eternity beyond: it seemed, that for safety and bliss there, all here might be sacrificed in a second. The dim room was full of visions. "Could you decide now?" asked the missionary. The inquiry was put in gentle tones: he drew me to him as gently. Oh, that gentleness! how far more potent is it than force! I could resist St. John's wrath: I grew pliant as a reed under his kindness. Yet I knew all the time, if I yielded now, I should not the less be made to repent, some day, of my former rebellion. His nature was not changed by one hour of solemn prayer: it was only elevated. "I could decide if I were but certain," I answered: "were I but convinced that it is God's will I should marry you, I could vow to marry you here and now--come afterwards what would!" "My prayers are heard!" ejaculated St. John. He pressed his hand firmer on my head, as if he claimed me: he surrounded me with his arm, _almost_ as if he loved me (I say _almost_--I knew the difference--for I had felt what it was to be loved; but, like him, I had now put love out of the question, and thought only of duty). I contended with my inward dimness of vision, before which clouds yet rolled. I sincerely, deeply, fervently longed to do what was right; and only that. "Show me, show me the path!" I entreated of Heaven. I was excited more than I had ever been; and whether what followed was the effect of excitement the reader shall judge. All the house was still; for I believe all, except St. John and myself, were now retired to rest. The one candle was dying out: the room was full of moonlight. My heart beat fast and thick: I heard its throb. Suddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through, and passed at once to my head and extremities. The feeling was not like an electric shock, but it was quite as sharp, as strange, as startling: it acted on my senses as if their utmost activity hitherto had been but torpor, from which they were now summoned and forced to wake. They rose expectant: eye and ear waited while the flesh quivered on my bones. "What have you heard? What do you see?" asked St. John. I saw nothing, but I heard a voice somewhere cry-- "Jane! Jane! Jane!"--nothing more. "O God! what is it?" I gasped. I might have said, "Where is it?" for it did not seem in the room--nor in the house--nor in the garden; it did not come out of the air--nor from under the earth--nor from overhead. I had heard it--where, or whence, for ever impossible to know! And it was the voice of a human being--a known, loved, well-remembered voice--that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently. "I am coming!" I cried. "Wait for me! Oh, I will come!" I flew to the door and looked into the passage: it was dark. I ran out into the garden: it was void. "Where are you?" I exclaimed. The hills beyond Marsh Glen sent the answer faintly back--"Where are you?" I listened. The wind sighed low in the firs: all was moorland loneliness and midnight hush. "Down superstition!" I commented, as that spectre rose up black by the black yew at the gate. "This is not thy deception, nor thy witchcraft: it is the work of nature. She was roused, and did--no miracle--but her best." I broke from St. John, who had followed, and would have detained me. It was _my_ time to assume ascendency. _My_ powers were in play and in force. I told him to forbear question or remark; I desired him to leave me: I must and would be alone. He obeyed at once. Where there is energy to command well enough, obedience never fails. I mounted to my chamber; locked myself in; fell on my knees; and prayed in my way--a different way to St. John's, but effective in its own fashion. I seemed to penetrate very near a Mighty Spirit; and my soul rushed out in gratitude at His feet. I rose from the thanksgiving--took a resolve--and lay down, unscared, enlightened--eager but for the daylight. CHAPTER XXXVI The daylight came. I rose at dawn. I busied myself for an hour or two with arranging my things in my chamber, drawers, and wardrobe, in the order wherein I should wish to leave them during a brief absence. Meantime, I heard St. John quit his room. He stopped at my door: I feared he would knock--no, but a slip of paper was passed under the door. I took it up. It bore these words-- "You left me too suddenly last night. Had you stayed but a little longer, you would have laid your hand on the Christian's cross and the angel's crown. I shall expect your clear decision when I return this day fortnight. Meantime, watch and pray that you enter not into temptation: the spirit, I trust, is willing, but the flesh, I see, is weak. I shall pray for you hourly.--Yours, ST. JOHN." "My spirit," I answered mentally, "is willing to do what is right; and my flesh, I hope, is strong enough to accomplish the will of Heaven, when once that will is distinctly known to me. At any rate, it shall be strong enough to search--inquire--to grope an outlet from this cloud of doubt, and find the open day of certainty." It was the first of June; yet the morning was overcast and chilly: rain beat fast on my casement. I heard the front-door open, and St. John pass out. Looking through the window, I saw him traverse the garden. He took the way over the misty moors in the direction of Whitcross--there he would meet the coach. "In a few more hours I shall succeed you in that track, cousin," thought I: "I too have a coach to meet at Whitcross. I too have some to see and ask after in England, before I depart for ever." It wanted yet two hours of breakfast-time. I filled the interval in walking softly about my room, and pondering the visitation which had given my plans their present bent. I recalled that inward sensation I had experienced: for I could recall it, with all its unspeakable strangeness. I recalled the voice I had heard; again I questioned whence it came, as vainly as before: it seemed in _me_--not in the external world. I asked was it a mere nervous impression--a delusion? I could not conceive or believe: it was more like an inspiration. The wondrous shock of feeling had come like the earthquake which shook the foundations of Paul and Silas's prison; it had opened the doors of the soul's cell and loosed its bands--it had wakened it out of its sleep, whence it sprang trembling, listening, aghast; then vibrated thrice a cry on my startled ear, and in my quaking heart and through my spirit, which neither feared nor shook, but exulted as if in joy over the success of one effort it had been privileged to make, independent of the cumbrous body. "Ere many days," I said, as I terminated my musings, "I will know something of him whose voice seemed last night to summon me. Letters have proved of no avail--personal inquiry shall replace them." At breakfast I announced to Diana and Mary that I was going a journey, and should be absent at least four days. "Alone, Jane?" they asked. "Yes; it was to see or hear news of a friend about whom I had for some time been uneasy." They might have said, as I have no doubt they thought, that they had believed me to be without any friends save them: for, indeed, I had often said so; but, with their true natural delicacy, they abstained from comment, except that Diana asked me if I was sure I was well enough to travel. I looked very pale, she observed. I replied, that nothing ailed me save anxiety of mind, which I hoped soon to alleviate. It was easy to make my further arrangements; for I was troubled with no inquiries--no surmises. Having once explained to them that I could not now be explicit about my plans, they kindly and wisely acquiesced in the silence with which I pursued them, according to me the privilege of free action I should under similar circumstances have accorded them. I left Moor House at three o'clock p.m., and soon after four I stood at the foot of the sign-post of Whitcross, waiting the arrival of the coach which was to take me to distant Thornfield. Amidst the silence of those solitary roads and desert hills, I heard it approach from a great distance. It was the same vehicle whence, a year ago, I had alighted one summer evening on this very spot--how desolate, and hopeless, and objectless! It stopped as I beckoned. I entered--not now obliged to part with my whole fortune as the price of its accommodation. Once more on the road to Thornfield, I felt like the messenger-pigeon flying home. It was a journey of six-and-thirty hours. I had set out from Whitcross on a Tuesday afternoon, and early on the succeeding Thursday morning the coach stopped to water the horses at a wayside inn, situated in the midst of scenery whose green hedges and large fields and low pastoral hills (how mild of feature and verdant of hue compared with the stern North- Midland moors of Morton!) met my eye like the lineaments of a once familiar face. Yes, I knew the character of this landscape: I was sure we were near my bourne. "How far is Thornfield Hall from here?" I asked of the ostler. "Just two miles, ma'am, across the fields." "My journey is closed," I thought to myself. I got out of the coach, gave a box I had into the ostler's charge, to be kept till I called for it; paid my fare; satisfied the coachman, and was going: the brightening day gleamed on the sign of the inn, and I read in gilt letters, "The Rochester Arms." My heart leapt up: I was already on my master's very lands. It fell again: the thought struck it:-- "Your master himself may be beyond the British Channel, for aught you know: and then, if he is at Thornfield Hall, towards which you hasten, who besides him is there? His lunatic wife: and you have nothing to do with him: you dare not speak to him or seek his presence. You have lost your labour--you had better go no farther," urged the monitor. "Ask information of the people at the inn; they can give you all you seek: they can solve your doubts at once. Go up to that man, and inquire if Mr. Rochester be at home." The suggestion was sensible, and yet I could not force myself to act on it. I so dreaded a reply that would crush me with despair. To prolong doubt was to prolong hope. I might yet once more see the Hall under the ray of her star. There was the stile before me--the very fields through which I had hurried, blind, deaf, distracted with a revengeful fury tracking and scourging me, on the morning I fled from Thornfield: ere I well knew what course I had resolved to take, I was in the midst of them. How fast I walked! How I ran sometimes! How I looked forward to catch the first view of the well-known woods! With what feelings I welcomed single trees I knew, and familiar glimpses of meadow and hill between them! At last the woods rose; the rookery clustered dark; a loud cawing broke the morning stillness. Strange delight inspired me: on I hastened. Another field crossed--a lane threaded--and there were the courtyard walls--the back offices: the house itself, the rookery still hid. "My first view of it shall be in front," I determined, "where its bold battlements will strike the eye nobly at once, and where I can single out my master's very window: perhaps he will be standing at it--he rises early: perhaps he is now walking in the orchard, or on the pavement in front. Could I but see him!--but a moment! Surely, in that case, I should not be so mad as to run to him? I cannot tell--I am not certain. And if I did--what then? God bless him! What then? Who would be hurt by my once more tasting the life his glance can give me? I rave: perhaps at this moment he is watching the sun rise over the Pyrenees, or on the tideless sea of the south." I had coasted along the lower wall of the orchard--turned its angle: there was a gate just there, opening into the meadow, between two stone pillars crowned by stone balls. From behind one pillar I could peep round quietly at the full front of the mansion. I advanced my head with precaution, desirous to ascertain if any bedroom window-blinds were yet drawn up: battlements, windows, long front--all from this sheltered station were at my command. The crows sailing overhead perhaps watched me while I took this survey. I wonder what they thought. They must have considered I was very careful and timid at first, and that gradually I grew very bold and reckless. A peep, and then a long stare; and then a departure from my niche and a straying out into the meadow; and a sudden stop full in front of the great mansion, and a protracted, hardy gaze towards it. "What affectation of diffidence was this at first?" they might have demanded; "what stupid regardlessness now?" Hear an illustration, reader. A lover finds his mistress asleep on a mossy bank; he wishes to catch a glimpse of her fair face without waking her. He steals softly over the grass, careful to make no sound; he pauses--fancying she has stirred: he withdraws: not for worlds would he be seen. All is still: he again advances: he bends above her; a light veil rests on her features: he lifts it, bends lower; now his eyes anticipate the vision of beauty--warm, and blooming, and lovely, in rest. How hurried was their first glance! But how they fix! How he starts! How he suddenly and vehemently clasps in both arms the form he dared not, a moment since, touch with his finger! How he calls aloud a name, and drops his burden, and gazes on it wildly! He thus grasps and cries, and gazes, because he no longer fears to waken by any sound he can utter--by any movement he can make. He thought his love slept sweetly: he finds she is stone dead. I looked with timorous joy towards a stately house: I saw a blackened ruin. No need to cower behind a gate-post, indeed!--to peep up at chamber lattices, fearing life was astir behind them! No need to listen for doors opening--to fancy steps on the pavement or the gravel-walk! The lawn, the grounds were trodden and waste: the portal yawned void. The front was, as I had once seen it in a dream, but a well-like wall, very high and very fragile-looking, perforated with paneless windows: no roof, no battlements, no chimneys--all had crashed in. And there was the silence of death about it: the solitude of a lonesome wild. No wonder that letters addressed to people here had never received an answer: as well despatch epistles to a vault in a church aisle. The grim blackness of the stones told by what fate the Hall had fallen--by conflagration: but how kindled? What story belonged to this disaster? What loss, besides mortar and marble and wood-work had followed upon it? Had life been wrecked as well as property? If so, whose? Dreadful question: there was no one here to answer it--not even dumb sign, mute token. In wandering round the shattered walls and through the devastated interior, I gathered evidence that the calamity was not of late occurrence. Winter snows, I thought, had drifted through that void arch, winter rains beaten in at those hollow casements; for, amidst the drenched piles of rubbish, spring had cherished vegetation: grass and weed grew here and there between the stones and fallen rafters. And oh! where meantime was the hapless owner of this wreck? In what land? Under what auspices? My eye involuntarily wandered to the grey church tower near the gates, and I asked, "Is he with Damer de Rochester, sharing the shelter of his narrow marble house?" Some answer must be had to these questions. I could find it nowhere but at the inn, and thither, ere long, I returned. The host himself brought my breakfast into the parlour. I requested him to shut the door and sit down: I had some questions to ask him. But when he complied, I scarcely knew how to begin; such horror had I of the possible answers. And yet the spectacle of desolation I had just left prepared me in a measure for a tale of misery. The host was a respectable-looking, middle-aged man. "You know Thornfield Hall, of course?" I managed to say at last. "Yes, ma'am; I lived there once." "Did you?" Not in my time, I thought: you are a stranger to me. "I was the late Mr. Rochester's butler," he added. The late! I seem to have received, with full force, the blow I had been trying to evade. "The late!" I gasped. "Is he dead?" "I mean the present gentleman, Mr. Edward's father," he explained. I breathed again: my blood resumed its flow. Fully assured by these words that Mr. Edward--_my_ Mr. Rochester (God bless him, wherever he was!)--was at least alive: was, in short, "the present gentleman." Gladdening words! It seemed I could hear all that was to come--whatever the disclosures might be--with comparative tranquillity. Since he was not in the grave, I could bear, I thought, to learn that he was at the Antipodes. "Is Mr. Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now?" I asked, knowing, of course, what the answer would be, but yet desirous of deferring the direct question as to where he really was. "No, ma'am--oh, no! No one is living there. I suppose you are a stranger in these parts, or you would have heard what happened last autumn,--Thornfield Hall is quite a ruin: it was burnt down just about harvest-time. A dreadful calamity! such an immense quantity of valuable property destroyed: hardly any of the furniture could be saved. The fire broke out at dead of night, and before the engines arrived from Millcote, the building was one mass of flame. It was a terrible spectacle: I witnessed it myself." "At dead of night!" I muttered. Yes, that was ever the hour of fatality at Thornfield. "Was it known how it originated?" I demanded. "They guessed, ma'am: they guessed. Indeed, I should say it was ascertained beyond a doubt. You are not perhaps aware," he continued, edging his chair a little nearer the table, and speaking low, "that there was a lady--a--a lunatic, kept in the house?" "I have heard something of it." "She was kept in very close confinement, ma'am: people even for some years was not absolutely certain of her existence. No one saw her: they only knew by rumour that such a person was at the Hall; and who or what she was it was difficult to conjecture. They said Mr. Edward had brought her from abroad, and some believed she had been his mistress. But a queer thing happened a year since--a very queer thing." I feared now to hear my own story. I endeavoured to recall him to the main fact. "And this lady?" "This lady, ma'am," he answered, "turned out to be Mr. Rochester's wife! The discovery was brought about in the strangest way. There was a young lady, a governess at the Hall, that Mr. Rochester fell in--" "But the fire," I suggested. "I'm coming to that, ma'am--that Mr. Edward fell in love with. The servants say they never saw anybody so much in love as he was: he was after her continually. They used to watch him--servants will, you know, ma'am--and he set store on her past everything: for all, nobody but him thought her so very handsome. She was a little small thing, they say, almost like a child. I never saw her myself; but I've heard Leah, the house-maid, tell of her. Leah liked her well enough. Mr. Rochester was about forty, and this governess not twenty; and you see, when gentlemen of his age fall in love with girls, they are often like as if they were bewitched. Well, he would marry her." "You shall tell me this part of the story another time," I said; "but now I have a particular reason for wishing to hear all about the fire. Was it suspected that this lunatic, Mrs. Rochester, had any hand in it?" "You've hit it, ma'am: it's quite certain that it was her, and nobody but her, that set it going. She had a woman to take care of her called Mrs. Poole--an able woman in her line, and very trustworthy, but for one fault--a fault common to a deal of them nurses and matrons--she _kept a private bottle of gin by her_, and now and then took a drop over-much. It is excusable, for she had a hard life of it: but still it was dangerous; for when Mrs. Poole was fast asleep after the gin and water, the mad lady, who was as cunning as a witch, would take the keys out of her pocket, let herself out of her chamber, and go roaming about the house, doing any wild mischief that came into her head. They say she had nearly burnt her husband in his bed once: but I don't know about that. However, on this night, she set fire first to the hangings of the room next her own, and then she got down to a lower storey, and made her way to the chamber that had been the governess's--(she was like as if she knew somehow how matters had gone on, and had a spite at her)--and she kindled the bed there; but there was nobody sleeping in it, fortunately. The governess had run away two months before; and for all Mr. Rochester sought her as if she had been the most precious thing he had in the world, he never could hear a word of her; and he grew savage--quite savage on his disappointment: he never was a wild man, but he got dangerous after he lost her. He would be alone, too. He sent Mrs. Fairfax, the housekeeper, away to her friends at a distance; but he did it handsomely, for he settled an annuity on her for life: and she deserved it--she was a very good woman. Miss Adele, a ward he had, was put to school. He broke off acquaintance with all the gentry, and shut himself up like a hermit at the Hall." "What! did he not leave England?" "Leave England? Bless you, no! He would not cross the door-stones of the house, except at night, when he walked just like a ghost about the grounds and in the orchard as if he had lost his senses--which it is my opinion he had; for a more spirited, bolder, keener gentleman than he was before that midge of a governess crossed him, you never saw, ma'am. He was not a man given to wine, or cards, or racing, as some are, and he was not so very handsome; but he had a courage and a will of his own, if ever man had. I knew him from a boy, you see: and for my part, I have often wished that Miss Eyre had been sunk in the sea before she came to Thornfield Hall." "Then Mr. Rochester was at home when the fire broke out?" "Yes, indeed was he; and he went up to the attics when all was burning above and below, and got the servants out of their beds and helped them down himself, and went back to get his mad wife out of her cell. And then they called out to him that she was on the roof, where she was standing, waving her arms, above the battlements, and shouting out till they could hear her a mile off: I saw her and heard her with my own eyes. She was a big woman, and had long black hair: we could see it streaming against the flames as she stood. I witnessed, and several more witnessed, Mr. Rochester ascend through the sky-light on to the roof; we heard him call 'Bertha!' We saw him approach her; and then, ma'am, she yelled and gave a spring, and the next minute she lay smashed on the pavement." {The next minute she lay smashed on the pavement: p413.jpg} "Dead?" "Dead! Ay, dead as the stones on which her brains and blood were scattered." "Good God!" "You may well say so, ma'am: it was frightful!" He shuddered. "And afterwards?" I urged. "Well, ma'am, afterwards the house was burnt to the ground: there are only some bits of walls standing now." "Were any other lives lost?" "No--perhaps it would have been better if there had." "What do you mean?" "Poor Mr. Edward!" he ejaculated, "I little thought ever to have seen it! Some say it was a just judgment on him for keeping his first marriage secret, and wanting to take another wife while he had one living: but I pity him, for my part." "You said he was alive?" I exclaimed. "Yes, yes: he is alive; but many think he had better be dead." "Why? How?" My blood was again running cold. "Where is he?" I demanded. "Is he in England?" "Ay--ay--he's in England; he can't get out of England, I fancy--he's a fixture now." What agony was this! And the man seemed resolved to protract it. "He is stone-blind," he said at last. "Yes, he is stone-blind, is Mr. Edward." I had dreaded worse. I had dreaded he was mad. I summoned strength to ask what had caused this calamity. "It was all his own courage, and a body may say, his kindness, in a way, ma'am: he wouldn't leave the house till every one else was out before him. As he came down the great staircase at last, after Mrs. Rochester had flung herself from the battlements, there was a great crash--all fell. He was taken out from under the ruins, alive, but sadly hurt: a beam had fallen in such a way as to protect him partly; but one eye was knocked out, and one hand so crushed that Mr. Carter, the surgeon, had to amputate it directly. The other eye inflamed: he lost the sight of that also. He is now helpless, indeed--blind and a cripple." "Where is he? Where does he now live?" "At Ferndean, a manor-house on a farm he has, about thirty miles off: quite a desolate spot." "Who is with him?" "Old John and his wife: he would have none else. He is quite broken down, they say." "Have you any sort of conveyance?" "We have a chaise, ma'am, a very handsome chaise." "Let it be got ready instantly; and if your post-boy can drive me to Ferndean before dark this day, I'll pay both you and him twice the hire you usually demand." CHAPTER XXXVII The manor-house of Ferndean was a building of considerable antiquity, moderate size, and no architectural pretensions, deep buried in a wood. I had heard of it before. Mr. Rochester often spoke of it, and sometimes went there. His father had purchased the estate for the sake of the game covers. He would have let the house, but could find no tenant, in consequence of its ineligible and insalubrious site. Ferndean then remained uninhabited and unfurnished, with the exception of some two or three rooms fitted up for the accommodation of the squire when he went there in the season to shoot. To this house I came just ere dark on an evening marked by the characteristics of sad sky, cold gale, and continued small penetrating rain. The last mile I performed on foot, having dismissed the chaise and driver with the double remuneration I had promised. Even when within a very short distance of the manor-house, you could see nothing of it, so thick and dark grew the timber of the gloomy wood about it. Iron gates between granite pillars showed me where to enter, and passing through them, I found myself at once in the twilight of close-ranked trees. There was a grass-grown track descending the forest aisle between hoar and knotty shafts and under branched arches. I followed it, expecting soon to reach the dwelling; but it stretched on and on, it wound far and farther: no sign of habitation or grounds was visible. I thought I had taken a wrong direction and lost my way. The darkness of natural as well as of sylvan dusk gathered over me. I looked round in search of another road. There was none: all was interwoven stem, columnar trunk, dense summer foliage--no opening anywhere. I proceeded: at last my way opened, the trees thinned a little; presently I beheld a railing, then the house--scarce, by this dim light, distinguishable from the trees; so dank and green were its decaying walls. Entering a portal, fastened only by a latch, I stood amidst a space of enclosed ground, from which the wood swept away in a semicircle. There were no flowers, no garden-beds; only a broad gravel-walk girdling a grass-plat, and this set in the heavy frame of the forest. The house presented two pointed gables in its front; the windows were latticed and narrow: the front door was narrow too, one step led up to it. The whole looked, as the host of the Rochester Arms had said, "quite a desolate spot." It was as still as a church on a week-day: the pattering rain on the forest leaves was the only sound audible in its vicinage. "Can there be life here?" I asked. Yes, life of some kind there was; for I heard a movement--that narrow front-door was unclosing, and some shape was about to issue from the grange. It opened slowly: a figure came out into the twilight and stood on the step; a man without a hat: he stretched forth his hand as if to feel whether it rained. Dusk as it was, I had recognised him--it was my master, Edward Fairfax Rochester, and no other. I stayed my step, almost my breath, and stood to watch him--to examine him, myself unseen, and alas! to him invisible. It was a sudden meeting, and one in which rapture was kept well in check by pain. I had no difficulty in restraining my voice from exclamation, my step from hasty advance. His form was of the same strong and stalwart contour as ever: his port was still erect, his hair was still raven black; nor were his features altered or sunk: not in one year's space, by any sorrow, could his athletic strength be quelled or his vigorous prime blighted. But in his countenance I saw a change: that looked desperate and brooding--that reminded me of some wronged and fettered wild beast or bird, dangerous to approach in his sullen woe. The caged eagle, whose gold-ringed eyes cruelty has extinguished, might look as looked that sightless Samson. And, reader, do you think I feared him in his blind ferocity?--if you do, you little know me. A soft hope blest with my sorrow that soon I should dare to drop a kiss on that brow of rock, and on those lips so sternly sealed beneath it: but not yet. I would not accost him yet. He descended the one step, and advanced slowly and gropingly towards the grass-plat. Where was his daring stride now? Then he paused, as if he knew not which way to turn. He lifted his hand and opened his eyelids; gazed blank, and with a straining effort, on the sky, and toward the amphitheatre of trees: one saw that all to him was void darkness. He stretched his right hand (the left arm, the mutilated one, he kept hidden in his bosom); he seemed to wish by touch to gain an idea of what lay around him: he met but vacancy still; for the trees were some yards off where he stood. He relinquished the endeavour, folded his arms, and stood quiet and mute in the rain, now falling fast on his uncovered head. At this moment John approached him from some quarter. "Will you take my arm, sir?" he said; "there is a heavy shower coming on: had you not better go in?" "Let me alone," was the answer. John withdrew without having observed me. Mr. Rochester now tried to walk about: vainly,--all was too uncertain. He groped his way back to the house, and, re-entering it, closed the door. I now drew near and knocked: John's wife opened for me. "Mary," I said, "how are you?" She started as if she had seen a ghost: I calmed her. To her hurried "Is it really you, miss, come at this late hour to this lonely place?" I answered by taking her hand; and then I followed her into the kitchen, where John now sat by a good fire. I explained to them, in few words, that I had heard all which had happened since I left Thornfield, and that I was come to see Mr. Rochester. I asked John to go down to the turn- pike-house, where I had dismissed the chaise, and bring my trunk, which I had left there: and then, while I removed my bonnet and shawl, I questioned Mary as to whether I could be accommodated at the Manor House for the night; and finding that arrangements to that effect, though difficult, would not be impossible, I informed her I should stay. Just at this moment the parlour-bell rang. "When you go in," said I, "tell your master that a person wishes to speak to him, but do not give my name." "I don't think he will see you," she answered; "he refuses everybody." When she returned, I inquired what he had said. "You are to send in your name and your business," she replied. She then proceeded to fill a glass with water, and place it on a tray, together with candles. "Is that what he rang for?" I asked. "Yes: he always has candles brought in at dark, though he is blind." "Give the tray to me; I will carry it in." I took it from her hand: she pointed me out the parlour door. The tray shook as I held it; the water spilt from the glass; my heart struck my ribs loud and fast. Mary opened the door for me, and shut it behind me. This parlour looked gloomy: a neglected handful of fire burnt low in the grate; and, leaning over it, with his head supported against the high, old-fashioned mantelpiece, appeared the blind tenant of the room. His old dog, Pilot, lay on one side, removed out of the way, and coiled up as if afraid of being inadvertently trodden upon. Pilot pricked up his ears when I came in: then he jumped up with a yelp and a whine, and bounded towards me: he almost knocked the tray from my hands. I set it on the table; then patted him, and said softly, "Lie down!" Mr. Rochester turned mechanically to _see_ what the commotion was: but as he _saw_ nothing, he returned and sighed. "Give me the water, Mary," he said. I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pilot followed me, still excited. "What is the matter?" he inquired. "Down, Pilot!" I again said. He checked the water on its way to his lips, and seemed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down. "This is you, Mary, is it not?" "Mary is in the kitchen," I answered. He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I stood, he did not touch me. "Who is this? Who is this?" he demanded, trying, as it seemed, to _see_ with those sightless eyes--unavailing and distressing attempt! "Answer me--speak again!" he ordered, imperiously and aloud. "Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was in the glass," I said. "_Who_ is it? _What_ is it? Who speaks?" "Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here. I came only this evening," I answered. "Great God!--what delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has seized me?" "No delusion--no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion, your health too sound for frenzy." "And where is the speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I _cannot_ see, but I must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst. Whatever--whoever you are--be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live!" He groped; I arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned it in both mine. "Her very fingers!" he cried; "her small, slight fingers! If so there must be more of her." The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my shoulder--neck--waist--I was entwined and gathered to him. "Is it Jane? _What_ is it? This is her shape--this is her size--" "And this her voice," I added. "She is all here: her heart, too. God bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again." "Jane Eyre!--Jane Eyre," was all he said. "My dear master," I answered, "I am Jane Eyre: I have found you out--I am come back to you." "In truth?--in the flesh? My living Jane?" "You touch me, sir,--you hold me, and fast enough: I am not cold like a corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?" "My living darling! These are certainly her limbs, and these her features; but I cannot be so blest, after all my misery. It is a dream; such dreams as I have had at night when I have clasped her once more to my heart, as I do now; and kissed her, as thus--and felt that she loved me, and trusted that she would not leave me." "Which I never will, sir, from this day." "Never will, says the vision? But I always woke and found it an empty mockery; and I was desolate and abandoned--my life dark, lonely, hopeless--my soul athirst and forbidden to drink--my heart famished and never to be fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you: but kiss me before you go--embrace me, Jane." "There, sir--and there!"' I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes--I swept his hair from his brow, and kissed that too. He suddenly seemed to arouse himself: the conviction of the reality of all this seized him. "It is you--is it, Jane? You are come back to me then?" "I am." "And you do not lie dead in some ditch under some stream? And you are not a pining outcast amongst strangers?" "No, sir! I am an independent woman now." "Independent! What do you mean, Jane?" "My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thousand pounds." "Ah! this is practical--this is real!" he cried: "I should never dream that. Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so animating and piquant, as well as soft: it cheers my withered heart; it puts life into it.--What, Janet! Are you an independent woman? A rich woman?" "If you won't let me live with you, I can build a house of my own close up to your door, and you may come and sit in my parlour when you want company of an evening." "But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, no doubt, friends who will look after you, and not suffer you to devote yourself to a blind lameter like me?" "I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich: I am my own mistress." "And you will stay with me?" "Certainly--unless you object. I will be your neighbour, your nurse, your housekeeper. I find you lonely: I will be your companion--to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to wait on you, to be eyes and hands to you. Cease to look so melancholy, my dear master; you shall not be left desolate, so long as I live." He replied not: he seemed serious--abstracted; he sighed; he half-opened his lips as if to speak: he closed them again. I felt a little embarrassed. Perhaps I had too rashly over-leaped conventionalities; and he, like St. John, saw impropriety in my inconsiderateness. I had indeed made my proposal from the idea that he wished and would ask me to be his wife: an expectation, not the less certain because unexpressed, had buoyed me up, that he would claim me at once as his own. But no hint to that effect escaping him and his countenance becoming more overcast, I suddenly remembered that I might have been all wrong, and was perhaps playing the fool unwittingly; and I began gently to withdraw myself from his arms--but he eagerly snatched me closer. "No--no--Jane; you must not go. No--I have touched you, heard you, felt the comfort of your presence--the sweetness of your consolation: I cannot give up these joys. I have little left in myself--I must have you. The world may laugh--may call me absurd, selfish--but it does not signify. My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame." "Well, sir, I will stay with you: I have said so." "Yes--but you understand one thing by staying with me; and I understand another. You, perhaps, could make up your mind to be about my hand and chair--to wait on me as a kind little nurse (for you have an affectionate heart and a generous spirit, which prompt you to make sacrifices for those you pity), and that ought to suffice for me no doubt. I suppose I should now entertain none but fatherly feelings for you: do you think so? Come--tell me." "I will think what you like, sir: I am content to be only your nurse, if you think it better." "But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet: you are young--you must marry one day." "I don't care about being married." "You should care, Janet: if I were what I once was, I would try to make you care--but--a sightless block!" He relapsed again into gloom. I, on the contrary, became more cheerful, and took fresh courage: these last words gave me an insight as to where the difficulty lay; and as it was no difficulty with me, I felt quite relieved from my previous embarrassment. I resumed a livelier vein of conversation. "It is time some one undertook to rehumanise you," said I, parting his thick and long uncut locks; "for I see you are being metamorphosed into a lion, or something of that sort. You have a 'faux air' of Nebuchadnezzar in the fields about you, that is certain: your hair reminds me of eagles' feathers; whether your nails are grown like birds' claws or not, I have not yet noticed." "On this arm, I have neither hand nor nails," he said, drawing the mutilated limb from his breast, and showing it to me. "It is a mere stump--a ghastly sight! Don't you think so, Jane?" "It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes--and the scar of fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loving you too well for all this; and making too much of you." "I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my arm, and my cicatrised visage." "Did you? Don't tell me so--lest I should say something disparaging to your judgment. Now, let me leave you an instant, to make a better fire, and have the hearth swept up. Can you tell when there is a good fire?" "Yes; with the right eye I see a glow--a ruddy haze." "And you see the candles?" "Very dimly--each is a luminous cloud." "Can you see me?" "No, my fairy: but I am only too thankful to hear and feel you." "When do you take supper?" "I never take supper." "But you shall have some to-night. I am hungry: so are you, I daresay, only you forget." Summoning Mary, I soon had the room in more cheerful order: I prepared him, likewise, a comfortable repast. My spirits were excited, and with pleasure and ease I talked to him during supper, and for a long time after. There was no harassing restraint, no repressing of glee and vivacity with him; for with him I was at perfect ease, because I knew I suited him; all I said or did seemed either to console or revive him. Delightful consciousness! It brought to life and light my whole nature: in his presence I thoroughly lived; and he lived in mine. Blind as he was, smiles played over his face, joy dawned on his forehead: his lineaments softened and warmed. After supper, he began to ask me many questions, of where I had been, what I had been doing, how I had found him out; but I gave him only very partial replies: it was too late to enter into particulars that night. Besides, I wished to touch no deep-thrilling chord--to open no fresh well of emotion in his heart: my sole present aim was to cheer him. Cheered, as I have said, he was: and yet but by fits. If a moment's silence broke the conversation, he would turn restless, touch me, then say, "Jane." "You are altogether a human being, Jane? You are certain of that?" {You are altogether a human being, Jane? You are certain of that?: p422.jpg} "I conscientiously believe so, Mr. Rochester." "Yet how, on this dark and doleful evening, could you so suddenly rise on my lone hearth? I stretched my hand to take a glass of water from a hireling, and it was given me by you: I asked a question, expecting John's wife to answer me, and your voice spoke at my ear." "Because I had come in, in Mary's stead, with the tray." "And there is enchantment in the very hour I am now spending with you. Who can tell what a dark, dreary, hopeless life I have dragged on for months past? Doing nothing, expecting nothing; merging night in day; feeling but the sensation of cold when I let the fire go out, of hunger when I forgot to eat: and then a ceaseless sorrow, and, at times, a very delirium of desire to behold my Jane again. Yes: for her restoration I longed, far more than for that of my lost sight. How can it be that Jane is with me, and says she loves me? Will she not depart as suddenly as she came? To-morrow, I fear I shall find her no more." A commonplace, practical reply, out of the train of his own disturbed ideas, was, I was sure, the best and most reassuring for him in this frame of mind. I passed my finger over his eyebrows, and remarked that they were scorched, and that I would apply something which would make them grow as broad and black as ever. "Where is the use of doing me good in any way, beneficent spirit, when, at some fatal moment, you will again desert me--passing like a shadow, whither and how to me unknown, and for me remaining afterwards undiscoverable? "Have you a pocket-comb about you, sir?" "What for, Jane?" "Just to comb out this shaggy black mane. I find you rather alarming, when I examine you close at hand: you talk of my being a fairy, but I am sure, you are more like a brownie." "Am I hideous, Jane?" "Very, sir: you always were, you know." "Humph! The wickedness has not been taken out of you, wherever you have sojourned." "Yet I have been with good people; far better than you: a hundred times better people; possessed of ideas and views you never entertained in your life: quite more refined and exalted." "Who the deuce have you been with?" "If you twist in that way you will make me pull the hair out of your head; and then I think you will cease to entertain doubts of my substantiality." "Who have you been with, Jane?" "You shall not get it out of me to-night, sir; you must wait till to-morrow; to leave my tale half told, will, you know, be a sort of security that I shall appear at your breakfast table to finish it. By the bye, I must mind not to rise on your hearth with only a glass of water then: I must bring an egg at the least, to say nothing of fried ham." "You mocking changeling--fairy-born and human-bred! You make me feel as I have not felt these twelve months. If Saul could have had you for his David, the evil spirit would have been exorcised without the aid of the harp." "There, sir, you are redd up and made decent. Now I'll leave you: I have been travelling these last three days, and I believe I am tired. Good night." "Just one word, Jane: were there only ladies in the house where you have been?" I laughed and made my escape, still laughing as I ran upstairs. "A good idea!" I thought with glee. "I see I have the means of fretting him out of his melancholy for some time to come." Very early the next morning I heard him up and astir, wandering from one room to another. As soon as Mary came down I heard the question: "Is Miss Eyre here?" Then: "Which room did you put her into? Was it dry? Is she up? Go and ask if she wants anything; and when she will come down." I came down as soon as I thought there was a prospect of breakfast. Entering the room very softly, I had a view of him before he discovered my presence. It was mournful, indeed, to witness the subjugation of that vigorous spirit to a corporeal infirmity. He sat in his chair--still, but not at rest: expectant evidently; the lines of now habitual sadness marking his strong features. His countenance reminded one of a lamp quenched, waiting to be re-lit--and alas! it was not himself that could now kindle the lustre of animated expression: he was dependent on another for that office! I had meant to be gay and careless, but the powerlessness of the strong man touched my heart to the quick: still I accosted him with what vivacity I could. "It is a bright, sunny morning, sir," I said. "The rain is over and gone, and there is a tender shining after it: you shall have a walk soon." I had wakened the glow: his features beamed. "Oh, you are indeed there, my skylark! Come to me. You are not gone: not vanished? I heard one of your kind an hour ago, singing high over the wood: but its song had no music for me, any more than the rising sun had rays. All the melody on earth is concentrated in my Jane's tongue to my ear (I am glad it is not naturally a silent one): all the sunshine I can feel is in her presence." The water stood in my eyes to hear this avowal of his dependence; just as if a royal eagle, chained to a perch, should be forced to entreat a sparrow to become its purveyor. But I would not be lachrymose: I dashed off the salt drops, and busied myself with preparing breakfast. Most of the morning was spent in the open air. I led him out of the wet and wild wood into some cheerful fields: I described to him how brilliantly green they were; how the flowers and hedges looked refreshed; how sparklingly blue was the sky. I sought a seat for him in a hidden and lovely spot, a dry stump of a tree; nor did I refuse to let him, when seated, place me on his knee. Why should I, when both he and I were happier near than apart? Pilot lay beside us: all was quiet. He broke out suddenly while clasping me in his arms-- "Cruel, cruel deserter! Oh, Jane, what did I feel when I discovered you had fled from Thornfield, and when I could nowhere find you; and, after examining your apartment, ascertained that you had taken no money, nor anything which could serve as an equivalent! A pearl necklace I had given you lay untouched in its little casket; your trunks were left corded and locked as they had been prepared for the bridal tour. What could my darling do, I asked, left destitute and penniless? And what did she do? Let me hear now." Thus urged, I began the narrative of my experience for the last year. I softened considerably what related to the three days of wandering and starvation, because to have told him all would have been to inflict unnecessary pain: the little I did say lacerated his faithful heart deeper than I wished. I should not have left him thus, he said, without any means of making my way: I should have told him my intention. I should have confided in him: he would never have forced me to be his mistress. Violent as he had seemed in his despair, he, in truth, loved me far too well and too tenderly to constitute himself my tyrant: he would have given me half his fortune, without demanding so much as a kiss in return, rather than I should have flung myself friendless on the wide world. I had endured, he was certain, more than I had confessed to him. "Well, whatever my sufferings had been, they were very short," I answered: and then I proceeded to tell him how I had been received at Moor House; how I had obtained the office of schoolmistress, &c. The accession of fortune, the discovery of my relations, followed in due order. Of course, St. John Rivers' name came in frequently in the progress of my tale. When I had done, that name was immediately taken up. "This St. John, then, is your cousin?" "Yes." "You have spoken of him often: do you like him?" "He was a very good man, sir; I could not help liking him." "A good man. Does that mean a respectable well-conducted man of fifty? Or what does it mean?" "St John was only twenty-nine, sir." "'_Jeune encore_,' as the French say. Is he a person of low stature, phlegmatic, and plain. A person whose goodness consists rather in his guiltlessness of vice, than in his prowess in virtue." "He is untiringly active. Great and exalted deeds are what he lives to perform." "But his brain? That is probably rather soft? He means well: but you shrug your shoulders to hear him talk?" "He talks little, sir: what he does say is ever to the point. His brain is first-rate, I should think not impressible, but vigorous." "Is he an able man, then?" "Truly able." "A thoroughly educated man?" "St. John is an accomplished and profound scholar." "His manners, I think, you said are not to your taste?--priggish and parsonic?" "I never mentioned his manners; but, unless I had a very bad taste, they must suit it; they are polished, calm, and gentlemanlike." "His appearance,--I forget what description you gave of his appearance;--a sort of raw curate, half strangled with his white neckcloth, and stilted up on his thick-soled high-lows, eh?" "St. John dresses well. He is a handsome man: tall, fair, with blue eyes, and a Grecian profile." (Aside.) "Damn him!"--(To me.) "Did you like him, Jane?" "Yes, Mr. Rochester, I liked him: but you asked me that before." I perceived, of course, the drift of my interlocutor. Jealousy had got hold of him: she stung him; but the sting was salutary: it gave him respite from the gnawing fang of melancholy. I would not, therefore, immediately charm the snake. "Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee, Miss Eyre?" was the next somewhat unexpected observation. "Why not, Mr. Rochester?" "The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too overwhelming contrast. Your words have delineated very prettily a graceful Apollo: he is present to your imagination,--tall, fair, blue- eyed, and with a Grecian profile. Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan,--a real blacksmith, brown, broad-shouldered: and blind and lame into the bargain." "I never thought of it, before; but you certainly are rather like Vulcan, sir." "Well, you can leave me, ma'am: but before you go" (and he retained me by a firmer grasp than ever), "you will be pleased just to answer me a question or two." He paused. "What questions, Mr. Rochester?" Then followed this cross-examination. "St. John made you schoolmistress of Morton before he knew you were his cousin?" "Yes." "You would often see him? He would visit the school sometimes?" "Daily." "He would approve of your plans, Jane? I know they would be clever, for you are a talented creature!" "He approved of them--yes." "He would discover many things in you he could not have expected to find? Some of your accomplishments are not ordinary." "I don't know about that." "You had a little cottage near the school, you say: did he ever come there to see you?" "Now and then?" "Of an evening?" "Once or twice." A pause. "How long did you reside with him and his sisters after the cousinship was discovered?" "Five months." "Did Rivers spend much time with the ladies of his family?" "Yes; the back parlour was both his study and ours: he sat near the window, and we by the table." "Did he study much?" "A good deal." "What?" "Hindostanee." "And what did you do meantime?" "I learnt German, at first." "Did he teach you?" "He did not understand German." "Did he teach you nothing?" "A little Hindostanee." "Rivers taught you Hindostanee?" "Yes, sir." "And his sisters also?" "No." "Only you?" "Only me." "Did you ask to learn?" "No." "He wished to teach you?" "Yes." A second pause. "Why did he wish it? Of what use could Hindostanee be to you?" "He intended me to go with him to India." "Ah! here I reach the root of the matter. He wanted you to marry him?" "He asked me to marry him." "That is a fiction--an impudent invention to vex me." "I beg your pardon, it is the literal truth: he asked me more than once, and was as stiff about urging his point as ever you could be." "Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you can leave me. How often am I to say the same thing? Why do you remain pertinaciously perched on my knee, when I have given you notice to quit?" "Because I am comfortable there." "No, Jane, you are not comfortable there, because your heart is not with me: it is with this cousin--this St. John. Oh, till this moment, I thought my little Jane was all mine! I had a belief she loved me even when she left me: that was an atom of sweet in much bitter. Long as we have been parted, hot tears as I have wept over our separation, I never thought that while I was mourning her, she was loving another! But it is useless grieving. Jane, leave me: go and marry Rivers." "Shake me off, then, sir,--push me away, for I'll not leave you of my own accord." "Jane, I ever like your tone of voice: it still renews hope, it sounds so truthful. When I hear it, it carries me back a year. I forget that you have formed a new tie. But I am not a fool--go--" "Where must I go, sir?" "Your own way--with the husband you have chosen." "Who is that?" "You know--this St. John Rivers." "He is not my husband, nor ever will be. He does not love me: I do not love him. He loves (as he _can_ love, and that is not as you love) a beautiful young lady called Rosamond. He wanted to marry me only because he thought I should make a suitable missionary's wife, which she would not have done. He is good and great, but severe; and, for me, cold as an iceberg. He is not like you, sir: I am not happy at his side, nor near him, nor with him. He has no indulgence for me--no fondness. He sees nothing attractive in me; not even youth--only a few useful mental points.--Then I must leave you, sir, to go to him?" I shuddered involuntarily, and clung instinctively closer to my blind but beloved master. He smiled. "What, Jane! Is this true? Is such really the state of matters between you and Rivers?" "Absolutely, sir! Oh, you need not be jealous! I wanted to tease you a little to make you less sad: I thought anger would be better than grief. But if you wish me to love you, could you but see how much I _do_ love you, you would be proud and content. All my heart is yours, sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence for ever." Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts darkened his aspect. "My seared vision! My crippled strength!" he murmured regretfully. I caressed, in order to soothe him. I knew of what he was thinking, and wanted to speak for him, but dared not. As he turned aside his face a minute, I saw a tear slide from under the sealed eyelid, and trickle down the manly cheek. My heart swelled. "I am no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut-tree in Thornfield orchard," he remarked ere long. "And what right would that ruin have to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with freshness?" "You are no ruin, sir--no lightning-struck tree: you are green and vigorous. Plants will grow about your roots, whether you ask them or not, because they take delight in your bountiful shadow; and as they grow they will lean towards you, and wind round you, because your strength offers them so safe a prop." Again he smiled: I gave him comfort. "You speak of friends, Jane?" he asked. "Yes, of friends," I answered rather hesitatingly: for I knew I meant more than friends, but could not tell what other word to employ. He helped me. "Ah! Jane. But I want a wife." "Do you, sir?" "Yes: is it news to you?" "Of course: you said nothing about it before." "Is it unwelcome news?" "That depends on circumstances, sir--on your choice." "Which you shall make for me, Jane. I will abide by your decision." "Choose then, sir--_her who loves you best_." "I will at least choose--_her I love best_. Jane, will you marry me?" "Yes, sir." "A poor blind man, whom you will have to lead about by the hand?" "Yes, sir." "A crippled man, twenty years older than you, whom you will have to wait on?" "Yes, sir." "Truly, Jane?" "Most truly, sir." "Oh! my darling! God bless you and reward you!" "Mr. Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in my life--if ever I thought a good thought--if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer--if ever I wished a righteous wish,--I am rewarded now. To be your wife is, for me, to be as happy as I can be on earth." "Because you delight in sacrifice." "Sacrifice! What do I sacrifice? Famine for food, expectation for content. To be privileged to put my arms round what I value--to press my lips to what I love--to repose on what I trust: is that to make a sacrifice? If so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice." "And to bear with my infirmities, Jane: to overlook my deficiencies." "Which are none, sir, to me. I love you better now, when I can really be useful to you, than I did in your state of proud independence, when you disdained every part but that of the giver and protector." "Hitherto I have hated to be helped--to be led: henceforth, I feel I shall hate it no more. I did not like to put my hand into a hireling's, but it is pleasant to feel it circled by Jane's little fingers. I preferred utter loneliness to the constant attendance of servants; but Jane's soft ministry will be a perpetual joy. Jane suits me: do I suit her?" "To the finest fibre of my nature, sir." "The case being so, we have nothing in the world to wait for: we must be married instantly." He looked and spoke with eagerness: his old impetuosity was rising. "We must become one flesh without any delay, Jane: there is but the licence to get--then we marry." "Mr. Rochester, I have just discovered the sun is far declined from its meridian, and Pilot is actually gone home to his dinner. Let me look at your watch." "Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and keep it henceforward: I have no use for it." "It is nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, sir. Don't you feel hungry?" "The third day from this must be our wedding-day, Jane. Never mind fine clothes and jewels, now: all that is not worth a fillip." "The sun has dried up all the rain-drops, sir. The breeze is still: it is quite hot." "Do you know, Jane, I have your little pearl necklace at this moment fastened round my bronze scrag under my cravat? I have worn it since the day I lost my only treasure, as a memento of her." "We will go home through the wood: that will be the shadiest way." He pursued his own thoughts without heeding me. "Jane! you think me, I daresay, an irreligious dog: but my heart swells with gratitude to the beneficent God of this earth just now. He sees not as man sees, but far clearer: judges not as man judges, but far more wisely. I did wrong: I would have sullied my innocent flower--breathed guilt on its purity: the Omnipotent snatched it from me. I, in my stiff- necked rebellion, almost cursed the dispensation: instead of bending to the decree, I defied it. Divine justice pursued its course; disasters came thick on me: I was forced to pass through the valley of the shadow of death. _His_ chastisements are mighty; and one smote me which has humbled me for ever. You know I was proud of my strength: but what is it now, when I must give it over to foreign guidance, as a child does its weakness? Of late, Jane--only--only of late--I began to see and acknowledge the hand of God in my doom. I began to experience remorse, repentance; the wish for reconcilement to my Maker. I began sometimes to pray: very brief prayers they were, but very sincere. "Some days since: nay, I can number them--four; it was last Monday night, a singular mood came over me: one in which grief replaced frenzy--sorrow, sullenness. I had long had the impression that since I could nowhere find you, you must be dead. Late that night--perhaps it might be between eleven and twelve o'clock--ere I retired to my dreary rest, I supplicated God, that, if it seemed good to Him, I might soon be taken from this life, and admitted to that world to come, where there was still hope of rejoining Jane. "I was in my own room, and sitting by the window, which was open: it soothed me to feel the balmy night-air; though I could see no stars and only by a vague, luminous haze, knew the presence of a moon. I longed for thee, Janet! Oh, I longed for thee both with soul and flesh! I asked of God, at once in anguish and humility, if I had not been long enough desolate, afflicted, tormented; and might not soon taste bliss and peace once more. That I merited all I endured, I acknowledged--that I could scarcely endure more, I pleaded; and the alpha and omega of my heart's wishes broke involuntarily from my lips in the words--'Jane! Jane! Jane!'" "Did you speak these words aloud?" "I did, Jane. If any listener had heard me, he would have thought me mad: I pronounced them with such frantic energy." "And it was last Monday night, somewhere near midnight?" "Yes; but the time is of no consequence: what followed is the strange point. You will think me superstitious,--some superstition I have in my blood, and always had: nevertheless, this is true--true at least it is that I heard what I now relate. "As I exclaimed 'Jane! Jane! Jane!' a voice--I cannot tell whence the voice came, but I know whose voice it was--replied, 'I am coming: wait for me;' and a moment after, went whispering on the wind the words--'Where are you?' "I'll tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture these words opened to my mind: yet it is difficult to express what I want to express. Ferndean is buried, as you see, in a heavy wood, where sound falls dull, and dies unreverberating. 'Where are you?' seemed spoken amongst mountains; for I heard a hill-sent echo repeat the words. Cooler and fresher at the moment the gale seemed to visit my brow: I could have deemed that in some wild, lone scene, I and Jane were meeting. In spirit, I believe we must have met. You no doubt were, at that hour, in unconscious sleep, Jane: perhaps your soul wandered from its cell to comfort mine; for those were your accents--as certain as I live--they were yours!" Reader, it was on Monday night--near midnight--that I too had received the mysterious summons: those were the very words by which I replied to it. I listened to Mr. Rochester's narrative, but made no disclosure in return. The coincidence struck me as too awful and inexplicable to be communicated or discussed. If I told anything, my tale would be such as must necessarily make a profound impression on the mind of my hearer: and that mind, yet from its sufferings too prone to gloom, needed not the deeper shade of the supernatural. I kept these things then, and pondered them in my heart. "You cannot now wonder," continued my master, "that when you rose upon me so unexpectedly last night, I had difficulty in believing you any other than a mere voice and vision, something that would melt to silence and annihilation, as the midnight whisper and mountain echo had melted before. Now, I thank God! I know it to be otherwise. Yes, I thank God!" He put me off his knee, rose, and reverently lifting his hat from his brow, and bending his sightless eyes to the earth, he stood in mute devotion. Only the last words of the worship were audible. "I thank my Maker, that, in the midst of judgment, he has remembered mercy. I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to lead henceforth a purer life than I have done hitherto!" Then he stretched his hand out to be led. I took that dear hand, held it a moment to my lips, then let it pass round my shoulder: being so much lower of stature than he, I served both for his prop and guide. We entered the wood, and wended homeward. CHAPTER XXXVIII--CONCLUSION Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present. When we got back from church, I went into the kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was cooking the dinner and John cleaning the knives, and I said-- "Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morning." The housekeeper and her husband were both of that decent phlegmatic order of people, to whom one may at any time safely communicate a remarkable piece of news without incurring the danger of having one's ears pierced by some shrill ejaculation, and subsequently stunned by a torrent of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, and she did stare at me: the ladle with which she was basting a pair of chickens roasting at the fire, did for some three minutes hang suspended in air; and for the same space of time John's knives also had rest from the polishing process: but Mary, bending again over the roast, said only-- "Have you, Miss? Well, for sure!" A short time after she pursued--"I seed you go out with the master, but I didn't know you were gone to church to be wed;" and she basted away. John, when I turned to him, was grinning from ear to ear. "I telled Mary how it would be," he said: "I knew what Mr. Edward" (John was an old servant, and had known his master when he was the cadet of the house, therefore, he often gave him his Christian name)--"I knew what Mr. Edward would do; and I was certain he would not wait long neither: and he's done right, for aught I know. I wish you joy, Miss!" and he politely pulled his forelock. "Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester told me to give you and Mary this." I put into his hand a five-pound note. Without waiting to hear more, I left the kitchen. In passing the door of that sanctum some time after, I caught the words-- "She'll happen do better for him nor ony o't' grand ladies." And again, "If she ben't one o' th' handsomest, she's noan faal and varry good-natured; and i' his een she's fair beautiful, onybody may see that." I wrote to Moor House and to Cambridge immediately, to say what I had done: fully explaining also why I had thus acted. Diana and Mary approved the step unreservedly. Diana announced that she would just give me time to get over the honeymoon, and then she would come and see me. "She had better not wait till then, Jane," said Mr. Rochester, when I read her letter to him; "if she does, she will be too late, for our honeymoon will shine our life long: its beams will only fade over your grave or mine." How St. John received the news, I don't know: he never answered the letter in which I communicated it: yet six months after he wrote to me, without, however, mentioning Mr. Rochester's name or alluding to my marriage. His letter was then calm, and, though very serious, kind. He has maintained a regular, though not frequent, correspondence ever since: he hopes I am happy, and trusts I am not of those who live without God in the world, and only mind earthly things. You have not quite forgotten little Adele, have you, reader? I had not; I soon asked and obtained leave of Mr. Rochester, to go and see her at the school where he had placed her. Her frantic joy at beholding me again moved me much. She looked pale and thin: she said she was not happy. I found the rules of the establishment were too strict, its course of study too severe for a child of her age: I took her home with me. I meant to become her governess once more, but I soon found this impracticable; my time and cares were now required by another--my husband needed them all. So I sought out a school conducted on a more indulgent system, and near enough to permit of my visiting her often, and bringing her home sometimes. I took care she should never want for anything that could contribute to her comfort: she soon settled in her new abode, became very happy there, and made fair progress in her studies. As she grew up, a sound English education corrected in a great measure her French defects; and when she left school, I found in her a pleasing and obliging companion: docile, good-tempered, and well-principled. By her grateful attention to me and mine, she has long since well repaid any little kindness I ever had it in my power to offer her. My tale draws to its close: one word respecting my experience of married life, and one brief glance at the fortunes of those whose names have most frequently recurred in this narrative, and I have done. I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest--blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband's life as fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. I know no weariness of my Edward's society: he knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we are ever together. To be together is for us to be at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but a more animated and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him, all his confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in character--perfect concord is the result. Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union; perhaps it was that circumstance that drew us so very near--that knit us so very close: for I was then his vision, as I am still his right hand. Literally, I was (what he often called me) the apple of his eye. He saw nature--he saw books through me; and never did I weary of gazing for his behalf, and of putting into words the effect of field, tree, town, river, cloud, sunbeam--of the landscape before us; of the weather round us--and impressing by sound on his ear what light could no longer stamp on his eye. Never did I weary of reading to him; never did I weary of conducting him where he wished to go: of doing for him what he wished to be done. And there was a pleasure in my services, most full, most exquisite, even though sad--because he claimed these services without painful shame or damping humiliation. He loved me so truly, that he knew no reluctance in profiting by my attendance: he felt I loved him so fondly, that to yield that attendance was to indulge my sweetest wishes. One morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter to his dictation, he came and bent over me, and said--"Jane, have you a glittering ornament round your neck?" I had a gold watch-chain: I answered "Yes." "And have you a pale blue dress on?" {And have you a pale blue dress on?: p435.jpg} I had. He informed me then, that for some time he had fancied the obscurity clouding one eye was becoming less dense; and that now he was sure of it. He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an eminent oculist; and he eventually recovered the sight of that one eye. He cannot now see very distinctly: he cannot read or write much; but he can find his way without being led by the hand: the sky is no longer a blank to him--the earth no longer a void. When his first-born was put into his arms, he could see that the boy had inherited his own eyes, as they once were--large, brilliant, and black. On that occasion, he again, with a full heart, acknowledged that God had tempered judgment with mercy. My Edward and I, then, are happy: and the more so, because those we most love are happy likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers are both married: alternately, once every year, they come to see us, and we go to see them. Diana's husband is a captain in the navy, a gallant officer and a good man. Mary's is a clergyman, a college friend of her brother's, and, from his attainments and principles, worthy of the connection. Both Captain Fitzjames and Mr. Wharton love their wives, and are loved by them. As to St. John Rivers, he left England: he went to India. He entered on the path he had marked for himself; he pursues it still. A more resolute, indefatigable pioneer never wrought amidst rocks and dangers. Firm, faithful, and devoted, full of energy, and zeal, and truth, he labours for his race; he clears their painful way to improvement; he hews down like a giant the prejudices of creed and caste that encumber it. He may be stern; he may be exacting; he may be ambitious yet; but his is the sternness of the warrior Greatheart, who guards his pilgrim convoy from the onslaught of Apollyon. His is the exaction of the apostle, who speaks but for Christ, when he says--"Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me." His is the ambition of the high master-spirit, which aims to fill a place in the first rank of those who are redeemed from the earth--who stand without fault before the throne of God, who share the last mighty victories of the Lamb, who are called, and chosen, and faithful. St. John is unmarried: he never will marry now. Himself has hitherto sufficed to the toil, and the toil draws near its close: his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last letter I received from him drew from my eyes human tears, and yet filled my heart with divine joy: he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible crown. I know that a stranger's hand will write to me next, to say that the good and faithful servant has been called at length into the joy of his Lord. And why weep for this? No fear of death will darken St. John's last hour: his mind will be unclouded, his heart will be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith steadfast. His own words are a pledge of this-- "My Master," he says, "has forewarned me. Daily He announces more distinctly,--'Surely I come quickly!' and hourly I more eagerly respond,--'Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!'" 
35463	----	Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) Books by the AUTHOR OF "THE INNER SHRINE" [BASIL KING] THE HIGH HEART. Illustrated. THE LIFTED VEIL. Illustrated. THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS. Illustrated. THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT. Illustrated. THE WAY HOME. Illustrated. THE WILD OLIVE. Illustrated. THE INNER SHRINE. Illustrated. THE STREET CALLED STRAIGHT. Illustrated. LET NOT MAN PUT ASUNDER. Post 8vo. IN THE GARDEN OF CHARITY. Post 8vo. THE STEPS OF HONOR. Post 8vo. THE GIANT'S STRENGTH. Post 8vo. HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK Established 1817 [Illustration: "I've been thinking a good deal during the past few weeks of your law of Right"] THE HIGH HEART BY BASIL KING AUTHOR OF "_The Inner Shrine_" "_The Lifted Veil_" _Etc._ ILLUSTRATED HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON The High Heart Copyright, 1917, by Harper & Brothers Printed in the United States of America Published September, 1917 ILLUSTRATIONS "I've Been Thinking a Good Deal During the Past Few Weeks of Your Law of Right" _Frontispiece_ The Marriage She Had Missed Was on Her Mind. It Created an Obsession or a Broken Heart, I Wasn't Quite Sure Which _Facing p._ 118 I Saw a Man and a Woman Consumed with Longing for Each Other " 192 "I've Had Great Trials . . . I've Always Been Misjudged. . . . They've Put Me Down as Hard and Proud" " 410 THE HIGH HEART CHAPTER I I could not have lived in the Brokenshire circle for nearly a year without recognizing the fact that in the eyes of his family J. Howard, as he was commonly called by the world, was the Great Dispenser; but my first intimation that he meant to act in that capacity toward me came from Larry Strangways, on a bright July morning during the summer of 1913, when we were at Newport. I was crossing the lawn, going toward the sea, with little Gladys Rossiter, to whom I acted as companion in the hours when she was out of the nursery, with a specific duty to speak French. Larry Strangways was tutor to the Rossiter boy, and in our relative positions we were bound to exercise toward each other a good deal of discretion. We fraternized with constraint. We fraternized because--well, chiefly because we couldn't help it. In the mocking flare of his eye, which contradicted the assumed young gravity of his manner, I read an opinion of the Rossiter household and of the Brokenshire family in general similar to my own. That would have been enough for mutual comprehension had there been no instinctive sympathies between us; but there were. Allowing for the fact that we were of different nationalities, we had the same kind of antecedents; we spoke the same kind of social language; we had the same kind of aims in life. Neither of us regarded the position in the Rossiter establishment as a permanent status. He was a tutor merely for the minute, while feeling his way to that first rung of the ladder which I was convinced would lead him to some high place in American life. I was a nursery governess only on the way to getting married. Matrimony was the continent toward which more or less consciously I had been traveling for five or six years, without having actually descried a port. In this connection I may relate a little incident which had taken place between myself and Mrs. Rossiter after I had accepted my situation in her family. It will retard my meeting with Larry Strangways on the lawn, but it will throw light on it when it comes. I had met Mrs. Rossiter, who was J. Howard Brokenshire's daughter, in the way that is known as socially. I never understood why she should have taken a house for the summer in our quiet old town of Halifax, unless she was urged to it by the vague restlessness which was one of her characteristics. But there she was in a roomy old brick mansion I had known all my life, with gardens and conservatories and lawns running down to the fiord or back-harbor which we call the Northwest Arm, and a fine English air of seclusion. In our easy, neighborly way she was well received, and made herself agreeable. She flirted with the officers of both Army and Navy enough to create talk without raising scandal; and she was sufficiently good-natured to be civil to us girls, among whom she singled me out for attentions. I attributed this kindness to our recent bereavement and financial crash, which had left me poor after twenty-four years of comfort, and was proportionately grateful. It was partly gratitude, and partly a natural love of children, and partly a special affection for the exquisite thing herself, that drew me to little Gladys Rossiter, to playing with her on the lawns, and rowing her on the Arm, and--as I had been for three or four years at school in Paris--dropping into a habit of lisping French to her. As the child liked me the mother left her more and more to my care, gaining thus the greater scope for her innocuous flirtations. It was toward the end of the summer that Mrs. Rossiter began to sigh, "I don't know how I shall ever tear Gladys away from you," and, "I do wish you were coming with us." I wished it in a way myself, since I was rather at a loss as to what to do. I had never expected to have to earn a living; I had expected to get married. My two elder sisters, Louise and Victoria, had married easily enough, the one in the Navy, the other in the Army; but with me suitors seemed to lag. They came and saw--but they never went far enough for conquest. I couldn't understand it. I was not stupid; I was not ugly; and I was generally spoken of as having charm. But there was the fact that I was twenty-four, with scarcely a penny, and drawing nearer and nearer to the end of my expedients. I was not without some social experience, having kept house in a generous way for my widowed father, till his death, some two years before the summer when I met Mrs. Rossiter, brought with it our financial collapse. If he hadn't left a lot of old books--_Canadiana_, the pamphlets were called--and rare first editions of all kinds, which I took over to London and sold at Sothbey's, I shouldn't have had enough on which to dress. This business being settled, I stayed as long as I decently could with Louise at Southsea and Victoria at Gibraltar; but no man asked me to marry him during the course of either visit. Had there been a sign of any such possibility the sisters would have put themselves out to keep me; but as nothing warranted them in doing so they let me go. An uncle and aunt having offered to give me shelter for a time at Halifax, there was nothing left for it but to go back and renew the search for my fortunes in my native town. When, therefore, Mrs. Rossiter, in her pretty, helpless way said to me one day, "Why shouldn't you come with me, dear Miss Adare?" I jumped inwardly at the opportunity, though I smiled and replied in an offhand manner, "Oh, that would have to be discussed." Mrs. Rossiter admitted the truth of this observation somewhat pensively. I know now that I took her up with too much promptitude. "Yes, of course," she returned, absently, and the subject was dropped. It was taken up again, however, and our bargain made. On Mrs. Rossiter's part it was made astutely, not in the matter of money, but in the way in which she shifted me from the position of a friend into that of a retainer. It was done with the most perfect tact, but it was done. I had no complaint to make. What she wanted was a nursery governess. My own first preoccupations were food and shelter for which I should not be dependent on my kin. We came to the incident I am about to relate very gradually; but when we did come to it I had no difficulty in seeing that it had been in the back of Mrs. Rossiter's mind from the first. It had been the cause of that second thought on the day when I had taken her up too readily. She began by telling me about her father. Beyond the fact that some man who seemed to be specially well informed would occasionally say with awe, "She's J. Howard Brokenshire's daughter," I knew nothing whatever about him. But I began to see him now as the central sun round whom all the Brokenshires revolved. They revolved round him, not so much from adoration or even from natural affection as from some tremendous rotary force to which there was no resistance. Up to this time I had heard no more of American life than American life had heard of me. The great country south of our border was scarcely on my map. The Halifax in which I was born and grew up was not the bustling Canadian port, dependent on its hinterland, it is to-day; it was an outpost of England, with its face always turned to the Atlantic and the east. My own face had been turned the same way. My home had been literally a jumping-off place, in that when we left it we never expected to go in any but the one direction. I had known Americans when they came into our midst as summer visitors, but only in the way one knows the stars which dawn and fade and leave no trace of their passage on actual happenings. In the course of Mrs. Rossiter's confidences I began to see a vast cosmogony beyond my own personal sun, with J. Howard Brokenshire as the pivot of the new universe. With a curious little shock of surprise I discovered that there could be other solar systems besides the one to which I was accustomed, and that Canada was not the whole of North America. It was like looking through a telescope which Mrs. Rossiter held to my eye, a telescope through which I saw the nebular evidence of an immense society, wealthy, confused, more intellectual than our own, but more provincial too, perhaps; more isolated, more timid, more conservative, less instinct with the great throb of national and international impulse which all of us feel who live on the imperial red line and, therefore, less daring, but interesting all the same. I began to glow with the spirit of adventure. My position as a nursery governess presented the opportunities not merely of a Livingstone or a Stanley, but of a Galileo or a Copernicus. I learned that Mrs. Rossiter's mother had been a Miss Brew, and that the Brews were a great family in Boston. She was the mother of all Mr. Brokenshire's children. By looks and hints and sighs I gathered from Mrs. Rossiter that her father's second marriage had been a trial to his family. Not that there had been any social descent. On the contrary, the present Mrs. Brokenshire had been Editha Billing, of Philadelphia, and there could be nothing better than that. It was a question of fitness, of necessity, of age. "There was no need for him to marry again at all," Mrs. Rossiter complained. "If she'd only been a middle-aged woman," she said to me later, "we might not have felt. . . . But she's younger than Mildred and only a year or two older than I am." "Oh yes," was another remark, "she's pretty; very pretty . . . but I often--wonder." She described her brothers and her sister by degrees. One day she told me about Mildred, another about Jack, so coming toward her point. Mildred was the eldest of the family, a great invalid. She had been thrown from her horse years before while hunting in England, and had injured her spine. Jack had just gone into business with his father, and had married Pauline Gray, of Baltimore. Though she didn't say it in so many words I judged that it was not a happy marriage in the highest sense--that Jack was somewhat light of love, while Pauline "went her own way" to a degree that made her talked about. It was not till the day before her departure for New York that Mrs. Rossiter mentioned her younger brother, Hugh. I was helping her to pack--that is, I was helping the maid while Mrs. Rossiter directed. Just at that minute, however, she was standing up, shaking out the folds of an evening dress. She seemed to peep at me round its garnishings as she said, apropos of nothing: "There's my brother Hugh. He's the youngest of us all--just twenty-six. He has no occupation as yet--he's just studying languages and things. My father wants him to go into diplomacy." As I caught her eye there was a smile in it, but a special kind of smile. It was the smile to go with the sensible, kindly, coaxing inflection with which she said, "You'll leave him alone, won't you?" I took the dress out of her hand to carry it to the maid in the next room. "Leave him alone--how?" She flushed to a lovely pink. "Oh, you know what I mean. I don't have to explain." "You mean that in my position in the household it will be for me to--to keep out of his way?" "It's you who put it like that, dear Miss Adare--" "But it's the way you want me to put it?" "Well, if I admit that it is?" "Then I don't think I care for the place." "What?" I stated my position more simply. "If I'm to have nothing to do with your brother, Mrs. Rossiter, I don't want to go." In the audacity of this response she saw something that amused her, for, snatching the dress from my hand, she ran with it into the next room, laughing. During the following winter in New York and the early summer of the next year in Newport I saw a good deal of Mr. Hugh Brokenshire, but never with any violent restriction on the part of Mrs. Rossiter. I say violent with intention, for she did intervene when she could do so. Only once did I hear that she knew he was kind to me, and that was from Larry Strangways. It was an observation he had overheard as it passed from Mrs. Rossiter to her husband, and which, in the spirit of our silent _camaraderie_, he thought it right to hand along. "I can't be responsible for Hugh!" Mrs. Rossiter had said. "He's old enough to look after himself. If he wants a row with father he must have it; and he seems to me in a fair way to get it. If he does it will be his own fault; it won't be Miss Adare's." Fortified by this acquittal, I went on my way as quietly as I could, though I cannot say I was free from perturbation. Perturbation caught me like a whiff of wind as I saw Larry Strangways deflect from his course across the lawn and come in my direction. I knew he wouldn't have done that unless he felt himself authorized; and nothing could give him the authorization but something in the way of a message or command. To all observers we were strangers. We should have been strangers even to each other had it not been for that freemasonry of caste, that secret mutual comprehension, which transcends speech and opportunities of meeting, and which, on our part, at least, had little expression beyond smiles and flying glances. Of course he was good-looking. It has often seemed to me the privilege of ineligible men to be tall and slim and straight, with just such a flash in the eye and just such a beam about the mouth as belonged to Larry Strangways. Instinct had told me from the first that it would be wise for me to avoid him, while prudence, as I have hinted, gave him the same indication to keep at a distance from me. Luckily he didn't live in the house, but in lodgings in the town. We hardly ever met face to face, and then only under the eye of Mrs. Rossiter when each of us marshaled a pupil to lunch or to tea. As the collie at his heels and the wire-haired terrier at ours made a bee-line for each other the children kept them company, which gave us space for those few minutes of privacy the occasion apparently demanded. Though he lifted his hat formally, and did his best to preserve the decorum of our official situations, the prank in his eye flung out that signal to which I could never do anything but respond. "I've a message for you, Miss Adare." I managed to stammer out the word "Indeed?" I couldn't be surprised, and yet I could hardly stand erect from fear. He glanced at the children to make sure they were out of earshot. "It's from the great man himself--indirectly." I was so near to collapse that I could only say, "Indeed?" again, though I rallied sufficiently to add, "I didn't know he was aware of my existence." "Apparently he wasn't--but he is now. He desires you--I give you the verb as Spellman, the secretary, passed it on to me--he desires you to be in the breakfast loggia here at three this afternoon." I could barely squeak the words out: "Does he mean that he's coming to see me?" "That, it seems, isn't necessary for you to know. Your business is to be there. There's quite a subtle point in the limitation. Being there, you'll see what will happen next. It isn't good for you to be told too much at a time." My spirit began to revive. "I'm not his servant. I'm Mrs. Rossiter's. If he wants anything of me why doesn't he say so through her?" "'Sh, 'sh, Miss Adare! You mustn't dictate to God, or say he should act in this way or in that." "But he's not God." "Oh, as to that--well, you'll see." He added, with his light laugh, "What will you bet that I don't know what it's all about?" "Oh, I bet you do." "Then," he warned, "you're up against it." I was getting on my mettle. "Perhaps I am--but I sha'n't be alone." "No; but you'll be made to feel alone." "Even so--" As I was anxious to keep from boasting beforehand, I left the sentence there. "Yes?" he jogged. "Even so--what?" "Oh, nothing. I only mean that I'm not afraid of him--that is," I corrected, "I'm not afraid of him fundamentally." He laughed again. "Not afraid of him fundamentally! That's fine!" Something in his glance seemed to approve of me. "No, I don't believe you are; but I wonder a little why not." I reflected, gazing beyond his shoulder, down the velvety slopes of the lawn, and across the dancing blue sea to the islets that were mere specks on the horizon. In the end I decided to speak soberly. "I'm not afraid of him," I said at last, "because I've got a sure thing." "You mean him?" I knew the reference was to Hugh Brokenshire. "If I mean him," I replied, after a minute's thinking, "it's only as the greater includes the less, or as the universal includes everything." He whistled under his breath. "Does that mean anything? Or is it just big talk?" Half shy and half ashamed of going on with what I had to say, I was obliged to smile ruefully. "It's big talk because it's a big principle. I don't know how to manage it with anything small." I tried to explain further, knowing that my dark skin flushed to a kind of dahlia-red while I was doing so. "I don't know whether I've read it--or whether I heard it--or whether I've just evolved it--but I seem to have got hold of--of--don't laugh too hard, please--of the secret of success." "Good for you! I hope you're not going to be stingy with it." "No; I'll tell you--partly because I want to talk about it to some one, and just at present there's no one else." "Thanks!" "The secret of success, as I reason it out, must be something that will protect a weak person against a strong one--me, for instance, against J. Howard Brokenshire--and work everything out all right. There," I cried, "I've said the word." "You've said a number. Which is the one?" Anxiety not to seem either young or didactic or a prig made my tone apologetic. "There's such a thing as Right, written with a capital. If I persist in doing Right--still with a capital--then nothing but right can come of it." "Oh, can't it!" "I know it sounds like a platitude--" "No, it doesn't," he interrupted, rudely, "because a platitude is something obviously true; and this isn't." I felt some relief. "Oh, isn't it? Then I'm glad. I thought it must be." "You won't go on thinking it. Suppose you do right and somebody else does wrong?" "Then I should be willing to back my way against his. Don't you see? That's the point. That's the secret I'm telling you about. Right works; wrong doesn't." "That's all very fine--" "It's all very fine because it's so. Right is--what's the word William James put into the dictionary?" He suggested pragmatism. "That's it. Right is pragmatic, which I suppose is the same thing as practical. Wrong must be impractical; it must be--" "I shouldn't bank too confidently on that in dealing with the great J. Howard." "But I'm going to bank on it. It's where I'm to have him at a disadvantage. If he does wrong while I do right, why, then I'll get him on the hip." "How do you know he's going to do wrong?" "I don't. I merely surmise it. If he does right--" "He'll get you on the hip." "No, because there can't be a right for him which isn't a right for me. There can't be two rights, each contrary to the other. That's not in common sense. If he does right then I shall be safe--whichever way I have to take it. Don't you see? That's where the success comes in as well as the secret. It can't be any other way. Please don't think I'm talking in what H. G. Wells calls the tin-pot style--but one must express oneself somehow. I'm not afraid, because I feel as if I'd got something that would hang about me like a magic cloak. Of course for you--a man--a magic cloak may not be necessary; but I assure you that for a girl like me, out in the world on her own--" He, too, sobered down from his chaffing mood. "But in this case what is going to be Right--written with a capital?" I had just time to reply, "Oh, that I shall have to see!" when the children and dogs came scampering up and our conversation was over. On returning from my walk with Gladys I informed Mrs. Rossiter of the order I had received. I could see her distressed look in the mirror before which she sat doing something to her hair. "Oh, dear!" she sighed, "it's just what I was afraid of. Now I suppose he'll want you to leave." "That is, he'll want you to send me away." "It's the same thing," she said, fretfully, and sat with hands lying idly in her lap. She stared out of the window. It was a large bow window, with a window-seat cushioned in flowered chintz. Couch, curtains, and easy-chairs reproduced this Enchanted Garden effect, forming a paradisiacal background for her intensely modern and somewhat neurotic prettiness. I had seen her sit by the half-hour like this, gazing over the shrubberies, lawns, and waves, with a yearning in her eyes like that of some twentieth-century Blessed Damozel. It was her unhappy hour of the day. Between getting up at nine or ten and descending languidly to lunch, life was always a great load to her. It pressed on one too weak to bear its weight and yet too conscientious to throw it off, though, as a matter of fact, this melancholy was only the reaction of her nerves from the mild excitements of the night before. I was generally with her during some portion of this forenoon time, reading her notes and answering them, speaking for her at the telephone, or keeping her company and listening to her confidences while she nibbled without appetite at a bit of toast and sipped her tea. To put matters on the common footing I said: "Is there anything you'd like me to do, Mrs. Rossiter?" She ignored this question, murmuring in a way she had, through half-closed lips, as if mere speech was more than she was equal to: "And just when we were getting on so well--and the way Gladys adores you--" "And the way I adore Gladys." "Oh, well, you don't spoil the child, like that Miss Phips. I suppose it's your sensible English bringing up." "Not English," I interrupted. "Canadian then. It's almost the same thing." She went on without transition of tone: "Mr. Millinger was there again last night. He was on my left. I do wish they wouldn't keep putting him next to me. It makes everything look so pointed--especially with Harry Scott glowering at me from the other end of the table. He hardly spoke to Daisy Burke, whom he'd taken in. I must say she was a fright. And Mr. Millinger so imprudent! I'm really terrified that Jim will hear gossip when he comes down from New York--or notice something." There was the slightest dropping of the soft fluting voice as she continued: "I've never pretended to love Jim Rossiter more than any man I've ever seen. That was one of papa's matches. He's a born match-maker, you know, just as he's a born everything else. I suppose you didn't think of that. But since I am Jim's wife--" As I was the confidante of what she called her affairs--a rôle for which I was qualified by residence in British garrison towns--I interposed diplomatically, "But so long as Mr. Millinger hasn't said anything, not any more than Mr. Scott--" "Oh, if I were to allow men to say things, where should I be? You can go far with a man without letting him come to that. It's something I should think you'd have known--with your sensible bringing up--and the heaps of men you had there in Halifax--and I suppose at Southsea and Gibraltar, too." It was with a hint of helpless complaint that she added, "You remember that I asked you to leave him alone, now don't you?" "Oh, I remember--quite. And suppose I did--and he didn't leave me alone?" "Of course there's that, though it won't have any effect on papa. You are unusual, you know. Only one man in five hundred would notice it; but there always is that man. It's what I was afraid of about Hugh from the first. You're different--and it's the sort of thing he'd see." "Different from what?" I asked, with natural curiosity. Her reply was indirect. "Oh, well, we Americans have specialized too much on the girl. You're not half as good-looking as plenty of other girls in Newport, and when it comes to dress--" "Oh, I'm not in their class, I know." "No; it's what you seem not to know. You aren't in their class--but it doesn't seem to matter. If it does matter, it's rather to your advantage." "I'm afraid I don't see that." "No, you wouldn't. You're not sufficiently subtle. You're really not subtle at all, in the way an American girl would be." She picked up the thread she had dropped. "The fact is we've specialized so much on the girl that our girls are too aware of themselves to be wholly human. They're like things wound up to talk well and dress well and exhibit themselves to advantage and calculate their effects--and lack character. We've developed the very highest thing in exquisite girl-mechanics--a work of art that has everything but a soul." She turned half round to where I stood respectfully, my hands resting on the back of an easy-chair. She was lovely and pathetic and judicial all at once. "The difference about you is that you seem to spring right up out of the soil where you're standing--just like an English country house. You belong to your background. Our girls don't. They're too beautiful for their background, too expensive, too produced. Take any group of girls here in Newport--they're no more in place in this down-at-the-heel old town than a flock of parrakeets in a New England wood. It's really inartistic, though we don't know it. You're more of a woman and less of a lovely figurine. But that won't appeal to papa. He likes figurines. Most American men do. Hugh is an exception, and I was afraid he'd see in you just what I've seen myself. But it won't go down with papa." "If it goes down with Hugh--" I began, meekly. "Papa is a born match-maker, which I don't suppose you know. He made my match and he made Jack's. Oh, we're--we're satisfied now--in a way; and I suppose Hugh will be, too, in the long run." I wanted to speak, but she tinkled gently on: "Papa has his designs for him, which I may as well tell you at once. He means him to marry Lady Cissie Boscobel. She's Lord Goldborough's daughter, and papa and he are very intimate. Papa knew him when we lived in England before grandpapa died. Papa has done things for him in the American money-market, and when we're in England he does things for us. Two or three of our men have married earls' daughters during the last few years, and it hasn't turned out so badly. Papa doesn't want not to be in the swim." "Does"--I couldn't pronounce Hugh's name again--"does your brother know of Mr. Brokenshire's intentions?" "Yes. I told him so. I told him when I began to see that he was noticing you." "And may I ask what he said?" "It would be no use telling you that, because, whatever he said, he'd have to do as papa told him in the end." "But suppose he doesn't?" "You can't suppose he doesn't. He will. That's all that can be said about it." She turned fully round on me, gazing at me with the largest and sweetest and tenderest eyes. "As for you, dear Miss Adare," she murmured, sympathetically, "when papa comes to see you this afternoon, as apparently he means to do, he'll grind you to powder. If there's anything smaller than powder he'll grind you to that. After he's gone we sha'n't be able to find you. You'll be dust." CHAPTER II At five minutes to three, precisely, I took my seat in the breakfast loggia. The front of the house with the garden looked toward Ochre Point Avenue. The so-called breakfast loggia was thrown out from the dining-room in the direction of the sea. Here the family and their guests could gather on warm evenings, and in fine weather eat in the open air. Paved with red tiles, it was furnished with a long oak table, ornately carved, and some heavy old oak chairs that might have come from a monastery. Steamer chairs and wicker easy-chairs were scattered on the grass outside. On the left the loggia was screened from the neighboring property by a hedge of rambler roses that now ran the gamut of shades from crimson to sea-shell pink, while on the right it commanded a view of the two terraces supporting the house, with their long straight lines of flowers. The house itself had been built piecemeal, and was now a low, rambling succession of pavilions or _corps de logis_, to which a series of rose-colored awnings gave the only unifying principle. Just now it was a house deserted by every one but the servants and myself. Mrs. Rossiter, having gone out to luncheon, had been careful not to return, and even the children had been sent over to Mrs. Jack Brokenshire, on the pretext of playing with her baby, but really to be out of the way. From Hugh I had had no sign of life since the previous afternoon. As to whether his father was coming as his enemy, his master, or his interpreter I could do nothing but conjecture. But as far as I could I kept myself from conjecturing; holding my faculties in suspense. I had enough to do in assuring myself that I was not afraid--fundamentally. Superficially I was terrified. I should have been terrified had the great man but passed me in the hall and cast a look at me. He had passed me in the hall on occasions, but as he had never cast the look I had escaped. He had struck me then as a master of that art of seeing without seeing which I had hitherto thought of as feminine. Even when he stopped and spoke to Gladys he seemed not to know that I occupied the ground I stood on. I cannot say I enjoyed this treatment. I was accustomed to being seen. Moreover, I had lived with people who were courteous to inferiors, however cavalier with equals. The great J. Howard was neither courteous nor cavalier toward me, for the reason that where I was he apparently saw nothing but a vacuum. Out to the loggia I took my work-basket and some sewing. Having no idea from which of the several approaches my visitor would come on me, I drew up one of the heavy arm-chairs and sat facing toward the sea. With the basket on the table beside me and my sewing in my hands I felt indefinably more mistress of myself. It was a still afternoon and hot, with scarcely a sound but the pounding of the surf on the ledges at the foot of the lawn. Though the sky was blue overhead, a dark low bank rose out of the horizon, foretelling a change of wind with fog. In the air the languorous scent of roses and honeysuckle mingled with the acrid tang of the ocean. I felt extraordinarily desolate. Not since hearing what the lawyer had told me on the afternoon of my father's funeral had I seemed so entirely alone. The fact that for nearly twenty-four hours Hugh had got no word to me threw me back upon myself. "You'll be made to feel alone," Mr. Strangways had said in the morning; and I was. I didn't blame Hugh. I had purposely left the matter in such a way that there was nothing he could say or do till after his father had spoken. He was probably waiting impatiently; I had, indeed, no doubt about that; but the fact remained that I, a girl, a stranger, in a certain sense a foreigner, was to make the best of my situation without help. J. Howard Brokenshire could grind me to powder--when he had gone away I should be dust. "If I do right, nothing but right can come of it." The maxim was my only comfort. By sheer force of repeating it I got strength to thread my needle and go on with my seam, till on the stroke of three the dread personage appeared. I saw him from the minute he mounted the steps that led up from the Cliff Walk to Mr. Rossiter's lawn. He was accompanied by Mrs. Brokenshire, while a pair of greyhounds followed them. Having reached the lawn, they crossed it diagonally toward the loggia. Because of the heat and the up-hill nature of the way, they advanced slowly, which gave me leisure to observe. Mrs. Brokenshire's presence had almost caused my heart to stop beating. I could imagine no motive for her coming but one I refused to accept. If the mission was to be unfriendly, she surely would have stayed away; but that it could be other than unfriendly was beyond my strength to hope. I had never seen her before except in glimpses or at a distance. I noticed now that she was a little thing, looking the smaller for the stalwart six-foot-two beside which she walked. She was in white and carried a white parasol. I saw that her face was one of the most beautiful in features and finish I had ever looked into. Each trait was quite amazingly perfect. The oval was perfect; the coloring was perfect; mouth and nose and forehead might have been made to a measured scale. The finger of personified Art could have drawn nothing more exquisite than the arch of the eyebrows, or more delicately fringed than the lids. It might have been a doll's face, or the face for the cover of an American magazine, had it not been saved by something I hadn't the time to analyze, though I was later to know what it was. As for him, he was as perfect in his way as she in hers. When I say that he wore white shoes, white-duck trousers, a navy-blue jacket, and a yachting-cap I give no idea of the something noble in his personality. He might have been one of the more ornamental Italian princes of immemorial lineage. A Jove with a Vandyke beard one could have called him, and if you add to that the conception of Jove the Thunderer, Jove with the look that could strike a man dead, perhaps the description would be as good as any. He was straight and held his head high. He walked with a firm setting of his feet that impressed you with the fact that some one of importance was coming. It is not my purpose to speak of this man from the point of view of the ordinary member of the public. Of that I know next to nothing. I was dimly aware that his wealth and his business interests made him something of a public character; but apart from having heard him mentioned as a financier I could hardly have told what his profession was. So, too, with questions of morals. I have been present when, by hints rather than actual words, he was introduced as a profligate and a hypocrite; and I have also known people of good judgment who upheld him both as man and as citizen. On this subject no opinion of mine would be worth giving. I have always relegated the matter into that limbo of disputed facts with which I have nothing to do. I write of him only as I saw him in daily life, or at least in direct intercourse, and with that my testimony must end. Other people have been curious with regard to those aspects of his character on which I can throw no light. To me he became interesting chiefly because he was one of those men who from a kind of naïve audacity, perhaps an unthinking audacity, don't hesitate to play the part of the Almighty. When they drew near enough to the loggia I stood up, my sewing in my hand. The two greyhounds, who had outdistanced them, came sniffing to the threshold and stared at me. I felt myself an object to be stared at, though I had taken pains with my appearance and knew that I was neat. Neatness, I may say in passing, is my strong point. Where many other girls can stand expensive dressing I am at my best when meticulously tidy. The shape of my head makes the simplest styles of doing the hair the most distinguished. My figure lends itself to country clothes and the tailor-made. In evening dress I can wear the cheapest and flimsiest thing, so long as it is dependent only on its lines. I was satisfied, therefore, with the way I looked, and when I say I felt myself an object to be stared at I speak only of my consciousness of isolation. I cannot affirm, however, that J. Howard Brokenshire stared at me. He stared; but only at the general effects in which I was a mere detail. The loggia being open on all sides, he paused for half a second to take it and its contents in. I went with the contents. I looked at him; but nothing in the glance he cast over me recognized me as a human being. I might have been the table; I might have been the floor; for him I was hardly in existence. I wonder if you have ever stood under the gaze of one who considered you too inferior for notice. The sensation is quite curious. It produces not humiliation or resentment so much as an odd apathy. You sink in your own sight; you go down; you understand that abjection of slaves which kept them from rising against their masters. Negatively at least you concede the right that so treats you. You are meek and humble at once; and yet you can be strong. I think I never felt so strong as when I saw that cold, deep eye, which was steely and fierce and most inconsistently sympathetic all in one quick flash, sweep over me and pay me no attention. _Ecce Femina_ I might have been saying to myself, as a pendant in expression to the _Ecce Homo_ of the Prætorium. He moved aside punctiliously at the lower of the two steps that led up to the loggia to let his wife precede him. As she came in I think she gave me a salutation that was little more than a quiver of the lids. Having closed her parasol, she slipped into one of the arm-chairs not far from the table. Now that he was at close quarters, with his work before him, he proceeded to the task at once. In the act of laying his hat and stick on a chair he began with the question, "Your name is--?" The voice had a crisp gentleness that seemed to come from the effort to despatch business with the utmost celerity and spend no unnecessary strength on words. The fact that he must have heard my name from Hugh was plainly to play no part in our discussion. I was so unutterably frightened that when I tried to whisper the word "Adare" hardly a sound came forth. As he raised himself from the placing of his cap and stick he was obliged to utter a sharp, "What?" "Adare." "Oh. Adare!" It is not a bad name as names go; we like to fancy ourselves connected with the famous Fighting Adares of the County Limerick; but on J. Howard Brokenshire's lips it had the undiscriminating commonness of Smith or Jones. I had never been ashamed of it before. "And you're one of my daughter's--" "I'm her nursery governess." "Sit down." As he took the chair at the end of the table I dropped again into that at the side from which I had risen. It was then that something happened which left me for a second in doubt as to whether to take it as comic or catastrophic. His left eye closed; his left nostril quivered; he winked. To avoid having to face this singular phenomenon a second time I lowered my eyes and began mechanically to sew. "Put that down!" I placed the work on the table and once more looked at him. The striking eyes were again as striking as ever. In their sympathetic hardness there was nothing either ribald or jocose. I suppose my scrutiny annoyed him, though I was unconscious of more than a mute asking for orders. He pointed to a distant chair, a chair in a corner, just within the loggia as you come from the direction of the dining-room. "Sit there." I know now that his wink distressed him. It was something which at that time had come upon him recently, and that he could neither control nor understand. A less imposing man, a man to whom personal impressiveness was less of an asset in daily life and work, would probably have been less disturbed by it; but to J. Howard Brokenshire it was a trial in more ways than one. Curiously, too, when the left eye winked the right grew glassy and quite terrible. Not knowing that he was sensitive in this respect, I took my retreat to the corner as a kind of symbolic banishment. "Hadn't I better stand up?" I asked, proudly, when I had reached my chair. "Be good enough to sit down." I seemed to fall backward. The tone had the effect of a shot. If I had ever felt small and foolish in my life it was then. I flushed to my darkest crimson. Angry and humiliated, I was obliged to rush to my maxim in order not to flash back in some indignant retort. And then another thing happened of which I was unable at the minute to get the significance. Mrs. Brokenshire sprang up with the words: "You're quite right, Howard. It's ever so much cooler over here by the edge. I never felt anything so stuffy as the middle of this place. It doesn't seem possible for air to get into it." While speaking she moved with incomparable daintiness to a chair corresponding to mine and diagonally opposite. With the length and width of the loggia between us we exchanged glances. In hers she seemed to say, "If you are banished I shall be banished too"; in mine I tried to express gratitude. And yet I was aware that I might have misunderstood both movement and look entirely. My next surprise was in the words Mr. Brokenshire addressed to me. He spoke in the soft, slightly nasal staccato which I am told had on his business associates the effect of a whip-lash. "We've come over to tell you, Miss--Miss Adare, how much we appreciate your attitude toward our boy, Hugh. I understand from him that he's offered to marry you, and that very properly in your situation you've declined. The boy is foolish, as you evidently see. He meant nothing; he could do nothing. You're probably not without experience of a similar kind among the sons of your other employers. At the same time, as you doubtless expect, we sha'n't let you suffer by your prudence--" It was a bad beginning. Had he made any sort of appeal to me, however unkindly worded, I should probably have yielded. But the tradition of the Fighting Adares was not in me for nothing, and after a smothering sensation which rendered me speechless I managed to stammer out: "Won't you allow me to say that--" The way in which his large, white, handsome hand went up was meant to impose silence upon me while he himself went on: "In order that you may not be annoyed by my son's folly in the future you will leave my daughter's employ, you'll leave Newport--you'll be well advised, indeed, in going back to your own country, which I understand to be the British provinces. You will lose nothing, however, by this conduct, as I've given you to understand. Three--four--five thousand dollars--I think five ought to be sufficient--generous, in fact--" "But I've not refused him," I was able at last to interpose. "I--I mean to accept him." There was an instant of stillness during which one could hear the pounding of the sea. "Does that mean that you want me to raise your price?" "No, Mr. Brokenshire. I have no price. If it means anything at all that has to do with you, it's to tell you that I'm mistress of my acts and that I consider your son--he's twenty-six--to be master of his." There was a continuation of the stillness. His voice when he spoke was the gentlest sound I had ever heard in the way of human utterance. If it were not for the situation it could have been considered kind: "Anything at all that has to do with me? You seem to attach no importance to the fact that Hugh is my son." I do not know how words came to me. They seemed to flow from my lips independently of thought. "I attach importance only to the fact that he's a man. Men who are never anything but their father's sons aren't men." "And yet a father has some rights." "Yes, sir; some. He has the right to follow where his grown-up children lead. He hasn't the right to lead and require his grown-up children to follow." He shifted his ground. "I'm obliged to you for your opinion, but at present it's not to the point--" I broke in breathlessly: "Pardon me, sir; it's exactly to the point. I'm a woman; Hugh's a man. We're--we're in love with each other; it's all we have to be concerned with." "Not quite; you've got to be concerned--with me." "Which is what I deny." "Oh, denial won't do you any good. I didn't come to hear your denials, or your affirmations, either. I've come to tell you what to do." "But if I know that already?" "That's quite possible--if you mean to play your game as doubtless you've played it before. I only want to warn you--" I looked toward Mrs. Brokenshire for help, but her eyes were fixed on the floor, on which she was drawing what seemed like a design with the tip of her parasol. The greyhounds were stretched at her feet. I could do nothing but speak for myself, which I did with a calmness that surprised me. "Mr. Brokenshire," I interrupted, "you are a man and I'm a woman. What's more, you're a strong man, while I'm a woman with no protection at all. I ask you--do you think you're playing a man's part in insulting me?" His tone grew kind almost to affection. "My dear young lady, you misunderstand me. Insult couldn't be further from my thoughts. I'm speaking entirely for your own sake. You're young; you're very pretty; I won't say you've no knowledge of the world because I see you have--" "I've a good deal of knowledge of the world." "Only not such knowledge as would warrant you in pitting yourself against me." "But I don't. If you'd leave me alone--" "Let us keep to what we're talking of. I'm sorry for you; I really am. You're at the beginning of what might euphemistically--do you know the meaning of the word?--be called a career. I should like to save you from it; that's all. It's why I'm speaking to you very plainly and using language that can't be misunderstood. There's nothing original in your proceeding, believe me. Nearly every family of the standing of mine has had to reckon with something of the sort. Where there are young men, and young women of--what do you want me to say?--young women who mean to do the best they can for themselves--let us put it in that way--" "I'm a gentleman's daughter," I broke in, weakly. He smiled. "Oh yes; you're all gentlemen's daughters. Neither is there anything original in that." "Mrs. Rossiter will tell you that my father was a judge in Canada--" "The detail doesn't interest me." "No, but it interests me. It gives me a sense of being equal to--" "If you please! We'll not go into that." "But I must speak. If I'm to marry Hugh you must let me tell you who I am." "It's not necessary. You're not to marry Hugh. Let that be absolutely understood. Once you've accepted the fact--" "I could only accept it from Hugh himself." "That's foolish. Hugh will do as I tell him." "But why should he in this case?" "That again is something we needn't discuss. All that matters, my dear young lady, is your own interest. I'm working for that, don't you see, against yourself--" I burst out, "But why shouldn't I marry him?" He leaned on the table, tapping gently with his hand. "Because we don't want you to. Isn't that enough?" I ignored this. "If it's because you don't know anything about me I could tell you." "Oh, but we do know something about you. We know, for example, since you compel me to say it, that you're a little person of no importance whatever." "My family is one of the best in Canada." "And admitting that that's so, who would care what constituted a good family in Canada? To us here it means nothing; in England it would mean still less. I've had opportunities of judging how Canadians are regarded in England, and I assure you it's nothing to make you proud." Of the several things he had said to sting me I was most sensitive to this. I, too, had had opportunities of judging, and knew that if anything could make one ashamed of being a British colonial of any kind it would be British opinion of colonials. "My father used to say--" He put up his large, white hand. "Another time. Let us keep to the subject before us." I omitted the mention of my father to insist on a theory as to which I had often heard him express himself: "If it's part of the subject before us that I'm a Canadian and that Canadians are ground between the upper and lower millstones of both English and American contempt--" "Isn't that another digression?" "Not really," I hurried on, determined to speak, "because if I'm a sufferer by it, you are, too, in your degree. It's part of the Anglo-Saxon tradition for those who stay behind to despise those who go out as pioneers. The race has always done it. It isn't only the British who've despised their colonists. The people of the Eastern States despised those who went out and peopled the Middle West; those in the Middle West despised those who went farther West." I was still quoting my father. "It's something that defies reason and eludes argument. It's a base strain in the blood. It's like that hierarchy among servants by which the lady's maid disdains the cook, and the cook disdains the kitchen-maid, and the proudest are those who've nothing to be proud of. For you to look down on me because I'm a Canadian, when the commonest of Englishmen, with precisely the same justification, looks down on you--" "Dear young lady," he broke in, soothingly, "you're talking wildly. You're speaking of things you know nothing about. Let us get back to what we began with. My son has offered to marry you--" "He didn't offer to marry me. He asked me--he begged me--to marry him." "The way of putting it is of no importance." "Ah, but it is." "I mean that, however he expressed it--however you express it--the result must be the same." I nerved myself to look at him steadily. "I mean to accept him. When he asked me yesterday I said I wouldn't give him either a Yes or a No till I knew what you and his family thought of it. But now that I do know--" "You're determined to try the impossible." "It won't be the impossible till he tells me so." He seemed for a second or two to study me. "Suppose I accepted you as what you say you are--as a young woman of good antecedents and honorable character. Would you still persist in the effort to force yourself on a family that didn't want you?" I confess that in the language Mr. Strangways and I had used in the morning, he had me here "on the hip." To force myself on a family that didn't want me would normally have been the last of my desires. But I was fighting now for something that went beyond my desires--something larger--something national, as I conceived of nationality--something human--though I couldn't have said exactly what it was. I answered only after long deliberation. "I couldn't stop to consider a family. My object would be to marry the man who loved me--and whom I loved." "So that you'd face the humiliation--" "It wouldn't be humiliation, because it would have nothing to do with me. It would pass into another sphere." "It wouldn't be another sphere to him." "I should have to let him take care of that. It's all I can manage to look out for myself--" There seemed to be some admiration in his tone. "Which you seem marvelously well fitted to do." "Thank you." "In fact, it's one of the ways in which you betray yourself. An innocent girl--" I strained forward in my chair. "Wouldn't it be fair for you to tell me what you mean by the word innocent?" "I mean a girl who has no special ax to grind--" I could hear my foot tapping on the floor, but I was too indignant to restrain myself. "Even that figure of speech leaves too much to the imagination." He studied me again. "You're very sharp." "Don't I need to be," I demanded, "with an enemy of your acumen?" "But I'm not your enemy. It's what you don't seem to see. I'm your friend. I'm trying to keep you out of a situation that would kill you if you got into it." I think I laughed. "Isn't death preferable to dishonor?" I saw my mistake in the quickness with which Mrs. Brokenshire looked up. "There are more kinds of dishonor than one," I explained, loftily, "and to me the blackest would be in allowing you to dictate to me." "My dear young woman, I dictate to men--" "Oh, to men!" "I see! You presume on your womanhood. It's a common American expedient, and a cheap one. But I don't stop for that." "You may not stop for womanhood, Mr. Brokenshire; but neither does womanhood stop for you." He rose with an air of weary patience. "I'm afraid we sha'n't gain anything by talking further--" "I'm afraid not." I, too, rose, advancing to the table. We confronted each other across it, while one of the dogs came nosing to his master's hand. I had barely the strength to gasp on: "We've had our talk and you see where I am. I ask nothing but the exercise of human liberty--and the measure of respect I conceive to be due to every one. Surely you, an American, a representative of what America is supposed to stand for, can't think of it as too much." "If America is supposed to stand for your marrying my son--" "America stands, so I've been told by Americans, for the reasonable freedom of the individual. If Hugh wants to marry me--" "Hugh will marry the woman I approve of." "Then that apparently is what we must put to the test." I was now so near to tears that I suppose he saw an opening to his own advantage. Coming round the table, he stood looking down at me with that expression which I can only describe as sympathetic. With all the dominating aggressiveness which either forced you to give in to him or urged you to fight him till you dropped, there was that about him which left you with a lingering suspicion that he might be right. It was the man who might be right who was presently sitting easily on the edge of the table, so that his face was on a level with my own, and saying in a kindly voice: "Now look here! Let's be reasonable. I don't want to be unfair to you, or to say anything a man isn't justified in saying to a woman. I'm willing to throw the whole blame on Hugh--" "I'm not," I declared, hotly. "That's generous; but I'm speaking of myself. I'm willing to throw the whole blame on Hugh, because he's my son. I'll absolve you, if you like, because you're a stranger and a girl, and consider you a victim--" "I'm not a victim," I insisted. "I'm only a human being, asking for a human being's rights." He shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, rights! Who knows what rights are?" "I do. That is," I corrected, "I know my own." "Oh, of course! One always knows one's own. One's own rights are everything one can get. Now you can't get Hugh; but you can get five thousand dollars. That's a lot of money. There are men all over the United States who'd cut off a hand for it. You won't have to cut off a hand. You only need to be a good, sensible little girl and--get out." Perhaps he thought I was yielding, for he tapped his side pocket as he went on speaking. "It won't take a minute. I've got a check-book here--a stroke of the pen--" My work was lying on the table a few inches away. Leaning forward deliberately I put it into the basket, which I tucked under my arm. I looked at Mrs. Brokenshire, who was leaning forward and looking at me. I inclined my head with a slight salutation, to which she did not respond, and turned away. Of him I took no notice. "So it's war." I was half-way to the dining-room when I heard him say that. As I paused to look back he was still sitting sidewise on the edge of the table, swinging a leg and staring after me. "No, sir," I said, quietly. "It takes two to fight, and I should never think of being one." "You know, of course, that I shall have no mercy on you." "No, sir; I don't." "Then you can know it now. I'm sorry for you; but I can't afford to spare you. Bigger things than you have come in my way--and have been blasted." Mrs. Brokenshire made a quick little movement behind his back. It told me nothing I understood then, though I was able to interpret it later. I could only say, in a voice that shook with the shaking of my whole body: "You couldn't blast me, sir, because--because--" "Yes? Because--what? I should like to know." There was a robin hopping on the lawn outside and I pointed to it. "You couldn't blast a little bird like that with a bombshell." "Oh, birds have been shot." "Yes, sir; with a fowling-piece; but not with a howitzer. The one is too big; the other is too small." I was about to drop him a little courtesy when I saw him wink. It was a grotesque, amusing wink that quivered and twisted till it finally closed the left eye. If he had been a less handsome man the effect would have been less absurd. I made my courtesy the deeper, bending my head and lowering my eyes so as to spare him the knowledge that I saw. CHAPTER III "He attacked my country. I think I could forgive him everything but that." It was an hour after Mr. and Mrs. Brokenshire had left me. I was half crying by this time--that is, half crying in the way one cries from rage, and yet laughing nervously, in flashes, at the same time. From the weakness of sheer excitement I had dropped to one of the steps leading down to the Cliff Walk, while Larry Strangways leaned on the stone post. I had met him there as I was going out and he was coming toward the house. We couldn't but stop to exchange a word, especially with his knowledge of the situation. He took what I had to say with the light, gleaming, non-committal smile which he brought to bear on everything. I was glad of that because it kept him detached. I didn't want him any nearer to me than he was. "Attacked your country? Do you mean England?" "No; Canada. England is my grandmother; but Canada's my mother. He said you all despised her." "Oh no, we don't. He was trying to put something over on you." "Your 'No, we don't' lacks conviction; but I don't mind you. I shouldn't mind him if I hadn't seen so much of it." "So much of what?" "Being looked down upon geographically. Of all the ways of being proud," I declared, indignantly, "that which depends on your merely accidental position with regard to land and water strikes me as the most poor-spirited. I can't imagine any one dragging himself down to it who had another rag of a reason for self-respect. As a matter of fact, I don't believe any one ever does. The people I've heard express themselves on the subject--well, I'll give you an illustration: There was a woman at Gibraltar--a major's wife, a big, red-faced woman. Her name was Arbuthnot--her father was a dean or something--a big, red-faced woman, with one of those screechy, twangy English voices that cut you like a saw--you know there are some--a good many--and they don't know it. Well, she was saying something sneering about Canadians. I was sitting opposite--it was at a dinner-party--and so I leaned across the table and asked her why she didn't like them. She said colonials were such dreadful form. I held her with my eye"--I showed him how--"and made myself small and demure as I said, 'But, dear lady, how clever of you! Who would ever have supposed that you'd know that?' My sister Vic pitched into me about it after we got home. She said the Arbuthnot person didn't understand what I meant--nor any one else at the table, they're so awfully thick-skinned--and that it's better to let them alone. But that's the kind of person who--" He tried to comfort me. "They'll come round in time. One of these days England will see what she owes to her colonists and do them justice." "Never!" I declared, vehemently. "It will be always the same--till we knock the Empire to pieces. Then they'll respect us. Look at the Boer War. Didn't our men sacrifice everything to go out that long distance--and win battles--and lay down their lives--only to have the English say afterward--especially the army people--that they were more trouble than they were worth? It will be always the same. When we've given our last penny and shed our last drop of blood they'll still tell us we've been nothing but a nuisance. You may live to see it and remember that I said so. If when Shakespeare wrote that it's sharper than a serpent's tooth to have a thankless child he'd gone on to add that it's the very dickens to have a picturesque, self-satisfied old grandmother who thinks her children's children should give her everything and take kicks instead of ha'pence for their pay, he'd have been up to date. Mind you, we don't object to giving our last penny and shedding our last drop of blood; we only hate being abused and sneered at for doing it." I warmed to my subject as I dabbed fiercely at my eyes. "I'll tell you what the typical John Bull is like. He's like those men--big, flabby men they generally are--who'll be brutes to you so long as you're civil to them, but will climb down the minute you begin to hit back. Look at the way they treat you Americans! They can't do enough for you--because you snap your fingers in their faces and show them you don't care a hang about them. They come over here, and give you lectures, and marry your girls, and pocket your money, and adopt your bad form as delightful originality--and respect you. Now that earls' daughters are beginning to cast an eye on your millionaires--Mrs. Rossiter told me that--they won't leave you a rag to your back. But with us who've been faithful and loyal they're all the other way. I can hardly tell you the small pin-pricking indignities to which my sisters and I have been subjected for being Canadians. And they'll never change. It will never be otherwise, no matter what we do, no matter what we become, no matter if we give our bodies to be burned, as the Bible says. It will never be otherwise--not till we imitate you and strike them in the face. _Then_ you'll see how they'll come round."[1] He still smiled, with an aloofness in which there was a beam of sweetness. "I had no idea that you were such a little rebel." "I'm not a rebel. I'm loyal to the King. That is, I'm loyal to the great Anglo-Saxon ideal of which the King is the symbol--and I suppose he's as good a symbol as any other, especially as he's already there. The English are only partly Anglo-Saxon. 'Saxon and Norman and Dane are they'--didn't Tennyson say that? Well, there's a lot that's Norman, and a lot that's Dane, and a lot that's Scotch and Irish and rag-tag in them. But they're saved by the pure Anglo-Saxon ideal in so far as they hold to it--just as you'll be, with all your mixed bloods--and just as we shall be ourselves. It's like salt in the meat, it's like grace in the Christian religion--it's the thing that saves, and I'm loyal to that. My father used to say that it's the fact that English and Canadians and Australians are all devoted to the same principle that holds us together as an Empire, and not the subservience of distant lands to a Parliament sitting at Westminster. And so it is. We don't always like each other; but that doesn't matter. What does matter is that we should betray the fact that we don't like each other to outsiders--and so give them a handle against us." "You mean that J. Howard should be in a position to side with the English in looking down on you as a Canadian?" "Yes, and that the English should give him that position. He's an American and an enemy--every American is an enemy to England _au fond_. Oh yes, he is! You needn't deny it! It's something fundamental, deeper down than anything you understand. Even those of you who like England are hostile to her at heart and would be glad to see her in trouble. So, I say, he's an American and an enemy, and yet they hand me, their child and their friend, over to him to be trampled on. He's had opportunities of judging how Canadians are regarded in England, he says--and he assures me it's nothing to be proud of. That's it. I've had opportunities too--and I have to admit that he's right. Don't you see? That's what enrages me. As far as their liking us and our not liking them is concerned, why, it's all in the family. So long as it's kept in the family it's like the pick that Louise and Vic have always had on me. I'm the youngest and the plainest--" "Oh, you're the plainest, are you? What on earth are they like?" "They're quite good-looking, and they're awfully chic. But that's in parentheses. What I mean is that they're always hectoring me because I'm not attractive--" "Really?" "I'm not fishing for compliments. I'm too busy and too angry for that. I want to go on talking about what we're talking about." "But I want to know why they said you were unattractive." "Well, perhaps they didn't say it. What they have said is this, and it's what Mrs. Rossiter says--she said it to-day--that I'm only attractive to one man in five hundred--" "But very attractive to him?" "No; she didn't say that. She merely admitted that her brother Hugh was that man--" He interrupted with something I wished at the time he hadn't said, and which I tried to ignore: "He's the man in that five hundred--and I know another in another five hundred, which makes two in a thousand. You'd soon get up to a high percentage, when you think of all the men there are in the world." As he had never hinted at anything of the kind before, it gave me--how shall I put it?--I can only think of the word fright--it gave me a little fright. It made me uneasy. It was nothing, really. It was spoken with that gleaming smile of his which seemed to put distance between him and me--between him and everything else that was serious--and yet subconsciously I felt as one feels on hearing the first few notes, in an opera or a symphony, of that arresting phrase which is to work up into a great motive. I tried to get back to my original theme, rising to move on as I did so. "Good gracious!" I cried. "Isn't the world big enough for us all? Why should we go about saying unkind and untrue things of one other, when each of us is an essential part of a composite whole? Isn't it the foot saying to the hand I have no need of thee, and the eye saying the same thing to the nose? We've got something you haven't got, and you've got something we haven't got. Why shouldn't we be appreciative toward each other, and make our exchange with mutual respect as we do with trade commodities?" It was probably to urge me on to talk that he said, with a challenging smile: "What have you Canadians got that we haven't? Why, we could buy and sell you." "Oh no, you couldn't; because our special contribution toward the civilization of the American continent isn't a thing for sale. It can be given; it can be inherited; it can be caught; but it can't be purchased." "Indeed? What is this elusive endowment?" I answered frankly enough: "I don't know. It's there--and I can't tell you what it is. Ever since I've been living among you I've felt how much we resemble each other--what a difference. I think--mind you, I only think--that what it consists in is a sense of the _comme il faut_. We're simpler than you; and less intellectual; and poorer, of course; and less, much less, self-analytical; and yet we've got a knowledge of what's what that you couldn't command with money. None of the Brokenshires have it at all, and, as far as I can see, none of their friends. They command it with money, and the difference is like having a copy of a work of art instead of the original. It gives them the air of being--I'm using Mrs. Rossiter's word--of being produced. Now we Canadians are not produced. We just come--but we come the right way--without any hooting or tooting or beating of tin pans or self-advertisement. We just are--and we say nothing about it. Let me make an example of what Mrs. Rossiter was discussing this morning. There are lots of pretty girls in my country--as many to the hundred as you have here--but we don't make a fuss about them or talk as if we'd ordered a special brand from the Creator. We grow them as you grow flowers in a garden, at the mercy of the air and sunshine. You grow yours like plants in a hothouse, to be exhibited in horticultural shows. Please don't think I'm bragging--" He laughed aloud. "Oh no!" "Well, I'm not," I insisted. "You asked me a question and I'm trying to answer it--and incidentally to justify my own existence, which J. Howard has called into question. You've got lots to offer us, and many of us come and take it thankfully. What we can offer to you is a simpler and healthier and less self-conscious standard of life, with a great deal less talk about it--with no talk about it at all, if you could get yourselves down to that--and a willingness to be instead of an everlasting striving to become. You won't recognize it or take it, of course. No one ever does. Nations seem to me insane, and ruled by insane governments. Don't the English need the Germans, and the Germans the French, and the French the Austrians, and the Austrians the Russians, and so on? Why on earth should the foot be jealous of the nose? But there! You're simply making me say things--and laughing at me all the while--so I'm off to take my walk. We'll get even with J. Howard and all the first-class powers some day, and till then--_au revoir_." I had waved my hand to him and gone some paces into the fog that had begun to blow in when he called to me. "Wait a minute. I've something to tell you." I turned, without going back. "I'm--I'm leaving." I was so amazed that I retraced a step or two toward him. "What?" His smile underwent a change. It grew frozen and steely instead of being bright with a continuous play suggesting summer lightning, which had been its usual quality. "My time is up at the end of the month--and I've asked Mr. Rossiter not to expect me to go on." I was looking for something of the sort sooner or later, but now that it had come I saw how lonely I should be. "Oh! Where are you going? Have you got anything in particular?" "I'm going as secretary to Stacy Grainger." "I've some connection with that name," I said, absently, "though I can't remember what it is." "You've probably heard of him. He's a good deal in the public eye." "Have you known him long?" I asked, for the sake of speaking, though I was only thinking of myself. "Never knew him at all." He came nearer to me. "I've a confession to make, though it won't be of interest to you. All the while I've been here, playing with little Broke Rossiter, I've been--don't laugh--I've been contributing to the press--_moi qui vous parle_!" "What about?" "Oh, politics and finance and foreign policy and public things in general. Always had a taste that way. Now it seems that something I wrote for the _Providence Express_--people read it a good deal--has attracted the attention of the great Stacy. Yes, he's great, too--J. Howard's big rival for--" I began to recall something I had heard. "Wasn't there a story about him and Mr. Brokenshire and Mrs. Brokenshire?" "That's the man. Well, he's noticed my stuff, and written to the editor--and to me, and I'm to go to him." I was still thinking of myself and the loss of his _camaraderie_. "I hope he's going to pay you well." "Oh, for me it will be wealth." "It will probably be more than that. It will be the first long step up." He nodded confidently. "I hope so." I had again begun to move away when he stopped me the second time. "Miss Adare, what's your first name? Mine's Lawrence, as you know." If I laughed a little it was to conceal my discomfort at this abrupt approach to the intimate. "I'm rather sorry for my name," I said, apologetically. "You see my father was one of those poetically loyal Canadians who rather overdo the thing. My eldest sister should have been Victoria, because Victoria was the queen. But the Duchess of Argyll was in Canada at that time--and very nice to father and mother--and so the first of us had to be Louise. He couldn't begin on the queens till there was a second one. That's poor Vic; while I'm--I know you'll shout--I'm Alexandra. If there'd been a fourth she'd have been a Mary; but poor mother died and the series stopped." He shook hands rather gravely. "Then I shall think of you as Alexandra." "If you are going to think of me at all," I managed to say, with a little _moue_, "put me down as Alix. That's what I've always been called." [Footnote 1: This was said before the Great War. It is now supposed that when peace is made there will be a change in English opinion. With my knowledge of my country--the British Empire--I permit myself to doubt it. There is a proverb which begins, "When the devil was sick." I shall, however, be glad if I am proved wrong.--Alexandra Adare.] CHAPTER IV I was glad of the fog. It was cool and refreshing; it was also concealing. I could tramp along under its protection with little or no fear of being seen. Wearing tweeds, thick boots, and a felt hat, I was prepared for wet, and as a Canadian girl I was used to open air in all weathers. The few stragglers generally to be seen on the Cliff Walk having rushed to their houses for shelter, I had the rocks and the breakers, the honeysuckle and the patches of dog-roses, to myself. In the back of my mind I was fortified, too, by the knowledge that dampness curls my hair into pretty little tendrils, so that if I did meet any one I should be looking at my best. The path is like no other in the world. I have often wondered why the American writer-up of picturesque bits didn't make more of it. Trouville has its _Plage_, and Brighton its King's Road, and Nice its Promenade des Anglais, but in no other kingdom of leisure that I know anything about will you find the combination of qualities, wild and subdued, that mark this ocean-front of the island of Aquidneck. Neither will you easily come elsewhere so near to a sense of the primitive human struggle, of the crude social clash, of the war of the rights of man--Fisherman's Rights, as this coast historically knows them--against encroachment, privilege, and seclusion. As you crunch the gravel, and press the well-rolled turf, and sniff the scent of the white and red clover and Queen Anne's lace that fringe the precipice leaning over the sea, you feel in the air those elements of conflict that make drama. In clinging to the edge of the cliff, in twisting round every curve of the shore line, in running up hill and down dale, under crags and over them, the path is, of course, not the only one of its kind. You will find the same thing anywhere on the south coast of England or the north coast of France. But in the sum of human interest it sucks into the three miles of its course I can think of nothing else that resembles it. As guaranteeing the rights of the fisherman it is, so I believe, inalienable public property. The fisherman can walk on it, sit on it, fish from it, right into eternity. So much he has secured from the past history of colony and state; but he has done it at the cost of making himself offensive to the gentlemen whose lawns he hems as a seamstress hems a skirt. It is a hem like a serpent, with a serpent's sinuosity and grace, but also with a serpent's hatefulness to those who can do nothing but accept it as a fact. Since, as a fact, it cannot be abolished it has to be put up with; and since it has to be put up with the means must needs be found to deal with it effectively. Effectively it has been dealt with. Money, skill, and imagination have been spent on it, to adorn it, or disguise it, or sink it out of sight. The architect, the landscape gardener, and the engineer have all been called into counsel. On Fisherman's Rights the smile and the frown are exercised by turns, each with its phase of ingenuity. Along one stretch of a hundred yards bland recognition borders the way with roses or spans the miniature chasms with decorative bridges; along the next shuddering refinement grows a hedge or digs a trench behind which the obtrusive wayfarer may pass unseen. But shuddering refinement and bland recognition alike withdraw into themselves as far as broad lawns and lofty terraces permit them to retire, leaving to the owner of Fisherman's Rights the enjoyment of ocher and umber rocks and sea and sky and grain-fields yellowing on far headlands. It gave me the nearest thing to glee I ever felt in Newport. It was bracing and open and free. It suggested comparisons with scrambles along Nova-Scotian shores or tramps on the moors in Scotland. I often hated the fine weather; it was oppressive; it was strangling. But a day like this, with its whiffs of wild wind and its handfuls of salt slashing against eyes and mouth and nostrils, was not only exhilarating, it was glorious. I was glad, too, that the prim villas and pretentious châteaux, most of them out of proportion to any scale of housekeeping of which America is capable, could only be descried like castles in a dream through the swirling, diaphanous drift. I could be alone to rage and fume--or fly onward with a speed that was in itself a relief. I could be alone till, on climbing the slope of a shorn and wind-swept bluff, I saw a square-shouldered figure looming on the crest. It was no more than a deepening of the texture of the fog, but I knew its lines. Skimming up the ascent with a little cry, I was in Hugh's arms, my head on his burly breast. I think it was his burliness that made the most definite appeal to me. He was so sturdy and strong, and I was so small and desolate. From the beginning, when he first used to come near me, I felt his presence, as the Bible says, like the shadow of a rock in a thirsty land. That was in my early homesick time, before I had seized the new way of living and the new national point of view. The fact, too, that, as I expressed it to myself, I was in the second cabin when I had always been accustomed to the first, inspired a discomfort for which unwittingly I sought consolation. Nobody thought of me as other than Mrs. Rossiter's retainer, but this one kindly man. I noticed his kindliness almost before I noticed him, just as, I think, he noticed my loneliness almost before he noticed me. He opened doors for me when I went in or out; he served me with things if he happened to be there at tea; he dropped into a chair beside me when I was the only member of a group whom no one spoke to. If Gladys was of the company I was of it too, with a nominal footing but a virtual exclusion. The men in the Rossiter circle were of the four hundred and ninety-nine to whom I wasn't attractive; the women were all civil--from a distance. Occasionally some nice old lady would ask me where I came from and if I liked my work, or talk to me of new educational methods in a way which, with my bringing up, was to me as so much Greek; but I never got any other sign of friendliness. Only this short, stockily built young fellow, with the small, blue eyes, ever recognized me as a human being with the average yearning for human intercourse. During the winter in New York he never went further than that. I remembered Mrs. Rossiter's recommendation and "let him alone." I knew how to do it. He was not the first man I had ever had to deal with, even if no one had asked me to marry him. I accepted his small, kindly acts with that shade of discretion which defined the distance between us. As far as I could observe, he himself had no disposition to cross the lines I set--not till we moved to Newport. There was a fortnight between our going there and his--a fortnight which seemed to work a change in him. The Hugh Brokenshire I met on one of my first rambles along the cliffs was not the Hugh Brokenshire I had last seen in Fifth Avenue. Perhaps I was not the same myself. In the new surroundings I had missed him--a little. I will not say that his absence had meant an aching void to me; but where I had had a friend, now I had none--since I was unable to count Larry Strangways. Had it not been for this solitude I should have been less receptive to his comings when he suddenly began to pursue me. Pursuit is the only word I can use. I found him everywhere, quiet, deliberate, persistent. If he had been ten or even five years older I could have taken his advances without uneasiness. But he was only twenty-six and a dependent. He had no work; apart from his allowance from his father he had no means. And yet when, on the day before my chronicle begins, he stole upon me as I sat in a sheltered nook below the cliffs to which I was fond of retreating when I had time--when he stole upon me there, and kissed me and kissed me and kissed me, I couldn't help confessing that I loved him. I must leave to some woman who has had to fend for herself the task of telling what it means when a man comes to offer her his heart and his protection. It goes without saying that it means more to her than to the sheltered woman, for it means things different and more wonderful. It is the expected unexpected come to pass; it is the impossible achieved. It is not only success; it is success with an aureole of glory. I suppose I must be parasitical by nature, for I never have conceived of life as other than dependent on some man who would love me and take care of me. Even when no such man appeared and I was forced out to earn my bread, I looked upon the need as temporary only. In the loneliest of times at Mrs. Rossiter's, at periods when I didn't see a man for weeks, the hero never seemed farther away than just behind the scenes. I confess to minutes when I thought he tarried unnecessarily long; I confess to terrified questionings as to what would happen were he never to come at all; I confess to solitary watches of the night in company with fears and tears; but I cannot confess to anything more than a low burning of that lamp of hope which never went out entirely. When, therefore, Hugh Brokenshire offered me what he had to offer me I felt for a few minutes--ten, fifteen, twenty perhaps--that sense of the fruition of the being which I am sure comes to us but rarely in this life, and perhaps is a foretaste of eternity. I was like a creature that has long been struggling up to some higher state--and has reached it. I am ashamed to say, too, that my first consciousness came in pictures to which the dear young man himself was only incidental. Two scenes in particular that for ten years past had been only a little below the threshold of my consciousness came out boldly, like developed photographs. I was the center of both. In one I saw a dainty little dining-room, where the table was laid. The damask was beautiful; the silver rich; the glasses crystalline. Wearing an inexpensive but extremely chic little gown, I was seating the guests. The other picture was more dim, but only in the sense that the room was deliciously darkened. It had white furnishings, a little white cot, and toys. In its very center was a bassinet, and I was leaning over it, wearing a delicate lace peignoir. Ought I to blush to say that while Hugh stammered out his impassioned declarations I was seeing these two tableaux emerging from the state of only half-acknowledged dreams into real possibility? I dare say. I merely affirm that it was so. Since the dominant craving of my nature was to have a home and a baby, I saw the baby and the home before I could realize a husband or a father, or bring my mind to the definite proposals faltered by poor Hugh. But I did bring my mind to them, with the result of which I have already given a sufficient indication. Even in admitting that I loved him I thrust and parried and postponed. The whole idea was too big for me to grapple with on the spur of a sudden moment. I suggested his talking the matter over with his father chiefly to gain time. * * * * * But to rest in his arms had only a subordinate connection with the great issue I had to face. It was a joy in itself. It was a pledge of the future, even if I were never to take anything but the pledge. After my shifts and struggles and anxieties I could feel the satisfaction of knowing it was in my power to let them all roll off. If I were never to do it, if I were to go back to my uncertainties, this minute would mitigate the trial in advance. I might fight for existence during all the rest of my life, and yet I should still have the bliss of remembering that some one was willing to fight for me. He released me at last, since there might be people in Newport as indifferent to weather as ourselves. "What happened?" he asked then, with an eagerness which almost choked the question in its utterance. "Was it awful?" I was too nearly hysterical to enter on anything like a recital. "It might have been worse," I half laughed and half sobbed, trying to recover my breath and dry my eyes. His spirit seemed to leap at the answer. "Do you mean to say you got concessions from him--or anything like that?" I couldn't help clinging to the edge of his raincoat. "Did you expect me to?" "I didn't know but what, when he saw you--" "Oh, but he didn't see me. That was part of the difficulty. He looked where I was--but he didn't find anything there." He laughed, with a hint of disappointment. "I know what you mean; but you mustn't be surprised. He'll see you yet." He clasped me again. "I didn't see you at first, little girl; I swear I didn't. You're like that. A fellow must look at you twice before he knows that you're there; but when he begins to take notice--" I struggled out of his embrace, while he continued: "It's the same with all the great things--with pictures and mountains and cathedrals, and so on. Often thought about it when we've been abroad. See something once and pass it by. Next time you look at it a little. Third time it begins to grow on you. Fourth time you've found a wonder. You're a wonder, little Alix, do you know it?" "Oh no, I'm not. I must warn you, Hugh darling, that I'm very prosaic and practical and ordinary. You mustn't put me on a pedestal--" "Put you on a pedestal? You were born on a pedestal. You're the woman I've seen in hopes and dreams--" We began to walk on, coming to a little hollow that dipped near enough to the shore to allow of our scrambling over the rocks to where we could sit down among them. As we were here below the thickest belt of the fog line, I could see him in a way that had been impossible on the bluff. If he was good-looking it was only in the handsome-ugly sense. Mrs. Rossiter often said he was the one member of the family who inherited from the Brews of Boston, a statement I could verify from the first Mrs. Brokenshire's portrait by Carolus-Duran. Hugh's features were not ill-formed so much as they were out of proportion to each other, becoming thus a mere jumble of organs. The blue eyes were too small and too wide apart; the forehead was too broad for its height; the nose, which started at the same fine angle as his father's, changed in mid-course to a knob; the upper lip was intended to be long, but half-way in its descent took a notion to curve upward, making a hollow for a tender, youthful, fair mustache that didn't quite meet in the center and might have been applied with a camel's-hair brush; the lower lip turned outward with a little fullness that spilled over in a little fall, giving to the whole expression something lovably good-natured. Because the sea boiled over the ledges and scraped on the pebbles with a screechy sound we were obliged to sit close together in order to make ourselves heard. His arm about me was amazingly protective. I felt safe. The account of his interview with his father was too incoherent to give me more than the idea that they had talked somewhat at cross-purposes. To Hugh's statement that he wished to marry Miss Adare, the little nursery governess at Ethel's, his father had responded by reading a letter from Lord Goldborough inviting Hugh to his place in Scotland for the shooting. "It would be well for you to accept," the father commented, as he folded the letter. "I've cabled to Goldborough to say you'd sail on--" "But, father, how can I sail when I've asked Miss Adare to marry me?" To this the reply was the mention of the steamer and the date. He went on to say, however: "If you've asked any one to marry you it's absurd, of course. But I'll take care of that. If you go by that boat you'll reach London in plenty of time to fit out at your tailor's and still be at Strath-na-Cloid by the twelfth. In case you're short of money--" Apparently they got no further than that. To Hugh's assertions and objections his father had but one response. It was a response, as I understood, which confronted the younger man like a wall he had neither the force to break down nor the agility to climb over, and left him staring at a blank. Then followed another outburst which to my unaccustomed ear was as wild, sweet music. It wasn't merely that he loved me, he adored me; it wasn't merely that I was young and pretty and captivating with a sly, unobtrusive fascination that held you enchanted when it held you at all. I was mistress of the wisdom of the ages. Among the nice expensively dressed young girls with whom he danced and rode and swam and flirted, Hugh had never seen any one who could "hold a candle" to me in knowledge of human nature and the world. It wasn't that I had seen more than they or done more than they; it was that I had a mind through which every impression filtered and came out as something of my own. It was what he had always been looking for in a woman, and had given up the hope of finding. He spoke as if he was forty. He was serious himself, he averred; he had reflected, and held original convictions. Though a rich man's son, with corresponding prospects, his heart was with the masses and he labeled himself a Socialist. It was not the same thing to be a Socialist now, he explained to me, as it had been twenty years before, since so many men of education and position had adopted this system of opinion. In fact, his own conversion had been partly due to young Lord Ernest Hayes, of the British Embassy, who had spent the preceding summer at Newport, though his inclinations had gone in this direction ever since he had begun to think. It was because I was so open-eyed and so sincere that he had been drawn to me as soon as he had started in to notice me. It was true that he had noticed me first of all because I was in a subordinate position and alone, but, having done so, he had found a queen disguised as a working girl. I was a queen of the vital things in life, a queen of intelligence, of sympathy, of the defiance of convention, of everything that was great. I was the woman a Socialist could love, of whom a Socialist could make his star. "If father would only give me credit for being twenty-six and a man," the dear boy went on earnestly, "with a man's responsibility to society and the human race! But he doesn't. He thinks I ought to quit being a Socialist because he tells me to--or else he doesn't think at all. Nine times out of ten, when I begin to say what I believe, he talks of something else--just as he did last night in bringing up the Goldboroughs." I found the opportunity for which I had been looking during his impassioned rhapsody. The mention of the Goldboroughs gave me that kind of chill about the heart which the mist imparted to the hands and face. "You know them all very well," I said, when I found an opening in which I could speak. "Oh yes," he admitted, indifferently. "Known them all my life. Father represented Meek & Brokenshire in England till my grandfather died. Goldborough used to be an impecunious chap, land poor, till he and father began to pull together. Father's been able to give him tips on the market, and he's given father-- Well, dad's always had a taste for English swells. Never could stand the Continental kind--gilt gingerbread he's called 'em--and so, well, you can see." I admitted that I could see, going on to ask what the Goldborough family consisted of. There was Lord Leatherhead, the eldest son; then there were two younger sons, one in the army and one preparing for the Church; and there were three girls. "Any of the daughters married?" I ventured, timidly. There was nothing forced in the indifference with which he made his explanations. Laura was married to a banker named Bell; Janet, he thought he had heard, was engaged to a chap in the Inverness Rangers; Cecilia--Cissie they usually called her--was to the best of his knowledge still wholly free, but the best of his knowledge did not go far. I pumped up my courage again. "Is she--nice?" "Oh, nice enough." He really didn't know much about her. She was generally away at school when he had been at Goldborough Castle. When she was there he hadn't seen more than a long-legged, gawky girl, rather good at tennis, with red hair hanging down her back. Satisfied with these replies, I went on to tell him of my interview with his father an hour or two before. Of this he seized on one point with some ecstasy. "So you told him you'd take me! Oh, Alix--gosh!" The exclamation was a sigh of relief as well as of rapture. I could smile at it because it was so boyish and American, especially as he clasped me again and held me in a way that almost stopped my breath. When I freed myself, however, I said, with a show of firmness: "Yes, Hugh; it's what I said to him; but it's not what I'm going to repeat to you." "Not what you're going to repeat to me? But if you said it to him--" "I'm still not obliged to accept you--to-day." "But if you mean to accept me at all--" "Yes, I mean to accept you--if all goes well." "But what do you mean by that?" "I mean--if your family should want me." I could feel his clasp relax as he said: "Oh, if you're going to wait for that!" "Hugh, darling, how can I not wait for it? I told him I couldn't stop to consider a family; but--but I see I must." "Oh, but why? We shall lose everything if you do that. To wait for my family to want you to marry me--" I detached myself altogether from his embrace, pretending to arrange my skirts about my feet. He leaned forward, his fingers interlocked, his elbows on his knees, his kind young face disconsolate. "When I talked to your father," I tried to explain, "I saw chiefly the individual's side of the question of marriage. There is that side; but there's another. Marriage doesn't concern a man and a woman alone; it concerns a family--sometimes two." His cry came out with the explosive force of a slowly gathering groan. "Oh, rot, Alix!" He went on to expostulate: "Can't you see? If we were to go now and buy a license--and be married by the first clergyman we met--the family couldn't say a word." "Exactly; it's just what I do see. Since you want it I could force myself on them--the word is your father's--and they'd have no choice but to accept me." "Well, then?" "Hugh, dear, I--I can't do it that way." "Then what way could you do it?" "I'm not sure yet. I haven't thought of it. I only know in advance that even if I told you I'd marry you against--against all their wishes, I couldn't keep my promise in the end." "That is," he said, bitterly, "you think more of them than you do of me." I put my hand on his clasped fingers. "Nonsense. I--I love you. Don't you see I do? How could I help loving you when you've been so kind to me? But marriage is always a serious thing to a woman; and when it comes to marriage into a family that would look on me as a great misfortune--Hugh, darling, I don't see how I could ever face it." "I do," he declared, promptly. "It isn't so bad as you think. Families come round. There was Tracy Allen. Married a manicure. The Allens kicked up a row at first--wouldn't see Tracy and all that; but now--" "Yes, but, Hugh, I'm not a manicure." "You're a nursery governess." "By accident--and a little by misfortune. I wasn't a nursery governess when I first knew your sister." "But what difference does that make?" "It makes this difference: that a manicure would probably not think of herself as your equal. She'd expect coldness at first, and be prepared for it." "Well, couldn't you?" "No, because, you see, I'm your equal." He hunched his big shoulders impatiently. "Oh, Alix, I don't go into that. I'm a Socialist. I don't care what you are." "But you see I do. I don't want to expose myself to being looked down upon, and perhaps despised, for the rest of my life, because my family is quite as good as your own." He turned slowly from peering into the fog-bank to fix on me a look of which the tenderness and pity and incredulity seemed to stab me. I felt the helplessness of a sane person insisting on his sanity to some one who believes him mad. "Don't let us talk about those things, darling little Alix," he begged, gently. "Let's do the thing in style, like Tracy Allen, without any flummery or fluff. What's family--once you get away from the idea? When I sink it I should think that you could afford to do it too. If I take you as Tracy Allen took Libby Jaynes--that was her name, I remember now--not a very pretty girl--but if I take you as he took her, and you take me as she took him--" "But, Hugh, I can't. If I were Libby Jaynes, it's possible I could; but as it is--" And in the end he came round to my point of view. That is to say, he appreciated my unwillingness to reward Mrs. Rossiter's kindness to me by creating a scandal, and he was not without some admiration for what he called my "magnanimity toward his old man" in hesitating to drive him to extremes. And yet it was Hugh himself who drove him to extremes, over questions which I hardly raised. That was some ten days later, when Hugh refused point-blank to sail on the steamer his father had selected to take him on the way to Strath-na-Cloid. I was, of course, not present at the interview, but having heard of it from Hugh, and got his account corroborated by Ethel Rossiter, I can describe it much as it took place. I may say here, perhaps, that I still remained with Mrs. Rossiter. My marching orders, expected from hour to hour, didn't come. Mrs. Rossiter herself explained this delay to me some four days after that scene in the breakfast loggia which had left me in a state of curiosity and suspense. "Father seems to think that if he insisted on your leaving it would make Hugh's asking you to marry him too much a matter of importance." "And doesn't he himself consider it a matter of importance?" Mrs. Rossiter patted a tress of her brown hair into place. "No, I don't think he does." Perhaps nothing from the beginning had made me more inwardly indignant than the simplicity of this reply. I had imagined him raging against me in his heart and forming deep, dark plans to destroy me. "It would be a matter of importance to most people," I said, trying not to betray my feeling of offense. "Most people aren't father," Mrs. Rossiter contented herself with replying, still occupied with her tress of hair. It was the confidential hour of the morning in her big chintzy room. The maid having departed, I had been answering notes and was still sitting at the desk. It was the first time she had broached the subject in the four days which had been to me a period of so much restlessness. Wondering at this detachment, I had the boldness to question her. "Doesn't it seem important to you?" She threw me a glance over her shoulder, turning back to the mirror at once. "What have I got to do with it? It's father's affair--and Hugh's." "And mine, too, I suppose?" I hazarded, interrogatively. To this she said nothing. Her silence gave me to understand what so many other little things impressed upon me--that I didn't count. What Hugh did or didn't do was a matter for the Brokenshires to feel and for J. Howard Brokenshire to deal with. Ethel Rossiter herself was neither for me nor against me. I was her nursery governess, and useful as an unofficial companion-secretary. As long as it was not forbidden she would keep me in that capacity; when the order came she would send me away. As for anything I had to suffer, that was my own lookout. Hugh would be managed by his father, and from that fate there was no appeal. There was nothing, therefore, to worry Mrs. Rossiter. She could dismiss the whole matter, as she presently did, to discuss her troubles over the rival attentions of Mr. Millinger and Mr. Scott, and to protest against their making her so conspicuous. She had the kindness to say, however, just as she was leaving the house for Bailey's Beach: "I don't talk to you about this affair of Hugh's because I really don't see much of father. It's his business, you see, and nothing for me to interfere with. With that woman there I hardly ever go to their house, and he doesn't often come here. Her mother's with them, too, just now--that's old Mrs. Billing--a harpy if ever there was one--and with all the things people are saying! If father only knew! But, of course, he'll be the last one to hear it." She was getting into her car by this time and I seized no more; but at lunch I had a few minutes in which to bring my searchings of heart before Larry Strangways. It was not often we took this repast alone with the children, but it had to happen sometimes. Mrs. Rossiter had telephoned from Bailey's that she had accepted the invitation of some friends and we were not to expect her. We should lunch, however, she informed me, in the breakfast loggia, where the open air would act as chaperon and insure the necessary measure of propriety. So long as Broke and Gladys were present we were as demure as if we had met by chance in the restaurant car of a train. With the coffee the children begged to be allowed to play with the dogs on the grass, which left us for a few minutes as man and woman. "How is everything?" he asked at once, taking on that smile which seemed to put him outside the sphere of my interests. I shrugged my shoulders and looked down at the spoon with which I was dabbling in my cup. "Oh, just the same," I glanced up to say. "Tell me. Have people in this country no other measure of your standing but that of money?" "Have they any such measure in any country?" I was beginning with the words, "Why, yes," when he interrupted me. "Think." "I am thinking," I insisted. "In England and Canada and the British Empire generally--" "You attach some importance to birth. Yes; so do we here--when it goes with money. Without the basis of that support neither you nor we give what is so deliciously called birth the honor of a second thought." "Oh yes, we do--" "When it's your only asset--yes; but you do it alone. No one else pays it any attention." I colored. "That's rather cruel--" "It's not a bit more cruel than the fact. Take your case and mine as an illustration. As the estimate of birth goes in this country, I'm as well born as the majority. My ancestors were New-Englanders, country doctors and lawyers and ministers--especially the ministers. But as long as I haven't the cash I'm only a tutor, and eat at the second table. Jim Rossiter's forebears were much the same as mine; but the fact that he has a hundred thousand dollars a year and I've hardly got two is the only thing that would be taken into consideration, by any one in either the United Kingdom or the United States. It would be the same if I descended from Crusaders. If I've got nothing but that and my character to recommend me--" He raised his hand and snapped his fingers with a scornful laugh. "Take your case," he hurried on as I was about to speak. "You're probably like me, sprung of a line of professional men--" "And soldiers," I interrupted, proudly. "The first of my family to settle in Canada was a General Adare in the middle of the seventeen hundreds. He'd been in the garrison at Halifax and chose to remain in Nova Scotia." Perhaps there was some boastfulness in my tone as I added, "He came of the famous Fighting Adares of the County Limerick." "And all that isn't worth a row of pins--except to yourself. If you were the daughter of a miner who'd struck it rich you'd be a candidate for the British peerage. You'd be received in the best houses in London; you could marry a duke and no one would say you nay. As it is--" "As it is," I said, tremulously, "I'm just a nursery governess, and there's no getting away from the fact." "Not until you get away from the condition." "So that when I told Hugh Brokenshire the other day that in point of family I was his equal--" "He probably didn't believe you." The memory of Hugh's look still rankled in me. "No, I don't think he did." "Of course he didn't. As the world counts--as we all count--no poor family, however noble, is the equal of any rich family, however base." There was that transformation of his smile from something sunny to something hard which I had noticed once before, as he went on to add, "If you want to marry Hugh Brokenshire--" "Which I do," I interposed, defiantly. "Then you must enter into his game as he enters into it himself. He thinks of himself as doing the big romantic thing. He's marrying a poor girl who has nothing but herself as guaranty. That your great-grandfather was a general and one of the--what did you call them?--Fighting Adares of the County Cork would mean no more to him than if you said you were descended from the Lacedæmonians and the dragon's teeth. As far as that goes, you might as well be an immigrant girl from Sweden; you might as well be a cook. He's stooping to pick up his diamond from the mire, instead of buying it from a jeweler's window. Very well, then, you must let him stoop. You mustn't try to underestimate his condescension. You mustn't tell him you were once in a jeweler's window, and only fell into the mire by chance--" "Because," I smiled, "the mire is where I belong, until I'm taken out of it." "We belong," he stated, judicially, "where the world puts us. If we're wise we'll stay there--till we can meet the world's own terms for getting out." CHAPTER V I come at last to Hugh's defiance of his father. It took place not only without my incitement, but without my knowledge. No one could have been more sick with misgiving than I when I learned that the boy had left his father's house and gone to a hotel. If I was to blame at all it was in mentioning from time to time his condition of dependence. "You haven't the right to defy your father's wishes," I said to him. "so long as you're living on his money. What it comes to is that he pays you to do as he tells you. If you don't do as he tells you, you're not earning your allowance honestly." The point of view was new to him. "But if I was making a living of my own?" "Ah, that would be different." "You'd marry me then?" I considered this. "It would still have to depend," I was obliged to say at last. "Depend on what?" "On the degree to which you made yourself your own master." "I should be my own master if I earned a good income." I admitted this. "Very well," he declared, with decision. "I shall earn it." I didn't question his power to do that. I had heard so much of the American man's ability to make money that I took it for granted, as I did a bird's capacity for flight. As far as Hugh was concerned, it seemed to me more a matter of intention than of opportunity. I reasoned that if he made up his mind to be independent, independent he would be. It would rest with him. It was not of the future I was thinking so much as of the present; and in the present I was chiefly dodging his plea that we settle the matter by taking the law into our own hands. "It won't be as bad as you think," he kept urging. "Father would be sure to come round to you if you were my wife. He never quarrels with the accomplished fact. That's been part of the secret of his success. He'll fight a thing as long as he can; but when it's carried over his head no one knows better than he how to make the best of it." "But, Hugh, I don't want to have him make the best of it that way--at least, so long as you're not your own master." One day at the Casino he pointed out Libby Jaynes to me. I was there in charge of the children, and he managed to slip over from the tennis he was playing for a word: "There she is--that girl with the orange-silk sweater." The point of his remark was that Libby Jaynes was one of a group of half a dozen people, and was apparently received at Newport like anybody else. The men were in flannels; the women in the short skirts and easy attitudes developed by a sporting life. The silk sweater in its brilliant hues was to the Casino grounds as the parrot to Brazilian woods. Libby Jaynes wasn't pretty; her lips were too widely parted and her teeth too big; but her figure was adapted to the costume of the day, and her head to the slouching panama. She wore both with a decided _chic_. She was the orange spot where there was another of purple and another of pink and another of bright emerald-green. As far as I could see no one remembered that she had ever rubbed men's finger-nails in the barber's room of a hotel, and she certainly betrayed no sign of it. It was what Hugh begged me to observe. If I liked I could within a year be a member of this privileged troop instead of an outsider looking on. "You'd be just as good as she is," he declared with a naïveté I couldn't help taking with a smile. I was about to say, "But I don't feel inferior to her as it is," when I recalled the queer look of incredulity he had given me on the beach. And then one morning I heard he had quarreled with his father. It was Hugh who told me first, but Mrs. Rossiter gave me all the details within an hour afterward. It appeared that they had had a dinner-party in honor of old Mrs. Billing which had gone off with some success. The guests having left, the family had gathered in Mildred's sitting-room to give the invalid an account of the entertainment. It was one of those domestic reunions on which the household god insisted from time to time, so that his wife should seem to have that support from his children which both he and she knew she didn't have. The Jack Brokenshires were there, and Hugh, and Ethel Rossiter. It was exactly the scene for a tragi-comedy, and had the kind of setting theatrical producers liked before the new scene-painters set the note of allegorical simplicity. Mildred had the best corner room up-stairs, though, like the rest of the house, her surroundings suffered from her father's taste for the Italianate and over-rich. Heavy dark cabinets, heavy dark chairs, gilt candelabra, and splendidly brocaded stuffs threw the girl's wan face and weak figure into prominence. I think she often sighed for pretty papers and cretonnes, for Sèvres and colored prints, but she took her tapestries and old masters and majolica as decreed by a power she couldn't question. When everything was done for her comfort the poor thing had nothing to do for herself. The room had the further resemblance to a scene on the stage since, as I was given to understand, no one felt the reality of the friendliness enacted. To all J. Howard's children it was odious that he should worship a woman who was younger than Mildred and very little older than Ethel. They had loved their mother, who had been plain. They resented the fact that their father had got hold of her money for himself, had made her unhappy, and had forgotten her. That he should have become infatuated with a girl who was their own contemporary would have been a humiliation to them in any case; but when the story of his fight for her became public property, when it was the joke of the Stock Exchange and the subject of leading articles in the press, they could only hold their heads high and carry the situation with bravado. It was a proof of his grip on New York that he could put Editha Billing where he wished to see her, and find no authority, social or financial, bold enough to question him; it was equally a proof of his dominance in his family that neither son nor daughter could treat his new wife with anything but deference. She was the _maîtresse en tître_ to whom even the princes and princesses had to bow. They were bowing on this evening by treating old Mrs. Billing as if they liked her and counted her one of themselves. As the mother of the favorite she could reasonably claim this homage, and no one refused it but poor Hugh. He turned his back on it. Mildred being obliged to lie on a couch, he put himself at her feet, refusing thus to be witness of what he called a flattering hypocrisy that sickened him. That went on in the dimly, richly lighted room behind him, where the others sat about, pretending to be gay. Then the match went into the gunpowder all at once. "I'm the more glad the evening has been pleasant," J. Howard observed, blandly, "since we may consider it a farewell to Hugh. He's sailing on--" Hugh merely said over his shoulder, "No, father; I'm not." The startled silence was just long enough to be noticed before the father went on, as if he had not been interrupted: "He's sailing on--" "No, father; I'm not." There was no change in Hugh's tone any more than in his parent's. I gathered from Mrs. Rossiter that all present held their breaths as if in expectation that this blasphemer would be struck dead. Mentally they stood off, too, like the chorus in an opera, to see the great tragedy acted to the end without interference of their own. Jack Brokenshire, who was fingering an extinct cigar, twiddled it nervously at his lips. Pauline clasped her hands and leaned forward in excitement. Mrs. Brokenshire affected to hear nothing and arranged her five rows of pearls. Mrs. Billing, whom Mrs. Rossiter described as a condor with lace on her head and diamonds round her shrunken neck, looked from one to another through her lorgnette, which she fixed at last on her son-in-law. Ethel Rossiter kept herself detached. Knowing that Hugh had been riding for a fall, she expected him now to come his cropper. It caused some surprise to the lookers-on that Mr. Brokenshire should merely press the electric bell. "Tell Mr. Spellman to come here," he said, quietly, to the footman who answered his ring. Mr. Spellman appeared, a smooth-shaven man of indefinite age, with dark shadows in the face, and cadaverous. His master instructed him with a word or two. There was silence during the minute that followed the man's withdrawal, a silence ominous with expectation. When Spellman had returned and handed a long envelope to his employer and withdrawn again, the suspended action was renewed. Hugh, who was playing in seeming unconcern with the tassel of Mildred's dressing-gown, had given no attention to the small drama going on behind him. "Hugh, here's father," Mildred whispered. Her white face was drawn; she was fond of Hugh; she seemed to scent the catastrophe. Hugh continued to play with the tassel without glancing upward. It was not J. Howard's practice to raise his voice or to speak with emphasis except when the occasion demanded it. He was very gentle now as his hand slipped over Hugh's shoulder. "Hugh, here's your ticket and your letter of credit. I asked Spellman to see to them when he was in New York." The young man barely turned his head. "Thank you, father; but I don't want them. I can't go over--because I'm going to marry Miss Adare." As it was no time for the chorus of an opera to intervene, all waited for what would happen next. Old Mrs. Billing, turning her lorgnette on the rebellious boy, saw nothing but the back of his head. The father's hand wavered for a minute over the son's shoulder and let the envelope fall. Hugh continued to play with the tassel. For once Howard Brokenshire was disconcerted. Having stepped back a pace or two, he said in his quiet voice, "What did you say, Hugh?" The answer was quite distinct. "I said I was going to marry Miss Adare." "Who's that?" "You know perfectly well, father. She's Ethel's nursery governess. You've been to see her, and she's told you she's going to marry me." "Oh, but I thought that was over and done with." "No, you didn't, father. Please don't try to come that. I told you nearly a fortnight ago that I was perfectly serious--and I am." "Oh, are you? Well, so am I. The Goldboroughs are expecting you for the twelfth--" "The Goldboroughs can go to--" "Hugh!" It was Mildred who cut him short with a cry that was almost a petition. "All right, Milly," he assured her under his breath. "I'm not going to make a scene." That J. Howard expected to become the principal in a duel, under the eyes of excited witnesses, I do not think. If he had chosen to speak when witnesses were present, it was because of his assumption that Hugh's submission would be thus more easily secured. As it was his policy never to enter into a conflict of authorities, or of will against will, he was for the moment nonplussed. I have an idea he would have retired gracefully, waiting for a more convenient opportunity, had it not been for old Mrs. Billing's lorgnette. It will, perhaps, not interrupt my narrative too much if I say here that of all the important women he knew he was most afraid of her. She had coached him when he was a beginner in life and she an established young woman of the world. She must then have had a certain _beauté du diable_ and that nameless thing which men find exciting in women. I have been told that she was an example of the modern Helen of Troy, over whom men fight while she holds the stakes, and I can believe it. Her history was said to be full of dramatic episodes, though I never knew what they were. Even at sixty, which was the age at which I saw her, she had that kind of presence which challenges and dares. She was ugly and hook-nosed and withered; but she couldn't be overlooked. To me she suggested that Madame Poisson who so carefully prepared her daughter to become the Marquise de Pompadour. Stacy Grainger, I believe, was the Louis XV. of her earlier plans, though, like a born strategist, she changed her methods when reasons arose for doing so. I shall return to this later in my story. At present I only want to say that I do not believe that Mr. Brokenshire would have pushed things to an issue that night had her lorgnette not been there to provoke him. "Has it occurred to you, Hugh," he asked, in his softest tones, on reaching a stand before the chimney which was filled with dwarfed potted palms, "that I pay you an allowance of six thousand dollars a year?" Hugh continued to play with the tassel of Mildred's gown. "Yes, father; and as a Socialist I don't think it right. I've been coming to the decision that--" "You'll spare us your poses and let the Socialist nonsense drop. I simply want to remind you--" "I can't let the Socialist nonsense drop, father, because--" The tartness of the tone betrayed a rising irritation. "Be good enough to turn round this way. I don't understand what you're saying. Perhaps you'll take a chair, and leave poor Mildred alone." Mildred whispered: "Oh, Hugh, be careful. I'll do anything for you if you won't get him worked up. It'll hurt his face--and his poor eye." Hugh slouched--the word is Mrs. Rossiter's--to a nearby chair, where he sat down in a hunched position, his hands in his trousers pockets and his feet thrust out before him. The attitude was neither graceful nor respectful to the company. "It's no use talking, father," he declared, sulkily, "because I've said my last word." "Oh no, you haven't, for I haven't said my first." In the tone in which Hugh cried out there must have been something of the plea of a little boy before he is punished: "Please don't give me any orders, father, because I sha'n't be able to obey them." "Hugh, your expression 'sha'n't be able to obey' is not in the vocabulary with which I'm familiar." "But it's in the one with which I am." "Then you've probably learnt it from Ethel's little servant--I've forgotten the name--" Hugh spoke with spirit. "She's not a servant; and her name is Alexandra Adare. Please, dad, try to fix it in your memory. You'll find you'll have a lot of use for it." "Don't be impertinent." "I'm not impertinent. I'm stating a fact. I ask every one here to remember that name--" "We needn't bring any one else into this foolish business. It's between you and me. Even so, I wish to have no argument." "Nor I." "Then in that case we understand each other. You'll be with the Goldboroughs for the twelfth--" Hugh spoke very distinctly: "Father--I'm--not--going." In the silence that followed one could hear the ticking of the mantelpiece clock. "Then may I ask where you are going?" Hugh raised himself from his sprawling attitude, holding his bulky young figure erect. "I'm going to earn a living." Some one, perhaps old Mrs. Billing, laughed. The father continued to speak with great if dangerous courtesy. "Ah? Indeed! That's interesting. And may I ask at what?" "At what I can find." "That's more interesting still. Earning a living in New York is like the proverbial looking for the needle in the haystack. The needle is there, but it takes--" "Very good eyesight to detect it. All right, dad. I shall be on the job." "Good! And when do you propose to begin?" It had not been Hugh's intention to begin at any time in particular, but, thus challenged, he said, boldly, "To-morrow." "That's excellent. But why put it off so long? I should think you'd start out--to-night." Mrs. Billing's "Ha-a!" subdued and prolonged, was like that tense exclamation which the spectators utter at some exiting moment of a game. It took no sides, but it did justice to a sporting situation. As Hugh told me the story on the following day he confessed that more than any other occurrence it put the next move "up to him." According to Ethel Rossiter he lumbered heavily to his feet and crossed the room toward his father. He began to speak as he neared the architectural chimneypiece, merely throwing the words at J. Howard as he passed. "All right, father. Since you wish it--" "Oh no. My wishes are out of it. As you defy those I've expressed, there's no more to be said." Hugh paused in his walk, his hands in the pockets of his dinner-jacket, and eyed his father obliquely. "I don't defy your wishes, dad. I only claim the right, as a man of twenty-six, to live my own life. If you wouldn't make yourself God--" The handsome hand went up. "We'll not talk about that, if you please. I'd no intention of discussing the matter any longer. I merely thought that if I were in the situation in which you've placed yourself, I should be--getting busy. Still, if you want to stay the night--" "Oh, not in the least." Hugh was as nonchalant as he had the power to make himself. "Thanks awfully, father, all the same." He looked round on the circle where each of the chorus sat with an appropriate expression of horror--that is, with the exception of the old lady Billing, who, with her lorgnette still to her eyes, nodded approval of so much spirit. "Good night, every one," Hugh continued, coolly, and made his way toward the door. He had nearly reached it when Mildred cried out: "Hugh! Hughie! You're not going away like that!" He retraced his steps to the couch, where he stooped, pressed his sister's thin fingers, and kissed her. In doing so he was able to whisper: "Don't worry, Milly dear. Going to be all right. Shall be a man now. See you soon again." Having raised himself, he nodded once more. "Good night, every one." Mrs. Rossiter said that he was so much like a young fellow going to his execution that she couldn't respond by a word. Hugh then marched up to his father and held out his hand. "Good night, dad. We needn't have any ill-feeling even if we don't agree." But the Great Dispenser didn't see him. An imposing figure standing with his hands behind his back, he kept his fingers clasped. Looking through his son as if he was no more than air, he remarked to the company in general: "I don't think I've ever seen Daisy Burke appear better than she did to-night. She's usually so badly dressed." He turned with a little deferential stoop to where Mrs. Brokenshire--whom Ethel Rossiter described as a rigid, exquisite thing staring off into vacancy--sat on a small upright chair. "What do you think, darling?" Hugh could hear the family trying to rally to the hint that had thus been given them, and doing their best to discuss the merits and demerits of Daisy Burke, as he stood in the big, square hall outside, wondering where he should seek shelter. CHAPTER VI What Hugh did in the end was simple. Finding the footman who was accustomed to valet him, he ordered him to bring a supply of linen and some suits to a certain hotel early on the following morning. He then put on a light overcoat and a cap and left the house. The first few steps from the door he closed behind him gave him, so he told me next day, the strangest feeling he had ever experienced. He was consciously venturing forth into life without any of his usual supports. What those supports had been he had never realized till then. He had always been stayed by some one else's authority and buoyed all round by plenty of money. Now he felt, to change the simile as he changed it himself, as if he had been thrown out of the nest before having learnt to fly. As he walked resolutely down the dark driveway toward Ochre Point Avenue he was mentally hovering and balancing and trembling, with a tendency to flop. There was no longer a downy bed behind him; no longer a parent bill to bring him his daily worm. The outlook which had been one thing when he was within that imposing, many-lighted mansion became another now that he was turning his back on it permanently and in the dark. This he confessed when he had surprised me by appearing at the breakfast loggia, where I was having my coffee with little Gladys Rossiter somewhere between half past eight and nine. He was not an early riser, except when the tide enticed him to get up at some unusual hour to take his dip, and even then he generally went back to bed. To see him coming through the shrubbery now, carefully dressed, pallid and grave, half told me his news before he had spoken. Luckily Gladys was too young to follow anything we said, so that after having joyfully kissed her uncle Hugh she went on with her bread and milk. Hugh took a cup of coffee, sitting sidewise to the table of which only one end was spread, while I was at the head. It was the hour of the day when we were safest. Mrs. Rossiter never left her room before eleven at earliest, and no one else whom we were afraid of was likely to be about. "Well, the fat's all in the fire, little Alix," were the words in which he announced his position. "I'm out on my own at last." I could risk nothing in the way of tenderness, partly because of the maid who was coming and going, and partly because that was something Gladys would understand. I tried to let him see by my eyes, however, the sympathy I felt. I knew he was taking the new turn of events soberly, and soberly, with an immense semi-maternal yearning over him, I couldn't help taking it myself. He told his tale quietly, with almost no interruption on my part. I was pleased to note that he expressed nothing in the way of recrimination toward his father. With the exception of an occasional fling at old Mrs. Billing, whom he seemed to regard as a joss or a bottle imp, he was temperate, too, in his remarks about everybody else. I liked his sporting attitude and told him so. "Oh, there's nothing sporting in it," he threw off with a kind of serious carelessness. "I'm a man; that's all. As I look back over the past I seem to have been a doll." I asked him what were his plans. He said he was going to apply to his cousin, Andrew Brew, of Boston, going on to tell me more about the Brews than I had ever heard. He was surprised that I knew nothing of the important house of Brew, Borrodaile & Co., of Boston, who did such an important business with England and Europe in general. I replied that in Canada all my connections had been with the law, and with Service people in England. I noticed, as I had noticed before in saying things like that, that, in common with most American business men, he looked on the Army and Navy as inferior occupations. There was no money in either. That in itself was sufficient to condemn them in the eyes of a gentleman. I forgot to be nettled, as I sometimes had been, because of finding myself so deeply immersed in his interests. Up to that minute, too, I had had no idea that he had so much pride of birth. He talked of the Brews and the Brokenshires as if they had been Bourbons and Hohenzollerns, making me feel a veritable Libby Jaynes never to have heard of them. Of the Brews in particular he spoke with reverence. There had been Brews in Boston, he said, since the year one. Like all other American families, as I came to know later, they were descended from three brothers. In Norfolk and Suffolk they had been, so I guessed--though Hugh passed the subject over with some vagueness--of comparatively humble stock, but under the American flag they had acquired money, a quasi-nobility and coats of arms. To hear a man boasting, however modestly--and he was modest--of these respectable nobodies, who had simply earned money and saved it, made me blush inwardly in such a way that I vowed never to mention the Fighting Adares again. I could do this with no diminution of my feeling for poor Hugh. His artless glory in a line of ancestry of which the fame had never gone beyond the shores of Massachusetts Bay was, after all, a harmless bit of vanity. It took nothing away from his kindness, his good intentions, or his solid worth. When he asked me how I should care to live in Boston I replied that I should like it very much. I had always heard of it as a pleasant city of English characteristics and affiliations. Wherever he was, I told him, I should be at home--if I made up my mind to marry him. "But you have made up your mind, haven't you?" he asked, anxiously. I was obliged to reply with frankness, "Not quite, Hugh, because--" "Then what's the use of my getting into this hole, if it isn't to be with you?" "You mean by the hole the being, as you call it, out on your own? But I thought you did that to be a Socialist--and a man." "I've done it because father won't let me marry you any other way." "Then if that's all, Hugh--" "But it isn't all," he interrupted, hastily. "I don't say but what if father had given us his blessing, and come down with another six thousand a year--we could hardly scrub along on less--I'd have taken it and been thankful. But now that he hasn't--well, I can see that it's all for the best. It's--it's brought me out, as you might say, and forced me to a decision." I harked back to the sentence in which he had broken in on me. "If it was all, Hugh, then that would oblige me to make up my mind at once. I couldn't be the means of compelling you to break with your family and give up a large income." He cried out impatiently, "Alix, what the dickens is a family and a large income to me in comparison with you?" I must say that his intensity touched me. Tears sprang into my eyes. I risked Gladys's presence to say: "Hugh, darling, I love you. I can't tell you what your generosity and nobleness mean to me. I hadn't imagined that there was a man like you in the world. But if you could be in my place--" He pushed aside his coffee-cup to lean with both arms on the table and look me fiercely in the eyes. "If I can't be in your place, Alix, I've seen women who were, and who didn't beat so terribly about the bush. Look at the way Libby Jaynes married Tracy Allen. She didn't talk about his family or his giving up a big income. She trusted him." "And I trust you; only--" I broke off, to get at him from another point of view. "Do you know Libby Jaynes personally?" He nodded. "Is she--is she anything like me?" "No one is like you," he exclaimed, with something that was almost bitterness in the tone. "Isn't that what I'm trying to make you see? You're the one of your kind in the world. You've got me where a woman has never got a man before. I'd give up everything--I'd starve--I'd lick dust--but I'd follow you to the ends of the earth, and I'd cling to you and keep you." He, too, risked Gladys's presence. "But you're so damn cool, Alix--" "Oh no, I'm not, Hugh, daring," I pleaded on my own behalf. "I may seem like that on the outside, because--oh, because I've such a lot to think of, and I have to think for us two. That's why I'm asking you if you found Libby Jaynes like me." He looked puzzled. "She's--she's decent." he said, as if not knowing what else to say. "Yes, of course; but I mean--does she strike you as having had my kind of ways? Or my kind of antecedents?" "Oh, antecedents! Why talk about them?" "It's what you've been doing, isn't it, for the past half-hour?" "Oh, mine, yes; because I want you to see that I've got a big asset in Cousin Andrew Brew. I know he'll do anything for me, and if you'll trust me, Alix--" "I do trust you, Hugh, and as soon as you have anything like what would make you independent, and justified in braving your family's disapproval--" He took an apologetic tone. "I said just now that we couldn't scrape along on less than twelve thousand a year--" To me the sum seemed ridiculously enormous. "Oh, I'm sure we could." "Well, that's what I've been thinking," he said, wistfully. "That figure was based on having the Brokenshire position to keep up. But if we were to live in Boston, where less would be expected of us, we could manage, I should think, on ten." Even that struck me as too much. "On five, Hugh," I declared, with confidence. "I know I could manage on five, and have everything we needed." He smiled at my eagerness. "Oh, well, darling, I sha'n't ask you to come down to that. Ten will be the least." To me this was riches. I saw the vision of the dainty dining-room again, and the nursery with the bassinet; but I saw Hugh also in the background, a little shadowy, perhaps, a little like a dream as an artist embodies it in a picture, and yet unmistakably himself. I spoke reservedly, however, far more reservedly than I felt, because I hadn't yet made my point quite clear to him. "I'm sure we could be comfortable on that. When you get it--" I hadn't realized that this was the detail as to which he was most sensitive. "There you go again! When I get it! Do you think I sha'n't get it?" I felt my eyebrows going up in surprise. "Why, no, Hugh, dear. I suppose you know what you can get and what you can't. I was only going to say that when you do get it I shall feel as if you were free to give yourself away, and that I shouldn't have"--I tried to smile at him--"and that I shouldn't have the air of--of stealing you from your family. Can't you see, dear? You keep quoting Libby Jaynes at me; but in my opinion she did steal Tracy Allen. That the Allens have made the best of it has nothing to do with the original theft." "Theft is a big word." "Not bigger than the thing. For Libby Jaynes it was possibly all right. I'm not condemning her. But it wouldn't be all right for me." "Why not? What's the difference?" "I can't explain it to you, Hugh, if you don't see it already. It's a difference of tradition." "But what's difference of tradition got to do with love? Since you admit that you love me, and I certainly love you--" "Yes, I admit that I love you, but love is not the only thing in the world." "It's the biggest thing in the world." "Possibly; and yet it isn't necessarily the surest guide in conduct. There's honor, for instance. If one had to take love without honor, or honor without love, surely one would choose the latter." "And what would you call love without honor in this case?" I reflected. "I'd call it doing this thing--getting engaged or married, whichever you like--just because we have the physical power to do it, and making the family, especially the father, to whom you're indebted for everything you are, unhappy." "He doesn't mind making you and me unhappy." "But that's his responsibility. We haven't got to do what's right for him; we've only got to do what's right for ourselves." I fell back on my maxim, "If we do right, only right will come of it, whatever the wrong it seems to threaten now." "But if I made ten thousand a year of my own--" "I should consider you free. I should feel free myself. I should feel free on less than so big an income." His spirits began to return. "I don't call that big. We should have to pinch like the devil to keep our heads above water--no motor--no butler--" "I've never had either," I smiled at him, "nor a lot of the things that go with them. Not having them might be privations to you--" "Not when you were there, little Alix. You can bet your sweet life on that." We laughed together over the expression, and as Broke came bounding out to his breakfast, with the cry, "Hello, Uncle Hughie!" we lapsed into that language of signs and nods and cryptic things which we mutually understood to elude his sharp young wits. By this method of _double entendre_ Hugh gave me to understand his intention of going to Boston by an afternoon train. He thought it possible he might stay there. The friendliness of Cousin Andrew Brew would probably detain him till he should go to work, which was likely to be in a day or two. Even if he had to wait a week he would prefer to do so at Boston, where he had not only ties of blood, but acquaintances and interests dating back to his Harvard days, which had ended three years before. In the mean time, my position might prove to be precarious. He recognized that, making it an excuse for once more forcing on me his immediate protection. Marriage was not named by word on Broke's account, but I understood that if I chose we could be marred within an hour or two, go to Boston together, and begin our common life without further delays. My answer to this being what it had been before, we discussed, over the children's heads, the chances that could befall me before night. Of these the one most threatening was that I might be sent away in disgrace. If sent away in disgrace I should have to go on the instant. I might be paid for a month or two ahead; it was probable I should be. It was J. Howard's policy to deal with his cashiered employees with that kind of liberality, so as to put himself more in the right. But I should have to go with scarcely the time to pack my boxes, as Hugh had gone himself, and must know of a place where I could take shelter. I didn't know of any such refuge. My sojourn under Mrs. Rossiter's roof had been remarkably free from contacts or curiosities of my own. Hugh knew no more than I. I could, therefore, only ask his consent to my consulting Mr. Strangways, a proposal to which he agreed. This I was able to do when Larry came for Broke, not many minutes after Hugh had taken his departure. I could talk to him the more freely because of his knowledge of my relation to Hugh. With the fact that I was in love with another man kept well in the foreground between us, he could acquit me of those ulterior designs on himself the suspicion of which is so disturbing to a woman's friendship with a man. As the maid was clearing the table, as Broke had to go to his lessons, as Gladys had to be remanded to the nursery while I attended to Mrs. Rossiter's telephone calls and correspondence, our talk was squeezed in during the seconds in which we retreated through the dining-room into the main part of the house. "The long and short of it is," Larry Strangways summed up, when I had confided to him my fears of being sent about my business as soon as Hugh had left for Boston--"the long and the short of it is that I shall have to look you up another job." It is almost absurd to point out that the idea was new to me. In going to Mrs. Rossiter I had never thought of starting out on a career of earning a living professionally, as you might say. I clung to the conception of myself as a lady, with all sorts of possibilities in the way of genteel interventions of Providence coming in between me and a lifetime of work. I had always supposed that if I left Mrs. Rossiter I should go back to my uncle and aunt at Halifax. After all, if Hugh was going to marry me, it would be no more than correct that he should do it from under their wing. Larry Strangways's suggestions of another job threw open a vista of places I should fill in the future little short of appalling to a woman instinctively looking for a man to come and support her. I shelved these considerations, however, to say, as casually as I could: "Why should you do it? Why shouldn't I look out for myself?" "Because when I've gone to Stacy Grainger it may be right in my line." "But I'd rather you didn't have me on your mind." He laughed--uneasily, as it seemed to me. "Perhaps it's too late for that." It was another of the things I was sorry to hear him say. I could only reply, still on the forced casual note: "But it's not too late for me to look after my own affairs. What I'm chiefly concerned with is that if I have to leave here--to-night, let us say--I sha'n't in the least know where to go." He was ready for me in the event of this contingency. I suspected that he had already considered it. He had a married sister in New York, a Mrs. Applegate, a woman of philanthropic interests, a director on the board of a Home for Working-Girls. Again I shied at the word. He must have seen that I did, for he went on, with a smile in which I detected a gleam of mockery: "You are a working-girl, aren't you?" I answered with the kind of humility I can only describe as spirited, and which was meant to take the wind out of his sails: "I suppose so--as long as I'm working." But I gave him a flying upward glance as I asked the imprudent question, "Is that how you've thought of me?" I was sorry to have said it as soon as the words were out. I didn't want to know what he thought of me. It was something with which I was so little concerned that I colored with embarrassment at having betrayed so much futile curiosity. Apparently he saw that, too, hastening to come to my relief. "I've thought of you," he laughed, when we had reached the main stairway, "as a clever little woman, with a special set of aptitudes, who ought to be earning more money than she's probably getting here; and when I'm with Stacy Grainger--" Grateful for this turning of the current into the business-like and commonplace, I called Gladys, who was lagging in the dining-room with Broke, and went on my way up-stairs. Mrs. Rossiter was sitting up in bed, her breakfast before her on a light wicker tray that stood on legs. It was an abstemious breakfast, carefully selected from foods containing most nutrition with least adipose deposit. She had reached the age, within sight of the thirties, when her figure was becoming a matter for consideration. It was almost the only personal detail as to which she had as yet any cause for anxiety. Her complexion was as bright as at eighteen; her brown hair, which now hung in a loose, heavy coil over her left shoulder, was thick and silky and long; her eyes were clear, her lips ruby. I always noticed that she waked with the sleepy softness of a flower uncurling to the sun. In the great walnut bed, of which the curves were gilded _à la_ Louis Quinze, she made me think of that Jeanne Bécu who became Comtesse du Barry, in the days of her indolence and luxury. Having no idea as to how she would receive me, I was not surprised that it should be as usual. Since I had entered her employ she was never what I should call gracious, but she was always easy and familiar. Sometimes she was petulant; often she was depressed; but beyond a belief that she inspired tumultuous passions in young men there was no pose about her nor any haughtiness. I was not afraid of her, therefore; I was only uneasy as to the degree in which she would let herself be used against me as a tool. "The letters are here on the bed," was her response to my greeting, which I was careful to make in the form in which I made it every day. Taking the small arm-chair at the bedside, I sorted the pile. The notes she had not glanced at for herself I read aloud, penciling on the margins the data for the answers. Some I replied to by telephone, which stood within her reach on the _table de nuit_; for a few I sat down at the desk and wrote. I was doing the latter, and had just scribbled the words "Mrs. James Worthington Rossiter will have much pleasure in accepting--" when she said, in a slightly querulous tone: "I should think you'd do something about Hugh--the way he goes on." I continued to write as I asked, "How does he go on?" "Like an idiot." "Has he been doing anything new?" My object being to get a second version of the story Hugh had told me, I succeeded. Mrs. Rossiter's facts were practically the same as her brother's, only viewed from a different angle. As she presented the case Hugh had been merely preposterous, dashing his head against a stone wall, with nothing he could gain by the exercise. "The idea of his saying he'll not go to the Goldboroughs for the twelfth! Of course he'll go. Since father means him to do it, he will." I was addressing an envelope, and went on with my task. "But I thought you said he'd left home?" "Oh, well, he'll come back." "But suppose he doesn't? Suppose he goes to work?" "Pff! The idea! He won't keep that up long." I was glad to be sitting with my back to her. To disguise the quaver in my voice I licked the flap of the envelope as I said: "But he'll have to if he means to support a wife." "Support a wife? What nonsense! Father means him to marry Cissie Boscobel, as I've told you already--and he'll fix them up with a good income." "But apparently Hugh doesn't see things that way. He's told me--" "Oh, he'd tell you anything." "He's told me," I persisted, boldly, "that he--he loves me; and he's made me say that--that I love him." "And that's where you're so foolish, dear Miss Adare. You let him take you in. It isn't that he's not sincere; I don't say that for a minute. But people can't go about marrying every one they love, now can they? I should think you'd have seen that--with the heaps of men you had there at Halifax--hardly room to step over them." I said, slyly, "I never saw them that way." "Oh, well, I did. And by the way, I wonder what's become of that Captain Venables. He was a case! He could take more liberties in a half-hour--don't you think?" "He never took any liberties with me." "Then that must have been your fault. Talk about Mr. Millinger! Our men aren't in it with yours--not when it comes to the real thing." I got back to the subject in which I was most interested by saying, as I spread another note before me: "It seems to be the real thing with Hugh." "Oh, I dare say it is. It was the real thing with Jack. I don't say"--her voice took on a tender tremolo--"I don't say that it wasn't the real thing with me. But that didn't make any difference to father. It was the real thing with Pauline Gray--when she was down there at Baltimore; but when father picked her out for Jack, because of her money and his relations with old Mr. Gray--" I couldn't help half turning round, to cry out in tones of which I was unable to conceal the exasperation: "But I don't see how you can all let yourselves be hooked by the nose like that--not even by Mr. Brokenshire!" Her fatalistic resignation gave me a sense of helplessness. "Oh, well, you will before father has done with you--if Hugh goes on this way. Father's only playing with you so far." "He can't touch me," I declared, indignantly. "But he can touch Hugh. That's all he needs to know, as far as you're concerned." She asked, in another tone, "What are you answering now?" I told her it was the invitation to Mrs. Allen's dance. "Then tear it up and say I can't go. Say I've a previous engagement. I'd forgotten that they had that odious Mrs. Tracy Allen there." I tore up the sheet slowly, throwing the fragments into the waste-paper basket. "Why is she odious?" "Because she is." She dropped for a second into the tone of the early friendly days in Halifax. "My dear, she was a shop-girl--or worse. I've forgotten what she was, but it was awful, and I don't mean to meet her." I began to write the refusal. "She goes about with very good people, doesn't she?" "She doesn't go about with me, nor with some others I know, I can tell you that. If she did it would queer us." In the hope of drawing out some such repudiation as that which I felt myself, I said, dryly: "Hugh tells me that if I married him I could be as good as she is--by this time next year." I got nothing for my pains. "That wouldn't help you much--not among the people who count." There was white anger underneath my meekness. "But perhaps I could get along with the people who don't count." "Yes, you might--but Hugh wouldn't." She dismissed the subject as one in which she took only a secondary interest to say that old Mrs. Billing was coming to lunch, and that Gladys and I should have to take that repast up-stairs. She was never direct in her denunciations of her father's second marriage. She brought them in by reference and innuendo, like a prisoner who keeps in mind the fact that walls have ears. She gave me to understand, however, that she considered Mrs. Billing a witch out of "Macbeth" or a wicked old vulture--I could take my choice of comparisons--and she hated having her in the house. She wouldn't do it only that, in ways she could hardly understand, Mrs. Billing was the power behind the throne. She didn't loathe her stepmother, she said in effect, so much as she loathed her father's attitude toward her. I have never forgotten the words she used in this connection, dropping her voice and glancing about her, afraid she might be overheard. "It's as if God himself had become the slave of some silly human woman just because she had a pretty face." The sentence not only betrayed the Brokenshire attitude of mind toward J. Howard, but sent a chill down my back. Having finished my notes and addressed them I rose to return to Gladys; but there was still an unanswered question in my mind. I asked it, standing for a minute beside the bed: "Then you don't want me to go away?" She arched her lovely eyebrows. "Go away? What for?" "Because of the danger of my marrying Hugh." She gave a little laugh. "Oh, there's no danger of that." "But there is," I insisted. "He's asked me a number of times to go with him to the nearest clergyman, and settle the question once for all." "Only you don't do it. There you are! What father doesn't want doesn't happen; and what he does want does. That's all there is to be said." CHAPTER VII As a matter of fact, that was all Mrs. Rossiter and I did say. I was so relieved at not being thrown out of house and home on the instant that I went back to Gladys and her lisping in French almost cheerily. You will think me pusillanimous--and I was. I didn't want to go to Mrs. Applegate and the Home for Working-Girls. As far as food and shelter were concerned I liked them well enough where I was. I liked Mrs. Rossiter too. I should be sorry to give the impression that she was supercilious or unkind. She was neither the one nor the other. If she betrayed little sentiment or sympathy toward me, it was because of admitting me into that feminine freemasonry in which the emotional is not called for. I might suffer while she remained indifferent; I might be killed on the spot while she wouldn't shed a tear; and yet there was a heartless, good-natured, live-and-let-live detachment about her which left me with nothing but good-will. Then, too, I knew that when I married Hugh she would do nothing of her own free will against me. She would not brave her father's decree, but she wouldn't be intolerant; she might think Hugh had been a fool, but when she could do so surreptitiously she would invite him and me to dinner. As this was a kind of recognition in advance, I could not be otherwise than grateful. It made waiting for Hugh the easier. I calculated that if he entered into some sort of partnership with his cousin Andrew Brew--I didn't in the least know what--we might be married within a month or two. At furthest it might be about the time when Mrs. Rossiter removed to New York, which would make it October or November. I could then slip quietly back to Halifax, be quietly married, and quietly settle with Hugh in Boston. In the mean time I was glad not to be disturbed. I spent, therefore, a pleasant morning with my pupil, and ate a pleasant lunch, watching from the gable window of the school-room the great people assemble in the breakfast loggia in honor of the Marquise de Pompadour's mother. I am not sure that old Madame Poisson ever went to court; but if she did I know the courtiers must have shown her just such deference as that which Mrs. Rossiter's guests exhibited to this withered old lady with the hooked nose and the lorgnette. I was curious about the whole entertainment. It was not the only one of the kind I had seen from a distance since coming to Mrs. Rossiter, and I couldn't help comparisons with the same kind of thing as done in the ways with which I was familiar. Here it was less a luncheon than it was an exquisite thing on the stage, rehearsed to the last point. In England, in Canada, luncheon would be something of a friendly haphazard, primarily for the sake of getting food, secondly as a means to a scrambling, jolly sort of social intercourse, and hardly at all a ceremonial. Here the ceremonial came first. Hostess and guests seemed alike to be taking part in a rite of seeing and being seen. The food, which was probably excellent, was a matter of slight importance. The social intercourse amounted to nothing, since they all knew one another but too well, and had no urgent vitality of interests in any case. The rite was the thing. Every detail was prepared for that. Silver, porcelain, flowers, doilies, were of the most expensive and the most correct. The guests were dressed to perfection--a little too well, according to the English standard, but not too well for a function. As a function it was beautiful, an occasion of privilege, a proof of attainment. It was the best thing of its kind America could show. Those who had money could alone present the passport that would give the right of admission. If I had a criticism to make, it was that the guests were too much alike. They were all business men, and the wives or widows of business men. The two or three who did nothing but live on inherited incomes were business men in heart and in blood. Granted that in the New World the business man must be dominant, it was possible to have too much of him. Having too much of him lowered the standard of interest, narrowed the circle of taste. In the countries I knew the business man might be present at such a festivity, but there would be something to give him color, to throw him into relief. There would be a touch of the creative or the intellectual, of the spiritual or the picturesque. The company wouldn't be all of a gilded drab. There would be a writer or a painter or a politician or an actor or a soldier or a priest. There would be something that wasn't money before it was anything else. Here there was nothing. Birds of a feather were flocking together, and they were all parrots or parrakeets. They had plumage, but no song. They drove out the thrushes and the larks and the wild swans. Their shrill screeches and hoarse shouts came up in a not wholly pleasant babel to the open window where I sat looking down and Gladys hovered and hopped, wondering if Thomas, the rosy-cheeked footman, would remember to bring us some of the left-over ice-cream. I thought it was a pity. With elements as good as could be found anywhere to form a Society--that fusion of all varieties of achievement to which alone the word written with a capital can be applied--there was no one to form it. It was a woman's business; and for the rôle of hostess in the big sense the American woman, as far as I could judge, had little or no aptitude. She was too timid, too distrustful of herself, too much afraid of doing the wrong thing or of knowing the wrong people. She was so little sure of her standing that, as Mrs. Rossiter expressed it, she could be "queered" by shaking hands with Libby Jaynes. She lacked authority. She could stand out in a throng by her dress or her grace, but she couldn't lead or combine or co-ordinate. She could lend a charming hand where some one else was the Lady Holland or the Madame de Staël, but she couldn't take the seemingly heterogeneous types represented by the writer, the painter, the politician, the actor, the soldier, the priest, and the business man and weld them into the delightful, promiscuous, entertaining whole to be found, in its greater or lesser degree, according to size or importance of place, almost anywhere within the borders of the British Empire. I came to the conclusion that this was why there were few "great houses" in America and fewer women of importance. It was why, too, the guests were subordinated to the ceremonial. It couldn't be any other way. With flint and steel you can get a spark; but where you have nothing but flint or nothing but steel, friction produces no light. The American hostess, in so far as she exists, rarely hopes for anything from the clash of minds, and therefore centers her attention on her doilies. It must be admitted that she has the most tasteful doilies in the world. There is a pathos in the way in which, for want of the courage to get interesting human specimens together, she spends her strength on the details of her rite. It is like the instinct of women who in default of babies lavish their passion on little dogs. One can say that it is _faute de mieux_. _Faute de mieux_ was, I am sure, the reason why Ethel Rossiter took her table appointments with what seemed to me such extraordinary seriousness. When all was said and done it was the only real thing to care about. I repeat that I thought it was a pity. I had dreams, as I looked down, of what I could do with the same use of money, the same position of command. I had dreams that the Brokenshires accepted me, that Hugh came into the means that would be his in the ordinary course. I saw myself standing at the head of the stairway of a fine big house in Washington or New York. People were streaming upward, and I was shaking hands with a delightful, smiling _désinvolture_. I saw men and women of all the ranks and orders of conspicuous accomplishment, each contributing a gift--some nothing but beauty, some nothing but wit, some nothing but money, some nothing but position, some nothing but fame, some nothing but national importance. The Brokenshire clan was there, and the Billings and the Grays and the Burkes; but statesmen and diplomatists, too, were there, and those leaders in the world of the pen and the brush and the buskin of whom, oddly enough, I saw Larry Strangways, with his eternal defensive smile, emerging from the crowd as chief. I was wearing diamonds, black velvet, and a train, waving in my disengaged hand a spangled fan. From these visions I was roused by Gladys, who came prancing from the stair-head. "_V'là, Mademoiselle! V'là Thomas et le ice-cream!_" Having consumed this dainty, we watched the company wander about the terraces and lawns and finally drift away. I was getting Gladys ready for her walk when Thomas, with a pitying expression on his boyish face, came back to say that Mr. Brokenshire would like to speak with me down-stairs. I was never so near fainting in my life. I had barely the strength to gasp, "Very well, Thomas, I'll come," and to send Gladys to her nurse. Thomas watched me with his good, kind, sympathetic eyes. Like the other servants, he must have known something of my secret and was on my side. I called him the _bouton de rose_, partly because his clean, pink cheeks suggested a Killarney breaking into flower, and partly because in his waiting on Gladys and me he had the yearning, care-taking air of a fatherly little boy. Just now he could only march down the passage ahead of me, throw open the door of my bedroom as if he was lord chamberlain to a queen, and give me a look which seemed to say, "If I can be your liege knight against this giant, pray, dear lady, command me." I threw him my thanks in a trumped-up smile, which he returned with such sweet encouragement as to nearly unman me. I stayed in my room only long enough to be sure that I was neat, smoothing my hair and picking one or two threads from my white-linen suit. The suit had scarlet cuffs and a scarlet belt, and as there was a scarlet flush beneath my summer tan, like the color under the glaze of a Chinese jar, I could see for myself that my appearance was not ineffective. The _bouton de rose_ was in waiting at the foot of the stairs as I came down. Through the hall and the dining-room he ushered me royally; but as I came out on the breakfast loggia my royalty stopped with what I can only describe as a bump. The guests had gone, but the family remained. The last phase of the details of the rite were also on the table. All the doilies were there, and the magnificent lace centerpiece which Mrs. Rossiter had at various times called on me to admire. The old Spode dessert service was the more dimly, anciently brilliant because of the old polished oak, and so were the glasses and finger-bowls picked out in gold. Mr. Brokenshire, whom I had seen from my window strolling with some ladies on the lawn, had returned to the foot of the table, opposite to the door by which I came out, where he now sat in a careless, sidewise attitude, fingering his cigar. Old Mrs. Billing, who was beside him on his right, put up her lorgnette immediately I appeared in the entrance. Mrs. Rossiter had dropped into a chance chair half-way down the table on the left; but Mrs. Brokenshire, oddly enough, was in that same seat in the far corner to which she had retreated on the occasion of my summoning ten days before. I wondered whether this was by intention or by chance, though I was presently to know. Terrified though I was, I felt salvation to lie in keeping a certain dignity. I made, therefore, something between a bow and a courtesy, first to Mr. Brokenshire, then to Mrs. Billing, then to Mrs. Rossiter, and lastly to Mrs. Brokenshire, to whom I raised my eyes and looked all the way diagonally across the loggia. I took my time in making these four distinct salutations, though in response I was only stared at. After that there was a space of some seconds in which I merely stood, in my pose of _Ecce Femina_! "Sit down!" The command came, of course, from J. Howard. The chair to which I had once before been banished being still in its corner, I slipped into it. "I wished to speak to you, Miss--a--Miss--" He glanced helplessly toward his daughter, who supplied the name. "Ah yes. I wished to speak to you, Miss Adare, because my son has been acting very foolishly." I made my tone as meek as I could, scarcely daring to lift my eyes from the floor. "Wouldn't it be well, sir, to talk to him about that?" Mrs. Billing's lorgnette came down. She glanced toward her son-in-law as though finding the point well taken. He went on imperturbably. "I've said all I mean to say to him. My present appeal is to you." "Oh, then this is an--appeal?" He seemed to hesitate, to reflect. "If you choose to take it so," he admitted, stiffly. "It surely isn't as I choose to take it, sir; it's as you choose to mean." "Don't bandy words." "But I must use words, sir. I only want to be sure that you're making an appeal to me, and not giving me commands." He spoke sharply. "I wish you to understand that you're inducing a young man to act in a way he is going to find contrary to his interests." I could barely nerve myself to look up at him. "If by the 'young man' you mean Mr. Hugh Brokenshire, then I'm inducing him to do nothing whatever; unless," I added, "you call it an inducement that I--I"--I was bound to force the word out--"unless you call it an inducement that I love him." "But that's it," Mrs. Rossiter broke in. "That's what my father means. If you'd stop caring anything about him you wouldn't give him encouragement." I looked at her with a dim, apologetic smile. It was a time, I felt, to speak not only with more courage, but with more sentiment than I was accustomed to use in expressing myself. "I'm afraid I can't give my heart, and take it back, like that." "I can," she returned, readily. She spoke as if it was a matter of cracking her knuckles or wagging her ears. "If I don't want to like a person I don't do it. It's training and self-command." "You're fortunate," I said, quietly. Why I should have glanced again at Mrs. Brokenshire I hardly know; but I did so, as I added: "I've had no training of that kind--and I doubt if many women have." Mrs. Brokenshire, who was gazing at me with the same kind of fascinated stare as on the former occasion, faintly, but quite perceptibly, inclined her head. In this movement I was sure I had the key to the mystery that seemed to surround her. "All this," J. Howard declared, magisterially, "is beside the point. If you've told my son that you'd marry him--" "I haven't." "Or even given him to understand that you would--" "I've only given him to understand that I'd marry him--on conditions." "Indeed? And would it be discreet on my part to inquire the terms you've been kind enough to lay down?" I pulled myself together and spoke firmly. "The first is that I'll marry him--if his family come to me and express a wish to have me as a sister and a daughter." Old Mrs. Billing emitted the queer, cracked cackle of a hen when it crows, but she put up her lorgnette and examined me more closely. Ethel Rossiter gasped audibly, moving her chair a little farther round in my direction. Mrs. Brokenshire stared with concentrated intensity, but somehow, I didn't know why, I felt that she was backing me up. The great man contented himself with saying, "Oh, you will!" I ignored the tone to speak with a decision and a spirit I was far from feeling. "Yes, sir, I will. I shall not steal him from you--not so long as he's dependent." "That's very kind. And may I ask--" "You haven't let me tell you my other condition." "True. Go on." I panted the words out as best I could. "I've told him I'd marry him--if he rendered himself independent; if he earned his own money and became a man." "Ah! And you expect one or the other of these miracles to take place?" "I expect both." Though the words uttered themselves, without calculation or expectation on my part, they gave me so much of the courage of conviction that I held up my head. To my surprise Mrs. Billing didn't crow again or so much as laugh. She only gasped out that long "Ha-a!" which proclaims the sporting interest, of which both Hugh and Ethel Rossiter had told me in the morning. Mr. Brokenshire seemed to brace himself, leaning forward, with his elbow on the table and his cigar between the fingers of his raised right hand. His eyes were bent on me--fine eyes they were!--as if in kindly amusement. "My good girl," he said, in his most pitying voice, "I wish I could tell you how sorry for you I am. Neither of these dreams can possibly come true--" My blood being up, I interrupted with some force. "Then in that case, Mr. Brokenshire, you can be quite easy in your mind, for I should never marry your son." Having made this statement, I followed it up by saying, "Since that is understood, I presume there's no object in my staying any longer." I was half rising when his hand went up. "Wait. We'll tell you when to go. You haven't yet got my point. Perhaps I haven't made it clear. I'm not interested in your hopes--" "No, sir; of course not; nor I in yours." "I haven't inquired as to that--but we'll let it pass. We're both apparently interested in my son." I gave a little bow of assent. "I said I wished to make an appeal to you." I made another little bow of assent. "It's on his behalf. You could do him a great kindness. You could make him understand--I gather that he's under your influence to some degree; you're a clever girl, I can see that--but you could make him understand that in fancying he'll marry you he's starting out on a task in which there's no hope whatever." "But there is." "Pardon me, there isn't. By your own showing there isn't. You've laid down conditions that will never be fulfilled." "What makes you say that?" "My knowledge of the world." "Oh, but would you call that knowledge of the world?" I was swept along by the force of an inner indignation which had become reckless. "Knowledge of the world," I hurried on, "implies knowledge of the human heart, and you've none of that at all." I could see him flush. "My good girl, we're here to speak of you, not of me--" "Surely we're here to speak of us both, since at any minute I choose I can marry your son. If I don't marry him it's because I don't choose; but when I do choose--" Again the hand went up. "Yes, of course; but that's not what we want specially to hear. Let us assume, as you say, that you can marry my son at any time you choose. You don't choose, for the reason that you're astute enough to see that your last state would be worse than the first. To enter a family that would disown you at once--" I kept down my tone, though I couldn't master my excitement. "That's not my reason. If I don't marry him it's precisely because I have the power. There are people--cowards they are at heart, as a rule--who because they have the power use it to be insolent, especially to those who are weaker. I'm not one of those. There's a _noblesse oblige_ that compels one in spite of everything. In dealing with an elderly man, who I suppose loves his son, and with a lady who's been so kind to me as Mrs. Rossiter--" "You've been hired, and you're paid. There's no special call for gratitude." "Gratitude is in the person who feels it; but that isn't what I specially want to say." "What you specially want to say apparently is--" "That I'm not afraid of you, sir; I'm not afraid of your family or your money or your position or anything or any one you can control. If I don't marry Hugh, it's for the reason that I've given, and for no other. As long as he's dependent on your money I shall not marry him till you come and beg me to do it--and that I shall expect of you." He smiled tolerantly. "That is, till you've brought us to our knees." I could barely pipe, but I stood to my guns. "If you like the expression, sir--yes. I shall not marry Hugh--so long as you support him--till I've brought you to your knees." If I expected the heavens to fall at this I was disappointed. All J. Howard did was to lean on his arm toward Mrs. Billing and talk to her privately. Mrs. Rossiter got up and went to her father, entering also into a whispered colloquy. Once or twice he glanced backward to his wife, but she was now gazing sidewise in the direction of the house and over the lines of flowers that edged the terraces. When Mrs. Rossiter had gone back to her seat, and J. Howard had raised himself from his conversation with Mrs. Billing, he began again to address me tranquilly: "I hoped you might have sympathized with my hopes for Hugh, and have helped to convince him how useless his plans for a marriage between him and you must be." I answered with decision: "No; I can't do that." "I should have appreciated it--" "That I can quite understand." "And some day have shown you that I'm acting for your good." "Oh, sir," I cried, "whatever else you do, you'll let my good be my own affair, will you not?" I thought I heard Mrs. Billing say, "Brava!" At any rate, she tapped her fingers together as if in applause. I began to feel a more lenient spirit toward her. "I'm quite willing to do that," my opponent said, in a moderate, long-suffering tone, "now that I see that you refuse to take Hugh's good into consideration. So long as you encourage him in his present madness--" "I'm not doing that." He took no notice of the interruption. "--I'm obliged to regard him as nothing to me." "That must be between you and your son." "It is. I'm only asking you to note that you--ruin him." "No, no," I began to protest, but he silenced me with a movement of his hand. "I'm not a hard man naturally," he went on, in his tranquil voice, "but I have to be obeyed." "Why?" I demanded. "Why should you be obeyed more than any one else?" "Because I mean to be. That must be enough--" "But it isn't," I insisted. "I've no intention of obeying you--" He broke in with some haste: "Oh, there's no question of you, my dear young lady. I've nothing to do with you. I'm speaking of my son. He must obey me, or take the consequences. And the consequences will last as long as he lives. I'm not one to speak rashly, or to speak twice. So that's what I'm putting to you. Do you think--do you honestly think--that you're improving your position by ruining a man who sooner or later--sooner rather than later--will lay his ruin at your door and loathe you? Come now! You're a clever girl. The case is by no means beyond you. Think, and think straight." "I am thinking, sir. I'm thinking so straight that I see right through you. My father used to say--" "No reminiscence, please." "Very well, then; we'll let the reminiscence go. But you're thinking of committing a crime, a crime against Hugh, a crime against yourself, a crime against love, every kind of love--and that's the worst crime of all--and you haven't the moral courage to shoulder the guilt yourself; you're trying to shuffle it off on me." "My good woman--" But nothing could silence me now. I leaned forward, with hands clasped in my lap, and merely looked at him. My voice was low, but I spoke rapidly: "You're talking to bewilder me, to throw dust in my eyes, to snare me into taking the blame for what you're doing of your own free act. It's a kind of reasoning which some girls would be caught by, but I'm not one of them. If Hugh is ruined in the sense you mean, it's his father who will ruin him--but even that is not the worst. What's worst, what's dastardly, what's not merely unworthy of a man like you but unworthy of any man--of anything that calls itself a male--is that you, with all your resources of every kind, should try to foist your responsibilities off on a woman who has no resources whatever. That I shouldn't have believed of any of your sex--if it hadn't happened to myself." But my eloquence left him as unmoved as before. He whispered with Mrs. Billing. The old lady was animated, making beats and lunges with her lorgnette. "So that what it comes to," he said to me at last, lifting himself up and speaking in a tired voice, "is that you really mean to pit yourself against me." "No, sir; but that you mean to pit yourself against me." Something compelled me to add: "And I can tell you now that you'll be beaten in the end." Perhaps he didn't hear me, for he rose and, stooping, carried on his discussion with Mrs. Billing. There was a long period in which no one paid any further attention to my presence; in fact, no one paid any attention to me any more. To my last words I expected some retort, but none came. Ethel Rossiter joined her father at the end of the table, and when Mrs. Billing also rose the conversation went on _à trois_. Mrs. Brokenshire alone remained seated and aloof. But the moment came when her husband turned toward her. Not having been dismissed, I merely stood and looked on. What I saw then passed quickly, so quickly that it took a minute of reflection before I could put two and two together. Having taken one step toward his wife, Howard Brokenshire stood still, abruptly, putting his hand suddenly to the left side of his face. His wife, too, put up her hand, but palm outward and as if to wave him back. At the same time she averted her face--and I knew it was his eye. It was over before either of the other two women perceived anything. Presently, all four were out on the grass, strolling along in a little chattering group together. My dismissal having come automatically, as you might say, I was free to go. CHAPTER VIII An hour later I had what up to then I must call the greatest surprise of my life. I was crying by myself on the shore, in that secluded corner among the rocks where Hugh had first told me that he loved me. As a rule, I don't cry easily. I did it now chiefly from being overwrought. I was desolate. I missed Hugh. The few days or few weeks that must pass before I could see him again stretched before me like a century. All whom I could call my own were so far away. Even had they been near, they would probably, with the individualism of our race, have left me to shift for myself. Louise and Victoria had always given me to understand that, though they didn't mind lending me an occasional sisterly hand, my life was my own affair. It would have been a relief to talk the whole thing out philosophically with Larry Strangways. As I came from the house I tried, for the first time since knowing him, to throw myself in his path; but, as usual when one needs a friend, he was nowhere to be seen. I could, therefore, only scramble down to my favorite corner among the rocks. Not that it was really a scramble. As a matter of fact, the path was easy if you knew where to find it; but it was hidden from the ordinary passer on the Cliff Walk, first by a boulder, round which you had to slip, and then by a tangle of wild rosebines, wild raspberries, and Queen Anne's lace. It was something like a secret door, known only to the Rossiter household, their servants, and their friends. Once you had passed it you had a measure of the public privacy you get in a box at the theater or the opera. You had space and ease and a wide outlook, with no fear of intrusion. I cannot say that I was unhappy. I was rather in that state of mind which the American people, with its gift for the happy, unexpected word, have long spoken of as "mad." I was certainly mad. I was mad with J. Howard Brokenshire first of all; I was mad with his family for having got up and left me without so much as a nod; I was mad with Hugh for having made me fall in love with him; I was mad with Larry Strangways for not having been on the spot; and I was most of all mad with myself. I had been boastful and bumptious; I had been disrespectful and absurd. It was foolish to make worse enemies than I had already. Mrs. Rossiter wouldn't keep me now. There would be no escape from Mrs. Applegate and the Home for Working-Girls. The still summer beauty of the afternoon added to my wretchedness. All round and before me there was luxury and joyousness and sport. The very sea was in a playful mood, lapping at my feet like a tamed, affectionate leviathan, and curling round the ledges in the offing with delicate lace-like spouts of spume. Sea-gulls swooped and hovered with hoarse cries and a lovely effect of silvery wings. Here and there was a sail on the blue, or the smoke of a steamer or a war-ship. Eastons Point, some two or three miles away, was a long, burnished line of ripening wheat. To right and to left of me were broken crags, red-yellow, red-brown, red-green, where lovers and happy groups could perch or nestle carelessly, thrusting trouble for the moment to a distance. I had to bring my trouble with me. If it had not been for trouble I shouldn't have been there. There wasn't a soul in the world who would fight to take my part but Hugh, and I was, in all my primary instincts, a clinging, parasitic thing that hated to stand alone. There was nothing for it then but crying, and I did that to the best of my ability; not loudly, of course, or vulgarly, but gently and sentimentally, with an immense pity for myself. I cried for what had happened that day and for what had happened yesterday. I cried for things long past, which I had omitted to cry for at the time. When I had finished with these I went further back to dig up other ignominies, and I cried for them. I cried for my father and mother and my orphaned condition; I cried for the way in which my father--who was a good, kind man, _du reste_--had lived on his principal, and left me with scarcely a penny to my name; I cried for my various disappointments in love, and for the girl friends who had predeceased me. I massed all these motives together and cried for them in bulk. I cried for Hugh and the brilliant future we should have on the money he would make. I cried for Larry Strangways and the loneliness his absence would entail on me. I cried for the future as well as for the past and if I could have thought of a future beyond the future I should have cried for that. It was delicious and sad and consoling all at once; and when I had no more tears I felt almost as if Hugh's strong arm had been about me, and I was comforted. I was just wiping my eyes and wondering whether at the moment of going homeward my nose would be too red, when I heard a quiet step. I thought I must be mistaken. It was so unlikely that any one would be there at this hour of the day--the servants generally came down at night--that for a minute I didn't turn. It was the uncomfortable sense that some one was behind me that made me look back at last, when I caught the flutter of lace and the shimmer of pale-rose taffeta. Mrs. Brokenshire had worn lace and pale-rose taffeta at the lunch. Fear and amazement wrestled in my soul together. Struggling to my feet, I turned round as slowly as I could. "Don't get up," she said in a sweet, quiet voice. "I'll come and sit down beside you, if I may." She had already seated herself on a low flat rock as she said, "I saw you were crying, so I waited." I am not usually at a loss for words, but I was then. I stuttered and stammered and babbled, without being able to say anything articulate. Indeed, I had nothing articulate to say. The mind had suspended its action. My impressions were all subconscious, but registered exactly. She was the most exquisite production I had ever seen in human guise. Her perfection was that of some lovely little bird in which no color fails to shade harmoniously into some other color, in which no single feather is out of place. The word I used of her was _soignée_--that which is smoothed and curled and polished and caressed till there is not an eyelash which hasn't received its measure of attention. I don't mean that she was artificial, or that her effects were too thought out. She was no more artificial than a highly cultivated flower is artificial, or a many-faceted diamond, or a King Charles spaniel, or anything else that is carefully bred or cut or shaped. She was the work of some specialist in beauty, who had no aim in view but to give to the world the loveliest thing possible. When I had mastered my confusion sufficiently I sat down with the words, rather lamely spoken: "I didn't know any one was here. I hope I haven't kept you standing long." "No; but I was watching you. I came down only a few minutes after you did. You see, I was afraid--when we came away from Mrs. Rossiter's--that you might be unhappy." "I'm not as unhappy as I was," I faltered, without knowing what I said, and was rewarded to see her smile. It was an innocent smile, without glee, a little sad in fact, but full of unutterable things like a very young child's. I had never seen such teeth, so white, so small, so regular. "I'm glad of that," she said, simply. "I thought if some--some other woman was near you, you mightn't feel so--so much alone. That's why I watched round and followed you." I could have fallen at her feet, but I restricted myself to saying: "Thank you very much. It does make a difference." I got courage to add, however, with a smile of my own, "I see you know." "Yes, I know. I've thought about you a good deal since that day about a fortnight ago--you remember?" "Oh yes, I remember. I'm not likely to forget, am I? Only, you see, I had no idea--if I had, I mightn't have felt so--so awfully forlorn." Her eyes rested upon me. I can only say of them that they were sweet and lovely, which is saying nothing at all. Sweet and lovely are the words that come to me when I think of her, and they are so lamentably overworked. She seemed to study me with a child-like unconsciousness. "Yes," she said at last, "I suppose you do feel forlorn. I didn't think of that or--or I might have managed to come to you before." "That you should have come now," I said, warmly, "is the kindest thing one human being ever did for another." Again there was the smile, a little to one side of the mouth, wistful, wan. "Oh no, it isn't. I've really come on my own account." I waited for some explanation of this, but she only went on: "Tell me about yourself. How did you come here? Ethel Rossiter has never really said anything about you. I should like to know." Her manner had the gentle command that queens and princesses and very rich women unconsciously acquire. I tried to obey her, but found little to say. Uttered to her my facts were so meager. I told her of my father and mother, of my father's mania for old books, of Louise and Victoria and their husbands, of my visits abroad; but I felt her attention wandering. That is, I felt she was interested not in my data, but in me. Halifax and Canada and British army and navy life and rare first editions were outside the range of her ken. Paris she knew; and London she knew; but not from any point of view from which I could speak of them. I could see she was the well-placed American who knows some of the great English houses and all of the great English hotels, but nothing of that Britannic backbone of which I might have been called a rib. She broke in presently, not apropos of anything I was saying, with the words: "How old are you?" I told her I was twenty-four. "I'm twenty-nine." I said I had understood as much from Mrs. Rossiter, but that I could easily have supposed her no older than myself. This was true. Had there not been that something mournful in her face which simulates maturity I could have thought of her as nothing but a girl. If I stood in awe of her it was only of what I guessed at as a sorrow. She went on to give me two or three details of her life, with nearly all of which I was familiar through hints from Hugh and Ethel Rossiter. "We're really Philadelphians, my mother and I. We've lived a good deal in New York, of course, and abroad. I was at school in Paris, too, at the Convent des Abeilles." She wandered on, somewhat inconsequentially, with facts of this sort, when she added, suddenly: "I was to have married some one else." I knew then that I had the clue to her thought. The marriage she had missed was on her mind. It created an obsession or a broken heart, I wasn't quite sure which. It was what she wanted to talk about, though her glance fell before the spark of intelligence in mine. [Illustration: THE MARRIAGE SHE HAD MISSED WAS ON HER MIND. IT CREATED AN OBSESSION OR A BROKEN HEART, I WASN'T QUITE SURE WHICH] Since there was nothing I could say in actual words, I merely murmured sympathetically. At the same time there came to me, like the slow breaking of a dawn, an illuminating glimpse of the great J. Howard's life. I seemed to be admitted into its secret, into a perception of its weak spot, more fully than his wife had any notion of. She would never, I was sure, see what she was betraying to me from my point of view. She would never see how she was giving him away. She wouldn't even see how she was giving away herself--she was so sweet, and gentle, and child-like, and unsuspecting. I don't know for how many seconds her quiet, inconsequential speech trickled on without my being able to follow it. I came to myself again, as it were, on hearing her say: "And if you do love him, oh, don't give him up!" I grasped the fact then that I had lost something about Hugh, and did my best to catch up with it. "I don't mean to, if either of my conditions is fulfilled. You heard what they were." "Oh, but if I were you I wouldn't make them. That's where I think you're wrong. If you love him--" "I couldn't steal him from his family, even if I loved him." "Oh, but it wouldn't be stealing. When two people love each other there's nothing else to think about." "And yet that might sometimes be dangerous doctrine." "If there was never any danger there'd never be any courage. And courage is one of the finest things in life." "Yes, of course; but even courage can carry one very far." "Nothing can carry us so far as love. I see that now. It's why I'm anxious about poor Hugh. I--I know a man who--who loves a woman whom he--he couldn't marry, and--" She caught herself up. "I'm fond of Hugh, you see, even though he doesn't like me. I wish he understood, that they all understood--that--that it isn't my fault. If I could have had my way--" She righted herself here with a slight change of tense. "If I could have my way, Hugh would marry the woman he's in love with and who's in love with him." I tried to enroll her decisively on my side. "So that you don't agree with Mr. Brokenshire." Her immediate response was to color with a soft, suffused rose-pink like that of the inside of shells. Her eyes grew misty with a kind of helplessness. She looked at me imploringly, and looked away. One might have supposed that she was pleading with me to be let off answering. Nevertheless, when she spoke at last, her words brought me to a new phase of her self-revelation. "Why aren't you afraid of him?" "Oh, but I am." "Yes, but not like--" Again she saved herself. "Yes, but not like--so many people. You may be afraid of him inside, but you fight." "Any one fights for right." There was a repetition of the wistful smile, a little to the left corner of the mouth. "Oh, do they? I wish I did. Or rather I wish I had." "It's never too late," I declared, with what was meant to be encouragement. There was a queer little gleam in her eye, like that which comes into the pupil of a startled bird. "So I've heard some one else say. I suppose it's true--but it frightens me." I was quite strangely uneasy. Hints of her story came back to me, but I had never heard it completely enough to be able to piece the fragments together. It was new for me to imagine myself called on to protect any one--I needed protection so much for myself!--but I was moved with a protective instinct toward her. It was rather ridiculous, and yet it was so. "Only one must be sure one is right before one fights, mustn't one?" was all I could think of saying. She responded dreamily, looking seaward. "Don't you think there may be worse things than wrong?" This being so contrary to my pet principles, I answered, emphatically, that I didn't think so at all. I brought out my maxim that if you did right nothing but right could come of it; but she surprised me by saying, simply, "I don't believe that." I was a little indignant. "But it's not a matter of believing; it's one of proving, of demonstration." "I've done right, and wrong came of it." "Oh, but it couldn't--not in the long run." "Well, then I did wrong. That's what I've been afraid of, and what--what some one else tells me." If a pet bird could look at you with a challenging expression it was the thing she did. "Now what do you say?" I really didn't know what to say. I spoke from instinct, and some common sense. "If one's done wrong, or made a mistake, I suppose the only way one can rectify it is to begin again to do right. Right must have a rectifying power." "But if you've made a mistake the mistake is there, unless you go back and unmake it. If you don't, isn't it what they call building on a bad foundation?" "I dare say it is; and yet you can't push a material comparison too far when you're thinking of spiritual things. This is spiritual, isn't it? I suppose one can't really do evil and expect good to come of it; but one can overcome evil with good." She looked at me with a sweet mistiness. "I've no doubt that's true, but it's very deep. It's too deep for me." She rose with an air of dismissing the subject, though she continued to speak of it allusively. "You know so much about it. I could see you did from the first. If I was to tell you the whole story--but, of course, I can't do that. No, don't get up. I have to run away, because we're expecting people to tea; but I should have liked staying to talk with you. You're awfully clever, aren't you? I suppose it must be living round in those queer places--Gibraltar, didn't you say? I've seen Gibraltar, but only from the steamer, on the way to Naples. I felt that I was with you from that very first time I saw you. I'd seen you before, of course, with little Gladys, but not to notice you. I never noticed you till I heard that Hugh was in love with you. That was just before Mr. Brokenshire took me over--you remember!--that day. He wanted me to see how easily he could deal with people who opposed him; but I didn't think he succeeded very well. He made you go and sit at a distance. That was to show you he had the power. Did you notice what I did? Oh, I'm glad. I wanted you to understand that if it was a question of love I was--I was with you. You saw that, didn't you? Oh, I'm glad. I must run away now. We've people to tea; but some time, if I can manage it, I'll come again." She had begun slipping up the path, like a great rose-colored moth in the greenery, when she turned to say: "I can never do anything for you, I'm too afraid of him; but I'm on your side." After she had gone I began putting two and two together. What her visit did for me especially was to distract my mind. I got a better perspective on my own small drama in seeing it as incidental to a larger one. That there was a large one here I had no doubt, though I could neither seize nor outline its proportions. As far as I could judge of my visitor I found her dazed by the magnitude of the thing that had happened to her, whatever that was. She was good and kind; she hadn't a thought that wasn't tender; normally she would have been the devoted, clinging type of wife I longed to be myself; and yet some one's passion, or some one's ambition, or both in collusion, had caught her like a bird in a net. It was perhaps because she was a woman and I was a woman and J. Howard was a man that my reactions concerned themselves chiefly with him. I thought of him throughout the afternoon. I began to get new views of him. I wondered if he knew of himself what I knew. I supposed he did. I supposed he must. He couldn't have been married two or three years to this sweet stricken creature without seeing that her heart wasn't his. Furthermore, he couldn't have beheld, as he and I had beheld that afternoon, the hand that went up palm outward, without divining a horror of his person that was more than a shrinking from his poor contorted eye. For love the contorted eye would have meant more love, since it would have been love with its cognate of pity; but not so that uplifted hand and that instinctive waving of him back. There was more than an involuntary repulsion in that, more than an instant of abhorrence. What there was he must have discovered, he must have tasted, from the minute he first took her in his arms. I was sorry for him. I could throw enough of the masculine into my imagination to know how he must adore a creature of such perfected charm. She was the sort of woman men would adore, especially the men whose ideal lies first of all in the physical. For them it would mean nothing that she lacked mentality, that the pendulum of her nature had only a limited swing; that she was as good as she looked would be enough, seeing that she looked like an angel straight out of heaven. In spite of poor J. Howard's kingly suavity I knew he must have minutes of sheer animal despair, of fierce and bitter suffering. Mrs. Rossiter spoke to me that evening with a suggestion of reprimand, which was letting me off easily. I was so sure of my dismissal, that when I returned to the house from the shore I expected some sort of _lettre de congé_; but I found nothing. I had had supper with Gladys and put her to bed when the maid brought me a message to say that Mrs. Rossiter would like me to come down and see her dress, as she was going out to dinner. I was admiring the dress, which was a new one, when she said, rather fretfully: "I wish you wouldn't talk like that to father. It upsets him so." I was adjusting a slight fullness at the back, which made it the easier for me to answer. "I wouldn't if he didn't talk like that to me. What can I do? I have to say something." She was peering into the cheval glass over her shoulder, giving her attention to two things at once. "I mean your saying you expected both of those preposterous things to happen. Of course, you don't--nor either of them--and it only rubs him up the wrong way." I was too meek now to argue the point. Besides, I was preoccupied with the widening interests in which I found myself involved. To probe the security of my position once more, I said: "I wonder you stand it--that you don't send me away." She was still twisting in front of the cheval glass. "Don't you think that shoulder-strap is loose? It really looks as if the whole thing would slip off me. If he can stand it I can," she added, as a matter of secondary concern. "Oh, then he can stand it." I felt the shoulder-strap. "No, I think it's all right, if you don't wriggle too much." "I'm sure it's going to come down--and there I shall be. He has to stand it, don't you see, or let you think that you wound him?" I was frankly curious. "Do I wound him?" "He'd never let you know it if you did. The fact that he ignores you and lets you stay on with me is the only thing by which I can judge. If you didn't hurt him at all he'd tell me to send you about your business." She turned from the glass. "Well, if you say that strap is all right I suppose it must be, but I don't feel any too sure." She was picking up her gloves and her fan which the maid had laid out, when she said, suddenly: "If you're so keen on getting married, for goodness' sake why don't you take that young Strangways?" My sensation can only be compared to that of a person who has got a terrific blow on the head from a trip-hammer. I seemed to wonder why I hadn't been crushed or struck dead. As it was, I felt that I could never move again from the spot on which I stood. I was vaguely conscious of something outraged within me and yet was too stunned to resent it. I could only gasp, feebly, after what seemed an interminable time: "In the first place, I'm not so awfully keen on getting married--" She was examining her gloves. "There, that stupid Séraphine has put me out two lefts. No, she hasn't; it's all right. Stuff, my dear! Every girl is keen on getting married." "And then," I stammered on, "Mr. Strangways has never given me the chance." "Oh, well, he will. Do hand me my wrap, like a love." I was putting the wrap over her shoulders as she repeated: "Oh, well, he will. I can tell by the way he looks at you. It would be ever so much more suitable. Jim says he'll be a first-class man in time--if you don't rush in like an idiot and marry Hugh." "I may marry Hugh," I tried to say, loftily, "but I hope I sha'n't do it like an idiot." She swept toward the stairway, but she had left me with subjects for thought not only for that evening, but for the next day and the next. Now that the first shock was over I managed to work up the proper sense of indignity. I told myself I was hurt and offended. She shouldn't have mentioned such a thing. I wouldn't have stood it from one of my own sisters. I had never thought of Larry Strangways in any such way, and to do so disturbed our relations. To begin with, I wasn't in love with him; and to end with, he was too poor. Not that I was looking for a rich husband; but neither was I a lunatic. It would be years before he could think of marrying, if there were no other consideration; and in the mean time there was Hugh. There was Hugh with his letters from Boston, full of high ambitious hopes. Cousin Andrew Brew had written from Bar Harbor that he was coming to town in a day or two and would give him the interview he demanded. Already Hugh had his eye on a little house on Beacon Hill--so like a corner of Mayfair, he wrote, if Mayfair stood on an eminence--in which we could be as snug as two love-birds. I was composing in my mind the letter I should write to my aunt in Halifax, asking to be allowed to come back for the wedding. I filled in the hours wondering how Larry Strangways looked at me when there was only Mrs. Rossiter as spectator. I knew how he looked at me when I was looking back--it was with that gleaming smile which defied you to see behind it, as the sun defies you to see behind its rays. But I wanted to know how he looked at me when my head was turned another way; to know how the sun appears when you view it through a telescope that nullifies its defensive. For that I had only my imagination, since he had obtained two or three days' leave to go to New York to see his new employer. He had warned me to betray no hint as to the new employer's name, since there was a feud between the Brokenshire clan and Stacy Grainger which I connected vaguely with the story I had heard of Mrs. Brokenshire. Then on the fourth day Hugh came back. He appeared as he had on saying good-by, while I was breakfasting with Gladys in the open air and Broke was with his mother. Hugh was more pallid than when he went away; he was positively woe-begone. Everything that was love in me leaped into flame at sight of his honest, sorry face. I think I can tell his story best by giving it in my own words, in the way of direct narration. He didn't tell it to me all at once, but bit by bit, as new details occurred to him. The picture was slow in printing itself on my mind, but when I got it it was with satisfactory exactitude. He had been three days at the hotel in Boston before learning that Cousin Andrew Brew was actually in town and would see him at the bank at eleven on a certain morning. Hugh was on the moment. The promptitude with which his relative sprang up in his seat, somewhat as if impelled by a piece of mechanism, was truly cordial. Not less was the handshake and the formula of greeting. The sons of J. Howard Brokenshire were always welcome guests among their Boston kin, on whom they shed a pleasant luster of metropolitan glory. While the Brews and Borrodailes prided themselves on what they called their Boston provinciality and didn't believe to be provinciality at all, they enjoyed the New York connection. "Hello, Hugh! Glad to see you. Come in. Sit down. Looking older than when I saw you last. Growing a mustache. Not married yet? Sit down and tell us all about it. What can I do for you? Sit down." Hugh took the comfortable little upright arm-chair that stood at the corner of his cousin's desk, while the latter resumed the seat of honor. Knowing that the banker's time was valuable, and feeling that he would reveal his aptitude for business by going to the point at once, the younger man began his tale. He had just reached the fact that he had fallen in love with a little girl on whose merits he wouldn't enlarge, since all lovers had the same sort of things to say, though he was surer of his data than others of his kind, when there was a tinkle at the desk telephone. "Excuse me." During the conversation in which Cousin Andrew then engaged Hugh was able to observe the long-established, unassuming comfort of this friendly office, which suggested the cozy air that hangs about the smoking-rooms of good old English inns. There was a warm worn carpet on the floor; deep leather arm-chairs showed the effect of contact with two generations of moneyed backs; on the walls the lithographed heads of Brews and Borrodailes bore witness to the firm's respectability. In the atmosphere a faint odor of tobacco emphasized the human associations. Cousin Andrew emphasized them, too. "Now!" He put down the receiver and turned to Hugh with an air of relief at being able to give him his attention. He was a tall, thin man with a head like a nut. It would have been an expressionless nut had it not been for a facile tight-lipped smile that creased his face as stretching creases rubber. Coming and going rapidly, it gave him the appearance of mirth, creating at each end of a long, mobile mouth two concentric semicircles cutting deep into the cheeks that would have been of value to a low comedian. A slate-colored morning suit, a white piqué edge to the opening of the waistcoat, a slate-colored tie with a pearl in it, emphasized the union of dignity and lightness which were the keynotes to Cousin Andrew's character. Blended as they were, they formed a delightfully debonair combination, bringing down to your own level a man who was somebody in the world of finance. It was part of his endearing quality that he liked you to see him as a jolly good fellow no whit better than yourself. He was fond of gossip and of the lighter topics of the moment. He was also fond of dancing, and frequented most of the gatherings, private and public, for the cultivation of that art which was the vogue of the year before the Great War. With his tall, limber figure he passed for less than his age of forty-three till you got him at close quarters. On the genial "Now!" in which there was an inflection of command Hugh went on with his tale, telling of his breach with his father and his determination to go into business for himself. "I ought to be independent, anyhow, at my age," he declared. "I've my own views, and it's only right to confess to you that I'm a bit of a Socialist. That won't make any difference, however, to our working together, Cousin Andrew, for, to make a long story short, I've looked in to tell you that I've come to the place where I should like to accept your kind offer." The statement was received with cheerful detachment, while Cousin Andrew threw himself forward with his arms on his desk, rubbing his long, thin hands together. "My kind offer? What was that?" Hugh was slightly dashed. "About my coming to you if ever I wanted to go into business." "Oh! You're going into business?" Hugh named the places and dates at which, during the past few years, Cousin Andrew had offered his help to his young kinsman if ever it was needed. Cousin Andrew tossed himself back in his chair with one of his brisk, restless movements. "Did I say that? Well, if I did I'll stick to it." There was another tinkle at the telephone. "Excuse me." Hugh had time for reflection and some irritation. He had not expected to be thrust into the place of a petitioner, or to have to make explanations galling to his pride. He had counted not only on his cousinship, but on his position in the world as J. Howard Brokenshire's son. It seemed to him that Cousin Andrew was disposed to undervalue that. "I don't want to hold you to anything you don't care for, Cousin Andrew," he began, when his relative had again put the receiver aside, "but I understood--" "Oh, that's all right. I've no doubt I said it. I do recall something of the sort, vaguely, at a time when I thought your father might want-- In any case we can fix you up. Sure to be something you can do. When'd you like to begin?" Hugh expressed his willingness to be put into office at once. "Just so. Turn you over to old Williamson. He licks the young ones into shape. Suppose your father'll think it hard of us to go against him. But on the other hand he may be pleased--he'll know you're in safe hands." It was a delicate thing for Hugh to attempt, but as he was going into business not from an irresistible impulse toward a financial career, but in order to make enough money to marry on, he felt obliged to ask, in such terms as he could command, how much money he should make. "Just so!" Cousin Andrew took up the receiver again. "Want to speak to Mr. Williamson. . . . Oh, Williamson, how much is Duffers getting now? . . . And how much before that? . . . Good! Thanks!" The result of these investigations was communicated to Hugh. He should receive Duffers's pay, and when he had earned it should come in for Duffers's promotion. The immediate effect was to make him look startled and blank. "What?" was his only question; but it contained several shades of incredulity. Cousin Andrew took this dismay in good part. "Why, what did you expect?" Hugh could only stammer: "I thought it would be more." "How much more?" Hugh sought an answer that wouldn't betray the ludicrous figure of his hopes. "Well, enough to live on as a married man at least." The banker's good nature was proved by the creases of his rubber smile. "What did you think you'd be worth to us--with no backing from your father?" The question was of the kind commonly called a poser. Hugh had not, so I understood from him, hitherto thought of his entering his kinsfolks' banking-house as primarily a matter of earning capacity. It wasn't to be like working for "any old firm." He had prefigured it as becoming a component part of a machine that turned out money of which he would get his share, that share being in proportion to the dignity of the house itself and bearing a relation to his blood connection with the dominating partners. When Cousin Andrew had repeated his question Hugh was obliged to reply: "I wasn't thinking of that so much as of what you'd be worth to me." "We could be worth a good deal to you in time." There was a ray of hope. "How long a time?" "Oh, twenty or thirty years, perhaps, if you work and save. Of course, if you had capital to bring in--but you haven't, have you? Didn't Cousin Sophy, your mother, leave everything to your father? I thought so. Mind you, I'm putting out of the question all thought of your father's coming round and putting money in for you. I'm talking of the thing on the ground on which you've put it." Hugh had no heart to resent the quirks and grimaces in Cousin Andrew's smile. He had all he could do in taking his leave in a way to save his face and cast the episode behind him. The banker lent himself to this effort with good-humored grace, accompanying his relative to the door of the room, where he shook him by the shoulder as he turned the knob. "Thought you'd go right in as a director? Not the first youngster who's had that idea, and you'll not be the last. Good-by. Let me hear from you if you change your mind." He called after him, as the door was about to close: "Best try to fix it up with your father, Hugh. As for the girl--well, there'll be others, and more in your line." CHAPTER IX On that first morning I got no more than the gist of what had happened during Hugh's visit to his cousin Andrew Brew. Hugh announced it in fact by a metaphor as soon as we had exchanged greetings and he had sat down at the table with his arm over Gladys's shoulder. "Well, little Alix, I got it where the chicken got the ax." "Where was that?" I asked, innocently, for the figure of speech was new to me. "In the neck." Neither of us laughed. His tone was so lugubrious as to preclude laughing. But I understood. I may say that by the time he had given me the outline of what he had to say I understood more than he. I might have seen poor Hugh's limitations before; but I never had. During the old life in Halifax I had known plenty of young men brought up in comfort who couldn't earn a living when the time came to do it. If I had never classed Hugh among the number, it was because the Brokenshires were all so rich that I supposed they must have some secret prescription for wringing money from the air. Besides, Hugh was an American; and American and money were words I was accustomed to pronounce together. I never questioned his ability to have any reasonable income he named--till now. Now I began to see him as he must have seen himself during those first few minutes after turning his back on the parental haven, alone and in the dark. I cannot say that for the moment I had any of the qualms of fear. My yearning over him was too motherly for that. I wanted to comfort and, as far as possible, to encourage him. Something within me whispered, too, the words, "It's going to be up to me." I meant--or that which spoke in me meant--that the whole position was reversed. I had been taking my ease hitherto, believing that the strong young man who had asked me to marry him would do the necessary work. It was to be up to him. My part was to be the passive bliss of having some one to love me and maintain me. That Hugh loved me I knew; that in one way or another he would be able to maintain me I took for granted. With a Brokenshire, I assumed, that would be the last of cares. And now I saw in a flash that I was wrong; that I who was nothing but a parasite by nature would somehow have to give my strong young man support. When all was said that he could say at the moment I took the responsibility of sending Gladys indoors with the maid who was waiting on the table, after which I asked Hugh to walk down the lawn with me. A stone balustrade ran above the Cliff Walk, and here was a bit of shrubbery where no one could observe us from the house, while passers on the Cliff Walk could see us only by looking upward. At that hour in the morning even they were likely to be rare. "Hugh, darling," I said, "this is becoming very, very serious. You're throwing yourself out of house and home and your father's good-will for my sake. We must think about it, Hugh--" His answer was to seize me in his arms--we were sufficiently screened from view--and crush his lips against mine in a way that made speech impossible. Again I must make a confession. It was his doing that sort of thing that paralyzed my judgment. You will blame me, perhaps, but, oh, reader, have you any idea of what it is never to have had a man wild to kiss you before? Never before to have had any one adore you? Never before to have been the greatest of all blessings to so much as the least among his brethren? The experience was new to me. I had no rule of thumb by which to measure it. I could only think that the man who wanted me with so mad a desire must have me, no matter what reserves I might have preferred to make on my own account. I struggled, however, and with some success. For the first time I clearly perceived that occasions might arise in which, between love and marriage, one might have to make a distinction. Ethel Rossiter's dictum came back to me: "People can't go about marrying every one they love, now can they?" It came to me as a terrible possibility that I might be doomed to love Hugh all my life, and equally doomed to refuse him. If I didn't, the responsibilities would be "up to me." If besides loving him I were to accept him and marry him, it would be for me to see that the one possible condition was fulfilled. I should have to bring J. Howard to his knees. When he got breath to say anything it was with a mere hot muttering into my face, as he held me with my head thrown back: "I know what I'm doing, little Alix. You mustn't ask me to count the cost. The cost only makes you the more precious. Since I have to suffer for you I'll suffer, but I'll never give you up. Do you take me for a fellow who'd weigh money or comfort in the balances with you?" "No, Hugh," I whispered. His embrace was enough to strangle me. "Well, then, never ask me to think about this thing again, I've thought all I'm going to. As I mean to get you anyhow, little Alix, you may as well promise now, this very minute, that whatever happens you'll be my wife." But I didn't promise. First I got him to release me on the ground that some bathers, after a dip at Eastons Beach, were going by, with their heads on a level with our feet. Then I asked the natural question: "What do you think of doing now?" He said he was going to let no mushrooms spring in his footsteps, and that he was taking a morning train for New York. He talked about bankers and brokers and moneyed things in general in a way I couldn't follow, though I could see that in spite of Cousin Andrew Brew's rejection he still expected great things of himself. Like me, he seemed to feel that there was a faculty for conjuring money in the very name of Brokenshire. Never having known what it was to be without as much money as he wanted, never having been given to suppose that such an eventuality could come to pass, it was perhaps not strange that he should consider his power of commanding a large income to be in the nature of things. Bankers and brokers would be glad to have him as their associate from the mere fact that he was his father's son. I endeavored to throw a cup of cold water on too much certainty, by saying: "But, Hugh, dear, won't you have to begin at the beginning? Wasn't that what your cousin Andrew Brew--?" "Cousin Andrew Brew is an ass. He's one great big Boston stick-in-the-mud. He wouldn't know which side his bread was buttered on, not if it was buttered on both." "Still," I persisted, "you'll have to begin at the beginning." "Well, I shouldn't be the first." "No, but you might be the first to do it with a clog round his feet in the shape of a person like me. How many years did your cousin say--twenty or thirty, wasn't it?" "R-rot, little Alix!" He brought out the interjection with a contemptuous roll. "It might be twenty or thirty years for a numskull like Duffers, but for me! There are ways by which a man who's in the business already, as you might say, goes skimming over the ground the common herd have to tramp. Look at the gentlemen-rankers in your own army. They enlist as privates, and in two or three years they're in the officers' mess with a commission. That comes of their education and--" "That's often true, I admit. I've known of several cases in my own experience. But even two or three years--" "Wouldn't you wait for me?" He asked the question with a sharpness that gave me something like a stab. "Yes, of course, Hugh, if I promised you. And yet to bind you by such a promise doesn't seem to me fair." "I'll take care of that," he declared, manfully. "As a matter of fact, when father sees how determined I am, he'll only be too happy to do the handsome thing and come down with the brass." "You think he's bluffing then?" I threw some conviction into my tone as I added, "I don't." "He's not bluffing to his own knowledge; but he is--" "To yours. But isn't it his knowledge that we've got to go by? We must expect the worst, even if we hope for the best." "And what it all comes to is--" "Is that you're facing a very hard time, Hugh, and I don't feel that I can accept the responsibility of encouraging you to do it." "But, good Lord, Alix, you're not encouraging me. It's the other way round. You're a perfect wet blanket; you're an ice-water shower. I'm doing this thing on my own--" "You know, Hugh, I've seen your father since you went away." His face brightened. "Good! And did he show any signs of tacking to the wind?" "Not a bit. He said you would be ruined, and that I should ruin you." "The deuce you will! That's where he's got the wrong number, poor old dad! I hope you told him you would marry me--and let him have it straight." I made no reply to that, going on to tell him all that was said as to bringing J. Howard to his knees. He roared with ironic laughter. "You did have the gall!" "Then you think they'll never, never accept me?" "Not that way; not beforehand." Hot rage rose within me, against him and them and this scorn of my personality. "I think they will." "Not on your life! Dad wouldn't do it, not if I was on my death-bed and needed you to come and raise me up. Milly is the only one; and even she thinks I'm the craziest idiot--" "Very well, then, Hugh," I said, quickly; "I'm afraid we must consider it all--" He gathered me into his arms as he had done before, and once more stopped my protests. Once more, too, I yielded to this masculine argument. "For you and me there's nothing but love," he murmured, with his cheek pressed close against mine. "Oh no, Hugh," I managed to say, when I had struggled free. "There's honor--and perhaps there's pride." It gave some relief to what I conceived of as the humiliation he unconsciously heaped on me to be able to add: "As a matter of fact, pride and honor, in me, are as inseparable as the oxygen and hydrogen that go to make up water." He was obliged to leave it there, since he had no more than the time to catch his train for New York. It was, however, the sense of pride and honor that calmed my nerves when Mrs. Rossiter asked me to take little Gladys to see her grandfather in the afternoon. I had done it from time to time all through the summer, but not since Hugh had declared his love for me. If I went now, I reasoned, it would have to be on a new footing; and if it was on a new footing something might come of the visit in spite of my fears. We started a little after three, as Gladys had to be back in time for her early supper and bed. Chips, the wire-haired terrier, was nominally at our heels, but actually nosing the shrubbery in front of us, or scouring the lawns on our right with a challenging bark to any of his kind who might be within earshot to come down and contest our passage. "_Qu'il est drôle, ce Chips! N'est-ce-pas, mademoiselle?_" Gladys would exclaim from time to time, to which I would make some suitable and instructive rejoinder. Her hand was in mine; her eyes as they laughed up at me were of the color of the blue convolvulus. In her little smocked liberty silk, with a leghorn hat trimmed with a wreath of tiny roses, she made me yearn for that bassinet between which and myself there were such stormy seas to cross. Everything was to be up to me. That was the great solemnity from which my mind couldn't get away. I was to be the David to confront Goliath, without so much as a sling or a stone. What I was to do, and how I was to do it, I knew no more than I knew of commanding an army. I could only take my stand on the maxim of which I was making a foundation-stone. I went so far as to believe that if I did right more right would unfold itself. It would be like following a trail through a difficult wood, a trail of which you observe all the notches and steps and signs, sometimes with misgivings, often with the fear that you're astray, but on which a moment arrives when you see with delight that you're coming out to the clearing. So I argued as I prattled with Gladys of such things as were in sight, of ships and lobster-pots and little dogs, giving her a new word as occasion served, and trying to keep my mind from terrors and remote anticipations. If you know Newport at all you know J. Howard Brokenshire's place in the neighborhood of Ochre Point. Anyone would name it as you passed by. J. Howard didn't build the house; he bought it from some people who, it seemed, hadn't found in Newport the hospitality of which they were in search. It is gloomy and fortress-like, as if the architect had planned a Palazzo Strozzi which he hadn't the courage to carry out. That it is incongruous with its surroundings goes without saying; but then it is not more incongruous than anything else. I had been long enough in America to see that for the man who could build on American soil a house which would have some relation to its site--as they can do in Mexico, and as we do to a lesser degree in Canada--fame and fortune would be in store. The entrance hall was baronial and richly Italianate. One's first impressions were of gilding and red damask. When one's eye lighted on a chest or settle, one could smell the stale incense in a Sienese or Pisan sacristy. At the foot of the great stairway ebony slaves held gilded torches in which were electric lights. Both the greyhounds came sniffing to meet Chips, and J. Howard, who had seen our approach across the lawn as we came from the Cliff Walk, emerged from the library to welcome his grandchild. He wore a suit of light-gray check, and was as imposingly handsome as usual. Gladys ran to greet him with a childish cry. On seizing her he tossed her into the air and kissed her. I stood in the middle of the hall, waiting. On previous occasions I had done the same thing; but then I had not been, as one might say, "introduced." I wondered if he would acknowledge the introduction now or give me a glance. But he didn't. Setting Gladys down, he took her by the hand and returned to the library. There was nothing new in this. It had happened to me before. Left like an empty motor-car till there was need for me again, I had sometimes seated myself in one of the huge ecclesiastical hall chairs, and sometimes, if the door chanced to be open, had wandered out to the veranda. As it was open this afternoon, I strolled toward the glimpse of green lawn, and the sparkle of blue sea which gleamed at the end of the hall. It was a possibility I had foreseen. Mrs. Brokenshire might be there. I might get into further touch with the mystery of her heart. Mrs. Brokenshire was not on the veranda, but Mrs. Billing was. She was seated in a low easy-chair, reading a French novel, and had been smoking cigarettes. An inlaid Oriental taboret, on which were a gold cigarette-case and ash-tray, stood beside her on the red-tiled floor. I had forgotten all about her, as seemingly she had forgotten about me. Her surprise in seeing me appear was not greater than mine at finding her. Instinctively she took up her lorgnette, which was lying in her lap, but put it down without using it. "So it's you," was her greeting. "I beg your pardon, madam," I stammered, respectfully. "I didn't know there was anybody here." I was about to withdraw when she said, commandingly: "Wait." I waited, while she went on: "You're a little spitfire. Did you know it?" The voice was harsh, with the Quaker drawl I have noticed in the older generation of Philadelphians; but the tone wasn't hostile. On the contrary, there was something in it that invited me to play up. I played up, demurely, however, saying, with a more emphatic respectfulness: "No, madam; I didn't." "Well, you can know it now. Who are you?" She made the quaint little gesture with which I have seen English princesses summon those they wished to talk to. "Come over here where I can get a look at you." I moved nearer, but she didn't ask me to sit down. In answer to her question I said, simply, "I'm a Canadian." "Oh, a Canadian! That's neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. It's nothing." "No, madam, nothing but a point of view." "What do you mean by that?" I repeated something of my father's: "The point of view of the Englishman who understands America or of the American who understands England, as one chooses to put it. The Canadian is the only person who does both." "Oh, indeed? I'm not a Canadian--and yet I flatter myself I know my England pretty well." I made so bold as to smile dimly. "Knowing and understanding are different things, madam, aren't they? The Canadian understands America because he is an American; he understands England because he is an Englishman. It's only of him that that can be said. You're quite right when you label him a point of view rather than a citizen or a subject." "I didn't label him anything of the kind. I don't know anything about him, and I don't care. What are you besides being a Canadian?" "Nothing, madam," I said, humbly. "Nothing? What do you mean?" "I mean that there's nothing about me, that I have or am, that I don't owe to my country." "Oh, stuff! That's the way we used to talk in the United States forty years ago." "That's the way we talk in Canada still, madam--and feel." "Oh, well, you'll get over it as we did--when you're more of a people." "Most of us would prefer to be less of a people, and not get over it." She put up her lorgnette. "Who was your father? What sort of people do you come from?" I tried to bring out my small store of personal facts, but she paid them no attention. When I said that my father had been a judge of the Supreme Court of Nova Scotia I might have been calling him a voivode of Montenegro or the president of a zemstvo. It was too remote from herself for her mind to take in. I could see her, however, examining my features, my hands, my dress, with the shrewd, sharp eyes of a connoisseur in feminine appearance. She broke into the midst of my recital with the words: "You can't be in love with Hugh Brokenshire." Fearing attack from an unexpected quarter, I clasped my hands with some emotion. "Oh, but, madam, why not?" The reply nearly knocked me down. "Because you're too sensible a girl. He's as stupid as an owl." "He's very good and kind," was all I could find to say. "Yes; but what's that? A girl like you needs more than a man who's only good and kind. Heavens above, you'll want some spice in your life!" I maintained my meek air as I said: "I could do without the spice if I could be sure of bread and butter." "Oh, if you're marrying for a home let me tell you you won't get it. Hugh'll never be able to offer you one, and his father wouldn't let him if he was." I decided to be bold. "But you heard what I said the other day, madam. I expect his father to come round." She uttered the queer cackle that was like a hen when it crows. "Oh, you do, do you? You don't know Howard Brokenshire. You could break him more easily than you could bend him--and you can't break him. Good Lord, girl, I've tried!" "But I haven't," I returned, quietly. "Now I'm going to." "How? What with? You can't try if you've nothing to try on." "I have." "For Heaven's sake--what?" I was going to say, "Right"; but I knew it would sound sententious. I had been sententious enough in talking about my country. Now I only smiled. "You must let me keep that as a secret," I answered, mildly. She gave herself what I can only call a hitch in her chair. "Then may I be there to see." "I hope you may be, madam." "Oh, I'll come," she cackled. "Don't worry about that. Just let me know. You'll have to fight like the devil. I suppose you know that." I replied that I did. "And when it's all over you'll have got nothing for your pains." "I shall have had the fight." She looked hard at me before speaking. "Good girl!" The tone was that of a spectator who calls out, "Good hit!" or, "Good shot!" at a game. "If that's all you want--" "No; I want Hugh." "Then I hope you won't get him. He's as big a dolt as his father, and that's saying a great deal." Terrified, I glanced over my shoulder at the house, but she went on imperturbably: "Oh, I know he's in there; but what do I care? I'm not saying anything behind his back that I haven't said to his face. He doesn't bear me any malice, either, I'll say that for him." "Nobody could--" I began, deferentially. "Nobody had better. But that's neither here nor there. All I'm telling you is to have nothing to do with Hugh Brokenshire. Never mind the money; what you need is a husband with brains. Don't I know? Haven't I been through it? My husband was kind and good, just like Hugh Brokenshire--and, O Lord! The sins of the father are visited on the children, too. Look at my daughter--pretty as a picture and not the brains of a white mouse." She nodded at me fiercely, "You're my kind. I can see that. Mind what I say--and be off." She turned abruptly to her book, hitching her chair a little away from me. Accepting my dismissal, I said in the third person, as though I was speaking to a royalty: "Madam flatters me too much; but I'm glad I intruded, for the minute, just to hear her say that." I had made my courtesy and reached the door leading inward when she called after me: "You're a puss. Do you know it?" Not feeling it necessary to respond in words, I merely smiled over my shoulder and entered the house. In one of the big chairs I waited a half-hour before J. Howard came out of the library with his grandchild. He had given her a doll which she hugged in her left arm, while her right hand was in his. The farewell scene was pretty, and took place in the middle of the hall. "Now run away," he said, genially, after much kissing and petting, "and give my love to mamma." He might have been shooing the sweet thing off into the air. There was no reference whatever to any one to take care of her. His eyes rested on me, but only as they rested on the wall behind me. I must say it was well done--if one has to do that sort of thing at all. Feeling myself, as his regard swept me, no more than a part of the carved ecclesiastical chair to which I stood clinging, I wondered how I was ever to bring this man to seeing me. I debated the question inwardly while I chatted with Gladys on the way homeward. I was obliged, in fact, to brace myself, to reason it out again that right was self-propagating and wrong necessarily sterile. Right I figured as a way which seemed to finish in a blind alley or cul-de-sac, but which, as one neared what seemed to be its end, led off in a new direction. Nearing the end of that there would be still a new lead, and so one would go on. And, sure enough, the new lead came within the next half-hour, though I didn't recognize it for what it was till afterward. CHAPTER X As we passed the Jack Brokenshire cottage, Larry Strangways and Broke, with Noble, the collie, bounding beside them, came racing down the lawn to overtake us. It was natural then that for the rest of the way Chips and Noble should form one company, Broke and his sister another, while we two elders strolled along behind them. It was the hour of the day for strolling. The mellow afternoon light was of the kind that brings something new into life, something we should be glad to keep if we knew how to catch it. It was not merely that grass and leaf and sea had a shimmer of gold on them. There was a sweet enchantment in the atmosphere, a poignant wizardry, a suggestion of emotions both higher and lower than those of our poor mortal scale. They made one reluctant to hurry one's footsteps, and slow in the return to that sheerly human shelter we call home. All along the path, down among the rocks, out in the water, up on the lawns, there were people, gentle and simple alike, who lingered and idled and paused to steep themselves in this magic. I have to admit that we followed their example. Anything served as an excuse for it, the dogs and the children doing the same from a similar instinct. I got the impression, too, that my companion was less in the throes of the discretion we had imposed upon ourselves, for the reason that his term as a mere educational lackey was drawing to a close. It had, in fact, only two more days to run. Then August would come and he would desert us. As it might be my last opportunity to surprise him into looking at me in the way Mrs. Rossiter had observed, I kept my eye on him pretty closely. I cannot say that I detected any change that flattered me. Tall and straight and splendidly poised, he was as smilingly impenetrable as ever. Like Howard Brokenshire, he betrayed no wound, even if I had inflicted one. It was a little exasperating. I was more than piqued. I told him I hadn't heard of his return from New York and asked how he had fared. His reply was enthusiastic. He had seen Stacy Grainger and was eager to be his henchman. "He's got that about him," he declared, "that would make anybody glad to work for him." He described his personal appearance, brawny and spare with the attributes of race. It was an odd comment on the laws of heredity that his grandfather was said to have begun life as a peddler, and yet there he was a _grand seigneur_ to the finger-tips. I said that Howard Brokenshire was also a _grand seigneur_, to which he replied that Howard Brokenshire was a monument. American conditions had raised him, and on those conditions he stood as a statue on its pedestal. His position was so secure that all he had to do was stand. It was for this reason that he could be so dictatorial. He was safely fastened to his base; nothing short of seismic convulsion of the whole economic world was likely to knock him off. In the course of that conversation I learned more of the origin of the Brokenshire fortunes than I had ever before heard. It was the great-grandfather of J. Howard who apparently had laid the foundation-stone on which later generations built so well. That patriarch, so I understood, had been a farmer in the Connecticut Valley. His method of finance was no more esoteric than that of lending out small sums of money at a high rate of interest. Occasionally he took mortgages on his neighbors' farms, with the result that he became in time something of a landed proprietor. When the suburbs of a city had spread over one of the possessions thus acquired, the foundation-stone to which I have referred might have been considered well and truly laid. About the year 1830, his son migrated to New York. The firm of Meek & Brokenshire, of which the fame was to go through two continents, was founded when Van Buren was in the presidential seat and Victoria just coming to the throne. It seems there was a Meek in those days, though at the time of which I am writing nothing remained of him but a syllable. It was after the Civil War, however, when the grandson of the Connecticut Valley veteran was in power, that the house of Meek & Brokenshire forged to the front rank among financial agencies. It formed European affiliations. It became the financial representative of a great European power. John H. Brokenshire, whose name was distinguished from that of his more famous son only by a distribution of initials, had a house at Hyde Park Corner as well as one in New York. He was the first American banker to become something of an international magnate. The development of his country made him so. With the vexed questions of slavery and secession settled, with the phenomenal expansion of the West, with the freer uses of steam and electricity, with the tightening of bonds between the two hemispheres, that pedestal was being raised on which J. Howard was to pose with such decorative effectiveness. His posing began on his father's death in the year 1898. Up to that time he had represented the house in England, the post being occupied now by his younger brother James. Polished manners, a splendid appearance, and an authoritative air imported to New York a touch of the Court of St. James's. Mrs. Billing had called him a dolt. Perhaps he was one. If so he was a dolt raised up and sustained by all that was powerful in the United States. It was with these vast influences rather than with the man himself that, as Larry Strangways talked, I began to see I was in conflict. In Stacy Grainger, I gathered, the contemporaneous development of the country had produced something different, just as the same piece of ground will grow an oak or a rose-bush, according to the seed. People with a taste for social antithesis called him the grandson of a peddler. Mr. Strangways considered this description below the level of the ancestral Grainger's occupation. In the days of scattered farms and difficult communications throughout Illinois, Wisconsin, and Minnesota he might better have been termed an itinerant merchant. He was the traveling salesman who delivered the goods. His journeys being made by river boats and ox-teams, he began to see the necessity of steam. He was of the group who projected the system of railways, some of which failed and some of which succeeded, through the regions west of Lake Superior. Later he forsook the highways for a more feverish life in the incipient Chicago. His wandering years having given him an idea of the value of this focal point, he put his savings into land. The phoenix rise of the city after the great fire made him a man of some wealth. Out of the financial crash of 1873 he became richer. His son grew richer still on the panic of 1893, when he, too, descended on New York. It was he who became a power on the Stock Exchange and bought the big house with which parts of my narrative will have to do. All I want to say now is that as I strolled with Larry Strangways along that sunny walk, and as he ran on about Brokenshires and Graingers, I got my first bit of insight into the immense American romance which the nineteenth century unfolded. I saw it was romance, gigantic, race-wide. For the first time in my life I realized that there were other tales to make men proud besides the story of the British Empire. I could see that Larry Strangways was proud--proud and anxious. I had never seen this side of him before. Pride was in the way in which he held his fine young head; there was anxiety in his tone, and now and then in the flash of his eye, in spite of his efforts not to be too serious. It was about the country that he talked--its growth, its vastness. Even as recently as when he was a boy it was still a manageable thing, with a population reckoned at no more than seventy or eighty millions. It had been homogeneous in spirit if not in blood, and those who had come from other lands, and been welcomed and adopted, accepted their new situation with some gratitude. Patriotism was still a word with a meaning, and if it now and then became spread-eagleism it was only as the waves when thrown too far inland become froth. The wave was the thing and it hadn't ebbed. "And do you think it has ebbed now?" I asked. He didn't answer this question directly. "We're becoming colossal. We shall soon count our people by the hundred million and more. Of these relatively few will have got our ideals. Some will reject them. There are mutterings already of other standards to which we must be taught to conform. Some of our own best people of pure Anglo-Saxon descent are losing heart and renouncing and denouncing the democratic tradition, though they've nothing to put in its place. And we're growing so huge--with a hugeness that threatens to make us lethargic." I tried to be encouraging. "You seem to me anything but that." "National lethargy can easily exist side by side with individual energy. Take China, for instance. There are few peoples in the world more individually diligent than the Chinese; and yet when it comes to national stirring it's a country as difficult to move as an unwieldy overfed giant. It's flabby and nerveless and inert. It's spread half over Asia, and it has the largest and most industrious population in the world; and yet it's a congeries of inner weaknesses, and a prey to any one who chooses to attack it." "And you think this country is on the way to being the China of the west?" "I don't say on the way. There's danger of it. In proportion as we too become unwieldy and overfed, the circulation of that national impulse which is like blood grows slower. The elephant is a heavily moving beast in comparison with the lion." "But it's the more intelligent," I argued, still with a disposition to be encouraging. "Intelligence won't save it when the lion leaps on its back." "Then what will?" "That's what we want to find out." "And how are you going to do it?" "By men. We've come to a time when the country is going to need stronger men than it ever had, and more of them." I suppose it is because I am a woman that I have to bring all questions to the personal. "And is your Stacy Grainger going to be one?" He walked on a few paces without replying, his head in the air. "No," he said, at last, "I don't think so. He's got a weakness." "What kind of weakness?" "I'm not going to tell you," he laughed. "It's enough to say that it's one which I think will put him out of commission for the job." He gave me some inkling, however, of what he meant when he added: "The country's coming to a place where it will need disinterested men, and whole-hearted men, and clean-hearted men, if it's going to pull through. It's extraordinary how deficient we've been in leaders who've had any of these characteristics, to say nothing of all three." "Is the United States singular in that?" He spoke in a half-jesting tone probably to hide the fact that he was so much in earnest. "No; perhaps not. But it's got to have them if it's going to be saved. Moreover," he went on, "it must find them among the young men. The older men are all steeped and branded and tarred and feathered with the materialism of the nineteenth century. They're perfectly sodden. They see no patriotism except in loyalty to a political machine; and no loyalty to a political machine except for what they can get out of it. From our Presidents down most of them will sacrifice any law of right to the good of a party. They don't realize that nine times out of ten the good of a party is the evil of the common weal; and our older men will never learn the fact. If we can't wake the younger men, we're done for." "And are you going to wake them?" "I'm going to be awake myself. That's all I can be responsible for. If I can find another fellow who's awake I'll follow him." "Why not lead him? I should think you could." He turned around on me. I shall never forget the gleam in his eye. "No one is ever going to get away with this thing who thinks of leadership. There are times in the history of countries when men are called on to give up everything and be true to an ideal. I believe that time is approaching. It may come into Europe in one way and to America in another; but it's coming to us all. There'll be a call for--for--" he hesitated at the word, uttering it only with an apologetic laugh--"for consecration." I was curious. "And what do you mean by that--by consecration?" He reflected before answering. "I suppose I mean knowing what this country stands for, and being true to it oneself through thick and thin. There'll be thin and there'll be thick--plenty of them both--but it will be a question of the value of the individual. If there had been ten righteous men in Sodom and Gomorrah, they wouldn't have been destroyed. I take that as a kind of figure. A handful of disinterested, whole-hearted, clean-hearted, and perhaps I ought to add stout-hearted Americans, who know what they believe and live by it, will hold the fort against all efforts, within and without, to pull it down." He paused in his walk, obliging me to do the same. "I've been thinking a good deal," he smiled, "during the past few weeks of your law of Right--with a capital. I laughed at it when you first spoke of it--" "Oh, hardly that," I interposed. "But I've come to believe that it will work." "I'm so glad." "In fact, it's the only thing that will work." "Exactly," I exclaimed, enthusiastically. "We must stand by it, we younger men, just as the younger men of the late fifties stood by the principles represented by Lincoln. I believe in my heart that the need is going to be greater for us than it was for them, and if we don't respond to it, then may the Lord have mercy on our souls." I give this scrap of conversation because it introduced a new note into my knowledge of Americans. I had not supposed that any Americans felt like that. In the Rossiter circle I never saw anything but an immense self-satisfaction. Money and what money could do was, I am sure, the only topic of their thought. Their ideas of position and privilege were all spuriously European. Nothing was indigenous. Except for their sense of money, their aims were as foreign to the soil as their pictures, their tapestries, their furniture, and their clothes. Even stranger I found the imitation of Europe in tastes which Europe was daily giving up. But in Larry Strangways, it seemed to me, I found something native, something that really lived and cared. It caused me to look at him with a new interest. His jesting tone allowed me to take my cue in the same vein. "I'm tremendously flattered, Mr. Strangways, that you should have found anything in my ideas that could be turned to good account." He laughed shortly and rather hardly. "Oh, if it was only that!" It was another of the things I wished he hadn't said, but with the words he started on again, walking so fast for a few paces that I made no effort to keep up with him. When he waited till I rejoined him we fell again to talking of Stacy Grainger. At the first opportunity I asked the question that was chiefly on my mind. "Wasn't there something at one time between him and Mrs. Brokenshire?" He marched on with head erect. "I believe so," he admitted, reluctantly, but not till some seconds had passed. "There was a big fight, wasn't there," I persisted, "between him and Mr. Brokenshire--over Editha Billing--on the Stock Exchange--or something like that?" Again he allowed some seconds to go by. "So I've heard." I fished out of my memory such tag ends of gossip as had reached me, I could hardly tell from where. "Didn't Mr. Brokenshire attack his interests--railways and steel and things--and nearly ruin him?" "I believe there was some such talk." I admired the way in which he refused to lend himself to the spread of the legend; but I insisted on going on, because the idea of this conflict of modern giants, with a beautiful maiden as the prize, appealed to my imagination. "And didn't old Mrs. Billing shift round all of a sudden from the man who seemed to be going under to--?" He cut the subject short by giving it another twist. "Grainger's been unlucky. His whole family have been unlucky. It's an instance of tragedy haunting a race such as one reads of in mythology and now and then in modern history--the house of Atreus, for example, and the Stuarts, and the Hapsburgs, and so on." I questioned him as to this, only to learn of a series of accidents, suicides, and sudden deaths, leaving Stacy as the last of his line, lonely and picturesque. At the foot of the steps leading up to the Rossiter lawn Larry Strangways paused again. The children and dogs having preceded us and being safe on their own grounds, we could consider them off our minds. "What do you know about old books?" he asked, suddenly. The question took me so much by surprise that I could only say: "What makes you think I know anything?" "Didn't your father have a library full of them? And didn't you catalogue them and sell them in London?" I admitted this, but added that even that undertaking had left me very ignorant of the subject. "Yes; but it's a beginning. If you know the Greek or Russian alphabet it's a very good point from which to go on and learn the language." "But why should I learn that language?" "Because I know a man who's going to have a vacancy soon for a librarian. It's a private library, rather a famous one in New York, and the young lady at present in command is leaving to be married." I smiled pleasantly. "Yes; but what has that got to do with me?" "Didn't I tell you I was going to look you up another job?" "Oh! And so you've looked me up this!" "No, I didn't. It looked me up. The owner of the library mentioned the fact as a great bore. It was his father who made the collection in the days of the first great American splurge. Stacy Grainger has added a rug or a Chinese jar from time to time, but he doesn't give a hang for the lot." "Oh, so it's his." "Yes; it's his. He says he feels inclined to shut the place up; but I told him it was a pity to do that since I knew the very young lady for the post." I dropped the subject there, because of a new inspiration. "If Mr. Grainger has places at his command, couldn't he do something for poor Hugh?" "Why poor Hugh? I thought he was--" I gave him a brief account of the fiasco in Boston, venturing to betray Hugh's confidence for the sake of some possible advantage. Mr. Strangways only shrugged his shoulders. "Of course," he said. "What could you expect?" I was sure he was looking down on me with the expression Mrs. Rossiter had detected, though I didn't dare to lift an eye to catch him in the act. "You really mean to marry him?" "Mean to marry him is not the term," I answered, with the decision which I felt the situation called for. "I mean to marry him only--on conditions." "Oh, on conditions! What kind of conditions?" I named them to him as I had named them to others. First that Hugh should become independent. He repeated his short, hard laugh. "I don't believe you had better bank on that." "Perhaps not," I admitted. "But I've another string to my bow. His family may come and ask me." He almost shouted. "Never!" It was the tone they all took, and which especially enraged me. I kept my voice steady, however, as I said, "That remains to be seen." "It doesn't remain to be seen, because I can tell you now that they won't." "And I can tell you now that they will," I said, with an assurance that, on the surface at least, was quite as strong as his own. He laughed again, more shortly, more hardly. "Oh, well!" The laugh ended in a kind of sigh. I noted the sigh as I noted the laugh, and their relation to each other. Both reached me, touching something within me that had never yet been stirred. Physically it was like the prick of the spur to a spirited animal, it sent me bounding up the steps. I was off as from a danger; and though I would have given much to see the expression with which he stood gazing after me, I would not permit myself so much as to glance back. CHAPTER XI The steps by which I came to be Stacy Grainger's librarian could easily be traced, though to do so with much detail would be tedious. After Hugh's departure for New York my position with Mrs. Rossiter soon became untenable. The reports that reached Newport of the young man's doings in the city were not merely galling to the family pride, but maddening to his father's sense of pre-eminence. Hugh was actually going from door to door, as you might say, in Wall Street and Broad Street, only to be turned away. "He's making the most awful fool of himself," Mrs. Rossiter informed me one morning, "and papa's growing furious. Jim writes that every one is laughing at him, and, of course, they know it's all about some girl." I held my tongue at this. That they should be laughing at poor Hugh was a new example of the world's falsity. His letters to me were only a record of half-promises and fair speeches, but he found every one of them encouraging. Nowhere had he met with the brutal treatment he had received at the hands of Cousin Andrew Brew. The minute his card went in to never so great a banker or broker, he was received with a welcome. If no one had just the right thing to offer him, no one had turned him down. It was explained to him that it was largely a matter of the off season--for his purpose August was the worst month in the year--and of the lack of an opening which it would be worth the while of a man of his quality to fill. Later, perhaps! The two words, courteously spoken, gave the gist of all his interviews. He had every reason to feel satisfied. In the mean while he was comfortable at his club--his cash in hand would hold out to Christmas and beyond--and in the matter of energy, he wrote, not a mushroom was springing in his tracks. He was on the job early and late, day in and day out. The off season which was obviously a disadvantage in some respects had its merits in others, since it would be known, when things began to look up again, that he was available for any big house that could get him. That there would be competition in this respect every one had given him to understand. All this he told me in letters as full of love as they were of business, written in a great, sprawling, unformed, boyish hand, and with an occasional bit of phonetic spelling which made his protestations the more touching. But Jim Rossiter's sources of information were of another kind. "Get your father to do something to stop him," he wrote to his wife. "He's making the whole house of Meek & Brokenshire a laughing-stock." There came, in fact, a Saturday when Mr. Rossiter actually appeared for the week-end. "He wouldn't be doing that," Mrs. Rossiter almost sobbed to me, on receipt of the telegram announcing his approach, "unless things were pretty bad." Though I dreaded his coming, I was speedily reassured. Whatever the object of Mr. Rossiter's visit, I, in my own person, had nothing to do with it. On the afternoon of his arrival he came out to where I was knocking the croquet balls about with Gladys on the lawn, and was as polite as he had been through the winter in New York. He was always polite even to the maids, to whom he scrupulously said good-morning. His wistful desire to be liked by every one was inspired by the same sort of impulse as the jovial _bonhomie_ of Cousin Andrew Brew. He was a little, weazened man, with face and legs like a jockey, which I think he would gladly have been. Racin' and ridin', as he called them, were the amusements in which he found most pleasure, while his health was his chief preoccupation. He took pills before and after all his meals and a variety of medicinal waters. During the winter under his roof my own conversation with him had been entirely on the score of his complaints. In just the same way he sauntered up now. He talked of his lack of appetite and the beastly cooking at clubs. Expecting him to broach the subject of Hugh, I got myself ready; but he did nothing of the kind. He was merely amiable and, as far as I could judge, indifferent. Within ten minutes he had sauntered away again, leading Gladys by the hand. I saw then that in common with the other Brokenshires he considered that I didn't count. Hugh could be dealt with independently of me. So long as I was useful to his wife, there was no reason why I should be disturbed. I was too light a thing to be weighed in their balances. Next day there was a grand family council and on Monday Jack Brokenshire accompanied his brother-in-law to New York. Hugh wrote me of their threats and flatteries, their beseechings and cajoleries. He was to come to his senses; he was to be decent to his father; he was to quit being a fool. I gathered that for forty-eight hours they had put him through most of the tortures known to fraternal inquisition; but he wrote me he would bear it all and more, for the sake of winning me. Nor would he allow them to have everything their own way. That he wrote me, too. When it came to the question of marriage he bade them look at home. Each of them was an instance of what J. Howard could do in the matrimonial line, and what a mess he and they had made of it! He asked Jack in so many words how much he would have been in love with Pauline Gray if she hadn't had a big fortune, and, now that he had got her money and her, how true he was to his compact. Who were Trixie Delorme and Baby Bevan, he demanded, with a knowledge of Jack's affairs which compelled the elder brother to tell him to mind his own business. Hugh laughed scornfully at that. "I can mind my own business, Jack, and still keep an eye on yours, seeing that you and Pauline are the talk of the town. If she doesn't divorce you within the next five years, it will be because you've already divorced her. Even that won't be as big a scandal as your going on living together." Mr. Rossiter intervened on this and did his best to calm the younger brother down: "Ah, cut that out now, Hugh!" But Hugh rounded on him, shaking off the hand that had been laid on his arm. "You're a nice one, Jim, to come with your mealy-mouthed talk to me. Look at Ethel! If I'd married a woman as you married her--or if I'd been married as she married you--just because your father was a partner in Meek & Brokenshire and it was well to keep the money in the family--if I'd done that I'd shut up. I'd consider myself too low-down a cur to be kicked. What kind of a wife is Ethel to you? What kind of a husband are you to her? What kind of a father do you make to the children who hardly know you by sight? And now, just because I'm trying to be a man, and decent, and true to the girl I love, you come sneaking round to tell me she's not good enough. What do I care whether she's good enough or not, so long as she isn't like Ethel and Pauline? You can go back and tell them so." Jack Brokenshire came back, but I think he kept this confidence to himself. What he told, however, was enough to produce a good deal of gloom in the family. Though Mrs. Rossiter didn't cease to be nice to me in her non-committal way, I began to reason that there were limits even to indifference. I had made up my mind to go and was working out some practical way of going, when an incident hastened my departure. Doing an errand one day for Mrs. Rossiter in the shopping part of Bellevue Avenue, I saw old Mrs. Billing going by in an open motor landaulette. She signaled to me to stop, and, poking the chauffeur in the back through the open window, made him draw up at the curb. "I've got something for you," she said, without other form of greeting. She began to stir things round in her bag. "I thought you'd like it. I've been carrying it about with me for the last three or four days--ever since Jack Brokenshire got back from New York. Where the dickens is the thing? Ah, here!" She handed me out a crumpled card. "That's all, Antoine," she continued to the man. "Drive on." I was left with the card in my hand, finding it to be an advertisement for the Hotel Mary Chilton, a place of entertainment for women alone, in a central and reputable part of New York. By the time I got back to Mrs. Rossiter's I had solved what had at first been a puzzle, and, having reported on my errand, I gave my resignation verbally. I saw then--what old Mrs. Billing had also seen--that it was time. Mrs. Rossiter expressed no relief, but she made no attempt to dissuade me. That she was sorry she allowed me to see. She didn't speak of Hugh; but on the morning when I went she gave up her engagements to stay at home with me. As I said good-by she threw her arms round my neck and kissed me. I could feel on my cheek tears of hers as well as tears of my own, as I drew down my veil. Hugh met me at the station in New York, and we dined at a restaurant together. He came for me next morning, and we lunched and dined at restaurants again. When we did the same on the third day that sense of being in a false position which had been with me from the first, and which argument couldn't counteract, began to be disquieting. On the fourth day I tried to make excuses and remain at the hotel, but when he insisted I was obliged to let him take me out once more. The people at the Mary Chilton were kindly, but I was afraid they would regard me with suspicion. I was afraid of some other things, besides. For one thing I was afraid of Hugh. He began again to plead with me to marry him. Even he admitted that we couldn't continue to "go round together like that." We went to the most expensive restaurants, he argued, where there were plenty of people who would know him. When they saw him every day with a girl they didn't know, they would draw their own conclusions. As in a situation similar to theirs I would have drawn my own, I brought my bit of Bohemianism to a speedy end. There followed some days during which it seemed to me I was deprived of any outlook. I could hardly see what I was there for. I could hardly see what I was living for. Never till then had I realized how, in normal conditions, each day is linked to the day before as well as to the morrow. Here the link was gone. I left nothing undone when I went to bed; I had nothing to get up for in the morning. My reason for existing had suddenly been snuffed out. It was a time for the testing of my faith. I was near the end of my _cul-de-sac_, and yet I saw no further development ahead. If the continuous unfolding of right on which, to use Larry Strangways's expression, I had banked, were to come to a stop, I should be left not only without a duty, but without a law. Of the two possibilities it was the latter I dreaded most. One can live if one has a motive theory within one; without it-- And then, just as I was coming to the last stretches of what seemed a blind alley and no more, my confidence was justified. Larry Strangways called on me. I have not said that on coming to New York I had decided to let my acquaintance with him end. He made me uneasy. I was terrified by the thought that he might be in love with me. Why I was terrified I didn't know; I only knew I was. I did not tell him, therefore, when I left Mrs. Rossiter; and in the whirlpool of New York I considered that I was swallowed up. But here was his card, and he himself waiting in the drawing-room below. Naturally my first question was as to how he had found me out. This he laughed off, pretending to be annoyed with me for coming to the city without telling him. I could see, however, that he was in spirits much too high to allow of his being seriously annoyed with anything. Life promised well with him. He enjoyed his work, and for his employer he had that eager personal devotion which is always a herald of success. After having run away from him, as it were, I was now a little irritated at seeing that he hadn't missed me. But he did not take his leave without a bit of information that puzzled me beyond expression. He was going out of Mr. Grainger's office that morning, he said, with a bundle of letters which he was to answer, when his master observed, casually: "The young lady of whom you spoke to me as qualified to take Miss Davis's place is at the Hotel Mary Chilton. Go and see her and get her opinion as to accepting the job!" I was what the French call _atterrée_--knocked flat. "But how on earth could he know?" Larry Strangways laughed. "Oh, don't ask me. He knows anything he wants to know. He's got the flair of a detective. I don't try to fathom him. But the point is that the position is there for you to take or to leave." I tried to bring my mind back from the fact that this important man, a total stranger to me, was in some way interested in my destiny. "What can I do but leave it, when I know no more about it than I do of sailing a ship?" "Oh yes, you do. You know what books are, and you know what rare books are. For the rest, all you'd have to do would be to consult the catalogue. I don't know what the duties are; but if Miss Davis is up to them I guess you would be, too. She's a sweet, pretty kitten of a thing--daughter of one of Stacy Grainger's old pals who came to grief--but I don't believe she knows much more about a book than the cover from the print. Anyhow, I've given you the message with neither more nor less than he said. Look here!" he exclaimed, suddenly. "Why shouldn't you put on your hat and walk down the street with me, so that I could show you where the library is? It's not ten minutes away. I've never been inside it, but every one knows what it looks like." Consulting my wrist-watch, I objected that it was but twenty minutes to the time when Hugh was due to come and take me to walk in Central Park, returning to the hotel to tea. "Oh, let him go to the deuce! We can be there and back in twenty minutes, and you can leave a message for him at the office." So we started. The Mary Chilton is in one of the cross-streets between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. I discovered that Stacy Grainger's house was on the corner of Fifth Avenue and a corresponding cross-street a little farther down-town. It is a big brownstone house, in the eighteen-seventy style, of the type which all round it has been turned into offices and shops. All its many windows were blinded in a yellowish holland staff, giving to the whole building an aspect sealed and dead. I shuddered. "I hope I shouldn't have to work there." "No. The house has been shut up for years." He named the hotel overlooking the Park at which Stacy Grainger actually lived. "Anybody else would have sold the place; but he has a lot of queer sentiment about him. Of the two or three devotions in his life one of the most intense is to his father's memory. I believe the old fellow committed suicide in that house, and the son hallows it as he would a grave." "Cheerful!" "Oh, cheerful isn't the word one would associate with him first--" "Or last, apparently." "No, or last; but he's got other qualities to which cheerfulness is as small change to gold. All I want you to see is that he keeps this property, which is worth half a million at the least, from motives which the immense majority wouldn't understand. It gives you a clue to the man." "But what I want," I said, with nervous flippancy, for I was afraid of meeting Hugh, "is a clue to the library." "There it is." "That?" He had pointed to a small, low, rectangular building I had seen a hundred times, without the curiosity to wonder what it was. It stood behind the house, in the center of a grass-plot, and was approached from the cross-street, through a small wrought-iron gate. Built of brownstone, without a window, and with no other ornament than a frieze in relief below the eave, it suggested a tomb. At the back was a kind of covered cloister connecting with the house. "If I had to sit in there all day," I commented, as we turned back toward the hotel, "I should feel as if I were buried alive. I know that strange things would happen to me!" "Oh no, they wouldn't. It's sure to be all right or a pretty little thing like Miss Davis couldn't have stood it for three years. It's lighted from the top, and there are a lot of fine things scattered about." He gave me a brief history of how the collection had been formed. The elder Grainger on coming to New York had bought up the contents of two or three great European sales _en bloc_. He knew little about the objects he had thus acquired, and cared less. His motive was simply that of the rich American to play the nobleman. He was still talking of this when Hugh passed us and turned round. Between the two men there was a stiff form of greeting. That is, it was stiff on Larry Strangways's side, while on Hugh's it was the nearest thing to no greeting at all. I could see he considered the tutor of his sister's son beneath him. "What the devil were you walking with that fellow for?" he asked, after Mr. Strangways had left us and while we were continuing our way up-town. He spoke, wonderingly rather than impatiently. "Because he had come from a gentleman who had offered me employment. I had just gone down with him to look at the outside of the house." I could hardly be surprised that Hugh should stop abruptly, forcing the stream of foot-passengers to divide into two currents about us. "The impertinent bounder! Offer employment--to you--my--my wife!" I walked on with dignity. "You mustn't call me that, Hugh. It's a word only to be used in its exact signification." He began to apologize, but I interrupted. "I'm not only not your wife, but as yet I haven't even promised to marry you. We must keep that fact unmistakably clear before us. It will prevent possible complications in the end." He spoke humbly: "What sort of complications?" "I don't know; but I can see they might arise. And as for the matter of employment, I must have it for a lot of reasons." "I don't see that. Give me two or three months, Alix!" "But it's precisely during those two or three months, Hugh, that I should be left high and dry. Unless I have something to do I have no motive for staying here in New York." "What about me?" "I can't stay just to see you. That's the difference between a woman and a man. The situation is awkward enough as it is; but if I were to go on living here for two or three months, merely for the sake of having a few hours every day with you--" Before we reached the Park he saw the justice of my argument. Remembering what Larry Strangways had once said as to Hugh's belief that he was stooping to pick his diamond out of the mire, I reasoned that since he was marrying a working-girl it would best preserve the decencies if the working-girl were working. For this procedure Hugh himself was able to establish precedent, since we were in sight of the very hotel where Libby Jaynes had rubbed men's nails up to within an hour or two of her marriage to Tracy Allen. He pointed it out as if it was an historic monument, and in the same spirit I gazed at it. That matter settled, I attacked another as we advanced farther into the Park. "And Mr. Strangways is not a bounder, Hugh, darling. I wish you wouldn't call him that." His response was sufficiently good-natured, but it expressed that Brokenshire disdain for everything that didn't have money which specially enraged me. "Well, I won't," he conceded. "I don't care a hang what he is." "I do," I declared, with some tartness. "I care that he's a gentleman and that he's treated as one." "Oh, every one's a gentleman." "No, Hugh, every one isn't. I know men right here in New York who could buy and sell Mr. Strangways a thousand times, perhaps a million times over, and who wouldn't be worthy to valet him." His small wide-apart blue eyes were turned on me questioningly. "You don't know many men right here in New York. Who do you mean?" I saw that he had me there and, not wishing to be driven into a corner, I beat a shuffling retreat. "I don't mean any one in particular. I'm speaking in general." As we had reached an empty bench and the afternoon was hot, I suggested that we sit down. We had been silent a little while, when he asked the question I had been expecting. "Who was the person who offered you the--the--" I saw how he hated the word--"the employment?" I had already decided to betray no knowledge of matters which didn't concern me. "It's a Mr. Grainger," I said, as casually as I could. As he sat close to me I could feel him start. "Not Stacy Grainger?" I maintained my tone of indifference. "I think that is his name. Do you know him? He seems to be some one of importance." "Oh, he is." "Mr. Strangways has gone to him as secretary and, I suppose, knowing that I was out of a situation, he must have mentioned me." "For what?" "As I understand it, it's librarian. It seems that this Mr. Grainger has quite a collection--" "Oh yes, I know." As he remained silent for some time I waited for him to raise objections, but he only said at last: "In that case you wouldn't have much to do with him. He's never there." "No, I fancy not," I hastened to agree, and Hugh said no more. He said no more, but I could see that it was because he was wrestling with a subject of which he couldn't perceive the bearings. As far as I was concerned he plainly considered it wise not to tell me that which, as a stranger and a foreigner, I wouldn't be likely to know. He consequently dropped the topic, and when he talked again it was of trivial things. A half-hour later, as we were on our way homeward, he exclaimed, suddenly, and apropos of nothing at all: "Little Alix, if you were to love anybody else I'd--I'd shoot myself." His innocent, boyish, inexperienced face wore such a look of misery that I laughed. I laughed to conceal the fact that I was near to crying. "Oh no, you wouldn't, Hugh. Besides, you don't see any likelihood of my doing it." "I'm not so sure about that," he grumbled. "Well, I am, Hugh, dear." I laughed again. "I've no intention of loving any one else--till I've settled my account with your father." CHAPTER XII Nearly a week later, in the middle of a hot afternoon, I came back from some shopping to wait for Hugh at the hotel. Though it was a half-hour before I expected him, I was too tired to go up-stairs and so went directly to the reception-room. It was not only cool and restful there, but after the glare of the streets outside, it was so dim that I took the place to be empty. Having gone to a mirror for a moment to straighten my hat and smooth the wayward tendrils of my hair, so that I shouldn't look disheveled when Hugh arrived, I threw myself into an arm-chair. I remember that my attitude was anything but graceful, and that I sighed. I sighed more than once and somewhat loudly. I was depressed, and as usual when depressed I felt small and desolate. It would have been a relief to cry; but I couldn't cry when I was expecting Hugh. I could only toss about in my big chair and give utterance to my pent-up heart a little too explosively. It was five or six days since Larry Strangways's call, and no real development of my blind alley was in sight. He had not returned, nor had I heard from him. On the previous evening Hugh had said, "I thought nothing would come of that," in a tone which carried conviction. It wasn't that I was eager to be Stacy Grainger's librarian; it was only that I wanted something to happen, something that would justify my staying in New York. August had passed, and with the coming in of September I saw the stirring of a new life in the streets; but there was no new life for me. Nor, for the matter of that, did I see any new life for Hugh. He had entered now on that stage of waiting on the postman which a good many people have found sickening. Bankers and brokers having promised to write when they knew of anything to suit him, he was expecting a summons by every delivery of letters. On his dear face I began to read the evidence of hope deferred. He was cheery enough; he could find fifty explanations to account for the fact that he hadn't yet been called; but brave words couldn't counteract the look of disquietude that was creeping day by day into his kindly eyes. On the previous evening he had informed me, too, that he had left his club and installed himself in a small hotel, not far from my own neighborhood. When I asked him why he had done that he said it was "to get away from a lot of the fellows who were always chewing the rag," but I suspected the motive of economy. For the motive of economy I should have had nothing but respect, if it hadn't been so incongruous with everything I had known of him. It was probably because my eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom in the reception-room that I noticed, suddenly, two other eyes. They were in a distant corner and seemed to be looking at me with the detached and burning stare of motor-lamps at night. For a minute I could discern no personality, the eyes themselves were so lustrous. I was about to be frightened when a man arose and restlessly moved toward the chimneypiece, not because there was anything there he desired to see, but because he couldn't continue to sit still. He was a striking figure, tall, spare, large-boned and powerful. The face was of the type which for want of a better word I can only speak of as masculine. It was long and lean and strong; if it was handsome it was only because every feature and line was cut to the same large pattern as the frame. Sweeping mustaches, of the kind school-girls are commonly supposed to love, concealed a mouth which I could have wagered would be hard, while the luminosity of the gaze suggested a rather hungry set of human qualities and passions. We were now two restless persons instead of one, and I was about to leave the room when a page came in. "Sorry, sir," said the honest-faced little boy, with an amusingly uncouth accent I find it impossible to transcribe, "but number four-twenty-three ain't in, so I guess she must be out." Startled, I rose to my feet. "But I'm number four-twenty-three." The boy turned toward me nonchalantly. "Didn't know you was here! That gentleman wants you." With this introduction he dashed away, and I was once more conscious of the luminous eyes bent upon me. The tall figure, too, advanced a few paces in my direction. "I asked for Miss Adare." The voice was deep and grave and harsh and musical all at once. "That's my name." "Mine's Grainger." I gasped silently, like a dying fish, before I could stammer the words-- "Won't you sit down?" As he seated himself near me and in a good light, I saw that his skin was tanned, as if he lived on the sea or in the open air. I learned later from Larry Strangways that he had just come from a summer's yachting. His gaze studied me--not as a man studies a woman, but as a workman inspects a tool. "You probably know my errand." "Mr. Strangways--" "Yes, I told him to sound you." "But I'm afraid I wouldn't do." "Why do you think so?" "Because I don't know anything about the work." "There's no work to know anything about. All you'd have to do would be to sit still. You'd never have more than two or three visitors in a day--and most days none at all." "But what should I do when visitors came?" "Show them what they asked to see. You'd find that in the catalogue. You'd soon get the hang of the place. It's small. There's not much in it when you come to sum it up. Miss Davis will show you the ropes before she leaves on the first of October. I'll give you the same salary I've been paying her." He named a sum the munificence of which almost took my breath away. "Oh, but I shouldn't be worth that." "It's the salary," he said, briefly, as he rose. "You can arrange with my secretary, Strangways, when you would like to begin. The sooner the better, as I understand that Miss Davis would like to get off." He was on his way to the door when, thinking of the tomb-like aspect of the place, I asked, desperately: "Should I be all alone?" He turned. "There's a man and his wife in the house. One of them would be always within call. The woman will bring you tea at half past four." I could hardly believe my ears. I had never heard of such solicitude. "But I shouldn't need tea!" I began to assure him. He paused for a moment, looking at me searchingly. "You'll have callers--" "Oh no, I sha'n't." "You'll have callers," he repeated, as if I hadn't spoken, "and there'll be tea every day at four-thirty." He was gone before I could protest further, or ask any more questions. Hugh's explanation, when I laid the matter before him, was that Mr. Grainger was trying to play into the hands of that fellow, Strangways. "But why?" I demanded. "He thinks there's something between him and you." "But there isn't." "I should hope not; but, evidently, Strangways has made him think--" "Oh no, he hasn't, Hugh. Mr. Strangways is not that kind of man. Mr. Grainger has some other reason for wanting me there, but I can't think what it is." "Then I shouldn't go till I knew," Hugh counseled, moodily. But I did. I went the next week. Larry Strangways made the arrangements, and, after a fortnight under Miss Davis's instructions, I found myself alone. It was not so trying as I feared, though it was monotonous. It was monotonous because there was so little to do. I was there each morning at half past nine. From one to two I had an hour for lunch. At six I came away. On Saturdays I had the afternoon. It was a little like being a prisoner, but a prisoner in a palace, a prisoner who is well paid. The place consisted of one big, handsome room, some sixty feet by thirty, resembling the libraries of great houses I had seen abroad. That in this case it was detached from the dwelling was, I suppose, a matter of architectural convenience. Book-shelves lined the walls right up to the cornice. The dull reds and browns and blues and greens of the bindings carried out the mellow effects of the Oriental rugs on the floor. Under the shelves there were cupboards, some of them empty, others stocked with portfolios of prints, European and Japanese. There were no pictures, but a few large pieces of old porcelain and faïence, Persian, Spanish, and Chinese, stood on the mantelpiece and tables. For the rest, the furnishings consisted of a bust or two, a desk or two, and some decorative tables and chairs. My chief objection to the life was its seeming pointlessness. I was hard at work doing nothing. The number of visitors was negligible. Once during the autumn an old gentleman brought some engravings to compare with similar examples in Mr. Grainger's collection; once a lady student of Shakespeare came to examine his early editions; perhaps as often as twice a week some wandering tourist in New York would enter and stare vacantly, and go as he arrived. To while away the time I read and wrote and did knitting and fancy-work, and at half past four every day, as regularly as the hands of the clock came round, I solemnly had my tea. It was very good tea, with cake and bread and butter in the orthodox style, and was brought by Mrs. Daly, the motherly old Irish caretaker of the house, who stumped in and stumped out, giving me, while she stayed, a good deal of detail as to her "sky-attic" nerves and swollen "varikiss" veins. I am bound to admit that the tea ceremony oppressed me--not that I didn't enjoy it in its way but because its generosity seemed overdone. It was not in the necessities of the case; it was, above all, not American. On both the occasions when Mr. Grainger honored the library with a call I tried to screw up my courage to ask him to let me off this hospitality, but I couldn't reach the point. I was not so much afraid of him as I was overawed. He was perfectly civil; he never treated me as the dust beneath his feet, like Howard Brokenshire; but any one could see that he was immensely and perhaps tragically preoccupied. I was having tea all alone on a cold afternoon in November, when the sound of the opening of the outer door attracted my attention. At first one came into a vestibule from which there was no entrance, till on my side I touched the spring of a closed wrought-iron grille. I had gone forward to see who was there and, if necessary, give the further admission, when to my astonishment I saw Mrs. Brokenshire. She was in a walking-dress with furs. The color in her cheeks might have been due to the cold wind, but the light in her eyes was that of excitement. "I heard you were here," she whispered, as she fluttered in, "and I've come to see you." My sense of the imprudence of this step was such that I could hardly welcome her. That feeling of protection which I had once before on her behalf came back to me. "Who told you?" I asked, as soon as she was seated and I was pouring her out a cup of tea. For the first time since taking the position I was glad the ceremony had not been suppressed. She answered, while glancing into the shadows about her. "Mildred told me. Hugh wrote it to her. He does write to her, you know. She's the only one with whom he is still in communication. She seems to think the poor boy is in trouble. I came to--to see if there was anything I could do." I told her I was living at the Hotel Mary Chilton and that, if necessary at any time, she could see me there. She repeated the address, but I knew it took no hold on her memory. "Ah yes; the Hotel Mary Chilton. I think I've heard of it. But I haven't many minutes, and you must tell me all you can about dear Hugh." As my anxiety on Hugh's account was deepening, I was the more eager to do as I was bid. I said he had found no employment as yet, and that in my opinion employment would be hard to secure. If he was willing to work for a year or two for next to nothing, as he would consider the salary, he might eventually learn the financial trade; but to expect that his name would be a key to open the door of any bank at which he might present himself was preposterous. I hadn't been able to convince him of that, however, and he was still hoping. But he was hoping with a sad, worried face that almost broke my heart. "And how is he off for money?" I said I thought his bank-account was running low. He made no complaint of that to me, but I noticed that he rarely now went to any of his clubs, and that he took his meals at the more inexpensive places. In taxis, too, he was careful, and in tickets for the theater. These were the signs by which I judged. Her eyes had the sweet mistiness I remembered from our last meeting. "I can let him have money--as much as he needs." I considered this. "But it would be Mr. Brokenshire's money, wouldn't it?" "It would be money Mr. Brokenshire gives me." "In that case I don't think Hugh could accept it. You see, he's trying to make himself independent of his father, so as to do what his father doesn't like." "But he can't starve." "He must either starve, or earn a living, or go back to his father and--give up." "Does that mean that you won't marry him unless he has money of his own?" "It means what I've said more than once before--that I can't marry him if he has no money of his own, unless his family come and ask me to do it." There was a little furrow between her brows. "Oh, well, they won't do that. I would," she hastened to add, "because--" she smiled, like an angel--"because I believe in love; but they wouldn't." "I think Mrs. Rossiter would," I argued, "if she was left free." "She might; and, of course, there's Mildred. She'd do anything for Hugh, though she thinks . . . but neither Jack nor Pauline would give in; and as for Mr. Brokenshire--I believe it would break his heart." "Why should he feel toward me like that?" I demanded, bitterly. "How am I inferior to Pauline Gray, except that I have no money?" "Well, I suppose in a way that's it. It's what Mr. Brokenshire calls the solidarity of aristocracies. They have to hold together." "But aristocracy and money aren't one." As she rose she smiled again, distantly and dreamily. "If you were an American, dear Miss Adare, you'd know." Before she said good-by she looked deliberately about the room. It was not the hasty inspection I should have expected; it was tranquil, and I could even say that it was thorough. She made no mention of Mr. Grainger, but I couldn't help thinking he was in her mind. At the door to which I accompanied her, however, her manner changed. Before trusting herself to the few paces of walk running from the entrance to the wrought-iron gate, she glanced up and down the street. It was dark by this time, and the lamps were lit, but not till the pavement was tolerably clear did she venture out. Even then she didn't turn toward Fifth Avenue, which would have been her natural direction; but rapidly and, as I imagined, furtively, she walked the other way. I mentioned to no one that she had come to see me. Her kind thought of Hugh I was sorry to keep to myself; but I knew of no purpose to be served in divulging it. With my maxim to guide me it was not difficult to be sure that in this case right lay in silence. A few days later I got Hugh's doings from a new point of view. As I was going back to my lunch at the hotel, Mrs. Rossiter called to me from her motor and made me get in. The distance I had to cover being slight, she drove me up to Central Park and back again to have the time to talk. "My dear, he's crazy. He's going round to all the offices that practically turned him out six or eight weeks ago and begging them to find a place for him. Two or three of papa's old friends have written to ask what they could really do for him--for papa, that is--and he's sent them word that he'd take it as a favor if they'd show Hugh to the door." "Of course, if his father makes himself his enemy--" "He only makes himself his enemy in order to be his friend, dear Miss Adare. He's your friend, too, papa is, if you only saw it." "I'm afraid I don't," I said, dryly. "Oh, you will some day, and do him justice. He's the kindest man when you let him have his own way." "Which would be to separate Hugh and me." "But you'd both get over that; and I know he'd do the handsome thing by you, as well as by him." "So long as we do the handsome thing by each other--" "Oh, well, you can see where that leads to. Hugh'll never be in a position to marry you, dear Miss Adare." "He will when your father comes round." "Nonsense, my dear! You know you're not looking forward to that, not any more than I am." Later, as I was getting out at my door, she said, as if it was an afterthought: "Oh, by the way, you know papa has made me write to Lady Cissie Boscobel?" I looked up at her from the pavement. "What for?" "To ask her to come over and spend a month or two in New York. She says she will if she can. She's a good deal of a girl, Cissie is. If you're going to keep your hold on Hugh-- Well, all I can say is that Cissie will give you a run for your money. Of course, it's nothing to me. I only thought I'd tell you." This, too, I kept from Hugh; but I seized an early opportunity to paint the portrait of the imaginary charming girl he could have for a wife, with plenty of money to support himself and her, if he would only give me up. This was as we walked home one night from the theater--I was obliged from time to time to let him take me so that we might have a pretext for being together--and we strolled in the shadows of the narrow cross-streets. "Little Alix," he declared, fervently, "I could no more give you up than I could give up my breath or my blood. You're part of me. You're the most vital part of me. If you were to fail me I should die. If I were to fail you--But that's not worth thinking of. Look here!" He paused in a dark spot beside a great silent warehouse. "Look here. I'm having a pretty tough time. I'll confess it. I didn't mean to tell you, but I will. When I go to see certain people now--men I've met dozens of times at my father's table--what do you think happens? They have me shown to the door, and not too politely. These are the chaps who two months ago were squirming for joy at the thought of getting me. What do you think of that? How do you suppose it makes me feel?" I was about to break in with some indignant response when he continued, placidly: "Well, it all turns to music the minute I think of you. It's as if I'd drunk some glowing cordial. I'm kicked out, let us say--and it's not too much to say--and I'm ready to curse for all I'm worth, but I think of you. I remember I'm doing it for you and bearing it for you, so that one day I may strike the right thing and we may be together and happy forever afterward, and I swear to you it's as if angels were singing in the sky." I had to let him kiss me there in the shadow of the street, as if we were a footman and a housemaid. I had to let him kiss away my tears and soothe me and console me. I told him I wasn't worthy of such love, and that, if he would consider the fitness of things, he would go away and leave me, but he only kissed me the more. Again I was having my tea. It had been a lifeless day, and I was wondering how long I could endure the lifelessness. Not a soul had come near the place since morning, and my only approach to human intercourse had been in discussing Mrs. Daly's "varikiss" veins. Even that interlude was over, for the lady would not return for the tea things till after my departure. I was so lonely--I felt the uselessness of what I was doing so acutely--that in spite of the easy work and generous pay I was thinking of sending my resignation in to Mr. Grainger and looking for something else. The outer door opened swiftly and silently, and I knew some one was inside. I knew, too, before rising from my place, that it was Mrs. Brokenshire. Subconsciously I had been expecting her, though I couldn't have said why. Her lovely face was all asparkle. "I've come to see you again," she whispered, as I let her in. "I hope you're alone." I replied that I was and, choosing my words carefully, I said it was kind of her to keep me in mind. "Oh yes, I keep you in mind, and I keep Hugh. What I've really come for is to beg you to hand him the money of which I spoke the other day." She seated herself, but not before glancing about the room, either expectantly or fearfully. As I poured out her tea I repeated what I had said already on the subject of the money. She wasn't listening, however. When she made replies they were not to the point. All the while she sipped her tea and nibbled her cake her eyes had the shifting alertness of a watchful little bird's. "Oh, but what does it all matter when it's a question of love?" she said, somewhat at a venture. "Love is the only thing, don't you think? It must make its opportunities as it can." "You mean that love can be--unscrupulous?" "Oh, I shouldn't use that word." "It isn't the word I'm thinking of. It's the act." "Love is like war, isn't it? All's fair!" "But is it?" Her eyes rested on mine, not boldly, but with a certain daring. "Why--yes." "You believe that?" She still kept her eyes on mine. Her tone was that of a challenge. "Why--yes." She added, perhaps defiantly, "Don't you?" I said, decidedly: "No, I don't." "Then you don't love. You can't love. Love is reckless. Love--" There was a long pause before she dropped the two concluding words, spacing them apart as if to emphasize her deliberation. "Love--risks--all." "If it risks all it may lose all." The challenge was renewed. "Well? Isn't that better than--?" "It's not better than doing right," I hastened to say, "however hard it may be." "Ah, but what is right? A thing can't be right if--if--" she sought for a word--"if it's killing you." As she said this there was a sound along the corridor leading from the house. I thought Mrs. Daly had forgotten something and was coming back. But the tread was different from her slow stump, and my sense of a danger at hand was such as the good woman never inspired. Mrs. Brokenshire made no attempt to play a part or to put me off the scent. She acted as if I understood what was happening. Her teacup resting in her lap, she sat with eyes aglow and lips slightly apart in a look of heavenly expectation. I could hardly believe her to be the dazed, stricken little creature I had seen three months ago. As the footsteps approached she murmured, "He's coming!" or, "Who's coming?" I couldn't be sure which. Mr. Grainger entered like a man who is on his own ground and knows what he is about to find. There was no uncertainty in his manner and no apparent sense of secrecy. His head was high and his walk firm as he pushed his way amid tables and chairs to where we were sitting in the glow of a shaded light. I stood up as he approached, but I had time to appraise my situation. I saw all its little mysteries illumined as by a flash. I saw why Stacy Grainger had kept track of me; I saw why, in spite of my deficiencies, he had taken me on as his librarian; but I saw, too, that the Lord had delivered J. Howard Brokenshire into my hands, as Sisera into those of Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite. CHAPTER XIII I was relieved of some of my embarrassment by the fact that Mr. Grainger took command. Having bowed over Mrs. Brokenshire's hand with an empressement he made no attempt to conceal, he murmured the words, "I'm delighted to see you again." After this greeting, which might have been commonplace and was not, he turned to me. "Perhaps Miss Adare will give me some tea." I could carry out this request, listen to their scraps of conversation, and think my own thoughts all at the same time. Thinking my own thoughts was the least easy of the three, for the reason that thought stunned me. The facts knocked me on the head. Since before my engagement as Mr. Grainger's librarian this situation had been planned! Mrs. Brokenshire had chosen me for my part in it! She had given Mr. Grainger my address, which she could have learned from her mother, and recommended me as one with whom they would be safe! Their talk was only of superficial things; but it was not the clue to their emotions. That was in the way they talked--haltingly, falteringly, with glances that met and shifted and fell, or that rested on each other with long, mute looks, and then turned away hurriedly, as if something in the spirit reeled. As she gave him bits of information concerning the summer at Newport, she stumbled in her words, because there was no correlation between the sentences she formed and her fundamental thought. The same was true of his account of yachting on the coast of Maine, of Gloucester, Islesboro, and Bar Harbor. He stuttered and stammered and repeated himself. It was like one of those old Italian duets in which stupid words are sung to a passionate, heartbreaking melody. Nevertheless, I had enough sympathy with love, even with a guilty love, to have some mercy in my judgments. Not that I believed it to be a guilty love--as yet. That, too, I was obliged to think over and form my opinion about it. It was not a guilty love as yet; but it might easily become a guilty love. I remembered that Larry Strangways, with all his admiration for his employer, had refused him a place in his list of whole-hearted, clean-hearted men because he had a weakness; and I reflected that on the part of Mrs. Billing's daughter there might be no rigorous concept of the moralities. What I saw, therefore, was a man and a woman so consumed with longing for each other that guilt would be chiefly a matter of opportunity. To create that opportunity I had been brought upon the scene. [Illustration: I SAW A MAN AND A WOMAN CONSUMED WITH LONGING FOR EACH OTHER] I could see, of course, how admirably I was suited to the purpose I was meant to serve. In the first place, I was young, and might but dimly perceive--might not perceive at all--what was being done with me. In the next place, I was presumably too inexperienced to take a line of my own even if I suspected what was not for me to know. Then, I was poor and a stranger, and too glad of the easy work for which I was liberally paid not to be willing to take its bitter with its sweet. Lastly, I, too, was in love; and I, too, was a victim of Howard Brokenshire. If I couldn't approve of what I might see and hear, at least I might be reckoned on not to speak of it. Once more I was made to feel that, though I might play a subordinate rôle of some importance, my own wishes and personality didn't count. It was obviously a minute at which to bring my maxim into operation. I had to do what was Right--with a capital. For that I must wait for inspiration, and presently I got it. That is, I got it by degrees. I got it first by noting in a puzzled way the glances which both my companions sent in my direction. They were sidelong glances, singularly alike, whether they came from Stacy Grainger's melancholy brown eyes or Mrs. Brokenshire's sweet, misty ones. They were timid glances, pleading, uneasy. They asked what words wouldn't dare to ask, and what I was too dense to understand. I sat sipping my tea, running hot and cold as the odiousness of my position struck me from the various points of view; but I made no attempt to move. They were still talking of people of whom I knew nothing, but talking brokenly, futilely, for the sake of hearing each other's voice, and yet stifling the things which it would have been fatal to them both to say, when Mr. Grainger got up and brought me his cup. "May I have another?" I looked up to take the cup, but he held it in his hands. He held it in his hands and gazed down at me. He gazed down at me with an expression such as I have never seen in any eyes but a dog's. As I write I blush to remember that, with such a mingling of hints and entreaties and commands, I didn't know what he was trying to convey to me. I took the cup, poured out his tea, handed the cup back to him--and sat. But after he had reached his seat the truth flashed on me. I was in the way; I was _de trop_. I had done part of my work in being the pretext for Mrs. Brokenshire's visit; now I ought, tactfully, to absent myself. I needn't go far; I needn't go for long. There was an alcove at the end of the room where one could be out of sight; there was also the corridor leading to the house. I could easily make an excuse; I could get up and move without an excuse of any kind. But I sat. I hated myself; I despised myself; but I sat. I drank my tea without knowing it; I ate my cake without tasting it--and I sat. The talk between my companions grew more fitful. Silence was easier for them--silence and that dumb interchange of looks which had the sympathy of something within myself. I knew that in their eyes I was a nuisance, a thing to be got rid of. I was so in my own--but I went on eating and drinking stolidly--and sat. It was in my mind that this was my chance to be avenged on Howard Brokenshire; but I didn't want my vengeance that way. I have to confess that I was so poor-spirited as to have little or no animosity against him. I could see how easy it was for him to think of me as an adventuress. I wanted to convince and convert him, but not to make him suffer. If in any sense I could be called the guardian of his interests I would rather have been true to the trust than not. As I sat, therefore, gulping down my tea as if I relished it, it was partly because of my protective instinct toward the exquisite creature before me who might not know how to protect herself--and partly because I couldn't help it. Mr. Grainger could order me to go, but until he did I meant to go on eating. Probably because of the insistence of my presence Mrs. Brokenshire felt obliged to begin to talk again. I did my best not to listen, but fragments of her sentences came to me. "My mother spent a few weeks with us in August. I--I don't think she and--and Mr. Brokenshire get on so well." Almost for the first time he was interested in what she said rather than in her. "What's the trouble?" "Oh, I don't know--the whole thing." A long pause ensued, during which their eyes rested on each other in mute questioning. "She's changed, mamma is." "Changed in what way?" "Oh, I don't know. I--I suppose she sees that she--she--miscalculated." It was his turn to ruminate silently, and when he spoke at last it was as if throwing up to the surface but one of a deep undercurrent of thoughts. "After the pounding I got three years ago she didn't believe I'd come back." She accepted this without comment. Before speaking again she sent me another of her frightened, pleading looks. "She always liked you better than any one else." He seconded the glance in my direction as he said, with a grim smile: "Which didn't prevent her going to the highest bidder." She colored and sighed. "You wouldn't be so hard on her if you knew what a fight she had to make during papa's lifetime. We were always in debt. You knew that, didn't you? Poor mamma used to say she'd save me from that if she never--" I lost the rest of the sentence by deliberately rattling the tea things in pouring myself a third or a fourth cup of tea. Nothing but disconnected words reached me after that, but I caught the name of Madeline Pyne. I knew who she was, having heard her story day by day as it unfolded itself during my first weeks with Mrs. Rossiter. It was a simple tale as tales go in the twentieth century. Mrs. Pyre had been Mrs. Grimshaw. While she was Mrs. Grimshaw she had spent three days at a seaside resort with Mr. Pyne. The law having been invoked, she had changed her residence from the house of Mr. Grimshaw in Seventy-fifth Street to that of Mr. Pyne in Seventy-seventh Street, and likewise changed her name. Only a very discerning eye could now have told that in the opinion of society there was a difference between her and Cæsar's wife. The drama was sufficiently recent to make the topic a natural one for an interchange of confidences. That confidences were being interchanged I could see; that from those confidences certain terrifying, passionate deductions were being drawn silently I could also see. I could see without hearing; I didn't need to hear. I could tell by her pallor and his embarrassment how each read the mind of the other, how each was tempted and how each recoiled. I knew that neither pointed the moral of the parable, for the reason that it stared them in the face. Because that subject, too, was exhausted, or because they had come to a place where they could say no more, they sat silent again. They looked at each other; they looked at me; neither would take the responsibility of giving me a further hint to go. Much as they desired my going, I was sure they were both afraid of it. I might be a nuisance and yet I was a safeguard. They were too near the brink of danger not to feel that, after all, there was something in having the safeguard there. A few minutes later Mrs. Brokenshire flew to shelter herself behind this protection. She fluttered softly to my side, beginning again to talk of Hugh. Knowing by this time that her interest in him was only a blind for her frightened essays in passion, I took up the subject but half-heartedly. "I've the money here," she confided to me, "if you'll only take charge of it." When I had declined to do this, for the reasons I had already given, her face brightened. "Then we can talk it over again." She rose as she spoke. "I can't stay any longer now--but we'll talk it over again. Let me see! This is Tuesday. If I came--" "I'm always at the Hotel Mary Chilton after six," I said, significantly. I smiled inwardly at the way in which she took this information. "Oh, I'll come before that--and I sha'n't keep you--just to talk about Hugh--and see he won't take the money--perhaps on--on Thursday." As nominally she had come to see me, nominally it was my place to accompany her to the door. In this at least I got my cue, walking the few paces with her, while she held my hand. I gathered that, the minutes of temptation being past, she bore me some gratitude for having helped her over them. At any rate, she pressed my fingers and gave me wistful, teary smiles, till at last she was out in the lighted street and I had closed the door behind her. It was only half past five, and I had still thirty minutes to fill in. As I turned back into the room I found Mr. Grainger walking aimlessly up and down, inspecting a bit of lustrous faïence or the backs of a row of books, and making me feel that there was something he wished to say. His movements were exactly those of a man screwing up his courage or trying to find words. The simplest thing I could do was to sit down at my desk and make a feint at writing. I seemed to be ignoring my employer's presence, but in reality, as I watched him from under my lids, I was getting a better impression of him than on any previous occasion. There was nothing Olympian about him as there was about Howard Brokenshire. He was too young to be Olympian, being not more than thirty-eight. He struck me, indeed, as just a big, sinewy man of the type which fights and hunts and races and loves, and has dumb, uncomprehended longings which none of these pursuits can satisfy. In this he was English more than American, and Scottish more than English. He was certainly not the American business man as seen in hotel lobbies and on the stage. He might have been classed as the American romantic--an explorer, a missionary, or a shooter of big game, according to taste and income. Larry Strangways said that among Americans you most frequently met his like in East Africa, Manchuria, or Brazil. That he was in business in New York was an accident of tradition and inheritance. Just as an Englishman who might have been a soldier or a solicitor is a country gentleman because his father has left him landed estates, so Stacy Grainger had become a financier. As a financier, I understood he helped to furnish the money in undertakings in which other men did the work. In this respect the direction his interests took was what might have been expected of so virile a character--steel, iron, gunpowder, shells, the founding of cannon, the building of war-ships; the forceful, the destructive. I gathered from Mr. Strangways that he was forever making journeys to Washington, to Pittsburg, to Cape Breton, wherever money could be invested in mighty conquering things. It was these projects that Howard Brokenshire had attacked so savagely as almost to bring him to ruin, though he had now re-established himself as strongly as before. Being as terrified of him as of his rival, I prayed inwardly that he would go away. Once or twice in marching up and down he paused before my desk, and the pen almost dropped from my hand. I knew he was trying to formulate a hint that when Mrs. Brokenshire came again--But even on my part the thought would not go into words. Words made it gross, and it was what he must have discovered each time he approached me. Each time he approached me I fancied that his poetic eye grew apologetic, that his shoulders sagged, and that his hard, strong mouth became weak before syllables that would not pass the lips. Then he would veer away, searching doubtless some easier phrase, some more delicate suggestion, only to fail again. It was a relief when, after a last attempt, he passed into the corridor leading to the house. I could breathe, I could think; I could look back over the last half-hour and examine my conduct. I was not satisfied with it, because I had frustrated love--even that kind of love; and yet I asked myself how I could have acted differently. In substance I asked the same of Larry Strangways when he came to dine with me next day. Hugh being in Philadelphia on one of his pathetic cruises after work, I had invited Mr. Strangways by telephone, begging him to come on the ground that, having got me into this trouble, he must advise me as to getting out. "I didn't get you into the trouble," he smiled across the table. "I only helped to get you the job." "But when you got me the job, as you call it--" "I knew you would be able to do the work." "And did you think the work would be--this?" "I couldn't tell anything about that. I simply knew you could do the work--from all the points of view." "And do you think I've done it?" "I know you've done it. You couldn't do anything else. I won't go back of that." If my heart gave a sudden leap at these words it was because of the tone. It betrayed that quality behind the tone to which I had been responding, and of which I had been afraid, ever since I knew the man. By a great effort I kept my words on the casual, friendly plane, as I said: "Your confidence is flattering, but it doesn't help me. What I want to know is this: Assuming that they love each other, should I allow myself to be used as the pretext for their meetings?" "Does it do you any harm?" "Does it do them any good?" "Couldn't you let that be their affair?" "How can I, when I'm dragged into it?" "If you're only dragged into it to the extent of this afternoon--" "Only! You can use that word of a situation--" "In which you played propriety." "Oh, it wasn't playing." "Yes, it was; it was playing the game--as they only play it who aren't quitters but real sports." "But I'm not a sport. I've the quitter in me. I'm even thinking of flinging up the position--" "And leaving them to their fate." I smiled. "Couldn't I let that be their affair?" He, too, smiled, his head thrown back, his white teeth gleaming. "You think you've caught me, don't you? But you've got the shoe on the wrong foot. I said just now that it might be their affair as to whether or not it did them any good to have you as the pretext of their meetings; but it's surely your affair when you say they sha'n't. Their meetings will be one thing so long as they have you; whereas without you--" "Then you think they'll keep meeting in any case?" "I've nothing to say about that. I limit myself to believing that in any situation that requires skilful handling your first name is resourcefulness." I shifted my ground. "Oh, but when it's such an odious situation!" "No situation is odious in which you're a participant, just as no view is ugly where there's a garden full of flowers." He went on with his dinner as complacently as if he had not thrown me into a state of violent inward confusion. All I could do was to summon Hugh's image from the shades of memory into which it had withdrawn, and beg it to keep me true to him. The thought of being false to the man to whom I had actually owned my love outraged in me every sentiment akin to single-heartedness. In a kind of desperation I dragged Hugh's name into the conversation, and yet in doing so I merely laid myself open to another shock. "You can't be in love with him!" The words were the same as Mrs. Billing's; the emphasis was similar. "I am," I declared, bluntly, not so much to contradict the speaker as to fortify myself. "You may think you are--" "Well, if I think I am, isn't it the same thing as--" "Lord, no! not with love! Love is the most deceptive of the emotions--to people who haven't had much experience of its tricks." "Have you?" He met this frankly. "No; nor you. That's why you can so easily take yourself in." I grew cold and dignified. "If you think I'm taking myself in when I say that I'm in love with Hugh Brokenshire--" "That's certainly it." Though I knew my cheeks were flaming a dahlia red, I forced myself to look him in the eyes. "Then I'm afraid it would be useless to try to convince you--" He nodded. "Quite!" "So that we can only let the subject drop." He looked at me with mock gravity. "I don't see that. It's an interesting topic." "Possibly; but as it doesn't lead us any further--" "But it does. It leads us to where we see straighter." "Yes, but if I don't need to see straighter than I do?" "We all need to see as straight as we can." "I'm seeing as straight as I can when I say--" "Oh, but not as straight as I can! I can see that a noble character doesn't always distinguish clearly between love and kindness, or between kindness and loyalty, or between loyalty and self-sacrifice, and that the higher the heart, the more likely it is to impose on itself. No one is so easily deceived as to love and loving as the man or the woman who's truly generous." "If I was truly generous--" "I know what you are," he said, shortly. "Then if you know what I am you must know, too, that I couldn't do other than care for a man who's given up so much for my sake." "You couldn't do other than admire him. You couldn't do other than be grateful to him. You probably couldn't do other than want to stand by him through thick and thin--" "Well, then?" "But that's not love." "If it isn't love it's so near to it--" "Exactly--which is what I'm saying. It's so near it that you don't know the difference, and won't know the difference till--till the real thing affords you the contrast." I did my best to be scornful. "Really! You speak like an expert." "Yes; an expert by intuition." I was still scornful. "Only that?" "Only that. You see," he smiled, "the expert by experience has learnt a little; but the expert by intuition knows it all." "Then, when I need information on the subject, I'll come to you." "And I'll promise to give it to you frankly." "Thanks," I said, sweetly. "But you'll wait till I come, won't you? And in the mean time, you'll not say any more about it." "Does that mean that I'm not to say any more about it ever--or only for to-night?" I knew, suddenly, what the question meant to me. I took time to see that I was shutting a door which my heart cried out to have left open. But I answered, still sweetly and with a smile: "Suppose we make it that you won't say any more about it--ever?" He gazed at me; I gazed at him. A long half-minute went by before he uttered the words, very slowly and deliberately: "I won't say any more about it--for to-night." CHAPTER XIV On Thursday Mr. Grainger came to the library to tea, but notwithstanding her suggestion Mrs. Brokenshire did not. She came, however, on Friday when he did not. For some time after that he came daily. Toward me his manner had little variation; he was courteous and distant. I cannot say that he ever had tea with me, for even if he accepted a cup, which he did from time to time, as if keeping up a rôle, he carried it to some distant corner of the room where he was either examining the objects or making their acquaintance. He came about half past four and went about half past five, always appearing from the house and retiring by the same way. In the house itself, as I understood from Mrs. Daly, he displayed an interest he had not shown for years. "It's out of wan room and into another, and raisin' the shades and pushin' the furniture about, till you'd swear he was goin' to be married." I thought of Mr. Pyne, wondering if, before his trip to Atlantic City with Mrs. Grimshaw, he, too, had wandered about his house, appraising its possibilities from the point of view of a new mistress. On the Friday when Mrs. Brokenshire came and Mr. Grainger did not she made no comment on his non-appearance. She even sustained with some success the fiction that her visit was on my account. Only her soft eyes turned with a quick light toward the door leading to the house at every sound that might have been a footstep. When she talked it was chiefly about Mr. Brokenshire. "It's telling on him--all this trouble about Hugh." I was curious. "Telling on him in what way?" "It's made him older--and grayer--and the trouble with his eye comes oftener." It seemed to me that I saw an opportunity. "Then why doesn't he give in?" "Give in? Mr. Brokenshire? Why, he never gave in in his life." "But if he suffers?" "He'd rather suffer than give in. He's not an unkind man, not really, so long as he has his own way; but once he's thwarted--" "Every one has to be thwarted some time." "He'd agree to that; but he'd say every one but him. That's why, when he first met--met me--and my mother at that time meant to have me--to have me marry some one else-- You knew that, didn't you?" I reminded her that she had told me so among the rocks at Newport. "Did I? Perhaps I did. It's--it's rather on my mind. I had to change so--so suddenly. But what I was going to say was that when Mr. Brokenshire saw that mamma meant me to marry some one else, and that I--that I wanted to, there was nothing he didn't do. It was in the papers--and everything. But nothing would stop him till he'd got what he wanted." I pumped up my courage to say: "You mean, till you gave it to him." She bit her lip. "Mamma gave it to him. I had to do as I was told. You'd say, I suppose, that I needn't have done it, but you don't know." She hesitated before going on. "It--it was money. We--we had to have it. Mamma thought that Mr.--the man I was to have married first--would never have any more. It was all sorts of things on the Stock Exchange--and bulls and bears and things like that. There was a whole week of it--and every one knew it was about me. I nearly died; but mamma didn't mind. She enjoyed it. It's the sort of thing she would enjoy. She made me go with her to the opera every night. Some one always asked us to sit in their box. She put me in the front where the audience watched me through their opera-glasses more than they did the stage--and I was a kind of spectacle. There was one night--they were singing the 'Meistersinger'--when I felt just like Eva, put up as a prize for whoever could win me. But I was talking of Mr. Brokenshire, wasn't I? Do you think his eye will ever be any better?" She asked the question without change of tone. I could only reply that I didn't know. "The doctor says--that is, he's told me--that in a way it's mental. It's the result of the strain he's put upon his nerves by overwork and awful tempers. Of course, his responsibilities have been heavy, though of late years he's been able to shift some of them to other people's shoulders. And then," she went on, in her sweet, even voice, "what happened about me--coming to him so late in life--and--and tearing him to pieces more violently than if he'd been a younger man--young men get over things--that made it worse. Don't you see it would?" I said I could understand that that might be the effect. "Of course, if I could really be a wife to him--" "Well, can't you?" She shuddered. "He terrifies me. When he's there I'm not a woman any more; I'm a captive." "But since you've married him--" "I didn't marry him; he married me. I was as much a bargain as if I had been bought. And now mamma sees that--that she might have got a better price." I thought it enough to say: "That must make it hard for her." A sigh bubbled up, like that of a child who has been crying. "It makes it hard for me." She eyed me with a long, oblique regard. "Don't you think it's awful when an elderly man falls in love with a young girl who herself is in love with some one else?" I could only dodge that question. "All unhappiness is awful." "Ah, but this! An elderly man!--in love! Madly in love! It's not natural; it's frightful; and when it's with yourself--" She moved away from me and began to inspect the room. In spite of her agitation she did this more in detail than when she had been there before, making the round of the book-shelves much as Mr. Grainger himself was in the habit of doing, and gazing without comment on the Persian and Italian potteries. It was easy to place her as one of those women who live surrounded by beautiful things to which they pay no attention. Mr. Brokenshire's richly Italianate dwelling was to her just a house. It would have been equally just a house had it been Jacobean or Louis Quinze or in the fashion of the Brothers Adam, and she would have seen little or no difference in periods and styles. The books she now looked at were mere backs; they were bindings and titles. Since they belonged to Stacy Grainger she could look at them with soft, unseeing eyes, thinking of him. That was all. Without comment of my own I accompanied her, watching the quick, bird-like turnings of her head whenever she thought she heard a step. "It's nice for you here," she said, when at last she gave signs of going. "I--I love it. It's so quiet--and--and safe. Nobody knows I come to--to see you." Her stammering emboldened me to take a liberty. "But suppose they found out?" She was as innocent as a child as she glanced up at me and said: "It would still be to see you. There's no harm in that." "Even so, Mr. Brokenshire wouldn't approve of it." "But he'll never know. It's not the sort of thing any one would think of. I leave the motor down at Sixth Avenue, and this time of year it's so dark. As soon as I heard Miss Davis was leaving I thought how nice the place would be for you." Since it was useless to make the obvious correction here, I thanked her for her kindness, going on to add: "But I don't want to get into any trouble." "No, of course not." She began moving toward the door. "What kind of trouble were you thinking of?" I wondered whether or not, having taken one liberty, I could take another. "When I see my boat being caught in the rapids I'm afraid there's a cataract ahead." It took her some thirty seconds to seize the force of this. Having got it her eyes fell. "Oh, I see! And does that mean," she went on, her bosom heaving, "that you're afraid of the cataract on your own account--or on mine?" I paused in our slow drifting toward the door. She was a great lady in the land, and I was nobody. I had much to risk, and I risked it. "Should I offend you," I asked, deferentially, "if I said--on yours?" For an instant she became as haughty as so sweet a nature knew how to be, but the prompting passed. "No; you don't offend me," she said, after a brief pause. "We're friends, aren't we, in spite of--" As she hesitated I filled in the phrase. "In spite of the difference between us." Because she was pursuing her own thoughts she allowed that to pass. "People have gone over cataracts--and still lived." "Ah, but there's more to existence than life," I exclaimed, promptly. "There was a friend of my own," she continued, without immediate reference to my observation; "at least she was a friend--I suppose she is still--her name was Madeline Grimshaw--" "Yes, Mrs. Pyne; but she wasn't Mrs. Brokenshire." "No; she never was so unhappy." She pressed her handkerchief against the two great tears that rolled down her cheeks. "She did love Mr. Grimshaw at one time, whereas I--" "But you say he's kind." "Oh yes. It isn't that. He's more than kind. He'd smother me with things I'd like to have. It's--it's when he comes near me--when he touches me--and--and his eye!" I knew enough of physical repulsion to be able to change my line of appeal. "But do you think you'd gain anything if you made him unhappy--now?" She looked at me wonderingly. "I shouldn't think you'd plead for him." I had ventured so far that I could go a little farther. "I don't think I'm pleading for him so much as for you." "Why do you plead for me? Do you think I should be--sorry?" "If you did what I imagine you're contemplating--yes." She surprised me by admitting my implication. "Even if I did, I couldn't be sorrier than I am." "Oh, but existence is more than joy and sorrow." "You said just now that it was more than life. I suppose you mean that it's love." "I should say that it's more than love." "Why, what can it be?" I smiled apologetically. "Mightn't it be--right?" She studied me with an air of angelic sweetness. "Oh no, I could never believe that." And she went more resolutely toward the door. Hugh returned in good spirits from Philadelphia. He had been well received. His name had secured him much the same welcome as that accorded him on his first excursions into Wall Street. I didn't tell him I feared that the results would be similar, for I saw that he was cheered. To verify the love I had acknowledged to him more than once, I was eager to look at him again. I found a man thinner and older and shabbier than the Hugh who first attracted my attention by being kind to me. I could have borne with his being thinner and older; but that he should be shabbier wrung my heart. I considered myself engaged to him. That as yet I had not spoken the final word was a detail, in my mind, considering that I had so often rested in his arms and pillowed my head on his shoulder. The fact, too, that when I had first allowed myself those privileges I had taken him to be a strong character--the shadow of a rock in a thirsty land, I had called him--and that I now saw he was a weak one, bound me to him the more closely. I had gone to him because I needed him; but now that I saw he needed me I was sure I could never break away from him. He dined with me at the Mary Chilton on the evening of his return, sitting where Larry Strangways had sat only forty-eight hours previously. I was sorry then that I had not changed the table. To be face to face with two men, on exactly the same spot, on occasions so near together, in conditions so alike, gave me a sense of faithlessness. Though I wanted nothing so much as to be honest with them both, I was afraid of being so with neither; and yet for this I hardly knew where to place the blame. I suffered for Hugh because of Larry Strangways, and I suffered for Larry Strangways because of Hugh. If I suffered for myself I was scarcely aware of it, having to give so much thought to them. Nevertheless, I regretted that I had not chosen another table, and all the more when Hugh brought the matter up. He had finished telling me of his experiences in Philadelphia. "Now what have you been doing?" he demanded, a smile lighting up his tired face. "Oh, nothing much--the same old thing." "Seen anybody in particular?" I weighed my answer carefully. "Nobody in particular, except Mr. Strangways." He frowned. "Where did you see that fellow?" "Right here." "Right here? What do you mean by that?" "He came to dine with me." "Dine with you! And sat where I'm sitting now?" I tried to take this pleasantly. "It's the only place I've got to ask any one I want to talk to." "But why should you want to talk to--to--" I saw him struggling with the word, but it came out--"to that bounder?" "He's a friend of mine, Hugh. I've asked you already to remember that he's a gentleman." "Gentleman! O Lord!" He became kindly and coaxing, leaning across the table with an ingratiating smile. "Look here, little Alix! Don't you think that for my sake it's time you were beginning to drop that lot?" Though I revolted against the expression, I pretended to see nothing amiss. "You mean just as Libby Jaynes had to drop the barbers and the pages in the hotel when she became Mrs. Tracy Allen." He laughed nervously. "Oh, I don't go as far as that. And yet if I did--" "It wouldn't be too far." I gave him the impression that I was thinking the question out. "But you see, Hugh, dear, I don't see any difference between Mr. Strangways--" "And me?" "I wasn't going to say you, but between Mr. Strangways and the people you'd like me to know. Or rather, if I do see a difference it's that Mr. Strangways is so much more a man of the world than--than--" Perceiving my embarrassment, he broke in: "Than who?" I took my courage in both hands. "Than Mr. Rossiter, for example, or your brother, Mr. Jack Brokenshire, or any of the men I met when I was with your sister. If I hadn't seen you--the truest gentleman I ever knew--I shouldn't have supposed that any of them belonged to the real great world at all." To my relief he took this good-naturedly. "That's what we call social inexperience, little Alix. It's because you don't know how to distinguish." "That is, I don't know a good thing when I see it." "You don't know that sort of good thing--the American who counts. But you can learn. And if you learn you've got to take as a starting-point the fact that, just as there are things one does and things one doesn't do, so there are people one knows and people one doesn't know--and no one can tell you the reason why." "But if one asked for a reason--" "It would queer you with the right people. They don't want a reason. If people do want a reason--well, they've got to stay out of it. It was one of the things Libby Jaynes picked up as if she'd been born to it. She knew how to cut; she knew how to cut dead; and she cut as dead as she knew how." "But, Hugh, darling, I don't know how." He was all forbearance. "You'll learn, sweet." As for the moment the waitress was absent, he put out his hand and locked his fingers within mine. "You've got it in you. Once you've had a chance you'll knock Libby Jaynes into a cocked hat." I shook my head. "I'm not sure that you're right." "I know I'm right, if you do as I tell you: and to begin with you've got to put that fellow Strangways in his place." I let it go at that, having so many other things to think of that any mere status of my own became of no importance. I was willing that Hugh should marry me as Tracy Allen married Libby Jaynes, or in any other way, so long as I could play my part in the rest of the drama with right-mindedness. But it was precisely that that grew more difficult. When Mrs. Brokenshire and Mr. Grainger next met under what I can only call my chaperonage they were distinctly more at ease. The first stammering, shamefaced awkwardness was gone. They knew by this time what they had to say and said it. They had also come to understand that if I could not be moved I might be outwitted. By the simple expedient of wandering away on the plea of looking at this or that decorative object they obtained enough solitude to serve their purposes. Without taking themselves beyond my range of vision they got out of earshot. As far as that went I was relieved. I was not responsible for what they did, but only for what I did myself. I was not their keeper; I didn't want to be a spy on them. When, at a certain minute, as they returned toward me, I saw him pass a letter to her, it was entirely by chance. I reflected then that, while she ran no risk in using the mails in writing to him, it was not so with him in writing to her, and that communications of importance might have to pass between them. It was nothing to me. I was sorry to have surprised the act and tried to dismiss it from my mind. It was repeated, however, the next time they came and many times after that. Their comings settled into a routine of being twice a week, with fair regularity. Tuesdays and Fridays were their days, though not without variation. It was indeed this variation that saved the situation on a certain afternoon when otherwise all might have been lost. CHAPTER XV We had come to February, 1914. During the intervening months the conditions in which I lived and worked underwent little change. My days and nights were passed between the library and the Mary Chilton, with few social distractions, though I had some. Larry Strangways's sister, Mrs. Applegate, had called on me, and her house, a headquarters of New York philanthropies, had opened to me its kindly doors. Through Mrs. Applegate one or two other women came to relieve my loneliness, and now and then old Halifax friends visiting New York took me to theaters and to dinners at hotels. Ethel Rossiter was as friendly as fear of her father and of social conventions permitted her to be, and once or twice when she was quite alone I lunched with her. On each of these occasions she had something new to tell me. The first was that Hugh had met his father accidentally face to face, and that the parent had cut the son. Of that Hugh had told me nothing. According to Ethel, he was more affected by the incident than by anything else since the beginning of his cares. He felt it too deeply to speak of it even to me, to whom he spoke of everything. It happened, I believe at the foot of the steps of a club. Hugh, who was passing, saw his father coming down, and waited. Howard Brokenshire brought into play his faculty of seeing without seeing, and went on majestically, while Hugh stared after him with tears of vexation in his eyes. "He felt it the more," Mrs. Rossiter stated in her impartial way, "because I doubt if he had the price of his dinner in his pocket." It was then that she gave me to understand that if it were not that Mildred was lending him money he would have nothing to subsist on at all. Mildred had a little from her grandfather Brew, being privileged in this respect because she was the only one of the first Mrs. Brokenshire's children born at the time of the grandfather's demise. The legacy had been a trifle, but from this fund, which had never been his father's, Hugh consented to take loans. "Hugh, darling," I said to him the next time I had speech with him, "don't you see now that he's irreconcilable? He'll either starve you into surrender--" "Never," he cried, thumping the table with his hand. "Or else you must take such work as you can get." "Such work as I can get! Do you know how much that would bring me in a week?" "Even so," I reasoned, "you'd have work and I should have work, and we'd live." He was hurt. "Americans don't believe in working their women," he declared, loftily. "If I can't give you a life in which you'll have nothing at all to do--" "But I don't want a life in which I'll have nothing at all to do," I cried. "Your idle women strike me as a weak point in your national organization. It's like the dinner-parties I've seen at some of your restaurants and hotels--a circle of men at one table and a circle of women at another. You revolve too much in separate spheres. Your women have too little to do with business and politics and your men with society and the fine arts. I'm not used to such a pitiless separation of the sexes. Don't let us begin it, Hugh, darling. Let me share what you share--" "You won't share anything sordid, little Alix, I can tell you that. When you're my wife you'll have nothing to think of but having a good time and looking your prettiest--" "I should die of it," I exclaimed but this he took as a joke. That had passed in January. What Ethel Rossiter told me the next time I lunched with her was that Lady Cecilia Boscobel had accepted her invitation and was expected within a few weeks. She repeated what she had already said of her, in exactly the same words. "She's a good deal of a girl, Cissie is." My heart leaped and fell almost simultaneously. If I could only give up Hugh in such a way that he would have to give me up, this girl might help us out of our impasse. Had Mrs. Rossiter stopped there I might have made some noble vow of renunciation; but she went on: "If she wants Hugh she'll take him. Don't be under any illusion about that." Though my quick mettle was up, I said, docilely: "Oh no, I'm not. But if you mean taking him away from me--well, a good many people have tried it, haven't they?" "Cissie Boscobel hasn't tried it." But I was peaceably inclined. "Oh, well," I said, "perhaps she won't. She may not think it worth her while." "If you want to know my opinion," Mrs. Rossiter insisted, as she helped herself to the peas which the rosebud Thomas was passing, "I think she will. Men aren't so plentiful over there as you seem to suppose--that is, men of the kind they'd marry. Lord Goldborough has no money at all, as you might say, and yet the girls have to be set up in big establishments. You've only got to look at them to see it. Cissie marrying a subaltern with a thousand pounds a year isn't thinkable. It wouldn't dress her. She's coming over here to take a look at Hugh, and if she likes him-- Well, I told you long ago that you'd be wise to snap up that young Strangways. He's much better-looking than Hugh, and more in your own-- Besides, Jim says that now that he's with"--she balked at the name of Grainger--"now that he's where he is he's beginning to make money. It doesn't take so long when people have the brains for it." All this gave me a feeling of mingled curiosity and fear when, a few weeks later, I came on Mrs. Rossiter and Lady Cecilia Boscobel looking into a shop window in Fifth Avenue. It was a Saturday afternoon, the day which I had off and on which I made my modest purchases. It was a cold, brisk day, with light snow whirling in tiny eddies on the ground. I was going northward on the sunny side. At a distance of some fifty yards I recognized Mrs. Rossiter's motor standing by the curb, and cast my eyes about for a possible glimpse of her. Moving away from the window of the jeweler's whence she had probably come out, she saw me approach, and turned at once with a word or two to the lady beside her, who also looked in my direction. I knew by intuition who Mrs. Rossiter's companion was, and that my connection with the family had been explained to her. Mrs. Rossiter made the presentation in her usual offhand way. "Oh, Miss Adare! I want to introduce you to Lady Cecilia Boscobel." We exchanged civil, remote, and non-committal salutations, each of us with her hands in her muff. My immediate impression was one of color, as it is when you see old Limoges enamels. There was more color in Lady Cissie's personality than in that of any one I have ever looked at. Her hair was red--not auburn or copper, but red--a decorative, flaming red. I have often noticed how slight is the difference between beautiful red hair and ugly. Lady Cissie's was of the shade that is generally ugly, but which in her case was rendered glorious by the introduction of some such pigment, gleaming and umber, as that which gives the peculiar hue to Australian gold. I had never seen such hair or hair in such quantities, except in certain pictures of the pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, for which I should have supposed there could have been no earthly model had my father not known Eleanor Siddall. Lady Cissie's eyes were gray, with a greenish light in them when she turned her head. Her complexion could only be compared to the kind of carnation which the whitest of whites is flecked in just the right spots by the rosiest rose. In the lips, which were full and firm, also like Eleanor Siddall's, the rose became carmine, to melt away into coral-pink in the shell-like ears. Her dress of seal-brown broadcloth, on which there was a sheen, was relieved by occasional touches of sage-green, and the numerous sable tails on her boa and muff blew this way and that way in the wind. In the small black hat, perched at what I can only describe as a triumphant angle, an orange wing became at the tip of each tiny topmost feather a daring line of scarlet. Nestling on the sage-green below the throat a row of amber beads slumbered and smoldered with lemon and orange and ruby lights that now and then shot out rays of crimson or scarlet fire. I thought of my own costume--naturally. I was in gray, with inexpensive black furs. An iridescent buckle, with hues such as you see in a pigeon's neck, at the side of my black-velvet toque was my only bit of color. I was poor Jenny Wren in contrast to a splendid bird-of-paradise. So be it! I could at least be a foil to this healthy, vigorous young beauty who was two inches taller than I, and might have my share of the advantages which go with all antithesis. The talk was desultory, and in it the English girl took no part. Mrs. Rossiter asked me where I was going, what I was going for, and whether or not she couldn't take me to my destination in her car. I declined this offer, explained that my errands were trivial, and examined Lady Cissie through the corner of my eye. On her side Lady Cissie examined me quite frankly--not haughtily, but distantly and rather sympathetically. She had come all this distance to take a look at Hugh, and I was the girl he loved. I counted on the fact to give poor Jenny Wren her value, and I think it did. At any rate, when I had answered all Mrs. Rossiter's questions and was moving off to continue my way up-town, Lady Cissie's rich lips quivered in a sort of farewell smile. But Hugh showed little interest when I painted her portrait verbally. "Yes, that's the girl," he observed indifferently, "red-headed, long-legged, slashy-colored, laid on a bit too thick." "She's beautiful, Hugh." "Is she? Well, perhaps so. Wouldn't be my style; but every one to his taste." "It you saw her now--" "Oh, I've seen her often enough, just as she's seen me." "She hasn't seen you as you are to-day, and neither have you seen her. A few years makes a difference." He looked at me quizzically. "Look here, little Alix, what are you giving us? Do you think I'd turn you down now--for all the Lady Cissies in the British peerage? Do you, now?" "Not, perhaps, if you put it as turning me down--" "Well, as you turning me down, then?" "Our outlook is pretty dark, isn't it?" "Just wait." I ignored his pathetic boastfulness to continue my own sentence. "And this prospect is so brilliant. You'd have a handsome wife, a big income, a good position, an important family backing on both sides of the Atlantic--all of which would make you the man you ought to be. Now that I've seen her, and rather guess that she'd take you, I don't see how I can let you forfeit so much. I don't want to make you regret the day you ever saw me--" "Or regret yourself the day you ever saw me." If I took up this challenge it was more for his sake than my own. "Then suppose I accept that way of putting it?" He looked at me solemnly, for a second or two, after which he burst out laughing. That I might have hesitations as to connecting myself with the Brokenshires was more than he could grasp. He might have minutes of jealousy of Larry Strangways, but his doubt could go no further. It went no further, even after he had seen Lady Cecilia and they had renewed their early acquaintance. Ethel Rossiter had managed that, of course with her father's connivance. "Fine big girl," Hugh commended, "but too showy." "She's not showy," I contradicted. "A thing isn't necessarily showy because it has bright colors. Tropical birds are not showy, nor roses, nor rubies--" "I prefer pearls," he said, quietly. "You're a pearl, little Alix, the pearl of great price for which a man sells all that he has and buys it." Before I could respond to this kindly speech he burst out: "Good Lord! don't you suppose I can see what it all means? Cissie's the gay artificial fly that's to tempt the fish away from the little silvery minnow. Once I've darted after the bit of red and yellow dad will have hooked me. That's his game. Don't you think I see it? What dad wants is not that I shall have a wife I can love, but that he shall have a daughter-in-law with a title. You'd have to be, well, what I hope you will be some day, to know what that means to a man like dad. A son-in-law with a title--that's as common as beans to rich Americans; but a daughter-in-law with a title--a real, genuine British title, as sound as the Bank of England--that's something new. You can count on the fingers of one hand the American families that have got 'em"--he named them, one in Philadelphia, one in Chicago, one or two in New York--"and dad's as mad as blazes that he didn't think of the thing first. If he had, he'd have put Jack on to it, in spite of all Pauline's money; but since it's too late for that I must toe the mark. Well, I'm not going to, do you see? I'm going to choose my own wife, and I've chosen her. Birth and position mean nothing to me, for I'm as much of a Socialist as ever--or almost." With such resolution as this there was no way of reasoning, so that I could only go on, wondering and hoping and doing what I could for the best. What I could do for the best included watching over Mrs. Brokenshire. As winter progressed the task became harder and I grew the more anxious. So far no one suspected her visits to Mr. Grainger's library, and to the best of my knowledge her imprudence ended there. Further than to wander about the room the lovers never tried to elude me, though now and then I could see, without watching them, that he took her hand. Once or twice I thought he kissed her, but of that I was happily not sure. It was a relief, too, that as the days grew longer occasional visitors dropped in while they were there. The old gentleman interested in prints and the lady who studied Shakespeare came not infrequently. There were couples, too, who wandered in, seeking for their own purposes a half-hour of privacy. After all, the place was almost a public one to those who knew how to find it; and I was quick enough to see that in this very publicity lay a measure of salvation. Mrs. Brokenshire was as quick to perceive this as I. When there were other people there she was more at ease. Nothing was simpler then than for Mr. Grainger and herself to be visitors like the rest, strolling about or sitting in shady corners, and keeping themselves unrecognized. There was thus a Thursday in the early part of March when I didn't expect them, because it was a Thursday. They came, however, only to find the old gentleman interested in prints and the lady who studied Shakespeare already on the spot. I was never so glad of anything as of this accidental happening when a surprising thing occurred to me next day. It was between half past five and six on the Friday. As the lovers had come on the preceding day, I knew they would not appear on this, and was beginning to make my preparations for going home. I was actually pinning on my hat when the soft opening of the outer door startled me. A soft step sounded in the little inner vestibule, and then there came an equally soft, breathless standing still. My hands were paralyzed in their upward position at my hat; my heart pounded so that I could hear it; my eyes were wide with terror as they looked back at me from the splendid Venetian mirror before which I stood. I was always afraid of robbers or murderers, even though I had the wrought-iron grille between me and them, and Mr. or Mrs. Daly within call. Knowing that there was nothing for it but to go and see who was there, and suspecting that it might be Mrs. Brokenshire, after all, I dragged my feet across the few intervening paces. It was not Mrs. Brokenshire. It was a man, a man who looked inordinately big and majestic in this little decorative pen. I needed a few seconds in which to gaze, a few seconds in which to adjust my faculties, before grasping the fact that I saw Mrs. Brokenshire's husband. On his side, he needed something of the sort himself. Of all people in the world with whom he expected to find himself face to face I am sure I must have been the last. I touched the spring, however, and the little portal opened. It opened and he stepped in. He stepped in and stood still. He stood still and looked round him. If I dare to say it of one who was never timid in his life, he looked round him timidly. His eyes showed it, his attitude showed it. He had come on a hateful errand; his feet were on hateful ground. He expected to see something more than me--and emptiness. I got back some of my own self-control by being sorry for him, giving no indication of ever having met him before. "You'd like to see the library, sir," I said, as I should have said it to any chance visitor. He dropped into a large William and Mary chair, one of the show pieces, and placed his silk hat on the floor. "I'll sit down," he murmured less to me than to himself. His stick he dandled now across and now between his knees. The tea things were still on the table. "Would you like a cup of tea?" I asked, in genuine solicitude. "Yes--no." I think he would have liked it, but he probably remembered whose tea it was. "No," he repeated, with decision. He breathed heavily, with short, puffy gasps. I recalled then that Mrs. Brokenshire had said that his heart had been affected. As a matter of fact, he put his gloved left hand up to it, as people do who feel something giving way within. To relieve the embarrassment of the situation I said: "I could turn on all the lights and you could see the library without going round it." Withdrawing the hand at his heart, he raised it in the manner with which I was familiar. "Sit down," he commanded, as sternly as his shortness of breath allowed. The companion William and Mary chair being near, I slipped into it. Having him in three-quarters profile, I could study him without doing it too obviously, and could verify Mrs. Brokenshire's statements that Hugh's affairs were "telling on him." He was perceptibly older, in the way in which people look older all at once after having long kept the semblance of youth. The skin had grown baggy, the eyes tired; the beard and mustache, though as well cared for as ever, more decidedly mixed with gray. It was indicative of something that had begun to disintegrate in his self-esteem, that when his poor left eye screwed up he turned the terrifying right one on me with no effort to conceal the grimace. As it was for him to break the silence, I waited in my huge ornamental chair, hoping he would begin. "What are you doing here?" The voice had lost none of its soft staccato nor of its whip-lash snap. "I'm Mr. Grainger's librarian," I replied, meekly. "Since when?" he panted. "Since not long after I left Mrs. Rossiter." He took his time to think another question out. "How did your employer come to know about you?" I explained, as though he had had no knowledge of the fact, that Mrs. Rossiter had employed for her boy, Brokenshire, a tutor named Strangways. This Mr. Strangways had attracted Mr. Grainger's attention by some articles he had written for the financial press. An introduction had followed, after which Mr. Grainger had engaged the young man as his secretary. Hearing that Mr. Grainger had need of a librarian, Mr. Strangways had suggested me. I could see suspicion in the way in which he eyed me as well as in his words. "Had you no other recommendation?" "No, sir," I said, simply, "none that Mr. Grainger ever told me of." He let that pass. "And what do you do here?" "I show the library to visitors. If any one wishes a particular book, or to look at engravings, I help him to find what he wants." I thought it well to keep up the fiction that he had come as a sight-seer. "If you'd care to go over the place now, sir--" His hand went up in a majestic waving aside of this courtesy. "And have you many visitors to the--to the library?" Though I saw the implication, I managed to elude it. "Yes, sir, taking one day with another. It depends a little on the weather and the time of year." "Are they chiefly strangers--or--or do you ever see any one you've--you've seen before?" His difficulty in phrasing this question made me even more sorry for him than I was already. I decided, both for his sake and my own, to walk up frankly and take the bull by the horns. "They're generally strangers; but sometimes people come whom I know." I looked at him steadily as I continued. "I'll tell you something, sir. Perhaps I ought not to, and it may be betraying a secret; but you might as well know it from me as hear it from some one else." The expression of the face he turned on me was so much that of Jove, whose look could strike a man dead, that I had all I could do to go on. "Mrs. Brokenshire comes to see me." "To see--you?" "Yes, sir, to see me." The staccato accent grew difficult and thick. "What for?" "Because she can't help it. She's sorry for me." There was a new attempt to ignore me and my troubles as he said: "Why should she be sorry for you?" "Because she sees that you're hard on me--" "I haven't meant to be hard on you, only just." "Well, just then; but Mrs. Brokenshire doesn't know anything about justice when she can be merciful. You must know that yourself, sir. I think she's the most beautiful woman God ever made; and she's as kind as she's beautiful. I'll tell you something else, sir. It will be another betrayal, but it will show you what she is. One day at Newport--after you'd spoken to me--and she saw that I was so crushed by it that all I could do was to creep down among the rocks and cry--she watched me, and followed me, and came and cried with me. And so when she heard I was here--" "Who told her?" There was a measure of accusation in the tone of the question, but I pretended not to detect it. "Mrs. Rossiter, perhaps--she knows--or almost anybody. I never asked her." "Very well! What then?" "I was only going to say that when she heard I was here she came almost at once. I begged her not to--" "Why? What were you afraid of?" "I knew you wouldn't like it. But I couldn't stop her. No one could stop her when it comes to her doing an act of kindness. She obeys her own nature because she can't do anything else. She's like a little bird that you can keep from flying by holding it in your hand, but as soon as your grasp is relaxed--it flies." Something of this was true, in that it was true potentially. She had these qualities, even if they were nipped in her as buds are nipped in a backward spring. I could only calm my conscience as I went along by saying to myself that if I saved her she would have to bear me out through being true to the picture I was painting, and living up to her real self. Praise of the woman he adored would have been as music to him had he not had something on his mind that turned music into poignancy. What it was I could surmise, and so be prepared for it. Not till he had been some time silent, probably getting his question into the right words, did he say: "And are you always alone when Mrs. Brokenshire comes?" "Oh no, sir!" I made the tone as natural as I could. "But Mrs. Brokenshire doesn't seem to mind. Yesterday, for instance--" "Was she here yesterday? I thought she came on--" I broke in before he could betray himself further. "Yes, she was here yesterday; and there was--let me see!--there was an old gentleman comparing his Japanese prints with Mr. Grainger's, and a middle-aged lady who comes to study the old editions of Shakespeare. But Mrs. Brokenshire didn't object to them. She sat with me and had a cup of tea." I knew I had come to dangerous ground, and was ready for my part in the adventure. Had he asked the question: "Was there anybody else?" I was resolved, in the spirit of my maxim, to tell the truth as harmlessly as I knew how. But I didn't think he would ask it. I reckoned on his unwillingness to take me into his confidence or to humiliate himself more than he could help. That he guessed at something behind my words I could easily suspect; but I was so sure he would have torn out his tongue rather than force his pride to cross-examine me too closely, that I was able to run my risk. As a matter of fact, he became pensive, and through the gloom of the half-lighted room I could see that his face was contorted twice, still with no effort on his part to hide his misfortune. As he took the time to think I could do the same, with a kind of intuition in following the course of his meditations. I was not surprised, therefore, when he said, with renewed thickness of utterance: "Has Mrs. Brokenshire any--any other motive in coming here than just--just to see you?" I hung my head, perhaps with a touch of that play-acting spirit which most women are able to command, when the time comes. "Yes, sir." He waited again. I never heard such overtones of despair as were in the three words which at last he tried to toss off easily. "What is it?" I still hung my head. "She brings me money for poor Hugh." He started back, whether from anger or relief I couldn't tell, and his face twitched for the fourth time. In the end, I suppose, he decided that anger was the card he could play most skilfully. "So that that's what enables him to keep up his rebellion against me!" "No, sir," I said, humbly, "because he never takes it." I went on with that portrait of Mrs. Brokenshire which I vowed she would have to justify. "That doesn't make any difference, however, to her wonderful tenderness of heart in wanting him to have it. You see, sir, when any one's so much like an angel as she is they don't stop to consider how justly other people are suffering or how they've brought their troubles on themselves. Where there's trouble they only ask to help; where there's suffering their first instinct is to heal. Mrs. Brokenshire doesn't want to sustain your son against you; that never enters her head: she only wants him not--not"--my own voice shook a little--"not to have to go without his proper meals. He's doing that now, I think--sometimes, at least. Oh, sir," I ventured to plead, "you can't blame her, not when she's so--so heavenly." Stealing a glance at him, I was amazed and shocked, and not a little comforted, to see two tears steal down his withered cheeks. Knowing then that he would not for some minutes be able to control himself sufficiently to speak, I hurried on. "Hugh doesn't take the money, because he knows that this is something he must go through with on his own strength. If he can't do that he must give in. I think I've made that clear to him. I'm not the adventuress you consider me--indeed I'm not. I've told him that if he's ever independent I will marry him; but I shall not marry him so long as he isn't free to give himself away. He's putting up a big fight, and he's doing it so bravely, that if you only knew what he's going through you'd be proud of him as your son." Resting my case there, I waited for some response, but I waited in vain. He reflected, and sat silent, and crossed and uncrossed his knees. At last he picked up his hat from the floor and rose. I, too, rose, waiting beside my chair, while he flicked the dust from the crown of his hat and seemed to study its glossy surface as he still reflected. I was now altogether without a clue to what was passing in his mind, though I could guess at the age-long tragedy of December's love for May. Having seen Ibsen's "Master Builder," at Munich, and read one or two books on the theme with which it deals, I could, in a measure, supplement my own experience. It was, however, the first time I had seen with my own eyes this desperate yearning of age for youth, or this something that is almost a death-blow which youth can inflict on age. My father used to say that fundamentally there is no such period as age, that only the outer husk grows old, while the inner self, the vital _ego_, is young eternally. Here, it seemed to me, was an instance of the fact. This man was essentially as young as he had been at twenty-five; he had the same instincts and passions; he demanded the same things. If anything, he demanded them more imperiously because of the long, long habit of desire. Denial which thirty years ago he could have taken philosophically was now a source of anguish. As I looked at him I could see anguish on his lips, in his eyes, in the contraction of his forehead--the anguish of a love ridiculous to all, and to the object of it frightful and unnatural, for the reason that at sixty-two the skin had grown baggy and the heart was supposed to be dead. From the smoothing of the crown of his hat he glanced up suddenly. The whip-lash inflection was again in the timbre of the voice. "How much do you get here?" I was taken aback, but I named the amount of my salary. "I will give you twice as much as that for the next five years if--if you go back to where you came from." It took me a minute to seize all the implications contained in this little speech. I saw then that if I hoped I was making an impression, or getting further ahead with him, I was mistaken. Neither had my interpretation of Mrs. Brokenshire's character put him off the scent concerning her. I was so far indeed from influencing him in either her favor or my own that he believed that if he could get rid of me an obstacle would be removed. Tears sprang into my eyes, though they didn't fall. "So you blame me, sir, for everything." He continued to watch his gloved hand as it made the circle of the crown of his hat. "I'll make it twice what you're getting here for ten years. I'll put it in my will." It was no use being angry or mounting my high horse. The struggle with tears kept me silent as he glanced up from the rubbing of his hat and said in a jerky, kindly tone: "Well? What do you say?" I didn't know what to say; and what I did say was foolish. I should have known enough to suppress it before I began. "Do you remember, sir, that once when you were speaking to me severely, you said you were my friend? Well, why shouldn't I be your friend, too?" The look he bent down on me was that of a great personage positively dazed by an inferior's audacity. "I could be your friend," I stumbled on, in an absurd effort to explain myself. "I should like to be. There are--there are things I could do for you." He put on his tall hat with the air of a Charlemagne or a Napoleon crowning himself. This increase of authority must have made me desperate. It is only thus that I can account for my _gaffe_--the French word alone expresses it--as I dashed on, wildly: "I like you, sir--I can't help it. I don't know why, but I do. I like you in spite of--in spite of everything. And, oh, I'm so sorry for you--" He moved away. There was noble, wounded offense in his manner of passing through the wrought-iron grille, which he closed with a little click behind him. He stepped out of the place as softly as he had stepped in. For long minutes I stood, holding to the side of the William and Mary chair, regretting that the interview should have ended in this way. I didn't cry; I had, in fact, no longer any tendency to tears. I was thoughtful--wondering what it was that dug the gulf between this man and his family and me. Ethel Rossiter had never--I could see it well enough now--accepted me as an equal, and even to Hugh I was only another type of Libby Jaynes. I was as intelligent as they, as well born, as well mannered, as thoroughly accustomed to the world. Why should they consider me an inferior? Was it because I had no money? Was it because I was a Canadian? Would it have made a difference if I had been an Englishwoman like Cissie Boscobel, or rich like any of themselves? I couldn't tell. All I knew was that my heart was hot within me, and since Howard Brokenshire wouldn't have me as a friend I wanted to act as his enemy. I could see how to do it. Indeed, without doing anything at all I could encourage, and perhaps bring about, a situation that would send the name of the family ringing through the press of two continents and break his heart. I had only to sit still--or at most to put in a word here and there. I am not a saint; I had my hour of temptation. It was a stormy hour, though I never moved from the spot where I stood. The storm was within. That which, as the minutes went by, became rage in me saw with satisfaction Howard Brokenshire brought to a desolate old age, and Mildred and Ethel and Jack and Pauline, in spite of their bravado and their high heads, all seared by the flame of notorious disgrace. I went so far as to gloat over poor Hugh's discomfiture, taking vengeance on his habit of rating me with the socially incompetent. As for Mrs. Brokenshire, she would be over and done with, a poor little gilded outcast, whose fall would be such that even as Mrs. Stacy Grainger she would never rise again. Like another Samson, I could pull down this house of pride, though, happier than Samson, I should not be overwhelmed in the ruin of it. From that I should be safe--with Larry Strangways. Nearly half an hour went by while I stood thus indulging in fierce day-dreams. I was racked and suffering. I suffered, indeed, from the misfortunes I saw descending on people whom at bottom of my heart I cared for. It was not till I began to move, till I had put on my jacket and was turning out the lights, that my maxim came back to me. I knew then that whatever happened I should stand by that, and having come to this understanding with myself, I was quieted. CHAPTER XVI Having made up my mind to adhere, however imperfectly, to the principle that had guided me hitherto, I was obliged to examine my conscience as to what I had said to Mr. Brokenshire. This I did in the evening, coming to the conclusion that I had told him nothing but the truth, even if it was not all the truth. Though I hated duplicity, I couldn't see that I had a right to tell him all the truth, or that to do so would be wise. If he could be kept, for everybody's sake, from knowing more than he knew already, however much or little that was, it seemed to me that diplomatic action on my part would be justified. In the line of diplomatic action I had before all things to inform Mrs. Brokenshire of the visit I had received. This was not so easy as it may seem. I could not trust to a letter, through fear of its falling into other hands than hers. Neither could I wait for her coming on the following Tuesday, since that was what I wanted to prevent. There was no intermediary whom I could intrust with a message, unless it was Larry Strangways, who knew something of the facts; but even with him the secret was too much to share. In the end I had recourse to the telephone, asking to be allowed to speak to Mrs. Brokenshire. I was told that she never answered the telephone herself, and was requested to transmit my message. Not to arouse suspicion, I didn't ask that she should break her rule, but begged that during the day she might find a minute in which to see Miss Adare, who was in a difficulty that involved her work. That this way of putting it was understood I gathered from the reply that came back to me. It was to the effect that as Mr. Brokenshire would be lunching with some men in the lower part of New York Mrs. Brokenshire would be alone and able to receive Miss Adare at two. Fortunately, it was a Saturday, so that my afternoon was free. Almost everybody familiar with New York knows the residence of J. Howard Brokenshire not far above the Museum. Built of brick with stone facings, it is meant to be in the style of Louis Treize. It would be quite in the style of Louis Treize were the stonework not too heavy and elaborate, and the façade too high for its length. Inside, with an incongruity many rich people do not mind, it is sumptuously Roman and Florentine--the Brokenshire villa at Newport on a larger and more lavish scale. Having gone over the house with Ethel Rossiter during the winter I spent with her, I had carried away the impression of huge unoccupied rooms, of heavily carved or gilded furniture, of rich brocades, of dim old masters in elaborate gold frames, of vitrines and vases and mirrors and consoles, all supplied by some princely dealer in _objets d'art_ who had received _carte blanche_ in the way of decoration. The Brokenshire family, with the possible exception of Mildred, cared little for the things with which they lived. Ethel Rossiter, in showing me over the house, hardly knew a Perugino from a Fragonard, and still less could she distinguish, between the glorious fading softness of a Flemish fifteenth-century tapestry and a smug and staring bit of Gobelins. Hugh went in and out as indifferently as in a hotel, while Jack Brokenshire's taste in art hardly reached beyond racing prints. Mildred liked pretty garlanded things _à la_ Marie Antoinette, which the parental habit of deciding everything would never let her have. J. Howard alone made an effort at knowing the value, artistic and otherwise, of his possessions, and would sometimes, when strangers were present, point to this or that object with the authority of a connoisseur, which he was not. It was a house for life in perpetual state, with no state to maintain. Stafford House, Holland House, Bridgewater House, to name but a few of the historic mansions in London, were made spacious and splendid to meet a definite necessity. They belonged to days when the feudal tradition still obtained and there were no comfortable hotels. Great lords came to them with great families and great suites of retainers. Accommodation being the first of all needs, there was a time when every corner of these stately residences was lived in. But now that in England the great lord tends more and more to be only a simple democratic individual, and the wants of his relatives are easily met on a public or co-operative principle, the noble Palladian or Georgian dwelling either becomes a museum or a club, or remains a white elephant on the hands of some one who would gladly be rid of it. Princes and princesses of the blood royal rent numbered houses in squares and streets, next door to the Smiths and the Joneses, in preference to the draughty grandeurs of St. James's and Buckingham Palace, while a villa in the suburbs, with a few trees and a garden, is often the shelter sought by the nobility. But in proportion as civilization in England, to say nothing of the rest of Europe, puts off the burdensome to enjoy simplicity, America, it strikes me, chases the tail of an antiquated, disappearing stateliness. Rich men, just because they have the money, take upon their shoulders huge domestic responsibilities in which there is no object, and which it is probable the next generation will refuse to carry. In New York, in Washington, in Newport, in Chicago, they raise palaces and châteaux where they often find themselves lonely, and which they can rarely fill more than two or three times a year. In the case of the Howard Brokenshires it had ceased to be as often as that. After Ethel was married Mr. Brokenshire seldom entertained, his second wife having no heart for that kind of display. Now and then, in the course of a winter, a great dinner was given in the great dining-room, or the music-room was filled for a concert; but this was done for the sake of "killing off" those to whom some attention had to be shown, and not because either host or hostess cared for it. Otherwise the down-stairs rooms were silent and empty, and whatever was life in the house went on in a corner of the mansard. Thither the footman took me in a lift. Here were the rooms--a sort of flat--which the occupants could dominate with their personalities. They reminded me of those tiny chambers at Versailles to which what was human in poor Marie Antoinette fled for refuge from her uncomfortable gorgeousness as queen. Not that these rooms were tiny. On the contrary, the library or living-room into which I was ushered was as large as would be found in the average big house, and, notwithstanding its tapestries and massive furniture, was bright with sunshine and flowers. Books lay about, and papers and magazines, and after the tomb-like deadness of the lower floors one got at least the impression of life. From the far end of the room Mrs. Brokenshire came forward, threading her way between arm-chairs and taborets, and looking more exquisite, and also more lost, than ever. She wore what might be called a glorified _negligée_, lilac and lavender shading into violet, the train adding to her height. Fear had to some degree blotted out her color and put trouble into the sweetness of her eyes. "Something has happened," she said at once, as she took my hand. I spoke as directly as she did, though a little pantingly. "Yes; Mr. Brokenshire came to the library yesterday." "Ah-h!" The exclamation was no more than a long, frightened breath. "Then that explains things. I saw when he came home to dinner that he was unhappy." "Did he say anything?" "No; nothing. He was just--unhappy. Sit down and tell me." Staring wide-eyed at each other, we seated ourselves on the edge of two huge arm-chairs. Having half expected my companion to fling the gauntlet in her husband's face, I was relieved to find in her chiefly the dread of detection. As exactly as I could I gave her an account of what had passed between Mr. Brokenshire and myself, omitting only those absurd suggestions of my own that had sent him away in dudgeon. She listened with no more interruption than a question or two, after which she said, simply: "Then, I suppose, I can't go any more." "On the contrary," I corrected, "you must come just the same as ever, only not on the same days, or at the same hours--or--or when there's any one else there besides the visitors and me. If you stopped coming all of a sudden Mr. Brokenshire would think--" "But he thinks that already." "Of course, but he doesn't know--not after what I said to him." I seized the opportunity to beg her to play up. "You are all the things I told him you were, dear Mrs. Brokenshire, don't you see you are?" But my appeal passed unheeded. "What made him suspect? I thought that would be the last thing." "I don't know. It might have been a lot of things. Once or twice I've rather fancied that some of the people who came there--" Her features contracted in a spasm of horror. "You don't mean detect--" She found the word difficult to pronounce. "You don't mean de-detectives watching--me?" "I don't say as much as that; but I've never liked Mr. Brokenshire's man, Spellman." "No, nor I. He's out now. I made sure of that before you came." "So he might have sent some one; or-- But it's no use speculating, is it? when there are so many ways. What we've specially got to know is how to act, and I think I've told you the best method. If you don't keep coming--judiciously--you'll show you're conscious of having done wrong." She sighed plaintively. "I don't want to do wrong unless I can't help it. If I can't--" "Oh, but you can." I tried once more to get in my point. "You wouldn't be all I told Mr. Brokenshire you were if your first instinct wasn't to do right." "Oh, right!" She sighed again, but impatiently. "You're always talking about that." "One has to, don't you think, when it's so important--and so easy to do wrong?" She grew mildly argumentative. "I don't see anything so terrible about wrong, when other people do it and are none the worse." "May not that be because you've never tried it on your own account? It depends a little on the grain of which one's made. The finer the grain, the more harm wrong can do to it--just as a fragile bit of Venetian glass is more easily broken than an earthenware jug, and an infinitely greater loss." But the simile was wasted. From long contemplation of her hands she looked up to say in a curiously coaxing tone: "You live at the Hotel Mary Chilton, don't you?" I caught her suggestion in a flash, and decided that I could let it go no further. "Yes, but you couldn't come there--unless it was only to see me." "But what shall I do?" It was a kind of cry. She twisted her ringed fingers, while her eyes implored me to help her. "Do nothing," I said, gently, and yet with some severity. "If you do anything do just as I've said. That's all we've got to know for the present." "But I must see him. Now that I've got used to doing it--" "If you must see him, dear Mrs. Brokenshire, you will." "Shall I? Will you promise me?" "I don't have to promise you. It's the way life works. If we only trust to events--and to whatever it is that guides events--and--and do right--I must repeat it--then the thing that ought to be will shape its course--" "Ah, but if it doesn't?" "In that case we can know that it oughtn't to be." "I don't care whether it ought to be or not, so long as I can go on seeing him--somewhere." I had enough sympathy with her to say: "Yes, but don't plan for it. Let it take care of itself and happen in some natural way. Isn't it by mapping out things for ourselves that we often thwart the good that would otherwise have come to us? I remember reading somewhere of a lady who wrote of herself that she had been healed of planning, and spoke of it as a real cure. That struck me as so sensible. Life--not to use a greater word--knows much better what's good for us than we do ourselves." She allowed this theme to lapse, while she sat pensive. "What shall I say," she asked at last, "if he brings the subject up?" I saw another opportunity. "What can you say other than what I've said already? You came to me because you were sorry for me, and you wanted to help Hugh. He might regret that you should do both, but he couldn't blame you for either. They're only kindnesses--and we're all at liberty to be kind. Oh, don't you see? That's your--how shall I put it?--that's your line if Mr. Brokenshire ever speaks to you." "And suppose he tells me not to go to see you any more?" "Then you must stop. That will be the time. But not now when the mere stopping would be a kind of confession--" And so, after many repetitions and some tears on both our parts, the lesson was urged home. She was less docile, however, when in the spirit of our new compact she came on the following Monday morning. "I must see him," was the burden of what she had to say. She spoke as if I was forbidding her and ought to lift my veto. I might even have inferred that in my position in Mr. Grainger's employ it was for me to arrange their meetings. "You will see him, dear Mrs. Brokenshire--if it's right," was the only answer I could find. "You don't seem to remember that I was to have married him." "I do, but we both have to remember that you didn't." "Neither did I marry Mr. Brokenshire. I was handed over to him. When Lady Mary Hamilton was handed over in that way to the Prince of Monaco the Pope annulled the marriage. We knew her afterward in Budapest, married to some one else. If there's such a thing as right, as you're so fond of saying, I ought to be considered free." I was holding both her hands as I said: "Don't try to make yourself free. Let life do it." "Life!" she cried, with a passionate vehemence I scarcely knew to be in her. "It's life that--" "Treat life as a friend and not as an enemy. Trust it; wait for it. Don't hurry it, or force it, or be impatient with it. I can't believe that essentially it's hard or cruel or a curse. If it comes from God, it must be good and beautiful. In proportion as we cling to the good and beautiful we must surely get the thing we ought to have." Though I cannot say that she accepted this doctrine, it helped her over a day or two, leaving me free for the time being to give my attention to my own affairs. Having no natural stamina, the poor, lovely little creature lived on such mental and spiritual pick-me-ups as I was able to administer. Whenever she was specially in despair, which was every forty-eight or sixty hours, she came back to me, and I did what I could to brace her for the next short step of her way. I find it hard to explain the intensity of her appeal to me. I suppose I must have submitted to that spell of the perfect face which had bewitched Stacy Grainger and Howard Brokenshire. I submitted also to her child-like helplessness. God knows I am not a heroine. Any little fright or difficulty upsets me. As compared with her, however, I was a giant refreshed with wine. When her lip quivered, or when the sudden mist drifted across her eyes, obscuring their forget-me-not blue with violet, my yearning was exactly that which makes any woman long to take any suffering baby in her arms. For this reason she didn't tax my patience, nor had I that impulse to scold or shake her to which another woman of such obvious limitations would have driven me. Touched as I was by the aching heart, I was captivated by the perfect face; and I couldn't help it. Thus through the rest of February and into March my chief occupation was in keeping Howard Brokenshire's wife as true to him as the conditions rendered possible. In the intervals I comforted Hugh, and beat off Larry Strangways, and sat rigidly still while Stacy Grainger prowled round me with fierce, suspicious, melancholy eyes, like those of a cowed tiger. Afraid of him as I was, it filled me with grim inward amusement to discover that he was equally afraid of me. He came into the library from time to time, when he happened to be at his house, and like Mrs. Brokenshire gave me the impression that the frustration of their love was my fault. As I sat primly and severely at my desk, and he stalked round and round the room, stabbing the old gentleman who classified prints and the lady who collated the early editions of Shakespeare with contemptuous glances, I knew that in his sight I represented--poor me!--that virtuous respectability the sinner always holds in scorn. He could not be ignorant of the fact that if it hadn't been for me Mrs. Brokenshire would have been meeting him elsewhere, and so he held me as an enemy. Had he not known that I was something besides an enemy he would doubtless have sent me about my business. In one of the intervals of this portion of the drama I received a visit that took me by surprise. Early in the afternoon of a day in March, Mrs. Billing trotted into the library, followed by Lady Cecilia Boscobel. It was the sort of occasion on which I should have been nervous enough in any case, but it became terrifying when Mrs. Billing marched up to my desk and pointed at me with her lorgnette, saying over her shoulder, "There she is," as though I was a portrait. I struggled to my feet with what was meant to be a smile. "Lady Cecilia Boscobel," I stammered, "has seen me already." "Well, she can look at you again, can't she?" The English girl came to my rescue by smiling back, and murmuring a faint "How do you do?" She eased the situation further by saying, with a crisp, rapid articulation, in which every syllable was charmingly distinct: "Mrs. Billing thought that as we were out sight-seeing we might as well look at this. It's shown every day, isn't it?" She went on to observe that when places were shown only on certain days it was so tiresome. One of her father's places, Dillingham Hall, in Nottinghamshire, an old Tudor house, perfectly awful to live in, was open to the public only on the second and fourth Wednesdays, and even the family couldn't remember when those days came round. It was so awkward to be doing your hair, or worse, and have tourists stumbling in on you. I counted it to the credit of her tact and kindliness that she chatted in this way long enough for me to get my breath, while Mrs. Billing turned her lorgnette on the room with which she must have once been familiar. If there was to be anything like rivalry between Lady Cissie and me I gathered that she wouldn't stoop to petty feminine advantages. Dressed in dark green, with a small hat of the same color worn dashingly, she had that air of being the absolutely finished thing which the tones of her voice announced to you. My heart grew faint at the thought that Hugh would have to choose between this girl, so certain of herself, and me. As we were all standing, I invited my callers to sit down. To this Lady Cecilia acceded, though old Mrs. Billing strolled off to renew her acquaintance with the room. I may say here that I call her old because to be old was a kind of pose with her. She looked old and "dressed old" so as to enjoy the dictatorial privileges that go with being old, when as a matter of fact she was only sixty, which nowadays is young. "You're English, aren't you?" Lady Cecilia began, as soon as we were alone. "I can tell by the way you speak." I said I was a Canadian, that I was in New York more or less by accident, and might go back to my own country again. "How interesting! It belongs to us, Canadia, doesn't it?" With a slightly ironic emphasis on the proper noun I replied that Canadia naturally belonged to the Canadians, but that the King of Great Britain and Ireland was our king, and that we were very loyal to all that we represented. "Fancy! And isn't it near here?" All of Canada, I stated, was north of some of the United States, and some of it was south of others of the United States, but none of the more settled parts was difficult of access from New York. "How very odd!" was her comment on these geographical indications. "I think I remember that a cousin of ours was governor out there--or something--though perhaps it was in India." I named the series of British noblemen who had ruled over us since the confederation of the provinces in 1867, but as Lady Cecilia's kinsman was not among them we concluded that he must have been Viceroy of India or Governor-General of Australia. The theme served to introduce us to each other, and lasted while Mrs. Billing's tour of inspection kept her within earshot. I am bound to admit that I admired Lady Cecilia with an envy that might be qualified as green. She was not clever and she was not well educated, but her high breeding was so spontaneous. She so obviously belonged to spheres where no other rule obtained. Her manner was the union of polish and simplicity; each word she pronounced was a pleasure to the ear. In my own case life had been a struggle with that American-Canadian crudity which stamps our New World carriage and speech with commonness; but you could no more imagine this girl lapsing from the even tenor of the exquisite than you could fancy the hermit thrush failing in its song. When Mrs. Billing was quite at the other end of the room my companion's manner underwent a change. During a second or two of silence her eyes fell, while the shifting of color over the milk-whiteness of her skin was like the play of Canadian northern lights. I was prepared for the fact that beneath her poise she might be shy, and that, being shy, she would be abrupt. "You're engaged to Hugh Brokenshire, aren't you?" The words were whipped out fast and jerkily, partly to profit by the minute during which Mrs. Billing was at a distance, and partly because it was a matter of now-or-never with their utterance. I made the necessary explanations, for what seemed to me must be the hundredth time. I was not precisely engaged to him, but I had said I would marry him if either of two conditions could be carried out. I went on to state what those conditions were, finishing with the information that of the two I had practically abandoned one. She nodded her comprehension. "You see that--that they won't come round." "No," I replied, with some incisiveness; "they will come round--especially Mr. Brokenshire. It's the other condition I no longer expect to see fulfilled." If the hermit thrush could fail in its song it did it then. Lady Cecilia stared at me with a blankness that became awe. "That's the most extraordinary thing I ever heard. Ethel Rossiter must be wrong." I had a sudden suspicion. "Wrong about what?" The question put Lady Cecilia on her guard. "Oh, nothing I need explain." But her face lighted with quick enthusiasm. "I call it magnificent." "Call what 'magnificent'?" "Why, that you should have that conviction. When one sees any one so sporting--" I began to get her idea. "Oh, I'm not sporting. I'm a perfect coward. But a sheep will make a stand when it's put to it." With her hands in her sable muff, her shapely figure was inclined slightly toward me. "I'm not sure that a sheep that makes a stand isn't braver than a lion. The man my sister Janet is engaged to--he's in the Inverness Rangers--often says that no one could be funkier than he on going into action; but that," she continued, her face aglow, "didn't prevent his being ever so many times mentioned in despatches and getting his D. S. O." "Please don't put me into that class--" "No; I won't. After all a soldier couldn't really funk things, because he's got everything to back him up. But you haven't. And when I think of you sitting here all by yourself, and expecting that great big rich Mr. Brokenshire and Ethel, and all of them, to come to your terms--" To get away from a view of my situation that both consoled and embarrassed me, I said: "Thank you, Lady Cecilia, very, very much; but it isn't what you meant to say when you began, is it?" With some confusion she admitted that it wasn't. "Only," she went on, "that isn't worth while now." A hint in her tone impelled me to insist. "It may be. You don't know. Please tell me what it was." "But what's the use? It was only something Ethel Rossiter said--and she was wrong." "What makes you so sure she was wrong?" "Because I am. I can see." She added, reluctantly, "Ethel thought there was some one--some one besides Hugh--" "And what if there was?" Though startled by the challenge, she stood her ground. "I don't believe in people making each other any more unhappy than they can help, do you?" She had a habit of screwing up her small gray-green eyes into two glimmering little slits of light, with an effect of shyness showing through amusement and _diablerie_. "We're both girls, aren't we? I'm twenty, and you can't be much older. And so I thought--that is, I thought at first--that if you had any one else in mind, there'd be no use in our making each other miserable--but I see you haven't; and so--" "And so," I laughed, nervously, "the race must be to the swift and the battle to the strong. Is that it?" "N-no; not exactly. What I was going to say is that since--since there's nobody but Hugh--you won't be offended with me, will you?--I won't step in--" It was my turn to be enthusiastic. "But that's what I call sporting!" "Oh no, it isn't. I haven't seen Hugh for two or three years, and whatever little thing there was--" I strained forward across my desk. I know my eyes must have been enormous. "But was there--was there ever--anything?" "Oh no; not at all. He--he never noticed me. I was only in the school-room, and he was a grown-up young man. If his father and mine hadn't been great friends--and got plans into their heads--Laura and Janet used to poke fun at me about it. And then we rode together and played tennis and golf, and so--but it was all--just nothing. You know how silly a girl of seventeen can be. It was nonsense. I only want you to know, in case he ever says anything about it--but then he never will--men see so little--I only want you to know that that's the way I feel about it--and that I didn't come over here to-- I don't say that if in your case there had been any one else--but I see there isn't--Ethel Rossiter is wrong--and so if I can do anything for Hugh and yourself with the Brokenshires. I--I want you to make use of me." With a dignity oddly in contrast to this stammering confession, which was what it was, she rose to her feet as Mrs. Billing came back to us. The hook-nosed face was somber. Curiosity as to other people's business had for once given place in the old lady's thoughts to meditations that turned inward. I suppose that in some perverse fashion of her own she loved her daughter, and suffered from her unhappiness. There was enough in this room to prove to her how cruelly mere self-seeking can overreach itself and ruin what it tries to build. "Well, what are you talking about?" she snapped, as she approached us. "Hugh Brokenshire, I'll bet a dime." "Fancy!" was the stroke with which the English girl, smiling dimly, endeavored to counter this attack. Mrs. Billing hardly paused as she made her way toward the door. "Don't let her have him," she threw at Lady Cecilia. "He's not good enough for her. She's my kind," she went on, poking at me with her lorgnette. "Needs a man with brains. Come along, Cissie. Don't mind what she says. You grab Hugh the first chance you get. She'll have bigger fish to fry. Do come along. We've had enough of this." Lady Cissie and I shook hands with the over-acted listlessness of two daughters of the Anglo-Saxon race trying to carry off an emotional crisis as if they didn't know what it meant. But after she had gone I thought of her--I thought of her with her Limoges-enamel coloring, her luscious English voice, her English air of race, her dignity, her style, her youth, her naïveté, her combination of all the qualities that make human beings distinguished, because there is nothing else for them to be. I dragged myself to the Venetian mirror and looked into it. With my plain gray frock, my dark complexion, and my simply arranged hair. I was a poor little frump whom not even the one man in five hundred could find attractive. I wondered how Hugh could be such a fool. I asked myself if he could go on being such a fool much longer. And with the thought that he would--and again with the thought that he wouldn't--I surprised myself by bursting into tears. CHAPTER XVII In similar small happenings April passed and we had reached the middle of May. Easter and the opera were over; as the warm weather was coming on people were already leaving town for the country, the seaside or Europe. Personally, I had no plans beyond spending the month of August, which Mr. Grainger informed me I was to have "off," in making a visit to my old home in Halifax. Hugh had ceased to talk of immediate marriage, since he had all he could do to live on what he earned in selling bonds. He had taken that job when Mildred could lend him no more without dipping into funds that had been his father's. He was still resolute on that point. He was resolute, too, in seeing nothing in the charms of Cissie Boscobel. He hated red hair, he said, making no allowance for the umber-red of Australian gold, and where I saw the lights of Limoges enamel he found no more than the garish tints of a chromolithograph. When I hinted that he might be the hero of some young romance on Cissie's part, he was contented to say "R-rot!" with a contemptuous roll of the first consonant. Larry Strangways was industrious, happy, and prospering. He enjoyed the men with whom his work brought him into contact, and I gathered that his writing for daily, weekly, and monthly publications was bringing him into view as a young man of originality and power. From himself I learned that his small inherited capital was doubling and tripling and quadrupling itself through association with Stacy Grainger's enterprises. For Stacy Grainger himself he continued to feel an admiration not free from an uneasiness, with regard to which he made no direct admissions. Of Mrs. Brokenshire I was seeing less. Either she had grown used to doing without her lover or she was meeting him in some other way. She still came to see me as often as once a week, but she was not so emotional or excitable. She might have been more affectionate than before, and yet it was with a dignity that gradually put me at a distance. Cissie Boscobel I didn't meet during the whole of the six weeks except in the company of Mrs. Rossiter. That happened when once or twice I went to the house to see Gladys when she was suffering from colds, or when my former employer drove me round the Park. Just once I got the opportunity to hint that Lady Cissie hadn't taken Hugh from me as yet, to which Mrs. Rossiter replied that that was obviously because she didn't want him. We were all, therefore, at a standstill, or moving so slowly that I couldn't perceive that we were moving at all, when in the middle of a May forenoon I was summoned to the telephone. I was not surprised to find Mr. Strangways at the other end, since he used any and every excuse to call me up; but his words struck me as those of a man who had taken leave of his senses. He plunged into them without any of the usual morning greetings or preliminary remarks. "Are you game to go to Boston by the five-o'clock train to-day?" I naturally said, "What?" but I said it with some emphasis. He repeated the question a little more anxiously. "Could you be ready to go to Boston by the five-o'clock train this afternoon?" "Why should I be?" He seemed to hesitate before replying. "You'd know that," he said at last, "when you got on the train." "Is it a joke?" I inquired, with a light laugh. "No; it's not a joke. It's serious. I want you to take that train and go." "But what for?" "I've told you you'd know that when you got on the train--or before you had gone very far." "And do you think that's information enough?" "It will be information enough for you when I say that a great deal may depend on your doing as I ask." I raised a new objection. "How can I go when I've my work to attend to here?" "You must be ready to give that up. If any one makes any trouble, you must say you've resigned the position." As far as was possible over the wire I got the impression of earnestness on his part and perhaps excitement; but I was not yet satisfied. "What shall I do when I get to Boston? Where shall I go?" "You'll see. You'll know. You'll have to act for yourself. Trust your own judgment as I trust it." "But, Mr. Strangways, I don't understand a bit," I was beginning to protest, when he broke in on me. "Oh, don't you see? It will all explain itself as you go on. I can't tell you about it in advance. I don't know. All I can say is that whatever happens you'll be needed, and if you're needed you'll be able to play the game." He went on with further directions. It would be possible to take my seat in the train at twenty minutes before the hour of departure. I was to be early on the spot so as to be among the first to be in my place. I was to take nothing but a suit-case; but I was to put into it enough to last me for a week, or even for a week or two. I was to be prepared for roughing it, if necessary, or for anything else that developed. He would send me my ticket within an hour and provide me with plenty of money. "But what is it?" I implored again. "It sounds like spying, or the secret service, or something melodramatic." "It's none of those things. Just be ready. Wait where you are till you get your ticket and the money." "Will you bring them yourself?" "No. I can't; I'm too busy. I'm calling from a pay-station. Don't ring me up for any more questions. Just do as I've asked you, and I know you'll not regret it--not as long as you live." He put up the receiver, leaving me bewildered. My ignorance was such that speculation was shut out. I kept saying to myself: "It must be this," or, "It must be that," but with no conviction in my guesses. One dreadful suspicion came to me, but I firmly put it away. A little after twelve a special messenger arrived, bringing my ticket and five hundred dollars in bank-notes. I knew then that I was in for a genuine adventure. At one I put on my hat and coat, locked the door behind me, and went off to my hotel. Mentally I was leaving a work to which, from certain points of view, I was sorry to say good-by, but I could afford no backward looks. At the hotel I packed my belongings and left them so that they could be sent after me in case I should not return. I might be back the next morning; but then I might never come back at all. I thought of those villagers who from idle curiosity followed the carriage of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette as it drove out of Varennes, some of them never to see their native town again till they had been dragged over half the battle-fields of Europe. Like them I had no prevision as to where I was going or what was to become of me. I knew only--gloatingly, and with a kind of glory in the fact--that I was going at the call of Larry Strangways, to do his bidding, because he believed in me. But that thought, too, I tried to put out of my mind. In as far as it was in my mind I did my best to express it in terms of prose, seeing myself not as the heroine of a mysterious romance--a view to which I was inclined--but as a practical business woman, competent, up-to-date, and unafraid. I was afraid, mortally afraid, and I was neither up-to-date nor competent; but the fiction sustained me while I packed my trunks and sent a telegram to Hugh. This last I did only when it was too late for him to answer or intercept me. "Called suddenly out of town," I wrote. "May lead to a new place. Will write or wire as soon as possible." Having sent this off at half past four, I took a taxicab for the station. My instructions were so far carried out successfully that, with a colored porter wearing a red cap to precede me, I was the first to pass the barrier leading to the train, and the first to take my seat in the long, narrow parlor-car. My chair was two from the end toward the entrance and exit. Once enthroned within its upholstered depths I watched for strange occurrences. But I watched in vain. For a time I saw nothing but the straight, empty cavern of the car. Then a colored porter, as like to my own as one pea to another, came puffing his way in, dragging valises and other impedimenta, and followed by an old gentleman and his wife. These the porter installed in chairs toward the middle of the car, and, touching his cap on receipt of his tip, made hastily for the door. Similar arrivals came soon after that, with much stowing of luggage into overhead racks, and kisses, and injunctions as to conduct, and farewells. Within my range of vision were two elderly ladies, a smartly dressed young man, a couple in the disillusioned, surly stage, a couple who had recently been married, a clergyman, a youth of the cheap sporting type. To one looking for the solution of a mystery the material was not promising. The three chairs immediately in front of mine remained unoccupied. I kept my eye on them, of course, and presently got some reward. Shortly before the train pulled out of the station a shadow passed me which I knew to be that of Larry Strangways. He went on to the fourth seat, counting mine as the first, and, having reached it, turned round and looked at me. He looked at me gravely, with no sign of recognition beyond a shake of the head. I understood then that I was not to recognize him, and that in the adventure, however it turned out, we were to be as strangers. One more thing I saw. He had never been so pale or grim or determined in all the time I had known him. I had hardly supposed that it was in him to be so determined, so grim, or so pale. I gathered that he was taking our mission more to heart than I had supposed, and that, prompt in action as I had been, I was considering it too flippantly. Inwardly I prayed for nerve to support him, and for that presence of mind which would tell me what to do when there was anything to be done. Perhaps it increased my zeal that he was so handsome. Straight and slim and upright, his features were of that lean, blond, regular type I used to consider Anglo-Saxon, but which, now that I have seen it in so many Scandinavians, I have come to ascribe to the Norse strain in our blood. The eyes were direct; the chin was firm; the nose as straight as an ancient Greek's. The relatively small mouth was adorned by a relatively small mustache, twisted up at the ends, of the color of the coffee-bean, and, to my admiring feminine appreciation, blooming on his face like a flower. His neat spring suit was also of the color of the coffee-bean, and so was his soft felt hat. In his shirt there were lines of tan and violet, and tan and violet appeared in the tie beneath which a soft collar was pinned with a gold safety pin. The yellow gloves that men have affected of late years gave a pleasant finish to this costume, which was quite complete when he pulled from his bag an English traveling-cap of several shades of tan and put it on. He also took out a book, stretching himself in his chair in such a way that the English traveling-cap was all I could henceforth see of his personality. I give these details because they entered into the mingled unwillingness and zest with which I found myself dragged on an errand to which I had no clue. Still less had I a clue when the train began to move, and I had nothing but the view of the English traveling-cap to bear me company. But no, I had one other detail. Before sitting down Mr. Strangways had carefully separated his own hand-luggage from that of the person who would be behind him, and which included an ulster, a walking-stick, and a case of golf-clubs. I inferred, therefore, that the wayfarer who owned one of the two chairs between Mr. Strangways and myself must be a man. The chair directly in front of mine remained empty. As we passed into the tunnel my mind lashed wildly about in search of explanations, the only one I could find being that Larry Strangways was kidnapping me. On arriving in Boston I might find myself confronted by a marriage license and a clergyman. If so, I said to myself, with an extraordinary thrill, there would be nothing for it but submission to this _force majeure_, though I had to admit that the averted head, the English traveling-cap, and the intervening ulster, walking-stick, and golf-clubs worked against my theory. I was dreaming in this way when the train emerged from the tunnel and stopped so briefly at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street that, considering it afterward, I concluded that the pause had been arranged for. It was just long enough for an odd little bundle of womanhood to be pulled and shoved on the car and thrown into the seat immediately in front of mine. I choose my verbs with care, since they give the effect produced on me. The little woman, who was swathed in black veils and clad in a long black shapeless coat, seemed not to act of her own volition and to be more dead than alive. The porter who had brought her in flung down her two or three bags and waited, significantly, though the train was already creeping its way onward. She was plainly unused to fending for herself, and only when, as a reminder, the man had touched his hat a second time did it occur to her what she had to do. Hastily unfastening a small bag, she pulled out a handful of money and thrust it at him. The man grinned and was gone, after which she sagged back helplessly into her seat, the satchel open in her lap. That dreadful suspicion which had smitten me earlier in the day came back again, but the new-comer was so stiflingly wrapped up that even I could not be sure. She reminded me of nothing so much as of the veiled Begum of Bhopal as she sat in the durbar with the other Indian potentates, her head done up in a bag, as seen in the pictures in the illustrated London papers. For a lady who wished to pass unperceived it was perfect--for every eye in the car was turned on her. I myself studied her, of course, searching for something to confirm my fears, but finding nothing I could take as convincing. For the matter of that, as she sat huddled in the enormous chair I could see little beyond a swathing of veils round a close-fitting hat and the folds of the long black coat. The easiest inference was that she might be some poor old thing whom her relatives were anxious to be rid of, which was, I think, the conclusion most of our neighbors drew. Speaking of neighbors, I had noticed that in spite of the disturbance caused by this curious entrance, Larry Strangways had not turned his head. I could only sit, therefore, and wait for enlightenment, or for an opportunity. Both came when, some half-hour later, the ticket-collectors passed slowly down the aisle. Other passengers got ready for them in advance, but the little begum in front of me did nothing. When at last the collectors were before her she came to herself with a start. She came to herself with a start, seizing her satchel awkwardly and spilling its contents on the floor. The tickets came out, and some money. The collectors picked up the tickets and began to pencil and tear them; the youth of the cheap sporting type and I went after the coins. Since I was a young woman and the lady with her head in a bag might be taken for an old one, I had no difficulty in securing his harvest, which he handed over to me with an ingratiating leer. Returning the leer as much in his own style as I could render it, I offered the handful of silver and copper to its owner. To do this I stood as directly as might be in front of her, and when, inadvertently, she raised her head I tried to look her in the eyes. I couldn't see them. The shimmer I caught behind the two or three veils might have been any one's eyes. But in the motion of the hand that took the money, and in the silvery tinkle of the voice that made itself as low as possible in murmuring the words, "Thank you!" I couldn't be mistaken. It was enough. If I hadn't seen her she at least had seen me, and so I went back to my seat. I had got the first part of my revelation. With the aid of the ulster, the walking-stick, and the golf-clubs I could guess at the rest. I knew now why Larry Strangways wanted me there, but I didn't know what I was to do. By myself I could do nothing. Unless the little begum took the initiative I shouldn't know where to begin. I could hardly tear off a disguise she had chosen to assume, nor could I take it for granted that she was not on legitimate business. But she had seen me, and there was something in that. If the owner of the vacant chair turned up he, too, would see me, and he wouldn't wear a veil. We should look each other in the eyes, and he would know that I knew what he was about to do. The situation would not be pleasant for me; but it would conceivably be much less pleasant for anybody else. I waited, therefore, watching the beautiful green country go tearing by. The smiling freshness of spring was over the hillsides on the left, while the setting sun gilded the tiny headlands on the right and turned the rapid succession of creeks and inlets and marshy pools into sheets of orange and red. Fire illumined the windows of many a passing house, to be extinguished instantaneously, and touched with occasional flames the cold spring-tide blue of the sea. Clumps of forsythia were in blossom, and here and there an apple-tree held out toward the sun a branch of early flowers. When the train stopped at New Haven I was afraid that the owner of the ulster and the golf-clubs would appear, and that my work, whatever it was to be, would be rendered the more difficult. But no new arrival entered. On the other hand, the passengers began to thin out as the time came for going to the dining-car. In the matter of food I determined to stay at my post if I died of starvation, especially on seeing that the English traveling-cap was equally courageous. Twilight gradually filtered into the world outside; the marshes, inlets, and creeks grew dim. Dim was the long, burnished line of the Sound, above which I could soon make out a sprinkling of wan yellow stars. Wan yellow lights appeared in windows where no curtains were drawn, and what a few minutes earlier had been twilight became quickly the night. It was the wistful time, the homesick, heart-searching time. If the little lady in front of me were to have qualms as to what she was doing they would come then. And indeed as I watched her it seemed to me that she inserted her handkerchief under her series of coverings as if to wipe away a tear. Presently she lifted two unsteady hands and began to untie her outer veil. When it came to finding the pins by which it was adjusted she fumbled so helplessly that I took it on myself to lean forward with the words, "Won't you allow me?" I could do this without moving round to where I should have been obliged to look her in the face; and it was so when I helped her take off the veil underneath. "I'm smothering," she said, very much as it might have been said by a little child in distress. She wore still another veil, but only that which was ordinarily attached to her hat. The car being not very brightly lighted, and most of our fellow-travelers having gone to dinner, she probably thought she had little to fear. As she gave no sign of recognition on my rendering my small services I subsided again into my chair. But I knew she was as conscious of my presence as I was of hers. It was not wholly surprising, then, that some twenty minutes later she should swing round in the revolving-chair and drop all disguises. She did it with the words, tearfully yet angrily spoken: "What are you doing here?" "I'm going to Boston, Mrs. Brokenshire," I replied, meekly. "Are you doing the same?" "You know what I'm doing, and you've come to spy on me." There is something about the wrath of the sweet, mild, gentle creature, not easily provoked, which is far more terrible than the rage of an irascible old man accustomed to furies. I quailed before it now, but not so much that I couldn't outwardly keep my composure. "If I know what you're doing, Mrs. Brokenshire," I said, gently, "it isn't from any information received beforehand. I didn't know you were to be on this train till you got in; and I haven't been sure it was you till this minute." "I've a right to do as I please," she declared, hoarsely, "without having people to dog me." "Do I strike you as the sort of person who'd do that? You've had some opportunity of knowing me; and have I ever done anything for which you didn't first give me leave? If I'm here this evening and you're here, too, it's pure accident--as far as I'm concerned." I added, with some deepening of the tone, and speaking slowly so that she should get the meaning of the words: "I'll only venture to surmise that accidents of that kind don't happen for nothing." I could just make out her swimming eyes as they stared at me through the remaining veil, which was as black and thick as a widow's. "What do you mean?" "Wouldn't that depend on what you mean?" "If you think you're going to stop me--" "Dear Mrs. Brokenshire, I don't think anything at all. How can I? We're both going to Boston. By a singular set of circumstances we're seated side by side on the same train. What can I see more in the situation than that?" "You do see more." "But I'm trying not to. If you insist on betraying more, when perhaps I'd rather you wouldn't, well, that won't be my fault, will it?" "Because I've given you my confidence once or twice isn't a reason why you should take liberties all the rest of your life." To this, for a minute, I made no reply. "That hurts me," I said at last, "but I believe that when you've considered it you'll see that you've been unjust to me." "You've suspected me ever since I knew you." "I've only suspected you of a sweetness and kindness and goodness which I don't think you've discovered in yourself. I've never said anything of you, and never thought anything, but what I told Mr. Brokenshire two months ago, that you seem to me the loveliest thing God ever made. That you shouldn't live up to the beauty of your character strikes me as impossible. I'll admit that I think that; and if you call it suspicion--" Her anger began to pass into a kind of childish rebellion. "You've always talked to me about impossible things--" "I wasn't aware of it. One has to have standards of life, and do one's best to live up to them." "Why should I do my best to live up to them when other people-- Look at Madeline Pyne, and a lot of women I know!" "Do you think we can ever judge by other people, or take their actions as an example for our own? No one person can be more bound to do right than another; and yet when it comes to doing wrong it might easily be more serious for you than for Mrs. Pyne or for me." "I don't see why it should be." "Because you have a national position, one might even say an international position, and Mrs. Pyne hasn't, and neither have I. If we do wrong, only our own little circles have to know about it, and the harm we can do is limited; but if you do wrong it hurts the whole country." "I must say I don't see that." "You're the wife of a man who might be called a national institution--" "There are just as important men in the country as he." "Not many--let us say, at a venture, a hundred. Think of what it means to be one of the hundred most conspicuous women among a population of a hundred millions. The responsibility must be tremendous." "I've never thought of myself as having any particular responsibility--not any more than anybody else." "But, of course, you have. Whatever you do gets an added significance from the fact that you're Mrs. Howard Brokenshire. When, for example, you came to me that day among the rocks at Newport, your kindness was the more wonderful for the simple reason that you were who you were. We can't get away from those considerations. When you do right, right seems somehow to be made more beautiful; and when you do wrong--" "I don't think it's fair to put me in a position like that." "I don't put you in that position. Life does it. You were born to be high up. When you fall, therefore--" "Don't talk about falling." "But it would be a fall, wouldn't it? Don't you remember, some ten or twelve years ago, how a Saxon crown princess left her home and her husband? Well, all I mean is that because of her position her story rang through the world. However one might pity unhappiness, or sympathize with a miserable love, there was something in it that degraded her country and her womanhood. I suppose the poor thing's inability to live up to a position of honor was a blow at human nature. Don't you think that that was what we felt? And in your case--" "You mustn't compare me with her." "No; I don't--exactly. All I mean is that if--if you do what--what I think you've started out to do--" She raised her head defiantly. "And I'm going to." "Then by the day after to-morrow there will not be a newspaper in the country that won't be detailing the scandal. It will be the talk of every club and every fireside between the Atlantic and the Pacific, and Mexico and Montreal. It will be in the papers of London and Paris and Rome and Berlin, and there'll be a week in which you'll be the most discussed person in the world." "I've been that already--almost--when Mr. Brokenshire made his attack in the Stock Exchange on--" "But this would be different. In this case you'd be pointed at--it's what it would amount to--as a woman who had gone over to all those evil forces in civilization that try to break down what the good forces are building up. You'd do like that unhappy crown princess, you'd strike a blow at your country and at all womanhood. There are thousands of poor tempted wives all over Europe and America who'll say: 'Well, if she can do such things--'" "Oh, stop!" I stopped. It seemed to me that for the time being I had given her enough to think about. We sat silent, therefore, looking out at the rushing dark. People who drifted back from the dining-car glanced at us, but soon were dozing or absorbed in books. We were nearing New London when she pointed to one of her bags and asked me if I would mind opening it. I welcomed the request as indicating a return of friendliness. Having extracted a parcel of sandwiches, she unfolded the napkin in which they were wrapped and held them out to me. I took a pâté de foie-gras and followed her example in nibbling it. On my own responsibility I summoned the porter and asked him to bring a bottle of spring-water and two glasses. "I guess the old lady's feelin' some better," he confided, when he had carried out the order. We stopped at New London, and went on again. Having eaten three or four sandwiches, I declined any more, folding the remainder in the napkin and stowing them away. The simple meal we had shared together restored something of our old-time confidence. "I'm going to do it," she sighed, as I put the bag back in its place. "He's--he's somewhere on the train--in the smoking-car, I suppose. He's--he's not to come for me till--till we're getting near the Back Bay Station in Boston." I brought out my question simply, though I had been pondering it for some time. "Who'll tell Mr. Brokenshire?" She moved uncomfortably. "I don't know. I haven't made any arrangements. He's in Newport for one or two nights, seeing to some small changes in the house. I--I had to take the opportunity while he was away." As if with a sudden inspiration she glanced round from staring out into the dark. "Would you do it?" I shook my head. "I couldn't. I've never seen a man struck dead, and--" She swung her chair so as to face me more directly. "Why," she asked, trembling--"why do you say that?" "Because, if I told him, it's what I should have to look on at." She began wringing her hands. "Oh no, you wouldn't." "But I should. It would be his death-sentence at the least. It's true he has probably received that already--" "Oh, what are you saying? What are you talking about?" "Only of what every one can see. He's a stricken man--you've told me so yourself." "Yes, but I said it only about Hugh. Lots of men have to go through troubles on account of their children." "But when they do they can generally get comfort from their wives." She seemed to stiffen. "It's not my fault if he can't." "No, of course not. But the fact remains that he doesn't--and perhaps it's the greatest fact of all. He adores you. His children may give him a great deal of anxiety but that's the sort of thing any father looks for and can endure. Only you're not his child; you're his wife. Moreover, you're the wife whom he worships with a slavish idolatry. Everything that nature and time and the world and wealth have made of him he gathers together and lays it down at your feet, contented if you'll only give him back a smile. You may think it pitiful--" She shuddered. "I think it terrible--for me." "Well, I may think so, too, but it's his life we're talking of. His tenure of that"--I looked at her steadily--"isn't very certain as it is, do you think? You know the condition of his heart--you've told me yourself--and as for his nervous system, we've only to look at his face and his poor eye." "I didn't do that. It's his whole life--" "But his whole life culminates in you. It works up to you, and you represent everything he values. When he learns that you've despised his love and dishonored his name--" Her foot tapped the floor impatiently. "You mustn't say things like that to me." "I'm only saying them, dear Mrs. Brokenshire, so that you'll know how they sound. It's what every one else will be saying in a day or two. You can't be what--what you'll be to-morrow, and still keep any one's respect. And so," I hurried on, as she was about to protest, "when he hears what you've done, you won't merely have broken his heart, you'll have killed him just as much as if you'd pulled out a revolver and shot him." She swung back to the window again. Her foot continued to tap the floor; her fingers twisted and untwisted like writhing living things. I could see her bosom rise and fall rapidly; her breath came in short, hard gasps. When I wasn't expecting it she rounded on me again, with flames in her eyes like those in a small tigress's. "You're saying all that to frighten me; but--" "I'm saying it because it's true. If it frightens you--" "But it doesn't." "Then I've done neither good nor harm." "I've a right to be happy." "Certainly, if you can be happy this way." "And I can." "Then there's no more to be said. We can only agree with you. If you can be happy when you've Mr. Brokenshire on your mind, as you must have whether he's alive or dead--and if you can be happy when you've desecrated all the things your people and your country look to a woman in your position to uphold--then I don't think any one will say you nay." "Well, why shouldn't I be happy?" she demanded, as if I was withholding from her something that was her right. "Other women--" "Yes, Mrs. Brokenshire, other women besides you have tried the experiment of Anna Karénina--" "What's that?" I gave her the gist of Tolstoi's romance--the woman who is married to an old man and runs away with a young one, living to see him weary of the position in which she places him, and dying by her own act. As she listened attentively, I went on before she could object to my parable. "It all amounts to the same thing. There's no happiness except in right; and no right that doesn't sooner or later--sooner rather than later--end in happiness. You've told me more than once you didn't believe that; and if you don't I can't help it." I fell back in my seat, because for the moment I was exhausted. It was not merely the actual situation that took the strength out of me, but what I dreaded when the man came for his prize from the smoking-car. I might count on Larry Strangways to aid me then, but as yet he had not recognized my struggle by so much as glancing round. Nor had I known till this minute how much I cared for the little creature before me, or how deeply I pitied the man she was deserting. I could see her as happier conditions would have made her, and him as he might have become if his nature had not been warped by pride. Any impulse to strike back at him had long ago died within me. It might as well have died, since I never had the nerve to act on it, even when I had the chance. She turned on me again, with unexpected fierceness. "It doesn't matter whether I believe all those things or not--now. It's too late. I've left home. I've--I've gone away with him." Though I felt like a spent prize-fighter forced back into the ring, I raised myself in my chair. I even smiled, dimly, in an effort to be encouraging. "You've left home and you've gone away; but you won't have gone away with him till--till you've actually joined him." "I've actually joined him already. His things are there beside that chair." She nodded backward. "By the time we've passed Providence he'll be--he'll be getting ready to come for me." I said, more significantly than I really understood: "But we haven't passed Providence as yet." To this she seemingly paid no attention, nor did I give it much myself. "When he comes," she exclaimed, lyrically, "it will be like a marriage--" I ventured much as I interrupted. "No, it will never be like a marriage. There'll be too much that's unholy in it all for anything like a true marriage ever to become possible, not even if death or divorce--and it will probably be the one or the other--were to set you free." That she found these words arresting I could tell by the stunned way in which she stared. "Death or divorce!" she echoed, after long waiting. "He--he may divorce me quietly--I hope he will--but--but he won't--he won't die." "He'll die if you kill him," I declared, grimly. I continued to be grim. "He may die before long, whether you kill him or not--the chances are that he will. But living or dead, as I've said already, he'll stand between you and anything you look for as happiness--after to-night." She threw herself back, into the depths of her chair and moaned. Luckily there was no one near enough to observe the act. As we talked in low tones we could not be heard above the rattle of the train, and I think I passed as a companion or trained nurse in attendance on a nervous invalid. "Oh, what's the use?" she exclaimed at last, in a fit of desperation. "I've done it. It's too late. Every one will know I've gone away--even if I get out at Providence." I am sorry to have to admit that the suggestion of getting out at Providence startled me. I had been so stupid as not to think of it, even when I had made the remark that we had not as yet passed that town. All I had foreseen was the struggle at the end of the journey, when Larry Strangways and I should have to fight for this woman with the powers of darkness, as in medieval legends angels and devils fought over a contested soul. I took up the idea with an enthusiasm I tried to conceal beneath a smile of engaging sweetness. "They may know that you've gone away; but they can also know that you've gone away with me." "With you? You're going to Boston." "I could wait till to-morrow. If you wanted to get off at Providence I could do it, too." "But I don't want to. I couldn't let him expect to find me here--and then discover that I wasn't." "He would be disappointed at that, of course," I reasoned, "but he wouldn't take it as the end of all things. If you got off at Providence there would be nothing irrevocable in that step, whereas there would be in your going on. You could go away with him later, if you found you had to do it; but if you continue to-night you can never come back again. Don't you see? Isn't it worth turning over in your mind a second time--especially as I'm here to help you? If you're meant to be a Madeline Pyne or an Anna Karénina, you'll get another opportunity." "Oh no, I sha'n't," she sobbed. "If I don't go on to-night, he'll never ask me again." "He may never ask you again in this way; but isn't it possible that there may eventually be other ways? Don't make me put that into plainer words. Just wait. Let life take charge of it." I seized both her hands. "Darling Mrs. Brokenshire, you don't know yourself. You're too fine to be ruined; you're too exquisite to be just thrown away. Even the hungry, passionate love of the man in the smoking-car must see that and know it. If he comes back here and finds you gone--or imagines that you never came at all--he'll only honor and love you the more, and go on wanting you still. Come with me. Let us go. We can't be far from Providence now. I can take care of you. I know just what we ought to do. I didn't come here to sit beside you of my own free will; but since I am here doesn't it seem to you as if--as if I had been sent?" As she was sobbing too unrestrainedly to say anything in words, I took the law into my own hands. The porter had already begun dusting the dirt from the passengers who were to descend at Providence on to those who were going to Boston. Making my way up to him, I had the inspiration to say: "The old lady I'm with isn't quite so well, and we're going to stop here for the night." He grinned, with a fine show of big white teeth. "All right, lady; I'll take care of you. Cranky old bunch, ain't she? Handle a good many like that between Boston and Ne' Yawk." Mrs. Brokenshire made no resistance when I fastened the lighter of her two veils about her head, folding the other and putting it away. Neither did she resist when I drew her cloak about her and put on my own coat. But as the train drew into Providence station and she struggled to her feet in response to my touch on her arm, I was obliged to pull and drag and push her, till she was finally lifted to the platform. Before leaving the car, however, I took time to glance at the English traveling-cap. I noted then what I had noted throughout the journey. Not once did the head beneath it turn in my direction. Of whatever had happened since leaving the main station in New York Larry Strangways could say that he was wholly unaware. CHAPTER XVIII What happened on the train after Mrs. Brokenshire and I had left it I heard from Mr. Strangways. Having got it from him in some detail, I can give it in my own words more easily than in his. I may be permitted to state here how much and how little of the romance between Mr. Grainger and Mrs. Brokenshire Larry Strangways knew. He knew next to nothing--but he inferred a good deal. From facts I gave him once or twice in hours of my own perplexity he had been able to get light on certain matters which had come under his observation as Mr. Grainger's confidential man, and to which otherwise he would have had no key. He inferred, for instance, that Mrs. Brokenshire wrote daily to her lover, and that occasionally, at long intervals, her lover could safely write to her. He inferred that when their meetings had ended in one place they were taken up discreetly at another, but only with difficulty and danger. He inferred that the man chafed against this restraint, and as he had got out of it with other women, he was planning to get out of it again. I understood that had Mrs. Brokenshire been the only such instance in Stacy Grainger's career Larry Strangways might not have felt impelled to interfere; but seeing from the beginning that his employer "had a weakness," he felt it only right to help me save a woman for whom he knew I cared. I have never wholly understood why he believed that the situation had worked up to a crisis on that particular day; but having watched the laying of the mine, he could hardly do anything but expect the explosion on the application of the match. When Mr. Grainger had bidden him that morning go to the station and secure a drawing-room, or, if that was impossible, two parlor-car seats, on the five-o'clock for Boston, he had reasons for following the course of which I have briefly given the lines. No drawing-room was available, because any that was not sold he bought for himself in order to set the stage according to his own ideas. How far he was justified in this will be a matter of opinion. Some may commend him, while others will accuse him of unwarrantable interference. My own judgment being of no importance I hold it in suspense, giving the incidents just as they occurred. It must be evident that as Mr. Strangways didn't know what was to happen he could have no plan of action. All he could arrange for was that he and I should be on the spot. As it is difficult for guilty lovers to elope while acquaintances are looking on, he was resolved that they should find elopement difficult. For anything else he relied on chance--and on me. Chance favored him in keeping Stacy Grainger out of sight, in putting Mrs. Brokenshire next to me, and in making the action, such as it was, run smoothly. Had I known that he relied on me I should have been more terrified than I actually was, since I was relying on him. It will be seen, then, that at the moment when Mrs. Brokenshire and I left the train Larry Strangways had but a vague idea of what had taken place. He merely conjectured from the swish of skirts that we had gone. His next idea was, as he phrased it, to make himself scarce on his own account; but in that his efforts miscarried. Hoping to slip into another car and thus avoid a meeting with the outmanoeuvered lover, he was snapping the clasp of the bag into which he had thrust his cap when he perceived a tall figure enter the car by the forward end. To escape recognition he bent his head, pretending to search for something on the floor. The tall figure passed, but came back again. It was necessary that he should come back, because of the number on the ticket, the ulster, the walking-stick, and the golf-clubs. What Stacy Grainger saw, of course, was three empty seats, with his secretary sitting in a fourth. The sight of the three empty seats was doubtless puzzling enough, but that of the secretary must have been bewildering. Without turning his head Mr. Strangways knew by his sixth and seventh senses that his employer was comparing the number on his ticket with that of the seat, examining the hand-luggage to make sure it was his own, and otherwise drawing the conclusion that his faculties hadn't left him. For a private secretary who had ventured so far out of his line of duty it was a trying minute; but he turned and glanced upward only on feeling a tap on his shoulder. "Hello, Strangways! Is it you? What's the meaning of this?" Strangways rose. As the question had been asked in perplexity rather than in anger, he could answer calmly. "The meaning of what, sir?" "Where the deuce are you going? What are you doing here?" "I'm going to Boston, sir." "What for? Who told you you could go to Boston?" The tone began to nettle the young man, who was not accustomed to being spoken to so imperiously before strangers. "No one told me, sir. I didn't ask permission. I'm my own master. I've left your employ." "The devil you have! Since when?" "Since this morning. I couldn't tell you, because when you left the office after I'd given you the tickets you didn't come back." "And do you call that decent to a man who's-- But no matter!" He pointed to the seat next his own. "Where's the--the lady who's been sitting here?" Mr. Strangways raised his eyebrows innocently, and shook his head. "I haven't seen any lady, sir." "What? There must have been a lady here. Was to have got on at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street." "Possibly; I only say I didn't see her. As a matter of fact, I've been reading, and I don't think I looked round during the entire journey. Hadn't we better not speak so loud?" he suggested, in a lower tone. "People are listening to us." "Oh, let them go to-- Now look here, Strangways," he began again, speaking softly, but excitedly, "there must be some explanation to this." "Of course there must be; only I can't give it. Perhaps the porter could tell us. Shall I call him?" Mr. Grainger nodded his permission. The colored man with the flashing teeth came up on the broad grin, showing them. "Yep," he replied, in answer to the question: "they was two ladies in them seats all the way f'um Ne' Yawk." "Two ladies?" Mr. Grainger cried, incredulously. "Yes, gen'lemen. Two different ladies. The young one she got in at the Grand Central--fust one in the cyar--and the ole one at a Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street." "Do you mean to say it was an old lady who got in there?" "Yep, gen'lemen; ole and cranky. I 'ain't handled 'em no crankier not since I've bin on this beat. Sick, too. They done get off at Providence, though they was booked right through to Boston, because the ole lady she couldn't go no farther." Mr. Grainger was not a sleuth-hound, but he did what he could in the way of verification. "Did the young lady wear--wear a veil?" The porter scratched his head. "Come to think of it she did--one of them there flowery things"--his forefinger made little whirling designs on his coffee-colored skin--"what makes a kind of pattern-like all over people's face." Because he was frantically seeking a clue, Mr. Grainger blurted out the foolish question: "Was she--pretty?" To answer as a connoisseur and as man to man the African took his time. "Wa-al, not to say p'ooty, she wasn't--but she'd pa-ss. A little black-eyed thing, an' awful smart. One of 'em trained nusses like--very perlite, but a turr'ble boss you could see she'd be, for all she was so soft-spoken. Had cyare of the ole one, who was what you'd call plumb crazy." "That will do." The trail seemed not worth following any further. "There's some mistake," he continued, furiously. "She must be in one of the other cars." Like a collie from the leash he bounded off to make new investigations. In five minutes he was back again, passing up the length of the car and going on to examine those at the other end of the train. His face as he returned was livid; his manner, as far as he dared betray himself before a dozen or twenty spectators, that of a balked wild animal. "Strangways," he swore, as he dropped to the arm of his seat, "you're going to answer for this." Strangways replied, composedly: "I'm ready to answer for anything I know. You can't expect me to be responsible for what I don't know anything about." He slapped his knee. "What are you doing in that particular chair? Even if you're going to Boston, why aren't you somewhere else?" "That's easily explained. You told me to get two tickets by this train. Knowing that I was to travel by it myself I asked for three. I dare say it was stupid of me not to think that the propinquity would be open to objection; but as it's a public conveyance, and there's not generally anything secret or special about a trip of the kind--" "Why in thunder didn't you get a drawing-room, as I told you to?" "For the reason I've given--there were none to be had. If you could have taken me into your confidence a little--But I suppose that wasn't possible." To this there was no response, but a series of muttered oaths that bore the same relation to soliloquy as a frenzied lion's growl. For some twenty minutes they sat in the same attitudes, Strangways quiet, watchful, alert, ready for any turn the situation might take, the other man stretched on the arm of his chair, indifferent to comfort, cursing spasmodically, perplexity on his forehead, rage in his eyes, and something that was folly, futility, and helplessness all over him. Almost no further conversation passed between them till they got out in Boston. In the crowd Strangways endeavored to go off by himself, but found Mr. Grainger constantly beside him. He was beside him when they reached the place where taxicabs were called, and ordered his porter to call one. "Get in," he said, then. Larry Strangways protested. "I'm going to--" I must be sufficiently unlady-like to give Mr. Grainger's response just as it was spoken, because it strikes me as characteristic of men. "Oh, hell! Get in. You're coming with me." Characteristic of men was the rest of the evening. In spite of what had happened--and had not happened--Messrs. Grainger and Strangways partook of an excellent supper together, eating and drinking with appetite, and smoking their cigars with what looked like an air of tranquillity. Though the fury of the balked wild animal returned to Stacy Grainger by fits and starts, it didn't interfere with his relish of his food and only once did it break its bounds. That was when he struck the arm of his chair, saying beneath his breath, and yet audibly enough for his secretary to hear: "She funked it--damn her!" Larry Strangways then took it on himself to say: "I don't know the lady, sir, to whom you refer, nor the reasons she may have had for funking it, but may I advise you for your own peace of mind to withdraw the two concluding syllables?" A pair of fierce, melancholy eyes rested on him for a second uncomprehendingly. "All right," the crestfallen lover groaned heavily at last. "I may as well take them back." Characteristic of women were my experiences while this was happening. Bundled out into the station at Providence no two poor females could ever have been more forlorn. Standing in the waiting-room with our bags around us I felt like one of those immigrant women, ignorant of the customs and language of the country to which they have come, I had sometimes seen on docks at Halifax. As for Mrs. Brokenshire, she was as little used to the unarranged as if she had been a royalty. Never before had she dropped in this way down upon the unexpected; never before had she been unmet, unwelcomed, and unprepared. She was _bouleversée_--overturned. Were she falling from an aeroplane she could not have been more at a loss as to where she was going to alight. Small wonder was it that she should sit down on one of her own valises and begin to cry distressfully. That, for the minute, I was obliged to disregard. If she had to cry she must cry. I could hear the train puffing out of the station, and as far as that went she was safe. My first preoccupations had to do with where we were to go. For this I made inquiries of the porter, who named what he considered to be the two or three best hotels. I went to the ticket-office and put the same question, getting approximately the same answer. Then, seeing a well-dressed man and lady enter the station from a private car, which I could discern outside, I repeated my investigations, explaining that I had come from New York with an invalid lady who had not been well enough to continue the journey. They told me I could make no mistake in going to one of the houses already named by my previous informants; and so, gathering up the hand-luggage and Mrs. Brokenshire, we set forth. At the hotel we secured an apartment of sitting-room and two bedrooms, registering our names as "Miss Adare and friend." I ordered the daintiest supper the house could provide to be served up-stairs, with a small bottle of champagne to inspirit us; but, unlike the two heroes of the episode, neither of us could do more than taste food and drink. No kidnapped princess in a fairy-tale was ever more lovely or pathetic than Mrs. Brokenshire; no giant ogre more monstrously cruel than myself. Now that it was done, I figured, both in her eyes and in my own, not as a savior, but a capturer. She had dried her tears, but she had dried them resentfully. As far as possible she didn't look at me, but when she couldn't help it the reproach in her glances almost broke my heart. Though I knew I had acted for the best, she made me feel a bad angel, a marplot, a spoil-sport. I had thwarted a dream that was as full of bliss as it was of terror, and reduced the dramatic to the commonplace. Here she was picking at a cold quail in aspic face to face with me when she might have been. . . . I couldn't help seeing myself as she saw me, and when we had finished what was not a repast I put her to bed with more than the humility of a serving-maid. You will think me absurd, but when those tender eyes were turned on me with their silent rebuke, I would gladly have put her back on the train again and hurried her on to destruction. As the dear thing sobbed on her pillow I laid my head beside hers and sobbed with her. But I couldn't sob very long, as I still had duties to fulfil. It was of little use to have her under my care at Providence unless those who would in the end be most concerned as to her whereabouts were to know the facts--or the approximate facts--from the start. It was a case in which doubt for a night might be doubt for a lifetime; and so when she was sufficiently calm for me to leave her I went down-stairs. Though I had not referred to it again, I had made a mental note of the fact that Mr. Brokenshire was at Newport. If at Newport I knew he could be nowhere but in one hotel. Within fifteen minutes I was talking to him on the telephone. He was plainly annoyed at being called to the instrument so late as half past ten. When I said I was Alexandra Adare he replied that he didn't recognize the name. "I was formerly nursery governess to your daughter, Mrs. Rossiter," I explained. "I'm the woman who's refused as yet to marry your son, Hugh." "Oh, that person," came the response, uttered wearily. "Yes, sir; that person. I must apologize for ringing you up so late; but I wanted to tell you that Mrs. Brokenshire is here at Providence with me." The symptoms of distress came to me in a series of choking sounds over the wire. It was a good half-minute before I got the words: "What does that mean?" "It means that Mrs. Brokenshire is perfectly well in physical condition, but she's tired and nervous and overwrought." I made out that the muffled and strangled voice said: "I'll motor up to Providence at once. It's now half past ten. I shall be there between one and two. What hotel shall I find you at?" "Don't come, sir," I pleaded. "I had to tell you we were in Providence, because you could have found that out by asking where the long-distance call had come from; but it's most important to Mrs. Brokenshire that she should have a few days alone." "I shall judge of that. To what hotel shall I come?" "I beg and implore you, sir, not to come. Please believe me when I say that it will be better for you in the end. Try to trust me. Mrs. Brokenshire isn't far from a nervous breakdown; but if I can have her to myself for a week or two I believe I could tide her over it." Reproof and argument followed on this, till at last he yielded, with the words: "Where are you going?" Fortunately, I had thought of that. "To some quiet place in Massachusetts. When we're settled I shall let you know." He suggested a hotel at Lenox as suitable for such a sojourn. "She'd rather go where she wouldn't meet people whom she knows. The minute she has decided I shall communicate with you again." "But I can see you in the morning before you leave?" The accent was now that of request. The overtone in it was pitiful. "Oh, don't try to, sir. She wants to get away from every one. It will be so much better for her to do just as she likes. She had got to a point where she had to escape from everything she knew and cared about; and so all of a sudden--only--only to-day--she decided to come with me. She doesn't need a trained nurse, because she's perfectly well. All she wants is some one to be with her--whom she knows she can trust. She hasn't even taken Angélique. She simply begs to be alone." In the end I made my point, but only after genuine beseeching on his part and much repetition on mine. Having said good-night to him--he actually used the words--I called up Angélique, in order to bring peace to a household in which the mistress's desertion would create some consternation. Angélique and I might have been called friends. The fact that I spoke French _comme une Française_, as she often flattered me by saying, was a bond between us, and we had the further point of sympathy that we were both devoted to Mrs. Brokenshire. Besides that, there is something in me--I suppose it must be a plebeian streak--which enables me to understand servants and get along with them. I gave her much the same explanation as I gave to Mr. Brokenshire, though somewhat differently put. In addition I asked her to pack such selections from the simpler examples of Mrs. Brokenshire's wardrobe as the lady might need in a country place, and keep them in readiness to send. Angélique having expressed her relief that Mrs. Brokenshire was safe at a known address, in the company of a responsible attendant--a relief which, so she said, would be shared by the housekeeper, the chef, and the butler, all of whom had spent the evening in painful speculation--we took leave of each other, with our customary mutual compliments. Though I was so tired by this time that fainting would have been a solace, I called for a Boston paper and began studying the advertisements of country hotels. Having made a selection of these I consulted the manager of our present place of refuge, who strongly commended one of them. Thither I sent a night-letter commandeering the best, after which, with no more than strength to undress, I lay down on a couch in Mrs. Brokenshire's room. When I knew she was sleeping I, too, slept fitfully. About once in an hour I went softly to her bedside, and finding her dozing, if not sound asleep, I went softly back again. Between four and five we had a little scene. As I approached her bed she looked up and said: "What are we going to do in the morning?" Afraid to tell her all I had put in train, I gave my ideas in the form of suggestion. "No, I sha'n't do that," she said, quietly. She lay quite still, her cheek embossed on the pillow, and a great stray curl over her left shoulder. "Then what would you like to do?" "I should like to go straight back." "To begin the same old life all over again?" "To begin to see him all over again." "Do you think that after last night you can begin to see him in the same old way?" "I must see him in some way." "But isn't the way what you've still to discover?" I resolved on a bold stroke. "Wouldn't part of your object in going away for a time be to think out some method of reconciling your feeling for Mr. Grainger with--with your self-respect?" "My self-respect?" She looked as if she had never heard of such a thing. "What's that got to do with it?" "Hasn't it got everything to do with it? You can't live without it forever." "Do you mean that I've been living without it as it is?" "Isn't that for you to say rather than for me?" She was silent for a minute, after which she said, fretfully: "I don't think it's very nice of you to talk to me like that. You've got me here at your mercy, when I might have been--" A long, bubbling sigh, like the aftermath of tears, laid stress on the joys she had foregone. "He'll never forgive me now--never." "Wouldn't it be better, dear Mrs. Brokenshire," I asked, "to consider whether or not you can ever forgive him?" She raised herself on her elbow and looked at me. Seated in a low arm-chair beside her bed, in an old-rose-colored kimono, my dark hair hanging down my back, I was not a fascinating object of study, even in the light of one small, distant, shaded bedroom lamp. "What should I forgive him for?--for loving me?" "Yes, for loving you--in that way." "He loves me--" "So much that he could see you dishonored and disgraced--and shunned by decent people all the rest of your life--just to gratify his own desires. It seems to me you may have to forgive him for that." "He asked me to do only what I would have done willingly--if it hadn't been for you." "But he asked you. The responsibility is in that. You didn't make the suggestion; he did." "He didn't make it till I'd let him see--" "Too much. Forgive me for saying it, dear Mrs. Brokenshire; but do you think a woman should ever go so far to meet a man as you did?" "I let him see that I loved him. I did that before I married Mr. Brokenshire." "You let him see more than that you loved him. You showed him that you didn't know how to live without him." "But since I didn't know how--" "Ah, but you should have known. No woman should be so dependent on a man as that." She fell back again on her pillows. "It's easy to see you've never been in love." "I have been in love--and am still; but love is not the most important thing in the world--" "Then you differ from all the great teachers. They say it is." "If they do they're not speaking of sexual love." "What are they speaking of, then?" "They're speaking of another kind of love, with which the mere sexual has nothing to do. I'm not an ascetic, and I know the sexual has its place. But there's a love that's as much bigger than that as the sky is bigger than I am." "Yes, but so long as one never sees it--" I suppose it was her tone of feeble rebellion that roused my spirit and made me speak in a way which I should not otherwise have allowed myself. "You do see it, darling Mrs. Brokenshire," I declared, more sweetly than I felt. "I'm showing it to you." I rose and stood over her. "What do you suppose I'm prompted by but love? What urges me to stand by Mr. Brokenshire but love? What made me step in between you and Mr. Grainger and save him, as well as you, but love? Love isn't emotion that leaves you weak; it's action that makes you strong. It has to be action, and it has to be right action. There's no love separable from right; and until you grasp that fact you'll always be unhappy. I'm a mere rag in my own person. I've no more character than a hen. But because I've got a wee little hold on right--" She broke in, peevishly, as she turned away: "I do wish you'd let me go to sleep." I got down from my high horse and went back, humbly, to my couch. Scarcely, however, had I lain down, when the voice came again, in childish complaint: "I think you might have kissed me." I had never kissed her in my life, nor had she ever shown any sign of permitting me this liberty. Timidly I went back to the bed; timidly I bent over it. But I was not prepared for the sudden intense clinging with which she threw her arms round my neck and drew my face down to hers. CHAPTER XIX In the morning Mrs. Brokenshire was difficult again, but I got her into a neat little country inn in Massachusetts by the middle of the afternoon. I had to be like a jailer dragging along a prisoner, but that could not be helped. On leaving Providence she insisted on spending a few days in Boston, where, so she said, she had friends whom she wished to see. Knowing that Stacy Grainger would be at one of the few hotels of which we had the choice, I couldn't risk a meeting. Her predominating shame, a shame she had no hesitation in confessing, was for having failed him. He would never forgive her, she moaned; he wouldn't love her any more. Not to be loved by him, not to be forgiven, was like death. All she demanded during the early hours of that day was to find him, wherever he had gone, and fling herself at his feet. Because I didn't allow her to remain in Boston we had what was almost a quarrel, as we jolted over the cobblestones from the southern station to the northern. She was now an outraged queen and now a fiery little termagant. Sparing me neither tears nor reproaches, neither scoldings nor denunciations, she nevertheless followed me obediently. Sitting opposite me in the parlor-car, ignoring the papers and fashion magazines I spread beneath her eyes, she lifted on me the piteous face of an angel whom I had beaten and trampled and enslaved. For this kind of sacrilege I had ceased, however, to be contrite. I was so tired, and had grown so grim, that I could have led her along in handcuffs. But once out in the fresh, green, northern country the joy of a budding and blossoming world stole into us in spite of all our cares. We couldn't help getting out of our own little round of thought when we saw fields that were carpets of green velvet, or copses of hazelnut and alder coming into leaf, or a farmer sowing the plowed earth with the swing and the stride of the _Semeur_. We couldn't help seeing wider and farther and more hopefully when the sky was an arch of silvery blue overhead, and white clouds drifted across it, and the north into which we were traveling began to fling up masses of rolling hills. She caught me by the arm. "Oh, do look at the lambs! The darlings!" There they were, three or four helpless creatures, shivering in the sharp May wind and apparently struck by the futility of a life which would end in nothing but making chops. The ewes watched them maternally, or stood patiently to be tugged by the full woolly breasts. After that we kept our eyes open for other living things: for horses and cows and calves, for Corots and Constables--with a difference!--on the uplands of farms or in village highways. Once when a foal galloped madly away from the train, kicking up its slender hind legs, my companion actually laughed. When we got out at the station a robin was singing, the first bird we had heard that year. The note was so full and pure and Eden-like that it caught one's breath. It went with the bronze-green of maples and elms, with the golden westering sunshine, and with the air that was like the distillation of air and yet had a sharp northern tang in it. Driving in the motor of the inn, through the main street of the town, we saw that most of the white houses had a roomy Colonial dignity, and that orchards of apple, cherry, and plum, with acres of small fruit, surrounded them all. Having learned on the train that jam was the staple of the little town's prosperity, we could see jam everywhere. Jam was in the cherry-trees covered with dainty white blossoms, in the plum-trees showing but a flower or two, and in the apple-trees scarcely in bud. Jam was in the long straight lines which we were told represented strawberries, and in the shrubberies of currant. Jam was along the roadsides where the raspberry was clothing its sprawling bines with leaves, and wherever the blueberry gladdened the waste places with its millions of modest bells. Jam is a toothsome, homey thing to which no woman with a housekeeping heart can be insensible. The thought of it did something to bring Mrs. Brokenshire's thoughts back to the simple natural ways she had forsworn, even before reaching the hotel. The hotel was no more than a farm-house that had expanded itself half a dozen times. We traversed all sorts of narrow halls and climbed all sorts of narrow staircases, till at last we emerged on a corner suite, where the view led us straight to the balcony. Not that it was an extraordinary view; it was only a peaceful and a noble one. An undulating country held in its folds a scattering of lakes, working up to the lines of the southern New Hampshire hills which closed the horizon to the north. Green was, of course, the note of the landscape, melting into mauve in the mountains and saffron in the sky. Spacing out the perspective a mauve mist rose between the ridges, and a mauve light rested on the three white steeples of the town. The town was perhaps two hundred feet below us and a mile away, nestling in a feathery bower of verdure. When I joined Mrs. Brokenshire she was grasping the balcony rail, emitting little "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" of ecstasy. She drew long breaths, like a thirsty person drinking. She listened to the calling and answering of birds with face illumined and upturned. It was a bath of the spirit to us both. It was cleansing and healing; it was soothing and restful and corrective, setting what was sane within us free. Of all this I need say little beyond mentioning the fact that Mrs. Brokenshire, in spite of herself, entered into a period in which her taut nerves relaxed and her over-strained emotions became rested. It was a kind of truce of God to her. She had struggled and suffered so much that she was content for a time to lie still in the everlasting arms and be rocked and comforted. We had the simplest of rooms; we ate the simplest of food; we led the simplest of lives. By day we read and walked and talked a little and thought much; at night we slept soundly. Our fellow-guests were people who did the same, varying the processes with golf and moving pictures. For the most part they were tired people from the neighboring towns, seeking like ourselves a few days' respite from their burdens. Though they came to know who Mrs. Brokenshire was, they respected her privacy, never doing worse than staring after her when she entered the dining-room or walked on the lawns or verandas. I had come to love her so much that it was a joy to me to witness the revival of her spirit, and I looked forward to seeing her restored, not too reluctantly, to her husband. With him I had, of course, some correspondence. It was an odd correspondence, in which I made my customary _gaffe_. On our first evening at the inn I wrote to him in fulfilment of my promise, beginning, "Dear Mr. Brokenshire," as if I was writing to an equal. The acknowledgment came back: "Miss Alexandra Adare: Dear Madam," putting me back in my place. Accepting the rebuff, I adopted the style in sending him my daily bulletins. As a matter of fact, my time was largely passed in writing, for I had explanations to make to so many. My acquaintance with Mrs. Brokenshire having been a secret one, I was obliged to confess it to Hugh and Mrs. Rossiter, and even to Angélique. I had, in a measure, to apologize for it, too, setting down Mrs. Brokenshire's selection of my company to an invalid's eccentricity. So we got through May and into June, my reports to Mr. Brokenshire being each one better than the last. My patient never wrote to him herself, nor to any one. We had, in fact, been a day or two at the inn before she said: "I wonder what Mr. Brokenshire is thinking?" It was for me to tell her then that from the beginning I had kept him informed as to where she was, and that he knew I was with her. For a minute or two she stiffened into the _grande dame_, as she occasionally did. "You'll be good enough in future not to do such things without consulting me," she said, with dignity. That passed, and when I read to her, as I always did, the occasional notes with which her husband honored me, she listened without comment. It must have been the harder to do that since the lover's pleading ardor could be detected beneath all the cold formality in which he couched his communications. It was this ardor, as well as something else, that began in the end to make me uneasy. The something else was that Mrs. Brokenshire was writing letters on her own account. Coming in one day from a solitary walk, I found her posting one in the hall of the hotel. A few days later one for her was handed to me at the office, with several of my own. Recognizing Stacy Grainger's writing, I put it back with the words: "Mrs. Brokenshire will come for her letters herself." From that time onward she was often at her desk, and I knew when she got her replies by the feverishness of her manner. The truce of God being past, the battle was now on again. The first sign of it given to me was on a day when Mr. Brokenshire wrote in terms more definite than he had used hitherto. I read the letter aloud to her, as usual. He had been patient, he said, and considerate, which had to be admitted. Now he could deny himself no longer. As it was plain that his wife was better, he should come to her. He named the 20th as the day on which he should appear. "No, no," she cried, excitedly. "Not till after the twenty-third." "But why the twenty-third?" I asked, innocently. "Because I say so. You'll see." Then fearing, apparently, that she had betrayed something she ought to have concealed, she colored and added, lamely, "It will give me a little more time." I said nothing, but I pondered much. The 23d was no date at all that had anything to do with us. If it had significance it was in plans as to which she had not taken me into her confidence. So, too, when I heard her making inquiries of the maid who did the rooms as to the location of the Baptist church. "What on earth does she want to know that for?" was the question I not unnaturally asked myself. That she, who never went to church at all, except as an occasional act of high ceremonial for which she took great credit to her soul, was now concerned with the doctrine of baptism by immersion I did not believe. But I hunted up the sacred edifice myself, finding it to be situated on the edge of a daisied mead, slightly out of the town, on a road that might be described as lonely and remote. I came to the conclusion that if any one wanted to carry off in an automobile a lady picking flowers--a sort of _enlèvement de Proserpine_--this would be as good a place as any. How the Pluto of our drama could have come to select it, Heaven only knew. But I did as I was bid, and wrote to Mr. Brokenshire that once the 23d was passed he would be free to come. After that I watched, wondering whether or not I should have the heart or the nerve to frustrate love a second time, even if I got the chance. I didn't get the chance precisely, but on the 22nd of June I received a mysterious note. It was typewritten and had neither date nor address nor signature. Its message was simple: "If Miss Adare will be at the post-office at four o'clock this afternoon she will greatly oblige the writer of these lines and perhaps benefit a person who is dear to her." The post-office being a tolerably safe place in case of felonious attack, I was on the spot at five minutes before the hour. In that particular town it occupied a corner of a brick building which also gave shelter to the bank and a milliner's establishment. As the village hotel was opposite, I advertised my arrival by studying a display of hats which warranted the attention before going inside to invest in stamps. As I was the only applicant for this necessary of life, the swarthy, undersized young man who served me made kindly efforts at entertainment while "delivering the goods," as he expressed it. "English, ain't you?" I said, as usual, that I was a Canadian. He smiled at his own perspicacity. "Got your number, didn't I? All you Canucks have the same queer way o' talkin'. Two or three in the jam-factory here--only they're French." I knew some one had entered behind me, and, turning away from the wicket, I found the person I had expected. Mr. Stacy Grainger, clad jauntily in a gray spring suit, lifted a soft felt hat. He went to his point without introductory greeting. "It's good of you to have come. Perhaps we could talk better if we walked up the street. There's no one to know us or to make it awkward for you." Walking up the street he made his errand clear to me. I had partly guessed it before he said a word. I had guessed it from his pallor, from something indefinably humbled in the way he bore himself, and from the worried light in his romantic eyes. Being so much taller than I, he had to stoop toward me as he talked. He knew, he said, what had happened on the train. Some of it he had wrung from his secretary, Strangways, and the rest had been written him by Mrs. Brokenshire. He had been so furious at first that he might have been called insane. In order to give himself the pleasure of kicking Strangways out he had refused to accept his resignation, and had I not been a woman he would have sought revenge on me. He had been the more frantic because until getting his first note from Mrs. Brokenshire he hadn't known where she was. To have the person dearest to him in the world swept off the face of the earth after she was actually under his protection was enough to drive a man mad. Having acquiesced in this, I considered it no harm to add that if I had known the business on which I was setting out I should have hardly dared that day to take the train for Boston. Once on it, however, and in speech with Mrs. Brokenshire, it had seemed that there was no other course before me. "Quite so," he agreed, somewhat to my surprise. "I see that now. He's not altogether an ass, that fellow Strangways. I've kept him with me, and little by little--" He broke off abruptly to say: "And now the shoe's on the other foot. That's what I wanted to tell you." I walked on a few paces before getting the force of this figure of speech. "You mean that Mrs. Brokenshire--" "Quite so. I see you get what I'd like you to know." He went on, brokenly: "It isn't that I don't want it myself as much as ever. I only see, as I didn't see before, what it would mean to her. If I were to take her at her word--as I must, of course, if she insists on it--" I had to think hard while we continued to walk on beneath the leafing elms, and the village people watched us two as city folks. "It's for to-morrow, isn't it?" I asked at last. He nodded. "How did you know that?" "Near the Baptist church?" "How the deuce do you know? I motored up here last week to spy out the land. That seemed to me the most practicable spot, where we should be least observed--" We were still walking on when I said, without quite knowing why I did so: "Why shouldn't you go away at once and leave it all to me?" "Leave it all to you? And what would you do?" "I don't know. I should have to think. I could do--something." "But suppose she's counting on me to come?" "Then you would have to fail her." "I couldn't." "Not even if it was for her good?" He shook his head. "Not even if it was for her good. No one who calls himself a gentleman--" I couldn't help flinging him a scornful smile. "Isn't it too late to think in terms like that? We've come to a place where such words don't apply. The best we can do is to get out of a difficult situation as wisely as possible, and if you'd just go away and leave it to me--" "She'd never forgive me. That's what I'd be afraid of." "There's nothing to be afraid of in doing right," I declared, a little sententiously. "You'll do right in going away. The rest will take care of itself." We came to the edge of the town, where there was a gate leading into a pasture. Over this gate we leaned and looked down on a valley of orchards and farms. He was sufficiently at ease to take out a cigarette and ask my permission to smoke. "What would you say of a man who treated you like that?" he asked, presently. "It wouldn't matter what I said at first, so long as I lived to thank him. That's what she'd do, and she'd do it soon." "And in the mean time?" "I don't see that you need think of that. If you do right--" He groaned aloud. "Oh, right be hanged!" "Yes, there you go. But so long as right is hanged wrong will have it all its own way and you'll both get into trouble. Do right now--" "And leave her in the lurch?" "You wouldn't be leaving her in the lurch, because you'd be leaving her with me. I know her and can take care of her. If you were just failing her and nothing else--that would be another thing. But I'm here. If you'll only do what's so obviously right, Mr. Grainger, you can trust me with the rest." I said this firmly and with an air of competence, though, as a matter of fact, I had no idea of what I should have to do. What I wanted first was to get rid of him. Once alone with her, I knew I should get some kind of inspiration. He diverted the argument to himself--he wanted her so much, he would have to suffer so cruelly. "There's no question as to your suffering," I said. "You'll both have to suffer. That can be taken for granted. We're only thinking of the way in which you'll suffer least." "That's true," he admitted, but slowly and reluctantly. "I'm not a terribly rigorous moralist," I went on. "I've a lot of sympathy with Paolo and Francesca and with Pelléas and Mélisande. But you can see for yourself that all such instances end unhappily, and when it's happiness you're primarily in search of--" "Hers--especially," he interposed, with the same deliberation and some of the same unwillingness. "Well, then, isn't your course clear? She'll never be happy with you if she kills the man she runs away from--" He withdrew his cigarette and looked at me, wonderingly. "Kills him? What in thunder do you mean?" I explained my convictions. Howard Brokenshire wouldn't survive his wife's desertion for a month; he might not survive it for a day. He was a doomed man, even if his wife did not desert him at all. He, Stacy Grainger, was young. Mrs. Brokenshire was young. Wouldn't it be better for them both to wait on life--and on the other possibilities that I didn't care to name more explicitly? So he wrestled with himself, and incidentally with me, turning back at last toward the village inn--and his motor. While shaking my hand to say good-by he threw off, jerkily: "I suppose you know my secretary, Strangways, wants to marry you?" My heart seemed to stop beating. "He's--he's never said so to me," I managed to return, but more weakly than I could have wished. "Well he will. He's all right. He's not a fool. I'm taking him with me into some big things; so that if it's the money you're in doubt about--" I had recovered myself enough to say: "Oh no; not at all. But if you're in his confidence I beg you to ask him to think no more about it. I'm engaged--or practically engaged--I may say that I'm engaged--to Hugh Brokenshire." "I see. Then you're making a mistake." I was moving away from him by this time so that I gave him a little smile. "If so, the circumstances are such that--that I must go on making it." "For God's sake don't!" he called after me. "Oh, but I must," I returned, and so we went our ways. On going back to our rooms I found poor, dear little Mrs. Brokenshire packing a small straw suit-case. She had selected it as the only thing she could carry in her hand to the place of the _enlèvement_. She was not a packer; she was not an adept in secrecy. As I entered her room she looked at me with the pleading, guilty eyes of a child detected in the act of stealing sweets, and confessing before he is accused. I saw nothing, of course. I saw nothing that night. I saw nothing the next day. Each one of her helpless, unskilful moves was so plain to me that I could have wept; but I was turning over in my mind what I could do to let her know she was deceived. I was reproaching myself, too, for being so treacherous a confidante. All the great love-heroines had an attendant like me, who bewailed and lamented the steps their mistresses were taking, and yet lent a hand. Here I was, the nurse to this Juliet, the Brangaene to this Isolde, but acting as a counter-agent to all romantic schemes. I cannot say I admired myself; but what was I to do? To make a long story short I decided to do nothing. You may scorn me, oh, reader, for that; but I came to a place where I saw it would be vain to interfere. Even a child must sometimes be left to fight its own battles and stand face to face with its own fate; and how much more a married woman! It became the more evident to me that this was what I could best do for Mrs. Brokenshire in proportion as I watched the leaden hands and feet with which she carried out her tasks and inferred a leaden heart. A leaden heart is bad enough, but a leaden heart offering itself in vain--what lesson could go home with more effect? During the forenoon of the 23d each little incident cut me to the quick. It was so naïve, so useless. The poor darling thought she was outwitting me. As if she was stealing it she stowed away her jewelry, and when she could no longer hide the suit-case she murmured something about articles to be cleaned at the village cleaner's. I took this with a feeble joke as to the need of economy, and when she thought she would carry down the things herself I commended the impulse toward exercise. I knew she wouldn't drive, because she didn't want a witness to her acts. As far as I could guess the hour at which Pluto would carry off Proserpine, it would be at five o'clock. And indeed about half past three I observed unusual signs of agitation. Her door was kept closed, and from behind it came sounds of a final opening and closing of cupboards and drawers, after which she emerged, wearing a dark-blue walking-suit and a hat of the _canotière_ style, with a white quill feather at one side. I still made no comment, not even when the wan, wee, touching figure was ready to set forth. If her first steps were artless the last was more artless still. Instead of going off casually, with an implied intention to come back, she took leave of me with tears and protestations of affection. She had been harsh with me, she confessed, and seemingly indifferent to my tender care, but one day she might have a chance to show me how genuine was her gratitude. In this, too, I saw no more than the commonplace, and a little after four she tripped down the avenue, looking, with her suit-case, like a school-girl. I allowed her just such a handicap as her speed and mine would have warranted. Even then I made no attempt to overtake her. Having previously got what is called the lay of the land, I knew how I could come to her assistance by taking a short cut. I had hardened my heart by this time, and whatever qualms I had felt before, I was resolved now to spare her no drop of the wormwood that would be for her good. I cannot describe our respective routes without appending a map, which would scarcely be worth while. It will be enough if I say that she went round the arc of a bow and I cut across by the string. I came thus to a slight eminence, selected in advance, whence I could watch her descent of the hill by which the lower Main Street trails off into the country. I could follow her, too, when she deflected into a small cross-thoroughfare bearing the scented name of Clover Lane, in which there were no houses; and I should still be able to trace her course when she emerged on the quiet country road that would take her to her trysting-place. I had no intention to step in till I could do it at some spot on her homeward way, and thus spare her needless humiliation. In Clover Lane she was within a few hundred yards of her destination. She had only to turn a corner and she would be in sight of the flowery mead whence she was to be carried off. It was a pretty lane, grass-grown and overhung with lilacs in full bloom, such as you would find on the edge of any New England town. The lilacs shut her in from my view for a good part of the time, but not so constantly that I couldn't be a witness to her soul's tragedy. Her soul's tragedy came as a surprise to me. Closely as I had lived with her, I was unprepared for any such event. My first hint of it was when her pace through the lane began to slacken, till at last she stopped. That she didn't stop because she was tired I could judge by the fact that, though she stood stock-still, she held the light suit-case in her hand. I couldn't see her face, because I stood under a great elm, some five hundred yards away. Having paused and reflected for the space of three or four minutes, she went on again, but she went on more slowly. Her light, tripping gait had become a dragging of the feet, while I divined that she was still pondering. As it was nearly five o'clock, she couldn't be afraid of being before her time. But she stopped again, setting the suit-case down in the middle of the road. She turned then and looked back over the way by which she had come, as if regretting it. Seeing her open her small hand-bag, take out a handkerchief, and put it to her lips, I was sure she was repressing one of her baby-like sobs. My heart yearned over her, but I could only watch her breathlessly. She went on again--twenty paces, perhaps. Here she seemed to find a seat on a roadside boulder, for she sat down on it, her back being toward me and her figure almost concealed by the wayside growth. I could only wonder at what was passing in her mind. The whole period, of about ten minutes' duration, is filled in my memory with mellow afternoon light and perfumed air and the evening song of birds. When the village clock struck five she bounded up with a start. Again she took what might have been twenty paces, and again she came to a halt. Dropping the suit-case once more, she clasped her hands as if she was praying. As, to the best of my knowledge, her prayers were confined to a hasty evening and morning ritual in which there was nothing more than a pious, meaningless habit, I could surmise her present extremity. Stacy Grainger was like a god to her. If she renounced him now it would be an act of heroism of which I could hardly believe her capable. But, apparently, she made up her mind that she couldn't renounce him. If there was an answer to her prayer it was one that prompted her to snatch up her burden again and hurry, with a kind of skimming motion, right to the end of the lane. It was to the end of the lane, but not to the turning into the roadway. Once in the roadway she would see--or she thought she would see--Stacy Grainger and his automobile, and her fate would be sealed. She had still a chance before her--and from that rutted sandy juncture, with wild roses and wild raspberries in the hedgerows on each side, she reeled back as if she had been struck. I can only think of a person blinded by a flash of lightning who would recoil in just that way. For a few minutes she was hidden from my view behind the lilacs. When I caught sight of her again she was running like a terrified bird back through Clover Lane and toward the Main Street, which would take her home. I met her as she was dragging herself up the hill, white, breathless, exhausted. Pretending to take the situation lightly, I called as I approached: "So you didn't leave the things." Her answer was to drop the suit-case once again, while, regardless of curious eyes at windows and doors, she flew to throw herself into my arms. She never explained; I never asked for explanations. I was glad enough to get her back to the hotel, put her to bed, and wait on her hand and foot. She was saved now; Stacy Grainger, too, was saved. Each had deserted the other; each had the same crime to forgive. From that day onward she never spoke his name to me. But as, that evening, I went to her bedside to say good-night, she drew my face to hers and whispered, cryptically: "It will be all right now between yourself and Hugh. I know how I can help." CHAPTER XX Mr. Brokenshire arrived on the 26th of June, thus giving us a few days' grace. In the interval Mrs. Brokenshire remained in bed, neither tired nor ill, but white, silent, and withdrawn. Her soul's tragedy had plainly not ended with her skimming retreat through Clover Lane. In the new phase on which it had entered it was creating a woman, possibly a wife, where there had been only a lovely child of arrested development. Slipping in and out of her room, attending quietly to her wants, I was able to note, as never in my life before, the beneficent action of suffering. Because she was in bed, I folded my tent like the Arab and silently vacated my room in favor of Mr. Brokenshire. I looked for some objection on telling her of this, but she merely bit her lip and said nothing. I had asked the manager to put me in the most distant part of the most distant wing of the hotel, and would have stolen away altogether had it not been for fear that my poor, dear little lady might need me. As it was, I kept out of sight when Mr. Brokenshire drove up with secretary, valet, and chauffeur, and I contrived to take my meals at hours when there could be no encounter between me and the great personage. If I was wanted I knew I could be sent for; but the 27th passed and no command came. Once or twice I got a distant view of my enemy, as I began to call him--majestic, noble, stouter, too, and walking with a slight waddle of the hips, which had always marked his carriage and became more noticeable as he increased in bulk. Not having seen him for nearly three months, I observed that his hair and beard were grayer. During those first few days I was never near enough to be able to tell whether or not there was a change for the better or the worse in his facial affliction. From a chance word with the cadaverous Spellman on the 28th I learned that a sitting-room had been arranged in connection with the two bedrooms Mrs. Brokenshire and I had occupied, and that husband and wife were now taking their repasts in private. Later that day I saw them drive out together, Mrs. Brokenshire no more than a silhouette in the shadows of the limousine. I drew the inference that, however the soul's tragedy was working, it was with some reconciling grace that did what love had never been able to accomplish. Perhaps for her, as for me, there was an appeal in this vain, fatuous, suffering magnate of a coarse world's making that, in spite of everything, touched the springs of pity. In any case, I was content not to be sent for--and to rest. After a tranquil day or two my own nerves had calmed down and I enjoyed the delight of having nothing on my mind. It was extraordinary how remote I could keep myself while under the same roof with my superiors, especially when they kept themselves remote on their side. I had decided on the 1st of July as the date to which I should remain. If there was no demand for my services by that time I meant to consider myself free to go. But events were preparing, had long been preparing, which changed my life as, I suppose, they changed to a greater or less degree the majority of lives in the world. It was curious, too, how they arranged themselves, with a neatness of coincidence which weaves my own small drama as a visible thread--visible to me, that is--in the vast tapestry of human history begun so far back as to be time out of mind. It was the afternoon of Monday the 29th of June, 1914. Having secured a Boston morning paper, I had carried it off to the back veranda, which was my favorite retreat, because nobody else liked it. It was just outside my room, and looked up into a hillside wood, where there were birds and squirrels, and straight bronze pine-trunks wherever the sunlight fell aslant on them. At long intervals, too, a partridge hen came down with her little brood, clucking her low wooden cluck and pecking at tender shoots invisible to me, till she wandered off once more into the hidden depths of the stillness. But I wasn't watching for the partridge hen that afternoon. I was thrilled by the tale of the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and the Duchess of Hohenberg, which had taken place at Sarajevo on the previous day. Millions of other readers, who, no more than I, felt their own destinies involved were being thrilled at the same moment. The judgment trumpet was sounding--only not as we had expected it. There was no blast from the sky--no sudden troop of angels. There was only the soundless vibration of the wire and of the Hertzian waves; there was only the casting of type and the rattling of innumerable reams of paper; and, as the Bible says, the dead could hear the voice, and they that heard it stood still; and the nations were summoned before the Throne "that was set in the midst." I was summoned, with my own people--though I didn't know it was a summons till afterward. The paper had fallen to my knee when I was startled to see Mr. Brokenshire come round the corner of my retreat. Dressed entirely in white, with no color in his costume save the lavender stripe in his shirt and collar, and the violet of his socks, handkerchief, and tie, he would have been the perfect type of the middle-aged exquisite had it not been for the pitiless distortion of his eye the minute he caught sight of me. That he had not stumbled on me accidentally I judged by the way in which he lifted a Panama of the kind that is said to be made under water and is costlier than the costliest feminine confection by Caroline Ledoux. I was struggling out of my wicker chair when the uplifted hand forbade me. "Be good enough to stay where you are," he commanded, but more gently than he had ever spoken to me. "I've some things to say to you." Too frightened to make a further attempt to move, I looked at him as he drew up a chair similar to my own, which creaked under his weight when he sat down in it. The afternoon being hot, and my veranda lacking air, which was one of the reasons why it was left to me, he mopped his brow with the violet handkerchief, on which an enormous monogram was embroidered in white. I divined his reluctance to begin not only from his long hesitation, but from the renewed contortion of his face. His hand went up to the left cheek as if to hold it in place, though with no success in the effort. When, at last, he spoke there was a stillness in his utterance suggestive of an affection extending now to the lips or the tongue. "I want you to know how much I appreciate the help you've given to Mrs. Brokenshire during her--her"--he had a difficulty in finding the right word--"during her indisposition," he finished, rather weakly. "I did no more than I was glad to do," I responded, as weakly as he. "Exactly; and yet I can't allow such timely aid to go unrewarded." I was alarmed. Grasping the arms of the chair, I braced myself. "If you mean money, sir--" "No; I mean more than money." He, too, braced himself. "I--I withdraw my opposition to your marriage with my son." The immediate change in my consciousness was in the nature of a dissolving view. The veranda faded away, and the hillside wood. Once more I saw the imaginary dining-room, and myself in a smart little dinner gown seating the guests; once more I saw the white-enameled nursery, and myself in a lace peignoir leaning over the bassinet. As in previous visions of the kind, Hugh was a mere shadow in the background, secondary to the home and the baby. Secondary to the home and the baby was the fact that my object was accomplished and that my enemy had come to his knees. Indeed, I felt no particular elation from that element in the case; no special sense of victory. Like so many realized ambitions, it seemed a matter of course, now that it had come. Nevertheless, it seemed to me that for my own sake and for the sake of the future I must have a more definite expression of surrender than he had yet given me. I remembered that Mrs. Brokenshire had said she would help me, and could imagine how. I summoned up everything within me that would rank as force of character, speaking quietly. "I should be sorry, sir, to have you come to this decision against your better judgment." "If you'll be kind enough to accept the fact," he said, sharply, "we can leave my manner of reaching it out of the discussion." In spite of the tone I rallied my resources. "I don't want to be presumptuous, sir; but if I'm to enter your family I should like to feel sure that you'll receive me whole-heartedly." "My dear young lady, isn't it assurance enough that I receive you at all? When I bring myself to that--" "Oh, please don't think I can't appreciate the sacrifice." "Then what more is to be said?" "But the sacrifice is the point. No girl wants to become one of a family which has to make such an effort to take her." There was already a whisper of insecurity in his tone. "Even so, I can't see why you shouldn't let the effort be our affair. Since we make it on our own responsibility--" "I don't care anything about the responsibility, sir. All I'm thinking of is that the effort must be made." "But what did you expect?" "I haven't said that I expected anything. If I've been of the slightest help to Mrs. Brokenshire I'm happy to let the service be its own reward." "But I'm not. It isn't my habit to remain under an obligation to any one." "Nor mine," I said, demurely. He stared. "What does that mean? I don't follow you." "Perhaps not, sir; but I quite follow you. You wish me to understand that, in spite of my deficiencies, you accept me as your son's wife--for the reason that you can't help yourself." Two sharp hectic spots came out on each cheek-bone. "Well, what if I do?" "I'm far too generous to put you in that position. I couldn't take you at a disadvantage, not even for the sake of marrying Hugh." I was not sure whether he was frightened or angry, but it was the one or the other. "Do you mean to say that, now--now that I'm ready--" "That I'm not? Yes, sir. That's what I do mean to say. I told you once that if I loved a man I shouldn't stop to consider the wishes of his relatives; but I've repented of that. I see now that marriage has a wider application than merely to individuals; and I'm not ready to enter any family that doesn't want me." I looked off into the golden dimnesses of the hillside wood in order not to be a witness of the struggle he was making. "And suppose"--it was almost a groan--"and suppose I said we--wanted you?" It was like bending an iron bar; but I gave my strength to it. "You'd have to say it differently from that, sir." He spoke hoarsely. "Differently--in what sense?" I knew I had him, as Hugh would have expressed it, where I had been trying to get him. "In the sense that if you want me you must ask me." He mopped his brow once more. "I--I have asked you." "You've said you withdrew your opposition. That's not enough." Beads or perspiration were again standing on his forehead. "Then what--what would be--enough?" "A woman can't marry any one unless she does it as something of a favor." He drew himself up. "Do you remember that you're talking to me?" "Yes, sir; and it's because I do remember it that I have to insist. With anybody else I shouldn't have to be so crude." Again he put up a struggle, and this time I watched him. If his wife had made the conditions I guessed at, I had nothing to do but sit still. Grasping the arms of his chair, he half rose as if to continue the interview no further, but immediately saw, as I inferred, what that would mean to him. He fell back again into the creaking depths of the chair. "What do you wish me to say?" But his stricken aspect touched me. Now that he was prepared to come to his knees, I had no heart to force him down on them. Since I had gained my point, it was foolish to battle on, or try to make the Ethiopian change his skin. "Oh, sir, you've said it!" I cried, with sudden emotion. I leaned toward him, clasping my hands. "I see you do want me; and since you do I'll--I'll come." Having made this concession, I became humble and thankful and tactful. I appeased him by saying I was sensible of the honor he did me, that I was happy in the thought that he was to be reconciled with Hugh; and I inquired for Mrs. Brokenshire. Leading up to this question with an air of guilelessness, I got the answer I was watching for in the ashen shade that settled on his face. I forget what he replied; I was really not listening. I was calling up the scene in which she must have fulfilled her promise of helping Hugh and me. From the something crushed in him, as in the case of a man who knows the worst at last, I gathered that she had made a clean breast of it. It was awesome to think that behind this immaculate white suit with its violet details, behind this pink of the old beau, behind this moneyed authority and this power of dictation to which even the mighty sometimes had to bow, there was a broken heart. He knew now that the bird he had captured was nothing but a captured bird, and always longing for the forest. That his wife was willing to bear his name and live in his house and submit to his embraces was largely because I had induced her. Whether or not, in spite of his pompousness, he was grateful to me I didn't know; but I guessed that he was not. He could accept such benefits as I had secured him and yet be resentful toward the curious providence that had chosen me in particular as its instrument. I came out of my meditations in time to hear him say that, Mrs. Brokenshire being as well rested as she was, there would be no further hindrance to their proceeding soon to Newport. "And I suppose I might go back to my home," I observed, with no other than the best intentions. He made an attempt to regain the authority he had just forfeited. "What for?" "To be married," I explained--"since I am to be married." "But why should you be married there?" "Wouldn't it be the most natural thing?" "It wouldn't be the most natural thing for Hugh." "A man can be married anywhere; whereas a woman, at such a turning-point in her life, needs a certain backing. I've an uncle and aunt and a great many friends--" The effort at a faint smile drew up the corner of his mouth and set his face awry. "You'll excuse me, my dear"--the epithet made me jump--"if I correct you on a point of taste. In being willing that Hugh should marry you I think I must draw the line at anything like parade." I know my eyebrows went up. "Parade? Parade--how?" The painful little smile persisted. "The ancient Romans, when they went to war, had a custom of bringing back the most conspicuous of their captives and showing them in triumph in the streets--" I, too, smiled. "Oh! I understand. But you see, sir, the comparison doesn't hold in this case, because none of my friends would know anything more about Hugh than the fact that he was an American." The crooked features went back into repose. "They'd know he was my son." I continued to smile, but sweetly. "They'd take it for granted that he was somebody's son--but they wouldn't know anything about you, sir. You'd be quite safe so far as that went. Though I don't live many hundreds of miles from New York, and we're fairly civilized, I had never so much as heard the name of Brokenshire till Mrs. Rossiter told me it was hers before she was married. You see, then, that there'd be no danger of my leading a captive in triumph. No one I know would give Hugh a second thought beyond being nice to the man I was marrying." That he was pleased with this explanation I cannot affirm, but he passed it over. "I think," was his way of responding, "that it will be better if we consider that you belong to us. Till your marriage to Hugh, which I suppose will take place in the autumn, you'll come back with us to Newport. There will be a whole new--how shall I put it?--a whole new phase of life for you to get used to. Hugh will stay with us, and I shall ask my daughter, Mrs. Rossiter, to be your hostess till--" As, without finishing his sentence, he rose I followed his example. Though knowing in advance how futile would be the attempt to present myself as an equal, I couldn't submit to this calm disposition of my liberty and person without putting up a fight. "I've a great preference, sir--if you'll allow me--for being married in my own home, among my own people, and in the old parish church in which I was baptized. I really have people and a background; and it's possible that my sisters might come over--" The hand went up; his tone put an end to discussion. "I think, my dear Alexandra, that we shall do best in considering that you belong to us. You'll need time to grow accustomed to your new situation. A step backward now might be perilous." My fight was ended. What could I do? I listened and submitted, while he went on to tell me that Mrs. Brokenshire would wish to see me during the day, that Hugh would be sent for and would probably arrive the next afternoon, and that by the end of the week we should all be settled in Newport. There, whenever I felt I needed instruction, I was not to be ashamed to ask for it. Mrs. Rossiter would explain anything of a social nature that I didn't understand, and he knew I could count on Mrs. Brokenshire's protection. With a comic inward grimace I swallowed all my pride and thanked him. As for Mrs. Brokenshire's protection, that was settled when, later in the afternoon, we sat on her balcony and laughed and cried together, and held each other's hands, as young women do when their emotions outrun their power of expression. She called me Alix and begged me to invent a name for her that would combine the dignity of Hugh's stepmother with our standing as friends. I chose Miladi, out of _Les Trois Mousquetaires_, with which she was delighted. I begged off from dining with them that evening, nominally because I was too upset by all I had lived through in the afternoon, but really for the reason that I couldn't bear the thought of Mr. Brokenshire calling me his dear Alexandra twice in the same day. Once had made my blood run cold. His method of shriveling up a name by merely pronouncing it is something that transcends my power to describe. He had ruined that of Adare with me forever, and now he was completing my confusion at being called after so lovely a creature as our queen. I have always admitted that, with its stately, regal suggestions, Alexandra is no symbol for a plain little body like me; but when Mr. Brokenshire took it on his lips and called me his dear I could have cried out for mercy. So I had my dinner by myself, munching slowly and meditating on what Mr. Brokenshire described as "my new situation." I was meditating on it still when, in the course of the following afternoon, I was sitting in a retired grove of the hillside wood waiting for Hugh to come and find me. He was to arrive about three and Miladi was to tell him where I was. In our crowded little inn, with its crowded grounds, nooks of privacy were rare. I had taken the Boston paper with me in order to get further details of the tragedy of Sarajevo. These I found absorbing. They wove themselves in with my thoughts of Hugh and my dreams of our life together. An article on Serbia, which I had found in an old magazine that morning, had given me, too, an understanding of the situation I hadn't had before. Up to that day Serbia had been but a name to me; now I began to see its significance. The story of this brave, patient little people, with its one idea--an _idée fixe_ of liberty--began to move me. Of all the races of Europe the Serbian impressed me as the one that had been most constantly thwarted in its natural ambitions--struck down whenever it attempted to rise. Its patriotic hopes had always been inconvenient to some other nation's patriotic hopes, and so had to be blasted systematically. England, France, Austria, Turkey, Italy, and Russia had taken part at various times in this circumvention, denying the fruits of victory after they had been won. Serbia had been the poor little bastard brother of Europe, kept out of the inheritance of justice and freedom and commerce when others were admitted to a share. For some of them there might have been no great share; but for little Serbia there was none. It was terrible to me that such wrong could go on, generation after generation, and that there should be no Nemesis. In a measure it contradicted my theory of right. I didn't want any one to suffer, but I asked why there had been no suffering. Of the nations that had knocked Serbia about, hedged her in by restrictions, dismembered her and kept her dismembered, most were prosperous. From Serbia's point of view I couldn't help sympathizing with the hand that had struck down at least one member of the House of Hapsburg; and yet in that tragic act there could be no adequate revenge for centuries of repression. What I wanted I didn't know; I suppose I didn't want anything. I was only wondering--wondering why, if individuals couldn't sin without paying for the sin they had committed, nations should sin and be immune. Strangely enough, these reflections did not shut out the thought of the lover who was coming up the hill; they blended with it; they made it larger and more vital. I could thank God I was marrying a man whose hand would always be lifted on behalf of right. I didn't know how it could be lifted in the cause of Serbia against the influences represented by Franz Ferdinand; but when one is dreaming one doesn't pause to direct the logical course of one's dreams. Perhaps I was only clutching at whatever I could say for Hugh; and at least I could say that. He was not a strong man in the sense of being fertile in ideas; but he was brave and generous, and where there was injustice his spirit would be among the first to be stirred by it. That conviction made me welcome him when, at last, I saw his stocky figure moving lower down among the pine trunks. I caught sight of him long before he discovered me, and could make my notes upon him. I could even make my notes upon myself, not wholly with my own approval. I was too business-like, too cool. There was nothing I possessed in the world that I would not have given for a single quickened heart-throb. I would have given it the more when I saw Hugh's pinched face and the furbished-up spring suit he had worn the year before. It was not the fact that he had worn it the year before that gave me a pang; it was that he must have worn it pretty steadily. I am not observant of men's clothes. Except that I like to see them neat, they are too much alike to be worth noticing. But anything not plainly opulent in Hugh smote me with a sense of guilt. It could so easily be attributed to my fault. I could so easily take it so myself. I did take it so myself. I said as he approached: "This man has suffered. He has suffered on my account. All my life must be given to making it up to him." I make no attempt to tell how we met. It was much as we had met after other separations, except that when he slipped to the low boulder and took me in his arms it was with a certainty of possession which had never hitherto belonged to him. There was nothing for me but to let myself go, and lie back in his embrace. I came to myself, as it were, on hearing him whisper, with his face close to mine: "You witch! You witch! How did you ever manage it?" I made the necessity for giving him an explanation the excuse for working myself free. "I didn't manage it. It was Mrs. Brokenshire." He cried out, incredulously: "Oh no! Not the madam!" "Yes, Hugh. It was she. She asked him. She must have begged him. That's all I can tell you about it." He was even more incredulous. "Then it must have been on your account rather than on mine; you can bet your sweet life on that!" "Hugh, darling, she's fond of you. She's fond of you all. If you could only have--" "We couldn't." For the first time he showed signs of admitting me into the family sense of disgrace. "Did you ever hear how dad came to marry her?" I said that something had reached me, but one couldn't put the blame for that on her. "And she's had more pull with him than we've had," he declared, resentfully. "You can see that by the way he's given in to her on this--" I soothed him on this point, however, and we talked of a general reconciliation. From that we went on to the subject of our married life, of which his father, in the hasty interview of half an hour before, had briefly sketched the conditions. A place was to be found for Hugh in the house of Meek & Brokenshire; his allowance was to be raised to twelve or fifteen thousand a year; we were to have a modest house, or apartment in New York. No date had been fixed for the wedding, so far as Hugh could learn; but it might be in October. We should be granted perhaps a three months' trip abroad, with a return to New York before Christmas. He gave me these details with an excitement bespeaking intense satisfaction. It was easy to see that, after his ten months' rebellion, he was eager to put his head under the Brokenshire yoke again. His instinct in this was similar to Ethel's and Jack's--only that they had never declared themselves free. I could best compare him to a horse who for one glorious half-hour kicks up his heels and runs away, and yet returns to the stable and the harness as the safest sphere of blessedness. Under the Brokenshire yoke he could live, move, have his being, and enjoy his twelve or fifteen thousand a year, without that onerous responsibility which comes with the exercise of choice. Under the Brokenshire yoke I, too, should be provided for. I should be raised from my lowly estate, be given a position in the world, and, though for a while the fact of the _mésalliance_ might tell against me, it would be overcome in my case as in that of Libby Jaynes. His talk was a pæan on our luck. "All we'll have to do for the rest of our lives, little Alix, will be to get away with our thousand dollars a month. I guess we can do that--what? We sha'n't even have to save, because in the natural course of events--" He left this reference to his father's demise to go on with his hymn of self-congratulation. "But we've pulled it off, haven't we? We've done the trick. Lord! what a relief it is! What do you think I've been living on for the last six weeks? Chocolate and crackers for the most part. Lost thirty pounds in two months. But it's all right now, little Alix. I've got you and I mean to keep you." He asked, suddenly: "How did you come to know the madam so well? I'd never had a hint of it. You do keep some things awful close!" I made my answer as truthful as I could. "This was nothing I could tell you, Hugh. Mrs. Brokenshire was sorry for me ever since last year in Newport. She never dared to say anything about it, because she was afraid of your father and the rest of you; but she did pity me--" "Well, I'll be blowed! I didn't suppose she had it in her. She's always seemed to me like a woman walking in her sleep--" "She's waking up now. She's beginning to understand that perhaps she hasn't taken the right attitude toward your father; and I think she'd like to begin. It was to work that problem out that she decided to come away with me and live simply for a while. . . . She wanted to escape from every one, and I was the nearest to no one she could find to take with her; and so-- If your sisters or your brother ask you any questions I wish you would tell them that." We discussed this theme in its various aspects while the afternoon light turned the pine trunks round us into columns of red-gold, and a soft wind soothed us with balsamic smells. Birds flitted and fluted overhead, and now and then a squirrel darted up to challenge us with the peak of its inquisitive sharp little nose. I chose what I thought a favorable moment to bring before Hugh the matter that had been so summarily shelved by his father. I wanted so much to be married among my own people and from what I could call my own home. His child-like, wide-apart, small blue eyes regarded me with growing astonishment as I made my point clear. "For Heaven's sake, my sweet little Alix, what do you want that for? Why, we can be married in Newport!" His emphasis on the word Newport was as if he had said Heaven. "Yes; but you see, Hugh, darling, Newport means nothing to me--" "It will jolly well have to if--" "And my home means such a lot. If you were marrying Lady Cissie Boscobel you'd certainly go to Goldborough for the occasion." "Ah, but that would be different!" "Different in what way?" He colored, and grew confused. "Well, don't you see?" "No; I'm afraid I don't." "Oh yes, you do, little Alix," he smiled, cajolingly. "Don't try to pull my leg. We can't have one of these bang-up weddings, as it is. Of course we can't--and we don't want it. But they'll do the decent thing by us, now that dad has come round at all, and let people see that they stand behind us. If we were to go down there to where you came from--Halifax, or wherever it is--it would put us back ten years with the people we want to keep up with." I submitted again, because I didn't know what else to do. I submitted, and yet with a rage which was the hotter for being impotent. These people took it so easily for granted that I had no pride, and was entitled to none. They allowed me no more in the way of antecedents than if I had been a new creation on the day when I first met Mrs. Rossiter. They believed in the principle of inequality of birth as firmly as if they had been minor German royalties. My marriage to Hugh might be valid in the eyes of the law, but to them it would always be more or less morganatic. I could only be Duchess of Hohenberg to this young prince; and perhaps not even that. She was noble--_adel_, as they call it--at the least; while I was merely a nursemaid. But I made another grimace--and swallowed it. I could have broken out with some vicious remark, which would have bewildered poor Hugh beyond expression and made no change in his point of view. Even if it relieved my pent-up bitterness, it would have left me nothing but a nursemaid; and, since I was to marry him, why disturb the peace? And I owed him too much not to marry him; of that I was convinced. He had been kind to me from the first day he knew me; he had been true to me in ways in which few men would have been true. To go back on him now would not be simply a change of mind; it would be an act of cruel treachery. No, I argued; I could do nothing but go on with it. My debt could not be paid in any other way. Besides, I declared to myself, with a catch in the throat, I--I loved him. I had said it so many times that it must be true. When the minute came to go down the hill and prepare for the little dinner at which I was to be included in the family, my thoughts reverted to the event that had startled the world. "Isn't this terrible?" I said to Hugh, indicating the paper I carried in my hand. He looked at me with the mild wondering which always made his expression vacuous. "Isn't what terrible?" "Why, the assassinations in Bosnia." "Oh! I saw there had been something." "Something!" I cried. "It's one of the most momentous things that have ever happened in history." "What makes you say that?" he inquired, turning on me the innocent stare of his baby-blue eyes as we sauntered between the pine trunks. I had to admit that I didn't know, I only felt it in my bones. "Aren't they always doing something of the sort down there--killing kings and queens, or something?" "Oh, not like this!" I paused. "You know, Hugh, Serbia is a wonderful little country when you've heard a bit of its story." "Is it?" He took out a cigarette and lit it. In the ardor of my sympathy I poured out on him some of the information I had just acquired. "And we're all responsible," I was finishing; "English, French, Russians, Austrians--" "We're not responsible--we Americans," he broke in, quietly. "Oh, I'm not so sure about that. If you inherit the civilization of the races from which you spring you inherit some of their crimes; and you've got to pay for them." "Not on your life!" he laughed, easily; but in the laugh there was something that cut me more deeply than he knew. CHAPTER XXI But once we were settled in Newport, I almost forgot the tragedy of Sarajevo. The world, it seemed to me, had forgotten it, too; it had passed into history. Franz Ferdinand and Sophie Chotek being dead and buried, we had gone on to something else. Personally I had gone on to the readjustment of my life. I was with Ethel Rossiter as a guest. Guest or retainer, however, made little difference. She treated me just as before--with the same detached, live-and-let-live kindliness that dropped into the old habit of making use of me. I liked that. It kept us on a simple, natural footing. I could see myself writing her notes and answering her telephone calls as long as I lived. Except that now and then, when she thought of it, she called me Alix, instead of Miss Adare, she might still have been paying me so much a month. "Well, I can't get over father," was the burden of her congratulations to me. "I knew that woman could turn him around her finger; but I didn't suppose she could do it like that. You played your cards well in getting hold of her." "I didn't play my cards," was my usual defense, "because I had none to play.'" "Then what on earth brought her over to your side?" "Life." "Life--fiddlesticks! It was life with a good deal of help from Alix Adare." She added, on one occasion: "Why didn't you take that young Strangways--frankly, now?" "Because," I smiled, "I don't believe in polyandry." "But you're fond of him. That's what beats me! You're fond of one man and you're marrying another; and yet--" I don't know what color I turned outwardly, but within I was fire. It was the fire of confusion and not of indignation. I felt it safest to let her go on, hazarding no remarks of my own. "And yet--what?" "And yet you don't seem like a girl who'd marry for money--you really don't. That's one thing about you." I screwed up a wan smile. "Thanks." "So that I'm all in the dark. What you can see in Hugh--" "What I can see in Hugh is the kindest of men. That's a good deal to say of any one." "Well, I'll be hanged if I'd marry even the kindest of men if it was for nothing but his kindness." The Jack Brokenshires were jovially non-committal, letting it go at that. In offering the necessary good wishes Jack contented himself with calling me a sly one; while Pauline, who was mannish and horsey, wrung my hand till she almost pulled it off, remarking that in a family like the Brokenshires the natural principle was, The more, the merrier. Acting, doubtless, on a hint from higher up, they included Hugh and me in a luncheon to some twenty of their cronies, whose shibboleths I didn't understand and among whom I was lost. As far as I went into general society it was so unobtrusively that I might be said not to have gone at all. I made no sensation as the affianced bride of Hugh Brokenshire. To the great fact of my engagement few people paid any attention, and those who referred to it did so with the air of forgetting it the minute afterward. It came to me with some pain that in his own circle Hugh was regarded more or less as a nonentity. I was a "queer Canadian." Newport presented to me a hard, polished exterior, like a porcelain wall. It was too high to climb over and it afforded no nooks or crevices in which I might find a niche. No one ever offered me the slightest hint of incivility--or of interest. "It's because they've too much to do and to think of," Mrs. Brokenshire explained to me. "They know too many people already. Their lives are too full. Money means nothing to them, because they've all got so much of it. Quiet good breeding isn't striking enough. Cleverness they don't care anything about--and not even for scandals outside their own close corporation. All the same"--I waited while she formulated her opinion--"all the same, a great deal could be done in Newport--in New York--in Washington--in America at large--if we had the right sort of women." "And haven't you?" "No. Our women are--how shall I say?--too small--too parochial--too provincial. They've no national outlook; they've no authority. Few of them know how to use money or to hold high positions. Our men hardly ever turn to them for advice on important things, because they've rarely any to give." Her remarks showed so much more of the reflecting spirit than I had ever seen in her before, that I was emboldened to ask: "Then, couldn't you show them how?" She shook her head. "No; I'm an American, like the rest. It isn't in me. It's both personal and national. Cissie Boscobel could do it--not because she's clever or has had experience, but because the tradition is there. We've no tradition." The tradition in Cissie Boscobel became evident on a day in July when she came to sit beside me in the grounds of the Casino. I had gone with Mrs. Rossiter, with whom I had been watching the tennis. When she drifted away with a group of her friends I was left alone. It was then that Lady Cecilia, in tennis things, with her racket in her hand, came across the grass to me. She moved with the splendid careless freedom of women who pass their lives outdoors and yet are trained to drawing-rooms. She didn't go to her point at once; she was, in fact, a mistress of the introductory. The visits she had made and the people she had met since our last meeting were the theme of her remarks; and now she was staying with the Burkes. She would remain with them for a month, after which she had two or three places to go to on Long Island and in the Catskills. She would have to be at Strath-na-Cloid in September, for the wedding of her sister Janet and the young man in the Inverness Rangers, who would then have got home from India. She would be sorry to leave. She adored America. Americans were such fun. Their houses were so fresh and new. She doted on the multiplicity of bathrooms. It would be so horrid to live at Strath-na-Cloid or Dillingham Hall after the cheeriness of Mrs. Burke's or Mrs. Rossiter's. Screwing up her greenish cat-like eyes till they were no more than tiny slits with a laugh in them, she said, with her deliciously incisive utterance: "So you've done it, haven't you?" "You mean that Mr. Brokenshire has come round." "You know, that seems to me the most wonderful thing I ever heard of! It's like a miracle isn't it? You've hardly lifted a finger--and yet here it is." She leaned forward, her firm hands grasping the racket that lay across her knees. "I want to tell you how much I admire you. You're splendid! You're not a bit like a Colonial, are you?" Since she meant well, I mastered my indignation. "Oh yes, I am. I'm exactly like a Colonial, and very proud of the fact." "Fancy! And are all Colonials like you?" "All that aren't a great deal cleverer and better." "Fancy!" she breathed again. "I must tell them when I go home. They don't know it, you know." She added, in a slight change of key: "I'm so glad Hugh is going to have a wife like you." It was on my tongue to say, "He'd be much better off with a wife like you"; but I made it: "What do you think it will do for him?" "It will bring him out. Hugh is splendid in his way--just as you are--only he needs bringing out, don't you think?" "He hasn't needed bringing out in the last ten months," I declared, with some emphasis. "See what he's done--" "And yet he didn't pull it off, did he? You managed that. You'll manage a lot of other things for him, too. I must go back to the others," she continued, getting up. "They're waiting for me to make up the set. But I wanted to tell you I'm--I'm glad--without--without any--any reserves." I think there were tears in her narrow eyes, as I know there were in my own; but she beat such a hasty retreat that I could not be very sure of it. Mildred Brokenshire was a surprise to me. I had hardly ever seen her till she sent for me in order to talk about Hugh. I found her lying on a couch in a dim corner of her big, massively furnished room, her face no more than a white pain-pinched spot in the obscurity. After having kissed me she made me sit at a distance, nominally to get the breeze through an open window, but really that I might not have to look at her. In an unnaturally hollow, tragic voice she said it was a pleasure to her that Hugh should have got at last the woman he loved, especially after having made such a fight for her. Though she didn't know me, she was sure I had fine qualities; otherwise Hugh would not have cared for me as he did. He was a dear boy, and a good wife could make much of him. He lacked initiative in the way that was unfortunately common among rich men's sons, especially in America; but the past winter had shown that he was not deficient in doggedness. She wondered if I loved him as much as he loved me. There was that in this suffering woman, so far withdrawn from our struggles in the world outside, which prompted me to be as truthful as the circumstances rendered possible. "I love him enough, dear Miss Brokenshire," I said, with some emotion, "to be eager to give my life to the object of making him happy." She accepted this in silence. At least it was silence for a time, after which she said, in measured, organ-like tones: "We can't make other people happy, you know. We can only do our duty--and let their happiness take care of itself. They must make themselves happy! It's a mistake for any of us to feel responsible for more than doing right. "When we do right other people must make the best they can of it." "I believe that, too," I responded, earnestly--"only that it's sometimes so hard to tell what is right." There was again an interval of silence. The voice, when it came out of the dimness, might have been that of the Pythian virgin oracle. The utterances I give were not delivered consecutively, but in answer to questions and observations of my own. "Right, on the whole, is what we've been impelled to do when we've been conscientiously seeking the best way. . . . Forces catch us, often contradictory and bewildering forces, and carry us to a certain act, or to a certain line of action. Very well, then; be satisfied. Don't go back. Don't torture yourself with questionings. Don't dig up what has already been done. That's done! Nothing can undo it. Accept it as it is. If there's a wrong or a mistake in it life will take care of it. . . . Life is not a blind impulse, working blindly. It's a beneficent, rectifying power. It's dynamic. It's a perpetual unfolding. It's a fire that utilizes as fuel everything that's cast into it. . . ." And yet when I kissed her to say good-by I got the impression that she didn't like me or that she didn't trust me. I was not always liked, but I was generally trusted. The idea that this Brokenshire seeress, this suffering priestess whose whole life was to lie on a couch and think, and think, and think, had reserves in her consciousness on my account was painful. I said so to Hugh that evening. "Oh, you mustn't take Mildred's gassing too seriously," he advised. "Gets a lot of ideas in her head: but--poor thing--what else can she do? Since she doesn't know anything about real life, she just spins theories on the subject. Whatever you want to know, little Alix, I'll tell you." "Thanks," I said, dryly, explaining the shiver which ran through me by the fact that we were sitting in the loggia, in the open air. "Then we'll go in." "No, no!" I protested. "I like it much better out here." But he was on his feet. "We'll go in. I can't have my sweet little Alix taking cold. I'm here to protect her. She must do what I tell her. We'll go in." And we went in. It was one of the things I was learning, that my kind Hugh would kill me with kindness. It was part of his way of taking possession. If he could help it he wouldn't leave me for an hour unwatched; nor would he let me lift a hand. "There are servants to do that," he would say. "It's one of the things little Alix will have to get accustomed to." "I can't get accustomed to doing nothing, Hugh." "You'll have plenty to do in having a good time." "Oh, but I must have more than that in life." "In your old life, perhaps; but everything is to be different now. Don't be afraid, little Alix; you'll learn." "Learn what? It seems to me you're taking the possibility of ever learning anything away." This was a joke. Over it he laughed heartily. "You won't know yourself, little Alix, when I've had you for a year." Mr. Brokenshire's compliments to me were in a similar vein. He seemed always to be in search of the superior position he had lost on the day we sat looking up into the hillside wood. His dear Alexandra must never forget her social inexperience. In being raised to a higher level I was to watch the manners of those about me. I was to copy them, as people learning French or Italian try to catch an accent which is not that of their mother tongue. They probably do it badly; but that is better than not doing it at all. I could never be an Ethel Rossiter or a Daisy Burke, but I could become an imitation. Imitations being to the house of Brokenshire like paste diamonds or fish-glue pearls, my gratitude for the effort they made in accepting me had to be the more humble. And yet on occasions I tried to get justice for myself. "I'm not altogether without knowledge of the world, Mr. Brokenshire," I said, after one of his kindly, condescending lectures. "Not only in Canada, but in England, and to some slight extent abroad, I've had opportunities--" "Yes, yes; but this is different. You've had opportunities, as you say. But there you were looking on from the outside, while here you'll be living from within." "Oh, but I wasn't looking on from the outside--" His hand went up; his pitiful crooked smile was meant to express tolerance. "You'll pardon me, my dear; but we gain nothing by discussing that point. You'll see it yourself when you've been one of us a little longer. Meantime, if you watch the women about you and study them--" We left it there. I always left it there. But I did begin to see that there was a difference between me and the women whom Hugh and his father wished me to take as my models. I had hitherto not observed this variation in type--I might possibly call it this distinction between national ideals--during my two years under the Stars and Stripes; and I find a difficulty in expressing it, for the reason that to anything I say so many exceptions can be made. The immense class of wage-earning women would be exceptions; mothers and housekeepers would again be exceptions; exceptions would be all women engaged in political or social or philanthropic service to the country; but when this allowance has been made there still remain a multitude of American women economically independent, satisfied to be an incubus on the land. They dress, they entertain, they go to entertainments, they live gracefully. When they can't help it they bear children; but they bear as few as possible. Otherwise they are not much more than pleasing forms of vegetation, idle of body and mind; and the American man, as a rule, loves to have it so. "The American man," Mrs. Rossiter had said to me once, "likes figurines." Hugh was a rebel to that doctrine, she had added then; but his rebellion had been short-lived. He had come back to the standard of his countrymen. He had chosen me, he used to say, because I was a woman of whom a Socialist might make his star; and now I was to be put in a vitrine. Canadian women, as a class, are not made for the vitrine. Their instinct is to be workers in the world and mates for men. They have no very high opinion of their privileges; they are not self-analytical. They rarely think of themselves as the birds and flowers of the human race, or as other than creatures to put their shoulders to the wheel in the ways of which God made them mistresses. Not ashamed to know how to bake and brew and mend and sew, they rule the house with a practically French economy. I was brought up in that way; not ignorant of books or of social amenities, but with the assumption that I was in this world to contribute something to it by my usefulness. I hadn't contributed much, Heaven only knows; but the impulse to work was instinctive. And as Hugh's wife I began to see that I should be lifted high and dry into a sphere where there was nothing to be done. I should dress and I should amuse myself; I should amuse myself and I should dress. It was all Mrs. Rossiter did; it was all Mrs. Brokenshire did--except that to her, poor soul, amusement had become but gall and bitterness. Still, with the large exceptions which I cheerfully concede, it was the American ideal, so far as I could get hold of it; and I began to feel that, in the long run, it would stifle me. It was a kind of feminine Nirvana. It offered me nothing to strive for, nothing to wait for in hope, nothing to win gloriously. The wife of Larry Strangways, whoever she turned out to be, would have a goal before her, high up and far ahead, with the incentive of lifelong striving. Hugh Brokenshire's wife would have everything done for her, as it was done for Mildred. Like Mildred she would have nothing to do but think and think and think--or train herself to not thinking at all. Little by little I saw myself being steered toward this fate; and, like St. Peter, when I thought thereon I wept. I had taken to weeping all alone in my pretty room, which looked out on shrubberies and gardens. I should probably have shrubberies and gardens like them some day; so that weeping was the more foolish. Every one considered me fortunate. All my Canadian and English friends spoke of me as a lucky girl, and, in their downright, practical way, said I was "doing very well for myself." Of course I was--which made it criminal on my part not to take the Brokenshire view of things with equanimity. I tried to. I bent my will to it. I bent my spirit to it. In the end I might have succeeded if the heavenly trumpet had not sounded again, with another blast from Sarajevo. CHAPTER XXII As I have already said, I had almost forgotten Sarajevo. The illustrated papers had shown us a large coffin raised high and a small one set low, telling us of unequal rank, even at the Great White Throne. I had a thought for that from time to time; but otherwise Franz Ferdinand and Sophie Chotek were less to me than Cæsar or Napoleon. But toward the end of July there was a sudden rumbling. It was like that first disquieting low note of the "Rheingold," rising from elemental depths, presaging love and adventure and war and death and defeat and triumph, and the end of the old gods and the burning of their Valhalla. I cannot say that any of us knew its significance; but it was arresting. "What does it mean?" I think Cissie Boscobel was the first to ask me that question, to which I could only reply by asking it in my own turn. What did it mean--this ultimatum from Vienna to Belgrade? Did it mean anything? Could it possibly mean what dinner-table diplomats hinted at between a laugh and a look of terror? Hugh and I were descending the Rossiter lawn on a bright afternoon near the end of July. Cissie, who was passing with some of the Burkes, ran over the grass toward us. Had we seen the papers? Had we read the Austrian note? Could we make anything out of it? I recall her as an extraordinarily vivid picture against the background of blue sea, in white, with a green-silk tunic embroidered in peacock's feathers, with long jade ear-rings and big jade beads, and a jade-colored plume in a black-lace hat cocked on her flaming hair as she alone knew how to cock it. I merely want to point out here that to Cissie Boscobel and me the questions she asked already possessed a measure of life-and-death importance; while to Hugh they had none at all. I remember him as he stood aloof from us, strong and stocky and summer-like in his white flannels, a type of that safe and separated America which could afford to look on at Old World tragedies and feel them of no personal concern. To him Cissie Boscobel and I, with anxiety in our eyes and something worse already clutching at our hearts, were but two girls talking of things they didn't understand and of no great interest, anyway. "Come along, little Alix!" he interrupted, gaily. "Cissie will excuse us. The madam is waiting to motor us over to South Portsmouth, and I don't want to keep her waiting. You know," he explained, proudly, "she thinks this little girl is a peach!" Cissie ran back to join the Burkes and we continued our way along the Cliff Walk to Mr. Brokenshire's. Hugh had come for me in order that we might have the stroll together. I gave him my view of the situation as we went along, though in it there was nothing original. "You see, if Austria attacks Serbia, then Russia must attack Austria; in which case Germany will attack Russia, and France will attack Germany. Then England will certainly have to pitch in." "But we won't. We shall be out of it." The complacency of his tone nettled me. "But I sha'n't be out of it, Hugh." He laughed. "You? What could you do, little lightweight?" "I don't know; but whatever it was I should want to be doing it." This joke might have been characterized as a screamer. He threw back his head with a loud guffaw. "Well, of all the little spitfires!" Catching me by the arm, he hugged me to him, as we were hidden in a rocky nook of the path. "Why, you're a regular Amazon! A soldier in your way would be no more than a ninepin in a bowling-alley." I didn't enter into the spirit of this pleasantry. On the contrary, I concealed my anger in endeavoring to speak with dignity. "And, what's more, Hugh, than not being out of it myself, I don't see how I could marry a man who was. Of course, no such war will come to pass. It couldn't! The world has gone beyond that sort of madness. We know too well the advantages of peace. But if it should break out--" "I'll buy you a popgun with the very first shot that's fired." But in August, when the impossible had happened, when Germany had invaded Belgium, and France had moved to her eastern frontier, and Russia was pouring into Prussia, and English troops were on foreign continental soil for the first time in fifty years, Hugh's indifference grew painful. He was perhaps not more indifferent than any one else with whom I was thrown, but to me he seemed so because he was so near me. He read the papers; he took a sporting interest in the daily events; but it resembled--to my mind at least--the interest of an eighteenth-century farmer's lad excited at a cockfight. It was somewhat in the spirit of "Go it, old boy!" to each side indifferently. If he took sides at all it was rather on that to which Cissie Boscobel and I were nationally opposed; but this, we agreed, was to tease us. So far as opinions of his own were concerned, he was neutral. He meant by that that he didn't care a jot who lost or who won, so long as America was out of the fray and could eat its bread in safety. "There are more important things than safety," I said to him, scornfully, one day. "Such as--" But when I gave him what seemed to me the truisms of life he was contented to laugh in my face. Cissie Boscobel was more patient with him than I was. I have always admired in the English that splendid tolerance which allows to others the same liberty of thinking they claim for themselves; but in this instance I had none of it. Hugh was too much a part of myself. When he said, as he was fond of saying, "If Germany gets at poor degenerate old England she'll crumple her up," Lady Cissie could fling him a pitying, confident smile, with no venom in it whatever, while I became bitter or furious. Fortunately, Mr. Brokenshire was called to New York on business connected with the war, so that his dear Alexandra was delivered for a while from his daily condescensions. Though Hugh didn't say so in actual words, I inferred that the struggle would further enrich the house of Meek & Brokenshire. Of the vast sums it would handle a commission would stick to its fingers, and if the business grew too heavy for the usual staff to deal with Hugh's own energies were to be called into play. His father, he told me, had said so. It would be an eye-opener to Cousin Andrew Brew, he crowed, to see him helping to finance the European War within a year after that slow-witted nut had had the hardihood to refuse him! In the Brokenshire villa the animation was comparable to a suppressed fever. Mr. Brokenshire came back as often as he could. Thereupon there followed whispered conferences between him and Jack, between him and Jim Rossiter, between him and kindred magnates, between three and four and six and eight of them together, with a ceaseless stream of telegrams, of the purport of which we women knew nothing. We gave dinners and lunches, and bathed at Bailey's, and played tennis at the Casino, and lived in our own little lady-like Paradise, shut out from the interests convulsing the world. Knitting had not yet begun. The Red Cross had barely issued its appeals. America, with the speed of the Franco-Prussian War in mind, was still under the impression that it could hardly give its philanthropic aid before the need for it would be over. Of all our little coterie Lady Cissie and I alone perhaps took the sense of things to heart. Even with us, it was the heart that acted rather than the intelligence. So far as intelligence went, we were convinced that, once Great Britain lifted her hand, all hostile nations would tremble. That was a matter of course. It amazed us that people round us should talk of our enemy's efficiency. The word was just coming into use, always with the implication that the English were inefficient and unprepared. That would have made us laugh if those who said such things hadn't said them like Hugh, with detached, undisturbed deliberation, as a matter that was nothing to them. Many of them hoped, and hoped ardently, that the side represented by England, Russia, and France would be victorious; but if it wasn't, America would still be able to sit down to eat and drink, and rise up to play, as we were doing at the moment, while nothing could shake her from her ease. Owing to our kinship in sentiment, Lady Cissie and I drew closer together. We gave each other bits of information in which no one else would have had an interest. She was getting letters from England; I from England and Canada. Her brother Leatherhead had been ordered to France with his regiment--was probably there. Her brother Rowan, who had been at Sandhurst, had got his commission. The young man her sister Janet was engaged to had sailed with the Rangers for Marseilles and would go at once to the front instead of coming home. If he could get leave the young couple would be married hastily, after which he would return to his duty. My sister Louise wrote that her husband's ship was in the North Sea and that her news of him was meager. The husband of my sister Victoria, who had had a staff appointment at Gibraltar, had been ordered to rejoin his regiment; and he, too, would soon be in Belgium. From Canada I heard of that impulse toward recruiting which was thrilling the land from the Island of Vancouver, in the Pacific, to that of Cape Breton, in the Atlantic, and in which the multitudes were of one heart and one soul. Men came from farms, factories, and fisheries; they came from banks and shops and mines. They tramped hundreds of miles, from the Yukon, from Ungava, and from Hudson Bay. They arrived in troops or singly, impelled by nothing but that love which passes the love of women--the love of race, the love of country, the love of honor, the love of something vast and intangible and inexplicable, that comes as near as possible to that love of man which is almost the love of God. I can proudly say that among my countrymen it was this, and it was nothing short of this. They were as far from the fray as their neighbors to the south, and as safe. Belgium and Serbia meant less to most of them than to the people of San Francisco, Chicago, and New York; but a great cause, almost indefinable to thought, meant everything. To that cause they gave themselves--not sparingly or grudgingly, but like Araunah the Jebusite to David the son of Jesse, "as a king gives unto a king." Men are wonderful to me--all men of all races. They face hardship so cheerfully and dangers so gaily, and death so serenely. This is true of men not only in war, but in peace--of men not only as saints, but as sinners. And among men it seems to me that our Colonial men are in the first rank of the manliest. Frenchman, German, Austrian, Italian, Russian, Englishman, and Turk had each some visible end to gain. They couldn't help going. They couldn't help fighting. Our men had nothing to gain that mortal eyes could see. They have endured, "as seeing Him who is invisible." They have come from the far ends of the earth, and are still coming--turning their backs on families and business and pleasure and profit and hope. They have counted the world well lost for love--for a true love--a man's love--a redemptive love if ever there was one; for "greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." But when, with my heart flaming, I spoke of this to Lady Cecilia, she was cold. "Fancy!" was the only comment she ever made on the subject. Toward my own intensity of feeling she was courteous; but she plainly felt that in a war in which the honors would be to the professional soldier, and to the English professional soldier first of all, Colonials were out of place. It was somewhat presumptuous of them to volunteer. She was a splendid character--with British limitations. Among those limitations her attitude toward Colonials was, as I saw things, the first. She rarely spoke of Canadians or Australians; it was always of Colonials, with a delicately disdainful accent on the word impossible to transcribe. Geography, either physical or ethnic, was no more her strong point than it is that of other women; and I think she took Colonials to be a kind of race of aborigines, like the Maoris or the Hottentots--only that by some freak of nature they were white. So, whenever my heart was so hot that I could contain myself no longer, and I poured out my foolish tales of the big things we hoped to do for the empire and the world, the dear thing would merely utter her dazed, "Fancy!" and strike me dumb. And it all threw me back on the thought of Larry Strangways. Reader, if you suppose that I had forgotten him you are making a mistake. Everything made my heart cry out for him--Hugh's inanity; his father's lumbering dignity; Mildred's sepulchral apothegms, which were deeper than I could fathom and higher than I could scale; Cissie Boscobel's stolid scorn of my country; and Newport's whole attitude of taking no notice of me or mine. Whenever I had minutes of rebellion or stress it was on Larry Strangways I called, with an agonized appeal to him to come to me. It was a purely rhetorical appeal, let me say in passing. As it would never reach him, he could not respond to it; but it relieved my repressed emotions to send it out on the wings of the spirit. It was the only vehicle I could trust; and even that betrayed me--for he came. He came one hot afternoon about the 20th of August. His card was brought to me by the rosebud Thomas as I was taking a siesta up-stairs. "Tell Mr. Strangways I shall come down at once," I said to my footman knight; but after he had gone I sat still. I sat still to estimate my strength. If Larry Strangways made such an appeal to me as I had made to him, should I have the will-power to resist him? I could only reply that I must have it! There was no other way. When Hugh had been so true to me it was impossible to be other than true to him. It was no longer a question of love, but of right: and I couldn't forsake my maxim. Nevertheless, when I threw off my dressing-gown instinct compelled me to dress at my prettiest. To be sure, my prettiest was only a flowered muslin and a Leghorn hat, in which I resembled the vicar's daughter in a Royal Academy picture; but if I was never to see Larry Strangways again I wanted the vision in his heart to be the most decent possible. As I dressed I owned to myself that I loved him. I had never done so before, because I had never known it--or rather, I had known it from that evening on the train when I had seen nothing but his traveling-cap; only I had strangled the knowledge in my heart. I meant to strangle it again. I should strangle it the minute I went down-stairs. But for this little interval, just while I was fastening my gown and pinning on my hat, it seemed to me of no great harm to let the unfortunate passion come out for a breath in the sunlight. And yet, after having rehearsed all the romantic speeches I should make in giving him up forever, he never mentioned love to me at all. On the contrary, he had on that gleaming smile which, from the beginning of our acquaintance, was like the flash of a sword held up between him and me. When he came forward from a corner of the long, dim drawing-room all the embarrassment was on my side. "I suppose you wonder what brings me," were the words he uttered when shaking hands. I tried to murmur politely that, whatever it was, I was glad to see him--only the words refused to form themselves. "Can't we go out?" he asked, as I cast about me for chairs. "It's so stuffy in here." I led the way through the hall, picking up a rose-colored parasol of Mrs. Rossiter's as we passed the umbrella-stand. "How much money have you got?" he asked, abruptly, as soon as we were on the terrace. I made an effort to gather my wits from the far fields into which they had wandered. "Do you mean in ready cash? Or how much do I own in all?" "How much in all?" I told him--just a few thousand dollars, the wreckage of what my father had left. My total income, apart from what I earned, was about four hundred dollars a year. "I want it," he said, as we descended the steps to the lower terrace. "How soon could you let me have it?" I made the reckoning as we went down the lawn toward the sea. I should have to write to my uncle, who would sell my few bonds and forward me the proceeds. Mr. Strangways himself said that would take a week. "I'm going to make a small fortune for you," he laughed, in explanation. "All the nations of the earth are beginning to send to us for munitions, and Stacy Grainger is right on the spot with the goods. There'll be a demand for munitions for years to come--" "Oh, not for years to come!" I exclaimed. "Only till the end of the war." "'But the end is not by and by,'" he quoted from the Bible. "It's a long way off from by and by--believe me! We're up against the struggle mankind has been getting ready for ever since it's had a history. I don't want just to make money out of it; but, since money's to be made--since we can't help making it--I want you to be in on it." I didn't thank him, because I had something else on my mind. "Perhaps you don't know that I'm engaged to Hugh Brokenshire. We're to be married before we move back to New York." "Yes, I do know it. That's the reason I'm suggesting this. You'll want some money of your own, in order to feel independent. If you don't have it the Brokenshire money will break you down." I don't know what I said, or whether I was able to say anything. There was something in this practical care-taking interest that moved me more than any love declaration he could have made. He was renouncing me in everything but his protection. That was going with me. That was watching over me. There was no one to watch over me in the whole world with just this sort of devotion. I suppose we talked. We must have said something as we descended the slope; I must have stammered some sort of appreciation. All I can clearly remember is that, as we reached the steps going down to the Cliff Walk, Hugh was coming up. I had forgotten that this sort of encounter was possible. I had forgotten Hugh. When I saw his innocent, blank face staring up at us I felt I was confronting my doom. "Well!" he ejaculated, as though he had caught us in some criminal conspiracy. As it was for me to explain, I said, limply: "Mr. Strangways has been good enough to offer to make some money for me, Hugh. Isn't that kind of him?" Hugh grew slowly crimson. His voice shook with passion. He came up one step. "Mr. Strangways will be kinder still in minding his own business." "Oh, Hugh!" "Don't be offended, Mr. Brokenshire," Larry Strangways said, peaceably. "I merely had the opportunity to advise Miss Adare as to her investments--" "I shall advise Miss Adare as to her investments. It happens that she's engaged to me!" "But she's not married to you. An engagement is not a marriage; it's only a preliminary period in which two persons agree to consider whether or not a marriage between them would be possible. Since that's the situation at present, I thought it no harm to tell Miss Adare that if she puts her money into some of the new projects for ammunition that I know about--" "And I'm sure she's not interested." Mr. Strangways bowed. "That will be for her to decide. I understood her to say--" "Whatever you understood her to say, sir, Miss Adare is not interested! Good afternoon." He nodded to me to come down the steps. "I was just coming over for you. Shall we walk along together?" I backed away from him toward the stone balustrade. "But, Hugh, I can't leave Mr. Strangways like this. He's come all the way from New York on purpose to--" "Then I shall defray his expense and pay him for his time; but if we're going at all, dear--" At a sign of the eyes from Larry Strangways I mastered my wrath at this insolence, and spoke meekly: "I didn't know we were going anywhere in particular." "And you'll excuse me, Mr. Brokenshire," our visitor interrupted, "if I say that I can't be dismissed in this way by any one but Miss Adare herself. You must remember she isn't your wife--that she's still a free agent. Perhaps, if I explain the matter a little further--" Hugh put up his hand in stately imitation of his father. "Please! There's no need of that." "Oh, but there is, Hugh!" "You see," Mr. Strangways reasoned, "it's more than a question of making money. We shall make money, of course; but that's only incidental. What I'm really asking Miss Adare to do is to help one of the most glorious causes to which mankind has ever given itself--" I started toward him impulsively. "Oh! Do you feel like that?" "Not like that; that's all I feel. I live it! I've no other thought." It was curious to see how the force of this all-absorbing topic swept Hugh away from the merely personal standpoint. "And you call yourself an American?" he demanded, hotly. "I call myself a man. I don't emphasize the American. This thing transcends what we call nationality." Hugh shouted, somewhat in the tone of a man kicking against the pricks: "Not what I call nationality! It's got nothing to do with us." "Ah, but it will have something to do with us! It isn't merely a European struggle; it's a universal one. Sooner or later you'll see mankind divided into just two camps." Hugh warmed to the discussion. "Even if we do, it still doesn't follow that we'll all be in your camp." "That depends on whether we're among those driving forward or those kicking back. The American people has been in the first of these classes hitherto; it remains to be seen whether or not it's there still. But if it isn't as a nation I can tell you that some of us will be there as individuals." Hugh's tone was one of horror. "You mean that you'd go and fight?" "That's about the size of it." "Then you'd be a traitor to your country for getting her into trouble." "If I had to choose between being a traitor to my country and a traitor to my manhood I'd take the first. Fortunately, no such alternative will be thrust upon us. Miss Adare pointed out to me once that there couldn't be two right courses, each opposed to the other. Right and rights must be harmonious. If I'm true to myself I'm true to my country; and I can't be true to my country unless I do my 'bit,' as the phrase begins to go, for the good of the human race." "And you're really going?" I asked, breathlessly. "As soon as I can arrange things with Mr."--but he remembered he was speaking to a Brokenshire--"as soon as I can arrange things with--with my boss. He's willing to let me go, and to keep my job for me if I come back. He'll take charge of my small funds and of any Miss Adare intrusts to me. He asked me to give her that message. When it's settled I shall start for Canada." "That'll do you no good," Hugh stated, triumphantly. "They won't enlist Americans there." Larry Strangways smiled. "Oh, there are ways! If there's nothing else for it I'll swear in as a Canadian." "You'd do that!" In different tones the exclamation came from Hugh and me, simultaneously. I can still see Larry Strangways with his proud, fair head held high. "I'd do anything rather than not fight. My American birthright is as dear to me as it is to any one; but we've reached a time when such considerations must go by the board. For the matter of that, the more closely we can now identify the Briton and the American, the better it will be for the world." He explained this at some length. The theme was so engrossing that even Hugh was willing to listen to the argument. People were talking already of a world federation which would follow the war and unite all the nations in approximate brotherhood. Larry Strangways didn't believe in that as a possibility; at least he didn't believe in it as an immediate possibility. There were just two nations fitted to understand each other and act together, and if they couldn't fraternize and sympathize it was of no use to expect that miracle from races who had nothing in common. Get the United States and the British Empire to stand shoulder to shoulder, and sooner or later the other peoples would line up beside them. But you must begin at the beginning. Unless you started as an acorn you couldn't be an oak; if you were not willing to be a baby you could never become a man. There must be no more Hague conferences, with their vast programs and ineffective means. The failure of that dream was evident. We must be practical; we mustn't soar beyond the possible. The possible and the practical lay in British and American institutions and commonly understood principles. The world had an asset in them that had never been worked. To work it was the task not primarily of governments, but, first and before everything, of individuals. It was up to the British and American man and woman in their personal lives and opinions. I interrupted to say that it was up to the American man and woman first of all; that British willingness to co-operate with America was far more ready than any similar sentiment on the American side. Hugh threw the stress on efficiency. America was so thorough in her methods that she couldn't co-operate with British muddling. "What is efficiency?" Larry Strangways asked. "It's the best means of doing what you want to do, isn't it? Well, then, efficiency is a matter of your ambitions. There's the efficiency of the watch-dog who loves his master and guards the house, and there's the efficiency of the tiger in the jungle. One has one's choice." It was not a question, he continued to reason, as to who began this war--whether it was a king or a czar or a kaiser. It was not a question of English and German competition, or of French or Russian aggression, or fear of it. The inquiry went back of all that. It went back beyond modern Europe, beyond the Middle Ages, beyond Rome and Assyria and Egypt. It was a battle of principles rather than of nations--the last great struggle between reason and force--the fight between the instinct of some men to rule other men and the contrary instinct, implanted more or less in all men, that they shall hold up their heads and rule themselves. It was part of the impulse of the human race to forge ahead and upward. The powers that worked against liberty had been arming themselves, not merely for a generation or a century, but since the beginning of time, for just this trial of strength. The effort would be colossal and it would be culminating; no human being would be spared taking part in it. If America didn't come in of her own accord she would be compelled to come in; and meantime he, Larry Strangways, was going of free will. He didn't express it in just this way. He put it humbly, colloquially, with touches of slang. "I've got to be on the job, Miss Adare, and there are no two ways about it," were the words in which he ended. "I've just run down from New York to speak about--about the money; and--and to bid you good-by." He glanced toward Hugh. "Possibly, in view of the fact that I'm so soon to be off--and may not come back, you know," he added, with a laugh--"Mr. Brokenshire won't mind if--if we shake hands." I can say to Hugh's credit that he gave us a little while together. Going down the steps he had mounted, he called back, over his shoulder: "I'm going off for a walk, dear. I shall return in exactly fifteen minutes; and I expect you to be ready for me then." But when we were alone we had little or nothing to say. I recall that quarter of an hour as a period of emotional paralysis. I knew and he knew that each second ticked off an instant that all the rest of our lives we should long for in vain; and yet we didn't know how to make use of it. We began to wander slowly up the slope. We did it aimlessly, stopping when we were only a few yards away from the steps. We talked about the money. We talked about his going to Canada. We talked about the breaking off, so far as we knew, of all intercourse between Mr. Grainger and Mrs. Brokenshire. But we said nothing about ourselves. We said nothing about anything but what was superficial and trite and lame. Once or twice Larry Strangways took out his watch and glanced at it, as if to underscore the fact that the sands were slipping away. I kept my face hidden as much as possible beneath the rose-colored parasol. So far as I could judge, he looked over my head. We still had said nothing--there was still nothing we could say--when, beneath the bank of the lawn, and moving back in our direction, we saw the crown of Hugh's Panama. "Good-by!" Larry Strangways said, then. "Good-by!" My hand rested in his without pressure; without pressure his had taken mine. I think his eyes made one last wild, desperate appeal to me but if so I was unable to respond to it. I don't know how it happened that he turned his back and walked firmly up the lawn. I don't know how it happened that I also turned and took the necessary steps toward Hugh. All I can say is--and I can say it only in this way--all I can say is, I felt that I had died. That is, I felt that I had died except for one queer, bracing echo which suddenly come back to me. It was in the words Mildred Brokenshire had used, and which, at the time, I had thought too deep for me to understand: "Life is not a blind impulse working blindly. It is a beneficent rectifying power." CHAPTER XXIII As Hugh Brokenshire and I were walking along the Ocean Drive a few days after Larry Strangways had come and gone, the dear lad got some satisfaction from charging me with inconsistency. "You're certainly talking about England and Canada to-day very differently from what you used to." "Am I? Well, if it seems so it's because you don't understand the attitude of Canadians toward their mother country. As a country, as a government, England has been magnificently true to us always. It's only between Englishmen and Canadians as individuals that irritation arises, and for that most Canadians don't care. The Englishman snubs and the Canadian grows bumptious. I don't think the Canadian would grow bumptious if the Englishman didn't snub. Both snubbing and bumptiousness are offensive to me; but that, I suppose, is because I'm over-sensitive. And yet one forgets sensitiveness when it comes to anything really national. In that we're one, with as perfect a solidarity as that which binds Oregon to Florida. You'll never find one of us who isn't proud to serve when England gives the orders." "To be snubbed by her for serving." "Certainly; to be snubbed by her for serving! It's all we look for; it's all we shall ever get. No one need make any mistake about that. In Canada we're talking of sending fifty thousand troops to the front. We may send five hundred thousand and we shall still be snubbed. But we're not such children as to go into a cause in the hope that some one will give us sweets. We do it for the Cause. We know, too, that it isn't exactly injustice on the English side; it's only ungraciousness." "Oh, they're long on ungraciousness, all right." "Yes; they're very long on ungraciousness--" "Even dad feels that. You should hear him cuss after he's been kotowing to some British celebrity--and given him the best of all he's got--and put him up at the good clubs. They bring him letters in shoals, you know--" "I'm afraid it has to be admitted that the best-mannered among them are often rude from our transatlantic point of view; and yet the very rudeness is one of the defects of their good qualities. You can no more take the ungraciousness out of the English character than you can take the hardness out of granite; but if granite wasn't hard it wouldn't serve its purposes. We Canadians know that, don't you see? We allow for it in advance, just as you allow for the clumsiness of the elephant for the sake of his strength and sagacity. We're not angels ourselves--neither you Americans nor we Canadians; and yet we like to get the credit for such small merits as we possess." Hugh whipped off the blossom of a roadside flower as he swung his stick. "All they give us credit for is money." "Well, they certainly give you a great deal of credit for that!" I laughed. "They make a golden calf of you. They fall down and worship you, like the children of Israel in the wilderness. When we're as rich as we shall be some day they'll do the same by us." Within a week my intercourse with Hugh had come to be wholly along international lines. We were no longer merely a man and a woman; we were types; we were points of view. The world-struggle--the time-struggle, as Larry Strangways would have called it--had broken out in us. The interlocking of human destinies had become apparent. As positively as Franz Ferdinand and Sophie Chotek, we had our part in the vast drama. Even Hugh, against all his inclinations to hang back, was obliged to take his share. So lost were we in the theme that, as we tramped along, we had not a thought for the bracing wind, the ruffled seas, the dashing of surf over ledges, or the exquisite, gentle savagery of the rocky flowering uplands, with villas marking the sky-line as they do on the Côte d'Azur. I was the more willing to discuss the subject since I felt it a kind of mission from Mr. Strangways to carry out the object he had so much at heart. I was to be--so far as so humble a body as I could be it--an interpreter of the one country to the other. I reckoned that if I explained and explained and explained, and didn't let myself grow tired of explaining, some little shade of the distrust which each of the great English-speaking nations has for its fellow might be scrubbed away. I couldn't do much, but the value of all effort is in proportion to the opportunity. So I began with Hugh. "You see, Hugh, peoples are like people. Each of us has his weak points as well as his strong ones; but we don't necessarily hate each other on that account. You've lived in England, and you know the English rub you up the wrong way. I've lived there, too, and had exactly the same experience. But we go through just that thing with lots of individuals with whom we manage to be very good friends. You and your brother Jack, for instance, don't hit it off so very well; and yet you contrive to be Brokenshires together and uphold the honor of the family." "I'm a Socialist and Jack's a snob--" "That's it. Mentally you're the world apart. But, as you've objects in common to work for, you get along fairly well. Now why shouldn't the Englishman and the American do the same? Why should they always see how much they differ instead of how much they are alike? Why should they always underscore each other's faults when by seeing each other's good points they could benefit not only themselves, but the world? If there was an entente, let us say, between the British Empire and the United States--not exactly an alliance, perhaps, if people are afraid of the word--" He stopped and wheeled round suddenly, suspicion in his small, myosotis-colored eyes. "Look here, little Alix; isn't this the dope that fresh guy Strangways was handing out the other day?" I flushed, but I didn't stammer. "I don't care whether it is or not. Besides, it isn't dope; it's food; it's medicine; it's a remedy for the ills of this poor old civilization. We've got it in our power, we English-speaking peoples--" "You haven't," he declared, coolly. "Your country would still be the goat." "Yes," I agreed, "Canada would still be the goat; but we don't mind that. We're used to it. You'll always have a fling at us on one side and England on the other; but we're like the strong, good-natured boy who doesn't resent kicks and cuffs because he knows he can grow and thrive in spite of them." He put his hand on my arm and spoke in the kindly tone that reminded me of his father. "My dear little girl, you can drop it. It won't go down. Suppose we keep to the sort of thing you can tackle. You see, when you've married me you'll be an American. Then you'll be out of it." I was hurt. I was furious. The expression, too, was getting on my nerves. I began to wish I was out of it. Since I couldn't be in it, marriage might prove a Lethe bath, in which I should forget I had anything to do with it. Sheer desperation made me cry out: "Very well, then, Hugh! If we're to be married, can't we be married quickly? Then I shall have it off my mind." There was not only a woeful decline of spirit in his response, but a full acceptance of the Brokenshire yoke. "We can't be married any quicker than dad says. But I'll talk to him." He made no objection, however, when, a little later, I received from my uncle a draft for my entire fortune and announced my intention of handing the sum over to Mr. Strangways for investment. Hugh probably looked on the amount as too insignificant to talk about; in addition to which some Brokenshire instinct for the profitable may have led him to appreciate a thing so good as to make it folly to say nay to it. The result was that I heard from Larry Strangways, in letters which added nothing to my comfort. I don't know what I expected him to say; but, whatever it was, he didn't say it. He wasn't curt; his letters were not short. On the contrary, he wrote at length, and brought up subjects that had nothing to do with certificates of stock. But they were all political or international, or related in one way or another to the ideal of his heart--England and America! The British Empire and the United States! The brotherhood of democracies! Why in thunder had the bally world waited so long for the coalition of dominating influences which alone could keep it straight? Why dream of the impossible when the practical had not as yet been tried? Why talk peace, peace, when there was no peace at The Hague, if a full and controlling sympathy could be effected nearer home--let us say at Ottawa? He was going to Canada to enlist; he would start in a few days' time; but he was doing it not merely to fight for the Cause; he was going to be one man, at least, just a straggling democratic scout--one of a forlorn hope, if you chose to call it so--to offer his life to a union of which the human race had the same sort of need as human beings of wedlock. And in all this there was no reference to me. He might not have loved me; I might not have loved him. I answered the letters in the vein in which they were written, and once or twice showed my replies to Hugh. "Forget it!" was his ordinary comment. "The American eagle is too wise an old bird to be caught with salt on its tail." Perhaps it was because Larry Strangways made no appeal to me that I gave myself to forwarding his work with a more enthusiastic zeal. I had to do it quietly, for fear of offending Hugh; but I got my opportunities--that is, I got my opportunities to talk, though I saw I made no impression. I was only a girl--the queer Canadian who had been Ethel Rossiter's nursery governess and whom the Brokenshire family, for unexplained reasons, had accepted as Hugh's future wife. What could I know about matters at which statesmen had always shied? It was preposterous that I should speak of them; it was presumptuous. Nobody told me that; I saw it in people's eyes. And I should have seen it in their eyes more plainly if they had been interested. No one was. An entente between the United States and the British Empire might have been an alliance between Bolivia and Beluchistan. It wasn't merely fashionable folk who wouldn't think of it; no one would. I knew plenty of people by this time. I knew townspeople of Newport, and summer residents, and that intermediate group of retired admirals and professors who come in between the two. I knew shop people and I knew servants, all with their stake in the country, their stake in the world. Not a soul among them cared a hang. And then, threatening to put me entirely out of business, we got the American war refugees and the English visitors. I group them together because they belonged together. They belonged together for the reason that there was nothing each one of them didn't know--by hearsay from some one who knew it by hearsay. The American war refugees had all been in contact with people in England whom they characterized as well informed. The English visitors were well informed because they were English visitors. Some of them told prodigious secrets which they had indirectly from Downing Street. Others gave the reasons why General Isleworth had been superseded in his command, and the part Mrs. Lamingford, that beautiful American, had played in the scandal. From others we learned that Lady Hull, with her baleful charm, was the influence really responsible for the shortage of shells. War was shown to us by our English visitors not as a mighty, pitiless contest, but as a series of social, sexual, and political intrigues, in which women pulled the strings. I know it was talk; but talk it was. For weeks, for months, we had it with the greater number of our meals. Wherever there were English guests--women of title they often were, or eccentric public men--we had an orgy of tales in which the very entrails of English reputations were torn out. No one was spared---not even the Highest in the Land. All the American could do was to listen open-mouthed; and open-mouthed he listened. I will say for the English that they have no disloyalty but that of chatter; but the plain American could not be expected to know that. To him the chatter was gospel truth. He has none of that facility for discounting gossip on the great which the Englishman learns with his mother tongue. The American heard it greedily; he was avid for more. He retailed it at dinners and teas, and in that Reading-room which is really a club. Naturally enough! From what our English visitors told us about themselves, their statesmen, their generals, their admirals were footlers at the best, and could, moreover, be described by a vigorous compound Anglo-Saxon word in the Book of Revelations. And the English papers were no better. All the important ones, weeklies as well as dailies, were sent to Mr. Brokenshire, and copies lay about at Mr. Rossiter's. They sickened me. I stopped reading them. There was good in them, doubtless; but what I chiefly found was a wild tempest of abuse of this party or that party, of this leading man or that leading man, with the effect on the imagination of a ship going down amid the curses and confusion of officers and passengers alike. It may have sounded well in England; very likely it did; but in America it was horrible. I mention it here only because, in this babel of voices, my own faint pipe on behalf of a league of democracies could no more be heard than the tinkle of a sacring bell amid the shrieking and bursting of shells. I was often tempted to say no more about it and let the world go to pot. Then I thought of Larry Strangways, offering his life for an ideal as to which I was unwilling to speak a word. So I would begin my litany of Bolivia and Beluchistan over again, crooning it into the ears of people, both gentle and simple, who, in the matter of response, might never have heard the names of the two countries I mentioned together. A few lines from one of Larry Strangways's letters, written from Valcartier, prompted me to persevere in this course: People are no more interested here than they are on our side of the border; but it's got to come, for all that. What we need is a public opinion; and a public opinion can only be created by writing and talk. Thank the Lord, you and I can talk if we are not very strong on writing! and talk we must! Bigger streams have risen from smaller springs. The mustard seed is the least of all seeds; but it grows to be the greatest of herbs. It might have been easier to call forth a responsive spark had we realized that there was a war. But we hadn't--not in the way that the fact came to us afterward. In spite of the taking of Namur, Liège, Maubeuge, the advance on Paris, and the rolling back on the Marne, we had seen no more than chariots and horses of fire in the clouds. It was not only distant, it was phantom-like. We read the papers; we heard of horrors; American war refugees and English visitors alike piled up the agonies, to which we listened eagerly; we saw the moneyed magnates come and go in counsel with Mr. Brokenshire; we knitted and sewed and subscribed to funds; but, so far as vital participation went, Hugh was right in saying we were out of it. And then a shot fell into our midst, smiting us with awe. Cissie Boscobel, Hugh, another young man, and I had been playing tennis one September morning on Mrs. Rossiter's courts. The other young man having left for Bailey's Beach, the remaining three of us were sauntering back toward the house when a lad, whom Cissie recognized as belonging to the Burkes' establishment, came running up with a telegram. As it was for Cissie she stood still to read it, while Hugh and I strolled on. Once or twice I glanced back toward her; but she still held the brief lines up before her as if she couldn't make out their meaning. When she rejoined us, as she presently did, I noticed that her color had died out, though there was otherwise no change in her unless it was in stillness. The question was as to whether we should go to Bailey's or not. I didn't want to go and Hugh declared he wouldn't go without me. "We'll put it up to Cissie," he said, as we reached the house. "If she goes we'll all go." "I think I won't go," she answered, quietly; adding, without much change of tone, "Leatherhead's been killed in action." So there really was a war! Hugh's deep "Oh!" was in Itself like the distant rumble of guns. CHAPTER XXIV There was nothing to be done for Lady Cecilia because she took her bereavement with so little fuss. She asked for no sympathy; so far as I ever saw, she shed no tears. If on that particular spot in the neighborhood of Ypres a man had had to fall for his country, she was proud that it had been a Boscobel. She put on a black frock and ordered her maid to take the jade-green plume out of a black hat; but, except that she declined invitations, she went about as usual. As the first person we knew to be touched by the strange new calamity of war, we made a kind of heroine of her, treating her with an almost romantic reverence; but she herself never seemed aware of it. It was my first glimpse of that unflinching British heroism of which I have since seen much, and it impressed me. We began to dream together of being useful; our difficulty was that we didn't see the way. War had not yet made its definite claims on women and girls, and knitting till our muscles ached was not a sufficient outlet for our energies. Had I been in Cissie's place, I should have gone home at once; but I suspected that, in spite of all her brave words to me, she couldn't quite kill the hope that kept her lingering on. My own ambitions being distasteful to Hugh, I was obliged to repress them, doing so with the greater regret because some of the courses I suggested would have done him good. They would have utilized the physical strength with which he was blessed, and delivered him from that material well-being to which he returned with the more child-like rejoicing because of having been without it. "Hugh, dear," I said to him once, "couldn't we be married soon and go over to France or England? Then we should see whether there wasn't something we could do." "Not on your life, little Alix!" was his laughing response. "Since as Americans we're out of it, out of it we shall stay." Over replies like this, of which there were many, I was gnashing my teeth helplessly when, all at once, I was called on to see myself as others saw me, so getting a surprise. The first note of warning came to me in a few words from Ethel Rossiter. I was scribbling her notes one morning as she lay in bed, when it occurred to me to say: "If I'm going to be married, I suppose I ought to be doing something about clothes." She murmured, listlessly: "Oh, I wouldn't be in a hurry about that, if I were you." I went on writing. "I haven't been in a hurry, have I? But I shall certainly want some things I haven't got now." "Then you can get them after you're married. When are you to be married, anyhow?" As the question was much on my mind, I looked up from my task and said: "Well--when?" "Don't you know?" "No. Do you?" She shook her head. "I didn't know but what father had said something about it." "He hasn't--not a word." I resumed my scribbling. "It's a queer thing for him to have to settle, don't you think? One might have supposed it would have been left to me." "Oh, you don't know father!" It was as if throwing off something of no importance that she added, "Of course, he can see that you're not in love with Hugh." Amazed at this reading of my heart, I bent my head to hide my confusion. "I don't know why you should say that," I stammered at last, "when you can't help seeing I'm quite true to him." She shrugged her beautiful shoulders, of which one was bare. "Oh, true! What's the good of that?" She went on, casually: "By the by, do call up Daisy Burke and tell her I sha'n't go to that luncheon of theirs. They're going to have old lady Billing, who's coming to stay at father's; and you don't catch me with that lot except when I can't help it." She reverted to the topic of a minute before. "I don't blame you, of course. I suppose, if I were in your place, it's what I should do myself. It's what I thought you'd try for--you remember, don't you?--as long ago as when we were in Halifax. But naturally enough other people don't--" I failed to learn, however, what other people didn't, because of a second reversion in theme: "Do make up something civil to say to Daisy, and tell her I won't come." We dropped the subject, chiefly because I was afraid to go on with it; but when I met old Mrs. Billing I received a similar shock. Having gone to Mr. Brokenshire's to pay her my respects, I was told she was on the terrace. As a matter of fact, she was making her way toward the hall, and awkwardly carried a book, a sunshade, and the stump of a cigarette. Dutifully I went forward in the hope of offering my services. "Get out of my sight!" was her response to my greetings. "I can't bear to look at you." Brushing past me without further words, she entered the house. "What did she mean?" I asked of Cissie Boscobel, to whom I heard that Mrs. Billing had given her own account of the incident. Lady Cecilia was embarrassed. "Oh, nothing! She's just so very odd." But I insisted: "She must have meant something. Had it anything to do with Hugh?" Reluctantly Lady Cissie let it out. Mrs. Billing had got the idea that I was marrying Hugh for his money; and, though in the past she had not disapproved of this line of action, she had come to think it no road to happiness. Having taken the trouble to give me more than one hint that I should many the man I was in love with she was now disappointed in my character. "You know how much truth there is in all that, don't you?" I said, evasively. Lady Cissie did her best to support me, though between her words and her inflection there was a curious lack of correspondence. "Oh yes--certainly!" I got the reaction of her thought, however, some minutes later, when she said, apropos of nothing in our conversation: "Since Janet can't be married this month, I needn't go home for a long time." But knowing that this suggestion was in the air, I was the better able to interpret Mildred's oracular utterance the next time I sat at the foot of the couch, in the darkened room. "One can't be true to another," she said, in reply to some feeler of my own, "unless one is true to oneself, and one can't be true to oneself unless one follows the highest of one's instincts." I said, inwardly: "Ah! Now I know the reason for her distrust of me." Aloud I made it: "But that throws us back on the question as to what one's highest instincts are." There was the pause that preceded all her expressions of opinion. "On the principle that it is more blessed to give than to receive, I suppose our highest promptings are those which urge us to give most of ourselves." "And when one gives all of oneself that one can dispose of?" "One has then to consider the importance or the unimportance of what one has to withhold." Of all the things that had been said to me this was the most disturbing. It had seemed to me hitherto that the essence of my duty lay in marrying Hugh. If I married him, I argued, I should have done my best to make up to him for all he had undergone for my sake. I saw myself as owing him a debt. The refusal to pay it would have implied a kind of moral bankruptcy. Considering myself solvent, and also considering myself honest, I felt I had no choice. Since I could pay, I must pay. The reasoning was the more forcible because I liked Hugh and was grateful to him. I could be tolerably happy with him, and would make him a good wife. To make him a good wife I had choked back everything I had ever felt for Larry Strangways; I had submitted to all the Brokenshire repressions; I had made myself humble and small before Hugh and his father, and accepted the status of a Libby Jaynes. My heart cried out like any other woman's heart--it cried out for my country in the hour of its stress; it cried out for my home in what I tried to make the hour of my happiness; when it caught me unawares it cried out for the man I loved. But all this I mastered as our Canadian men were mastering their longings and regrets on saying their good-bys. What was to be done was to be done, and done willingly. Willingly I meant to marry Hugh, not because he was the man I would have chosen before all others, but because, when no one else in the world was giving me a thought, he had had the astonishing goodness to choose me. And now-- With Mrs. Brokenshire the situation was different. She believed I was in love with Hugh and that the others were doing me a wrong. Moreover, she informed me one day that I was making my way in Newport. People who noticed me once noticed me again. The men beside whom I sat at the occasional lunches and dinners I attended often spoke of me to the hostess on going away, and there could be no better sign than that. They said that, though I "wasn't long on looks," I had ideas and knew how to express them. She ventured to hope that this kindly opinion might, in the end, soften Mr. Brokenshire. "Do you mean that he isn't softened as it is?" She answered, indirectly: "He's not accustomed to be forced--and he feels I've forced him." It was her first reference to what she had done for Hugh and me. In its way it gave me permission to say: "But isn't it a question of the _quid pro quo_? If you granted him something for something he granted you in return--" But the expression on her face forbade my going on. I have never seen such a parting to human lips, or so haunting, so lost a look in human eyes. It told me everything. It was a confession of all the things she never could have said. "Better is it," says the Book of Ecclesiastes, "that thou shouldest not vow, than that thou shouldest vow and not pay." She had vowed and not paid. She had got her price and hadn't fulfilled her bargain. She couldn't; she never would. It was beyond her. The big moneyed man who at that minute was helping to finance a good part of Europe, who was a power not only in a city or a country, but the world, had been tricked by a woman; and I in my poor little person was the symbol of his discomfiture. No wonder he found it hard to forgive me! No wonder that whenever I came where he was he treated me to some kindly hint or correction which was no sufficient veil for his scorn! As I had never to my knowledge been hated by any one, it was terrible to feel myself an object of abhorrence to a man of such high standing in the world. Our eyes couldn't meet without my seeing that his passions were seething to the boiling-point. If he could have struck me dead with a look I think he would have done it. And I didn't hate him; I was too sorry for him. I could have liked him if he had let me. I had, consequently, much to think about. I thought and I prayed. It was not a minute at which to do anything hurriedly. To a spirit so hot as mine it would have been a relief to lash out at them all; but, as I had checked myself hitherto, I checked myself again. I reasoned that if I kept close to right, right would take care of me. Not being a theologian, I felt free to make some closeness of identity between right and God. I might have defined right as God in action, or God as right in conjunction with omnipotence, intelligence, and love; but I had no need for exactness of terms. In keeping near to right I knew I must be near to God: and near to God I could let myself go so far that no power on earth would seem strong enough to save me--and yet I should be saved. I went on then with a kind of fearlessness. If I was to marry Hugh I was convinced that I should be supported; if not, I was equally convinced that something would hold me back. "If anything should happen," I said to Cissie Boscobel one day, "I want you to look after Hugh." The dawn seemed to break over her, though she only said, tremulously: "Happen--how?" "I don't know. Perhaps nothing will. But if it does--" She slipped away, doubtless so as not to hear more. And then one evening, when I was not thinking especially about it, the Cloud came down on the Mountain; the voice spoke out of it, and my course was made plain. But before that night I also had received a cablegram. It was from my sister Louise, to say that the _King Arthur_, her husband's ship, had been blown up in the North Sea, and that he was among the lost. So the call was coming to me more sharply than I had yet heard it. With Lady Cecilia's example in mind, I said little to those about me beyond mentioning the fact. I suppose they showed me as much sympathy as the sweeping away of a mere brother-in-law demanded. They certainly said they were sorry, and hinted that that was what nations let themselves in for when they were so rash as to go to war. "Think we'd ever expose our fellows like that?" was Hugh's comment. "Not on your life!" But they didn't make a heroine of me as they did with Lady Cissie; not that I cared about that. I only hoped that the fact that my brother-in-law's name was in all the American accounts of the incident would show them that I belonged to some one, and that some one belonged to me. If it did I never perceived it. Perhaps the loss of a mere captain in the navy was a less gallant occurrence than the death in action of a Lord Leatherhead; perhaps we were already getting used to the toll of war; but, whatever the reason, Lady Cissie was still, to all appearances, the only sufferer. Within a day or two a black dress was my sole reminder that the _King Arthur_ had gone down; and, even to Hugh, I made no further reference to the catastrophe. And then came the evening when, as Larry Strangways said on my telling him about it, "the fat was all in the fire." It was the occasion of what had become the annual dinner at Mr. Brokenshire's in honor of Mrs. Billing--a splendid function. Nothing short of a splendid function would have satisfied the old lady, who had the gift of making even the great afraid of her. The event was the more magnificent for the reason that, in addition to the mother of the favorite, a number of brother princes of finance, in Newport for conference with our host, were included among the guests. Of these one was staying in the house, one with the Jack Brokenshires, and two at a hotel. I was seated between the two who were at the hotel because they were socially unimportant. Even Mr. Brokenshire had sometimes to extend his domestic hospitality to business friends for the sake of business, when perhaps he should have preferred to show his attentions in clubs. The chief scene, if I may so call it, was played to the family alone in Mildred's sitting-room, after the guests had gone; but there was a curtain-raiser at the dinner-table before the assembled company. I give bits of the conversation, not because they were important, but because of what they led up to. We were twenty-four, seated on great Italian chairs, which gave each of us the feeling of being a sovereign on a throne. It took all the men of the establishment, as well as those gathered in from the Jack Brokenshires' and Mrs. Rossiter's, to wait on us, a detail by which in the end I profited. The gold service had been sent down from the vaults in New York, so that the serving-plates were gold, as well as the plates for some of the other courses. Gold vases and bowls held the roses that adorned the table, and gold spoons and forks were under our hands. It was the first time I had ever been able to notice with my own eyes how nearly the rich American can rival the state of kings and emperors. It goes without saying that all the women had put on their best, and that the jewels were as precious metals in the days of Solomon; they were "nothing accounted of." Diamonds flashed, rubies broke out in fire, and emeralds said unspeakable things all up and down the table; the rows and ropes and circlets of pearls made one think of the gates of Paradise. I was the only one not so bedecked, getting that contrast of simplicity which is the compensation of the poor. The ring Hugh had given me, a sapphire set in diamonds, was my only ornament; and yet the neat austerity of my black evening frock rendered me conspicuous. It also goes without saying that I had no right to be conspicuous, being the person of least consequence at the board. Mr. Brokenshire not only felt that himself, but he liked me to feel it; and he not only liked me to feel it, but he liked others to see that his great, broad spirit admitted me among his family and friends from noble promptings of tolerance. I was expected to play up to this generosity and to present the foil of humility to the glory of the other guests and the beauty of the table decorations. In general I did this, and had every intention of doing it again. Nothing but what perhaps were the solecisms of my immediate neighbors caused my efforts to miscarry. I had been informed by Mrs. Brokenshire beforehand that they were socially dull, that one of them was "awful," and that my powers would be taxed to keep them in conversation. My mettle being up, I therefore did my best. The one who was awful proved to be a Mr. Samuel Russky, whose claim to be present sprang from the fact that he was a member of a house that had the power to lend a great deal of money. He was a big man, of a mingled Slavic and Oriental cast of countenance, and had nothing more awful about him than a tendency to overemphasis. On my right I had Mr. John G. Thorne, whose face at a glance was as guileless as his name till contemplation revealed to you depth beyond depth of that peculiar astuteness of which only the American is master. I am sure that when we sat down to table neither of these gentlemen had any intention of taking a hand in my concerns, and are probably ignorant to this day of ever having done so; but the fact remains. It begins with my desire to oblige Mrs. Brokenshire by trying to make the dinner a success. Having to lift the heaviest corner, so to speak, I gave myself to the task first with one of my neighbors and then with the other. They responded so well that as early as when the terrapin was reached I was doing it with both. As there was much animation about the table, there was nothing at that time to call attention to our talk. Naturally, it was about the war. From the war we passed to the attitude of the United States toward the struggle; and from that what could I do but glide to the topics as to which I felt myself a mouthpiece for Larry Strangways? It was a chance. Here were two men obviously of some influence in the country, and neither of them of very strong convictions, so far as I could judge, on any subject but that of floating foreign bonds. As the dust from a butterfly's wing might turn the scale with one or both of them, I endeavored to throw at least that much weight on the side of a British and American entente. At something I said, Mr. Russky, with the slightest hint of a Yiddish pronunciation, complained that I spoke as if all Americans were "Anglo-Zaxons"; whereas it was well known that the "Anglo-Zaxon" element among them was but a percentage, which was destined to grow less. "I'm not putting it on that ground," I argued, with some zeal, taking up a point as to which one of Larry Strangways's letters had enlightened me. "I see well enough that the American ideal isn't one of nationality, but of principle. When the federation of the States was completed it was on the basis not of a common Anglo-Saxon origin, but on that of the essential unity of mankind. Mere nationality was left out of the question. All nations were welcomed, with the idea of welding them into one." "And England," Mr. Russky declared, somewhat more loudly than was necessary for my hearing him, "is still bound up in her Anglo-Zaxondon." "Not a bit of it!" I returned. "Her spirit is exactly the same as that of this country. Except this country, where is there any other of which the gates and ports and homes and factories have been open to all nations as hers have been? They've landed on her shores in thousands and thousands, without passports and without restraint, welcomed and protected even when they've been taking the bread out of the born Englishman's mouth. Look at the number of foreigners they've been obliged to round up since the war began--for the simple reason that they'd become so many as to be a peril. It's the same not only in the British Islands, but in every part of the British Empire. Always the same reception for all, with liberty for all. My own country, in proportion to its population, is as full of citizens of foreign birth as this is. They've been fathered and mothered from the minute they landed at Halifax. Poles and Ruthenians and Slovaks and Icelanders have been given the same advantages as ourselves. I'm not boasting of this, Mr. Russky. I'm only saying that, though we've never defined the principle in a constitution, our instinct toward mankind is the same as yours." It was here Mr. Thorne broke in, saying that sympathy in the United States was all for France. "I can understand that," I said. "You often find in a family that the sympathy of each of the members is for some one outside. But that doesn't keep them from being a family, or from acting in important moments with a family's solidarity." "And, personally," Mr. Thorne went on, "I don't care for England." I laughed politely in his face. "And do you, a business man, say that? I thought business was carried on independently of personal regard. You might conceivably not like Mr. Warren or Mr. Casemente"--I named the two other banker guests--"or even Mr. Brokenshire; but you do business with them as if you loved them, and quite successfully, too. In the same way the Briton and the American might put personal fancies out of the question and co-operate for great ends." "Ah, but, young lady," Mr. Russky exclaimed, so noisily as to draw attention, "you forget that we're far from the scene of European disputes, and that our wisest course is to keep out of them!" I fell back again on what I had learned from Larry Strangways. "But you're not far from the past of mankind. You inherit that as much as any European; and it isn't an inheritance that can be limited geographically." I still quoted one of Larry Strangways's letters, knowing it by heart. "Every Russian and German and Jew and Italian and Scotchman who lands in New York brings a portion of it with him and binds the responsibility of the New World more closely to the sins of the Old. Oceans and continents will not separate us from sins. As we can never run away from our past, Americans must help to expiate what they and their ancestors have done in the countries from which they came. This isn't going to be a local war or a twentieth-century war. It's the struggle of all those who have had to bear the burdens of the world against those who have made them bear them." "If that was the case," Mr. Russky said, doubtfully, "Americans would be all on one side." "They will be all on one side--when they see it. The question is, Will they see it soon enough?" Being so interested I didn't notice that our immediate neighbors were listening, nor did I observe, what Cissie Boscobel told me afterward, that Hugh was dividing disquieting looks between me and his father. I did try to divert Mr. Thorne to giving his attention to Mrs. Burke, who was his neighbor on the right, but I couldn't make him take the hint. It was, in fact, he who said: "We've too many old grudges against England to keep step with her now." I smiled engagingly. "But you've no old grudges against the British Empire, have you?" "What do you mean?" "You've no old grudges against Canada, or Australia, or the West Indies, or New Zealand, or the Cape?" "N-no." "Nor even against Scotland or Wales or Ireland?" "N-no." "You recognize in all those countries a spirit more or less akin to your own, and one with which you can sympathize?" "Y-yes." "Then isn't that my point? You speak of England, and you see the southern end of an island between the North Sea and the Atlantic; but that's all you see. You forget Scotland and Ireland and Canada and Australia and South Africa. You think I'm talking of a country three thousand miles away, whereas it comes right up to your doors. It's on the borders of Maine and Michigan and Minnesota, and all along your line. That isn't Canada alone; it's the British Empire. It's the country with which you Americans have more to do than with any other in the world. It's the one you have to think of first. You may like some other better, but you can't get away from having it as your most pressing consideration the minute you pass your own frontiers. That," I declared, with a little laugh, "is what makes my entente important." "Important for England or for America?" Mr. Russky, as a citizen of the country he thought had most to give, was on his guard. "Important for the world!" I said, emphatically. "England and America--the British Empire and the United States--are both secondary in what I'm trying to say. I speak of them only as the two that can most easily line up together. When they've done that the rest will follow their lead. It's not to be an offensive and defensive alliance, or directed against any other power. It would be a starting-point, the beginning of world peace. It would also be an instance of what could be accomplished in the long run among all the nations of the world by mutual tolerance and common sense." As I made a little mock oratorical flourish there was a laugh from our part of the table. Some one sitting opposite called out, "Good!" I distinctly heard Mrs. Billing's cackle of a "Brava!" I ought to say, too, that, afraid of even the appearance of "holding forth," I had kept my tone lowered, addressing myself to my left-hand companion. If others stopped talking and listened it was because of the compulsion of the theme. It was a burning theme. It was burning in hearts and minds that had never given it a conscious thought; and, now that for a minute it was out in the open, it claimed them. True, it was an occasion meant to be kept free from the serious; but even in Newport we were beginning to understand that occasions kept free from the serious were over--perhaps for the rest of our time. After that the conversation in our neighborhood became general. With the exception of Hugh, who was not far away, every one joined in, aptly or inaptly, as the case might be, with pros and cons and speculations and anecdotes and flashes of wit, and a far deeper interest than I should have predicted. As Mrs. Brokenshire whispered after we regained the drawing-room, it had made the dinner go; and a number of women whom I hadn't known before came up and talked to me. But all that was only the curtain-raiser. It was not till the family were assembled in Mildred's room up-stairs that the real play began. CHAPTER XXV Mildred's big, heavily furnished room was as softly lighted as usual. As usual, she herself, in white, with a rug across her feet, lay on her couch, withdrawn from the rest. She never liked to have any one near her, unless it was Hugh; she never entered into general talk. When others were present she remained silent, as she did on this evening. Whatever passed through her mind she gave out to individuals when she was alone with them. The rest of the party were scattered about, standing or sitting. There were Jack and Pauline, Jim and Ethel Rossiter, Mrs. Billing, Mrs. Brokenshire, Cissie Boscobel, who was now staying with the Brokenshires, and Hugh. The two banker guests had gone back to the smoking-room. As I entered, Mr. Brokenshire was standing in his customary position of command, a little like a pasha in his seraglio, his back to the empty fireplace. With his handsome head and stately form, he would have been a truly imposing figure had it not been for his increased stoutness and the occasional working of his face. I had come up-stairs with some elation. The evening might have been called mine. Most of the men, on rejoining us in the drawing-room, had sought a word with me, and those who didn't know me inquired who I was. I could hardly help the hope that Mr. Brokenshire might see I was worth my salt, and that on becoming a member of his family I should bring my contribution. But on the way up-stairs Hugh gave me a hint that in that I might be mistaken. "Well, little Alix, you certainly gave poor old dad a shock this time." "A shock?" I asked, in not unnatural astonishment. "Your fireworks." "Fireworks! What on earth do you mean?" "It's always a shock when fireworks go off too close to you; and especially when it's in church." As we had reached the door of Mildred's room, I searched my conduct during dinner to see in what I had offended. It is possible my entry might have passed unnoticed if Mrs. Brokenshire, with the kindest intentions, had not come forward to the threshold and taken me by the hand. As if making a presentation, she led me toward the august figure before the fireplace. "Our little girl," she said, in the hope of doing me a good turn, "distinguished herself to-night, didn't she?" He must have been stung to sudden madness by the sight of the two of us together. In general he controlled himself in public. He was often cruel, but with a quiet subtle cruelty to which even the victims often didn't know how to take exception. But to-night the long-gathering fury of passion was incapable of further restraint. Behind it there was all the explosive force of a lifetime of pride, complacence, and self-love. The exquisite creature--a vision of soft rose, with six strings of pearls--who was parading her bargain, as you might say, without having paid for it, excited him to the point of frenzy. I saw later, what I didn't understand at the time, that he was striking at her through me. He was willing enough to strike at me, since I was the nobody who had forced herself into his family; but she was his first aim. Having looked at me disdainfully, he disdainfully looked away. "She certainly gave us an exhibition!" he said, with his incisive, whip-lash quietude. Mrs. Brokenshire dropped my hand. "Oh, Howard!" I think she backed away toward the nearest chair. I was vaguely conscious of curious eyes in the dimness about me as I stood alone before my critic. "I'm sorry if I've done anything wrong, Mr. Brokenshire," I said, meekly. "I didn't mean to." He looked over my head, speaking casually, as one who takes no interest in the subject. "All the great stupidities have been committed by people who didn't mean to--but there they are!" I continued to be meek. "I didn't know I had been stupid." "The stupid never do." "And I don't think I have been," I added, with rising spirit. Though there was consternation in the room behind me, Mr. Brokenshire merely said: "Unfortunately, you must let others judge of that." "But how?" I insisted. "If I have been, wouldn't it be a kindness on your part to tell me in what way?" He pretended not merely indifference, but reluctance. "Isn't that obvious?" "Not to me--and I don't think to any one else." "What do you call it when one--you compel me to speak frankly--what do you call it when one exposes one's ignorance of--of fundamental things before a roomful of people who've never set eyes on one before?" Since no one, not even Hugh, was brave enough to stand up for me, I had to do it for myself. "But I didn't know I had." "Probably not. It's what I warned you of, if you'll take the trouble to remember. I said--or it amounted to that--that until you'd learned the ways of the people who are generally recognized as _comme il faut_, you'd be wise in keeping yourself--unobtrusive." "And may I ask whether one becomes obtrusive merely in talking of public affairs?" "You'll pardon me for giving you a lesson before others; but, since you invite it--" "Quite so, Mr. Brokenshire, I do invite it." "Then I can only say that in what we call good society we become obtrusive in talking of things we know nothing about." "But surely one can set an idea going, even if one hasn't sounded all its depths. And as for the relations between this country and the British Empire--" "Well-bred women leave such subjects to statesmen." "Yes; we've done so. We've left them to statesmen and"--I couldn't resist the temptation to say it--"and we've left them to financiers; but we can't look at Europe and be proud of the result. We women, well bred or otherwise, couldn't make things worse even if we were to take a hand; and we might make them better." He was not moved from his air of slightly bored indifference. "Then you must wait for women with some knowledge of the subject." "But, Mr. Brokenshire, I have some knowledge of the subject! Though I'm neither English nor American, I'm both. I've only to shift from one side of my mind to the other to be either. Surely, when it comes to the question of a link between the two countries I love I'm qualified to put in a plea for it." I think his nerves were set further on edge because I dared to argue the point, though he would probably have been furious if I had not. His tone was still that of a man deigning no more than to fling out an occasional stinging remark. "As a future member of my family, you're not qualified to make yourself ridiculous before my friends. To take you humorously was the kindest thing they could do." I saw an opportunity. "Then wouldn't it be equally kind, sir, if you were to follow their example?" Mrs. Billing's hen-like crow came out of the obscurity: "She's got you there!" The sound incited him. He became not more irritable, but cruder. "Unhappily, that's beyond my power. I have to blush for my son Hugh." Hugh spoke out of the darkness, his voice trembling with the fear of his own hardihood in once more braving Jove. "Oh no, dad! You must take that back." The father wheeled round in the new direction. He was losing command of the ironic courtesy he secured by his air of indifference, and growing coarser. "My poor boy! I can't take it back. You're like myself--in that you can only be fooled when you put your trust in a woman." It was Mrs. Brokenshire's turn: "Howard--please!" In the cry there was the confession of the woman who has vowed and not paid, and yet begs to be spared the blame. Jack Brokenshire sprang to his feet and hurried forward, laying his hand on his father's arm. "Say, dad--" But Mr. Brokenshire shook off the hand, refusing to be placated. He looked at his wife, who had risen, confusedly, from her chair and was backing away from him to the other side of the room. "I said poor Hugh was being fooled by a woman; and he is. He's marrying some one who doesn't care a hang about him and who's in love with another man. He may not be the first in the family to do that, but I merely make the statement that he's doing it." Hugh leaped forward. "She's not in love with another man!" "Ask her." He clutched me by the wrist. "You're not, are you?" he pleaded. "Tell father you're not." I was so sorry for Hugh that I hardly thought of myself. I was benumbed. The suddenness of the attack had been like a blow from behind that stuns you without taking away your consciousness. In any case Mr. Brokenshire gave me no time, for he laughed gratingly. "She can't do that, my boy, because she is. Everybody knows it. I know it--and Ethel and Mildred and Cissie. They're all here and they can contradict me if I'm saying what isn't so." "But she may not know it herself," Mrs. Billing croaked. "A girl is often the last to make that discovery." "Ask her." Hugh obeyed, still clutching my wrist. "I'm asking you, little Alix. You're not, are you?" I could say nothing. Apart from the fact that I didn't knew what to say, I was dumbfounded by the way in which it had all come upon me. The only words that occurred to me were: "I think Mr. Brokenshire is ill." Oddly enough. I was convinced of that. It was the one assuaging fact. He might hate me, but he wouldn't have made me the object of this mad-bull rush if he had been in his right mind. He was not in his right mind; he was merely a blood-blinded animal as he went on: "Ask her again, Hugh. You're the only one she's been able to keep in the dark; but then"--his eyes followed his wife, who was still slowly retreating--"but then that's nothing new. She'll let you believe anything--till she gets you. That's always the game with women of the sort. But once you're fast in her clutches--then, my boy, look out!" I heard Pauline whisper, "Jack, for Heaven's sake, do something!" Once more Jack's hand was laid on his parent's arm, with his foolish "Say, dad--" Once more the restraining hand was shaken off. The cutting tones were addressed to Hugh: "You see what a hurry she's been in to be married, don't you? How many times has she asked you to do it up quick? She's been afraid that you'd slip through her fingers." He turned toward me. "Don't be alarmed, my dear. We shall keep our word. You've worked hard to capture the position, and I shall not deny that you've been clever in your attacks. You deserve what you've won, and you shall have it. But all in good time. Don't rush. The armies in Europe are showing us that you must intrench yourself where you are if you want, in the end, to push forward. You push a little too hard." Poor Hugh had gone white. He was twisting my wrist as if he would wring it off, though I felt no pain till afterward. "Tell me!" he whispered. "Tell me! You're--you're not marrying me for--for my money, are you?" I could have laughed hysterically. "Hugh, don't be an idiot!" came, scornfully, from Ethel Rossiter. I could see her get up, cross the room, and sit down on the edge of Mildred's couch, where the two engaged in a whispered conversation. Jim Rossiter, too, got up and tiptoed his sleek, slim person out of the room. Cissie Boscobel followed him. They talked in low tones at the head of the stairs outside. I found voice at last: "No, Hugh; I never thought of marrying you for that reason. I was doing it only because it seemed to me right." Mr. Brokenshire emitted a sound, meant to be a laugh: "Right! Oh, my God!" Mrs. Brokenshire was now no more than a pale-rose shadow on the farther side of the room, but she came to my aid: "She was, Howard. Please believe her. She was, really!" "Thanks, darling, for the corroboration! It comes well from you. Where there's a question of right you're an authority." Mrs. Billing's hoarse, prolonged "Ha-a!" implied every shade of comprehension. I saw the pale-rose shadow sink down on a sofa, all in a little heap, like something shot with smokeless powder. Hugh was twisting my wrist again and whispering: "Alix, tell me. Speak! What are you marrying me for? What about the other fellow? Is it Strangways? Speak!" "I've given you the only answer I can, Hugh. If you can't believe in my doing right--" "What were you in such a hurry for? Was that the reason--what dad says--that you were afraid you wouldn't--hook me?" I looked him hard in the eye. Though we were speaking in the lowest possible tones, there was a sudden stillness in the room, as though every one was hanging on my answer. "Have I ever given you cause to suspect me of that?" I asked, after thinking of what I ought to say. Three words oozed themselves out like three drops of his own blood. They were the distillation of two years' uncertainty: "Well--sometimes--yes." Either he dropped my wrist or I released myself. I only remember that I was twisting the sapphire-and-diamond ring on my finger. "What made you think so?" I asked, dully. "A hundred things--everything!" He gave a great gasp. "Oh, little Alix!" Turning away suddenly, he leaned his head against the mantelpiece, while his shoulders heaved. It came to me that this was the moment to make an end of it all; but I saw Mrs. Rossiter get up from her conference with Mildred and come forward. She did it leisurely, pulling up one shoulder of her décolleté gown as she advanced. "Hugh, don't be a baby!" she said, in passing. "Father, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" If the heavens had fallen my amazement might have been less. She went on in a purely colloquial tone, extricating the lace of her corsage from a spray of diamond flowers as she spoke: "I'll tell you why she was marrying Hugh. It was for two or three reasons, every one of them to her credit. Any one who knows her and doesn't see that must be an idiot. She was marrying him, first, because he was kind to her. None of the rest of us was, unless it was Mrs. Brokenshire; and she was afraid to show it for fear you'd jump on her, father. The rest of us have treated Alix Adare like brutes. I know I have." "Oh no!" I protested, though I could scarcely make myself audible. "But Hugh was nice to her. He was nice to her from the start. And she couldn't forget it. No nice girl would. When he asked her to marry him she felt she had to. And then, when he put up his great big bluff of earning a living--" "It wasn't a bluff," Hugh contradicted, his face still buried in his hands. "Well, perhaps it wasn't," she admitted, imperturbably. "If you, father, hadn't driven him to it with your heroics--" "If you call it heroics that I should express my will--" "Oh your will! You seem to think that no one's got a will but you. Here we are, all grown up, two of us married, and you still try to keep us as if we were five years old. We're sick of it, and it's time some of us spoke. Jack's afraid to, and Mildred's too good; so it's up to me to say what I think." Mr. Brokenshire's first shock having passed, he got back something of his lordly manner, into which he threw an infusion of the misunderstood. "And you've said it sufficiently. When my children turn against me--" "Nonsense, father! Your children don't do anything of the sort. We're perfect sheep. You drive us wherever you like. But, however much we can stand ourselves, we can't help kicking when you attack some one who doesn't quite belong to us and who's a great deal better than we are." Mrs. Billing crowed again: "Brava, Ethel! Never supposed you had the pluck." Ethel turned her attention to the other side of her corsage. "Oh, it isn't a question of pluck; it's one of exasperation. Injustice after a while gets on one's nerves. I've had a better chance of knowing Alix Adare than any one; and you can take it from me that, when it comes to a question of breeding, she's the genuine pearl and we're only imitations--all except Mildred." Both of Mr. Brokenshire's handsome hands went up together. He took a step forward as if to save Mrs. Rossiter from a danger. "My daughter!" The pale-rose heap on the other side of the room raised its dainty head. "It's true, Howard; it's true! Please believe it!" Ethel went on in her easy way: "If Alix Adare has made any mistake it's been in ignoring her own wishes--I may say her own heart--in order to be true to us. The Lord knows she can't have respected us much, or failed to see that, judged by her standards, we're as common as grass when you compare it to orchids. But because she is an orchid she couldn't do anything but want to give us back better than she ever got from us; and so--" "Oh no; it wasn't that!" I tried to interpose. "It's no dishonor to her not to be in love with Hugh," she pursued, evenly. "She may have thought she was once; but what girl hasn't thought she was in love a dozen times? A fine day in April will make any one think it's summer already; but when June comes they know the difference. It was April when Hugh asked her; and now it's June. I'll confess for her. She is in love with--" "Please!" I broke in. She gave me another surprise. "Do run and get me my fan. It's over by Mildred. There's a love!" I had to do her bidding. The picture of the room stamped itself on my brain, though I didn't think of it at the time. It seemed rather empty. Jack had retired to one window, where he was smoking a cigarette; Pauline was at another, looking out at the moonlight on the water. Mrs. Billing sat enthroned in the middle, taking a subordinate place for once. Mrs. Brokenshire was on the sofa by the wall. The murmur of Ethel's voice, but no words, reached me as I stooped beside Mildred's couch to pick up the fan. The invalid took my hand. Her voice had the deep, low murmur of the sea. "You must forgive my father." "I do," I was able to say. "I--I like him in spite of everything--" "And as for my brother, you'll remember what we agreed upon once--that where we can't give all, our first consideration must be the value of what we withhold." I thanked her and went back with the fan. As I passed Mrs. Billing she snapped at me, with the enigmatic words: "You're a puss!" When I drew near to the group by the fireplace, Mrs. Rossiter was saying to Hugh: "And as for her marrying you for your money--well, you're crazy! I suppose she likes money as well as anybody else; but she would have married you to be loyal. She would have married you two months ago if father had been willing; and if you'd been willing you could now have been in England or France together, trying to do some good. If a woman marries one man when she's in love with another the right or the wrong depends on her motives. Who knows but what I may have done it myself? I don't say I haven't. And so--" But I had taken off the ring on my way across the room. Having returned the fan to Ethel, I went up to Hugh, who looked round at me over his shoulder. "Hugh, darling," I said, very softly, "I feel that I ought to give you back this." He put out his hand mechanically, not thinking of what I was about to offer. On seeing it he drew back his hand quickly, and the ring dropped on the floor. I can hear it still, rolling with a little rattle among the fire-irons. In making my curtsy to Mr. Brokenshire I raised my eyes to his face. It seemed to me curiously stricken. After all her years of submission Mrs. Rossiter's rebellion must have made him feel like an autocrat dethroned. I repeated my curtsy to Mrs. Billing, who merely stared at me through her lorgnette--to Jack and Pauline, who took no notice, who perhaps didn't see me--to Mrs. Brokenshire, who was again a little rose-colored heap--and to Mildred, who raised her long, white hand. In the hall outside Cissie Boscobel rose and came toward me. "You must look after Hugh," I said to her, breathlessly, as I sped on my way. She did. As I hurried down the stairs I heard her saying: "No, Hugh, no! She wants to go alone." POSTSCRIPT I am writing in the dawn of a May morning in 1917. Before me lies a sickle of white beach some four or five miles in curve. Beyond that is the Atlantic, a mirror of leaden gray. Woods and fields bank themselves inland; here a dewy pasture, there a stretch of plowed earth recently sown and harrowed; elsewhere a grove of fir or maple or a hazel copse. From a little wooden house on the other side of the crescent of white sand a pillar of pale smoke is going straight up into the windless air. In the woods round me the birds, which have only just arrived from Florida, from the West Indies, from Brazil, are chirruping sleepily. They will doze again presently, to awake with the sunrise into the chorus of full song. Halifax lies some ten or twelve miles to the westward. This house is my uncle's summer residence, which he has lent to my husband and me for the latter's after-cure. I am used to being up at this hour, or at any hour, owing to my experience in nursing. As a matter of fact, I am restless with the beginning of day, fearing lest my husband may need me. He is in the next room. If he stirs I can hear him. In this room my baby is sleeping in his little bassinet. It is not the bassinet of my dreams, nor is this the white-enameled nursery, nor am I wearing a delicate lace peignoir. It is all much more beautiful than that, because it is as it is. My baby's name is John Howard Brokenshire Strangways, though we shorten it to Broke, which, in the English fashion, we pronounce Brook. You will see why I wanted to call him by this name; but for that I must hark back to the night when I returned the ring to dear Hugh Brokenshire and fled. It is like a dream to me now, that night; but a dream still vivid enough to recall. On escaping Hugh and making my way down-stairs I was lucky enough to find Thomas, my rosebud footman knight. Poor lad! The judgment trumpet was sounding for him, as for Franz Ferdinand and Sophie Chotek and the rest of us. He went back to England shortly after that and was killed the next year at the Dardanelles. But there he was for the moment, standing with the wraps of the Rossiter party. "Thomas, call the motor," I said, hurriedly. "Be quick! I'm going home, alone, and you must come with me. I've things for you to do. Mr. Jack Brokenshire will bring Mrs. Rossiter." On the way I explained my program to him through the window. I had been called suddenly to New York. There was a train from Boston to that city which would stop at Providence at two. I thought there was one from Newport to Providence about twelve-thirty, and it was now a quarter past eleven. If there was such a train I must take it; if there wasn't, the motor must run me up to Providence, for which there was still time. I should delay only long enough to pack a suit-case. For the use I was making of him and the chauffeur, as well as of the vehicle, I should be responsible to my hosts. Both the men being my tacitly sworn friends, there was no questioning of my authority. I fell back, therefore, into the depths of the limousine with the first sense of relief I had had since the day I accepted my position with Mrs. Rossiter. Something seemed to roll off me. I realized all at once that I had never, during the whole of the two years, been free from that necessity of picking my steps which one must have in walking on a tight-rope. Now it was delicious. I could have wished that the drive along Ochre Point Avenue had been thirty times as long. For Hugh I had no feeling of compunction. It was so blissful to be free. Cissie Boscobel, I knew, would make up to him for all I had failed to give, and would give more. Let me say at once that when, a few weeks later, the man Lady Janet Boscobel was engaged to had also been killed at the front, and her parents had begged Cissie to go home, Hugh was her escort on the journey. It was the beginning of an end which I think is in sight, of a healing which no one wishes so eagerly as I. For the last two years Cissie has been mothering Belgian children somewhere in the neighborhood of Poperinghe, and Hugh has been in the American Ambulance Corps before Verdun. That was Cissie's work, made easier, perhaps, by some recollection he retained of me. When he has a few days' leave--so Ethel Rossiter writes me--he spends it at Goldborough Castle or Strath-na-Cloid. I ran across Cissie when for a time I was helping in first-aid work not far behind the lines at Neuve Chapelle. I had been taking care of her brother Rowan--Lord Ovingdean, he calls himself now, hesitating to follow his brother as Lord Leatherhead, and using one of his father's other secondary titles--and she had come to see him. I hadn't supposed till then that we were such friends. We talked and talked and talked, and still would have gone on talking. I can understand what she sees in Hugh, though I could never feel it for him with her intensity. I hope her devotion will be rewarded soon, and I think it will. I had a premonition of this as I drove along Ochre Point Avenue that night. It helped me to the joy of liberty, to rightness of heart. As I threw the things into my suit-case I could have sung. Séraphine, who was up, waiting for her mistress, being also my friend, promised to finish my packing after I had gone, so that Mrs. Rossiter would have nothing to do but send my boxes after me. It couldn't have been half an hour after my arrival at the house before I was ready to drive away again. I was in the down-stairs hall, going out to the motor, when a great black form appeared in the doorway. My knees shook under me; my happiness came down like a shot bird. Mr. Brokenshire advanced and stood under the many-colored Oriental hall lantern. I clung for support to the pilaster that finished the balustrade of the stairway. There was gentleness in his voice, in spite of its whip-lash abruptness. "Where are you going?" I could hardly reply, my heart pounded with such fright. "To--to New York, sir." "What for?" "Be-because," I faltered. "I want to--to get away." "Why do you want to get away?" "For--for every reason." "But suppose I don't want you to go?" "I should still have to be gone." He said in a hoarse whisper: "I want you to stay--and--and marry Hugh." I clasped my hands. "Oh, but how can I?" "He's willing to forget what you've said--what my daughter Ethel has said; and I'm willing to forget it, too." "Do you mean as to my being in love with some one else? But I am." "Not more than you were at the beginning of the evening. You were willing to marry him then." "But he didn't know then what he's had to learn since. I hoped to have kept it from him always. I may have been wrong--I suppose I was; but I had nothing but good motives." There was a strange drop in his voice as he said, "I know you hadn't." I couldn't help taking a step nearer him. "Oh, do you? Then I'm so glad. I thought--" He turned slightly away from me, toward a huge ugly fish in a glass case, which Mr. Rossiter believed to be a proof of his sportsmanship and an ornament to the hall. "I've had great trials," he said, after a pause--"great trials!" [Illustration: "I'VE HAD GREAT TRIALS . . . I'VE ALWAYS BEEN MISJUDGED. . . . THEY'VE PUT ME DOWN AS HARD AND PROUD"] "I know," I agreed, softly. He walked toward the fish and seemed to be studying it. "They've--they've--broken me down." "Oh, don't say that, sir!" "It's true." His finger outlined the fish's skeleton from head to tail. "The things I said to-night--" He seemed hung up there. He traced the fish's skeleton back from tail to head. "Have we been unkind to you?" he demanded, suddenly, wheeling round in my direction. I thought it best to speak quite truthfully. "Not unkind, sir--exactly." "But what did Ethel mean? She said we'd been brutes to you. Is that true?" "No, sir; not in my sense. I haven't felt it." He tapped his foot with the old imperiousness. "Then--what?" We were so near the fundamentals that again I felt I ought to give him nothing but the facts. "I suppose Mrs. Rossiter meant that sometimes I should have been glad of a little more sympathy, and always of more--courtesy." I added: "From you, sir, I shouldn't have asked for more than courtesy." Though only his profile was toward me and the hall was dim, I could see that his face was twitching. "And--and didn't you get it?" "Do you think I did?" "I never thought anything about it." "Exactly; but any one in my position does. Even if we could do without courtesy between equals--and I don't think we can--from the higher to the lower--from you to me, for instance--it's indispensable. I don't remember that I ever complained of it, however. Mrs. Rossiter must have seen it for herself." "I didn't want you to marry Hugh," he began, again, after a long pause; "but I'd given in about it. I shouldn't have minded it so much if--if my wife--" He broke off with a distressful, choking sound in the throat, and a twisting of the head, as if he couldn't get his breath. That passed and he began once more. "I've had great trials. . . . My wife! . . . And then the burden of this war. . . . They think--they think I don't care anything about it but--but just to make money. . . . I've always been misjudged. . . . They've put me down as hard and proud, when--" "I could have liked you, sir," I interrupted, boldly. "I told you so once, and it offended you. But I've never been able to help it. I've always felt that there was something big and fine in you--if you'd only set it free." His reply to this was to turn away from his contemplation of the fish and say: "Why don't you come back?" I was sure it was best to be firm. "Because I can't, sir. The episode is--is over. I'm sorry, and yet I'm glad. What I'm doing is right. I suppose everything has been right--even what happened between me and Hugh. I don't think it will do him any harm--Cissie Boscobel is there--and it's done me good. It's been a wonderful experience; but it's over. It would be a mistake for me to go back now--a mistake for all of us. Please let me go, sir; and just remember of me that I'm--I'm--grateful." He regarded me quietly and--if I may say so--curiously. There was something in his look, something broken, something defeated, something, at long last, kind, that made me want to cry. I was crying inwardly when he turned about, without another word, and walked toward the door. It must have been the impulse to say a silent good-by to him that sent me slowly down the hall, though I was scarcely aware of moving. He had gone out into the dark and I was under the Oriental lamp, when he suddenly reappeared, coming in my direction rapidly. I would have leaped back if I hadn't refused to show fear. As it was, I stood still. I was only conscious of an overwhelming pity, terror, and amazement as he seized me and kissed me hotly on the brow. Then he was gone. But it was that kiss which made all the difference in my afterthought of him. It was a confession on his part, too, and a bit of self-revelation. Behind it lay a nature of vast, splendid qualities--strong, noble, dominating, meant to be used for good--all ruined by self-love. Of the Brokenshire family, of whom I am so fond and to whom I owe so much, he was the one toward whom, by some blind, spontaneous, subconscious sympathy of my own, I have been most urgently attracted. If his soul was twisted by passions as his face became twisted by them, too--well, who is there among us of whom something of the sort may not be said; and yet God has patience with us all. Howard Brokenshire and I were foes, and we fought; but we fought as so many thousands, so many millions, have fought in the short time since that day; we fought as those who, when the veils are suddenly stripped away, when they are helpless on the battle-field after the battle, or on hospital cots lined side by side, recognize one another as men and brethren. And so, when my baby was born I called him after him. I wanted the name as a symbol--not only to myself, but to the Brokenshire family--that there was no bitterness in my heart. At present let me say that, though pained, I was scarcely surprised to read in the New York papers on the following afternoon that Mr. J. Howard Brokenshire, the eminent financier, had, on the previous evening, been taken with a paralytic seizure while in his motor on the way from his daughter's house to his own. He was conscious when carried indoors, but he had lost the power of speech. The doctors indicated overwork in connection with foreign affairs as the predisposing cause. From Mrs. Rossiter I heard as each successive shock overtook him. Very pitifully the giant was laid low. Very tenderly--so Ethel has written me--Mrs. Brokenshire has watched over him--and yet, I suppose, with a terrible tragic expectation in her heart, which no one but myself, and perhaps Stacy Grainger, can have shared with her. Howard Brokenshire died on that early morning when his country went to war. I stayed in New York just long enough to receive my boxes from Newport. On getting out of the train at Halifax Larry Strangways received me in his arms. And this time I saw no little dining-room, with myself seating the guests; I saw no bassinet and no baby. I saw nothing but him. I knew nothing but him. He was all to me. It was the difference. And not the least of my surprises, when I came to find out, was the fact that it was Jim Rossiter who had sent him there--Jim Rossiter, whom I had rather despised as a selfish, cat-like person, with not much thought beyond "ridin' and racin'," and pills and medicinal waters. That was true of him; and yet he took the trouble to get into touch with Stacy Grainger--as a Brokenshire only by affinity, he could do it--to use his influence at Washington and Ottawa to get Larry Strangways a week's leave from Princess Patricia's regiment--to watch over my movements in New York and know the train I should take--and wire to Larry Strangways the hour of my arrival. When I think of it I grow maudlin at the thought of the good there is in every one. We were married within the week at the old church which was once a center for Loyalist refugees from New England, beneath which some of them lie buried, and where I was baptized. When my husband returned to Valcartier I went--to be near him--to Quebec. After he sailed for England I, too, sailed, and met him there. I kept near him in England, taking such nursing training as I could while he trained in other ways. I was not many miles away from him when, in the spring of the next year, he was badly cut up at Bois Grenier, near Neuve Chapelle. He was one of the two or three Canadians to hold a listening post half-way between the hostile lines, where they could hear the slightest movement of the enemy and signal back. A Maxim swept the dugout at intervals, and now and then a shell burst near them. My husband was wounded in a leg and his right arm was shattered. When I was permitted to see him at Amiens the arm had been taken off and the doctors were doing what they could to save the leg. Fortunately, they have succeeded; and now he walks with no more than a noticeable limp. He is a captain in Princess Patricia's regiment and a D. S. O. Later he was taken to the American Women's Hospital, at Paignton, in Devonshire, and there again I had the joy of being near him. I couldn't take care of him--I had not the skill, and perhaps my nerve would have failed me--but I worked in the kitchen and was sometimes allowed to take him his food and feed him. I think the hope, the expectation, of my doing this was what brought him out of the profound silence into which he was plunged when he arrived. That was the only sign of mental suffering I ever saw in him. For the physical suffering he never seemed to care. But something deep and far off, and beyond the beyond of self-consciousness, seemed to have been reached by what he had seen and heard and done. It was said of Lazarus, after his recall to life by Christ, that he never spoke of what he had experienced in those four days; and I can say as much of my husband. When his mind reverts to the months in France and Flanders he grows dumb. He grows dumb and his spirit moves away from me. It moves away from me and from everything that is of this world. It is among scenes past speech, past understanding, past imagining. He is Lazarus back in the world, but with secrets in his keeping which no one may learn but those who have learned them where he did. When he came to Paignton he was far removed from us; but little by little he reapproached. I helped to restore him; and then, when the baby was born, the return to earth was quickened. To have my baby I went over to Torquay, where I had six quiet contented weeks in a room overlooking the peacock-blue waters of Tor Bay, with the kindly roof that sheltered my husband in the distance. When I had recovered I went to a cottage at Paignton, where, when he left the hospital, he joined me. As the healing of the leg has been so slow, we have been in the lovely Devon country ever since, till, a few weeks ago, the British Government allowed us to cross on the ship that brought the British Commissioners to Washington. * * * * * I have just been in to look at him. He is sound asleep, lying on his left side, the coverlet sagging slightly at the shoulder where the right arm is gone. He is getting accustomed to using his left hand, but not rapidly. Meantime he is my other baby; and, in a way, I love to have it so. I can be more to him. In proportion as he needs me the bond is closer. He is a grave man now. The smile that used to flash like a sword between us is never there any more. When he smiles it is with a long, slow smile that comes from far away--perhaps from life as it was before the war. It is a sweet smile, a brave one, one infinitely touching; and it pierces me to the heart. He didn't have to forfeit his American citizenship in becoming one of the glorious Princess Pats. They were glad to have him on any terms. He is an American and I am one. I thought I became one without feeling any difference. It seemed to me I had been born one, just as I had been born a subject of the dear old queen. But on the night of our landing in Halifax, a military band came and played the "Star-spangled Banner" before my uncle's door, and I burst into the first tears I had shed since my marriage. Through everything else I had been upheld; but at the strains of that anthem, and all it implied, I broke down helplessly. When we went to the door and my husband stood to listen to the cheering of my friends, in his khaki with the empty sleeve, and the fine, stirring, noble air was played again, his eyes, as well as mine, were wet. It recalled to me what he said once when I was allowed to relieve the night nurse and sit beside him at Paignton. He woke in the small hours and smiled at me--his distant, dreamy smile. His only words--words he seemed to bring with him out of the lands of sleep, in which perhaps he lived again what now was past for him--his only words were: "You know the Stars and Stripes were at Bois Grenier." "How?" I asked, to humor him, thinking him delirious. He laughed--the first thing that could be called a laugh since they had brought him there. "Sewn or my undershirt--over my heart! It will be there again," he added, "floating openly!" And almost immediately he fell asleep once more. * * * * * And, after all, it is to be there again--floating openly. The time-struggle has taken it and will carry it aloft. It has taken other flags, too--flags of Asia; flags of South America; flags of the islands of the seas. As my husband predicted long ago, mankind is divided into just two camps. So be it! God knows I don't want war. I have been too near it, and too closely touched by it, ever to wish again to hear a cannon-shot or see a sword. But I suppose it is all a part of the great War in Heaven. Michael and his angels are fighting, and the dragon is fighting and his angels. By that I do not mean that all the good is on one side and all the evil on the other. God forbid! There is good and evil on both sides. On both sides doubtless evil is being purged away and the new, true man is coming to his own. If I think most of the spiritualization of France, and the consecration of the British Empire, and the coming of a new manhood to the United States, it is because these are the countries I know best. I should be sorry, I should be hopeless, were I not to believe that, above bloodshed, and cruelty, and hatred, and lust, and suffering, and all that is abominable, the Holy Ghost is breathing on every nation of mankind. When it is all over, and we have begun to live again, there will be a great Renaissance. It will be what the word implies--a veritable New Birth. The sword shall be beaten to a plowshare and the spear to a pruning-hook. "Nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more." So, in this gray light, growing so silvery that as day advances it becomes positively golden, I turn to my Bible. It is extraordinary how comforting the Bible has become in these days when hearts have been lifted up into long-unexplored regions of terror and courage. Men and women who had given up reading it, men and women who have never read it at all, turn its pages with trembling hands and find the wisdom of the ages. And so I read what for the moment have become to me its most strengthening words: In your patience possess ye your souls. . . . There shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring; men's hearts failing them for fear, and for looking after those things which are coming on the earth; for the powers of heaven shall be shaken. . . . And when these things begin to come to pass, then look up, and lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh. That is what I believe--that through this travail of the New Birth for all mankind redemption is on the way. It is coming like the sunrise I now see over the ocean. In it are the glories that never were on land or sea. It paints the things which have never entered into the heart of man, but which God has prepared for them that love him. It is the future; it is Heaven. Not a future that no man will live to see; not a Heaven beyond death and the blue sky. It is a future so nigh as to be at the doors; it is the Kingdom of Heaven within us. Meantime there is saffron pulsating into emerald, and emerald into rose, and rose into lilac, and lilac into pearl, and pearl into the great gray canopy that has hardly as yet been touched with light. And the great gray ocean is responding a fleck of color here, a hint of glory there; and now, stealing westward, from wavelet to wavelet, stealing and ever stealing, nearer and still more near, a wide, golden pathway, as if some Mighty One were coming straight to me. "Even so, come, Lord Jesus." Even so I look up, and lift up my head. Even so I possess my soul in patience. Even so, too, I think of Mildred Brokenshire's words: "Life is not a blind impulse, working blindly. It is a beneficent, rectifying power." THE END =Transcriber's Notes:= original hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in the original Page 8, "won't he Miss" changed to "won't be Miss" Page 32, "was to indignant" changed to "was too indignant" Page 43, "what is is" changed to "what it is" Page 72, "shoulder. "No" changed to "shoulder, "No" Page 84, "Glady's" changed to "Gladys's" Page 85, "Glady's" changed to "Gladys's" Page 93, "presisted" changed to "persisted" Page 129, "waistcoat. a slate-colored" changed to "waistcoat, a slate-colored" Page 150, "come an and" changed to "come and" Page 178, "stammer the words" changed to "stammer the words--" Page 211, "well received His" changed to "well received. His" Page 230, "your hand but" changed to "your hand, but" Page 235, "put in it my" changed to "put it in my" Page 235, "'I could be" changed to '"I could be' Page 268, "at last "but" changed to "at last, "but" Page 293, "'So much that" changed to '"So much that' Page 297, "The darlings!'" changed to 'The darlings!"' Page 312, "ligthning" changed to "lightning" Page 333, "must be true" changed to "must be true." Page 334, "broke in, quietly" changed to "broke in, quietly." Page 398, "dumfounded" changed to "dumbfounded" Page 409, "want you so stay" changed to "want you to stay" 
6850	----	Al Haines. ESTHER: A BOOK FOR GIRLS. BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. The Last Day at Redmayne House. CHAPTER II. The Arrival at Combe Manor. CHAPTER III. Dot. CHAPTER IV. Uncle Geoffrey. CHAPTER V. The Old House at Milnthorpe. CHAPTER VI. The Flitting. CHAPTER VII. Over the Way. CHAPTER VIII. Flurry and Flossy. CHAPTER IX. The Cedars. CHAPTER X. "I Wish I Had a Dot of My Own." CHAPTER XI. Miss Ruth's Nurse. CHAPTER XII. I Was Not Like Other Girls. CHAPTER XIII. "We Have Missed Dame Bustle." CHAPTER XIV. Playing in Tom Tidler's Ground. CHAPTER XV. Life at the Brambles. CHAPTER XVI. The Smugglers' Cave. CHAPTER XVII. A Long Night. CHAPTER XVIII. "You Brave Girl!" CHAPTER XIX. A Letter from Home. CHAPTER XX. "You Were Right, Esther." CHAPTER XXI. Santa Claus. CHAPTER XXII. Allan and I Walk to Eltham Green. CHAPTER XXIII. Told in the Sunset. CHAPTER XXIV. Ringing the Changes. ESTHER CHAPTER I. THE LAST DAY AT REDMAYNE HOUSE. What trifles vex one! I was always sorry that my name was Esther; not that I found fault with the name itself, but it was too grave, too full of meaning for such an insignificant person. Some one who was learned in such matters--I think it was Allan--told me once that it meant a star, or good fortune. It may be so, but the real meaning lay for me in the marginal note of my Bible: Esther, fair of form and good in countenance, that Hadassah, who was brought to the palace of Shushan, the beautiful Jewish queen who loved and succored her suffering people; truly a bright particular star among them. Girls, even the best of them, have their whims and fancies, and I never looked at myself in the glass on high days and holidays, when a festive garb was desirable, without a scornful protest, dumbly uttered, against so shining a name. There was such a choice, and I would rather have been Deborah or Leah, or even plain Susan, or Molly; anything homely, that would have suited my dark, low-browed face. Tall and angular, and hard-featured--what business had I with such a name? "My dear, beauty is only skin-deep, and common sense is worth its weight in gold; and you are my good sensible Esther," my mother said once, when I had hinted rather too strongly at my plainness. Dear soul, she was anxious to appease the pangs of injured vanity, and was full of such sweet, balmy speeches; but girls in the ugly duckling stage are not alive to moral compliments; and, well--perhaps I hoped my mother might find contradiction possible. Well, I am older and wiser now, less troublesomely introspective, and by no means so addicted to taking my internal structure to pieces, to find out how the motives and feelings work; but all the same, I hold strongly to diversity of gifts. I believe beauty is a gift, one of the good things of God; a very special talent, for which the owner must give account. But enough of this moralizing, for I want to speak of a certain fine afternoon in the year of our Lord, 18--well, never mind the date. It was one of our red-letter days at Redmayne House--in other words, a whole holiday; we always had a whole holiday on Miss Majoribanks' birthday. The French governess had made a grand toilette, and had gone out for the day. Fraulein had retired to her own room, and was writing a long sentimental effusion to a certain "liebe Anna," who lived at Heidelberg. As Fraulein had taken several of us into confidence, we had heard a great deal of this Anna von Hummel, a little round-faced German, with flaxen plaits and china-blue eyes, like a doll; and Jessie and I had often wondered at this strong Teutonic attachment. Most of the girls were playing croquet--they played croquet then--on the square lawn before the drawing-room windows; the younger ones were swinging in the lime-walk. Jessie and I had betaken ourselves with our books to a corner we much affected, where there was a bench under a may-tree. Jessie was my school friend--chum, I think we called it; she was a fair, pretty girl, with a thoroughly English face, a neat compact figure, and manners which every one pronounced charming and lady-like; her mind was lady-like too, which was the best of all. Jessie read industriously--her book seemed to rivet her attention; but I was restless and distrait. The sun was shining on the limes, and the fresh green leaves seemed to thrill and shiver with life: a lazy breeze kept up a faint soughing, a white butterfly was hovering over the pink may, the girls' shrill voices sounded everywhere; a thousand undeveloped thoughts, vague and unsubstantial as the sunshine above us, seemed to blend with the sunshine and voices. "Jessie, do put down your book--I want to talk." Jessie raised her eyebrows a little quizzically but she was always amiable; she had that rare unselfishness of giving up her own will ungrudgingly; I think this was why I loved her so. Her story was interesting, but she put down her book without a sigh. "You are always talking, Esther," she said, with a provoking little smile; "but then," she added, quickly, as though she were afraid that I should think her unkind, "I never heard other girls talk so well." "Nonsense," was my hasty response: "don't put me out of temper with myself. I was indulging in a little bit of philosophy while you were deep in the 'Daisy Chain.' I was thinking what constituted a great mind." Jessie opened her eyes widely, but she did not at once reply; she was not, strictly speaking, a clever girl, and did not at once grasp any new idea; our conversations were generally rather one-sided. Emma Hardy, who was our school wag, once observed that I used Jessie's brains as an airing-place for my ideas. Certainly Jessie listened more than she talked, but then, she listened so sweetly. "Of course, Alfred the Great, and Sir Philip Sidney, and Princess Elizabeth of France, and all the heroes and heroines of old time--all the people who did such great things and lived such wonderful lives--may be said to have had great minds; but I am not thinking about them. I want to know what makes a great mind, and how one is to get it. There is Carrie, now, you know how good she is; I think she may be said to have one." "Carrie--your sister?" "Why, yes," I returned, a little impatiently; for certainly Jessie could not think I meant that stupid, peevish little Carrie Steadman, the dullest girl in the school; and whom else should I mean, but Carrie, my own dear sister, who was two years older than I, and who was as good as she was pretty, and who set us all such an example of unworldliness and self-denial; and Jessie had spent the Christmas holidays at our house, and had grown to know and love her too; and yet she could doubt of whom I was speaking; it could not be denied that Jessie was a little slow. "Carrie is so good," I went on, when I had cooled a little, "I am sure she has a great mind. When I read of Mrs. Judson and Elizabeth Fry, or of any of those grand creatures, I always think of Carrie. How few girls of nineteen would deprive themselves of half their dress allowance, that they might devote it to the poor; she has given up parties because she thinks them frivolous and a waste of time; and though she plays so beautifully, mother can hardly get her to practice, because she says it is a pity to devote so much time to a mere accomplishment, when she might be at school, or reading to poor old Betty Martin." "She might do both," put in Jessie, rather timidly; for she never liked contradicting any of my notions, however far-fetched and ill-assorted they might be. "Do you know, Esther, I fancy your mother is a little sorry that Carrie is so unlike other girls; she told me once that she thought it such a pity that she had let her talents rust after all the money that had been spent on her education." "You must have misunderstood my mother," I returned, somewhat loftily; "I heard her once say to Uncle Geoffrey that she thought Carrie was almost perfection. You have no idea how much Mr. Arnold thinks of her; he is always holding her up as his pattern young lady in the parish, and declares that he should not know what to do without her. She plays the organ at all the week-day services, and teaches at the Sunday school, and she has a district now, and a Bible-class for the younger girls. No wonder she cannot find time to practice, or to keep up her drawing." And I looked triumphantly at Jessie; but her manner did not quite please me. She might not be clever, but she had a good solid set of opinions to which she could hold stoutly enough. "Don't think me disagreeable, Esther," she pleaded. "I think a great deal of Carrie; she is very sweet, and pretty, and good, and we should all be better if we were more like her; but no one is quite faultless, and I think even Carrie makes mistakes at times." "Oh, of course!" I answered a little crossly, for I could not bear her finding fault with Carrie, who was such a paragon in my eyes. But Jessie took no notice of my manner, she was such a wise little creature; and I cannot help thinking that the less importance we attach to people's manner the better. Under a little roughness there is often good stuff, and some good people are singularly unfortunate in manner. So Jessie went on in her gentle way, "Do you remember Miss Majoribanks' favorite copy: 'Moderation in all things'? I think this ought to apply to everything we do. We had an old nurse once, who used to say such droll things to us children. I remember I had been very good, and done something very wonderful, as I thought, and nursie said to me in her dry way, 'Well, Miss Jessie, my dear, duty is not a hedgehog, that you should be bristling all over in that way. There is no getting at you to-day, you are too fully armed at all points for praise.' And she would not say another word; and another time, when I thought I ought to have been commended; she said, 'Least done is soonest mended; and well done is not ill done, and that is all about it.' Poor old nurse! she would never praise any one." "But, Jessie--how does this apply to Carrie?" "Well, not very much, I dare say; only I think Carrie overdoes her duty sometimes. I remember one evening your mother look so disappointed when Carrie said she was too tired to sing." "You mean the evening when the Scobells were there, and Carrie had been doing parish work all the day, and she came in looking so pale and fagged? I thought mother was hard on her that night. Carrie cried about it afterward in my room." "Oh, Esther, I thought she spoke so gently! She only said, 'Would it not have been better to have done a little less to-day, and reserved yourself for our friends? We ought never to disappoint people if we can help it.'" "Yes; only mother looked as if she were really displeased; and Carrie could not bear that; she said in her last letter that mother did not sympathize entirely in her work, and that she missed me dreadfully, for the whole atmosphere was rather chilling sometimes." Jessie looked a little sorry at this. "No one could think that of your home, Esther." And she sighed, for her home was very different from ours. Her parents were dead, and as she was an only child, she had never known the love of brother or sister; and the aunt who brought her up was a strict narrow-minded sort of person, with manners that must have been singularly uncongenial to my affectionate, simple-minded Jessie. Poor Jessie! I could not help giving her one of my bear-like hugs at this, so well did I know the meaning of that sigh; and there is no telling into what channel our talk would have drifted, only just at that moment Belle Martin, the pupil-teacher, appeared in sight, walking very straight and fast, and carrying her chin in an elevated fashion, a sort of practical exposition of Madame's "Heads up, young ladies!" But this was only her way, and Belle was a good creature. "You are to go in at once, Miss Cameron," she called out, almost before she reached us. "Miss Majoribanks has sent me to look for you; your uncle is with her in the drawing-room." "Uncle Geoffrey? Oh, my dear Uncle Geoff!" I exclaimed, joyfully. "Do you really mean it, Belle?" "Yes, Dr. Cameron is in the drawing-room," repeated Belle. But I never noticed how grave her voice was. She commenced whispering to Jessie almost before I was a yard away, and I thought I heard an exclamation in Jessie's voice; but I only said to myself, "Oh, my dear Uncle Geoff!" in a tone of suppressed ecstasy, and I looked round on the croquet players as I threaded the lawn with a sense of pity that not one of them possessed an uncle like mine. Miss Majoribanks was seated in state, in her well-preserved black satin gown, with her black gloves reposing in her lap, looking rather like a feminine mute; but on this occasion I took no notice of her. I actually forgot my courtesy, and I am afraid I made one of my awkward rushes, for Miss Majoribanks groaned slightly, though afterward she turned it into a cough. "Why, Esther, you are almost a woman now," said my uncle, putting me in front of him, and laying his heavy hand on my shoulder. "Bless me, how the child has grown, and how unlike she is to Carrie!" "I was seventeen yesterday," I answered, pouting a little, for I understood the reference to Carrie; and was I not the ugly duckling?--but I would not keep up the sore feeling a minute, I was so pleased to see him. No one would call Uncle Geoffrey handsome--oh, dear, no! his features were too rugged for that; but he had a droll, clever face, and a pair of honest eyes, and his gray hair was so closely cropped that it looked like a silver cap. He was a little restless and fidgety in his movements, too, and had ways that appeared singular to strangers, but I always regarded his habits respectfully. Clever men, I thought, were often eccentric; and I was quite angry with my mother when she used to say, "Geoff was an old bachelor, and he wanted a wife to polish him; I should like to see any woman dare to marry Uncle Geoff." "Seventeen, sweet seventeen! Eh, Esther?" but he still held my hand and looked at me thoughtfully. It was then I first noticed how grave he looked. "Have you come from Combe Manor, Uncle Geoff, and are they all quite well at home?" I asked, rather anxiously, for he seemed decidedly nervous. "Well, no," he returned, rather slowly; "I am sorry to spoil your holiday, child, but I have come by your mother's express desire to fetch you home. Frank--your father, I mean--is not well, and they will be glad of your help and--bless me"--Uncle Geoff's favorite exclamation--"how pale the girl looks!" "You are keeping something from me--he is very ill--I know he is very ill!" I exclaimed, passionately. "Oh, uncle, do speak out! he is--" but I could not finish my sentence, only Uncle Geoffrey understood. "No, no, it is not so bad as that," putting his arm round me, for I was trembling and shaking all over; "he is very ill--I dare not deny that there is much ground for fear; but Esther, we ought to lose no time in getting away from here. Will you swallow this glass of wine, like a good, brave child, and then pack up your things as soon as possible?" There was no resisting Uncle Geoffrey's coaxing voice; all his patients did what he told them, so I drank the wine, and tried to hurry from the room, only my knees felt so weak. "Miss Martin will assist you," whispered Miss Majoribanks, as I passed her; and, sure enough, as I entered the dormitory, there was Belle emptying my drawers, with Jessie helping her. Even in my bewildered state of wretchedness I wondered why Miss Majoribanks thought it necessary for me to take all my things. Was I bidding good-by to Redmayne House? Belle looked very kindly at me as she folded my dresses, but Jessie came up to me with tears in her eyes. "Oh, Esther!" she whispered, "how strange to think we were talking as we were, and now the opportunity has come?" and though her speech was a little vague, I understood it; she meant the time for me to display my greatness of mind--ah, me! my greatness of mind--where was it? I was of no use at all; the girls did it all between them, while I sat on the edge of my little bed and watched them. They were as quick as possible, and yet it seemed hours before the box was locked, and Belle had handed me the key; by-and-by, Miss Majoribanks came and fetched me down, for she said the fly was at the door, and Dr. Cameron was waiting. We girls had never cared much for Miss Majoribanks, but nothing could exceed her kindness then. I think the reason why schoolmistresses are not often beloved by their pupils--though there certainly are exceptions to that rule--is that they do not often show their good hearts. When Miss Majoribanks buttoned my gloves for me, and smoothed my hair, and gave me that motherly kiss, I felt I loved her. "God bless you my dear child! we shall all miss you; you have worked well and been a credit to the establishment. I am sorry indeed to part with you." Actually these were Miss Majoribanks' words, and spoken, too, in a husky voice! And when I got downstairs, there were all the girls, many of them with their croquet mallets in their hands, gathered in the front garden, and little Susie Pierrepoint, the baby of the school, carrying a large bunch of lavender and sweet-william from her own little garden, which she thrust into my hands. "They are for you," cried Susie; and then they all crowded round and kissed me. "Good-by, Esther; we are so sorry to lose you; write to us and let us know how you are." Jessie's pale little face came last. "Oh, my darling! how I shall be thinking of you!" cried the affectionate creature; and then I broke down, and Uncle Geoffrey led me away. "I am glad to see your school-fellows love you," he said, as we drove off, and Redmayne House became lost to sight. "Human affection is a great boon, Esther." Dear Uncle Geoffrey! he wanted to comfort me; but for some time I would not speak or listen. CHAPTER II. THE ARRIVAL AT COMBE MANOR. The great secret of Uncle Geoffrey's influence with people was a certain quiet undemonstrative sympathy. He did not talk much; he was rather given to letting people alone, but his kindliness of look made his few spoken words more precious than the voluble condolences of others. He made no effort to check the torrent of tears that followed my first stunned feelings; indeed, his "Poor child!" so tenderly uttered, only made them flow more quickly. It was not until we were seated in the railway compartment, and I had dried them of my own accord, that he attempted to rouse me by entering into conversation, and yet there was much that he knew must be said, only "great haste, small speed," was always Uncle Geoffrey's favorite motto. "There is time for all things, and much more," as he used to tell us. "Are you better now?" he asked, kindly. "That is right; put your handkerchief away, and we can have a little talk together. You are a sensible girl, Esther, and have a wise little head on your shoulders. Tell me, my child, had you any idea of any special anxiety or trouble that was preying on your father's mind?" "No, indeed," I returned, astonished. "I knew the farm was doing badly, and father used to complain now and then of Fred's extravagance, and mother looked once or twice very worried, but we did not think much about it." "Then I am afraid what I am going to tell you will be a great shock," he returned, gravely. "Your father and mother must have had heavy anxieties lately, though they have kept it from you children. The cause of your father's illness is mental trouble. I must not hide from you, Esther, that he is ruined." "Ruined!" I tried to repeat the word aloud, but it died on my lips. "A man with a family ought not to speculate," went on my uncle, speaking more to himself than me. "What did Frank know about the business? About as much as Fred does about art. He has spent thousands on the farm, and it has been a dead loss from the beginning. He knew as much about farming as Carrie does. Stuff and nonsense! And then he must needs dabble in shares for Spanish mines; and that new-fangled Wheal Catherine affair that has gone to smash lately. Every penny gone; and a wife, and--how many of you are there, Esther?" But I was too much overwhelmed to help him in his calculation, so he commenced striking off on his fingers, one by one. "Let me see; there's Fred, brought up, young coxcomb! to think himself a fine gentleman and an artist, with almost as much notion of work as I have of piano playing; and Allan, who has more brains than the rest of you put together; and Carrie, who is half a saint and slightly hysterical; and your poor little self; and then comes that nondescript article Jack. Why in the world do you call a feminine creature Jack? And poor little Dot, who will never earn a penny for himself--humph, six of you to clothe and feed--" "Oh, Uncle Geoff!" I burst out, taking no notice of this long tirade; and what did it matter if Dot never earned anything when I would work my fingers to the bone for him, the darling! "oh, Uncle Geoff, are things really so bad as that? Will Fred be obliged to give up his painting, when he has been to Rome, too; and shall we have to leave Combe Manor, and the farm? Oh, what will they all do? and Carrie, too?" "Work," was the somewhat grim reply, and then he went on in a milder tone. "Things are very bad, Esther; about as bad as they can be--for we must look matters in the face--and your father is very ill, and there is no knowing where the mischief may end; but you must all put your shoulders to the domestic wheel, and push it up the Hill Difficulty. It is a crisis, and a very painful one, but it will prove which of you has the right mettle. "I am not afraid of Allan," he went on; "the lad has plenty of good stuff in him; and I am not much afraid of you, Esther, at least I think not; but--" He hesitated, and then stopped, and I knew he was thinking of Fred and Carrie; but he need not. Of course Carrie would work as heartily as any of us; idling was never her forte; and Fred--well, perhaps Fred was not always industrious. I seemed to have lost myself in a perfect tangle of doubt and dread. Uncle Geoffrey went on with his talk, half sad and half moralizing, but I could not follow all he said. Two thoughts were buzzing about me like hornets. Father was ill, very ill, and we should have to leave Combe Manor. The sting of these thoughts was dreadful. I seemed to rouse out of a nightmare when Uncle Geoffrey suddenly announced that we were at Crowbridge. No one was waiting for us at the station, which somewhat surprised me; but Combe Manor was not a quarter of a mile off, so the luggage was wheeled away on a truck, and Uncle Geoffrey and I walked after it, up the sandy lane, and round by the hazel copse. And there were the fields, where Dapple, the gray mare, was feeding; and there were Cherry and Spot, and Brindle, and all the rest of the dear creatures, rubbing their horned heads against the hedge as usual; and two or three of them standing knee-deep in the great shallow pool, where Fred and Allan used to sail their boats, and make believe it was the Atlantic. We always called the little bit of sedgy ground under the willow America, and used to send freights of paper and cardboard across the mimic ocean, which did not always arrive safely. How lovely and peaceful it all looked on this June evening! The sun shone on the red brick house and old-fashioned casements; roses were climbing everywhere, on the walls, round the porch, over the very gateway. Fred was leaning against the gate, in his brown velveteen coat and slouched hat, looking so handsome and picturesque, poor fellow! He had a Gloire de Dijon in his button-hole. I remember I wondered vaguely how he had had the heart to pick it. "How is he?" called out Uncle Geoffrey. And Fred started, for though he was watching for us he had not seen us turn the corner of the lane. "No better," was the disconsolate answer, as he unlatched the gate, and stooped over it to kiss me. "We are expecting Allan down by the next train, and Carrie asked me to look out for you; how do you do, Esther? What have you done to yourself?" eyeing me with a mixture of chagrin and astonishment. I suppose crying had not improved my appearance; still, Fred need not have noticed my red eyes; but he was one who always "looked on the outward appearance." "She is tired and unhappy, poor little thing," repeated Uncle Geoffrey, answering for me, as he drew my arm through his. "I hope Carrie has got some tea for her;" and as he spoke Carrie came out in the porch to meet us. How sweet she looked, the "little nun," as Fred always called her, in her gray dress; with her smooth fair hair and pale pretty face. "Poor Esther, how tired you look!" she said, kissing me affectionately, but quietly--Carrie was always a little undemonstrative--"but I have got tea for you in the brown room" (we always called it the brown room, because it was wainscoted in oak); "will you have it now, or would you like to see mother?" "You had better have tea first and see your mother afterward," observed Uncle Geoffrey; but I would not take this prudent counsel. On the stairs I came upon Jack, curled up on a window-sill, with Smudge, our old black cat, in her arms, and was welcomed by both of them with much effusion. Jack was a tall, thin girl, all legs and arms, with a droll, freckled face and round blue eyes, with all the awkwardness of fourteen, and none of its precocity. Her real name was Jacqueline, but we had always called her Jack, for brevity, and because, with her cropped head and rough ways, she resembled a boy more than a girl; her hair was growing now, and hung about her neck in short ungainly lengths, but I doubt whether in its present stage it was any improvement. I am not at all sure strangers considered Jack a prepossessing child, she was so awkward and overgrown, but I liked her droll face immensely. Fred was always finding fault with her and snubbing her, which brought him nothing but pert replies; then he would entreat mother to send her to school, but somehow she never went. Dot could not spare her, and mother thought there was plenty of time, so Jack still roamed about at her own sweet will; riding Dapple barebacked round the paddock, milking Cherry, and feeding the chickens; carrying on some pretense at lessons with Carrie, who was not a very strict mistress, and plaguing Fred, who had nice ways and hated any form of untidiness. "Oh, you dear thing!" cried Jack, leaping from the window-seat and nearly strangling me, while Smudge rubbed himself lovingly against my dress; "oh, you dear, darling, delightful old Esther, how pleased I am to see you!" (Certainly Jack was not undemonstrative.) "Oh, it has been so horrid the last few days--father ill, and mother always with him, and Fred as cross as two sticks, and Carrie always too busy or too tired for any one to speak to her; and Dot complaining of pain in his back and not caring to play, oh!" finished Jack, with a long-drawn sigh, "it has been almost too horrid." "Hush, Jack," was my sole reply; for there was dear mother coming down the passage toward us. I had only been away from her two months, and yet it struck me that her hair was grayer and her face was thinner than it used to be, and there were lines on her forehead that I never remember to have seen before; but she greeted me in her old affectionate way, putting back my hair from my face to look at me, and calling me her dear child. "But I must not stop a moment, Esther," she said hurriedly, "or father will miss me; take off your hat, and rest and refresh yourself, and then you shall come up and see him." "But, mother, where is Dot?" "In there," motioning toward the sick room; "he is always there, we cannot keep him out," and her lip trembled. When Jack and I returned to the brown room, we found the others gathered round the table. Carrie, who was pouring out the tea, pointed to the seat beside her. It was the first dreary meal I had ever remembered in the brown room; my first evening at home had always been so happy. The shallow blue teacups and tiny plates always seemed prettier than other people's china, and nothing ever tasted so delicious as our home-made brown bread and butter. But this evening the flavor seemed spoiled. Carrie sat in mother's place looking sad and abstracted, and fingering her little silver cross nervously. Fred was downcast and out of spirits, returning only brief replies to Uncle Geoffrey's questions, and only waking up to snub Jack if she spoke a word. Oh, how I wished Allan would make his appearance and put us all right! It was quite a relief when I heard mother's voice calling me, and she took me into the great cool room where father lay. Dot was curled up in mother's great arm-chair, with his favorite book of natural history; he slipped a hot little hand in mine as I passed him. Dot was our name for him because he was so little, but he had been called Frank, after our father; he was eight years old, but he hardly looked bigger than a child of six. His poor back was crooked, and he was lame from hip-disease; sometimes for weeks together the cruel abscesses wasted his strength, at other times he was tolerably free from pain; even at his worst times Dot was a cheery invalid, for he was a bright, patient little fellow. He had a beautiful little face, too, though perhaps the eyes were a trifle too large for the thin features; but Dot was my pet, and I could see no fault in him; nothing angered me more than when people pitied him or lamented over his infirmity. When I first came home the sound of his crutch on the floor was the sweetest music in my ear. But I had no eyes even for Dot after my first look at father. Oh, how changed, how terribly changed he was! The great wave of brown hair over his forehead was gray, his features were pinched and haggard, and when he spoke to me his voice was different, and he seemed hardly able to articulate. "Poor children--poor children!" he groaned; and as I kissed his cheek he said, "Be a good girl, Esther, and try to be a comfort to your mother." "When I am a man I shall try and be a comfort too," cried Dot, in his sharp chirpy voice; it quite startled father. "That's my brave boy," said father, faintly, and I think there were tears in his eyes. "Dora"--my mother's name was Dora--"I am too tired to talk; let the children go now, and come and sit by me while I go to sleep;" and mother gently dismissed us. I had rather a difficulty with Dot when I got outside, for he suddenly lowered his crutch and sat down on the floor. "I don't want to go to bed," he announced, decidedly. "I shall sit here all night, in case mother wants me; when it gets dark she may feel lonely." "But, Dot, mother will be grieved if she comes out and finds you here; she has anxiety enough as it is; and if you make yourself ill, too, you will only add to her trouble. Come, be a good boy, and let me help you to undress." But I might as well have talked to Smudge. Dot had these obstinate fits at times; he was tired, and his nerves were shaken by being so many hours in the sick room, and nothing would have induced him to move. I was so tired at last that I sat down on the floor, too, and rested my head against the door, and Dot sat bolt upright like a watchful little dog, and in this ridiculous position we were discovered by Allan. I had not heard of his arrival; and when he came toward us, springing lightly up two stairs at a time, I could not help uttering a suppressed exclamation of delight. He stopped at once and looked at us in astonishment. "Dot and Esther! in the name of all that is mysterious; huddled up like two Chinese gods on the matting. Why, I took Esther for a heap of clothes in the twilight." Of course I told him how it happened. Dot was naughty and would not move, and I was keeping him company. Allan hardly heard me out before he had shouldered Dot, crutch and all, and was walking off with him down the passage. "Wait for me a few minutes, Esther," he whispered; and I betook myself to the window-seat and looked over the dusky garden, where the tall white lilies looked like ghostly flowers in the gloom. It was a long time before Allan rejoined me. "That is a curious little body," he said, half laughing, as he sat down beside me. "I had quite a piece of work with him for carrying him off in that fashion; he said 'I was a savage, a great uncivilized man, to take such a mean advantage of him; If I were big I would fight you,' he said, doubling his fists; he looked such a miserable little atom of a chap as he said it." "Was he really angry?" I asked, for Dot was so seldom out of temper. "Angry, I believe you. He was in a towering rage; but he is all right now, so you need not go to him. I stroked him down, and praised him for his good intentions, and then I told him I was a doctor now, and no one contradicted my orders, and that he must be a good boy and let me help him to bed. Poor little fellow; he sobbed all the time he was undressing, he is so fond of father. I am afraid it will go badly with him if things turn out as I fear they will," and Allan's voice was very grave. We had a long talk after that, until Uncle Geoffrey came upstairs and dislodged us, by carrying Allan off. It was such a comfort to have him all to myself; we had been so much separated of late years. Allan was five years older than I; he was only a year younger than Fred, but the difference between them was very great. Allan looked the elder of the two; he was not so tall as Fred, but he was strongly built and sturdy; he was dark-complexioned, and his features were almost as irregular as mine; but in a man that did not so much matter, and very few people called Allan plain. Allan had always been my special brother--most sisters know what I mean by that term. Allan was undemonstrative; he seldom petted or made much of me, but a word from him was worth a hundred from Fred; and there was a quiet unspoken sympathy between us that was sufficiently palpable. If Allan wanted his gloves mended he always came to me, and not to Carrie. I was his chief correspondent, and he made me the confidante of his professional hopes and fears. In return, he good-humoredly interested himself in my studies, directed my reading, and considered himself at liberty to find fault with everything that did not please him. He was a little peremptory sometimes, but I did not mind that half so much as Fred's sarcasms; and he never distressed me as Fred did, by laughing at my large hands, or wondering why I was not so natty in my dress as Carrie. CHAPTER III. DOT. I went to my room to unpack my things, and by-and-by Carrie joined me. I half hoped that she meant to help me, but she sat down by the window and said, with a sigh, how tired she was; and certainly her eyes had a weary look. She watched me for some time in silence, but once or twice she sighed very heavily. "I wish you could leave those things, Esther," she said, at last, not pettishly--Carrie was never pettish--but a little too plaintively. "I have not had a creature to whom I could talk since you left home in April." The implied compliment was very nice, but I did not half like leaving my things--I was rather old-maidish in my ways, and never liked half measures; but I remembered reading once about "the lust of finishing," and what a test of unselfishness it was to put by a half-completed task cheerfully at the call of another duty. Perhaps it was my duty to leave my unpacking and listen to Carrie, but there was one little point in her speech that did not please me. "You could talk to mother," I objected; for mother always listened to one so nicely. "I tried it once, but mother did not understand," sighed Carrie. I used to wish she did not sigh so much. "We had quite an argument, but I saw it was no use--that I should never bring her to my way of thinking. She was brought up so differently; girls were allowed so little liberty then. My notions seemed to distress her. She said that I was peculiar, and that I carried things too far, and that she wished I were more like other girls; and then she kissed me, and said I was very good, and she did not mean to hurt me; but she thought home had the first claim; and so on. You know mother's way." "I think mother was right there--you think so yourself, do you not Carrie?" I asked anxiously, for this seemed to me the A B C of common sense. "Oh, of course," rather hastily. "Charity begins at home, but it ought not to stop there. If I chose to waste my time practicing for Fred's violin, and attending to all his thousand and one fads and fancies, what would become of all my parish work? You should have heard Mr. Arnold's sermon last Sunday, Esther; he spoke of the misery and poverty and ignorance that lay around us outside our homes, and of the loiterers and idlers within those homes." And Carrie's eyes looked sad and serious. "That is true," I returned, and then I stopped, and Jessie's words came to my mind, "Even Carrie makes mistakes at times." For the first time in my life the thought crossed me; in my absence would it not have been better for Carrie to have been a little more at home? It was Jessie's words and mother's careworn face that put the thought into my head; but the next moment I had dismissed it as heresy. My good, unselfish Carrie, it was impossible that she could make mistakes! Carrie's next speech chimed in well with my unspoken thoughts. "Home duties come first, of course, Esther--no one in their senses could deny such a thing; but we must be on our guard against make-believe duties. It is my duty to help mother by teaching Jack, and I give her two hours every morning; but when Fred comes into the schoolroom with some nonsensical request that would rob me of an hour or so, I am quite right not to give way to him. Do you think," warming into enthusiasm over her subject, "that Fred's violin playing ought to stand in the way of any real work that will benefit souls as well as bodies--that will help to reclaim ignorance and teach virtue?" And Carrie's beautiful eyes grew dark and dewy with feeling. I wish mother could have seen her; something in her expression reminded me of a picture of Faith I had once seen. "Oh, Esther," she continued, for I was too moved to answer her, "every day I live I long to give myself more entirely to benefiting my fellow creatures. Girl as I am, I mean to join the grand army of workers--that is what Mr. Arnold called them. Oh, how I wish I could remember all he said! He told us not to be disheartened by petty difficulties, or to feel lonely because, perhaps, those who were our nearest and dearest discouraged our efforts or put obstacles in our way. 'You think you are alone,' he said, 'when you are one of the rank and file in that glorious battalion. There are thousands working with you and around you, although you cannot see them.' And then he exhorted us who were young to enter this crusade." "But, Carrie," I interrupted, somewhat mournfully, for I was tired and a little depressed, "I am afraid our work is already cut out for us, and we shall have to do it however little pleased we may be with the pattern. From what Uncle Geoffrey tells me, we shall be very poor." "I am not afraid of poverty, Esther." "But still you will be grieved to leave Combe Manor," I persisted. "Perhaps we shall have to live in a little pokey house somewhere, and to go out as governesses." "Perhaps so," she answered, serenely; "but I shall still find time for higher duties. I shall be a miser, and treasure all my minutes. But I have wasted nearly half-an-hour now; but it is such a luxury to talk to somebody who can understand." And then she kissed me affectionately and bade me hasten to bed, for it was getting late, and I looked sadly tired; but it never entered into her head to help me put away the clothes that strewed my room, though I was aching in every limb from grief and fatigue. If one looks up too much at the clouds one stumbles against rough stones sometimes. Star gazing is very sweet and elevating, but it is as well sometimes to pick up the homely flowers that grow round our feet. "What does Carrie mean by higher duties?" I grumbled, as I sought wearily to evoke order out of chaos. "To work for one's family is as much a duty as visiting the poor." I could not solve the problem; Carrie was too vague for me there; but I went to bed at last, and dreamed that we two were building houses on the seashore. Carrie's was the prettier, for it was all of sea-weed and bright-colored shells that looked as though the sun were shining on them, while mine was made of clay, tempered by mortar. "Oh, Carrie, I like yours best" I cried, disconsolately; yet as I spoke a long tidal wave came up and washed the frail building away. But though mine filled with foamy water, the rough walls remained entire, and then I looked at it again the receding wave had strewn its floors with small shining pearls. I must pass over the record of the next few days, for they were so sad--so sad, even now, I cannot think of them without tears. On the second day after my return, dear father had another attack, and before many hours were over we knew we were orphans. Two things stood out most prominently during that terrible week; dear mother's exceeding patience and Dot's despair. Mother gave us little trouble. She lay on her couch weeping silently, but no word of complaint or rebellion crossed her lips; she liked us to sit beside her and read her soothing passages of Scripture, and she was very thoughtful and full of pity for us all. Her health was never very good, and just now her strength had given way utterly. Uncle Geoffrey would not hear of her exerting herself, and, indeed, she looked so frail and broken that even Fred got alarmed about her. Carrie was her principal companion, for Dot took all my attention; and, indeed, it nearly broke our hearts to see him. Uncle Geoffrey had carried him from the room when father's last attack had come on. Jack was left in charge of him, and the rest of us were gathered in the sick room. I was the first to leave when all was over, for I thought of Dot and trembled; but as I opened the door there he was, crouched down in a little heap at the entrance, with Jack sobbing beside him. "I took away his crutch, but he crawled all the way on his hands and knees," whispered Jack; and then Allan came out and stood beside me. "Poor little fellow!" he muttered; and Dot lifted his miserable little white face, and held out his arms. "Take me in," he implored. "Father's dead, for I heard you all crying; but I must kiss him once more." "I don't think it will hurt him," observed Allan, in a low voice. "He will only imagine all sorts of horrors--and he looks so peaceful," motioning toward the closed door. "I will be so good," implored the poor child, "if you only take me in." And Allan, unable to resist any longer, lifted him in his arms. I did not go in, for I could not have borne it. Carrie told me afterward that Allan cried like a child when Dot nestled up to the dead face and began kissing and stroking it. "You are my own father, though you look so different," he whispered. "I wish you were not so cold. I wish you could look and speak to me--I am your little boy Dot--you were always so fond of Dot, father. Let me go with you; I don't want to live any longer without you," and so on, until Uncle Geoffrey made Allan take him away. Oh, how good Allan was to him! He lay down by his side all night, soothing him and talking to him, for Dot never slept. The next day we took turns to be with him, and so on day after day; but I think Dot liked Allan best. "He is most like father," he said once, which, perhaps, explained the preference; but then Allan had so much tact and gentleness. Fred did not understand him at all; he called him odd and uncanny, which displeased us both. One evening I had been reading to mother, and afterward I went up to Dot. He had been very feverish and had suffered much all day, and Allan had scarcely left him; but toward evening he had grown quieter. I found Jack beside him; they were making up garlands for the grave; it was Dot's only occupation just now. "Look here, Essie," he cried, eagerly. "Is not this a splendid wreath? We are making it all of pansies--they were father's favorite flowers. He always called them floral butterflies. Fancy a wreath of butterflies!" and Dot gave a weak little laugh. It was a very ghost of a laugh, but it was his first, and I hailed it joyfully. I praised the quaint stiff wreath. In its way it was picturesque. The rich hues of the pansies blended well--violet and gold; it was a pretty idea, laying heartsease on the breast that would never know anxiety again. "When I get better," continued Dot, "I am going to make such a beautiful little garden by dear father. Jack and I have been planning it. We are going to have rose-trees and lilies of the valley and sweet peas--father was so fond of sweet peas; and in the spring snowdrops and crocuses and violets. Allan says I may do it." "Yes, surely, Dot." "I wonder what father is doing now?" he exclaimed, suddenly, putting by the unfinished wreath a little wearily. "I think the worst of people dying is that we cannot find out what they are doing," and his eyes grew large and wistful. Alas! Dot, herein lies the sting of death--silence so insupportable and unbroken! "Shall I read you your favorite chapter?" I asked, softly; for every day Dot made us read to him the description of that City with its golden streets and gem-built walls; but he shook his head, "It glitters too much for my head to-night," he said, quaintly; "it is too bright and shining. I would rather think of dear father walking in those green pastures, with all the good people who have died. It must be very beautiful there, Esther. But I think father would be happier if I were with him." "Oh, Dot, no!" for the bare idea pained me; and I felt I must argue this notion away. "Allan and I could not spare you, or mother either; and there's Jack--what would poor Jack do without her playfellow?" "I don't feel I shall ever play again," said Dot, leaning his chin on his mites of hands and peering at us in his shrewd way. "Jack is a girl, and she cannot understand; but when one is only a Dot, and has an ugly crutch and a back that never leaves off aching, and a father that has gone to heaven, one does not care to be left behind." "But you are not thinking of us, Dot, and how unhappy it would make us to lose you too," I returned. And now the tears would come one by one; Dot saw them, and wiped them off with his sleeve. "Don't be silly, Esther," he said, in a coaxing little voice. "I am not going yet. Allan says I may live to be a man. He said so last night; and then he told me he was afraid we should be very poor; and that made me sorry, for I knew I should never be able to work, with my poor back." "But Allan and I will work for you, my darling," I exclaimed, throwing my arms round him; "only you must not leave us, Dot, even for father;" and as I said this I began to sob bitterly. I was terribly ashamed of myself when Allan came in and discovered me in the act; and there was Jack keeping me company, and frowning away her tears dreadfully. I thought Allan would have scolded us all round; but no, he did nothing of the kind. He patted Jack's wet cheeks and laughed at the hole in her handkerchief; and he then seated himself on the bed, and asked me very gently what was the matter with us all. Dot was spokesman: he stated the facts of the case rather lugubriously and in a slightly injured voice. "Esther is crying because she is selfish, and I am afraid I am selfish too." "Most likely," returned Allan, dryly; "it is a human failing. What is the case in point, Frankie?" Allan was the only one of us who ever called Dot by his proper name. "I should not mind growing up to be a man," replied Dot, fencing a little, "if I were big and strong like you," taking hold of the huge sinewy hand. "I could work then for mother and the girls; but now you will be always obliged to take care of me, and so--and so--" and here Dot's lips quivered a little, "I would rather go with dear father, if Esther would not cry about it so." "No, no, you must stay with us, Sonny," returned Allan, cheerily. "Esther and I are not going to give you up so easily. Why, look here, Frankie; I will tell you a secret. One of these days I mean to have a nice little house of my own, and Esther and you shall come and live with me, and I will go among my patients all the morning, and in the evening I shall come home very lazy and tired, and Esther shall fetch me my slippers and light the lamp, and I shall get my books, and you will have your drawing, and Esther will mend our clothes, and we shall be as cozy as possible." "Yes, yes," exclaimed Dot, clapping his hands. The snug picture had fascinated his childish fancy; Allan's fireside had obscured the lights of paradise. From this time this imaginary home of Allan's became his favorite castle in the air. When we were together he would often talk of it as though it were reality. We had planted the garden and furnished the parlor a dozen times over before the year was out; and so strong is a settled imagination that I am almost sure Dot believed that somewhere there existed the little white cottage with the porch covered with honeysuckle, and the low bay-window with the great pots of flowering plants, beside which Dot's couch was to stand. I don't think Jack enjoyed these talks so much as Dot and I did, as we made no room for her in our castle-building. "You must not live with us, Jack," Dot would say, very gravely; "you are only a girl, and we don't want girls"--what was I, I wonder?--"but you shall come and see us once a week, and Esther will give you brown bread and honey out of our beehives; for we had arranged there must be a row of beehives under a southern wall where peaches were to grow; and as for white lilies, we were to have dozens of them. Dear, dear, how harmless all these fancies were, and yet they kept us cheerful and warded off many an hour of depression from pain when Dot's back was bad. I remember one more thing that Allan said that night, when we were all better and more cheerful, for it was rather a grave speech for a young man; but then Allan had these fits of gravity. "Never mind thinking if you will grow up to be a man, Dot. Wishing won't help us to die an hour sooner, and the longest life must have an end some day. What we have to do is to take up our life, and do the best we can with it while it lasts, and to be kind and patient, and help one another. Most likely Esther and I will have to work hard enough all our lives--we shall work, and you may have to suffer; but we cannot do without you any more than you can do without us. There, Frankie!" CHAPTER IV. UNCLE GEOFFREY. The day after the funeral Uncle Geoffrey held a family council, at which we were all present, except mother and Dot; he preferred talking to her alone afterward. Oh, what changes! what incredible changes! We must leave Combe Manor at once. With the exception of a few hundred pounds that had been mother's portion, the only dowry that her good old father, a naval captain, had been able to give her, we were literally penniless. The boys were not able to help us much. Allan was only a house-surgeon in one of the London hospitals; and Fred, who called himself an artist, had never earned a penny. He was a fair copyist, and talked the ordinary art jargon, and went about all day in his brown velveteen coat, and wore his hair rather long; but we never saw much result from his Roman studies; latterly he had somewhat neglected his painting, and had taken to violin playing and musical composition. Uncle Geoffrey used to shake his head and say he was "Jack of all trades and master of none," which was not far from the mark. There was a great deal of talk between the three, before anything was settled. Fred was terribly aggravating to Uncle Geoffrey, I could see; but then he was so miserable, poor fellow; he would not look at things in their proper light, and he had a way with him as though he thought Uncle Geoffrey was putting upon him. The discussion grew very warm at last, for Allan sided with Uncle Geoffrey, and then Fred said every one was against him. It struck me Uncle Geoffrey pooh-poohed Fred's whim of being an artist; he wanted him to go into an office; there was a vacant berth he could secure by speaking to an old friend of his, who was in a China tea-house, a most respectable money-making firm, and Fred would have a salary at once, with good prospects of rising; but Fred passionately scouted the notion. He would rather enlist; he would drown, or hang himself sooner. There were no end of naughty things he said; only Carrie cried and begged him not to be so wicked, and that checked him. Uncle Geoffrey lost his patience at last, and very nearly told him he was an idiot, to his face; but Fred looked so handsome and miserable, that he relented; and at last it was arranged that Fred was to take a hundred pounds of mother's money--she would have given him the whole if she could, poor dear--and take cheap rooms in London, and try how he could get on by teaching drawing and taking copying orders. "Remember, Fred," continued Uncle Geoffrey, rather sternly, "you are taking a sixth part of your mother's entire income; all that she has for herself and these girls; if you squander it rashly, you will be robbing the widow and the fatherless. You have scouted my well-meant advice, and Allan's"--he went on--"and are marking out your own path in life very foolishly, as we think; remember, you have only yourself to blame, if you make that life a failure. Artists are of the same stuff as other men, and ought to be sober, steady, and persevering; without patience and effort you cannot succeed." "When my picture is accepted by the hanging committee, you and Allan will repent your sneers," answered Fred, bitterly. "We do not sneer, my boy," returned Uncle Geoffrey, more mildly--for he remembered Fred's father had only been dead a week--"we are only doubtful of the wisdom of your choice; but there, work hard at your daubs, and keep out of debt and bad company, and you may yet triumph over your cranky old uncle." And so the matter was amicably settled. Allan's arrangements were far more simple. He was to leave the hospital in another year, and become Uncle Geoffrey's assistant, with a view to partnership. It was not quite Allan's taste, a practice in a sleepy country town; but, as he remarked rather curtly, "beggars must not be choosers," and he would as soon work under Uncle Geoffrey as any other man. I think Allan was rather ambitious in his secret views. He wanted to remain longer at the hospital and get into a London practice; he would have liked to have been higher up the tree than Uncle Geoffrey, who was quite content with his quiet position at Milnthorpe. But the most astonishing part of the domestic programme was, that we were all going to live with Uncle Geoffrey. I could scarcely believe my ears when I heard it, and Carrie was just as surprised. Could any of us credit such unselfish generosity? He had not prepared us for it in the least. "Now, girls, you must just pack up your things, you, and the mother, and Dot; of course we must take Dot, and you must manage to shake yourselves down in the old house at Milnthorpe"--that is how he put it; "it is not so big as Combe Manor, and I daresay we shall be rather a tight fit when Allan comes; but the more the merrier, eh, Jack?" "Oh, Uncle Geoff, do you mean it?" gasped Jack, growing scarlet; but Carrie and I could not speak for surprise. "Mean it! Of course. What is the good of being a bachelor uncle, if one is not to be tyrannized over by an army of nephews and nieces? Do you think the plan will answer, Esther?" he said, rather more seriously. "If you and Deborah do not mind it, Uncle Geoffrey, I am sure it ought to answer; but we shall crowd you, and put you and Deborah to sad inconvenience, I am afraid;" for I was half afraid of Deborah, who had lived with Uncle Geoffrey for five-and-twenty years, and was used to her own ways, and not over fond of young people. "I shall not ask Deb's opinion," he answered, rather roguishly; "we must smooth her down afterward, eh, girls? Seriously, Allan, I think it is the best plan under the circumstances. I am not fond of being alone," and here Uncle Geoffrey gave a quick sigh. Poor Uncle Geoff! he had never meant to be an old bachelor, only She died while he was furnishing the old house at Milnthorpe, and he never could fix his mind on any one else. "I like young folks about me," he continued, cheerfully. "When I get old and rheumatic, I can keep Dot company, and Jack can wait on us both. Of course I am not a rich man, children, and we must all help to keep the kettle boiling; but the house is my own, and you can all shelter in it if you like; it will save house-rent and taxes, at any rate for the present." "Carrie and I will work," I replied, eagerly; for, though Uncle Geoffrey was not a poor man, he was very far from being rich, and he could not possibly afford to keep us all. A third of his income went to poor Aunt Prue, who had married foolishly, and was now a widow with a large family. Aunt Prue would have been penniless, only father and Uncle Geoff agreed to allow her a fixed maintenance. As Uncle Geoff explained to us afterward, she would now lose half her income. "There are eight children, and two or three of them are very delicate, and take after their father. I have been thinking about it all, Esther," he said, when Allan and I were alone with him, "and I have made up my mind that I must allow her another hundred a year. Poor soul, she works hard at that school-keeping of hers, and none of the children are old enough to help her except Lawrence, and he is going into a decline, the doctors say. I am afraid we shall have to pinch a bit, unless you and Carrie get some teaching." "Oh, Uncle Geoff, of course we shall work; and Jack, too, when she is old enough." Could he think we should be a burden on him, when we were all young and strong? I had forgotten poor Aunt Prue, who lived a long way off, and whom we saw but seldom. She was a pretty, subdued little woman, who always wore shabby black gowns; I never saw her in a good dress in my life. Well, we were as poor as Aunt Prue now, and I wondered if we should make such a gallant fight against misfortune as she did. We arranged matters after that--Allan and Uncle Geoff and I; for Carrie had gone to sit with mother, and Fred had strolled off somewhere. They wanted me to try my hand at housekeeping; at least, until mother was stronger and more able to bear things. "Carrie hates it, and you have a good head for accounts," Allan observed, quietly. It seemed rather strange that they should make me take the head, when Carrie was two years older, and a week ago I was only a schoolgirl; but I felt they were right, for I liked planning and contriving, and Carrie detested anything she called domestic drudgery. We considered ways and means after that. Uncle Geoffrey told us the exact amount of his income, He had always lived very comfortably, but when he had deducted the extra allowance for poor Aunt Prue, we saw clearly that there was not enough for so large a party; but at the first hint of this from Allan Uncle Geoffrey got quite warm and eager. Dear, generous Uncle Geoff! he was determined to share his last crust with his dead brother's widow and children. "Nonsense, fiddlesticks!" he kept on saying; "what do I want with luxuries? Ask Deborah if I care what I eat and drink; we shall do very well, if you and Esther are not so faint-hearted." And when we found out how our protests seemed to hurt him, we let him have his own way; only Allan and I exchanged looks, which said as plainly as looks could, "Is he not the best uncle that ever lived, and will we not work our hardest to help him?" I had a long talk with Carrie that night; she was very submissive and very sad, and seemed rather downhearted over things. She was quite as grateful for Uncle Geoff's generosity as we were, but I could see the notion of being a governess distressed her greatly. "I am very glad you will undertake the housekeeping, Esther," she said, rather plaintively; "it will leave me free for other things," and then she sighed very bitterly, and got up and left me. I was a little sorry that she did not tell me all that was in her mind, for, if we are "to bear each other's burdens," it is necessary to break down the reserve that keeps us out of even a sister's heart sometimes. But though Carrie left me to my own thoughts, I was not able to quiet myself for hours. If I had only Jessie to whom I could talk! and then it seemed to me as though it were months since we sat together in the garden of Redmayne House talking out our girlish philosophy. Only a fortnight ago, and yet how much had happened since then! What a revolution in our home-world! Dear father lying in his quiet grave; ourselves penniless orphans, obliged to leave Combe Manor, and indebted to our generous benefactor for the very roof that was to cover us and the food that we were to eat. Ah, well! I was only a schoolgirl, barely seventeen. No wonder I shrank back a little appalled from the responsibilities that awaited me. I was to be Uncle Geoff's housekeeper, his trusted right-hand and referee. I was to manage that formidable Deborah, and the stolid, broad-faced Martha; and there was mother so broken in health and spirits, and Dot, and Jack, with her hoidenish ways and torn frocks, and Allan miles away from me, and Carrie--well, I felt half afraid of Carrie to-night; she seemed meditating great things when I wanted her to compass daily duties. I hoped she would volunteer to go on with Jack's lessons and help with the mending, and I wondered with more forebodings what things she was planning for which I was to leave her free. All these things tired me, and I sat rather dismally in the moonlight looking out at the closed white lilies and the swaying branches of the limes, until a text suddenly flashed into my mind, "As thy day, so shall thy strength be." I lit my candle and opened my Bible, that I might read over the words for myself. Yes, there they were shining before my eyes, like "apples of gold in pictures of silver," refreshing and comforting my worn-out spirits. Strength promised for the day, but not beforehand, supplies of heavenly manna, not to be hoarded or put by; the daily measure, daily gathered. An old verse of Bishop Ken's came to my mind. Very quaint and rich in wisdom it was: "Does each day upon its wing Its appointed burden bring? Load it not besides with sorrow That belongeth to the morrow. When by God the heart is riven, Strength is promised, strength is given: But fore-date the day of woe, And alone thou bear'st the blow." When I had said this over to myself, I laid my head on the pillow and slept soundly. Mother and I had a nice little talk the next day. It was arranged that I was to go over to Milnthorpe with Uncle Geoffrey, who was obliged to return home somewhat hastily, in order to talk to Deborah and see what furniture would be required for the rooms that were placed at our disposal. As I was somewhat aghast at the amount of business entrusted to my inexperienced hands, Allan volunteered to help me, as Carrie could not be spared. We were to stay two or three days, make all the arrangements that were necessary, and then come back and prepare for the flitting. If Allan were beside me, I felt that I could accomplish wonders; nevertheless, I carried rather a harassed face into dear mother's dressing-room that morning. "Oh, Esther, how pale and tired you look!" were her first words as I came toward her couch. "Poor child, we are making you a woman before your time!" and her eyes filled with tears. "I am seventeen," I returned, with an odd little choke in my voice, for I could have cried with her readily at that moment. "That is quite a great age, mother; I feel terribly old, I assure you." "You are our dear, unselfish Esther," she returned, lovingly. Dear soul, she always thought the best of us all, and my heart swelled how proudly, and oh! how gratefully, when she told me in her sweet gentle way what a comfort I was to her. "You are so reliable, Esther," she went on, "that we all look to you as though you were older. You must be Uncle Geoffrey's favorite, I think, from the way he talks about you. Carrie is very sweet and good too, but she is not so practical." "Oh, mother, she is ever so much better than I!" I cried, for I could not bear the least disparagement of my darling Carrie. "Think how pretty she is, and how little she cares for dress and admiration. If I were like that," I added, flushing a little over my words, "I'm afraid I should be terribly vain." Mother smiled a little at that. "Be thankful then that you are saved that temptation." And then she stroked my hot cheek and went on softly: "Don't think so much about your looks, child; plain women are just as vain as pretty ones. Not that you are plain, Esther, in my eyes, or in the eyes of any one who loves you." But even that did not quite comfort me, for in my secret heart my want of beauty troubled me sadly. There, I have owned the worst of myself--it is out now. We talked for a long time after that about the new life that lay before us, and again I marveled at mother's patience and submission; but when I told her so she only hid her face and wept. "What does it matter?" she said, at last, when she had recovered herself a little. "No home can be quite a home to me now without him. If I could live within sight of his grave, I should be thankful; but Combe Manor and Milnthrope are the same to me now." And though these words struck me as strange at first, I understood afterward; for in the void and waste of her widowed life no outer change of circumstances seemed to disturb her, except for our sakes and for us. She seemed to feel Uncle Geoffrey's kindness as a sort of stay and source of endless comfort. "Such goodness--such unselfishness!" she kept murmuring to herself; and then she wanted to hear all that Allan and I proposed. "How I wish I could get strong and help you," she said, wistfully, when I had finished. "With all that teaching and housekeeping, I am afraid you will overtax your strength." "Oh, no, Carrie will help me," I returned, confidently. "Uncle Geoffrey is going to speak to some of his patients about us. He rather thinks those Thornes who live opposite to him want a governess." "That will be nice and handy, and save you a walk," she returned, brightening up at the notion that one of us would be so near her; but though I would not have hinted at such a thing, I should rather have enjoyed the daily walk. I was fond of fresh air, and exercise, and rushing about, after the manner of girls, and it seemed rather tame and monotonous just to cross the street to one's work; but I remembered Allan's favorite speech, "Beggars must not be choosers," and held my peace. On the whole, I felt somewhat comforted by my talk with mother. If she and Uncle Geoffrey thought so well of me, I must try and live up to their good opinion. There is nothing so good as to fix a high standard for one's self. True, we may never reach it, never satisfy ourselves, but the continued effort strengthens and elevates us. I went into Carrie's room to tell her about the Thornes, and lay our plans together, but she was reading Thomas a Kempis, and did not seem inclined to be disturbed, so I retreated somewhat discomforted. But I forgot my disappointment a moment afterward, when I went into the schoolroom and found Dot fractious and weary, and Jack vainly trying to amuse him. Allan was busy, and the two children had passed a solitary morning. "Dot wanted Carrie to read to him, but she said she was too tired, and I could do it," grumbled Jack, disconsolately. "I don't like Jack's reading; it is too jerky, and her voice is too loud," returned Dot; but his countenance smoothed when I got the book and read to him, and soon he fell into a sound sleep. CHAPTER V. THE OLD HOUSE AT MILNTHORPE. The following afternoon Uncle Geoffrey, Allan, and I, started for Milnthorpe. Youthful grief is addicted to restlessness--it is only the old who can sit so silently and weep; it was perfectly natural, then, that I should hail a few days' change with feelings of relief. It was rather late in the evening when we arrived. As we drove through the market place there was the usual group of idlers loitering on the steps of the Red Lion, who stared at us lazily as we passed. Milnthorpe was an odd, primitive little place--the sunniest and sleepiest of country towns. It had a steep, straggling Highstreet, which ended in a wide, deserted-looking square, which rather reminded one of the Place in some Continental town. The weekly markets were held here, on which occasion the large white portico of the Red Lion was never empty. Milnthorpe woke with brief spasms of life on Monday morning; broad-shouldered men jostled each other on the grass-grown pavements; large country wagons, sweet-smelling in haymaking seasons, blocked up the central spaces; country women, with gay-colored handkerchiefs, sold eggs, and butter, and poultry In the square; and two or three farmers, with their dogs at their heels, lingered under the windows of the Red Lion, fingering the samples in their pockets, and exchanging dismal prognostications concerning the crops and the weather. One side of the square was occupied by St. Barnabas, with its pretty shaded churchyard and old gray vicarage. On the opposite side was the handsome red brick house occupied by Mr. Lucas, the banker, and two or three other houses, more or less pretentious, inhabited by the gentry of Milnthorpe. Uncle Geoffrey lived at the lower end of the High street. It was a tall, narrow house, with old-fashioned windows and wire blinds. These blinds, which were my detestation, were absolutely necessary, as the street door opened directly on the street. There was one smooth, long step, and that was all. It had rather a dull outside look, but the moment one entered the narrow wainscoted hall, there was a cheery vista of green lawn and neatly graveled paths through the glass door. The garden was the delight of Uncle Geoffrey's heart. It was somewhat narrow, to match the house; but in the center of the lawn, there was a glorious mulberry tree, the joy of us children. Behind was a wonderful intricacy of slim, oddly-shaped flower-beds, intersected by miniature walks, where two people could with difficulty walk abreast; and beyond this lay a tolerable kitchen garden, where Deborah grew cabbages and all sorts of homely herbs, and where tiny pink roses and sturdy sweet-williams blossomed among the gooseberry bushes. On one side of the house were two roomy parlors, divided by folding doors. We never called them anything but parlors, for the shabby wainscoted walls and old-fashioned furniture forbade any similitude to the modern drawing-room. On the other side of the hall was Uncle Geoffrey's study--a somewhat grim, dingy apartment, with brown shelves full of ponderous tomes, a pipe-rack filled with fantastic pipes, deep old cupboards full of hetereogeneous rubbish, and wide easy-chairs that one could hardly lift, one of which was always occupied by Jumbles, Uncle Geoffrey's dog. Jumbles was a great favorite with us all. He was a solemn, wise-looking dog of the terrier breed, indeed, I believe Uncle Geoff called him a Dandy Dinmont--blue-gray in color, with a great head, and deep-set intelligent eyes. It was Uncle Geoffrey's opinion that Jumbles understood all one said to him. He would sit with his head slightly on one side, thumping his tail against the floor, with a sort of glimmer of fun in his eyes, as though he comprehended our conversation, and interposed a "Hear, hear!" and when he had had enough of it, and we were growing prosy, he would turn over on his back with an expression of abject weariness, as though canine reticence objected to human garrulity. Jumbles was a rare old philosopher--a sort of four-footed Diogenes. He was discerning in his friendships, somewhat aggressive and splenetic to his equals; intolerant of cats, whom he hunted like vermin, and rather disdainfully condescending to the small dogs of Milnthorpe. Jumbles always accompanied Uncle Geoffrey in his rounds. He used to take his place in the gig with undeviating punctuality; nothing induced him to desert his post when the night-bell rang. He would rouse up from his sleep, and go out in the coldest weather. We used to hear his deep bark under the window as they sallied out in the midnight gloom. The morning after we arrived, Allan and I made a tour of inspection through the house. There were only three rooms on the first floor--Uncle Geoffrey's, with its huge four-post bed; a large front room, that we both decided would just do for mother; and a smaller one at the back, that, after a few minutes' deliberation, I allotted to Carrie. It caused me an envious pang or two before I yielded it, for I knew I must share a large upper room with Jack; the little room behind it must be for Dot, and the larger one would by-and-by be Allan's. I confess my heart sank a little when I thought of Jack's noisiness and thriftless ways; but when I remembered how fond she was of good books, and the great red-leaved diary that lay on her little table, I thought it better that Carrie should have a quiet corner to herself, and then she would be near mother. If only Jack could be taught to hold her tongue sometimes, and keep her drawers in order, instead of strewing her room with muddy boots and odd items of attire! Well, perhaps it might be my mission to train Jack to more orderly habits. I would set her a good example, and coax her to follow it. She was good-tempered and affectionate, and perhaps I should find her sufficiently pliable. I was so lost in these anxious thoughts that Allan had left me unperceived. I found him in the back parlor, seated on the table, and looking about him rather gloomily. "I say, Esther!" he called out, as soon as he caught sight of me, "I am afraid mother and Carrie will find this rather shabby after the dear old rooms at Combe Manor. Could we not furbish it up a little?" And Allan looked discontentedly at the ugly curtains and little, straight horse-hair sofa. Everything had grown rather shabby, only Uncle Geoffrey had not found it out. "Oh, of course!" I exclaimed, joyfully, for all sorts of brilliant thoughts had come to me while I tossed rather wakefully in the early morning hours. "Don't you know, Allan, that Uncle Geoffrey has decided to send mother and Carrie and Dot down to the sea for a week, while you and I and Jack make things comfortable for them? Now, why should we not help ourselves to the best of the furniture at Combe Manor, and make Uncle Geoff turn out all these ugly things? We might have our pretty carpet from the drawing-room, and the curtains, and mother's couch, and some of the easy-chairs, and the dear little carved cabinet with our purple china; it need not all be sold when we want it so badly for mother." Allan was so delighted at the idea that we propounded our views to Uncle Geoffrey at dinner-time; but he did not see the thing quite in our light. "Of course you will need furniture for the bedrooms," he returned, rather dubiously; "but I wanted to sell the rest of the things that were not absolutely needed, and invest the money." But this sensible view of the matter did not please me or Allan. We had a long argument, which ended in a compromise--the question of carpets might rest. Uncle Geoffrey's was a good Brussels, although it was dingy; but I might retain, if I liked, the pretty striped curtains from our drawing-room at Combe Manor, and mother's couch, and a few of the easy-chairs, and the little cabinet with the purple china; and then there was mother's inlaid work-table, and Carrie's davenport, and books belonging to both of us, and a little gilt clock that father had given mother on her last wedding-day--all these things would make an entire renovation in the shabby parlors. I was quite excited by all these arrangements; but an interview with Deborah soon cooled my ardor. Allan and Jumbles had gone out with Uncle Geoffrey, and I was sitting at the window looking over the lawn and the mulberry tree, when a sudden tap at the door startled me from my reverie. Of course it was Deborah; no one else's knuckles sounded as though they were iron. Deborah was a tall, angular woman, very spare and erect of figure, with a severe cast of countenance, and heavy black curls pinned up under her net cap; her print dresses were always starched until they crackled, and on Sunday her black silk dress rustled as I never heard any silk dress rustle before. "Yes, Deborah, what is it?" I asked, half-frightened; for surely my hour had come. Deborah was standing so very erect, with the basket of keys in her hands, and her mouth drawn down at the corners. "Master said this morning," began Deborah, grimly, "as how there was a new family coming to live here, and that I was to go to Miss Esther for orders. Five-and-twenty years have I cooked master's dinners for him, and received his orders, and never had a word of complaint from his lips, and now he is putting a mistress over me and Martha." "Oh, Deborah," I faltered, and then I came to a full stop; for was it not trying to a woman of her age and disposition, used to Uncle Geoffrey's bachelor ways, to have a houseful of young people turned on her hands? She and Martha would have to work harder, and they were both getting old. I felt so much for her that the tears came into my eyes, and my voice trembled. "It is hard!" I burst out; "it is very hard for you and Martha to have your quiet life disturbed. But how could we help coming here, when we had no home and no money, and Uncle Geoffrey was so generous? And then there was Dot and mother so ailing." And at the thought of all our helplessness, and Uncle Geoffrey's goodness a great tear rolled down my cheek. It was very babyish and undignified; but, after all, no assumption of womanliness would have helped me so much. Deborah's grim mouth relaxed; under her severe exterior, and with her sharp tongue, there beat a very kind heart, and Dot was her weak point. "Well, well, crying won't help the pot to boil, Miss Esther!" she said, brusquely enough; but I could see she was coming round. "Master was always that kind-hearted that he would have sheltered the whole parish if he could. I am not blaming him, though it goes hard with Martha and me, who have led peaceable, orderly lives, and never had a mistress or thought of one since Miss Blake died, and the master took up thoughts of single blessedness in earnest." "What sort of woman was Miss Blake?" I asked, eagerly, forgetting my few troubled tears at the thought of Uncle Geoffrey's one romance. The romance of middle-aged people always came with a faint, far-away odor to us young ones, like some old garment laid up in rose-leaves or lavender, which must needs be of quaint fashion and material, but doubtless precious in the eyes of the wearer. "Woman!" returned Deborah, with an angry snort; "she was a lady, if there ever was one. We don't see her sort every day, I can tell you that, Miss Esther; a pretty-spoken, dainty creature, with long fair curls, that one longed to twine round one's fingers." "She was pretty, then?" I hazarded more timidly. "Pretty! she was downright beautiful. Miss Carrie reminds me of her sometimes, but she is not near so handsome as poor Miss Rose. She used to come here sometimes with her mother, and she and master would sit under that mulberry tree. I can see her now walking over the grass in her white gown, with some apple blossoms in her hand, talking and laughing with him. It was a sad day when she lay in the fever, and did not know him, for all his calling to her 'Rose! Rose!' I was with her when she died, and I thought he would never hold up his head again." "Poor Uncle Geoffrey! But he is cheerful and contented now." "But there, I must not stand gossiping," continued Deborah, interrupting herself. "I have only brought you the keys, and wish to know what preserve you and Mr. Allan might favor for tea." But here I caught hold, not of the key-basket, but of the hard, work-worn hand that held it. "Oh, Deborah! do be good to us!" I broke out: "we will trouble you and Martha as little as possible, and we are all going to put our shoulders to the wheel and help ourselves; and we have no home but this, and no one to take care of us but Uncle Geoffrey." "I don't know but I will make some girdle cakes for tea," returned Deborah, in the most imperturbable voice; and she turned herself round abruptly, and walked out of the room without another word. But I was quite well satisfied and triumphant. When Deborah baked girdle cakes, she meant the warmest of welcomes, and no end of honor to Uncle Geoffrey's guests. "Humph! girdle cakes!" observed Uncle Geoffrey, with a smile, as he regarded them. "Deb is in a first-rate humor, then. You have played your cards well, old lady," and his eyes twinkled merrily. I went into the kitchen after tea, and had another long talk with Deborah. Dear old kitchen! How many happy hours we children had spent in it! It was very low and dark, and its two windows looked out on the stable-yard; but in the evening, when the fire burned clear and the blinds were drawn, it was a pleasant place. Deborah and Martha used to sit in the brown Windsor chairs knitting, with Puff, the great tabby cat, beside them, and the firelight would play on the red brick floor and snug crimson curtains. Deborah and I had a grand talk that night. She was a trifle obstinate and dogmatical, but we got on fairly well. To do her justice, her chief care seemed to be that her master should not be interfered with in any of his ways. "He will work harder than ever," she groaned, "now there are all these mouths to feed. He and Jumbles will be fairly worn out." But our talk contented me. I had enlisted Deborah's sympathies on our side. I felt the battle was over. I was only a "bit thing" as Deborah herself called me, and I was tolerably tired when I went up to my room that night. Not that I felt inclined for sleep. Oh dear no! I just dragged the big easy-chair to the window, and sat there listening to the patter of summer rain on the leaves. It was very dark, for the moon had hidden her face; but through the cool dampness there crept a delicious fragrance of wet jasmine and lilies. I wanted to have a good "think;" not to sit down and take myself to pieces. Oh no, that was Carrie's way. Such introspection bored me and did me little good, for it only made me think more of myself and less of the Master; but I wanted to review the past fortnight, and look the future in the face. Foolish Esther! As though we can look at a veiled face. Only the past and the present is ours; the future is hidden with God. Yes, a fortnight ago I was a merry, heedless schoolgirl, with no responsibilities and few duties, except that laborious one of self-improvement, which must go on, under some form or other, until we die. And now, on my shrinking shoulders lay the weight of a woman's work. I was to teach others, when I knew so little myself; it was I who was to have the largest share of home administration--I, who was so faulty, so imperfect. Then I remembered a sentence Carrie had once read to me out of one of her innumerable books, and which had struck me very greatly at the time. "Happy should I think myself," said St. Francis de Sales, "if I could rid myself of my imperfections but one quarter of an hour previous to my death." Well, if a saint could say that, why should I lose heart thinking about my faults? What was the good of stirring up muddy water to try and see one's own miserable reflection, when one could look up into the serene blue of Divine Providence? If I had faults--and, alas! how many they were--I must try to remedy them; if I slipped, I must pray for strength to rise again. Courage, Esther! "Little by little," as Uncle Geoffrey says; "small beginnings make great endings." And when I had cheered myself with these words I went tranquilly to bed. CHAPTER VI. THE FLITTING. So the old Combe Manor days were over, and with them the girlhood of Esther Cameron. Ah me! it was sad to say good-by to the dear old home of our childhood; to go round to our haunts, one by one, and look our last at every cherished nook and corner; to bid farewell to our four-footed pets, Dapple and Cherry and Brindle, and the dear little spotted calves; to caress our favorite pigeons for the last time, and to feed the greedy old turkey-cock, who had been the terror of our younger days. It was well, perhaps, that we were too busy for a prolonged leave-taking. Fred had gone to London, and his handsome lugubrious face no longer overlooked us as we packed books and china. Carrie and mother and Dot were cozily established in the little sea-side lodging, and only Allan, Jack, and I sat down to our meals in the dismantled rooms. It was hard work trying to keep cheerful, when Allan left off whistling, as he hammered at the heavy cases, and when Jack was discovered sobbing in odd corners, with Smudge in her arms--of course Smudge would accompany us to Milnthorpe; no one could imagine Jack without her favorite sable attendant, and then Dot was devoted to him. Jack used to come to us with piteous pleadings to take first one and then another of her pets; now it was the lame chicken she had nursed in a little basket by the kitchen fire, then a pair of guinea pigs that belonged to Dot, and some carrier pigeons that they specially fancied; after that, she was bent on the removal of a young family of hedgehogs, and some kittens that had been discovered in the hay-loft, belonging to the stable cat. We made a compromise at last, and entrusted to her care Carrie's tame canaries, and a cage of dormice that belonged to Dot, in whose fate Smudge look a vast amount of interest, though he never ventured to look at the canaries. The care of these interesting captives was consolatory to Jack, though she rained tears over them in secret, and was overheard by Allan telling them between her sobs that "they were all going to live in a little pokey house, without chickens or cows, or anything that would make life pleasant, and that she and they must never expect to be happy again." Ah, well! the longest day must have an end, and by-and-by the evening came when we turned away from dear old Combe Manor forever. It was far more cheerful work fitting up the new rooms at Milnthorpe, with Deborah's strong arms to help, and Uncle Geoffrey standing by to encourage our efforts; even Jack plucked up heart then, and hung up the canaries, and hid away the dormice out of Smudge's and Jumbles' reach, and consented to stretch her long legs in our behalf. Allan and I thought we had done wonders when all was finished, and even Deborah gave an approving word. "I think mother and Carrie will be pleased," I said, as I put some finishing touches to the tea-table on the evening we expected them. Allan had gone to the station to meet them, and only Uncle Geoffrey was my auditor. There was a great bowl of roses on the table, great crimson-hearted, delicious roses, and a basket of nectarines, that some patient had sent to Uncle Geoffrey. The parlors looked very pretty and snug; we had arranged our books on the shelves, and had hung up two or three choice engravings, and there was the gleam of purple and gold china from the dark oak cabinet, and by the garden window there were mother's little blue couch and her table and workbox, and Carrie's davenport, and an inviting easy-chair. The new curtains looked so well, too. No wonder Uncle Geoffrey declared that he did not recognize his old room. "I am sure they will be pleased," I repeated, as I moved the old-fashioned glass dish full of our delicious Combe Manor honey; but Uncle Geoffrey did not answer; he was listening to some wheels in the distance. "There they are," he said, snatching up his felt wide-awake. "Don't expect your mother to notice much to-night, Esther; poor thing, this is a sad coming home to her." I need not have worked so hard; that was my first thought when I saw mother's face as she entered the room. She was trembling like a leaf, and her face was all puckered and drawn, as I kissed her; but Uncle Geoffrey would not let her sit down or look at anything. "No, no, you shall not make efforts for us to-night," he said, patting her as though she were a child. "Take your mother upstairs, children, and let her have quiet! do you hear, nothing but quiet to-night." And then Allan drew her arm through his. I cried shame on myself for a selfish, disappointed pang, as I followed them. Of course Uncle Geoffrey was right and wise, as he always was, and I was still more ashamed of myself when I entered the room and found mother crying as though her heart would break, and clinging to Allan. "Oh, children, children! how can I live without your father?" she exclaimed, hysterically. Well, it was wise of Allan, for he let that pass and never said a word; he only helped me remove the heavy widow's bonnet and cloak, and moved the big chintz couch nearer to the window, and then he told me to be quick and bring her some tea; and when I returned he was sitting by her, fanning and talking to her in his pleasant boyish way; and though the tears were still flowing down her pale cheeks she sobbed less convulsively. "You have both been so good, and worked so hard, and I cannot thank you," she whispered, taking my hand, as I stood near her. "Esther does not want to be thanked," returned Allan, sturdily. "Now you will take your tea, won't you, mother? and by-and-by one of the girls shall come and sit with you." "Are we to go down and leave her?" I observed, dubiously, as Allan rose from his seat. "Yes, go, both of you, I shall be better alone; Allan knows that," with a grateful glance as I reluctantly obeyed her. I was too young to understand the healing effects of quiet and silence in a great grief; to me the thought of such loneliness was dreadful, until, later on, she explained the whole matter. "I am never less alone than when I am alone," she said once, very simply to me. "I have the remembrance of your dear father and his words and looks ever before me, and God is so near--one feels that most when one is solitary." And her words remained with me long afterward. It was not such a very sad evening, after all. The sea air had done Dot good, and he was in better spirits; and then Carrie was so good and sweet, and so pleased with everything. "How kind of you, Esther," she said, with tears in her eyes, as I led her into her little bedroom. "I hardly dared hope for this, and so near dear mother." Well, it was very tiny, but very pretty, too. Carrie had her own little bed, in which she had slept from a child, and the evening sun streamed full on it, and a pleasant smell of white jasmine pervaded it; part of the window was framed with the delicate tendrils and tiny buds; and there was her little prayer-desk, with its shelf of devotional books, and her little round table and easy-chair standing just as it used; only, if one looked out of the window, instead of the belt of green circling meadows, dotted over by grazing cattle there was the lawn and the mulberry tree--a little narrow and homely, but still pleasant. Carrie's eyes looked very vague and misty when I left her and went down to Dot. Allan had put him to bed, but he would not hear of going to sleep; he had his dormice beside him, and Jumbles was curled up at the foot of the bed; he wanted to show me his seaweed and shells, and tell me about the sea. "I can't get it out of my head, Essie," he said, sitting up among his pillows and looking very wide-awake and excited. "I used to fall asleep listening to the long wash and roll of the waves, and in the morning there it was again. Don't you love the sea?" "Yes, dearly, Dot; and so does Allan." "It reminded me of the "Pilgrim's Progress"--just the last part. Don't you remember the river that every one was obliged to cross? Carrie told me it meant death." I nodded; Dot did not always need an answer to his childish fancies, he used to like to tell them all out to Allan and me. "One night," he went on, "my back was bad, and I could not sleep, and Carrie made me up a nest of pillows in a big chair by the window, and we sat there ever so long after mother was fast asleep. "It was so light--almost as light as day--and there were all sorts of sparkles over the water, as though it were shaking out tiny stars in play; and there was one broad golden path--oh! it was so beautiful--and then I thought of Christian and Christiana, and Mr. Ready-to-halt, and father, and they all crossed the river, you know." "Yes, Dot," I whispered. And then I repeated softly the well-known verse we had so often sung: "One army of the living God, To His command we bow; Part of the host have crossed the flood, And part are crossing now." "Yes, yes," he repeated, eagerly; "it seemed as though I could see father walking down the long golden path; it shone so, he could not have missed his way or fallen into the dark waters. Carrie told me that by-and-by there would be "no more sea," somehow; I was sorry for that--aren't you, Essie?" "Oh, no, don't be sorry," I burst out, for I had often talked about this with Carrie. "It is beautiful, but it is too shifting, too treacherous, too changeable, to belong to the higher life. Think of all the cruel wrecks, of all the drowned people it has swallowed up in its rage; it devours men and women, and little children, Dot, and hides its mischief with a smile. Oh, no, it is false in its beauty, and there shall be an end of it, with all that is not true and perfect." And when Dot had fallen asleep, I went down to Uncle Geoffrey and repeated our conversation, to which he listened with a great deal of interest. "You are perfectly right, Esther," he said, thoughtfully; "but I think there is another meaning involved in the words 'There shall be no more sea.'" "The sea divides us often from those we love," he went on musingly; "it is our great earthly barrier. In that perfected life that lies before us there can be no barrier, no division, no separating boundaries. In the new earth there will be no fierce torrents or engulfing ocean, no restless moaning of waves. Do you not see this?" "Yes, indeed, Uncle Geoffrey;" but all the same I thought in my own mind that it was a pretty fancy of the child's, thinking that he saw father walking across the moonlight sea. No, he could not have fallen in the dark water, no fear of that, Dot, when the angel of His mercy would hold him by the hand; and then I remembered a certain lake and a solemn figure walking quietly on its watery floor, and the words, "It is I, be not afraid," that have comforted many a dying heart! Allan had to leave us the next day, and go back to his work; it was a pity, as his mere presence, the very sound of his bright, young voice, seemed to rouse mother and do her good. As for me, I knew when Allan went some of the sunshine would go with him, and the world would have a dull, work-a-day look. I tried to tell him so as we took our last walk together. There was a little lane just by Uncle Geoffrey's house; you turned right into it from the High street, and it led into the country, within half a mile of the house. There were some haystacks and a farmyard, a place that went by the name of Grubbings' Farm; the soft litter of straw tempted us to sit down for a little, and listen to the quiet lowing of the cattle as they came up from their pasture to be milked. "It reminds me of Combe Manor," I said, and there was something wet on my cheek as I spoke; "and oh, Allan! how I shall miss you to-morrow," and I touched his coat sleeve furtively, for Allan was not one to love demonstration. But, to my surprise, he gave me a kind little pat. "Not more than I shall miss you," he returned, cheerily. "We always get along well, you and I, don't we, little woman?" And as I nodded my head, for something seemed to impede my utterance at that moment, he went on more seriously, "You have a tough piece of work before you, Esther, you and Carrie; you will have to put your Combe Manor pride in your pockets, and summon up all your Cameron strength of mind before you learn to submit to the will of strangers. "Our poor, pretty Carrie," he continued, regretfully; "the little saint, as Uncle Geoffrey used to call her. I am afraid her work will not be quite to her mind, but you must smoothe her way as much as possible; but there, I won't preach on my last evening; let me have your plans instead, my dear." But I had no plans to tell him, and so we drifted by degrees into Allan's own work; and as he told me about the hospital and his student friends, and the great bustling world in which we lived, I forgot my own cares. If I had not much of a life of my own to lead, I could still live in his. The pleasure of this talk lingered long in my memory; it was so nice to feel that Allan and I understood each other so well and had no divided interests; it always seems to me that a sister ought to dwell in the heart of a brother and keep it warm for that other and sacred love that must come by-and-by; not that the wife need drive the sister into outer darkness, but that there must be a humbler abiding in the outer court, perchance a little guest-chamber on the wall; the nearer and more royal abode must be for the elected woman among women. There is too little giving up and coming down in this world, too much jealous assertion of right, too little yielding of the scepter in love. It may be hard--God knows it is hard, to our poor human nature, for some cherished sister to stand a little aside while another takes possession of the goodly mansion, yet if she be wise and bend gently to the new influence, there will be a "come up higher," long before the dregs of the feast are reached. Old bonds are not easily broken, early days have a sweetness of their own; by-and-by the sister will find her place ready for her, and welcoming hands stretched out without grudging. The next morning I rose early to see Allan off Just at the last moment Carrie came down in her pretty white wrapper to bid him good-by. Allan was strapping up his portmanteau in the hall, and shook his head at her in comic disapproval. "Fie, what pale cheeks, Miss Carrie! One would think you had been burning the midnight oil." I wonder if Allan's jesting words approached the truth, for Carrie's face flushed suddenly, and she did not answer. Allan did not seem to notice her confusion. He bade us both good-by very affectionately, and told us to be good girls and take care of ourselves, and then in a moment he was gone. Breakfast was rather a miserable business after that; I was glad Uncle Geoffrey read his paper so industriously and did not peep behind the urn. Dot did, and slipped a hot little hand in mine, in an old-fashioned sympathizing way. Carrie, who was sitting in her usual dreamy, abstracted way, suddenly startled us all by addressing Uncle Geoffrey rather abruptly. "Uncle Geoffrey, don't you think either Esther or I ought to go over to the Thornes? They want a governess, you know." "Eh, what?" returned Uncle Geoffrey, a little disturbed at the interruption in the middle of the leading article. "The Thornes? Oh, yes, somebody was saying something to me the other day about them; what was it?" And he rubbed his hair a little irritably. "We need not trouble Uncle Geoffrey," I put in, softly; "you and I can go across before mother comes down. I must speak to Deborah, and then I meant to hear Jack's lessons, but they can wait." "Very well," returned Carrie, nonchalantly; and then she added, in her composed, elder sisterly way, "I may as well tell you, Esther, that I mean to apply for the place myself; it will be so handy, the house being just opposite; far more convenient than if I had a longer walk." "Very well," was my response, but I could not help feeling a little relief at her decision; the absence of any walk was an evil in my eyes. The Thornes' windows looked into ours; already I had had a sufficient glimpse of three rather untidy little heads over the wire blind, and the spectacle had not attracted me. I ventured to hint my fears to Carrie that they were not very interesting children; but, to my dismay, she answered that few children are interesting, and that one was as good as another. "But I mean to be fond of my pupils," I hazarded, rather timidly, as I took my basket of keys. I thought Uncle Geoffrey was deep in his paper again. "I think a governess ought to have a good moral influence over them. Mother always said so." "We can have a good moral influence without any personal fondness," returned Carrie, rather dryly. Poor girl! her work outside was distasteful to her, and she could not help showing it sometimes. "One cannot take interest in a child without loving it in time," I returned, with a little heat, for I did not enjoy this slavish notion of duty--pure labor, and nothing else. Carrie did not answer, she leaned rather wearily against the window, and looked absently out. Uncle Geoffrey gave her a shrewd glance as he folded up the newspaper and whistled to Jumbles. "Settle it between yourselves girls," he observed, suddenly, as he opened the door; "but if I were little Annie Thorne, I know I should choose Esther;" and with this parting thrust he left the room, making us feel terribly abashed. CHAPTER VII. OVER THE WAY. I cannot say that I was prepossessed with the Thorne family, neither was Carrie. Mrs. Thorne was what I call a loud woman; her voice was loud, and she was full of words, and rather inquisitive on the subject of her neighbors. She was somewhat good-looking, but decidedly over-dressed. Early as it was, she was in a heavily-flounced silk dress, a little the worse for wear. I guessed that first day, with a sort of feminine intuition, that Mrs. Thorne wore out all her second-best clothes in the morning. Perhaps it was my country bringing up, but I thought how pure and fresh Carrie's modest dress looked beside it; and as for the quiet face under the neatly-trimmed bonnet, I could see Mrs. Thorne fell in love with it at once. She scarcely looked at or spoke to me, except when civility demanded it; and perhaps she was right, for who would care to look at me when Carrie was by? Then Carrie played, and I knew her exquisite touch would demand instant admiration. I was a mere bungler, a beginner beside her; she even sang a charming little _chanson_. No wonder Mrs. Thorne was delighted to secure such an accomplished person for her children's governess. The three little girls came in by-and-by--shy, awkward children, with their mother's black eyes, but without her fine complexion; plain, uninteresting little girls, with a sort of solemn non-intelligence in their blank countenances, and a perceptible shrinking from their mother's sharp voice. "Shake hands with Miss Cameron, Lucy; she is going to teach you all manner of nice things. Hold yourself straight, Annie. What will these young ladies think of you, Belle, if they look at your dirty pinafore? Mine are such troublesome children," she continued, in a complaining voice; "they are never nice and tidy and obedient, like other children. Mr. Thorne spoils them, and then finds fault with me." "What is your name, dear?" I whispered to the youngest, when Mrs. Thorne had withdrawn with Carrie for a few minutes. They were certainly very unattractive children; nevertheless, my heart warmed to them, as it did to all children. I was child-lover all my life. "Annie," returned the little one, shyly rolling her fat arms in her pinafore. She was less plain than the others, and had not outgrown her plumpness. "Do you know I have a little brother at home, who is a sad invalid;" and then I told them about Dot, about his patience and his sweet ways, and how he amused himself when he could not get off his couch for weeks; and as I warmed and grew eloquent with my subject, their eyes became round and fixed, and a sort of dawning interest woke up on their solemn faces; they forgot I was a stranger, and came closer, and Belle laid a podgy and a very dirty hand on my lap. "How old is your little boy?" asked Lucy, in a shrill whisper. And as I answered her Mrs. Thorne and Carrie re-entered the room. They both looked surprised when they saw the children grouped round me; Carrie's eyebrows elevated themselves a little quizzically, and Mrs. Thorne called them away rather sharply. "Don't take liberties with strangers, children. What will Miss Cameron think of such manners?" And then she dismissed them rather summarily. I saw Annie steal a little wistful look at me as she followed her sisters. We took our leave after that. Mrs. Thorne shook hands with us very graciously, but her parting words were addressed to Carrie. "On Monday, then. Please give my kind regards to Dr. Cameron, and tell him how thoroughly satisfied I am with the proposed arrangement." And Carrie answered very prettily, but as the door closed she sighed heavily. "Oh, what children! and what a mother!" she gasped, as she took my arm, and turned my foot-steps away from the house. "Never mind Jack, I am going to the service at St. Barnabas; I want some refreshment after what I have been through." And she sighed again. "But, Carrie," I remonstrated, "I have no time to spare. You know how Jack has been neglected, and how I have promised Allan to do my best for her until we can afford to send her to school." "You can walk with me to the church door," she returned, decidedly. I was beginning to find out that Carrie could be self-willed sometimes. "I must talk to you, Esther; I must tell you how I hate it. Fancy trying to hammer French and music into those children's heads, when I might--I might--" But here she stopped, actually on the verge of crying. "Oh, my darling, Carrie!" I burst out, for I never could bear to see her sweet face clouded for a moment, and she so seldom cried or gave way to any emotion. "Why would you not let me speak? I might have saved you this. I might have offered myself in your stead, and set you free for pleasanter work." But she shook her head, and struggled for composure. "You would not have done for Mrs. Thorne, Esther. Don't think me vain if I say that I play and sing far better than you." "A thousand times better," I interposed. "And then you can draw." "Well, Mrs. Thorne is a woman who values accomplishments. You are clever at some things; you speak French fairly, and then you are a good Latin scholar" (for Allan and I studied that together); "you can lay a solid foundation, as Uncle Geoffrey says; but Mrs. Thorne does not care about that," continued Carrie a little bitterly; "she wants a flimsy superstructure of accomplishments--music, and French, and drawing, as much as I can teach a useful life-work, Esther." "Well, why not?" I returned, with a little spirit, for here was one of Carrie's old arguments. "If it be the work given us to do, it must be a useful life-work. It might be our duty to make artificial flowers for our livelihood--hundreds of poor creatures do that--and you would not scold them for waste of time, I suppose?" "Anyhow, it is not work enough for me," replied Carrie firmly, and passing over my clever argument with a dignified silence; "it is the drudgery of mere ornamentation that I hate. I will do my best for those dreadful children, Esther. Are they not pitiful little overdressed creatures? And I will try and please their mother though I have not a thought in common with her. And when I have finished my ornamental brick-making--told my tales of the bricks----" here she paused, and looked at me with a heightened color. "And what then?" I asked, rather crossly, for there was a flaw in her speech somewhere, and I could not find it out. "We shall see, my wise little sister," she said, letting go my arm with a kind pressure. "See, here is St. Barnabas; is it not a dear old building? Must you go back to Jack?" "Yes, I must," I answered, shortly. "_Laborare est orare_--to labor is to pray, in my case, Carrie;" and with that I left her. But Carrie's arguments had seriously discomposed me. I longed to talk it all out with Allan, and I do not think I ever missed him so much as I did that day. I am afraid I was rather impatient with Jack that morning; to be sure she was terribly awkward and inattentive; she would put her elbows on the table, and ink her fingers, and then she had a way of jerking her hair out of her eyes, which drove me nearly frantic. I began to think we really must send her to school. We had done away with the folding doors, they always creaked so, and had hung up some curtains in their stead; through the folds I could catch glimpses of dear mother leaning back in her chair, with Dot beside her. He was spelling over his lesson to her, in a queer, little sing-song voice, and they looked so cool and quiet that the contrast was quite provoking; and there was Carrie kneeling in some dim corner, and soothing her perturbed spirits with softly-uttered psalms and prayers. "Jack," I returned, for the sixth time, "I cannot have you kick the table in that schoolboy fashion." Jack looked at me with roguish malice in her eyes. "You are not quite well, Esther; you have got a pain in your temper, haven't you, now?" I don't know what I might have answered, for Jack was right, and I was as cross as possible, only just at that moment Uncle Geoffrey put his head in at the door, and stood beaming on us like an angel of deliverance. "Fee-fo-fum," for he sometimes called Jack by that charming _sobriquet_, indeed, he was always inventing names for her, "it is too hot for work, isn't it? I think I must give you a holiday, for I want Esther to go out with me." Uncle Geoffrey's wishes were law, and I rose at once; but not all my secret feelings of relief could prevent me from indulging in a parting thrust. "I don't think Jack deserves the holiday," I remarked, with a severe look at the culprit; and Jack jerked her hair over her eyes this time in some confusion. "Hullo, Fee-fo-fum, what have you been up to? Giving Esther trouble? Oh, fie! fie!" "I only kicked the table," returned Jack, sullenly, "because I hate lessons--that I do, Uncle Geoffrey--and I inked my fingers because I liked it; and I put my elbows on the copy-book because Esther said I wasn't to do it; and my hair got in my eyes; and William the Conqueror had six wives, I know he had; and I told Esther she had a pain in her temper, because she was as cross as two sticks; and I don't remember any more, and I don't care," finished Jack, who could be like a mule on occasions. Uncle Geoffrey laughed--he could not help it--and then he patted Jack kindly on her rough locks. "Clever little Fee-fo-fum; so William the Conqueror had six wives, had he? Come, this is capital; we must send you to school, Jack, that is what we must do. Esther cannot be in two places at once." What did he mean by that, I wonder! And then he bid me run off and put on my hat, and not keep him waiting. Jack's brief sullenness soon vanished, and she followed me out of the room to give me a penitent hug--that was so like Jack; the inky caress was a doubtful consolation, but I liked it, somehow. "Where are you going, Uncle Geoff?" I asked, as we walked up the High street, followed by Jumbles, while Jack and Smudge watched us from the door. "Miss Lucas wants to see you," he returned, briefly. "Bless me, there is Carrie, deep in conversation with Mr. Smedley. Where on earth has the girl picked him up?" And there, true enough, was Carrie, standing in the porch, talking eagerly to a fresh-colored, benevolent-looking man, whom I knew by sight as the vicar of St. Barnabas. She must have waylaid him after service, for the other worshipers had dropped off; we had met two or three of them in the High street. I do not know why the sight displeased me, for of course she had a right to speak to her clergyman. Uncle Geoffrey whistled under his breath, and then laughed and wondered "what the little saint had to say to her pastor;" but I did not let him go on, for I was too excited with our errand. "Why does Miss Lucas want to see me?" I asked, with a little beating of the heart. The Lucas family were the richest people in Milnthorpe. Mr. Lucas was the banker, and kept his carriage, and had a pretty cottage somewhere by the seaside; they were Uncle Geoffrey's patients, I knew, but what had that to do with poor little me? "Miss Lucas wants to find some one to teach her little niece," returned Uncle Geoffrey; and then I remembered all at once that Mr. Lucas was a widower with one little girl. He had lost his wife about a year ago, and his sister had come to live with him and take care of his motherless child. What a chance this would have been for Carrie! but now it was too late. I was half afraid as we came up to the great red brick house, it was so grand and imposing, and so was the solemn-looking butler who opened the door and ushered us into the drawing-room. As we crossed the hall some one came suddenly out on us from a dark lobby, and paused when he saw us. "Dr. Cameron! This is your niece, I suppose, whom my sister Ruth is expecting?" and as he shook hands with us he looked at me a little keenly, I thought. He was younger than I expected; it flashed across me suddenly that I had once seen his poor wife. I was standing looking out of the window one cold winter's day, when a carriage drove up to the door with a lady wrapped in furs. I remember Uncle Geoffrey went out to speak to her, and what a smile came over her face when she saw him. She was very pale, but very beautiful; every one said so in Milnthorpe, for she had been much beloved. "My sister is in the drawing-room; you must excuse me if I say I am in a great hurry," and then he passed on with a bow. I thought him very formidable, the sort of man who would be feared as well as respected by his dependants. He had the character of being a very reserved man, with a great many acquaintances and few intimate friends. I had no idea at that time that no one understood him so well as Uncle Geoffrey. I was decidedly nervous when I followed Uncle Geoffrey meekly into the drawing-room. Its size and splendor did not diminish my fears, and I little imagined then how I should get to love that room. It was a little low, in spite of its spaciousness, and its three long windows opened in French fashion on to the garden. I had a glimpse of the lawn, with a grand old cedar in the middle, before my eyes were attracted to a lady in deep mourning, writing in a little alcove, half curtained off from the rest of the room, and looking decidedly cozy. The moment she turned her face toward us at the mention of our names, my unpleasant feelings of nervousness vanished. She was such a little woman--slightly deformed, too--with a pale, sickly-looking face, and large, clear eyes, that seemed to attract sympathy at once, for they seemed to say to one, "I am only a timid, simple little creature. You need not be afraid of me." I was not very tall, but I almost looked down on her as she gave me her hand. "I was expecting you, Miss Cameron," she said, in such a sweet tone that it quite won my heart. "Your uncle kindly promised to introduce us to each other." And then she looked at me, not keenly and scrutinizingly, as her brother had done, but with a kindly inquisitiveness, as though she wanted to know all about me, and to put me at my ease as soon as possible. I flushed a little at that, and my unfortunate sensitiveness took alarm. If it were only Carrie, I thought, with her pretty face and soft voice; but I was so sadly unattractive, no one would be taken with me at first sight. Fred had once said so in my hearing, and how I had cried over that speech! "Esther looks older than she is; but she is only seventeen," interposed Uncle Geoffrey, as he saw that unlucky blush. "She is a good girl, and very industrious, and her mother's right hand," went on the simple man. If I only could have plucked up spirit and contradicted him, but I felt tongue-tied. "She looks very reliable," returned Miss Lucas, in the kindest way. To this day I believe she could not find any compliment compatible with truth. I once told her so months afterward, when we were very good friends, and she laughed and could not deny it. "You were frowning so, Esther," she replied, "from excess of nervousness, I believe, that your forehead was quite lost in your hair, and your great eyes were looking at me in such a funny, frightened way, and the corners of your mouth all coming down, I thought you were five-and-twenty at least, and wondered what I was to do with such a proud, repellant-looking young woman; but when you smiled I began to see then." I had not reached the smiling stage just then, and was revolving her speech in rather a dispirited way. Reliable! I knew I was that; when all at once she left off looking at me, and began talking to Uncle Geoffrey. "And so you have finished all your Good Samaritan arrangements, Dr. Cameron; and your poor sister-in-law and her family are really settled in your house? You must let me know when I may call, or if I can be of any use. Giles told me all about it, and I was so interested." "Is it not good of Uncle Geoffrey?" I broke in. And then it must have been that I smiled; but I never could have passed that over in silence, to hear strangers praise him, and not join in. "I think it is noble of Dr. Cameron--we both think so," she answered, warmly; and then she turned to me again. "I can understand how anxious you must all feel to help and lighten his burdens. When Dr. Cameron proposed your services for my little niece--for he knows what an invalid I am, and that systematic teaching would be impossible to me--I was quite charmed with the notion. But now, before we talk any more about it, supposing you and I go up to see Flurry." CHAPTER VIII. FLURRY AND FLOSSY. What a funny little name! I could not help saying so to Miss Lucas as I followed her up the old oak staircase with its beautifully carved balustrades. "It is her own baby abbreviation of Florence," she returned, pausing on the landing to take breath, for even that slight ascent seemed to weary her. She was quite pale and panting by the time we arrived at our destination. "It is nice to be young and strong," she observed, wistfully. "I am not very old, it is true"--she could not have been more than eight-and-twenty--"but I have never enjoyed good health, and Dr. Cameron says I never can hope to do so; but what can you expect of a crooked little creature like me?" with a smile that was quite natural and humorous, and seemed to ask no pity. Miss Ruth was perfectly content with her life. I found out afterward she evoked rare beauty out of its quiet every-day monotony, storing up precious treasures in homely vessels. Life was to her full of infinite possibilities, a gradual dawning and brightening of hopes that would meet their full fruition hereafter. "Some people have strength to work," she said once to me, "and then plenty of work is given to them; and some must just keep quiet and watch others work, and give them a bright word of encouragement now and then. I am one of those wayside loiterers," she finished, with a laugh; but all the same every one knew how much Miss Ruth did to help others, in spite of her failing strength. The schoolroom, or nursery, as I believe it was called, was a large pleasant room just over the drawing-room, and commanding the same view of the garden and cedar-tree. It had three windows, only they were rather high up, and had cushioned window-seats. In one of them there was a little girl curled up in company with a large brown and white spaniel. "Well, Flurry, what mischief are you and Flossy concocting?" asked Miss Lucas, in a playful voice, for the child was too busily engaged to notice our entrance. "Why, it is my little auntie," exclaimed Flurry, joyously, and she scrambled down, while Flossy wagged his tail and barked. Evidently Miss Ruth was not a frequent visitor to the nursery. Flurry was about six, not a pretty child by any means, though there might be a promise of future beauty in her face. She was a thin, serious-looking little creature, more like the father than the mother, and no one could call Mr. Lucas handsome. Her dark eyes--nearly black they were--matched oddly, in my opinion, with her long fair hair; such pretty fluffy hair it was, falling over her black frock. When her aunt bade her come and speak to the lady who was kind enough to promise to teach her, she stood for a moment regarding me gravely with childish inquisitiveness before she gave me her hand. "What are you going to teach me?" she asked. "I don't think I want to be taught, auntie; I can read, I have been reading to Flossy, and I can write, and hem father's handkerchiefs. Ask nursie." "But you would like to play to dear father, and to learn all sorts of pretty hymns to say to him, would you not, my darling! There are many things you will have to know before you are a woman." "I don't mean to be a woman ever, I think," observed Flurry; "I like being a child better. Nursie is a woman, and nursie won't play; she says she is old and stupid." A happy inspiration came to me. "If you are good and learn your lessons, I will play with you," I said, rather timidly; "that is, if you care for a grown-up playfellow." I was only seventeen, in spite of my _pronounce_ features, and I could still enter into the delights of a good drawn battle of battledore and shuttlecock. Perhaps it was the repressed enthusiasm of my tone, for I really meant what I said; but Flurry's brief coldness vanished, and she caught at my hand at once. "Come and see them," she said; "I did not know you liked dolls, but you shall have one of your own if you like;" and she led me to a corner of the nursery where a quantity of dolls in odd costumes and wonderfully constrained attitudes were arranged round an inverted basket. "Joseph and his brethren," whispered Flurry. "I am going to put him in the pit directly, only I wondered what I should do for the camels--this is Issachar, and this Gad. Look at Gad's turban." It was almost impossible to retain my gravity. I could see Miss Lucas smiling in the window seat. Joseph and his brethren--what a droll idea for a child! But I did not know then that Flurry's dolls had to sustain a variety of bewildering parts. When I next saw them the smart turbans were all taken off the flaxen heads, a few dejected sawdust bodies hung limply round a miller's cart. "Ancient Britons," whispered Flurry. "Nurse would not let me paint them blue, but they did not wear clothes then, you know." In fact, our history lesson was generally followed by a series of touching _tableaux vivants_, the dolls sustaining their parts in several moving scenes of "Alfred and the Cakes," "Hubert and Arthur," and once "the Battle of Cressy." Flurry and I parted the best of friends; and when we joined Uncle Geoffrey in the drawing-room I was quite ready to enter on my duties at once. Miss Lucas stipulated for my services from ten till five; a few simple lessons in the morning were to be followed by a walk, I was to lunch with them, and in the afternoon I was to amuse Flurry or teach her a little--just as I liked. "The fact is," observed Miss Lucas, as I looked a little surprised at this programme, "Nurse is a worthy woman, and we are all very much attached to her; but she is very ignorant, and my brother will not have Flurry thrown too much on her companionship. He wishes me to find some one who will take the sole charge of the child through the day; in the evening she always comes down to her father and sits with him until her bedtime." And then she named what seemed to me a surprisingly large sum for services. What! all that for playing with Flurry, and giving her a few baby lessons; poor Carrie could not have more for teaching the little Thornes. But when I hinted this to Uncle Geoffrey, he said quietly that they were rich people and could well afford it. "Don't rate yourself so low, little woman," he added, good-humoredly; "you are giving plenty of time and interest, and surely that is worth something." And then he went on to say that Jack must go to school, he knew a very good one just by; some ladies who were patients of his would take her at easy terms, he knew. He would call that very afternoon and speak to Miss Martin. Poor mother shed a few tears when I told her our plans. It was sad for her to see her girls reduced to work for themselves; but she cheered up after a little while, and begged me not to think her ungrateful and foolish. "For we have so many blessings, Esther," she went on, in her patient way. "We are all together, except poor Fred, and but for your uncle's goodness we might have been separated." "And we shall have such nice cozy evenings," I returned, "when the day's work is over. I shall feel like a day laborer, mother, bringing home my wages in my pocket. I shall be thinking of you and Dot all day, and longing to get back to you." But though I spoke and felt so cheerfully, I knew that the evenings would not be idle. There would be mending to do and linen to make, for we could not afford to buy our things ready-made; but, with mother's clever fingers and Carrie's help, I thought we should do very well. I must utilize every spare minute, I thought. I must get up early and help Deborah, so that things might go on smoothly for the rest of the day. There was Dot to dress, and mother was ailing, and had her breakfast in bed--there would be a hundred little things to set right before I started off for the Cedars, as Mr. Lucas' house was called. "Never mind, it is better to wear out than to rust out," I said to myself. And then I picked up Jack's gloves from the floor, hung up her hat in its place, and tried to efface the marks of her muddy boots from the carpet (I cannot deny Jack was a thorn in my side just now), and then there came a tap at my door, and Carrie came in. She looked so pretty and bright, that I could not help admiring her afresh. I am sure people must have called her beautiful. "How happy you look, Carrie, in spite of your three little Thornes," I said rather mischievously. "Has mother told you about Miss Lucas?" "Yes, I heard all about that," she returned, absently. "You are very fortunate, Esther, to find work in which you can take an interest. I am glad--very glad about that." "I wish, for your sake, that we could exchange," I returned, feeling myself very generous in intention, but all the same delighted that my unselfishness should not be put to the proof. "Oh, no, I have no wish of that sort," she replied, hastily; "I could not quite bring myself to play with children in the nursery." I suppose mother had told her about the dolls. "Well, we both start on our separate treadmill on Monday--Black Monday, eh, Esther?" "Not at all," I retorted, for I was far too pleased and excited with my prospects to be damped by Carrie's want of enthusiasm. I thought I would sit down and write to Jessie, and tell her all about it, but here was Carrie preparing herself for one of her chats. "Did you see me talking to Mr. Smedley, Esther?" she began; and as I nodded she went on. "I had never spoken to him before since Uncle Geoffrey introduced us to him. He is such a nice, practical sort of man. He took me into the vicarage, and introduced me to his wife. She is very plain and homely, but so sensible." I held my peace. I had rather a terror of Mrs. Smedley. She was one of those bustling workers whom one dreads by instinct. She had a habit of pouncing upon people, especially young ones, and driving them to work. Before many days were over she had made poor mother promise to do some cutting out for the clothing club, as though mother had not work enough for us all at home. I thought it very inconsiderate of Mrs. Smedley. "I took to them at once," went on Carrie, "and indeed they were exceedingly kind. Mr. Smedley seemed to understand everything in a moment, how I wanted work, and----" "But, Carrie," I demanded, aghast at this, "you have work: you have the little Thornes." "Oh, don't drag them in at every word," she answered, pettishly--at least pettishly for her; "of course, I have my brick-making, and so have you. I am thinking of other things now, Esther; I have promised Mr. Smedley to be one of his district visitors." I almost jumped off my chair at that, I was so startled and so indignant. "Oh, Carrie! and when you know mother does not approve of girls of our age undertaking such work--she has said so over and over again--how can you go against her wishes?" Carrie looked at me mildly, but she was not in the least discomposed at my words. "Listen to me, you silly child," she said, good-humoredly; "this is one of mother's fancies; you cannot expect me with my settled views to agree with her in this." I don't know what Carrie meant by her views, unless they consisted in a determination to make herself and every one else uncomfortable by an overstrained sense of duty. "Middle-aged people are timid sometimes. Mother has never visited the poor herself, so she does not see the necessity for my doing it; but I am of a different opinion," continued Carrie, with a mild obstinacy that astonished me too much for any reply. "When mother cried about it just now, and begged me to let her speak to Mr. Smedley, I told her that I was old enough to judge for myself, and that I thought one's conscience ought not to be slavishly bound even to one's parent. I was trying to do my duty to her and to every one, but I must not neglect the higher part of my vocation." "Oh, Carrie, how could you? You will make her so unhappy." "No; she only cried a good deal, and begged me to be prudent and not overtax my strength; and then she talked about you, and hoped I should help you as much as possible, as though I meant to shirk any part of my duty. I do not think she really disapproved, only she seemed nervous and timid about it; but I ask you, Esther, how I could help offering my services, when Mrs. Smedley told me about the neglected state of the parish, and how few ladies came forward to help?" "But how will you find time?" I remonstrated; though what was the good of remonstrating when Carrie had once made up her mind? "I have the whole of Saturday afternoon, and an hour on Wednesday, and now the evenings are light I might utilize them a little. I am to have Nightingale lane and the whole of Rowley street, so one afternoon in the week will scarcely be sufficient." "Oh, Carrie," I groaned; but, actually, though the mending lay on my mind like a waking nightmare, I could not expostulate with her. I only looked at her in a dim, hopeless way and shook my head; if these were her views I must differ from them entirely. Not that I did not wish good--heavenly good--to the poor, but that I felt home duties would have to be left undone; and after all that uncle had done for us! "And then I promised Mrs. Smedley that I would help in the Sunday-school," she continued, cheerfully. "She was so pleased, and kissed me quite gratefully. She says she and Mr. Smedley have had such up-hill work since they came to Milnthorpe--and there is so much lukewarmness and worldliness in the place. Even Miss Lucas, in spite of her goodness--and she owned she was very good, Esther--will not take their advice about things." "I told her," she went on, hesitating, "that I would speak to you, and ask you to take a Sunday class in the infant school. You are so fond of children, I thought you would be sure to consent." "So I would, and gladly too, if you would take my place at home," I returned, quickly; "but if you do so much yourself, you will prevent me from doing anything. Why not let me take the Sunday school class, while you stop with mother and Dot?" "What nonsense!" she replied, flushing a little, for my proposition did not please her; "that is so like you, Esther, to raise obstacles for nothing. Why cannot we both teach; surely you can give one afternoon a week to God's work?" "I hope I am giving not one afternoon, but every afternoon to it," I returned, and the tears rushed to my eyes, for her speech wounded me. "Oh, Carrie, why will you not understand that I think that all work that is given us to do is God's work? It is just as right for me to play with Flurry as it is to teach in the Sunday school." "You can do both if you choose," she answered, coolly. "Not unless you take my place," I returned, decidedly, for I had the Cameron spirit, and would not yield my point; "for in that case Dot would lose his Sunday lessons, and Jack would be listless and fret mother." "Very well," was Carrie's response; but I could see she was displeased with my plain speaking; and I went downstairs very tired and dispirited, to find mother had cried herself into a bad headache. "If I could only talk to your dear father about it," she whispered, when she had opened her heart to me on the subject of Carrie. "I am old-fashioned, as Carrie says, and it is still my creed that parents know best for their children; but she thinks differently, and she is so good that, perhaps, one ought to leave her to judge for herself. If I could only know what your father would say," she went on, plaintively. I could give her no comfort, for I was only a girl myself, and my opinions were still immature and unfledged, and then I never had been as good as Carrie. But what I said seemed to console mother a little, for she drew down my face and kissed it. "Always my good, sensible Esther," she said, and then Uncle Geoffrey came in and prescribed for the headache, and the subject dropped. CHAPTER IX. THE CEDARS. I was almost ashamed of myself for being so happy, and yet it was a sober kind of happiness too. I did not forget my father, and I missed Allan with an intensity that surprised myself; but, in spite of hard work and the few daily vexations that hamper every one's lot, I continued to extract a great deal of enjoyment out of my life. To sum it up with a word, it was life--not mere existence--a life brimming over with duties and responsibilities and untried work, too busy for vacuum. Every corner and interstice of time filled up--heart, and head, and hands always fully employed; and youth and health, those two grand gifts of God, making all such work a delight. Now I am older, and the sap of life does not run so freely in my veins, I almost marvel at the remembrance of those days, at my youthful exuberance and energy, and those words, "As thy day, so shall thy strength be," come to me with a strange force and illumination, for truly I needed it all then, and it was given to me. Time was a treasure trove, and I husbanded every minute with a miser's zeal. I had always been an early riser, and now I reaped the benefit of this habit. Jack used to murmur discontentedly in her sleep when I set the window open soon after six, and the fresh summer air fanned her hot face. But how cool and dewy the garden looked at that hour! It was so bright and still, with the thrushes and blackbirds hopping over the wet lawn, and the leaves looking so fresh and green in the morning sun; such twitterings and chirpings came from the lilac trees, where the little brown sparrows twittered and plumed themselves. The bird music used to chime in in a sort of refrain to my morning prayers--a diminutive chorus of praise--the choral before the day's service commenced. I always gave Jack a word of warning before I left the room (the reprimand used to find her in the middle of a dream), and then I went to Dot. I used to help him to dress and hear him repeat his prayers, and talk cheerfully to him when he was languid and fretful, and the small duties of life were too heavy for his feeble energies. Dot always took a large portion of my time; his movements were slow and full of tiny perversities; he liked to stand and philosophize in an infantile way when I wanted to be downstairs helping Deborah. Dot's fidgets, as I called them, were part of the day's work. When he was ready to hobble downstairs with his crutch, I used to fly back to Jack, and put a few finishing touches to her toilet, for I knew by experience that she would make her appearance downstairs with a crooked parting and a collar awry, and be grievously plaintive when Carrie found fault with her. Talking never mended matters; Jack was at the hoiden age, and had to grow into tidiness and womanhood by-and-by. After that I helped Deborah, and took up mother's breakfast. I always found her lying with her face to the window, and her open Bible beside her. Carrie had always been in before me and arranged the room. Mother slept badly, and at that early hour her face had a white, pining look, as though she had lost her way in the night, or waked to miss something. She used to turn with a sweet troubled smile to me as I entered. "Here comes my busy little woman," she would say, with a pretense at cheerfulness, and then she would ask after Dot. She never spoke much of her sadness to us; with an unselfishness that was most rare she refused to dim our young cheerfulness by holding an unhealed grief too plainly before our eyes. Dear mother, I realize now what that silence must have cost her! When breakfast was over, and Uncle Geoffrey busily engrossed with his paper, I used to steal into the kitchen and have a long confab with Deborah, and then Jack and I made our bed and dusted our room to save Martha, and by that time I was ready to start to the Cedars; but not until I had convoyed Jack to Miss Martin's, and left her and her books safely at the door. Dot used to kiss me rather wistfully when I left him with his lesson-books and paint-box, waiting for mother to come down and keep him company. Poor little fellow, he had rather a dull life of it, for even Jumbles refused to stay with him, and Smudge was out in the garden, lazily watching the sparrows. Poor little lonely boy, deprived of the usual pleasures of boyhood, and looking out on our busy lives from a sort of sad twilight of pain and weakness, but keeping such a brave heart and silent tongue over it all. How I enjoyed my little walk up High street and across the wide, sunshiny square! When I reached the Cedars, and the butler admitted me, I used to run up the old oak staircase and tap at the nursery door. Nurse used to courtesy and withdraw; Flurry and I had it all to ourselves. I never saw Miss Lucas until luncheon-time; she was more of an invalid than I knew at that time, and rarely left her room before noon. Flurry and I soon grew intimate; after a few days were over we were the best of friends. She was a clever child and fond of her lessons, but she was full of droll fancies. She always insisted on her dolls joining our studies. It used to be a little embarrassing to me at first to see myself surrounded by the vacant waxen faces staring at us, with every variety of smirk and bland fatuous expression: the flaxen heads nid-nodded over open lesson-books, propped up in limp, leathery arms. When Flossy grew impatient for a game of play, he would drag two or three of them down with a vicious snap and a stroke of his feathery paws. Flurry would shake her head at him disapprovingly, as she picked them up and shook out their smart frocks. The best behaved of the dolls always accompanied us in our walk before luncheon. I used to think of Carrie's words, sometimes, as I played with Flurry in the afternoon; she would not hear of lessons then. Sometimes I would coax her to sew a little, or draw; and she always had her half hour at the piano, but during the rest of the afternoon I am afraid there was nothing but play. How I wish Dot could have joined us sometimes as we built our famous brick castles, or worked in Flurry's little garden, where she grew all sorts of wonderful things. When I was tired or lazy I used to bring out my needle-work to the seat under the cedar, and tell Flurry stories, or talk to her as she dressed her dolls; she was very good and tractable, and never teased me to play when I was disinclined. I told her about Dot very soon, and she gave me no peace after that until I took her to see him; there was quite a childish friendship between them soon. Flurry used to send him little gifts, which she purchased with her pocket-money--pictures, and knives, and pencils. I often begged Miss Lucas to put a stop to it, but she only laughed and praised Flurry, and put by choice little portions of fruit and other dainties for Flurry's boy friend. Flurry prattled a great deal about her father, but I never saw him. He had his luncheon at the bank. Once when we were playing battledore and shuttle-cock in the hall--for Miss Lucas liked to hear us all over the house; she said it made her feel cheerful--I heard a door open overhead, and caught a glimpse of a dark face watching us; but I thought it was Morgan the butler, until Flurry called out joyfully, "Father! Father!" and then it disappeared. Now and then I met him in the square, and he always knew me and took off his hat; but I did not exchange a word with him for months. Flurry loved him, and seemed deep in his confidence. She always put on her best frock and little pearl necklace to go down and sit with her father, while he ate his dinner. She generally followed him into his study, and chatted to him, until nurse fetched her at bed-time. When she had asked me some puzzling question that it was impossible to answer, she would refer it to her father with implicit faith. She would make me rather uncomfortable at times respecting little speeches of his. "Father can't understand why you are so fond of play," she said once to me; "he says so few grown-up girls deign to amuse themselves with a game: but you do like it, don't you, Miss Cameron?" making up a very coaxing face. Of course I confessed to a great fondness for games, but all the same I wished Mr. Lucas had not said that. Perhaps he thought me too hoidenish for his child's governess, and for a whole week after that I refused to play with Flurry, until she began to mope, and my heart misgave me. We played at hide and seek that day all over the house--Flurry and Flossy and I. Then another time, covering me with dire confusion, "Father thinks that such a pretty story, Miss Cameron, the one about Gretchen. He said I ought to try and remember it, and write it down; and then he asked if you had really made it up in your head." "Oh, Flurry, that silly little story?" "Not silly at all," retorted Flurry, with a little heat; "father had a headache, and he could not talk to me, so I told him stories to send him to sleep, and I thought he would like dear little Gretchen. He never went to sleep after all, but his eyes were wide open, staring at the fire; and then he told me he had been thinking of dear mamma, and he thought I should be very like her some day. And then he thanked me for my pretty stories, and then tiresome old nursie fetched me to bed." That stupid little tale! To think of Mr. Lucas listening to that. I was not a very inventive storyteller, though I could warm into eloquence on occasions, but Flurry's demand was so excessive that I hit on a capital plan at last. I created a wonderful child heroine, and called her Juliet and told a little fresh piece of her history every day. Never was there such a child for impossible adventures and hairbreadth escapes; what that unfortunate little creature went through was known only to Flurry and me. She grew to love Juliet like a make-believe sister of her own, and talked of her at last as a living child. What long moral conversations took place between Juliet and her mother, what admirable remarks did that excellent mother make, referring to sundry small sins of omission and commission on Juliet's part! When I saw Flurry wince and turn red I knew the remarks had struck home. It was astonishing how Juliet's behavior varied with Flurry's. If Flurry were inattentive, Juliet was listless; if her history lessons were ill-learned, Juliet's mamma had always a great deal to say about the battle of Agincourt or any other event that it was necessary to impress on her memory. I am afraid Flurry at last took a great dislike to that well-meaning lady, and begged to hear more about Juliet's little brother and sister. When I came to a very uninteresting part she would propose a game of ball or a scamper with Flossy; but all the same next day we would be back at it again. The luncheon hour was very pleasant to me. I grew to like Miss Lucas excessively; she talked so pleasantly and seemed so interested in all I had to tell her about myself and Flurry; a quiet atmosphere of refinement surrounded her--a certain fitness and harmony of thought. Sometimes she would invite us into the drawing-room after luncheon, saying she felt lonely and would be glad of our society for a little. I used to enjoy those half-hours, though I am afraid Flurry found them a little wearisome. Our talk went over her head, and she would listen to it with a droll, half-bored expression, and take refuge at last with Flossy. Sometimes, but not often, Miss Lucas would take us to drive with her. I think, until she knew me well, that she liked better to be alone with her own thoughts. As our knowledge of each other grew, I was struck with the flower-like unfolding of her ideas; they would bud and break forth into all manner of quaint fancies--their freshness and originality used to charm me. I think there is no interest in life compared to knowing people--finding them out, their tastes, character, and so forth. I had an inquisitive delight, I called it thirst, for human knowledge, in drawing out a stranger; no traveler exploring unknown tracts of country ever pursued his researches with greater zeal and interest. Reserve only attracts me. Impulsive people, who let out their feelings the first moment, do not interest me half so much as silent folk. I like to sit down before an enclosed citadel and besiege it; with such ramparts of defense there must be precious store in the heart of the city, some hidden jewels, perhaps; at least, so I argue with myself. But, happy as I was with Miss Lucas and Flurry, five o'clock no sooner struck than I was flying down the oak staircase, with Flurry peeping at me between the balustrades, and waving a mite of a hand in token of adieu; for was I not going home to mother and Dot? Oh, the dear, bright home scene that always awaited me! I wonder if Carrie loved it as I did! The homely, sunny little parlors; the cozy tea table, over which old Martha would be hovering with careful face and hands; mother in her low chair by the garden window; Uncle Geoffrey with his books and papers at the little round table; Dot and Jack hidden in some corner, out of which Dot would come stumping on his poor little crutches to kiss me, and ask after his little friend Flurry. "Here comes our Dame Bustle," Uncle Geoffrey would say. It was his favorite name for me, and mother would look up and greet me with the same loving smile that was never wanting on her dear face. On the stairs I generally came upon Carrie, coming down from her little room. "How are the little Thornes?" I would ask her, cheerfully; but by-and-by I left off asking her about them. At first she used to shrug her shoulders and shake her head in a sort of disconsolate fashion, or answered indifferently: "Oh, much as usual, thank you." But once she returned, quite pettishly: "Why do you ask after those odious children, Esther? Why cannot you let me forget them for a few hours? If we are brickmakers, we need not always be telling the tales of our bricks." She finished with a sort of weary tone in her tired voice, and after that I let the little Thornes alone. What happy evenings those were! Not that we were idle, though--"the saints forbid," as old Biddy used to say. When tea was over, mother and I betook ourselves to the huge mending basket; sometimes Carrie joined us, when she was not engaged in district work, and then her clever fingers made the work light for us. Then there were Jack's lessons to superintend, and sometimes I had to help Dot with his drawing, or copy out papers for Uncle Geoffrey: then by-and-by Dot had to be taken upstairs, and there were little things to do for mother when Carrie was too tired or busy to do them. Mother was Carrie's charge. As Dot and Jack were mine, it was a fair division of labor, only somehow Carrie had always so much to do. Mother used to fret sometimes about it, and complain that Carrie sat up too late burning the midnight oil in her little room; but I never could find out what kept her up. I was much happier about Carrie now--she seemed brighter and in better spirits. If she loathed her daily drudgery, she said little about it, and complained less. All her interests were reserved for Nightingale lane and Rowley street. The hours spent in those unsavory neighborhoods were literally her times of refreshment. Her poor people were very close to her heart, and often she told us about them as we sat working together in the evening, until mother grew quite interested, and used to ask after them by name, which pleased Carrie, and made a bond of sympathy between them. At such times I somehow felt a little sad, though I would not have owned it for worlds, for it seemed to me as though my work were so trivial compared to Carrie's--as though I were a poor little Martha, "careful and troubled about many things" about, Deborah's crossness and Jack's reckless ways, occupied with small minor duties--dressing Dot, and tidying Jack's and Uncle Geoffrey's drawers; while Carrie was doing angel's work; reclaiming drunken women, and teaching miserable degraded children, and then coming home and playing sweet sacred fragments of Handel to soothe mother's worn spirits, or singing her the hymns she loved. Alas! I could not sing except in church, and my playing was a poor affair compared to Carrie's. I felt it most on Sundays, when Carrie used to go off to the Sunday school morning and afternoon, and left me to the somewhat monotonous task of hearing Jack her catechism and giving Dot his Scripture lesson. Sunday was always a trial to Dot. He was not strong enough to go to church--the service would have wearied him too much--his few lessons were soon done, and then time used to hang heavily on his hands. At last the grand idea came to me to set him to copy Scripture maps, and draw small illustrations of any Biblical scene that occurred in the lesson of the day. I have a book full of his childish fancies now, all elaborately colored on week-days--"Joseph and his Brethren" in gaudy turbans, and wonderfully inexpressive countenances, reminding me of Flurry's dolls; the queen of Sheba, coming before Solomon, in a marvelous green tiara and yellow garments; a headless Goliath, expressed with a painful degree of detail, more fit for the Wirtz Gallery than a child's scrap-book. Dot used frequently to write letters to Allan, to which I often added copious postscripts. I never could coax Dot to write to Fred, though Fred sent him plenty of kind messages, and many a choice little parcel of scraps and odds and ends, such as Dot liked. Fred was getting on tolerably, he always told us. He had rooms in St. John's Wood, which he shared with two other artists; he was working hard, and had some copying orders. Allan saw little of him; they had no friends in common, and no community of taste. Never were brothers less alike or with less sympathy. CHAPTER X. "I WISH I HAD A DOT OF MY OWN." Months passed over, and found us the same busy, tranquil little household. I used to wonder how my letters could interest Allan so much as he said they did; I could find so little to narrate. And, talking of that, it strikes me that we are not sufficiently thankful for the monotony of life. I speak advisedly; I mean for the quiet uniformity and routine of our daily existence. In our youth we quarrel a little with its sameness and regularity; it is only when the storms of sudden crises and unlooked-for troubles break over our thankful heads that we look back with regret to those still days of old. Nothing seemed to happen, nothing looked different. Mother grew a little stronger as the summer passed, and took a few more household duties on herself. Dot pined and pinched as the cold weather came on, as he always did, and looked a shivering, shabby Dot sometimes. Jack's legs grew longer, and her frocks shorter, and we had to tie her hair to keep it out of her eyes, and she stooped more, and grew round-shouldered, which added to her list of beauties; but no one expected grace from Jack. At the Cedars things went on as usual, that Flurry left off calling me Miss Cameron, and took to Esther instead, somewhat scandalizing Miss Lucas, until she began taking to it herself. "For you are so young, and you are more Flurry's playfellow than her governess," she said apologetically; "it is no good being stiff when we are such old friends." And after that I always called her Miss Ruth. "Don't you want see to Roseberry, Esther?" asked Flurry, one day--that was the name of the little seaside place where Mr. Lucas had a cottage. "Aunt Ruth says you must come down with us next summer; she declares she has quite set her heart on it." "Oh, Flurry, that would be delightful!--but how could I leave mother and Dot?" I added in a regretful parenthesis. That was always the burden of my song--Mother and Dot. "Dot must come, too," pronounced Flurry, decidedly; and she actually proposed to Miss Ruth at luncheon that "Esther's little brother should be invited to Roseberry." Miss Ruth looked at me with kindly amused eyes, as I grew crimson and tried to hush Flurry. "We shall see," she returned, in her gentle voice; "if Esther will not go without Dot, Dot must come too." But though the bare idea was too delightful, I begged Miss Ruth not to entertain such an idea for a moment. I think Flurry's little speech put a kind thought into Miss Ruth's head, for when she next invited us to drive with her, the gray horses stopped for an instant at Uncle Geoffrey's door, and the footman lifted Dot in his little fur-lined coat, and placed him at Miss Ruth's side. And seeing the little lad's rapture, and Flurry's childish delight, she often called for him, sometimes when she was alone, for she said Dot never troubled her; he could be as quiet as a little mouse when her head ached and she was disinclined to talk. I said nothing happened; but one day I had a pleasant surprise, just when I did not deserve it; for it was one of my fractious days--days of moods and tenses I used to called them--when nothing seemed quite right, when I was beset by that sort of grown-up fractiousness that wants to be petted and put to bed, and bidden to lie still like a tired child. Winter had set in in downright earnest, and in those cold dark mornings early rising seemed an affront to the understanding, and a snare to be avoided by all right-minded persons; yet notwithstanding all that, a perverse, fidgety notion of duty drove me with a scourge of mental thorns from my warm bed. For I was young and healthy, and why should I lie there while Deborah and Martha broke the ice in their pitchers, and came downstairs with rasped red faces and acidulated tempers? I was thankful not to do likewise, to know I should hear in a few minutes a surly tap at the door, with the little hot-water can put down with protesting evidence. Even then it was hard work to flesh and blood, with no dewy lawn, no bird music now to swell my morning's devotion with tiny chorus of praise; only a hard frozen up world, with a trickle of meager sunshine running through it. But my hardest work was with Dot; he used to argue drowsily with me while I stood shivering and awaiting his pleasure. Why did I not go down to the fire if I were cold? He was not going to get up in the middle of the night to please any one; never mind the robins--of which I reminded him gently--he wished he were a robin too, and could get up and go to bed with a neat little feather bed tacked to his skin--nice, cosy little fellows; and then he would draw the bedclothes round his thin little shoulders, and try to maintain his position. He quite whimpered on the morning in question, when I lifted him out bodily--such a miserable Dot, looking like a starved dove in his white plumage; but he cheered up at the sight of the fire and hot coffee in the snug parlor, and whispered a little entreaty for forgiveness as I stooped over him to make him comfortable. "You are tired, Esther," said my mother tenderly, when she saw my face that morning; "you must not get up so early this cold weather, my dear." But I held my peace, for who would dress Dot, and what would become of Jack? And then came a little lump in my throat, for I was tired and fractious. When I got to the Cedars a solemn stillness reigned in the nursery, and instead of an orderly room a perfect chaos of doll revelry prevailed. All the chairs were turned into extempore beds, and the twelve dolls, with bandaged heads and arms, were tucked up with the greatest care. Flurry met me with an air of great importance and her finger on her lip. "Hush, Esther, you must not make a noise. I am Florence Nightingale, and these are all the poor sick and wounded soldiers; look at this one, this is Corporal Trim, and he has had his two legs shot off." I recognized Corporal Trim under his bandages; he was the very doll Flossy had so grievously maltreated and had robbed of an eye; the waxen tip of his nose was gone, and a great deal of his flaxen wig besides--quite a caricature of a mutilated veteran. I called Flurry to account a little sternly, and insisted on her restoring order to the room. Flurry pouted and sulked; her heart was at Scutari, and her wits went wool-gathering, and refused dates and the multiplication table. To make matters worse, it commenced snowing, and there was no prospect of a walk before luncheon. Miss Ruth did not come down to that meal, and afterward I sat and knitted in grim silence. Discipline must be maintained, and as Flurry would not work, neither would I play with her; but I do not know which of us was punished the most. "Oh, how cross you are, Esther, and it is Christmas eve!" cried Flurry at last, on the verge of crying. It was growing dusk, and already shadows lurked in the corner of the room, Flurry looked at me so wistfully that I am afraid I should have relented and gone on a little with Juliet, only at that moment she sprang up joyfully at the sound of her aunt's voice calling her, and ran out to the top of the dark staircase. "We are to go down, you and I; Aunt Ruth wants us," she exclaimed, laying violent hands on my work. I felt rather surprised at the summons, for Miss Ruth never called us at this hour, and it would soon be time for me to go home. The drawing-room looked the picture of warm comfort as we entered it; some glorious pine logs were crackling and spluttering in the grate, sending out showers of colored sparks. Miss Ruth was half-buried in her easy-chair, with her feet on the white fleecy rug, and the little square tea-table stood near her, with its silver kettle and the tiny blue teacups. "You have sent for us, Miss Ruth," I said, as I crossed the room to her; but at that instant another figure I had not seen started up from a dark corner, and caught hold of me in rough, boyish fashion. "Allan! oh Allan! Allan!" my voice rising into a perfect crescendo of ecstasy at the sight of his dear dark face. Could anything be more deliciously unexpected? And there was Miss Ruth laughing very softly to herself at my pleasure. "Oh, Allan, what does this mean," I demanded, "when you told us there was no chance of your spending Christmas with us? Have you been home? Have you seen mother and Dot? Have you come here to fetch me home?" Allan held up his hands as he took a seat near me. "One question at a time, Esther. I had unexpected leave of absence for a week, and that is why you see me; and as I wanted to surprise you all, I said nothing about it. I arrived about three hours ago, and as mother thought I might come and fetch you, why I thought I would, and that you would be pleased to see me; that is all my story," finished Allan, exchanging an amused glance with Miss Ruth. They had never met before, and yet they seemed already on excellent terms. All an made no sort of demur when Miss Ruth insisted that we should both have some tea to warm us before we went. I think he felt at home with her at once. Flurry seemed astonished at our proceeding. She regarded Allan for a long time very solemnly, until he won her heart by admiring Flossy; then she condescended to converse with him. "Are you Esther's brother, really?" "Yes, Miss Florence--I believe that is your name." "Florence Emmeline Lucas," she repeated glibly. "I'm Flurry for short; nobody calls me Florence except father sometimes. It was dear mamma's name, and he always sighs when he says it." "Indeed," returned Allan in an embarrassed tone; and then he took Flossy on his knee and began to play with him. "Esther is rich," went on Flurry, rather sadly. "She has three brothers; there's Fred, and you, and Dot. I think she likes Dot best, and so do I. What a pity I haven't a Dot of my own! No brothers; only father and Aunt Ruth." "Poor little dear," observed Allan compassionately--he was always fond of children. His hearty tone made Flurry look up in his face. "He is a nice man," she said to me afterward; "he likes Flossy and me, and he was pleased when I kissed him." I did not tell Flurry that Allan had been very much astonished at her friendship. "That is a droll little creature," he said, as we left the house together; "but there is something very attractive about her. You have a nice berth there, Esther. Miss Lucas seems a delightful person," an opinion in which I heartily agreed. Then he asked me about Mr. Lucas; but I had only Flurry's opinion to offer him on that subject, and he questioned me in his old way about my daily duties. "Mother thinks you are overworked, and you are certainly looking a little thin, Esther. Does not Carrie help you enough? And what is this I have just heard about the night school?" Our last grievance, which I had hitherto kept from Allan; but of course mother had told him. It was so nice to be walking there by his side, with the crisp white snow beneath our feet, and the dark sky over our heads; no more fractiousness now, when I could pour out all my worries to Allan. Such a long story I told him; but the gist of it was this; Carrie had been very imprudent; she would not let well alone, or be content with a sufficient round of duties. She worked hard with her pupils all day, and besides that she had a district and Sunday school; and now Mrs. Smedley had persuaded her to devote two evenings of her scanty leisure to the night school. "I think it is very hard and unjust to us," I continued rather excitedly. "We have so little of Carrie--only just the odds and ends of time she can spare us. Mrs. Smedley has no right to dictate to us all, and to work Carrie in the way she does. She has got an influence over her, and she uses it for her own purposes, and Carrie is weak to yield so entirely to her judgment; she coaxes her and flatters her, and talks about her high standard and unselfish zeal for the work; but I can't understand it, and I don't think it right for Carrie to be Mrs. Smedley's parochial drudge." "I will talk to Carrie," returned Allan, grimly; and he would not say another word on the subject. But I forgot all my grievances during the happy evening that followed. Allan was in such spirits! As frolicsome as a boy, he would not let us be dull, and so his talk never flagged for a moment. Dot laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks when Allan kicked over the mending basket, and finally ordered Martha to take it away. When Carrie returned from the night school, she found us all gathered round the fire in peaceful idleness, listening to Allan's stories, with Dot on the rug, basking in the heat like a youthful salamander. I think Allan must have followed her up to her room, for just as I was laying my head on the pillow there was a knock at the door, and Carrie entered with her candle, fully dressed, and with a dark circle round her eyes. She put down the light, so as not to wake Jack, and sat down by my side with a weary sigh. "Why did you all set Allan to talk to me?" she began reproachfully. "Why should I listen to him more than to you or mother? I begin to see that a man's foes are indeed of his own household." I bit my lips to keep in a torrent of angry words. I was out of patience with Carrie, even a saint ought to have common sense, I thought, and I was so tired and sleepy, and to-morrow was Christmas Day. "I could not sleep until I came and told you what I thought about it," she went on in her serious monotone. I don't think she even noticed my exasperated silence. "It is of no use for Allan to come and preach his wordly wisdom to me; we do not measure things by the same standard, he and I. You are better, Esther, but your hard matter-of-fact reasoning shocks me sometimes." "Oh, Carrie! why don't you create a world of your own," I demanded, scornfully, "if we none of us please you--not even Allan?" "Now you are angry without cause," she returned, gently, for Carrie rarely lost her temper in an argument; she was so meekly obstinate that we could do nothing with her. "We cannot create our own world, Esther; we can only do the best we can with this. When I am working so hard to do a little good in Milnthorpe, why do you all try to hinder and drag me back?" "Because you are _over_doing it, and wearing yourself out," I returned, determined to have my say; but she stopped me with quiet peremptoriness. "No more of that, Esther; I have heard it all from Allan. I am not afraid of wearing out; I hope to die in harness. Why, child, how can you be so faint-hearted? We cannot die until our time comes." "But when we court death it is suicide," I answered, stubbornly; but Carrie only gave one of her sweet little laughs. "You foolish Esther! who means to die, I should like to know? Why, the child is actually crying. Listen to me, you dear goosie. I was never so happy or well in my life." I shook my head sorrowfully, but she persisted in her statement. "Mrs. Smedley has given me new life. How I do love that woman! She is a perfect example to us--of unselfishness and energy. She says I am her right hand, and I do believe she means it, Esther." But I only groaned in answer. "She is doing a magnificent work in Milnthrope," she continued, "and I feel so proud that I am allowed to assist her. Do you know, I had twenty boys in my class this evening; they would come to me, though Miss Miles' class was nearly empty." And so she went on, until I felt all over prickles of suppressed nervousness. "Well, good-night," she said, at last, when I could not he roused into any semblance of interest; "we shall see which of us be right by-and-by." "Yes, we shall see," I answered, drowsily; but long after she left I muttered the words over and over to myself, "We shall see." Yes, by-and-by the light of Divine truth would flash over our actions, and in that pure radiance every unworthy work would wither up to naught--every unblessed deed retreat into outer darkness. Which would be right, she or I? I know only too well that, taking the world as a whole, we ought to _encourage_ Christian parochial work, because too many girls who possess the golden opportunity of leisure allow it to be wasted, and so commit the "sin of omission;" but there would have been quite as much good done had Carrie dutifully helped in our invalid home and cheered us all to health by her bright presence. And besides, I myself could then perhaps have taken a class at me night school if the stocking-mending and the other multitudinous domestic matters could have allowed it. The chimes of St. Barnabas were pealing through the midnight air before I slept. Above was the soft light of countless stars, sown broadcast over the dark skies. Christmas was come, and the angel's song sounding over the sleeping earth. "Peace and goodwill to men"--peace from weary arguments and fruitless regret, peace on mourning hearts, on divided homes, on mariners tossing afar on wintry seas, and peace surely on one troubled girlish heart that waited for the breaking of a more perfect day. CHAPTER XI. MISS RUTH'S NURSE. Miss Ruth insisted on giving me a week's holiday, that I might avail myself of Allan's society; and as dear mother still persisted that I looked pale and in need of change, Allan gave me a course of bracing exercise in the shape of long country walks with him and Jack, when we plowed our way over half-frozen fields and down deep, muddy lanes, scrambling over gates and through hedges, and returning home laden with holly berries and bright red hips and haws. On Allan's last evening we were invited to dine at the Cedars--just Uncle Geoffrey, Allan, and I. Miss Ruth wrote such a pretty letter. She said that her brother thought it was a long time since he had seen his old friend Dr. Cameron, and that he was anxious to make acquaintance with his nephew and Flurry's playfellow--this was Miss Ruth's name for me, for we had quite dropped the governess between us. Allan looked quite pleased, and scouted my dubious looks; he had taken a fancy to Miss Ruth, and wanted to see her again. He laughed when I said regretfully that it was his last evening, and that I would rather have spent it quietly at home with him. I was shy at the notion of my first dinner-party; Mr. Lucas' presence would make it a formal affair. And then mother fretted a little that I had no evening-dress ready. I could not wear white, so all my pretty gowns were useless; but I cheered her up by my assuring her that such things did not matter in our deep mourning. And when I had dressed myself in my black cashmere, with soft white ruffles and a little knot of Christmas roses and ferns which Carrie had arranged in my dress, mother gave a relieved sigh, and thought I should do nicely, and Allan twisted me round, and declared I was not half so bad after all, and that, though I was no beauty, I should pass, with which dubious compliment I was obliged to content myself. "I wish you were going in my stead, Carrie," I whispered, as she wrapped me in mother's warm fleecy shawl, for the night was piercingly cold. "I would rather stay with mother," she answered quietly. And then she kissed me, and told me to be a good child, and not to be frightened of any one, in her gentle, elder sisterly way. It never occurred to her to envy me my party or my pleasant position at the Cedars, or to compare her own uncongenial work with mine. These sorts of petty jealousies and small oppositions were impossible to her; her nature was large and slightly raised, and took in wider vistas of life than ours. My heart sank a little when I heard the sharp vibrating sound of Mrs. Smedley's voice as we were announced. I had no idea that the vicar and his wife were to be invited, but they were the only guests beside ourselves. I never could like Mrs. Smedley and to the very last I never changed my girlish opinion of her. I have a curious instinctive repugnance to people who rustle through life; whose entrances and exits are environed with noise; who announce their intentions with the blast of the trumpet. Mrs. Smedley was a wordy woman. She talked much and well, but her voice was loud and jarring. She was not a bad-looking woman. I daresay in her younger days she had been handsome, for her features were very regular and her complexion good; but I always said that she had worn herself thin with talking. She was terribly straight and angular (I am afraid I called it bony); she had sharp high cheek bones, and her hands were long and lean. On this evening she wore a rich brown brocade, that creaked and rustled with every movement, and some Indian bangles that jingled every time she raised her arm. I could not help comparing her to Miss Ruth, who sat beside her, looking lovely in a black velvet gown, and as soft and noiseless as a little mouse. I am afraid Mrs. Smedley's clacking voice made her head ache terribly for she grew paler and paler before the long dinner was over. As Miss Ruth greeted me, I saw Mr. Lucas cross the room with Flurry holding his hand. "Flurry must introduce me to her playfellow," he said, with a kind glance at us both, as the child ran up to me and clasped me close. "Oh, Esther, how I have wanted you and Juliet," she whispered; but her father heard her. "I am afraid Flurry has had a dull week of it," he said, taking a seat beside us, and lifting the little creature to his knee. How pretty Flurry looked in her dainty white frock, all embroidery and lace, with knots of black ribbons against her dimpled shoulders, and her hair flowing round her like a golden veil! Such a little fairy queen she looked! "Father has been telling me stories," she observed, confidently; "they were very pretty ones, but I think I like Juliet best. And, oh! Esther, Flossy has broken Clementina's arm--that is your favorite doll, you know." "Has Miss Cameron a doll, too?" asked Mr. Lucas, and I thought he looked a little quizzical. "I always call it Esther's," returned Flurry, seriously. "She is quite fond of it, and nurses it sometimes at lessons." But I could bear no more. Mrs. Smedley was listening, I was sure, and it did sound so silly and babyish, and yet I only did it to please Flurry. "I am afraid you think me very childish," I stammered, for I remembered that game of battledore and shuttlecock, and how excited I had been when I had achieved two hundred. But as I commenced my little speech, with burning cheeks and a lip that would quiver with nervousness, he quietly stopped me. "I think nothing to your discredit, Miss Cameron. I am too grateful to you for making my little girl's life less lonely. I feel much happier about her now, and so does my sister." And then, as dinner was announced, he turned away and offered his arm to Mrs. Smedley. Mr. Smedley took me in and sat by me, but after a few cursory observations he left me to my own devices and talked to Miss Ruth. I was a little disappointed at this, for I preferred him infinitely to his wife, and I had always found his sermons very helpful; but I heard afterward that he never liked talking to young ladies, and did not know what to say to them. Carrie was an exception. She was too great a favorite with them both ever to be neglected. Mr. Lucas' attention was fully occupied by his voluble neighbor. Now and then he addressed a word to me, that I might not feel myself slighted, but Mrs. Smedley never seconded his efforts. Ever since I had refused to teach in the Sunday school she had regarded me with much head-shaking and severity. To her I was simply a frivolous, uninteresting young person, too headstrong to be guided. She always spoke pityingly of "your poor sister Esther" to Carrie, as though I were in a lamentable condition. I know she had heard of Flurry's doll, her look was so utterly contemptuous. To my dismay she commenced talking to Mr. Lucas about Carrie. It was very bad taste, I thought, with her sister sitting opposite to her; but Carrie was Mrs. Smedley's present hobby, and she always rode her hobby to death. No one else heard her, for they were all engaged with Miss Ruth. "Such an admirable creature," she was saying, when my attention was attracted to the conversation; "a most lovely person and mind, and yet so truly humble. I confess I love her as though she were a daughter of my own." Fancy being Mrs. Smedley's daughter! Happily, for their own sakes, she had no children. "Augustus feels just the same; he thinks so highly of her. Would you believe it, Mr. Lucas, that though she is a daily governess like her sister," with a sharp glance at poor little miserable me, "that that dear devoted girl takes house to house visitation in that dreadful Nightingale lane and Rowley street?" Was it my fancy, or did Mr. Lucas shrug his shoulders dubiously at this? As Mrs. Smedley paused here a moment, as though she expected an answer, he muttered, "Very praiseworthy, I am sure," in a slightly bored tone. "She has a class in the Sunday-school besides, and now she gives two evenings a week to Mr. Smedley's night school. She is a pattern to all the young ladies of the place, as I do not fail to tell them." Why Mr. Lucas looked at me at that moment I do not know, but something in my face seemed to strike him, for he said, in a curious sort of tone, that meant a great deal, if I had only understood it: "You do not follow in your sister's footsteps, then, Miss Cameron?" "No, I do not," I answered abruptly, far too abruptly, I am afraid; "human beings cannot be like sheep jumping through a hedge--if one jumps, they all jump, you know." "And you do not like that," with a little laugh, as though he were amused. "No, I must be sure it is a safe gap first, and not a short cut to nowhere," was my inexplicable response. I do not know if Mr. Lucas understood me, for just then Miss Ruth gave the signal for the ladies to rise. The rest of the evening was rather a tedious affair. I played a little, but no one seemed specially impressed, and I could hear Mrs. Smedley's voice talking loudly all the time. Mr. Lucas did not address me again; he and Uncle Geoffrey talked politics on the rug. The Smedleys went early, and just as we were about to follow their example a strange thing happened; poor Miss Ruth was taken with one of her bad attacks. I was very frightened, for she looked to me as though she were dying; but Uncle Geoffrey was her doctor, and understood all about it, and Allan quietly stood by and helped him. Mr. Lucas rang for nurse, who always waited on Miss Ruth as well as Flurry, but she had gone to bed with a sick headache. The housemaid was young and awkward, and lost her head entirely, so Uncle Geoffrey sent her away to get her mistress' room ready, and he and Allan carried Miss Ruth up between them; and a few minutes afterward I heard Allan's whistle, and ran out into the hall. "Good-night, Esther," he said, hurriedly; "I am just going to the surgery for some medicine. Uncle Geoffrey thinks you ought to offer your services for the night, as that girl is no manner of use; you had better go up now." "But, Allan, I do not understand nursing in the least," for this suggestion terrified me, and I wanted the walk home with Allan, and a cozy chat when every one had gone to bed; but, to my confusion, he merely looked at me and turned on his heel. Allan never wasted words on these occasions; if people would not do their duty he washed his hands of them. I could not bear him to be disappointed in me, or think me cowardly and selfish, so I went sorrowfully up to Miss Ruth's room, and found Uncle Geoffrey coming in search of me. "Oh, there you are, Esther," he said, in his most business-like tone, taking it for granted, as a matter of course, that I was going to stay. "I want you to help Miss Lucas to get comfortably to bed; she is in great pain, and cannot speak to you just yet; but you must try to assist her as well as you can. When the medicine comes, I will take a final look at her, and give you your orders." And then he nodded to me and went downstairs. There was no help for it; I must do my little best, and say nothing about it. Strange to say, I had never been in Miss Ruth's room before. I knew where it was situated, and that its windows looked out on the garden, but I had no idea what sort of a place it was. It was not large, but so prettily fitted up, and bore the stamp of refined taste, in every minute detail. I always think a room shows the character of its owner; one can judge in an instant, by looking round and noticing the little ornaments and small treasured possessions. I once questioned Carrie rather curiously about Mrs. Smedley's room, and she answered, reluctantly, that it was a large, bare-looking apartment, with an ugly paper, and full of medicine chests and work-baskets; nothing very comfortable or tasteful in its arrangements. I knew it; I could have told her so without seeing it. Miss Ruth's was very different; it was perfectly crowded with pretty things, and yet not too many of them. And such beautiful pictures hung on the walls, most of them sacred: but evidently chosen with a view to cheerfulness. Just opposite the bed was "The Flight into Egypt;" a portrait of Flurry; and some sunny little landscapes, most of them English scenes, finished the collection. There were some velvet lined shelves, filled with old china, and some dear little Dresden shepherdesses on the mantelpiece. A stand of Miss Ruth's favorite books stood beside her lounge chair, and her inlaid Indian desk was beside it. I was glad Miss Ruth liked pretty things; it showed such charming harmony in her character. Poor Miss Ruth, she was evidently suffering severely, as she lay on her couch in front of the fire; her hair was unbound, and fell in thick short lengths over her pillow, reminding me of Flurry's soft fluff, but not quite so bright a gold. I was sadly frightened when I found she did not open her eyes or speak to me. I am afraid I bungled sadly over my task, though she was quite patient and let me do what I liked with her. It seemed terribly long before I had her safely in her bed. When her head touched the pillows, she raised her eyelids with difficulty. "Thank you," she whispered; "you have done it so nicely, dear, and have not hurt me more than you could help," and then she motioned me to kiss her. Dear patient Miss Ruth! I had got the room all straight before Uncle Geoffrey came back, and then Mr. Lucas was with him. Miss Ruth spoke to them both, and took hold of her brother's hand as he leaned over her. "Good-night, Giles; don't worry about me; Esther is going to take care of me." She took it for granted, too. "Dr. Cameron's medicine will soon take away the pain." Uncle Geoffrey's orders were very simple; I must watch her and keep up the fire, and give her another dose if she were to awake in two hours' time; and if the attack came on again, I must wake nurse, in spite of her headache, as she knew what to do; and then he left me. "You are very good to do this," Mr. Lucas said, as he shook hands with me. "Have you been used to nursing?" I told him, briefly, no; but I was wise enough not to add that I feared I should never keep awake, in Spite of some very strong coffee Uncle Geoffrey had ordered me; but I was so young, and with such an appetite for sleep. I took out my faded flowers when they left me, said my prayers, and drank my coffee, and then tried to read one of Miss Ruth's books, but the letters seemed to dance before my eyes. I am afraid I had a short doze over Hiawatha, for I had a confused idea that I was Minnehaha laughing-water; and I thought the forest leaves were rustling round me, when a coal dropped out of the fire and startled me. It woke Miss Ruth from her refreshing sleep; but the pain had left her, and she looked quite bright and like herself. "I am a bad sleeper, and often lie awake until morning," she said, as I shook up her pillows and begged her to lie down again. "No, it is no good trying again just now, I am so dreadfully wide awake. Poor Esther! how tired you look, being kept out of your bed in this way." And she wanted me to curl myself up on the couch and go to sleep, but I stoutly refused; Uncle Geoffrey had said I was to watch her until morning. When she found I was inexorable in my resolution to keep awake, she began to talk. "I wonder if you know what pain is, Esther--real positive agony?" and when I assured her that a slight headache was the only form of suffering I had ever known, she gave a heavy sigh. "How strange, how fortunate, singular too, it seems to me. No pain! that must be a foretaste of heaven;" and she repeated, dreamily, "no more pain there. Oh, Esther, if you knew how I long sometimes for heaven." The words frightened me, somehow; they spoke such volumes of repressed longing. "Dear Miss Ruth, why?" I asked, almost timidly. "Can you ask why, and see me as I am to-night?" she asked, with scarcely restrained surprise. "If I could only bear it more patiently and learn the lesson it is meant to teach me, 'perfect through suffering,' the works of His chisel!" And then she softly repeated the words, "Shedding soft drops of pity Where the sharp edges of the tool have been." "I always loved that stanza so; it gave me the first idea I ever quite grasped how sorry He is when He is obliged to hurt us." And as I did not know how to answer her, she begged me to fetch the book, and she would show me the passage for myself. CHAPTER XII. I WAS NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. I had no idea Miss Ruth could talk as she did that night. She seemed to open her heart to me with the simplicity of a child, giving me a deeper insight into a very lovely nature. Carrie had hitherto been my ideal, but on this night I caught myself wondering once or twice whether Carrie would ever exercise such patience and uncomplaining endurance under so many crossed purposes, such broken work. "I was never quite like other people," she said to me when I had closed the book; "you know I was a mere infant in my nurse's arms, when that accident happened." I nodded, for I had heard the sad details from Uncle Geoffrey; how an unbroken pair of young horses had shied across the road just as the nurse who was carrying Miss Ruth was attempting to cross it; the nurse had been knocked down and dreadfully injured, and her little charge had been violently thrown against the curb, and it had been thought by the doctor that one of the horses must have kicked her. For a long time she lay in a state of great suffering, and it was soon known that her health had sustained permanent injury. "I was always a crooked, stunted little thing," she went on, with a lovely smile. "My childhood was a sad ordeal; it was just battling with pain, and making believe that I did not mind. I used to try and bear it as cheerfully as I could, because mother fretted so over me; but in secret I was terribly rebellious, often I cried myself to sleep with angry passionate tears, because I was not like other girls. "Do you care to hear all this?" interrupting herself to look at my attentive face. It must have been a sufficient answer, for she went on talking without waiting for me to speak. "Giles was very good to me, but it was hard on him for his only sister to be such a useless invalid. He was active and strong, and I could not expect to keep him chained to my couch--I was always on a couch then--he had his friends and his cricket and football, and I could not expect to see much of him, I had to let him go with the rest. "Things went on like this--outward submission and inward revolt--much affection, but little of the grace of patience, until the eve of my confirmation, when a stranger came to preach at the parish church. I never heard his name before, and I never have heard it since. People said he came from a distance; but I shall never forget that sermon to my dying day, or the silvery penetrating voice that delivered it. "It was as though a message from heaven was brought straight to me, to the poor discontented child who sat so heart weary and desponding in the corner of the pew. I cannot oven remember the text; it was something about the suffering of Christ, but I knew that it was addressed to the suffering members of His church, and that he touched upon all physical and mental pain. And what struck me most was that he spoke of pain as a privilege, a high privilege and special training; something that called us into a fuller and inner fellowship with our suffering head. "He told us the heathen might dread pain, but not the Christian; that one really worthy of the name must be content to be the cross bearer, to tread really and literally in the steps of the Master. "What if He unfolded to us the mystery of pain? Would He not unfold the mystery of love too? What generous souls need fear that dread ordeal, that was to remove them from the outer to the inner court? Ought they not to rejoice that they were found worthy to share His reproach? He said much more than this, Esther, but memory is so weak and betrays one. But he had flung a torch into the darkest recesses of my soul, and the sudden light seemed to scorch and shrivel up all the discontent and bitterness; and, oh, the peace that succeeded; it was as though a drowning mariner left off struggling and buffeting with the waves that were carrying him to the shore, but just lay still and let himself be floated in." "And you were happier," I faltered, as she suddenly broke off, as though exhausted. "Yes, indeed," she returned softly. "Pain was not any more my enemy, but the stern life companion He had sent to accompany me--the cross that I must carry out of love to Him; oh, how different, how far more endurable! I took myself in hand by-and-by when I grew older and had a better judgment of things. I knew mine was a life apart, a separated life; by that I mean that I should never know the joy of wifehood or motherhood, that I must create my own little world, my own joys and interests." "And you have done so." "Yes, I have done so; I am a believer in happiness; I am quite sure in my mind that our beneficent Creator meant all His creatures to be happy, that whatever He gives them to bear, that He intends them to abide in the sunshine of His peace, and I determined to be happy. I surrounded my-self with pretty things, with pictures that were pleasant to the eye and recalled bright thoughts. I made my books my friends, and held sweet satisfying communion with minds of all ages. I cultivated music, and found intense enjoyment in the study of Handel and Beethoven. "When I got a little stronger I determined to be a worker too, and glean a little sheaf or two after the reapers, if it were only a dropped ear now and then. "I took up the Senana Mission. You have no idea how important I have grown, or what a vast correspondence I have kept up--the society begin to find me quite useful to them--and I have dear unknown correspondents whom I love as old friends, and whose faces I shall only see, perhaps, when we meet in heaven. "When dear Florence died--that was my sister-in-law, you know--I came to live with Giles, and to look after Flurry. I am quite a responsible woman, having charge of the household, and trying to be a companion to Giles; confess now, Esther, it is not such a useless life after all?" I do not know what I answered her. I have a dim recollection that I burst into some extravagant eulogium or other, for she colored to her temples and called me a foolish child, and begged me seriously never to say such things to her again. "I do not deserve all that, Esther, but you are too young to judge dispassionately; you must recollect that I have fewer temptations than other people. If I were strong and well I might be worldly too." "No, never," I answered indignantly; "you would always be better than other people, Miss Ruth--you and Carrie--oh, why are you both so good?" with a despairing inflection in my voice. "How you must both look down on me." "I know some one who is good, too," returned Miss Ruth, stroking my hair. "I know a brave girl who works hard and wears herself out in loving service, who is often tired and never complains, who thinks little of herself, and yet who does much to brighten other lives, and I think you know her too, Esther?" But I would not let her go on; it was scant goodness to love her, and Allan, and Dot. How could any one do otherwise? And what merit could there be in that? But though I disclaimed her praise, I was inwardly rejoiced that she should think such things of me, and should judge me worthy of her confidence. She was treating me as though I were her equal and friend, and, to do her justice the idea of my being a governess never seemed to enter into hers or Mr. Lucas' head. They always treated me from this time as a young friend, who conferred a favor on them by coming. My salary seemed to pass into my hand with the freedom of a gift. Perhaps it was that Uncle Geoffrey was such an old and valued friend, and that Miss Ruth knew that in point of birth the Camerons were far above the Lucases, for we were an old family whom misfortune had robbed of our honors. However this may be, my privileges were many, and the yoke of service lay lightly on my shoulders. Poor Carrie, indeed, had to eat the bitter bread of dependence, and to take many a severe rebuke from her employer. Mrs. Thorne was essentially a vulgar-minded woman. She was affected by the adventitious adjuncts of life; dress, mere station and wealth weighed largely in her view of things. Because we were poor, she denied our claim to equality; because Carrie taught her children, she snubbed and repressed her, to keep her in her place, as though Carrie were a sort of Jack-in-the-box to be jerked back with every movement. When Miss Ruth called on mother, Mrs. Thorne shrugged her shoulders, and wondered at the liberality of some people's views. When we were asked to dinner at the Cedars (I suppose Mrs. Smedley told her, for Carrie never gossiped), Mrs. Thorne's eye brows were uplifted in a surprised way. Her scorn knew no bounds when she called one afternoon, and saw Carrie seated at Miss Ruth's little tea-table; she completely ignored her through the visit, except to ask once after her children's lessons. Carrie took her snubbing meekly, and seemed perfectly indifferent. Her quiet lady-like bearing seemed to impress Miss Ruth most favorably, for when Carrie took her leave she kissed her, a thing she had never done before. I looked across at Mrs. Thorne, and saw her tea-cup poised half-way to her lips. She was transfixed with astonishment. "I envy you your sister, Esther," said Miss Ruth, busying herself with the silver kettle. "She is a dear girl--a very dear girl." "Humph!" ejaculated Mrs. Thorne. She was past words, and soon after she took her departure in a high state of indignation and dudgeon. I did not go home the next day. Allan came to say good-by to me, Uncle Geoffrey followed him, and he and Mr. Lucas both decided that I could not be spared. Nurse was somewhat ailing, and Uncle Geoffrey had to prescribe for her too; and as Miss Ruth recovered slowly from these attacks, she would be very lonely, shut up in her room. Miss Ruth was overjoyed when I promised to stay with her as long as they wanted me. Allan had satisfied my scruples about Jack and Dot. "They all think you ought to stay," he said. "Mother was the first to decide that. Martha has promised to attend to Dot in your absence. She grumbled a little, and so did he; but that will not matter. Jack must look after herself," finished this very decided young man, who was apt to settle feminine details in rather a summary fashion. If mother said it was my duty to remain, I need not trouble my head about minor worries; the duty in hand, they all thought, was with Miss Ruth, and with Miss Ruth I would stay. "It will be such a luxury to have you, Esther," she said, in her old bright way. "My head is generally bad after these attacks, and I cannot read much to myself, and with all my boasted resolution the hours do seem very long. Flurry must spare you to me after the morning, and we will have nice quiet times together." So I took possession of the little room next hers, and put away the few necessaries that mother had sent me, with a little picture of Dot, that he had drawn for me; but I little thought that afternoon that it would be a whole month before I left it. I am afraid that long visit spoiled me a little; it was so pleasant resuming some of the old luxuries. Instead of the cold bare room where Jack and I slept, for, in spite of all our efforts, it did look bare in the winter, I found a bright fire burning in my cozy little chamber, and casting warm ruddy gleams over the white china tiles; the wax candles stood ready for lighting on the toilet table; my dressing gown was aging in company with my slippers; everything so snug and essential to comfort, to the very eider-down quilt that looked so tempting. Then in the morning, just to dress myself and go down to the pleasant dining-room, with the great logs spluttering out a bright welcome, and the breakfast table loaded with many a dainty. No shivering Dot to coerce into good humor; no feckless Jack to frown into order; no grim Deborah to coax and help. Was it very wicked that I felt all this a relief? Then how deliciously the days passed; the few lessons with Flurry, more play than work; the inspiriting ramble ending generally with a peep at mother and Dot! The cozy luncheons, at which Flurry and I made our dinners, where Flurry sat in state at the bottom of the table and carved the pudding, and gave herself small airs of consequence, and then the long quiet afternoons with Miss Ruth. I used to write letters at her dictation, and read to her, not altogether dry reading, for she dearly loved an amusing book. It was the "Chronicles of Carlingford" we read, I remember; and how she praised the whole series, calling them pleasant wholesome pictures of life. We used to be quite sorry when Rhoda, the rosy-cheeked housemaid, brought up the little brass kettle, and I had to leave off to make Miss Ruth's tea. Mr. Lucas always came up when that was over, to sit with his sister a little and tell her all the news of the day, while I went down to Flurry, whom I always found seated on the library sofa, with her white frock spreading out like wings, waiting to sit with father while he ate his dinner. I always had supper in Miss Ruth's room, and never left her again till nurse came in to put her comfortable for the night. Flurry used to run in on her way to bed to hug us both and tell us what father had said. "You are father's treasure, his one ewe lamb, are you not?" said Miss Ruth once, as she drew the child fondly toward her; and when she had gone, running off with her merry laugh, she spoke almost with a sigh of her brother's love for the child. "Giles's love for her almost resembles idolatry. The child is like him, but she has poor Florence's eyes and her bright happy nature. I tremble sometimes to think what would become of him if he lost her. I have lived long enough to know that God sometimes takes away 'the desire of a man's eyes, all that he holds most dear.'" "But not often," I whispered, kissing her troubled brow, for a look of great sadness came over her face at the idea; but her words recurred to me by-and-by when I heard a short conversation between Flurry and her father. After the first fortnight Miss Ruth regained strength a little, and though still an invalid was enabled to spend some hours downstairs. Before I left the Cedars she had resumed all her old habits, and was able to preside at her brother's dinner-table. I joined them on these occasions, both by hers and Mr. Lucas' request, and so became better acquainted with Flurry's father. One Sunday afternoon I was reading in the drawing-room window, and trying to finish my book by the failing wintry light, when Flurry's voice caught my attention; she was sitting on a stool at her father's feet turning over the pages of her large picture Bible. Mr. Lucas had been dozing, I think, for there had been no conversation. Miss Ruth had gone upstairs. "Father," said the little one, suddenly, in her eager voice, "I do love that story of Isaac. Abraham was such a good man to offer up his only son, only God stopped him, you know. I wonder what his mother would have done if he had come home, and told her he had killed her boy. Would she have believed him, do you think? Would she have ever liked him again?" "My little Florence, what a strange idea to come into your small head." I could tell from Mr. Lucas' tone that such an idea had never occurred to him. What would Sarah have said as she looked upon her son's destroyer? Would she have acquiesced in that dread obedience, that sacrificial rite? "But, father dear," still persisted Flurry, "I can't help thinking about it; it would have been so dreadful for poor Sarah. Do you think you would have been like Abraham, father; would you have taken the knife to slay your only child?" "Hush, Florence," cried her father, hoarsely, and he suddenly caught her to him and kissed her, and bade her run away to her Aunt Ruth with some trifling message or other. I could see her childish question tortured him, by the strained look of his face, as he approached the window. He had not known I was there, but when he saw me he said almost irritably, only it was the irritability of suppressed pain: "What can put such thoughts in the child's head? I hope you do not let her think too much, Miss Cameron?" "Most children have strange fancies," I returned, quietly. "Flurry has a vivid imagination; she thinks more deeply than you could credit at her age; she often surprises me by the questions she asks. They show an amount of reasoning power that is very remarkable." "Let her play more," he replied, in a still more annoyed voice. "I hate prodigies; I would not have Flurry an infant phenomenon for the world. She has too much brain-power; she is too excitable; you must keep her back Miss Cameron." "I will do what I can," I returned humbly; and then, as he still looked anxious and ill at ease, I went on, "I do not think you need trouble about Flurry's precocity; children often say these things. Dot, my little brother--Frankie, I mean--would astonish you with some of his remarks. And then there was Jack," warming up with my subject; "Jack used to talk about harps and angels in the most heavenly way, till mother cried and thought she would die young; and look at Jack now--a strong healthy girl, without an ounce of imagination." I could see Mr. Lucas smile quietly to himself in the dusk, for he knew Jack, and had made more than one quizzical remark on her; but I think my observation comforted him a little, for he said no more, only when Flurry returned he took her on his knees and told her about a wonderful performing poodle he had seen, as a sort of pleasant interlude after her severe Biblical studies. CHAPTER XIII. "WE HAVE MISSED DAME BUSTLE." One other conversation lingered long in my memory, and it took place on my last evening at the Cedars. On the next day I was going home to mother and Dot, and yet I sighed! Oh, Esther, for shame! It was just before dinner. Miss Ruth had been summoned away to see an old servant of the family, and Flurry had run after her. Mr. Lucas was standing before the fire, warming himself after the manner of Englishmen, and I sat at Miss Ruth's little table working at a fleecy white shawl, that I was finishing to surprise mother. There was a short silence between us, for though I was less afraid of Mr. Lucas than formerly, I never spoke to him unless he addressed me; but, looking up from my work a moment, I saw him contemplating me in a quiet, thoughtful way, but he smiled pleasantly when our eyes met. "This is your last evening, I think, Miss Cameron?" "Indeed it is," I returned, with a short sigh. "You are sorry to leave us?" he questioned, very kindly; for I think he had heard the sigh. "I ought not to be sorry," I returned, stoutly; "for I am going home." "Oh! and home means everything with you!" "It means a great deal," knitting furiously, for I was angry at myself for being so sorry to leave; "but Miss Ruth has been so good to me that she has quite spoiled me. I shall not be half so fit for all the hard work I have at home. "That is a pity," he returned, slowly, as though he were revolving not my words, but some thoughts in his own mind. "Do you know I was thinking of something when you looked up just now. I was wondering why you should not remain with us altogether." I put down my knitting at that, and looked him full in the face; I was so intensely surprised at his words. "You and my sister are such friends; it would be pleasant for her to have you for a constant companion, for I am often busy and tired, and----" He paused as though he would have added something, but thought better of it. "And she is much alone. A young lively girl would rouse her and do her good, and Flurry would be glad of you." "I should like it very much," I returned, hesitatingly, "if it were not for mother and Dot." Just for the moment the offer dazzled me and blinded my common sense. Always to occupy my snug little pink chamber; to sit with Miss Ruth in this warm, luxurious drawing-room; to be waited on, petted, spoiled, as Miss Ruth always spoiled people. No wonder such a prospect allured a girl of seventeen. "Oh, they will do without you," he returned, with a man's indifference to female argument. He and Allan were alike in the facility with which they would knock over one's pet theories. "You are like other young people, Miss Cameron; you think the world cannot get on without you. When you are older you will get rid of this idea," he continued, turning amused eyes on my youthful perplexity. "It is only the young who think one cannot do without them," finished this worldly-wise observer of human nature. Somehow that stung me and put me on my mettle, and in a moment I had arrayed the whole of my feeble forces against so arbitrary an arrangement of my destiny. "I cannot help what other young people think," I said, in rather a perverse manner; "they may be wise or foolish as they like, but I am sure of one thing, that mother and Dot cannot do without me." I am afraid my speech was rather rude and abrupt, but Mr. Lucas did not seem to mind it. His eyes still retained their amused twinkle, but he condescended to argue the point more seriously with me, and sat down in Miss Ruth's low chair, as though to bring himself more on a level with me. "Let me give you a piece of advice, Miss Cameron; never be too sure of anything. Granted that your mother will miss you very badly at first (I can grant you that, if you like), but there is your sister to console her; and that irresistible Jack--how can your mother, a sensible woman in her way, let a girl go through life with such a name?" "She will not answer to any other,"' I returned, half offended at this piece of plain speaking; but it was true we had tried Jacqueline, and Lina, and Jack had always remained obstinately deaf. "Well, well, she will get wiser some day, when she grows into a woman; she will take more kindly to a sensible name then; but as I was saying, your mother may miss you, but all the same she may be thankful to have you so well established and in so comfortable a position. You will be a member of the family, and be treated as well as my sister herself; and the additional salary may be welcome just now, when there are school-bills to pay." It seemed clear common sense, put in that way, but not for one instant would I entertain such a proposition seriously. The more tempting it looked, the more I distrusted it. Mr. Lucas might be worldly-wise, but here I knew better than he. Would a few pounds more reconcile mother to my vacant place, or cheer Dot's blank face when he knew Esther had deserted him? "You are very good," I said, trying to keep myself well in hand, and to speak quietly--but now my cheeks burned with the effort; "and I thank you very much for your kind thought, but----" "Give me no buts," he interrupted, smiling; "and don't thank me for a piece of selfishness, for I was thinking most of my sister and Flurry." "But all the same I must thank you," I returned, firmly; "and I would like you to believe how happy I should have been if I could have done this conscientiously." "It is really so impossible?" still incredulously. "Really and truly, Mr. Lucas. I am worth little to other people, I know, but in their estimation I am worth much. Dot would fret badly; and though mother would make the best of it--she always does--she would never get over the missing, for Carrie is always busy, and Jack is so young, and----" "There is the dinner bell, and Ruth still chattering with old nurse. That is the climax of our argument. I dare say no more, you are so terribly in earnest, Miss Cameron, and so evidently believe all you say; but all the same, mothers part with their daughters sometimes, very gladly, too, under other circumstances; but there, we will let the subject drop for the present." And then he looked again at me with kindly amused eyes, refusing to take umbrage at my obstinacy; and then, to my relief, Miss Ruth interrupted us. I felt rather extinguished for the rest of the evening. I did not dare tell Miss Ruth, for fear she would upbraid me for my refusal. I knew she would side with her brother, and would think I could easily be spared from home. And if Carrie would only give up her parish work, and fit into the niche of the daughter of the house, she could easily fulfill all my duties. If--a great big "if" it was--an "if" that would spoil Carrie's life, and destroy all those sweet solemn hopes of hers. No, no; I must not entertain such a thought for a moment. Mr. Lucas had spoiled my last evening for me, and I think he knew it, for he came to my side as I was putting away my work, and spoke a few contrite words. "Don't let our talk worry you," he said, in so low a voice that Miss Ruth could not hear his words. "I am sure you were quite right to decide as you did--judging from your point of view, I mean, for of course I hold a different opinion. If you ever see fit to change your decision, you must promise to come and tell me." And of course I promised unhesitatingly. Miss Ruth followed me to my room, and stood by the fire a few minutes. "You look grave to-night, Esther, and I flatter myself that it is because you are sorry that your visit has come to an end." "And you are right," I returned, throwing my arms round her light little figure. Oh, how dearly I had grown to love her! "I would like to be always with you, Miss Ruth; to wait upon you and be your servant. Nothing would be beneath me--nothing. You are fond of me a little, are you not?" for somehow I craved for some expression of affection on this last night. Miss Ruth was very affectionate, but a little undemonstrative sometimes in manner. "I am very fond of you, Esther," she replied, turning her sweet eyes to me, "and I shall miss my kind, attentive nurse more than I can say. Poor Nurse Gill is getting quite jealous of you. She says Flurry is always wild to get to her playfellow, and will not stay with her if she can help it, and that now I can easily dispense with her services for myself. I had to smooth her down, Esther; the poor old creature quite cried about it, but I managed to console her at last." "I was always afraid that Mrs. Gill did not like me," I returned, in a pained voice, for somehow I always disliked hurting people's feelings. "Oh, she likes you very much; you must not think that. She says Miss Cameron is a very superior young lady, high in manner, and quite the gentlewoman. I think nurse's expression was 'quite the lady, Miss Ruth.'" "I have never been high in manner to her," I laughed. "We have a fine gossip sometimes over the nursery fire. I like Mrs. Gill, and would not injure her feelings for the world. She is so kind to Dot, too, when he comes to play with Flurry." "Poor little man, he will be glad to get his dear Esther back," she returned, in a sympathizing voice; and then she bade me good-night, and begged me to hasten to bed, as St. Barnabas had just chimed eleven. I woke the next morning with a weight upon me, as though I were expecting some ordeal; and though I scolded myself vigorously for my moral cowardice, and called myself a selfish, lazy girl, I could not shake off the feeling. Never had Miss Ruth seemed so dear to me as she had that day. As the hour approached for my departure I felt quite unhappy at the thought of even leaving her for those few hours. "We shall see you in the morning," she said, quite cheerfully, as I knelt on the rug, drawing on my warm gloves. I fancied she noticed my foolish, unaccountable depression, and would not add to it by any expression of regret. "Oh, yes," I returned, with a sort of sigh, as I glanced round the room where I had passed the evenings so pleasantly of late, and thought of the mending basket at home. I was naughty, I confess it; there were absolutely tears in my eyes, as I ran out into the cold dusk of a February evening. The streets were wet and gleaming, the shop lights glimmered on pools of rain-water; icy drops pattered down on my face; the brewers' horses steamed as they passed with the empty dray; the few foot passengers in High street shuffled along as hastily as they could; even Polly Pattison's rosy face looked puckered up with cold as she put up the shutters of the Dairy. Uncle Geoffrey's voice hailed me on the doorstep. "Here you are, little woman. Welcome home! We have missed Dame Bustle dreadfully;" and as he kissed me heartily I could not help stroking his rough, wet coat sleeve in a sort of penitent way. "Have you really missed me? It is good of you to say so, Uncle Geoff." "The house has not felt the same," he returned, pushing me in before him, and bidding me shake my cloak as I took it off in the passage. And then the door opened, and dear mother came out to help me. As I felt her gentle touch, and heard Dot's feeble "Hurrah! here is Esther!" the uncomfortable, discontented feelings vanished, and my better self regained the mastery. Yes, it was homely and shabby; but oh! so sunny and warm! I forgot Miss Ruth when Dot's beautiful little face raised itself from the cushions of the sofa, on which I had placed him, and he put his arms round me as I knelt down beside him, and whispered that his back was bad, and his legs felt funny, and he was so glad I was home again, for Martha was cross, and had hard scrubby hands, and hurt him often, though she did not mean it. This and much more did Dot whisper in his childish confidence. Then Jack came flying in, with Smudge, as usual, in her arms, and a most tumultuous welcome followed. And then came Carrie, with her soft kiss and few quiet words. I thought she looked paler and thinner than when I left home, but prettier than ever; and she, too, seemed pleased to see me. I took off my things as quickly as I could--not stopping to look round the somewhat disorderly room, where Jack had worked her sweet will for the last month--and joined the family at the tea-table. And afterward I sat close to mother, and talked to her as I mended one of Dot's shirts. Now and then my thoughts strayed to a far different scene--to a room lighted up with wax candles in silver sconces, and the white china lamp that always stood on Miss Ruth's little table. I could see in my mind's eye the trim little figure in black silk and lace ruffles, the diamonds gleaming on the small white hands. Flurry would be on the rug in her white frock, playing with the Persian kittens; most likely her father would be watching her from his armchair. I am afraid I answered mother absently, for, looking up, I caught her wistful glance at me. Carrie was at her night school, and Uncle Geoffrey had been called out. Jack was learning her lessons in the front parlor, and only Dot kept us company. "You must find it very different from the Cedars," she said, regretfully; "all that luxury must have spoiled you for home, Esther. Don't think I am complaining, my love, if I say you seem a little dull to-night." "Oh, mother!" flushing up to my temples with shame and irritation at her words; and then another look at the worn face under the widow's cap restrained my momentary impatience. Dot, who was watching us, struck in in his childish way. "Do you like the Cedars best, Essie? Would you rather be with Flurry than me?" My own darling! The bare idea was heresy, and acted on me like a moral _douche_. "Oh! mother and Dot," I said, "how can you both talk so? I am not spoiled--I refuse to be spoiled. I love the Cedars, but I love my own dear little home best." And at this moment I believed my own words. "Dot, how can you be so faithless--how could I love Flurry best? And what would Allan say? You are our own little boy, you know; he said so, and you belong to us both." And Dot's childish jealousy vanished. As for dear mother, she smiled at me in a sweet, satisfied way. "That is like our own old Esther. You were so quiet all tea-time, my dear, that I fancied something was amiss. It is so nice having you working beside me again," she went on, with a little gentle artifice. "I have missed your bright talk so much in the evenings." "Has Carrie been out much?" I asked; but I knew what the answer would be. "Generally three evenings in the week," returned mother, with a sigh, "and her home evenings have been so engrossed of late. Mrs. Smedley gives her all sorts of things to do--mending and covering books; I hardly knew what." "Carrie never sings to us now," put in Dot. "She is too tired, that is what she always says; but I cannot help thinking a little music would be a healthy relaxation for her; but she will have it that with her it is waste of time," said mother. Waste of time to sing to mother! I broke my thread in two with indignation at the thought. Yes, I was wanted at home, I could see that; Deborah told me so in her taciturn way, when I went to the kitchen to speak to her and Martha. I had sad work with my room before I slept that night, when Jack was fast asleep; and I was tired out when I crept shivering into my cold bed. I hardly seemed to have slept an hour before I saw Martha's unlovely face bending over me with the flaming candle, so different from Miss Ruth's trim maid. "Time to get up, Miss Esther, if you are going to dress Master Dot before breakfast. It is mortal cold, to be sure, and raw as raw; but I have brought you a cup of hot tea, as you seemed a bit down last night." The good creature! I could have hugged her in my girlish gratitude. The tea was a delicious treat, and put new heart into me. I was quite fresh and rested when I went into Dot's little room. He opened his eyes widely when he saw me. "Oh, Esther! is it really you, and not that ugly old Martha?" he cried out, joyfully. "I do hate her, to be sure. I will be a good boy, and you shall not have any trouble." And thereupon he fell to embracing me as though he would never leave off. CHAPTER XIV. PLAYING IN TOM TIDLER'S GROUND. We had had an old-fashioned winter--weeks of frost to delight the hearts of the young skaters of Milnthorpe; clear, cold bracing days, that made the young blood in our veins tingle with the sense of new life and buoyancy; long, dark winter evenings, when we sat round the clear, red fire, and the footsteps of the few passengers under our window rang with a sort of metallic sound on the frozen pavements. What a rush of cold air when the door opened, what snow-powdered garments we used to bring into Deborah's spotless kitchen! Dot used to shiver away from my kisses, and put up a little mittened hand to ward me off. "You are like a snow-woman, Essie," he would say. "Your face is as hard and cold and red as one of the haws Flurry brought me." "She looks as blooming as a rose in June," Uncle Geoffrey answered once, when he heard Dot's unflattering comparison. "Be off, lassie, and take off those wet boots;" but as I closed the door he added to mother, "Esther is improving, I think; she is less angular, and with that clear fresh color she looks quite bonnie." "Quite bonnie." Oh, Uncle Geoffrey, you little knew how that speech pleased me. Winter lasted long that year, and then came March, rough and boisterous and dull as usual, with its cruel east wind and the dust, "a peck of which was worth a king's ransom," as father used to say. Then came April, variable and bright, with coy smiles forever dissolving in tears; and then May in full blossom and beauty giving promise of summer days. We used to go out in the lanes, Flurry and I, to gather the spring flowers that Miss Ruth so dearly loved. We made a primrose basket once for her room, and many a cowslip ball for Dot, and then there were dainty little bunches of violets for mother and Carrie, only Carrie took hers to a dying girl in Nightingale lane. The roads round Milnthorpe were so full of lovely things hidden away among the mosses, that I proposed to Flurry that we should collect basketsful for Carrie's sick people. Miss Ruth was delighted with the idea, and asked Jack and Dot to join us, and we all drove down to a large wood some miles from the town, and spent the whole of the spring afternoon playing in a new Tom Tidler's ground, picking up gold and silver. The gold lay scattered broadcast on the land, in yellow patches round the trunks of trees, or beyond in the gleaming meadows; and we worked until the primroses lay heaped up in the baskets in wild confusion, and until our eyes ached with the yellow gleam. I could hear Dot singing softly to himself as he picked industriously. When he and Flurry got tired they seated themselves like a pair of happy little birds on the low bough of a tree. I could hear them twittering softly to each other, as they swung, with their arms interlaced, backward and forward in the sunlight; now and then I caught fragments of their talk. "We shall have plenty of flowers to pick in heaven," Dot was saying as I worked near them. "Oh, lots," returned Flurry, in an eager voice, "red and white roses, and lilies of the valley, miles of them--millions and millions, for all the little children, you know. What a lot of children there will be, Dot, and how nice to do nothing but play with them, always and forever." "We must sing hymns, you know," returned Dot, with a slight hesitation in his voice. Being a well brought up little boy, he was somewhat scandalized by Flurry's views; they sounded somewhat earthly and imperfect. "Oh, we can sing as we play," observed Flurry, irreverently; she was not at all in a heavenly mood this afternoon. "We can hang up our harps, as they do in the Psalms, you know, and just gather flowers as long as we like." "It is nice to think one's back won't ache so much over it, there," replied poor Dot, who was quite weak and limp from his exertions. "One of the best things about heaven is, though it all seems nice enough, that we shan't be tired. Think of that, Flurry--never to be tired!" "I am never tired, though I am sleepy sometimes," responded Flurry, with refreshing candor, "You forget the nicest part, you silly boy, that it will never be dark. How I do hate the dark, to be sure." Dot opened his eyes widely at this. "Do you?" he returned, in an astonished voice; "that is because you are a girl, I suppose. I never thought much about it. I think it is nice and cozy when one is tucked up in bed. I always imagine the day is as tired as I am, and that she has been put to bed too, in a nice, warm, dark blanket." "Oh, you funny Dot," crowed Flurry. But she would not talk any more about heaven; she was in wild spirits, and when she had swung enough she commenced pelting Dot with primroses. Dot bore it stoutly for awhile, until he could resist no longer, and there was a flowery battle going on under the trees. It was quite late in the day when the tired children arrived home. Carrie fairly hugged Dot when the overflowing baskets were placed at her feet. "These are for all the sick women and little children," answered Dot, solemnly; "we worked so hard, Flurry and I." "You are a darling," returned Carrie, dimpling with pleasure. I believe this was the sweetest gift we could have made her. Nothing for herself would have pleased her half so much. She made Jack and me promise to help her carry them the next day, and we agreed, nothing loth. We had quite a festive afternoon in Nightingale lane. I had never been with Carrie before in her rounds, and I was wonderfully struck with her manner to the poor folk; there was so much tact, such delicate sympathy in all she said and did. I could see surly faces soften and rough voices grow silent as she addressed them in her simple way. Knots of boys and men dispersed to let her pass. "Bless her sweet face!" I heard one old road-sweeper say; and all the children seemed to crowd round her involuntarily, and yet, with the exception of Dot, she had never seemed to care for children. I watched her as she moved about the squalid rooms, arranging the primroses in broken bowls, and even teacups, with a sort of ministering grace I had never noticed in her before. Mother had always praised her nursing. She said her touch was so soft and firm, and her movement so noiseless; and she had once advised me to imitate her in this; and as I saw the weary eyes brighten and the languid head raise itself on the pillow at her approach, I could not but own that Carrie was in her natural sphere. As we returned home with our empty baskets, she told us a great deal about her district, and seemed grateful to us for sharing her pleasure. Indeed, I never enjoyed a talk with Carrie more; I never so thoroughly entered into the interest of her work. One June afternoon, when I returned home a little earlier than usual, for Flurry had been called down to go out with her father, I found Miss Ruth sitting with mother. I had evidently disturbed a most engrossing conversation, for mother looked flushed and a little excited, as she always did when anything happened out of the common, and Miss Ruth had the amused expression I knew so well. "You are earlier than usual, my dear," said mother, with an odd little twitch of the lip, as though something pleased her. But here Dot, who never could keep a secret for five minutes, burst out in his shrill voice: "Oh, Essie, what do you think? You will never believe it--you and I and Flurry are going to Roseberry for six whole weeks." "You have forgotten me, you ungrateful child," returned Miss Ruth in a funny tone; "I am nobody, I suppose, so long as you get your dear Esther and Flurry." Dot was instinctively a little gentleman. He felt he had made a mistake; so he hobbled up to Miss Ruth, and laid his hand on hers: "We couldn't do without you--could we, Essie?" he said in a coaxing voice. "Esther does not like ordering dinners; she often says so, and she looks ready to cry when Deb brings her the bills. It will be ever so much nicer to have Miss Ruth, won't it, Esther?" But I was too bewildered to answer him. "Oh, mother, is it really true? Can you really spare us, and for six whole weeks? Oh, it is too delightful! But Carrie, does she not want the change more than I?" I don't know why mother and Miss Ruth exchanged glances at this; but mother said rather sadly: "Miss Lucas has been good enough to ask your sister, Esther; she thought you might perhaps take turns; but I am sorry to say Carrie will not hear of it. She says it will spoil your visit, and that she cannot be spared." "Our parochial slave-driver is going out of town," put in Miss Ruth dryly. She could be a little sarcastic sometimes when Mrs. Smedley's name was implied. In her inmost heart she had no more love than I for the bustling lady. "She is going to stay with her niece at Newport, and so her poor little subaltern, Carrie, cannot be absent from her post. One day I mean to give a piece of my mind to that good lady," finished Miss Ruth, with a malicious sparkle in her eyes. "Oh, it's no use talking," sighed mother, and there was quite a hopeless inflection in her voice. "Carrie is a little weak, in spite of her goodness. She is like her mother in that--the strongest mind governs her. I have no chance against Mrs. Smedley." "It is a shame," I burst out; but Miss Ruth rose from her chair, still smiling. "You must restrain your indignation till I have gone, Esther," she said, in mock reproof. "Your mother and I have done all we could, and have coaxed and scolded for the last half-hour. The Smedley influence is too strong for us. Never mind, I have captured you and Dot; remember, you must be ready for us on Monday week;" and with that she took her departure. Mother followed me up to my room, on pretense of looking over Jack's things, but in reality she wanted a chat with me. The dear soul was quite overjoyed at the prospect of my holiday; she mingled lamentations over Carrie's obstinacy with expressions of pleasure at the treat in store for Dot and me. "And you will not be lonely without us, mother?" "My dear, how could I be so selfish! Think of the benefit the sea air will be to Dot! And then, I can trust him so entirely to you." And thereupon she began an anxious inquiry as to the state of my wardrobe, which lasted until the bell rang. But, in spite of the delicious anticipations that filled me, I was not wholly satisfied, and when mother had said good-night to us I detained Carrie. She came back a little reluctantly, and asked me what I wanted with her. She looked tired, almost worn out, and the blue veins were far too perceptible on the smooth, white forehead. I noticed for the first time a hollowness about the temples; the marked restlessness of an over-conscientious mind was wearing out the body; the delicacy of her look filled me with apprehension. "Oh, Carrie!" I said, vehemently, "you are not well; this hot weather is trying you. Do listen to me, darling. I don't want to vex you, but you must promise me to come to Roseberry." To my surprise she drew back with almost a frightened look on her face; well, not that exactly, but a sort of scared, bewildered expression. "Don't, Esther. Why will none of you give me any peace? Is it not enough that mother and Miss Lucas have been talking to me, and now you must begin! Do you know how much it costs me to stand firm against you all? You distress me, you wear me out with your talk." "Why cannot we convince you?" I returned, with a sort of despair. "You are mother's daughter, not Mrs. Smedley's: you owe no right of obedience to that woman." "How you all hate her!" she sighed. "I must look for no sympathy from any of you--your one thought is to thwart me in every way." "Carrie!" I almost gasped, for she looked and spoke so unlike herself. "I don't mean to be unkind," she replied in a softening tone; "I suppose you all mean it for the best. Once for all, Esther, I cannot come to Roseberry. I have promised Mrs. Smedley to look after things in her absence, and nothing would induce me to forfeit my trust." "You could write to her and say you were not well," I began; but she checked me almost angrily. "I am well, I am quite well; if I long for rest, if the prospect of a little change would be delightful, I suppose I could resist even these temptations. I am not worse than many other girls; I have work to do, and must do it. No fears of possible breakdowns shall frighten me from my duty. Go and enjoy your holiday, and do not worry about me, Esther." And then she kissed me, and took up her candle. I was sadly crestfallen, but no arguments could avail, I thought; and so I let her go from me. And yet if I had known the cause of her sudden irritability, I should not so soon have given up all hope. I little knew how sorely she was tempted; how necessary some brief rest and change of scene was to her overwrought nerves. If I had only been patient and pleaded with her, I think I must have persuaded her; but, alas! I never knew how nearly she had yielded. There was no sleep for Dot that night. I found him in a fever of excitement, thumping his hot pillows and flinging himself about in vain efforts to get cool. It was no good scolding him; he had these sleepless fits sometimes; so I bathed his face and hands, and sat down beside him, and laid my head against the pillow, hoping that he would quiet down by-and-by. But nothing would prevent his talking. "I wish I were out with the flowers in the garden," he said; "I think it is stupid being tucked up in bed in the summer. Allan is not in bed, is he? He says he is often called up, and has to cross the quadrangle to go to a great bare room where they bind up broken heads. Should you like to be a doctor, Essie?" "If I were a man," I returned, confidently, "I should be either a clergyman or a doctor; they are the grandest and noblest of professions. One is a cure of bodies, and the other is a cure of souls." "Oh, but they hurt people," observed Dot, shrinking a little; "they have horrid instruments they carry about with them." "They only hurt people for their own good, you silly little boy. Think of all the dark sick rooms they visit, and the poor, helpless people they comfort. They spend their lives doing good, healing dreadful diseases, and relieving pain." "I think Allan's life will be more useful than Fred's," observed Dot. Poor little boy! Constant intercourse with grown-up people was making him precocious. He used to say such sharp, shrewd things sometimes. I sighed a little when he spoke of Fred. I could imagine him loitering through life in his velveteen coat, doing little spurts of work, but never settling down into thorough hard work. Allan's descriptions of his life were not very encouraging. His last letter to me spoke a little dubiously about Fred's prospects. "He is just a drawing-master, and nothing else," wrote Allan. "Uncle Geoffrey's recommendations have obtained admittance for him into one or two good houses, and I hear he has hopes of Miss Hemming's school in Bayswater. Not a very enlivening prospect for our elegant Fred! Fancy that very superior young man sinking into a drawing-master! So much for the hanging committee and the picture that is to represent the Cameron genius. "I went down to Acacia road on Thursday evening, and dimly perceived Fred across an opaque cloud of tobacco smoke. He and some kindred spirits were talking art jargon in this thick atmosphere. "Fred looked a Bohemian of Bohemians in his gaudy dressing-gown and velvet smoking-cap. His hair is longer than ever, and he has become aesthetic in his tastes. There was broken china enough to stock a small shop. I am afraid I am rather too much a Philistine for their notions. I got some good downright stares and shrugs over my tough John Bull tendencies. "Tell mother Fred is all right, and keeping out of debt, and so one must not mind a few harmless vagaries." "Broken china, indeed!" muttered Uncle Geoff when I had finished reading this clause. "Broken fiddlesticks! Why, the lad must be weak in his head to spend his money on such rubbish." Uncle Geoffrey was never very civil to Fred. Dot did not say any more, and I began a long story, to keep his tongue quiet. As it was purposely uninteresting, and told in a monotonous voice, it soon had the effect of making him drowsy. When I reached this point, I stole softly from the room. It was bright moonlight when I lay down in bed, and all night long I dreamed of a rippling sea and broad sands, over which Dot and I were walking, hand in hand. CHAPTER XV. LIFE AT THE BRAMBLES. It was a lovely evening when we arrived at Roseberry. "We lead regular hermit lives at the Brambles, away from the haunts of men," observed Miss Ruth; but I was too much occupied to answer her. Dot and I were peeping through the windows of the little omnibus that was conveying us and our luggage to the cottage. Miss Ruth had a pretty little pony carriage for country use; but she would not have it sent to the station to meet us--the omnibus would hold us all, she said. Nurse could go outside; the other two servants who made up the modest establishment at the Brambles had arrived the previous day. Roseberry was a straggling little place, without much pretension to gentility. A row of white lodging-houses, with green verandas, looked over the little parade; there was a railed-in green enclosure before the houses, where a few children played. Half a dozen bathing-machines were drawn up on the beach; beyond was the Preventive station, and the little white cottages where the Preventive men lived, with neat little gardens in front. The town was rather like Milnthorpe, for it boasted only one long street. A few modest shops, the Blue Boar Inn, and a bow-windowed house, with "Library" painted on it in large characters, were mixed up with pleasant-looking dwelling houses. The little gray church was down a country road, and did not look as though it belonged to the town, but the schools were in High street. Beyond Roseberry were the great rolling downs. We had left the tiny parade and the lodging houses behind us, and our little omnibus seemed jolting over the beach--I believe they called it a road but it was rough and stony, and seemed to lead to the shore. It was quite a surprise when we drove sharply round a low rocky point, and came upon a low gray cottage, with a little garden running down to the beach. Truly a hermit's abode, the Brambles; not another house in sight; low, white chalky cliffs, with the green downs above them, and, far as we could see, a steep beach, with long fringes of yellow sands, with the grey sea breaking softly in the distance, for it was low tide, and the sun had set. "Is this too lonely for you, Esther?" asked Miss Ruth, as we walked up the pebbly path to the porch. It was a deep stone porch, with seats on either side, and its depth gave darkness to the little square hall, with its stone fireplace and oak settles. "What a delicious place!" was my answer, as I followed her from one room into another. The cottage was a perfect nest of cozy little rooms, all very tiny, and leading into each other. There was a snug dining-room that led into Mr. Lucas' study, and beyond that two little drawing-rooms, very small, and simply though prettily furnished. They were perfect summer rooms, with their Indian matting and muslin curtains, with wicker chairs and lounges, and brackets with Miss Ruth's favorite china. Upstairs the arrangements were just as simple; not a carpet was to be seen, only dark polishes floors and strips of Indian matting, cool chintz coverings, and furniture of the simplest maple and pine wood--a charming summer retreat, fitted up with unostentatious taste. There was a tiny garden at the back, shut in by a low chalk cliff, a rough zigzag path that goats might have climbed led to the downs, and there was a breach where we could enjoy the sweet air and wide prospect. It was quite a cottage garden. All the old-fashioned flowers bloomed there; little pink cabbage roses, Turks-caps, lilies, lupins, and monkshood and columbines. Everlasting peas and scarlet-runners ran along the wall, and wide-lipped convolvuli, scarlet weeds of poppies flaunted beside the delicate white harebells, sweet-william and gillyflowers, and humble southernwood, and homely pinks and fragrant clove carnations, and pansies of every shade in purple and golden patches. "Oh, Essie, it reminds me of our cottage; why, there are the lilies and the beehives, and there is the porch where you said you should sit on summer evenings and mend Allan's socks." And Dot leaned on his crutches and looked round with bright wide-open eyes. Our little dream cottage; well, it was not unlike it, only the sea and the downs and the low chalk cliffs were added. How Dot and I grew to love that garden! There was an old medlar tree, very gnarled and crooked, under which Miss Ruth used to place her little tea-table; the wicker chairs were brought out and there we often used to spend our afternoons, with little blue butterflies hovering round us, and the bees humming among the sweet thyme and marjoram, and sometimes an adventurous sheep looking down on us from the cliff. We led a perfect gypsy life at the Brambles; no one called on us, the vicar of Roseberry was away, and a stranger had taken his duty; no interloper from the outer world broke the peaceful monotony of our days, and the sea kept up its plaintive music night and day, and the larks sang to us, and the busy humming of insect life made an undertone of melody, and in early mornings the little garden seemed steeped in dew and fragrance. We used to rise early, and after breakfast Flurry and I bathed. There was a little bathing-room beyond the cottage with a sort of wooden bridge running over the beach, and there Flurry and I would disport ourselves like mermaids. After a brisk run on the sands or over the downs, we joined Miss Ruth on the beach, where we worked and talked, or helped the children build sand-castles, and deck them with stone and sea-weeds. What treasures we collected for Carrie's Sunday scholars; what stores of bright-colored seaweed--or sea flowers, as Dot persisted in calling them--and heaps of faintly-tinged shells! Flurry's doll family had accompanied us to the Brambles. "The poor dear things wanted change of air!" Flurry had decided; and in spite of my dissuasion, all the fair waxen creatures and their heterogeneous wardrobe had been consigned to a vast trunk. Flurry's large family had given her infinite trouble when we settled for our mornings on the beach. She traveled up and down the long stony hillocks to the cottage until her little legs ached, to fetch the twelve dolls. When they were all deposited in their white sun-bonnets under a big umbrella, to save their complexions, which, notwithstanding, suffered severely, then, and then only, would Flurry join Dot on the narrow sands. Sometimes the tide rose, or a sudden shower came on, and then great was the confusion. Once a receding wave carried out Corporal Trim, the most unlucky of dolls, to sea. Flurry wrung her hands and wept so bitterly over this disaster that Miss Ruth was quite frightened, and Flossy jumped up and licked his little mistress' face and the faces of the dolls by turns. "Oh, the dear thing is drownded," sobbed Flurry, as Corporal Trim floundered hopelessly in the surge. Dot's soft heart was so moved by her distress that he hobbled into the water, crutches and all, to my infinite terror. "Don't cry. Flurry; I've got him by the hair of his head," shouted Dot, valiantly shouldering the dripping doll. Flurry ran down the beach with the tears still on her cheeks, and took the wretched corporal and hugged him to her bosom. "Oh, my poor drownded Trim," cried Flurry tenderly, and a strange procession formed to the cottage. Flurry with the poor victim in her arms and Flossy jumping and barking delightedly round her, and snatching at the wet rags; Dot, also, wet and miserable, toiling up the beach on his crutches; Miss Ruth and I following with the eleven dolls. The poor corporal spent the rest of the day watching his own clothes drying by the kitchen fire, where Dot kept him company; Flurry trotted in and out, and petted them both. I am afraid Dot, being a boy, often found the dolls a nuisance, and could have dispensed with their company. There was a grand quarrel once when he flatly refused to carry one. "I can't make believe to be a girl," said Dot, curling his lip with infinite contempt. "We used to spend our afternoons in the garden. It was cooler than the beach, and the shade of the old medlar was refreshing. We sometimes read aloud to the children, but oftener they were working in their little gardens, or playing with some tame rabbits that belonged to Flurry. Dot always hobbled after Flurry wherever she went; he was her devoted slave. Flurry sometimes treated him like one of her dolls, or put on little motherly airs, in imitation of Miss Ruth. "You are tired, my dear boy; pray lean on me," we heard her once say, propping him with her childish arm. "Sit down in the shade, you must not heat yourself;" but Dot rather resented her care of him, after the fashion of boys, but on the whole they suited each other perfectly. In the evenings we always walked over the downs or drove with Miss Ruth in her pony carriage through the leafy lanes, or beside the yellow cornfields. The children used to gather large nosegays of poppies and cornflowers, and little pinky convolvuli. Sometimes we visited a farmhouse where some people lived whom Miss Ruth knew. Once we stopped and had supper there, a homely meal of milk, and brown bread, and cream cheese, with a golden honeycomb to follow, which we ate in the farmyard kitchen. What an exquisite time we had there, sitting in the low window seat, looking over a bright clover field. A brood of little yellow chickens ran over the red-brick floor, a black retriever and her puppies lay before the fire--fat black puppies with blunt noses and foolish faces, turning over on their backs, and blundering under every one's feet. Dot and Flurry went out to see the cows milked, and came back with long stories of the dear little white, curly-tailed pigs. Flurry wrote to her father the next day, and begged that he would buy her one for a pet. Both she and Dot were indignant when he told them the little pig they admired so much would become a great ugly sow like its mother. Mrs. Blake, the farmer's wife, took a great fancy to Dot, and begged him to come again, which both the children promised her most earnestly to do. They both carried off spoils of bright red apples to eat on the way. It was almost dark when we drove home through the narrow lanes; the hedgerows glimmered strangely in the dusk; a fresh sea-ladened wind blew in our faces across the downs, the lights shone from the Preventive station, and across the vague mist glimmered a star or two. How fragrant and still it was, only the soft washing of the waves on the beach to break the silence! Miss Ruth shivered a little as we rattled down the road leading to the Brambles. Dorcas, mindful of her mistress' delicacy, had lighted a little fire in the inner drawing-room, and had hot coffee waiting for us. It looked so snug and inviting that the children left it reluctantly to go to bed; but Miss Ruth was inexorable. This was our cozy hour; all through the day we had to devote ourselves to the children--we used to enjoy this quiet time to ourselves. Sometimes I wrote to mother or Carrie, or we mutually took up our books; but oftener we sat and talked as we did on this evening, until Nurse came to remind us of the lateness of the hour. Mr. Lucas paid us brief visits; he generally came down on Saturday evening and remained until Monday. Miss Ruth could never coax him to stay longer; I think his business distracted him, and kept his trouble at bay. In this quiet place he would have grown restless. He had bought the Brambles to please his wife, and she, and not Miss Ruth, had furnished it. They had spent happy summers there when Flurry was a baby. The little garden had been a wilderness until then; every flower had been planted by his wife, every room bore witness to her charming taste. No wonder he regarded it with such mingled feelings of pain and pleasure. Mr. Lucas made no difference to our simple routine. Miss Ruth and Flurry used to drive to the little station to meet him, and bring him back in triumph to the seven o'clock nondescript meal, that was neither dinner nor tea, nor supper, but a compound of all. I used to go up with the children after that meal, that he and Miss Ruth might enjoy their chat undisturbed. When I returned to the drawing-room Miss Ruth was invariably alone. "Giles has gone out for a solitary prowl," she would say; and he rarely returned before we went upstairs. Miss Ruth knew his habits, and seldom waited up to say good-night to him. "He likes better to be alone when he is in this mood," she would say sometimes. Her tact and cleverness in managing him were wonderful; she never seemed to watch him, she never let him feel that his morbid fits were noticed and humored, but all the same she knew when to leave him alone, and when to talk to him; she could be his bright companion, or sit silently beside him for hours. On Sunday mornings Mr. Lucas always accompanied us to church, and in the afternoon he sat with the children on the beach. Dot soon got very fond of him, and would talk to him in his fearless way, about anything that came into his head; Miss Ruth sometimes joined them, but I always went apart with my book. Mr. Lucas was so good to me that I could not bear to hamper him in the least by my presence; with grown-up people he was a little stiff and reserved, but with children he was his true self. Flurry doted on her father, and Dot told me in confidence that "he was the nicest man he had ever known except Uncle Geoffrey." I could not hear their talk from my nest in the cliff, but I am afraid Dot's chief occupation was to hunt the little scurrying crabs into a certain pool he had already fringed with seaweed. I could see him and Flurry carrying the big jelly-fishes, and floating them carefully. They had left their spades and buckets at home, out of respect for the sacredness of the day; but neither Flurry's clean white frock nor Dot's new suit hindered them from scooping out the sand with their hands, and making rough and ready ramparts to keep in their prey. Mr. Lucas used to lie on the beach with his straw hat over his eyes, and watch their play, and pet Flossy. When he was tired of inaction he used to call to the children, and walk slowly and thought fully on. Flurry used to run after him. "Oh, do wait for Dot, father," she would plead; nothing would induce her to leave her infirm and halting little playfellow. One day, when Mr. Lucas was impatient of his slow progress, I saw him shoulder him, crutches and all, and march off with him, Dot clapping his hands and shouting with delight. That was the only time I followed them; but I was so afraid Dot was a hindrance, and wanted to capture him, I walked quite a mile before I met them coming back. Mr. Lucas was still carrying Dot; Flurry was trotting beside him, and pretending to use Dot's crutches. "We have been ever so far, Essie," screamed Dot when he caught sight of me. "We have seen lots of seagulls, and a great cave where the smugglers used to hide." "Oh, Dot, you must not let Mr. Lucas carry you," I said, holding out my arms to relieve him of his burden. "You must stay with me, and I will tell you a story." "He is happier up here, aren't you, Frankie boy?" returned Mr. Lucas, cheerfully. "Oh, but he will tire you," I faltered. "Tire me, this little bundle of bones!" peeping at Dot over his shoulder; "why, I could walk miles with him. Don't trouble yourself about him, Miss Esther. We understand each other perfectly." And then he left me, walking with long, easy strides over the uneven ground, with Flurry running to keep up with him. They used to go on the downs after tea, and sit on the little green beach, while Miss Ruth and I went to church. Miss Ruth never would use her pony carriage on Sunday. A boy used to draw her in a wheel-chair. She never stayed at home unless she was compelled to do so. I never knew any one enjoy the service more, or enter more fully into it. No matter how out of tune the singing might be, she always joined in it with a fervor that quite surprised me. "Depend upon it, Esther," she used to say, "it is not the quality of our singing that matters but how much our heart joins with the choir. Perfect praise and perfect music cannot be expected here; but I like to think old Betty's cracked voice, when she joins in the hymns, is as sweet to angels' ears as our younger notes." The children always waited up for us on Sunday evening, and afterward Miss Ruth would sing with them; sometimes Mr. Lucas would walk up and down the gravel paths listening to them, but oftener I could catch the red light of his cigar from the cliff seat. I wonder what sad thoughts came to him as the voices floated out to him, mixed up with the low ripple of waves on the sand. "Where loyal hearts and true"--they were singing that, I remember; Flurry in her childish treble. And Flurry's mother, lying in her quiet grave--did the mother in paradise, I wonder, look down from her starry place on her little daughter singing her baby hymn, and on that lonely man, listening from the cliff seat in the darkness? CHAPTER XVI. THE SMUGGLERS' CAVE. The six weeks passed only too rapidly, but Dot and I were equally delighted when Miss Ruth petitioned for a longer extension of absence, to which dear mother returned a willing consent. A little note was enclosed for me in Miss Ruth's letter. "Make your mind quite easy, my dear child," she wrote, "we are getting on very well, and really Jack is improving, and does all sorts of little things to help me; she keeps her room tidier, and I have not had to find fault with her for a week. "We do not see much of Carrie; she comes home looking very pale and fagged; your uncle grumbles sometimes, but I tell him words are wasted, the Smedley influence is stronger than ever. "But you need not think I am dull, though I do miss my bright, cheery Esther, and my darling Frankie. Jack and I have nice walks, and Uncle Geoffrey takes me sometimes on his rounds, and two or three times Mr. Lucas has sent the carriage to take us into the country; he says the horses need exercise, now his sister is away, but I know it is all his kindness and thought for us. I will willingly spare you a little longer, and am only thankful that the darling boy is deriving so much benefit from the sea air." Dear, unselfish mother, always thinking first of her children's interest, and never of her own wishes; and yet I could read between the lines, and knew how she missed us, especially Dot, who was her constant companion. But it was really the truth that the sea air was doing Dot good. He complained less of his back, and went faster and faster on his little crutches; the cruel abscesses had not tried him for months, and now it seemed to me that the thin cheeks were rounding out a little. He looked so sunburned and rosy, that I wished mother could have seen him. It was only the color of a faintly-tinged rose, but all the same it was wonderful for Dot. We had had lovely weather for our holiday; but at the beginning of September came a change. About a week after mother's letter had arrived, heavy storms of wind and rain raged round the coast. Miss Ruth and Dot were weather-bound, neither of them had strength to brave the boisterous wind; but Flurry and I would tie down our hats with our veils and run down the parade for a blow. It used to be quite empty and deserted; only in the distance we could see the shiny hat of the Preventive man, as he walked up and down with his telescope. I used to hold Flurry tightly by the hand, for I feared she would be blown off her feet. Sometimes we were nearly drenched and blinded with the salt spray. The sea looked so gray and sullen, with white curling waves leaping up against the sea wall; heaps of froth lay on the parade, and even on the green enclosure in the front of the houses. People said it was the highest tide they had known for years. Once I was afraid to take Flurry out, and ran down to the beach alone. I had to plant my feet firmly in the shingles, for I could hardly stand against the wind. What a wild, magnificent scene it was, a study in browns and grays, a strange colorless blending of faint tints and uncertain shading. As the waves receded there was a dark margin of heaped-up seaweed along the beach, the tide swept in masses of tangled things, the surge broke along the shore with a voice like thunder, great foamy waves leaped up in curling splendor and then broke to pieces in the gray abyss. The sky was as gray as the sea; not a living thing was in sight except a lonely seagull. I could see the gleam of the firelight through one of the windows of the cottage. It looked so warm and snug. The beach was high and dry round me, but a little beyond the Brambles the tide flowed up to the low cliffs. Most people would have shivered in such a scene of desolation, for the seagull and I had it all to ourselves, but the tumult of the wind and waves only excited me. I felt wild with spirits, and could have shouted in the exuberance of my enjoyment. I could have danced in my glee, as the foamy snowflakes fell round me, and my face grew stiff and wet with the briny air. The white manes of the sea-horses arched themselves as they swept to their destruction. How the wind whistled and raved, like a hunted thing! "They that go down to the sea in ships, and do their business in the deep waters," those words seemed to flash to me across the wild tumult, and I thought of all the wonders seen by the mariners of old. "Oh, Esther, how can you be so adventurous?" exclaimed Miss Ruth, as I thrust a laughing face and wet waterproof into the room; she and the children were sitting round the fire. "Oh, it was delicious," I returned. "It intoxicated me like new wine; you cannot imagine the mighty duet of the sea and wind, the rolling sullen bass, and the shrill crescendo." "It must have been horrible," she replied, with a little shiver. The wild tempestuous weather depressed her; the loud discordance of the jarring elements seemed to fret the quiet of her spirit. "You are quite right," she said to me as we sat alone that evening, "this sort of weather disturbs my tranquillity; it makes me restless and agitates my nerves. Last night I could not sleep; images of terror blended with my waking thoughts. I seemed to see great ships driving before the wind, and to hear the roaring of breakers and crashing of timbers against cruel rocks; and when I closed my eyes, it was only to see the whitened bones of mariners lying fathoms deep among green tangled seaweed." "Dear Miss Ruth, no wonder you look pale and depressed after such a night. Would you like me to sleep with you? the wind seems to act on me like a lullaby. I felt cradled in comfort last night." "You are so strong," she said, with a little sadness in her voice. "You have no nerves, no diseased sensibilities; you do not dread the evils you cannot see, the universe does not picture itself to you in dim terrors." "Why, no," I returned, wonderingly, for such suggestions were new to me. "Sleep your happy sleep, my dear," she said, tenderly, "and thank God for your perfect health, Esther. I dozed a little myself toward morning, before the day woke in its rage, and then I had a horrible sort of dream, a half-waking scare, bred of my night-terrors. "I thought I was tossing like a dead leaf in the gale; the wind had broken bounds, and carried me away bodily. Now I was lying along the margin of waves, and now swept in wide circles in the air. "The noise was maddening. The air seemed full of shrieks and cries, as though the universe were lost and bewailing itself, 'Lamentation and mourning and woe,' seemed written upon the lurid sky and sea. I thought of those poor lovers in Dante's 'Inferno,' blown like spectral leaves before the infernal winds of hell; but I was alone in this tumultuous torrent. "I felt myself sinking at last into the dim, choking surge--it was horribly real, Esther--and then some one caught me by the hair and drew me out, and the words came to me, 'for so He bringeth them to the haven where they would be.'" "How strange!" I exclaimed in an awed tone, for Miss Ruth's face was pale, and there was a touch of sadness in her voice. "It was almost a vision of one's life," she returned, slowly; "we drift hither and thither, blown by many a gust of passion over many an unseen danger. If we be not engulfed, it is because the Angel of His Providence watches over us; 'drawn out of many waters,' how many a life history can testify of that!" "We have our smooth days as well," I returned, cheerfully, "when the sun shines, and there are only ripples on the waters." "That is in youth," she replied; "later on the storms must come, and the wise mariner will prepare himself to meet them. We must not always be expecting fair weather. Do you not remember the lines of my favorite hymn: "'And oh, the joy upon that shore To tell our shipwrecked voyage o'er.' "Really, I think one of the great pleasures in heaven will be telling the perils we have been through, and how He has brought us home at last." Miss Ruth would not let me sleep with her that night; but to my great relief, for her pale, weary looks made me anxious, the wind abated, and toward morning only the breaking surge was heard dashing along the shore. "I have rested better," were the first words when we met, "but that one night's hurly-burly has wrecked me a little," which meant that she was only fit for bed. But she would not hear of giving up entirely, so I drew her couch to the fire, and wrapped her up in shawls and left Dot to keep her company, while Flurry and I went out. In spite of the lull the sea was still very unquiet, and the receding tide gave us plenty of amusement, and we spent a very happy morning. In the afternoon, Miss Ruth had some errands for me to do in the town--wools to match, and books to change at the library, after which I had to replenish our exhausted store of note-paper. It was Saturday, and we had decided the pony carriage must go alone to the station to meet Mr. Lucas. He generally arrived a little before six, but once he had surprised us walking in with his portmanteau, just as we were starting for our afternoon's walk. Flurry begged hard to accompany me; but Miss Ruth thought she had done enough, and wished her to play with Dot in the dining-room at some nice game. I was rather sorry at Miss Ruth's decision, for I saw Flurry was in one of her perverse moods. They occurred very seldom, but gave me a great deal of trouble to overcome them. She could be very naughty on such occasions, and do a vast amount of mischief. Flurry's break-outs, as I called them, were extremely tiresome, as Nurse Gill and I knew well. I was very disinclined to trust Dot in her company, for her naughtiness would infect him, and even the best of children can be troublesome sometimes. Flurry looked very sulky when I asked her what game they meant to play, and I augured badly from her toss of the head and brief replies. She was hugging Flossie on the window-seat, and would not give me her attention, so I turned to Dot and begged him to be a good boy and not to disturb Miss Ruth, but take care of Flurry. Dot answered amiably, and I ran off, determining to be back as soon as I could. I wished Nurse Gill could sit with the children and keep them in good temper, but she was at work in Miss Ruth's room and could not come down. My errands took longer than I thought; wool matching is always a troublesome business, and the books Miss Ruth wanted were out, and I had to select others; it was more than an hour before I set off for home, and then I met Nurse Gill, who wanted some brass rings for the curtains she was making, and had forgotten to ask me to get them. The wind was rising again, and I was surprised to find Miss Ruth in the porch with her handkerchief tied over her head, and Dorcas running down the garden path. "Have you seen them, Miss Esther?" asked the girl, anxiously. "Who--what do you mean?" I inquired. "Miss Florence and Master Dot; we have been looking for them everywhere. I was taking a cup of tea just now to mistress, and she asked me to go into the dining-room, as the children seemed so quiet; but they were not there, and Betty and I have searched the house and garden over, and we cannot find them." "Oh, Esther, come here," exclaimed Miss Ruth in agony, for I was standing still straining my eyes over the beach to catch a glimpse of them. "I am afraid I was very wrong to send you out, and Giles will be here presently, and Dorcas says Dot's hat is missing from the peg, and Flurry's sealskin hat and jacket." Dot out in this wind! I stood aghast at the idea, but the next moment I took Miss Ruth's cold little hands in mine. "You must not stand here," I said firmly; "come into the drawing-room, I will talk to you there, and you too, Dorcas. No, I have not seen them," as Miss Ruth yielded to my strong grasp, and stood shivering and miserable on the rug. "I came past the Preventive station and down the parade, and they were not there." "Could they have followed Nurse Gill?" struck in Dorcas. "No, for I met her just now, and she was alone. I hardly think they would go to the town. Dot never cared for the shops, or Flurry either. Perhaps they might be hidden in one of the bathing machines. Oh, Miss Ruth," with an access of anxiety in my voice, "Dot is so weakly, and this strong wind will blow him down; it must be all Flurry's naughtiness, for nothing would have induced him to go out unless she made him." "What are we to do?" she replied, helplessly. This sudden terror had taken away her strength, she looked so ill. I thought a moment before I replied. "Let Dorcas go down to the bathing machines," I said, at last, "and she can speak to the Preventive man; and if you do not mind being alone, Miss Ruth, and you must promise to lie down and keep quiet, Betty might go into the town and find Nurse Gill. I will just run along the beach and take a look all around." "Yes, do," she returned. "Oh, my naughty, naughty Flurry!" almost wringing her hands. "Don't frighten yourself beforehand," I said, kissing her and speaking cheerfully, though I did feel in a state about Dot; and what would mother and Mr. Lucas say? "I daresay Dorcas or I will bring them back in a few minutes, and then won't they get a scolding!" "Oh, no; I shall be too happy to scold them," she returned, with a faint smile, for my words put fresh heart in her, and she would follow us into the porch and stand looking after us. I scrambled over the shingles as fast as I could, for the wind was rising, and I was afraid it would soon grow dusk. Nothing was in sight; the whole shore was empty and desolate--fearfully desolate, even to my eyes. It was no use going on, I thought; they must be hiding in the bathing machines after all. And I was actually turning round when something gray on the beach attracted my attention, and I picked it up. To my horror, it was one of Dot's woolen mittens that mother had knitted for him, and which he had worn that very afternoon. I was on their track, after all. I was sure of it now; but when I lifted my eyes and saw the dreary expanse of shore before me, a blank feeling of terror took possession of me. They were not in sight! Nothing but cloudy skies and low chalky cliffs, and the surge breaking on the shingles. All at once a thought that was almost an inspiration flashed across me--the smugglers' cave! Flurry was always talking about it; it had taken a strong hold of her imagination, and both she and Dot had been wild to explore it, only Miss Ruth had never encouraged the idea. She thought caves were damp, dreary places, and not fit for delicate children. Flurry must have tempted Dot to accompany her on this exploring expedition. I was as convinced of the fact as though I had overheard the children's conversation. She would coax and cajole him until his conscience was undermined. How could he have dragged himself so far on his crutches? for the cave was nearly half a mile away from where I stood, and the wind was rising fearfully. And now an icy chill of terror came over me from head to foot--the tide was advancing! It had already covered the narrow strip of sand; in less than an hour it would reach the cliffs, for the shore curved a little beyond the cottage, and with the exception of the beach before the Brambles, the sea covered the whole of the shingles. I shall never, to my dying day, forget that moment's agony when my mind first grasped the truth of the deadly peril those thoughtless babes had incurred. Without instant help, those little children must be drowned, for the water flowed into the cave. Even now it might be too late. All these thoughts whirled through my brain in an instant. Only for a moment I paused and cast one despairing glance round me. The cottage was out of sight. Nurse Gill, and Dorcas, and Betty were scouring the town; no time to run back for help, no hope of making one's voice heard with the wind whistling round me. "Oh, my God! help me to save these children!" I cried, with a sob that almost choked me. And then I dashed like a mad thing toward the shore. My despair gave me courage, but my progress was difficult and slow. It was impossible to keep up that pace over the heavy shingles with the wind tearing round me and taking away my breath. Several times I had to stand and collect my energies, and each time I paused I called the children's names loudly. But, alas! the wind and the sea swallowed up the sound. How fast the tide seemed coming up! The booming of the breakers sounded close behind me. I dared not look--I dared not think. I fought and buffeted the wind, and folded my cloak round me. "Out of the depth I have cried unto Thee." Those were the words I said over and over to myself. I had reached the cave at last, and leaned gasping and nearly faint with terror before I began searching in its dim recesses. Great masses of slimy seaweed lay heaped up at the entrance; a faint damp odor pervaded it. The sudden roar of wind and sea echoed in dull hollowness, but here at least my voice could be heard. "Flurry-Dot!" I screamed. I could hear my own wild shriek dying away through the cave. To my delight, two little voices answered: "Here we are Esther! Come along, we are having such a game! Flurry is the smuggler, and I am the Preventive man, and Flossy is my dog, and--oh, dear! what is the matter?" And Dot, who had hobbled out of a snug, dry little corner near the entrance, looked up with frightened eyes as I caught him and Flurry in my arms. I suppose my face betrayed my fears, for I could not at that moment gasp out another word. CHAPTER XVII. A LONG NIGHT. "What is the matter, Essie?" cried Dot, piteously, as I held him in that tight embrace without speaking. "We were naughty to come, yes, I know, but you said I was to take care of Flurry, and she would come. I did not like it, for the wind was so cold and rough, and I fell twice on the shingles; but it is nice here, and we were having such a famous game." "Esther is going to be cross and horrid because we ran away, but father will only laugh," exclaimed Flurry, with the remains of a frown on her face. She knew she was in the wrong and meant to brave it out. Oh, the poor babes, playing their innocent games with Death waiting for them outside! "Come, there is not an instant to lose," I exclaimed, catching up Dot in my arms; he was very little and light, and I thought we could get on faster so, and perhaps if the sea overtook us they would see us and put out a boat from the Preventive station. "Come, come," I repeated, snatching Flurry's hand, for she resisted a little: but when I reached the mouth of the cave she uttered a loud cry, and tugged fiercely at my hand to get free. "Oh, the sea, the dreadful sea!" she exclaimed, hiding her face; "it is coming up! Look at the waves--we shall be drownded!" I could feel Dot shiver in my arms, but he did not speak, only his little hands clung round my neck convulsively. Poor children! their punishment had already begun. "We shall be drowned if you don't make haste," I returned, trying to speak carefully, but my teeth chattered in spite of myself. "Come, Flurry, let us run a race with the waves; take hold of my cloak, for I want my hands free for Dot." I had dropped his crutches in the cave; they were no use to him--he could not have moved a step in the teeth of this wind. Poor Flurry began to cry bitterly, but she had confidence in my judgment, and an instinct of obedience made her grasp my cloak, and so we commenced our dangerous pilgrimage. I could only move slowly with Dot; the wind was behind us, but it was terribly fierce. Flurry fell twice, and picked herself up sobbing; the horrors of the scene utterly broke down her courage, and she threw her arms round me frantically and prayed me to go back. "The waves are nearly touching us!" she shrieked; and then Dot, infected by her terrors, began to cry loudly too. "We shall be drownded, all of us, and it is getting dark, and I won't go, I won't go!" screamed the poor child trying to push me back with her feeble force. Then despair took possession of me; we might have done it if Flurry had not lost all courage; the water would not have been high enough to drown us; we could have waded through it, and they would have seen us from the cottage and come to our help. I would have saved them; I knew I could; but in Flurry's frantic state it was impossible. Her eyes dilated with terror, a convulsive trembling seized her. Must we go back to the cave, and be drowned like rats in a hole? The idea was horrible, and yet it went far back. Perhaps there was some corner or ledge of rock where we might be safe; but to spend the night in such a place! the idea made me almost as frantic as Flurry. Still, it was our only chance, and we retraced our steps but still so slowly and painfully that the spray of the advancing waves wetted our faces, and beyond--ah!--I shut my eyes and struggled on, while Flurry hid her head in the folds of my cloak. We gained the smugglers' cave, and then I put down Dot, and bade him pick up his crutchers and follow me close, while I explored the cave. It was very dark, and Flurry began to cry afresh, and would not let go of my hand; but Dot shouldered his crutches, and walked behind us as well as he could. At each instant my terror grew. It was a large winding cave, but the heaps of seaweed everywhere, up to the very walls, proved that the water filled the cavern. I became hysterical too. I would not stay to be drowned there, I muttered between my chattering teeth; drowned in the dark, and choked with all that rotten garbage! Better take the children in either hand, and go out and meet our fate boldly. I felt my brain turning with the horror, when all at once I caught sight of a rough broken ledge of rock, rising gradually from the back of the cave. Seaweed hung in parts high up, but it seemed to me in the dim twilight there was a portion of the rock bare; if so, the sea did not cover it--we might find a dry foothold. "Let go my hand a moment, Flurry," I implored; "I think I see a little place where we may be safe. I will be back in a moment, dear." But nothing could induce her to relax her agonized grasp of my cloak. I had to argue the point. "The water comes all up here wherever the seaweed, is," I explained. "You think we are safe, Flurry, but we can be drowned where we stand; the sea fills the cave." But at this statement Flurry only screamed the louder and clung closer. Poor child! she was beside herself with fright. So I said to Dot: "My darling is a boy, and boys are not so frightened as girls; so you will stay here quietly while Flurry and I climb up there, and Flossy shall keep you company." "Don't be long," he implored, but he did not say another word. Dear, brave little heart, Dot behaved like a hero that day. He then stooped down and held Flossy, who whined to follow us. I I think the poor animal knew our danger, for he shivered and cowered down in evident alarm, and I could hear Dot coaxing him. It was very slippery and steep, and I crawled up with difficulty, with Flurry clambering after me, and holding tightly to my dress. Dot watched us wistfully as we went higher and higher, leaving him and Flossy behind. The seaweed impeded us, but after a little while we came to a bare piece of rock jutting out over the cave, with a scooped-out corner where all of us could huddle, and it seemed to me as though the shelf went on for a yard or two beyond it. We were above water-mark there; we should be quite safe, and a delicious glimmer of hope came over me. I had great difficulty in inducing Flurry to stay behind while I crawled down for Dot. She was afraid to be alone in that dark place, with the hollow booming of wind and waves echoing round her; but I told her sternly that Dot and Flossy would be drowned and then she let me go. Dot was overjoyed to welcome me back, and then I lifted him up and bade him crawl slowly on his hands and knees, while I followed with his crutches, and Flossy crept after us, shivering and whining for us to take him up. As we toiled up the broken ledge it seemed to grow darker, and we could hardly see each other's faces if we tried, only the splash of the first entering wave warned me that the sea would soon have been upon us. I was giddy and breathless by the time we reached the nook where Flurry was, and then we crept into the corner, the children clasping each other across me, and Flossy on my lap licking our faces alternately. Saved from a horrible death! For a little while I could do nothing but weep helplessly over the children and thank God for a merciful deliverance. As soon as the first hysterical outburst of emotion was over, I did my best to make the children as comfortable as I could under such forlorn circumstances. I knew Flurry's terror of darkness, and I could well imagine how horribly the water would foam and splash beneath us, and I must try and prevent them from seeing it. I made Dot climb into my lap, for I thought the hard rock would make his poor back ache, and I could keep him from being chilled; and then I induced Flurry to creep under my heavy waterproof cloak--how thankful I was I put it on!--and told her to hold Flossy in her arms, for the little creature's soft fur would be warm and comfortable; and then I fastened the cloak together, buttoning it until it formed a little tent above them. Flurry curled her feet into my dress and put her head on my shoulder, and she and Dot held each other fast across me, and Flossy rolled himself up into a warm ball and went to sleep. Poor little creatures! They began to forget their sorrows a little, until Flurry suddenly recollected that it was tea-time, and her father had arrived; and then she began crying again softly. "I'm so hungry," she sobbed; "aren't you Dot?" "Yes, but I don't mean to mind it," returned Dot, manfully. "Essie is hungry too." And he put up his hand and stroked my neck softly. The darling, he knew how I suffered, and would not add to my pain by complaining. I heard him say to Flurry in a whisper, "It is all our fault; we ought to be punished for running away; but Essie has done nothing wrong. I thought God meant to drown us, as He did the disobedient people." But this awful reminder of her small sins was too much for Flurry. "I did not mean to be wicked," she wailed. "I thought it would be such fun to play at smugglers in the cave, and Aunt Ruth and Esther never would let me." "Yes, and I begged you not to run away, and you would," retorted Dot in an admonishing tone. "I did not want come, too, because it was so cold, and the wind blew so; but I promised Essie to take care of you, so I went. I think you were quite as bad as the people whom God drowned, because they would not be good and mind Noah." "But I don't want to be drowned," responded Flurry, tearfully. "Oh, dear, Dot, don't say such dreadful things! I am good now, and I will never, never disobey auntie again. Shall we say our prayers, Dot, and ask God not to be so very angry, and then perhaps He will send some one to take us out of this dark, dreadful place?" Dot approved of this idea, and they began repeating their childish petitions together, but my mind strayed away when I tried to join them. Oh, how dark and desolate it was! I shivered and clasped the children closer to me as the hollow moaning of the waves reverberated through the cavern. Every minute the water was rising; by-and-by the spray must wet us even in our sheltered corner. Would the children believe me when I told them we were safe? Would not Flurry's terrors return at the first touch of the cold spray? The darkness and the noise and the horror were almost enough to turn her childish brain; they were too much for my endurance. "Oh, heavens!" I cried to myself, "must we really spend a long, hideous night in this place? We are safe! safe!" I repeated; but still it was too horrible to think of wearing out the long, slow hours in such misery. It was six now; the tide would not turn until three in the morning; it had been rising for three hours now; it would not be possible to leave the cave and make our way by the cliff for an hour after that. Ten hours--ten long, crawling hours to pass in this cramped position! I thought of dear mother's horror if she knew of our peril, and then I thought of Allan, and a lump came in my throat. Mr. Lucas would be scouring the coast in search of us. What a night for the agonized father to pass! And poor, fragile Miss Ruth, how would she endure such hours of anxiety? I could have wrung my hands and moaned aloud at the thought of their anguish, but for the children--the poor children who were whispering their baby prayers together; that kept me still. Perhaps they might be even now at the mouth of the cave, seeking and calling to us. A dozen times I imagined I could hear the splash of oars and the hoarse cries of the sailors; but how could our feeble voices reach them in the face of the shrieking wind? No one would think of the smugler's cave, for it was but one of many hollowed out of the cliff. They would search for us, but very soon they would abandon it in despair; they knew I had gone to seek the children; most likely I had been too late, and the rising tide had engulfed us, and swept us far out to sea. Miss Ruth would think of her dreams and tremble, and the wretched father would sit by her, stunned and helpless, waiting for the morning to break and bring him proof of his despair. The tears ran down my cheeks as these sad thoughts passed through my mind, and a strong inward cry for deliverance, for endurance, for some present comfort in this awful misery, shook my frame with convulsive shudders. Dot felt them, and clasped me tighter, and Flurry trembled in sympathy; my paroxysm disturbed them, but my prayer was heard, and the brief agony passed. I thought of Jeremiah in his dungeon, of Daniel in the lions' den, of the three children in the fiery furnace, and the Form that was like the Son of God walking with them in the midst of the flames; and I knew and felt that we were as safe on that rocky shelf, with the dark, raging waters below us, as though we were by our own bright hearth fire at home; then my trembling ceased, and I recovered voice to talk to the children. I wanted them to go to sleep; but Flurry said, in a lamentable voice, that she was too hungry, and the sea made such a noise; so I told them about Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego; and after I had finished that, all the Bible stories I could remember of wonderful deliverance; and by-and-by we came to the storm on the Galilean lake. Flurry leaned heavily against me. "Oh, it is getting colder," she gasped; "Flossy keeps my hands warm, and the cloak is thick, and yet I can't help shivering." And I could feel Dot shiver, too. "The water seems very near us, I wish I did not feel afraid of it Esther," she whispered, after another minute; but I pretended not to hear her. "Yes, it is cold, but not so cold as those disciples must have felt," I returned; "they were in a little open boat, Flurry, and the water dashed right over them, and the vessel rocked dreadfully"--here I paused--"and it was dark, for Jesus was not yet come to them." "I wish He would come now," whispered Dot. "That is what the disciples wished, and all the time they little knew that He was on His way to them, and watching them toiling against the wind, and that very soon the wind would cease, and they would be safe on the shore. We do not like being in this dark cave, do we, Flurry darling? And the sea keeps us awake; but He knows that, and He is watching us; and by-and-by, when the morning comes, we shall have light and go home." Flurry said "Yes," sleepily, for in spite of the cold and hunger she was getting drowsy; it must have been long past her bedtime. We had sat on our dreary perch three hours, and there were six more to wait. I noticed that the sound of my voice tranquillized the children; so I repeated hymns slowly and monotonously until they nodded against me and fell into weary slumbers. "Thank God!" I murmured when I perceived this, and I leaned back against the rock, and tried to close my eyes; but they would keep opening and staring into the darkness. It was not black darkness--I do not think I could have borne that; a sort of murky half-light seemed reflected from the water, or from somewhere, and glimmered strangely from a background of inky blackness. It was bitterly cold now; my feet felt numbed, and the spray wetted and chilled my face. I dared not move my arm from Dot, he leaned so heavily against it, and Flurry's head was against him. She had curled herself up like Flossy, and I had one hand free, only I could not disentangle it from the cloak. I dared not change my cramped position, for fear of waking them. I was too thankful for their brief oblivion. If I could only doze for a few moments; if I could only shut out the black waters for a minute! The tumults of my thoughts were indescribable. My whole life seemed to pass before me; every childish folly, every girlish error and sin, seemed to rise up before me; conversations I had forgotten, little incidents of family life, dull or otherwise; speeches I had made and repented, till my head seemed whirling. It must be midnight now, I thought. If I could only dare; but a new terror kept me wide awake. In spite of my protecting arms, would not Dot suffer from the damp chilliness? He shivered in his sleep, and Flurry moaned and half woke, and then slept again. I was growing so numbed and cramped that I doubted my endurance for much longer. Dot seemed growing heavier, and there was the weight of Flurry and Flossy. If I could only stretch myself! And then I nearly cried out, for a sudden flash seemed to light the cavern. One instant, and it was gone; but that second showed a grewsome scene--damp, black walls, with a frothing turbulous water beneath them, and hanging arches exuding moisture. Darkness again. From whence had that light flashed? As I asked myself the question it came again, startling me with its sudden brilliancy; and this time it was certainly from some aperture overhead, and a little beyond where we sat. Gone again, and this time utterly; but not before I caught a glimpse of the broad rocky shelf beyond us. The light had flashed down not a dozen yards from where we stood; it must have been a lantern; if so, they were still seeking us, this time on the cliffs. It was only midnight, and there were still four weary hours to wait, and every moment I was growing more chilled and numbed. I began to dread the consequences to myself as well as to the children. If I could only crawl along the shelf and explore, perhaps there might be some opening to the cliff. I had not thought of this before, until the light brought the idea to my mind. I perceived, too, that the glimmering half-light came from above, and not from the mouth of the cave. For a moment the fear of losing my balance and falling back into the water daunted me, and kept me from moving; but the next minute I felt I must attempt it. I unfastened my cloak and woke Dot softly, and then whispered to him that I was cramped and in pain, and must move up and down the platform; and he understood me, and crawled sleepily off my lap; then I lifted Flurry with difficulty, for she moaned and whimpered at my touch. My numbness was so great I could hardly move my limbs; but I crawled across Flurry somehow, and saw Dot creep into my place, and covered them with my cloak; and then I commenced to move slowly and carefully on my hands and knees up the rocky path. CHAPTER XVIII. "YOU BRAVE GIRL!" They told me afterward that this was a daring feat, and fraught with awful peril, for in that painful groping in the darkness I might have lost my balance and fallen back into the water. I was conscious of this at the time; but we cannot die until our hour is come, and in youth one's faith is more simple and trusting; to pray is to be heard, to grasp more tightly by the mantle of His Providence, so I committed myself to Heaven, and crept slowly along the face of the rock. In two or three minutes I felt cold air blowing down upon my face, and, raising myself cautiously, I found I was standing under an aperture, large enough for me to crawl through, which led to the downs. For one moment I breathed the fresh night air and caught the glimmer of starlight, and then I crept back to the children. Flurry was awake and weeping piteously, and Dot was trying to comfort her in a sleepy voice; but she was quiet the moment I told them about the hole. "I must leave you behind, Dot," I said, sorrowfully, "and take Flurry first;" and the brave little fellow said: "All right, Essie," and held back the dog, who was whining to follow. I put my arm round Flurry, and made her promise not to lose hold of the rock. The poor child was dreadfully frightened, and stopped every now and then, crying out in horror that she was falling into the water, but I held her fast and coaxed her to go on again; and all the time the clammy dews of terror stood on my forehead. Never to my dying day shall I forget those terrible moments. But we were mercifully preserved, and to my joy I felt the winds of heaven blowing round us, and in another moment Flurry had crawled through the hole in the rock, and was sitting shivering on the grass. "Now I must go back for Dot and Flossy," I exclaimed; but as I spoke and tried to disengage myself from Flurry's nervous grasp, I heard a little voice below. "I am here, Essie, and I have got Flossy all safe. Just stoop down and take him, and then I shall clamber up all right." "Oh, my darling, how could you?" The courageous child had actually dragged himself with the dog under one arm all along the dangerous path, to spare me another journey. I could scarcely speak, but I covered his cold little face with kisses as he tottered painfully into my arms--my precious boy, my brave, unselfish Dot! "I could not bring the crutches or the cloak, Essie," he whispered. "Never mind them," I replied, with a catch in my voice. "You are safe; we are all safe--that is all I can take in. I must carry you, Dot, and Flurry shall hold my dress, and we shall soon be home." "Where is your hat, Essie?" he asked, putting up his hand to my hair. It was true I was bareheaded, and yet I had never missed it. My cloak lay below in the cavern. What a strange sight I must have presented if any one could have seen us! My hair was blowing loosely about my face; my dress seemed to cling round my feet. How awfully dark and desolate the downs looked under that dim, starry light. Only the uncertain glimmer enabled me to keep from the cliffs or discern the right path. The heavy booming of the sea and the wind together drowned our voices. When it lulled I could hear Flurry sobbing to herself in the darkness, and Flossy, whining for company, as he followed us closely. Poor Dot was spent and weary, and lay heavily against my shoulder. Every now and then I had to stop and gather strength, for I felt strangely weak, and there was an odd beating at my heart. Dot must have heard my panting breath, for he begged me more than once to put him down and leave him, but I would not. My strength was nearly gone when we reached the shelving path leading down to the cottage, but I still dragged on. A stream of light came full upon us as we turned the corner; it came from the cottage. The door was wide open and the parlor blinds were raised, and the ruddy gleam of lamplight and firelight streamed full on our faces. No one saw us as we toiled up the pebbled path; no one waited for us in the porch. I have a faint recollection that I stood in the hall, looking round me for a moment in a dazed fashion; that Flossy barked, and a door burst open; there was a wave of light, and a man's voice saying something. I felt myself swaying with Dot in my arms; but some one must have caught us, for when I came to myself I was lying on the couch by the drawing-room fire, and Miss Ruth was kneeling beside me raining tears over my face. "And Dot!" I tried to move and could not, and fell back on my pillow. "The children!" I gasped, and there was a sudden movement in the room, and Mr. Lucas stood over me with his child in his arms. Was it my fancy, or were there tears in his eyes, too? "They are here, Esther," he said, in a soothing voice. "Nurse is taking care of your boy." And then he burst out, "Oh, you brave girl! you noble girl!" in a voice of strong emotion, and turned away. "Hush, Giles, we must keep her quiet," admonished his sister. "We do not know what the poor thing has been through, but she is as cold as ice. And feel how soaking her hair is!" Had it rained? I suppose it had, but then the children must be wet too! Miss Ruth must have noticed my anxious look, for she kissed me and whispered: "Don't worry, Esther; we have fires and hot baths ready. Nurse and the others will attend to the children; they will soon be warmed and in bed. Let me dry your hair and rub your cold hands; and drink this, and you will soon be able to move." The cordial and food they gave me revived my numb faculties, and in a little while I was able, with assistance, to go to my room. Miss Ruth followed me, and tenderly helped me to remove my damp things; but I would not lie down in my warm bed until I had seen with my own eyes that Flurry was already soundly asleep and Dot ready to follow her example. "Isn't it delicious?" he whispered, drowsily, as I kissed him; and then Miss Ruth led me back to my room, and tucked me up and sat down beside me. "Now tell me all about it," she said, "and then you will be able to sleep." For a strong excitement had succeeded the faintness, and in spite of my aching limbs and weariness I had a sensation as though I could fly. But when I told her she only shuddered and wept, and before I had half narrated the history of those dismal hours she was down on her knees beside the bed, kissing my hands. "Do let me," she sobbed, as I remonstrated. "Oh, Esther, how I love you! How I must always love you for this!" "No, I am not Miss Ruth any longer; I am Ruth. I am your own friend and sister, who would do anything to show her gratitude. You dear girl!--you brave girl!--as Giles called you." This brought to my lips the question, "How had Mr. Lucas borne this dreadful suspense?" "As badly as possible," she answered, drying her eyes. "Oh, Esther! what we have all been through. Giles came in half an hour after you left to search the shore. He was in a dreadful state, as you may imagine. He sent down to the Preventive station at once, and there was a boat got ready, and he went with the men. They pulled up and down for an hour or two, but could find no trace of you." "We were in the cavern all the time," I murmured. "That was the strangest part of all," she returned. "Giles remembered the cavern, and they went right into the mouth, and called as loudly as they could." "We did not hear them; the wind was making such a noise, and it was so dark." "The men gave up all hope at last, and Giles was obliged to come back. He walked into the house looking as white as death. 'It is all over,' he said; 'the tide has overtaken them, and that girl is drowned with them.' And then he gave a sort of sob, and buried his face in his hands. I turned so faint that for a little time he was obliged to attend to me, but when I was better he got up and left the house. It did not seem as though he could rest from the search, and yet he had not the faintest glimmer of hope. He would have the cottage illuminated and the door left open, and then he lighted his lantern and walked up and down the cliffs, and every time he came back his poor face looked whiter and more drawn. I had got hold of his hand, and was trying to keep him from wandering out again, when all at once we heard Flossy bark. Giles burst open the door, and then he gave a great cry, for there you were, my poor Esther, standing under the hall lamp, with your hair streaming over your shoulders and Dot in your arms, and Flurry holding your dress, and you looked at us and did not seem to see us, and Giles was just in time to catch you as you were reeling. He had you all in his arms at once," finished Miss Ruth, with another sob, "till I took our darling Flurry from him, and then he laid you down and carried Dot to the fire." "If I could not have saved them I would have died with them; you knew that, Miss Ruth." "Ruth," she corrected. "Yes, I knew that, and so did Giles. He said once or twice, 'She is strong enough or sensible enough to save them if it were possible, but no one can fight against fate.' Now I must go down to him, for he is waiting to hear all about it, and you must go to sleep, Esther, for your eyes are far too bright." But, greatly to her surprise and distress, I resisted this advice and broke out into frightened sobs. The sea was in my ears, I said, when I tried to close my eyes, and my arms felt empty without Dot and I could not believe he was safe, though she told me so over and over again. I was greatly amazed at my own want of control; but nothing could lessen this nervous excitement until Mr. Lucas came up to the door, and Miss Ruth went out to him in sore perplexity. "What am I to do, Giles? I cannot soothe her in the least." "Let her have the child," he returned, in his deep voice; "she will sleep then." And he actually fetched little Dot and put him in Miss Ruth's arms. "Isn't it nice, Essie?" he muttered sleepily, as he nestled against me. It was strange, but the moment my arm was round him, and I felt his soft breathing against my shoulder, my eyelids closed of their own accord, and a sense of weariness and security came over me. Before many minutes were over I had fallen into a deep sleep, and Miss Ruth was free to seek her brother and give him the information for which he was longing. It was nearly five in the morning when I closed my eyes, and it was exactly the same time on the following afternoon when I opened them. My first look was for Dot, but he was gone, the sun was streaming in at the window, a bright fire burned in the grate, and Nurse Gill was sitting knitting in the sunshine. She looked up with a pleasant smile on her homely face as I called to her rather feebly. "How you have slept, to be sure, Miss Esther--a good twelve hours. But I always say Nature is a safe nurse, and to be trusted. There's Master Dot has been up and dressed these three hours and more, and Miss Flurry too." "Oh, Nurse Gill, are you sure they are all right?" I asked, for it was almost too good news to be true. "Master Dot is as right as possible, though he is a little palish, and complains of his back and legs, which is only to be expected if they do ache a bit. Miss Flurry has a cold, but we could not induce her to lie in bed; she is sitting by the fire now on her father's knee, and Master Dot is with them: but there, Miss Ruth said she was to be called as soon as you woke, Miss Esther, though I did beg her not to put herself about, and her head so terribly bad as it has been all day." "Oh, nurse, don't disturb her," I pleaded, eagerly, "I am quite well, there is nothing the matter with me. I want to get up this moment and dress myself;" for a great longing came over me to join the the little group downstairs. "Not so fast, Miss Esther," she returned, good-humoredly. "You've had a fine sleep, to be sure, and young things will stand a mortal amount of fatigue; but there isn't a speck of color in your face, my poor lamb. Well, well," as I showed signs of impatience--"I won't disturb Miss Ruth, but I will fetch you some coffee and bread-and-butter, and we will see how you will feel then." Mrs. Gill was a dragon in her way, so I resigned myself to her peremptory kindness. When she trotted off on her charitable errand, I leaned on my elbow and looked out of the window. It was Sunday evening, I remembered, and the quiet peacefulness of the scene was in strangest contrast to the horrors of yesterday; the wind had lulled, and the big curling waves ceased to look terrible in the sunlight; the white spray tossed lightly hither and thither, and the long line of dark seaweed showed prettily along the yellow sands. The bitter war of winds and waves was over, and the defeated enemy had retired with spent fury, and sunk into silence. Could it be a dream? had we really lived through that dreadful nightmare? But at this moment Nurse Gill interrupted the painful retrospect by placing the fragrant coffee and brown bread-and-butter before me. I ate and drank eagerly, to please myself as well as her, and then I reiterated my intention to get up. It cost me something, however, to persevere in my resolution. My limbs trembled under me, and seemed to refuse their support in the strangest way, and the sight of my pale face almost frightened me, and I was grateful to Nurse Gill when she took the brush out of my shaking hand and proceeded to manipulate the long tangled locks. "You are no more fit than a baby to dress yourself, Miss Esther," said the good old creature, in a vexed voice. "And to think of drowning all this beautiful hair. Why, there is seaweed in it I do declare, like a mermaid." "The rocks were covered with it," I returned, in a weary indifferent voice; for Mrs. Gill's officiousness tired me, and I longed to free myself from her kindly hands. When I was dressed, I crept very slowly downstairs. My courage was oozing away fast, and I rather dreaded all the kind inquiries that awaited me. But I need not have been afraid. Dot clapped his hands when he saw me, and Mr. Lucas put down Flurry and came to meet me. "You ought not to have exerted yourself," he said, reproachfully, as soon as he looked at me; and then he took hold of me and placed me in the armchair, and Flurry brought me a footstool and sat down on it, Dot climbed up on the arm of the chair and propped himself against me, and Miss Ruth rose softly from her couch and came across the room and kissed me. "Oh, Esther, how pale you look!" she said, anxiously. "She will soon have her color back again," returned Mr. Lucas, looking at me kindly. I think he wanted to say something, but the sight of my weakness deterred him. I could not have borne a word. The tears were very near the surface now, so near that I could only close my eyes and lean my head against Dot; and, seeing this, they very wisely left me alone. I recovered myself by-and-by, and was able to listen to the talk that went on around me. The children's tongues were busy as usual; Flurry had gone back to her father, and she and Dot were keeping up a brisk fire of conversation across the hearth-rug. I could not see Mr. Lucas' face, as he had moved to a dark corner, but Miss Ruth's couch was drawn full into the firelight, and I could see the tears glistening on her cheek. "Don't talk any more about it, my darlings," she said at last. "I feel as though I should never sleep again, and I am sure it is bad for Esther." "It does not hurt me," I returned, softly. "I suppose shipwrecked sailors like to talk over the dangers they escape; somehow everything seems so far away and strange to-night, as though it had happened months ago." But though I said this I could not help the nervous thrill that seemed to pass over me now and then. "Shall I read to you a little?" interrupted Mr. Lucas, quietly. "The children's talk tires your head;" and without waiting for an answer, he commenced reading some of my favorite hymns and a lovely poem, in a low mellow voice that was very pleasant and soothing. Nurse came to fetch Flurry, and then Dot went too, but Mr. Lucas did not put down the book for a long time. I had ceased to follow the words; the flicker of the firelight played fitfully before my eyes. The quiet room, the shaded lamplight, the measured cadence of the reader's voice, now rising, now falling, lulled me most pleasantly. I must have fallen asleep at last, for Flossy woke me by pushing his black nose into my hand; for when I sat up and rubbed my eyes Mr. Lucas was gone, and only Miss Ruth was laughing softly as she watched me. "Giles went away half an hour ago," she said amused at my perplexed face. "He was so pleased when he looked up and found you were asleep. I believe your pale face frightened him, but I shall tell him you look much better now." "My head feels less bewildered," was my answer. "You are beginning to recover yourself," she returned, decidedly; "now you must be a good child and go to bed;" and I rose at once. As I opened the drawing-room door, Mr. Lucas came out from his study. "Were you going to give me the slip?" he said, pleasantly. "I wanted to bid you good-by, as I shall be off in the morning before you are awake." "Good by," I returned, rather shyly, holding out my hand; but he kept it a moment longer than usual. "Esther, you must let me thank you," he said, abruptly. "I know but for you I must have lost my child. A man's gratitude for such a mercy is a strong thing, and you may count me your friend as long as I live." "You are very good," I stammered, "but I have done nothing; and there was Dot, you know." I am afraid I was very awkward, but I dreaded his speaking to me so, and the repressed emotion of his face and voice almost frightened me. "There, I have made you quite pale again," he said, regretfully. "Your nerves have not recovered from the shock. Well, we will speak of this again; good-night, my child, and sleep well," and with another kind smile he left me. CHAPTER XIX. A LETTER FROM HOME. I was so young and healthy that I soon recovered from the shock, and in a few days I had regained strength and color. Mr. Lucas had gone to see mother, and the day after his visit she wrote a fond incoherent letter, full of praises of my supposed heroism. Allan, to whom I had narrated everything fully, wrote more quietly, but the underlying tenderness breathed in every word for Dot and me touched me greatly. Dot had not suffered much; he was a little more lame, and his back ached more constantly. But it was Flurry who came off worst; her cold was on her chest, and when she threw it off she had a bad cough, and began to grow pale and thin; she was nervous, too, and woke every night calling out to me or Dot, and before many days were over Miss Ruth wrote to her brother and told him that Flurry would be better at home. We were waiting for his answer, when Miss Ruth brought a letter to my bedside from mother, and sat down, as usual, to hear the contents, for I used to read her little bits from my home correspondence, and she wanted to know what Uncle Geoffrey thought about Flurry. My sudden exclamation frightened her. "What is wrong, Esther? It is nothing about Giles?" "Oh, no!" I returned, the tears starting to my eyes, "but I must go home at once; Carrie is very ill, they are afraid it is an attack of rheumatic fever. Mother writes in such distress, and there is a message from Uncle Geoffrey, asking me to pack up and come to them without delay. There is something about Flurry, too; perhaps you had better read it." "I will take the letter away with me. Don't hurry too much, Esther; we will talk it over at breakfast, and there is no train now before eleven, and nurse will help you to pack." That was just like Miss Ruth--no fuss, no unnecessary words, no adding to my trouble by selfish regrets at my absence. She was like a man in that, she never troubled herself about petty details, as most women do, but just looked straight at the point in question. Her calmness reassured me, and by breakfast-time I was able to discuss matters quietly. "I have sent nurse to your room, Esther," she said, as she poured out the coffee; "the children have had their bread and milk, and have gone out to play; it is so warm and sunny, it will not hurt Flurry. The pony carriage will be round here at half-past ten, so you will have plenty of time, and I mean to drive you to the station myself." "You think of everything," I returned, gratefully. "Have you read the letter? Does it strike you that Carrie is so very ill?" "I am afraid so," she admitted, reluctantly; "your mother says she has been ailing some time, only she would not take care of herself, and then she got wet, and took her class in her damp things. I am afraid you have a long spell of nursing before you; rheumatic fever sometimes lasts a long time. Your uncle says something about a touch of pleurisy as well." I pushed away my plate, for I could not eat. I am ashamed to say a strong feeling of indignation took possession of me. "She would not give up," I burst out, angrily: "she would not come here to recruit herself, although she owned she felt ill; she has just gone on until her strength was exhausted and she was not in a state for anything, and now all this trouble and anxiety must come on mother, and she is not fit for it." "Hush, Esther; you must not feel like this," she returned, gently. "Poor Carrie will purchase wisdom dearly; depend upon it, the knowledge that she has brought on this illness through her own self-will will be the sharpest pang of all. You must go home and be a comfort to them all, as you have been our comfort," she added, sweetly; "and, Esther, I have been thinking over things, and you must trust Dot to me. We shall all return to the Cedars, most likely to-morrow, and I will promise not to let him out of my sight." And as I regarded her dubiously, she went on still more eagerly: "You must let me keep him, Esther. Flurry is so poorly, and she will fret over the loss of her little companion; and with such a serious illness in the house, he would only be an additional care to you." And as she seemed so much in earnest, I consented reluctantly to wait for mother's decision; for, after all, the child would be dull and neglected, with Jack at school, and mother and me shut up in Carrie's sick room. So in that, as in all else, Miss Ruth was right. Dot cried a little when I said good-by to him; he did not like seeing me go away, and the notion of Carrie's illness distressed him, and Flurry cried, too, because he did, and then Miss Ruth laughed at them both. "You silly children," she said, "when we are all going home to-morrow, and you can walk over and see Esther every day, and take her flowers and nice things for Carrie." Which view of the case cheered them immensely, and we left them with their heads very close together, evidently planning all sorts of surprises for Carrie and me. Miss Ruth talked very cheerfully up to the last moment, and then she grew a little silent and tearful. "I shall miss you so, Esther, both here and at the Cedars," she said tenderly. "I feel it may be a long time before you come to us again; but there, I mean to see plenty of you," she went on, recovering herself. "I shall bring Dot every day, if it be only for a few minutes!" And so she sent me away half comforted. It was a dreary journey, and I was thankful when it was over; there was no one to meet me at the station, so I took one of the huge lumbering flies, and a sleepy old horse dragged me reluctantly up the steep Milnthorpe streets. It was an odd coincidence, but as we passed the bank and I looked out of the window half absently, Mr. Lucas came down the steps and saw me, and motioned to the driver to stop. "I am very sorry to see you here," he said, gravely. "I met Dr. Cameron just now, and he told me your mother had written to recall you." "Did he say how Carrie was?" I interrupted anxiously. "She is no better, and in a state of great suffering; it seems she has been imprudent, and taken a severe chill; but don't let me keep you, if you are anxious to go on." But I detained him a moment. "Flurry seems better this morning," I observed; "her cough is less hard." He looked relieved at that. "I have written for them to come home to-morrow, and to bring Dot, too; we will take care of him for you, and make him happy among us, and you will have enough on your hands." And then he drew back, and went slowly down High street, but the encounter had cheered me; I was beginning to look on Mr. Lucas as an old friend. Uncle Geoffrey was on the door-step as I drove up, and we entered the house together. "This is a bad business, I am afraid," he said, in a subdued voice, as he closed the parlor door; "it goes to one's heart to see that pretty creature suffer. I am glad, for all our sakes, that Allan will be here next week." And then I remembered all at once that the year was out, and that Allan was coming home to live; but he had said so little about it in his last letters that I was afraid of some postponement. "He is really coming, then?" I exclaimed, in joyful surprise; this was good news. "Yes, next Thursday; and I shall be glad of the boy's help," he replied, gruffly; and then he sat down and told me about Carrie. Foolish girl, her zeal had indeed bordered upon madness. It seems Uncle Geoffrey had taxed her with illness a fortnight ago, and she had not denied it; she had even consented to take the remedies prescribed her in the way of medicine, but nothing would induce her to rest. The illness had culminated last Sunday; she had been caught in a heavy rain, and her thin summer walking dress had been drenched, and yet she had spent the afternoon as usual at the schools. A shivering fit that evening had been the result. "She has gradually got worse and worse," continued Uncle Geoffrey; "it is not ordinary rheumatic fever; there is certainly sciatica, and a touch of pleurisy; the chill on her enfeebled, worn-out frame has been deadly, and there is no knowing the mischief that may follow. I would not have you told before this, for after a nasty accident like yours, a person is not fit for much. Let me look at you, child. I must own you don't stem much amiss. Now listen to me, Esther. I have elected Deborah head-nurse, and you must work under her orders. Bless me," catching a glimpse of a crimson disappointed face, for I certainly felt crestfallen at this, "a chit like you cannot be expected to know everything. Deb is a splendid nurse; she has a head on her shoulders, that woman," with a little chuckle; "she has just put your mother out of the room, because she says that she is no more use than a baby, so you will have to wheedle yourself into her good graces if you expect to nurse Carrie." "Why did you send for me, if you expect me to be of no use?" I returned, with decided temper, for this remark chafed me; but he only chuckled again. "Deborah sent for you, not I," he said, in an amused voice. "'Couldn't we have Miss Esther home?' she asked; 'she has her wits about her,' which I am afraid was a hit at somebody." This soothed me down a little, for my dignity was sadly affronted that Deborah should be mistress of the sick room. I am afraid after all that I was not different from other girls, and had not yet outgrown what mother called the "porcupine stage" of girlhood, when one bristles all over at every supposed slight, armed at every point with minor prejudices, like "quills upon the fretful porcupine." Uncle Geoffrey bade me run along, for he was busy, so I went upstairs swallowing discontent with every step, until I looked up and saw mother's pale sad face watching me from a doorway, and then every unworthy feeling vanished. "Oh, my darling, thank Heaven I have you again!" she murmured, folding me in her loving arms; "my dear child, who has never given me a moment's anxiety." And then I knew how heavily Carrie's willfulness had weighed on that patient heart. She drew me half weeping into Carrie's little room, and we sat down together hand in hand. The invalid had been moved into mother's room, as it was large and sunny, and I could hear Deborah moving quietly as I passed the door. Mother would not speak about Carrie at first; she asked after Dot, and was full of gratitude to Miss Ruth for taking care of him; and then the dear soul cried over me, and said she had nearly lost us both, and that but for me her darling boy would have been drowned. Mr. Lucas had told her so. "He was full of your praises, Esther," she went on, drying her eyes; "he says he and Miss Ruth will be your fast friends through life; that there is nothing he would not do to show his gratitude; it made me so proud to hear it." "It makes me proud, too, mother; but I cannot have you talking about me, when I am longing to hear about Carrie." Mother sighed and shook her head, and then it was I noticed a tremulous movement about her head, and, oh! how gray her hair was, almost white under her widow's cap. "There is not much to say," she said, despondently; "your uncle will not tell me if she be in actual danger, but he looks graver every day. Her sufferings are terrible; just now Deborah would not let me remain, because I fretted so, as though a mother can help grieving over her child's agony. It is all her own fault, Esther, and that makes it all the harder to bear." I acquiesced silently, and then I told mother that I had come home to spare her, and do all I could for Carrie--as much as Deborah would allow. "You must be very prudent, then," she replied, "for Deborah is very jealous, and yet so devoted, that one cannot find fault with her. Perhaps she is right, and I am too weak to be of much use, but I should like you to be with your sister as much as possible." I promised to be cautious, and after a little more talk with mother I laid aside my traveling things and stole gently into the sick room. Deborah met me on the threshold with uplifted finger and a resolute "Hush!" on her lips. She looked more erect and angular than ever, and there was a stern forbidding expression on her face; but I would not be daunted. I caught her by both her hands, and drew her, against her will, to the door. "I want to speak to you," I whispered; and when I had her outside, I looked straight into her eyes. "Oh, Deb," I cried, "is it not dreadful for all of us? and I have been in such peril, too. What should we do without you, when you know all about nursing, and understand a sick room so well? You are everything to us, Deborah, and we are so grateful, and now you must let me help you a little, and spare you fatigue. I daresay there are many little things you could find for me to do." I do not know about the innocence of the dove, but certainly the wisdom of the serpent was in my speech; my humility made Deborah throw down her arms at once. "Any little thing that I can do," I pleaded, and her face relaxed and her hard gray eyes softened. "You are always ready to help a body, Miss Esther, I will say that, and I don't deny that I am nearly ready to drop with fatigue through not having my clothes off these three nights. The mistress is no more help than a baby, not being able to lift, or to leave off crying." "And you will let me help you?" I returned, eagerly, a little too eagerly, for she drew herself up. "I won't make any promises, Miss Esther," she said, rather stiffly; "the master said I must have help, and I am willing to try what you can do, though you are young and not used to the ways of a sick room," finished the provoking creature; but I restrained my impatience. "Any little thing that I can do," I repeated, humbly; and my forbearance had its reward, for Deborah drew aside to let me pass into the room, only telling me, rather sharply, to say as little possible and keep my thoughts to myself. Deborah's robust treatment was certainly bracing, and it gave me a sort of desperate courage; but the first shock of seeing Carrie was dreadful. The poor girl lay swathed in bandages, and as I entered the room her piteous moanings almost broke my heart. Burning with fever, and racked by pain, she could find no ease or rest. As I kissed her she shuddered, and her eyes looked at me with a terrible sadness in them. "Oh, my poor dear, how sorry I am!" I whispered. I dared not say more with Deborah hovering jealously in the back-ground. "Don't be sorry," she groaned; "I deserved it. I deserve it all." And then she turned away her face, and her fair hair shaded it from me. Did I hear it aright; and was it a whispered prayer for patience that caught my ear as she turned away. Deborah would not let me stay long. She sent me down to have tea and talk to mother, but she promised that I should come up again by-and-by. I was surprised as I opened the parlor door to find Mr. Lucas talking to Uncle Geoffrey and mother with Jack looking up at him with awe-struck eyes. He came forward with an amused smile, as he noticed my astonished pause. "You did not expect to see me here," he said, in his most friendly manner; "but I wanted to inquire after your sister. Mrs. Cameron has been so good as to promise me a cup of tea, so you must make it." That Mr. Lucas should be drinking tea at mother's table! somehow, I could not get over my surprise. I had never seen him in our house before, and yet in the old times both he and his wife had been frequent visitors. Certainly he seemed quite at home. Mother had lighted her pretty china lamp, and Uncle Geoffrey had thrown a log of wood on the fire, and the parlors looked bright and cozy, and even Jack's hair was brushed and her collar for once not awry. I suppose Mr. Lucas found it pleasant, for he stayed quite late, and I wondered how he could keep his dinner waiting so long; but then Uncle Geoffrey was such a clever man, and could talk so well. I thought I should have to leave them at last, for it was nearly the time that Deborah wanted me; but just then Mr. Lucas looked across at me and noticed something in my face. "You want to be with your sister," he said, suddenly interpreting my thoughts, "and I am reducing my cook to despair. Good-by, Mrs. Cameron. Many thanks for a pleasant hour." And then he shook hands with us all, and left the room with Uncle Geoffrey. "What an agreeable, well-bred man," observed mother. "I like him exceedingly, and yet people call him proud and reserved." "He is not a bit," I returned, indignantly; and then I kissed mother, and ran upstairs. CHAPTER XX. "YOU WERE RIGHT, ESTHER." For many, many long weeks, I might say months, my daily life was lived in Carrie's sick room. What a mercy it is that we are not permitted to see the course of events--that we take moment by moment from the Father's hand, not knowing what lies before us! It was September when I had that little altercation with Deborah on the threshold, and when she drew aside for me to pass into that dimly-lighted sickroom; it was Christmas now, and I was there still. Could I have foreseen those months, with their record of suffering, their hours of changeless monotony, well might my courage have failed. As it was, I watched the slow progression of nights and days almost indifferently; the walls of the sickroom closed round me, shutting me out from the actual world, and concentrating my thoughts on the frail girl who was fighting against disease and death. So terrible an illness I pray to Heaven I may never see again; sad complications producing unheard-of tortures, and bringing the sufferer again and again to the very brink of death. "If I could only die: if I were only good enough to be allowed to die!" that was the prayer she breathed; and there were times when I could have echoed it, when I would rather have parted with her, dearly as I loved her, than have seen her so racked with agony; but it was not to be. The lesson was not completed. There are some who must be taught to live, who have to take back "the turned lesson," as one has beautifully said, and learn it more perfectly. If I had ever doubted her goodness in my secret soul, I could doubt no longer, when I daily witnessed her weakness and her exceeding patience. She bore her suffering almost without complaint, and would often hide from us how much she had to endure. "'It is good to be still.' Do you remember that, Esther?" she said once; and I knew she was quoting the words of one who had suffered. After the first day I had no further difficulty with Deborah; she soon recognized my usefulness, and gave me my share of nursing without grudging. I took my turn at the night-watching, and served my first painful apprenticeship in sick nursing. Mother could do little for us; she could only relieve me for a couple of hours in the afternoon, during which Uncle Geoffrey insisted that I should have rest and exercise. Allan did not come home when we expected him; he had to postpone his intention for a couple of months. This was a sad disappointment, as he would have helped us so much, and mother's constant anxiety that my health should not suffer by my close confinement was a little trying at times. I was quite well, but it was no wonder that my fresh color faded a little, and that I grew a little quiet and subdued. The absence of life and change must be pernicious to young people; they want air, movement, a certain stirring of activity and bustle to keep time with their warm natures. Every one was very kind to me. Uncle Geoffrey would take me on his rounds, and often Miss Ruth and Flurry would call for me, and drive me into the country, and they brought me books and fruit and lovely flowers for Carrie's room; and though I never saw Mr. Lucas during his few brief visits he never failed to send me a kind message or to ask if there was anything he could do for us. Miss Ruth, or Ruth, as I always called her now, would sometimes come up into the sickroom and sit for a few minutes. Carrie liked to see her, and always greeted her with a smile; but when Mrs. Smedley heard of it, and rather peremptorily demanded admittance, she turned very pale, and calling me to her, charged me, in an agitated voice, never to let her in. "I could not see her, I could not," she went on, excitedly. "I like Miss Ruth; she is so gentle and quiet. But I want no one but you and mother." Mother once--very injudiciously, as Uncle Geoffrey and I thought--tried to shake this resolution of Carrie's. "Poor Mrs. Smedley seems so very grieved and disappointed that you will not see her, my dear. This is the third time she has called this week, and she has been so kind to you." "Oh, mother, don't make me see her!" pleaded Carrie, even her lips turning white; and of course mother kissed her and promised that she should not be troubled. But when she had left the room Carrie became very much agitated. "She is the last I ought to see, for she helped to bring me to this; she taught me to disobey my mother--yes, Esther, she did indeed!" as I expostulated in a shocked manner. "She was always telling me that my standard was not high enough--that I ought to look above even the wisest earthly parents. She said my mother had old-fashioned notions of duty; that things were different in her young days; that, in spite of her goodness, she had narrow views; that it was impossible for her even to comprehend me." "Dear Carrie, surely you could not have agreed with her?" I asked, gently; but her only answer was a sigh as she sank back upon her pillows. It was the evening Allan was expected, I remember. It was December now, and for nine weeks I had been shut up in that room, with the exception of my daily walk or drive. Deborah had gone back to her usual work; it was impossible to spare her longer. But she still helped in the heaviest part of the nursing, and came from time to time to look after us both. Dot had remained for six weeks at the Cedars; but mother missed him so much that Uncle Geoffrey decided to bring him home; and how glad and thankful I was to get my darling back! I saw very little of him, however, for, strange to say, Carrie did not care for him and Jack to stay long in the room. I was not surprised that Jack fidgeted her, for she was restless and noisy, and her loud voice and awkward manners would jar sadly on an invalid; but Dot was different. In a sick room he was as quiet as a little mouse, and he had such nice ways. It grieved me to see Carrie shade her eyes in that pained manner when he hobbled in softly on his crutches. "Carrie always cries when she sees me!" Dot said once, with a little quiver of his lips. Alas! we neither of us understood the strange misery that even the sight of her afflicted little brother caused her. Mother had gone downstairs when she had made her little protest about Mrs. Smedley, and we were left alone together. I was resting in the low cushioned chair Ruth had sent me in the early days of Carrie's illness, and was watching the fire in a quiet fashion that had become habitual to me. The room looked snug and pleasant in the twilight; the little bed on which I slept was in the farthest corner; a bouquet of hothouse flowers stood on the little round table, with some books Mr. Lucas had sent up for me. It must have looked cheerful to Carrie as she lay among the pillows; but to my dismay there were tears on her cheeks--I could see them glistening in the firelight. "Do you feel less well to-night, dear?" I asked, anxiously, as I took a seat beside her; but she shook her head. "I am better, much better," was her reply, "thanks to you and Deborah and Uncle Geoffrey," but her smile was very sad as she spoke. "How good you have been to me, Esther--how kind and patient! Sometimes I have looked at you when you were asleep over there, and I have cried to see how thin and weary you looked in your sleep, and all through me." "Nonsense," I returned, kissing her; but my voice was not quite clear. "Allan will say so to-night when he sees you--you are not the same, Esther. Your eyes are graver, and you seem to have forgotten how to laugh, and it is all my fault." "Dear Carrie, I wish you would not talk so." "Let me talk a little to-night," she pleaded. "I feel better and stronger, and it will be such a relief to tell you some of my thoughts. I have been silent for nine weeks, and sometimes the pent-up pain has been more than I could bear." "My poor Carrie," stroking the thin white hand on the coverlid. "Yes, I am that," she sighed. "Do you remember our old talks together? Oh, how wise you were, Esther, but I would not listen to you; you were all for present duties. I can recollect some of your words now. You told me our work lay before us, close to us, at our very feet, and yet I would stretch out my arms for more, till my own burdens crushed me, and I fell beneath them." "You attempted too much," I returned; "your intention was good, but you overstrained your powers." "You are putting it too mildly," she returned, with a great sadness in her voice. "Esther, I have had time to think since I have lain here, and I have been reviewing your life and mine. I wanted to see where the fault lay, and how I had missed my path. God was taking away my work from me; the sacrifice I offered was not acceptable." "Oh, my dear, hush!" But she lifted her hand feebly and laid on my lips. "It was weeks before I found it out, but I think I see it clearly now. We were both in earnest about our duty, we both wanted to do the best we could for others; but, Esther, after all it was you who were right; you did not turn against the work that was brought to you--your teaching, and house, and mother, and Dot, and even Jack--all that came first, and you knew it; you have worked in the corner of the vineyard that was appointed to you, and never murmured over its barrenness and narrow space, and so you are ripe and ready for any great work that may be waiting for you in the future. 'Faithful in little, faithful in much'--how often have I applied those words to you!" I tried to stem the torrent of retrospection, but nothing would silence her; as she said herself, the pent up feelings must have their course. But why did she judge herself so bitterly? It pained me inexpressibly to hear her. "If I had only listened to you!" she went on; "but my spiritual self-will blinded me. I despised my work. Oh, Esther! you cannot contradict me; you know how bitterly I spoke of the little Thornes; how I refused to take them into my heart; how scornfully I spoke of my ornamental brickmaking." I could not gainsay her words on that point; I knew her to be wrong. "I wanted to choose my work; that was the fatal error. I spurned the little duties at my feet, and looked out for some great work that I must do. Teaching the little Thornes was hateful to me; yet I could teach ragged children in the Sunday-school for hours. Mending Jack's things and talking to mother were wearisome details; yet I could toil through fog and rain in Nightingale lane, and feel no fatigue. My work was impure, my motives tainted by self-will. Could it be accepted by Him who was subject to His parents for thirty years, who worked at the carpenter's bench, when He could have preached to thousands?" And here she broke down, and wept bitterly. What could I answer? How could I apply comfort to one so sorely wounded? And yet through it all who could doubt her goodness? "Dear Carrie," I whispered, "if this be all true, if there be no exaggeration, no morbid conscientiousness in all you say, still you have repented, and your punishment has been severe." "My punishment!" she returned, in a voice almost of despair. "Why do you speak of it as past, when you know I shall bear the consequences of my own imprudence all my life long? This is what is secretly fretting me. I try to bow myself to His will; but, oh! it is so hard not to be allowed to make amends, not to be allowed to have a chance of doing better for the future, not to be allowed to make up for all my deficiencies in the past; but just to suffer and be a burden." I looked at her with frightened eyes. What could she mean, when she was getting better every day, and Uncle Geoffrey hoped she might be downstairs by Christmas Day? "Is it possible you do not know, Esther?" she said incredulously; but two red spots came into her thin cheeks. "Have not mother and Uncle Geoffrey told you?" "They have told me nothing," I repeated. "Oh, Carrie, what do you mean? You are not going to die?" "To die? Oh, no!" in a tone of unutterable regret. "Should I be so sorry for myself if I thought that? I am getting well--well," with a slight catching of her breath--"but when I come downstairs I shall be like Dot." I do not know what I said in answer to this terrible revelation. Uncle Geoffrey had never told me; Carrie had only extorted the truth from him with difficulty. My darling girl a cripple! It was Carrie who tried to comfort me as I knelt sobbing beside her. "Oh, Esther, how you cry! Don't, my dear, don't. It makes me still more unhappy. Have I told you too suddenly? But you must know. That is why I could not bear to see Dot come into the room. But I mean to get over my foolishness." But I attempted no answer. "Cruel, cruel!" were the only words that forced themselves through my teeth. "You shall not say that," she returned, stroking my hair. "How can it be cruel if it be meant for my good? I have feared this all along, Esther; the mischief has set in in one hip. It is not the suffering, but the thought of my helplessness that frightens me." And here her sweet eyes filled with tears. Oh, how selfish I was, when I ought to have been comforting her, if only the words would come! And then a sudden thought came to me. "They also serve who only stand and wait," and I repeated the line softly, and a sort of inspiration came over me. "Carrie," I said, embracing her, "this must be the work the loving Saviour has now for you to do. This is the Cross He would have you take up, and He who died to save the sinful and unthankful will give you grace sufficient to your need." "Yes, I begin to think it is!" she returned; and a light came into her eyes, and she lay back in a satisfied manner. "I never thought of it in that way; it seemed my punishment--just taking away my work and leaving me nothing but helplessness and emptiness." "And now you will look at it as still more difficult work. Oh, Carrie, what will mine be compared to that--to see you patient under suffering, cheerfully enduring, not murmuring or repining? What will that be but preaching to us daily?" "That will do," she answered faintly; "I must think it out. You have done more for me this afternoon than any one has." And seeing how exhausted she was, I left her, and stole back to my place. She slept presently, and I sat still in the glimmering firelight, listening to the sounds downstairs that told of Allan's arrival; but I could not go down and show my tear-stained face. Deborah came up presently to lay the little tea-table, and then Carrie woke up, and I waited on her as usual, and tried to coax her failing appetite; and by-and-by came the expected tap at the door. Of course it was Allan; no one but himself would come in with that alert step and cheerful voice. "Well, Carrie, my dear," he said, affectionately, bending over her as she looked up at him--whatever he felt at the sight of her changed face he kept to himself; he kissed me without a word and took his seat by the bedside. "You know, Allan?" she whispered, as he took her hand. "Yes, I know; Uncle Geoffrey has told me; but it may not be as bad as you think--you have much for which to be thankful; for weeks he never thought you would get over it. What does it matter about the lameness, Carrie, when you have come back to us from the very jaws of death?" and his voice trembled a little. "I felt badly about it until Esther talked to me," she returned. "Esther has been such a nurse to me, Allan." He looked at me as she said this, and his eyes glistened. "Esther is Esther," he replied, laconically; but I knew then how I satisfied him. "When we were alone together that night--for I waited downstairs to say good-night to him, while Deborah stayed with Carrie--he suddenly drew me toward him and looked in my face. "Poor child," he said, tenderly, "it is time I came home to relieve you; you have grown a visionary, unsubstantial Esther, with large eyes and a thin face; but somehow I never liked the look of you so well." That made me smile. "Oh, Allan, how nice it is to have you with me again!" "Nice! I should think so; what walks we will have, by the bye. I mean to have Carrie downstairs before a week is over; what is the good of you both moping upstairs? I shall alter all that." "She is too weak too move," I returned, dubiously. "But she is not too weak to be carried. You are keeping her too quiet, and she wants rousing a little; she feeds too much on her own thoughts, and it is bad for her; she is such a little saint, you know," continued Allan, half jestingly, "she wants to be leavened a little with our wickedness. "She is good; you would say so if you heard her." "Not a bit more good than some other people--Miss Ruth, for example;" but I could see from his mischievous eyes that he was not thinking of Ruth. How well and handsome he was looking: he had grown broader, and there was an air of manliness about him--"my bonnie lad," as I called him. I went to bed that night with greater contentment in my heart, because Allan had come home; and even Carrie seemed cheered by the hopeful view he had taken of her case. "He thinks, perhaps, that after some years I may not be quite so helpless," she whispered, as I said good-night to her, and her face looked composed and quiet in the fading firelight; "anyhow, I mean to bear it as well as I can, and not give you more trouble." "I do not think it a trouble," was my answer as her arms released me; and as I lay awake watching the gleaming shadows in the room, I thought how sweet such ministry is to those we love, their very helplessness endearing them to us. After all, this illness had drawn us closer together, we were more now as sisters should be, united in sympathy and growing deeper into each other's hearts. "How pleasant it is to live in unity!" said the Psalmist; and the echo of the words seemed to linger in my mind until I fell asleep. CHAPTER XXI. SANTA CLAUS. After all Allan's sanguine prognostication was not fulfilled. The new year had opened well upon us before Carrie joined the family circle downstairs. But the sickroom was a different place now, when we had Allan's cheery visits to enliven our long evenings. A brighter element seemed introduced into the house. I wondered if Carrie felt as I did! if her heart leaped up with pleasure at the sound of his merry whistle, or the light springing footsteps that seemed everywhere! His vigorous will seemed to dominate over the whole household; he would drag me out peremptorily for what he called wholesome exercise, which meant long, scrambling walks, which sent me home with tingling pulses and exuberant spirits, until the atmosphere of the sick room moderated and subdued them again. He continued to relieve me in many ways; sometimes he would come in upon us in his quick, alert way, and bundle me and my work-basket downstairs, ordering me to talk to mother, while he gave Carrie a dose of his company. Perhaps the change was good for her, for I always fancied she looked less depressed when I saw her again. Our choice of reading displeased him not a little; the religious biographies and sentimental sacred poetry that Carrie specially affected were returned to the bookshelves by our young physician with an unsparing hand; he actually scolded me in no measured terms for what he called my want of sense. "What a goose you are, Esther," he said, in a disgusted voice; "but, there, you women are all alike," continued the youthful autocrat. "You pet one another's morbid fancies, and do no end of harm. Because Carrie wants cheering, you keep her low with all these books, which feed her gloomy ideas. What do you say? she likes it; well, many people like what is not good for them. I tell you she is not in a fit state for this sort of reading, and unless you will abide by my choice of books I will get Uncle Geoffrey to forbid them altogether." Carrie looked ready to cry at this fierce tirade, but I am afraid I only laughed in Allan's face; still, we had to mind him. He set me to work, I remember, on some interesting book of travels, that carried both of us far from Milnthorpe, and set us down in wonderful tropical regions, where we lost ourselves and our troubles in gorgeous descriptions. One evening I came up and found Allan reading the "Merchant of Venice," to her, and actually Carrie was enjoying it. "He reads so well," she said, rather apologetically, as she caught sight of my amused face; she did not like to own even to me that she found it more interesting than listening to Henry Martyn's life. It charmed us both to hear the sound of her soft laugh; and Allan went downstairs well satisfied with the result of his prescription. On Christmas Eve I had a great treat. Ruth wanted me to spend the evening with her; and as she took Carrie into her confidence, she got her way without difficulty. Carrie arranged every thing; mother was to sit with her, and then Allan and Deborah would help her to bed. I was to enjoy myself and have a real holiday, and not come home until Allan fetched me. I had quite a holiday feeling as I put on my new cashmere dress. Ruth had often fetched me for a drive, but I had not been inside the Cedars for months, and the prospect of a long evening there was delicious. Flurry ran out into the hall to meet me, and even Giles' grave face relaxed into a smile as he hoped "Miss Cameron was better;" but Flurry would hardly let me answer, she was so eager to show me the wreaths auntie and she had made, and to whisper that she had hung out a stocking for Santa Claus to fill, and that Santa Claus was going to fill one for Dot too. "Come in, you naughty little chatterbox, and do not keep Esther in the hall," exclaimed Ruth, from the curtained doorway; and the next minute I had my arms round her. Oh, the dear room! how cozy it looked after my months of absence; no other room, not even mother's pretty drawing-room at Combe Manor, was so entirely to my taste. There was the little square tea-table, as usual, and the dark blue china cups and saucers, and the wax candles in their silver sconces, and white china lamp, and the soft glow of the ruddy firelight playing into the dim corner. Ruth drew up the low rocking chair, and took off my hat and jacket, and smoothed my hair. "How nice you look Esther, and what a pretty dress! Is that Allan's present? But you are still very thin, my dear. "Oh, I am all right," I returned, carelessly, for what did it matter how I looked, now Carrie was better? "Dear Ruth," I whispered, as she still stood beside me, "I can think of nothing but the pleasure of being with you again." "I hope you mean to include me in that last speech," said a voice behind me; and there was Mr. Lucas standing laughing at us. He had come through the curtained doorway unheard, and I rose in some little confusion to shake hands. To my surprise, he echoed Miss Ruth's speech; but then he had not seen me for three months. I had been through so much since we last met. "What have they been doing to you, my poor child?" Those were actually his words, and his eyes rested on my face with quite a grieved, pitying expression. "Allan told me I was rather unsubstantial-looking," I returned, trying to speak lightly; but somehow the tears came to my eyes. "I was so tired before he came home, but now I am getting rested." "I wonder at Dr. Cameron letting a child like you work so hard," he retorted, quite abruptly. He had called me child twice, and I was eighteen and a half, and feeling so old--so old. I fancy Ruth saw my lip quiver, for she hastily interposed: "Let her sit down, Giles, and I will give her some tea. She looks as cold as a little starved robin." And after that no one spoke again of my altered looks. It troubled me for a few minutes, and then it passed out of my mind. After all, it could not be helped if I were a little thin and worn. The strain of those three months had been terrible; the daily spectacle of physical suffering before my eyes, the wakeful nights, the long monotonous days, and then the shock of knowing that Carrie must be a cripple, had all been too much for me. We talked about it presently, while Flurry sat like a mouse at my feet, turning over the pages of a new book of fairy tales. The kind sympathy they both showed me broke down the barrier of my girlish reserve, and I found comfort in speaking of the dreary past. I did not mind Mr. Lucas in the least: he showed such evident interest in all I told them. After dinner he joined us again in the drawing-room, instead of going as usual for a short time to his study. "When are you coming back to stay with us?" he asked, suddenly, as he stirred the logs until they emitted a shower of sparks. "Yes," echoed his sister, "Carrie is so much better now that we think it is high time for you to resume your duties; poor Flurry has been neglected enough." My answer was simply to look at them both; the idea of renewing work had never occurred to me; how could Carrie spare me? And yet ought I not to do my part all the more, now she was laid by? For a moment the sense of conflicting duties oppressed me. "Please do not look pale over it," observed Mr. Lucas, kindly; "but you do not mean, I suppose, to be always chained to your sister's couch? That will do neither of you any good." "Oh, no, I must work, of course," I returned, breathlessly. "Carrie will not be able to do anything, so it is the more necessary for me, but not yet--not until we have her downstairs." "Then we will give you three weeks' grace," observed Mr. Lucas, coolly. "It is as you say, with your usual good sense, absolutely necessary that one of you should work; and as Flurry has been without a governess long enough, we shall expect you to resume your duties in three weeks' time." I was a little perplexed by this speech, it was so dignified and peremptory; but looking up I could see a little smile breaking out at the corner of his mouth. Ruth too seemed amused. "Very well," I returned in the same voice; "I must be punctual, or I shall expect my dismissal." "Of course you must be punctual," he retorted; and the subject dropped, but I perceived he was in earnest under his jesting way. Flurry's governess was wanted back, that was clear. As for me, the mere notion of resuming my daily work at the Cedars was almost too delightful to contemplate. I had an odd idea, that missing them all had something to do with my sober feelings. I felt it when I went up to kiss Flurry in her little bed; the darling child was lying awake for me. She made me lie down on the bed beside her, and hugged me close with her warm arms, and her hair fell over my face like a veil, and then prattled to me about Santa Claus and the wonderful gifts she expected. "Will Santa Claus bring you anything, Esther?" "Not much, I fear," was my amused answer. We were rather a gift-loving family, and at Combe Manor our delight had been to load the breakfast table on Christmas day with presents for every member of the family, including servants; but of course now our resources were limited, and I expected few presents; but in my spare time I had contrived a few surprises in the shape of work. A set of embroidered baby linen for Flurry's best doll, dainty enough for a fairy baby; a white fleecy shawl for mother, and another for Carrie, and a chair-back for Ruth; she was fond of pretty things, but I certainly did not look for much in return. Allan had brought me that pretty dress from London, and another for Carrie, and he had not Fortunatus' purse, poor fellow! "I have got a present for you," whispered Flurry, and I could imagine how round and eager her eyes were; I think with a little encouragement she would have told me what it was; but I assured her that I should enjoy the surprise. "It won't keep you awake trying to guess, will it?" she asked, anxiously; and when I said no, she seemed a little disappointed. "Dot has got one too," she observed, presently; but I knew all about that. Dot was laboriously filling an album with his choicest works of art. His fingers were always stained with paint or Indian ink at meal times, and if I unexpectedly entered the room, I could see a square-shaped book being smuggled away under the tablecloth. I think these sudden rushes were rather against the general finish of the pictures, causing in some places an unsightly smudge or a blotchy appearance. In one page the Tower of Babel was disfigured by this very injudicious haste, and the bricks and the builders were wholly indistinguishable for a sad blotch of ochre; still, the title page made up for all such defects: "To my dear sister, Esther, from her affectionate little brother, Frankie." "Aunt Ruth has one, too," continued Flurry; but at this point I thought it better to say good-night. As it was, I found Allan had been waiting for me nearly half-an-hour, and pretended to growl at me for my dawdling, though in reality he was thoroughly enjoying his talk with Ruth. Carrie was awake when I entered the room; she was lying watching the fire. She welcomed me with her sweetest smile, and though I fancied her cheek was wet as I kissed it, her voice was very tranquil. "Have you had a pleasant evening, Esther?" "Very pleasant. Have you missed me very much, darling?" "I always miss you," she replied, gently; "but Allan has done his best to make the time pass quickly. And then dear mother was so good; she has been sitting with me ever so long; we have had such a nice talk. Somehow I begin to feel as if I had never known what mother was before." I knew Carrie wanted to tell me all about it, but I pretended I was tired, and that it was time to be asleep. So she said no more; she was submissive to us even in trifles now; and very soon I heard the sound of her soft, regular breathing. As for me, I laid wide awake for hours; my evening had excited me. The thought of resuming my happy duties at the Cedars pleased and exhilarated me. How kind and thoughtful they had been for my comfort, how warmly I had been welcomed! I fell to sleep at last, and dreamed that Santa Claus had brought me a mysterious present. The wrappers were so many that Deborah woke me before I reached the final. I remember I had quite a childish feeling of disappointment when my pleasant dream was broken. What a Christmas morning that was! Outside the trees were bending with hoar frost, a scanty whiteness lay on the lawn, and the soft mysterious light of coming snow seemed to envelope everything. Inside the fire burned ruddily, and Carrie lay smiling upon her pillows, with a little parcel in her outstretched hands. I thought of my unfinished dream, and told it to her as I unfolded the silver paper that wrapped the little box. "Oh, Carrie!" I exclaimed, for there was her little amethyst cross and beautiful filagree chain; that had been father's gift to her, the prettiest ornament she possessed, and that had been my secret admiration for years. "I want you to have it," she said, smiling, well pleased at my astonished face. "I can never wear it again, Esther; the world and I have parted company. I shall like to see you in it. I wish it were twice as good; I wish it were of priceless value, for nothing is too good for my dear little sister." I was very near crying over the little box, and Carrie was praising the thickness and beauty of her shawl, when in came Dot, with his scrap-book under his arm, and Jack, with a wonderful pen-wiper she had concocted, with a cat and kitten she had marvelously executed in gray cloth. Nor was this all. Downstairs a perfect array of parcels was grouped round my plate. There was a book from Allan, and a beautiful little traveling desk from Uncle Geoffrey. Mother had been searching in her jewel case, and had produced a pearl-ring, which she presented to me with many kisses. But the greatest surprise of all was still in store for me. Flurry's gift proved to be a very pretty little photograph of herself and Flossy, set in a velvet frame. Ruth's was an ivory prayer-book: but beside it lay a little parcel, directed in Mr. Lucas' handwriting, and a note inside begging me to accept a slight tribute of his gratitude. I opened it with a trembling hand, and there was an exquisite little watch, with a short gold chain attached to it--a perfect little beauty, as even Allan declared it to be. I was only eighteen, and I suppose most girls would understand my rapture at the sight. Until now a silver watch with a plain black guard had been my only possession; this I presented to Jack on the spot, and was in consequence nearly hugged to death. "How kind, how kind!" was all I could say; and mother seemed nearly as pleased as I was. As for Uncle Geoffrey and Allan, they took it in an offhand and masculine fashion. "Very proper, very prettily done," remarked Uncle Geoffrey, approvingly. "You see he has reason to be grateful to you, my dear, and Mr. Lucas is just the man to acknowledge it in the most fitting way." "I always said he was a brick," was Allan's unceremonious retort. "It is no more than he ought to have done, for your pluckiness saved Flurry." But to their surprise I turned on them with hot cheeks. "I have done nothing, it is all their kindness and goodness to me: it is far too generous. How ever shall I thank him?" And then I snatched up my treasure, and ran upstairs to show it to Carrie; and I do not think there was a happier girl that Christmas morning than Esther Cameron. The one drawback to my pleasure was--how I was to thank Mr. Lucas? But I was spared this embarrassment, for he and Flurry waited after service in the porch for us, and walked down High street. He came to my side at once with a glimmer of fun in his grave eyes. "Well, Miss Esther, has Santa Claus been good to you? or has he taken too great a liberty?" "Oh, Mr. Lucas," I began, in a stammering fashion, but he held up his hand peremptorily. "Not a word, not a syllable, if you please; the debt is all on my side, and you do not fancy it can be paid in such a paltry fashion. I am glad you are not offended with me, that is all." And then he proceeded to ask kindly after Carrie. His manner set me quite at my ease, and I was able to talk to him as usual. Dot was at the window watching for our approach. He clapped his hands delightedly at the sight of Mr. Lucas and Flurry. "I suppose I must come in a moment to see my little friend," he said, in a kindly voice, and in another moment he was comfortably seated in our parlor with Dot climbing on his knee. I never remember a happier Christmas till then, though, thank God, I have known still happier ones since. True, Carrie could not join the family gathering downstairs; but after the early dinner we all went up to her room, and sat in a pleasant circle round the fire. Only Fred was missing; except the dear father who lay in the quiet churchyard near Combe Manor; but we had bright, satisfactory letters from him, and hoped that on the whole he was doing well. We talked of him a good deal, and then it was that Dot announced his grand purpose of being an artist. "When I am a man," he finished, in a serious voice, "I mean to work harder than Fred, and paint great big pictures, and perhaps some grand nobleman will buy them of me." "I wonder what your first subject will be, Frankie?" asked Allan, in a slightly amused voice. He was turning over Dot's scrap-book, and was looking at the Tower of Babel in a puzzled way. "The Retreat of the Ten Thousand under Xenophon," was the perfectly startling answer, at which Allan opened his eyes rather widely, and Uncle Geoffrey laughed. Dot looked injured and a little cross. "People always laugh when I want to talk sense," he said, rather loftily. "Never mind, Frankie, we won't laugh any more," returned Allan, eager to soothe his favorite; "it is a big subject, but you have plenty of years to work it out in, and after all the grand thing in me is to aim high." Which speech, being slightly unintelligible, mollified Dot's wrath. CHAPTER XXII. ALLAN AND I WALK TO ELTHAM GREEN. The next great event in our family annals was Carrie's first appearance downstairs. Uncle Geoffrey had long wished her to make the effort, but she had made some excuse and put it off from day to day; but at last Allan took it into his head to manage things after his usual arbitrary fashion, and one afternoon he marched into the room, and, quietly lifting Carrie in his arms, as though she were a baby, desired me to follow with, her crutches, while he carried her downstairs. Carrie trembled a good deal, and turned very white, but she offered no remonstrance; and when Allan put her down outside the parlor door, she took her crutches from me in a patient uncomplaining way that touched us both. I always said we ought to have prepared Dot, but Allan would not hear of my telling him; but when the door opened and Carrie entered, walking slowly and painfully, being still unused to her crutches, we were all startled by a loud cry from Dot. "She is like me! Oh, poor, poor Carrie!" cried the little fellow, with a sob; and he broke into such a fit of crying that mother was quite upset. It was in vain we tried to soothe him; that Carrie drew him toward her with trembling arms and kissed him, and whispered that it was God's will, and she did not mind so very much now; he only kept repeating, "She is like me--oh, dear--oh dear! she is like me," in a woe-begone little voice. Dot was so sensitive that I feared the shock would make him ill, but Allan came at last to the rescue. He had been called out of the room for a moment, and came back to find a scene of dire confusion--it took so little to upset mother, and really it was heartbreaking to all of us to see the child's grief. "Hallo, sonny, what's up now?" asked Allan, in a comical voice, lifting up Dot's tear-stained face for a nearer inspection. "Oh, she is like me," gasped Dot; "she has those horrid things, you know; and it's too bad, it's too bad!" he finished, with another choking sob. "Nonsense," returned Allan, with sturdy cheerfulness; "she won't use them always, you silly boy." "Not always!" returned Dot, with a woe-begone, puckered-up face. "Of course not, you little goose--or gander, I mean; she may have to hobble about on them for a year or two, perhaps longer; but Uncle Geoff and I mean to set her all right again--don't we, Carrie?" Carrie's answer was a dubious smile. She did not believe in her own recovery; but to Dot, Allan's words were full of complete comfort. "Oh, I am so glad, I am so glad!" cried the unselfish little creature. "I don't mind a bit for myself; I shouldn't be Dot without my sticks, but it seemed so dreadful for poor Carrie." And then, as she kissed him, with tears in her eyes, he whispered "that she was not to mind, for Allan would soon make her all right: he always did." Carrie tried to be cheerful that evening, but it cost her a great effort. It was hard returning to everyday life, without strength or capacity for its duties, with no bright prospect dawning in the future, only a long, gray horizon of present monotony and suffering. But here the consolation of the Gospel came to her help; the severe test of her faith proved its reality; and her submission and total abnegation of will brought her the truest comfort in her hour of need. Looking back on this part of our lives, I believe Carrie needed just this discipline; like many other earnest workers she made an idol of her work. It cost her months of suffering before she realized that God does not always need our work; that a chastened will is more acceptable to Him than the labor we think so all-sufficient. Sad lesson to poor human pride, that believes so much in its own efforts, and yet that many a one laid by in the vigor of life and work, has to learn so painfully. Oh, hardest of all work, to do nothing while others toil round us, to wait and look on, knowing God's ways are not our ways, that the patient endurance of helplessness is the duty ordained for us! Carrie had to undergo another ordeal the following day, for she was just settled on her couch when Mrs. Smedley entered unannounced. I had never liked Mrs. Smedley; indeed, at one time I was very near hating her; but I could not help feeling sorry for the woman when I saw how her face twitched and worked at the sight of her favorite. Carrie's altered looks must have touched her conscience. Carrie was a little nervous, but she soon recovered herself. "You must not be sorry for me," she said, taking her hand, for actually Mrs. Smedley could hardly speak; tears stood in her hard eyes, and then she motioned to me to leave them together. I never knew what passed between them, but I am sure Mrs. Smedley had been crying when I returned to the room. She rose at once, making some excuse about the lateness of the hour--and then she did what she never had done before--kissed me quite affectionately, and hoped they would soon see me at the vicarage. "There, that is over," said Carrie, as if to herself, in a relieved tone; but she did not seem disposed for any questioning, so I let her close her eyes and think over the interview in silence. The next day was a very eventful one. I had made up my mind to speak to mother and Carrie that morning, and announce my intention of going back to the Cedars. I was afraid it would be rather a blow to Carrie, and I wanted to get it over. In two or three days the three weeks' leave of absence would be over--Ruth would be expecting to hear from me. The old saying, "_L'homme propose, Dieu dispose_," was true in this case. I had little idea that morning, when I came down to breakfast, that all my cherished plans were to be set aside, and all through old Aunt Podgill. Why, I had never thought of her for years; and, as far as I can tell, her name had not been mentioned in our family circle, except on the occasion of dear father's death, when Uncle Geoffrey observed that he or Fred must write to her. She was father's and Uncle Geoffrey's aunt, on their mother's side, but she had quarreled with them when they were mere lads, and had never spoken to them since. Uncle Geoffrey was most in her black books, and she had not deigned to acknowledge his letter. "A cantankerous old woman," I remember he had called her on that occasion, and had made no further effort to propitiate her. It was rather a shock, then, to hear Aunt Podgill's name uttered in a loud voice by Allan, as I entered the room, and my surprise deepened into astonishment to find mother was absolutely crying over a black-edged letter. "Poor Mrs. Podgill is dead," explained Uncle Geoffrey, in rather a subdued voice, as I looked at him. But the news did not affect me much; I thought mother's handkerchief need hardly be applied to her eyes on that account. "That is a pity, of course; but, then, none of us knew her," I remarked, coldly. "She could not have been very nice, from your account, Uncle Geoffrey, so I do not know why we have to be so sorry for her death," for I was as aggrieved as possible at the sight of mother's handkerchief. "Well, she was a cantankerous old woman," began Uncle Geoffrey; and then he checked himself and added, "Heaven forgive me for speaking against the poor old creature now she is dead." "Yes, indeed, I have a great respect for Aunt Podgill," put in Allan; and I thought his voice was rather curious, and there was a repressed mirthful gleam in his eyes, and all the time mother went on crying. "Oh, my dear," she sobbed at last, "I am very foolish to be so overcome; but if it had only come in Frank's--in your father's time, it might--it might have saved him;" and here she broke down. "Ah, to be sure, poor thing!" ejaculated Uncle Geoffrey in a sympathizing tone; "that is what is troubling her; but you must cheer up, Dora, for, as I have always told you, Frank was never meant to be a long-lived man." "What are you all talking about?" I burst out, with vexed impatience. "What has Mrs. Podgill's death to do with father? and why is mother crying? and what makes you all so mysterious and tiresome?" for I was exasperated at the incongruity between mother's tears and Allan's amused face. "Tell her," gasped out mother: and Uncle Geoffrey, clearing his voice, proceeded to be spokesman, only Allan interrupted him at every word. "Why, you see, child, your mother is just a little upset at receiving some good news--" "Battling good news," put in Allan. "It is natural for her, poor thing! to think of your father; but we tell her that if he had been alive things would have shaped themselves differently--" "Of course they would," from that tiresome Allan. "Aunt Podgill, being a cantankerous--I mean a prejudiced--person, would never have forgotten her grudge against your father; but as in our last moments 'conscience makes cowards of us all,' as Shakespeare has it"--Uncle Geoffrey always quoted Shakespeare when he was agitated, and Allan said, "Hear, hear!" softly under his breath--"she could not forget the natural claims of blood; and so, my dear," clearing his throat a little more, "she has left all her little fortune to your mother; and a pretty little penny it is, close upon seven hundred a year, and the furniture besides." "Uncle Geoffrey!" now it was my turn to gasp. Jack and Dot burst out laughing at my astonished face; only Dot squeezed my hand, and whispered, "Isn't it splendid, Essie?" Mother looked at me tearfully. "It is for your sakes I am glad, that my darling girls may not have to work. Carrie can have every comfort now; and you can stay with us, Esther, and we need not be divided any longer." "Hurrah," shouted Dot, waving his spoon over his head; but I only kissed mother without speaking; a strange, unaccountable feeling prevented me. If we were rich--or rather if we had this independence--I must not go on teaching Flurry; my duty was at home with mother and Carrie. I could have beaten myself for my selfishness; but it was true. Humiliating as it is to confess it, my first feeling was regret that my happy days at the Cedars were over. "You do not seem pleased," observed Allan, shrewdly, as he watched me. "I am so profoundly astonished that I am not capable of feeling," I returned hastily; but I blushed a little guiltily. "It is almost too good to believe," he returned. "I never liked the idea of you and Carrie doing anything, and yet it could not be helped; so now you will all be able to stay at home and enjoy yourselves." Mother brightened up visibly at this. "That will be nice, will it not, Esther? And Dot can have his lessons with you as usual. I was so afraid that Miss Ruth would want you back soon, and that Carrie would be dull. How good of your Aunt Podgill to make us all so happy! And if it were not for your father--" and here the dear soul had recourse to her handkerchief again. If I was silent, no one noticed it; every one was so eager in detailing his or her plans for the future. It was quite a relief when the lengthy breakfast was over, and I was free to go and tell Carrie; somehow in the general excitement no one thought of her. I reproached myself still more for my selfishness, and called myself all manner of hard names when I saw the glow of pleasure on her pale face. "Oh, Esther, how nice! How pleased dear mother must be! Now we shall have you all to ourselves, and you need not be spending all your days away from us." How strange! Carrie knew of my warm affection for Ruth and Flurry, and yet it never occurred to her that I should miss my daily intercourse with them. It struck me then how often our nearest and dearest misunderstand or fail to enter into our feelings. The thought recurred to me more than once that morning when I sat at my work listening to the discussion between her and mother. Carrie seemed a different creature that day; the wonderful news had lifted her out of herself, and she rejoiced so fully and heartily in our good fortune that I was still more ashamed of myself, and yet I was glad too. "It seems so wonderful to me, mother," Carrie was saying, in her sweet serious way, "that just when I was laid by, and unable to keep myself or any one else, that this provision should be made for us." "Yes, indeed; and then there is Dot, too, who will never be able to work," observed mother. It was lucky Dot did not hear her, or we might have had a reproachful _resume_ of his artistic intentions. "Dear mother, you need not be anxious any longer over the fortune of your two cripples," returned Carrie, tenderly. "I shall not feel so much a burthen now; and then we shall have Esther to look after us." And they both looked at me in a pleased, affectionate way. What could I do but put down my work and join in that innocent, loving talk? At our early dinner that day Allan seemed a little preoccupied and silent, but toward the close of the meal he addressed me in his off-hand fashion. "I want you to come out with me this afternoon; mother can look after Carrie." "It is a half holiday; may I come too?" added Jack, coaxingly. "Wait till you are asked, Miss Jacky," retorted Allan good-humoredly. "No, I don't want your ladyship's company this afternoon; I must have Esther to myself." And though Jack grumbled and looked discontented, he would not change his decision. I had made up my mind to see Ruth, and tell her all about it; but it never entered my head to dispute Allan's will if he wanted me to walk with him. I must give up Ruth, that was all; and I hurried to put on my things, that I might not keep him waiting, as he possessed his full share of masculine impatience. I thought that he had some plan to propose to me, but to my surprise he only talked about the most trivial subjects--the weather, the state of the roads, the prospects of skating. "Where are we going?" I asked at last, for we were passing the Cedars, and Allan rarely walked in that direction; but perhaps he had a patient to see. "Only to Eltham Green," he returned briefly. The answer was puzzling. Eltham Green was half a mile from the Cedars, and there was only one house there, beside a few scattered cottages; and I knew Uncle Geoffrey's patient, Mr. Anthony Lambert, who lived there, had died about a month ago. As Allan did not seem disposed to be communicative, I let the matter rest, and held my peace; and a few minutes quick walking brought us to the place. It was a little common, very wild and tangled with gorse, and in summer very picturesque. Some elms bordered the road, and there was a large clear-looking pond, and flocks of geese would waddle over the common, hissing and thrusting out their yellow bills to every passer-by. The cottages were pretty and rustic-looking, and had gay little gardens in front. They belonged to Mr. Lucas; and Eltham Cottage, as Mr. Lambert's house was called, was his property also. Flurry and I had always been very fond of the common, where Flossy had often run barking round the pond, after a family of yellow ducklings. "Eltham Cottage is still to let," I observed, looking up at the board; "it is such a pretty house." Allan made no response to that, but bade me enter, as he wanted to look at it. It was a long, two-storied cottage, with a veranda all round it, and in summer a profusion of flowers--roses and clematis, and a splendid passionflower--twined round the pillars and covered the porch. The woman who admitted us ushered us into a charming little hall, with a painted window and a glass door opening on to the lawn. There was a small room on one side of it, and on the other the dining room and drawing-room. The last was a very long, pleasant room, with three windows, all opening French fashion on to the veranda, and another glass door leading into a pretty little conservatory. The garden was small, but very tastefully laid out; but there was a southern wall, where peaches and nectarines were grown, and beehives stood, and some pretty winding walks, which led to snug nooks, where ferns or violets were hidden. "What a sweet place!" I exclaimed, admiringly, at which Allan looked exultant; but he only bade me follow him into the upper rooms. These were satisfactory in every respect. Some were of sunny aspect, and looked over the garden and some large park-like meadows; the front ones commanded the common. "There is not a bad room in the house," said Allan; and then he made me admire the linen-presses and old-fashioned cupboards, and the bright red-tiled kitchen looking out on a laurestinus walk. "It is a dear house!" I exclaimed, enthusiastically, at which Allan looked well-pleased. Then he took me by the arm, and drew me to a little window-seat on the upper landing--a proceeding that reminded me of the days at Combe Manor, when I sat waiting for him, and looking down on the lilies. "I am glad you think so," he said, solemnly; "for I wanted to ask your advice about an idea of mine; it came into my head this morning when we were all talking and planning, that this house would be just the thing for mother." "Allan!" I exclaimed, "you really do not mean to propose that we should leave Uncle Geoffrey?" "No, of course not," with a touch of impatience, for he was always a little hasty if people did not grasp his meaning at once, "but, you, see, houses in Milnthorpe are scarce, and we are rather too tight a fit at present. Besides, it is not quiet enough for Carrie: the noise of the carts and gigs on Monday morning jars her terribly. What I propose is, that you should all settle down here in this pretty countrified little nook, and take Uncle Geoff and Deb with you, and leave Martha and me to represent the Camerons in the old house in the High street." "But, Allan--" I commenced, dubiously, for I did not like the idea of leaving him behind; but he interrupted me, and put his views more forcibly before me. Carrie wanted quiet and country air, and so did Dot, and the conservatory and garden would be such a delight to mother. Uncle Geoffrey would be dull without us, and there was a nice little room that could be fitted up for him and Jumbles; he would drive in to his work every morning and he--Allan--could walk out and see us on two or three evenings in the week. "I must be there, of course, to look after the practice. I am afraid I am cut out for an old bachelor, Esther, like Uncle Geoff, for I do not feel at all dismal at the thought of having a house to myself," finished Allan with his boyish laugh. CHAPTER XXIII. TOLD IN THE SUNSET. What a clever head Allan had! I always said there was more in that boy than half a dozen Freds! To think of such a scheme coming into his mind, and driving us all nearly wild with excitement! Allan's strong will bore down all opposition. Mother's feeble remonstrances, which came from a sheer terror of change; even Uncle Geoffrey's sturdy refusal to budge an inch out of the old house where he had lived so long, did not weigh a straw against Allan's solid reasoning. It took a vast amount of talking, though, before our young autocrat achieved his final victory, and went off flushed and eager to settle preliminaries with Mr. Lucas. It was all sealed, signed, and delivered before he came back. The pretty cottage at Eltham was to be ours, furnished with Aunt Podgill's good old-fashioned furniture, and in the early days of April we were to accomplish our second flitting. The only remaining difficulty was about Jack; but this Uncle Geoffrey solved for us. The gig would bring him into Milnthorpe every morning, and he could easily drive Jack to her school, and the walk back would be good for her. In dark, wintry weather she could return with him, or, if occasion required it, she might be a weekly boarder. Mr. Lucas came back with Allan, and formally congratulated mother on her good fortune. I do not know if it were my fancy, but he seemed a little grave and constrained in his manners that evening, and scarcely addressed me at all until the close of his visit. "Under the circumstances I am afraid Flurry will have to lose her governess," he said, not looking at me, however, but at mother; and though I opened my lips to reply, my mother answered for me. "Well, yes, I am afraid so. Carrie depends so much on her sister." "Of course, of course," he returned, hastily; and actually he never said another word, but got up and said good-by to mother. But I could not let him go without a word after all his kindness to me; so, as Allan had gone out, I followed him out into the hall, though he tried to wave me back. "It is cold; I shall not open the hail door while you stand there, Miss Esther." "Oh, I do not mind the cold one bit," I returned, nervously; "but I want to speak to you a moment, Mr. Lucas. Will you give Ruth my love, and tell her I will come and talk to her to-morrow, and--and I am so sorry to part with Flurry." "You are not more sorry than she will be," he returned, but not in his old natural manner; and then he begged me so decidedly to go back into the warm room that I dared not venture on another word. It was very unsatisfactory; something must have put him out, I thought, and I went back to mother feeling chilled and uncomfortable. Oh, dear! how dependent we are for comfort on the words and manners of those around us. I went to the Cedars the following afternoon, and had a long comfortable talk with Ruth. She even laid aside her usual quiet undemonstrativeness, and petted and made much of me, though she laughed a little at what she called my solemn face. "Confess now, Esther, you are not a bit pleased about all this money!" "Oh, indeed I am," I returned, quite shocked at this. "I am so delighted for mother and Dot and Carrie." "But not for yourself," she persisted. There was no deceiving Ruth, so I made a full confession, and stammered out, in great confusion, that I did not like losing her and Flurry; that it was wrong and selfish, when Carrie wanted me so; but I knew that even at Eltham I should miss the Cedars. She seemed touched at that. "You are a faithful soul, Esther; you never forget a kindness, and you cannot bear even a slight separation from those you love. We have spoiled you, I am afraid." "Yes, indeed," I returned, rather sadly, "you have been far too good to me." "That is a matter of opinion. Well, what am I to say to comfort you, when you find fault with even your good luck? Will it make you any better to know we shall all miss you dreadfully? Even Giles owned as much; and as for Flurry, we had quite a piece of work with her." "Mr. Lucas never even said he was sorry," I returned, in a piqued voice. It was true I was quite spoiled, for I even felt aggrieved that he did not join us in the drawing-room, and yet I knew he was in the house. "Oh, you do not know Giles," she answered, brightly; "he is one of the unselfish ones, he would not have damped what he thought your happiness for the world. You see, Esther, no one in their senses would ever believe that you were really sorry at your stroke of good fortune; it is only I who know you, my dear, that can understand how that is." Did she understand? Did I really understand myself? Anyhow, I felt horribly abashed while she was speaking. I felt I had been conducting myself in an unfledged girlish fashion, and that Ruth, with her staid common sense, was reproving me. I determined then and there that no more foolish expression of regret should cross my lips; that I would keep all such nonsense to myself; so when Flurry ran in very tearful and desponding, I took Ruth's cue, and talked to her as cheerfully as possible, giving her such vivid descriptions of the cottage and the garden, and the dear little honeysuckle arbor where Dot and she could have tea, that she speedily forgot all her regrets in delicious anticipations. "Yes, indeed," observed Ruth, as she benevolently contemplated us, "I expect Flurry and I will be such constant visitors that your mother will complain that there is no end of those tiresome Lucases. Run along, Flurry, and see if your father means to come in and have some tea. Tell him Esther is here." Flurry was a long time gone, and then she brought back a message that her father was too busy, and she might bring him a cup there, and that she was to give his kind regards to Miss Cameron, and that was all. I went home shortly after that, and found mother and Carrie deep in discussion about carpets and curtains. They both said I looked tired and cold, and that Ruth had kept me too long. "I think I am getting jealous of Ruth," Carrie said, with a gentle smile. And somehow the remark did not please me; not that Carrie really meant it, though; but it did strike me sometimes that both mother and she thought that Ruth rather monopolized me. My visits to the Cedars became very rare after this, for we were soon engrossed with the bustle of moving. For more than six weeks I trudged about daily between our house and Eltham Cottage. There were carpets to be fitted, and the furniture to be adapted to each room, and when that was done, Allan and I worked hard in the conservatory; and here Ruth often joined us, bringing with her a rare fern or plant from the well-stocked greenhouses at the Cedars. She used to sit and watch us at our labors, and say sometimes how much she wished she could help us, and sometimes she spent an hour or two with Carrie to make up for my absence. I rather reveled in my hard work, and grew happier every day, and the cottage did look so pretty when we had finished. Ruth was with me all the last afternoon. We lighted fires in all the rooms, and they looked so cozy. The table in the dining-room was spread with Aunt Podgill's best damask linen and her massive old-fashioned silver; and Deborah was actually baking her famous griddle cakes, to the admiration of our new help, Dorcas, before the first fly, with mother and Carrie and Dot, drove up to the door. I shall never forget mother's pleased look as she stood in the little hall, and Carrie's warm kiss as I welcomed them. "How beautiful it all looks!" she exclaimed; "how home-like and bright and cozy; you have managed so well, Esther!" "Esther always manages well," observed dear mother, proudly. The extent to which she believed in me and my resources was astonishing. She followed me all over the house, praising everything. I was glad Ruth heard her, and knew that I had done my best for them all. Allan accompanied the others, and we had quite a merry evening. Ruth stayed to tea. "She was really becoming one of us!" as mother observed; and Allan took her home. We all crowded into the porch to see them off; even Carrie, who was getting quite nimble on her crutches. It was a warm April night; the little common was flooded with moonlight; the spring flowers were sleeping in the white rays, and the limes glistened like silver. Uncle Geoffrey and I walked with them to the gate, while Ruth got into her pony carriage. I did not like saying good-night to Allan; it seemed so strange for him to be going back to the old house alone; but he burst into one of his ringing laughs when I told him so. "Why, I like it," he said, cheerily; "it is good fun being monarch of all I survey. Didn't I tell you I was cut out for an old bachelor? You must come and make tea for me sometimes, when I can't get out here." And then, in a more serious voice, he added, "It does put one into such good spirits to see mother and you girls safe in this pretty nest." I had never been idle; but now the day never seemed long enough for my numerous occupations, and yet they were summer days, too. The early rising was now an enjoyment to me. I used to work in the garden or conservatory before breakfast, and how delicious those hours were when the birds and I had it all to ourselves; and I hardly know which sang the loudest, for I was very happy, very happy indeed, without knowing why. I think this unreasoning and unreasonable happiness is an attribute of youth. I had got over my foolish disappointment about the Cedars. Ruth kept her word nobly, and she and Flurry came perpetually to the cottage. Sometimes I spent an afternoon or evening at the Cedars, and then I always saw Mr. Lucas, and he was most friendly and pleasant. He used to talk of coming down one afternoon to see how I was getting on with my fernery, but it was a long time before he kept his promise. The brief cloud, or whatever it was, had vanished and he was his own genial self. Flurry had not another governess, but Ruth gave her lessons sometimes, and on her bad days her father heard them. It was rather desultory teaching, and I used to shake my head rather solemnly when I heard of it; but Ruth always said that Giles wished it to be so for the present. The child was not strong, and was growing fast, and it would not hurt her to run wild a little. When breakfast was over, Dot and I worked hard; and in the afternoon I generally read to Carrie; she was far less of an invalid now, and used to busy herself with work for the poor while she lay on her couch and listened. She used to get mother to help her sometimes, and then Carrie would look so happy as she planned how this garment was to be for old Nanny Stables, and the next for her little grandson Jemmy. With returning strength came the old, unselfish desire to benefit others. It put her quite into spirits one day when Mrs. Smedley asked her to cover some books for the Sunday school. "How good of her to think of it; it is just work that I can do!" she said, gratefully; and for the rest of the day she looked like the old Carrie again. Allan came to see us nearly every evening. Oh, those delicious summer evenings! how vividly even now they seem to rise before me, though many, many happy years lie between me and them. Somehow it had grown a sort of habit with us to spend them on the common. Mother loved the sweet fresh air, and would sit for hours among the furze bushes and gorse, knitting placidly, and watching the children at their play, or the cottagers at work in their gardens; and Uncle Geoffrey, in his old felt hat, would sit beside her, reading the papers. Allan used to tempt Carrie for a stroll over the common; and when she was tired he and Jack and I would saunter down some of the long country lanes, sometimes hunting for glow-worms in the hedges, sometimes extending our walk until the moon shone over the silent fields, and the night became sweet and dewy, and the hedgerows glimmered strangely in the uncertain light. How cozy our little drawing-room always looked on our return! The lamp would be lighted on the round table, and the warm perfume of flowers seemed to steep the air with fragrance; sometimes the glass door would lie open, and gray moths come circling round the light, and outside lay the lawn, silvered with moonlight. Allan used to leave us regretfully to go back to the old house at Milnthorpe; he said we were such a snug party. When Carrie began to visit the cottages and to gather the children round her couch on Sunday afternoons, I knew she was her old self again. Day by day her sweet face grew calmer and happier; her eyes lost their sad wistful expression, and a little color touched her wan cheeks. Truly she often suffered much, and her lameness was a sad hindrance in the way of her usefulness; but her hands were always busy, and on her well days she spent hours in the cottages reading to two or three old people, or instructing the younger ones. It was touching to see her so thankful for the fragments of work that still fell to her share, content to take the humblest task, if she only might give but "a cup of cold water to one of these little ones;" and sometimes I thought how dearly the Good Shepherd must love the gentle creature who was treading her painful life-path so lovingly and patiently. I often wondered why Mr. Lucas never kept his promise of coming to see us; but one evening when Jack and Allan and I returned from our stroll we found him sitting talking to mother and Uncle Geoffrey. I was so surprised at his sudden appearance that I dropped some of the flowers I held in my hand, and he laughed as he helped me to pick them up. "I hope I haven't startled you," he said, as we shook hands. "No--that is--I never expected to see you here this evening," I returned, rather awkwardly. "Take off your hat, Esther," said mother, in an odd tone; and I thought she looked flushed and nervous, just as she does when she wants to cry. "Mr. Lucas has promised to have supper with us, and, my dear, he wants you to show him the conservatory and the fernery." It was still daylight, though the sun was setting fast; we had returned earlier than usual, for Allan had to go back to Milnthorpe, and he bade us goodnight hastily as I prepared to obey mother. Jack followed us, but mother called her back, and asked her to go to one of the cottages and fetch Carrie home. Such a glorious sunset met our eyes as we stepped out on the lawn; the clouds were a marvel of rose and violet and golden splendor; the windows of the cottage were glittering with the reflected beams, and a delicious scent of lilies was in the air. Mr. Lucas seemed in one of his grave moods, for he said very little until we reached the winding walk where the ferns were, and then---- I am not going to repeat what he said; such words are too sacred; but it came upon me with the shock of a thunderbolt what he had been telling mother, and what he was trying to make me understood, for I was so stupid that I could not think what he meant by asking me to the Cedars, and when he saw that, he spoke more plainly. "You must come back, Esther; we cannot do without you any longer," he continued very gently, "not as Flurry's governess, but as her mother, and as my wife." He was very patient with me, when he saw how the suddenness and the wonder of it all upset me, that a man like Mr. Lucas could love me, and be so clever and superior and good. How could such a marvelous thing have happened? And mother knew it, and Uncle Geoffrey, for Mr. Lucas had taken advantage of my absence to speak to them both, and they had given him leave to say this to me. Well, there could be no uncertainty in my answer. I already reverenced and venerated him above other men, and the rest came easy, and before we returned to the house the first strangeness and timidity had passed; I actually asked him--summoning up all my courage, however--how it was he could think of me, a mere girl without beauty, or cleverness, or any of the ordinary attractions of girlhood. "I don't know," he answered, and I knew by his voice he was smiling; "it has been coming on a long time; when people know you they don't think you plain, Esther, and to me you can never be so. I first knew what I really felt when I came out of the room that dreadful night, and saw you standing with drenched hair and white face, with Dot in your arms and my precious Flurry clinging to your dress; when I saw you tottering and caught you. I vowed then that you, and none other, should replace Flurry's dead mother;" and when he had said this I asked no more. CHAPTER XXIV. RINGING THE CHANGES. When Mr. Lucas took me to mother, she kissed me and shed abundance of tears. "Oh, my darling, if only your poor father could know of this," she whispered; and when Uncle Geoffrey's turn came he seemed almost as touched. "What on earth are we to do without you, child?" he grumbled, wiping his eye-glasses. "There, go along with you. If ever a girl deserved a good husband and got it, you are the one." "Yes, indeed," sighed mother; "Esther is every one's right hand." But Mr. Lucas sat down by her side and said something so kind and comforting that she soon grew more cheerful, and I went up to Carrie. She was resting a little in the twilight, and I knelt down beside her and hid my face on her shoulder, and now the happy tears would find a vent. "Why, Esther--why, my dear, what does this mean?" she asked, anxiously; and then, with a sudden conviction dawning on her, she continued in an excited voice--"Mr. Lucas is here; he has been saying something, he--he----" And then I managed somehow to stammer out the truth. "I am so happy; but you will miss me so dreadfully, darling, and so will Dot and mother." But Carrie took me in her arms and silenced me at once. "We are all happy in your happiness; you shall not shed a tear for us--not one. Do you know how glad I am, how proud I feel that he should think so highly of my precious sister! Where is he? Let me get up, that I may welcome my new brother. So you and your dear Ruth will be sisters," she said, rallying me in her gentle way, and that made me smile and blush. How good Carrie was that evening! Mr. Lucas was quite touched by her few sweet words of welcome, and mother looked quite relieved at the sight of her bright face. "What message am I to take to Ruth?" he said to me, as we stood together in the porch later on that evening. "Give her my dear love, and ask her to come to me," was my half-whispered answer; and as I went to bed that night Carrie's words rang in my ears like sweetest music--"You and Ruth will be sisters." But it was Allan who was my first visitor. Directly Uncle Geoffrey told him what had happened, he put on his broad-brimmed straw hat, and leaving Uncle Geoffrey to attend to the patients, came striding down to the cottage. He had burst open the door and caught hold of me before I could put down Dot's lesson book. The little fellow looked up amazed at his radiant face. "What a brick you are, Esther, and what a brick he is!" fairly hugging me. "I never was so pleased at anything in my life. Hurrah for Mr. Lucas at the Cedars!" and Allan threw up his hat and caught it. No wonder Dot looked mystified. "What does he mean?" asked the poor child; "and how hot you look, Essie." "Listen to me, Frankie," returned Allan, sitting down by Dot. "The jolliest thing in the world has happened. Esther has made her fortune; she is going to have a good husband and a rich husband, and one we shall all like, Dot; and not only that, but she will have a dear little daughter as well." Dot fairly gasped as he looked at us both, and then he asked me rather piteously if Allan was telling him a funny story to make him laugh. "Oh, no, dear Dot," I whispered, bringing my face on a level with his, and bravely disregarding Allan's quizzical looks. "It is quite true, darling, although it is so strange I hardly know how to believe it myself. But one day I am going to the Cedars." "To live there? to leave us? Oh, Essie!" And Dot's eyes grew large and mournful. "Mr. Lucas wants me, and Flurry. Oh, my darling, forgive me!" as a big tear rolled down his cheek. "I shall always love you, Dot; you will not lose me. Oh, dear! oh dear! what am I to say to him, Allan?" "You will not love me the most any longer, Essie." And as I took him in my arms and kissed him passionately his cheek felt wet against mine. "Oh, Frankie, fie for shame!" interrupted Allan. "You have made Esther cry, and just now, when she was so happy. I did not think you were so selfish." But I would not let him go on. I knew where the pain lay. Dot was jealous for the first time in his life, and for a long time he refused to be comforted. Allan left us together by-and-by, and I took my darling on my lap and listened to his childish exposition of grief and the recital of grievances that were very real to him. How Flurry would always have me, and he (Dot) would be dull and left out in the cold. How Mr. Lucas was a very nice man; but he was so old, and he did not want him for a brother--indeed, he did not want a brother at all. He had Allan and that big, stupid Fred--for Dot, for once in his sweet life, was decidedly cross. And then he confided to me that he loved Carrie very much, but not half so well as he loved me. He wished Mr. Lucas had taken her instead. She was very nice and very pretty, and all that, and why hadn't he? But here I thought it high time to interpose. "But, Dot, I should not have liked that at all. And I am so happy," I whispered. "You love him--that old, old man, Essie!" in unmitigated astonishment. "He is not old at all," I returned, indignantly; for, in spite of his iron-gray hair, Mr. Lucas could hardly be forty, and was still a young-looking man. Dot gave a wicked little smile at that. In his present mood he rather enjoyed vexing me. I got him in a better frame of mind by-and-by. I hardly knew what I said, but I kissed him, and cried and told him how unhappy he made me, and how pleased mother and Carrie and Jack were; and after that he left off saying sharp things, and treated me to a series of penitent hugs, and promised that he would not be cross with "my little girl" Flurry; for after that day he always persisted in calling her "my little girl." Dot had been a little exhausting, so I went down to the bench near the fernery to cool myself and secure a little quiet, and there Ruth found me. I saw her coming over the grass with outstretched hands, and such a smile on her dear face; and though I was so shy that I could scarcely greet her, I could feel by the way she kissed me how glad--how very glad--she was. "Dear Esther! My dear new sister!" she whispered. "Oh, Ruth, is it true?" I returned, blushing. "Last night it seemed real, but this morning I feel half in a dream. It will do me good to know that you are really pleased about this." "Can you doubt it, dearest?" she returned, reproachfully. "Have you not grown so deep into our hearts that we cannot tear you out if you would? You are necessary to all of us, Esther--to Flurry and me as to Giles----" But I put my hand on her lips to stop her. It was sweet, and yet it troubled me to know what he thought of me; but Ruth would not be stopped. "He came home so proud and happy last night. 'She has accepted me, Ruth,' he said, in such a pleased voice, and then he told me what you had said about being so young and inexperienced." "That was my great fear," I replied, in a low voice. "Your youth is a fault that will mend," she answered, quaintly. "I wish I could remember Giles' rhapsody--'So true, so unselfish, so womanly and devoted.' By-the-by, I have forgotten to give you his message; he will be here this afternoon with Flurry." We talked more soberly after a time, and the sweet golden forenoon wore away as we sat there looking at the cool green fronds of the ferns before us, with mother's bees humming about the roses. There was summer over the land and summer in my heart, and above us the blue open sky of God's Providence enfolding us. I was tying up the rose in the porch, when I saw Mr. Lucas and Flurry crossing the common. Dot, who was helping me, grew a little solemn all at once. "Here is your little girl, Essie," he said very gravely. My dear boy, how could he? "Oh, Esther," she panted, for she had broken away from her father at the sight of us, "auntie has told me you are going to be my own mamma, in place of poor mamma who died. I shall call you mammy. I was lying awake ever so long last night, thinking which name it should be, and I like that best." "You shall call me what you like, dear Flurry; but I am only Esther now." "Yes, but you will be mammy soon," she returned, nodding her little head sagely. "Mamma was such a grand lady; so big and handsome, she was older, too--" But here Mr. Lucas interrupted us. Dot received him in a very dignified manner. "How do you do?" he said, putting out his mite of a hand, in such an old-fashioned way. I could see Mr. Lucas' lip curl with secret amusement, and then he took the little fellow in his arms. "What is the matter, Dot? You do not seem half pleased to see me this afternoon. I suppose you are very angry with me for proposing to take Esther away. Don't you want an old fellow like me to be your brother?" Dot's face grew scarlet. Truth and politeness were sadly at variance, but at last he effected a compromise. "Esther says you are not so very old, after all," he stammered. "Oh, Esther says that, does she?" in an amused voice. "Father is not old at all," interrupted Flurry, in a cross voice. "Never mind, so that Esther is satisfied," returned Mr. Lucas, soothingly; "but as Flurry is going to be her little girl, you must be my little boy, eh, Dot?" "I am Esther's and Allan's little boy," replied Dot, rather ungraciously. We had spoiled our crippled darling among us, and had only ourselves to blame for his little tempers. "Yes, but you must be mine too," he replied, still more gently; and then he whispered something into his ear. I saw Dot's sulky countenance relax, and a little smile chase away his frown, and in another moment his arms closed round Mr. Lucas' neck; the reconciliation was complete. What a happy autumn that was! But November found us strangely busy, for we were preparing for my wedding. We were married on New Year's Day, when the snow lay on the ground. A quiet, a very quiet wedding, it was. I was married in my traveling dress, at Giles' expressed wish, and we drove straight from the church door to the station, for we were to spend the first few weeks in Devonshire. Dear Jessie, my old schoolmate, was my only bridesmaid; for Carrie would not hear of fulfilling that office on her crutches. I have a vague idea that the church was very full and I have a misty recollection of Dot, with very round eyes, standing near Allan; but I can recall no more, for my thoughts were engaged by the solemn vows we were exchanging. Three weeks afterward, and we were settled in the house that was to be mine for so many happy years; but never shall I forget the sweetness of that home-coming. Dear Ruth welcomed us on the threshold, and then took my hand and Giles' and led us into the bright firelit room. Two little faces peeped at us from the curtained recess, and these were Dot and Flurry. I had them both in my arms at once. I would not let Giles have Flurry at first till he threatened to take Dot. Oh, how happy we were. Ruth made tea for us, and I sat in my favorite low chair. The children scrambled up on Giles' knee, and he peeped at me between their eager faces; but I was quite content to let them engross him; it was pleasure enough for me to watch them. "Why, how grand you look, Essie!" Dot said at last. "Your fingers are twinkling with green and white stones, and your dress rustles like old Mrs. Jameson's." "'And she shall walk in silk attire, And silver have to spare,'" sang Giles. "Never mind Dot, Esther. Your brave attire suits you well." "She looks very nice," put in Ruth, softly; "but she is our dear old Esther all the same." "Nonsense, auntie," exclaimed Flurry, in her sharp little voice. "She is not Esther any longer; she is my dear new mammy." At which we all laughed. I was always mammy to Flurry, though my other darlings called me mother; for before many years were over I had Dots of my own--dear little fat Winnie, her brother Harold, and baby Geoffrey--to whom Ruth was always "auntie," or "little auntie," as my mischievous Harold called her. As the years passed on there were changes at Eltham Cottage--some of them sad and some of them pleasant, after the bitter-sweet fashions of life. The first great sorrow of my married life was dear mother's death. She failed a little after Harold's birth, and, to my great grief, she never saw my baby boy, Geoffrey. A few months before he came into the world she sank peacefully and painlessly to rest. Fred came up to the funeral, and stayed with Allan; he had grown a long beard, and looked very manly and handsome. His pictures were never accepted by the hanging committee; and after a few years he grew tired of his desultory work, and thankfully accepted a post Giles had procured for him in the Colonies. After this he found his place in life, and settled down, and when we last heard from him he was on the eve of marriage with a Canadian girl. He sent us her photograph, and both Giles and I approved of the open, candid face and smiling brown eyes, and thought Fred had done well for himself. Allan was a long time making his choice; but at last it fell on our new vicar's daughter, Emily Sherbourne; for, three years after our marriage, Mr. Smedley had been attacked by sudden illness, which carried him off. How pleased I was when Allan told me that he and Emmie had settled it between them. She was such a sweet girl; not pretty, but with a lovable, gentle face, and she had such simple kindly manners, so different from the girls of the present day, who hide their good womanly hearts under such abrupt loud ways. Emily, or, as we always called her, Emmie, was not clever, but she suited Allan to a nicety. She was wonderfully amiable, and bore his little irritabilities with the most placid good humor; nothing put her out, and she believed in him with a credulity that amused Allan largely; but he was very proud of her, and they made the happiest couple in the world, with the exception of Giles and me. Carrie lost her lameness, after all; but not until she had been up to London and had undergone skillful treatment under the care of a very skillful physician. I shall always remember Dot's joy when she took her first walk without her crutches. She came down to the Cedars with Jack, now a fine well-grown girl, and I shall never forget her sweet April face of smiles and tears. "How good God has been to me, Essie," she whispered, as we sat together under the cedar tree, while Jack ran off for her usual romp with Winnie and Harold. "I have just had to lie quiet until I learned the lesson He wanted me to learn years ago, and now He is making me so happy, and giving me back my work." It was just so; Carrie had come out of her painful ordeal strengthened and disciplined, and fit to teach others. No longer the weak, dreamy girl who stretched out over-eager hands for the work God in His wise providence withheld from her, she had emerged from her enforced retirement a bright helpful woman, who carried about her a secret fund of joy, of which no earthly circumstances could deprive her. "My sweet sister Charity," Allan called her, and the poor of Milnthorpe had reason to bless her; for early and late she labored among them, tending the sick and dying, working often at Allan's side among his poorer patients. At home she was Uncle Geoffrey's comfort, and a most sweet companion for him and Jack. As for Dot, he lived almost entirely at the Cedars. Giles had grown very fond of him, and we neither of us could spare him. They say he will always be a cripple; but what does that matter, when he spends day after day so happily in the little room Giles has fitted up for him? We believe, after all, Dot will be an artist. He has taken a lifelike portrait of my Harold that has delighted Giles, and he vows that he shall have all the advantages he can give him; for Giles is very rich--so rich that I almost tremble at the thought of our responsibilities; only I know my husband is a faithful steward, and makes a good use of his talents. Carrie is his almoner, and sometimes I work with her. There are some almshouses which Giles is building in which I take great interest, and where I mean to visit the old people, with Winnie trotting by my side. Just now Giles came in heated and tired. "What, little wife, still scribbling?" "Wait a moment, dear Giles," I replied. "I have just finished." And so I have--the few scanty recollections of Esther Cameron's life. THE END. 
7118	----	and revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D. WHAT MAISIE KNEW by HENRY JAMES The litigation seemed interminable and had in fact been complicated; but by the decision on the appeal the judgement of the divorce-court was confirmed as to the assignment of the child. The father, who, though bespattered from head to foot, had made good his case, was, in pursuance of this triumph, appointed to keep her: it was not so much that the mother's character had been more absolutely damaged as that the brilliancy of a lady's complexion (and this lady's, in court, was immensely remarked) might be more regarded as showing the spots. Attached, however, to the second pronouncement was a condition that detracted, for Beale Farange, from its sweetness--an order that he should refund to his late wife the twenty-six hundred pounds put down by her, as it was called, some three years before, in the interest of the child's maintenance and precisely on a proved understanding that he would take no proceedings: a sum of which he had had the administration and of which he could render not the least account. The obligation thus attributed to her adversary was no small balm to Ida's resentment; it drew a part of the sting from her defeat and compelled Mr. Farange perceptibly to lower his crest. He was unable to produce the money or to raise it in any way; so that after a squabble scarcely less public and scarcely more decent than the original shock of battle his only issue from his predicament was a compromise proposed by his legal advisers and finally accepted by hers. His debt was by this arrangement remitted to him and the little girl disposed of in a manner worthy of the judgement-seat of Solomon. She was divided in two and the portions tossed impartially to the disputants. They would take her, in rotation, for six months at a time; she would spend half the year with each. This was odd justice in the eyes of those who still blinked in the fierce light projected from the tribunal--a light in which neither parent figured in the least as a happy example to youth and innocence. What was to have been expected on the evidence was the nomination, _in loco parentis_, of some proper third person, some respectable or at least some presentable friend. Apparently, however, the circle of the Faranges had been scanned in vain for any such ornament; so that the only solution finally meeting all the difficulties was, save that of sending Maisie to a Home, the partition of the tutelary office in the manner I have mentioned. There were more reasons for her parents to agree to it than there had ever been for them to agree to anything; and they now prepared with her help to enjoy the distinction that waits upon vulgarity sufficiently attested. Their rupture had resounded, and after being perfectly insignificant together they would be decidedly striking apart. Had they not produced an impression that warranted people in looking for appeals in the newspapers for the rescue of the little one--reverberation, amid a vociferous public, of the idea that some movement should be started or some benevolent person should come forward? A good lady came indeed a step or two: she was distantly related to Mrs. Farange, to whom she proposed that, having children and nurseries wound up and going, she should be allowed to take home the bone of contention and, by working it into her system, relieve at least one of the parents. This would make every time, for Maisie, after her inevitable six months with Beale, much more of a change. "More of a change?" Ida cried. "Won't it be enough of a change for her to come from that low brute to the person in the world who detests him most?" "No, because you detest him so much that you'll always talk to her about him. You'll keep him before her by perpetually abusing him." Mrs. Farange stared. "Pray, then, am I to do nothing to counteract his villainous abuse of ME?" The good lady, for a moment, made no reply: her silence was a grim judgement of the whole point of view. "Poor little monkey!" she at last exclaimed; and the words were an epitaph for the tomb of Maisie's childhood. She was abandoned to her fate. What was clear to any spectator was that the only link binding her to either parent was this lamentable fact of her being a ready vessel for bitterness, a deep little porcelain cup in which biting acids could be mixed. They had wanted her not for any good they could do her, but for the harm they could, with her unconscious aid, do each other. She should serve their anger and seal their revenge, for husband and wife had been alike crippled by the heavy hand of justice, which in the last resort met on neither side their indignant claim to get, as they called it, everything. If each was only to get half this seemed to concede that neither was so base as the other pretended, or, to put it differently, offered them both as bad indeed, since they were only as good as each other. The mother had wished to prevent the father from, as she said, "so much as looking" at the child; the father's plea was that the mother's lightest touch was "simply contamination." These were the opposed principles in which Maisie was to be educated--she was to fit them together as she might. Nothing could have been more touching at first than her failure to suspect the ordeal that awaited her little unspotted soul. There were persons horrified to think what those in charge of it would combine to try to make of it: no one could conceive in advance that they would be able to make nothing ill. This was a society in which for the most part people were occupied only with chatter, but the disunited couple had at last grounds for expecting a time of high activity. They girded their loins, they felt as if the quarrel had only begun. They felt indeed more married than ever, inasmuch as what marriage had mainly suggested to them was the unbroken opportunity to quarrel. There had been "sides" before, and there were sides as much as ever; for the sider too the prospect opened out, taking the pleasant form of a superabundance of matter for desultory conversation. The many friends of the Faranges drew together to differ about them; contradiction grew young again over teacups and cigars. Everybody was always assuring everybody of something very shocking, and nobody would have been jolly if nobody had been outrageous. The pair appeared to have a social attraction which failed merely as regards each other: it was indeed a great deal to be able to say for Ida that no one but Beale desired her blood, and for Beale that if he should ever have his eyes scratched out it would be only by his wife. It was generally felt, to begin with, that they were awfully good-looking--they had really not been analysed to a deeper residuum. They made up together for instance some twelve feet three of stature, and nothing was more discussed than the apportionment of this quantity. The sole flaw in Ida's beauty was a length and reach of arm conducive perhaps to her having so often beaten her ex-husband at billiards, a game in which she showed a superiority largely accountable, as she maintained, for the resentment finding expression in his physical violence. Billiards was her great accomplishment and the distinction her name always first produced the mention of. Notwithstanding some very long lines everything about her that might have been large and that in many women profited by the licence was, with a single exception, admired and cited for its smallness. The exception was her eyes, which might have been of mere regulation size, but which overstepped the modesty of nature; her mouth, on the other hand, was barely perceptible, and odds were freely taken as to the measurement of her waist. She was a person who, when she was out--and she was always out--produced everywhere a sense of having been seen often, the sense indeed of a kind of abuse of visibility, so that it would have been, in the usual places rather vulgar to wonder at her. Strangers only did that; but they, to the amusement of the familiar, did it very much: it was an inevitable way of betraying an alien habit. Like her husband she carried clothes, carried them as a train carries passengers: people had been known to compare their taste and dispute about the accommodation they gave these articles, though inclining on the whole to the commendation of Ida as less overcrowded, especially with jewellery and flowers. Beale Farange had natural decorations, a kind of costume in his vast fair beard, burnished like a gold breastplate, and in the eternal glitter of the teeth that his long moustache had been trained not to hide and that gave him, in every possible situation, the look of the joy of life. He had been destined in his youth for diplomacy and momentarily attached, without a salary, to a legation which enabled him often to say "In MY time in the East": but contemporary history had somehow had no use for him, had hurried past him and left him in perpetual Piccadilly. Every one knew what he had--only twenty-five hundred. Poor Ida, who had run through everything, had now nothing but her carriage and her paralysed uncle. This old brute, as he was called, was supposed to have a lot put away. The child was provided for, thanks to a crafty godmother, a defunct aunt of Beale's, who had left her something in such a manner that the parents could appropriate only the income. I The child was provided for, but the new arrangement was inevitably confounding to a young intelligence intensely aware that something had happened which must matter a good deal and looking anxiously out for the effects of so great a cause. It was to be the fate of this patient little girl to see much more than she at first understood, but also even at first to understand much more than any little girl, however patient, had perhaps ever understood before. Only a drummer-boy in a ballad or a story could have been so in the thick of the fight. She was taken into the confidence of passions on which she fixed just the stare she might have had for images bounding across the wall in the slide of a magic-lantern. Her little world was phantasmagoric--strange shadows dancing on a sheet. It was as if the whole performance had been given for her--a mite of a half-scared infant in a great dim theatre. She was in short introduced to life with a liberality in which the selfishness of others found its account, and there was nothing to avert the sacrifice but the modesty of her youth. Her first term was with her father, who spared her only in not letting her have the wild letters addressed to her by her mother: he confined himself to holding them up at her and shaking them, while he showed his teeth, and then amusing her by the way he chucked them, across the room, bang into the fire. Even at that moment, however, she had a scared anticipation of fatigue, a guilty sense of not rising to the occasion, feeling the charm of the violence with which the stiff unopened envelopes, whose big monograms--Ida bristled with monograms--she would have liked to see, were made to whizz, like dangerous missiles, through the air. The greatest effect of the great cause was her own greater importance, chiefly revealed to her in the larger freedom with which she was handled, pulled hither and thither and kissed, and the proportionately greater niceness she was obliged to show. Her features had somehow become prominent; they were so perpetually nipped by the gentlemen who came to see her father and the smoke of whose cigarettes went into her face. Some of these gentlemen made her strike matches and light their cigarettes; others, holding her on knees violently jolted, pinched the calves of her legs till she shrieked--her shriek was much admired--and reproached them with being toothpicks. The word stuck in her mind and contributed to her feeling from this time that she was deficient in something that would meet the general desire. She found out what it was: it was a congenital tendency to the production of a substance to which Moddle, her nurse, gave a short ugly name, a name painfully associated at dinner with the part of the joint that she didn't like. She had left behind her the time when she had no desires to meet, none at least save Moddle's, who, in Kensington Gardens, was always on the bench when she came back to see if she had been playing too far. Moddle's desire was merely that she shouldn't do that, and she met it so easily that the only spots in that long brightness were the moments of her wondering what would become of her if, on her rushing back, there should be no Moddle on the bench. They still went to the Gardens, but there was a difference even there; she was impelled perpetually to look at the legs of other children and ask her nurse if THEY were toothpicks. Moddle was terribly truthful; she always said: "Oh my dear, you'll not find such another pair as your own." It seemed to have to do with something else that Moddle often said: "You feel the strain--that's where it is; and you'll feel it still worse, you know." Thus from the first Maisie not only felt it, but knew she felt it. A part of it was the consequence of her father's telling her he felt it too, and telling Moddle, in her presence, that she must make a point of driving that home. She was familiar, at the age of six, with the fact that everything had been changed on her account, everything ordered to enable him to give himself up to her. She was to remember always the words in which Moddle impressed upon her that he did so give himself: "Your papa wishes you never to forget, you know, that he has been dreadfully put about." If the skin on Moddle's face had to Maisie the air of being unduly, almost painfully, stretched, it never presented that appearance so much as when she uttered, as she often had occasion to utter, such words. The child wondered if they didn't make it hurt more than usual; but it was only after some time that she was able to attach to the picture of her father's sufferings, and more particularly to her nurse's manner about them, the meaning for which these things had waited. By the time she had grown sharper, as the gentlemen who had criticised her calves used to say, she found in her mind a collection of images and echoes to which meanings were attachable--images and echoes kept for her in the childish dusk, the dim closet, the high drawers, like games she wasn't yet big enough to play. The great strain meanwhile was that of carrying by the right end the things her father said about her mother--things mostly indeed that Moddle, on a glimpse of them, as if they had been complicated toys or difficult books, took out of her hands and put away in the closet. A wonderful assortment of objects of this kind she was to discover there later, all tumbled up too with the things, shuffled into the same receptacle, that her mother had said about her father. She had the knowledge that on a certain occasion which every day brought nearer her mother would be at the door to take her away, and this would have darkened all the days if the ingenious Moddle hadn't written on a paper in very big easy words ever so many pleasures that she would enjoy at the other house. These promises ranged from "a mother's fond love" to "a nice poached egg to your tea," and took by the way the prospect of sitting up ever so late to see the lady in question dressed, in silks and velvets and diamonds and pearls, to go out: so that it was a real support to Maisie, at the supreme hour, to feel how, by Moddle's direction, the paper was thrust away in her pocket and there clenched in her fist. The supreme hour was to furnish her with a vivid reminiscence, that of a strange outbreak in the drawing-room on the part of Moddle, who, in reply to something her father had just said, cried aloud: "You ought to be perfectly ashamed of yourself--you ought to blush, sir, for the way you go on!" The carriage, with her mother in it, was at the door; a gentleman who was there, who was always there, laughed out very loud; her father, who had her in his arms, said to Moddle: "My dear woman, I'll settle you presently!"--after which he repeated, showing his teeth more than ever at Maisie while he hugged her, the words for which her nurse had taken him up. Maisie was not at the moment so fully conscious of them as of the wonder of Moddle's sudden disrespect and crimson face; but she was able to produce them in the course of five minutes when, in the carriage, her mother, all kisses, ribbons, eyes, arms, strange sounds and sweet smells, said to her: "And did your beastly papa, my precious angel, send any message to your own loving mamma?" Then it was that she found the words spoken by her beastly papa to be, after all, in her little bewildered ears, from which, at her mother's appeal, they passed, in her clear shrill voice, straight to her little innocent lips. "He said I was to tell you, from him," she faithfully reported, "that you're a nasty horrid pig!" II In that lively sense of the immediate which is the very air of a child's mind the past, on each occasion, became for her as indistinct as the future: she surrendered herself to the actual with a good faith that might have been touching to either parent. Crudely as they had calculated they were at first justified by the event: she was the little feathered shuttlecock they could fiercely keep flying between them. The evil they had the gift of thinking or pretending to think of each other they poured into her little gravely-gazing soul as into a boundless receptacle, and each of them had doubtless the best conscience in the world as to the duty of teaching her the stern truth that should be her safeguard against the other. She was at the age for which all stories are true and all conceptions are stories. The actual was the absolute, the present alone was vivid. The objurgation for instance launched in the carriage by her mother after she had at her father's bidding punctually performed was a missive that dropped into her memory with the dry rattle of a letter falling into a pillar-box. Like the letter it was, as part of the contents of a well-stuffed post-bag, delivered in due course at the right address. In the presence of these overflowings, after they had continued for a couple of years, the associates of either party sometimes felt that something should be done for what they called "the real good, don't you know?" of the child. The only thing done, however, in general, took place when it was sighingly remarked that she fortunately wasn't all the year round where she happened to be at the awkward moment, and that, furthermore, either from extreme cunning or from extreme stupidity, she appeared not to take things in. The theory of her stupidity, eventually embraced by her parents, corresponded with a great date in her small still life: the complete vision, private but final, of the strange office she filled. It was literally a moral revolution and accomplished in the depths of her nature. The stiff dolls on the dusky shelves began to move their arms and legs; old forms and phrases began to have a sense that frightened her. She had a new feeling, the feeling of danger; on which a new remedy rose to meet it, the idea of an inner self or, in other words, of concealment. She puzzled out with imperfect signs, but with a prodigious spirit, that she had been a centre of hatred and a messenger of insult, and that everything was bad because she had been employed to make it so. Her parted lips locked themselves with the determination to be employed no longer. She would forget everything, she would repeat nothing, and when, as a tribute to the successful application of her system, she began to be called a little idiot, she tasted a pleasure new and keen. When therefore, as she grew older, her parents in turn announced before her that she had grown shockingly dull, it was not from any real contraction of her little stream of life. She spoiled their fun, but she practically added to her own. She saw more and more; she saw too much. It was Miss Overmore, her first governess, who on a momentous occasion had sown the seeds of secrecy; sown them not by anything she said, but by a mere roll of those fine eyes which Maisie already admired. Moddle had become at this time, after alternations of residence of which the child had no clear record, an image faintly embalmed in the remembrance of hungry disappearances from the nursery and distressful lapses in the alphabet, sad embarrassments, in particular, when invited to recognise something her nurse described as "the important letter haitch." Miss Overmore, however hungry, never disappeared: this marked her somehow as of higher rank, and the character was confirmed by a prettiness that Maisie supposed to be extraordinary. Mrs. Farange had described her as almost too pretty, and some one had asked what that mattered so long as Beale wasn't there. "Beale or no Beale," Maisie had heard her mother reply, "I take her because she's a lady and yet awfully poor. Rather nice people, but there are seven sisters at home. What do people mean?" Maisie didn't know what people meant, but she knew very soon all the names of all the sisters; she could say them off better than she could say the multiplication-table. She privately wondered moreover, though she never asked, about the awful poverty, of which her companion also never spoke. Food at any rate came up by mysterious laws; Miss Overmore never, like Moddle, had on an apron, and when she ate she held her fork with her little finger curled out. The child, who watched her at many moments, watched her particularly at that one. "I think you're lovely," she often said to her; even mamma, who was lovely too, had not such a pretty way with the fork. Maisie associated this showier presence with her now being "big," knowing of course that nursery-governesses were only for little girls who were not, as she said, "really" little. She vaguely knew, further, somehow, that the future was still bigger than she, and that a part of what made it so was the number of governesses lurking in it and ready to dart out. Everything that had happened when she was really little was dormant, everything but the positive certitude, bequeathed from afar by Moddle, that the natural way for a child to have her parents was separate and successive, like her mutton and her pudding or her bath and her nap. "DOES he know he lies?"--that was what she had vivaciously asked Miss Overmore on the occasion which was so suddenly to lead to a change in her life. "Does he know--" Miss Overmore stared; she had a stocking pulled over her hand and was pricking at it with a needle which she poised in the act. Her task was homely, but her movement, like all her movements, graceful. "Why papa." "That he 'lies'?" "That's what mamma says I'm to tell him--'that he lies and he knows he lies.'" Miss Overmore turned very red, though she laughed out till her head fell back; then she pricked again at her muffled hand so hard that Maisie wondered how she could bear it. "AM I to tell him?" the child went on. It was then that her companion addressed her in the unmistakeable language of a pair of eyes of deep dark grey. "I can't say No," they replied as distinctly as possible; "I can't say No, because I'm afraid of your mamma, don't you see? Yet how can I say Yes after your papa has been so kind to me, talking to me so long the other day, smiling and flashing his beautiful teeth at me the time we met him in the Park, the time when, rejoicing at the sight of us, he left the gentlemen he was with and turned and walked with us, stayed with us for half an hour?" Somehow in the light of Miss Overmore's lovely eyes that incident came back to Maisie with a charm it hadn't had at the time, and this in spite of the fact that after it was over her governess had never but once alluded to it. On their way home, when papa had quitted them, she had expressed the hope that the child wouldn't mention it to mamma. Maisie liked her so, and had so the charmed sense of being liked by her, that she accepted this remark as settling the matter and wonderingly conformed to it. The wonder now lived again, lived in the recollection of what papa had said to Miss Overmore: "I've only to look at you to see you're a person I can appeal to for help to save my daughter." Maisie's ignorance of what she was to be saved from didn't diminish the pleasure of the thought that Miss Overmore was saving her. It seemed to make them cling together as in some wild game of "going round." III She was therefore all the more startled when her mother said to her in connexion with something to be done before her next migration: "You understand of course that she's not going with you." Maisie turned quite faint. "Oh I thought she was." "It doesn't in the least matter, you know, what you think," Mrs. Farange loudly replied; "and you had better indeed for the future, miss, learn to keep your thoughts to yourself." This was exactly what Maisie had already learned, and the accomplishment was just the source of her mother's irritation. It was of a horrid little critical system, a tendency, in her silence, to judge her elders, that this lady suspected her, liking as she did, for her own part, a child to be simple and confiding. She liked also to hear the report of the whacks she administered to Mr. Farange's character, to his pretensions to peace of mind: the satisfaction of dealing them diminished when nothing came back. The day was at hand, and she saw it, when she should feel more delight in hurling Maisie at him than in snatching her away; so much so that her conscience winced under the acuteness of a candid friend who had remarked that the real end of all their tugging would be that each parent would try to make the little girl a burden to the other--a sort of game in which a fond mother clearly wouldn't show to advantage. The prospect of not showing to advantage, a distinction in which she held she had never failed, begot in Ida Farange an ill humour of which several persons felt the effect. She determined that Beale at any rate should feel it; she reflected afresh that in the study of how to be odious to him she must never give way. Nothing could incommode him more than not to get the good, for the child, of a nice female appendage who had clearly taken a fancy to her. One of the things Ida said to the appendage was that Beale's was a house in which no decent woman could consent to be seen. It was Miss Overmore herself who explained to Maisie that she had had a hope of being allowed to accompany her to her father's, and that this hope had been dashed by the way her mother took it. "She says that if I ever do such a thing as enter his service I must never expect to show my face in this house again. So I've promised not to attempt to go with you. If I wait patiently till you come back here we shall certainly be together once more." Waiting patiently, and above all waiting till she should come back there, seemed to Maisie a long way round--it reminded her of all the things she had been told, first and last, that she should have if she'd be good and that in spite of her goodness she had never had at all. "Then who'll take care of me at papa's?" "Heaven only knows, my own precious!" Miss Overmore replied, tenderly embracing her. There was indeed no doubt that she was dear to this beautiful friend. What could have proved it better than the fact that before a week was out, in spite of their distressing separation and her mother's prohibition and Miss Overmore's scruples and Miss Overmore's promise, the beautiful friend had turned up at her father's? The little lady already engaged there to come by the hour, a fat dark little lady with a foreign name and dirty fingers, who wore, throughout, a bonnet that had at first given her a deceptive air, too soon dispelled, of not staying long, besides asking her pupil questions that had nothing to do with lessons, questions that Beale Farange himself, when two or three were repeated to him, admitted to be awfully low--this strange apparition faded before the bright creature who had braved everything for Maisie's sake. The bright creature told her little charge frankly what had happened--that she had really been unable to hold out. She had broken her vow to Mrs. Farange; she had struggled for three days and then had come straight to Maisie's papa and told him the simple truth. She adored his daughter; she couldn't give her up; she'd make for her any sacrifice. On this basis it had been arranged that she should stay; her courage had been rewarded; she left Maisie in no doubt as to the amount of courage she had required. Some of the things she said made a particular impression on the child--her declaration for instance that when her pupil should get older she'd understand better just how "dreadfully bold" a young lady, to do exactly what she had done, had to be. "Fortunately your papa appreciates it; he appreciates it IMMENSELY"-- that was one of the things Miss Overmore also said, with a striking insistence on the adverb. Maisie herself was no less impressed with what this martyr had gone through, especially after hearing of the terrible letter that had come from Mrs. Farange. Mamma had been so angry that, in Miss Overmore's own words, she had loaded her with insult--proof enough indeed that they must never look forward to being together again under mamma's roof. Mamma's roof, however, had its turn, this time, for the child, of appearing but remotely contingent, so that, to reassure her, there was scarce a need of her companion's secret, solemnly confided--the probability there would be no going back to mamma at all. It was Miss Overmore's private conviction, and a part of the same communication, that if Mr. Farange's daughter would only show a really marked preference she would be backed up by "public opinion" in holding on to him. Poor Maisie could scarcely grasp that incentive, but she could surrender herself to the day. She had conceived her first passion, and the object of it was her governess. It hadn't been put to her, and she couldn't, or at any rate she didn't, put it to herself, that she liked Miss Overmore better than she liked papa; but it would have sustained her under such an imputation to feel herself able to reply that papa too liked Miss Overmore exactly as much. He had particularly told her so. Besides she could easily see it. IV All this led her on, but it brought on her fate as well, the day when her mother would be at the door in the carriage in which Maisie now rode on no occasions but these. There was no question at present of Miss Overmore's going back with her: it was universally recognised that her quarrel with Mrs. Farange was much too acute. The child felt it from the first; there was no hugging nor exclaiming as that lady drove her away--there was only a frightening silence, unenlivened even by the invidious enquiries of former years, which culminated, according to its stern nature, in a still more frightening old woman, a figure awaiting her on the very doorstep. "You're to be under this lady's care," said her mother. "Take her, Mrs. Wix," she added, addressing the figure impatiently and giving the child a push from which Maisie gathered that she wished to set Mrs. Wix an example of energy. Mrs. Wix took her and, Maisie felt the next day, would never let her go. She had struck her at first, just after Miss Overmore, as terrible; but something in her voice at the end of an hour touched the little girl in a spot that had never even yet been reached. Maisie knew later what it was, though doubtless she couldn't have made a statement of it: these were things that a few days' talk with Mrs. Wix quite lighted up. The principal one was a matter Mrs. Wix herself always immediately mentioned: she had had a little girl quite of her own, and the little girl had been killed on the spot. She had had absolutely nothing else in all the world, and her affliction had broken her heart. It was comfortably established between them that Mrs. Wix's heart was broken. What Maisie felt was that she had been, with passion and anguish, a mother, and that this was something Miss Overmore was not, something (strangely, confusingly) that mamma was even less. So it was that in the course of an extraordinarily short time she found herself as deeply absorbed in the image of the little dead Clara Matilda, who, on a crossing in the Harrow Road, had been knocked down and crushed by the cruellest of hansoms, as she had ever found herself in the family group made vivid by one of seven. "She's your little dead sister," Mrs. Wix ended by saying, and Maisie, all in a tremor of curiosity and compassion, addressed from that moment a particular piety to the small accepted acquisition. Somehow she wasn't a real sister, but that only made her the more romantic. It contributed to this view of her that she was never to be spoken of in that character to any one else--least of all to Mrs. Farange, who wouldn't care for her nor recognise the relationship: it was to be just an unutterable and inexhaustible little secret with Mrs. Wix. Maisie knew everything about her that could be known, everything she had said or done in her little mutilated life, exactly how lovely she was, exactly how her hair was curled and her frocks were trimmed. Her hair came down far below her waist--it was of the most wonderful golden brightness, just as Mrs. Wix's own had been a long time before. Mrs. Wix's own was indeed very remarkable still, and Maisie had felt at first that she should never get on with it. It played a large part in the sad and strange appearance, the appearance as of a kind of greasy greyness, which Mrs. Wix had presented on the child's arrival. It had originally been yellow, but time had turned that elegance to ashes, to a turbid sallow unvenerable white. Still excessively abundant, it was dressed in a manner of which the poor lady appeared not yet to have recognised the supersession, with a glossy braid, like a large diadem, on the top of the head, and behind, at the nape of the neck, a dingy rosette like a large button. She wore glasses which, in humble reference to a divergent obliquity of vision, she called her straighteners, and a little ugly snuff-coloured dress trimmed with satin bands in the form of scallops and glazed with antiquity. The straighteners, she explained to Maisie, were put on for the sake of others, whom, as she believed, they helped to recognise the bearing, otherwise doubtful, of her regard; the rest of the melancholy garb could only have been put on for herself. With the added suggestion of her goggles it reminded her pupil of the polished shell or corslet of a horrid beetle. At first she had looked cross and almost cruel; but this impression passed away with the child's increased perception of her being in the eyes of the world a figure mainly to laugh at. She was as droll as a charade or an animal toward the end of the "natural history"--a person whom people, to make talk lively, described to each other and imitated. Every one knew the straighteners; every one knew the diadem and the button, the scallops and satin bands; every one, though Maisie had never betrayed her, knew even Clara Matilda. It was on account of these things that mamma got her for such low pay, really for nothing: so much, one day when Mrs. Wix had accompanied her into the drawing-room and left her, the child heard one of the ladies she found there--a lady with eyebrows arched like skipping-ropes and thick black stitching, like ruled lines for musical notes on beautiful white gloves--announce to another. She knew governesses were poor; Miss Overmore was unmentionably and Mrs. Wix ever so publicly so. Neither this, however, nor the old brown frock nor the diadem nor the button, made a difference for Maisie in the charm put forth through everything, the charm of Mrs. Wix's conveying that somehow, in her ugliness and her poverty, she was peculiarly and soothingly safe; safer than any one in the world, than papa, than mamma, than the lady with the arched eyebrows; safer even, though so much less beautiful, than Miss Overmore, on whose loveliness, as she supposed it, the little girl was faintly conscious that one couldn't rest with quite the same tucked-in and kissed-for-good-night feeling. Mrs. Wix was as safe as Clara Matilda, who was in heaven and yet, embarrassingly, also in Kensal Green, where they had been together to see her little huddled grave. It was from something in Mrs. Wix's tone, which in spite of caricature remained indescribable and inimitable, that Maisie, before her term with her mother was over, drew this sense of a support, like a breast-high banister in a place of "drops," that would never give way. If she knew her instructress was poor and queer she also knew she was not nearly so "qualified" as Miss Overmore, who could say lots of dates straight off (letting you hold the book yourself), state the position of Malabar, play six pieces without notes and, in a sketch, put in beautifully the trees and houses and difficult parts. Maisie herself could play more pieces than Mrs. Wix, who was moreover visibly ashamed of her houses and trees and could only, with the help of a smutty forefinger, of doubtful legitimacy in the field of art, do the smoke coming out of the chimneys. They dealt, the governess and her pupil, in "subjects," but there were many the governess put off from week to week and that they never got to at all: she only used to say "We'll take that in its proper order." Her order was a circle as vast as the untravelled globe. She had not the spirit of adventure--the child could perfectly see how many subjects she was afraid of. She took refuge on the firm ground of fiction, through which indeed there curled the blue river of truth. She knew swarms of stories, mostly those of the novels she had read; relating them with a memory that never faltered and a wealth of detail that was Maisie's delight. They were all about love and beauty and countesses and wickedness. Her conversation was practically an endless narrative, a great garden of romance, with sudden vistas into her own life and gushing fountains of homeliness. These were the parts where they most lingered; she made the child take with her again every step of her long, lame course and think it beyond magic or monsters. Her pupil acquired a vivid vision of every one who had ever, in her phrase, knocked against her--some of them oh so hard!--every one literally but Mr. Wix, her husband, as to whom nothing was mentioned save that he had been dead for ages. He had been rather remarkably absent from his wife's career, and Maisie was never taken to see his grave. V The second parting from Miss Overmore had been bad enough, but this first parting from Mrs. Wix was much worse. The child had lately been to the dentist's and had a term of comparison for the screwed-up intensity of the scene. It was dreadfully silent, as it had been when her tooth was taken out; Mrs. Wix had on that occasion grabbed her hand and they had clung to each other with the frenzy of their determination not to scream. Maisie, at the dentist's, had been heroically still, but just when she felt most anguish had become aware of an audible shriek on the part of her companion, a spasm of stifled sympathy. This was reproduced by the only sound that broke their supreme embrace when, a month later, the "arrangement," as her periodical uprootings were called, played the part of the horrible forceps. Embedded in Mrs. Wix's nature as her tooth had been socketed in her gum, the operation of extracting her would really have been a case for chloroform. It was a hug that fortunately left nothing to say, for the poor woman's want of words at such an hour seemed to fall in with her want of everything. Maisie's alternate parent, in the outermost vestibule--he liked the impertinence of crossing as much as that of his late wife's threshold--stood over them with his open watch and his still more open grin, while from the only corner of an eye on which something of Mrs. Wix's didn't impinge the child saw at the door a brougham in which Miss Overmore also waited. She remembered the difference when, six months before, she had been torn from the breast of that more spirited protectress. Miss Overmore, then also in the vestibule, but of course in the other one, had been thoroughly audible and voluble; her protest had rung out bravely and she had declared that something--her pupil didn't know exactly what--was a regular wicked shame. That had at the time dimly recalled to Maisie the far-away moment of Moddle's great outbreak: there seemed always to be "shames" connected in one way or another with her migrations. At present, while Mrs. Wix's arms tightened and the smell of her hair was strong, she further remembered how, in pacifying Miss Overmore, papa had made use of the words "you dear old duck!"--an expression which, by its oddity, had stuck fast in her young mind, having moreover a place well prepared for it there by what she knew of the governess whom she now always mentally characterised as the pretty one. She wondered whether this affection would be as great as before: that would at all events be the case with the prettiness Maisie could see in the face which showed brightly at the window of the brougham. The brougham was a token of harmony, of the fine conditions papa would this time offer: he had usually come for her in a hansom, with a four-wheeler behind for the boxes. The four-wheeler with the boxes on it was actually there, but mamma was the only lady with whom she had ever been in a conveyance of the kind always of old spoken of by Moddle as a private carriage. Papa's carriage was, now that he had one, still more private, somehow, than mamma's; and when at last she found herself quite on top, as she felt, of its inmates and gloriously rolling away, she put to Miss Overmore, after another immense and talkative squeeze, a question of which the motive was a desire for information as to the continuity of a certain sentiment. "Did papa like you just the same while I was gone?" she enquired--full of the sense of how markedly his favour had been established in her presence. She had bethought herself that this favour might, like her presence and as if depending on it, be only intermittent and for the season. Papa, on whose knee she sat, burst into one of those loud laughs of his that, however prepared she was, seemed always, like some trick in a frightening game, to leap forth and make her jump. Before Miss Overmore could speak he replied: "Why, you little donkey, when you're away what have I left to do but just to love her?" Miss Overmore hereupon immediately took her from him, and they had a merry little scrimmage over her of which Maisie caught the surprised perception in the white stare of an old lady who passed in a victoria. Then her beautiful friend remarked to her very gravely: "I shall make him understand that if he ever again says anything as horrid as that to you I shall carry you straight off and we'll go and live somewhere together and be good quiet little girls." The child couldn't quite make out why her father's speech had been horrid, since it only expressed that appreciation which their companion herself had of old described as "immense." To enter more into the truth of the matter she appealed to him again directly, asked if in all those months Miss Overmore hadn't been with him just as she had been before and just as she would be now. "Of course she has, old girl--where else could the poor dear be?" cried Beale Farange, to the still greater scandal of their companion, who protested that unless he straightway "took back" his nasty wicked fib it would be, this time, not only him she would leave, but his child too and his house and his tiresome trouble--all the impossible things he had succeeded in putting on her. Beale, under this frolic menace, took nothing back at all; he was indeed apparently on the point of repeating his extravagance, but Miss Overmore instructed her little charge that she was not to listen to his bad jokes: she was to understand that a lady couldn't stay with a gentleman that way without some awfully proper reason. Maisie looked from one of her companions to the other; this was the freshest gayest start she had yet enjoyed, but she had a shy fear of not exactly believing them. "Well, what reason IS proper?" she thoughtfully demanded. "Oh a long-legged stick of a tomboy: there's none so good as that." Her father enjoyed both her drollery and his own and tried again to get possession of her--an effort deprecated by their comrade and leading again to something of a public scuffle. Miss Overmore declared to the child that she had been all the while with good friends; on which Beale Farange went on: "She means good friends of mine, you know--tremendous friends of mine. There has been no end of THEM about--that I WILL say for her!" Maisie felt bewildered and was afterwards for some time conscious of a vagueness, just slightly embarrassing, as to the subject of so much amusement and as to where her governess had really been. She didn't feel at all as if she had been seriously told, and no such feeling was supplied by anything that occurred later. Her embarrassment, of a precocious instinctive order, attached itself to the idea that this was another of the matters it was not for her, as her mother used to say, to go into. Therefore, under her father's roof during the time that followed, she made no attempt to clear up her ambiguity by an ingratiating way with housemaids; and it was an odd truth that the ambiguity itself took nothing from the fresh pleasure promised her by renewed contact with Miss Overmore. The confidence looked for by that young lady was of the fine sort that explanation can't improve, and she herself at any rate was a person superior to any confusion. For Maisie moreover concealment had never necessarily seemed deception; she had grown up among things as to which her foremost knowledge was that she was never to ask about them. It was far from new to her that the questions of the small are the peculiar diversion of the great: except the affairs of her doll Lisette there had scarcely ever been anything at her mother's that was explicable with a grave face. Nothing was so easy to her as to send the ladies who gathered there off into shrieks, and she might have practised upon them largely if she had been of a more calculating turn. Everything had something behind it: life was like a long, long corridor with rows of closed doors. She had learned that at these doors it was wise not to knock--this seemed to produce from within such sounds of derision. Little by little, however, she understood more, for it befell that she was enlightened by Lisette's questions, which reproduced the effect of her own upon those for whom she sat in the very darkness of Lisette. Was she not herself convulsed by such innocence? In the presence of it she often imitated the shrieking ladies. There were at any rate things she really couldn't tell even a French doll. She could only pass on her lessons and study to produce on Lisette the impression of having mysteries in her life, wondering the while whether she succeeded in the air of shading off, like her mother, into the unknowable. When the reign of Miss Overmore followed that of Mrs. Wix she took a fresh cue, emulating her governess and bridging over the interval with the simple expectation of trust. Yes, there were matters one couldn't "go into" with a pupil. There were for instance days when, after prolonged absence, Lisette, watching her take off her things, tried hard to discover where she had been. Well, she discovered a little, but never discovered all. There was an occasion when, on her being particularly indiscreet, Maisie replied to her--and precisely about the motive of a disappearance--as she, Maisie, had once been replied to by Mrs. Farange: "Find out for yourself!" She mimicked her mother's sharpness, but she was rather ashamed afterwards, though as to whether of the sharpness or of the mimicry was not quite clear. VI She became aware in time that this phase wouldn't have shone by lessons, the care of her education being now only one of the many duties devolving on Miss Overmore; a devolution as to which she was present at various passages between that lady and her father--passages significant, on either side, of dissent and even of displeasure. It was gathered by the child on these occasions that there was something in the situation for which her mother might "come down" on them all, though indeed the remark, always dropped by her father, was greeted on his companion's part with direct contradiction. Such scenes were usually brought to a climax by Miss Overmore's demanding, with more asperity than she applied to any other subject, in what position under the sun such a person as Mrs. Farange would find herself for coming down. As the months went on the little girl's interpretations thickened, and the more effectually that this stretch was the longest she had known without a break. She got used to the idea that her mother, for some reason, was in no hurry to reinstate her: that idea was forcibly expressed by her father whenever Miss Overmore, differing and decided, took him up on the question, which he was always putting forward, of the urgency of sending her to school. For a governess Miss Overmore differed surprisingly; far more for instance than would have entered into the bowed head of Mrs. Wix. She observed to Maisie many times that she was quite conscious of not doing her justice, and that Mr. Farange equally measured and equally lamented this deficiency. The reason of it was that she had mysterious responsibilities that interfered--responsibilities, Miss Overmore intimated, to Mr. Farange himself and to the friendly noisy little house and those who came there. Mr. Farange's remedy for every inconvenience was that the child should be put at school--there were such lots of splendid schools, as everybody knew, at Brighton and all over the place. That, however, Maisie learned, was just what would bring her mother down: from the moment he should delegate to others the housing of his little charge he hadn't a leg to stand on before the law. Didn't he keep her away from her mother precisely because Mrs. Farange was one of these others? There was also the solution of a second governess, a young person to come in by the day and really do the work; but to this Miss Overmore wouldn't for a moment listen, arguing against it with great public relish and wanting to know from all comers--she put it even to Maisie herself--they didn't see how frightfully it would give her away. "What am I supposed to be at all, don't you see, if I'm not here to look after her?" She was in a false position and so freely and loudly called attention to it that it seemed to become almost a source of glory. The way out of it of course was just to do her plain duty; but that was unfortunately what, with his excessive, his exorbitant demands on her, which every one indeed appeared quite to understand, he practically, he selfishly prevented. Beale Farange, for Miss Overmore, was now never anything but "he," and the house was as full as ever of lively gentlemen with whom, under that designation, she chaffingly talked about him. Maisie meanwhile, as a subject of familiar gossip on what was to be done with her, was left so much to herself that she had hours of wistful thought of the large loose discipline of Mrs. Wix; yet she none the less held it under her father's roof a point of superiority that none of his visitors were ladies. It added to this odd security that she had once heard a gentleman say to him as if it were a great joke and in obvious reference to Miss Overmore: "Hanged if she'll let another woman come near you--hanged if she ever will. She'd let fly a stick at her as they do at a strange cat!" Maisie greatly preferred gentlemen as inmates in spite of their also having their way--louder but sooner over--of laughing out at her. They pulled and pinched, they teased and tickled her; some of them even, as they termed it, shied things at her, and all of them thought it funny to call her by names having no resemblance to her own. The ladies on the other hand addressed her as "You poor pet" and scarcely touched her even to kiss her. But it was of the ladies she was most afraid. She was now old enough to understand how disproportionate a stay she had already made with her father; and also old enough to enter a little into the ambiguity attending this excess, which oppressed her particularly whenever the question had been touched upon in talk with her governess. "Oh you needn't worry: she doesn't care!" Miss Overmore had often said to her in reference to any fear that her mother might resent her prolonged detention. "She has other people than poor little YOU to think about, and has gone abroad with them; so you needn't be in the least afraid she'll stickle this time for her rights." Maisie knew Mrs. Farange had gone abroad, for she had had weeks and weeks before a letter from her beginning "My precious pet" and taking leave of her for an indeterminate time; but she had not seen in it a renunciation of hatred or of the writer's policy of asserting herself, for the sharpest of all her impressions had been that there was nothing her mother would ever care so much about as to torment Mr. Farange. What at last, however, was in this connexion bewildering and a little frightening was the dawn of a suspicion that a better way had been found to torment Mr. Farange than to deprive him of his periodical burden. This was the question that worried our young lady and that Miss Overmore's confidences and the frequent observations of her employer only rendered more mystifying. It was a contradiction that if Ida had now a fancy for waiving the rights she had originally been so hot about her late husband shouldn't jump at the monopoly for which he had also in the first instance so fiercely fought; but when Maisie, with a subtlety beyond her years, sounded this new ground her main success was in hearing her mother more freshly abused. Miss Overmore had up to now rarely deviated from a decent reserve, but the day came when she expressed herself with a vividness not inferior to Beale's own on the subject of the lady who had fled to the Continent to wriggle out of her job. It would serve this lady right, Maisie gathered, if that contract, in the shape of an overgrown and underdressed daughter, should be shipped straight out to her and landed at her feet in the midst of scandalous excesses. The picture of these pursuits was what Miss Overmore took refuge in when the child tried timidly to ascertain if her father were disposed to feel he had too much of her. She evaded the point and only kicked up all round it the dust of Ida's heartlessness and folly, of which the supreme proof, it appeared, was the fact that she was accompanied on her journey by a gentleman whom, to be painfully plain on it, she had--well, "picked up." The terms on which, unless they were married, ladies and gentlemen might, as Miss Overmore expressed it, knock about together, were the terms on which she and Mr. Farange had exposed themselves to possible misconception. She had indeed, as has been noted, often explained this before, often said to Maisie: "I don't know what in the world, darling, your father and I should do without you, for you just make the difference, as I've told you, of keeping us perfectly proper." The child took in the office it was so endearingly presented to her that she performed a comfort that helped her to a sense of security even in the event of her mother's giving her up. Familiar as she had grown with the fact of the great alternative to the proper, she felt in her governess and her father a strong reason for not emulating that detachment. At the same time she had heard somehow of little girls--of exalted rank, it was true--whose education was carried on by instructors of the other sex, and she knew that if she were at school at Brighton it would be thought an advantage to her to be more or less in the hands of masters. She turned these things over and remarked to Miss Overmore that if she should go to her mother perhaps the gentleman might become her tutor. "The gentleman?" The proposition was complicated enough to make Miss Overmore stare. "The one who's with mamma. Mightn't that make it right--as right as your being my governess makes it for you to be with papa?" Miss Overmore considered; she coloured a little; then she embraced her ingenious friend. "You're too sweet! I'm a REAL governess." "And couldn't he be a real tutor?" "Of course not. He's ignorant and bad." "Bad--?" Maisie echoed with wonder. Her companion gave a queer little laugh at her tone. "He's ever so much younger--" But that was all. "Younger than you?" Miss Overmore laughed again; it was the first time Maisie had seen her approach so nearly to a giggle. "Younger than--no matter whom. I don't know anything about him and don't want to," she rather inconsequently added. "He's not my sort, and I'm sure, my own darling, he's not yours." And she repeated the free caress into which her colloquies with Maisie almost always broke and which made the child feel that HER affection at least was a gage of safety. Parents had come to seem vague, but governesses were evidently to be trusted. Maisie's faith in Mrs. Wix for instance had suffered no lapse from the fact that all communication with her had temporarily dropped. During the first weeks of their separation Clara Matilda's mamma had repeatedly and dolefully written to her, and Maisie had answered with an enthusiasm controlled only by orthographical doubts; but the correspondence had been duly submitted to Miss Overmore, with the final effect of its not suiting her. It was this lady's view that Mr. Farange wouldn't care for it at all, and she ended by confessing--since her pupil pushed her--that she didn't care for it herself. She was furiously jealous, she said; and that weakness was but a new proof of her disinterested affection. She pronounced Mrs. Wix's effusions moreover illiterate and unprofitable; she made no scruple of declaring it monstrous that a woman in her senses should have placed the formation of her daughter's mind in such ridiculous hands. Maisie was well aware that the proprietress of the old brown dress and the old odd headgear was lower in the scale of "form" than Miss Overmore; but it was now brought home to her with pain that she was educationally quite out of the question. She was buried for the time beneath a conclusive remark of her critic's: "She's really beyond a joke!" This remark was made as that charming woman held in her hand the last letter that Maisie was to receive from Mrs. Wix; it was fortified by a decree proscribing the preposterous tie. "Must I then write and tell her?" the child bewilderedly asked: she grew pale at the dreadful things it appeared involved for her to say. "Don't dream of it, my dear--I'll write: you may trust me!" cried Miss Overmore; who indeed wrote to such purpose that a hush in which you could have heard a pin drop descended upon poor Mrs. Wix. She gave for weeks and weeks no sign whatever of life: it was as if she had been as effectually disposed of by Miss Overmore's communication as her little girl, in the Harrow Road, had been disposed of by the terrible hansom. Her very silence became after this one of the largest elements of Maisie's consciousness; it proved a warm and habitable air, into which the child penetrated further than she dared ever to mention to her companions. Somewhere in the depths of it the dim straighteners were fixed upon her; somewhere out of the troubled little current Mrs. Wix intensely waited. VII It quite fell in with this intensity that one day, on returning from a walk with the housemaid, Maisie should have found her in the hall, seated on the stool usually occupied by the telegraph-boys who haunted Beale Farange's door and kicked their heels while, in his room, answers to their missives took form with the aid of smoke-puffs and growls. It had seemed to her on their parting that Mrs. Wix had reached the last limits of the squeeze, but she now felt those limits to be transcended and that the duration of her visitor's hug was a direct reply to Miss Overmore's veto. She understood in a flash how the visit had come to be possible--that Mrs. Wix, watching her chance, must have slipped in under protection of the fact that papa, always tormented in spite of arguments with the idea of a school, had, for a three days' excursion to Brighton, absolutely insisted on the attendance of her adversary. It was true that when Maisie explained their absence and their important motive Mrs. Wix wore an expression so peculiar that it could only have had its origin in surprise. This contradiction indeed peeped out only to vanish, for at the very moment that, in the spirit of it, she threw herself afresh upon her young friend a hansom crested with neat luggage rattled up to the door and Miss Overmore bounded out. The shock of her encounter with Mrs. Wix was less violent than Maisie had feared on seeing her and didn't at all interfere with the sociable tone in which, under her rival's eyes, she explained to her little charge that she had returned, for a particular reason, a day sooner than she first intended. She had left papa--in such nice lodgings--at Brighton; but he would come back to his dear little home on the morrow. As for Mrs. Wix, papa's companion supplied Maisie in later converse with the right word for the attitude of this personage: Mrs. Wix "stood up" to her in a manner that the child herself felt at the time to be astonishing. This occurred indeed after Miss Overmore had so far raised her interdict as to make a move to the dining-room, where, in the absence of any suggestion of sitting down, it was scarcely more than natural that even poor Mrs. Wix should stand up. Maisie at once enquired if at Brighton, this time, anything had come of the possibility of a school; to which, much to her surprise, Miss Overmore, who had always grandly repudiated it, replied after an instant, but quite as if Mrs. Wix were not there: "It may be, darling, that something WILL come. The objection, I must tell you, has been quite removed." At this it was still more startling to hear Mrs. Wix speak out with great firmness. "I don't think, if you'll allow me to say so, that there's any arrangement by which the objection CAN be 'removed.' What has brought me here to-day is that I've a message for Maisie from dear Mrs. Farange." The child's heart gave a great thump. "Oh mamma's come back?" "Not yet, sweet love, but she's coming," said Mrs. Wix, "and she has--most thoughtfully, you know--sent me on to prepare you." "To prepare her for what, pray?" asked Miss Overmore, whose first smoothness began, with this news, to be ruffled. Mrs. Wix quietly applied her straighteners to Miss Overmore's flushed beauty. "Well, miss, for a very important communication." "Can't dear Mrs. Farange, as you so oddly call her, make her communications directly? Can't she take the trouble to write to her only daughter?" the younger lady demanded. "Maisie herself will tell you that it's months and months since she has had so much as a word from her." "Oh but I've written to mamma!" cried the child as if this would do quite as well. "That makes her treatment of you all the greater scandal," the governess in possession promptly declared. "Mrs. Farange is too well aware," said Mrs. Wix with sustained spirit, "of what becomes of her letters in this house." Maisie's sense of fairness hereupon interposed for her visitor. "You know, Miss Overmore, that papa doesn't like everything of mamma's." "No one likes, my dear, to be made the subject of such language as your mother's letters contain. They were not fit for the innocent child to see," Miss Overmore observed to Mrs. Wix. "Then I don't know what you complain of, and she's better without them. It serves every purpose that I'm in Mrs. Farange's confidence." Miss Overmore gave a scornful laugh. "Then you must be mixed up with some extraordinary proceedings!" "None so extraordinary," cried Mrs. Wix, turning very pale, "as to say horrible things about the mother to the face of the helpless daughter!" "Things not a bit more horrible, I think," Miss Overmore returned, "than those you, madam, appear to have come here to say about the father!" Mrs. Wix looked for a moment hard at Maisie, and then, turning again to this witness, spoke with a trembling voice. "I came to say nothing about him, and you must excuse Mrs. Farange and me if we're not so above all reproach as the companion of his travels." The young woman thus described stared at the apparent breadth of the description--she needed a moment to take it in. Maisie, however, gazing solemnly from one of the disputants to the other, noted that her answer, when it came, perched upon smiling lips. "It will do quite as well, no doubt, if you come up to the requirements of the companion of Mrs. Farange's!" Mrs. Wix broke into a queer laugh; it sounded to Maisie an unsuccessful imitation of a neigh. "That's just what I'm here to make known--how perfectly the poor lady comes up to them herself." She held up her head at the child. "You must take your mamma's message, Maisie, and you must feel that her wishing me to come to you with it this way is a great proof of interest and affection. She sends you her particular love and announces to you that she's engaged to be married to Sir Claude." "Sir Claude?" Maisie wonderingly echoed. But while Mrs. Wix explained that this gentleman was a dear friend of Mrs. Farange's, who had been of great assistance to her in getting to Florence and in making herself comfortable there for the winter, she was not too violently shaken to perceive her old friend's enjoyment of the effect of this news on Miss Overmore. That young lady opened her eyes very wide; she immediately remarked that Mrs. Farange's marriage would of course put an end to any further pretension to take her daughter back. Mrs. Wix enquired with astonishment why it should do anything of the sort, and Miss Overmore gave as an instant reason that it was clearly but another dodge in a system of dodges. She wanted to get out of the bargain: why else had she now left Maisie on her father's hands weeks and weeks beyond the time about which she had originally made such a fuss? It was vain for Mrs. Wix to represent--as she speciously proceeded to do--that all this time would be made up as soon as Mrs. Farange returned: she, Miss Overmore, knew nothing, thank heaven, about her confederate, but was very sure any person capable of forming that sort of relation with the lady in Florence would easily agree to object to the presence in his house of the fruit of a union that his dignity must ignore. It was a game like another, and Mrs. Wix's visit was clearly the first move in it. Maisie found in this exchange of asperities a fresh incitement to the unformulated fatalism in which her sense of her own career had long since taken refuge; and it was the beginning for her of a deeper prevision that, in spite of Miss Overmore's brilliancy and Mrs. Wix's passion, she should live to see a change in the nature of the struggle she appeared to have come into the world to produce. It would still be essentially a struggle, but its object would now be NOT to receive her. Mrs. Wix, after Miss Overmore's last demonstration, addressed herself wholly to the little girl, and, drawing from the pocket of her dingy old pelisse a small flat parcel, removed its envelope and wished to know if THAT looked like a gentleman who wouldn't be nice to everybody--let alone to a person he would be so sure to find so nice. Mrs. Farange, in the candour of new-found happiness, had enclosed a "cabinet" photograph of Sir Claude, and Maisie lost herself in admiration of the fair smooth face, the regular features, the kind eyes, the amiable air, the general glossiness and smartness of her prospective stepfather--only vaguely puzzled to suppose herself now with two fathers at once. Her researches had hitherto indicated that to incur a second parent of the same sex you had usually to lose the first. "ISN'T he sympathetic?" asked Mrs. Wix, who had clearly, on the strength of his charming portrait, made up her mind that Sir Claude promised her a future. "You can see, I hope," she added with much expression, "that HE'S a perfect gentleman!" Maisie had never before heard the word "sympathetic" applied to anybody's face; she heard it with pleasure and from that moment it agreeably remained with her. She testified moreover to the force of her own perception in a small soft sigh of response to the pleasant eyes that seemed to seek her acquaintance, to speak to her directly. "He's quite lovely!" she declared to Mrs. Wix. Then eagerly, irrepressibly, as she still held the photograph and Sir Claude continued to fraternise, "Oh can't I keep it?" she broke out. No sooner had she done so than she looked up from it at Miss Overmore: this was with the sudden instinct of appealing to the authority that had long ago impressed on her that she mustn't ask for things. Miss Overmore, to her surprise, looked distant and rather odd, hesitating and giving her time to turn again to Mrs. Wix. Then Maisie saw that lady's long face lengthen; it was stricken and almost scared, as if her young friend really expected more of her than she had to give. The photograph was a possession that, direly denuded, she clung to, and there was a momentary struggle between her fond clutch of it and her capability of every sacrifice for her precarious pupil. With the acuteness of her years, however, Maisie saw that her own avidity would triumph, and she held out the picture to Miss Overmore as if she were quite proud of her mother. "Isn't he just lovely?" she demanded while poor Mrs. Wix hungrily wavered, her straighteners largely covering it and her pelisse gathered about her with an intensity that strained its ancient seams. "It was to ME, darling," the visitor said, "that your mamma so generously sent it; but of course if it would give you particular pleasure--" she faltered, only gasping her surrender. Miss Overmore continued extremely remote. "If the photograph's your property, my dear, I shall be happy to oblige you by looking at it on some future occasion. But you must excuse me if I decline to touch an object belonging to Mrs. Wix." That lady had by this time grown very red. "You might as well see him this way, miss," she retorted, "as you certainly never will, I believe, in any other! Keep the pretty picture, by all means, my precious," she went on: "Sir Claude will be happy himself, I dare say, to give me one with a kind inscription." The pathetic quaver of this brave boast was not lost on Maisie, who threw herself so gratefully on the speaker's neck that, when they had concluded their embrace, the public tenderness of which, she felt, made up for the sacrifice she imposed, their companion had had time to lay a quick hand on Sir Claude and, with a glance at him or not, whisk him effectually out of sight. Released from the child's arms Mrs. Wix looked about for the picture; then she fixed Miss Overmore with a hard dumb stare; and finally, with her eyes on the little girl again, achieved the grimmest of smiles. "Well, nothing matters, Maisie, because there's another thing your mamma wrote about. She has made sure of me." Even after her loyal hug Maisie felt a bit of a sneak as she glanced at Miss Overmore for permission to understand this. But Mrs. Wix left them in no doubt of what it meant. "She has definitely engaged me--for her return and for yours. Then you'll see for yourself." Maisie, on the spot, quite believed she should; but the prospect was suddenly thrown into confusion by an extraordinary demonstration from Miss Overmore. "Mrs. Wix," said that young lady, "has some undiscoverable reason for regarding your mother's hold on you as strengthened by the fact that she's about to marry. I wonder then--on that system--what our visitor will say to your father's." Miss Overmore's words were directed to her pupil, but her face, lighted with an irony that made it prettier even than ever before, was presented to the dingy figure that had stiffened itself for departure. The child's discipline had been bewildering--had ranged freely between the prescription that she was to answer when spoken to and the experience of lively penalties on obeying that prescription. This time, nevertheless, she felt emboldened for risks; above all as something portentous seemed to have leaped into her sense of the relations of things. She looked at Miss Overmore much as she had a way of looking at persons who treated her to "grown up" jokes. "Do you mean papa's hold on me--do you mean HE'S about to marry?" "Papa's not about to marry--papa IS married, my dear. Papa was married the day before yesterday at Brighton." Miss Overmore glittered more gaily; meanwhile it came over Maisie, and quite dazzlingly, that her "smart" governess was a bride. "He's my husband, if you please, and I'm his little wife. So NOW we'll see who's your little mother!" She caught her pupil to her bosom in a manner that was not to be outdone by the emissary of her predecessor, and a few moments later, when things had lurched back into their places, that poor lady, quite defeated of the last word, had soundlessly taken flight. VIII After Mrs. Wix's retreat Miss Overmore appeared to recognise that she was not exactly in a position to denounce Ida Farange's second union; but she drew from a table-drawer the photograph of Sir Claude and, standing there before Maisie, studied it at some length. "Isn't he beautiful?" the child ingenuously asked. Her companion hesitated. "No--he's horrid," she, to Maisie's surprise, sharply returned. But she debated another minute, after which she handed back the picture. It appeared to Maisie herself to exhibit a fresh attraction, and she was troubled, having never before had occasion to differ from her lovely friend. So she only could ask what, such being the case, she should do with it: should she put it quite away--where it wouldn't be there to offend? On this Miss Overmore again cast about; after which she said unexpectedly: "Put it on the schoolroom mantelpiece." Maisie felt a fear. "Won't papa dislike to see it there?" "Very much indeed; but that won't matter NOW." Miss Overmore spoke with peculiar significance and to her pupil's mystification. "On account of the marriage?" Maisie risked. Miss Overmore laughed, and Maisie could see that in spite of the irritation produced by Mrs. Wix she was in high spirits. "Which marriage do you mean?" With the question put to her it suddenly struck the child she didn't know, so that she felt she looked foolish. So she took refuge in saying: "Shall YOU be different--" This was a full implication that the bride of Sir Claude would be. "As your father's wedded wife? Utterly!" Miss Overmore replied. And the difference began of course in her being addressed, even by Maisie, from that day and by her particular request, as Mrs. Beale. It was there indeed principally that it ended, for except that the child could reflect that she should presently have four parents in all, and also that at the end of three months the staircase, for a little girl hanging over banisters, sent up the deepening rustle of more elaborate advances, everything made the same impression as before. Mrs. Beale had very pretty frocks, but Miss Overmore's had been quite as good, and if papa was much fonder of his second wife than he had been of his first Maisie had foreseen that fondness, had followed its development almost as closely as the person more directly involved. There was little indeed in the commerce of her companions that her precocious experience couldn't explain, for if they struck her as after all rather deficient in that air of the honeymoon of which she had so often heard--in much detail, for instance, from Mrs. Wix--it was natural to judge the circumstance in the light of papa's proved disposition to contest the empire of the matrimonial tie. His honeymoon, when he came back from Brighton--not on the morrow of Mrs. Wix's visit, and not, oddly, till several days later--his honeymoon was perhaps perceptibly tinged with the dawn of a later stage of wedlock. There were things dislike of which, as the child knew it, wouldn't matter to Mrs. Beale now, and their number increased so that such a trifle as his hostility to the photograph of Sir Claude quite dropped out of view. This pleasing object found a conspicuous place in the schoolroom, which in truth Mr. Farange seldom entered and in which silent admiration formed, during the time I speak of, almost the sole scholastic exercise of Mrs. Beale's pupil. Maisie was not long in seeing just what her stepmother had meant by the difference she should show in her new character. If she was her father's wife she was not her own governess, and if her presence had had formerly to be made regular by the theory of a humble function she was now on a footing that dispensed with all theories and was inconsistent with all servitude. That was what she had meant by the drop of the objection to a school; her small companion was no longer required at home as--it was Mrs. Beale's own amusing word--a little duenna. The argument against a successor to Miss Overmore remained: it was composed frankly of the fact, of which Mrs. Beale granted the full absurdity, that she was too awfully fond of her stepdaughter to bring herself to see her in vulgar and mercenary hands. The note of this particular danger emboldened Maisie to put in a word for Mrs. Wix, the modest measure of whose avidity she had taken from the first; but Mrs. Beale disposed afresh and effectually of a candidate who would be sure to act in some horrible and insidious way for Ida's interest and who moreover was personally loathsome and as ignorant as a fish. She made also no more of a secret of the awkward fact that a good school would be hideously expensive, and of the further circumstance, which seemed to put an end to everything, that when it came to the point papa, in spite of his previous clamour, was really most nasty about paying. "Would you believe," Mrs. Beale confidentially asked of her little charge, "that he says I'm a worse expense than ever, and that a daughter and a wife together are really more than he can afford?" It was thus that the splendid school at Brighton lost itself in the haze of larger questions, though the fear that it would provoke Ida to leap into the breach subsided with her prolonged, her quite shameless non-appearance. Her daughter and her successor were therefore left to gaze in united but helpless blankness at all Maisie was not learning. This quantity was so great as to fill the child's days with a sense of intermission to which even French Lisette gave no accent--with finished games and unanswered questions and dreaded tests; with the habit, above all, in her watch for a change, of hanging over banisters when the door-bell sounded. This was the great refuge of her impatience, but what she heard at such times was a clatter of gaiety downstairs; the impression of which, from her earliest childhood, had built up in her the belief that the grown-up time was the time of real amusement and above all of real intimacy. Even Lisette, even Mrs. Wix had never, she felt, in spite of hugs and tears, been so intimate with her as so many persons at present were with Mrs. Beale and as so many others of old had been with Mrs. Farange. The note of hilarity brought people together still more than the note of melancholy, which was the one exclusively sounded, for instance, by poor Mrs. Wix. Maisie in these days preferred none the less that domestic revels should be wafted to her from a distance: she felt sadly unsupported for facing the inquisition of the drawing-room. That was a reason the more for making the most of Susan Ash, who in her quality of under-housemaid moved at a very different level and who, none the less, was much depended upon out of doors. She was a guide to peregrinations that had little in common with those intensely definite airings that had left with the child a vivid memory of the regulated mind of Moddle. There had been under Moddle's system no dawdles at shop-windows and no nudges, in Oxford Street, of "I SAY, look at 'ER!" There had been an inexorable treatment of crossings and a serene exemption from the fear that--especially at corners, of which she was yet weakly fond--haunted the housemaid, the fear of being, as she ominously said, "spoken to." The dangers of the town equally with its diversions added to Maisie's sense of being untutored and unclaimed. The situation however, had taken a twist when, on another of her returns, at Susan's side, extremely tired, from the pursuit of exercise qualified by much hovering, she encountered another emotion. She on this occasion learnt at the door that her instant attendance was requested in the drawing-room. Crossing the threshold in a cloud of shame she discerned through the blur Mrs. Beale seated there with a gentleman who immediately drew the pain from her predicament by rising before her as the original of the photograph of Sir Claude. She felt the moment she looked at him that he was by far the most shining presence that had ever made her gape, and her pleasure in seeing him, in knowing that he took hold of her and kissed her, as quickly throbbed into a strange shy pride in him, a perception of his making up for her fallen state, for Susan's public nudges, which quite bruised her, and for all the lessons that, in the dead schoolroom, where at times she was almost afraid to stay alone, she was bored with not having. It was as if he had told her on the spot that he belonged to her, so that she could already show him off and see the effect he produced. No, nothing else that was most beautiful ever belonging to her could kindle that particular joy--not Mrs. Beale at that very moment, not papa when he was gay, nor mamma when she was dressed, nor Lisette when she was new. The joy almost overflowed in tears when he laid his hand on her and drew her to him, telling her, with a smile of which the promise was as bright as that of a Christmas-tree, that he knew her ever so well by her mother, but had come to see her now so that he might know her for himself. She could see that his view of this kind of knowledge was to make her come away with him, and, further, that it was just what he was there for and had already been some time: arranging it with Mrs. Beale and getting on with that lady in a manner evidently not at all affected by her having on the arrival of his portrait thought of him so ill. They had grown almost intimate--or had the air of it--over their discussion; and it was still further conveyed to Maisie that Mrs. Beale had made no secret, and would make yet less of one, of all that it cost to let her go. "You seem so tremendously eager," she said to the child, "that I hope you're at least clear about Sir Claude's relation to you. It doesn't appear to occur to him to give you the necessary reassurance." Maisie, a trifle mystified, turned quickly to her new friend. "Why it's of course that you're MARRIED to her, isn't it?" Her anxious emphasis started them off, as she had learned to call it; this was the echo she infallibly and now quite resignedly produced; moreover Sir Claude's laughter was an indistinguishable part of the sweetness of his being there. "We've been married, my dear child, three months, and my interest in you is a consequence, don't you know? of my great affection for your mother. In coming here it's of course for your mother I'm acting." "Oh I know," Maisie said with all the candour of her competence. "She can't come herself--except just to the door." Then as she thought afresh: "Can't she come even to the door now?" "There you are!" Mrs. Beale exclaimed to Sir Claude. She spoke as if his dilemma were ludicrous. His kind face, in a hesitation, seemed to recognise it; but he answered the child with a frank smile. "No--not very well." "Because she has married you?" He promptly accepted this reason. "Well, that has a good deal to do with it." He was so delightful to talk to that Maisie pursued the subject. "But papa--HE has married Miss Overmore." "Ah you'll see that he won't come for you at your mother's," that lady interposed. "Yes, but that won't be for a long time," Maisie hastened to respond. "We won't talk about it now--you've months and months to put in first." And Sir Claude drew her closer. "Oh that's what makes it so hard to give her up!" Mrs. Beale made this point with her arms out to her stepdaughter. Maisie, quitting Sir Claude, went over to them and, clasped in a still tenderer embrace, felt entrancingly the extension of the field of happiness. "I'LL come for you," said her stepmother, "if Sir Claude keeps you too long: we must make him quite understand that! Don't talk to me about her ladyship!" she went on to their visitor so familiarly that it was almost as if they must have met before. "I know her ladyship as if I had made her. They're a pretty pair of parents!" cried Mrs. Beale. Maisie had so often heard them called so that the remark diverted her but an instant from the agreeable wonder of this grand new form of allusion to her mother; and that, in its turn, presently left her free to catch at the pleasant possibility, in connexion with herself, of a relation much happier as between Mrs. Beale and Sir Claude than as between mamma and papa. Still the next thing that happened was that her interest in such a relation brought to her lips a fresh question. "Have you seen papa?" she asked of Sir Claude. It was the signal for their going off again, as her small stoicism had perfectly taken for granted that it would be. All that Mrs. Beale had nevertheless to add was the vague apparent sarcasm: "Oh papa!" "I'm assured he's not at home," Sir Claude replied to the child; "but if he had been I should have hoped for the pleasure of seeing him." "Won't he mind your coming?" Maisie asked as with need of the knowledge. "Oh you bad little girl!" Mrs. Beale humorously protested. The child could see that at this Sir Claude, though still moved to mirth, coloured a little; but he spoke to her very kindly. "That's just what I came to see, you know--whether your father WOULD mind. But Mrs. Beale appears strongly of the opinion that he won't." This lady promptly justified that view to her stepdaughter. "It will be very interesting, my dear, you know, to find out what it is to-day that your father does mind. I'm sure _I_ don't know!"--and she seemed to repeat, though with perceptible resignation, her plaint of a moment before. "Your father, darling, is a very odd person indeed." She turned with this, smiling, to Sir Claude. "But perhaps it's hardly civil for me to say that of his not objecting to have YOU in the house. If you knew some of the people he does have!" Maisie knew them all, and none indeed were to be compared to Sir Claude. He laughed back at Mrs. Beale; he looked at such moments quite as Mrs. Wix, in the long stories she told her pupil, always described the lovers of her distressed beauties--"the perfect gentleman and strikingly handsome." He got up, to the child's regret, as if he were going. "Oh I dare say we should be all right!" Mrs. Beale once more gathered in her little charge, holding her close and looking thoughtfully over her head at their visitor. "It's so charming--for a man of your type--to have wanted her so much!" "What do you know about my type?" Sir Claude laughed. "Whatever it may be I dare say it deceives you. The truth about me is simply that I'm the most unappreciated of--what do you call the fellows?--'family-men.' Yes, I'm a family-man; upon my honour I am!" "Then why on earth," cried Mrs. Beale, "didn't you marry a family-woman?" Sir Claude looked at her hard. "YOU know who one marries, I think. Besides, there ARE no family-women--hanged if there are! None of them want any children--hanged if they do!" His account of the matter was most interesting, and Maisie, as if it were of bad omen for her, stared at the picture in some dismay. At the same time she felt, through encircling arms, her protectress hesitate. "You do come out with things! But you mean her ladyship doesn't want any--really?" "Won't hear of them--simply. But she can't help the one she HAS got." And with this Sir Claude's eyes rested on the little girl in a way that seemed to her to mask her mother's attitude with the consciousness of his own. "She must make the best of her, don't you see? If only for the look of the thing, don't you know? one wants one's wife to take the proper line about her child." "Oh I know what one wants!" Mrs. Beale cried with a competence that evidently impressed her interlocutor. "Well, if you keep HIM up--and I dare say you've had worry enough--why shouldn't I keep Ida? What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander--or the other way round, don't you know? I mean to see the thing through." Mrs. Beale, for a minute, still with her eyes on him as he leaned upon the chimneypiece, appeared to turn this over. "You're just a wonder of kindness--that's what you are!" she said at last. "A lady's expected to have natural feelings. But YOUR horrible sex--! Isn't it a horrible sex, little love?" she demanded with her cheek upon her stepdaughter's. "Oh I like gentlemen best," Maisie lucidly replied. The words were taken up merrily. "That's a good one for YOU!" Sir Claude exclaimed to Mrs. Beale. "No," said that lady: "I've only to remember the women she sees at her mother's." "Ah they're very nice now," Sir Claude returned. "What do you call 'nice'?" "Well, they're all right." "That doesn't answer me," said Mrs. Beale; "but I dare say you do take care of them. That makes you more of an angel to want this job too." And she playfully whacked her smaller companion. "I'm not an angel--I'm an old grandmother," Sir Claude declared. "I like babies--I always did. If we go to smash I shall look for a place as responsible nurse." Maisie, in her charmed mood, drank in an imputation on her years which at another moment might have been bitter; but the charm was sensibly interrupted by Mrs. Beale's screwing her round and gazing fondly into her eyes, "You're willing to leave me, you wretch?" The little girl deliberated; even this consecrated tie had become as a cord she must suddenly snap. But she snapped it very gently. "Isn't it my turn for mamma?" "You're a horrible little hypocrite! The less, I think, now said about 'turns' the better," Mrs. Beale made answer. "_I_ know whose turn it is. You've not such a passion for your mother!" "I say, I say: DO look out!" Sir Claude quite amiably protested. "There's nothing she hasn't heard. But it doesn't matter--it hasn't spoiled her. If you knew what it costs me to part with you!" she pursued to Maisie. Sir Claude watched her as she charmingly clung to the child. "I'm so glad you really care for her. That's so much to the good." Mrs. Beale slowly got up, still with her hands on Maisie, but emitting a soft exhalation. "Well, if you're glad, that may help us; for I assure you that I shall never give up any rights in her that I may consider I've acquired by my own sacrifices. I shall hold very fast to my interest in her. What seems to have happened is that she has brought you and me together." "She has brought you and me together," said Sir Claude. His cheerful echo prolonged the happy truth, and Maisie broke out almost with enthusiasm: "I've brought you and her together!" Her companions of course laughed anew and Mrs. Beale gave her an affectionate shake. "You little monster--take care what you do! But that's what she does do," she continued to Sir Claude. "She did it to me and Beale." "Well then," he said to Maisie, "you must try the trick at OUR place." He held out his hand to her again. "Will you come now?" "Now--just as I am?" She turned with an immense appeal to her stepmother, taking a leap over the mountain of "mending," the abyss of packing that had loomed and yawned before her. "Oh MAY I?" Mrs. Beale addressed her assent to Sir Claude. "As well so as any other way. I'll send on her things to-morrow." Then she gave a tug to the child's coat, glancing at her up and down with some ruefulness. "She's not turned out as I should like--her mother will pull her to pieces. But what's one to do--with nothing to do it on? And she's better than when she came--you can tell her mother that. I'm sorry to have to say it to you--but the poor child was a sight." "Oh I'll turn her out myself!" the visitor cordially said. "I shall like to see how!"--Mrs. Beale appeared much amused. "You must bring her to show me--we can manage that. Good-bye, little fright!" And her last word to Sir Claude was that she would keep him up to the mark. IX The idea of what she was to make up and the prodigious total it came to were kept well before Maisie at her mother's. These things were the constant occupation of Mrs. Wix, who arrived there by the back stairs, but in tears of joy, the day after her own arrival. The process of making up, as to which the good lady had an immense deal to say, took, through its successive phases, so long that it heralded a term at least equal to the child's last stretch with her father. This, however, was a fuller and richer time: it bounded along to the tune of Mrs. Wix's constant insistence on the energy they must both put forth. There was a fine intensity in the way the child agreed with her that under Mrs. Beale and Susan Ash she had learned nothing whatever; the wildness of the rescued castaway was one of the forces that would henceforth make for a career of conquest. The year therefore rounded itself as a receptacle of retarded knowledge--a cup brimming over with the sense that now at least she was learning. Mrs. Wix fed this sense from the stores of her conversation and with the immense bustle of her reminder that they must cull the fleeting hour. They were surrounded with subjects they must take at a rush and perpetually getting into the attitude of triumphant attack. They had certainly no idle hours, and the child went to bed each night as tired as from a long day's play. This had begun from the moment of their reunion, begun with all Mrs. Wix had to tell her young friend of the reasons of her ladyship's extraordinary behaviour at the very first. It took the form of her ladyship's refusal for three days to see her little girl--three days during which Sir Claude made hasty merry dashes into the schoolroom to smooth down the odd situation, to say "She'll come round, you know; I assure you she'll come round," and a little even to compensate Maisie for the indignity he had caused her to suffer. There had never in the child's life been, in all ways, such a delightful amount of reparation. It came out by his sociable admission that her ladyship had not known of his visit to her late husband's house and of his having made that person's daughter a pretext for striking up an acquaintance with the dreadful creature installed there. Heaven knew she wanted her child back and had made every plan of her own for removing her; what she couldn't for the present at least forgive any one concerned was such an officious underhand way of bringing about the transfer. Maisie carried more of the weight of this resentment than even Mrs. Wix's confidential ingenuity could lighten for her, especially as Sir Claude himself was not at all ingenious, though indeed on the other hand he was not at all crushed. He was amused and intermittent and at moments most startling; he impressed on his young companion, with a frankness that agitated her much more than he seemed to guess, that he depended on her not letting her mother, when she should see her, get anything out of her about anything Mrs. Beale might have said to him. He came in and out; he professed, in joke, to take tremendous precautions; he showed a positive disposition to romp. He chaffed Mrs. Wix till she was purple with the pleasure of it, and reminded Maisie of the reticence he expected of her till she set her teeth like an Indian captive. Her lessons these first days and indeed for long after seemed to be all about Sir Claude, and yet she never really mentioned to Mrs. Wix that she was prepared, under his inspiring injunction, to be vainly tortured. This lady, however, had formulated the position of things with an acuteness that showed how little she needed to be coached. Her explanation of everything that seemed not quite pleasant--and if her own footing was perilous it met that danger as well--that her ladyship was passionately in love. Maisie accepted this hint with infinite awe and pressed upon it much when she was at last summoned into the presence of her mother. There she encountered matters amid which it seemed really to help to give her a clue--an almost terrifying strangeness, full, none the less, after a little, of reverberations of Ida's old fierce and demonstrative recoveries of possession. They had been some time in the house together, and this demonstration came late. Preoccupied, however, as Maisie was with the idea of the sentiment Sir Claude had inspired, and familiar, in addition, by Mrs. Wix's anecdotes, with the ravages that in general such a sentiment could produce, she was able to make allowances for her ladyship's remarkable appearance, her violent splendour, the wonderful colour of her lips and even the hard stare, the stare of some gorgeous idol described in a story-book, that had come into her eyes in consequence of a curious thickening of their already rich circumference. Her professions and explanations were mixed with eager challenges and sudden drops, in the midst of which Maisie recognised as a memory of other years the rattle of her trinkets and the scratch of her endearments, the odour of her clothes and the jumps of her conversation. She had all her old clever way--Mrs. Wix said it was "aristocratic"--of changing the subject as she might have slammed the door in your face. The principal thing that was different was the tint of her golden hair, which had changed to a coppery red and, with the head it profusely covered, struck the child as now lifted still further aloft. This picturesque parent showed literally a grander stature and a nobler presence, things which, with some others that might have been bewildering, were handsomely accounted for by the romantic state of her affections. It was her affections, Maisie could easily see, that led Ida to break out into questions as to what had passed at the other house between that horrible woman and Sir Claude; but it was also just here that the little girl was able to recall the effect with which in earlier days she had practised the pacific art of stupidity. This art again came to her aid: her mother, in getting rid of her after an interview in which she had achieved a hollowness beyond her years, allowed her fully to understand she had not grown a bit more amusing. She could bear that; she could bear anything that helped her to feel she had done something for Sir Claude. If she hadn't told Mrs. Wix how Mrs. Beale seemed to like him she certainly couldn't tell her ladyship. In the way the past revived for her there was a queer confusion. It was because mamma hated papa that she used to want to know bad things of him; but if at present she wanted to know the same of Sir Claude it was quite from the opposite motive. She was awestruck at the manner in which a lady might be affected through the passion mentioned by Mrs. Wix; she held her breath with the sense of picking her steps among the tremendous things of life. What she did, however, now, after the interview with her mother, impart to Mrs. Wix was that, in spite of her having had her "good" effect, as she called it--the effect she studied, the effect of harmless vacancy--her ladyship's last words had been that her ladyship's duty by her would be thoroughly done. Over this announcement governess and pupil looked at each other in silent profundity; but as the weeks went by it had no consequences that interfered gravely with the breezy gallop of making up. Her ladyship's duty took at times the form of not seeing her child for days together, and Maisie led her life in great prosperity between Mrs. Wix and kind Sir Claude. Mrs. Wix had a new dress and, as she was the first to proclaim, a better position; so it all struck Maisie as a crowded brilliant life, with, for the time, Mrs. Beale and Susan Ash simply "left out" like children not invited to a Christmas party. Mrs. Wix had a secret terror which, like most of her secret feelings, she discussed with her little companion, in great solemnity, by the hour: the possibility of her ladyship's coming down on them, in her sudden highbred way, with a school. But she had also a balm to this fear in a conviction of the strength of Sir Claude's grasp of the situation. He was too pleased--didn't he constantly say as much?--with the good impression made, in a wide circle, by Ida's sacrifices; and he came into the schoolroom repeatedly to let them know how beautifully he felt everything had gone off and everything would go on. He disappeared at times for days, when his patient friends understood that her ladyship would naturally absorb him; but he always came back with the drollest stories of where he had been, a wonderful picture of society, and even with pretty presents that showed how in absence he thought of his home. Besides giving Mrs. Wix by his conversation a sense that they almost themselves "went out," he gave her a five-pound note and the history of France and an umbrella with a malachite knob, and to Maisie both chocolate-creams and story-books, besides a lovely greatcoat (which he took her out all alone to buy) and ever so many games in boxes, with printed directions, and a bright red frame for the protection of his famous photograph. The games were, as he said, to while away the evening hour; and the evening hour indeed often passed in futile attempts on Mrs. Wix's part to master what "it said" on the papers. When he asked the pair how they liked the games they always replied "Oh immensely!" but they had earnest discussions as to whether they hadn't better appeal to him frankly for aid to understand them. This was a course their delicacy shrank from; they couldn't have told exactly why, but it was a part of their tenderness for him not to let him think they had trouble. What dazzled most was his kindness to Mrs. Wix, not only the five-pound note and the "not forgetting" her, but the perfect consideration, as she called it with an air to which her sounding of the words gave the only grandeur Maisie was to have seen her wear save on a certain occasion hereafter to be described, an occasion when the poor lady was grander than all of them put together. He shook hands with her, he recognised her, as she said, and above all, more than once, he took her, with his stepdaughter, to the pantomime and, in the crowd, coming out, publicly gave her his arm. When he met them in sunny Piccadilly he made merry and turned and walked with them, heroically suppressing his consciousness of the stamp of his company, a heroism that--needless for Mrs. Wix to sound THOSE words--her ladyship, though a blood-relation, was little enough the woman to be capable of. Even to the hard heart of childhood there was something tragic in such elation at such humanities: it brought home to Maisie the way her humble companion had sidled and ducked through life. But it settled the question of the degree to which Sir Claude was a gentleman: he was more of one than anybody else in the world--"I don't care," Mrs. Wix repeatedly remarked, "whom you may meet in grand society, nor even to whom you may be contracted in marriage." There were questions that Maisie never asked; so her governess was spared the embarrassment of telling her if he were more of a gentleman than papa. This was not moreover from the want of opportunity, for there were no moments between them at which the topic could be irrelevant, no subject they were going into, not even the principal dates or the auxiliary verbs, in which it was further off than the turn of the page. The answer on the winter nights to the puzzle of cards and counters and little bewildering pamphlets was just to draw up to the fire and talk about him; and if the truth must be told this edifying interchange constituted for the time the little girl's chief education. It must also be admitted that he took them far, further perhaps than was always warranted by the old-fashioned conscience, the dingy decencies, of Maisie's simple instructress. There were hours when Mrs. Wix sighingly testified to the scruples she surmounted, seemed to ask what other line one COULD take with a young person whose experience had been, as it were, so peculiar. "It isn't as if you didn't already know everything, is it, love?" and "I can't make you any worse than you ARE, can I, darling?"--these were the terms in which the good lady justified to herself and her pupil her pleasant conversational ease. What the pupil already knew was indeed rather taken for granted than expressed, but it performed the useful function of transcending all textbooks and supplanting all studies. If the child couldn't be worse it was a comfort even to herself that she was bad--a comfort offering a broad firm support to the fundamental fact of the present crisis: the fact that mamma was fearfully jealous. This was another side of the circumstance of mamma's passion, and the deep couple in the schoolroom were not long in working round to it. It brought them face to face with the idea of the inconvenience suffered by any lady who marries a gentleman producing on other ladies the charming effect of Sir Claude. That such ladies wouldn't be able to help falling in love with him was a reflexion naturally irritating to his wife. One day when some accident, some crash of a banged door or some scurry of a scared maid, had rendered this truth particularly vivid, Maisie, receptive and profound, suddenly said to her companion: "And you, my dear, are you in love with him too?" Even her profundity had left a margin for a laugh; so she was a trifle startled by the solemn promptitude with which Mrs. Wix plumped out: "Over head and ears. I've NEVER since you ask me, been so far gone." This boldness had none the less no effect of deterrence for her when, a few days later--it was because several had elapsed without a visit from Sir Claude--her governess turned the tables. "May I ask you, miss, if YOU are?" Mrs. Wix brought it out, she could see, with hesitation, but clearly intending a joke. "Why RATHER!" the child made answer, as if in surprise at not having long ago seemed sufficiently to commit herself; on which her friend gave a sigh of apparent satisfaction. It might in fact have expressed positive relief. Everything was as it should be. Yet it was not with them, they were very sure, that her ladyship was furious, nor because she had forbidden it that there befell at last a period--six months brought it round--when for days together he scarcely came near them. He was "off," and Ida was "off," and they were sometimes off together and sometimes apart; there were seasons when the simple students had the house to themselves, when the very servants seemed also to be "off" and dinner became a reckless forage in pantries and sideboards. Mrs. Wix reminded her disciple on such occasions--hungry moments often, when all the support of the reminder was required--that the "real life" of their companions, the brilliant society in which it was inevitable they should move and the complicated pleasures in which it was almost presumptuous of the mind to follow them, must offer features literally not to be imagined without being seen. At one of these times Maisie found her opening it out that, though the difficulties were many, it was Mrs. Beale who had now become the chief. Then somehow it was brought fully to the child's knowledge that her stepmother had been making attempts to see her, that her mother had deeply resented it, that her stepfather had backed her stepmother up, that the latter had pretended to be acting as the representative of her father, and that her mother took the whole thing, in plain terms, very hard. The situation was, as Mrs. Wix declared, an extraordinary muddle to be sure. Her account of it brought back to Maisie the happy vision of the way Sir Claude and Mrs. Beale had made acquaintance--an incident to which, with her stepfather, though she had had little to say about it to Mrs. Wix, she had during the first weeks of her stay at her mother's found more than one opportunity to revert. As to what had taken place the day Sir Claude came for her, she had been vaguely grateful to Mrs. Wix for not attempting, as her mother had attempted, to put her through. That was what Sir Claude had called the process when he warned her of it, and again afterwards when he told her she was an awfully good "chap" for having foiled it. Then it was that, well aware Mrs. Beale hadn't in the least really given her up, she had asked him if he remained in communication with her and if for the time everything must really be held to be at an end between her stepmother and herself. This conversation had occurred in consequence of his one day popping into the schoolroom and finding Maisie alone. X He was smoking a cigarette and he stood before the fire and looked at the meagre appointments of the room in a way that made her rather ashamed of them. Then before (on the subject of Mrs. Beale) he let her "draw" him--that was another of his words; it was astonishing how many she gathered in--he remarked that really mamma kept them rather low on the question of decorations. Mrs. Wix had put up a Japanese fan and two rather grim texts; she had wished they were gayer, but they were all she happened to have. Without Sir Claude's photograph, however, the place would have been, as he said, as dull as a cold dinner. He had said as well that there were all sorts of things they ought to have; yet governess and pupil, it had to be admitted, were still divided between discussing the places where any sort of thing would look best if any sort of thing should ever come and acknowledging that mutability in the child's career which was naturally unfavourable to accumulation. She stayed long enough only to miss things, not half long enough to deserve them. The way Sir Claude looked about the schoolroom had made her feel with humility as if it were not very different from the shabby attic in which she had visited Susan Ash. Then he had said in abrupt reference to Mrs. Beale: "Do you think she really cares for you?" "Oh awfully!" Maisie had replied. "But, I mean, does she love you for yourself, as they call it, don't you know? Is she as fond of you, now, as Mrs. Wix?" The child turned it over. "Oh I'm not every bit Mrs. Beale has!" Sir Claude seemed much amused at this. "No; you're not every bit she has!" He laughed for some moments, but that was an old story to Maisie, who was not too much disconcerted to go on: "But she'll never give me up." "Well, I won't either, old boy: so that's not so wonderful, and she's not the only one. But if she's so fond of you, why doesn't she write to you?" "Oh on account of mamma." This was rudimentary, and she was almost surprised at the simplicity of Sir Claude's question. "I see--that's quite right," he answered. "She might get at you--there are all sorts of ways. But of course there's Mrs. Wix." "There's Mrs. Wix," Maisie lucidly concurred. "Mrs. Wix can't abide her." Sir Claude seemed interested. "Oh she can't abide her? Then what does she say about her?" "Nothing at all--because she knows I shouldn't like it. Isn't it sweet of her?" the child asked. "Certainly; rather nice. Mrs. Beale wouldn't hold her tongue for any such thing as that, would she?" Maisie remembered how little she had done so; but she desired to protect Mrs. Beale too. The only protection she could think of, however, was the plea: "Oh at papa's, you know, they don't mind!" At this Sir Claude only smiled. "No, I dare say not. But here we mind, don't we?--we take care what we say. I don't suppose it's a matter on which I ought to prejudice you," he went on; "but I think we must on the whole be rather nicer here than at your father's. However, I don't press that; for it's the sort of question on which it's awfully awkward for you to speak. Don't worry, at any rate: I assure you I'll back you up." Then after a moment and while he smoked he reverted to Mrs. Beale and the child's first enquiry. "I'm afraid we can't do much for her just now. I haven't seen her since that day--upon my word I haven't seen her." The next instant, with a laugh the least bit foolish, the young man slightly coloured: he must have felt this profession of innocence to be excessive as addressed to Maisie. It was inevitable to say to her, however, that of course her mother loathed the lady of the other house. He couldn't go there again with his wife's consent, and he wasn't the man--he begged her to believe, falling once more, in spite of himself, into the scruple of showing the child he didn't trip--to go there without it. He was liable in talking with her to take the tone of her being also a man of the world. He had gone to Mrs. Beale's to fetch away Maisie, but that was altogether different. Now that she was in her mother's house what pretext had he to give her mother for paying calls on her father's wife? And of course Mrs. Beale couldn't come to Ida's--Ida would tear her limb from limb. Maisie, with this talk of pretexts, remembered how much Mrs. Beale had made of her being a good one, and how, for such a function, it was her fate to be either much depended on or much missed. Sir Claude moreover recognised on this occasion that perhaps things would take a turn later on; and he wound up by saying: "I'm sure she does sincerely care for you--how can she possibly help it? She's very young and very pretty and very clever: I think she's charming. But we must walk very straight. If you'll help me, you know, I'll help YOU," he concluded in the pleasant fraternising, equalising, not a bit patronising way which made the child ready to go through anything for him and the beauty of which, as she dimly felt, was that it was so much less a deceitful descent to her years than a real indifference to them. It gave her moments of secret rapture--moments of believing she might help him indeed. The only mystification in this was the imposing time of life that her elders spoke of as youth. For Sir Claude then Mrs. Beale was "young," just as for Mrs. Wix Sir Claude was: that was one of the merits for which Mrs. Wix most commended him. What therefore was Maisie herself, and, in another relation to the matter, what therefore was mamma? It took her some time to puzzle out with the aid of an experiment or two that it wouldn't do to talk about mamma's youth. She even went so far one day, in the presence of that lady's thick colour and marked lines, as to wonder if it would occur to any one but herself to do so. Yet if she wasn't young then she was old; and this threw an odd light on her having a husband of a different generation. Mr. Farange was still older--that Maisie perfectly knew; and it brought her in due course to the perception of how much more, since Mrs. Beale was younger than Sir Claude, papa must be older than Mrs. Beale. Such discoveries were disconcerting and even a trifle confounding: these persons, it appeared, were not of the age they ought to be. This was somehow particularly the case with mamma, and the fact made her reflect with some relief on her not having gone with Mrs. Wix into the question of Sir Claude's attachment to his wife. She was conscious that in confining their attention to the state of her ladyship's own affections they had been controlled--Mrs. Wix perhaps in especial--by delicacy and even by embarrassment. The end of her colloquy with her stepfather in the schoolroom was her saying: "Then if we're not to see Mrs. Beale at all it isn't what she seemed to think when you came for me." He looked rather blank. "What did she seem to think?" "Why that I've brought you together." "She thought that?" Sir Claude asked. Maisie was surprised at his already forgetting it. "Just as I had brought papa and her. Don't you remember she said so?" It came back to Sir Claude in a peal of laughter. "Oh yes--she said so!" "And YOU said so," Maisie lucidly pursued. He recovered, with increasing mirth, the whole occasion. "And YOU said so!" he retorted as if they were playing a game. "Then were we all mistaken?" He considered a little. "No, on the whole not. I dare say it's just what you HAVE done. We ARE together--it's really most odd. She's thinking of us--of you and me--though we don't meet. And I've no doubt you'll find it will be all right when you go back to her." "Am I going back to her?" Maisie brought out with a little gasp which was like a sudden clutch of the happy present. It appeared to make Sir Claude grave a moment; it might have made him feel the weight of the pledge his action had given. "Oh some day, I suppose! We've plenty of time." "I've such a tremendous lot to make up," Maisie said with a sense of great boldness. "Certainly, and you must make up every hour of it. Oh I'll SEE that you do!" This was encouraging; and to show cheerfully that she was reassured she replied: "That's what Mrs. Wix sees too." "Oh yes," said Sir Claude; "Mrs. Wix and I are shoulder to shoulder." Maisie took in a little this strong image; after which she exclaimed: "Then I've done it also to you and her--I've brought YOU together!" "Blest if you haven't!" Sir Claude laughed. "And more, upon my word, than any of the lot. Oh you've done for US! Now if you could--as I suggested, you know, that day--only manage me and your mother!" The child wondered. "Bring you and HER together?" "You see we're not together--not a bit. But I oughtn't to tell you such things; all the more that you won't really do it--not you. No, old chap," the young man continued; "there you'll break down. But it won't matter--we'll rub along. The great thing is that you and I are all right." "WE'RE all right!" Maisie echoed devoutly. But the next moment, in the light of what he had just said, she asked: "How shall I ever leave you?" It was as if she must somehow take care of him. His smile did justice to her anxiety. "Oh well, you needn't! It won't come to that." "Do you mean that when I do go you'll go with me?" Sir Claude cast about. "Not exactly 'with' you perhaps; but I shall never be far off." "But how do you know where mamma may take you?" He laughed again. "I don't, I confess!" Then he had an idea, though something too jocose. "That will be for you to see--that she shan't take me too far." "How can I help it?" Maisie enquired in surprise. "Mamma doesn't care for me," she said very simply. "Not really." Child as she was, her little long history was in the words; and it was as impossible to contradict her as if she had been venerable. Sir Claude's silence was an admission of this, and still more the tone in which he presently replied: "That won't prevent her from--some time or other--leaving me with you." "Then we'll live together?" she eagerly demanded. "I'm afraid," said Sir Claude, smiling, "that that will be Mrs. Beale's real chance." Her eagerness just slightly dropped at this; she remembered Mrs. Wix's pronouncement that it was all an extraordinary muddle. "To take me again? Well, can't you come to see me there?" "Oh I dare say!" Though there were parts of childhood Maisie had lost she had all childhood's preference for the particular promise. "Then you WILL come--you'll come often, won't you?" she insisted; while at the moment she spoke the door opened for the return of Mrs. Wix. Sir Claude hereupon, instead of replying, gave her a look which left her silent and embarrassed. When he again found privacy convenient, however--which happened to be long in coming--he took up their conversation very much where it had dropped. "You see, my dear, if I shall be able to go to you at your father's it yet isn't at all the same thing for Mrs. Beale to come to you here." Maisie gave a thoughtful assent to this proposition, though conscious she could scarcely herself say just where the difference would lie. She felt how much her stepfather saved her, as he said with his habitual amusement, the trouble of that. "I shall probably be able to go to Mrs. Beale's without your mother's knowing it." Maisie stared with a certain thrill at the dramatic element in this. "And she couldn't come here without mamma's--" She was unable to articulate the word for what mamma would do. "My dear child, Mrs. Wix would tell of it." "But I thought," Maisie objected, "that Mrs. Wix and you--" "Are such brothers-in-arms?"--Sir Claude caught her up. "Oh yes, about everything but Mrs. Beale. And if you should suggest," he went on, "that we might somehow or other hide her peeping in from Mrs. Wix--" "Oh, I don't suggest THAT!" Maisie in turn cut him short. Sir Claude looked as if he could indeed quite see why. "No; it would really be impossible." There came to her from this glance at what they might hide the first small glimpse of something in him that she wouldn't have expected. There had been times when she had had to make the best of the impression that she was herself deceitful; yet she had never concealed anything bigger than a thought. Of course she now concealed this thought of how strange it would be to see HIM hide; and while she was so actively engaged he continued: "Besides, you know, I'm not afraid of your father." "And you are of my mother?" "Rather, old man!" Sir Claude returned. XI It must not be supposed that her ladyship's intermissions were not qualified by demonstrations of another order--triumphal entries and breathless pauses during which she seemed to take of everything in the room, from the state of the ceiling to that of her daughter's boot-toes, a survey that was rich in intentions. Sometimes she sat down and sometimes she surged about, but her attitude wore equally in either case the grand air of the practical. She found so much to deplore that she left a great deal to expect, and bristled so with calculation that she seemed to scatter remedies and pledges. Her visits were as good as an outfit; her manner, as Mrs. Wix once said, as good as a pair of curtains; but she was a person addicted to extremes--sometimes barely speaking to her child and sometimes pressing this tender shoot to a bosom cut, as Mrs. Wix had also observed, remarkably low. She was always in a fearful hurry, and the lower the bosom was cut the more it was to be gathered she was wanted elsewhere. She usually broke in alone, but sometimes Sir Claude was with her, and during all the earlier period there was nothing on which these appearances had had so delightful a bearing as on the way her ladyship was, as Mrs. Wix expressed it, under the spell. "But ISN'T she under it!" Maisie used in thoughtful but familiar reference to exclaim after Sir Claude had swept mamma away in peals of natural laughter. Not even in the old days of the convulsed ladies had she heard mamma laugh so freely as in these moments of conjugal surrender, to the gaiety of which even a little girl could see she had at last a right--a little girl whose thoughtfulness was now all happy selfish meditation on good omens and future fun. Unaccompanied, in subsequent hours, and with an effect of changing to meet a change, Ida took a tone superficially disconcerting and abrupt--the tone of having, at an immense cost, made over everything to Sir Claude and wishing others to know that if everything wasn't right it was because Sir Claude was so dreadfully vague. "He has made from the first such a row about you," she said on one occasion to Maisie, "that I've told him to do for you himself and try how he likes it--see? I've washed my hands of you; I've made you over to him; and if you're discontented it's on him, please, you'll come down. So don't haul poor ME up--I assure you I've worries enough." One of these, visibly, was that the spell rejoiced in by the schoolroom fire was already in danger of breaking; another was that she was finally forced to make no secret of her husband's unfitness for real responsibilities. The day came indeed when her breathless auditors learnt from her in bewilderment that what ailed him was that he was, alas, simply not serious. Maisie wept on Mrs. Wix's bosom after hearing that Sir Claude was a butterfly; considering moreover that her governess but half-patched it up in coming out at various moments the next few days with the opinion that it was proper to his "station" to be careless and free. That had been proper to every one's station that she had yet encountered save poor Mrs. Wix's own, and the particular merit of Sir Claude had seemed precisely that he was different from every one. She talked with him, however, as time went on, very freely about her mother; being with him, in this relation, wholly without the fear that had kept her silent before her father--the fear of bearing tales and making bad things worse. He appeared to accept the idea that he had taken her over and made her, as he said, his particular lark; he quite agreed also that he was an awful fraud and an idle beast and a sorry dunce. And he never said a word to her against her mother--he only remained dumb and discouraged in the face of her ladyship's own overtopping earnestness. There were occasions when he even spoke as if he had wrenched his little charge from the arms of a parent who had fought for her tooth and nail. This was the very moral of a scene that flashed into vividness one day when the four happened to meet without company in the drawing-room and Maisie found herself clutched to her mother's breast and passionately sobbed and shrieked over, made the subject of a demonstration evidently sequent to some sharp passage just enacted. The connexion required that while she almost cradled the child in her arms Ida should speak of her as hideously, as fatally estranged, and should rail at Sir Claude as the cruel author of the outrage. "He has taken you FROM me," she cried; "he has set you AGAINST me, and you've been won away and your horrid little mind has been poisoned! You've gone over to him, you've given yourself up to side against me and hate me. You never open your mouth to me--you know you don't; and you chatter to him like a dozen magpies. Don't lie about it--I hear you all over the place. You hang about him in a way that's barely decent--he can do what he likes with you. Well then, let him, to his heart's content: he has been in such a hurry to take you that we'll see if it suits him to keep you. I'm very good to break my heart about it when you've no more feeling for me than a clammy little fish!" She suddenly thrust the child away and, as a disgusted admission of failure, sent her flying across the room into the arms of Mrs. Wix, whom at this moment and even in the whirl of her transit Maisie saw, very red, exchange a quick queer look with Sir Claude. The impression of the look remained with her, confronting her with such a critical little view of her mother's explosion that she felt the less ashamed of herself for incurring the reproach with which she had been cast off. Her father had once called her a heartless little beast, and now, though decidedly scared, she was as stiff and cold as if the description had been just. She was not even frightened enough to cry, which would have been a tribute to her mother's wrongs: she was only, more than anything else, curious about the opinion mutely expressed by their companions. Taking the earliest opportunity to question Mrs. Wix on this subject she elicited the remarkable reply: "Well, my dear, it's her ladyship's game, and we must just hold on like grim death." Maisie could interpret at her leisure these ominous words. Her reflexions indeed at this moment thickened apace, and one of them made her sure that her governess had conversations, private, earnest and not infrequent, with her denounced stepfather. She perceived in the light of a second episode that something beyond her knowledge had taken place in the house. The things beyond her knowledge--numerous enough in truth--had not hitherto, she believed, been the things that had been nearest to her: she had even had in the past a small smug conviction that in the domestic labyrinth she always kept the clue. This time too, however, she at last found out--with the discreet aid, it had to be confessed, of Mrs. Wix. Sir Claude's own assistance was abruptly taken from her, for his comment on her ladyship's game was to start on the spot, quite alone, for Paris, evidently because he wished to show a spirit when accused of bad behaviour. He might be fond of his stepdaughter, Maisie felt, without wishing her to be after all thrust on him in such a way; his absence therefore, it was clear, was a protest against the thrusting. It was while this absence lasted that our young lady finally discovered what had happened in the house to be that her mother was no longer in love. The limit of a passion for Sir Claude had certainly been reached, she judged, some time before the day on which her ladyship burst suddenly into the schoolroom to introduce Mr. Perriam, who, as she announced from the doorway to Maisie, wouldn't believe his ears that one had a great hoyden of a daughter. Mr. Perriam was short and massive--Mrs. Wix remarked afterwards that he was "too fat for the pace"; and it would have been difficult to say of him whether his head were more bald or his black moustache more bushy. He seemed also to have moustaches over his eyes, which, however, by no means prevented these polished little globes from rolling round the room as if they had been billiard-balls impelled by Ida's celebrated stroke. Mr. Perriam wore on the hand that pulled his moustache a diamond of dazzling lustre, in consequence of which and of his general weight and mystery our young lady observed on his departure that if he had only had a turban he would have been quite her idea of a heathen Turk. "He's quite my idea," Mrs. Wix replied, "of a heathen Jew." "Well, I mean," said Maisie, "of a person who comes from the East." "That's where he MUST come from," her governess opined--"he comes from the City." In a moment she added as if she knew all about him. "He's one of those people who have lately broken out. He'll be immensely rich." "On the death of his papa?" the child interestedly enquired. "Dear no--nothing hereditary. I mean he has made a mass of money." "How much, do you think?" Maisie demanded. Mrs. Wix reflected and sketched it. "Oh many millions." "A hundred?" Mrs. Wix was not sure of the number, but there were enough of them to have seemed to warm up for the time the penury of the schoolroom--to linger there as an afterglow of the hot heavy light Mr. Perriam sensibly shed. This was also, no doubt, on his part, an effect of that enjoyment of life with which, among her elders, Maisie had been in contact from her earliest years--the sign of happy maturity, the old familiar note of overflowing cheer. "How d'ye do, ma'am? How d'ye do, little miss?"--he laughed and nodded at the gaping figures. "She has brought me up for a peep--it's true I wouldn't take you on trust. She's always talking about you, but she'd never produce you; so to-day I challenged her on the spot. Well, you ain't a myth, my dear--I back down on that," the visitor went on to Maisie; "nor you either, miss, though you might be, to be sure!" "I bored him with you, darling--I bore every one," Ida said, "and to prove that you ARE a sweet thing, as well as a fearfully old one, I told him he could judge for himself. So now he sees that you're a dreadful bouncing business and that your poor old Mummy's at least sixty!"--and her ladyship smiled at Mr. Perriam with the charm that her daughter had heard imputed to her at papa's by the merry gentlemen who had so often wished to get from him what they called a "rise." Her manner at that instant gave the child a glimpse more vivid than any yet enjoyed of the attraction that papa, in remarkable language, always denied she could put forth. Mr. Perriam, however, clearly recognised it in the humour with which he met her. "I never said you ain't wonderful--did I ever say it, hey?" and he appealed with pleasant confidence to the testimony of the schoolroom, about which itself also he evidently felt something might be expected of him. "So this is their little place, hey? Charming, charming, charming!" he repeated as he vaguely looked round. The interrupted students clung together as if they had been personally exposed; but Ida relieved their embarrassment by a hunch of her high shoulders. This time the smile she addressed to Mr. Perriam had a beauty of sudden sadness. "What on earth is a poor woman to do?" The visitor's grimace grew more marked as he continued to look, and the conscious little schoolroom felt still more like a cage at a menagerie. "Charming, charming, charming!" Mr. Perriam insisted; but the parenthesis closed with a prompt click. "There you are!" said her ladyship. "By-bye!" she sharply added. The next minute they were on the stairs, and Mrs. Wix and her companion, at the open door and looking mutely at each other, were reached by the sound of the large social current that carried them back to their life. It was singular perhaps after this that Maisie never put a question about Mr. Perriam, and it was still more singular that by the end of a week she knew all she didn't ask. What she most particularly knew--and the information came to her, unsought, straight from Mrs. Wix--was that Sir Claude wouldn't at all care for the visits of a millionaire who was in and out of the upper rooms. How little he would care was proved by the fact that under the sense of them Mrs. Wix's discretion broke down altogether; she was capable of a transfer of allegiance, capable, at the altar of propriety, of a desperate sacrifice of her ladyship. As against Mrs. Beale, she more than once intimated, she had been willing to do the best for her, but as against Sir Claude she could do nothing for her at all. It was extraordinary the number of things that, still without a question, Maisie knew by the time her stepfather came back from Paris--came bringing her a splendid apparatus for painting in water-colours and bringing Mrs. Wix, by a lapse of memory that would have been droll if it had not been a trifle disconcerting, a second and even a more elegant umbrella. He had forgotten all about the first, with which, buried in as many wrappers as a mummy of the Pharaohs, she wouldn't for the world have done anything so profane as use it. Maisie knew above all that though she was now, by what she called an informal understanding, on Sir Claude's "side," she had yet not uttered a word to him about Mr. Perriam. That gentleman became therefore a kind of flourishing public secret, out of the depths of which governess and pupil looked at each other portentously from the time their friend was restored to them. He was restored in great abundance, and it was marked that, though he appeared to have felt the need to take a stand against the risk of being too roughly saddled with the offspring of others, he at this period exposed himself more than ever before to the presumption of having created expectations. If it had become now, for that matter, a question of sides, there was at least a certain amount of evidence as to where they all were. Maisie of course, in such a delicate position, was on nobody's; but Sir Claude had all the air of being on hers. If therefore Mrs. Wix was on Sir Claude's, her ladyship on Mr. Perriam's and Mr. Perriam presumably on her ladyship's, this left only Mrs. Beale and Mr. Farange to account for. Mrs. Beale clearly was, like Sir Claude, on Maisie's, and papa, it was to be supposed, on Mrs. Beale's. Here indeed was a slight ambiguity, as papa's being on Mrs. Beale's didn't somehow seem to place him quite on his daughter's. It sounded, as this young lady thought it over, very much like puss-in-the-corner, and she could only wonder if the distribution of parties would lead to a rushing to and fro and a changing of places. She was in the presence, she felt, of restless change: wasn't it restless enough that her mother and her stepfather should already be on different sides? That was the great thing that had domestically happened. Mrs. Wix, besides, had turned another face: she had never been exactly gay, but her gravity was now an attitude as public as a posted placard. She seemed to sit in her new dress and brood over her lost delicacy, which had become almost as doleful a memory as that of poor Clara Matilda. "It IS hard for him," she often said to her companion; and it was surprising how competent on this point Maisie was conscious of being to agree with her. Hard as it was, however, Sir Claude had never shown to greater advantage than in the gallant generous sociable way he carried it off: a way that drew from Mrs. Wix a hundred expressions of relief at his not having suffered it to embitter him. It threw him more and more at last into the schoolroom, where he had plainly begun to recognise that if he was to have the credit of perverting the innocent child he might also at least have the amusement. He never came into the place without telling its occupants that they were the nicest people in the house--a remark which always led them to say to each other "Mr. Perriam!" as loud as ever compressed lips and enlarged eyes could make them articulate. He caused Maisie to remember what she had said to Mrs. Beale about his having the nature of a good nurse, and, rather more than she intended before Mrs. Wix, to bring the whole thing out by once remarking to him that none of her good nurses had smoked quite so much in the nursery. This had no more effect than it was meant to on his cigarettes: he was always smoking, but always declaring that it was death to him not to lead a domestic life. He led one after all in the schoolroom, and there were hours of late evening, when she had gone to bed, that Maisie knew he sat there talking with Mrs. Wix of how to meet his difficulties. His consideration for this unfortunate woman even in the midst of them continued to show him as the perfect gentleman and lifted the subject of his courtesy into an upper air of beatitude in which her very pride had the hush of anxiety. "He leans on me--he leans on me!" she only announced from time to time; and she was more surprised than amused when, later on, she accidentally found she had given her pupil the impression of a support literally supplied by her person. This glimpse of a misconception led her to be explicit--to put before the child, with an air of mourning indeed for such a stoop to the common, that what they talked about in the small hours, as they said, was the question of his taking right hold of life. The life she wanted him to take right hold of was the public: "she" being, I hasten to add, in this connexion, not the mistress of his fate, but only Mrs. Wix herself. She had phrases about him that were full of easy understanding, yet full of morality. "He's a wonderful nature, but he can't live like the lilies. He's all right, you know, but he must have a high interest." She had more than once remarked that his affairs were sadly involved, but that they must get him--Maisie and she together apparently--into Parliament. The child took it from her with a flutter of importance that Parliament was his natural sphere, and she was the less prepared to recognise a hindrance as she had never heard of any affairs whatever that were not involved. She had in the old days once been told by Mrs. Beale that her very own were, and with the refreshment of knowing that she HAD affairs the information hadn't in the least overwhelmed her. It was true and perhaps a little alarming that she had never heard of any such matters since then. Full of charm at any rate was the prospect of some day getting Sir Claude in; especially after Mrs. Wix, as the fruit of more midnight colloquies, once went so far as to observe that she really believed it was all that was wanted to save him. This critic, with these words, struck her disciple as cropping up, after the manner of mamma when mamma talked, quite in a new place. The child stared as at the jump of a kangaroo. "Save him from what?" Mrs. Wix debated, then covered a still greater distance. "Why just from awful misery." XII She had not at the moment explained her ominous speech, but the light of remarkable events soon enabled her companion to read it. It may indeed be said that these days brought on a high quickening of Maisie's direct perceptions, of her sense of freedom to make out things for herself. This was helped by an emotion intrinsically far from sweet--the increase of the alarm that had most haunted her meditations. She had no need to be told, as on the morrow of the revelation of Sir Claude's danger she was told by Mrs. Wix, that her mother wanted more and more to know why the devil her father didn't send for her: she had too long expected mamma's curiosity on this point to express itself sharply. Maisie could meet such pressure so far as meeting it was to be in a position to reply, in words directly inspired, that papa would be hanged before he'd again be saddled with her. She therefore recognised the hour that in troubled glimpses she had long foreseen, the hour when--the phrase for it came back to her from Mrs. Beale--with two fathers, two mothers and two homes, six protections in all, she shouldn't know "wherever" to go. Such apprehension as she felt on this score was not diminished by the fact that Mrs. Wix herself was suddenly white with terror: a circumstance leading Maisie to the further knowledge that this lady was still more scared on her own behalf than on that of her pupil. A governess who had only one frock was not likely to have either two fathers or two mothers: accordingly if even with these resources Maisie was to be in the streets, where in the name of all that was dreadful was poor Mrs. Wix to be? She had had, it appeared, a tremendous brush with Ida, which had begun and ended with the request that she would be pleased on the spot to "bundle." It had come suddenly but completely, this signal of which she had gone in fear. The companions confessed to each other the dread each had hidden the worst of, but Mrs. Wix was better off than Maisie in having a plan of defence. She declined indeed to communicate it till it was quite mature; but meanwhile, she hastened to declare, her feet were firm in the schoolroom. They could only be loosened by force: she would "leave" for the police perhaps, but she wouldn't leave for mere outrage. That would be to play her ladyship's game, and it would take another turn of the screw to make her desert her darling. Her ladyship had come down with extraordinary violence: it had been one of many symptoms of a situation strained--"between them all," as Mrs. Wix said, "but especially between the two"--to the point of God only knew what. Her description of the crisis made the child blanch. "Between which two?--papa and mamma?" "Dear no. I mean between your mother and HIM." Maisie, in this, recognised an opportunity to be really deep. "'Him'?--Mr. Perriam?" She fairly brought a blush to the scared face. "Well, my dear, I must say what you DON'T know ain't worth mentioning. That it won't go on for ever with Mr. Perriam--since I MUST meet you--you can suppose? But I meant dear Sir Claude." Maisie stood corrected rather than abashed. "I see. But it's about Mr. Perriam he's angry?" Mrs. Wix waited. "He says he's not." "Not angry? He has told you so?" Mrs. Wix looked at her hard. "Not about HIM!" "Then about some one else?" Mrs. Wix looked at her harder. "About some one else." "Lord Eric?" the child promptly brought forth. At this, of a sudden, her governess was more agitated. "Oh why, little unfortunate, should we discuss their dreadful names?"--and she threw herself for the millionth time on Maisie's neck. It took her pupil but a moment to feel that she quivered with insecurity, and, the contact of her terror aiding, the pair in another instant were sobbing in each other's arms. Then it was that, completely relaxed, demoralised as she had never been, Mrs. Wix suffered her wound to bleed and her resentment to gush. Her great bitterness was that Ida had called her false, denounced her hypocrisy and duplicity, reviled her spying and tattling, her lying and grovelling to Sir Claude. "Me, ME!" the poor woman wailed, "who've seen what I've seen and gone through everything only to cover her up and ease her off and smooth her down? If I've been an 'ipocrite it's the other way round: I've pretended, to him and to her, to myself and to you and to every one, NOT to see! It serves me right to have held my tongue before such horrors!" What horrors they were her companion forbore too closely to enquire, showing even signs not a few of an ability to take them for granted. That put the couple more than ever, in this troubled sea, in the same boat, so that with the consciousness of ideas on the part of her fellow mariner Maisie could sit close and wait. Sir Claude on the morrow came in to tea, and then the ideas were produced. It was extraordinary how the child's presence drew out their full strength. The principal one was startling, but Maisie appreciated the courage with which her governess handled it. It simply consisted of the proposal that whenever and wherever they should seek refuge Sir Claude should consent to share their asylum. On his protesting with all the warmth in nature against this note of secession she asked what else in the world was left to them if her ladyship should stop supplies. "Supplies be hanged, my dear woman!" said their delightful friend. "Leave supplies to me--I'll take care of supplies." Mrs. Wix rose to it. "Well, it's exactly because I knew you'd be so glad to do so that I put the question before you. There's a way to look after us better than any other. The way's just to come along with us." It hung before Maisie, Mrs. Wix's way, like a glittering picture, and she clasped her hands in ecstasy. "Come along, come along, come along!" Sir Claude looked from his stepdaughter back to her governess. "Do you mean leave this house and take up my abode with you?" "It will be the right thing--if you feel as you've told me you feel." Mrs. Wix, sustained and uplifted, was now as clear as a bell. Sir Claude had the air of trying to recall what he had told her; then the light broke that was always breaking to make his face more pleasant. "It's your happy thought that I shall take a house for you?" "For the wretched homeless child. Any roof--over OUR heads--will do for us; but of course for you it will have to be something really nice." Sir Claude's eyes reverted to Maisie, rather hard, as she thought; and there was a shade in his very smile that seemed to show her--though she also felt it didn't show Mrs. Wix--that the accommodation prescribed must loom to him pretty large. The next moment, however, he laughed gaily enough. "My dear lady, you exaggerate tremendously MY poor little needs." Mrs. Wix had once mentioned to her young friend that when Sir Claude called her his dear lady he could do anything with her; and Maisie felt a certain anxiety to see what he would do now. Well, he only addressed her a remark of which the child herself was aware of feeling the force. "Your plan appeals to me immensely; but of course--don't you see--I shall have to consider the position I put myself in by leaving my wife." "You'll also have to remember," Mrs. Wix replied, "that if you don't look out your wife won't give you time to consider. Her ladyship will leave YOU." "Ah my good friend, I do look out!" the young man returned while Maisie helped herself afresh to bread and butter. "Of course if that happens I shall have somehow to turn round; but I hope with all my heart it won't. I beg your pardon," he continued to his stepdaughter, "for appearing to discuss that sort of possibility under your sharp little nose. But the fact is I FORGET half the time that Ida's your sainted mother." "So do I!" said Maisie, her mouth full of bread and butter and to put him the more in the right. Her protectress, at this, was upon her again. "The little desolate precious pet!" For the rest of the conversation she was enclosed in Mrs. Wix's arms, and as they sat there interlocked Sir Claude, before them with his tea-cup, looked down at them in deepening thought. Shrink together as they might they couldn't help, Maisie felt, being a very large lumpish image of what Mrs. Wix required of his slim fineness. She knew moreover that this lady didn't make it better by adding in a moment: "Of course we shouldn't dream of a whole house. Any sort of little lodging, however humble, would be only too blest." "But it would have to be something that would hold us all," said Sir Claude. "Oh yes," Mrs. Wix concurred; "the whole point's our being together. While you're waiting, before you act, for her ladyship to take some step, our position here will come to an impossible pass. You don't know what I went through with her for you yesterday--and for our poor darling; but it's not a thing I can promise you often to face again. She cast me out in horrible language--she has instructed the servants not to wait on me." "Oh the poor servants are all right!" Sir Claude eagerly cried. "They're certainly better than their mistress. It's too dreadful that I should sit here and say of your wife, Sir Claude, and of Maisie's own mother, that she's lower than a domestic; but my being betrayed into such remarks is just a reason the more for our getting away. I shall stay till I'm taken by the shoulders, but that may happen any day. What also may perfectly happen, you must permit me to repeat, is that she'll go off to get rid of us." "Oh if she'll only do that!" Sir Claude laughed. "That would be the very making of us!" "Don't say it--don't say it!" Mrs. Wix pleaded. "Don't speak of anything so fatal. You know what I mean. We must all cling to the right. You mustn't be bad." Sir Claude set down his tea-cup; he had become more grave and he pensively wiped his moustache. "Won't all the world say I'm awful if I leave the house before--before she has bolted? They'll say it was my doing so that made her bolt." Maisie could grasp the force of this reasoning, but it offered no check to Mrs. Wix. "Why need you mind that--if you've done it for so high a motive? Think of the beauty of it," the good lady pressed. "Of bolting with YOU?" Sir Claude ejaculated. She faintly smiled--she even faintly coloured. "So far from doing you harm it will do you the highest good. Sir Claude, if you'll listen to me, it will save you." "Save me from what?" Maisie, at this question, waited with renewed suspense for an answer that would bring the thing to some finer point than their companion had brought it to before. But there was on the contrary only more mystification in Mrs. Wix's reply. "Ah from you know what!" "Do you mean from some other woman!" "Yes--from a real bad one." Sir Claude at least, the child could see, was not mystified; so little indeed that a smile of intelligence broke afresh in his eyes. He turned them in vague discomfort to Maisie, and then something in the way she met them caused him to chuck her playfully under the chin. It was not till after this that he good-naturedly met Mrs. Wix. "You think me much worse than I am." "If that were true," she returned, "I wouldn't appeal to you. I do, Sir Claude, in the name of all that's good in you--and oh so earnestly! We can help each other. What you'll do for our young friend here I needn't say. That isn't even what I want to speak of now. What I want to speak of is what you'll GET--don't you see?--from such an opportunity to take hold. Take hold of US--take hold of HER. Make her your duty--make her your life: she'll repay you a thousand-fold!" It was to Mrs. Wix, during this appeal, that Maisie's contemplation transferred itself: partly because, though her heart was in her throat for trepidation, her delicacy deterred her from appearing herself to press the question; partly from the coercion of seeing Mrs. Wix come out as Mrs. Wix had never come before--not even on the day of her call at Mrs. Beale's with the news of mamma's marriage. On that day Mrs. Beale had surpassed her in dignity, but nobody could have surpassed her now. There was in fact at this moment a fascination for her pupil in the hint she seemed to give that she had still more of that surprise behind. So the sharpened sense of spectatorship was the child's main support, the long habit, from the first, of seeing herself in discussion and finding in the fury of it--she had had a glimpse of the game of football--a sort of compensation for the doom of a peculiar passivity. It gave her often an odd air of being present at her history in as separate a manner as if she could only get at experience by flattening her nose against a pane of glass. Such she felt to be the application of her nose while she waited for the effect of Mrs. Wix's eloquence. Sir Claude, however, didn't keep her long in a position so ungraceful: he sat down and opened his arms to her as he had done the day he came for her at her father's, and while he held her there, looking at her kindly, but as if their companion had brought the blood a good deal to his face, he said: "Dear Mrs. Wix is magnificent, but she's rather too grand about it. I mean the situation isn't after all quite so desperate or quite so simple. But I give you my word before her, and I give it to her before you, that I'll never, never, forsake you. Do you hear that, old fellow, and do you take it in? I'll stick to you through everything." Maisie did take it in--took it with a long tremor of all her little being; and then as, to emphasise it, he drew her closer she buried her head on his shoulder and cried without sound and without pain. While she was so engaged she became aware that his own breast was agitated, and gathered from it with rapture that his tears were as silently flowing. Presently she heard a loud sob from Mrs. Wix--Mrs. Wix was the only one who made a noise. She was to have made, for some time, none other but this, though within a few days, in conversation with her pupil, she described her intercourse with Ida as little better than the state of being battered. There was as yet nevertheless no attempt to eject her by force, and she recognised that Sir Claude, taking such a stand as never before, had intervened with passion and with success. As Maisie remembered--and remembered wholly without disdain--that he had told her he was afraid of her ladyship, the little girl took this act of resolution as a proof of what, in the spirit of the engagement sealed by all their tears, he was really prepared to do. Mrs. Wix spoke to her of the pecuniary sacrifice by which she herself purchased the scant security she enjoyed and which, if it was a defence against the hand of violence, yet left her exposed to incredible rudeness. Didn't her ladyship find every hour of the day some artful means to humiliate and trample upon her? There was a quarter's salary owing her--a great name, even Maisie could suspect, for a small matter; she should never see it as long as she lived, but keeping quiet about it put her ladyship, thank heaven, a little in one's power. Now that he was doing so much else she could never have the grossness to apply for it to Sir Claude. He had sent home for schoolroom consumption a huge frosted cake, a wonderful delectable mountain with geological strata of jam, which might, with economy, see them through many days of their siege; but it was none the less known to Mrs. Wix that his affairs were more and more involved, and her fellow partaker looked back tenderly, in the light of these involutions, at the expression of face with which he had greeted the proposal that he should set up another establishment. Maisie felt that if their maintenance should hang by a thread they must still demean themselves with the highest delicacy. What he was doing was simply acting without delay, so far as his embarrassments permitted, on the inspiration of his elder friend. There was at this season a wonderful month of May--as soft as a drop of the wind in a gale that had kept one awake--when he took out his stepdaughter with a fresh alacrity and they rambled the great town in search, as Mrs. Wix called it, of combined amusement and instruction. They rode on the top of 'buses; they visited outlying parks; they went to cricket-matches where Maisie fell asleep; they tried a hundred places for the best one to have tea. This was his direct way of rising to Mrs. Wix's grand lesson--of making his little accepted charge his duty and his life. They dropped, under incontrollable impulses, into shops that they agreed were too big, to look at things that they agreed were too small, and it was during these hours that Mrs. Wix, alone at home, but a subject of regretful reference as they pulled off their gloves for refreshment, subsequently described herself as least sheltered from the blows her ladyship had achieved such ingenuity in dealing. She again and again repeated that she wouldn't so much have minded having her "attainments" held up to scorn and her knowledge of every subject denied, hadn't she been branded as "low" in character and tone. There was by this time no pretence on the part of any one of denying it to be fortunate that her ladyship habitually left London every Saturday and was more and more disposed to a return late in the week. It was almost equally public that she regarded as a preposterous "pose," and indeed as a direct insult to herself, her husband's attitude of staying behind to look after a child for whom the most elaborate provision had been made. If there was a type Ida despised, Sir Claude communicated to Maisie, it was the man who pottered about town of a Sunday; and he also mentioned how often she had declared to him that if he had a grain of spirit he would be ashamed to accept a menial position about Mr. Farange's daughter. It was her ladyship's contention that he was in craven fear of his predecessor--otherwise he would recognise it as an obligation of plain decency to protect his wife against the outrage of that person's barefaced attempt to swindle her. The swindle was that Mr. Farange put upon her the whole intolerable burden; "and even when I pay for you myself," Sir Claude averred to his young friend, "she accuses me the more of truckling and grovelling." It was Mrs. Wix's conviction, they both knew, arrived at on independent grounds, that Ida's weekly excursions were feelers for a more considerable absence. If she came back later each week the week would be sure to arrive when she wouldn't come back at all. This appearance had of course much to do with Mrs. Wix's actual valour. Could they but hold out long enough the snug little home with Sir Claude would find itself informally established. XIII This might moreover have been taken to be the sense of a remark made by her stepfather as--one rainy day when the streets were all splash and two umbrellas unsociable and the wanderers had sought shelter in the National Gallery--Maisie sat beside him staring rather sightlessly at a roomful of pictures which he had mystified her much by speaking of with a bored sigh as a "silly superstition." They represented, with patches of gold and cataracts of purple, with stiff saints and angular angels, with ugly Madonnas and uglier babies, strange prayers and prostrations; so that she at first took his words for a protest against devotional idolatry--all the more that he had of late often come with her and with Mrs. Wix to morning church, a place of worship of Mrs. Wix's own choosing, where there was nothing of that sort; no haloes on heads, but only, during long sermons, beguiling backs of bonnets, and where, as her governess always afterwards observed, he gave the most earnest attention. It presently appeared, however, that his reference was merely to the affectation of admiring such ridiculous works--an admonition that she received from him as submissively as she received everything. What turn it gave to their talk needn't here be recorded: the transition to the colourless schoolroom and lonely Mrs. Wix was doubtless an effect of relaxed interest in what was before them. Maisie expressed in her own way the truth that she never went home nowadays without expecting to find the temple of her studies empty and the poor priestess cast out. This conveyed a full appreciation of her peril, and it was in rejoinder that Sir Claude uttered, acknowledging the source of that peril, the reassurance at which I have glanced. "Don't be afraid, my dear: I've squared her." It required indeed a supplement when he saw that it left the child momentarily blank. "I mean that your mother lets me do what I want so long as I let her do what SHE wants." "So you ARE doing what you want?" Maisie asked. "Rather, Miss Farange!" Miss Farange turned it over. "And she's doing the same?" "Up to the hilt!" Again she considered. "Then, please, what may it be?" "I wouldn't tell you for the whole world." She gazed at a gaunt Madonna; after which she broke into a slow smile. "Well, I don't care, so long as you do let her." "Oh you monster!"--and Sir Claude's gay vehemence brought him to his feet. Another day, in another place--a place in Baker Street where at a hungry hour she had sat down with him to tea and buns--he brought out a question disconnected from previous talk. "I say, you know, what do you suppose your father WOULD do?" Maisie hadn't long to cast about or to question his pleasant eyes. "If you were really to go with us? He'd make a great complaint." He seemed amused at the term she employed. "Oh I shouldn't mind a 'complaint'!" "He'd talk to every one about it," said Maisie. "Well, I shouldn't mind that either." "Of course not," the child hastened to respond. "You've told me you're not afraid of him." "The question is are you?" said Sir Claude. Maisie candidly considered; then she spoke resolutely. "No, not of papa." "But of somebody else?" "Certainly, of lots of people." "Of your mother first and foremost of course." "Dear, yes; more of mamma than of--than of--" "Than of what?" Sir Claude asked as she hesitated for a comparison. She thought over all objects of dread. "Than of a wild elephant!" she at last declared. "And you are too," she reminded him as he laughed. "Oh yes, I am too." Again she meditated. "Why then did you marry her?" "Just because I WAS afraid." "Even when she loved you?" "That made her the more alarming." For Maisie herself, though her companion seemed to find it droll, this opened up depths of gravity. "More alarming than she is now?" "Well, in a different way. Fear, unfortunately, is a very big thing, and there's a great variety of kinds." She took this in with complete intelligence. "Then I think I've got them all." "You?" her friend cried. "Nonsense! You're thoroughly 'game.'" "I'm awfully afraid of Mrs. Beale," Maisie objected. He raised his smooth brows. "That charming woman?" "Well," she answered, "you can't understand it because you're not in the same state." She had been going on with a luminous "But" when, across the table, he laid his hand on her arm. "I CAN understand it," he confessed. "I AM in the same state." "Oh but she likes you so!" Maisie promptly pleaded. Sir Claude literally coloured. "That has something to do with it." Maisie wondered again. "Being liked with being afraid?" "Yes, when it amounts to adoration." "Then why aren't you afraid of ME?" "Because with you it amounts to that?" He had kept his hand on her arm. "Well, what prevents is simply that you're the gentlest spirit on earth. Besides--" he pursued; but he came to a pause. "Besides--?" "I SHOULD be in fear if you were older--there! See--you already make me talk nonsense," the young man added. "The question's about your father. Is he likewise afraid of Mrs. Beale?" "I think not. And yet he loves her," Maisie mused. "Oh no--he doesn't; not a bit!" After which, as his companion stared, Sir Claude apparently felt that he must make this oddity fit with her recollections. "There's nothing of that sort NOW." But Maisie only stared the more. "They've changed?" "Like your mother and me." She wondered how he knew. "Then you've seen Mrs. Beale again?" He demurred. "Oh no. She has written to me," he presently subjoined. "SHE'S not afraid of your father either. No one at all is--really." Then he went on while Maisie's little mind, with its filial spring too relaxed from of old for a pang at this want of parental majesty, speculated on the vague relation between Mrs. Beale's courage and the question, for Mrs. Wix and herself, of a neat lodging with their friend. "She wouldn't care a bit if Mr. Farange should make a row." "Do you mean about you and me and Mrs. Wix? Why should she care? It wouldn't hurt HER." Sir Claude, with his legs out and his hand diving into his trousers-pocket, threw back his head with a laugh just perceptibly tempered, as she thought, by a sigh. "My dear stepchild, you're delightful! Look here, we must pay. You've had five buns?" "How CAN you?" Maisie demanded, crimson under the eye of the young woman who had stepped to their board. "I've had three." Shortly after this Mrs. Wix looked so ill that it was to be feared her ladyship had treated her to some unexampled passage. Maisie asked if anything worse than usual had occurred; whereupon the poor woman brought out with infinite gloom: "He has been seeing Mrs. Beale." "Sir Claude?" The child remembered what he had said. "Oh no--not SEEING her!" "I beg your pardon. I absolutely know it." Mrs. Wix was as positive as she was dismal. Maisie nevertheless ventured to challenge her. "And how, please, do you know it?" She faltered a moment. "From herself. I've been to see her." Then on Maisie's visible surprise: "I went yesterday while you were out with him. He has seen her repeatedly." It was not wholly clear to Maisie why Mrs. Wix should be prostrate at this discovery; but her general consciousness of the way things could be both perpetrated and resented always eased off for her the strain of the particular mystery. "There may be some mistake. He says he hasn't." Mrs. Wix turned paler, as if this were a still deeper ground for alarm. "He says so?--he denies that he has seen her?" "He told me so three days ago. Perhaps she's mistaken," Maisie suggested. "Do you mean perhaps she lies? She lies whenever it suits her, I'm very sure. But I know when people lie--and that's what I've loved in you, that YOU never do. Mrs. Beale didn't yesterday at any rate. He HAS seen her." Maisie was silent a little. "He says not," she then repeated. "Perhaps--perhaps--" Once more she paused. "Do you mean perhaps HE lies?" "Gracious goodness, no!" Maisie shouted. Mrs. Wix's bitterness, however, again overflowed. "He does, he does," she cried, "and it's that that's just the worst of it! They'll take you, they'll take you, and what in the world will then become of me?" She threw herself afresh upon her pupil and wept over her with the inevitable effect of causing the child's own tears to flow. But Maisie couldn't have told you if she had been crying at the image of their separation or at that of Sir Claude's untruth. As regards this deviation it was agreed between them that they were not in a position to bring it home to him. Mrs. Wix was in dread of doing anything to make him, as she said, "worse"; and Maisie was sufficiently initiated to be able to reflect that in speaking to her as he had done he had only wished to be tender of Mrs. Beale. It fell in with all her inclinations to think of him as tender, and she forbore to let him know that the two ladies had, as SHE would never do, betrayed him. She had not long to keep her secret, for the next day, when she went out with him, he suddenly said in reference to some errand he had first proposed: "No, we won't do that--we'll do something else." On this, a few steps from the door, he stopped a hansom and helped her in; then following her he gave the driver over the top an address that she lost. When he was seated beside her she asked him where they were going; to which he replied "My dear child, you'll see." She saw while she watched and wondered that they took the direction of the Regent's Park; but she didn't know why he should make a mystery of that, and it was not till they passed under a pretty arch and drew up at a white house in a terrace from which the view, she thought, must be lovely that, mystified, she clutched him and broke out: "I shall see papa?" He looked down at her with a kind smile. "No, probably not. I haven't brought you for that." "Then whose house is it?" "It's your father's. They've moved here." She looked about: she had known Mr. Farange in four or five houses, and there was nothing astonishing in this except that it was the nicest place yet. "But I shall see Mrs. Beale?" "It's to see her that I brought you." She stared, very white, and, with her hand on his arm, though they had stopped, kept him sitting in the cab. "To leave me, do you mean?" He could scarce bring it out. "It's not for me to say if you CAN stay. We must look into it." "But if I do I shall see papa?" "Oh some time or other, no doubt." Then Sir Claude went on: "Have you really so very great a dread of that?" Maisie glanced away over the apron of the cab--gazed a minute at the green expanse of the Regent's Park and, at this moment colouring to the roots of her hair, felt the full, hot rush of an emotion more mature than any she had yet known. It consisted of an odd unexpected shame at placing in an inferior light, to so perfect a gentleman and so charming a person as Sir Claude, so very near a relative as Mr. Farange. She remembered, however, her friend's telling her that no one was seriously afraid of her father, and she turned round with a small toss of her head. "Oh I dare say I can manage him!" Sir Claude smiled, but she noted that the violence with which she had just changed colour had brought into his own face a slight compunctious and embarrassed flush. It was as if he had caught his first glimpse of her sense of responsibility. Neither of them made a movement to get out, and after an instant he said to her: "Look here, if you say so we won't after all go in." "Ah but I want to see Mrs. Beale!" the child gently wailed. "But what if she does decide to take you? Then, you know, you'll have to remain." Maisie turned it over. "Straight on--and give you up?" "Well--I don't quite know about giving me up." "I mean as I gave up Mrs. Beale when I last went to mamma's. I couldn't do without you here for anything like so long a time as that." It struck her as a hundred years since she had seen Mrs. Beale, who was on the other side of the door they were so near and whom she yet had not taken the jump to clasp in her arms. "Oh I dare say you'll see more of me than you've seen of Mrs. Beale. It isn't in ME to be so beautifully discreet," Sir Claude said. "But all the same," he continued, "I leave the thing, now that we're here, absolutely WITH you. You must settle it. We'll only go in if you say so. If you don't say so we'll turn right round and drive away." "So in that case Mrs. Beale won't take me?" "Well--not by any act of ours." "And I shall be able to go on with mamma?" Maisie asked. "Oh I don't say that!" She considered. "But I thought you said you had squared her?" Sir Claude poked his stick at the splashboard of the cab. "Not, my dear child, to the point she now requires." "Then if she turns me out and I don't come here--" Sir Claude promptly took her up. "What do I offer you, you naturally enquire? My poor chick, that's just what I ask myself. I don't see it, I confess, quite as straight as Mrs. Wix." His companion gazed a moment at what Mrs. Wix saw. "You mean WE can't make a little family?" "It's very base of me, no doubt, but I can't wholly chuck your mother." Maisie, at this, emitted a low but lengthened sigh, a slight sound of reluctant assent which would certainly have been amusing to an auditor. "Then there isn't anything else?" "I vow I don't quite see what there is." Maisie waited; her silence seemed to signify that she too had no alternative to suggest. But she made another appeal. "If I come here you'll come to see me?" "I won't lose sight of you." "But how often will you come?" As he hung fire she pressed him. "Often and often?" Still he faltered. "My dear old woman--" he began. Then he paused again, going on the next moment with a change of tone. "You're too funny! Yes then," he said; "often and often." "All right!" Maisie jumped out. Mrs. Beale was at home, but not in the drawing-room, and when the butler had gone for her the child suddenly broke out: "But when I'm here what will Mrs. Wix do?" "Ah you should have thought of that sooner!" said her companion with the first faint note of asperity she had ever heard him sound. XIV Mrs Beale fairly swooped upon her and the effect of the whole hour was to show the child how much, how quite formidably indeed, after all, she was loved. This was the more the case as her stepmother, so changed--in the very manner of her mother--that she really struck her as a new acquaintance, somehow recalled more familiarity than Maisie could feel. A rich strong expressive affection in short pounced upon her in the shape of a handsomer, ampler, older Mrs. Beale. It was like making a fine friend, and they hadn't been a minute together before she felt elated at the way she had met the choice imposed on her in the cab. There was a whole future in the combination of Mrs. Beale's beauty and Mrs. Beale's hug. She seemed to Maisie charming to behold, and also to have no connexion at all with anybody who had once mended underclothing and had meals in the nursery. The child knew one of her father's wives was a woman of fashion, but she had always dimly made a distinction, not applying that epithet without reserve to the other. Mrs. Beale had since their separation acquired a conspicuous right to it, and Maisie's first flush of response to her present delight coloured all her splendour with meanings that this time were sweet. She had told Sir Claude she was afraid of the lady in the Regent's Park; but she had confidence enough to break on the spot, into the frankest appreciation. "Why, aren't you beautiful? Isn't she beautiful, Sir Claude, ISN'T she?" "The handsomest woman in London, simply," Sir Claude gallantly replied. "Just as sure as you're the best little girl!" Well, the handsomest woman in London gave herself up, with tender lustrous looks and every demonstration of fondness, to a happiness at last clutched again. There was almost as vivid a bloom in her maturity as in mamma's, and it took her but a short time to give her little friend an impression of positive power--an impression that seemed to begin like a long bright day. This was a perception on Maisie's part that neither mamma, nor Sir Claude, nor Mrs. Wix, with their immense and so varied respective attractions, had exactly kindled, and that made an immediate difference when the talk, as it promptly did, began to turn to her father. Oh yes, Mr. Farange was a complication, but she saw now that he wouldn't be one for his daughter. For Mrs. Beale certainly he was an immense one--she speedily made known as much; but Mrs. Beale from this moment presented herself to Maisie as a person to whom a great gift had come. The great gift was just for handling complications. Maisie felt how little she made of them when, after she had dropped to Sir Claude some recall of a previous meeting, he made answer, with a sound of consternation and yet an air of relief, that he had denied to their companion their having, since the day he came for her, seen each other till that moment. Mrs. Beale could but vaguely pity it. "Why did you do anything so silly?" "To protect your reputation." "From Maisie?" Mrs. Beale was much amused. "My reputation with Maisie is too good to suffer." "But you believed me, you rascal, didn't you?" Sir Claude asked of the child. She looked at him; she smiled. "Her reputation did suffer. I discovered you had been here." He was not too chagrined to laugh. "The way, my dear, you talk of that sort of thing!" "How should she talk," Mrs. Beale wanted to know, "after all this wretched time with her mother?" "It was not mamma who told me," Maisie explained. "It was only Mrs. Wix." She was hesitating whether to bring out before Sir Claude the source of Mrs. Wix's information; but Mrs. Beale, addressing the young man, showed the vanity of scruples. "Do you know that preposterous person came to see me a day or two ago?--when I told her I had seen you repeatedly." Sir Claude, for once in a way, was disconcerted. "The old cat! She never told me. Then you thought I had lied?" he demanded of Maisie. She was flurried by the term with which he had qualified her gentle friend, but she took the occasion for one to which she must in every manner lend herself. "Oh I didn't mind! But Mrs. Wix did," she added with an intention benevolent to her governess. Her intention was not very effective as regards Mrs. Beale. "Mrs. Wix is too idiotic!" that lady declared. "But to you, of all people," Sir Claude asked, "what had she to say?" "Why that, like Mrs. Micawber--whom she must, I think, rather resemble--she will never, never, never desert Miss Farange." "Oh I'll make that all right!" Sir Claude cheerfully returned. "I'm sure I hope so, my dear man," said Mrs. Beale, while Maisie wondered just how he would proceed. Before she had time to ask Mrs. Beale continued: "That's not all she came to do, if you please. But you'll never guess the rest." "Shall _I_ guess it?" Maisie quavered. Mrs. Beale was again amused. "Why you're just the person! It must be quite the sort of thing you've heard at your awful mother's. Have you never seen women there crying to her to 'spare' the men they love?" Maisie, wondering, tried to remember; but Sir Claude was freshly diverted. "Oh they don't trouble about Ida! Mrs. Wix cried to you to spare ME?" "She regularly went down on her knees to me." "The darling old dear!" the young man exclaimed. These words were a joy to Maisie--they made up for his previous description of Mrs. Wix. "And WILL you spare him?" she asked of Mrs. Beale. Her stepmother, seizing her and kissing her again, seemed charmed with the tone of her question. "Not an inch of him! I'll pick him to the bone!" "You mean that he'll really come often?" Maisie pressed. Mrs. Beale turned lovely eyes to Sir Claude. "That's not for me to say--its for him." He said nothing at once, however; with his hands in his pockets and vaguely humming a tune--even Maisie could see he was a little nervous--he only walked to the window and looked out at the Regent's Park. "Well, he has promised," Maisie said. "But how will papa like it?" "His being in and out? Ah that's a question that, to be frank with you, my dear, hardly matters. In point of fact, however, Beale greatly enjoys the idea that Sir Claude too, poor man, has been forced to quarrel with your mother." Sir Claude turned round and spoke gravely and kindly. "Don't be afraid, Maisie; you won't lose sight of me." "Thank you so much!" Maisie was radiant. "But what I meant--don't you know?--was what papa would say to ME." "Oh I've been having that out with him," said Mrs. Beale. "He'll behave well enough. You see the great difficulty is that, though he changes every three days about everything else in the world, he has never changed about your mother. It's a caution, the way he hates her." Sir Claude gave a short laugh. "It certainly can't beat the way she still hates HIM!" "Well," Mrs. Beale went on obligingly, "nothing can take the place of that feeling with either of them, and the best way they can think of to show it is for each to leave you as long as possible on the hands of the other. There's nothing, as you've seen for yourself, that makes either so furious. It isn't, asking so little as you do, that you're much of an expense or a trouble; it's only that you make each feel so well how nasty the other wants to be. Therefore Beale goes on loathing your mother too much to have any great fury left for any one else. Besides, you know, I've squared him." "Oh Lord!" Sir Claude cried with a louder laugh and turning again to the window. "_I_ know how!" Maisie was prompt to proclaim. "By letting him do what he wants on condition that he lets you also do it." "You're too delicious, my own pet!"--she was involved in another hug. "How in the world have I got on so long without you? I've not been happy, love," said Mrs. Beale with her cheek to the child's. "Be happy now!"--she throbbed with shy tenderness. "I think I shall be. You'll save me." "As I'm saving Sir Claude?" the little girl asked eagerly. Mrs. Beale, a trifle at a loss, appealed to her visitor, "Is she really?" He showed high amusement at Maisie's question. "It's dear Mrs. Wix's idea. There may be something in it." "He makes me his duty--he makes me his life," Maisie set forth to her stepmother. "Why that's what _I_ want to do!"--Mrs. Beale, so anticipated, turned pink with astonishment. "Well, you can do it together. Then he'll HAVE to come!" Mrs. Beale by this time had her young friend fairly in her lap and she smiled up at Sir Claude. "Shall we do it together?" His laughter had dropped, and for a moment he turned his handsome serious face not to his hostess, but to his stepdaughter. "Well, it's rather more decent than some things. Upon my soul, the way things are going, it seems to me the only decency!" He had the air of arguing it out to Maisie, of presenting it, through an impulse of conscience, as a connexion in which they could honourably see her participate; though his plea of mere "decency" might well have appeared to fall below her rosy little vision. "If we're not good for YOU" he exclaimed, "I'll be hanged if I know who we shall be good for!" Mrs. Beale showed the child an intenser light. "I dare say you WILL save us--from one thing and another." "Oh I know what she'll save ME from!" Sir Claude roundly asserted. "There'll be rows of course," he went on. Mrs. Beale quickly took him up. "Yes, but they'll be nothing--for you at least--to the rows your wife makes as it is. I can bear what _I_ suffer--I can't bear what you go through." "We're doing a good deal for you, you know, young woman," Sir Claude went on to Maisie with the same gravity. She coloured with a sense of obligation and the eagerness of her desire it should be remarked how little was lost on her. "Oh I know!" "Then you must keep us all right!" This time he laughed. "How you talk to her!" cried Mrs. Beale. "No worse than you!" he gaily answered. "Handsome is that handsome does!" she returned in the same spirit. "You can take off your things," she went on, releasing Maisie. The child, on her feet, was all emotion. "Then I'm just to stop--this way?" "It will do as well as any other. Sir Claude, to-morrow, will have your things brought." "I'll bring them myself. Upon my word I'll see them packed!" Sir Claude promised. "Come here and unbutton." He had beckoned his young companion to where he sat, and he helped to disengage her from her coverings while Mrs. Beale, from a little distance, smiled at the hand he displayed. "There's a stepfather for you! I'm bound to say, you know, that he makes up for the want of other people." "He makes up for the want of a nurse!" Sir Claude laughed. "Don't you remember I told you so the very first time?" "Remember? It was exactly what made me think so well of you!" "Nothing would induce me," the young man said to Maisie, "to tell you what made me think so well of HER." Having divested the child he kissed her gently and gave her a little pat to make her stand off. The pat was accompanied with a vague sigh in which his gravity of a moment before came back. "All the same, if you hadn't had the fatal gift of beauty--" "Well, what?" Maisie asked, wondering why he paused. It was the first time she had heard of her beauty. "Why, we shouldn't all be thinking so well of each other!" "He isn't speaking of personal loveliness--you've not THAT vulgar beauty, my dear, at all," Mrs. Beale explained. "He's just talking of plain dull charm of character." "Her character's the most extraordinary thing in all the world," Sir Claude stated to Mrs. Beale. "Oh I know all about that sort of thing!"--she fairly bridled with the knowledge. It gave Maisie somehow a sudden sense of responsibility from which she sought refuge. "Well, you've got it too, 'that sort of thing'--you've got the fatal gift: you both really have!" she broke out. "Beauty of character? My dear boy, we haven't a pennyworth!" Sir Claude protested. "Speak for yourself, sir!" she leaped lightly from Mrs. Beale. "I'm good and I'm clever. What more do you want? For you, I'll spare your blushes and not be personal--I'll simply say that you're as handsome as you can stick together." "You're both very lovely; you can't get out of it!"--Maisie felt the need of carrying her point. "And it's beautiful to see you side by side." Sir Claude had taken his hat and stick; he stood looking at her a moment. "You're a comfort in trouble! But I must go home and pack you." "And when will you come back?--to-morrow, to-morrow?" "You see what we're in for!" he said to Mrs. Beale. "Well, I can bear it if you can." Their companion gazed from one of them to the other, thinking that though she had been happy indeed between Sir Claude and Mrs. Wix she should evidently be happier still between Sir Claude and Mrs. Beale. But it was like being perched on a prancing horse, and she made a movement to hold on to something. "Then, you know, shan't I bid goodbye to Mrs. Wix?" "Oh I'll make it all right with her," said Sir Claude. Maisie considered. "And with mamma?" "Ah mamma!" he sadly laughed. Even for the child this was scarcely ambiguous; but Mrs. Beale endeavoured to contribute to its clearness. "Your mother will crow, she'll crow--" "Like the early bird!" said Sir Claude as she looked about for a comparison. "She'll need no consolation," Mrs. Beale went on, "for having made your father grandly blaspheme." Maisie stared. "Will he grandly blaspheme?" It was impressive, it might have been out of the Bible, and her question produced a fresh play of caresses, in which Sir Claude also engaged. She wondered meanwhile who, if Mrs. Wix was disposed of, would represent in her life the element of geography and anecdote; and she presently surmounted the delicacy she felt about asking. "Won't there be any one to give me lessons?" Mrs. Beale was prepared with a reply that struck her as absolutely magnificent. "You shall have such lessons as you've never had in all your life. You shall go to courses." "Courses?" Maisie had never heard of such things. "At institutions--on subjects." Maisie continued to stare. "Subjects?" Mrs. Beale was really splendid. "All the most important ones. French literature--and sacred history. You'll take part in classes--with awfully smart children." "I'm going to look thoroughly into the whole thing, you know." And Sir Claude, with characteristic kindness, gave her a nod of assurance accompanied by a friendly wink. But Mrs. Beale went much further. "My dear child, you shall attend lectures." The horizon was suddenly vast and Maisie felt herself the smaller for it. "All alone?" "Oh no; I'll attend them with you," said Sir Claude. "They'll teach me a lot I don't know." "So they will me," Mrs. Beale gravely admitted. "We'll go with her together--it will be charming. It's ages," she confessed to Maisie, "since I've had any time for study. That's another sweet way in which you'll be a motive to us. Oh won't the good she'll do us be immense?" she broke out uncontrollably to Sir Claude. He weighed it; then he replied: "That's certainly our idea." Of this idea Maisie naturally had less of a grasp, but it inspired her with almost equal enthusiasm. If in so bright a prospect there would be nothing to long for it followed that she wouldn't long for Mrs. Wix; but her consciousness of her assent to the absence of that fond figure caused a pair of words that had often sounded in her ears to ring in them again. It showed her in short what her father had always meant by calling her mother a "low sneak" and her mother by calling her father one. She wondered if she herself shouldn't be a low sneak in learning to be so happy without Mrs. Wix. What would Mrs. Wix do?--where would Mrs. Wix go? Before Maisie knew it, and at the door, as Sir Claude was off, these anxieties, on her lips, grew articulate and her stepfather had stopped long enough to answer them. "Oh I'll square her!" he cried; and with this he departed. Face to face with Mrs. Beale, Maisie, giving a sigh of relief, looked round at what seemed to her the dawn of a higher order. "Then EVERY ONE will be squared!" she peacefully said. On which her stepmother affectionately bent over her again. XV It was Susan Ash who came to her with the news: "He's downstairs, miss, and he do look beautiful." In the schoolroom at her father's, which had pretty blue curtains, she had been making out at the piano a lovely little thing, as Mrs. Beale called it, a "Moonlight Berceuse" sent her through the post by Sir Claude, who considered that her musical education had been deplorably neglected and who, the last months at her mother's, had been on the point of making arrangements for regular lessons. She knew from him familiarly that the real thing, as he said, was shockingly dear and that anything else was a waste of money, and she therefore rejoiced the more at the sacrifice represented by this composition, of which the price, five shillings, was marked on the cover and which was evidently the real thing. She was already on her feet. "Mrs. Beale has sent up for me?" "Oh no--it's not that," said Susan Ash. "Mrs. Beale has been out this hour." "Then papa!" "Dear no--not papa. You'll do, miss, all but them wandering 'airs," Susan went on. "Your papa never came 'ome at all," she added. "Home from where?" Maisie responded a little absently and very excitedly. She gave a wild manual brush to her locks. "Oh that, miss, I should be very sorry to tell you! I'd rather tuck away that white thing behind--though I'm blest if it's my work." "Do then, please. I know where papa was," Maisie impatiently continued. "Well, in your place I wouldn't tell." "He was at the club--the Chrysanthemum. So!" "All night long? Why the flowers shut up at night, you know!" cried Susan Ash. "Well, I don't care"--he child was at the door. "Sir Claude asked for me ALONE?" "The same as if you was a duchess." Maisie was aware on her way downstairs that she was now quite as happy as one, and also, a moment later, as she hung round his neck, that even such a personage would scarce commit herself more grandly. There was moreover a hint of the duchess in the infinite point with which, as she felt, she exclaimed: "And this is what you call coming OFTEN?" Sir Claude met her delightfully and in the same fine spirit. "My dear old man, don't make me a scene--I assure you it's what every woman I look at does. Let us have some fun--it's a lovely day: clap on something smart and come out with me; then we'll talk it over quietly." They were on their way five minutes later to Hyde Park, and nothing that even in the good days at her mother's they had ever talked over had more of the sweetness of tranquillity than his present prompt explanations. He was at his best in such an office and with the exception of Mrs. Wix the only person she had met in her life who ever explained. With him, however, the act had an authority transcending the wisdom of woman. It all came back--the plans that always failed, all the rewards and bribes that she was perpetually paying for in advance and perpetually out of pocket by afterwards--the whole great stress to be dealt with introduced her on each occasion afresh to the question of money. Even she herself almost knew how it would have expressed the strength of his empire to say that to shuffle away her sense of being duped he had only, from under his lovely moustache, to breathe upon it. It was somehow in the nature of plans to be expensive and in the nature of the expensive to be impossible. To be "involved" was of the essence of everybody's affairs, and also at every particular moment to be more involved than usual. This had been the case with Sir Claude's, with papa's, with mamma's, with Mrs. Beale's and with Maisie's own at the particular moment, a moment of several weeks, that had elapsed since our young lady had been re-established at her father's. There wasn't "two-and-tuppence" for anything or for any one, and that was why there had been no sequel to the classes in French literature with all the smart little girls. It was devilish awkward, didn't she see? to try, without even the limited capital mentioned, to mix her up with a remote array that glittered before her after this as the children of the rich. She was to feel henceforth as if she were flattening her nose upon the hard window-pane of the sweet-shop of knowledge. If the classes, however, that were select, and accordingly the only ones, were impossibly dear, the lectures at the institutions--at least at some of them--were directly addressed to the intelligent poor, and it therefore had to be easier still to produce on the spot the reason why she had been taken to none. This reason, Sir Claude said, was that she happened to be just going to be, though they had nothing to do with that in now directing their steps to the banks of the Serpentine. Maisie's own park, in the north, had been nearer at hand, but they rolled westward in a hansom because at the end of the sweet June days this was the direction taken by every one that any one looked at. They cultivated for an hour, on the Row and by the Drive, this opportunity for each observer to amuse and for one of them indeed, not a little hilariously, to mystify the other, and before the hour was over Maisie had elicited, in reply to her sharpest challenge, a further account of her friend's long absence. "Why I've broken my word to you so dreadfully--promising so solemnly and then never coming? Well, my dear, that's a question that, not seeing me day after day, you must very often have put to Mrs. Beale." "Oh yes," the child replied; "again and again." "And what has she told you?" "That you're as bad as you're beautiful." "Is that what she says?" "Those very words." "Ah the dear old soul!" Sir Claude was much diverted, and his loud, clear laugh was all his explanation. Those were just the words Maisie had last heard him use about Mrs. Wix. She clung to his hand, which was encased in a pearl-grey glove ornamented with the thick black lines that, at her mother's, always used to strike her as connected with the way the bestitched fists of the long ladies carried, with the elbows well out, their umbrellas upside down. The mere sense of his grasp in her own covered the ground of loss just as much as the ground of gain. His presence was like an object brought so close to her face that she couldn't see round its edges. He himself, however, remained showman of the spectacle even after they had passed out of the Park and begun, under the charm of the spot and the season, to stroll in Kensington Gardens. What they had left behind them was, as he said, only a pretty bad circus, and, through prepossessing gates and over a bridge, they had come in a quarter of an hour, as he also remarked, a hundred miles from London. A great green glade was before them, and high old trees, and under the shade of these, in the fresh turf, the crooked course of a rural footpath. "It's the Forest of Arden," Sir Claude had just delightfully observed, "and I'm the banished duke, and you're--what was the young woman called?--the artless country wench. And there," he went on, "is the other girl--what's her name, Rosalind?--and (don't you know?) the fellow who was making up to her. Upon my word he IS making up to her!" His allusion was to a couple who, side by side, at the end of the glade, were moving in the same direction as themselves. These distant figures, in their slow stroll (which kept them so close together that their heads, drooping a little forward, almost touched), presented the back of a lady who looked tall, who was evidently a very fine woman, and that of a gentleman whose left hand appeared to be passed well into her arm while his right, behind him, made jerky motions with the stick that it grasped. Maisie's fancy responded for an instant to her friend's idea that the sight was idyllic; then, stopping short, she brought out with all her clearness: "Why mercy--if it isn't mamma!" Sir Claude paused with a stare. "Mamma? But mamma's at Brussels." Maisie, with her eyes on the lady, wondered. "At Brussels?" "She's gone to play a match." "At billiards? You didn't tell me." "Of course I didn't!" Sir Claude ejaculated. "There's plenty I don't tell you. She went on Wednesday." The couple had added to their distance, but Maisie's eyes more than kept pace with them. "Then she has come back." Sir Claude watched the lady. "It's much more likely she never went!" "It's mamma!" the child said with decision. They had stood still, but Sir Claude had made the most of his opportunity, and it happened that just at this moment, at the end of the vista, the others halted and, still showing only their backs, seemed to stay talking. "Right you are, my duck!" he exclaimed at last. "It's my own sweet wife!" He had spoken with a laugh, but he had changed colour, and Maisie quickly looked away from him. "Then who is it with her?" "Blest if I know!" said Sir Claude. "Is it Mr. Perriam?" "Oh dear no--Perriam's smashed." "Smashed?" "Exposed--in the City. But there are quantities of others!" Sir Claude smiled. Maisie appeared to count them; she studied the gentleman's back. "Then is this Lord Eric?" For a moment her companion made no answer, and when she turned her eyes again to him he was looking at her, she thought, rather queerly. "What do you know about Lord Eric?" She tried innocently to be odd in return. "Oh I know more than you think! Is it Lord Eric?" she repeated. "It maybe. Blest if I care!" Their friends had slightly separated and now, as Sir Claude spoke, suddenly faced round, showing all the splendour of her ladyship and all the mystery of her comrade. Maisie held her breath. "They're coming!" "Let them come." And Sir Claude, pulling out his cigarettes, began to strike a light. "We shall meet them!" "No. They'll meet US." Maisie stood her ground. "They see us. Just look." Sir Claude threw away his match. "Come straight on." The others, in the return, evidently startled, had half-paused again, keeping well apart. "She's horribly surprised and wants to slope," he continued. "But it's too late." Maisie advanced beside him, making out even across the interval that her ladyship was ill at ease. "Then what will she do?" Sir Claude puffed his cigarette. "She's quickly thinking." He appeared to enjoy it. Ida had wavered but an instant; her companion clearly gave her moral support. Maisie thought he somehow looked brave, and he had no likeness whatever to Mr. Perriam. His face, thin and rather sharp, was smooth, and it was not till they came nearer that she saw he had a remarkably fair little moustache. She could already see that his eyes were of the lightest blue. He was far nicer than Mr. Perriam. Mamma looked terrible from afar, but even under her guns the child's curiosity flickered and she appealed again to Sir Claude. "Is it--IS it Lord Eric?" Sir Claude smoked composedly enough. "I think it's the Count." This was a happy solution--it fitted her idea of a count. But what idea, as she now came grandly on, did mamma fit?--unless that of an actress, in some tremendous situation, sweeping down to the footlights as if she would jump them. Maisie felt really so frightened that before she knew it she had passed her hand into Sir Claude's arm. Her pressure caused him to stop, and at the sight of this the other couple came equally to a stand and, beyond the diminished space, remained a moment more in talk. This, however, was the matter of an instant; leaving the Count apparently to come round more circuitously--an outflanking movement, if Maisie had but known--her ladyship resumed the onset. "What WILL she do now?" her daughter asked. Sir Claude was at present in a position to say: "Try to pretend it's me." "You?" "Why that I'm up to something." In another minute poor Ida had justified this prediction, erect there before them like a figure of justice in full dress. There were parts of her face that grew whiter while Maisie looked, and other parts in which this change seemed to make other colours reign with more intensity. "What are you doing with my daughter?" she demanded of her husband; in spite of the indignant tone of which Maisie had a greater sense than ever in her life before of not being personally noticed. It seemed to her Sir Claude also grew pale as an effect of the loud defiance with which Ida twice repeated this question. He put her, instead of answering it, an enquiry of his own: "Who the devil have you got hold of NOW?" and at this her ladyship turned tremendously to the child, glaring at her as at an equal plotter of sin. Maisie received in petrifaction the full force of her mother's huge painted eyes--they were like Japanese lanterns swung under festal arches. But life came back to her from a tone suddenly and strangely softened. "Go straight to that gentleman, my dear; I've asked him to take you a few minutes. He's charming--go. I've something to say to THIS creature." Maisie felt Sir Claude immediately clutch her. "No, no--thank you: that won't do. She's mine." "Yours?" It was confounding to Maisie to hear her speak quite as if she had never heard of Sir Claude before. "Mine. You've given her up. You've not another word to say about her. I have her from her father," said Sir Claude--a statement that startled his companion, who could also measure its lively action on her mother. There was visibly, however, an influence that made Ida consider; she glanced at the gentleman she had left, who, having strolled with his hands in his pockets to some distance, stood there with unembarrassed vagueness. She directed to him the face that was like an illuminated garden, turnstile and all, for the frequentation of which he had his season-ticket; then she looked again at Sir Claude. "I've given her up to her father to KEEP--not to get rid of by sending about the town either with you or with any one else. If she's not to mind me let HIM come and tell me so. I decline to take it from another person, and I like your pretending that with your humbug of 'interest' you've a leg to stand on. I know your game and have something now to say to you about it." Sir Claude gave a squeeze of the child's arm. "Didn't I tell you she'd have, Miss Farange?" "You're uncommonly afraid to hear it," Ida went on; "but if you think she'll protect you from it you're mightily mistaken." She gave him a moment. "I'll give her the benefit as soon as look at you. Should you like her to know, my dear?" Maisie had a sense of her launching the question with effect; yet our young lady was also conscious of hoping that Sir Claude would declare that preference. We have already learned that she had come to like people's liking her to "know." Before he could reply at all, none the less, her mother opened a pair of arms of extraordinary elegance, and then she felt the loosening of his grasp. "My own child," Ida murmured in a voice--a voice of sudden confused tenderness--that it seemed to her she heard for the first time. She wavered but an instant, thrilled with the first direct appeal, as distinguished from the mere maternal pull, she had ever had from lips that, even in the old vociferous years, had always been sharp. The next moment she was on her mother's breast, where, amid a wilderness of trinkets, she felt as if she had suddenly been thrust, with a smash of glass, into a jeweller's shop-front, but only to be as suddenly ejected with a push and the brisk injunction: "Now go to the Captain!" Maisie glanced at the gentleman submissively, but felt the want of more introduction. "The Captain?" Sir Claude broke into a laugh. "I told her it was the Count." Ida stared; she rose so superior that she was colossal. "You're too utterly loathsome," she then declared. "Be off!" she repeated to her daughter. Maisie started, moved backward and, looking at Sir Claude, "Only for a moment," she signed to him in her bewilderment. But he was too angry to heed her--too angry with his wife; as she turned away she heard his anger break out. "You damned old b----"--she couldn't quite hear all. It was enough, it was too much: she fled before it, rushing even to a stranger for the shock of such a change of tone. XVI As she met the Captain's light blue eyes the greatest marvel occurred; she felt a sudden relief at finding them reply with anxiety to the horror in her face. "What in the world has he done?" He put it all on Sir Claude. "He has called her a damned old brute." She couldn't help bringing that out. The Captain, at the same elevation as her ladyship, gaped wide; then of course, like every one else, he was convulsed. But he instantly caught himself up, echoing her bad words. "A damned old brute--your mother?" Maisie was already conscious of her second movement. "I think she tried to make him angry." The Captain's stupefaction was fine. "Angry--SHE? Why she's an angel!" On the spot, as he said this, his face won her over; it was so bright and kind, and his blue eyes had such a reflexion of some mysterious grace that, for him at least, her mother had put forth. Her fund of observation enabled her as she gazed up at him to place him: he was a candid simple soldier; very grave--she came back to that--but not at all terrible. At any rate he struck a note that was new to her and that after a moment made her say: "Do you like her very much?" He smiled down at her, hesitating, looking pleasanter and pleasanter. "Let me tell you about your mother." He put out a big military hand which she immediately took, and they turned off together to where a couple of chairs had been placed under one of the trees. "She told me to come to you," Maisie explained as they went; and presently she was close to him in a chair, with the prettiest of pictures--the sheen of the lake through other trees--before them, and the sound of birds, the plash of boats, the play of children in the air. The Captain, inclining his military person, sat sideways to be closer and kinder, and as her hand was on the arm of her seat he put his own down on it again to emphasise something he had to say that would be good for her to hear. He had already told her how her mother, from the moment of seeing her so unexpectedly with a person who was--well, not at all the right person, had promptly asked him to take charge of her while she herself tackled, as she said, the real culprit. He gave the child the sense of doing for the time what he liked with her; ten minutes before she had never seen him, but she could now sit there touching him, touched and impressed by him and thinking it nice when a gentleman was thin and brown--brown with a kind of clear depth that made his straw-coloured moustache almost white and his eyes resemble little pale flowers. The most extraordinary thing was the way she didn't appear just then to mind Sir Claude's being tackled. The Captain wasn't a bit like him, for it was an odd part of the pleasantness of mamma's friend that it resided in a manner in this friend's having a face so informally put together that the only kindness could be to call it funny. An odder part still was that it finally made our young lady, to classify him further, say to herself that, of all people in the world, he reminded her most insidiously of Mrs. Wix. He had neither straighteners nor a diadem, nor, at least in the same place as the other, a button; he was sun-burnt and deep-voiced and smelt of cigars, yet he marvellously had more in common with her old governess than with her young stepfather. What he had to say to her that was good for her to hear was that her poor mother (didn't she know?) was the best friend he had ever had in all his life. And he added: "She has told me ever so much about you. I'm awfully glad to know you." She had never, she thought, been so addressed as a young lady, not even by Sir Claude the day, so long ago, that she found him with Mrs. Beale. It struck her as the way that at balls, by delightful partners, young ladies must be spoken to in the intervals of dances; and she tried to think of something that would meet it at the same high point. But this effort flurried her, and all she could produce was: "At first, you know, I thought you were Lord Eric." The Captain looked vague. "Lord Eric?" "And then Sir Claude thought you were the Count." At this he laughed out. "Why he's only five foot high and as red as a lobster!" Maisie laughed, with a certain elegance, in return--the young lady at the ball certainly would--and was on the point, as conscientiously, of pursuing the subject with an agreeable question. But before she could speak her companion challenged her. "Who in the world's Lord Eric?" "Don't you know him?" She judged her young lady would say that with light surprise. "Do you mean a fat man with his mouth always open?" She had to confess that their acquaintance was so limited that she could only describe the bearer of the name as a friend of mamma's; but a light suddenly came to the Captain, who quickly spoke as knowing her man. "What-do-you-call-him's brother, the fellow that owned Bobolink?" Then, with all his kindness, he contradicted her flat. "Oh dear no; your mother never knew HIM." "But Mrs. Wix said so," the child risked. "Mrs. Wix?" "My old governess." This again seemed amusing to the Captain. "She mixed him up, your old governess. He's an awful beast. Your mother never looked at him." He was as positive as he was friendly, but he dropped for a minute after this into a silence that gave Maisie, confused but ingenious, a chance to redeem the mistake of pretending to know too much by the humility of inviting further correction. "And doesn't she know the Count?" "Oh I dare say! But he's another ass." After which abruptly, with a different look, he put down again on the back of her own the hand he had momentarily removed. Maisie even thought he coloured a little. "I want tremendously to speak to you. You must never believe any harm of your mother." "Oh I assure you I DON'T!" cried the child, blushing, herself, up to her eyes in a sudden surge of deprecation of such a thought. The Captain, bending his head, raised her hand to his lips with a benevolence that made her wish her glove had been nicer. "Of course you don't when you know how fond she is of YOU." "She's fond of me?" Maisie panted. "Tremendously. But she thinks you don't like her. You MUST like her. She has had too much to put up with." "Oh yes--I know!" She rejoiced that she had never denied it. "Of course I've no right to speak of her except as a particular friend," the Captain went on. "But she's a splendid woman. She has never had any sort of justice." "Hasn't she?"--his companion, to hear the words, felt a thrill altogether new. "Perhaps I oughtn't to say it to you, but she has had everything to suffer." "Oh yes--you can SAY it to me!" Maisie hastened to profess. The Captain was glad. "Well, you needn't tell. It's all for YOU--do you see?" Serious and smiling she only wanted to take it from him. "It's between you and me! Oh there are lots of things I've never told!" "Well, keep this with the rest. I assure you she has had the most infernal time, no matter what any one says to the contrary. She's the cleverest woman I ever saw in all my life. She's too charming." She had been touched already by his tone, and now she leaned back in her chair and felt something tremble within her. "She's tremendous fun--she can do all sorts of things better than I've ever seen any one. She has the pluck of fifty--and I know; I assure you I do. She has the nerve for a tiger-shoot--by Jove I'd TAKE her! And she is awfully open and generous, don't you know? there are women that are such horrid sneaks. She'll go through anything for any one she likes." He appeared to watch for a moment the effect on his companion of this emphasis; then he gave a small sigh that mourned the limits of the speakable. But it was almost with the note of a fresh challenge that he wound up: "Look here, she's TRUE!" Maisie had so little desire to assert the contrary that she found herself, in the intensity of her response, throbbing with a joy still less utterable than the essence of the Captain's admiration. She was fairly hushed with the sense that he spoke of her mother as she had never heard any one speak. It came over her as she sat silent that, after all, this admiration and this respect were quite new words, which took a distinction from the fact that nothing in the least resembling them in quality had on any occasion dropped from the lips of her father, of Mrs. Beale, of Sir Claude or even of Mrs. Wix. What it appeared to her to come to was that on the subject of her ladyship it was the first real kindness she had heard, so that at the touch of it something strange and deep and pitying surged up within her--a revelation that, practically and so far as she knew, her mother, apart from this, had only been disliked. Mrs. Wix's original account of Sir Claude's affection seemed as empty now as the chorus in a children's game, and the husband and wife, but a little way off at that moment, were face to face in hatred and with the dreadful name he had called her still in the air. What was it the Captain on the other hand had called her? Maisie wanted to hear that again. The tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, which burned under them with the rush of a consciousness that for her too, five minutes before, the vivid towering beauty whose assault she awaited had been, a moment long, an object of pure dread. She became on the spot indifferent to her usual fear of showing what in children was notoriously most offensive--presented to her companion, soundlessly but hideously, her wet distorted face. She cried, with a pang, straight AT him, cried as she had never cried at any one in all her life. "Oh do you love her?" she brought out with a gulp that was the effect of her trying not to make a noise. It was doubtless another consequence of the thick mist through which she saw him that in reply to her question the Captain gave her such a queer blurred look. He stammered, yet in his voice there was also the ring of a great awkward insistence. "Of course I'm tremendously fond of her--I like her better than any woman I ever saw. I don't mind in the least telling you that," he went on, "and I should think myself a great beast if I did." Then to show that his position was superlatively clear he made her, with a kindness that even Sir Claude had never surpassed, tremble again as she had trembled at his first outbreak. He called her by her name, and her name drove it home. "My dear Maisie, your mother's an angel!" It was an almost unbelievable balm--it soothed so her impression of danger and pain. She sank back in her chair, she covered her face with her hands. "Oh mother, mother, mother!" she sobbed. She had an impression that the Captain, beside her, if more and more friendly, was by no means unembarrassed; in a minute, however, when her eyes were clearer, he was erect in front of her, very red and nervously looking about him and whacking his leg with his stick. "Say you love her, Mr. Captain; say it, say it!" she implored. Mr. Captain's blue eyes fixed themselves very hard. "Of course I love her, damn it, you know!" At this she also jumped up; she had fished out somehow her pocket-handkerchief. "So do I then. I do, I do, I do!" she passionately asseverated. "Then will you come back to her?" Maisie, staring, stopped the tight little plug of her handkerchief on the way to her eyes. "She won't have me." "Yes she will. She wants you." "Back at the house--with Sir Claude?" Again he hung fire. "No, not with him. In another place." They stood looking at each other with an intensity unusual as between a Captain and a little girl. "She won't have me in any place." "Oh yes she will if _I_ ask her!" Maisie's intensity continued. "Shall you be there?" The Captain's, on the whole, did the same. "Oh yes--some day." "Then you don't mean now?" He broke into a quick smile. "Will you come now?--go with us for an hour?" Maisie considered. "She wouldn't have me even now." She could see that he had his idea, but that her tone impressed him. That disappointed her a little, though in an instant he rang out again. "She will if I ask her," he repeated. "I'll ask her this minute." Maisie, turning at this, looked away to where her mother and her stepfather had stopped. At first, among the trees, nobody was visible; but the next moment she exclaimed with expression: "It's over--here he comes!" The Captain watched the approach of her ladyship's husband, who lounged composedly over the grass, making to Maisie with his closed fingers a little movement in the air. "I've no desire to avoid him." "Well, you mustn't see him," said Maisie. "Oh he's in no hurry himself!" Sir Claude had stopped to light another cigarette. She was vague as to the way it was proper he should feel; but she had a sense that the Captain's remark was rather a free reflexion on it. "Oh he doesn't care!" she replied. "Doesn't care for what?" "Doesn't care who you are. He told me so. Go and ask mamma," she added. "If you can come with us? Very good. You really want me not to wait for him?" "PLEASE don't." But Sir Claude was not yet near, and the Captain had with his left hand taken hold of her right, which he familiarly, sociably swung a little. "Only first," she continued, "tell me this. Are you going to LIVE with mamma?" The immemorial note of mirth broke out at her seriousness. "One of these days." She wondered, wholly unperturbed by his laughter. "Then where will Sir Claude be?" "He'll have left her of course." "Does he really intend to do that?" "You've every opportunity to ask him." Maisie shook her head with decision. "He won't do it. Not first." Her "first" made the Captain laugh out again. "Oh he'll be sure to be nasty! But I've said too much to you." "Well, you know, I'll never tell," said Maisie. "No, it's all for yourself. Good-bye." "Good-bye." Maisie kept his hand long enough to add: "I like you too." And then supremely: "You DO love her?" "My dear child--!" The Captain wanted words. "Then don't do it only for just a little." "A little?" "Like all the others." "All the others?"--he stood staring. She pulled away her hand. "Do it always!" She bounded to meet Sir Claude, and as she left the Captain she heard him ring out with apparent gaiety: "Oh I'm in for it!" As she joined Sir Claude she noted her mother in the distance move slowly off, and, glancing again at the Captain, saw him, swinging his stick, retreat in the same direction. She had never seen Sir Claude look as he looked just then; flushed yet not excited--settled rather in an immoveable disgust and at once very sick and very hard. His conversation with her mother had clearly drawn blood, and the child's old horror came back to her, begetting the instant moral contraction of the days when her parents had looked to her to feed their love of battle. Her greatest fear for the moment, however, was that her friend would see she had been crying. The next she became aware that he had glanced at her, and it presently occurred to her that he didn't even wish to be looked at. At this she quickly removed her gaze, while he said rather curtly: "Well, who in the world IS the fellow?" She felt herself flooded with prudence. "Oh _I_ haven't found out!" This sounded as if she meant he ought to have done so himself; but she could only face doggedly the ugliness of seeming disagreeable, as she used to face it in the hours when her father, for her blankness, called her a dirty little donkey, and her mother, for her falsity, pushed her out of the room. "Then what have you been doing all this time?" "Oh I don't know!" It was of the essence of her method not to be silly by halves. "Then didn't the beast say anything?" They had got down by the lake and were walking fast. "Well, not very much." "He didn't speak of your mother?" "Oh yes, a little!" "Then what I ask you, please, is HOW?" She kept silence--so long that he presently went on: "I say, you know--don't you hear me?" At this she produced: "Well, I'm afraid I didn't attend to him very much." Sir Claude, smoking rather hard, made no immediate rejoinder; but finally he exclaimed: "Then my dear--with such a chance--you were the perfection of a dunce!" He was so irritated--or she took him to be--that for the rest of the time they were in the Gardens he spoke no other word; and she meanwhile subtly abstained from any attempt to pacify him. That would only lead to more questions. At the gate of the Gardens he hailed a four-wheeled cab and, in silence, without meeting her eyes, put her into it, only saying "Give him THAT" as he tossed half a crown upon the seat. Even when from outside he had closed the door and told the man where to go he never took her departing look. Nothing of this kind had ever yet happened to them, but it had no power to make her love him less; so she could not only bear it, she felt as she drove away--she could rejoice in it. It brought again the sweet sense of success that, ages before, she had had at a crisis when, on the stairs, returning from her father's, she had met a fierce question of her mother's with an imbecility as deep and had in consequence been dashed by Mrs. Farange almost to the bottom. XVII If for reasons of her own she could bear the sense of Sir Claude's displeasure her young endurance might have been put to a serious test. The days went by without his knocking at her father's door, and the time would have turned sadly to waste if something hadn't conspicuously happened to give it a new difference. What took place was a marked change in the attitude of Mrs. Beale--a change that somehow, even in his absence, seemed to bring Sir Claude again into the house. It began practically with a conversation that occurred between them the day Maisie, came home alone in the cab. Mrs. Beale had by that time returned, and she was more successful than their friend in extracting from our young lady an account of the extraordinary passage with the Captain. She came back to it repeatedly, and on the very next day it grew distinct to the child that she was already in full possession of what at the same moment had been enacted between her ladyship and Sir Claude. This was the real origin of her final perception that though he didn't come to the house her stepmother had some rare secret for not being quite without him. This led to some rare passages with Mrs. Beale, the promptest of which had been--not on Maisie's part--a wonderful outbreak of tears. Mrs. Beale was not, as she herself said, a crying creature: she hadn't cried, to Maisie's knowledge, since the lowly governess days, the grey dawn of their connexion. But she wept now with passion, professing loudly that it did her good and saying remarkable things to her charge, for whom the occasion was an equal benefit, an addition to all the fine precautionary wisdom stored away. It somehow hadn't violated that wisdom, Maisie felt, for her to have told Mrs. Beale what she had not told Sir Claude, inasmuch as the greatest strain, to her sense, was between Sir Claude and Sir Claude's wife, and his wife was just what Mrs. Beale was unfortunately not. He sent his stepdaughter three days after the incident in Kensington Gardens a message as frank as it was tender, and that was how Mrs. Beale had had to bring out in a manner that seemed half an appeal, half a defiance: "Well yes, hang it--I DO see him!" How and when and where, however, were just what Maisie was not to know--an exclusion moreover that she never questioned in the light of a participation large enough to make him, while she shared the ample void of Mrs. Beale's rather blank independence, shine in her yearning eye like the single, the sovereign window-square of a great dim disproportioned room. As far as her father was concerned such hours had no interruption; and then it was clear between them that each was thinking of the absent and thinking the other thought, so that he was an object of conscious reference in everything they said or did. The wretched truth, Mrs. Beale had to confess, was that she had hoped against hope and that in the Regent's Park it was impossible Sir Claude should really be in and out. Hadn't they at last to look the fact in the face?--it was too disgustingly evident that no one after all had been squared. Well, if no one had been squared it was because every one had been vile. No one and every one were of course Beale and Ida, the extent of whose power to be nasty was a thing that, to a little girl, Mrs. Beale simply couldn't give chapter and verse for. Therefore it was that to keep going at all, as she said, that lady had to make, as she also said, another arrangement--the arrangement in which Maisie was included only to the point of knowing it existed and wondering wistfully what it was. Conspicuously at any rate it had a side that was responsible for Mrs. Beale's sudden emotion and sudden confidence--a demonstration this, however, of which the tearfulness was far from deterrent to our heroine's thought of how happy she should be if she could only make an arrangement for herself. Mrs. Beale's own operated, it appeared, with regularity and frequency; for it was almost every day or two that she was able to bring Maisie a message and to take one back. It had been over the vision of what, as she called it, he did for her that she broke down; and this vision was kept in a manner before Maisie by a subsequent increase not only of the gaiety, but literally--it seemed not presumptuous to perceive--of the actual virtue of her friend. The friend was herself the first to proclaim it: he had pulled her up immensely--he had quite pulled her round. She had charming tormenting words about him: he was her good fairy, her hidden spring--above all he was just her "higher" conscience. That was what had particularly come out with her startling tears: he had made her, dear man, think ever so much better of herself. It had been thus rather surprisingly revealed that she had been in a way to think ill, and Maisie was glad to hear of the corrective at the same time that she heard of the ailment. She presently found herself supposing, and in spite of her envy even hoping, that whenever Mrs. Beale was out of the house Sir Claude had in some manner the satisfaction of it. This was now of more frequent occurrence than ever before--so much so that she would have thought of her stepmother as almost extravagantly absent had it not been that, in the first place, her father was a superior specimen of that habit: it was the frequent remark of his present wife, as it had been, before the tribunals of their country, a prominent plea of her predecessor, that he scarce came home even to sleep. In the second place Mrs. Beale, when she WAS on the spot, had now a beautiful air of longing to make up for everything. The only shadow in such bright intervals was that, as Maisie put it to herself, she could get nothing by questions. It was in the nature of things to be none of a small child's business, even when a small child had from the first been deluded into a fear that she might be only too much initiated. Things then were in Maisie's experience so true to their nature that questions were almost always improper; but she learned on the other hand soon to recognise how at last, sometimes, patient little silences and intelligent little looks could be rewarded by delightful little glimpses. There had been years at Beale Farange's when the monosyllable "he" meant always, meant almost violently, the master; but all that was changed at a period at which Sir Claude's merits were of themselves so much in the air that it scarce took even two letters to name him. "He keeps me up splendidly--he does, my own precious," Mrs. Beale would observe to her comrade; or else she would say that the situation at the other establishment had reached a point that could scarcely be believed--the point, monstrous as it sounded, of his not having laid eyes upon her for twelve days. "She" of course at Beale Farange's had never meant any one but Ida, and there was the difference in this case that it now meant Ida with renewed intensity. Mrs. Beale--it was striking--was in a position to animadvert more and more upon her dreadfulness, the moral of all which appeared to be how abominably yet blessedly little she had to do with her husband. This flow of information came home to our two friends because, truly, Mrs. Beale had not much more to do with her own; but that was one of the reflexions that Maisie could make without allowing it to break the spell of her present sympathy. How could such a spell be anything but deep when Sir Claude's influence, operating from afar, at last really determined the resumption of his stepdaughter's studies? Mrs. Beale again took fire about them and was quite vivid for Maisie as to their being the great matter to which the dear absent one kept her up. This was the second source--I have just alluded to the first--of the child's consciousness of something that, very hopefully, she described to herself as a new phase; and it also presented in the brightest light the fresh enthusiasm with which Mrs. Beale always reappeared and which really gave Maisie a happier sense than she had yet had of being very dear at least to two persons. That she had small remembrance at present of a third illustrates, I am afraid, a temporary oblivion of Mrs. Wix, an accident to be explained only by a state of unnatural excitement. For what was the form taken by Mrs. Beale's enthusiasm and acquiring relief in the domestic conditions still left to her but the delightful form of "reading" with her little charge on lines directly prescribed and in works profusely supplied by Sir Claude? He had got hold of an awfully good list--"mostly essays, don't you know?" Mrs. Beale had said; a word always august to Maisie, but henceforth to be softened by hazy, in fact by quite languorous edges. There was at any rate a week in which no less than nine volumes arrived, and the impression was to be gathered from Mrs. Beale that the obscure intercourse she enjoyed with Sir Claude not only involved an account and a criticism of studies, but was organised almost for the very purpose of report and consultation. It was for Maisie's education in short that, as she often repeated, she closed her door--closed it to the gentlemen who used to flock there in such numbers and whom her husband's practical desertion of her would have made it a course of the highest indelicacy to receive. Maisie was familiar from of old with the principle at least of the care that a woman, as Mrs. Beale phrased it, attractive and exposed must take of her "character," and was duly impressed with the rigour of her stepmother's scruples. There was literally no one of the other sex whom she seemed to feel at liberty to see at home, and when the child risked an enquiry about the ladies who, one by one, during her own previous period, had been made quite loudly welcome, Mrs. Beale hastened to inform her that, one by one, they had, the fiends, been found out, after all, to be awful. If she wished to know more about them she was recommended to approach her father. Maisie had, however, at the very moment of this injunction much livelier curiosities, for the dream of lectures at an institution had at last become a reality, thanks to Sir Claude's now unbounded energy in discovering what could be done. It stood out in this connexion that when you came to look into things in a spirit of earnestness an immense deal could be done for very little more than your fare in the Underground. The institution--there was a splendid one in a part of the town but little known to the child--became, in the glow of such a spirit, a thrilling place, and the walk to it from the station through Glower Street (a pronunciation for which Mrs. Beale once laughed at her little friend) a pathway literally strewn with "subjects." Maisie imagined herself to pluck them as she went, though they thickened in the great grey rooms where the fountain of knowledge, in the form usually of a high voice that she took at first to be angry, plashed in the stillness of rows of faces thrust out like empty jugs. "It MUST do us good--it's all so hideous," Mrs. Beale had immediately declared; manifesting a purity of resolution that made these occasions quite the most harmonious of all the many on which the pair had pulled together. Maisie certainly had never, in such an association, felt so uplifted, and never above all been so carried off her feet, as at the moments of Mrs. Beale's breathlessly re-entering the house and fairly shrieking upstairs to know if they should still be in time for a lecture. Her stepdaughter, all ready from the earliest hours, almost leaped over the banister to respond, and they dashed out together in quest of learning as hard as they often dashed back to release Mrs. Beale for other preoccupations. There had been in short no bustle like these particular spasms, once they had broken out, since that last brief flurry when Mrs. Wix, blowing as if she were grooming her, "made up" for everything previously lost at her father's. These weeks as well were too few, but they were flooded with a new emotion, part of which indeed came from the possibility that, through the long telescope of Glower Street, or perhaps between the pillars of the institution--which impressive objects were what Maisie thought most made it one--they should some day spy Sir Claude. That was what Mrs. Beale, under pressure, had said--doubtless a little impatiently: "Oh yes, oh yes, some day!" His joining them was clearly far less of a matter of course than was to have been gathered from his original profession of desire to improve in their company his own mind; and this sharpened our young lady's guess that since that occasion either something destructive had happened or something desirable hadn't. Mrs. Beale had thrown but a partial light in telling her how it had turned out that nobody had been squared. Maisie wished at any rate that somebody WOULD be squared. However, though in every approach to the temple of knowledge she watched in vain for Sir Claude, there was no doubt about the action of his loved image as an incentive and a recompense. When the institution was most on pillars--or, as Mrs. Beale put it, on stilts--when the subject was deepest and the lecture longest and the listeners ugliest, then it was they both felt their patron in the background would be most pleased with them. One day, abruptly, with a glance at this background, Mrs. Beale said to her companion: "We'll go to-night to the thingumbob at Earl's Court"; an announcement putting forth its full lustre when she had made known that she referred to the great Exhibition just opened in that quarter, a collection of extraordinary foreign things in tremendous gardens, with illuminations, bands, elephants, switchbacks and side-shows, as well as crowds of people among whom they might possibly see some one they knew. Maisie flew in the same bound at the neck of her friend and at the name of Sir Claude, on which Mrs. Beale confessed that--well, yes, there was just a chance that he would be able to meet them. He never of course, in his terrible position, knew what might happen from hour to hour; but he hoped to be free and he had given Mrs. Beale the tip. "Bring her there on the quiet and I'll try to turn up"--this was clear enough on what so many weeks of privation had made of his desire to see the child: it even appeared to represent on his part a yearning as constant as her own. That in turn was just puzzling enough to make Maisie express a bewilderment. She couldn't see, if they were so intensely of the same mind, why the theory on which she had come back to Mrs. Beale, the general reunion, the delightful trio, should have broken down so in fact. Mrs. Beale furthermore only gave her more to think about in saying that their disappointment was the result of his having got into his head a kind of idea. "What kind of idea?" "Oh goodness knows!" She spoke with an approach to asperity. "He's so awfully delicate." "Delicate?"--that was ambiguous. "About what he does, don't you know?" said Mrs. Beale. She fumbled. "Well, about what WE do." Maisie wondered. "You and me?" "Me and HIM, silly!" cried Mrs. Beale with, this time, a real giggle. "But you don't do any harm--YOU don't," said Maisie, wondering afresh and intending her emphasis as a decorous allusion to her parents. "Of course we don't, you angel--that's just the ground _I_ take!" her companion exultantly responded. "He says he doesn't want you mixed up." "Mixed up with what?" "That's exactly what _I_ want to know: mixed up with what, and how you are any more mixed--?" Mrs. Beale paused without ending her question. She ended after an instant in a different way. "All you can say is that it's his fancy." The tone of this, in spite of its expressing a resignation, the fruit of weariness, that dismissed the subject, conveyed so vividly how much such a fancy was not Mrs. Beale's own that our young lady was led by the mere fact of contact to arrive at a dim apprehension of the unuttered and the unknown. The relation between her step-parents had then a mysterious residuum; this was the first time she really had reflected that except as regards herself it was not a relationship. To each other it was only what they might have happened to make it, and she gathered that this, in the event, had been something that led Sir Claude to keep away from her. Didn't he fear she would be compromised? The perception of such a scruple endeared him the more, and it flashed over her that she might simplify everything by showing him how little she made of such a danger. Hadn't she lived with her eyes on it from her third year? It was the condition most frequently discussed at the Faranges', where the word was always in the air and where at the age of five, amid rounds of applause, she could gabble it off. She knew as well in short that a person could be compromised as that a person could be slapped with a hair-brush or left alone in the dark, and it was equally familiar to her that each of these ordeals was in general held to have too little effect. But the first thing was to make absolutely sure of Mrs. Beale. This was done by saying to her thoughtfully: "Well, if you don't mind--and you really don't, do you?" Mrs. Beale, with a dawn of amusement, considered. "Mixing you up? Not a bit. For what does it mean?" "Whatever it means I don't in the least mind BEING mixed. Therefore if you don't and I don't," Maisie concluded, "don't you think that when I see him this evening I had better just tell him we don't and ask him why in the world HE should?" XVIII The child, however, was not destined to enjoy much of Sir Claude at the "thingumbob," which took for them a very different turn indeed. On the spot Mrs. Beale, with hilarity, had urged her to the course proposed; but later, at the Exhibition, she withdrew this allowance, mentioning as a result of second thoughts that when a man was so sensitive anything at all frisky usually made him worse. It would have been hard indeed for Sir Claude to be "worse," Maisie felt, as, in the gardens and the crowd, when the first dazzle had dropped, she looked for him in vain up and down. They had all their time, the couple, for frugal wistful wandering: they had partaken together at home of the light vague meal--Maisie's name for it was a "jam-supper"--to which they were reduced when Mr. Farange sought his pleasure abroad. It was abroad now entirely that Mr. Farange pursued this ideal, and it was the actual impression of his daughter, derived from his wife, that he had three days before joined a friend's yacht at Cowes. The place was full of side-shows, to which Mrs. Beale could introduce the little girl only, alas, by revealing to her so attractive, so enthralling a name: the side-shows, each time, were sixpence apiece, and the fond allegiance enjoyed by the elder of our pair had been established from the earliest time in spite of a paucity of sixpences. Small coin dropped from her as half-heartedly as answers from bad children to lessons that had not been looked at. Maisie passed more slowly the great painted posters, pressing with a linked arm closer to her friend's pocket, where she hoped for the audible chink of a shilling. But the upshot of this was but to deepen her yearning: if Sir Claude would only at last come the shillings would begin to ring. The companions paused, for want of one, before the Flowers of the Forest, a large presentment of bright brown ladies--they were brown all over--in a medium suggestive of tropical luxuriance, and there Maisie dolorously expressed her belief that he would never come at all. Mrs. Beale hereupon, though discernibly disappointed, reminded her that he had not been promised as a certainty--a remark that caused the child to gaze at the Flowers through a blur in which they became more magnificent, yet oddly more confused, and by which moreover confusion was imparted to the aspect of a gentleman who at that moment, in the company of a lady, came out of the brilliant booth. The lady was so brown that Maisie at first took her for one of the Flowers; but during the few seconds that this required--a few seconds in which she had also desolately given up Sir Claude--she heard Mrs. Beale's voice, behind her, gather both wonder and pain into a single sharp little cry. "Of all the wickedness--BEALE!" He had already, without distinguishing them in the mass of strollers, turned another way--it seemed at the brown lady's suggestion. Her course was marked, over heads and shoulders, by an upright scarlet plume, as to the ownership of which Maisie was instantly eager. "Who is she--who is she?" But Mrs. Beale for a moment only looked after them. "The liar--the liar!" Maisie considered. "Because he's not--where one thought?" That was also, a month ago in Kensington Gardens, where her mother had not been. "Perhaps he has come back," she was quick to contribute. "He never went--the hound!" That, according to Sir Claude, had been also what her mother had not done, and Maisie could only have a sense of something that in a maturer mind would be called the way history repeats itself. "Who IS she?" she asked again. Mrs. Beale, fixed to the spot, seemed lost in the vision of an opportunity missed. "If he had only seen me!"--it came from between her teeth. "She's a brand-new one. But he must have been with her since Tuesday." Maisie took it in. "She's almost black," she then reported. "They're always hideous," said Mrs. Beale. This was a remark on which the child had again to reflect. "Oh not his WIVES!" she remonstrantly exclaimed. The words at another moment would probably have set her friend "off," but Mrs. Beale was now, in her instant vigilance, too immensely "on." "Did you ever in your life see such a feather?" Maisie presently continued. This decoration appeared to have paused at some distance, and in spite of intervening groups they could both look at it. "Oh that's the way they dress--the vulgarest of the vulgar!" "They're coming back--they'll see us!" Maisie the next moment cried; and while her companion answered that this was exactly what she wanted and the child returned "Here they are--here they are!" the unconscious subjects of so much attention, with a change of mind about their direction, quickly retraced their steps and precipitated themselves upon their critics. Their unconsciousness gave Mrs. Beale time to leap, under her breath, to a recognition which Maisie caught. "It must be Mrs. Cuddon!" Maisie looked at Mrs. Cuddon hard--her lips even echoed the name. What followed was extraordinarily rapid--a minute of livelier battle than had ever yet, in so short a span at least, been waged round our heroine. The muffled shock--lest people should notice--was violent, and it was only for her later thought that the steps fell into their order, the steps through which, in a bewilderment not so much of sound as of silence, she had come to find herself, too soon for comprehension and too strangely for fear, at the door of the Exhibition with her father. He thrust her into a hansom and got in after her, and then it was--as she drove along with him--that she recovered a little what had happened. Face to face with them in the gardens he had seen them, and there had been a moment of checked concussion during which, in a glare of black eyes and a toss of red plumage, Mrs. Cuddon had recognised them, ejaculated and vanished. There had been another moment at which she became aware of Sir Claude, also poised there in surprise, but out of her father's view, as if he had been warned off at the very moment of reaching them. It fell into its place with all the rest that she had heard Mrs. Beale say to her father, but whether low or loud was now lost to her, something about his having this time a new one; on which he had growled something indistinct but apparently in the tone and of the sort that the child, from her earliest years, had associated with hearing somebody retort to somebody that somebody was "another." "Oh I stick to the old!" Mrs. Beale had then quite loudly pronounced; and her accent, even as the cab got away, was still in the air, Maisie's effective companion having spoken no other word from the moment of whisking her off--none at least save the indistinguishable address which, over the top of the hansom and poised on the step, he had given the driver. Reconstructing these things later Maisie theorised that she at this point would have put a question to him had not the silence into which he charmed her or scared her--she could scarcely tell which--come from his suddenly making her feel his arm about her, feel, as he drew her close, that he was agitated in a way he had never yet shown her. It struck her he trembled, trembled too much to speak, and this had the effect of making her, with an emotion which, though it had begun to throb in an instant, was by no means all dread, conform to his portentous hush. The act of possession that his pressure in a manner advertised came back to her after the longest of the long intermissions that had ever let anything come back. They drove and drove, and he kept her close; she stared straight before her, holding her breath, watching one dark street succeed another and strangely conscious that what it all meant was somehow that papa was less to be left out of everything than she had supposed. It took her but a minute to surrender to this discovery, which, in the form of his present embrace, suggested a purpose in him prodigiously reaffirmed and with that a confused confidence. She neither knew exactly what he had done nor what he was doing; she could only, altogether impressed and rather proud, vibrate with the sense that he had jumped up to do something and that she had as quickly become a part of it. It was a part of it too that here they were at a house that seemed not large, but in the fresh white front of which the street-lamp showed a smartness of flower-boxes. The child had been in thousands of stories--all Mrs. Wix's and her own, to say nothing of the richest romances of French Elise--but she had never been in such a story as this. By the time he had helped her out of the cab, which drove away, and she heard in the door of the house the prompt little click of his key, the Arabian Nights had quite closed round her. From this minute that pitch of the wondrous was in everything, particularly in such an instant "Open Sesame" and in the departure of the cab, a rattling void filled with relinquished step-parents; it was, with the vividness, the almost blinding whiteness of the light that sprang responsive to papa's quick touch of a little brass knob on the wall, in a place that, at the top of a short soft staircase, struck her as the most beautiful she had ever seen in her life. The next thing she perceived it to be was the drawing-room of a lady--of a lady, she could see in a moment, and not of a gentleman, not even of one like papa himself or even like Sir Claude--whose things were as much prettier than mamma's as it had always had to be confessed that mamma's were prettier than Mrs. Beale's. In the middle of the small bright room and the presence of more curtains and cushions, more pictures and mirrors, more palm-trees drooping over brocaded and gilded nooks, more little silver boxes scattered over little crooked tables and little oval miniatures hooked upon velvet screens than Mrs. Beale and her ladyship together could, in an unnatural alliance, have dreamed of mustering, the child became aware, with a sharp foretaste of compassion, of something that was strangely like a relegation to obscurity of each of those women of taste. It was a stranger operation still that her father should on the spot be presented to her as quite advantageously and even grandly at home in the dazzling scene and himself by so much the more separated from scenes inferior to it. She spent with him in it, while explanations continued to hang back, twenty minutes that, in their sudden drop of danger, affected her, though there were neither buns nor ginger-beer, like an extemporised expensive treat. "Is she very rich?" He had begun to strike her as almost embarrassed, so shy that he might have found himself with a young lady with whom he had little in common. She was literally moved by this apprehension to offer him some tactful relief. Beale Farange stood and smiled at his young lady, his back to the fanciful fireplace, his light overcoat--the very lightest in London--wide open, and his wonderful lustrous beard completely concealing the expanse of his shirt-front. It pleased her more than ever to think that papa was handsome and, though as high aloft as mamma and almost, in his specially florid evening-dress, as splendid, of a beauty somehow less belligerent, less terrible. "The Countess? Why do you ask me that?" Maisie's eyes opened wider. "Is she a Countess?" He seemed to treat her wonder as a positive tribute. "Oh yes, my dear, but it isn't an English title." Her manner appreciated this. "Is it a French one?" "No, nor French either. It's American." She conversed agreeably. "Ah then of course she must be rich." She took in such a combination of nationality and rank. "I never saw anything so lovely." "Did you have a sight of her?" Beale asked. "At the Exhibition?" Maisie smiled. "She was gone too quick." Her father laughed. "She did slope!" She had feared he would say something about Mrs. Beale and Sir Claude, yet the way he spared them made her rather uneasy too. All he risked was, the next minute, "She has a horror of vulgar scenes." This was something she needn't take up; she could still continue bland. "But where do you suppose she went?" "Oh I thought she'd have taken a cab and have been here by this time. But she'll turn up all right." "I'm sure I HOPE she will," Maisie said; she spoke with an earnestness begotten of the impression of all the beauty about them, to which, in person, the Countess might make further contribution. "We came awfully fast," she added. Her father again laughed loud. "Yes, my dear, I made you step out!" He waited an instant, then pursued: "I want her to see you." Maisie, at this, rejoiced in the attention that, for their evening out, Mrs. Beale, even to the extent of personally "doing up" her old hat, had given her appearance. Meanwhile her father went on: "You'll like her awfully." "Oh I'm sure I shall!" After which, either from the effect of having said so much or from that of a sudden glimpse of the impossibility of saying more, she felt an embarrassment and sought refuge in a minor branch of the subject. "I thought she was Mrs. Cuddon." Beale's gaiety rather increased than diminished. "You mean my wife did? My dear child, my wife's a damned fool!" He had the oddest air of speaking of his wife as of a person whom she might scarcely have known, so that the refuge of her scruple didn't prove particularly happy. Beale on the other hand appeared after an instant himself to feel a scruple. "What I mean is, to speak seriously, that she doesn't really know anything about anything." He paused, following the child's charmed eyes and tentative step or two as they brought her nearer to the pretty things on one of the tables. "She thinks she has good things, don't you know!" He quite jeered at Mrs. Beale's delusion. Maisie felt she must confess that it WAS one; everything she had missed at the side-shows was made up to her by the Countess's luxuries. "Yes," she considered; "she does think that." There was again a dryness in the way Beale replied that it didn't matter what she thought; but there was an increasing sweetness for his daughter in being with him so long without his doing anything worse. The whole hour of course was to remain with her, for days and weeks, ineffaceably illumined and confirmed; by the end of which she was able to read into it a hundred things that had been at the moment mere miraculous pleasantness. What they at the moment came to was simply that her companion was still in a good deal of a flutter, yet wished not to show it, and that just in proportion as he succeeded in this attempt he was able to encourage her to regard him as kind. He moved about the room after a little, showed her things, spoke to her as a person of taste, told her the name, which she remembered, of the famous French lady represented in one of the miniatures, and remarked, as if he had caught her wistful over a trinket or a trailing stuff, that he made no doubt the Countess, on coming in, would give her something jolly. He spied a pink satin box with a looking-glass let into the cover, which he raised, with a quick facetious flourish, to offer her the privilege of six rows of chocolate bonbons, cutting out thereby Sir Claude, who had never gone beyond four rows. "I can do what I like with these," he said, "for I don't mind telling you I gave 'em to her myself." The Countess had evidently appreciated the gift; there were numerous gaps, a ravage now quite unchecked, in the array. Even while they waited together Maisie had her sense, which was the mark of what their separation had become, of her having grown for him, since the last time he had, as it were, noticed her, and by increase of years and of inches if by nothing else, much more of a little person to reckon with. Yes, this was a part of the positive awkwardness that he carried off by being almost foolishly tender. There was a passage during which, on a yellow silk sofa under one of the palms, he had her on his knee, stroking her hair, playfully holding her off while he showed his shining fangs and let her, with a vague affectionate helpless pointless "Dear old girl, dear little daughter," inhale the fragrance of his cherished beard. She must have been sorry for him, she afterwards knew, so well could she privately follow his difficulty in being specific to her about anything. She had such possibilities of vibration, of response, that it needed nothing more than this to make up to her in fact for omissions. The tears came into her eyes again as they had done when in the Park that day the Captain told her so "splendidly" that her mother was good. What was this but splendid too--this still directer goodness of her father and this unexampled shining solitude with him, out of which everything had dropped but that he was papa and that he was magnificent? It didn't spoil it that she finally felt he must have, as he became restless, some purpose he didn't quite see his way to bring out, for in the freshness of their recovered fellowship she would have lent herself gleefully to his suggesting, or even to his pretending, that their relations were easy and graceful. There was something in him that seemed, and quite touchingly, to ask her to help him to pretend--pretend he knew enough about her life and her education, her means of subsistence and her view of himself, to give the questions he couldn't put her a natural domestic tone. She would have pretended with ecstasy if he could only have given her the cue. She waited for it while, between his big teeth, he breathed the sighs she didn't know to be stupid. And as if, though he was so stupid all through, he had let the friendly suffusion of her eyes yet tell him she was ready for anything, he floundered about, wondering what the devil he could lay hold of. XIX When he had lighted a cigarette and begun to smoke in her face it was as if he had struck with the match the note of some queer clumsy ferment of old professions, old scandals, old duties, a dim perception of what he possessed in her and what, if everything had only--damn it!--been totally different, she might still be able to give him. What she was able to give him, however, as his blinking eyes seemed to make out through the smoke, would be simply what he should be able to get from her. To give something, to give here on the spot, was all her own desire. Among the old things that came back was her little instinct of keeping the peace; it made her wonder more sharply what particular thing she could do or not do, what particular word she could speak or not speak, what particular line she could take or not take, that might for every one, even for the Countess, give a better turn to the crisis. She was ready, in this interest, for an immense surrender, a surrender of everything but Sir Claude, of everything but Mrs. Beale. The immensity didn't include THEM; but if he had an idea at the back of his head she had also one in a recess as deep, and for a time, while they sat together, there was an extraordinary mute passage between her vision of this vision of his, his vision of her vision, and her vision of his vision of her vision. What there was no effective record of indeed was the small strange pathos on the child's part of an innocence so saturated with knowledge and so directed to diplomacy. What, further, Beale finally laid hold of while he masked again with his fine presence half the flounces of the fireplace was: "Do you know, my dear, I shall soon be off to America?" It struck his daughter both as a short cut and as the way he wouldn't have said it to his wife. But his wife figured with a bright superficial assurance in her response. "Do you mean with Mrs. Beale?" Her father looked at her hard. "Don't be a little ass!" Her silence appeared to represent a concentrated effort not to be. "Then with the Countess?" "With her or without her, my dear; that concerns only your poor daddy. She has big interests over there, and she wants me to take a look at them." Maisie threw herself into them. "Will that take very long?" "Yes; they're in such a muddle--it may take months. Now what I want to hear, you know, is whether you'd like to come along?" Planted once more before him in the middle of the room she felt herself turning white. "I?" she gasped, yet feeling as soon as she had spoken that such a note of dismay was not altogether pretty. She felt it still more while her father replied, with a shake of his legs, a toss of his cigarette-ash and a fidgety look--he was for ever taking one--all the length of his waistcoat and trousers, that she needn't be quite so disgusted. It helped her in a few seconds to appear more as he would like her that she saw, in the lovely light of the Countess's splendour, exactly, however she appeared, the right answer to make. "Dear papa, I'll go with you anywhere." He turned his back to her and stood with his nose at the glass of the chimneypiece while he brushed specks of ash out of his beard. Then he abruptly said: "Do you know anything about your brute of a mother?" It was just of her brute of a mother that the manner of the question in a remarkable degree reminded her: it had the free flight of one of Ida's fine bridgings of space. With the sense of this was kindled for Maisie at the same time an inspiration. "Oh yes, I know everything!" and she became so radiant that her father, seeing it in the mirror, turned back to her and presently, on the sofa, had her at his knee again and was again particularly affecting. Maisie's inspiration instructed her, pressingly, that the more she should be able to say about mamma the less she would be called upon to speak of her step-parents. She kept hoping the Countess would come in before her power to protect them was exhausted; and it was now, in closer quarters with her companion, that the idea at the back of her head shifted its place to her lips. She told him she had met her mother in the Park with a gentleman who, while Sir Claude had strolled with her ladyship, had been kind and had sat and talked to her; narrating the scene with a remembrance of her pledge of secrecy to the Captain quite brushed away by the joy of seeing Beale listen without profane interruption. It was almost an amazement, but it was indeed all a joy, thus to be able to guess that papa was at last quite tired of his anger--of his anger at any rate about mamma. He was only bored with her now. That made it, however, the more imperative that his spent displeasure shouldn't be blown out again. It charmed the child to see how much she could interest him; and the charm remained even when, after asking her a dozen questions, he observed musingly and a little obscurely: "Yes, damned if she won't!" For in this too there was a detachment, a wise weariness that made her feel safe. She had had to mention Sir Claude, though she mentioned him as little as possible and Beale only appeared to look quite over his head. It pieced itself together for her that this was the mildness of general indifference, a source of profit so great for herself personally that if the Countess was the author of it she was prepared literally to hug the Countess. She betrayed that eagerness by a restless question about her, to which her father replied: "Oh she has a head on her shoulders. I'll back her to get out of anything!" He looked at Maisie quite as if he could trace the connexion between her enquiry and the impatience of her gratitude. "Do you mean to say you'd really come with me?" She felt as if he were now looking at her very hard indeed, and also as if she had grown ever so much older. "I'll do anything in the world you ask me, papa." He gave again, with a laugh and with his legs apart, his proprietary glance at his waistcoat and trousers. "That's a way, my dear, of saying 'No, thank you!' You know you don't want to go the least little mite. You can't humbug ME!" Beale Farange laid down. "I don't want to bully you--I never bullied you in my life; but I make you the offer, and it's to take or to leave. Your mother will never again have any more to do with you than if you were a kitchenmaid she had turned out for going wrong. Therefore of course I'm your natural protector and you've a right to get everything out of me you can. Now's your chance, you know--you won't be half-clever if you don't. You can't say I don't put it before you--you can't say I ain't kind to you or that I don't play fair. Mind you never say that, you know--it WOULD bring me down on you. I know what's proper. I'll take you again, just as I HAVE taken you again and again. And I'm much obliged to you for making up such a face." She was conscious enough that her face indeed couldn't please him if it showed any sign--just as she hoped it didn't--of her sharp impression of what he now really wanted to do. Wasn't he trying to turn the tables on her, embarrass her somehow into admitting that what would really suit her little book would be, after doing so much for good manners, to leave her wholly at liberty to arrange for herself? She began to be nervous again: it rolled over her that this was their parting, their parting for ever, and that he had brought her there for so many caresses only because it was important such an occasion should look better for him than any other. For her to spoil it by the note of discord would certainly give him ground for complaint; and the child was momentarily bewildered between her alternatives of agreeing with him about her wanting to get rid of him and displeasing him by pretending to stick to him. So she found for the moment no solution but to murmur very helplessly: "Oh papa--oh papa!" "I know what you're up to--don't tell ME!" After which he came straight over and, in the most inconsequent way in the world, clasped her in his arms a moment and rubbed his beard against her cheek. Then she understood as well as if he had spoken it that what he wanted, hang it, was that she should let him off with all the honours--with all the appearance of virtue and sacrifice on his side. It was exactly as if he had broken out to her: "I say, you little booby, help me to be irreproachable, to be noble, and yet to have none of the beastly bore of it. There's only impropriety enough for one of us; so YOU must take it all. REPUDIATE your dear old daddy--in the face, mind you, of his tender supplications. He can't be rough with you--it isn't in his nature: therefore you'll have successfully chucked him because he was too generous to be as firm with you, poor man, as was, after all, his duty." This was what he communicated in a series of tremendous pats on the back; that portion of her person had never been so thumped since Moddle thumped her when she choked. After a moment he gave her the further impression of having become sure enough of her to be able very gracefully to say out: "You know your mother loathes you, loathes you simply. And I've been thinking over your precious man--the fellow you told me about." "Well," Maisie replied with competence, "I'm sure of HIM." Her father was vague for an instant. "Do you mean sure of his liking you?" "Oh no; of his liking HER!" Beale had a return of gaiety. "There's no accounting for tastes! It's what they all say, you know." "I don't care--I'm sure of him!" Maisie repeated. "Sure, you mean, that she'll bolt?" Maisie knew all about bolting, but, decidedly, she WAS older, and there was something in her that could wince at the way her father made the ugly word--ugly enough at best--sound flat and low. It prompted her to amend his allusion, which she did by saying: "I don't know what she'll do. But she'll be happy." "Let us hope so," said Beale--almost as for edification. "The more happy she is at any rate the less she'll want you about. That's why I press you," he agreeably pursued, "to consider this handsome offer--I mean seriously, you know--of your sole surviving parent." Their eyes, at this, met again in a long and extraordinary communion which terminated in his ejaculating: "Ah you little scoundrel!" She took it from him in the manner it seemed to her he would like best and with a success that encouraged him to go on: "You ARE a deep little devil!" Her silence, ticking like a watch, acknowledged even this, in confirmation of which he finally brought out: "You've settled it with the other pair!" "Well, what if I have?" She sounded to herself most bold. Her father, quite as in the old days, broke into a peal. "Why, don't you know they're awful?" She grew bolder still. "I don't care--not a bit!" "But they're probably the worst people in the world and the very greatest criminals," Beale pleasantly urged. "I'm not the man, my dear, not to let you know it." "Well, it doesn't prevent them from loving me. They love me tremendously." Maisie turned crimson to hear herself. Her companion fumbled; almost any one--let alone a daughter--would have seen how conscientious he wanted to be. "I dare say. But do you know why?" She braved his eyes and he added: "You're a jolly good pretext." "For what?" Maisie asked. "Why, for their game. I needn't tell you what that is." The child reflected. "Well then that's all the more reason." "Reason for what, pray?" "For their being kind to me." "And for your keeping in with them?" Beale roared again; it was as if his spirits rose and rose. "Do you realise, pray, that in saying that you're a monster?" She turned it over. "A monster?" "They've MADE one of you. Upon my honour it's quite awful. It shows the kind of people they are. Don't you understand," Beale pursued, "that when they've made you as horrid as they can--as horrid as themselves--they'll just simply chuck you?" She had at this a flicker of passion. "They WON'T chuck me!" "I beg your pardon," her father courteously insisted; "it's my duty to put it before you. I shouldn't forgive myself if I didn't point out to you that they'll cease to require you." He spoke as if with an appeal to her intelligence that she must be ashamed not adequately to meet, and this gave a real distinction to his superior delicacy. It cleared the case as he had wished. "Cease to require me because they won't care?" She paused with that sketch of her idea. "OF COURSE Sir Claude won't care if his wife bolts. That's his game. It will suit him down to the ground." This was a proposition Maisie could perfectly embrace, but it still left a loophole for triumph. She turned it well over. "You mean if mamma doesn't come back ever at all?" The composure with which her face was presented to that prospect would have shown a spectator the long road she had travelled. "Well, but that won't put Mrs. Beale--" "In the same comfortable position--?" Beale took her up with relish; he had sprung to his feet again, shaking his legs and looking at his shoes. "Right you are, darling! Something more will be wanted for Mrs. Beale." He just paused, then he added: "But she may not have long to wait for it." Maisie also for a minute looked at his shoes, though they were not the pair she most admired, the laced yellow "uppers" and patent-leather complement. At last, with a question, she raised her eyes. "Aren't you coming back?" Once more he hung fire; after which he gave a small laugh that in the oddest way in the world reminded her of the unique sounds she had heard emitted by Mrs. Wix. "It may strike you as extraordinary that I should make you such an admission; and in point of fact you're not to understand that I do. But we'll put it that way to help your decision. The point is that that's the way my wife will presently be sure to put it. You'll hear her shrieking that she's deserted, so that she may just pile up her wrongs. She'll be as free as she likes then--as free, you see, as your mother's muff of a husband. They won't have anything more to consider and they'll just put you into the street. Do I understand," Beale enquired, "that, in the face of what I press on you, you still prefer to take the risk of that?" It was the most wonderful appeal any gentleman had ever addressed to his daughter, and it had placed Maisie in the middle of the room again while her father moved slowly about her with his hands in his pockets and something in his step that seemed, more than anything else he had done, to show the habit of the place. She turned her fevered little eyes over his friend's brightnesses, as if, on her own side, to press for some help in a quandary unexampled. As if also the pressure reached him he after an instant stopped short, completing the prodigy of his attitude and the pride of his loyalty by a supreme formulation of the general inducement. "You've an eye, love! Yes, there's money. No end of money." This affected her at first in the manner of some great flashing dazzle in one of the pantomimes to which Sir Claude had taken her: she saw nothing in it but what it directly conveyed. "And shall I never, never see you again--?" "If I do go to America?" Beale brought it out like a man. "Never, never, never!" Hereupon, with the utmost absurdity, she broke down; everything gave way, everything but the horror of hearing herself definitely utter such an ugliness as the acceptance of that. So she only stiffened herself and said: "Then I can't give you up." She held him some seconds looking at her, showing her a strained grimace, a perfect parade of all his teeth, in which it seemed to her she could read the disgust he didn't quite like to express at this departure from the pliability she had practically promised. But before she could attenuate in any way the crudity of her collapse he gave an impatient jerk which took him to the window. She heard a vehicle stop; Beale looked out; then he freshly faced her. He still said nothing, but she knew the Countess had come back. There was a silence again between them, but with a different shade of embarrassment from that of their united arrival; and it was still without speaking that, abruptly repeating one of the embraces of which he had already been so prodigal, he whisked her back to the lemon sofa just before the door of the room was thrown open. It was thus in renewed and intimate union with him that she was presented to a person whom she instantly recognised as the brown lady. The brown lady looked almost as astonished, though not quite as alarmed, as when, at the Exhibition, she had gasped in the face of Mrs. Beale. Maisie in truth almost gasped in her own; this was with the fuller perception that she was brown indeed. She literally struck the child more as an animal than as a "real" lady; she might have been a clever frizzled poodle in a frill or a dreadful human monkey in a spangled petticoat. She had a nose that was far too big and eyes that were far too small and a moustache that was, well, not so happy a feature as Sir Claude's. Beale jumped up to her; while, to the child's astonishment, though as if in a quick intensity of thought, the Countess advanced as gaily as if, for many a day, nothing awkward had happened for any one. Maisie, in spite of a large acquaintance with the phenomenon, had never seen it so promptly established that nothing awkward was to be mentioned. The next minute the Countess had kissed her and exclaimed to Beale with bright tender reproach: "Why, you never told me HALF! My dear child," she cried, "it was awfully nice of you to come!" "But she hasn't come--she won't come!" Beale answered. "I've put it to her how much you'd like it, but she declines to have anything to do with us." The Countess stood smiling, and after an instant that was mainly taken up with the shock of her weird aspect Maisie felt herself reminded of another smile, which was not ugly, though also interested--the kind light thrown, that day in the Park, from the clean fair face of the Captain. Papa's Captain--yes--was the Countess; but she wasn't nearly so nice as the other: it all came back, doubtless, to Maisie's minor appreciation of ladies. "Shouldn't you like me," said this one endearingly, "to take you to Spa?" "To Spa?" The child repeated the name to gain time, not to show how the Countess brought back to her a dim remembrance of a strange woman with a horrid face who once, years before, in an omnibus, bending to her from an opposite seat, had suddenly produced an orange and murmured "Little dearie, won't you have it?" She had felt then, for some reason, a small silly terror, though afterwards conscious that her interlocutress, unfortunately hideous, had particularly meant to be kind. This was also what the Countess meant; yet the few words she had uttered and the smile with which she had uttered them immediately cleared everything up. Oh no, she wanted to go nowhere with HER, for her presence had already, in a few seconds, dissipated the happy impression of the room and put an end to the pleasure briefly taken in Beale's command of such elegance. There was no command of elegance in his having exposed her to the approach of the short fat wheedling whiskered person in whom she had now to recognise the only figure wholly without attraction involved in any of the intimate connexions her immediate circle had witnessed the growth of. She was abashed meanwhile, however, at having appeared to weigh in the balance the place to which she had been invited; and she added as quickly as possible: "It isn't to America then?" The Countess, at this, looked sharply at Beale, and Beale, airily enough, asked what the deuce it mattered when she had already given him to understand she wanted to have nothing to do with them. There followed between her companions a passage of which the sense was drowned for her in the deepening inward hum of her mere desire to get off; though she was able to guess later on that her father must have put it to his friend that it was no use talking, that she was an obstinate little pig and that, besides, she was really old enough to choose for herself. It glimmered back to her indeed that she must have failed quite dreadfully to seem ideally other than rude, inasmuch as before she knew it she had visibly given the impression that if they didn't allow her to go home she should cry. Oh if there had ever been a thing to cry about it was being so consciously and gawkily below the handsomest offers any one could ever have received. The great pain of the thing was that she could see the Countess liked her enough to wish to be liked in return, and it was from the idea of a return she sought utterly to flee. It was the idea of a return that after a confusion of loud words had broken out between the others brought to her lips with the tremor preceding disaster: "Can't I, please, be sent home in a cab?" Yes, the Countess wanted her and the Countess was wounded and chilled, and she couldn't help it, and it was all the more dreadful because it only made the Countess more coaxing and more impossible. The only thing that sustained either of them perhaps till the cab came--Maisie presently saw it would come--was its being in the air somehow that Beale had done what he wanted. He went out to look for a conveyance; the servants, he said, had gone to bed, but she shouldn't be kept beyond her time. The Countess left the room with him, and, alone in the possession of it, Maisie hoped she wouldn't come back. It was all the effect of her face--the child simply couldn't look at it and meet its expression halfway. All in a moment too that queer expression had leaped into the lovely things--all in a moment she had had to accept her father as liking some one whom she was sure neither her mother, nor Mrs. Beale, nor Mrs. Wix, nor Sir Claude, nor the Captain, nor even Mr. Perriam and Lord Eric could possibly have liked. Three minutes later, downstairs, with the cab at the door, it was perhaps as a final confession of not having much to boast of that, on taking leave of her, he managed to press her to his bosom without her seeing his face. For herself she was so eager to go that their parting reminded her of nothing, not even of a single one of all the "nevers" that above, as the penalty of not cleaving to him, he had attached to the question of their meeting again. There was something in the Countess that falsified everything, even the great interests in America and yet more the first flush of that superiority to Mrs. Beale and to mamma which had been expressed in Sèvres sets and silver boxes. These were still there, but perhaps there were no great interests in America. Mamma had known an American who was not a bit like this one. She was not, however, of noble rank; her name was only Mrs. Tucker. Maisie's detachment would none the less have been more complete if she had not suddenly had to exclaim: "Oh dear, I haven't any money!" Her father's teeth, at this, were such a picture of appetite without action as to be a match for any plea of poverty. "Make your stepmother pay." "Stepmothers DON'T pay!" cried the Countess. "No stepmother ever paid in her life!" The next moment they were in the street together, and the next the child was in the cab, with the Countess, on the pavement, but close to her, quickly taking money from a purse whisked out of a pocket. Her father had vanished and there was even yet nothing in that to reawaken the pang of loss. "Here's money," said the brown lady: "go!" The sound was commanding: the cab rattled off. Maisie sat there with her hand full of coin. All that for a cab? As they passed a street-lamp she bent to see how much. What she saw was a cluster of sovereigns. There MUST then have been great interests in America. It was still at any rate the Arabian Nights. XX The money was far too much even for a fee in a fairy-tale, and in the absence of Mrs. Beale, who, though the hour was now late, had not yet returned to the Regent's Park, Susan Ash, in the hall, as loud as Maisie was low and as bold as she was bland, produced, on the exhibition offered under the dim vigil of the lamp that made the place a contrast to the child's recent scene of light, the half-crown that an unsophisticated cabman could pronounce to be the least he would take. It was apparently long before Mrs. Beale would arrive, and in the interval Maisie had been induced by the prompt Susan not only to go to bed like a darling dear, but, in still richer expression of that character, to devote to the repayment of obligations general as well as particular one of the sovereigns in the ordered array that, on the dressing-table upstairs, was naturally not less dazzling to a lone orphan of a housemaid than to the subject of the manoeuvres of a quartette. This subject went to sleep with her property gathered into a knotted handkerchief, the largest that could be produced and lodged under her pillow; but the explanations that on the morrow were inevitably more complete with Mrs. Beale than they had been with her humble friend found their climax in a surrender also more becomingly free. There were explanations indeed that Mrs. Beale had to give as well as to ask, and the most striking of these was to the effect that it was dreadful for a little girl to take money from a woman who was simply the vilest of their sex. The sovereigns were examined with some attention, the result of which, however, was to make the author of that statement desire to know what, if one really went into the matter, they could be called but the wages of sin. Her companion went into it merely so far as the question of what then they were to do with them; on which Mrs. Beale, who had by this time put them into her pocket, replied with dignity and with her hand on the place: "We're to send them back on the spot!" Susan, the child soon afterwards learnt, had been invited to contribute to this act of restitution her one appropriated coin; but a closer clutch of the treasure showed in her private assurance to Maisie that there was a limit to the way she could be "done." Maisie had been open with Mrs. Beale about the whole of last night's transaction; but she now found herself on the part of their indignant inferior a recipient of remarks that were so many ringing tokens of that lady's own suppressions. One of these bore upon the extraordinary hour--it was three in the morning if she really wanted to know--at which Mrs. Beale had re-entered the house; another, in accents as to which Maisie's criticism was still intensely tacit, characterised her appeal as such a "gime," such a "shime," as one had never had to put up with; a third treated with some vigour the question of the enormous sums due belowstairs, in every department, for gratuitous labour and wasted zeal. Our young lady's consciousness was indeed mainly filled for several days with the apprehension created by the too slow subsidence of her attendant's sense of wrong. These days would become terrific like the Revolutions she had learnt by heart in Histories if an outbreak in the kitchen should crown them; and to promote that prospect she had through Susan's eyes more than one glimpse of the way in which Revolutions are prepared. To listen to Susan was to gather that the spark applied to the inflammables and already causing them to crackle would prove to have been the circumstance of one's being called a horrid low thief for refusing to part with one's own. The redeeming point of this tension was, on the fifth day, that it actually appeared to have had to do with a breathless perception in our heroine's breast that scarcely more as the centre of Sir Claude's than as that of Susan's energies she had soon after breakfast been conveyed from London to Folkestone and established at a lovely hotel. These agents, before her wondering eyes, had combined to carry through the adventure and to give it the air of having owed its success to the fact that Mrs. Beale had, as Susan said, but just stepped out. When Sir Claude, watch in hand, had met this fact with the exclamation "Then pack Miss Farange and come off with us!" there had ensued on the stairs a series of gymnastics of a nature to bring Miss Farange's heart into Miss Farange's mouth. She sat with Sir Claude in a four-wheeler while he still held his watch; held it longer than any doctor who had ever felt her pulse; long enough to give her a vision of something like the ecstasy of neglecting such an opportunity to show impatience. The ecstasy had begun in the schoolroom and over the Berceuse, quite in the manner of the same foretaste on the day, a little while back, when Susan had panted up and she herself, after the hint about the duchess, had sailed down; for what harm then had there been in drops and disappointments if she could still have, even only a moment, the sensation of such a name "brought up"? It had remained with her that her father had foretold her she would some day be in the street, but it clearly wouldn't be this day, and she felt justified of the preference betrayed to that parent as soon as her visitor had set Susan in motion and laid his hand, while she waited with him, kindly on her own. This was what the Captain, in Kensington Gardens, had done; her present situation reminded her a little of that one and renewed the dim wonder of the fashion after which, from the first, such pats and pulls had struck her as the steps and signs of other people's business and even a little as the wriggle or the overflow of their difficulties. What had failed her and what had frightened her on the night of the Exhibition lost themselves at present alike in the impression that any "surprise" now about to burst from Sir Claude would be too big to burst all at once. Any awe that might have sprung from his air of leaving out her stepmother was corrected by the force of a general rule, the odd truth that if Mrs. Beale now never came nor went without making her think of him, it was never, to balance that, the main mark of his own renewed reality to appear to be a reference to Mrs. Beale. To be with Sir Claude was to think of Sir Claude, and that law governed Maisie's mind until, through a sudden lurch of the cab, which had at last taken in Susan and ever so many bundles and almost reached Charing Cross, it popped again somehow into her dizzy head the long-lost image of Mrs. Wix. It was singular, but from this time she understood and she followed, followed with the sense of an ample filling-out of any void created by symptoms of avoidance and of flight. Her ecstasy was a thing that had yet more of a face than of a back to turn, a pair of eyes still directed to Mrs. Wix even after the slight surprise of their not finding her, as the journey expanded, either at the London station or at the Folkestone hotel. It took few hours to make the child feel that if she was in neither of these places she was at least everywhere else. Maisie had known all along a great deal, but never so much as she was to know from this moment on and as she learned in particular during the couple of days that she was to hang in the air, as it were, over the sea which represented in breezy blueness and with a summer charm a crossing of more spaces than the Channel. It was granted her at this time to arrive at divinations so ample that I shall have no room for the goal if I attempt to trace the stages; as to which therefore I must be content to say that the fullest expression we may give to Sir Claude's conduct is a poor and pale copy of the picture it presented to his young friend. Abruptly, that morning, he had yielded to the action of the idea pumped into him for weeks by Mrs. Wix on lines of approach that she had been capable of the extraordinary art of preserving from entanglement in the fine network of his relations with Mrs. Beale. The breath of her sincerity, blowing without a break, had puffed him up to the flight by which, in the degree I have indicated, Maisie too was carried off her feet. This consisted neither in more nor in less than the brave stroke of his getting off from Mrs. Beale as well as from his wife--of making with the child straight for some such foreign land as would give a support to Mrs. Wix's dream that she might still see his errors renounced and his delinquencies redeemed. It would all be a sacrifice--under eyes that would miss no faintest shade--to what even the strange frequenters of her ladyship's earlier period used to call the real good of the little unfortunate. Maisie's head held a suspicion of much that, during the last long interval, had confusedly, but quite candidly, come and gone in his own; a glimpse, almost awe-stricken in its gratitude, of the miracle her old governess had wrought. That functionary could not in this connexion have been more impressive, even at second-hand, if she had been a prophetess with an open scroll or some ardent abbess speaking with the lips of the Church. She had clung day by day to their plastic associate, plying him with her deep, narrow passion, doing her simple utmost to convert him, and so working on him that he had at last really embraced his fine chance. That the chance was not delusive was sufficiently guaranteed by the completeness with which he could finally figure it out that, in case of his taking action, neither Ida nor Beale, whose book, on each side, it would only too well suit, would make any sort of row. It sounds, no doubt, too penetrating, but it was not all as an effect of Sir Claude's betrayals that Maisie was able to piece together the beauty of the special influence through which, for such stretches of time, he had refined upon propriety by keeping, so far as possible, his sentimental interests distinct. She had ever of course in her mind fewer names than conceptions, but it was only with this drawback that she now made out her companion's absences to have had for their ground that he was the lover of her stepmother and that the lover of her stepmother could scarce logically pretend to a superior right to look after her. Maisie had by this time embraced the implication of a kind of natural divergence between lovers and little girls. It was just this indeed that could throw light on the probable contents of the pencilled note deposited on the hall-table in the Regent's Park and which would greet Mrs. Beale on her return. Maisie freely figured it as provisionally jocular in tone, even though to herself on this occasion Sir Claude turned a graver face than he had shown in any crisis but that of putting her into the cab when she had been horrid to him after her parting with the Captain. He might really be embarrassed, but he would be sure, to her view, to have muffled in some bravado of pleasantry the disturbance produced at her father's by the removal of a valued servant. Not that there wasn't a great deal too that wouldn't be in the note--a great deal for which a more comfortable place was Maisie's light little brain, where it hummed away hour after hour and caused the first outlook at Folkestone to swim in a softness of colour and sound. It became clear in this medium that her stepfather had really now only to take into account his entanglement with Mrs. Beale. Wasn't he at last disentangled from every one and every thing else? The obstacle to the rupture pressed upon him by Mrs. Wix in the interest of his virtue would be simply that he was in love, or rather, to put it more precisely, that Mrs. Beale had left him no doubt of the degree in which SHE was. She was so much so as to have succeeded in making him accept for a time her infatuated grasp of him and even to some extent the idea of what they yet might do together with a little diplomacy and a good deal of patience. I may not even answer for it that Maisie was not aware of how, in this, Mrs. Beale failed to share his all but insurmountable distaste for their allowing their little charge to breathe the air of their gross irregularity--his contention, in a word, that they should either cease to be irregular or cease to be parental. Their little charge, for herself, had long ago adopted the view that even Mrs. Wix had at one time not thought prohibitively coarse--the view that she was after all, AS a little charge, morally at home in atmospheres it would be appalling to analyse. If Mrs. Wix, however, ultimately appalled, had now set her heart on strong measures, Maisie, as I have intimated, could also work round both to the reasons for them and to the quite other reasons for that lady's not, as yet at least, appearing in them at first-hand. Oh decidedly I shall never get you to believe the number of things she saw and the number of secrets she discovered! Why in the world, for instance, couldn't Sir Claude have kept it from her--except on the hypothesis of his not caring to--that, when you came to look at it and so far as it was a question of vested interests, he had quite as much right in her as her stepmother, not to say a right that Mrs. Beale was in no position to dispute? He failed at all events of any such successful ambiguity as could keep her, when once they began to look across at France, from regarding even what was least explained as most in the spirit of their old happy times, their rambles and expeditions in the easier better days of their first acquaintance. Never before had she had so the sense of giving him a lead for the sort of treatment of what was between them that would best carry it off, or of his being grateful to her for meeting him so much in the right place. She met him literally at the very point where Mrs. Beale was most to be reckoned with, the point of the jealousy that was sharp in that lady and of the need of their keeping it as long as possible obscure to her that poor Mrs. Wix had still a hand. Yes, she met him too in the truth of the matter that, as her stepmother had had no one else to be jealous of, she had made up for so gross a privation by directing the sentiment to a moral influence. Sir Claude appeared absolutely to convey in a wink that a moral influence capable of pulling a string was after all a moral influence exposed to the scratching out of its eyes; and that, this being the case, there was somebody they couldn't afford to leave unprotected before they should see a little better what Mrs. Beale was likely to do. Maisie, true enough, had not to put it into words to rejoin, in the coffee-room, at luncheon: "What CAN she do but come to you if papa does take a step that will amount to legal desertion?" Neither had he then, in answer, to articulate anything but the jollity of their having found a table at a window from which, as they partook of cold beef and apollinaris--for he hinted they would have to save lots of money--they could let their eyes hover tenderly on the far-off white cliffs that so often had signalled to the embarrassed English a promise of safety. Maisie stared at them as if she might really make out after a little a queer dear figure perched on them--a figure as to which she had already the subtle sense that, wherever perched, it would be the very oddest yet seen in France. But it was at least as exciting to feel where Mrs. Wix wasn't as it would have been to know where she was, and if she wasn't yet at Boulogne this only thickened the plot. If she was not to be seen that day, however, the evening was marked by an apparition before which, none the less, overstrained suspense folded on the spot its wings. Adjusting her respirations and attaching, under dropped lashes, all her thoughts to a smartness of frock and frill for which she could reflect that she had not appealed in vain to a loyalty in Susan Ash triumphant over the nice things their feverish flight had left behind, Maisie spent on a bench in the garden of the hotel the half-hour before dinner, that mysterious ceremony of the _table d'hôte_ for which she had prepared with a punctuality of flutter. Sir Claude, beside her, was occupied with a cigarette and the afternoon papers; and though the hotel was full the garden shewed the particular void that ensues upon the sound of the dressing-bell. She had almost had time to weary of the human scene; her own humanity at any rate, in the shape of a smutch on her scanty skirt, had held her so long that as soon as she raised her eyes they rested on a high fair drapery by which smutches were put to shame and which had glided toward her over the grass without her noting its rustle. She followed up its stiff sheen--up and up from the ground, where it had stopped--till at the end of a considerable journey her impression felt the shock of the fixed face which, surmounting it, seemed to offer the climax of the dressed condition. "Why mamma!" she cried the next instant--cried in a tone that, as she sprang to her feet, brought Sir Claude to his own beside her and gave her ladyship, a few yards off, the advantage of their momentary confusion. Poor Maisie's was immense; her mother's drop had the effect of one of the iron shutters that, in evening walks with Susan Ash, she had seen suddenly, at the touch of a spring, rattle down over shining shop-fronts. The light of foreign travel was darkened at a stroke; she had a horrible sense that they were caught; and for the first time of her life in Ida's presence she so far translated an impulse into an invidious act as to clutch straight at the hand of her responsible confederate. It didn't help her that he appeared at first equally hushed with horror; a minute during which, in the empty garden, with its long shadows on the lawn, its blue sea over the hedge and its startled peace in the air, both her elders remained as stiff as tall tumblers filled to the brim and held straight for fear of a spill. At last, in a tone that enriched the whole surprise by its unexpected softness, her mother said to Sir Claude: "Do you mind at all my speaking to her?" "Oh no; DO you?" His reply was so long in coming that Maisie was the first to find the right note. He laughed as he seemed to take it from her, and she felt a sufficient concession in his manner of addressing their visitor. "How in the world did you know we were here?" His wife, at this, came the rest of the way and sat down on the bench with a hand laid on her daughter, whom she gracefully drew to her and in whom, at her touch, the fear just kindled gave a second jump, but now in quite another direction. Sir Claude, on the further side, resumed his seat and his newspapers, so that the three grouped themselves like a family party; his connexion, in the oddest way in the world, almost cynically and in a flash acknowledged, and the mother patting the child into conformities unspeakable. Maisie could already feel how little it was Sir Claude and she who were caught. She had the positive sense of their catching their relative, catching her in the act of getting rid of her burden with a finality that showed her as unprecedentedly relaxed. Oh yes, the fear had dropped, and she had never been so irrevocably parted with as in the pressure of possession now supremely exerted by Ida's long-gloved and much-bangled arm. "I went to the Regent's Park"--this was presently her ladyship's answer to Sir Claude. "Do you mean to-day?" "This morning, just after your own call there. That's how I found you out; that's what has brought me." Sir Claude considered and Maisie waited. "Whom then did you see?" Ida gave a sound of indulgent mockery. "I like your scare. I know your game. I didn't see the person I risked seeing, but I had been ready to take my chance of her." She addressed herself to Maisie; she had encircled her more closely. "I asked for YOU, my dear, but I saw no one but a dirty parlourmaid. She was red in the face with the great things that, as she told me, had just happened in the absence of her mistress; and she luckily had the sense to have made out the place to which Sir Claude had come to take you. If he hadn't given a false scent I should find you here: that was the supposition on which I've proceeded." Ida had never been so explicit about proceeding or supposing, and Maisie, drinking this in, noted too how Sir Claude shared her fine impression of it. "I wanted to see you," his wife continued, "and now you can judge of the trouble I've taken. I had everything to do in town to-day, but I managed to get off." Maisie and her companion, for a moment, did justice to this achievement; but Maisie was the first to express it. "I'm glad you wanted to see me, mamma." Then after a concentration more deep and with a plunge more brave: "A little more and you'd have been too late." It stuck in her throat, but she brought it out: "We're going to France." Ida was magnificent; Ida kissed her on the forehead. "That's just what I thought likely; it made me decide to run down. I fancied that in spite of your scramble you'd wait to cross, and it added to the reason I have for seeing you." Maisie wondered intensely what the reason could be, but she knew ever so much better than to ask. She was slightly surprised indeed to perceive that Sir Claude didn't, and to hear him immediately enquire: "What in the name of goodness can you have to say to her?" His tone was not exactly rude, but it was impatient enough to make his wife's response a fresh specimen of the new softness. "That, my dear man, is all my own business." "Do you mean," Sir Claude asked, "that you wish me to leave you with her?" "Yes, if you'll be so good; that's the extraordinary request I take the liberty of making." Her ladyship had dropped to a mildness of irony by which, for a moment, poor Maisie was mystified and charmed, puzzled with a glimpse of something that in all the years had at intervals peeped out. Ida smiled at Sir Claude with the strange air she had on such occasions of defying an interlocutor to keep it up as long; her huge eyes, her red lips, the intense marks in her face formed an _éclairage_ as distinct and public as a lamp set in a window. The child seemed quite to see in it the very beacon that had lighted her path; she suddenly found herself reflecting that it was no wonder the gentlemen were guided. This must have been the way mamma had first looked at Sir Claude; it brought back the lustre of the time they had outlived. It must have been the way she looked also at Mr. Perriam and Lord Eric; above all it contributed in Maisie's mind to a completer view of that satisfied state of the Captain. Our young lady grasped this idea with a quick lifting of the heart; there was a stillness during which her mother flooded her with a wealth of support to the Captain's striking tribute. This stillness remained long enough unbroken to represent that Sir Claude too might but be gasping again under the spell originally strong for him; so that Maisie quite hoped he would at least say something to show a recognition of how charming she could be. What he presently said was: "Are you putting up for the night?" His wife cast grandly about. "Not here--I've come from Dover." Over Maisie's head, at this, they still faced each other. "You spend the night there?" "Yes, I brought some things. I went to the hotel and hastily arranged; then I caught the train that whisked me on here. You see what a day I've had of it." The statement may surprise, but these were really as obliging if not as lucid words as, into her daughter's ears at least, Ida's lips had ever dropped; and there was a quick desire in the daughter that for the hour at any rate they should duly be welcomed as a ground of intercourse. Certainly mamma had a charm which, when turned on, became a large explanation; and the only danger now in an impulse to applaud it would be that of appearing to signalise its rarity. Maisie, however, risked the peril in the geniality of an admission that Ida had indeed had a rush; and she invited Sir Claude to expose himself by agreeing with her that the rush had been even worse than theirs. He appeared to meet this appeal by saying with detachment enough: "You go back there to-night?" "Oh yes--there are plenty of trains." Again Sir Claude hesitated; it would have been hard to say if the child, between them, more connected or divided them. Then he brought out quietly: "It will be late for you to knock about. I'll see you over." "You needn't trouble, thank you. I think you won't deny that I can help myself and that it isn't the first time in my dreadful life that I've somehow managed it." Save for this allusion to her dreadful life they talked there, Maisie noted, as if they were only rather superficial friends; a special effect that she had often wondered at before in the midst of what she supposed to be intimacies. This effect was augmented by the almost casual manner in which her ladyship went on: "I dare say I shall go abroad." "From Dover do you mean, straight?" "How straight I can't say. I'm excessively ill." This for a minute struck Maisie as but a part of the conversation; at the end of which time she became aware that it ought to strike her--though it apparently didn't strike Sir Claude--as a part of something graver. It helped her to twist nearer. "Ill, mamma--really ill?" She regretted her "really" as soon as she had spoken it; but there couldn't be a better proof of her mother's present polish than that Ida showed no gleam of a temper to take it up. She had taken up at other times much tinier things. She only pressed Maisie's head against her bosom and said: "Shockingly, my dear. I must go to that new place." "What new place?" Sir Claude enquired. Ida thought, but couldn't recall it. "Oh 'Chose,' don't you know? --where every one goes. I want some proper treatment. It's all I've ever asked for on earth. But that's not what I came to say." Sir Claude, in silence, folded one by one his newspapers; then he rose and stood whacking the palm of his hand with the bundle. "You'll stop and dine with us?" "Dear no--I can't dine at this sort of hour. I ordered dinner at Dover." Her ladyship's tone in this one instance showed a certain superiority to those conditions in which her daughter had artlessly found Folkestone a paradise. It was yet not so crushing as to nip in the bud the eagerness with which the latter broke out: "But won't you at least have a cup of tea?" Ida kissed her again on the brow. "Thanks, love. I had tea before coming." She raised her eyes to Sir Claude. "She IS sweet!" He made no more answer than if he didn't agree; but Maisie was at ease about that and was still taken up with the joy of this happier pitch of their talk, which put more and more of a meaning into the Captain's version of her ladyship and literally kindled a conjecture that such an admirer might, over there at the other place, be waiting for her to dine. Was the same conjecture in Sir Claude's mind? He partly puzzled her, if it had risen there, by the slight perversity with which he returned to a question that his wife evidently thought she had disposed of. He whacked his hand again with his paper. "I had really much better take you." "And leave Maisie here alone?" Mamma so clearly didn't want it that Maisie leaped at the vision of a Captain who had seen her on from Dover and who, while he waited to take her back, would be hovering just at the same distance at which, in Kensington Gardens, the companion of his walk had herself hovered. Of course, however, instead of breathing any such guess she let Sir Claude reply; all the more that his reply could contribute so much to her own present grandeur. "She won't be alone when she has a maid in attendance." Maisie had never before had so much of a retinue, and she waited also to enjoy the action of it on her ladyship. "You mean the woman you brought from town?" Ida considered. "The person at the house spoke of her in a way that scarcely made her out company for my child." Her tone was that her child had never wanted, in her hands, for prodigious company. But she as distinctly continued to decline Sir Claude's. "Don't be an old goose," she said charmingly. "Let us alone." In front of them on the grass he looked graver than Maisie at all now thought the occasion warranted. "I don't see why you can't say it before me." His wife smoothed one of her daughter's curls. "Say what, dear?" "Why what you came to say." At this Maisie at last interposed: she appealed to Sir Claude. "Do let her say it to me." He looked hard for a moment at his little friend. "How do you know what she may say?" "She must risk it," Ida remarked. "I only want to protect you," he continued to the child. "You want to protect yourself--that's what you mean," his wife replied. "Don't be afraid. I won't touch you." "She won't touch you--she WON'T!" Maisie declared. She felt by this time that she could really answer for it, and something of the emotion with which she had listened to the Captain came back to her. It made her so happy and so secure that she could positively patronise mamma. She did so in the Captain's very language. "She's good, she's good!" she proclaimed. "Oh Lord!"--Sir Claude, at this, let himself go. He appeared to have emitted some sound of derision that was smothered, to Maisie's ears, by her being again embraced by his wife. Ida released her and held her off a little, looking at her with a very queer face. Then the child became aware that their companion had left them and that from the face in question a confirmatory remark had proceeded. "I AM good, love," said her ladyship. XXI A good deal of the rest of Ida's visit was devoted to explaining, as it were, so extraordinary a statement. This explanation was more copious than any she had yet indulged in, and as the summer twilight gathered and she kept her child in the garden she was conciliatory to a degree that let her need to arrange things a little perceptibly peep out. It was not merely that she explained; she almost conversed; all that was wanting was that she should have positively chattered a little less. It was really the occasion of Maisie's life on which her mother was to have most to say to her. That alone was an implication of generosity and virtue, and no great stretch was required to make our young lady feel that she should best meet her and soonest have it over by simply seeming struck with the propriety of her contention. They sat together while the parent's gloved hand sometimes rested sociably on the child's and sometimes gave a corrective pull to a ribbon too meagre or a tress too thick; and Maisie was conscious of the effort to keep out of her eyes the wonder with which they were occasionally moved to blink. Oh there would have been things to blink at if one had let one's self go; and it was lucky they were alone together, without Sir Claude or Mrs. Wix or even Mrs. Beale to catch an imprudent glance. Though profuse and prolonged her ladyship was not exhaustively lucid, and her account of her situation, so far as it could be called descriptive, was a muddle of inconsequent things, bruised fruit of an occasion she had rather too lightly affronted. None of them were really thought out and some were even not wholly insincere. It was as if she had asked outright what better proof could have been wanted of her goodness and her greatness than just this marvellous consent to give up what she had so cherished. It was as if she had said in so many words: "There have been things between us--between Sir Claude and me--which I needn't go into, you little nuisance, because you wouldn't understand them." It suited her to convey that Maisie had been kept, so far as SHE was concerned or could imagine, in a holy ignorance and that she must take for granted a supreme simplicity. She turned this way and that in the predicament she had sought and from which she could neither retreat with grace nor emerge with credit: she draped herself in the tatters of her impudence, postured to her utmost before the last little triangle of cracked glass to which so many fractures had reduced the polished plate of filial superstition. If neither Sir Claude nor Mrs. Wix was there this was perhaps all the more a pity: the scene had a style of its own that would have qualified it for presentation, especially at such a moment as that of her letting it betray that she quite did think her wretched offspring better placed with Sir Claude than in her own soiled hands. There was at any rate nothing scant either in her admissions or her perversions, the mixture of her fear of what Maisie might undiscoverably think and of the support she at the same time gathered from a necessity of selfishness and a habit of brutality. This habit flushed through the merit she now made, in terms explicit, of not having come to Folkestone to kick up a vulgar row. She had not come to box any ears or to bang any doors or even to use any language: she had come at the worst to lose the thread of her argument in an occasional dumb disgusted twitch of the toggery in which Mrs. Beale's low domestic had had the impudence to serve up Miss Farange. She checked all criticism, not committing herself even so far as for those missing comforts of the schoolroom on which Mrs. Wix had presumed. "I AM good--I'm crazily, I'm criminally good. But it won't do for YOU any more, and if I've ceased to contend with him, and with you too, who have made most of the trouble between us, it's for reasons that you'll understand one of these days but too well--one of these days when I hope you'll know what it is to have lost a mother. I'm awfully ill, but you mustn't ask me anything about it. If I don't get off somewhere my doctor won't answer for the consequences. He's stupefied at what I've borne--he says it has been put on me because I was formed to suffer. I'm thinking of South Africa, but that's none of your business. You must take your choice--you can't ask me questions if you're so ready to give me up. No, I won't tell you; you can find out for yourself. South Africa's wonderful, they say, and if I do go it must be to give it a fair trial. It must be either one thing or the other; if he takes you, you know, he takes you. I've struck my last blow for you; I can follow you no longer from pillar to post. I must live for myself at last, while there's still a handful left of me. I'm very, very ill; I'm very, very tired; I'm very, very determined. There you have it. Make the most of it. Your frock's too filthy; but I came to sacrifice myself." Maisie looked at the peccant places; there were moments when it was a relief to her to drop her eyes even on anything so sordid. All her interviews, all her ordeals with her mother had, as she had grown older, seemed to have, before any other, the hard quality of duration; but longer than any, strangely, were these minutes offered to her as so pacific and so agreeably winding up the connexion. It was her anxiety that made them long, her fear of some hitch, some check of the current, one of her ladyship's famous quick jumps. She held her breath; she only wanted, by playing into her visitor's hands, to see the thing through. But her impatience itself made at instants the whole situation swim; there were things Ida said that she perhaps didn't hear, and there were things she heard that Ida perhaps didn't say. "You're all I have, and yet I'm capable of this. Your father wishes you were dead--that, my dear, is what your father wishes. You'll have to get used to it as I've done--I mean to his wishing that I'M dead. At all events you see for yourself how wonderful I am to Sir Claude. He wishes me dead quite as much; and I'm sure that if making me scenes about YOU could have killed me--!" It was the mark of Ida's eloquence that she started more hares than she followed, and she gave but a glance in the direction of this one; going on to say that the very proof of her treating her husband like an angel was that he had just stolen off not to be fairly shamed. She spoke as if he had retired on tiptoe, as he might have withdrawn from a place of worship in which he was not fit to be present. "You'll never know what I've been through about you--never, never, never. I spare you everything, as I always have; though I dare say you know things that, if I did (I mean if I knew them) would make me--well, no matter! You're old enough at any rate to know there are a lot of things I don't say that I easily might; though it would do me good, I assure you, to have spoken my mind for once in my life. I don't speak of your father's infamous wife: that may give you a notion of the way I'm letting you off. When I say 'you' I mean your precious friends and backers. If you don't do justice to my forbearing, out of delicacy, to mention, just as a last word, about your stepfather, a little fact or two of a kind that really I should only HAVE to mention to shine myself in comparison, and after every calumny, like pure gold: if you don't do me THAT justice you'll never do me justice at all!" Maisie's desire to show what justice she did her had by this time become so intense as to have brought with it an inspiration. The great effect of their encounter had been to confirm her sense of being launched with Sir Claude, to make it rich and full beyond anything she had dreamed, and everything now conspired to suggest that a single soft touch of her small hand would complete the good work and set her ladyship so promptly and majestically afloat as to leave the great seaway clear for the morrow. This was the more the case as her hand had for some moments been rendered free by a marked manoeuvre of both of her mother's. One of these capricious members had fumbled with visible impatience in some backward depth of drapery and had presently reappeared with a small article in its grasp. The act had a significance for a little person trained, in that relation, from an early age, to keep an eye on manual motions, and its possible bearing was not darkened by the memory of the handful of gold that Susan Ash would never, never believe Mrs. Beale had sent back--"not she; she's too false and too greedy!"--to the munificent Countess. To have guessed, none the less, that her ladyship's purse might be the real figure of the object extracted from the rustling covert at her rear--this suspicion gave on the spot to the child's eyes a direction carefully distant. It added moreover to the optimism that for an hour could ruffle the surface of her deep diplomacy, ruffle it to the point of making her forget that she had never been safe unless she had also been stupid. She in short forgot her habitual caution in her impulse to adopt her ladyship's practical interests and show her ladyship how perfectly she understood them. She saw without looking that her mother pressed a little clasp; heard, without wanting to, the sharp click that marked the closing portemonnaie from which something had been taken. What this was she just didn't see; it was not too substantial to be locked with ease in the fold of her ladyship's fingers. Nothing was less new to Maisie than the art of not thinking singly, so that at this instant she could both bring out what was on her tongue's end and weigh, as to the object in her mother's palm, the question of its being a sovereign against the question of its being a shilling. No sooner had she begun to speak than she saw that within a few seconds this question would have been settled: she had foolishly checked the rising words of the little speech of presentation to which, under the circumstances, even such a high pride as Ida's had had to give some thought. She had checked it completely--that was the next thing she felt: the note she sounded brought into her companion's eyes a look that quickly enough seemed at variance with presentations. "That was what the Captain said to me that day, mamma. I think it would have given you pleasure to hear the way he spoke of you." The pleasure, Maisie could now in consternation reflect, would have been a long time coming if it had come no faster than the response evoked by her allusion to it. Her mother gave her one of the looks that slammed the door in her face; never in a career of unsuccessful experiments had Maisie had to take such a stare. It reminded her of the way that once, at one of the lectures in Glower Street, something in a big jar that, amid an array of strange glasses and bad smells, had been promised as a beautiful yellow was produced as a beautiful black. She had been sorry on that occasion for the lecturer, but she was at this moment sorrier for herself. Oh nothing had ever made for twinges like mamma's manner of saying: "The Captain? What Captain?" "Why when we met you in the Gardens--the one who took me to sit with him. That was exactly what HE said." Ida let it come on so far as to appear for an instant to pick up a lost thread. "What on earth did he say?" Maisie faltered supremely, but supremely she brought it out. "What you say, mamma--that you're so good." "What 'I' say?" Ida slowly rose, keeping her eyes on her child, and the hand that had busied itself in her purse conformed at her side and amid the folds of her dress to a certain stiffening of the arm. "I say you're a precious idiot, and I won't have you put words into my mouth!" This was much more peremptory than a mere contradiction. Maisie could only feel on the spot that everything had broken short off and that their communication had abruptly ceased. That was presently proved. "What business have you to speak to me of him?" Her daughter turned scarlet. "I thought you liked him." "Him!--the biggest cad in London!" Her ladyship towered again, and in the gathering dusk the whites of her eyes were huge. Maisie's own, however, could by this time pretty well match them; and she had at least now, with the first flare of anger that had ever yet lighted her face for a foe, the sense of looking up quite as hard as any one could look down. "Well, he was kind about you then; he WAS, and it made me like him. He said things--they were beautiful, they were, they were!" She was almost capable of the violence of forcing this home, for even in the midst of her surge of passion--of which in fact it was a part--there rose in her a fear, a pain, a vision ominous, precocious, of what it might mean for her mother's fate to have forfeited such a loyalty as that. There was literally an instant in which Maisie fully saw--saw madness and desolation, saw ruin and darkness and death. "I've thought of him often since, and I hoped it was with him--with him--" Here, in her emotion, it failed her, the breath of her filial hope. But Ida got it out of her. "You hoped, you little horror--?" "That it was he who's at Dover, that it was he who's to take you. I mean to South Africa," Maisie said with another drop. Ida's stupefaction, on this, kept her silent unnaturally long, so long that her daughter could not only wonder what was coming, but perfectly measure the decline of every symptom of her liberality. She loomed there in her grandeur, merely dark and dumb; her wrath was clearly still, as it had always been, a thing of resource and variety. What Maisie least expected of it was by this law what now occurred. It melted, in the summer twilight, gradually into pity, and the pity after a little found a cadence to which the renewed click of her purse gave an accent. She had put back what she had taken out. "You're a dreadful dismal deplorable little thing," she murmured. And with this she turned back and rustled away over the lawn. After she had disappeared, Maisie dropped upon the bench again and for some time, in the empty garden and the deeper dusk, sat and stared at the image her flight had still left standing. It had ceased to be her mother only, in the strangest way, that it might become her father, the father of whose wish that she were dead the announcement still lingered in the air. It was a presence with vague edges--it continued to front her, to cover her. But what reality that she need reckon with did it represent if Mr. Farange were, on his side, also going off--going off to America with the Countess, or even only to Spa? That question had, from the house, a sudden gay answer in the great roar of a gong, and at the same moment she saw Sir Claude look out for her from the wide lighted doorway. At this she went to him and he came forward and met her on the lawn. For a minute she was with him there in silence as, just before, at the last, she had been with her mother. "She's gone?" "She's gone." Nothing more, for the instant, passed between them but to move together to the house, where, in the hall, he indulged in one of those sudden pleasantries with which, to the delight of his stepdaughter, his native animation overflowed. "Will Miss Farange do me the honour to accept my arm?" There was nothing in all her days that Miss Farange had accepted with such bliss, a bright rich element that floated them together to their feast; before they reached which, however, she uttered, in the spirit of a glad young lady taken in to her first dinner, a sociable word that made him stop short. "She goes to South Africa." "To South Africa?" His face, for a moment, seemed to swing for a jump; the next it took its spring into the extreme of hilarity. "Is that what she said?" "Oh yes, I didn't MISTAKE!" Maisie took to herself THAT credit. "For the climate." Sir Claude was now looking at a young woman with black hair, a red frock and a tiny terrier tucked under her elbow. She swept past them on her way to the dining-room, leaving an impression of a strong scent which mingled, amid the clatter of the place, with the hot aroma of food. He had become a little graver; he still stopped to talk. "I see--I see." Other people brushed by; he was not too grave to notice them. "Did she say anything else?" "Oh yes, a lot more." On this he met her eyes again with some intensity, but only repeating: "I see--I see." Maisie had still her own vision, which she brought out. "I thought she was going to give me something." "What kind of a thing?" "Some money that she took out of her purse and then put back." Sir Claude's amusement reappeared. "She thought better of it. Dear thrifty soul! How much did she make by that manoeuvre?" Maisie considered. "I didn't see. It was very small." Sir Claude threw back his head. "Do you mean very little? Sixpence?" Maisie resented this almost as if, at dinner, she were already bandying jokes with an agreeable neighbour. "It may have been a sovereign." "Or even," Sir Claude suggested, "a ten-pound note." She flushed at this sudden picture of what she perhaps had lost, and he made it more vivid by adding: "Rolled up in a tight little ball, you know--her way of treating banknotes as if they were curl-papers!" Maisie's flush deepened both with the immense plausibility of this and with a fresh wave of the consciousness that was always there to remind her of his cleverness--the consciousness of how immeasurably more after all he knew about mamma than she. She had lived with her so many times without discovering the material of her curl-papers or assisting at any other of her dealings with banknotes. The tight little ball had at any rate rolled away from her for ever--quite like one of the other balls that Ida's cue used to send flying. Sir Claude gave her his arm again, and by the time she was seated at table she had perfectly made up her mind as to the amount of the sum she had forfeited. Everything about her, however--the crowded room, the bedizened banquet, the savour of dishes, the drama of figures--ministered to the joy of life. After dinner she smoked with her friend--for that was exactly what she felt she did--on a porch, a kind of terrace, where the red tips of cigars and the light dresses of ladies made, under the happy stars, a poetry that was almost intoxicating. They talked but little, and she was slightly surprised at his asking for no more news of what her mother had said; but she had no need of talk--there were a sense and a sound in everything to which words had nothing to add. They smoked and smoked, and there was a sweetness in her stepfather's silence. At last he said: "Let us take another turn--but you must go to bed soon. Oh you know, we're going to have a system!" Their turn was back into the garden, along the dusky paths from which they could see the black masts and the red lights of boats and hear the calls and cries that evidently had to do with happy foreign travel; and their system was once more to get on beautifully in this further lounge without a definite exchange. Yet he finally spoke--he broke out as he tossed away the match from which he had taken a fresh light: "I must go for a stroll. I'm in a fidget--I must walk it off." She fell in with this as she fell in with everything; on which he went on: "You go up to Miss Ash"--it was the name they had started; "you must see she's not in mischief. Can you find your way alone?" "Oh yes; I've been up and down seven times." She positively enjoyed the prospect of an eighth. Still they didn't separate; they stood smoking together under the stars. Then at last Sir Claude produced it. "I'm free--I'm free." She looked up at him; it was the very spot on which a couple of hours before she had looked up at her mother. "You're free--you're free." "To-morrow we go to France." He spoke as if he hadn't heard her; but it didn't prevent her again concurring. "To-morrow we go to France." Again he appeared not to have heard her; and after a moment--it was an effect evidently of the depth of his reflexions and the agitation of his soul--he also spoke as if he had not spoken before. "I'm free--I'm free!" She repeated her form of assent. "You're free--you're free." This time he did hear her; he fixed her through the darkness with a grave face. But he said nothing more; he simply stooped a little and drew her to him--simply held her a little and kissed her goodnight; after which, having given her a silent push upstairs to Miss Ash, he turned round again to the black masts and the red lights. Maisie mounted as if France were at the top. XXII The next day it seemed to her indeed at the bottom--down too far, in shuddering plunges, even to leave her a sense, on the Channel boat, of the height at which Sir Claude remained and which had never in every way been so great as when, much in the wet, though in the angle of a screen of canvas, he sociably sat with his stepdaughter's head in his lap and that of Mrs. Beale's housemaid fairly pillowed on his breast. Maisie was surprised to learn as they drew into port that they had had a lovely passage; but this emotion, at Boulogne, was speedily quenched in others, above all in the great ecstasy of a larger impression of life. She was "abroad" and she gave herself up to it, responded to it, in the bright air, before the pink houses, among the bare-legged fishwives and the red-legged soldiers, with the instant certitude of a vocation. Her vocation was to see the world and to thrill with enjoyment of the picture; she had grown older in five minutes and had by the time they reached the hotel recognised in the institutions and manners of France a multitude of affinities and messages. Literally in the course of an hour she found her initiation; a consciousness much quickened by the superior part that, as soon as they had gobbled down a French breakfast--which was indeed a high note in the concert--she observed herself to play to Susan Ash. Sir Claude, who had already bumped against people he knew and who, as he said, had business and letters, sent them out together for a walk, a walk in which the child was avenged, so far as poetic justice required, not only for the loud giggles that in their London trudges used to break from her attendant, but for all the years of her tendency to produce socially that impression of an excess of the queer something which had seemed to waver so widely between innocence and guilt. On the spot, at Boulogne, though there might have been excess there was at least no wavering; she recognised, she understood, she adored and took possession; feeling herself attuned to everything and laying her hand, right and left, on what had simply been waiting for her. She explained to Susan, she laughed at Susan, she towered over Susan; and it was somehow Susan's stupidity, of which she had never yet been so sure, and Susan's bewilderment and ignorance and antagonism, that gave the liveliest rebound to her immediate perceptions and adoptions. The place and the people were all a picture together, a picture that, when they went down to the wide sands, shimmered, in a thousand tints, with the pretty organisation of the _plage_, with the gaiety of spectators and bathers, with that of the language and the weather, and above all with that of our young lady's unprecedented situation. For it appeared to her that no one since the beginning of time could have had such an adventure or, in an hour, so much experience; as a sequel to which she only needed, in order to feel with conscious wonder how the past was changed, to hear Susan, inscrutably aggravated, express a preference for the Edgware Road. The past was so changed and the circle it had formed already so overstepped that on that very afternoon, in the course of another walk, she found herself enquiring of Sir Claude--without a single scruple--if he were prepared as yet to name the moment at which they should start for Paris. His answer, it must be said, gave her the least little chill. "Oh Paris, my dear child--I don't quite know about Paris!" This required to be met, but it was much less to challenge him than for the rich joy of her first discussion of the details of a tour that, after looking at him a minute, she replied: "Well, isn't that the REAL thing, the thing that when one does come abroad--?" He had turned grave again, and she merely threw that out: it was a way of doing justice to the seriousness of their life. She couldn't moreover be so much older since yesterday without reflecting that if by this time she probed a little he would recognise that she had done enough for mere patience. There was in fact something in his eyes that suddenly, to her own, made her discretion shabby. Before she could remedy this he had answered her last question, answered it in the way that, of all ways, she had least expected. "The thing it doesn't do not to do? Certainly Paris is charming. But, my dear fellow, Paris eats your head off. I mean it's so beastly expensive." That note gave her a pang--it suddenly let in a harder light. Were they poor then, that is was HE poor, really poor beyond the pleasantry of apollinaris and cold beef? They had walked to the end of the long jetty that enclosed the harbour and were looking out at the dangers they had escaped, the grey horizon that was England, the tumbled surface of the sea and the brown smacks that bobbed upon it. Why had he chosen an embarrassed time to make this foreign dash? unless indeed it was just the dash economic, of which she had often heard and on which, after another look at the grey horizon and the bobbing boats, she was ready to turn round with elation. She replied to him quite in his own manner: "I see, I see." She smiled up at him. "Our affairs are involved." "That's it." He returned her smile. "Mine are not quite so bad as yours; for yours are really, my dear man, in a state I can't see through at all. But mine will do--for a mess." She thought this over. "But isn't France cheaper than England?" England, over there in the thickening gloom, looked just then remarkably dear. "I dare say; some parts." "Then can't we live in those parts?" There was something that for an instant, in satisfaction of this, he had the air of being about to say and yet not saying. What he presently said was: "This very place is one of them." "Then we shall live here?" He didn't treat it quite so definitely as she liked. "Since we've come to save money!" This made her press him more. "How long shall we stay?" "Oh three or four days." It took her breath away. "You can save money in that time?" He burst out laughing, starting to walk again and taking her under his arm. He confessed to her on the way that she too had put a finger on the weakest of all his weaknesses, the fact, of which he was perfectly aware, that he probably might have lived within his means if he had never done anything for thrift. "It's the happy thoughts that do it," he said; "there's nothing so ruinous as putting in a cheap week." Maisie heard afresh among the pleasant sounds of the closing day that steel click of Ida's change of mind. She thought of the ten-pound note it would have been delightful at this juncture to produce for her companion's encouragement. But the idea was dissipated by his saying irrelevantly, in presence of the next thing they stopped to admire: "We shall stay till she arrives." She turned upon him. "Mrs. Beale?" "Mrs. Wix. I've had a wire," he went on. "She has seen your mother." "Seen mamma?" Maisie stared. "Where in the world?" "Apparently in London. They've been together." For an instant this looked ominous--a fear came into her eyes. "Then she hasn't gone?" "Your mother?--to South Africa? I give it up, dear boy," Sir Claude said; and she seemed literally to see him give it up as he stood there and with a kind of absent gaze--absent, that is, from HER affairs--followed the fine stride and shining limbs of a young fishwife who had just waded out of the sea with her basketful of shrimps. His thought came back to her sooner than his eyes. "But I dare say it's all right. She wouldn't come if it wasn't, poor old thing: she knows rather well what she's about." This was so reassuring that Maisie, after turning it over, could make it fit into her dream. "Well, what IS she about?" He finally stopped looking at the fishwife--he met his companion's enquiry. "Oh you know!" There was something in the way he said it that made, between them, more of an equality than she had yet imagined; but it had also more the effect of raising her up than of letting him down, and what it did with her was shown by the sound of her assent. "Yes--I know!" What she knew, what she COULD know is by this time no secret to us: it grew and grew at any rate, the rest of that day, in the air of what he took for granted. It was better he should do that than attempt to test her knowledge; but there at the worst was the gist of the matter: it was open between them at last that their great change, as, speaking as if it had already lasted weeks, Maisie called it, was somehow built up round Mrs. Wix. Before she went to bed that night she knew further that Sir Claude, since, as HE called it, they had been on the rush, had received more telegrams than one. But they separated again without speaking of Mrs. Beale. Oh what a crossing for the straighteners and the old brown dress--which latter appurtenance the child saw thriftily revived for the possible disasters of travel! The wind got up in the night and from her little room at the inn Maisie could hear the noise of the sea. The next day it was raining and everything different: this was the case even with Susan Ash, who positively crowed over the bad weather, partly, it seemed, for relish of the time their visitor would have in the boat, and partly to point the moral of the folly of coming to such holes. In the wet, with Sir Claude, Maisie went to the Folkestone packet, on the arrival of which, with many signs of the fray, he made her wait under an umbrella by the quay; whence almost ere the vessel touched, he was to be descried, in quest of their friend, wriggling--that had been his word--through the invalids massed upon the deck. It was long till he reappeared--it was not indeed till every one had landed; when he presented the object of his benevolence in a light that Maisie scarce knew whether to suppose the depth of prostration or the flush of triumph. The lady on his arm, still bent beneath her late ordeal, was muffled in such draperies as had never before offered so much support to so much woe. At the hotel, an hour later, this ambiguity dropped: assisting Mrs. Wix in private to refresh and reinvest herself, Maisie heard from her in detail how little she could have achieved if Sir Claude hadn't put it in her power. It was a phrase that in her room she repeated in connexions indescribable: he had put it in her power to have "changes," as she said, of the most intimate order, adapted to climates and occasions so various as to foreshadow in themselves the stages of a vast itinerary. Cheap weeks would of course be in their place after so much money spent on a governess; sums not grudged, however, by this lady's pupil, even on her feeling her own appearance give rise, through the straighteners, to an attention perceptibly mystified. Sir Claude in truth had had less time to devote to it than to Mrs. Wix's; and moreover she would rather be in her own shoes than in her friend's creaking new ones in the event of an encounter with Mrs. Beale. Maisie was too lost in the idea of Mrs. Beale's judgement of so much newness to pass any judgement herself. Besides, after much luncheon and many endearments, the question took quite another turn, to say nothing of the pleasure of the child's quick view that there were other eyes than Susan Ash's to open to what she could show. She couldn't show much, alas, till it stopped raining, which it declined to do that day; but this had only the effect of leaving more time for Mrs. Wix's own demonstration. It came as they sat in the little white and gold salon which Maisie thought the loveliest place she had ever seen except perhaps the apartment of the Countess; it came while the hard summer storm lashed the windows and blew in such a chill that Sir Claude, with his hands in his pockets and cigarettes in his teeth, fidgeting, frowning, looking out and turning back, ended by causing a smoky little fire to be made in the dressy little chimney. It came in spite of something that could only be named his air of wishing to put it off; an air that had served him--oh as all his airs served him!--to the extent of his having for a couple of hours confined the conversation to gratuitous jokes and generalities, kept it on the level of the little empty coffee-cups and _petits verres_ (Mrs. Wix had two of each!) that struck Maisie, through the fumes of the French fire and the English tobacco, as a token more than ever that they were launched. She felt now, in close quarters and as clearly as if Mrs. Wix had told her, that what this lady had come over for was not merely to be chaffed and to hear her pupil chaffed; not even to hear Sir Claude, who knew French in perfection, imitate the strange sounds emitted by the English folk at the hotel. It was perhaps half an effect of her present renovations, as if her clothes had been somebody's else: she had at any rate never produced such an impression of high colour, of a redness associated in Maisie's mind at THAT pitch either with measles or with "habits." Her heart was not at all in the gossip about Boulogne; and if her complexion was partly the result of the déjeuner and the _petits verres_ it was also the brave signal of what she was there to say. Maisie knew when this did come how anxiously it had been awaited by the youngest member of the party. "Her ladyship packed me off--she almost put me into the cab!" That was what Mrs. Wix at last brought out. XXIII Sir Claude was stationed at the window; he didn't so much as turn round, and it was left to the youngest of the three to take up the remark. "Do you mean you went to see her yesterday?" "She came to see ME. She knocked at my shabby door. She mounted my squalid stair. She told me she had seen you at Folkestone." Maisie wondered. "She went back that evening?" "No; yesterday morning. She drove to me straight from the station. It was most remarkable. If I had a job to get off she did nothing to make it worse--she did a great deal to make it better." Mrs. Wix hung fire, though the flame in her face burned brighter; then she became capable of saying: "Her ladyship's kind! She did what I didn't expect." Maisie, on this, looked straight at her stepfather's back; it might well have been for her at that hour a monument of her ladyship's kindness. It remained, as such, monumentally still, and for a time that permitted the child to ask of their companion: "Did she really help you?" "Most practically." Again Mrs. Wix paused; again she quite resounded. "She gave me a ten-pound note." At that, still looking out, Sir Claude, at the window, laughed loud. "So you see, Maisie, we've not quite lost it!" "Oh no," Maisie responded. "Isn't that too charming?" She smiled at Mrs. Wix. "We know all about it." Then on her friend's showing such blankness as was compatible with such a flush she pursued: "She does want me to have you?" Mrs. Wix showed a final hesitation, which, however, while Sir Claude drummed on the window-pane, she presently surmounted. It came to Maisie that in spite of his drumming and of his not turning round he was really so much interested as to leave himself in a manner in her hands; which somehow suddenly seemed to her a greater proof than he could have given by interfering. "She wants me to have YOU!" Mrs. Wix declared. Maisie answered this bang at Sir Claude. "Then that's nice for all of us." Of course it was, his continued silence sufficiently admitted while Mrs. Wix rose from her chair and, as if to take more of a stand, placed herself, not without majesty, before the fire. The incongruity of her smartness, the circumference of her stiff frock, presented her as really more ready for Paris than any of them. She also gazed hard at Sir Claude's back. "Your wife was different from anything she had ever shown me. She recognises certain proprieties." "Which? Do you happen to remember?" Sir Claude asked. Mrs. Wix's reply was prompt. "The importance for Maisie of a gentlewoman, of some one who's not--well, so bad! She objects to a mere maid, and I don't in the least mind telling you what she wants me to do." One thing was clear--Mrs. Wix was now bold enough for anything. "She wants me to persuade you to get rid of the person from Mrs. Beale's." Maisie waited for Sir Claude to pronounce on this; then she could only understand that he on his side waited, and she felt particularly full of common sense as she met her responsibility. "Oh I don't want Susan with YOU!" she said to Mrs. Wix. Sir Claude, always from the window, approved. "That's quite simple. I'll take her back." Mrs. Wix gave a positive jump; Maisie caught her look of alarm. "'Take' her? You don't mean to go over on purpose?" Sir Claude said nothing for a moment; after which, "Why shouldn't I leave you here?" he enquired. Maisie, at this, sprang up. "Oh do, oh do, oh do!" The next moment she was interlaced with Mrs. Wix, and the two, on the hearth-rug, their eyes in each other's eyes, considered the plan with intensity. Then Maisie felt the difference of what they saw in it. "She can surely go back alone: why should you put yourself out?" Mrs. Wix demanded. "Oh she's an idiot--she's incapable. If anything should happen to her it would be awkward: it was I who brought her--without her asking. If I turn her away I ought with my own hand to place her again exactly where I found her." Mrs. Wix's face appealed to Maisie on such folly, and her manner, as directed to their companion, had, to her pupil's surprise, an unprecedented firmness. "Dear Sir Claude, I think you're perverse. Pay her fare and give her a sovereign. She has had an experience that she never dreamed of and that will be an advantage to her through life. If she goes wrong on the way it will be simply because she wants to, and, with her expenses and her remuneration--make it even what you like!--you'll have treated her as handsomely as you always treat every one." This was a new tone--as new as Mrs. Wix's cap; and it could strike a young person with a sharpened sense for latent meanings as the upshot of a relation that had taken on a new character. It brought out for Maisie how much more even than she had guessed her friends were fighting side by side. At the same time it needed so definite a justification that as Sir Claude now at last did face them she at first supposed him merely resentful of excessive familiarity. She was therefore yet more puzzled to see him show his serene beauty untroubled, as well as an equal interest in a matter quite distinct from any freedom but her ladyship's. "Did my wife come alone?" He could ask even that good-humouredly. "When she called on me?" Mrs. Wix WAS red now: his good humour wouldn't keep down her colour, which for a minute glowed there like her ugly honesty. "No--there was some one in the cab." The only attenuation she could think of was after a minute to add: "But they didn't come up." Sir Claude broke into a laugh--Maisie herself could guess what it was at: while he now walked about, still laughing, and at the fireplace gave a gay kick to a displaced log, she felt more vague about almost everything than about the drollery of such a "they." She in fact could scarce have told you if it was to deepen or to cover the joke that she bethought herself to observe: "Perhaps it was her maid." Mrs. Wix gave her a look that at any rate deprecated the wrong tone. "It was not her maid." "Do you mean there are this time two?" Sir Claude asked as if he hadn't heard. "Two maids?" Maisie went on as if she might assume he had. The reproach of the straighteners darkened; but Sir Claude cut across it with a sudden: "See here; what do you mean? And what do you suppose SHE meant?" Mrs. Wix let him for a moment, in silence, understand that the answer to his question, if he didn't take care, might give him more than he wanted. It was as if, with this scruple, she measured and adjusted all she gave him in at last saying: "What she meant was to make me know that you're definitely free. To have that straight from her was a joy I of course hadn't hoped for: it made the assurance, and my delight at it, a thing I could really proceed upon. You already know now certainly I'd have started even if she hadn't pressed me; you already know what, so long, we've been looking for and what, as soon as she told me of her step taken at Folkestone, I recognised with rapture that we HAVE. It's your freedom that makes me right"--she fairly bristled with her logic. "But I don't mind telling you that it's her action that makes me happy!" "Her action?" Sir Claude echoed. "Why, my dear woman, her action is just a hideous crime. It happens to satisfy our sympathies in a way that's quite delicious; but that doesn't in the least alter the fact that it's the most abominable thing ever done. She has chucked our friend here overboard not a bit less than if she had shoved her shrieking and pleading, out of that window and down two floors to the paving-stones." Maisie surveyed serenely the parties to the discussion. "Oh your friend here, dear Sir Claude, doesn't plead and shriek!" He looked at her a moment. "Never. Never. That's one, only one, but charming so far as it goes, of about a hundred things we love her for." Then he pursued to Mrs. Wix: "What I can't for the life of me make out is what Ida is REALLY up to, what game she was playing in turning to you with that cursed cheek after the beastly way she has used you. Where--to explain her at all--does she fancy she can presently, when we least expect it, take it out of us?" "She doesn't fancy anything, nor want anything out of any one. Her cursed cheek, as you call it, is the best thing I've ever seen in her. I don't care a fig for the beastly way she used me--I forgive it all a thousand times over!" Mrs. Wix raised her voice as she had never raised it; she quite triumphed in her lucidity. "I understand her, I almost admire her!" she quavered. She spoke as if this might practically suffice; yet in charity to fainter lights she threw out an explanation. "As I've said, she was different; upon my word I wouldn't have known her. She had a glimmering, she had an instinct; they brought her. It was a kind of happy thought, and if you couldn't have supposed she would ever have had such a thing, why of course I quite agree with you. But she did have it! There!" Maisie could feel again how a certain rude rightness in this plea might have been found exasperating; but as she had often watched Sir Claude in apprehension of displeasures that didn't come, so now, instead of saying "Oh hell!" as her father used, she observed him only to take refuge in a question that at the worst was abrupt. "Who IS it this time, do you know?" Mrs. Wix tried blind dignity. "Who is what, Sir Claude?" "The man who stands the cabs. Who was in the one that waited at your door?" At this challenge she faltered so long that her young friend's pitying conscience gave her a hand. "It wasn't the Captain." This good intention, however, only converted the excellent woman's scruple to a more ambiguous stare; besides of course making Sir Claude go off. Mrs. Wix fairly appealed to him. "Must I really tell you?" His amusement continued. "Did she make you promise not to?" Mrs. Wix looked at him still harder. "I mean before Maisie." Sir Claude laughed again. "Why SHE can't hurt him!" Maisie felt herself, as it passed, brushed by the light humour of this. "Yes, I can't hurt him." The straighteners again roofed her over; after which they seemed to crack with the explosion of their wearer's honesty. Amid the flying splinters Mrs. Wix produced a name. "Mr. Tischbein." There was for an instant a silence that, under Sir Claude's influence and while he and Maisie looked at each other, suddenly pretended to be that of gravity. "We don't know Mr. Tischbein, do we, dear?" Maisie gave the point all needful thought. "No, I can't place Mr. Tischbein." It was a passage that worked visibly on their friend. "You must pardon me, Sir Claude," she said with an austerity of which the note was real, "if I thank God to your face that he has in his mercy--I mean his mercy to our charge--allowed me to achieve this act." She gave out a long puff of pain. "It was time!" Then as if still more to point the moral: "I said just now I understood your wife. I said just now I admired her. I stand to it: I did both of those things when I saw how even SHE, poor thing, saw. If you want the dots on the i's you shall have them. What she came to me for, in spite of everything, was that I'm just"--she quavered it out--"well, just clean! What she saw for her daughter was that there must at last be a DECENT person!" Maisie was quick enough to jump a little at the sound of this implication that such a person was what Sir Claude was not; the next instant, however, she more profoundly guessed against whom the discrimination was made. She was therefore left the more surprised at the complete candour with which he embraced the worst. "If she's bent on decent persons why has she given her to ME? You don't call me a decent person, and I'll do Ida the justice that SHE never did. I think I'm as indecent as any one and that there's nothing in my behaviour that makes my wife's surrender a bit less ignoble!" "Don't speak of your behaviour!" Mrs. Wix cried. "Don't say such horrible things; they're false and they're wicked and I forbid you! It's to KEEP you decent that I'm here and that I've done everything I have done. It's to save you--I won't say from yourself, because in yourself you're beautiful and good! It's to save you from the worst person of all. I haven't, after all, come over to be afraid to speak of her! That's the person in whose place her ladyship wants such a person as even me; and if she thought herself, as she as good as told me, not fit for Maisie's company, it's not, as you may well suppose, that she may make room for Mrs. Beale!" Maisie watched his face as it took this outbreak, and the most she saw in it was that it turned a little white. That indeed made him look, as Susan Ash would have said, queer; and it was perhaps a part of the queerness that he intensely smiled. "You're too hard on Mrs. Beale. She has great merits of her own." Mrs. Wix, at this, instead of immediately replying, did what Sir Claude had been doing before: she moved across to the window and stared a while into the storm. There was for a minute, to Maisie's sense, a hush that resounded with wind and rain. Sir Claude, in spite of these things, glanced about for his hat; on which Maisie spied it first and, making a dash for it, held it out to him. He took it with a gleam of a "thank-you" in his face, and then something moved her still to hold the other side of the brim; so that, united by their grasp of this object, they stood some seconds looking many things at each other. By this time Mrs. Wix had turned round. "Do you mean to tell me," she demanded, "that you are going back?" "To Mrs. Beale?" Maisie surrendered his hat, and there was something that touched her in the embarrassed, almost humiliated way their companion's challenge made him turn it round and round. She had seen people do that who, she was sure, did nothing else that Sir Claude did. "I can't just say, my dear thing. We'll see about I--we'll talk of it to-morrow. Meantime I must get some air." Mrs. Wix, with her back to the window, threw up her head to a height that, still for a moment, had the effect of detaining him. "All the air in France, Sir Claude, won't, I think, give you the courage to deny that you're simply afraid of her!" Oh this time he did look queer; Maisie had no need of Susan's vocabulary to note it! It would have come to her of itself as, with his hand on the door, he turned his eyes from his stepdaughter to her governess and then back again. Resting on Maisie's, though for ever so short a time, there was something they gave up to her and tried to explain. His lips, however, explained nothing; they only surrendered to Mrs. Wix. "Yes. I'm simply afraid of her!" He opened the door and passed out. It brought back to Maisie his confession of fear of her mother; it made her stepmother then the second lady about whom he failed of the particular virtue that was supposed most to mark a gentleman. In fact there were three of them, if she counted in Mrs. Wix, before whom he had undeniably quailed. Well, his want of valour was but a deeper appeal to her tenderness. To thrill with response to it she had only to remember all the ladies she herself had, as they called it, funked. XXIV It continued to rain so hard that our young lady's private dream of explaining the Continent to their visitor had to contain a provision for some adequate treatment of the weather. At the _table d'hôte_ that evening she threw out a variety of lights: this was the second ceremony of the sort she had sat through, and she would have neglected her privilege and dishonoured her vocabulary--which indeed consisted mainly of the names of dishes--if she had not been proportionately ready to dazzle with interpretations. Preoccupied and overawed, Mrs. Wix was apparently dim: she accepted her pupil's version of the mysteries of the menu in a manner that might have struck the child as the depression of a credulity conscious not so much of its needs as of its dimensions. Maisie was soon enough--though it scarce happened before bedtime--confronted again with the different sort of programme for which she reserved her criticism. They remounted together to their sitting-room while Sir Claude, who said he would join them later, remained below to smoke and to converse with the old acquaintances that he met wherever he turned. He had proposed his companions, for coffee, the enjoyment of the _salon de lecture_, but Mrs. Wix had replied promptly and with something of an air that it struck her their own apartments offered them every convenience. They offered the good lady herself, Maisie could immediately observe, not only that of this rather grand reference, which, already emulous, so far as it went, of her pupil, she made as if she had spent her life in salons; but that of a stiff French sofa where she could sit and stare at the faint French lamp, in default of the French clock that had stopped, as for some account of the time Sir Claude would so markedly interpose. Her demeanour accused him so directly of hovering beyond her reach that Maisie sought to divert her by a report of Susan's quaint attitude on the matter of their conversation after lunch. Maisie had mentioned to the young woman for sympathy's sake the plan for her relief, but her disapproval of alien ways appeared, strange to say, only to prompt her to hug her gloom; so that between Mrs. Wix's effect of displacing her and the visible stiffening of her back the child had the sense of a double office and enlarged play for pacific powers. These powers played to no great purpose, it was true, in keeping before Mrs. Wix the vision of Sir Claude's perversity, which hung there in the pauses of talk and which he himself, after unmistakeable delays, finally made quite lurid by bursting in--it was near ten o'clock--with an object held up in his hand. She knew before he spoke what it was; she knew at least from the underlying sense of all that, since the hour spent after the Exhibition with her father, had not sprung up to reinstate Mr. Farange--she knew it meant a triumph for Mrs. Beale. The mere present sight of Sir Claude's face caused her on the spot to drop straight through her last impression of Mr. Farange a plummet that reached still deeper down than the security of these days of flight. She had wrapped that impression in silence--a silence that had parted with half its veil to cover also, from the hour of Sir Claude's advent, the image of Mr. Farange's wife. But if the object in Sir Claude's hand revealed itself as a letter which he held up very high, so there was something in his mere motion that laid Mrs. Beale again bare. "Here we are!" he cried almost from the door, shaking his trophy at them and looking from one to the other. Then he came straight to Mrs. Wix; he had pulled two papers out of the envelope and glanced at them again to see which was which. He thrust one out open to Mrs. Wix. "Read that." She looked at him hard, as if in fear: it was impossible not to see he was excited. Then she took the letter, but it was not her face that Maisie watched while she read. Neither, for that matter, was it this countenance that Sir Claude scanned: he stood before the fire and, more calmly, now that he had acted, communed in silence with his stepdaughter. The silence was in truth quickly broken; Mrs. Wix rose to her feet with the violence of the sound she emitted. The letter had dropped from her and lay upon the floor; it had made her turn ghastly white and she was speechless with the effect of it. "It's too abominable--it's too unspeakable!" she then cried. "Isn't it a charming thing?" Sir Claude asked. "It has just arrived, enclosed in a word of her own. She sends it on to me with the remark that comment's superfluous. I really think it is. That's all you can say." "She oughtn't to pass such a horror about," said Mrs. Wix. "She ought to put it straight in the fire." "My dear woman, she's not such a fool! It's much too precious." He had picked the letter up and he gave it again a glance of complacency which produced a light in his face. "Such a document"--he considered, then concluded with a slight drop--"such a document is, in fine, a basis!" "A basis for what?" "Well--for proceedings." "Hers?" Mrs. Wix's voice had become outright the voice of derision. "How can SHE proceed?" Sir Claude turned it over. "How can she get rid of him? Well--she IS rid of him." "Not legally." Mrs. Wix had never looked to her pupil so much as if she knew what she was talking about. "I dare say," Sir Claude laughed; "but she's not a bit less deprived than I!" "Of the power to get a divorce? It's just your want of the power that makes the scandal of your connexion with her. Therefore it's just her want of it that makes that of hers with you. That's all I contend!" Mrs. Wix concluded with an unparalleled neigh of battle. Oh she did know what she was talking about! Maisie had meanwhile appealed mutely to Sir Claude, who judged it easier to meet what she didn't say than to meet what Mrs. Wix did. "It's a letter to Mrs. Beale from your father, my dear, written from Spa and making the rupture between them perfectly irrevocable. It lets her know, and not in pretty language, that, as we technically say, he deserts her. It puts an end for ever to their relations." He ran his eyes over it again, then appeared to make up his mind. "In fact it concerns you, Maisie, so nearly and refers to you so particularly that I really think you ought to see the terms in which this new situation is created for you." And he held out the letter. Mrs. Wix, at this, pounced upon it; she had grabbed it too soon even for Maisie to become aware of being rather afraid of it. Thrusting it instantly behind her she positively glared at Sir Claude. "See it, wretched man?--the innocent child SEE such a thing? I think you must be mad, and she shall not have a glimpse of it while I'm here to prevent!" The breadth of her action had made Sir Claude turn red--he even looked a little foolish. "You think it's too bad, eh? But it's precisely because it's bad that it seemed to me it would have a lesson and a virtue for her." Maisie could do a quick enough justice to his motive to be able clearly to interpose. She fairly smiled at him. "I assure you I can quite believe how bad it is!" She thought of something, kept it back a moment, and then spoke. "I know what's in it!" He of course burst out laughing and, while Mrs. Wix groaned an "Oh heavens!" replied: "You wouldn't say that, old boy, if you did! The point I make is," he continued to Mrs. Wix with a blandness now re-established--"the point I make is simply that it sets Mrs. Beale free." She hung fire but an instant. "Free to live with YOU?" "Free not to live, not to pretend to live, with her husband." "Ah they're mighty different things!"--a truth as to which her earnestness could now with a fine inconsequent look invite the participation of the child. Before Maisie could commit herself, however, the ground was occupied by Sir Claude, who, as he stood before their visitor with an expression half rueful, half persuasive, rubbed his hand sharply up and down the back of his head. "Then why the deuce do you grant so--do you, I may even say, rejoice so--that by the desertion of my own precious partner I'm free?" Mrs. Wix met this challenge first with silence, then with a demonstration the most extraordinary, the most unexpected. Maisie could scarcely believe her eyes as she saw the good lady, with whom she had associated no faintest shade of any art of provocation, actually, after an upward grimace, give Sir Claude a great giggling insinuating naughty slap. "You wretch--you KNOW why!" And she turned away. The face that with this movement she left him to present to Maisie was to abide with his stepdaughter as the very image of stupefaction; but the pair lacked time to communicate either amusement or alarm before their admonisher was upon them again. She had begun in fact to show infinite variety and she flashed about with a still quicker change of tone. "Have you brought me that thing as a pretext for your going over?" Sir Claude braced himself. "I can't, after such news, in common decency not go over. I mean, don't you know, in common courtesy and humanity. My dear lady, you can't chuck a woman that way, especially taking the moment when she has been most insulted and wronged. A fellow must behave like a gentleman, damn it, dear good Mrs. Wix. We didn't come away, we two, to hang right on, you know: it was only to try our paces and just put in a few days that might prove to every one concerned that we're in earnest. It's exactly because we're in earnest that, dash it, we needn't be so awfully particular. I mean, don't you know, we needn't be so awfully afraid." He showed a vivacity, an intensity of argument, and if Maisie counted his words she was all the more ready to swallow after a single swift gasp those that, the next thing, she became conscious he paused for a reply to. "We didn't come, old girl, did we," he pleaded straight, "to stop right away for ever and put it all in NOW?" Maisie had never doubted she could be heroic for him. "Oh no!" It was as if she had been shocked at the bare thought. "We're just taking it as we find it." She had a sudden inspiration, which she backed up with a smile. "We're just seeing what we can afford." She had never yet in her life made any claim for herself, but she hoped that this time, frankly, what she was doing would somehow be counted to her. Indeed she felt Sir Claude WAS counting it, though she was afraid to look at him--afraid she should show him tears. She looked at Mrs. Wix; she reached her maximum. "I don't think I ought to be bad to Mrs. Beale." She heard, on this, a deep sound, something inarticulate and sweet, from Sir Claude; but tears were what Mrs. Wix didn't scruple to show. "Do you think you ought to be bad to ME?" The question was the more disconcerting that Mrs. Wix's emotion didn't deprive her of the advantage of her effect. "If you see that woman again you're lost!" she declared to their companion. Sir Claude looked at the moony globe of the lamp; he seemed to see for an instant what seeing Mrs. Beale would consist of. It was also apparently from this vision that he drew strength to return: "Her situation, by what has happened, is completely changed; and it's no use your trying to prove to me that I needn't take any account of that." "If you see that woman you're lost!" Mrs. Wix with greater force repeated. "Do you think she'll not let me come back to you? My dear lady, I leave you here, you and Maisie, as a hostage to fortune, and I promise you by all that's sacred that I shall be with you again at the very latest on Saturday. I provide you with funds; I install you in these lovely rooms; I arrange with the people here that you be treated with every attention and supplied with every luxury. The weather, after this, will mend; it will be sure to be exquisite. You'll both be as free as air and you can roam all over the place and have tremendous larks. You shall have a carriage to drive you; the whole house shall be at your call. You'll have a magnificent position." He paused, he looked from one of his companions to the other as to see the impression he had made. Whether or no he judged it adequate he subjoined after a moment: "And you'll oblige me above all by not making a fuss." Maisie could only answer for the impression on herself, though indeed from the heart even of Mrs. Wix's rigour there floated to her sense a faint fragrance of depraved concession. Maisie had her dumb word for the show such a speech could make, for the irresistible charm it could take from his dazzling sincerity; and before she could do anything but blink at excess of light she heard this very word sound on Mrs. Wix's lips, just as if the poor lady had guessed it and wished, snatching it from her, to blight it like a crumpled flower. "You're dreadful, you're terrible, for you know but too well that it's not a small thing to me that you should address me in terms that are princely!" Princely was what he stood there and looked and sounded; that was what Maisie for the occasion found herself reduced to simple worship of him for being. Yet strange to say too, as Mrs. Wix went on, an echo rang within her that matched the echo she had herself just produced. "How much you must WANT to see her to say such things as that and to be ready to do so much for the poor little likes of Maisie and me! She has a hold on you, and you know it, and you want to feel it again and--God knows, or at least _I_ do, what's your motive and desire--enjoy it once more and give yourself up to it! It doesn't matter if it's one day or three: enough is as good as a feast and the lovely time you'll have with her is something you're willing to pay for! I dare say you'd like me to believe that your pay is to get her to give you up; but that's a matter on which I strongly urge you not to put down your money in advance. Give HER up first. Then pay her what you please!" Sir Claude took this to the end, though there were things in it that made him colour, called into his face more of the apprehension than Maisie had ever perceived there of a particular sort of shock. She had an odd sense that it was the first time she had seen any one but Mrs. Wix really and truly scandalised, and this fed her inference, which grew and grew from moment to moment, that Mrs. Wix was proving more of a force to reckon with than either of them had allowed so much room for. It was true that, long before, she had obtained a "hold" of him, as she called it, different in kind from that obtained by Mrs. Beale and originally by her ladyship. But Maisie could quite feel with him now that he had really not expected this advantage to be driven so home. Oh they hadn't at all got to where Mrs. Wix would stop, for the next minute she was driving harder than ever. It was the result of his saying with a certain dryness, though so kindly that what most affected Maisie in it was his patience: "My dear friend, it's simply a matter in which I must judge for myself. You've judged FOR me, I know, a good deal, of late, in a way that I appreciate, I assure you, down to the ground. But you can't do it always; no one can do that for another, don't you see, in every case. There are exceptions, particular cases that turn up and that are awfully delicate. It would be too easy if I could shift it all off on you: it would be allowing you to incur an amount of responsibility that I should simply become quite ashamed of. You'll find, I'm sure, that you'll have quite as much as you'll enjoy if you'll be so good as to accept the situation as circumstances happen to make it for you and to stay here with our friend, till I rejoin you, on the footing of as much pleasantness and as much comfort--and I think I have a right to add, to both of you, of as much faith in ME--as possible." Oh he was princely indeed: that came out more and more with every word he said and with the particular way he said it, and Maisie could feel his monitress stiffen almost with anguish against the increase of his spell and then hurl herself as a desperate defence from it into the quite confessed poorness of violence, of iteration. "You're afraid of her--afraid, afraid, afraid! Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" Mrs. Wix wailed it with a high quaver, then broke down into a long shudder of helplessness and woe. The next minute she had flung herself again on the lean sofa and had burst into a passion of tears. Sir Claude stood and looked at her a moment; he shook his head slowly, altogether tenderly. "I've already admitted it--I'm in mortal terror; so we'll let that settle the question. I think you had best go to bed," he added; "you've had a tremendous day and you must both be tired to death. I shall not expect you to concern yourselves in the morning with my movements. There's an early boat on; I shall have cleared out before you're up; and I shall moreover have dealt directly and most effectively, I assure you, with the haughty but not quite hopeless Miss Ash." He turned to his stepdaughter as if at once to take leave of her and give her a sign of how, through all tension and friction, they were still united in such a way that she at least needn't worry. "Maisie boy!"--he opened his arms to her. With her culpable lightness she flew into them and, while he kissed her, chose the soft method of silence to satisfy him, the silence that after battles of talk was the best balm she could offer his wounds. They held each other long enough to reaffirm intensely their vows; after which they were almost forced apart by Mrs. Wix's jumping to her feet. Her jump, either with a quick return or with a final lapse of courage, was also to supplication almost abject. "I beseech you not to take a step so miserable and so fatal. I know her but too well, even if you jeer at me for saying it; little as I've seen her I know her, I know her. I know what she'll do--I see it as I stand here. Since you're afraid of her it's the mercy of heaven. Don't, for God's sake, be afraid to show it, to profit by it and to arrive at the very safety that it gives you. I'M not afraid of her, I assure you; you must already have seen for yourself that there's nothing I'm afraid of now. Let me go to her--I'LL settle her and I'll take that woman back without a hair of her touched. Let me put in the two or three days--let me wind up the connexion. You stay here with Maisie, with the carriage and the larks and the luxury; then I'll return to you and we'll go off together--we'll live together without a cloud. Take me, take me," she went on and on--the tide of her eloquence was high. "Here I am; I know what I am and what I ain't; but I say boldly to the face of you both that I'll do better for you, far, than ever she'll even try to. I say it to yours, Sir Claude, even though I owe you the very dress on my back and the very shoes on my feet. I owe you everything--that's just the reason; and to pay it back, in profusion, what can that be but what I want? Here I am, here I am!"--she spread herself into an exhibition that, combined with her intensity and her decorations, appeared to suggest her for strange offices and devotions, for ridiculous replacements and substitutions. She manipulated her gown as she talked, she insisted on the items of her debt. "I have nothing of my own, I know--no money, no clothes, no appearance, no anything, nothing but my hold of this little one truth, which is all in the world I can bribe you with: that the pair of you are more to me than all besides, and that if you'll let me help you and save you, make what you both want possible in the one way it CAN be, why, I'll work myself to the bone in your service!" Sir Claude wavered there without an answer to this magnificent appeal; he plainly cast about for one, and in no small agitation and pain. He addressed himself in his quest, however, only to vague quarters until he met again, as he so frequently and actively met it, the more than filial gaze of his intelligent little charge. That gave him--poor plastic and dependent male--his issue. If she was still a child she was yet of the sex that could help him out. He signified as much by a renewed invitation to an embrace. She freshly sprang to him and again they inaudibly conversed. "Be nice to her, be nice to her," he at last distinctly articulated; "be nice to her as you've not even been to ME!" On which, without another look at Mrs. Wix, he somehow got out of the room, leaving Maisie under the slight oppression of these words as well as of the idea that he had unmistakeably once more dodged. XXV Every single thing he had prophesied came so true that it was after all no more than fair to expect quite as much for what he had as good as promised. His pledges they could verify to the letter, down to his very guarantee that a way would be found with Miss Ash. Roused in the summer dawn and vehemently squeezed by that interesting exile, Maisie fell back upon her couch with a renewed appreciation of his policy, a memento of which, when she rose later on to dress, glittered at her from the carpet in the shape of a sixpence that had overflowed from Susan's pride of possession. Sixpences really, for the forty-eight hours that followed, seemed to abound in her life; she fancifully computed the number of them represented by such a period of "larks." The number was not kept down, she presently noticed, by any scheme of revenge for Sir Claude's flight which should take on Mrs. Wix's part the form of a refusal to avail herself of the facilities he had so bravely ordered. It was in fact impossible to escape them; it was in the good lady's own phrase ridiculous to go on foot when you had a carriage prancing at the door. Everything about them pranced: the very waiters even as they presented the dishes to which, from a similar sense of the absurdity of perversity, Mrs. Wix helped herself with a freedom that spoke to Maisie quite as much of her depletion as of her logic. Her appetite was a sign to her companion of a great many things and testified no less on the whole to her general than to her particular condition. She had arrears of dinner to make up, and it was touching that in a dinnerless state her moral passion should have burned so clear. She partook largely as a refuge from depression, and yet the opportunity to partake was just a mark of the sinister symptoms that depressed her. The affair was in short a combat, in which the baser element triumphed, between her refusal to be bought off and her consent to be clothed and fed. It was not at any rate to be gainsaid that there was comfort for her in the developments of France; comfort so great as to leave Maisie free to take with her all the security for granted and brush all the danger aside. That was the way to carry out in detail Sir Claude's injunction to be "nice"; that was the way, as well, to look, with her, in a survey of the pleasures of life abroad, straight over the head of any doubt. They shrank at last, all doubts, as the weather cleared up: it had an immense effect on them and became quite as lovely as Sir Claude had engaged. This seemed to have put him so into the secret of things, and the joy of the world so waylaid the steps of his friends, that little by little the spirit of hope filled the air and finally took possession of the scene. To drive on the long cliff was splendid, but it was perhaps better still to creep in the shade--for the sun was strong--along the many-coloured and many-odoured port and through the streets in which, to English eyes, everything that was the same was a mystery and everything that was different a joke. Best of all was to continue the creep up the long Grand' Rue to the gate of the _haute ville_ and, passing beneath it, mount to the quaint and crooked rampart, with its rows of trees, its quiet corners and friendly benches where brown old women in such white-frilled caps and such long gold earrings sat and knitted or snoozed, its little yellow-faced houses that looked like the homes of misers or of priests and its dark château where small soldiers lounged on the bridge that stretched across an empty moat and military washing hung from the windows of towers. This was a part of the place that could lead Maisie to enquire if it didn't just meet one's idea of the middle ages; and since it was rather a satisfaction than a shock to perceive, and not for the first time, the limits in Mrs. Wix's mind of the historic imagination, that only added one more to the variety of kinds of insight that she felt it her own present mission to show. They sat together on the old grey bastion; they looked down on the little new town which seemed to them quite as old, and across at the great dome and the high gilt Virgin of the church that, as they gathered, was famous and that pleased them by its unlikeness to any place in which they had worshipped. They wandered in this temple afterwards and Mrs. Wix confessed that for herself she had probably made a fatal mistake early in life in not being a Catholic. Her confession in its turn caused Maisie to wonder rather interestedly what degree of lateness it was that shut the door against an escape from such an error. They went back to the rampart on the second morning--the spot on which they appeared to have come furthest in the journey that was to separate them from everything objectionable in the past: it gave them afresh the impression that had most to do with their having worked round to a confidence that on Maisie's part was determined and that she could see to be on her companion's desperate. She had had for many hours the sense of showing Mrs. Wix so much that she was comparatively slow to become conscious of being at the same time the subject of a like aim. The business went the faster, however, from the moment she got her glimpse of it; it then fell into its place in her general, her habitual view of the particular phenomenon that, had she felt the need of words for it, she might have called her personal relation to her knowledge. This relation had never been so lively as during the time she waited with her old governess for Sir Claude's reappearance, and what made it so was exactly that Mrs. Wix struck her as having a new suspicion of it. Mrs. Wix had never yet had a suspicion--this was certain--so calculated to throw her pupil, in spite of the closer union of such adventurous hours, upon the deep defensive. Her pupil made out indeed as many marvels as she had made out on the rush to Folkestone; and if in Sir Claude's company on that occasion Mrs. Wix was the constant implication, so in Mrs. Wix's, during these hours, Sir Claude was--and most of all through long pauses--the perpetual, the insurmountable theme. It all took them back to the first flush of his marriage and to the place he held in the schoolroom at that crisis of love and pain; only he had himself blown to a much bigger balloon the large consciousness he then filled out. They went through it all again, and indeed while the interval dragged by the very weight of its charm they went, in spite of defences and suspicions, through everything. Their intensified clutch of the future throbbed like a clock ticking seconds; but this was a timepiece that inevitably, as well, at the best, rang occasionally a portentous hour. Oh there were several of these, and two or three of the worst on the old city-wall where everything else so made for peace. There was nothing in the world Maisie more wanted than to be as nice to Mrs. Wix as Sir Claude had desired; but it was exactly because this fell in with her inveterate instinct of keeping the peace that the instinct itself was quickened. From the moment it was quickened, however, it found other work, and that was how, to begin with, she produced the very complication she most sought to avert. What she had essentially done, these days, had been to read the unspoken into the spoken; so that thus, with accumulations, it had become more definite to her that the unspoken was, unspeakably, the completeness of the sacrifice of Mrs. Beale. There were times when every minute that Sir Claude stayed away was like a nail in Mrs. Beale's coffin. That brought back to Maisie--it was a roundabout way--the beauty and antiquity of her connexion with the flower of the Overmores as well as that lady's own grace and charm, her peculiar prettiness and cleverness and even her peculiar tribulations. A hundred things hummed at the back of her head, but two of these were simple enough. Mrs. Beale was by the way, after all, just her stepmother and her relative. She was just--and partly for that very reason--Sir Claude's greatest intimate ("lady-intimate" was Maisie's term) so that what together they were on Mrs. Wix's prescription to give up and break short off with was for one of them his particular favourite and for the other her father's wife. Strangely, indescribably her perception of reasons kept pace with her sense of trouble; but there was something in her that, without a supreme effort not to be shabby, couldn't take the reasons for granted. What it comes to perhaps for ourselves is that, disinherited and denuded as we have seen her, there still lingered in her life an echo of parental influence--she was still reminiscent of one of the sacred lessons of home. It was the only one she retained, but luckily she retained it with force. She enjoyed in a word an ineffaceable view of the fact that there were things papa called mamma and mamma called papa a low sneak for doing or for not doing. Now this rich memory gave her a name that she dreaded to invite to the lips of Mrs. Beale: she should personally wince so just to hear it. The very sweetness of the foreign life she was steeped in added with each hour of Sir Claude's absence to the possibility of such pangs. She watched beside Mrs. Wix the great golden Madonna, and one of the ear-ringed old women who had been sitting at the end of their bench got up and pottered away. "Adieu mesdames!" said the old woman in a little cracked civil voice--a demonstration by which our friends were so affected that they bobbed up and almost curtseyed to her. They subsided again, and it was shortly after, in a summer hum of French insects and a phase of almost somnolent reverie, that Maisie most had the vision of what it was to shut out from such a perspective so appealing a participant. It had not yet appeared so vast as at that moment, this prospect of statues shining in the blue and of courtesy in romantic forms. "Why after all should we have to choose between you? Why shouldn't we be four?" she finally demanded. Mrs. Wix gave the jerk of a sleeper awakened or the start even of one who hears a bullet whiz at the flag of truce. Her stupefaction at such a breach of the peace delayed for a moment her answer. "Four improprieties, do you mean? Because two of us happen to be decent people! Do I gather you to wish that I should stay on with you even if that woman IS capable--?" Maisie took her up before she could further phrase Mrs. Beale's capability. "Stay on as MY companion--yes. Stay on as just what you were at mamma's. Mrs. Beale WOULD let you!" the child said. Mrs. Wix had by this time fairly sprung to her arms. "And who, I'd like to know, would let Mrs. Beale? Do you mean, little unfortunate, that YOU would?" "Why not, if now she's free?" "Free? Are you imitating HIM? Well, if Sir Claude's old enough to know better, upon my word I think it's right to treat you as if you also were. You'll have to, at any rate--to know better--if that's the line you're proposing to take." Mrs. Wix had never been so harsh; but on the other hand Maisie could guess that she herself had never appeared so wanton. What was underlying, however, rather overawed than angered her; she felt she could still insist--not for contradiction, but for ultimate calm. Her wantonness meanwhile continued to work upon her friend, who caught again, on the rebound, the sound of deepest provocation. "Free, free, free? If she's as free as YOU are, my dear, she's free enough, to be sure!" "As I am?"--Maisie, after reflexion and despite whatever of portentous this seemed to convey, risked a critical echo. "Well," said Mrs. Wix, "nobody, you know, is free to commit a crime." "A crime!" The word had come out in a way that made the child sound it again. "You'd commit as great a one as their own--and so should I--if we were to condone their immorality by our presence." Maisie waited a little; this seemed so fiercely conclusive. "Why is it immorality?" she nevertheless presently enquired. Her companion now turned upon her with a reproach softer because it was somehow deeper. "You're too unspeakable! Do you know what we're talking about?" In the interest of ultimate calm Maisie felt that she must be above all clear. "Certainly; about their taking advantage of their freedom." "Well, to do what?" "Why, to live with us." Mrs. Wix's laugh, at this, was literally wild. "'Us?' Thank you!" "Then to live with ME." The words made her friend jump. "You give me up? You break with me for ever? You turn me into the street?" Maisie, though gasping a little, bore up under the rain of challenges. "Those, it seems to me, are the things you do to ME." Mrs. Wix made little of her valour. "I can promise you that, whatever I do, I shall never let you out of my sight! You ask me why it's immorality when you've seen with your own eyes that Sir Claude has felt it to be so to that dire extent that, rather than make you face the shame of it, he has for months kept away from you altogether? Is it any more difficult to see that the first time he tries to do his duty he washes his hands of HER--takes you straight away from her?" Maisie turned this over, but more for apparent consideration than from any impulse to yield too easily. "Yes, I see what you mean. But at that time they weren't free." She felt Mrs. Wix rear up again at the offensive word, but she succeeded in touching her with a remonstrant hand. "I don't think you know how free they've become." "I know, I believe, at least as much as you do!" Maisie felt a delicacy but overcame it. "About the Countess?" "Your father's--temptress?" Mrs. Wix gave her a sidelong squint. "Perfectly. She pays him!" "Oh DOES she?" At this the child's countenance fell: it seemed to give a reason for papa's behaviour and place it in a more favourable light. She wished to be just. "I don't say she's not generous. She was so to me." "How, to you?" "She gave me a lot of money." Mrs. Wix stared. "And pray what did you do with a lot of money?" "I gave it to Mrs. Beale." "And what did Mrs. Beale do with it?" "She sent it back." "To the Countess? Gammon!" said Mrs. Wix. She disposed of that plea as effectually as Susan Ash. "Well, I don't care!" Maisie replied. "What I mean is that you don't know about the rest." "The rest? What rest?" Maisie wondered how she could best put it. "Papa kept me there an hour." "I do know--Sir Claude told me. Mrs. Beale had told him." Maisie looked incredulity. "How could she--when I didn't speak of it?" Mrs. Wix was mystified. "Speak of what?" "Why, of her being so frightful." "The Countess? Of course she's frightful!" Mrs. Wix returned. After a moment she added: "That's why she pays him." Maisie pondered. "It's the best thing about her then--if she gives him as much as she gave ME!" "Well, it's not the best thing about HIM! Or rather perhaps it IS too!" Mrs. Wix subjoined. "But she's awful--really and truly," Maisie went on. Mrs. Wix arrested her. "You needn't go into details!" It was visibly at variance with this injunction that she yet enquired: "How does that make it any better?" "Their living with me? Why for the Countess--and for her whiskers!--he has put me off on them. I understood him," Maisie profoundly said. "I hope then he understood you. It's more than I do!" Mrs. Wix admitted. This was a real challenge to be plainer, and our young lady immediately became so. "I mean it isn't a crime." "Why then did Sir Claude steal you away?" "He didn't steal--he only borrowed me. I knew it wasn't for long," Maisie audaciously professed. "You must allow me to reply to that," cried Mrs. Wix, "that you knew nothing of the sort, and that you rather basely failed to back me up last night when you pretended so plump that you did! You hoped in fact, exactly as much as I did and as in my senseless passion I even hope now, that this may be the beginning of better things." Oh yes, Mrs. Wix was indeed, for the first time, sharp; so that there at last stirred in our heroine the sense not so much of being proved disingenuous as of being precisely accused of the meanness that had brought everything down on her through her very desire to shake herself clear of it. She suddenly felt herself swell with a passion of protest. "I never, NEVER hoped I wasn't going again to see Mrs. Beale! I didn't, I didn't, I didn't!" she repeated. Mrs. Wix bounced about with a force of rejoinder of which she also felt that she must anticipate the concussion and which, though the good lady was evidently charged to the brim, hung fire long enough to give time for an aggravation. "She's beautiful and I love her! I love her and she's beautiful!" "And I'm hideous and you hate ME?" Mrs. Wix fixed her a moment, then caught herself up. "I won't embitter you by absolutely accusing you of that; though, as for my being hideous, it's hardly the first time I've been told so! I know it so well that even if I haven't whiskers--have I?--I dare say there are other ways in which the Countess is a Venus to me! My pretensions must therefore seem to you monstrous--which comes to the same thing as your not liking me. But do you mean to go so far as to tell me that you WANT to live with them in their sin?" "You know what I want, you know what I want!"--Maisie spoke with the shudder of rising tears. "Yes, I do; you want me to be as bad as yourself! Well, I won't. There! Mrs. Beale's as bad as your father!" Mrs. Wix went on. "She's not!--she's not!" her pupil almost shrieked in retort. "You mean because Sir Claude at least has beauty and wit and grace? But he pays just as the Countess pays!" Mrs. Wix, who now rose as she spoke, fairly revealed a latent cynicism. It raised Maisie also to her feet; her companion had walked off a few steps and paused. The two looked at each other as they had never looked, and Mrs. Wix seemed to flaunt there in her finery. "Then doesn't he pay YOU too?" her unhappy charge demanded. At this she bounded in her place. "Oh you incredible little waif!" She brought it out with a wail of violence; after which, with another convulsion, she marched straight away. Maisie dropped back on the bench and burst into sobs. XXVI Nothing so dreadful of course could be final or even for many minutes prolonged: they rushed together again too soon for either to feel that either had kept it up, and though they went home in silence it was with a vivid perception for Maisie that her companion's hand had closed upon her. That hand had shown altogether, these twenty-four hours, a new capacity for closing, and one of the truths the child could least resist was that a certain greatness had now come to Mrs. Wix. The case was indeed that the quality of her motive surpassed the sharpness of her angles; both the combination and the singularity of which things, when in the afternoon they used the carriage, Maisie could borrow from the contemplative hush of their grandeur the freedom to feel to the utmost. She still bore the mark of the tone in which her friend had thrown out that threat of never losing sight of her. This friend had been converted in short from feebleness to force; and it was the light of her new authority that showed from how far she had come. The threat in question, sharply exultant, might have produced defiance; but before anything so ugly could happen another process had insidiously forestalled it. The moment at which this process had begun to mature was that of Mrs. Wix's breaking out with a dignity attuned to their own apartments and with an advantage now measurably gained. They had ordered coffee after luncheon, in the spirit of Sir Claude's provision, and it was served to them while they awaited their equipage in the white and gold saloon. It was flanked moreover with a couple of liqueurs, and Maisie felt that Sir Claude could scarce have been taken more at his word had it been followed by anecdotes and cigarettes. The influence of these luxuries was at any rate in the air. It seemed to her while she tiptoed at the chimney-glass, pulling on her gloves and with a motion of her head shaking a feather into place, to have had something to do with Mrs. Wix's suddenly saying: "Haven't you really and truly ANY moral sense?" Maisie was aware that her answer, though it brought her down to her heels, was vague even to imbecility, and that this was the first time she had appeared to practise with Mrs. Wix an intellectual inaptitude to meet her--the infirmity to which she had owed so much success with papa and mamma. The appearance did her injustice, for it was not less through her candour than through her playfellow's pressure that after this the idea of a moral sense mainly coloured their intercourse. She began, the poor child, with scarcely knowing what it was; but it proved something that, with scarce an outward sign save her surrender to the swing of the carriage, she could, before they came back from their drive, strike up a sort of acquaintance with. The beauty of the day only deepened, and the splendour of the afternoon sea, and the haze of the far headlands, and the taste of the sweet air. It was the coachman indeed who, smiling and cracking his whip, turning in his place, pointing to invisible objects and uttering unintelligible sounds--all, our tourists recognised, strict features of a social order principally devoted to language: it was this polite person, I say, who made their excursion fall so much short that their return left them still a stretch of the long daylight and an hour that, at his obliging suggestion, they spent on foot by the shining sands. Maisie had seen the _plage_ the day before with Sir Claude, but that was a reason the more for showing on the spot to Mrs. Wix that it was, as she said, another of the places on her list and of the things of which she knew the French name. The bathers, so late, were absent and the tide was low; the sea-pools twinkled in the sunset and there were dry places as well, where they could sit again and admire and expatiate: a circumstance that, while they listened to the lap of the waves, gave Mrs. Wix a fresh support for her challenge. "Have you absolutely none at all?" She had no need now, as to the question itself at least, to be specific; that on the other hand was the eventual result of their quiet conjoined apprehension of the thing that--well, yes, since they must face it--Maisie absolutely and appallingly had so little of. This marked more particularly the moment of the child's perceiving that her friend had risen to a level which might--till superseded at all events--pass almost for sublime. Nothing more remarkable had taken place in the first heat of her own departure, no act of perception less to be overtraced by our rough method, than her vision, the rest of that Boulogne day, of the manner in which she figured. I so despair of courting her noiseless mental footsteps here that I must crudely give you my word for its being from this time forward a picture literally present to her. Mrs. Wix saw her as a little person knowing so extraordinarily much that, for the account to be taken of it, what she still didn't know would be ridiculous if it hadn't been embarrassing. Mrs. Wix was in truth more than ever qualified to meet embarrassment; I am not sure that Maisie had not even a dim discernment of the queer law of her own life that made her educate to that sort of proficiency those elders with whom she was concerned. She promoted, as it were, their development; nothing could have been more marked for instance than her success in promoting Mrs. Beale's. She judged that if her whole history, for Mrs. Wix, had been the successive stages of her knowledge, so the very climax of the concatenation would, in the same view, be the stage at which the knowledge should overflow. As she was condemned to know more and more, how could it logically stop before she should know Most? It came to her in fact as they sat there on the sands that she was distinctly on the road to know Everything. She had not had governesses for nothing: what in the world had she ever done but learn and learn and learn? She looked at the pink sky with a placid foreboding that she soon should have learnt All. They lingered in the flushed air till at last it turned to grey and she seemed fairly to receive new information from every brush of the breeze. By the time they moved homeward it was as if this inevitability had become for Mrs. Wix a long, tense cord, twitched by a nervous hand, on which the valued pearls of intelligence were to be neatly strung. In the evening upstairs they had another strange sensation, as to which Maisie couldn't afterwards have told you whether it was bang in the middle or quite at the beginning that her companion sounded with fresh emphasis the note of the moral sense. What mattered was merely that she did exclaim, and again, as at first appeared, most disconnectedly: "God help me, it does seem to peep out!" Oh the queer confusions that had wooed it at last to such peeping! None so queer, however, as the words of woe, and it might verily be said of rage, in which the poor lady bewailed the tragic end of her own rich ignorance. There was a point at which she seized the child and hugged her as close as in the old days of partings and returns; at which she was visibly at a loss how to make up to such a victim for such contaminations: appealing, as to what she had done and was doing, in bewilderment, in explanation, in supplication, for reassurance, for pardon and even outright for pity. "I don't know what I've said to you, my own: I don't know what I'm saying or what the turn you've given my life has rendered me, heaven forgive me, capable of saying. Have I lost all delicacy, all decency, all measure of how far and how bad? It seems to me mostly that I have, though I'm the last of whom you would ever have thought it. I've just done it for YOU, precious--not to lose you, which would have been worst of all: so that I've had to pay with my own innocence, if you do laugh! for clinging to you and keeping you. Don't let me pay for nothing; don't let me have been thrust for nothing into such horrors and such shames. I never knew anything about them and I never wanted to know! Now I know too much, too much!" the poor woman lamented and groaned. "I know so much that with hearing such talk I ask myself where I am; and with uttering it too, which is worse, say to myself that I'm far, too far, from where I started! I ask myself what I should have thought with my lost one if I had heard myself cross the line. There are lines I've crossed with YOU where I should have fancied I had come to a pretty pass--" She gasped at the mere supposition. "I've gone from one thing to another, and all for the real love of you; and now what would any one say--I mean any one but THEM--if they were to hear the way I go on? I've had to keep up with you, haven't I?--and therefore what could I do less than look to you to keep up with ME? But it's not THEM that are the worst--by which I mean to say it's not HIM: it's your dreadfully base papa and the one person in the world whom he could have found, I do believe--and she's not the Countess, duck--wickeder than himself. While they were about it at any rate, since they WERE ruining you, they might have done it so as to spare an honest woman. Then I shouldn't have had to do whatever it is that's the worst: throw up at you the badness you haven't taken in, or find my advantage in the vileness you HAVE! What I did lose patience at this morning was at how it was that without your seeming to condemn--for you didn't, you remember!--you yet did seem to KNOW. Thank God, in his mercy, at last, IF you do!" The night, this time, was warm, and one of the windows stood open to the small balcony over the rail of which, on coming back from dinner, Maisie had hung a long time in the enjoyment of the chatter, the lights, the life of the quay made brilliant by the season and the hour. Mrs. Wix's requirements had drawn her in from this pasture and Mrs. Wix's embrace had detained her even though midway in the outpouring her confusion and sympathy had permitted, or rather had positively helped, her to disengage herself. But the casement was still wide, the spectacle, the pleasure were still there, and from her place in the room, which, with its polished floor and its panels of elegance, was lighted from without more than from within, the child could still take account of them. She appeared to watch and listen; after which she answered Mrs. Wix with a question. "If I do know--?" "If you do condemn." The correction was made with some austerity. It had the effect of causing Maisie to heave a vague sigh of oppression and then after an instant and as if under cover of this ambiguity pass out again upon the balcony. She hung again over the rail; she felt the summer night; she dropped down into the manners of France. There was a café below the hotel, before which, with little chairs and tables, people sat on a space enclosed by plants in tubs; and the impression was enriched by the flash of the white aprons of waiters and the music of a man and a woman who, from beyond the precinct, sent up the strum of a guitar and the drawl of a song about "amour." Maisie knew what "amour" meant too, and wondered if Mrs. Wix did: Mrs. Wix remained within, as still as a mouse and perhaps not reached by the performance. After a while, but not till the musicians had ceased and begun to circulate with a little plate, her pupil came back to her. "IS it a crime?" Maisie then asked. Mrs. Wix was as prompt as if she had been crouching in a lair. "Branded by the Bible." "Well, he won't commit a crime." Mrs. Wix looked at her gloomily. "He's committing one now." "Now?" "In being with her." Maisie had it on her tongue's end to return once more: "But now he's free." She remembered, however, in time that one of the things she had known for the last entire hour was that this made no difference. After that, and as if to turn the right way, she was on the point of a blind dash, a weak reversion to the reminder that it might make a difference, might diminish the crime for Mrs. Beale; till such a reflexion was in its order also quashed by the visibility in Mrs. Wix's face of the collapse produced by her inference from her pupil's manner that after all her pains her pupil didn't even yet adequately understand. Never so much as when confronted had Maisie wanted to understand, and all her thought for a minute centred in the effort to come out with something which should be a disproof of her simplicity. "Just TRUST me, dear; that's all!"--she came out finally with that; and it was perhaps a good sign of her action that with a long, impartial moan Mrs. Wix floated her to bed. There was no letter the next morning from Sir Claude--which Mrs. Wix let out that she deemed the worst of omens; yet it was just for the quieter communion they so got with him that, when after the coffee and rolls which made them more foreign than ever, it came to going forth for fresh drafts upon his credit they wandered again up the hill to the rampart instead of plunging into distraction with the crowd on the sands or into the sea with the semi-nude bathers. They gazed once more at their gilded Virgin; they sank once more upon their battered bench; they felt once more their distance from the Regent's Park. At last Mrs. Wix became definite about their friend's silence. "He IS afraid of her! She has forbidden him to write." The fact of his fear Maisie already knew; but her companion's mention of it had at this moment two unexpected results. The first was her wondering in dumb remonstrance how Mrs. Wix, with a devotion not after all inferior to her own, could put into such an allusion such a grimness of derision; the second was that she found herself suddenly drop into a deeper view of it. She too had been afraid, as we have seen, of the people of whom Sir Claude was afraid, and by that law she had had her due measure of latest apprehension of Mrs. Beale. What occurred at present, however, was that, whereas this sympathy appeared vain as for him, the ground of it loomed dimly as a reason for selfish alarm. That uneasiness had not carried her far before Mrs. Wix spoke again and with an abruptness so great as almost to seem irrelevant. "Has it never occurred to you to be jealous of her?" It never had in the least; yet the words were scarce in the air before Maisie had jumped at them. She held them well, she looked at them hard; at last she brought out with an assurance which there was no one, alas, but herself to admire: "Well, yes--since you ask me." She debated, then continued: "Lots of times!" Mrs. Wix glared askance an instant; such approval as her look expressed was not wholly unqualified. It expressed at any rate something that presumably had to do with her saying once more: "Yes. He's afraid of her." Maisie heard, and it had afresh its effect on her even through the blur of the attention now required by the possibility of that idea of jealousy--a possibility created only by her feeling she had thus found the way to show she was not simple. It struck out of Mrs. Wix that this lady still believed her moral sense to be interested and feigned; so what could be such a gage of her sincerity as a peep of the most restless of the passions? Such a revelation would baffle discouragement, and discouragement was in fact so baffled that, helped in some degree by the mere intensity of their need to hope, which also, according to its nature, sprang from the dark portent of the absent letter, the real pitch of their morning was reached by the note, not of mutual scrutiny, but of unprecedented frankness. There were broodings indeed and silences, and Maisie sank deeper into the vision that for her friend she was, at the most, superficial, and that also, positively, she was the more so the more she tried to appear complete. Was the sum of all knowledge only to know how little in this presence one would ever reach it? The answer to that question luckily lost itself in the brightness suffusing the scene as soon as Maisie had thrown out in regard to Mrs. Beale such a remark as she had never dreamed she should live to make. "If I thought she was unkind to him--I don't know WHAT I should do!" Mrs. Wix dropped one of her squints; she even confirmed it by a wild grunt. "I know what _I_ should!" Maisie at this felt that she lagged. "Well, I can think of ONE thing." Mrs. Wix more directly challenged her. "What is it then?" Maisie met her expression as if it were a game with forfeits for winking. "I'd KILL her!" That at least, she hoped as she looked away, would guarantee her moral sense. She looked away, but her companion said nothing for so long that she at last turned her head again. Then she saw the straighteners all blurred with tears which after a little seemed to have sprung from her own eyes. There were tears in fact on both sides of the spectacles, and they were even so thick that it was presently all Maisie could do to make out through them that slowly, finally Mrs. Wix put forth a hand. It was the material pressure that settled this and even at the end of some minutes more things besides. It settled in its own way one thing in particular, which, though often, between them, heaven knew, hovered round and hung over, was yet to be established without the shadow of an attenuating smile. Oh there was no gleam of levity, as little of humour as of deprecation, in the long time they now sat together or in the way in which at some unmeasured point of it Mrs. Wix became distinct enough for her own dignity and yet not loud enough for the snoozing old women. "I adore him. I adore him." Maisie took it well in; so well that in a moment more she would have answered profoundly: "So do I." But before that moment passed something took place that brought other words to her lips; nothing more, very possibly, than the closer consciousness in her hand of the significance of Mrs. Wix's. Their hands remained linked in unutterable sign of their union, and what Maisie at last said was simply and serenely: "Oh I know!" Their hands were so linked and their union was so confirmed that it took the far deep note of a bell, borne to them on the summer air, to call them back to a sense of hours and proprieties. They had touched bottom and melted together, but they gave a start at last: the bell was the voice of the inn and the inn was the image of luncheon. They should be late for it; they got up, and their quickened step on the return had something of the swing of confidence. When they reached the hotel the _table d'hôte_ had begun; this was clear from the threshold, clear from the absence in the hall and on the stairs of the "personnel," as Mrs. Wix said--she had picked THAT up--all collected in the dining-room. They mounted to their apartments for a brush before the glass, and it was Maisie who, in passing and from a vain impulse, threw open the white and gold door. She was thus first to utter the sound that brought Mrs. Wix almost on top of her, as by the other accident it would have brought her on top of Mrs. Wix. It had at any rate the effect of leaving them bunched together in a strained stare at their new situation. This situation had put on in a flash the bright form of Mrs. Beale: she stood there in her hat and her jacket, amid bags and shawls, smiling and holding out her arms. If she had just arrived it was a different figure from either of the two that for THEIR benefit, wan and tottering and none too soon to save life, the Channel had recently disgorged. She was as lovely as the day that had brought her over, as fresh as the luck and the health that attended her: it came to Maisie on the spot that she was more beautiful than she had ever been. All this was too quick to count, but there was still time in it to give the child the sense of what had kindled the light. That leaped out of the open arms, the open eyes, the open mouth; it leaped out with Mrs. Beale's loud cry at her: "I'm free, I'm free!" XXVII The greatest wonder of all was the way Mrs. Beale addressed her announcement, so far as could be judged, equally to Mrs. Wix, who, as if from sudden failure of strength, sank into a chair while Maisie surrendered to the visitor's embrace. As soon as the child was liberated she met with profundity Mrs. Wix's stupefaction and actually was able to see that while in a manner sustaining the encounter her face yet seemed with intensity to say: "Now, for God's sake, don't crow 'I told you so!'" Maisie was somehow on the spot aware of an absence of disposition to crow; it had taken her but an extra minute to arrive at such a quick survey of the objects surrounding Mrs. Beale as showed that among them was no appurtenance of Sir Claude's. She knew his dressing-bag now--oh with the fondest knowledge!--and there was an instant during which its not being there was a stroke of the worst news. She was yet to learn what it could be to recognise in some lapse of a sequence the proof of an extinction, and therefore remained unaware that this momentary pang was a foretaste of the experience of death. It of course yielded in a flash to Mrs. Beale's brightness, it gasped itself away in her own instant appeal. "You've come alone?" "Without Sir Claude?" Strangely, Mrs. Beale looked even brighter. "Yes; in the eagerness to get at you. You abominable little villain!"--and her stepmother, laughing clear, administered to her cheek a pat that was partly a pinch. "What were you up to and what did you take me for? But I'm glad to be abroad, and after all it's you who have shown me the way. I mightn't, without you, have been able to come--to come, that is, so soon. Well, here I am at any rate and in a moment more I should have begun to worry about you. This will do very well"--she was good-natured about the place and even presently added that it was charming. Then with a rosier glow she made again her great point: "I'm free, I'm free!" Maisie made on her side her own: she carried back her gaze to Mrs. Wix, whom amazement continued to hold; she drew afresh her old friend's attention to the superior way she didn't take that up. What she did take up the next minute was the question of Sir Claude. "Where is he? Won't he come?" Mrs. Beale's consideration of this oscillated with a smile between the two expectancies with which she was flanked: it was conspicuous, it was extraordinary, her unblinking acceptance of Mrs. Wix, a miracle of which Maisie had even now begun to read a reflexion in that lady's long visage. "He'll come, but we must MAKE him!" she gaily brought forth. "Make him?" Maisie echoed. "We must give him time. We must play our cards." "But he promised us awfully," Maisie replied. "My dear child, he has promised ME awfully; I mean lots of things, and not in every case kept his promise to the letter." Mrs. Beale's good humour insisted on taking for granted Mrs. Wix's, to whom her attention had suddenly grown prodigious. "I dare say he has done the same with you, and not always come to time. But he makes it up in his own way--and it isn't as if we didn't know exactly what he is. There's one thing he is," she went on, "which makes everything else only a question, for us, of tact." They scarce had time to wonder what this was before, as they might have said, it flew straight into their face. "He's as free as I am!" "Yes, I know," said Maisie; as if, however, independently weighing the value of that. She really weighed also the oddity of her stepmother's treating it as news to HER, who had been the first person literally to whom Sir Claude had mentioned it. For a few seconds, as if with the sound of it in her ears, she stood with him again, in memory and in the twilight, in the hotel garden at Folkestone. Anything Mrs. Beale overlooked was, she indeed divined, but the effect of an exaltation of high spirits, a tendency to soar that showed even when she dropped--still quite impartially--almost to the confidential. "Well, then--we've only to wait. He can't do without us long. I'm sure, Mrs. Wix, he can't do without YOU! He's devoted to you; he has told me so much about you. The extent I count on you, you know, count on you to help me--" was an extent that even all her radiance couldn't express. What it couldn't express quite as much as what it could made at any rate every instant her presence and even her famous freedom loom larger; and it was this mighty mass that once more led her companions, bewildered and disjoined, to exchange with each other as through a thickening veil confused and ineffectual signs. They clung together at least on the common ground of unpreparedness, and Maisie watched without relief the havoc of wonder in Mrs. Wix. It had reduced her to perfect impotence, and, but that gloom was black upon her, she sat as if fascinated by Mrs. Beale's high style. It had plunged her into a long deep hush; for what had happened was the thing she had least allowed for and before which the particular rigour she had worked up could only grow limp and sick. Sir Claude was to have reappeared with his accomplice or without her; never, never his accomplice without HIM. Mrs. Beale had gained apparently by this time an advantage she could pursue: she looked at the droll dumb figure with jesting reproach. "You really won't shake hands with me? Never mind; you'll come round!" She put the matter to no test, going on immediately and, instead of offering her hand, raising it, with a pretty gesture that her bent head met, to a long black pin that played a part in her back hair. "Are hats worn at luncheon? If you're as hungry as I am we must go right down." Mrs. Wix stuck fast, but she met the question in a voice her pupil scarce recognised. "I wear mine." Mrs. Beale, swallowing at one glance her brand-new bravery, which she appeared at once to refer to its origin and to follow in its flights, accepted this as conclusive. "Oh but I've not such a beauty!" Then she turned rejoicingly to Maisie. "I've got a beauty for YOU my dear." "A beauty?" "A love of a hat--in my luggage. I remembered THAT"--she nodded at the object on her stepdaughter's head--"and I've brought you one with a peacock's breast. It's the most gorgeous blue!" It was too strange, this talking with her there already not about Sir Claude but about peacocks--too strange for the child to have the presence of mind to thank her. But the felicity in which she had arrived was so proof against everything that Maisie felt more and more the depth of the purpose that must underlie it. She had a vague sense of its being abysmal, the spirit with which Mrs. Beale carried off the awkwardness, in the white and gold salon, of such a want of breath and of welcome. Mrs. Wix was more breathless than ever; the embarrassment of Mrs. Beale's isolation was as nothing to the embarrassment of her grace. The perception of this dilemma was the germ on the child's part of a new question altogether. What if WITH this indulgence--? But the idea lost itself in something too frightened for hope and too conjectured for fear; and while everything went by leaps and bounds one of the waiters stood at the door to remind them that the _table d'hôte_ was half over. "Had you come up to wash hands?" Mrs. Beale hereupon asked them. "Go and do it quickly and I'll be with you: they've put my boxes in that nice room--it was Sir Claude's. Trust him," she laughed, "to have a nice one!" The door of a neighbouring room stood open, and now from the threshold, addressing herself again to Mrs. Wix, she launched a note that gave the very key of what, as she would have said, she was up to. "Dear lady, please attend to my daughter." She was up to a change of deportment so complete that it represented--oh for offices still honourably subordinate if not too explicitly menial--an absolute coercion, an interested clutch of the old woman's respectability. There was response, to Maisie's view, I may say at once, in the jump of that respectability to its feet: it was itself capable of one of the leaps, one of the bounds just mentioned, and it carried its charge, with this momentum and while Mrs. Beale popped into Sir Claude's chamber, straight away to where, at the end of the passage, pupil and governess were quartered. The greatest stride of all, for that matter, was that within a few seconds the pupil had, in another relation, been converted into a daughter. Maisie's eyes were still following it when, after the rush, with the door almost slammed and no thought of soap and towels, the pair stood face to face. Mrs. Wix, in this position, was the first to gasp a sound. "Can it ever be that SHE has one?" Maisie felt still more bewildered. "One what?" "Why moral sense." They spoke as if you might have two, but Mrs. Wix looked as if it were not altogether a happy thought, and Maisie didn't see how even an affirmative from her own lips would clear up what had become most of a mystery. It was to this larger puzzle she sprang pretty straight. "IS she my mother now?" It was a point as to which an horrific glimpse of the responsibility of an opinion appeared to affect Mrs. Wix like a blow in the stomach. She had evidently never thought of it; but she could think and rebound. "If she is, he's equally your father." Maisie, however, thought further. "Then my father and my mother--!" But she had already faltered and Mrs. Wix had already glared back: "Ought to live together? Don't begin it AGAIN!" She turned away with a groan, to reach the washing-stand, and Maisie could by this time recognise with a certain ease that that way verily madness did lie. Mrs. Wix gave a great untidy splash, but the next instant had faced round. "She has taken a new line." "She was nice to you," Maisie concurred. "What SHE thinks so--'go and dress the young lady!' But it's something!" she panted. Then she thought out the rest. "If he won't have her, why she'll have YOU. She'll be the one." "The one to keep me abroad?" "The one to give you a home." Mrs. Wix saw further; she mastered all the portents. "Oh she's cruelly clever! It's not a moral sense." She reached her climax: "It's a game!" "A game?" "Not to lose him. She has sacrificed him--to her duty." "Then won't he come?" Maisie pleaded. Mrs. Wix made no answer; her vision absorbed her. "He has fought. But she has won." "Then won't he come?" the child repeated. Mrs. Wix made it out. "Yes, hang him!" She had never been so profane. For all Maisie minded! "Soon--to-morrow?" "Too soon--whenever. Indecently soon." "But then we SHALL be together!" the child went on. It made Mrs. Wix look at her as if in exasperation; but nothing had time to come before she precipitated: "Together with YOU!" The air of criticism continued, but took voice only in her companion's bidding her wash herself and come down. The silence of quick ablutions fell upon them, presently broken, however, by one of Maisie's sudden reversions. "Mercy, isn't she handsome?" Mrs. Wix had finished; she waited. "She'll attract attention." They were rapid, and it would have been noticed that the shock the beauty had given them acted, incongruously, as a positive spur to their preparations for rejoining her. She had none the less, when they returned to the sitting-room, already descended; the open door of her room showed it empty and the chambermaid explained. Here again they were delayed by another sharp thought of Mrs. Wix's. "But what will she live on meanwhile?" Maisie stopped short. "Till Sir Claude comes?" It was nothing to the violence with which her friend had been arrested. "Who'll pay the bills?" Maisie thought. "Can't SHE?" "She? She hasn't a penny." The child wondered. "But didn't papa--?" "Leave her a fortune?" Mrs. Wix would have appeared to speak of papa as dead had she not immediately added: "Why he lives on other women!" Oh yes, Maisie remembered. "Then can't he send--" She faltered again; even to herself it sounded queer. "Some of their money to his wife?" Mrs. Wix pave a laugh still stranger than the weird suggestion. "I dare say she'd take it!" They hurried on again; yet again, on the stairs, Maisie pulled up. "Well, if she had stopped in England--!" she threw out. Mrs. Wix considered. "And he had come over instead?" "Yes, as we expected." Maisie launched her speculation. "What then would she have lived on?" Mrs. Wix hung fire but an instant. "On other men!" And she marched downstairs. XXVIII Mrs. Beale, at table between the pair, plainly attracted the attention Mrs. Wix had foretold. No other lady present was nearly so handsome, nor did the beauty of any other accommodate itself with such art to the homage it produced. She talked mainly to her other neighbour, and that left Maisie leisure both to note the manner in which eyes were riveted and nudges interchanged, and to lose herself in the meanings that, dimly as yet and disconnectedly, but with a vividness that fed apprehension, she could begin to read into her stepmother's independent move. Mrs. Wix had helped her by talking of a game; it was a connexion in which the move could put on a strategic air. Her notions of diplomacy were thin, but it was a kind of cold diplomatic shoulder and an elbow of more than usual point that, temporarily at least, were presented to her by the averted inclination of Mrs. Beale's head. There was a phrase familiar to Maisie, so often was it used by this lady to express the idea of one's getting what one wanted: one got it--Mrs. Beale always said SHE at all events always got it or proposed to get it--by "making love." She was at present making love, singular as it appeared, to Mrs. Wix, and her young friend's mind had never moved in such freedom as on thus finding itself face to face with the question of what she wanted to get. This period of the _omelette aux rognons_ and the poulet sauté, while her sole surviving parent, her fourth, fairly chattered to her governess, left Maisie rather wondering if her governess would hold out. It was strange, but she became on the spot quite as interested in Mrs. Wix's moral sense as Mrs. Wix could possibly be in hers: it had risen before her so pressingly that this was something new for Mrs. Wix to resist. Resisting Mrs. Beale herself promised at such a rate to become a very different business from resisting Sir Claude's view of her. More might come of what had happened--whatever it was--than Maisie felt she could have expected. She put it together with a suspicion that, had she ever in her life had a sovereign changed, would have resembled an impression, baffled by the want of arithmetic, that her change was wrong: she groped about in it that she was perhaps playing the passive part in a case of violent substitution. A victim was what she should surely be if the issue between her step-parents had been settled by Mrs. Beale's saying: "Well, if she can live with but one of us alone, with which in the world should it be but me?" That answer was far from what, for days, she had nursed herself in, and the desolation of it was deepened by the absence of anything from Sir Claude to show he had not had to take it as triumphant. Had not Mrs. Beale, upstairs, as good as given out that she had quitted him with the snap of a tension, left him, dropped him in London, after some struggle as a sequel to which her own advent represented that she had practically sacrificed him? Maisie assisted in fancy at the probable episode in the Regent's Park, finding elements almost of terror in the suggestion that Sir Claude had not had fair play. They drew something, as she sat there, even from the pride of an association with such beauty as Mrs. Beale's; and the child quite forgot that, though the sacrifice of Mrs. Beale herself was a solution she had not invented, she would probably have seen Sir Claude embark upon it without a direct remonstrance. What her stepmother had clearly now promised herself to wring from Mrs. Wix was an assent to the great modification, the change, as smart as a juggler's trick, in the interest of which nothing so much mattered as the new convenience of Mrs. Beale. Maisie could positively seize the moral that her elbow seemed to point in ribs thinly defended--the moral of its not mattering a straw which of the step-parents was the guardian. The essence of the question was that a girl wasn't a boy: if Maisie had been a mere rough trousered thing, destined at the best probably to grow up a scamp, Sir Claude would have been welcome. As the case stood he had simply tumbled out of it, and Mrs. Wix would henceforth find herself in the employ of the right person. These arguments had really fallen into their place, for our young friend, at the very touch of that tone in which she had heard her new title declared. She was still, as a result of so many parents, a daughter to somebody even after papa and mamma were to all intents dead. If her father's wife and her mother's husband, by the operation of a natural or, for all she knew, a legal rule, were in the shoes of their defunct partners, then Mrs. Beale's partner was exactly as defunct as Sir Claude's and her shoes the very pair to which, in "Farange _v._ Farange and Others," the divorce court had given priority. The subject of that celebrated settlement saw the rest of her day really filled out with the pomp of all that Mrs. Beale assumed. The assumption rounded itself there between this lady's entertainers, flourished in a way that left them, in their bottomless element, scarce a free pair of eyes to exchange signals. It struck Maisie even a little that there was a rope or two Mrs. Wix might have thrown out if she would, a rocket or two she might have sent up. They had at any rate never been so long together without communion or telegraphy, and their companion kept them apart by simply keeping them with her. From this situation they saw the grandeur of their intenser relation to her pass and pass like an endless procession. It was a day of lively movement and of talk on Mrs. Beale's part so brilliant and overflowing as to represent music and banners. She took them out with her promptly to walk and to drive, and even--towards night--sketched a plan for carrying them to the Etablissement, where, for only a franc apiece, they should listen to a concert of celebrities. It reminded Maisie, the plan, of the side-shows at Earl's Court, and the franc sounded brighter than the shillings which had at that time failed; yet this too, like the other, was a frustrated hope: the francs failed like the shillings and the side-shows had set an example to the concert. The Etablissement in short melted away, and it was little wonder that a lady who from the moment of her arrival had been so gallantly in the breach should confess herself it last done up. Maisie could appreciate her fatigue; the day had not passed without such an observer's discovering that she was excited and even mentally comparing her state to that of the breakers after a gale. It had blown hard in London, and she would take time to go down. It was of the condition known to the child by report as that of talking against time that her emphasis, her spirit, her humour, which had never dropped, now gave the impression. She too was delighted with foreign manners; but her daughter's opportunities of explaining them to her were unexpectedly forestalled by her own tone of large acquaintance with them. One of the things that nipped in the bud all response to her volubility was Maisie's surprised retreat before the fact that Continental life was what she had been almost brought up on. It was Mrs. Beale, disconcertingly, who began to explain it to her friends; it was she who, wherever they turned, was the interpreter, the historian and the guide. She was full of reference to her early travels--at the age of eighteen: she had at that period made, with a distinguished Dutch family, a stay on the Lake of Geneva. Maisie had in the old days been regaled with anecdotes of these adventures, but they had with time become phantasmal, and the heroine's quite showy exemption from bewilderment at Boulogne, her acuteness on some of the very subjects on which Maisie had been acute to Mrs. Wix, were a high note of the majesty, of the variety of advantage, with which she had alighted. It was all a part of the wind in her sails and of the weight with which her daughter was now to feel her hand. The effect of it on Maisie was to add already the burden of time to her separation from Sir Claude. This might, to her sense, have lasted for days; it was as if, with their main agitation transferred thus to France and with neither mamma now nor Mrs. Beale nor Mrs. Wix nor herself at his side, he must be fearfully alone in England. Hour after hour she felt as if she were waiting; yet she couldn't have said exactly for what. There were moments when Mrs. Beale's flow of talk was a mere rattle to smother a knock. At no part of the crisis had the rattle so public a purpose as when, instead of letting Maisie go with Mrs. Wix to prepare for dinner, she pushed her--with a push at last incontestably maternal--straight into the room inherited from Sir Claude. She titivated her little charge with her own brisk hands; then she brought out: "I'm going to divorce your father." This was so different from anything Maisie had expected that it took some time to reach her mind. She was aware meanwhile that she probably looked rather wan. "To marry Sir Claude?" Mrs. Beale rewarded her with a kiss. "It's sweet to hear you put it so." This was a tribute, but it left Maisie balancing for an objection. "How CAN you when he's married?" "He isn't--practically. He's free, you know." "Free to marry?" "Free, first, to divorce his own fiend." The benefit that, these last days, she had felt she owed a certain person left Maisie a moment so ill-prepared for recognising this lurid label that she hesitated long enough to risk: "Mamma?" "She isn't your mamma any longer," Mrs. Beale returned. "Sir Claude has paid her money to cease to be." Then as if remembering how little, to the child, a pecuniary transaction must represent: "She lets him off supporting her if he'll let her off supporting you." Mrs. Beale appeared, however, to have done injustice to her daughter's financial grasp. "And support me himself?" Maisie asked. "Take the whole bother and burden of you and never let her hear of you again. It's a regular signed contract." "Why that's lovely of her!" Maisie cried. "It's not so lovely, my dear, but that he'll get his divorce." Maisie was briefly silent; after which, "No--he won't get it," she said. Then she added still more boldly: "And you won't get yours." Mrs. Beale, who was at the dressing-glass, turned round with amusement and surprise. "How do you know that?" "Oh I know!" cried Maisie. "From Mrs. Wix?" Maisie debated, then after an instant took her cue from Mrs. Beale's absence of anger, which struck her the more as she had felt how much of her courage she needed. "From Mrs. Wix," she admitted. Mrs. Beale, at the glass again, made play with a powder-puff. "My own sweet, she's mistaken!" was all she said. There was a certain force in the very amenity of this, but our young lady reflected long enough to remember that it was not the answer Sir Claude himself had made. The recollection nevertheless failed to prevent her saying: "Do you mean then that he won't come till he has got it?" Mrs. Beale gave a last touch; she was ready; she stood there in all her elegance. "I mean, my dear, that it's because he HASN'T got it that I left him." This opened a view that stretched further than Maisie could reach. She turned away from it, but she spoke before they went out again. "Do you like Mrs. Wix now?" "Why, my chick, I was just going to ask you if you think she has come at all to like poor bad me!" Maisie thought, at this hint; but unsuccessfully. "I haven't the least idea. But I'll find out." "Do!" said Mrs. Beale, rustling out with her in a scented air and as if it would be a very particular favour. The child tried promptly at bed-time, relieved now of the fear that their visitor would wish to separate her for the night from her attendant. "Have you held out?" she began as soon as the two doors at the end of the passage were again closed on them. Mrs. Wix looked hard at the flame of the candle. "Held out--?" "Why, she has been making love to you. Has she won you over?" Mrs. Wix transferred her intensity to her pupil's face. "Over to what?" "To HER keeping me instead." "Instead of Sir Claude?" Mrs. Wix was distinctly gaining time. "Yes; who else? since it's not instead of you." Mrs. Wix coloured at this lucidity. "Yes, that IS what she means." "Well, do you like it?" Maisie asked. She actually had to wait, for oh her friend was embarrassed! "My opposition to the connexion--theirs--would then naturally to some extent fall. She has treated me to-day as if I weren't after all quite such a worm; not that I don't know very well where she got the pattern of her politeness. But of course," Mrs. Wix hastened to add, "I shouldn't like her as THE one nearly so well as him." "'Nearly so well!'" Maisie echoed. "I should hope indeed not." She spoke with a firmness under which she was herself the first to quiver. "I thought you 'adored' him." "I do," Mrs. Wix sturdily allowed. "Then have you suddenly begun to adore her too?" Mrs. Wix, instead of directly answering, only blinked in support of her sturdiness. "My dear, in what a tone you ask that! You're coming out." "Why shouldn't I? YOU'VE come out. Mrs. Beale has come out. We each have our turn!" And Maisie threw off the most extraordinary little laugh that had ever passed her young lips. There passed Mrs. Wix's indeed the next moment a sound that more than matched it. "You're most remarkable!" she neighed. Her pupil, though wholly without aspirations to pertness, barely faltered. "I think you've done a great deal to make me so." "Very true, I have." She dropped to humility, as if she recalled her so recent self-arraignment. "Would you accept her then? That's what I ask," said Maisie. "As a substitute?" Mrs. Wix turned it over; she met again the child's eyes. "She has literally almost fawned upon me." "She hasn't fawned upon HIM. She hasn't even been kind to him." Mrs. Wix looked as if she had now an advantage. "Then do you propose to 'kill' her?" "You don't answer my question," Maisie persisted. "I want to know if you accept her." Mrs. Wix continued to hedge. "I want to know if YOU do!" Everything in the child's person, at this, announced that it was easy to know. "Not for a moment." "Not the two now?" Mrs. Wix had caught on; she flushed with it. "Only him alone?" "Him alone or nobody." "Not even ME?" cried Mrs. Wix. Maisie looked at her a moment, then began to undress. "Oh you're nobody!" XXIX Her sleep was drawn out, she instantly recognised lateness in the way her eyes opened to Mrs. Wix, erect, completely dressed, more dressed than ever, and gazing at her from the centre of the room. The next thing she was sitting straight up, wide awake with the fear of the hours of "abroad" that she might have lost. Mrs. Wix looked as if the day had already made itself felt, and the process of catching up with it began for Maisie in hearing her distinctly say: "My poor dear, he has come!" "Sir Claude?" Maisie, clearing the little bed-rug with the width of her spring, felt the polished floor under her bare feet. "He crossed in the night; he got in early." Mrs. Wix's head jerked stiffly backward. "He's there." "And you've seen him?" "No. He's there--he's there," Mrs. Wix repeated. Her voice came out with a queer extinction that was not a voluntary drop, and she trembled so that it added to their common emotion. Visibly pale, they gazed at each other. "Isn't it too BEAUTIFUL?" Maisie panted back at her; a challenge with an answer to which, however, she was not ready at once. The term Maisie had used was a flash of diplomacy--to prevent at any rate Mrs. Wix's using another. To that degree it was successful; there was only an appeal, strange and mute, in the white old face, which produced the effect of a want of decision greater than could by any stretch of optimism have been associated with her attitude toward what had happened. For Maisie herself indeed what had happened was oddly, as she could feel, less of a simple rapture than any arrival or return of the same supreme friend had ever been before. What had become overnight, what had become while she slept, of the comfortable faculty of gladness? She tried to wake it up a little wider by talking, by rejoicing, by plunging into water and into clothes, and she made out that it was ten o'clock, but also that Mrs. Wix had not yet breakfasted. The day before, at nine, they had had together a _café complet_ in their sitting-room. Mrs. Wix on her side had evidently also a refuge to seek. She sought it in checking the precipitation of some of her pupil's present steps, in recalling to her with an approach to sternness that of such preliminaries those embodied in a thorough use of soap should be the most thorough, and in throwing even a certain reprobation on the idea of hurrying into clothes for the sake of a mere stepfather. She took her in hand with a silent insistence; she reduced the process to sequences more definite than any it had known since the days of Moddle. Whatever it might be that had now, with a difference, begun to belong to Sir Claude's presence was still after all compatible, for our young lady, with the instinct of dressing to see him with almost untidy haste. Mrs. Wix meanwhile luckily was not wholly directed to repression. "He's there--he's there!" she had said over several times. It was her answer to every invitation to mention how long she had been up and her motive for respecting so rigidly the slumber of her companion. It formed for some minutes her only account of the whereabouts of the others and her reason for not having yet seen them, as well as of the possibility of their presently being found in the salon. "He's there--he's there!" she declared once more as she made, on the child, with an almost invidious tug, a strained undergarment "meet." "Do you mean he's in the salon?" Maisie asked again. "He's WITH her," Mrs. Wix desolately said. "He's with her," she reiterated. "Do you mean in her own room?" Maisie continued. She waited an instant. "God knows!" Maisie wondered a little why, or how, God should know; this, however, delayed but an instant her bringing out: "Well, won't she go back?" "Go back? Never!" "She'll stay all the same?" "All the more." "Then won't Sir Claude go?" Maisie asked. "Go back--if SHE doesn't?" Mrs. Wix appeared to give this question the benefit of a minute's thought. "Why should he have come--only to go back?" Maisie produced an ingenious solution. "To MAKE her go. To take her." Mrs. Wix met it without a concession. "If he can make her go so easily, why should he have let her come?" Maisie considered. "Oh just to see ME. She has a right." "Yes--she has a right." "She's my mother!" Maisie tentatively tittered. "Yes--she's your mother." "Besides," Maisie went on, "he didn't let her come. He doesn't like her coming, and if he doesn't like it--" Mrs. Wix took her up. "He must lump it--that's what he must do! Your mother was right about him--I mean your real one. He has no strength. No--none at all." She seemed more profoundly to muse. "He might have had some even with HER--I mean with her ladyship. He's just a poor sunk slave," she asserted with sudden energy. Maisie wondered again. "A slave?" "To his passions." She continued to wonder and even to be impressed; after which she went on: "But how do you know he'll stay?" "Because he likes us!"--and Mrs. Wix, with her emphasis of the word, whirled her charge round again to deal with posterior hooks. She had positively never shaken her so. It was as if she quite shook something out of her. "But how will that help him if we--in spite of his liking!--don't stay?" "Do you mean if we go off and leave him with her?--" Mrs. Wix put the question to the back of her pupil's head. "It WON'T help him. It will be his ruin. He'll have got nothing. He'll have lost everything. It will be his utter destruction, for he's certain after a while to loathe her." "Then when he loathes her"--it was astonishing how she caught the idea--"he'll just come right after us!" Maisie announced. "Never." "Never?" "She'll keep him. She'll hold him for ever." Maisie doubted. "When he 'loathes' her?" "That won't matter. She won't loathe HIM. People don't!" Mrs. Wix brought up. "Some do. Mamma does," Maisie contended. "Mamma does NOT!" It was startling--her friend contradicted her flat. "She loves him--she adores him. A woman knows." Mrs. Wix spoke not only as if Maisie were not a woman, but as if she would never be one. "_I_ know!" she cried. "Then why on earth has she left him?" Mrs. Wix hesitated. "He hates HER. Don't stoop so--lift up your hair. You know how I'm affected toward him," she added with dignity; "but you must also know that I see clear." Maisie all this time was trying hard to do likewise. "Then if she has left him for that why shouldn't Mrs. Beale leave him?" "Because she's not such a fool!" "Not such a fool as mamma?" "Precisely--if you WILL have it. Does it look like her leaving him?" Mrs. Wix enquired. She brooded again; then she went on with more intensity: "Do you want to know really and truly why? So that she may be his wretchedness and his punishment." "His punishment?"--this was more than as yet Maisie could quite accept. "For what?" "For everything. That's what will happen: he'll be tied to her for ever. She won't mind in the least his hating her, and she won't hate him back. She'll only hate US." "Us?" the child faintly echoed. "She'll hate YOU." "Me? Why, I brought them together!" Maisie resentfully cried. "You brought them together." There was a completeness in Mrs. Wix's assent. "Yes; it was a pretty job. Sit down." She began to brush her pupil's hair and, as she took up the mass of it with some force of hand, went on with a sharp recall: "Your mother adored him at first--it might have lasted. But he began too soon with Mrs. Beale. As you say," she pursued with a brisk application of the brush, "you brought them together." "I brought them together"--Maisie was ready to reaffirm it. She felt none the less for a moment at the bottom of a hole; then she seemed to see a way out. "But I didn't bring mamma together--" She just faltered. "With all those gentlemen?"--Mrs. Wix pulled her up. "No; it isn't quite so bad as that." "I only said to the Captain"--Maisie had the quick memory of it--"that I hoped he at least (he was awfully nice!) would love her and keep her." "And even that wasn't much harm," threw in Mrs. Wix. "It wasn't much good," Maisie was obliged to recognise. "She can't bear him--not even a mite. She told me at Folkestone." Mrs. Wix suppressed a gasp; then after a bridling instant during which she might have appeared to deflect with difficulty from her odd consideration of Ida's wrongs: "He was a nice sort of person for her to talk to you about!" "Oh I LIKE him!" Maisie promptly rejoined; and at this, with an inarticulate sound and an inconsequence still more marked, her companion bent over and dealt her on the cheek a rapid peck which had the apparent intention of a kiss. "Well, if her ladyship doesn't agree with you, what does it only prove?" Mrs. Wix demanded in conclusion. "It proves that she's fond of Sir Claude!" Maisie, in the light of some of the evidence, reflected on that till her hair was finished, but when she at last started up she gave a sign of no very close embrace of it. She grasped at this moment Mrs. Wix's arm. "He must have got his divorce!" "Since day before yesterday? Don't talk trash." This was spoken with an impatience which left the child nothing to reply; whereupon she sought her defence in a completely different relation to the fact. "Well, I knew he would come!" "So did I; but not in twenty-four hours. I gave him a few days!" Mrs. Wix wailed. Maisie, whom she had now released, looked at her with interest. "How many did SHE give him?" Mrs. Wix faced her a moment; then as if with a bewildered sniff: "You had better ask her!" But she had no sooner uttered the words than she caught herself up. "Lord o' mercy, how we talk!" Maisie felt that however they talked she must see him, but she said nothing more for a time, a time during which she conscientiously finished dressing and Mrs. Wix also kept silence. It was as if they each had almost too much to think of, and even as if the child had the sense that her friend was watching her and seeing if she herself were watched. At last Mrs. Wix turned to the window and stood--sightlessly, as Maisie could guess--looking away. Then our young lady, before the glass, gave the supreme shake. "Well, I'm ready. And now to SEE him!" Mrs. Wix turned round, but as if without having heard her. "It's tremendously grave." There were slow still tears behind the straighteners. "It is--it is." Maisie spoke as if she were now dressed quite up to the occasion; as if indeed with the last touch she had put on the judgement-cap. "I must see him immediately." "How can you see him if he doesn't send for you?" "Why can't I go and find him?" "Because you don't know where he is." "Can't I just look in the salon?" That still seemed simple to Maisie. Mrs. Wix, however, instantly cut it off. "I wouldn't have you look in the salon for all the world!" Then she explained a little: "The salon isn't ours now." "Ours?" "Yours and mine. It's theirs." "Theirs?" Maisie, with her stare, continued to echo. "You mean they want to keep us out?" Mrs. Wix faltered; she sank into a chair and, as Maisie had often enough seen her do before, covered her face with her hands. "They ought to, at least. The situation's too monstrous!" Maisie stood there a moment--she looked about the room. "I'll go to him--I'll find him." "_I_ won't! I won't go NEAR them!" cried Mrs. Wix. "Then I'll see him alone." The child spied what she had been looking for--she possessed herself of her hat. "Perhaps I'll take him out!" And with decision she quitted the room. When she entered the salon it was empty, but at the sound of the opened door some one stirred on the balcony, and Sir Claude, stepping straight in, stood before her. He was in light fresh clothes and wore a straw hat with a bright ribbon; these things, besides striking her in themselves as the very promise of the grandest of grand tours, gave him a certain radiance and, as it were, a tropical ease; but such an effect only marked rather more his having stopped short and, for a longer minute than had ever at such a juncture elapsed, not opened his arms to her. His pause made her pause and enabled her to reflect that he must have been up some time, for there were no traces of breakfast; and that though it was so late he had rather markedly not caused her to be called to him. Had Mrs. Wix been right about their forfeiture of the salon? Was it all his now, all his and Mrs. Beale's? Such an idea, at the rate her small thoughts throbbed, could only remind her of the way in which what had been hers hitherto was what was exactly most Mrs. Beale's and his. It was strange to be standing there and greeting him across a gulf, for he had by this time spoken, smiled and said: "My dear child, my dear child!" but without coming any nearer. In a flash she saw he was different--more so than he knew or designed. The next minute indeed it was as if he caught an impression from her face: this made him hold out his hand. Then they met, he kissed her, he laughed, she thought he even blushed: something of his affection rang out as usual. "Here I am, you see, again--as I promised you." It was not as he had promised them--he had not promised them Mrs. Beale; but Maisie said nothing about that. What she said was simply: "I knew you had come. Mrs. Wix told me." "Oh yes. And where is she?" "In her room. She got me up--she dressed me." Sir Claude looked at her up and down; a sweetness of mockery that she particularly loved came out in his face whenever he did that, and it was not wanting now. He raised his eyebrows and his arms to play at admiration; he was evidently after all disposed to be gay. "Got you up?--I should think so! She has dressed you most beautifully. Isn't she coming?" Maisie wondered if she had better tell. "She said not." "Doesn't she want to see a poor devil?" She looked about under the vibration of the way he described himself, and her eyes rested on the door of the room he had previously occupied. "Is Mrs. Beale in there?" Sir Claude looked blankly at the same object. "I haven't the least idea!" "You haven't seen her?" "Not the tip of her nose." Maisie thought: there settled on her, in the light of his beautiful smiling eyes, the faintest purest coldest conviction that he wasn't telling the truth. "She hasn't welcomed you?" "Not by a single sign." "Then where is she?" Sir Claude laughed; he seemed both amused and surprised at the point she made of it. "I give it up!" "Doesn't she know you've come?" He laughed again. "Perhaps she doesn't care!" Maisie, with an inspiration, pounced on his arm. "Has she GONE?" He met her eyes and then she could see that his own were really much graver than his manner. "Gone?" She had flown to the door, but before she could raise her hand to knock he was beside her and had caught it. "Let her be. I don't care about her. I want to see YOU." "Then she HASN'T gone?" Maisie fell back with him. He still looked as if it were a joke, but the more she saw of him the more she could make out that he was troubled. "It wouldn't be like her!" She stood wondering at him. "Did you want her to come?" "How can you suppose--?" He put it to her candidly. "We had an immense row over it." "Do you mean you've quarrelled?" Sir Claude was at a loss. "What has she told you?" "That I'm hers as much as yours. That she represents papa." His gaze struck away through the open window and up to the sky; she could hear him rattle in his trousers-pockets his money or his keys. "Yes--that's what she keeps saying." It gave him for a moment an air that was almost helpless. "You say you don't care about her," Maisie went on. "DO you mean you've quarrelled?" "We do nothing in life but quarrel." He rose before her, as he said this, so soft and fair, so rich, in spite of what might worry him, in restored familiarities, that it gave a bright blur to the meaning--to what would otherwise perhaps have been the palpable promise--of the words. "Oh YOUR quarrels!" she exclaimed with discouragement. "I assure you hers are quite fearful!" "I don't speak of hers. I speak of yours." "Ah don't do it till I've had my coffee! You're growing up clever," he added. Then he said: "I suppose you've breakfasted?" "Oh no--I've had nothing." "Nothing in your room?"--he was all compunction. "My dear old man!--we'll breakfast then together." He had one of his happy thoughts. "I say--we'll go out." "That was just what I hoped. I've brought my hat." "You ARE clever! We'll go to a café." Maisie was already at the door; he glanced round the room. "A moment--my stick." But there appeared to be no stick. "No matter; I left it--oh!" He remembered with an odd drop and came out. "You left it in London?" she asked as they went downstairs. "Yes--in London: fancy!" "You were in such a hurry to come," Maisie explained. He had his arm round her. "That must have been the reason." Halfway down he stopped short again, slapping his leg. "And poor Mrs. Wix?" Maisie's face just showed a shadow. "Do you want her to come?" "Dear no--I want to see you alone." "That's the way I want to see YOU!" she replied. "Like before." "Like before!" he gaily echoed. "But I mean has she had her coffee?" "No, nothing." "Then I'll send it up to her. Madame!" He had already, at the foot of the stair, called out to the stout _patronne_, a lady who turned to him from the bustling, breezy hall a countenance covered with fresh matutinal powder and a bosom as capacious as the velvet shelf of a chimneypiece, over which her round white face, framed in its golden frizzle, might have figured as a showy clock. He ordered, with particular recommendations, Mrs. Wix's repast, and it was a charm to hear his easy brilliant French: even his companion's ignorance could measure the perfection of it. The _patronne_, rubbing her hands and breaking in with high swift notes as into a florid duet, went with him to the street, and while they talked a moment longer Maisie remembered what Mrs. Wix had said about every one's liking him. It came out enough through the morning powder, it came out enough in the heaving bosom, how the landlady liked him. He had evidently ordered something lovely for Mrs. Wix. _"Et bien soigné, n'est-ce-pas?"_ _"Soyez tranquille"_--the patronne beamed upon him. _"Et pour Madame?"_ _"Madame?"_ he echoed--it just pulled him up a little. _"Rien encore?"_ "_Rien encore._ Come, Maisie." She hurried along with him, but on the way to the café he said nothing. XXX After they were seated there it was different: the place was not below the hotel, but further along the quay; with wide, clear windows and a floor sprinkled with bran in a manner that gave it for Maisie something of the added charm of a circus. They had pretty much to themselves the painted spaces and the red plush benches; these were shared by a few scattered gentlemen who picked teeth, with facial contortions, behind little bare tables, and by an old personage in particular, a very old personage with a red ribbon in his buttonhole, whose manner of soaking buttered rolls in coffee and then disposing of them in the little that was left of the interval between his nose and chin might at a less anxious hour have cast upon Maisie an almost envious spell. They too had their _café au lait_ and their buttered rolls, determined by Sir Claude's asking her if she could with that light aid wait till the hour of déjeuner. His allusion to this meal gave her, in the shaded sprinkled coolness, the scene, as she vaguely felt, of a sort of ordered mirrored licence, the haunt of those--the irregular, like herself--who went to bed or who rose too late, something to think over while she watched the white-aproned waiter perform as nimbly with plates and saucers as a certain conjurer her friend had in London taken her to a music-hall to see. Sir Claude had presently begun to talk again, to tell her how London had looked and how long he had felt himself, on either side, to have been absent; all about Susan Ash too and the amusement as well as the difficulty he had had with her; then all about his return journey and the Channel in the night and the crowd of people coming over and the way there were always too many one knew. He spoke of other matters beside, especially of what she must tell him of the occupations, while he was away, of Mrs. Wix and her pupil. Hadn't they had the good time he had promised?--had he exaggerated a bit the arrangements made for their pleasure? Maisie had something--not all there was--to say of his success and of their gratitude: she had a complication of thought that grew every minute, grew with the consciousness that she had never seen him in this particular state in which he had been given back. Mrs. Wix had once said--it was once or fifty times; once was enough for Maisie, but more was not too much--that he was wonderfully various. Well, he was certainly so, to the child's mind, on the present occasion: he was much more various than he was anything else. Besides, the fact that they were together in a shop, at a nice little intimate table as they had so often been in London, only made greater the difference of what they were together about. This difference was in his face, in his voice, in every look he gave her and every movement he made. They were not the looks and the movements he really wanted to show, and she could feel as well that they were not those she herself wanted. She had seen him nervous, she had seen every one she had come in contact with nervous, but she had never seen him so nervous as this. Little by little it gave her a settled terror, a terror that partook of the coldness she had felt just before, at the hotel, to find herself, on his answer about Mrs. Beale, disbelieve him. She seemed to see at present, to touch across the table, as if by laying her hand on it, what he had meant when he confessed on those several occasions to fear. Why was such a man so often afraid? It must have begun to come to her now that there was one thing just such a man above all could be afraid of. He could be afraid of himself. His fear at all events was there; his fear was sweet to her, beautiful and tender to her, was having coffee and buttered rolls and talk and laughter that were no talk and laughter at all with her; his fear was in his jesting postponing perverting voice; it was just in this make-believe way he had brought her out to imitate the old London playtimes, to imitate indeed a relation that had wholly changed, a relation that she had with her very eyes seen in the act of change when, the day before in the salon, Mrs. Beale rose suddenly before her. She rose before her, for that matter, now, and even while their refreshment delayed Maisie arrived at the straight question for which, on their entrance, his first word had given opportunity. "Are we going to have déjeuner with Mrs. Beale?" His reply was anything but straight. "You and I?" Maisie sat back in her chair. "Mrs. Wix and me." Sir Claude also shifted. "That's an enquiry, my dear child, that Mrs. Beale herself must answer." Yes, he had shifted; but abruptly, after a moment during which something seemed to hang there between them and, as it heavily swayed, just fan them with the air of its motion, she felt that the whole thing was upon them. "Do you mind," he broke out, "my asking you what Mrs. Wix has said to you?" "Said to me?" "This day or two--while I was away." "Do you mean about you and Mrs. Beale?" Sir Claude, resting on his elbows, fixed his eyes a moment on the white marble beneath them. "No; I think we had a good deal of that--didn't we?--before I left you. It seems to me we had it pretty well all out. I mean about yourself, about your--don't you know?--associating with us, as I might say, and staying on with us. While you were alone with our friend what did she say?" Maisie felt the weight of the question; it kept her silent for a space during which she looked at Sir Claude, whose eyes remained bent. "Nothing," she returned at last. He showed incredulity. "Nothing?" "Nothing," Maisie repeated; on which an interruption descended in the form of a tray bearing the preparations for their breakfast. These preparations were as amusing as everything else; the waiter poured their coffee from a vessel like a watering-pot and then made it froth with the curved stream of hot milk that dropped from the height of his raised arm; but the two looked across at each other through the whole play of French pleasantness with a gravity that had now ceased to dissemble. Sir Claude sent the waiter off again for something and then took up her answer. "Hasn't she tried to affect you?" Face to face with him thus it seemed to Maisie that she had tried so little as to be scarce worth mentioning; again therefore an instant she shut herself up. Presently she found her middle course. "Mrs. Beale likes her now; and there's one thing I've found out--a great thing. Mrs. Wix enjoys her being so kind. She was tremendously kind all day yesterday." "I see. And what did she do?" Sir Claude asked. Maisie was now busy with her breakfast, and her companion attacked his own; so that it was all, in form at least, even more than their old sociability. "Everything she could think of. She was as nice to her as you are," the child said. "She talked to her all day." "And what did she say to her?" "Oh I don't know." Maisie was a little bewildered with his pressing her so for knowledge; it didn't fit into the degree of intimacy with Mrs. Beale that Mrs. Wix had so denounced and that, according to that lady, had now brought him back in bondage. Wasn't he more aware than his stepdaughter of what would be done by the person to whom he was bound? In a moment, however, she added: "She made love to her." Sir Claude looked at her harder, and it was clearly something in her tone that made him quickly say: "You don't mind my asking you, do you?" "Not at all; only I should think you'd know better than I." "What Mrs. Beale did yesterday?" She thought he coloured a trifle; but almost simultaneously with that impression she found herself answering: "Yes--if you have seen her." He broke into the loudest of laughs. "Why, my dear boy, I told you just now I've absolutely not. I say, don't you believe me?" There was something she was already so afraid of that it covered up other fears. "Didn't you come back to see her?" she enquired in a moment. "Didn't you come back because you always want to so much?" He received her enquiry as he had received her doubt--with an extraordinary absence of resentment. "I can imagine of course why you think that. But it doesn't explain my doing what I have. It was, as I said to you just now at the inn, really and truly you I wanted to see." She felt an instant as she used to feel when, in the back garden at her mother's, she took from him the highest push of a swing--high, high, high--that he had had put there for her pleasure and that had finally broken down under the weight and the extravagant patronage of the cook. "Well, that's beautiful. But to see me, you mean, and go away again?" "My going away again is just the point. I can't tell yet--it all depends." "On Mrs. Beale?" Maisie asked. "SHE won't go away." He finished emptying his coffee-cup and then, when he had put it down, leaned back in his chair, where she could see that he smiled on her. This only added to her idea that he was in trouble, that he was turning somehow in his pain and trying different things. He continued to smile and she went on: "Don't you know that?" "Yes, I may as well confess to you that as much as that I do know. SHE won't go away. She'll stay." "She'll stay. She'll stay," Maisie repeated. "Just so. Won't you have some more coffee?" "Yes, please." "And another buttered roll?" "Yes, please." He signed to the hovering waiter, who arrived with the shining spout of plenty in either hand and with the friendliest interest in mademoiselle. _"Les tartines sont là."_ Their cups were replenished and, while he watched almost musingly the bubbles in the fragrant mixture, "Just so--just so," Sir Claude said again and again. "It's awfully awkward!" he exclaimed when the waiter had gone. "That she won't go?" "Well--everything! Well, well, well!" But he pulled himself together; he began again to eat. "I came back to ask you something. That's what I came back for." "I know what you want to ask me," Maisie said. "Are you very sure?" "I'm ALMOST very." "Well then risk it. You mustn't make ME risk everything." She was struck with the force of this. "You want to know if I should be happy with THEM." "With those two ladies only? No, no, old man: _vous n'y êtes pas_. So now--there!" Sir Claude laughed. "Well then what is it?" The next minute, instead of telling her what it was, he laid his hand across the table on her own and held her as if under the prompting of a thought. "Mrs. Wix would stay with HER?" "Without you? Oh yes--now." "On account, as you just intimated, of Mrs. Beale's changed manner?" Maisie, with her sense of responsibility, weighed both Mrs. Beale's changed manner and Mrs. Wix's human weakness. "I think she talked her round." Sir Claude thought a moment. "Ah poor dear!" "Do you mean Mrs. Beale?" "Oh no--Mrs. Wix." "She likes being talked round--treated like any one else. Oh she likes great politeness," Maisie expatiated. "It affects her very much." Sir Claude, to her surprise, demurred a little to this. "Very much--up to a certain point." "Oh up to any point!" Maisie returned with emphasis. "Well, haven't I been polite to her?" "Lovely--and she perfectly worships you." "Then, my dear child, why can't she let me alone?"--this time Sir Claude unmistakeably blushed. Before Maisie, however, could answer his question, which would indeed have taken her long, he went on in another tone: "Mrs. Beale thinks she has probably quite broken her down. But she hasn't." Though he spoke as if he were sure, Maisie was strong in the impression she had just uttered and that she now again produced. "She has talked her round." "Ah yes; round to herself, but not round to me." Oh she couldn't bear to hear him say that! "To you? Don't you really believe how she loves you?" Sir Claude examined his belief. "Of course I know she's wonderful." "She's just every bit as fond of you as _I_ am," said Maisie. "She told me so yesterday." "Ah then," he promptly exclaimed, "she HAS tried to affect you! I don't love HER, don't you see? I do her perfect justice," he pursued, "but I mean I don't love her as I do you, and I'm sure you wouldn't seriously expect it. She's not my daughter--come, old chap! She's not even my mother, though I dare say it would have been better for me if she had been. I'll do for her what I'd do for my mother, but I won't do more." His real excitement broke out in a need to explain and justify himself, though he kept trying to correct and conceal it with laughs and mouthfuls and other vain familiarities. Suddenly he broke off, wiping his moustache with sharp pulls and coming back to Mrs. Beale. "Did she try to talk YOU over?" "No--to me she said very little. Very little indeed," Maisie continued. Sir Claude seemed struck with this. "She was only sweet to Mrs. Wix?" "As sweet as sugar!" cried Maisie. He looked amused at her comparison, but he didn't contest it; he uttered on the contrary, in an assenting way, a little inarticulate sound. "I know what she CAN be. But much good may it have done her! Mrs. Wix won't COME 'round.' That's what makes it so fearfully awkward." Maisie knew it was fearfully awkward; she had known this now, she felt, for some time, and there was something else it more pressingly concerned her to learn. "What is it you meant you came over to ask me?" "Well," said Sir Claude, "I was just going to say. Let me tell you it will surprise you." She had finished breakfast now and she sat back in her chair again: she waited in silence to hear. He had pushed the things before him a little way and had his elbows on the table. This time, she was convinced, she knew what was coming, and once more, for the crash, as with Mrs. Wix lately in her room, she held her breath and drew together her eyelids. He was going to say she must give him up. He looked hard at her again; then he made his effort. "Should you see your way to let her go?" She was bewildered. "To let who--?" "Mrs. Wix simply. I put it at the worst. Should you see your way to sacrifice her? Of course I know what I'm asking." Maisie's eyes opened wide again; this was so different from what she had expected. "And stay with you alone?" He gave another push to his coffee-cup. "With me and Mrs. Beale. Of course it would be rather rum; but everything in our whole story is rather rum, you know. What's more unusual than for any one to be given up, like you, by her parents?" "Oh nothing is more unusual than THAT!" Maisie concurred, relieved at the contact of a proposition as to which concurrence could have lucidity. "Of course it would be quite unconventional," Sir Claude went on--"I mean the little household we three should make together; but things have got beyond that, don't you see? They got beyond that long ago. We shall stay abroad at any rate--it's ever so much easier and it's our affair and nobody else's: it's no one's business but ours on all the blessed earth. I don't say that for Mrs. Wix, poor dear--I do her absolute justice. I respect her; I see what she means; she has done me a lot of good. But there are the facts. There they are, simply. And here am I, and here are you. And she won't come round. She's right from her point of view. I'm talking to you in the most extraordinary way--I'm always talking to you in the most extraordinary way, ain't I? One would think you were about sixty and that I--I don't know what any one would think _I_ am. Unless a beastly cad!" he suggested. "I've been awfully worried, and this's what it has come to. You've done us the most tremendous good, and you'll do it still and always, don't you see? We can't let you go--you're everything. There are the facts as I say. She IS your mother now, Mrs. Beale, by what has happened, and I, in the same way, I'm your father. No one can contradict that, and we can't get out of it. My idea would be a nice little place--somewhere in the South--where she and you would be together and as good as any one else. And I should be as good too, don't you see? for I shouldn't live with you, but I should be close to you--just round the corner, and it would be just the same. My idea would be that it should all be perfectly open and frank. _Honi soit qui mal y pense_, don't you know? You're the best thing--you and what we can do for you--that either of us has ever known," he came back to that. "When I say to her 'Give her up, come,' she lets me have it bang in the face: 'Give her up yourself!' It's the same old vicious circle--and when I say vicious I don't mean a pun, a what-d'-ye-call-'em. Mrs. Wix is the obstacle; I mean, you know, if she has affected you. She has affected ME, and yet here I am. I never was in such a tight place: please believe it's only that that makes me put it to you as I do. My dear child, isn't that--to put it so--just the way out of it? That came to me yesterday, in London, after Mrs. Beale had gone: I had the most infernal atrocious day. 'Go straight over and put it to her: let her choose, freely, her own self.' So I do, old girl--I put it to you. CAN you choose freely?" This long address, slowly and brokenly uttered, with fidgets and falterings, with lapses and recoveries, with a mottled face and embarrassed but supplicating eyes, reached the child from a quarter so close that after the shock of the first sharpness she could see intensely its direction and follow it from point to point; all the more that it came back to the point at which it had started. There was a word that had hummed all through it. "Do you call it a 'sacrifice'?" "Of Mrs. Wix? I'll call it whatever YOU call it. I won't funk it--I haven't, have I? I'll face it in all its baseness. Does it strike you it IS base for me to get you well away from her, to smuggle you off here into a corner and bribe you with sophistries and buttered rolls to betray her?" "To betray her?" "Well--to part with her." Maisie let the question wait; the concrete image it presented was the most vivid side of it. "If I part with her where will she go?" "Back to London." "But I mean what will she do?" "Oh as for that I won't pretend I know. I don't. We all have our difficulties." That, to Maisie, was at this moment more striking than it had ever been. "Then who'll teach me?" Sir Claude laughed out. "What Mrs. Wix teaches?" She smiled dimly; she saw what he meant. "It isn't so very very much." "It's so very very little," he returned, "that that's a thing we've positively to consider. We probably shouldn't give you another governess. To begin with we shouldn't be able to get one--not of the only kind that would do. It wouldn't do--the kind that WOULD do," he queerly enough explained. "I mean they wouldn't stay--heigh-ho! We'd do you ourselves. Particularly me. You see I CAN now; I haven't got to mind--what I used to. I won't fight shy as I did--she can show out WITH me. Our relation, all round, is more regular." It seemed wonderfully regular, the way he put it; yet none the less, while she looked at it as judiciously as she could, the picture it made persisted somehow in being a combination quite distinct--an old woman and a little girl seated in deep silence on a battered old bench by the rampart of the _haute ville_. It was just at that hour yesterday; they were hand in hand; they had melted together. "I don't think you yet understand how she clings to you," Maisie said at last. "I do--I do. But for all that--" And he gave, turning in his conscious exposure, an oppressed impatient sigh; the sigh, even his companion could recognise, of the man naturally accustomed to that argument, the man who wanted thoroughly to be reasonable, but who, if really he had to mind so many things, would be always impossibly hampered. What it came to indeed was that he understood quite perfectly. If Mrs. Wix clung it was all the more reason for shaking Mrs. Wix off. This vision of what she had brought him to occupied our young lady while, to ask what he owed, he called the waiter and put down a gold piece that the man carried off for change. Sir Claude looked after him, then went on: "How could a woman have less to reproach a fellow with? I mean as regards herself." Maisie entertained the question. "Yes. How COULD she have less? So why are you so sure she'll go?" "Surely you heard why--you heard her come out three nights ago? How can she do anything but go--after what she then said? I've done what she warned me of--she was absolutely right. So here we are. Her liking Mrs. Beale, as you call it now, is a motive sufficient, with other things, to make her, for your sake, stay on without me; it's not a motive sufficient to make her, even for yours, stay on WITH me--swallow, don't you see? what she can't swallow. And when you say she's as fond of me as you are I think I can, if that's the case, challenge you a little on it. Would YOU, only with those two, stay on without me?" The waiter came back with the change, and that gave her, under this appeal, a moment's respite. But when he had retreated again with the "tip" gathered in with graceful thanks on a subtle hint from Sir Claude's forefinger, the latter, while pocketing the money, followed the appeal up. "Would you let her make you live with Mrs. Beale?" "Without you? Never," Maisie then answered. "Never," she said again. It made him quite triumph, and she was indeed herself shaken by the mere sound of it. "So you see you're not, like her," he exclaimed, "so ready to give me away!" Then he came back to his original question. "CAN you choose? I mean can you settle it by a word yourself? Will you stay on with us without her?" Now in truth she felt the coldness of her terror, and it seemed to her that suddenly she knew, as she knew it about Sir Claude, what she was afraid of. She was afraid of herself. She looked at him in such a way that it brought, she could see, wonder into his face, a wonder held in check, however, by his frank pretension to play fair with her, not to use advantages, not to hurry nor hustle her--only to put her chance clearly and kindly before her. "May I think?" she finally asked. "Certainly, certainly. But how long?" "Oh only a little while," she said meekly. He had for a moment the air of wishing to look at it as if it were the most cheerful prospect in the world. "But what shall we do while you're thinking?" He spoke as if thought were compatible with almost any distraction. There was but one thing Maisie wished to do, and after an instant she expressed it. "Have we got to go back to the hotel?" "Do you want to?" "Oh no." "There's not the least necessity for it." He bent his eyes on his watch; his face was now very grave. "We can do anything else in the world." He looked at her again almost as if he were on the point of saying that they might for instance start off for Paris. But even while she wondered if that were not coming he had a sudden drop. "We can take a walk." She was all ready, but he sat there as if he had still something more to say. This too, however, didn't come; so she herself spoke. "I think I should like to see Mrs. Wix first." "Before you decide? All right--all right." He had put on his hat, but he had still to light a cigarette. He smoked a minute, with his head thrown back, looking at the ceiling; then he said: "There's one thing to remember--I've a right to impress it on you: we stand absolutely in the place of your parents. It's their defection, their extraordinary baseness, that has made our responsibility. Never was a young person more directly committed and confided." He appeared to say this over, at the ceiling, through his smoke, a little for his own illumination. It carried him after a pause somewhat further. "Though I admit it was to each of us separately." He gave her so at that moment and in that attitude the sense of wanting, as it were, to be on her side--on the side of what would be in every way most right and wise and charming for her--that she felt a sudden desire to prove herself not less delicate and magnanimous, not less solicitous for his own interests. What were these but that of the "regularity" he had just before spoken of? "It WAS to each of you separately," she accordingly with much earnestness remarked. "But don't you remember? I brought you together." He jumped up with a delighted laugh. "Remember? Rather! You brought us together, you brought us together. Come!" XXXI She remained out with him for a time of which she could take no measure save that it was too short for what she wished to make of it--an interval, a barrier indefinite, insurmountable. They walked about, they dawdled, they looked in shop-windows; they did all the old things exactly as if to try to get back all the old safety, to get something out of them that they had always got before. This had come before, whatever it was, without their trying, and nothing came now but the intenser consciousness of their quest and their subterfuge. The strangest thing of all was what had really happened to the old safety. What had really happened was that Sir Claude was "free" and that Mrs. Beale was "free," and yet that the new medium was somehow still more oppressive than the old. She could feel that Sir Claude concurred with her in the sense that the oppression would be worst at the inn, where, till something should be settled, they would feel the want of something--of what could they call it but a footing? The question of the settlement loomed larger to her now: it depended, she had learned, so completely on herself. Her choice, as her friend had called it, was there before her like an impossible sum on a slate, a sum that in spite of her plea for consideration she simply got off from doing while she walked about with him. She must see Mrs. Wix before she could do her sum; therefore the longer before she saw her the more distant would be the ordeal. She met at present no demand whatever of her obligation; she simply plunged, to avoid it, deeper into the company of Sir Claude. She saw nothing that she had seen hitherto--no touch in the foreign picture that had at first been always before her. The only touch was that of Sir Claude's hand, and to feel her own in it was her mute resistance to time. She went about as sightlessly as if he had been leading her blindfold. If they were afraid of themselves it was themselves they would find at the inn. She was certain now that what awaited them there would be to lunch with Mrs. Beale. All her instinct was to avoid that, to draw out their walk, to find pretexts, to take him down upon the beach, to take him to the end of the pier. He said no other word to her about what they had talked of at breakfast, and she had a dim vision of how his way of not letting her see him definitely wait for anything from her would make any one who should know of it, would make Mrs. Wix for instance, think him more than ever a gentleman. It was true that once or twice, on the jetty, on the sands, he looked at her for a minute with eyes that seemed to propose to her to come straight off with him to Paris. That, however, was not to give her a nudge about her responsibility. He evidently wanted to procrastinate quite as much as she did; he was not a bit more in a hurry to get back to the others. Maisie herself at this moment could be secretly merciless to Mrs. Wix-- to the extent at any rate of not caring if her continued disappearance did make that lady begin to worry about what had become of her, even begin to wonder perhaps if the truants hadn't found their remedy. Her want of mercy to Mrs. Beale indeed was at least as great; for Mrs. Beale's worry and wonder would be as much greater as the object at which they were directed. When at last Sir Claude, at the far end of the _plage_, which they had already, in the many-coloured crowd, once traversed, suddenly, with a look at his watch, remarked that it was time, not to get back to the _table d'hôte_, but to get over to the station and meet the Paris papers--when he did this she found herself thinking quite with intensity what Mrs. Beale and Mrs. Wix WOULD say. On the way over to the station she had even a mental picture of the stepfather and the pupil established in a little place in the South while the governess and the stepmother, in a little place in the North, remained linked by a community of blankness and by the endless series of remarks it would give birth to. The Paris papers had come in and her companion, with a strange extravagance, purchased no fewer than eleven: it took up time while they hovered at the bookstall on the restless platform, where the little volumes in a row were all yellow and pink and one of her favourite old women in one of her favourite old caps absolutely wheedled him into the purchase of three. They had thus so much to carry home that it would have seemed simpler, with such a provision for a nice straight journey through France, just to "nip," as she phrased it to herself, into the coupé of the train that, a little further along, stood waiting to start. She asked Sir Claude where it was going. "To Paris. Fancy!" She could fancy well enough. They stood there and smiled, he with all the newspapers under his arm and she with the three books, one yellow and two pink. He had told her the pink were for herself and the yellow one for Mrs. Beale, implying in an interesting way that these were the natural divisions in France of literature for the young and for the old. She knew how prepared they looked to pass into the train, and she presently brought out to her companion: "I wish we could go. Won't you take me?" He continued to smile. "Would you really come?" "Oh yes, oh yes. Try." "Do you want me to take our tickets?" "Yes, take them." "Without any luggage?" She showed their two armfuls, smiling at him as he smiled at her, but so conscious of being more frightened than she had ever been in her life that she seemed to see her whiteness as in a glass. Then she knew that what she saw was Sir Claude's whiteness: he was as frightened as herself. "Haven't we got plenty of luggage?" she asked. "Take the tickets--haven't you time? When does the train go?" Sir Claude turned to a porter. "When does the train go?" The man looked up at the station-clock. "In two minutes. _Monsieur est placé?_" _"Pas encore."_ _"Et vos billets?--vous n'avez que le temps."_ Then after a look at Maisie, _"Monsieur veut-il que je les prenne?"_ the man said. Sir Claude turned back to her. _"Veux-tu lieu qu'il en prenne?"_ It was the most extraordinary thing in the world: in the intensity of her excitement she not only by illumination understood all their French, but fell into it with an active perfection. She addressed herself straight to the porter. _"Prenny, prenny. Oh prenny!"_ _"Ah si mademoiselle le veut--!"_ He waited there for the money. But Sir Claude only stared--stared at her with his white face. "You HAVE chosen then? You'll let her go?" Maisie carried her eyes wistfully to the train, where, amid cries of _"En voiture, en voiture!"_ heads were at windows and doors banging loud. The porter was pressing. _"Ah vous n'avez plus le temps!"_ "It's going--it's going!" cried Maisie. They watched it move, they watched it start; then the man went his way with a shrug. "It's gone!" Sir Claude said. Maisie crept some distance up the platform; she stood there with her back to her companion, following it with her eyes, keeping down tears, nursing her pink and yellow books. She had had a real fright but had fallen back to earth. The odd thing was that in her fall her fear too had been dashed down and broken. It was gone. She looked round at last, from where she had paused, at Sir Claude's, and then saw that his wasn't. It sat there with him on the bench to which, against the wall of the station, he had retreated, and where, leaning back and, as she thought, rather queer, he still waited. She came down to him and he continued to offer his ineffectual intention of pleasantry. "Yes, I've chosen," she said to him. "I'll let her go if you--if you--" She faltered; he quickly took her up. "If I, if I--" "If you'll give up Mrs. Beale." "Oh!" he exclaimed; on which she saw how much, how hopelessly he was afraid. She had supposed at the café that it was of his rebellion, of his gathering motive; but how could that be when his temptations--that temptation for example of the train they had just lost--were after all so slight? Mrs. Wix was right. He was afraid of his weakness--of his weakness. She couldn't have told you afterwards how they got back to the inn: she could only have told you that even from this point they had not gone straight, but once more had wandered and loitered and, in the course of it, had found themselves on the edge of the quay where--still apparently with half an hour to spare--the boat prepared for Folkestone was drawn up. Here they hovered as they had done at the station; here they exchanged silences again, but only exchanged silences. There were punctual people on the deck, choosing places, taking the best; some of them already contented, all established and shawled, facing to England and attended by the steward, who, confined on such a day to the lighter offices, tucked up the ladies' feet or opened bottles with a pop. They looked down at these things without a word; they even picked out a good place for two that was left in the lee of a lifeboat; and if they lingered rather stupidly, neither deciding to go aboard nor deciding to come away, it was Sir Claude quite as much as she who wouldn't move. It was Sir Claude who cultivated the supreme stillness by which she knew best what he meant. He simply meant that he knew all she herself meant. But there was no pretence of pleasantry now: their faces were grave and tired. When at last they lounged off it was as if his fear, his fear of his weakness, leaned upon her heavily as they followed the harbour. In the hall of the hotel as they passed in she saw a battered old box that she recognised, an ancient receptacle with dangling labels that she knew and a big painted W, lately done over and intensely personal, that seemed to stare at her with a recognition and even with some suspicion of its own. Sir Claude caught it too, and there was agitation for both of them in the sight of this object on the move. Was Mrs. Wix going and was the responsibility of giving her up lifted, at a touch, from her pupil? Her pupil and her pupil's companion, transfixed a moment, held, in the presence of the omen, communication more intense than in the presence either of the Paris train or of the Channel steamer; then, and still without a word, they went straight upstairs. There, however, on the landing, out of sight of the people below, they collapsed so that they had to sink down together for support: they simply seated themselves on the uppermost step while Sir Claude grasped the hand of his stepdaughter with a pressure that at another moment would probably have made her squeal. Their books and papers were all scattered. "She thinks you've given her up!" "Then I must see her--I must see her," Maisie said. "To bid her good-bye?" "I must see her--I must see her," the child only repeated. They sat a minute longer, Sir Claude, with his tight grip of her hand and looking away from her, looking straight down the staircase to where, round the turn, electric bells rattled and the pleasant sea-draught blew. At last, loosening his grasp, he slowly got up while she did the same. They went together along the lobby, but before they reached the salon he stopped again. "If I give up Mrs. Beale--?" "I'll go straight out with you again and not come back till she has gone." He seemed to wonder. "Till Mrs. Beale--?" He had made it sound like a bad joke. "I mean till Mrs. Wix leaves--in that boat." Sir Claude looked almost foolish. "Is she going in that boat?" "I suppose so. I won't even bid her good-bye," Maisie continued. "I'll stay out till the boat has gone. I'll go up to the old rampart." "The old rampart?" "I'll sit on that old bench where you see the gold Virgin." "The gold Virgin?" he vaguely echoed. But it brought his eyes back to her as if after an instant he could see the place and the thing she named--could see her sitting there alone. "While I break with Mrs. Beale?" "While you break with Mrs. Beale." He gave a long deep smothered sigh. "I must see her first." "You won't do as I do? Go out and wait?" "Wait?"--once more he appeared at a loss. "Till they both have gone," Maisie said. "Giving US up?" "Giving US up." Oh with what a face for an instant he wondered if that could be! But his wonder the next moment only made him go to the door and, with his hand on the knob, stand as if listening for voices. Maisie listened, but she heard none. All she heard presently was Sir Claude's saying with speculation quite choked off, but so as not to be heard in the salon: "Mrs. Beale will never go." On this he pushed open the door and she went in with him. The salon was empty, but as an effect of their entrance the lady he had just mentioned appeared at the door of the bedroom. "Is she going?" he then demanded. Mrs. Beale came forward, closing her door behind her. "I've had the most extraordinary scene with her. She told me yesterday she'd stay." "And my arrival has altered it?" "Oh we took that into account!" Mrs. Beale was flushed, which was never quite becoming to her, and her face visibly testified to the encounter to which she alluded. Evidently, however, she had not been worsted, and she held up her head and smiled and rubbed her hands as if in sudden emulation of the _patronne_. "She promised she'd stay even if you should come." "Then why has she changed?" "Because she's a hound. The reason she herself gives is that you've been out too long." Sir Claude stared. "What has that to do with it?" "You've been out an age," Mrs. Beale continued; "I myself couldn't imagine what had become of you. The whole morning," she exclaimed, "and luncheon long since over!" Sir Claude appeared indifferent to that. "Did Mrs. Wix go down with you?" he only asked. "Not she; she never budged!"--and Mrs. Beale's flush, to Maisie's vision, deepened. "She moped there--she didn't so much as come out to me; and when I sent to invite her she simply declined to appear. She said she wanted nothing, and I went down alone. But when I came up, fortunately a little primed"--and Mrs. Beale smiled a fine smile of battle--"she WAS in the field!" "And you had a big row?" "We had a big row"--she assented with a frankness as large. "And while you left me to that sort of thing I should like to know where you were!" She paused for a reply, but Sir Claude merely looked at Maisie; a movement that promptly quickened her challenge. "Where the mischief have you been?" "You seem to take it as hard as Mrs. Wix," Sir Claude returned. "I take it as I choose to take it, and you don't answer my question." He looked again at Maisie--as if for an aid to this effort; whereupon she smiled at her stepmother and offered: "We've been everywhere." Mrs. Beale, however, made her no response, thereby adding to a surprise of which our young lady had already felt the light brush. She had received neither a greeting nor a glance, but perhaps this was not more remarkable than the omission, in respect to Sir Claude, parted with in London two days before, of any sign of a sense of their reunion. Most remarkable of all was Mrs. Beale's announcement of the pledge given by Mrs. Wix and not hitherto revealed to her pupil. Instead of heeding this witness she went on with acerbity: "It might surely have occurred to you that something would come up." Sir Claude looked at his watch. "I had no idea it was so late, nor that we had been out so long. We weren't hungry. It passed like a flash. What HAS come up?" "Oh that she's disgusted," said Mrs. Beale. "With whom then?" "With Maisie." Even now she never looked at the child, who stood there equally associated and disconnected. "For having no moral sense." "How SHOULD she have?" Sir Claude tried again to shine a little at the companion of his walk. "How at any rate is it proved by her going out with me?" "Don't ask ME; ask that woman. She drivels when she doesn't rage," Mrs. Beale declared. "And she leaves the child?" "She leaves the child," said Mrs. Beale with great emphasis and looking more than ever over Maisie's head. In this position suddenly a change came into her face, caused, as the others could the next thing see, by the reappearance of Mrs. Wix in the doorway which, on coming in at Sir Claude's heels, Maisie had left gaping. "I DON'T leave the child--I don't, I don't!" she thundered from the threshold, advancing upon the opposed three but addressing herself directly to Maisie. She was girded--positively harnessed--for departure, arrayed as she had been arrayed on her advent and armed with a small fat rusty reticule which, almost in the manner of a battle-axe, she brandished in support of her words. She had clearly come straight from her room, where Maisie in an instant guessed she had directed the removal of her minor effects. "I don't leave you till I've given you another chance. Will you come WITH me?" Maisie turned to Sir Claude, who struck her as having been removed to a distance of about a mile. To Mrs. Beale she turned no more than Mrs. Beale had turned: she felt as if already their difference had been disclosed. What had come out about that in the scene between the two women? Enough came out now, at all events, as she put it practically to her stepfather. "Will YOU come? Won't you?" she enquired as if she had not already seen that she should have to give him up. It was the last flare of her dream. By this time she was afraid of nothing. "I should think you'd be too proud to ask!" Mrs. Wix interposed. Mrs. Wix was herself conspicuously too proud. But at the child's words Mrs. Beale had fairly bounded. "Come away from ME, Maisie?" It was a wail of dismay and reproach, in which her stepdaughter was astonished to read that she had had no hostile consciousness and that if she had been so actively grand it was not from suspicion, but from strange entanglements of modesty. Sir Claude presented to Mrs. Beale an expression positively sick. "Don't put it to her THAT way!" There had indeed been something in Mrs. Beale's tone, and for a moment our young lady was reminded of the old days in which so many of her friends had been "compromised." This friend blushed; she was before Mrs. Wix, and though she bridled she took the hint. "No--it isn't the way." Then she showed she knew the way. "Don't be a still bigger fool, dear, but go straight to your room and wait there till I can come to you." Maisie made no motion to obey, but Mrs. Wix raised a hand that forestalled every evasion. "Don't move till you've heard me. I'M going, but I must first understand. Have you lost it again?" Maisie surveyed--for the idea of a describable loss--the immensity of space. Then she replied lamely enough: "I feel as if I had lost everything." Mrs. Wix looked dark. "Do you mean to say you HAVE lost what we found together with so much difficulty two days ago?" As her pupil failed of response she continued: "Do you mean to say you've already forgotten what we found together?" Maisie dimly remembered. "My moral sense?" "Your moral sense. HAVEN'T I, after all, brought it out?" She spoke as she had never spoken even in the schoolroom and with the book in her hand. It brought back to the child's recollection how she sometimes couldn't repeat on Friday the sentence that had been glib on Wednesday, and she dealt all feebly and ruefully with the present tough passage. Sir Claude and Mrs. Beale stood there like visitors at an "exam." She had indeed an instant a whiff of the faint flower that Mrs. Wix pretended to have plucked and now with such a peremptory hand thrust at her nose. Then it left her, and, as if she were sinking with a slip from a foothold, her arms made a short jerk. What this jerk represented was the spasm within her of something still deeper than a moral sense. She looked at her examiner; she looked at the visitors; she felt the rising of the tears she had kept down at the station. They had nothing--no, distinctly nothing--to do with her moral sense. The only thing was the old flat shameful schoolroom plea. "I don't know--I don't know." "Then you've lost it." Mrs. Wix seemed to close the book as she fixed the straighteners on Sir Claude. "You've nipped it in the bud. You've killed it when it had begun to live." She was a newer Mrs. Wix than ever, a Mrs. Wix high and great; but Sir Claude was not after all to be treated as a little boy with a missed lesson. "I've not killed anything," he said; "on the contrary I think I've produced life. I don't know what to call it--I haven't even known how decently to deal with it, to approach it; but, whatever it is, it's the most beautiful thing I've ever met--it's exquisite, it's sacred." He had his hands in his pockets and, though a trace of the sickness he had just shown perhaps lingered there, his face bent itself with extraordinary gentleness on both the friends he was about to lose. "Do you know what I came back for?" he asked of the elder. "I think I do!" cried Mrs. Wix, surprisingly un-mollified and with the heat of her late engagement with Mrs. Beale still on her brow. That lady, as if a little besprinkled by such turns of the tide, uttered a loud inarticulate protest and, averting herself, stood a moment at the window. "I came back with a proposal," said Sir Claude. "To me?" Mrs. Wix asked. "To Maisie. That she should give you up." "And does she?" Sir Claude wavered. "Tell her!" he then exclaimed to the child, also turning away as if to give her the chance. But Mrs. Wix and her pupil stood confronted in silence, Maisie whiter than ever--more awkward, more rigid and yet more dumb. They looked at each other hard, and as nothing came from them Sir Claude faced about again. "You won't tell her?--you can't?" Still she said nothing; whereupon, addressing Mrs. Wix, he broke into a kind of ecstasy. "She refused--she refused!" Maisie, at this, found her voice. "I didn't refuse. I didn't," she repeated. It brought Mrs. Beale straight back to her. "You accepted, angel--you accepted!" She threw herself upon the child and, before Maisie could resist, had sunk with her upon the sofa, possessed of her, encircling her. "You've given her up already, you've given her up for ever, and you're ours and ours only now, and the sooner she's off the better!" Maisie had shut her eyes, but at a word of Sir Claude's they opened. "Let her go!" he said to Mrs. Beale. "Never, never, never!" cried Mrs. Beale. Maisie felt herself more compressed. "Let her go!" Sir Claude more intensely repeated. He was looking at Mrs. Beale and there was something in his voice. Maisie knew from a loosening of arms that she had become conscious of what it was; she slowly rose from the sofa, and the child stood there again dropped and divided. "You're free--you're free," Sir Claude went on; at which Maisie's back became aware of a push that vented resentment and that placed her again in the centre of the room, the cynosure of every eye and not knowing which way to turn. She turned with an effort to Mrs. Wix. "I didn't refuse to give you up. I said I would if HE'D give up--" "Give up Mrs. Beale?" burst from Mrs. Wix. "Give up Mrs. Beale. What do you call that but exquisite?" Sir Claude demanded of all of them, the lady mentioned included; speaking with a relish as intense now as if some lovely work of art or of nature had suddenly been set down among them. He was rapidly recovering himself on this basis of fine appreciation. "She made her condition--with such a sense of what it should be! She made the only right one." "The only right one?"--Mrs. Beale returned to the charge. She had taken a moment before a snub from him, but she was not to be snubbed on this. "How can you talk such rubbish and how can you back her up in such impertinence? What in the world have you done to her to make her think of such stuff?" She stood there in righteous wrath; she flashed her eyes round the circle. Maisie took them full in her own, knowing that here at last was the moment she had had most to reckon with. But as regards her stepdaughter Mrs. Beale subdued herself to a question deeply mild. "HAVE you made, my own love, any such condition as that?" Somehow, now that it was there, the great moment was not so bad. What helped the child was that she knew what she wanted. All her learning and learning had made her at last learn that; so that if she waited an instant to reply it was only from the desire to be nice. Bewilderment had simply gone or at any rate was going fast. Finally she answered. "Will you give HIM up? Will you?" "Ah leave her alone--leave her, leave her!" Sir Claude in sudden supplication murmured to Mrs. Beale. Mrs. Wix at the same instant found another apostrophe. "Isn't it enough for you, madam, to have brought her to discussing your relations?" Mrs. Beale left Sir Claude unheeded, but Mrs. Wix could make her flame. "My relations? What do you know, you hideous creature, about my relations, and what business on earth have you to speak of them? Leave the room this instant, you horrible old woman!" "I think you had better go--you must really catch your boat," Sir Claude said distressfully to Mrs. Wix. He was out of it now, or wanted to be; he knew the worst and had accepted it: what now concerned him was to prevent, to dissipate vulgarities. "Won't you go--won't you just get off quickly?" "With the child as quickly as you like. Not without her." Mrs. Wix was adamant. "Then why did you lie to me, you fiend?" Mrs. Beale almost yelled. "Why did you tell me an hour ago that you had given her up?" "Because I despaired of her--because I thought she had left me." Mrs. Wix turned to Maisie. "You were WITH them--in their connexion. But now your eyes are open, and I take you!" "No you don't!" and Mrs. Beale made, with a great fierce jump, a wild snatch at her stepdaughter. She caught her by the arm and, completing an instinctive movement, whirled her round in a further leap to the door, which had been closed by Sir Claude the instant their voices had risen. She fell back against it and, even while denouncing and waving off Mrs. Wix, kept it closed in an incoherence of passion. "You don't take her, but you bundle yourself: she stays with her own people and she's rid of you! I never heard anything so monstrous!" Sir Claude had rescued Maisie and kept hold of her; he held her in front of him, resting his hands very lightly on her shoulders and facing the loud adversaries. Mrs. Beale's flush had dropped; she had turned pale with a splendid wrath. She kept protesting and dismissing Mrs. Wix; she glued her back to the door to prevent Maisie's flight; she drove out Mrs. Wix by the window or the chimney. "You're a nice one--'discussing relations'--with your talk of our 'connexion' and your insults! What in the world's our connexion but the love of the child who's our duty and our life and who holds us together as closely as she originally brought us?" "I know, I know!" Maisie said with a burst of eagerness. "I did bring you." The strangest of laughs escaped from Sir Claude. "You did bring us--you did!" His hands went up and down gently on her shoulders. Mrs. Wix so dominated the situation that she had something sharp for every one. "There you have it, you see!" she pregnantly remarked to her pupil. "WILL you give him up?" Maisie persisted to Mrs. Beale. "To YOU, you abominable little horror?" that lady indignantly enquired, "and to this raving old demon who has filled your dreadful little mind with her wickedness? Have you been a hideous little hypocrite all these years that I've slaved to make you love me and deludedly believed you did?" "I love Sir Claude--I love HIM," Maisie replied with an awkward sense that she appeared to offer it as something that would do as well. Sir Claude had continued to pat her, and it was really an answer to his pats. "She hates you--she hates you," he observed with the oddest quietness to Mrs. Beale. His quietness made her blaze. "And you back her up in it and give me up to outrage?" "No; I only insist that she's free--she's free." Mrs. Beale stared--Mrs. Beale glared. "Free to starve with this pauper lunatic?" "I'll do more for her than YOU ever did!" Mrs. Wix retorted. "I'll work my fingers to the bone." Maisie, with Sir Claude's hands still on her shoulders, felt, just as she felt the fine surrender in them, that over her head he looked in a certain way at Mrs. Wix. "You needn't do that," she heard him say. "She has means." "Means?--Maisie?" Mrs. Beale shrieked. "Means that her vile father has stolen!" "I'll get them back--I'll get them back. I'll look into it." He smiled and nodded at Mrs. Wix. This had a fearful effect on his other friend. "Haven't I looked into it, I should like to know, and haven't I found an abyss? It's too inconceivable--your cruelty to me!" she wildly broke out. She had hot tears in her eyes. He spoke to her very kindly, almost coaxingly. "We'll look into it again; we'll look into it together. It IS an abyss, but he CAN be made--or Ida can. Think of the money they're getting now!" he laughed. "It's all right, it's all right," he continued. "It wouldn't do--it wouldn't do. We CAN'T work her in. It's perfectly true--she's unique. We're not good enough--oh no!" and, quite exuberantly, he laughed again. "Not good enough, and that beast IS?" Mrs. Beale shouted. At this for a moment there was a hush in the room, and in the midst of it Sir Claude replied to the question by moving with Maisie to Mrs. Wix. The next thing the child knew she was at that lady's side with an arm firmly grasped. Mrs. Beale still guarded the door. "Let them pass," said Sir Claude at last. She remained there, however; Maisie saw the pair look at each other. Then she saw Mrs. Beale turn to her. "I'm your mother now, Maisie. And he's your father." "That's just where it is!" sighed Mrs. Wix with an effect of irony positively detached and philosophic. Mrs. Beale continued to address her young friend, and her effort to be reasonable and tender was in its way remarkable. "We're representative, you know, of Mr. Farange and his former wife. This person represents mere illiterate presumption. We take our stand on the law." "Oh the law, the law!" Mrs. Wix superbly jeered. "You had better indeed let the law have a look at you!" "Let them pass--let them pass!" Sir Claude pressed his friend hard--he pleaded. But she fastened herself still to Maisie. "DO you hate me, dearest?" Maisie looked at her with new eyes, but answered as she had answered before. "Will you give him up?" Mrs. Beale's rejoinder hung fire, but when it came it was noble. "You shouldn't talk to me of such things!" She was shocked, she was scandalised to tears. For Mrs. Wix, however, it was her discrimination that was indelicate. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" she roundly cried. Sir Claude made a supreme appeal. "Will you be so good as to allow these horrors to terminate?" Mrs. Beale fixed her eyes on him, and again Maisie watched them. "You should do him justice," Mrs. Wix went on to Mrs. Beale. "We've always been devoted to him, Maisie and I--and he has shown how much he likes us. He would like to please her; he would like even, I think, to please me. But he hasn't given you up." They stood confronted, the step-parents, still under Maisie's observation. That observation had never sunk so deep as at this particular moment. "Yes, my dear, I haven't given you up," Sir Claude said to Mrs. Beale at last, "and if you'd like me to treat our friends here as solemn witnesses I don't mind giving you my word for it that I never never will. There!" he dauntlessly exclaimed. "He can't!" Mrs. Wix tragically commented. Mrs. Beale, erect and alive in her defeat, jerked her handsome face about. "He can't!" she literally mocked. "He can't, he can't, he can't!"--Sir Claude's gay emphasis wonderfully carried it off. Mrs. Beale took it all in, yet she held her ground; on which Maisie addressed Mrs. Wix. "Shan't we lose the boat?" "Yes, we shall lose the boat," Mrs. Wix remarked to Sir Claude. Mrs. Beale meanwhile faced full at Maisie. "I don't know what to make of you!" she launched. "Good-bye," said Maisie to Sir Claude. "Good-bye, Maisie," Sir Claude answered. Mrs. Beale came away from the door. "Goodbye!" she hurled at Maisie; then passed straight across the room and disappeared in the adjoining one. Sir Claude had reached the other door and opened it. Mrs. Wix was already out. On the threshold Maisie paused; she put out her hand to her stepfather. He took it and held it a moment, and their eyes met as the eyes of those who have done for each other what they can. "Good-bye," he repeated. "Good-bye." And Maisie followed Mrs. Wix. They caught the steamer, which was just putting off, and, hustled across the gulf, found themselves on the deck so breathless and so scared that they gave up half the voyage to letting their emotion sink. It sank slowly and imperfectly; but at last, in mid-channel, surrounded by the quiet sea, Mrs. Wix had courage to revert. "I didn't look back, did you?" "Yes. He wasn't there," said Maisie. "Not on the balcony?" Maisie waited a moment; then "He wasn't there" she simply said again. Mrs. Wix also was silent a while. "He went to HER," she finally observed. "Oh I know!" the child replied. Mrs. Wix gave a sidelong look. She still had room for wonder at what Maisie knew. 
8678	----	THE ENGLISH GOVERNESS AT THE SIAMESE COURT BEING RECOLLECTIONS OF SIX YEARS IN THE ROYAL IN THE ROYAL PALACE AT BANGKOK BY ANNA HARRIETTE LEONOWENS. With Illustrations, FROM PHOTOGRAPHS PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY THE KING OF SIAM. [Illustration: Gateway Of the Old Palace.] TO MRS. KATHERINE S. COBB. I have not asked your leave, dear friend, to dedicate to you these pages of my experience in the heart of an Asiatic court; but I know you will indulge me when I tell you that my single object in inscribing your name here is to evince my grateful appreciation of the kindness that led you to urge me to try the resources of your country instead of returning to Siam, and to plead so tenderly in behalf of my children. I wish the offering were more worthy of your acceptance. But to associate your name with the work your cordial sympathy has fostered, and thus pleasantly to retrace even the saddest of my recollections, amid the happiness that now surrounds me,--a happiness I owe to the generous friendship of noble-hearted American women,--is indeed a privilege and a compensation. I remain, with true affection, gratitude, and admiration, Your friend, A. H. L. 26th July, 1870. PREFACE. His Majesty, Somdetch P'hra Paramendr Maha Mongkut, the Supreme King of Siam, having sent to Singapore for an English lady to undertake the education of his children, my friends pointed to me. At first it was with much reluctance that I consented to entertain the project; but, strange as it may seem, the more I reflected upon it the more feasible it appeared, until at length I began to look forward, even with a glow of enthusiasm, toward the new and untried field I was about to enter. The Siamese Consul at Singapore, Hon. W. Tan Kim-Ching, had written strongly in my favor to the Court of Siam, and in response I received the following letter from the King himself:-- "ENGLISH ERA, 1862, 26th February. GRAND ROYAL PALACE, BANGKOK. "To MRS. A. H. LEONOWENS:-- "MADAM: We are in good pleasure, and satisfaction in heart, that you are in willingness to undertake the education of our beloved royal children. And we hope that in doing your education on us and on our children (whom English, call inhabitants of benighted land) you will do your best endeavor for knowledge of English language, science, and literature, and not for conversion to Christianity; as the followers of Buddha are mostly aware of the powerfulness of truth and virtue, as well as the followers of Christ, and are desirous to have facility of English language and literature, more than new religions. "We beg to invite you to our royal palace to do your best endeavorment upon us and our children. We shall expect to see you here on return of Siamese steamer Chow Phya. "We have written to Mr. William Adamson, and to our consul at Singapore, to authorize to do best arrangement for you and ourselves. "Believe me "Your faithfully, (Signed) "S. S. P. P. MAHA MONGKUT." About a week before our departure for Bangkok, the captain and mate of the steamer Rainbow called upon me. One of these gentlemen had for several years served the government of Siam, and they came to warn me of the trials and dangers that must inevitably attend the enterprise in which I was embarking. Though it was now too late to deter me from the undertaking by any arguments addressed to my fears, I can nevertheless never forget the generous impulse of the honest seamen, who said: "Madam, be advised even by strangers, who have proved what sufferings await you, and shake your hands of this mad undertaking." By the next steamer I sailed for the Court of Siam. In the following pages I have tried to give a full and faithful account of the scenes and the characters that were gradually unfolded to me as I began to understand the language, and by all other means to attain a clearer insight into the secret life of the court. I was thankful to find, even in this citadel of Buddhism, men, and above all women, who were "lovely in their lives," who, amid infinite difficulties, in the bosom of a most corrupt society, and enslaved to a capricious and often cruel will, yet devoted themselves to an earnest search after truth. On the other hand, I have to confess with sorrow and shame, how far we, with all our boasted enlightenment, fall short, in true nobility and piety, of some of our "benighted" sisters of the East. With many of them, Love, Truth, and Wisdom are not mere synonyms but "living gods," for whom they long with lively ardor, and, when found, embrace with joy. Those of my readers who may find themselves interested in the wonderful ruins recently discovered in Cambodia are indebted to the earlier travellers, M. Henri Mouhot, Dr. A. Bastian, and the able English photographer. James Thomson, F. R. G. S. L., almost as much as to myself. To the Hon. George William Curtis of New York, and to all my other true friends, abroad and in America, I feel very grateful. And finally, I would acknowledge the deep obligation I am under to Dr. J. W. Palmer, whose literary experience and skill have been of so great service to me in revising and preparing my manuscript for the press. A. H. L. CONTENTS. I. ON THE THRESHOLD II. A SIAMESE PREMIER AT HOME III. A SKETCH OF SIAMESE HISTORY IV. HIS EXCELLENCY'S HAREM AND HELPMEET V. THE TEMPLES OF THE SLEEPING AND THE EMERALD IDOLS VI. THE KING AND THE GOVERNESS VII. MARBLE HALLS AND FISH-STALLS VIII. OUR HOME IN BANGKOK IX. OUR SCHOOL IN THE PALACE X. MOONSHEE AND THE ANGEL GABRIEL XI. THE WAYS OF THE PALACE XII. SHADOWS AND WHISPERS OF THE HAREM XIII. FA-YING, THE KING'S DARLING XIV. AN OUTRAGE AND A WARNING XV. THE CITY OF BANGKOK XVI. THE WHITE ELEPHANT XVII. THE CEREMONIES OF CORONATION XVIII. THE QUEEN CONSORT XIX. THE HEIR-APPARENT.--ROYAL HAIR-CUTTING XX. AMUSEMENTS OF THE COURT XXI. SIAMESE LITERATURE AND ART XXII. BUDDHIST DOCTRINE, PRIESTS, AND WORSHIP XXIII. CREMATION XXIV. CERTAIN SUPERSTITIONS XXV. THE SUBORDINATE KING XXVI. THE SUPREME KING: HIS CHARACTER AND ADMINISTRATION XXVII. MY RETIREMENT FROM THE PALACE XXVIII. THE KINGDOM OF SIAM XXIX. THE RUINS OF CAMBODIA.--AN EXCURSION TO THE NAGHKON WATT XXX. THE LEGEND OF THE MAHA NAGHKON [Illustration: Fac-Simile of Letter from present Supreme King of Siam: Transcription follows:] Amarinde Winschley Palace Bangkok March 6th 1869 Mrs. A. H. Leonowens New York Dear Madam, I have great pleasure in condescending to answer your sympathising letter of 25th November last wherein the sorrowful expressions of your heart in relation to my most beloved Sovereign Father in demise which is a venerated burden and I have left to this day and ever more shall bear this most unexpressable loss in mind, with the deepest respect and lamentation, and resignation to the will of divine Providence;--are very loyal to you too to ful, and share your grief in behalf the affection you have for your royal pupils, and the kind remembrances you have made of them in your letter, loves you too with that respect and love your are held in ther esteem, for such disinterestioness in imparting knowledge to them during your stay here with us. I have the pleasure also, to mention you that our Government in counsel has elected me to assume the reins of Government notwithstanding my juvenility; and I am pleased to see the love the people have for me, most undoubtedly arising from the respect and veneration they have had for my beloved royal Father and I hope to render them prosperity and peace, and equal measure, they have enjoyed since the last reign in return. May you and your beloved children be in the peace of the divine Providence. I beg to remain, Yours sincerely Somdetch Phra Chulalonkorn Klou Chow-yu Hua Supreme King of Siam on 114th day of reign I. ON THE THRESHOLD. MARCH 15, 1862.--On board the small Siamese steamer Chow Phya, in the Gulf of Siam. I rose before the sun, and ran on deck to catch an early glimpse of the strange land we were nearing; and as I peered eagerly, not through mist and haze, but straight into the clear, bright, many-tinted ether, there came the first faint, tremulous blush of dawn, behind her rosy veil; and presently the welcome face shines boldly out, glad, glorious, beautiful, and aureoled with flaming hues of orange, fringed with amber and gold, wherefrom flossy webs of color float wide through the sky, paling as they go. A vision of comfort and gladness, that tropical March morning, genial as a July dawn in my own less ardent clime; but the memory of two round, tender arms, and two little dimpled hands, that so lately had made themselves loving fetters round my neck, in the vain hope of holding mamma fast, blinded my outlook; and as, with a nervous tremor and a rude jerk, we came to anchor there, so with a shock and a tremor I came to my hard realities. The captain told us we must wait for the afternoon tide to carry us over the bar. I lingered on deck, as long as I could dodge the fiery spears that flashed through our tattered awning, and bear the bustle and the boisterous jests of some circus people, our fellow-passengers, who came by express invitation of the king to astonish and amuse the royal household and the court. Scarcely less intelligent, and certainly more entertaining, than these were the dogs of our company,-? brutes of diverse temperament, experience, and behavior. There were the captain's two, Trumpet and Jip, who, by virtue of their reflected rank and authority, held places of privilege and pickings under the table, and were jealous and overbearing as became a captain's favorites, snubbing and bullying their more accomplished and versatile guests, the circus dogs, with skipper-like growls and snarls and snaps. And there was our own true Bessy,--a Newfoundland, great and good,--discreet, reposeful, dignified, fastidious, not to be cajoled into confidences and familiarities with strange dogs, whether official or professional. Very human was her gentle countenance, and very loyal, I doubt not, her sense of responsibility, as she followed anxiously my boy and me, interpreting with her heart the thoughts she read in our faces, and responding with her sympathetic eyes. In the afternoon, when we dined on deck, the land was plainly visible; and now, as with a favoring tide we glided toward the beautiful Meinam ("Mother of Waters"), the air grew brighter, and the picture lived and moved; trees _grew_ on the banks, more and more verdure, monkeys swung from bough to bough, birds flashed and piped among the thickets. Though the reddish-brown water over the "banks" is very shallow at low tide, craft of moderate burden, with the aid of a pilot, cast anchor commonly in the very heart of the capital, in from ten to twelve fathoms of water. The world has few rivers so deep, commodious, and safe as the Meinam; and when we arrived the authorities were contemplating the erection of beacons on the bar, as well as a lighthouse for the benefit of vessels entering the port of Bangkok. The stream is rich in fish of excellent quality and flavor, such as is found in most of the great rivers of Asia; and is especially noted for its _platoo_, a kind of sardine, so abundant and cheap that it forms a common seasoning to the laborer's bowl of rice. The Siamese are expert in modes of drying and salting fish of all kinds, and large quantities are exported annually to Java, Sumatra, Malacca, and China. In half an hour from the time when the twin banks of the river, in their raiment of bright green, seemed to open their beautiful arms to receive us, we came to anchor opposite the mean, shabby, irregular town of Paknam, or Sumuttra P'hra-kan ("Ocean Affairs"). Here the captain went ashore to report himself to the Governor, and the officials of the custom-house, and the mail-boat came out to us. My boy became impatient for _couay_ (cake); Moonshee, my Persian teacher, and Beebe, my gay Hindostanee nurse, expressed their disappointment and disgust, Moonshee being absurdly dramatic in his wrath, as, fairly shaking his fist at the town, he demanded, "What is this?" Near this place are two islands. The one on the right is fortified, yet withal so green and pretty, and seemingly so innocent of bellicose designs, that one may fancy Nature has taken peculiar pains to heal and hide the disfigurements grim Art has made in her beauty. On the other, which at first I took for a floating shrine of white marble, is perhaps the most unique and graceful object of architecture in Siam; shining like a jewel on the broad bosom of the river, a temple all of purest white, its lofty spire, fantastic and gilded, flashing back the glory of the sun, and duplicated in shifting, quivering shadows in the limpid waters below. Add to these the fitful ripple of the coquettish breeze, the burnished blazonry of the surrounding vegetation, the budding charms of spring joined to the sensuous opulence of autumn, and you have a scene of lovely glamour it were but vain impertinence to describe. Earth seemed to have gathered for her adorning here elements more intellectual, poetic, and inspiring than she commonly displays to pagan eyes. These islands at the gateway of the river are, like the bank in the gulf, but accumulations of the sand borne down before the torrent, that, suddenly swollen by the rains, rushes annually to the sea. The one on which the temple stands is partly artificial, having been raised from the bed of the Meinam by the king P'hra Chow Phra-sat-thong, as a work of "merit." Visiting this island some years later, I found that this temple, like all other pyramidal structures in this part of the world, consists of solid masonry of brick and mortar. The bricks made here are remarkable, being fully eight inches long and nearly four broad, and of fine grain,--altogether not unlike the "tavellae" brick of the Egyptians and ancient Romans. There are cornices on all sides, with steps to ascend to the top, where a long inscription proclaims the name, rank, and virtues of the founder, with dates of the commencement of the island and the shrine. The whole of the space, extending to the low stone breakwater that surrounds the island, is paved with the same kind of brick, and encloses, in addition to the P'hra-Cha-dei ("The Lord's Delight"), a smaller temple with a brass image of the sitting Buddha. It also affords accommodation to the numerous retinue of princes, nobles, retainers, and pages who attend the king in his annual visits to the temple, to worship, and make votive offerings and donations to the priests. A charming spot, yet not one to be contemplated with unalloyed pleasure; for here also are the wretched people, who pass up and down in boats, averting their eyes, pressing their hard, labor-grimed hands against their sweating foreheads, and lowly louting in blind awe to these whited bricks. Even the naked children hush and crouch, and lay their little foreheads against the bottom of the boat. His Majesty Somdetch P'hra Paramendr Maha Mongkut, the late Supreme King, contributed interesting _souvenirs_ to the enlargement and adornment of this temple. The town, which the twin islands redeem from the ignominy it otherwise deserves, lies on the east bank of the river, and by its long lines of low ramparts that face the water seems to have been at one time substantially fortified; but the works are now dilapidated and neglected. They were constructed in the first instance, I am told, with fatal ingenuity; in the event of an attack the garrison would find them as dangerous to abandon as to defend. Paknam is indebted for its importance rather to its natural position, and its possibilities of improvement under the abler hands into which it is gradually falling, than to any advantage or promise in itself; for a more disgusting, repulsive place is scarcely to be found on Asian ground. The houses are built partly of mud, partly of wood, and, as in those of Malacca, only the upper story is habitable, the ground floor being the abode of pigs, dogs, fowls, and noisome reptiles. The "Government House" was originally of stone, but all the more recent additions have been shabbily constructed of rough timber and mud. This is one of the few houses in Paknam which one may enter without mounting a ladder or a clumsy staircase, and which have rooms in the lower as well as in the upper story. The Custom-House is an open _sala_, or shed, where interpreters, inspectors, and tidewaiters lounge away the day on cool mats, chewing areca, betel, and tobacco, and extorting moneys, goods, or provisions from the unhappy proprietors of native trading craft, large or small; but Europeans are protected from their rascally and insolent exactions by the intelligence and energy of their respective consuls. The hotel is a whitewashed brick building, originally designed to accommodate foreign ambassadors and other official personages visiting the Court of Siam. The king's summer-house, fronting the islands, is the largest edifice to be seen, but it has neither dignity nor beauty. A number of inferior temples and monasteries occupy the background, and are crowded with a rabble of priests, in yellow robes and with shaven pates; packs of mangy pariah-dogs attend them. These monasteries consist of many small rooms or cells, containing merely a mat and wooden pillow for each occupant. The refuse of the food, which the priests beg during the day, is cast to the dogs at night; and what _they_ refuse is left to putrefy. Unimaginable are the stenches the sun of Siam engenders in such conditions. A village so happily situated might, under better management, become a thriving and pleasing port; but neglect, cupidity, and misrule have shockingly deformed and degraded it. Nevertheless, by its picturesque site and surroundings of beauty, it retains its hold upon the regretful admiration of many Europeans and Americans, who in ill health have found strength and cheer in its sea-breezes. We heartily enjoyed the delightful freshness of the evening air as we glided up the Meinam, though the river view at this point is somewhat marred by the wooden piers and quays that line it on either side, and the floating houses, representing elongated A's. From the deck, at a convenient height above the level of the river and the narrow serpentine canals and creeks, we looked down upon conical roofs thatched with attaps, and diversified by the pyramids and spires and fantastic turrets of the more important buildings. The valley of the Meinam, not over six hundred miles in length, is as a long deep dent or fissure in the alluvial soil. At its southern extremity we have the climate and vegetation of the tropics, while its northern end, on the brow of the Yunan, is a region of perpetual snow. The surrounding country is remarkable for the bountiful productiveness of its unctuous loam. The scenery, though not wild nor grand, is very picturesque and charming in the peculiar golden haze of its atmosphere. I surveyed with more and more admiration each new scene of blended luxuriance and beauty,--plantations spreading on either hand as far as the eye could reach, and level fields of living green, billowy with crops of rice and maize, and sugar-cane and coffee, and cotton and tobacco; and the wide irregular river, a kaleidoscope of evanescent form and color, where land, water, and sky joined or parted in a thousand charming surprises of shapes and shadows. The sun was already sinking in the west, when we caught sight of a tall roof of familiar European fashion; and presently a lowly white chapel with green windows, freshly painted, peeped out beside two pleasant dwellings. Chapel and homes belong to the American Presbyterian Mission. A forest of graceful boughs filled the background; the last faint rays of the departing sun fell on the Mission pathway, and the gentle swaying of the tall trees over the chapel imparted a promise of safety and peace, as the glamour of the approaching night and the gloom and mystery of the pagan land into which we were penetrating filled me with an indefinable dread. I almost trembled, as the unfriendly clouds drove out the lingering tints of day. Here were the strange floating city, with its stranger people on all the open porches, quays, and jetties; the innumerable rafts and boats, canoes and gondolas, junks, and ships; the pall of black smoke from the steamer, the burly roar of the engine, and the murmur and the jar; the bewildering cries of men, women, and children, the shouting of the Chinamen, and the barking of the dogs,--yet no one seemed troubled but me. I knew it was wisest to hide my fears. It was the old story. How many of our sisters, how many of our daughters, how many of our hearts' darlings, are thus, without friend or guide or guard or asylum, turning into untried paths with untold stories of trouble and pain! We dropped anchor in deep water near an island. In a moment the river was alive with nondescript craft, worked by amphibious creatures, half naked, swarthy, and grim, who rent the air with shrill, wild jargon as they scrambled toward us. In the distance were several hulks of Siamese men-of-war, seemingly as old as the flood; and on the right towered, tier over tier, the broad roofs of the grand Royal Palace of Bangkok,--my future "home" and the scene of my future labors. The circus people are preparing to land; and the dogs, running to and fro with anxious glances, have an air of leave-taking also. Now the China coolies, with pigtails braided and coiled round their low, receding brows, begin their uncouth bustle, and into the small hours of the morning enliven the time of waiting with frantic shouts and gestures. Before long a showy gondola, fashioned like a dragon, with flashing torches and many paddles, approached; and a Siamese official mounted the side, swaying himself with an absolute air. The red _langoutee_, or skirt, loosely folded about his person, did not reach his ankles; and to cover his audacious chest and shoulders he had only his own brown polished skin. He was followed by a dozen attendants, who, the moment they stepped from the gangway, sprawled on the deck like huge toads, doubling their arms and legs under them, and pressing their noses against the boards, as if intent on making themselves small by degrees and hideously less. Every Asiatic on deck, coolies and all, prostrates himself, except my two servants, who are bewildered. Moonshee covertly mumbles his five prayers, ejaculating between, _Mash-Allah! A Tala-yea kia hai?_ [Footnote: "Great God! what is this?"] and Beebe shrinks, and draws her veil of spotted muslin jealously over her charms. The captain stepped forward and introduced us. "His Excellency Chow Phya Sri Sury Wongse, Prime Minister of the Kingdom of Siam!" Half naked as he was, and without an emblem to denote his rank, there was yet something remarkable about this native chief, by virtue of which he compelled our respect from the first glance,--a sensibly magnetic quality of tone or look. With an air of command oddly at variance with his almost indecent attire, of which he seemed superbly unconscious, he beckoned to a young attendant, who crawled to him as a dog crawls to an angry master. This was an interpreter, who at a word from his lord began to question me in English. "Are you the lady who is to teach in the royal family?" On my replying in the affirmative, he asked, "Have you friends in Bangkok?" Finding I had none, he was silent for a minute or two; then demanded: "What will you do? Where will you sleep to-night?" "Indeed I cannot tell," I said. "I am a stranger here. But I understood from his Majesty's letter that a residence would be provided for us on our arrival; and he has been duly informed that we were to arrive at this time." "His Majesty cannot remember everything," said his Excellency; the interpreter added, "You can go where you like." And away went master and slaves. I was dumfoundered, without even voice to inquire if there was a hotel in the city; and my servants were scornfully mute. My kind friend the captain was sorely puzzled. He would have sheltered us if he could; but a cloud of coal-dust and the stamping and screaming of a hundred and fifty Chinamen made hospitality impracticable; so I made a little bed for my child on deck, and prepared to pass the night with him under a canopy of stars. The situation was as Oriental as the scene,--heartless arbitrary insolence on the part of my employers; homelessness, forlornness, helplessness, mortification, indignation, on mine. Fears and misgivings crowded and stunned me. My tears fell thick and fast, and, weary and despairing, I closed my eyes, and tried to shut out heaven and earth; but the reflection would return to mock and goad me, that by my own act, and against the advice of my friends, I had placed myself in this position. The good captain of the Chow Phya, much troubled by the conduct of the minister, paced the deck (which usually, on these occasions, he left to the supercargo) for more than an hour. Presently a boat approached, and he hailed it. In a moment it was at the gangway, and with robust, hearty greetings on both sides, Captain B----, a cheery Englishman, with a round, ruddy, rousing face, sprang on board; in a few words our predicament was explained to him, and at once he invited us to share his house, for the night at least, assuring us of a cordial welcome from his wife. In the beautiful gondola of our "friend in need" we were pulled by four men, standing to their oars, through a dream-like scene, peculiar to this Venice of the East. Larger boats, in an endless variety of form and adornment, with prows high, tapering, and elaborately carved, and pretty little gondolas and canoes, passed us continually on the right and left; yet amid so many signs of life, motion, traffic, bustle, the sweet sound of the rippling waters alone fell on the ear. No rumbling of wheels, nor clatter of hoofs, nor clangor of bells, nor roar and scream of engines to shock the soothing fairy-like illusion. The double charm of stillness and starlight was perfect. "By the by," broke in my cheery new friend, "you'll have to go with me to the play, ma'm; because my wife is there with the boys, and the house-key is in her pocket." "To the play!" "O, don't be alarmed, ma'm! It's not a regular theatre; only a catchpenny show, got up by a Frenchman, who came from Singapore a fortnight since. And having so little amusement here, we are grateful for anything that may help to break the monotony. The temporary playhouse is within the palace grounds of his Royal Highness Prince Krom Lhuang Wongse; and I hope to have an opportunity to introduce you to the Prince, who I believe is to be present with his family." The intelligence was not gratifying, a Siamese prince had too lately disturbed my moral equilibrium; but I held my peace and awaited the result with resignation. A few strokes of the oars, seconded by the swift though silent current, brought us to a wooden pier surmounted by two glaring lanterns. Captain B---- handed us out. My child, startled from a deep sleep, was refractory, and would not trust himself out of my fond keeping. When finally I had struggled with him in my arms to the landing, I saw in the shadow a form coiled on a piece of striped matting. Was it a bear? No, a prince! For the clumsy mass of reddish- brown flesh unrolled and uplifted itself, and held out a human arm, with a fat hand at the end of it, when Captain B---- presented me to "his Royal Highness." Near by was his Excellency the Prime Minister, in the identical costume that had disgraced our unpleasant interview on the Chow Phya; he was smoking a European pipe, and plainly enjoying our terrors. My stalwart friend contrived to squeeze us, and even himself, first through a bamboo door, and then through a crowd of hot people, to seats fronting a sort of altar, consecrated to the arts of jugglery. A number of Chinamen of respectable appearance occupied the more distant places, while those immediately behind us were filled by the ladies and gentlemen of the foreign community. On a raised dais hung with kincob [Footnote: Silk, embroidered with, gold flowers.] curtains, the ladies of the Prince's harem reclined; while their children, shining in silk and ornaments of gold, laughed, prattled, and gesticulated, until the juggler appeared, when they were stunned with sudden wonder. Under the eaves on all sides human heads were packed, on every head its cherished tuft of hair, like a stiff black brush inverted, in every mouth its delicious cud of areca-nut and betel, which the human cattle ruminated with industrious content. The juggler, a keen little Frenchman, plied his arts nimbly, and what with his ventriloquial doll, his empty bag full of eggs, his stones that were candies, and his candies that were stones, and his stuffed birds that sang, astonished and delighted his unsophisticated patrons, whose applauding murmurs were diversified by familiarly silly shrieks--the true Siamese Did-you-ever!--from behind the kincob curtains. But I was weary and disheartened, and welcomed with a sigh of relief the closing of the show. As we passed out with our guide, the glare of many torches falling on the dark silent river made the swarthy forms of the boatmen weird and Charon-like. Mrs. B---- welcomed us with a pleasant smile to her little heaven of home across the river, and by the simplicity and gentleness of her manners dispelled in a measure my feeling of forlornness. When at last I found myself alone, I would have sought the sleep I so much needed, but the strange scenes of the day chased each other in agitating confusion through my brain. Then I quitted the side of my sleeping boy, triumphant in his dreamless innocence, and sat defeated by the window, to crave counsel and help from the ever-present Friend; and as I waited I sank into a tumultuous slumber, from which at last I started to find the long-tarrying dawn climbing over a low wall and creeping through a half-open shutter. II. A SIAMESE PREMIER AT HOME. I started up, arranged my dress, and smoothed my hair; though no water nor any after-touches could remove the shadow that night of gloom and loneliness had left upon my face. But my boy awoke with eager, questioning eyes, his smile bright and his hair lustrous. As we knelt together by the window at the feet of "Our Father," I could not but ask in the darkness of my trouble, did it need so bitter a baptism as ours to purify so young a soul? In an outer room we met Mrs. B---- _en déshabillé_, and scarcely so pretty as at our first meeting, but for her smile, remarkable for its subtile, evanescent sweetness. At breakfast our host joined us, and, after laughing at our late predicament and fright, assured me of that which I have since experienced,--the genuine goodness of the Prince Krom Lhuang Wongse. Every foreign resident of Bangkok, who at any time has had friendly acquaintance or business with him, would, I doubt not, join me in expressions of admiration and regard for one who has maintained through circumstances so trying and under a system so oppressive an exemplary reputation for liberality, integrity, justice, and humanity. Soon after breakfast the Prime Minister's boat, with the slave interpreter who had questioned me on the steamer, arrived to take us to his Excellency's palace. [Illustration: THE PRIME MINISTER.] In about a quarter of an hour we found ourselves in front of a low gateway, which opened on a wide courtyard, or "compound," paved with rough-hewn slabs of stone. A brace of Chinese mandarins of ferocious aspect, cut in stone and mounted on stone horses, guarded the entrance. Farther on, a pair of men-at-arms in bass-relief challenged us; and near these were posted two living sentries, in European costume, but without shoes. On the left was a pavilion for theatrical entertainments, one entire wall being covered with scenic pictures. On the right of this stood the palace of the Prime Minister, displaying a semicircular _façade_; in the background a range of buildings of considerable extent, comprising the lodgings of his numerous wives. Attached to the largest of these houses was a charming garden of flowers, in the midst of which a refreshing fountain played. His Excellency's residence abounded within in carvings and gildings, elegant in design and color, that blended and harmonized in pleasing effects with the luxurious draperies that hung in rich folds from the windows. We moved softly, as the interpreter led us through a suite of spacious saloons, disposed in ascending tiers, and all carpeted, candelabraed, and appointed in the most costly European fashion. A superb vase of silver, embossed and burnished, stood on a table inlaid with mother-of-pearl and chased with silver. Flowers of great variety and beauty filled the rooms with a delicious though slightly oppressive fragrance. On every side my eyes were delighted with rare vases, jewelled cups and boxes, burnished chalices, dainty statuettes,-- _objets de virtu_, Oriental and European, antique and modern, blending the old barbaric splendors with the graces of the younger arts. As we waited, fascinated and bewildered, the Prime Minister suddenly stood before us,--the semi-nude barbarian of last night. I lost my presence of mind, and in my embarrassment would have left the room. But he held out his hand, saying, "Good morning, _sir_! Take a seat, _sir_!" which I did somewhat shyly, but not without a smile for his comical "sir." I spied a number of young girls peeping at us from behind curtains, while the male attendants, among whom were his younger brothers, nephews, and cousins, crouched in the antechamber on all fours. His Excellency, with an expression of pleased curiosity, and that same grand unconsciousness of his alarming poverty of costume, approached us nearly, and, with a kindly smile patting Boy on the head, asked him his name. But the child cried aloud, "Mamma, come home! Please, mamma, come home!" and I found it not easy to quiet him. Presently, mustering courage for myself also, I ventured to express my wish for a quiet house or apartments, where I might be free from intrusion, and at perfect liberty before and after school-hours. When this reasonable request was interpreted to him--seemingly in a few monosyllables--he stood looking at me, smiling, as if surprised and amused that I should have notions on the subject of liberty. Quickly this look became inquisitive and significant, so that I began to fancy he had doubts as to the use I might make of my stipulated freedom, and was puzzled to conjecture why a woman should wish to be free at all. Some such thought must have passed through his mind, for he said abruptly, "You not married!" I bowed. "Then where will you go in the evening?" "Not anywhere, your Excellency. I simply desire to secure for myself and my child some hours of privacy and rest, when my duties do not require my presence elsewhere." "How many years your husband has been dead?" he asked. I replied that his Excellency had no right to pry into my domestic concerns. His business was with me as a governess only; on any other subject I declined conversing. I enjoyed the expression of blank amazement with which he regarded me on receiving this somewhat defiant reply. "_Tam chai!_" ("Please yourself!") he said, and proceeded to pace to and fro, but without turning his eyes from my face, or ceasing to smile. Then he said something to his attendants, five or six of whom, raising themselves on their knees, with their eyes fixed upon the carpet, crawled backward till they reached the steps, bobbed their heads and shoulders, started spasmodically to their feet, and fled from the apartment. My boy, who had been awed and terrified, began to cry, and I too was startled. Again he uttered the harsh gutturals, and instantly, as with an electric shock, another half-dozen of the prostrate slaves sprang up and ran. Then he resumed his mysterious promenade, still carefully keeping an eye upon us, and smiling by way of conversation. It was long before I could imagine what we were to do. Boy, fairly tortured, cried "Come home, mamma! why don't you come home? I don't like that man." His Excellency halted, and sinking his voice ominously, said, "You no can go!" Boy clutched my dress, and hid his face and smothered his sobs in my lap; and yet, attracted, fascinated, the poor little fellow from time to time looked up, only to shudder, tremble, and hide his face again. For his sake I was glad when the interpreter returned on all fours. Pushing one elbow straight out before the other, in the manner of these people, he approached his master with such a salutation as might be offered to deity; and with a few more unintelligible utterances, his Excellency bowed to us, and disappeared behind a mirror. All the curious, peering eyes that had been directed upon us from every nook and corner where a curtain hung, instantly vanished; and at the same time sweet, wild music, like the tinkling of silver bells in the distance, fell upon our ears. To my astonishment the interpreter stood boldly upright, and began to contemplate his irresistible face and figure in a glass, and arrange with cool coxcombry his darling tuft of hair; which done, he approached us with a mild swagger, and proceeded to address me with a freedom which I found it expedient to snub. I told him that, although I did not require any human being to go down on his face and hands before me, I should nevertheless tolerate no familiarity or disrespect from any one. The fellow understood me well enough, but did not permit me to recover immediately from my surprise at the sudden change in his bearing and tone. As he led us to the two elegant rooms reserved for us in the west end of the palace, he informed us that he was the Premier's half-brother, and hinted that I would be wise to conciliate him if I wished to have my own way. In the act of entering one of the rooms, I turned upon him angrily, and bade him be off. The next moment this half-brother of a Siamese magnate was kneeling in abject supplication in the half-open doorway, imploring me not to report him to his Excellency, and promising never to offend again. Here was a miracle of repentance I had not looked for; but the miracle was sham. Rage, cunning, insolence, servility, and hypocrisy were vilely mixed in the minion. Our chambers opened on a quiet piazza, shaded by fruit-trees in blossom, and overlooking a small artificial lake stocked with pretty, sportive fish. To be free to make a stunning din is a Siamese woman's idea of perfect enjoyment. Hardly were we installed in our apartments when, with a pell-mell rush and screams of laughter, the ladies of his Excellency's private Utah reconnoitred us in force. Crowding in through the half-open door, they scrambled for me with eager curiosity, all trying at once to embrace me boisterously, and promiscuously chattering in shrill Siamese,--a bedlam of parrots; while I endeavored to make myself impartially agreeable in the language of signs and glances. Nearly all were young; and in symmetry of form, delicacy of feature, and fairness of complexion, decidedly superior to the Malay women I had been accustomed to. Most of them might have been positively attractive, but for their ingeniously ugly mode of clipping the hair and blackening the teeth. The youngest were mere children, hardly more than fourteen years old. All were arrayed in rich materials, though the fashion did not differ from that of their slaves, numbers of whom were prostrate in the rooms and passages. My apartments were ablaze with their crimson, blue, orange, and purple, their ornaments of gold, their rings and brilliants, and their jewelled boxes. Two or three of the younger girls satisfied my Western ideas of beauty, with their clear, mellow, olive complexions, and their almond-shaped eyes, so dark yet glowing. Those among them who were really old were simply hideous and repulsive. One wretched crone shuffled through the noisy throng with an air of authority, and pointing to Boy lying in my lap, cried, "_Moolay, moolay!_" "Beautiful, beautiful!" The familiar Malay word fell pleasantly on my ear, and I was delighted to find some one through whom I might possibly control the disorderly bevy around me. I addressed her in Malay. Instantly my visitors were silent, and waiting in attitudes of eager attention. She told me she was one of the many custodians of the harem. She was a native of Quedah; and "some sixty years ago," she and her sister, together with other young Malay girls, were captured while working in the fields by a party of Siamese adventurers. They were brought to Siam and sold as slaves. At first she mourned miserably for her home and parents. But while she was yet young and attractive she became a favorite of the late Somdetch Ong Yai, father of her present lord, and bore him two sons, just as "moolay, moolay" as my own darling. But they were dead. (Here, with the end of her soiled silk scarf she furtively wiped a tear from her face, no longer ugly.) And her gracious lord was dead also; it was he who gave her this beautiful gold betel-box. "But how is it that you are still a slave?" I asked. "I am old and ugly and childless: and therefore, to be trusted by my dead lord's son, the beneficent prince, upon whose head be blessings,"--clasping her withered hands, and turning toward that part of the palace where, no doubt, he was enjoying a "beneficent" nap. "And now it is my privilege to watch and guard these favored ones, that they see no man but their lord." The repulsive uncomeliness of this woman had been wrought by oppression out of that which must have been beautiful once; for the spirit of beauty came back to her for a moment, with the passing memories that brought her long-lost treasures with them. In the brutal tragedy of a slave's experience,--a female slave in the harem of an Asian despot,--the native angel in her had been bruised, mutilated, defaced, deformed, but not quite obliterated. Her story ended, the younger women, to whom her language had been strange, could no longer suppress their merriment, nor preserve the decorum due to her age and authority. Again they swarmed about me like bees, plying me pertinaciously with questions, as to my age, husband, children, country, customs, possessions; and presently crowned the inquisitorial performance by asking, in all seriousness, if I should not like to be the wife of the prince, their lord, rather than of the terrible Chow-che-witt. [Footnote: Chow-che-witt,--"Prince of life,"--the supreme king.] Here was a monstrous suggestion that struck me dumb. Without replying, I rose and shook them off, retiring with my boy into the inner chamber. But they pursued me without compunction, repeating the extraordinary "conundrum," and dragging the Malay duenna along with them to interpret my answer. The intrusion provoked me; but, considering their beggarly poverty of true life and liberty, of hopes and joys, and loves and memories, and holy fears and sorrows, with which a full and true response might have twitted them, I was ashamed to be vexed. Seeing it impossible to rid myself of them, I promised to answer their question, on condition that they would leave me for that day. Immediately all eyes were fixed upon me. "The prince, your lord, and the king, your Chow-che-witt, are pagans," I said. "An English, that is a Christian, woman would rather be put to the torture, chained and dungeoned for life, or suffer a death the slowest and most painful you Siamese know, than be the wife of either." They remained silent in astonishment, seemingly withheld from speaking by an instinctive sentiment of respect; until one, more volatile than the rest, cried, "What! not if he gave you all these jewelled rings and boxes, and these golden things?" When the old woman, fearing to offend, whispered this test question in Malay to me, I laughed at the earnest eyes around, and said: "No, not even then. I am only here to teach the royal family. I am not like you. You have nothing to do but to play and sing and dance for your master; but I have to work for my children; and one little one is now on the great ocean, and I am very sad." Shades of sympathy, more or less deep, flitted across the faces of my audience, and for a moment they regarded me as something they could neither convince nor comfort nor understand. Then softly repeating _Poot-thoo! Poot-thoo!_ "Dear God! dear God!" they quietly left me. A minute more, and I heard them laughing and shouting in the halls. Relieved of my curious and exacting visitors, I lay down and fell into a deep sleep, from which I was suddenly awakened, in the afternoon, by the cries of Beebe, who rushed into the chamber, her head bare, her fine muslin veil trampled under her feet, and her face dramatically expressive of terror and despair. Moonshee, her husband, ignorant alike of the topography, the language, and the rules of the place, had by mistake intruded in the sacred penetralia where lounged the favorite of the harem, to the lively horror of that shrinking Nourmahal, and the general wrath of the old women on guard, two of whom, the ugliest, fiercest, and most muscular, had dragged him, daft and trembling, to summary inquisition. I followed Beebe headlong to an open sala, where we found that respectable servant of the Prophet, his hands tied, his turban off, woe-begone but resigned; faithful and philosophic Moslem that he was, he only waited for his throat to be cut, since it was his _kismut_, his perverse destiny, that had brought him to such a region of _Kafirs_, (infidels). Assuring him that there was nothing to fear, I despatched a messenger in search of the interpreter, while Beebe wept and protested. Presently an imposing personage stalked upon the scene, whose appearance matched his temper and his conduct. This was the judge. In vain I strove to explain to him by signs and gestures that my servant had offended unwittingly; he could not or would not understand me; but stormed away at our poor old man, who bore his abuse with the calm indifference of profound ignorance, having never before been cursed in a foreign language. The loafers of the yards and porches shook off their lazy naps and gathered round us; and among them came the interpreter, insolent satisfaction beaming in his bad face. He coolly declined to interfere, protesting that it was not his business, and that the judge would be offended if he offered to take part in the proceedings. Moonshee was condemned to be stripped, and beaten with twenty strokes. Here was an end to my patience. Going straight up to the judge, I told him that if a single lash was laid upon the old man's back (which was bared as I spoke), he should suffer tenfold, for I would immediately lay the matter before the British Consul. Though I spoke in English, he caught the familiar words "British Consul," and turning to the interpreter, demanded the explanation he should have listened to before he pronounced sentence. But even as the interpreter was jabbering away to the unreasonable functionary, the assembly was agitated with what the French term a "sensation." Judge, interpreter, and all fell upon their faces, doubling themselves up; and there stood the Premier, who took in the situation at a glance, ordered Moonshee to be released, and permitted him at my request to retire to the room allotted to Beebe. While the slaves were alert in the execution of these benevolent commands, the interpreter slunk away on his face and elbows. But the old Moslem, as soon as his hands were free, picked up his turban, advanced, and laid it at the feet of his deliverer, with the graceful salutation of his people, "Peace be with thee, O Vizier of a wise king!" The mild and venerable aspect of the Moonshee, and his snow-white beard falling low upon his breast, must have inspired the Siamese statesman with abiding feelings of respect and consideration, for he was ever afterward indulgent to that Oriental Dominie Sampson of my little household. Dinner at the Premier's was composed and served with the same incongruous blending of the barbaric and the refined, the Oriental and the European, that characterized the furniture and adornments of his palace. The saucy little pages who handled the dishes had cigarettes between their pouting lips, and from time to time hopped over the heads of Medusæ to expectorate. When I pointed reproachfully to the double peccadillo, they only laughed and scampered off. Another detachment of these lads brought in fruits, and, when they had set the baskets or dishes on the table, retired to sofas to lounge till we had dined. But finding I objected to such manners, they giggled gayly, performed several acrobatic feats on the carpet, and left us to wait on ourselves. Twilight on my pretty piazza. The fiery sun is setting, and long pencils of color, from palettes of painted glass, touch with rose and gold the low brow and downcast eyes and dainty bosom of a bust of Clyte. Beebe and Moonshee are preparing below in the open air their evening meal; and the smoke of their pottage is borne slowly, heavily on the hot still air, stirred only by the careless laughter of girls plunging and paddling in the dimpled lake. The blended gloom and brightness without enter, and interweave themselves with the blended gloom and brightness within, where lights and shadows lie half asleep and half awake, and life breathes itself sluggishly away, or drifts on a slumberous stream toward its ocean of death. III. A SKETCH OF SIAMESE HISTORY. Before inducting the reader to more particular acquaintance with his Excellency Chow Phya Sri-Sury Wongse Samuha-P'hra Kralahome, I have thought that "an abstract and brief chronicle" of the times of the strange people over whom he is not less than second in dignity and power, would not be out of place. In the opinion of Pickering, the Siamese are undoubtedly Malay; but a majority of the intelligent Europeans who have lived long among them regard the native population as mainly Mongolian. They are generally of medium stature, the face broad, the forehead low, the eyes black, the cheekbones prominent, the chin retreating, the mouth large, the lips thick, and the beard scanty. In common with most of the Asiatic races, they are apt to be indolent, improvident, greedy, intemperate, servile, cruel, vain, inquisitive, superstitious, and cowardly; but individual variations from the more repulsive types are happily not rare. In public they are scrupulously polite and decorous according to their own notions of good manners, respectful to the aged, affectionate to their kindred, and bountiful to their priests, of whom more than twenty thousand are supported by voluntary contributions in Bangkok alone. Marriage is contracted at sixteen for males, and fourteen for females, and polygamy is the common practice, without limit to the number of wives except such as may be imposed by the humble estate or poverty of the husband; the women are generally treated with consideration. The bodies of the dead are burned; and the badges of mourning are white robes for those of the family or kinfolk who are younger than the deceased, black for those who are older, and shaven heads for all who are in inferior degrees connected with the dead, either as descendants, dependents, servants, or slaves. When a king dies the entire population, with the exception of very young children, must display this tonsorial uniform. Every ancient or famous city of Siam has a story of its founding, woven for it from tradition or fable; and each of these legends is distinguished from the others by peculiar features. The religion, customs, arts, and literature of a people naturally impart to their annals a spirit all their own. Especially is this the case in the Orient, where the most original and suggestive thought is half disguised in the garb of metaphor, and where, in spite of vivid fancies and fiery passions, the people affect taciturnity or reticence, and delight in the metaphysical and the mystic. Hence the early annals of the Siamese, or Sajamese, abound in fables of heroes, demigods, giants, and genii, and afford but few facts of practical value. Swayed by religious influences, they joined, in the spirit of the Hebrews, the name of God to the titles of their rulers and princes, whom they almost deified after death. But the skeleton sketch of the history of Siam that follows is of comparatively modern date, and may be accepted as in the main authentic. In the year 712 of the Siamese, and 1350 of the Christian era, Phya-Othong founded, near the river Meinam, about sixty miles from the Gulf of Siam, the city of Ayudia or Ayuthia ("the Abode of the Gods"); at the same time he assumed the title of P'hra Rama Thibodi. This capital and stronghold was continually exposed to storms of civil war and foreign invasion; and its turreted battlements and ponderous gates, with the wide deep moat spanned by drawbridges, where now is a forest of great trees, were but the necessary fences behind which court and garrison took shelter from the tempestuous barbarism in the midst of which they lived. But before any portion of the city, except that facing the river, could boast of a fortified enclosure, hostile enterprises were directed against it. Birman pirates, ascending the Meinam in formidable flotillas, harassed it. Thrice they ravaged the country around; but on the last of these occasions great numbers of them were captured and put to cruel death by P'hra Rama Suen, successor to Thibodi, who pursued the routed remnant to the very citadel of Chiengmai, then a tributary of the Birman Empire. Having made successful war upon this province, and impressed thousands of Laotian captives, he next turned his arms against Cambodia, took the capital by storm, slew every male capable of bearing arms, and carried off enormous treasures in plate gold, with which, on his return to his kingdom, he erected a remarkable pagoda, called to this day "The Mountain of Gold." P'hra Rama Suen was succeeded by his son Phya Ram, who reigned fourteen years, and was assassinated by his uncle, Inthra Racha, the governor or feudal lord of the city, who had snatched the reins of government and sent three of his sons to rule over the northern provinces. At the death of Inthra Racha, in 780, two of these princes set out simultaneously, with the design of seizing and occupying the vacant throne. Mounted on elephants, they met in the dusk of evening on a bridge leading to the Royal Palace; and each instantly divining his brother's purpose, they dismounted, and with their naked swords fell upon each other with such fury that both were slain on the spot. The political and social disorganization that prevailed at this period was aggravated by the vulnerable condition of the monarchy, then recently transferred to a new line. Princes of the blood royal were for a long time engaged, brother against brother, in fierce family feuds. Ayuthia suffered gravely from these unnatural contentions, but even more from the universal license and riot that reigned among the nobility and the proud proprietors of the soil. In the distracted and enfeebled state of all authority, royal and magisterial, the fields around remained for many years untilled; and the only evidence the land presented of the abode of man was here and there the bristling den of some feudal chief, a mere outlaw and dacoit, who rarely sallied from it but to carry torch and pillage wherever there was aught to sack or burn. In 834 the undisputed sovereignty of the kingdom fell to another P'hra Rama Thibodi, who reigned thirty years, and is famous in Siamese annals for the casting of a great image of Buddha, fifty cubits high, of gold very moderately alloyed with copper. On an isolated hill, in a sacred enclosure, he erected for this image a stately temple of the purest white marble, approached by a graceful flight of steps. From the ruins of its eastern front, which are still visible, it appears to have had six columns at either end and thirteen on each side; the eastern pediment is adorned with sculptures, as are also the ten metopes. P'hra Rama Thibodi was succeeded by his son, P'hra Racha Kuman, whose reign was short, and chiefly memorable for a tremendous conflagration that devastated Ayuthia. It raged three days, and destroyed more than a hundred thousand houses. This monarch left at his death but one son, P'hra Yot-Fa, a lad of twelve, whose mother, the Queen Sisudah-Chand, was appointed regent during his minority. The devil of ambition has rarely possessed the heart of an Eastern queen more absolutely than it did that of this infamous woman,--infamous even in heathen annals. She is said to have graced her exalted station alike by the beauty of her person and the charm of her manner; but in pursuit of the most arbitrary and audacious purposes she moved with the recklessness their nature demanded, and with equal impatience trampled on friend and rival. Blind superstition was the only weak point in her character; but though her deference to the imaginary instructions or warnings of the stars was slavish, it does not seem to have deterred her from any false or cruel course; indeed, a cunning astrologer of her court, by scaring her with visionary perils, contrived to obtain a monstrous ascendency over her mind, only to plunge her into crime more deeply than by her own weight of wickedness she might have sunk. She ordered the secret assassination of every member of the royal household (not excepting her mother and sisters), who, however mildly, opposed her will. Besotted with fear, that fruitful mother of crime, she ended by putting to death the young king, her son, and publicly calling her paramour (the court astrologer, in whose thoughts, she believed, were hidden all the secrets of divination) to the throne of the P'hrabatts. This double crime filled the measure of her impunity. The nobility revolted. The strength of their faction lay, not within the palace, which was filled with the queen's parasites, but with the feudal proprietors of the soil, who, exasperated by the abominations of the court, only waited for a chance to crush it. One day, as the queen and her paramour were proceeding in a barge on their customary visit to her private pagoda and garden,--a paradise of all the floral wonders of the tropics,--a nobleman, who had followed them, hailed the royal gondola, as if for instructions, and, being permitted to approach, suddenly sprang upon the guilty pair, drew his sword, and dispatched them both, careless of their loud cries for help. Almost simultaneously with the performance of this tragic exploit, the nobles offered the crown to an uncle of the murdered heir, who had fled from the court and taken refuge in a monastery. Having accepted it and assumed the title of Maha-Charapât Racha-therat, he invaded Pegu with a hundred thousand men-at-arms, five thousand war elephants, and seven thousand horse. With this mighty host he marched against Henzawadi, the capital of Pegu, laying waste the country as he went with fire and sword. The king of Pegu came out to meet him, accompanied by his romantic and intrepid queen, Maha Chandra, and supported by the few devoted followers that on so short a notice he could bring together. In consideration of this great disparity of forces, the two kings agreed, in the chivalric spirit of the time, to decide the fortune of the day by single combat. Hardly had they encountered, when the elephant on which the king of Pegu was mounted took fright and fled the field; but his queen promptly took his place, and fighting rashly, fell, speared through the right breast. She was borne off amid the clash of cymbals and flourish of trumpets that hailed the victor. Maha-Charapât Racha-therat was a great prince. His wisdom, valor, and heroic exploits supplied the native bards with inspiring themes. By his magnanimity he extinguished the envy of the neighboring princes and transformed rivals into friends. Jealous rulers became his willing vassals, not from fear of his power, but in admiration for his virtues. Malacca, Tenasserim, Ligor, Thavai, Martaban, Maulmain, Songkhla, Chantaboon, Phitsanulok, Look-Kho-Thai, Phi-chi, Savan Khalok, Phechit, Cambodia, and Nakhon Savan were all dependencies of Siam under his reign. In the year 1568 of the Christian era the Siamese territory was invaded and laid under tribute by a Birman king named Mandanahgri, who must have been a warrior of Napoleonic genius, for he extended his dominion as far as the confines of China. It is remarkable that the flower of his army was composed of several thousand Portuguese, tried troops in good discipline, commanded by the noted Don Diego Suanes. These, like the famous Scotch Legion of Gustavus Adolphus in the Thirty Years' War, were mercenaries, and doubtless contributed importantly to the success of the Birman arms. Theirs is by no means the only case of Portuguese soldiers serving for hire in the armies of the East. Their commander, Suanes, seems to have been a brave and accomplished officer, and to have been intrusted with undivided control of the Birmese forces. Mandanahgri held the queen of Siam and her two sons as hostages for the payment of the tribute he had levied; but the princes were permitted to return to Siam after a few years of captivity in Birmah, and in 1583 their captor died. His successor struggled with an uncle for possession of the throne, and the king of Siam, seizing the opportunity, declared himself independent; wherefore a more formidable army was shortly sent against him, under command of the eldest son of the king of Birmah. But one of the young princes who had been led into captivity by Mandanahgri now sat on the throne of Siam. In his youth he had been styled "the Black Prince," a title of distinction which seems to have fitted his characteristics not less appropriately than it did those of the English Edward. Undismayed by the strength and fury of the enemy, he attacked and routed them in a pitched battle, killing their leader with his own hands, invaded Pegu, and besieged its capital; but was finally compelled to retire with considerable loss. The Black Prince was succeeded by "the White King," who reigned peacefully for many years. The next monarch especially worthy of notice is P'hra Narai, who sent ambassadors to Goa, the most important of the Portuguese trading-stations in the East Indies, chiefly to invite the Portuguese of Malacca to establish themselves in Siam for mutual advantages of trade. The welcome emissaries were sumptuously entertained, and a Dominican friar accompanied them on their return, with costly presents for the king. This friar found P'hra Narai much more liberal in his ideas than later ambassadors, even to this day, have found any other ruler of Siam. He agreed not only to permit all Portuguese merchants to establish themselves anywhere in his dominions, but to exempt their goods and wares from duty. The Dominican monks were likewise invited to build churches and preach Christianity in Siam. Soon after this extraordinary display of liberal statesmanship P'hra Narai narrowly escaped death by a strange conspiracy. Four or five hundred Japanese adventurers were secretly introduced into the country by an ambitious feudal proprietor, who had conceived the mad design of dethroning the monarch and reigning in his stead; but the king, warned of the planned attack upon the palace, seized the native conspirator and put him to death. The Japanese, on the contrary, were enrolled as a kind of praetorian guard, or janissaries; in this character, however, their pride and power became so formidable that the king grew uneasy and disbanded them. P'hra Narai, from all accounts, was a man to be respected and esteemed. The events and the _dramatis personae_ of his reign form a story so romantic, so exceptional even in Eastern annals, that, but for the undoubted authenticity of this chapter of Siamese history, it would be incredible. It was during his reign that the whimsical attempt was made by Louis XIV. to conquer Siam and proselyte her king. An extraordinary spectacle! One of the most licentious monarchs of France, who to the last breathed an atmosphere poisoned with scepticism, and more than Buddhism itself subversive of the true principles of Christianity, is suddenly inspired with an apparently devout longing to be the instrument of converting to the true faith the princes of the East. To this end he employs that wily, powerful, and indefatigable body of daring priests, the Jesuits, who were then in the very ardor of their missionary schemes. Ostensibly for the purpose of propagating the Gospel, but with more reality aspiring to extend their subtile influence over all mankind, this society, with means the most slender and in the face of obstacles the most disheartening, have, with indomitable courage and supernatural patience, accomplished labors unparalleled in the achievements of mind. Now, in the wilds of Western America, taming and teaching races of whose existence the world of refinement had never heard; now climbing the icy steeps and tracking the wastes and wildernesses of Siberia, or with the evangel of John in one hand and the art of Luke in the other, bringing life to the bodies and souls of perishing multitudes under a scorching equatorial sun,--there is not a spot of earth in which European civilization has taken root where traces of Jesuit forethought and careful, patient husbandry may not be found. So in Siam, we discover a monarch of consummate acumen, more European than Asiatic in his ideas, sedulously cultivating the friendship of these foreign workers of wonders; and finally we find a Greek adventurer officiating as prime minister to this same king, and conducting his affairs with that ability and success which must have commanded intellectual admiration, even if they had not been inspired and promoted by motives of integrity toward the monarch who had so implicitly confided in his wisdom and fidelity. Constantine Phaulkon was the son of respectable parents, natives of the island of Cephalonia, where he was born in 1630. The geography, if not the very name, of the kingdom whose affairs he was destined to direct was quite unknown to his compatriots of the Ionian Isles,--even when as a mariner, wrecked on the coast of Malabar, he became a fellow-passenger with a party of Siamese officials, his companions in disaster, who were returning to their country from an embassy. The facile Greek quickly learned to talk with his new-found friends in their own tongue, and by his accomplishments and adroitness made a place for himself in their admiration and influence, so that he was received with flattering consideration at the Court of P'hra Narai, and very soon invited to take service under government. By his sagacity, tact, and diligence in the management of all affairs intrusted to him, he rapidly rose in favor with his patron, who finally elevated him to the highest post of honor in the state: he was made premier. The star of the Cephalonian waif and adventurer had now mounted to the zenith, and was safe to shine for many years with unabated brilliancy; to this day he is remembered by the expressive term _Vicha-yen_, "the cool wisdom." The French priests, elated at his success, spared no promises or arts to retain him secretly in their interest. Under circumstances so extraordinary and auspicious, the plans of the Jesuits for the conversion of all Eastern Asia were put in execution. From the Vatican bishops were appointed, and sent out to Cochin China, Cambodia, Siam, and Pegu, while the people of those several kingdoms were yet profoundly ignorant of the amiable intentions of the Pope. Francis Pallu, M. De la Motte Lambert, and Ignatius Cotolendy were the respective exponents of this pious idea, under the imposing titles of Bishops of Heliopolis, Borytus, Byzantium, and Metellopolis,--all Frenchmen, for Louis XIV. insisted that the glory of the enterprise should be ascribed exclusively to France and to himself. But all their efforts to convert the king were of no avail. The Jesuits, however, opened schools, and have ever since labored assiduously and with success to introduce the ideas and the arts of Europe into those countries. After some years P'hra Narai sent an embassy to the Court of Louis, who was so sensible of the flattery that he immediately reciprocated with an embassy of his own, with more priests, headed by the Chevalier De Chaumont and the Père Tachard. The French fleet of five ships cast anchor in the Meinam on the 27th of September, 1687, and the Chevalier and his reverend colleague, attended by Jesuits, were promptly and graciously received by the king, who, however, expressed his "fears" that the chief object of their mission might not prove so easy of attainment as they had been led to believe. As for Phaulkon, he had adroitly deceived the Jesuits from the first, and made all parties instruments to promote his own shrewd and secret plans. De Chaumont, disheartened by his failure, sailed back to France, where he arrived in 1688, in the height of the agitation attending the English Revolution of that year. Phaulkon, finding that he could no longer conceal from the Jesuits the king's repugnance to their plans for his conversion, placed himself under their direction and control; for though he had not as yet conceived the idea of seizing upon the crown, it was plain that he aspired to honors higher than the premiership. Then rumors of disaffection among the nobles were diligently propagated by the French priests, who, although not sufficiently powerful to dethrone the king, were nevertheless dangerous inciters of rebellion among the common people. Meanwhile the king of Johore, then a tributary of Siam, instigated by the Dutch, who, from the first, had watched with jealousy the machinations of the French, sent envoys to P'hra Narai, to advise the extermination or expulsion of the French, and to proffer the aid of his troops; but the proposition was rejected with indignation. These events were immediately followed by another, known in Siamese history as the Revolt of the Macassars, which materially promoted the ripening of the revolution of which the French had sown the seeds. Celebes, a large, irregular island east of Borneo, includes a district known as Macassar, the ruler of which had been arbitrarily dethroned by the Dutch; and the sons of the injured monarch, taking refuge in Siam, secretly encouraged the growing enmity of the nobles against the French. Meanwhile Phaulkon, by his address, and skilful management of public affairs, continued to exercise paramount influence over the mind of the king. He persuaded P'hra Narai to send another embassy to France, which arrived happily (the former having been shipwrecked off the Cape of Good Hope) at the Court of Louis XIV. in 1689. He also diligently and ably advanced the commercial strength of the country; merchants from all parts of the world were invited to settle in Siam, and factories of every nation were established along the banks of the Meinam. Both Ayudia and Lophaburee became busy and flourishing. He was careful to keep the people employed, and applied himself with vigor to improving the agriculture of the country. Rice, sugar, corn, and palm-oil constituting the most fruitful and regular source of revenue, he wisely regulated the traffic in those staples, and was studious to promote the security and happiness of the great body of the population engaged or concerned in their production. The laws he framed were so sound and stable, and at the same time so wisely conformable to the interests alike of king and subject, that to this day they constitute the fundamental law of the land. Phaulkon designed and built the palaces at Lophaburee, consisting of two lofty edifices, square, with pillars on all sides; each pillar was made to represent a succession of shafts by the intervention of salient blocks, forming capitals to what they surmounted and pedestals to what they supported. The apartments within were gorgeously gilt and sumptuously furnished. There yet remains, in remarkable preservation, a vermilion chamber looking toward the east; though, otherwise, a forest of stately trees and several broken arches alone mark the spot where dwelt in regal splendor this foreign favorite of P'hra Narai. He also erected the famous castle on the west of the town, on a piece of ground, near the north bank of the river, which formerly belonged to a Buddhist monastery. Finally, to keep off the Birman invaders, he built a wall, surmounted along its whole extent by a parapet, and fortified with towers at regular intervals of forty fathoms, as well as by four larger ones at its extremities on the banks of the river, below the two bridges. Its gates appear to have been twelve or thirteen in number, and the extent of the southern portion is fixed at two thousand fathoms. Suburban villages still exist on both sides of the river, and, beyond these, the religious buildings, which have been restored, but which now display the fantastic rather than the grand style which distinguished the architecture of this consummate Grecian, whom the people name with wonder,--all marvellous works being by them attributed to gods, genii, devils, or the "Vicha-yen." But the luxury in which the haughty statesman revelled, his towering ambition, and the wealth he lavished on his private abodes, joined to the lofty, condescending air he assumed toward the nobles, soon provoked their jealous murmurings against him and his too partial master; and when, at last, the king, falling ill, repaired to the premier's palace at Lophaburee, some of the more disaffected nobles, headed by a natural son of P'hra Narai and the two princes of Macassar, forced their way into the palace to slay the monarch. But the brave old man, at a glance divining their purpose, leaped from his couch and, seizing his sword, threw himself upon it, and died as his assassins entered. In the picturesque drama of Siamese history no figure appears so truly noble and brilliant as this king, not merely renowned by the glory of his military exploits and the happy success of his more peaceful undertakings, but beloved for his affectionate concern for the welfare of his subjects, his liberality, his moderation, his modesty, his indifference to the formal honors due to his royal state, and (what is most rare in Asiatic character) his sincere aversion to flattery, his shyness even toward deserved and genuine praise. Turning from the corpse of the king, the baffled regicides dashed at the luxurious apartment where Phaulkon slumbered, as was his custom of an afternoon, unattended save by his fair young daughter Constantia. Breaking in, they tore the sleeping father from the arms of his agonized child, who with piteous implorings offered her life for his, bound him with cords, dragged him to the woods beyond his garden, and there, within sight of the lovely little Greek chapel he had erected for his private devotions, first tortured him like fiends, and then, dispatching him, flung his body into a pit. His daughter, following them, clung fast to her father, and, though her heart bled and her brain grew numb between the gashes and the groans, she still cheered him with her passionate endearments; and, holding before his eyes a cross of gold that always hung on her bosom, inspired him to die like a brave man and a Christian. After that the lovely heroine was dragged into slavery and concubinage by the infamous Chow Dua, one of the bloodiest of the gang. Even pagan chroniclers do not fail to render homage to so brave a man, of whom they tell that "he bore all with a fortitude and defiance that astounded the monsters who slew him, and convinced them that he derived his supernatural courage and contempt of pain from the miraculous virtues of his daughter's golden cross." After the death of the able premier, the Birmese again overran the land, laying waste the fields, and besieging the city of Ayuthia for two years. Finding they could not reduce it by famine, they tried flames, and the burning is said to have lasted two whole months. One of the feudal lords of Siam, Phya Tâk, a Chinese adventurer, who had amassed wealth, and held the office of governor of the northern provinces under the late king, seeing the impending ruin of the country, assembled his personal followers and dependants, and with about a thousand hardy and resolute warriors retired to the mountain fastness of Naghon Najok, whence from time to time he swooped down to harass the encampments of the Birmese, who were almost invariably worsted in the skirmishes he provoked. He then moved upon Bangplasoi, and the people of that place came out with gifts of treasure and hailed him as their sovereign. Thence he sailed to Rajong, strengthened his small force with volunteers in great numbers, marched against Chantaboon, whose governor had disputed his authority, and executed that indiscreet official; levied another large army; built and equipped a hundred vessels of war; and set sail--a part of his army preceding him overland--for Kankhoa, on the confines of Cochin China, which place he brought to terms in less than three hours. Thence he pushed on to Cambodia, and arriving there on the Siamese Sabâto, or Sabbath, he issued a solemn proclamation to his army, assuring them that he would that evening worship in the temple of the famous emerald idol, P'hra Këau. Every man was ordered to arm as if for battle, but to wear the sacred robe,--white for the laity, yellow for the clergy; and all the priests who followed his fortunes were required to lead the way into the grand temple through the southern portico, over which stood a triple-headed tower. Then the conqueror, having prepared himself by fasting and purification, clad in his sacred robes and armed to the teeth, followed and made his words good. Almost his first act was to send his ships to the adjacent provinces for supplies of rice and grain, which he dispensed so bountifully to the famishing people that they gratefully accepted his rule. This king is described as an enthusiastic and indefatigable warrior, scorning palaces, and only happy in camp or at the head of his army. His people found in him a true friend, he was ever kind and generous to the poor, and to his soldiers he paid fivefold the rates of former reigns. But toward the nobles he was haughty, rude, exacting. It is supposed that his prime minister, fearing to oppose him openly, corrupted his chief concubine, and with her assistance drugged his food; so that he was rendered insane, and, imagining himself a god, insisted that sacrifices and offerings should be made to him, and began to levy upon the nobility for enormous sums, often putting them to the torture to extort treasure. Instigated by their infuriated lords, the people now rebelled against their lately idolized master, and attacked him in his palace, from, which he fled by a secret passage to an adjoining monastery, in the disguise of a priest. But the premier, to whom he was presently betrayed, had him put to death, on the pretext that he might cause still greater scandal and disaster, but in reality to establish himself in undisputed possession of the throne, which he now usurped under the title of P'hra-Phuthi-Chow-Luang, and removed the palace from the west to the east bank of the Meinam. During his reign the Birmese made several attempts to invade the country, but were invariably repulsed with loss. This brings us to the uneventful reign of Phen-den-Klang; and by his death, in 1825, to the beginning of the story of his Majesty, Maha Mongkut, the late supreme king, and my employer, with whom, in these pages, we shall have much to do. IV. HIS EXCELLENCY'S HAREM AND HELPMEET. When the Senabawdee, or Royal Council, by elevating to the throne the priest-prince Chowfa Mongkut, frustrated the machinations of the son of his predecessor, they by the same stroke crushed the secret hopes of Chow Phya Sri Sury Wongse, the present premier. It is whispered to this day--for no native, prince or peasant, may venture to approach the subject openly--that, on the day of coronation, his Excellency retired to his private chambers, and there remained, shut up with his chagrin and grief, for three days. On the fourth, arrayed in his court robes and attended by a numerous retinue, he presented himself at the palace to take part in the ceremonies with which the coronation was celebrated. The astute young king, who in his priestly character had penetrated many state secrets, advanced to greet him, and with the double purpose of procuring the adherence and testing the fidelity of this discontented and wavering son of his stanch old champion, the Duke Somdetch Ong Yai, appointed him on the spot to the command of the army, under the title of Phya P'hra Kralahome. This flattering distinction, though it did not immediately beguile him from his moodiness, for a time diverted his dangerous fancies into channels of activity, and he found a safe expression for his annoyance in a useful restlessness. But after he had done more than any of his predecessors to remodel and perfect the army, he relapsed into morbid melancholy, from which he was once more aroused by the call of his royal master, who invited him to share the labors and the honors of government in the highest civil office, that of prime minister. He accepted, and has ever since shown himself prolific in devices to augment the revenue, secure the co-operation of the nobility, and confirm his own power. His remarkable executive faculty, seconding the enlightened policy of the king, would doubtless have inaugurated a golden age for his country, but for the aggressive meddling of French diplomacy in the quarrels between the princes of Cochin China and Cambodia; by which exasperating measure Siam is in the way to lose one of her richest possessions, [Footnote: Cambodia.] and may in time become, herself, the brightest and most costly jewel in the crown of France. Such was Chow Phya Sri Sury Wongse when I was first presented to him: a natural king among the dusky forms that surrounded him, the actual ruler of that semi-barbarous realm, and the prime contriver of its arbitrary policy. Black, but comely, robust, and vigorous, neck short and thick, nose large and nostrils wide, eyes inquisitive and penetrating, his was the massive brain proper to an intellect deliberate and systematic. Well found in the best idioms of his native tongue, he expressed strong, discriminative thoughts in words at once accurate and abundant. His only vanity was his English, with which he so interlarded his native speech, as often to impart the effect of levity to ideas that, in themselves, were grave, judicious, and impressive. Let me conduct the reader into one of the saloons of the palace, where we shall find this intellectual sensualist in the moral relaxation of his harem, with his latest pets and playthings about him. Peering into a twilight, studiously contrived, of dimly-lighted and suggestive shadows, we discover in the centre of the hall a long line of girls with skins of olive,--creatures who in years and physical proportions are yet but children, but by training developed into women and accomplished actresses. There are some twenty of them, in transparent draperies with golden girdles, their arms and bosoms, wholly nude, flashing, as they wave and heave, with barbaric ornaments of gold. The heads are modestly inclined, the hands are humbly folded, and the eyes droop timidly beneath long lashes. Their only garment, the lower skirt, floating in light folds about their limbs, is of very costly material bordered heavily with gold. On the ends of their fingers they wear long "nails" of gold, tapering sharply like the claws of a bird. The apartment is illuminated by means of candelabras, hung so high that the light falls in a soft hazy mist on the tender faces and pliant forms below. Another group of maidens, comely and merry, sit behind musical instruments, of so great variety as to recall the "cornet, flute, sackbut, harp, psaltery, and dulcimer" of Scripture. The "head wife" of the premier, earnestly engaged in creaming her lips, reclines apart on a dais, attended by many waiting-women. From the folds of a great curtain a single flute opens the entertainment with low tender strains, and from the recesses twelve damsels appear, bearing gold and silver fans, with which, seated in order, they fan the central group. Now the dancers, a burst of joyous music being the signal, form in two lines, and simultaneously, with military precision, kneel, fold and raise their hands, and bow till their foreheads touch the carpet before their lord. Then suddenly springing to their feet, they describe a succession of rapid and intricate circles, tapping the carpet with their toes in time to the music. Next follows a miracle of art, such as may be found only among pupils of the highest physical training; a dance in which every motion is poetry, every attitude an expression of love, even rest but the eloquence of passion overcome by its own fervor. The music swelling into a rapturous tumult preludes the choral climax, wherein the dancers, raising their delicate feet, and curving their arms and fingers in seemingly impossible flexures, sway like withes of willow, and agitate all the muscles of the body like the fluttering of leaves in a soft breeze. Their eyes glow as with an inner light; the soft brown complexion, the rosy lips half parted, the heaving bosom, and the waving arms, as they float round and round in wild eddies of dance, impart to them the aspect of fair young fiends. And there sits the Kralahome, like the idol of ebony before the demon had entered it! while around him these elfin worshippers, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, tossing arms and panting bosoms, whirl in their witching waltz. He is a man to be wondered at,--stony and grim, his huge hands resting on his knees in statuesque repose, as though he supported on his well-poised head the whole weight of the Maha Mongkut [Footnote: "The Mighty Crown."] itself, while at his feet these brown leaves of humanity lie quivering. Is it all _maya_,--delusion? I open wide my eyes, then close them, then open them again. There still lie the living puppets, not daring to look up to the face of their silent god, where scorn and passion contend for place. The dim lights, the shadows blending with them, the fine harmony of colors, the wild harmony of sounds, the fantastic phantoms, the overcoming sentiment, all the poetry and the pity of the scene,--the formless longing, the undefined sense of wrong! Poor things, poor things! The prime minister of Siam enjoys no exemption from that mocking law which condemns the hero strutting on the stage of the world to cut but a sorry figure at home. Toward these helpless slaves of his nod his deportment was studiously ungracious and mean. No smile of pleased surprise or approbation ever brightened his gloomy countenance. True, the fire of his native ardor burns there still, but through no crevice of the outward man may one catch a glimpse of its light. Though he rage as a fiery furnace within, externally he is calm as a lake, too deep to be troubled by the skipping, singing brooks that flow into it. Rising automatically, he abruptly retired, bored. And those youthful, tender forms, glowing and panting there,--in what glorious robes might not their proper loveliness have arrayed them, if only their hearts had looked upward in freedom, and not, like their trained eyes, downward in blind homage. Koon Ying Phan (literally, "The Lady in One Thousand") was the head wife of the Premier. He married her, after repudiating the companion of his more grateful years, the mother of his only child, a son--the legitimacy of whose birth he doubted, and so, for a grim jest, named the lad _My Chi_, "Not So." He would have put the mother to death, but finding no real grounds for his suspicion, let her off with a public "putting away." The divorced woman, having nothing left but her disowned baby, carefully changed the _My Chi_ to _Ny Chi_ ("Not So" to "Master So "),--a cunning trick of pride, but a doubtful improvement. Koon Ying Phan had neither beauty nor grace; but her habits were domestic, and her temper extremely mild. When I first knew her she was perhaps forty years old,--stout, heavy, dark,--her only attraction the gentle expression of her eyes and mouth. Around her pretty residence, adjoining the Premier's palace, bloomed the most charming garden I saw in Siam, with shrubberies, fountains, and nooks, designed by a true artist; though the work of the native florists is usually fantastic and grotesque, with an excess of dwarfed trees in Chinese vases. There was, besides, a cool, shaded walk, leading to a more extensive garden, adorned with curious lattice-work, and abounding in shrubs of great variety and beauty. Koon Ying Phan had a lively love for flowers, which she styled the children of her heart; "for my lord is childless," she whispered. In her apartments the same subdued lights and mellow half-tints prevailed that in her husband's saloons imparted a pensive sentiment to the place. There were neither carpets nor mirrors; and the only articles of furniture were some sofa-beds, low marble couches, tables, and a few arm-chairs, but all of forms antique and delicate. The combined effect was one of delicious coolness, retirement, and repose, even despite the glaring rays that strove to invade the sweet refuge through the silken window-nets. This lady, to whom belonged the undivided supervision of the premier's household, was kind to the younger women of her husband's harem, in whose welfare she manifested a most amiable interest,--living among them happily, as a mother among her daughters, sharing their confidences, and often pleading their cause with her lord and theirs, over whom she exercised a very cautious but positive influence. I learned gladly and with pride to admire and love this lady, to accept her as the type of a most precious truth. For to behold, even afar off, "silent upon a peak" of sympathy, the ocean of love and pathos, of passion and patience, on which the lives of these our pagan sisters drift, is to be gratefully sensible of a loving, pitying, and sufficing Presence, even in the darkness of error, superstition, slavery, and death. Shortly after her marriage, Koon Ying Phan, moved partly by compassion for the wrongs of her predecessor, partly by the "aching void" of her own life, adopted the disowned son of the premier, and called him, with reproachful significance, P'hra Nah Why, "the Lord endures." And her strong friend, Nature, who had already knit together, by nerve and vein and bone and sinew, the father and the child, now came to her aid, and united them by the finer but scarcely weaker ties of habit and companionship and home affections. [Illustration: THE TEMPLE OF THE SLEEPING IDOL.] V. THE TEMPLES OF THE SLEEPING AND THE EMERALD IDOLS. The day had come for my presentation to the supreme king. After much preliminary talk between the Kralahome and myself, through the medium of the interpreter, it had been arranged that my straightforward friend, Captain B----, should conduct us to the royal palace, and procure the interview. Our cheerful escort arrived duly, and we proceeded up the river,--my boy maintaining an ominous silence all the while, except once, when he shyly confessed he was afraid to go. At the landing we found a large party of priests, some bathing, some wringing their yellow garments; graceful girls balancing on their heads vessels of water; others, less pleasing, carrying bundles of grass, or baskets of fruit and nuts; noblemen in gilded sedans, borne on men's shoulders, hurrying toward the palace; in the distance a troop of horsemen, with long glittering spears. Passing the covered gangway at the landing, we came upon a clean brick road, bounded by two high walls, the one on the left enclosing the abode of royalty, the other the temple Watt Poh, where reposes in gigantic state the wondrous Sleeping Idol. Imagine a reclining figure one hundred and fifty feet long and forty feet high, entirely overlaid with plate gold; the soles of its monstrous feet covered with bass-reliefs inlaid with mother-of-pearl and chased with gold; each separate design distinctly representing one of the many transmigrations of Buddha whereby he obtained Niphan. On the nails are graven his divine attributes, ten in number: 1. Arahang,--Immaculate, Pure, Chaste. 2. Samma Sam-Putho,--Cognizant of the laws of Nature, Infallible, Unchangeable, True. 3. Vicharanah Sampanoh,--Endowed with all Knowledge, all Science. 4. Lukha-tho,--Excellence, Perfection. 5. Lôk-havi-tho,--Cognizant of the mystery of Creation. 6. Annutharo,--Inconceivably Pure, without Sin. 7. Purisah tham-mah Sarathi,--Unconquerable, Invincible, before whom the angels bow. 8. Sassahdah,--Father of Beatitude, Teacher of the ways to bliss. 9. Poodh-tho,--Endowed with boundless Compassion, Pitiful, Tender, Loving, Merciful, Benevolent. 10. Pâk-havah,--Glorious, endowed with inconceivable Merit, Adorable. Leaving this temple, we approached a low circular fort near the palace, --a miniature model of a great citadel, with bastions, battlements, and towers, showing confusedly over a crenellated wall. Entering by a curious wooden gate, bossed with great flat-headed nails, we reached by a stony pathway the stables (or, more correctly, the palace) of the White Elephant, where the huge creature--indebted for its "whiteness" to tradition rather than to nature--is housed royally. Passing these, we next came to the famous Watt P'hra Këau, or temple of the Emerald Idol. An inner wall separates this temple from the military depot attached to the palace; but it is connected by a secret passage with the most private apartments of his Majesty's harem, which, enclosed on all sides, is accessible only to women. The temple itself is unquestionably one of the most remarkable and beautiful structures of its class in the Orient; the lofty octagonal pillars, the quaint Gothic doors and windows, the tapering and gilded roofs, are carved in an infinite variety of emblems, the lotos and the palm predominating. The adornment of the exterior is only equalled in its profusion by the pictorial and hieroglyphic embellishment within. The ceiling is covered with mythological figures and symbols. Most conspicuous among the latter are the luminous circles, resembling the mystic orb of the Hindoos, and representing the seven constellations known to the ancients; these revolve round a central sun in the form of a lotos, called by the Siamese _Dok �thit_ (sun-flower), because it expands its leaves to the rising sun and contracts them as he sets. On the cornices are displayed the twelve signs of the zodiac. The altar is a wonder of dimensions and splendor,--a pyramid one hundred feet high, terminating in a fine spire of gold, and surrounded on every side by idols, all curious and precious, from the bijou image in sapphire to the colossal statue in plate gold. A series of trophies these, gathered from the triumphs of Buddhism over the proudest forms of worship in the old pagan world. In the pillars that surround the temple, and the spires that taper far aloft, may be traced types and emblems borrowed from the Temple of the Sun at Baalbec, the proud fane of Diana at Ephesus, the shrines of the Delian Apollo; but the Brahminical symbols and interpretations prevail. Strange that it should be so, with a sect that suffered by the slayings and the outcastings of a ruthless persecution, at the hands of their Brahmin fathers, for the cause of restoring the culture of that simple and pure philosophy which nourished before pantheism! The floor is paved with diamonds of polished brass, which reflect the light of tall tapers that have burned on for more than a hundred years, so closely is the sacred fire watched. The floods of light and depths of shadow about the altar are extreme, and the effect overwhelming. The Emerald Idol is about twelve inches high and eight in width. Into the virgin gold of which its hair and collar are composed must have been stirred, while the metal was yet molten, crystals, topazes, sapphires, rubies, onyxes, amethysts, and diamonds,--the stones crude, or rudely cut, and blended in such proportions as might enhance to the utmost imaginable limit the beauty and the cost of the adored effigy. The combination is as harmonious as it is splendid. No wonder it is commonly believed that Buddha himself alighted on the spot in the form of a great emerald, and by a flash of lightning conjured the glittering edifice and altar in an instant from the earth, to house and throne him there! On either side of the eastern entrance--called _Patoo Ngam_, "The Beautiful Gate"--stands a modern statue; one of Saint Peter, with flowing mantle and sandalled feet, in an attitude of sorrow, as when "he turned away his face and wept"; the other of Ceres, scattering flowers. The western entrance, which admits only ladies, is styled _Patoo Thavâdah_, "The Angels' Gate," and is guarded by genii of ferocious aspect. At a later period, visiting this temple in company with the king and his family, I called his Majesty's attention to the statue at the Beautiful Gate, as that of a Christian saint with whose story he was not unfamiliar. Turning quickly to his children, and addressing them gently, he bade them salute it reverently. "It is Mam's P'hra," [Footnote: Saint, or Lord.] he said; whereupon the tribe of little ones folded their hands devoutly, and made obeisance before the effigy of Saint Peter. As often as my thought reverts to this inspiring shrine, reposing in its lonely loveliness amid the shadows and the silence of its consecrated groves, I cannot find it in my heart to condemn, however illusive the object, but rather I rejoice to admire and applaud, the bent of that devotion which could erect so proud and beautiful a fane in the midst of moral surroundings so ignoble and unlovely,--a spiritual remembrance perhaps older and truer than paganism, ennobling the pagan mind with the idea of an architectural Sabbath, so to speak, such as a heathen may purely enjoy and a Christian may not wisely despise. [Illustration: THE BEAUTIFUL GATE OF THE TEMPLE.] VI. THE KING AND THE GOVERNESS. In 1825 a royal prince of Siam (his birthright wrested from him, and his life imperilled) took refuge in a Buddhist monastery and assumed the yellow garb of a priest. His father, commonly known as Phen-den-Klang, first or supreme king of Siam, had just died, leaving this prince, Chowfa Mongkut, at the age of twenty, lawful heir to the crown; for he was the eldest son of the acknowledged queen, and therefore by courtesy and honored custom, if not by absolute right, the legitimate successor to the throne of the P'hra-batts. [Footnote: The Golden-footed.] But he had an elder half-brother, who, through the intrigues of his mother, had already obtained control of the royal treasury, and now, with the connivance, if not by the authority, of the Senabawdee, the Grand Council of the kingdom, proclaimed himself king. He had the grace, however, to promise his plundered brother--such royal promises being a cheap form of propitiation in Siam--to hold the reins of government only until Chowfa Mongkut should be of years and strength and skill to manage them. But, once firmly seated on the throne, the usurper saw in his patient but proud and astute kinsman only a hindrance and a peril in the path of his own cruder and fiercer aspirations. Hence the forewarning and the flight, the cloister and the yellow robes. And so the usurper continued to reign, unchallenged by any claim from the king that should be, until March, 1851, when, a mortal illness having overtaken him, he convoked the Grand Council of princes and nobles around his couch, and proposed his favorite son as his successor. Then the safe asses of the court kicked the dying lion with seven words of sententious scorn,--"The crown has already its rightful owner"; whereupon the king literally cursed himself to death, for it was almost in the convulsion, of his chagrin and rage that he came to his end, on the 3d of April. In Siam there is no such personage as an heir-apparent to the throne, in the definite meaning and positive value which attaches to that phrase in Europe,--no prince with an absolute and exclusive title, by birth, adoption, or nomination, to succeed to the crown. And while it is true that the eldest living son of a Siamese sovereign by his queen or queen consort is recognized by all custom, ancient and modern, as the _probable_ successor to the high seat of his royal sire, he cannot be said to have a clear and indefeasible right to it, because the question of his accession has yet to be decided by the electing voice of the Senabawdee, in whose judgment he may be ineligible, by reason of certain physical, mental, or moral disabilities,--as extreme youth, effeminacy, imbecility, intemperance, profligacy. Nevertheless, the election is popularly expected to result in the choice of the eldest son of the queen, though an interregnum or a regency is a contingency by no means unusual. It was in view of this jurisdiction of the Senabawdee, exercised in deference to a just and honored usage, that the voice of the oracle fell upon the ear of the dying monarch with a disappointing and offensive significance; for he well knew who was meant by the "rightful owner" of the crown. Hardly had he breathed his last when, in spite of the busy intrigues of his eldest son (whom we find described in the _Bangkok Recorder_ of July 26, 1866, as "most honorable and promising"), in spite of the bitter vexation of his lordship Chow Phya Sri Sury Wongse, so soon to be premier, the prince Chowfa Mongkut doffed his sacerdotal robes, emerged from his cloister, and was crowned, with the title of Somdetch Phra Paramendr Maha Mongkut.[Footnote: Duke, and royal bearer of the great crown.] For twenty-five years had the true heir to the throne of the P'hra-batts, patiently biding his time, lain _perdu_ in his monastery, diligently devoting himself to the study of Sanskrit, Pali, theology, history, geology, chemistry, and especially astronomy. He had been a familiar visitor at the houses of the American missionaries, two of whom (Dr. House and Mr. Mattoon) were, throughout his reign and life, gratefully revered by him for that pleasant and profitable converse which helped to unlock to him the secrets of European vigor and advancement, and to make straight and easy the paths of knowledge he had started upon. Not even the essential arrogance of his Siamese nature could prevent him from accepting cordially the happy influences these good and true men inspired; and doubtless he would have gone more than half-way to meet them, but for the dazzle of the golden throne in the distance which arrested him midway between Christianity and Buddhism, between truth and delusion, between light and darkness, between life and death. In the Oriental tongues this progressive king was eminently proficient; and toward priests, preachers, and teachers, of all creeds, sects, and sciences, an enlightened exemplar of tolerance. It was likewise his peculiar vanity to pass for an accomplished English scholar, and to this end he maintained in his palace at Bangkok a private printing establishment, with fonts of English type, which, as may be perceived presently, he was at no loss to keep in "copy." Perhaps it was the printing-office which suggested, quite naturally, an English governess for the _élite_ of his wives and concubines, and their offspring,--in number amply adequate to the constitution of a royal school, and in material most attractively fresh and romantic. Happy thought! Wherefore, behold me, just after sunset on a pleasant day in April, 1862, on the threshold of the outer court of the Grand Palace, accompanied by my own brave little boy, and escorted by a compatriot. A flood of light sweeping through the spacious Hall of Audience displayed a throng of noblemen in waiting. None turned a glance, or seemingly a thought, on us, and, my child being tired and hungry, I urged Captain B---- to present us without delay. At once we mounted the marble steps, and entered the brilliant hall unannounced. Ranged on the carpet were many prostrate, mute, and motionless forms, over whose heads to step was a temptation as drolly natural as it was dangerous. His Majesty spied us quickly, and advanced abruptly, petulantly screaming, "Who? who? who?" Captain B---- (who, by the by, is a titled nobleman of Siam) introduced me as the English governess, engaged for the royal family. The king shook hands with us, and immediately proceeded to march up and down in quick step, putting one foot before the other with mathematical precision, as if under drill. "Forewarned, forearmed!" my friend whispered that I should prepare myself for a sharp cross-questioning as to my age, my husband, children, and other strictly personal concerns. Suddenly his Majesty, having cogitated sufficiently in his peculiar manner, with one long final stride halted in front of us, and pointing straight at me with his forefinger, asked, "How old shall you be?" Scarcely able to repress a smile at a proceeding so absurd, and with my sex's distaste for so serious a question, I demurely replied, "One hundred and fifty years old." Had I made myself much younger, he might have ridiculed or assailed me; but now he stood surprised and embarrassed for a few moments, then resumed his queer march; and at last, beginning to perceive the jest, coughed, laughed, coughed again, and in a high, sharp key asked, "In what year were you borned?" Instantly I struck a mental balance, and answered, as gravely as I could, "In 1788." At this point the expression of his Majesty's face was indescribably comical. Captain B---- slipped behind a pillar to laugh; but the king only coughed, with a significant emphasis that startled me, and addressed a few words to his prostrate courtiers, who smiled at the carpet,--all except the prime minister, who turned to look at me. But his Majesty was not to be baffled so: again he marched with vigor, and then returned to the attack with _élan_. "How many years shall you be married?" "For several years, your Majesty." He fell into a brown study; then, laughing, rushed at me, and demanded triumphantly:-- "Ha! How many grandchildren shall you now have? Ha, ha! How many? How many? Ha, ha, ha!" Of course we all laughed with him; but the general hilarity admitted of a variety of constructions. Then suddenly he seized my hand, and dragged me, _nolens volens_, my little Louis holding fast by my skirt, through several sombre passages, along which crouched duennas, shrivelled and grotesque, and many youthful women, covering their faces, as if blinded by the splendor of the passing Majesty. At length he stopped before one of the many-curtained recesses, and, drawing aside the hangings, disclosed a lovely, childlike form. He stooped and took her hand, (she naively hiding her face), and placing it in mine, said, "This is my wife, the Lady Tâlâp. She desires to be educated in English. She is as pleasing for her talents as for her beauty, and it is our pleasure to make her a good English scholar. You shall educate her for me." I replied that the office would give me much pleasure; for nothing could be more eloquently winning than the modest, timid bearing of that tender young creature in the presence of her lord. She laughed low and pleasantly as he translated my sympathetic words to her, and seemed so enraptured with the graciousness of his act that I took my leave of her with a sentiment of profound pity. He led me back by the way we had come; and now we met many children, who put my patient boy to much childish torture for the gratification of their startled curiosity. "I have sixty-seven children," said his Majesty, when we had returned to the Audience Hall. "You shall educate them, and as many of my wives, likewise, as may wish to learn English. And I have much correspondence in which you must assist me. And, moreover, I have much difficulty for reading and translating French letters; for French are fond of using gloomily deceiving terms. You must undertake; and you shall make all their murky sentences and gloomily deceiving propositions clear to me. And, furthermore, I have by every mail foreign letters whose writing is not easily read by me. You shall copy on round hand, for my readily perusal thereof." _Nil desperandum_; but I began by despairing of my ability to accomplish tasks so multifarious. I simply bowed, however, and so dismissed myself for that evening. One tempting morning, when the air was cool, my boy and I ventured some distance beyond the bounds of our usual cautious promenade, close to the palace of the premier. Some forty or fifty carpenters, building boats under a long low shed, attracted the child's attention. We tarried awhile, watching their work, and then strolled to a stone bridge hard by, where we found a gang of repulsive wretches, all men, coupled by means of iron collars and short but heavy fetters, in which they moved with difficulty, if not with positive pain. They were carrying stone from the canal to the bridge, and as they stopped to deposit their burdens, I observed that most of them had hard, defiant faces, though here and there were sad and gentle eyes that bespoke sympathy. One of them approached us, holding out his hand, into which Boy dropped the few coins he had. Instantly, with a greedy shout, the whole gang were upon us, crowding us on all sides, wrangling, yelling. I was exceedingly alarmed, and having no more money there, knew not what to do, except to take my child in my arms, and strive again and again to break through the press; but still I fell back baffled, and sickened by the insufferable odors that emanated from their disgusting persons; and still they pressed and scrambled and screamed, and clanked their horrid chains. But behold! suddenly, as if struck by lightning, every man of them fell on his face, and officers flew among them pell-mell, swingeing with hard, heavy thongs the naked wincing backs. It was with a sense of infinite relief that we found ourselves safe in our rooms at last; but the breakfast tasted earthy and the atmosphere was choking, and our very hearts were parched. At night Boy lay burning on his little bed, moaning for _aiyer sujok_ (cold water), while I fainted for a breath of fresh, sweet air. But God blesses these Eastern prison-houses not at all; the air that visits them is no better than the life within,--heavy, stifling, stupefying. For relief I betook me to the study of the Siamese language, an occupation I had found very pleasant and inspiring. As for Boy, who spoke Malay fluently, it was wonderful with what aptness he acquired it. When next I "interviewed" the king, I was accompanied by the premier's sister, a fair and friendly woman, whose whole stock of English was, "Good morning, sir"; and with this somewhat irrelevant greeting, a dozen times in an hour, though the hour were night, she relieved her pent-up feelings, and gave expression to her sympathy and regard for me. Mr. Hunter, private secretary to the premier, had informed me, speaking for his Excellency, that I should prepare to enter upon my duties at the royal palace without delay. Accordingly, next morning, the elder sister of the Kralahome came for us. She led the way to the river, followed by slave-girls bearing a gold teapot, a pretty gold tray containing two tiny porcelain cups with covers, her betel-box, also of gold, and two large fans. When we were seated in the closely covered basket-boat, she took up one of the books I had brought with me, and, turning over the leaves, came upon the alphabet; whereat, with a look of pleased surprise, she began repeating the letters. I helped her, and for a while she seemed amused and gratified; but presently, growing weary of it, she abruptly closed the book, and, offering me her hand, said, "Good morning, sir!" I replied with equal cordiality, and I think we bade each other good morning at least a dozen times before we reached the palace. We landed at a showy pavilion, and after traversing several covered passages came to a barrier guarded by Amazons, to whom the old lady was evidently well known, for they threw open the gate for us, and "squatted" till we passed. A hot walk of twenty minutes brought us to a curious oval door of polished brass, which opened and shut noiselessly in a highly ornate frame. This admitted us to a cool retreat, on one side of which were several temples or chapels in antique styles, and on the other a long dim gallery. On the marble floor of this pavilion a number of interesting children sat or sprawled, and quaint babies slept or frolicked in their nurses' arms. It was, indeed, a grateful change from the oppressive, irritating heat and glare through which we had just passed. The loungers started up to greet our motherly guide, who humbly prostrated herself before them; and then refreshments were brought in on large silver trays, with covers of scarlet silk in the form of a bee-hive. As no knife or fork or spoon was visible, Boy and I were fain to content ourselves with oranges, wherewith we made ourselves an unexpected but cheerful show for the entertainment and edification of those juvenile spectators of the royal family of Siam. I smiled and held out my hand to them, for they were, almost without exception, attractive children; but they shyly shrank from me. Meanwhile the "child-wife," to whom his Majesty had presented me at my first audience, appeared, and after saluting profoundly the sister of the Kralahome, and conversing with her for some minutes, lay down on the cool floor, and, using her betel-box for a pillow, beckoned to me. As I approached, and seated myself beside her, she said: "I am very glad to see you. It is long time I not see. Why you come so late?" to all of which she evidently expected no reply. I tried baby-talk, in the hope of making my amiable sentiments intelligible to so infantile a creature, but in vain. Seeing me disappointed and embarrassed, she oddly sang a scrap of the Sunday-school hymn, "There is a Happy Land, far, far away"; and then said, "I think of you very often. In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth." This meritorious but disjointed performance was followed by a protracted and trying silence, I sitting patient, and Boy wondering in my lap. At last she half rose, and, looking around, cautiously whispered, "Dear Mam Mattoon! I love you. I think of you. Your boy dead, you come to palace; you cry--I love you"; and laying her finger on her lips, and her head on the betel-box again, again she sang, "There is a Happy Land, far, far away!" Mrs. Mattoon is the wife of that good and true American apostle who has nobly served the cause of missions in Siam as a co-laborer with the excellent Dr. Samuel House. While the wife of the latter devoted herself indefatigably to the improvement of schools for the native children whom the mission had gathered round it, Mrs. Mattoon shared her labors by occasionally teaching in the palace, which was for some time thrown open to the ladies of her faithful sisterhood. Here, as elsewhere, the blended force and gentleness of her character wrought marvels in the impressible and grateful minds to which she had access. So spontaneous and ingenuous a tribute of reverence and affection from a pagan to a Christian lady was inexpressibly charming to me. Thus the better part of the day passed. The longer I rested dreaming there, the more enchanted seemed the world within those walls. I was aroused by a slight noise proceeding from the covered gallery, whence an old lady appeared bearing a candlestick of gold, with branches supporting four lighted candles. I afterward learned that these were daily offerings, which the king, on awakening from his forenoon slumber, sent to the Watt P'hra Këau. This apparition was the signal for much stir. The Lady Tâlâp started to her feet and fled, and we were left alone with the premier's sister and the slaves in waiting. The entire household seemed to awake on the instant, as in the "Sleeping Palace" of Tennyson, at the kiss of the Fairy Prince,-- "The maid and page renewed their strife; The palace banged, and buzzed, and clackt; And all the long-pent stream of life Dashed downward in a cataract." A various procession of women and children--some pale and downcast, others bright and blooming, more moody and hardened--moved in the one direction; none tarried to chat, none loitered or looked back; the lord was awake. "And last with these the king awoke, And in his chair himself upreared, And yawned, and rubbed his face, and spoke." Presently the child-wife reappeared,--arrayed now in dark blue silk, which contrasted well with the soft olive of her complexion,--and quickly followed the others, with a certain anxious alacrity expressed in her baby face. I readily guessed that his Majesty was the awful cause of all this careful bustle, and began to feel uneasy myself, as my ordeal approached. For an hour I stood on thorns. Then there was a general frantic rush. Attendants, nurses, slaves, vanished through doors, around corners, behind pillars, under stairways; and at last, preceded by a sharp, "cross" cough, behold the king! We found his Majesty in a less genial mood than at my first reception. He approached us coughing loudly and repeatedly, a sufficiently ominous fashion of announcing himself, which greatly discouraged my darling boy, who clung to me anxiously. He was followed by a numerous "tail" of women and children, who formally prostrated themselves around him. Shaking hands with me coldly, but remarking upon the beauty of the child's hair, half buried in the folds of my dress, he turned to the premier's sister, and conversed at some length with her, she apparently acquiescing in all that he had to say. He then approached me, and said, in a loud and domineering tone:-- "It is our pleasure that you shall reside within this palace with our family." I replied that it would be quite impossible for me to do so; that, being as yet unable to speak the language, and the gates being shut every evening, I should feel like an unhappy prisoner in the palace. "Where do you go every evening?" he demanded. "Not anywhere, your Majesty. I am a stranger here." "Then why you shall object to the gates being shut?" "I do not clearly know," I replied, with a secret shudder at the idea of sleeping within those walls; "but I am afraid I could not do it. I beg your Majesty will remember that in your gracious letter you promised me 'a residence adjoining the royal palace,' not within it." He turned and looked at me, his face growing almost purple with rage. "I do not know I have promised. I do not know former condition. I do not know anything but you are our servant; and it is our pleasure that you must live in this palace, and--_you shall obey_." Those last three words he fairly screamed. I trembled in every limb, and for some time knew not how to reply. At length I ventured to say, "I am prepared to obey all your Majesty's commands within the obligation of my duty to your family, but beyond that I can promise no obedience." "You _shall_ live in palace," he roared,--"you _shall _live in palace! I will give woman slaves to wait on you. You shall commence royal school in this pavilion on Thursday next. That is the best day for such undertaking, in the estimation of our astrologers." With that, he addressed, in a frantic manner, commands, unintelligible to me, to some of the old women about the pavilion. My boy began to cry; tears filled my own eyes; and the premier's sister, so kind but an hour before, cast fierce glances at us both. I turned and led my child toward the oval brass door. We heard voices behind us crying. "Mam! Mam!" I turned again, and saw the king beckoning and calling to me. I bowed to him profoundly, but passed on through the brass door. The prime minister's sister bounced after us in a distraction of excitement, tugging at my cloak, shaking her finger in my face, and crying, "_My di! my di!_" [Footnote: "Bad, bad!"] All the way back, in the boat, and on the street, to the very door of my apartments, instead of her jocund "Good morning, sir," I had nothing but _my di_. But kings, who are not mad, have their sober second-thoughts like other rational people. His Golden-footed Majesty presently repented him of his arbitrary "cantankerousness," and in due time my ultimatum was accepted. VII. MARBLE HALLS AND FISH-STALLS. Well! by this time I was awake to the realities of time, place, and circumstance. The palace and its spells, the impracticable despot, the impassible premier, were not the phantasms of a witching night, but the hard facts of noonday. Here were the very Apollyons of paganry in the way, and only the Great Hearts of a lonely woman and a loving child to challenge them. With a heart heavy with regret for the comparatively happy home I had left in Malacca, I sought an interview with the Kralahome, and told him (through his secretary, Mr. Hunter) how impossible it would be for me and my child to lodge within the walls of the Grand Palace; and that he was bound in honor to make good the conditions on which I had been induced to leave Singapore. At last I succeeded in interesting him, and he accorded me a gracious hearing. My objection to the palace, as a place of residence as well as of business, seemed to strike him as reasonable enough; and he promised to plead my cause with his Majesty, bidding me kindly "give myself no further trouble about the matter, for he would make it right." Thus passed a few days more, while I waited monotonously under the roof of the premier, teaching Boy, studying Siamese, paying stated visits to the good Koon Ying Phan, and suffering tumultuous invasions from my "intimate enemies" of the harem, who came upon us like a flight of locusts, and rarely left without booty, in the shape of trifles they had begged of me. But things get themselves done, after a fashion, even in Siam; and so, one morning, came the slow but welcome news that the king was reconciled to the idea of my living outside the palace, that a house had been selected for me, and a messenger waited to conduct me to it. Hastily donning our walking-gear, we found an elderly man, of somewhat sinister aspect, in a dingy red coat with faded facings of yellow, impatient to guide us to our unimaginable quarters. As we passed out, we met the premier, whose countenance wore a quizzing expression, which I afterward understood; but at the moment I saw in it only the characteristic conundrum that I had neither the time nor the talent to guess. It was with a lively sense of relief that I followed our conductor, in whom, by a desperate exploit of imagination, I discovered a promise of privacy and "home." In a long, slender boat, with a high, uneven covering of wood, we stowed ourselves in the Oriental manner, my dress and appearance affording infinite amusement to the ten rowers as they plied their paddles, while our escort stood in the entrance chewing betel, and looking more ill-omened than ever. We alighted at the king's pavilion facing the river, and were led, by a long, circuitous, and unpleasant road, through two tall gates, into a street which, from the offensive odors that assailed us, I took to be a fish-market. The sun burned, the air stifled, the dust choked us, the ground blistered our feet; we were parching and suffocating, when our guide stopped at the end of this most execrable lane, and signed to us to follow him up three broken steps of brick. From a pouch in his dingy coat he produced a key, applied it to a door, and opened to us two small rooms, without a window in either, without a leaf to shade, without bath-closet or kitchen. And this was the residence sumptuously appointed for the English governess to the royal family of Siam! And furnished! and garnished! In one room, on a remnant of filthy matting, stood the wreck of a table, superannuated, and maimed of a leg, but propped by two chairs that with broken arms sympathized with each other. In the other, a cheap excess of Chinese bedstead, that took the whole room to itself; and a mattress!--a mutilated epitome of a Lazarine hospital. My stock of Siamese words was small, but strong. I gratefully recalled the emphatic monosyllables wherewith the premier's sister had so berated me; and turning upon the king's messenger with her tremendous _my di! my di!_ dashed the key from his hand, as, inanely grinning, he held it out to me, caught my boy up in my arms, cleared the steps in a bound, and fled anywhere, anywhere, until I was stopped by the crowd of men, women, and children, half naked, who gathered around me, wondering. Then, remembering my adventure with the chain-gang, I was glad to accept the protection of my insulted escort, and escape from that suburb of disgust. All the way back to the premier's our guide grinned at us fiendishly, whether in token of apology or ridicule I knew not; and landing us safely, he departed to our great relief, still grinning. Straight went I to the Kralahome, whose shy, inquisitive smile was more and more provoking. In a few sharp words I told him, through the interpreter, what I thought of the lodging provided for me, and that nothing should induce me to live in such a slum. To which, with cool, deliberate audacity, he replied that nothing prevented me from living where I was. I started from the low seat I had taken (in order to converse with him at my ease, he sitting on the floor), and not without difficulty found voice to say that neither his palace nor the den in the fish-market would suit me, and that I demanded suitable and independent accommodations, in a respectable neighborhood, for myself and my child. My rage only amused him. Smiling insolently, he rose, bade me, "Never mind: it will be all right by and by," and retired to an inner chamber. My head throbbed with pain, my pulse bounded, my throat burned. I staggered to my rooms, exhausted and despairing, there to lie, for almost a week, prostrated with fever, and tortured day and night with frightful fancies and dreams. Beebe and the gentle Koon Ying Phan nursed me tenderly, bringing me water, deliciously cool, in which the fragrant flower of the jessamine had been steeped, both to drink and to bathe my temples. As soon as I began to recover, I caressed the soft hand of the dear pagan lady, and implored her, partly in Siamese, partly in English, to intercede for me with her husband, that a decent home might be provided for us. She assured me, while she smoothed my hair and patted my cheek as though I were a helpless child, that she would do her best with him, begging me meanwhile to be patient. But that I could not be; and I spared no opportunity to expostulate with the premier on the subject of my future abode and duties, telling him that the life I was leading under his roof was insupportable to me; though, indeed, I was not ungrateful for the many offices of affection I received from the ladies of his harem, who in my trouble were sympathetic and tender. From that time forth the imperturbable Kralahome was ever courteous to me. Nevertheless, when from time to time I grew warm again on the irrepressible topic, he would smile slyly, tap the ashes from his pipe, and say, "Yes, sir! Never mind, sir! You not like, you can live in fish-market, sir!" The apathy and supineness of these people oppressed me intolerably. Never well practised in patience, I chafed at the _sang-froid_ of the deliberate premier. Without compromising my dignity, I did much to enrage him; but he bore all with a _nonchalance_ that was the more irritating because it was not put on. Thus more than two months passed, and I had desperately settled down to my Oriental studies, content to snub the Kralahome with his own indifference, whilst he, on the other hand, blandly ignored our existence, when, to my surprise, he paid me a visit one afternoon, complimented me on my progress in the language, and on my "great heart,"--or _chi yai_, as he called it,--and told me his Majesty was highly incensed at my conduct in the affair of the fish-market, and that he had found me something to do. I thanked him so cordially that he expressed his surprise, saying, "Siamese lady no like work; love play, love sleep. Why you no love play?" I assured him that I liked play well enough when I was in the humor for play; but that at present I was not disposed to disport myself, being weary of my life in his palace, and sick of Siam altogether. He received my candor with his characteristic smile and a good-humored "Good by, sir!" Next morning ten Siamese lads and a little girl came to my room. The former were the half-brothers, nephews, and other "encumbrances" of the Kralahome; the latter their sister, a simple child of nine or ten. Surely it was with no snobbery of condescension that I received these poor children, but rather gratefully, as a comfort and a wholesome discipline. And so another month went by, and still I heard nothing from his Majesty. But the premier began to interest me. The more I saw of him the more he puzzled me. It was plain that all who came in contact with him both feared and loved him. He displayed a kind of passive amiability of which he seemed always conscious, which he made his _forte_. By what means he exacted such prompt obedience, and so completely controlled a people whom he seemed to drive with reins so loose and careless, was a mystery to me. But that his influence and the prestige of his name penetrated to every nook of that vast yet undeveloped kingdom was the phenomenon which slowly but surely impressed me. I was but a passing traveller, surveying from a distance and at large that vast plain of humanity; but I could see that it was systematically tilled by one master mind. VIII. OUR HOME IN BANGKOK Rebuked and saddened, I abandoned my long-cherished hope of a home, and resigned myself with no good grace to my routine of study and instruction. Where were all the romantic fancies and proud anticipations with which I had accepted the position of governess to the royal family of Siam? Alas! in two squalid rooms at the end of a Bangkok fish-market. I failed to find the fresh strength and courage that lay in the hope of improving the interesting children whose education had been intrusted to me, and day by day grew more and more desponding, less and less equal to the simple task my "mission" had set me. I was fairly sick at heart and ready to surrender that morning when the good Koon Ying Phan came unannounced into our rooms to tell us that a tolerable house was found for us at last. I cannot describe with what an access of joy I heard the glad tidings, nor how I thanked the messenger, nor how in a moment I forgot all my chagrin and repining, and hugged my boy and covered him with kisses. It was not until that "order for release" arrived, that I truly felt how offensive and galling had been the life I had led in the premier's palace. It was with unutterable gladness that I followed a half-brother of the Kralahome, Moonshee leading Boy by the hand, to our new house. Passing several streets, we entered a walled enclosure, abounding in broken bricks, stone, lime, mortar, and various rubbish. A tall, dingy storehouse occupied one side of the wall; in the other, a low door opened toward the river; and at the farther end stood the house, sheltered by a few fine trees, that, drooping over the piazza, made the place almost picturesque. On entering, however, we found ourselves face to face with overpowering filth. Poor Moonshee stood aghast. "It must be a paradise," he had said when we set out, "since the great Vizier bestows it upon the Mem Sahib, whom he delights to honor." Now he cursed his fate, and reviled all viziers. I turned to see to whom his lamentations were addressed, and beheld another Mohammedan seated on the floor, and attending with an attitude and air of devout respect. The scene reminded Boy and me of our old home, and we laughed heartily. On making a tour of inspection, we found nine rooms, some of them pleasant and airy, and with every "modern convenience" (though somewhat Oriental as to style) of bath, kitchen, etc. It was clear that soap and water without stint would do much here toward the making of a home for us. Beebe and Boy were hopeful, and promptly put a full stop to the rhetorical outcry of Moonshee by requesting him to enlist the services of his admiring friend and two China coolies to fetch water. But there were no buckets. With a few dollars that I gave him, Moonshee, with all a Moslem's resignation to any new turn in his fate, departed to explore for the required utensils, while the brother of the awful Kralahome, perched on the piazza railing, adjusted his anatomy for a comfortable oversight of the proceedings. Boy, with his "pinny" on, ran off in glee to make himself promiscuously useful, and I sat down to plan an attack. Where to begin?--that was the question. It was such filthy filth, so monstrous in quantity and kind,--dirt to be stared at, defied, savagely assaulted with rage and havoc. Suddenly I arose, shook my head dangerously at the prime minister's brother,--who, fascinated, had advanced into the room,--marched through a broken door, hung my hat and mantle on a rusty nail, doffed my neat half-mourning, slipped on an old wrapper, dashed at the vile matting that in ulcerous patches afflicted the floor, and began fiercely tearing it up. In good time Moonshee and his new friend returned with half a dozen buckets, but no coolies; in place of the latter came a neat and pleasant Siamese lady, Mrs. Hunter, wife of the premier's secretary, bringing her slaves to help, and some rolls of fresh, sweet China matting for the floor. How quickly the general foulness was purified, the general raggedness repaired, the general shabbiness made "good as new"! The floors, that had been buried under immemorial dust, arose again under the excavating labors of the sweepers; and the walls, that had been gory with expectorations of betel, hid their "damnéd spots" under innocent veils of whitewash. Moonshee, who had evidently been beguiled by a cheap and spurious variety of the wine of Shiraz, and now sat maudlin on the steps, weeping for his home in Singapore, I despatched peremptorily in search of Beebe, bedsteads, and boxes. But the Kralahome's brother had vanished, doubtless routed by the brooms. Bright, fresh, fragrant matting; a table neither too low to be pretty nor too high to be useful; a couple of armchairs, hospitably embracing; a pair of silver candlesticks, quaint and homely; a goodly company of pleasant books; a piano, just escaping from its travelling-cage, with all its pent-up music in its bosom; a cosey little cot clinging to its ampler mother; a stream of generous sunlight from the window gilding and gladdening all,--behold our home in Siam! I worked exultingly till the setting sun slanted his long shadows across the piazza. Then came comfortable Beebe with the soup and dainties she had prepared with the help of a "Bombay man." Boy slept soundly in an empty room, overcome by the spell of its sudden sweetness, his hands and face as dirty as a healthy, well-regulated boy could desire. Triumphantly I bore him to his own pretty couch, adjusted my hair, resumed my royal robes of mauve muslin, and prepared to queen it in my own palace. And even as I stood, smiling at my own small grandeur, came tender memories crowding thick upon me,--of a soft, warm lap, in which I had once loved to lay my head; of a face, fair, pensive, loving, lovely; of eyes whose deep and quiet light a shadow of unkindness never crossed; of lips that sweetly crooned the songs of a far-off, happy land; of a presence full of comfort, hope, strength, courage, victory, peace, that perfect harmony that comes of perfect faith,--a child's trust in its mother. Passionately I clasped my child in my arms, and awoke him with pious promises that took the form of kisses. Beebe, soup, teapot, candlesticks, teacups, and dear faithful Bessy, looked on and smiled. Hardly had we finished this, our first and finest feast, in celebration of our glorious independence, when our late guide of fish-market fame, he of the seedy red coat and faded yellow facings, appeared on the piazza, saluted us with that vacant chuckle and grin wherefrom no inference could be drawn, and delivered his Majesty's order that I should now come to the school. Unterrified and deliberate, we lingered yet a little over that famous breakfast, then rose, and prepared to follow the mechanical old ape. Boy hugged Bessy fondly by way of good-by, and, leaving Beebe on guard, we went forth. The same long, narrow, tall, and very crank boat received us. The sun was hot enough to daunt a sepoy; down the bare backs of the oarsmen flowed miniature Meinams of sweat, as they tugged, grunting, against the strong current. We landed at the familiar (king's) pavilion, the front of which projects into the river by a low portico. The roof, rising in several tiers, half shelters, half bridges the detached and dilapidated parts of the structure, which presents throughout a very ancient aspect, parts of the roof having evidently been renewed, and the gables showing traces of recent repairs, while the rickety pillars seem to protest with groans against the architectural anachronism that has piled so many young heads upon their time-worn shoulders. IX. OUR SCHOOL IN THE PALACE. The fact is remarkable, that though education in its higher degrees is popularly neglected in Siam, there is scarcely a man or woman in the empire who cannot read and write. Though a vain people, they are neither bigoted nor shallow; and I think the day is not far off when the enlightening influences applied to them, and accepted through their willingness, not only to receive instruction from Europeans, but even to adopt in a measure their customs and their habits of thought, will raise them to the rank of a superior nation. The language of this people advances but slowly in the direction of grammatical perfection. Like many other Oriental tongues, it was at first purely monosyllabic; but as the Pali or Sanskrit has been liberally engrafted on it, polysyllabic words have been formed. Its pronouns and particles are peculiar, its idioms few and simple, its metaphors very obvious. It is copious to redundancy in terms expressive of royalty, rank, dignity--in fact, a distinct phraseology is required in addressing personages of exalted station; repetitions of word and phrase are affected, rather than shunned. Sententious brevity and simplicity of expression belong to the pure spirit of the language, and when employed impart to it much dignity and beauty; but there is no standard of orthography, nor any grammar, and but few rules of universal application. Every Siamese writer spells to please himself, and the purism of one is the slang or gibberish of another. [Illustration: A PUPIL OF THE ROYAL SCHOOL.] The Siamese write from left to right, the words running together in a line unbroken by spaces, points, or capitals; so that, as in ancient Sanskrit, an entire paragraph appears as one protracted word, "That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along." When not written with a reed on dark native paper, the characters are engraved with a style (of brass or iron, one end sharp for writing, the other flat for erasing) on palm-leaves prepared for the purpose. In all parts of the empire the boys are taught by priests to read, write, and cipher. Every monastery is provided with a library, more or less standard. The more elegant books are composed of tablets of ivory, or of palmyra leaves delicately prepared; the characters engraved on these are gilt, the margins and edges adorned with heavy gilding or with flowers in bright colors. The literature of the Siamese deals principally with religious topics. The "Kammarakya," or Buddhist Ritual,--a work for the priesthood only, and therefore, like others of the Vinnâyâ, little known,--contains the vital elements of the Buddhist Moral Code, and, _per se_, is perfect; on this point all writers, whether partial or captious, are of one mind. Spence Hardy, a Wesleyan missionary, speaking of that part of the work entitled "Dhammâ-Padam," [Footnote: Properly _Dharmna_,--"Footsteps of the Law."] which is freely taught in the schools attached to the monasteries, admits that a compilation might be made from its precepts, "which in the purity of its ethics could hardly be equalled from any other heathen author." M. Laboulaye, one of the most distinguished members of the French Academy, remarks, in the _Débats_ of April 4, 1853, on a work known by the title of "Dharmna Maitrî," or "Law of Charity":-- "It is difficult to comprehend how men, not aided by revelation, could have soared so high and approached so near the truth. Beside the five great commandments,--not to kill, not to steal, not to commit adultery, not to lie, not to get drunk,--every shade of vice, hypocrisy, anger, pride, suspicion, greed, gossip, cruelty to animals, is guarded against by special precepts. Among the virtues commended we find, not only reverence for parents, care for children, submission to authority, gratitude, moderation in time of prosperity, resignation and fortitude in time of trial, equanimity at all times, but virtues unknown to any heathen system of morality, such as the duty of forgiving insults, and of rewarding evil with good." All virtues, we are told, spring from _maitrî_, and this _maitrî_ can only be rendered by charity and love. "I do not hesitate," says Burnouf, in his _Lotus de la Bonne Loi_, "to translate by 'charity' the word _maitrî_, which expresses, not merely friendship, or the feeling of particular affection which a man has for one or more of his fellow-creatures, but that universal feeling which inspires us with good-will toward all men and a constant willingness to help them." I may here add the testimony of Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire: "I do not hesitate to add," he writes, "that, save the Christ alone, there is not among the founders of religion a figure more pure, more touching, than that of Buddha. His life is without blemish; his constant heroism equals his conviction; and if the theory he extols is false, the personal examples he affords are irreproachable. He is the accomplished model of all the virtues he preaches; his abnegation, his charity, his unalterable sweetness, never belie themselves. At the age of twenty-nine he retires from the court of the king, his father, to become a devotee and a beggar. He silently prepares his doctrine by six years of seclusion and meditation. He propagates it, by the unaided power of speech and persuasion, for more than half a century; and when he dies in the arms of his disciples, it is with the serenity of a sage who has practised goodness all his life, and knows that he has found Truth." Another work, as sacred and more mystic, is the "Parajikâ," read in the temples with closed doors by the chief priests exclusively, and only to such devotees as have entered the monastic schools for life. Then there are the "P'ra-jana Para-mita," (the "Accomplishment of Reason," or "Transcendental Wisdom,)" and other works in abstruse philosophy. The "Lalita Vistara" contains the life of Buddha, and is esteemed the highest authority as to the more remarkable events in the career of the great reformer. The "Saddharma-pundikara" (or _pundariki_ in Ceylon), "The White Lotos of the True Religion," presents the incidents of Buddha's life in the form of legend and fable. The "Ganda-Veyuha," but little known, consists of remarkable and very beautiful forms of prayer and thanksgiving, with psalms of praise addressed to the Perfection of the Infinite and to the Invisible, by Sakya Muni, the Buddha. The "Nirwana" treats of the end of material existence, and is universally read, and highly esteemed by Buddhists as a treatise of rare merit. But the most important parts of the theological study of the Siamese priesthood are found in a work revered under the titles of "Tautras" and "Kala-Chakara,"--that is, "Circles of Time, Matter, Space"; probably a translation of the Sanskrit symbolic word, _Om_, "Circle." There are twenty-two volumes, treating exclusively of mystics and mystical worship. The libraries of the monasteries are rich in works on the theory and practice of medicine; but very poor in historical books, the few preserved dealing mainly with the lives and actions of Siamese rulers, oddly associated with the genii and heroes of the Hindoo mythology. Like the early historians of Greece and Rome, the writers are careful to furnish a particular account of all signs, omens, and predictions relating to the several events recorded. They possess also a few translated works in Chinese history. The late king was an authority on all questions of religion, law, and custom, and was familiar with the writings of Pythagoras and Aristotle. The Siamese have an extravagant fondness for the drama, and for poetry of every kind. In all the lyric form predominates, and their compositions are commonly adapted for instrumental accompaniment. Their dramatic entertainments are mainly musical, combining rudely the opera with the ballet,--monotonous singing, and listless, mechanical dancing. Dialogue is occasionally introduced, the favorite subjects being passages from the Hindoo Avatars, the epic "Ramayana," and the "Mahabharata"; or from legends, peculiar to Siam, of gods, heroes, and demons. Throughout their literature, mythology is the all-pervading element; history, science, arts, customs, conversation, opinion, doctrine, are alike colored and flavored with it. With so brief and meagre a sketch of the literature of Siam, I would fain prepare the reader to appreciate the peculiarities of an English classical school in the Royal Palace at Bangkok. In Siam, all schools, literary societies, monasteries, even factories, all intellectual and progressive enterprises of whatever nature and intention, are opened and begun on Thursday, "One P'ra Hatt"; because that day is sacred to the goddess of Mind or Wisdom, probably the Hindoo Saraswati. On the Thursday appointed for the opening of my classes in the palace, one of the king's barges conveyed us across the Meinam. At the landing I was met by slave-girls, who conducted me to the palace through the gate called Patoo Sap, "Gate of Knowledge." Here I was received by some Amazons, who in turn gave notice to other slave-girls waiting to escort us to a pavilion--or, more correctly, temple--dedicated to the wives and daughters of Siam. [Footnote: _Watt Khoon Choom Manda Thai_,--"Temple of the Mothers of the Free."] The profound solitude of this refuge, embowered in its twilight grove of orange and palm trees, was strangely tranquillizing. The religion of the place seemed to overcome us, as we waited among the tall, gilded pillars of the temple. On one side was an altar, enriched with some of the most curious and precious offerings of art to be found in the East. There was a gilded rostrum also, from which the priests daily officiated; and near by, on the summit of a curiously carved trunk of an old Bho tree, [Footnote: The sacred tree under which Guadama discoursed with his disciples.] the goddess of Mind presided. The floor of this beautiful temple was a somewhat gaudy mosaic of variegated marble and precious stones; but the gilded pillars, the friezes that surmounted them, and the vaulted roof of gilded arabesques, seemed to tone down the whole to their own chaste harmony of design. In the centre of the temple stood a long table, finely carved, and some gilt chairs. The king and most of the nobler ladies of the court were present, with a few of the chief priests, among whom I recognized, for the first time, his Lordship Chow Khoon Sâh. His Majesty received me and my little boy most kindly. After an interval of silence he clapped his hands lightly, and instantly the lower hall was filled with female slaves. A word or two, dropped from his lips, bowed every head and dispersed the attendants. But they presently returned laden, some with boxes containing books, slates, pens, pencils, and ink; others with lighted tapers and vases filled with the white lotos, which they set down before the gilded chairs. At a signal from the king, the priests chanted a hymn from the "P'ra-jana Para-mita"; [Footnote: "Accomplishment of Reason," or "Transcendental Wisdom."] and then a burst of music announced the entrance of the princes and princesses, my future pupils. They advanced in the order of their ages. The Princess Ying You Wahlacks ("First-born among Women"), having precedence, approached and prostrated herself before her royal father, the others following her example. I admired the beauty of her skin, the delicacy of her form, and the subdued lustre of her dreamy eyes. The king took her gently by the hand, and presented me to her, saying simply, "The English teacher." Her greeting was quiet and self-possessed. Taking both my hands, she bowed, and touched them with her forehead; then, at a word from the king, retired to her place on the right. One by one, in like manner, all the royal children were presented and saluted me; and the music ceased. His Majesty then spoke briefly, to this effect: "Dear children, as this is to be an English school, you will have to learn and observe the English modes of salutation, address, conversation, and etiquette; and each and every one of you shall be at liberty to sit in my presence, unless it be your own pleasure not to do so." The children all bowed, and touched their foreheads with their folded palms, in acquiescence. Then his Majesty departed with the priests; and the moment he was fairly out of sight, the ladies of the court began, with much noise and confusion, to ask questions, turn over the leaves of books, and chatter and giggle together. Of course, no teaching was possible in such a din; my young princes and princesses disappeared in the arms of their nurses and slaves, and I retired to my apartments in the prime minister's palace. But the serious business of my school began on the following Thursday. On that day a crowd of half-naked children followed me and my Louis to the palace gates, where our guide gave us in charge to a consequential female slave, at whose request the ponderous portal was opened barely wide enough to admit one person at a time. On entering we were jealously scrutinized by the Amazonian guard, and a "high private" questioned the propriety of admitting my boy; whereat a general tittering, and we passed on. We advanced through the noiseless oval door, and entered the dim, cool pavilion, in the centre of which the tables were arranged for school. Away flew several venerable dames who had awaited our arrival, and in about an hour returned, bringing with them twenty-one scions of Siamese royalty, to be initiated into the mysteries of reading, writing, and arithmetic, after the European, and especially the English manner. It was not long before my scholars were ranged in chairs around the long table, with Webster's far-famed spelling-books before them, repeating audibly after me the letters of the alphabet. While I stood at one end of the table, my little Louis at the other, mounted on a chair, the better to command his division, mimicked me with a fidelity of tone and manner very quaint and charming. Patiently his small finger pointed out to his class the characters so strange to them, and not yet perfectly familiar to himself. About noon, a number of young women were brought to me, to be taught like the rest. I received them sympathetically, at the same time making a memorandum of their names in a book of my own. This created a general and lively alarm, which it was not in my power immediately to allay, my knowledge of their language being confined to a few simple sentences; but when at last their courage and confidence were restored, they began to take observations and an inventory of me that were by no means agreeable. They fingered my hair and dress, my collar, belt, and rings. One donned my hat and cloak, and made a promenade of the pavilion; another pounced upon my gloves and veil, and disguised herself in them, to the great delight of the little ones, who laughed boisterously. A grim duenna, who had heard the noise, bustled wrathfully into the pavilion. Instantly hat, cloak, veil, gloves, were flung right and left, and the young women dropped on the floor, repeating shrilly, like truant urchins caught in the act, their "ba, be, bi, bo." One who seemed the infant phenomenon of the royal harem, so juvenile and artless were her looks and ways, despising a performance so rudimentary as the a, b, c, demanded to be steered at once into the mid-ocean of the book; but when I left her without pilot in an archipelago of hard words, she soon showed signals of distress. At the far end of the table, bending over a little prince, her eyes riveted on the letters my boy was naming to her, stood a pale young woman, whose aspect was dejected and forlorn. She had entered unannounced and unnoticed, as one who had no interest in common with the others; and now she stood apart and alone, intent only on mastering the alphabet with the help of her small teacher. When we were about to dismiss the school, she repeated her lesson to my wise lad, who listened with imposing gravity, pronounced her a "very good child," and said she might go now. But when she perceived that I observed her curiously, she crouched almost under the table, as though owning she had no right to be there, and was worthy to pick only the crumbs of knowledge that might fall from it. She was neither very young nor pretty, save that her dark eyes were profound and expressive, and now the more interesting by their touching sadness. Esteeming it the part of prudence as well as of kindness to appear unconscious of her presence, and so encourage her to come again, I left the palace without accosting her, before his Majesty had awakened from his forenoon nap. This crushed creature had fallen under the displeasure of the king, and the after chapters of her story, which shall be related in their proper connection, were romantic and mournful. X. MOONSHEE AND THE ANGEL GABRIEL. Our blue chamber overlooked the attap roofs of a long row of houses, badly disfigured by the stains and wear of many a wet season, in which our next neighbor, a Mohammedan of patriarchal aspect and demeanor, stored bags of sugar, waiting for a rise in the market. This worthy paid us the honor of a visit every afternoon, and in the snug little eastern chamber consecrated to the studies and meditations of my Persian teacher propounded solemn problems from the Alkoran. Under Moonshee's window the tops of houses huddled, presenting forms more or less fantastic according to the purse or caprice of the proprietors. The shrewd old man was not long in finding tenants for all these roofs, and could even tell the social status and the means of each. It tickled his vanity to find himself domiciled in so aristocratic a quarter. Our house--more Oriental than European in its architecture--was comparatively new, having been erected upon the site of the old palace, the _débris_ of which had furnished the materials of which it was constructed. Among the loose slabs of marble and fragments of pottery that turned up with the promiscuous rubbish every day, we sometimes found surfaces of stone bearing Siamese or Cambodian inscriptions; others with grotesque figures in bass-relief, taken from the mythology of the Hindoos. Had these relics a charm for Moonshee, and was he animated by the antiquarian's enthusiasm, that he delved away hour after hour, unearthing, with his spade, bricks and stones and tiles and slabs? I was at a loss to account for this new freak in the old man; but seeing him infatuated with his eccentric pursuit, and Boy enraptured over grubs and snails and bits of broken figures, the resurrections of the nimble spade, I left them to their cheap and harmless bliss. One evening, as I sat musing in the piazza, with my book unopened on my lap, I heard Boy's clear voice ringing in happy, musical peals of laughter that drew me to him. On the edge of a deep hole, in a corner of the compound, sat Moonshee, an effigy of doleful disappointment, and beside him stood the lad, clapping his little hands and laughing merrily. The old child had taken the young one into his confidence, and by their joint exertions they had dug this hole in search of treasure; and lo! at the bottom lay something that looked like a rusty purse. With a long look and a throbbing heart Moonshee, after several empty hauls, had fished it up; and it was--a toad! a huge, unsightly, yellow toad! "May the foul fiend fly away with thee!" cried the enthusiast in his rage, as he flung the astonished reptile back into the pit, and sat down to bewail his _kismut_, while Boy made merry with his groans. For some days the spade was neglected, though I observed, from the cautious drift of his remarks at the conclusion of our evening lesson, that Moonshee's thoughts still harped on hidden treasure. The fervid imagination of the child had uncovered to his mind's eye mines of wealth, awaiting only the touch of the magic spade to bare their golden veins to the needs of his Mem Sahib and himself. There was no dispelling his golden visions by any shock of hard sense; the more he dreamed the more he believed. But the spot? the right spot? "Only wait." Another week elapsed, and Boy and I worked harder than ever in our school in the cool pavilion. I had flung off the dead weight of my stubborn repinings, and my heart was light again. There were delightful discoveries of beauty in the artless, childish faces that greeted us every morning; and now the only wonder was that I had been so slow to penetrate the secret of their charm. That eager, radiant elf, the Princess Somdetch Chow Fâ-ying, [Footnote: "First-Born of the Skies."] the king's darling (of whom, by and by, I shall have a sadder tale to tell), had become a sprite of sunshine and gladness amid the sombre shadows of those walls. In her deep, dark, lustrous eyes, her simple, trusting ways, there was a springtide of refreshment, a pure, pervading radiance, that brightened the darkest thing it touched. Even the grim hags of the harem felt its influence, and softened in her presence. As Boy was reciting his tasks one morning before breakfast, Moonshee entered the room with one of his profoundest salaams, and an expression at once so earnest and so comical that I anxiously asked him what was the matter. Panting alike with the eagerness of childhood and the feebleness of age, he stammered, "I have something of the greatest importance to confide to you, Mem Sahib! Now is the time! Now you shall prove the devotion of your faithful Moonshee, who swears by Allah not to touch a grain of gold without your leave, in all those bursting sacks, if Mem Sahib will but lend him ten ticals, only ten ticals, to buy a screw-driver!" "What in the world can you want with a screw-driver, Moonshee?" "O Mem, listen to me!" he cried, his face glowing with the very rapture of possession; "I have discovered the exact spot on which the old duke, Somdetch Ong Yai, expired. It is a secret, a wonderful secret, Mem Sahib; not a creature in all Siam knows it." "Then how came you by it," I inquired, "seeing that you know not one word of the language, which you have bravely scorned as unworthy to be uttered by the Faithful, and of no use on earth but to confound philosophers and Moonshees?" "_Sunnoh, sunnoh!_ [Footnote: "Listen, listen!"] Mem Sahib! No human tongue revealed it to me. It was the Angè Gibhrayeel. [Footnote: The Angel Gabriel.] He came to me last night as I slept, and said, 'O son of Jaffur Khan! to your prayers is granted the knowledge that, for all these years, has been denied to Kafirs. Arise! obey! and with humility receive the treasures reserved for thee, thou faithful follower of the Prophet!' And so saying he struck the golden palms he bore in his hand; and though I was now awake, Mem Sahib, I was so overpowered by the beauty and effulgence of his person, that I was as one about to die. The radiant glory of his wings, which were of the hue of sapphires, blinded my vision; I could neither speak nor see. But I felt the glow of his presence and heard the rustle of his pinions, as once more he beat the golden palms and cried, 'Behold, O son of Jaffur Khan! behold the spot where lie the treasures of that haughty Kafir chief!' I arose, and immediately the angel flashed from my sight; and as I gazed there appeared a luminous golden hen with six golden chickens, which pecked at bits of blazing coal that, as they cooled, became nuggets of pure gold. When suddenly I beheld a great light as of _rooshnees_, [Footnote: Fire-balls.] and it burst upon the spot where the hen had been; and then all was darkness again. Mem Sahib, your servant ran down and placed a stone upon that spot, and kneeling on that stone, with his face to the south, repeated his five Kalemahs." [Footnote: Thanksgivings.] I am ashamed to say I laughed; whereat the old man was so mortified that he vowed the next time the angel appeared to him, he would call us all to see. I accepted the condition; and even promised that if I saw the nuggets of pure gold that Gabriel's chickens pecked, I would immediately accommodate him with the ten ticals to invest in a screw-driver. So perfect was his faith in the vision, that he accepted the promise with complete satisfaction. Not many nights after this extraordinary apparition, we were aroused by Beebe and her husband calling, "Awake, awake!" Thinking the house was on fire, I threw on my dressing-gown and ran into the next room with Boy in my arms. There was indeed a fire, but it was in a distant corner of the yard. The night was dark, a thick mist rose from the river, and the gusty puffs of wind that now and then swept through the compound caused the wood fire to flare up and flicker, casting fitful and fantastic shadows around. Moonshee stared, with fixed eyes, expecting every moment the reappearance of the supernatural poultry; but I, being as yet sceptical, descended the stairs, followed by my trembling household, and approached the spot. On a remnant of matting, with a stone for a pillow, lay an old Siamese woman asleep. Driven by the heat to the relief of the open air, she had kindled a fire to keep off the mosquitoes. "Now, Moonshee," said I, "here is your Angel Gabriel. Don't you ever again trouble me for ticals to invest in screw-drivers." XI. THE WAYS OF THE PALACE. The city of Bangkok is commonly supposed to have inherited the name of the ancient capital, Ayudia; but in the royal archives, to which I have had free access, it is given as Krung Thèp'ha Maha-Nakhon Si-ayut-thia Maha-dilok Racha-thani,--"The City of the Royal, Invincible, and Beautiful Archangel." It is ramparted with walls within and without, which divide it into an inner and an outer city, the inner wall being thirty feet high, and flanked with circular forts mounted with cannon, making a respectable show of defence. Centre of all, the heart of the citadel, is the grand palace, encompassed by a third wall, which encloses only the royal edifice, the harems, the temple of Watt P'hra Këau, and the Maha P'hrasat. The Maha Phrasat is an immense structure of quadrangular façades, surmounted by a tall spire of very chaste and harmonious design. It is consecrated; and here dead sovereigns of Siam lie in state, waiting twelve months for their cremation; here also their ashes are deposited, in urns of gold, after that fiery consummation. In the Maha Phrasat the supreme king is crowned and all court ceremonies performed. On certain high holidays and occasions of state, the high-priest administers here a sort of mass, at which the whole court attend, even the chief ladies of the harem, who, behind heavy curtains of silk and gold that hang from the ceiling to the floor, whisper and giggle and peep and chew betel, and have the wonted little raptures of their sex over furtive, piquant glimpses of the world; for, despite the strict confinement and jealous surveillance to which they are subject, the outer life, with all its bustle, passion, and romance, will now and then steal, like a vagrant, curious ray of light, into the heart's darkness of these tabooed women, thrilling their childish minds with eager wonderment and formless longings. Within these walls lurked lately fugitives of every class, profligates from all quarters of the city, to whom discovery was death; but here their "sanctuary" was impenetrable. Here were women disguised as men, and men in the attire of women, hiding vice of every vileness and crime of every enormity,--at once the most disgusting, the most appalling, and the most unnatural that the heart of man has conceived. It was death in life, a charnel-house of quick corruption; a place of gloom and solitude indeed, wherefrom happiness, hope, courage, liberty, truth, were forever excluded, and only mother's love was left. The king [Footnote: All that is here written applies to Maha Mongkut, the supreme king, who died October, 1868; not to his successor (and my pupil), the present king.] was the disk of light and life round which these strange flies swarmed. Most of the women who composed his harem were of gentle blood,--the fairest of the daughters of Siamese nobles and of princes of the adjacent tributary states; the late queen consort was his own half-sister. Beside many choice Chinese and Indian girls, purchased annually for the royal harem by agents stationed at Peking, Foo-chou, and different points in Bengal, enormous sums were offered, year after year, through "solicitors" at Bangkok and Singapore, for an English woman of beauty and good parentage to crown the sensational collection; but when I took my leave of Bangkok, in 1868, the coveted specimen had not yet appeared in the market. The cunning _commissionnaires_ contrived to keep their places and make a living by sending his Majesty, now and then, a piquant photograph of some British Nourmahal of the period, freshly caught, and duly shipped, in good order for the harem; but the goods never arrived. Had the king's tastes been Gallic, his requisition might have been filled. I remember a score of genuine offers from French demoiselles, who enclosed their _cartes_ in billets more surprising and enterprising than any other "proposals" it was my office to translate. But his whimsical Majesty entertained a lively horror of French intrigue, whether of priests, consuls, or _lionnes_, and stood in vigilant fear of being beguiled, through one of these adventurous sirens, into fathering the innovation of a Franco-Siamese heir to the throne of the celestial P'hrabatts. The king, as well as most of the principal members of his household, rose at five in the morning, and immediately partook of a slight repast, served by the ladies who had been in waiting through the night; after which, attended by them and his sisters and elder children, he descended and took his station on a long strip of matting, laid from one of the gates through all the avenues to another. On his Majesty's left were ranged, first, his children in the order of rank; then the princesses, his sisters; and, lastly, his concubines, his maids of honor, and their slaves. Before each was placed a large silver tray containing offerings of boiled rice, fruit, cakes, and the seri leaf; some even had cigars. A little after five, the Patoo Dharmina ("Gate of Merit," called by the populace "Patoo Boon") was thrown open and the Amazons of the guard drawn up on either side. Then the priests entered, always by that gate,--one hundred and ninety-nine of them, escorted on the right and left by men armed with swords and clubs,--and as they entered they chanted: "Take thy meat, but think it dust! Eat but to live, and but to know thyself, and what thou art below! And say withal unto thy heart, It is earth I eat, that to the earth I may new life impart." Then the chief priest, who led the procession, advanced with downcast eyes and lowly mien, and very simply presented his bowl (slung from his neck by a cord, and until that moment quite hidden under the folds of his yellow robe) to the members of the royal household, who _offered_ their fruit or cakes, or their spoonfuls of rice or sweetmeats. In like manner did all his brethren. If, by any chance, one before whom a tray was placed was not ready and waiting with an offering, no priest stopped, but all continued to advance slowly, taking only what was freely offered, without thanks or even a look of acknowledgment, until the end of the royal train was reached, when the procession retired, chanting as before, by the gate called Dinn, or, in the Court language, _Prithri_, "Gate of Earth." After this, the king and all his company repaired to his private temple, Watt Sasmiras Manda-thung, [Footnote: "Temple in Memory of Mother."] so called because it was dedicated by his Majesty to the memory of his mother. This is an edifice of unique and charming beauty, decorated throughout by artists from Japan, who have represented on the walls, in designs as diverse and ingenious as they are costly, the numerous metempsychoses of Buddha. Here his Majesty ascended alone the steps of the altar, rang a bell to announce the hour of devotion, lighted the consecrated tapers, and offered the white lotos and the roses. Then he spent an hour in prayer, and in reading texts from the P'ra-jana Para-mita and the P'hra-ti-Mok-sha. This service over, he retired for another nap, attended by a fresh detail of women,--those who had waited the night before being dismissed, not to be recalled for a month, or at least a fortnight, save as a peculiar mark of preference or favor to some one who had had the good fortune to please or amuse him; but most of that party voluntarily waited upon him every day. His Majesty usually passed his mornings in study, or in dictating or writing English letters and despatches. His breakfast, though a repast sufficiently frugal for Oriental royalty, was served with awesome forms. In an antechamber adjoining a noble hall, rich in grotesque carvings and gildings, a throng of females waited, while his Majesty sat at a long table, near which knelt twelve women before great silver trays laden with twelve varieties of viands,--soups, meats, game, poultry, fish, vegetables, cakes, jellies, preserves, sauces, fruits, and teas. Each tray, in its order, was passed by three ladies to the head wife or concubine, who removed the silver covers, and at least seemed to taste the contents of each dish; and then, advancing on her knees, she set them on the long table before the king. But his Majesty was notably temperate in his diet, and by no means a gastronome. In his long seclusion in a Buddhist cloister he had acquired habits of severe simplicity and frugality, as a preparation for the exercise of those powers of mental concentration for which he was remarkable. At these morning repasts it was his custom to detain me in conversation relating to some topic of interest derived from his studies, or in reading or translating. He was more systematically educated, and a more capacious devourer of books and news, than perhaps any man of equal rank in our day. But much learning had made him morally mad; his extensive reading had engendered in his mind an extreme scepticism concerning all existing religious systems. In inborn integrity and steadfast principle he had no faith whatever. He sincerely believed that every man strove to compass his own ends, _per fas et nefas_. The _mens sibi conscia recti_ was to him an hallucination, for which he entertained profound contempt; and he honestly pitied the delusion that pinned its faith on human truth and virtue. He was a provoking _mélange_ of antiquarian attainments and modern scepticism. When, sometimes, I ventured to disabuse his mind of his darling scorn for motive and responsibility, I had the mortification to discover that I had but helped him to an argument against myself: it was simply "my peculiar interest to do so." Money, money, money! that could procure anything. But aside from the too manifest bias of his early education and experience, it is due to his memory to say that his practice was less faithless than his profession, toward those persons and principles to which he was attracted by a just regard. In many grave considerations he displayed soundness of understanding and clearness of judgment,--a genuine nobility of mind, established upon universal ethics and philosophic reason,--where his passions were not dominant; but when these broke in between the man and the majesty, they effectually barred his advance in the direction of true greatness; beyond them he could not, or would not, make way. Ah, if this man could but have cast off the cramping yoke of his intellectual egotism, and been loyal to the free government of his own true heart, what a demi-god might he not have been among the lower animals of Asiatic royalty! At two o'clock he bestirred himself, and with the aid of his women bathed and anointed his person. Then he descended to a breakfast- chamber, where he was served with the most substantial meal of the day. Here he chatted with his favorites among the wives and concubines, and caressed his children, taking them in his arms, embracing them, plying them with puzzling or funny questions, and making droll faces at the babies: the more agreeable the mother, the dearer the child. The love of children was the constant and hearty virtue of this forlorn despot. They appealed to him by their beauty and their trustfulness, they refreshed him with the bold innocence of their ways, so frolicsome, graceful, and quaint. From this delusive scene of domestic condescension and kindliness he passed to his Hall of Audience to consider official matters. Twice a week at sunset he appeared at one of the gates of the palace to hear the complaints and petitions of the poorest of his subjects, who at no other time or place could reach his ear. It was most pitiful to see the helpless, awe-stricken wretches, prostrate and abject as toads, many too terrified to present the precious petition after all. At nine he retired to his private apartments, whence issued immediately peculiar domestic bulletins, in which were named the women whose presence he particularly desired, in addition to those whose turn it was to "wait" that night. And twice a week he held a secret council, or court, at midnight. Of the proceedings of those dark and terrifying sittings I can, of course, give no exact account. I permit myself to speak only of those things which were but too plain to one who lived for six years in or near the palace. In Siam, the king--Maha Mongkut especially--is not merely enthroned, he is enshrined. To the nobility he is omnipotence, and to the rabble mystery. Since the occupation of the country by the Jesuits, many foreigners have fancied that the government is becoming more and more silent, insidious, secretive; and that this midnight council is but the expression of a "policy of stifling." It is an inquisition,--not overt, audacious, like that of Rome, but nocturnal, invisible, subtle, ubiquitous, like that of Spain; proceeding without witnesses or warning; kidnapping a subject, not arresting him, and then incarcerating, chaining, torturing him, to extort confession or denunciation. If any Siamese citizen utter one word against the "San Luang," (the royal judges), and escape, forthwith his house is sacked and his wife and children kidnapped. Should he be captured, he is brought to secret trial, to which no one is admitted who is not in the patronage and confidence of the royal judges. In themselves the laws are tolerable; but in their operation they are frustrated or circumvented by arbitrary and capricious power in the king, or craft or cruelty in the Council. No one not initiated in the mystic _séances_ of the San Luang can depend upon Siamese law for justice. No man will consent to appear there, even as a true witness, save for large reward. The citizen who would enjoy, safe from legal plunder, his private income, must be careful to find a patron and protector in the king, the prime minister, or some other formidable friend at court. Spies in the employ of the San Luang penetrate into every family of wealth and influence. Every citizen suspects and fears always his neighbor, sometimes his wife. On more than one occasion when, vexed by some act of the king's, more than usually wanton and unjust, I instinctively gave expression to my feelings by word or look in the presence of certain officers and courtiers, I observed that they rapped, or tapped, in a peculiar and stealthy manner. This I afterward discovered was one of the secret signs of the San Luang; and the warning signal was addressed to me, because they imagined that I also was a member of the Council. _En passant_, a word as to the ordinary and familiar costumes of the palace. Men and women alike wear a sort of kilt, like the _pu'sho_ of the Birmans, with a short upper tunic, over which the women draw a broad silk scarf, which is closely bound round the chest and descends in long, waving folds almost to the feet. Neither sex wears any covering on the head. The uniform of the Amazons of the harem is green and gold, and for the soldiers scarlet and purple. There are usually four meals: breakfast about sunrise; a sort of tiffin at noon; a more substantial repast in the afternoon; and supper after the business of the day is over. Wine and tea are drunk freely, and perfumed liquors are used by the wealthy. An indispensable preparation for polite repast is by bathing and anointing the body. When guests are invited, the sexes are never brought together; for Siamese women of rank very rarely appear in strange company; they are confined to remote and unapproachable halls and chambers, where nothing human, being male, may ever enter. The convivial entertainments of the Court are usually given on occasions of public devotion, and form a part of these. XII. SHADOWS AND WHISPERS OF THE HAREM. As, month, after month, I continued to teach in the palace,--especially as the language of my pupils, its idioms and characteristic forms of expression, began to be familiar to me,--all the dim life of the place "came out" to my ken, like a faint picture, which at first displays to the eye only a formless confusion, a chaos of colors, but by force of much looking and tracing and joining and separating, first objects and then groups are discovered in their proper identity and relation, until the whole stands out, clear, true, and informing in its coherent significance of light and shade. Thus, by slow processes, as one whose sight has been imperceptibly restored, I awoke to a clearer and truer sense of the life within "the city of the beautiful and invincible angel." Sitting at one end of the table in my school-room, with Boy at the other, and all those far-off faces between, I felt as though we were twenty thousand miles away from the world that lay but a twenty minutes' walk from the door; the distance was but a speck in space, but the separation was tremendous. It always seemed to me that here was a sudden, harsh suspension of nature's fundamental law,--the human heart arrested in its functions, ceasing to throb, and yet alive. [Illustration: PRESENTATION OF A PRINCESS.] The fields beyond are fresh and green, and bright with flowers. The sun of summer, rising exultant, greets them with rejoicing; and evening shadows, falling soft among the dewy petals, linger to kiss them good-night. There the children of the poor--naked, rude, neglected though they be--are rich in the freedom of the bounteous earth, rich in the freedom of the fair blue sky, rich in the freedom of the limpid ocean of air above and around them. But within the close and gloomy lanes of this city within a city, through which many lovely women are wont to come and go, many little feet to patter, and many baby citizens to be borne in the arms of their dodging slaves, there is but cloud and chill, and famishing and stinting, and beating of wings against golden bars. In the order of nature, evening melts softly into night, and darkness retreats with dignity and grace before the advancing triumphs of the morning; but here light and darkness are monstrously mixed, and the result is a glaring gloom that is neither of the day nor of the night, nor of life nor of death, nor of earth nor of--yes, hell! In the long galleries and corridors, bewildering with their everlasting twilight of the eye and of the mind, one is forever coming upon shocks of sudden sunshine or shocks of sudden shadow,--the smile yet dimpling in a baby's face, a sister bearing a brother's scourging; a mother singing to her "sacred infant," [Footnote: P'hra-ong.] a slave sobbing before a deaf idol. And O, the forlornness of it all! You who have never beheld these things know not the utterness of loneliness. Compared with the predicament of some who were my daily companions, the sea were a home and an iceberg a hearth. How I have pitied those ill-fated sisters of mine, imprisoned without a crime! If they could but have rejoiced once more in the freedom of the fields and woods, what new births of gladness might have been theirs,--they who with a gasp of despair and moral death first entered those royal dungeons, never again to come forth alive! And yet have I known more than one among them who accepted her fate with a repose of manner and a sweetness of smile that told how dead must be the heart under that still exterior. And I wondered at the sight. Only twenty minutes between bondage and freedom,--such freedom as may be found in Siam! only twenty minutes between those gloomy, hateful cells and the fair fields and the radiant skies! only twenty minutes between the cramping and the suffocation and the fear, and the full, deep, glorious inspirations of freedom and safety! I had never beheld misery till I found it here; I had never looked upon the sickening hideousness of slavery till I encountered its features here; nor, above all, had I comprehended the perfection of the life, light, blessedness and beauty, the all-sufficing fulness of the love of God as it is in Jesus, until I felt the contrast here,--pain, deformity, darkness, death, and eternal emptiness, a darkness to which there is neither beginning nor end, a living which is neither of this world nor of the next. The misery which checks the pulse and thrills the heart with pity in one's common walks about the great cities of Europe is hardly so saddening as the nameless, mocking wretchedness of these women, to whom poverty were a luxury, and houselessness as a draught of pure, free air. And yet their lot is light indeed compared with that of their children. The single aim of such a hapless mother, howsoever tender and devoted she may by nature be, is to form her child after the one strict pattern her fate has set her,--her master's will; since, otherwise, she dare not contemplate the perils which might overtake her treasure. Pitiful indeed, therefore, is the pitiless inflexibility of purpose with which she wings from her child's heart all the dangerous endearments of childhood,--its merry laughter, its sparkling tears, its trustfulness, its artlessness, its engaging waywardness; and in their place instils silence, submission, self-constraint, suspicion, cunning, carefulness, and an ever-vigilant fear. And the result is a spectacle of unnatural discipline simply appalling. The life of such a child is an egg-shell on an ocean; to its helpless speck of experience all horrors are possible. Its passing moment is its eternity; and that overwhelmed with terrors, real or imaginary, what is left but that poor little floating wreck, a child's despair? I was often alone in the school-room, long after my other charges had departed, with a pale, dejected woman, whose name translated was "Hidden-Perfume." As a pupil she was remarkably diligent and attentive, and in reading and translating English, her progress was extraordinary. Only in her eager, inquisitive glances was she child-like; otherwise, her expression and demeanor were anxious and aged. She had long been out of favor with her "lord"; and now, without hope from him, surrendered herself wholly to her fondness for a son she had borne him in her more youthful and attractive days. In this young prince, who was about ten years old, the same air of timidity and restraint was apparent as in his mother, whom he strikingly resembled, only lacking that cast of pensive sadness which rendered her so attractive, and her pride, which closed her lips upon the past, though the story of her wrongs was a moving one. It was my habit to visit her twice a week at her residence, [Footnote: Each of the ladies of the harem has her own exclusive domicile, within the inner walls of the palace.] for I was indebted to her for much intelligent assistance in my study of the Siamese language. On going to her abode one afternoon, I found her absent; only the young prince was there, sitting sadly by the window. "Where is your mother, dear?" I inquired. "With his Majesty up stairs, I think," he replied, still looking anxiously in one direction, as though watching for her. This was an unusual circumstance for my sad, lonely friend, and I returned home without my lesson for that day. Next morning, passing the house again, I saw the lad sitting in the same attitude at the window, his eyes bent in the same direction, only more wistful and weary than before. On questioning him, I found his mother had not yet returned. At the pavilion I was met by the Lady Tâlâp, who, seizing my hand, said, "Hidden-Perfume is in trouble." "What is the matter?" I inquired. "She is in prison," she whispered, drawing me closely to her. "She is not prudent, you know,--like you and me," in a tone which expressed both triumph and fear. "Can I see her?" I asked. "Yes, yes! if you bribe the jailers. But don't give them more than a tical each. They'll demand two; give them only one." In the pavilion, which served as a private chapel for the ladies of the harem, priests were reading prayers and reciting homilies from that sacred book of Buddha called _Sâsânâh Thai_, "The Religion of the Free"; while the ladies sat on velvet cushions with their hands folded, a vase of flowers in front of each, and a pair of odoriferous candles, lighted. Prayers are held daily in this place, and three times a day during the Buddhist Lent. The priests are escorted to the pavilion by Amazons, and two warriors, armed with swords and clubs, remain on guard till the service is ended. The latter, who are eunuchs, also attend the priests when they enter the palace, in the afternoon, to sprinkle the inmates with consecrated water. Leaving the priests reciting and chanting, and the rapt worshippers bowing, I passed a young mother with a sleeping babe, some slave-girls playing at _sabâh_ [Footnote: Marbles, played with the knee instead of the fingers.] on the stone pavement, and two princesses borne in the arms of their slaves, though almost women grown, on my way to the palace prison. If it ever should be the reader's fortune, good or ill, to visit a Siamese dungeon, whether allotted to prince or peasant, his attention will be first attracted to the rude designs on the rough stone walls (otherwise decorated only with moss and fungi and loathsome reptiles) of some nightmared painter, who has exhausted his dyspeptic fancy in portraying hideous personifications of Hunger, Terror, Old Age, Despair, Disease, and Death, tormented by furies and avengers, with hair of snakes and whips of scorpions,--all beyond expression devilish. Floor it has none, nor ceiling, for, with the Meinam so near, neither boards nor plaster can keep out the ooze. Underfoot, a few planks, loosely laid, are already as soft as the mud they are meant to cover; the damp has rotted them through and through. Overhead, the roof is black, but not with smoke; for here, where the close steam of the soggy earth and the reeking walls is almost intolerable, no fire is needed in the coldest season. The cell is lighted by one small window, so heavily grated on the outer side as effectually to bar the ingress of fresh air. A pair of wooden trestles, supporting rough boards, form a makeshift for a bedstead, and a mat (which may be clean or dirty, the ticals of the prisoner must settle that) is all the bed. In such a cell, on such a couch, lay the concubine of a supreme king and the mother of a royal prince of Siam, her feet covered with a silk mantle, her head supported by a pillow of glazed leather, her face turned to the clammy wall. There was no door to grate upon her quivering nerves; a trap-door in the street overhead had opened to the magic of silver, and I had descended a flight of broken steps of stone. At her head, a little higher than the pillow, were a vase of flowers, half faded, a pair of candles burning in gold candlesticks, and a small image of the Buddha. She had brought her god with her. Well, she needed his presence. I could hardly keep my feet, for the footing was slippery and my brain swam. Touching the silent, motionless form, in a voice scarcely audible I pronounced her name. She turned with difficulty, and a slight sound of clanking explained the covering on the feet. She was chained to one of the trestles. Sitting up, she made room for me beside her. No tears were in her eyes; only the habitual sadness of her face was deepened. Here, truly, was a perfect work of misery, meekness, and patience. Astonished at seeing me, she imagined me capable of yet greater things, and folding her hands in an attitude of supplication, implored me to help her. The offence for which she was imprisoned was briefly this:-- She had been led to petition, through her son, [Footnote: A privilege granted to all the concubines.] that an appointment held by her late uncle, Phya Khien, might be bestowed on her elder brother, not knowing that another noble had already been preferred to the post by his Majesty. Had she been guilty of the gravest crime, her punishment could not have been more severe. It was plain that a stupid grudge was at the bottom of this cruel business. The king, on reading the petition, presented by the trembling lad on his knees, became furious, and, dashing it back into the child's face, accused the mother of plotting to undermine his power, saying he knew her to be at heart a rebel, who hated him and his dynasty with all the rancor of her Peguan ancestors, the natural enemies of Siam. Thus lashing himself into a rage of hypocritical patriotism, and seeking to justify himself by condemning her, he sent one of his judges to bring her to him. But before the myrmidon could go and come, concluding to dispense with forms, he anticipated the result of that mandate with another,--to chain and imprison her. No sooner was she dragged to this deadly cell, than a third order was issued to flog her till she confessed her treacherous plot; but the stripes were administered so tenderly, [Footnote: In these cases the executioners are women, who generally spare each other if they dare.] that the only confession they extorted was a meek protestation that she was "his meanest slave, and ready to give her life for his pleasure." "Beat her on the mouth with a slipper for lying!" roared the royal tiger; and they did, in the letter, if not in the spirit, of the brutal sentence. She bore it meekly, hanging down her head. "I am degraded forever!" she said to me. When once the king was enraged, there was nothing to be done but to wait in patience until the storm should exhaust itself by its own fury. But it was horrible to witness such an abuse of power at the hands of one who was the only source of justice in the land. It was a crime against all humanity, the outrage of the strong upon the helpless. His madness sometimes lasted a week; but weeks have their endings. Besides, he really had a conscience, tough and shrunken as it was; and she had, what was more to the purpose, a whole tribe of powerful connections. As for myself, there was but one thing I could do; and that was to intercede privately with the Kralahome. The same evening, immediately on returning from my visit to the dungeon, I called on him; but when I explained the object of my visit he rebuked me sharply for interfering between his Majesty and his wives. "She is my pupil," I replied. "But I have not interfered; I have only come to you for justice. She did not know of the appointment until she had sent in her petition; and to punish one woman for that which is permitted and encouraged in another is gross injustice." Thereupon he sent for his secretary, and having satisfied himself that the appointment had not been published, was good enough to promise that he would explain to his Majesty that "there had been delay in making known to the Court the royal pleasure in this matter"; but he spoke with indifference, as if thinking of something else. I felt chilled and hurt as I left the premier's palace, and more anxious than ever when I thought of the weary eyes of the lonely lad watching for his mother's return; for no one dared tell him the truth. But, to do the premier justice, he was more troubled than he would permit me to discover at the mistake the poor woman had made; for there was good stuff in the moral fabric of the man,--stern rectitude, and a judgment, unlike the king's, not warped by passion. That very night [Footnote: All consultations on matters of state and of court discipline are held in the royal palace at night.] he repaired to the Grand Palace, and explained the delay to the king, without appearing to be aware of the concubine's punishment. On Monday morning, when I came to school in the pavilion, I found, to my great joy, that Hidden-Perfume had been liberated, and was at home again with her child. The poor creature embraced me ardently, glorifying me with grateful epithets from the extravagant vocabulary of her people; and, taking an emerald ring from her finger, she put it upon mine, saying, "By this you will remember your thankful friend." On the following day she also sent me a small purse of gold thread netted, in which were a few Siamese coins, and a scrap of paper inscribed with cabalistic characters,--an infallible charm to preserve the wearer from poverty and distress. Among my pupils was a little girl about eight or nine years old, of delicate frame, and with the low voice and subdued manner of one who had already had experience of sorrow. She was not among those presented to me at the opening of the school. Wanne Ratâna Kania was her name ("Sweet Promise of my Hopes"), and very engaging and persuasive was she in her patient, timid loveliness. Her mother, the Lady Khoon Chom Kioa, who had once found favor with the king, had, at the time of my coming to the palace, fallen into disgrace by reason of her gambling, in which she had squandered all the patrimony of the little princess. This fact, instead of inspiring the royal father with pity for his child, seemed to attract to her all that was most cruel in his insane temper. The offence of the mother had made the daughter offensive in his sight; and it was not until long after the term of imprisonment of the degraded favorite had expired that Wanne ventured to appear at a royal _levée_. The moment the king caught sight of the little form, so piteously prostrated there, he drove her rudely from his presence, taunting her with the delinquencies of her mother with a coarseness that would have been cruel enough if she had been responsible for them and a gainer by them, but against one of her tender years, innocent toward both, and injured by both, it was inconceivably atrocious. On her first appearance at school she was so timid and wistful that I felt constrained to notice and encourage her more than those whom I had already with me. But I found this no easy part to play; for very soon one of the court ladies in the confidence of the king took me quietly aside and warned me to be less demonstrative in favor of the little princess, saying, "Surely you would not bring trouble upon that wounded lamb." It was a sore trial to me to witness the oppression of one so unoffending and so helpless. Yet our Wanne was neither thin nor pale. There was a freshness in her childish beauty, and a bloom in the transparent olive of her cheek, that were at times bewitching. She loved her father, and in her visions of baby faith beheld him almost as a god. It was true joy to her to fold her hands and bow before the chamber where he slept. With that steadfast hopefulness of childhood which can be deceived without being discouraged, she would say, "How glad he will be when I can read!" and yet she had known nothing but despair. Her memory was extraordinary; she delighted in all that was remarkable, and with careful wisdom gathered up facts and precepts and saved them for future use. She seemed to have built around her an invisible temple of her own design, and to have illuminated it with the rushlight of her childish love. Among the books she read to me, rendering it from English into Siamese, was one called "Spring-time." On translating the line, "Whom He loveth he chasteneth," she looked up in my face, and asked anxiously: "Does thy God do that? Ah! lady, are _all_ the gods angry and cruel? Has he no pity, even for those who love him? He must be like my father; _he_ loves us, so he has to be _rye_ (cruel), that we may fear evil and avoid it." Meanwhile little Wanne learned to spell, read, and translate almost intuitively; for there were novelty and hope to help the Buddhist child, and love to help the English woman. The sad look left her face, her life had found an interest; and very often, on _fête_ days, she was my only pupil;--when suddenly an ominous cloud obscured the sky of her transient gladness. Wanne was poor; and her gifts to me were of the riches of poverty,--fruits and flowers. But she owned some female slaves; and one among them, a woman of twenty-five perhaps (who had already made a place for herself in my regard), seemed devotedly attached to her youthful mistress, and not only attended her to the school day after day, but shared her scholarly enthusiasm, even studied with her, sitting at her feet by the table. Steadily the slave kept pace with the princess. All that Wanne learned at school in the day was lovingly taught to Mai Noie in the nursery at night; and it was not long before I found, to my astonishment, that the slave read and translated as correctly as her mistress. Very delightful were the demonstrations of attachment interchanged between these two. Mai Noie bore the child in her arms to and from the school, fed her, humored her every whim, fanned her naps, bathed and perfumed her every night, and then rocked her to sleep on her careful bosom, as tenderly as she would have done for her own baby. And then it was charming to watch the child's face kindle with love and comfort as the sound of her friend's step approached. Suddenly a change; the little princess came to school as usual, but a strange woman attended her, and I saw no more of Mai Noie there. The child grew so listless and wretched that I was forced to ask the cause of her darling's absence; she burst into a passion of tears, but replied not a word. Then I inquired of the stranger, and she answered in two syllables,--_My ru_ ("I know not"). Shortly afterward, as I entered the school-room one day, I perceived that something unusual was happening. I turned toward the princes' door, and stood still, fairly holding my breath. There was the king, furious, striding up and down. All the female judges of the palace were present, and a crowd of mothers and royal children. On all the steps around, innumerable slave-women, old and young, crouched and hid their faces. But the object most conspicuous was little Wanne's mother, manacled, and prostrate on the polished marble pavement. There, too, was my poor little princess, her hands clasped helplessly, her eyes tearless but downcast, palpitating, trembling, shivering. Sorrow and horror had transformed the child. As well as I could understand, where no one dared explain, the wretched woman had been gambling again, and had even staked and lost her daughter's slaves. At last I understood Wanne's silence when I asked her where Mai Noie was. By some means--spies probably--the whole matter had come to the king's ears, and his rage was wild, not because he loved the child, but that he hated the mother. Promptly the order was given to lash the woman; and two Amazons advanced to execute it. The first stripe was delivered with savage skill; but before the thong could descend again, the child sprang forward and flung herself across the bare and quivering back of her mother. _Ti chan, Tha Moom! [Footnote: Tha Mom or Moom, used by children in addressing a royal father.] Poot-thoo ti chan, Tha Mom!_ ("Strike _me_, my father! Pray, strike me, O my father!") The pause of fear that followed was only broken by my boy, who, with a convulsive cry, buried his face desperately in the folds of my skirt. There indeed was a case for prayer, any prayer!--the prostrate woman, the hesitating lash, the tearless anguish of the Siamese child, the heart-rending cry of the English child, all those mothers with grovelling brows, but hearts uplifted among the stars, on the wings of the Angel of Prayer. Who could behold so many women crouching, shuddering, stupefied, dismayed, in silence and darkness, animated, enlightened only by the deep whispering heart of maternity, and not be moved with mournful yearning? The child's prayer was vain. As demons tremble in the presence of a god, so the king comprehended that he had now to deal with a power of weakness, pity, beauty, courage, and eloquence. "Strike _me_, O my father!" His quick, clear sagacity measured instantly all the danger in that challenge; and though his voice was thick and agitated (for, monster as he was at that moment, he could not but shrink from striking at every mother's heart at his feet), he nervously gave the word to remove the child, and bind her. The united strength of several women was not more than enough to loose the clasp of those loving arms from the neck of an unworthy mother. The tender hands and feet were bound, and the tender heart was broken. The lash descended then, unforbidden by any cry. XIII. F�-YING, THE KING'S DARLING. "Will you teach me to draw?" said an irresistible young voice to me, as I sat at the school-room table, one bright afternoon. "It is so much more pleasant to sit by you than to go to my Sanskrit class. My Sanskrit teacher is not like my English teacher; she bends my hands back when I make mistakes. I don't like Sanskrit, I like English. There are so many pretty pictures in your books. Will you take me to England with you, Mam cha?" [Footnote: "Lady, dear."] pleaded the engaging little prattler. "I am afraid his Majesty will not let you go with me," I replied. "O yes, he will!" said the child with smiling confidence. "He lets me do as I like. You know I am the Somdetch Chow Fâ-ying; he loves me best of all; he will let me go." "I am glad to hear it," said I, "and very glad to hear that you love English and drawing. Let us go up and ask his Majesty if you may learn drawing instead of Sanskrit." With sparkling eyes and a happy smile, she sprang from my lap, and, seizing my hand eagerly, said, "O yes! let us go now." We went, and our prayer was granted. Never did work seem more like pleasure than it did to me as I sat with this sweet, bright little princess, day after day, at the hour when all her brothers and sisters were at their Sanskrit, drawing herself, as the humor seized her, or watching me draw; but oftener listening, her large questioning eyes fixed upon my face, as step by step I led her out of the shadow-land of myth into the realm of the truth as it is in Christ Jesus. "The wisdom of this world is foolishness with God"; and I felt that this child of smiles and tears, all unbaptized and unblessed as she was, was nearer and dearer to her Father in heaven than to her father on earth. This was the Somdetch Chowfa Chandrmondol, best known in the palace by her pet name of Fâ-ying. Her mother, the late queen consort, in dying, left three sons and this one daughter, whom, with peculiar tenderness and anxiety, she commended to the loving kindness of the king; and now the child was the fondled darling of the lonely, bitter man, having quickly won her way to his heart by the charm of her fearless innocence and trustfulness, her sprightly intelligence and changeful grace. Morning dawned fair on the river, the sunshine flickering on the silver ripples, and gilding the boats of the market people as they softly glide up or down to the lazy swing of the oars. The floating shops were all awake, displaying their various and fantastic wares to attract the passing citizen or stranger. Priests in yellow robes moved noiselessly from door to door, receiving without asking and without thanks the alms wherewith their pious clients hoped to lay up treasures in heaven, or, in Buddhist parlance, to "make merit." Slaves hurried hither and thither in the various bustle of errands. Worshippers thronged the gates and vestibules of the many temples of this city of pagodas and _p'hra- cha-dees_, and myriads of fan-shaped bells scattered aeolian melodies on the passing breeze. As Boy and I gazed from our piazza on this strangely picturesque panorama, there swept across the river a royal barge filled with slaves, who, the moment they had landed, hurried up to me. "My lady," they cried, "there is cholera in the palace! Three slaves are lying dead in the princesses' court; and her Highness, the young Somdetch Chow Fâ-ying, was seized this morning. She sends for you. O, come to her, quickly!" and with that they put into my hand a scrap of paper; it was from his Majesty. "MY DEAR MAM,--Our well-beloved daughter, your favorite pupil, is attacked with cholera, and has earnest desire to see you, and is heard much to make frequent repetition of your name. I beg that you will favor her wish. I fear her illness is mortal, as there has been three deaths since morning. She is best beloved of my children. "I am your afflicted friend, "S. S. P. P. MAHA MONGKUT." In a moment I was in my boat. I entreated, I flattered, I scolded, the rowers. How slow they were! how strong the opposing current! And when we did reach those heavy gates, how slowly they moved, with what suspicious caution they admitted me! I was fierce with impatience. And when at last I stood panting at the door of my Fâ-ying's chamber--too late! even Dr. Campbell (the surgeon of the British consulate) had come too late. There was no need to prolong that anxious wail in the ear of the deaf child, "P'hra-Arahang! P'hra-Arahang!" [Footnote: One of the most sacred of the many titles of Buddha, repeated by the nearest relative in the ear of the dying till life is quite extinct.] She would not forget her way; she would nevermore lose herself on the road to Heaven. Beyond, above the P'hra-Arahang, she had soared into the eternal, tender arms of the P'hra-Jesus, of whom she was wont to say in her infantine wonder and eagerness, _Mam cha, chân râk P'hra-Jesus mâk_ ("Mam dear, I love your holy Jesus.") As I stooped to imprint a parting kiss on the little face that had been so fair to me, her kindred and slaves exchanged their appealing "P'hra-Arahang" for a sudden burst of heart-rending cries. An attendant hurried me to the king, who, reading the heavy tidings in my silence, covered his face with his hands and wept passionately. Strange and terrible were the tears of such a man, welling up from a heart from which all natural affections had seemed to be expelled, to make room for his own exacting, engrossing conceit of self. Bitterly he bewailed his darling, calling her by such tender, touching epithets as the lips of loving Christian mothers use. What could I say? What could I do but weep with him, and then steal quietly away and leave the king to the Father? "The moreover very sad & mournful Circular [Footnote: From the pen of the king.] from His Gracious Majesty Somdetch P'hra Paramendr Maha Mongkut, the reigning Supreme King of Siam, intimating the recent death of Her Celestial Royal Highness, Princess Somdetch Chowfa Chandrmondol Sobhon Baghiawati, who was His Majesty's most affectionate & well beloved 9th Royal daughter or 16th offspring, and the second Royal child by His Majesty's late Queen consort Rambery Bhamarabhiramy who deceased in the year 1861. Both mother and daughter have been known to many foreign friends of His Majesty. "To all the foreign friends of His Majesty, residing or trading in Siam, or in Singapore, Malacca, Pinang, Ceylon, Batavia, Saigon, Macao, Hong-kong, & various regions in China, Europe, America, &c. &c.... "Her Celestial Royal Highness, having been born on the 24th April, 1855, grew up in happy condition of her royal valued life, under the care of her Royal parents, as well as her elder and younger three full brothers; and on the demise of her royal mother on the forementioned date, she was almost always with her Royal father everywhere day & night. All things which belonged to her late mother suitable for female use were transferred to her as the most lawful inheritor of her late royal mother; She grew up to the age of 8 years & 20 days. On the ceremony of the funeral service of her elder late royal half brother forenamed, She accompanied her royal esteemed father & her royal brothers and sisters in customary service, cheerfully during three days of the ceremony, from the 11th to 13th May. On the night of the latter day, when she was returning from the royal funeral place to the royal residence in the same sedan with her Royal father at 10 o'clock P.M. she yet appeared happy, but alas! on her arrival at the royal residence, she was attacked by most violent & awful cholera, and sunk rapidly before the arrival of the physicians who were called on that night for treatment. Her disease or illness of cholera increased so strong that it did not give way to the treatment of any one, or even to the Chlorodine administered to her by Doctor James Campbell the Surgeon of the British Consulate. She expired at 4 o'clock P.M., on the 14th May, when her elder royal half brother's remains were burning at the funeral hall outside of the royal palace, according to the determined time for the assembling of the great congregation of the whole of the royalty & nobility, and native & foreign friends, before the occurrence of the unforeseen sudden misfortune or mournful event. "The sudden death of the said most affectionate and lamented royal daughter has caused greater regret and sorrow to her Royal father than several losses sustained by him before, as this beloved Royal amiable daughter was brought up almost by the hands of His Majesty himself, since she was aged only 4 to 5 months, His Majesty has carried her to and fro by his hand and on the lap and placed her by his side in every one of the Royal seats, where ever he went; whatever could be done in the way of nursing His Majesty has done himself, by feeding her with milk obtained from her nurse, and sometimes with the milk of the cow, goat &c. poured in a teacup from which His Majesty fed her by means of a spoon, so this Royal daughter was as familiar with her father in her infancy, as with her nurses. "On her being only aged six months, his Majesty took this Princess with him and went to Ayudia on affairs there; after that time when she became grown up His Majesty had the princess seated on his lap when he was in his chair at the breakfast, dinner & supper table, and fed her at the same time of breakfast &c, almost every day, except when she became sick of colds &c. until the last days of her life she always eat at same table with her father. Where ever His Majesty went, this princess always accompanied her father upon the same, sedan, carriage, Royal boat, yacht &c. and on her being grown up she became more prudent than other children of the same age, she paid every affectionate attention to her affectionate and esteemed father in every thing where her ability allowed; she was well educated in the vernacular Siamese literature which she commenced to study when she was 3 years old, and in last year she commenced to study in the English School where the schoolmistress, Lady L---- has observed that she was more skillful than the other royal Children, she pronounced & spoke English in articulate & clever manner which pleased the schoolmistress exceedingly, so that the schoolmistress on the loss of this her beloved pupil, was in great sorrow and wept much. ".... But alas! her life was very short. She was only aged 8 years & 20 days, reckoning from her birth day & hour, she lived in this world 2942 days & 18 hours. But it is known that the nature of human lives is like the flames of candles lighted in open air without any protection above & every side, so it is certain that this path ought to be followed by every one of human beings in a short or long while which cannot be ascertained by prediction, Alas! "Dated Royal Grand Palace, Bangkok, 16th May, Anno Christi 1863." Not long after our darling Fâ-ying was taken from us, the same royal barge, freighted with the same female slaves who had summoned us to her death-bed, came in haste to our house. His Majesty had sent them to find and bring us. We must hurry to the palace. On arriving there, we found the school pavilion strangely decorated with flowers. My chair of office had been freshly painted a glaring red, and on the back and round the arms and legs fresh flowers were twined. The books the Princess Fâ-ying had lately conned were carefully displayed in front of my accustomed seat, and upon them were laid fresh roses and fragrant lilies. Some of the ladies in waiting informed me that an extraordinary honor was about to be conferred on me. Not relishing the prospect of favors that might place me in a false position, and still all in the dark, I submitted quietly, but not without misgivings on my own part and positive opposition on Boy's, to be enthroned in the gorgeous chair, whereof the paint was hardly dry. Presently his Majesty sent to inquire if we had arrived, and being apprised of our presence, came down at once, followed by all my pupils and a formidable staff of noble dowagers,--his sisters, half-sisters, and aunts, paternal and maternal. Having shaken hands with me and with my child, he proceeded to enlighten us. He was about to confer a distinction upon me, for my "courage and conduct," as he expressed it, at the death-bed of her Highness, his well-beloved royal child, the Somdetch Chow Fâ-ying. Then, bidding me "remain seated," much to the detriment of my white dress, in the sticky red chair, and carefully taking the ends of seven threads of unspun cotton (whereof the other ends were passed over my head, and over the dead child's books, into the hands of seven of his elder sisters), he proceeded to wind them round my brow and temples. Next he waved mysteriously a few gold coins, then dropped twenty-one drops of cold water out of a jewelled shell, [Footnote: The conch, or chank shell] and finally, muttering something in Sanskrit, and placing in my hand a small silk bag containing a title of nobility and the number and description of the roods of lands pertaining to it, bade me rise, "Chow Khoon Crue Yai"! My estate was in the district of Lophaburee and P'hra Batt, and I found afterward that to reach it I must perform a tedious journey overland, through a wild, dense jungle, on the back of an elephant. So, with wise munificence, I left it to my people, tigers, elephants, rhinoceroses, wild boars, armadillos, and monkeys to enjoy unmolested and untaxed, while I continued to pursue the even tenor of a "school-marm's" way, unagitated by my honorary title. In fact, the whole affair was ridiculous; and I was inclined to feel a little ashamed of the distinction, when I reflected on the absurd figure I must have cut, with my head in a string like a grocer's parcel, and Boy imploring me, with all his astonished eyes, not to submit to so silly an operation. So he and I tacitly agreed to hush the matter up between us. Speaking of the "chank" shell, that is the name given in the East Indies to certain varieties of the _voluta gravis_, fished up by divers in the Gulf of Manaar, on the northwest coast of Ceylon. There are two kinds, _payel_ and _patty,_--the one red, the other white; the latter is of small value. These shells are exported to Calcutta and Bombay, where they are sawed into rings of various sizes, and worn on the arms, legs, fingers, and toes by the Hindoos, from whom the Buddhists have adopted the shell for use in their religious or political ceremonies. They employ, however, a third species, which opens to the right, and is rare and costly. The demand for these shells, created by the innumerable poojahs and pageants of the Hindoos and Buddhists, was formerly so great that a bounty of sixty thousand rix dollars per annum was paid to the British government for the privilege of fishing for them; but this demand finally ceased, and the revenue became not worth collecting. The fishing is now free to all. XIV. AN OUTRAGE AND A WARNING. One morning we were startled by a great outcry, from which we presently began to pick out, here and there, a coherent word, which, put together, signified that Moonshee was once more in trouble. I ran down into the compound, and found that the old man had been cruelly beaten, by order of one of the premier's half-brothers, for refusing to bow down before him. Exhausted as he was, he found voice to express his sense of the outrage in indignant iteration. "Am I a beast? Am I an unbelieving dog? O son of Jaffur Khan, how hast thou fallen!" I felt so shocked and insulted that I went at once, and without ceremony, to the Kralahome, and complained. To my surprise and disgust, his Excellency made light of the matter, saying that the old man was a fool; that he had no time to waste upon such trifles; and that I must not trouble him so often with my meddling in matters of no moment, and which did not concern me. When he was done with this explosion of petulance and brow-beating, I endeavored to demonstrate to him the unfairness of his remarks, and the disadvantage to himself if he should appear to connive at the ruffianly behavior of his people. But I assured him that in future I should not trouble him with my complaints, but take them directly to the British Consul. And so saying I left this unreasonable prime minister, meeting the cause of all our woes (the half-brother) coming in as I went out. That same evening, as I sat in our little piazza, where it was cooler than in the house, embroidering a new coat for Boy to wear on his approaching birthday, I felt a violent blow on my head, and fell from my chair stunned, overturning the small table at which I was working, and the heavy Argand lamp that stood on it. On recovering my senses I found myself in the dark, and Boy, with all his little strength, trying to lift me from the floor, while he screamed, "_Beebe maree! Beebe maree!_" [Footnote: Maree, "Come here" (Malay).] I endeavored to rise, but feeling dizzy and sick lay still for a while, taking Louis in my arms to reassure him. When Beebe came from the river, where she had been bathing, she struck a light, and found that the mischief had been done with a large stone, about four inches long and two wide; but by whom or why it had been thrown we could not for some time conjecture. Beebe raised the neighborhood with her cries: "First my husband, then my mistress! It will be my turn next; and then what will become of the _chota baba sahib?_" [Footnote: The little master.] But I begged her to have done with her din and help me to the couch, which she did with touching tenderness and quiet, bathing my head, which had bled so profusely that I sank, exhausted, into a deep sleep, though the sight of my boy's pale, anxious face, as he insisted on sharing Beebe's vigil, would have been more than enough to keep me awake at any other time. When I awoke in the morning, there sat the dear little fellow in a chair asleep, but dressed, his head resting on my pillow. I now felt so much better, though my head was badly swollen, that I rose and paid a visit to Moonshee, who was really ill, though not dying, as his wife declared. The shame and outrage of his beating was the occasion of much sorrow and trouble to me, for my Persian teacher now begged to be sent back to Singapore, and I thought that Beebe could not be persuaded to let him go alone, though my heart had been set on keeping them with me as long as I remained in Siam. It was in vain that I tried to convince the terrified old man that such a catastrophe could hardly happen again; he would not be beguiled, but, shedding faithful tears at the sight of my bandaged head, declared we should all be murdered if we tarried another day in a land of such barbarous Kafirs. I assured him that my wound was but skin-deep, and that I apprehended no further violence. But all to no purpose; I was obliged to promise them that they should depart by the next trip of the Chow Phya steamer. I deemed it prudent, however, to send for the premier's secretary, and warn him, in his official capacity, that if a repetition of the outrage already perpetrated upon members of my household should be attempted from any quarter, I would at once take refuge at the British consulate, and lodge a complaint against the government of Siam. Mr. Hunter, who was always very serious when he was sober and very volatile when he was not, took the matter to heart, stared long and thoughtfully at my bandaged head and pallid countenance, and abruptly started for the premier's palace, whence he returned on the following day with several copies of a proclamation in the Siamese language, signed by his Excellency, to the effect that persons found injuring or in any way molesting any member of my household should be severely punished. I desired him to leave one or two of them, in a friendly way, at the house of my neighbor on the left, the Kralahome's half-brother; for it was he, and no other, who had committed this most cowardly act of revenge. The expression of Mr. Hunter's face, as the truth slowly dawned upon him, was rich in its blending of indignation, disgust, and contempt. "The pusillanimous rascal!" he exclaimed, as he hurried off in the direction indicated. "The darkest hour is just before day." So the gloom now cast over our little circle by Moonshee's departure was quickly followed by the light of love in Beebe's tearful eyes as she bade her husband adieu. "How could she," she asked, "leave her Mem and the _chota baba sahib_ alone in a strange land?" XV. THE CITY OF BANGKOK. Ascending the Meinam (or Chow Phya) from the gulf, and passing Paknam, the paltry but picturesque seaport already described, we come next to Paklat Beeloo, or "Little Paklat," so styled to distinguish it from Paklat Boon, a considerable town higher up the river, which we shall presently inspect as we steam toward Bangkok. Though, strictly speaking, Paklat Beeloo is a mere cluster of huts, the humble dwellings of a colony of farmers and rice-planters, it is nevertheless a place of considerable importance as a depot for the products of the ample fields and gardens which surround it on every side. The rice and vegetables which these supply are shipped for the markets of Bangkok and Ayudia. At Paklat Beeloo that bustle of traffic begins which, more and more as we approach the capital, imparts to the river its characteristic aspect of activity and thrift,--an animated procession of boats of various form and size, deeply laden with grain, garden stuffs, and fruits, drifting with the friendly helping tide, and requiring little or no manual labor for their navigation, as they sweep along tranquilly, steadily, from bank to bank, from village to village. Diverse as are the styles and uses of these boats, the most convenient, and therefore the most common, are the Rua-keng and the Rua-pêt. The former resembles in all respects the Venetian gondola, while the Rua-pêt has either a square house with, windows amidships, or (more commonly) a basket cover, long and round, like the tent-top of some Western wagons. The dimensions of many of these boats are sufficient to accommodate an entire family, with their household goods and merchandise, yet one seldom sees more than a single individual in charge of them. The tide, running strongly up or down, affords the motive-power; "the crew" has but to steer. Often unwieldy, and piled clumsily with cargo, one might reasonably suppose their safe piloting to be a nautical impossibility; yet so perfect is the skill--the instinct, rather--of these almost amphibious river-folk, that a little child, not uncommonly a girl, shall lead them. Accidents are marvellously rare, considering the thousands of large, heavy, handsome keng boats that ply continually between the gulf and the capital, now lost in a sudden bend of the stream, now emerging from behind a screen of mangroves, and in their swift descent threatening quick destruction to the small and fragile market-boats, freighted with fish and poultry, fruit and vegetables. From Paklat Beeloo a great canal penetrates directly to the heart of Bangkok, cutting off thirty miles from the circuitous river route. But the traveller, faithful to the picturesque, will cling to the beautiful Meinam, which will entertain him with scenery more and more charming as he approaches the capital,--higher lands, a neater cultivation, hamlets and villages quaintly pretty, fantastic temples and pagodas dotting the plain, fine Oriental effects of form and color, scattered Edens of fruit-trees,--the mango, the mangostein, the bread-fruit, the durian the orange,--their dark foliage contrasting boldly with the more lively and lovely green of the betel, the tamarind, and the banana. Every curve of the river is beautiful with an unexpectedness of its own,--here the sugar-cane swaying gracefully, there the billow-like lights and shadows of the supple, feathery bamboo, and everywhere ideal paradises of refreshment and repose. As we drift on the flowing thoroughfare toward the golden spires of Bangkok, kaleidoscopic surprises of summer salute us on either hand. Presently we come to Paklat Boon, a place of detached cottages and orchards, fondly courting the river, the pretty homesteads of husbandmen and gardeners. Here, too, is a dock-yard for the construction of royal barges and war-boats, some of them more than eighty feet long, with less than twelve feet beam. From Paklat Boon to Bangkok the scene is one of ever-increasing splendor, the glorious river seeming to array itself more and more grandly, as for the admiration of kings, and proudly spreading its waters wide, as a courtier spreads his robes. Its lake-like expanses, without a spiteful rock or shoal, are alive with ships, barks, brigs, junks, proas, sampans, canoes; and the stranger is beset by a flotilla of river pedlers, expertly sculling under the stern of the steamer, and shrilly screaming the praises of their wares; while here and there, in the thick of the bustle and scramble and din, a cunning, quick-handed Chinaman, in a crank canoe, ladles from a steaming caldron his savory chow-chow soup, and serves it out in small white bowls to hungry customers, who hold their peace for a time and loll upon their oars, enraptured by the penetrating brew. Three miles below the capital are the royal dock-yards, where most of the ships composing the Siamese navy and merchant marine are built, under the supervision of English shipwrights. Here, also, craft from Hong-Kong, Canton, Singapore, Rangoon, and other ports, that have been disabled at sea, are repaired more thoroughly and cheaply than in any other port in the East. There are, likewise, several dry-docks, and, in fact, an establishment completely equipped and intelligently managed. A short distance below the dock-yards is the American Mission, comprising the dwellings of the missionaries and a modest school-house and chapel, the latter having a fair attendance of consuls and their children. Above the dock-yards is the Roman Catholic establishment, a quiet little settlement clustered about a small cross-crowned sanctuary. Yet one more bend of the tortuous river, and the strange panorama of the floating city unrolls like a great painted canvas before us,--piers and rafts of open shops, with curious wares and fabrics exposed at the very water's edge; and beyond and above these the magnificent "watts" and pagodas with which the capital abounds. These pagodas, and the _p'hra-cha-dees_, or minarets, that crown some of the temples, are in many cases true wonders of cunning workmanship and profuse adornment--displaying mosaics of fine porcelain, inlaid with ivory, gold, and silver, while the lofty doors and windows are overlaid with sculptures of grotesque figures from the Buddhist and Brahminical mythologies. Near the Grand Palace are three tall pillars of elegant design, everywhere inlaid with variegated stones, and so richly gilt that they are the wonder and the pride of all the country round. These monuments mark the places of deposit of a few charred bones that once were three demigods of Siam,--the kings P'hra Rama Thibodi, P'hra Narai, and P'hra Phya Tak, who did doughty deeds of valor and prowess in earlier periods of Siamese history. The Grand Royal Palace, the semi-castellated residence of the Supreme King of Siam, with its roofs and spires pointed with what seem to be the horns of animals, towers pre-eminent over all the city. It is a great citadel, surrounded by a triplet of walls, fortified with many bastions. Each of the separate buildings it comprises is cruciform; and even the palace lately erected in the style of Windsor Castle forms with the old palace the arms of a cross, as the latter does with the Phrasat,--and so on down to an odd little conceit in architecture, in the Chinese style throughout. In front of the old palace is an ample enclosure, paved, and surrounded with beautiful trees and rare plants. A gateway, guarded by a pair of colossal lions and two gigantic and frightful nondescripts, half demon, half human, leads to the old palace, now almost abandoned. Beyond this, and within the third or innermost wall, is the true heart of the citadel, the quarters of the women of the harem. This is in itself a sort of miniature city, with streets, shops, bazaars, and gardens, all occupied and tended by women only. Outside are the observatory and watch-tower. Some of the grandest and most beautiful temples and pagodas of Siam are in this part of the city. On one side of the palace are the temples and monasteries dedicated to the huge Sleeping Idol, and on the other the mass of buildings that constitute the palace and harem of the Second King. From these two palaces broad streets extend for several miles, occupied on either side by the principal shops and bazaars of Bangkok. Leaving the Grand Palace, a short walk to the right brings us to the monuments, already mentioned, of the three warrior kings. From noble pedestals of fine black granite, adorned at top and bottom with cornices and rings of ivory, carved in mythological forms of animals, birds, and flowers, rise conical pillars about fifty feet high. The columns themselves are in mosaic, with diverse material inlaid upon the solid masonry so carefully that the cement can hardly be detected. No two patterns are the same, striking effects of form and color have been studied, and the result is beautiful beyond description. Close beside these a third pillar was lately in process of erection, to the memory of the good King P'hra-Phen-den Klang, father of his late Majesty, Somdetch P'hra-Paramendr Maha Mongkut. On the outer skirt of the walled town stands the temple Watt Brahmanee Waid, dedicated to the divinity to whom the control of the universe has been ascribed from the most ancient times. His temple is the only shrine of a Brahminical deity that the followers of Buddha have not dared to abolish. Intelligent Buddhists hold that he exists in the latent forces of nature, that his only attribute is benevolence, though he is capable of a just indignation, and that within the scope of his mental vision are myriads of worlds yet to come. But he is said to have no form, no voice, no odor, no color, no active creative power,--a subtile, fundamental principle of nature, pervading all things, influencing all things. This belief in Brahma is so closely interwoven with all that is best in the morals and customs of the people, that it would seem as though Buddha himself had been careful to leave unchallenged this one idea in the mythology of the Hindoos. The temple includes a royal monastery, which only the sons of kings can enter. Opposite the Brahmanee Watt, at the distance of about a mile, are the extensive grounds and buildings of Watt Sah Kâte, the great national burning-place of the dead. Within these mysterious precincts the Buddhist rite of cremation is performed, with circumstances more or less horrible, according to the condition or the superstition of the deceased. A broad canal surrounds the temple and yards, and here, night and day, priests watch and pray for the regeneration of mankind. Not alone the dead, but the living likewise, are given to be burned in secret here; and into this canal, at dead of night, are flung the rash wretches who have madly dared to oppose with speech or act the powers that rule in Siam. None but the initiated will approach, these grounds after sunset, so universal and profound is the horror the place inspires,--a place the most frightful and offensive known to mortal eyes; for here the vows of dead men, howsoever ghoulish and monstrous, are consummated. The walls are hung with human skeletons and the ground is strewed with human skulls. Here also are scraped together the horrid fragments of those who have bequeathed their carcasses to the hungry dogs and vultures, that hover, and prowl, and swoop, and pounce, and snarl, and scream, and tear. The half-picked bones are gathered and burned by the outcast keepers of the temple (not priests), who receive from the nearest relative of the infatuated testator a small fee for that final service; and so a Buddhist vow is fulfilled, and a Buddhist "deed of merit" accomplished. Bangkok, the modern seat of government of Siam, has (according to the best authorities) two hundred thousand floating dwellings and shops,--to each house an average of five souls,--making the population of the city about one million; of which number more than eighty thousand are Chinese, twenty thousand Birmese, fifteen thousand Arabs and Indians, and the remainder Siamese. These figures are from the latest census, which, however, must not be accepted as perfectly accurate. The situation of the city is unique and picturesque. When Ayudia was "extinguished," and the capital established at Bangkok, the houses were at first built on the banks of the river. But so frequent were the invasions of cholera, that one of the kings happily commanded the people to build on the river itself, that they might have greater cleanliness and better ventilation. The result quickly proved the wisdom of the measure. The privilege of building on the banks is now confined to members of the royal family, the nobility, and residents of acknowledged influence, political or commercial. At night the city is hung with thousands of covered lights, that illuminate the wide river from shore to shore. Lamps and lanterns of all imaginable shapes, colors, and sizes combine to form a fairy spectacle of enchanting brilliancy and beauty. The floating tenements and shops, the masts of vessels, the tall, fantastic pagodas and minarets, and, crowning all, the walls and towers of the Grand Palace, flash with countless charming tricks of light, and compose a scene of more than magic novelty and beauty. So oriental fancy and profusion deal with things of use, and make a wonder of a commonplace. A double, and in some parts a triple, row of floating houses extends for miles along the banks of the river. These are wooden structures, tastefully designed and painted, raised on substantial rafts of bamboo linked together with chains, which, in turn, are made fast to great piles planted in the bed of the stream. The Meinam itself forms the main avenue, and the floating shops on either side constitute the great bazaar of the city, where all imaginable and unimaginable articles from India, China, Malacca, Birmah, Paris, Liverpool, and New York are displayed in stalls. Naturally, boats and canoes are indispensable appendages to such houses; the nobility possess a fleet of them, and to every little water-cottage a canoe is tethered, for errands and visits. At all hours of the day and night processions of boats pass to and from the palace, and everywhere bustling traders and agents ply their dingy little craft, and proclaim their several callings in a Babel of cries. Daily, at sunrise, a flotilla of canoes, filled with shaven men in yellow garments, visits every house along the banks. These are the priests gathering their various provender, the free gift of every inhabitant of the city. Twenty thousand of them are supported by the alms of the city of Bangkok alone. At noon, all the clamor of the city is suddenly stilled, and perfect silence reigns. Men, women, and children are hushed in their afternoon nap. From the stifling heat of a tropical midday the still cattle seek shelter and repose under shady boughs, and even the prows cease their obstreperous clanging. The only sound that breaks the drowsy stillness of the hour is the rippling of the glaring river as it ebbs or flows under the steaming banks. About three in the afternoon the sea-breeze sets in, bringing refreshment to the fevered, thirsty land, and reviving animal and vegetable life with its compassionate breath. Then once more the floating city awakes and stirs, and an animation rivalling that of the morning is prolonged far into the night,--the busy, gay, delightful night of Bangkok. The streets are few compared with the number of canals that intersect the city in all directions. The most remarkable of the former is one that runs parallel with the Grand Palace, and terminates in what is now known as "Sanon Mai," or the New Road, which extends from Bangkok to Paknam, about forty miles, and crosses the canals on movable iron bridges. Almost every other house along this road is a shop, and at the close of the wet season Bangkok has no rival in the abundance of vegetables and fruits with which its markets are stocked. I could wish for a special dispensation to pass without mention the public prisons of Bangkok, for their condition and the treatment of the unhappy wretches confined in them are the foulest blots on the character of the government. Some of these grated abominations are hung like bird-cages over the water; and those on land, with their gangs of living corpses chained together like wild beasts, are too horrible to be pictured here. How European officials, representatives of Christian ideas of humanity and decency, can continue to countenance the apathy or wilful brutality of the prime minister, who, as the executive officer of the government in this department, is mainly responsible for the cruelties and outrages I may not even name, I cannot conceive. The American Protestant missionaries have as yet made no remarkable impression on the religious mind of the Siamese. Devoted, persevering, and patient laborers, the field they have so faithfully tilled has rewarded them with but scanty fruits. Nor will the fact, thankless though it be, appear surprising to those whose privilege it has been to observe the Buddhist and the Roman Catholic side by side in the East, and to note how, even on the score of doctrine, they meet without a jar at many points. The average Siamese citizen, entering a Roman Catholic chapel in Bangkok, finds nothing there to shock his prejudices. He is introduced to certain forms and ceremonies, almost the counterpart of which he piously reveres in his own temple,--genuflections, prostrations, decorated shrines, lighted candles, smoking incense, holy water; while the prayers he hears are at least not less intelligible to him than those he hears mumbled in Pali by his own priests. He beholds familiar images too, and pictures of a Saviour in whom he charitably recognizes the stranger's Buddha. And if he happen to be a philosophic inquirer, how surprised and pleased is he to learn that the priests of this faith (like his own) are vowed to chastity, poverty, and obedience, and, like his own, devoted to the doing of good works, penance, and alms. There are many thousands of native converts to Catholicism in Siam; even the priests of Buddhism do not always turn a deaf ear to the persuasions of teachers bound with them in the bonds of celibacy, penance, and deeds of merit. And those teachers are quick to meet them half-way, happily recommending themselves by the alacrity with which they adopt, and make their own, usages which they may with propriety practise in common, whereby the Buddhist is flattered while the Christian is not offended. Such, for example, is the monastic custom of the uncovered head. As it is deemed sacrilege to touch the head of royalty, so the head of the priest may not without dishonor pass under anything less hallowed than the canopy of heaven; and in this Buddhist and Roman Catholic accord. The residences of the British, French, American, and Portuguese Consuls are pleasantly situated in a bend of the river, where a flight of wooden steps in good repair leads directly to the houses of the officials and European merchants of that quarter. Most influential among the latter is the managing firm of the Borneo Company, whose factories and warehouses for rice, sugar, and cotton are extensive and prosperous. The more opulent of the native merchants are grossly addicted to gambling and opium-smoking. Though the legal penalties prescribed for all who indulge in these destructive vices are severe, they do not avail to deter even respectable officers of the government from staking heavy sums on the turn of a card; and long before the game is ended the opium-pipe is introduced. One of the king's secretaries, who was a confirmed opium-smoker, assured me he would rather die at once than be excluded from the region of raptures his pipe opened to him. XVI. THE WHITE ELEPHANT. It is commonly supposed that the Buddhists of Siam and Birmah regard the Chang Phoouk, or white elephant, as a deity, and worship it accordingly. The notion is erroneous, especially as it relates to Siam. The Buddhists do not recognize God in any material form whatever, and are shocked at the idea of adoring an elephant. Even Buddha, to whom they undoubtedly offer pious homage, they do not style "God" but on the contrary maintain that, though an emanation from a "sublimated ethereal being," he is by no means a deity. According to their philosophy of metempsychosis, however, each successive Buddha, in passing through a series of transmigrations, must necessarily have occupied in turn the forms of white animals of a certain class,--particularly the swan, the stork, the white sparrow, the dove, the monkey, and the elephant. But there is much obscurity and diversity in the views of their ancient writers on this subject. Only one thing is certain, that the forms of these nobler and purer creatures are reserved for the souls of the good and great, who find in them a kind of redemption from the baser animal life. Thus almost all white animals are held in reverence by the Siamese, because they were once superior human beings, and the white elephant, in particular, is supposed to be animated by the spirit of some king or hero. Having once been a great man, he is thought to be familiar with the dangers that surround the great, and to know what is best and safest for those whose condition in all respects was once his own. He is hence supposed to avert national calamity, and bring prosperity and peace to a people. [Illustration: A WAR ELEPHANT ] From the earliest times the kings of Siam and Birmah have anxiously sought for the white elephant, and having had the rare fortune to procure one, have loaded it with gifts and dignities, as though it were a conscious favorite of the throne. When the governor of a province of Siam is notified of the appearance of a white elephant within his bailiwick, he immediately commands that prayers and offerings shall be made in all the temples, while he sends out a formidable expedition of hunters and slaves to take the precious beast, and bring it in in triumph. As soon as he is informed of its capture, a special messenger is despatched to inform the king of its sex, probable age, size, complexion, deportment, looks, and ways; and in the presence of his Majesty this bearer of glorious tidings undergoes the painfully pleasant operation of having his mouth, ears, and nostrils stuffed with gold. Especially is the lucky wight--perhaps some half-wild woodsman--who was first to spy the illustrious monster munificently rewarded. Orders are promptly issued to the woons and wongses of the several districts through which he must pass to prepare to receive him royally, and a wide path is cut for him through the forests he must traverse on his way to the capital. Wherever he rests he is sumptuously entertained, and everywhere he is escorted and served by a host of attendants, who sing, dance, play upon instruments, and perform feats of strength or skill for his amusement, until he reaches the banks of the Meinam, where a great floating palace of wood, surmounted by a gorgeous roof and hung with crimson curtains, awaits him. The roof is literally thatched with flowers ingeniously arranged so as to form symbols and mottoes, which the superior beast is supposed to decipher with ease. The floor of this splendid float is laid with gilt matting curiously woven, in the centre of which his four-footed lordship is installed in state, surrounded by an obsequious and enraptured crowd of mere bipeds, who bathe him, perfume him, fan him, feed him, sing and play to him, flatter him. His food consists of the finest herbs, the tenderest grass, the sweetest sugar-cane, the mellowest plantains, the brownest cakes of wheat, served on huge trays of gold and silver; and his drink is perfumed with the fragrant flower of the _dok mallee_, the large native jessamine. Thus, in more than princely state, he is floated down the river to a point within seventy miles of the capital, where the king and his court, all the chief personages of the kingdom, and a multitude of priests, both Buddhist and Brahmin, accompanied by troops of players and musicians, come out to meet him, and conduct him with all the honors to his stable-palace. A great number of cords and ropes of all qualities and lengths are attached to the raft, those in the centre being of fine silk (figuratively, "spun from a spider's web"). These are for the king and his noble retinue, who with their own hands make them fast to their gilded barges; the rest are secured to the great fleet of lesser boats. And so, with shouts of joy, beating of drums, blare of trumpets, boom of cannon, a hallelujah of music, and various splendid revelry, the great Chang Phoouk is conducted in triumph to the capital. Here in a pavilion, temporary but very beautiful, he is welcomed with imposing ceremonies by the custodians of the palace and the principal personages of the royal household. The king, his courtiers, and the chief priests being gathered round him, thanksgiving is offered up; and then the lordly beast is knighted, after the ancient manner of the Buddhists, by pouring upon his forehead consecrated water from a chank-shell. The titles reserved for the Chang Phoouk vary according to the purity of the complexion (for these favored creatures are rarely true albinos,--salmon or flesh-color being the nearest approach to white in almost all the historic "white elephants" of the courts of Birmah and Siam) and the sex; for though one naturally has recourse to the masculine pronoun in writing of a transmigrated prince or warrior, it often happens that prince or warrior has, in the medlied mask of metempsychosis, assumed a female form. Such, in fact, was the case with the stately occupant of the stable-palace at the court of Maha Mongkut; and she was distinguished by the high-sounding appellation of Mââ Phya Seri Wongsah Ditsarah Krasâat,--"August and Glorious Mother, Descendant of Kings and Heroes." For seven or nine days, according to certain conditions, the Chang Phoouk is fêted at the temporary pavilion, and entertained with a variety of dramatic performances; and these days are observed as a general holiday throughout the land. At the expiration of this period he is conducted with great pomp to his sumptuous quarters within the precincts of the first king's palace, where he is received by his own court of officers, attendants, and slaves, who install him in his fine lodgings, and at once proceed to robe and decorate him. First, the court jeweller rings his tremendous tusks with massive gold, crowns him with a diadem of beaten gold of perfect purity, and adorns his burly neck with heavy golden chains. Next his attendants robe him in a superb velvet cloak of purple, fringed with scarlet and gold; and then his court prostrate themselves around him, and offer him royal homage. When his lordship would refresh his portly person in the bath, an officer of high rank shelters his noble head with a great umbrella of crimson and gold, while others wave golden fans before him. On these occasions he is invariably preceded by musicians, who announce his approach with cheerful minstrelsy and songs. If he falls ill, the king's own leech prescribes for him, and the chief priests repair daily to his palace to pray for his safe deliverance, and sprinkle him with consecrated waters and anoint him with consecrated oils. Should he die, all Siam is bereaved, and the nation, as one man, goes into mourning for him. But his body is not burned; only his brains and heart are thought worthy of that last and highest honor. The carcass, shrouded in fine white linen, and laid on a bier, is carried down the river with much wailing and many mournful dirges, to be thrown into the Gulf of Siam. In 1862 a magnificent white--or, rather, salmon-colored--elephant was "bagged," and preparations on a gorgeous scale were made to receive him. A temporary pavilion of extraordinary splendor sprang up, as if by magic, before the eastern gate of the palace; and the whole nation was wild with joy; when suddenly came awful tidings,--he had died! No man dared tell the king. But the Kralahome--that man of prompt expedients and unfailing presence of mind--commanded that the preparations should cease instantly, and that the building should vanish with the builders. In the evening his Majesty came forth, as usual, to exult in the glorious work. What was his astonishment to find no vestige of the splendid structure that had been so nearly completed the night before. He turned, bewildered, to his courtiers, to demand an explanation, when suddenly the terrible truth flashed into his mind. With a cry of pain he sank down upon a stone, and gave vent to an hysterical passion of tears; but was presently consoled by one of his children, who, carefully prompted in his part, knelt before him and said: "Weep not, O my father! The stranger lord may have left us but for a time." The stranger lord, fatally pampered, had succumbed to astonishment and indigestion. A few days after this mournful event the king read to me a curious description of the defunct monster, and showed me parts of his skin preserved, and his tusks, which in size and whiteness surpassed the finest I had ever seen. His (that is, the elephant's) eyes were light blue, surrounded by salmon-color; his hair fine, soft, and white; his complexion pinkish white; his tusks like long pearls; his ears like silver shields; his trunk like a comet's tail; his legs like the feet of the skies; his tread like the sound of thunder; his looks full of meditation; his expression full of tenderness; his voice the voice of a mighty warrior; and his bearing that of an illustrious monarch. That was a terrible affliction, to the people not less than to the king. On all occasions of state,--court receptions, for example,--the white elephant, gorgeously arrayed, is stationed on the right of the inner gate of the palace, and forms an indispensable as well as a conspicuous figure in the picture. When the Siamese ambassadors returned from England, the chief of the embassy--a man remarkable for his learning and the purity of his character, who was also first cousin to the Supreme King--published a quaint pamphlet, describing England and her people, their manners and customs and dwellings, with a very particular report of the presentation of the embassy at court. Speaking of the personal appearance of Queen Victoria, he says: "One cannot but be struck with the aspect of the august Queen of England, or fail to observe that she must be of pure descent from a race of goodly and warlike kings and rulers of the earth, in that her eyes, complexion, and above all her bearing, are those of a beautiful and majestic white elephant." XVII. THE CEREMONIES OF CORONATION. On the morning of the 3d of April, 1851, the Chowfa Mongkut, after being formally apprised of his election by the Senabawdee to the supreme throne, was borne in state to a residence adjoining the Phrasat, to await the auspicious day of coronation,--the 15th of the following month, as fixed by the court astrologers; and when it came it was hailed by all classes of the people with immoderate demonstrations of joy; for to their priest king, more sacred than a conqueror, they were drawn by bonds of superstition as well as of pride and affection. The ceremony of coronation is very peculiar. In the centre of the inner Hall of Audience of the royal palace, on a high platform richly gilded and adorned, is placed a circular golden basin, called, in the court language, _Mangala Baghavat-thong_, "the Golden Circlet of Power." Within this basin is deposited the ancient _P'hra-batt_, or golden stool, the whole being surmounted by a quadrangular canopy, under a tapering, nine-storied umbrella in the form of a pagoda, from ten to twelve feet high and profusely gilt. Directly over the centre of the canopy is deposited a vase containing consecrated waters, which have been prayed over nine times, and poured through nine different circular vessels in their passage to the sacred receptacle. These waters must be drawn from the very sources of the chief rivers of Siam; and reservoirs for their preservation are provided in the precincts of the temples at Bangkok. In the mouth of this vessel is a tube representing the pericarp of a lotos after its petals have fallen off; and this, called _Sukla Utapala Atmano_, "the White Lotos of Life," symbolizes the beauty of pure conduct. The king elect, arrayed in a simple white robe, takes his seat on the golden stool. A Brahmin priest then presents to him some water in a small cup of gold, lotos-shaped. This water has previously been filtered through nine different forms of matter, commencing with earth, then ashes, wheaten flour, rice flour, powdered lotos and jessamine, dust of iron, gold, and charcoal, and finally flame; each a symbol, not merely of the indestructibility of the element, but also of its presence in all animate or inanimate matter. Into this water the king elect dips his right hand, and passes it over his head. Immediately the choir join in an inspiring chant, the signal for the inverting, by means of a pulley, of the vessel over the canopy; and the consecrated waters descend through another lotos flower, in a lively shower, on the head of the king. This shower represents celestial blessings. A Buddhist priest then advances and pours a goblet of water over the royal person from the bed of the Ganges. He is then arrayed in regal robes. On the throne, which is in the south end of the hall, and octagonal, having eight seats corresponding to eight points of the compass, the king first seats himself facing the north, and so on, moving eastward, facing each point in its order. On the top step of each seat crouch two priests, Buddhist and Brahmin, who present to him another bowl of water, which he drinks and sprinkles on his face, each time repeating, by responses with the priests, the following prayer:-- _Priests_. Be thou learned in the laws of nature and of the universe. _King_. Inspire me, O Thou who wert a Law unto thyself! _P_. Be thou endowed with all wisdom, and all acts of industry! _K_. Inspire me with all knowledge, O Thou the Enlightened! _P_. Let Mercy and Truth be thy right and left arms of life! _K_. Inspire me, O Thou who hast proved all Truth and all Mercy! _P_. Let the Sun, Moon, and Stars bless thee! _K_. All praise to Thee, through whom all forms are conquered! _P_. Let the earth, air, and waters bless thee! _K_. Through the merit of Thee, O thou conqueror of Death! [Footnote: For these translations I am indebted to his Majesty, Maha Mongkut; as well as for the interpretation of the several symbols used in this and other solemn rites of the Buddhists.] These prayers ended, the priests conduct the king to another throne, facing the east, and still more magnificent. Here the insignia of his sovereignty are presented to him,--first the sword, then the sceptre; two massive chains are suspended from his neck; and lastly the crown is set upon his head, when instantly he is saluted by roar of cannon without and music within. Then he is presented with the golden slippers, the fan, and the umbrella of royalty, rings set with huge diamonds for each of his forefingers, and the various Siamese weapons of war: these he merely accepts, and returns to his attendants. The ceremony concludes with an address from the priests, exhorting him to be pure in his sovereign and sacred office; and a reply from himself, wherein he solemnly vows to be a just, upright, and faithful ruler of his people. Last of all, a golden tray is handed to him, from which, as he descends from the throne, he scatters gold and silver flowers among the audience. The following day is devoted to a more public enthronement. His Majesty, attired more sumptuously than before, is presented to all his court, and to a more general audience. After the customary salutations by prostration and salutes of cannon and music, the premier and other principal ministers read short addresses, in delivering over to the king the control of their respective departments. His Majesty replies briefly; there is a general salute from all forts, war vessels, and merchant shipping; and the remainder of the day is devoted to feasting and various enjoyment. Immediately after the crowning of Maha Mongkut, his Majesty repaired to the palace of the Second King, where the ceremony of subordinate coronation differed from that just described only in the circumstance that the consecrated waters were poured over the person of the Second King, and the insignia presented to him, by the supreme sovereign. Five days later a public procession made the circuit of the palace and city walls in a peculiar circumambulatory march of mystic significance, with feasting, dramatic entertainments, and fireworks. The concourse assembled to take part in those brilliant demonstrations has never since been equalled in any public display in Siam. XVIII. THE QUEEN CONSORT. When a king of Siam would take unto himself a wife, he chooses a maiden from a family of the highest rank, and of royal pedigree, and, inviting her into the guarded circle of his women, entertains her there in that peculiar state of probation which is his prerogative and her opportunity. Should she prove so fortunate as to engage his preference, it may be his pleasure to exalt her to the throne; in which event he appoints a day for the formal consummation of his gracious purpose, when the principal officers, male and female, of the court, with the priests, Brahmin as well as Buddhist, and the royal astrologers, attend to play their several parts in the important drama. The princess, robed in pure white, is seated on a throne elevated on a high platform. Over this throne is spread a canopy of white muslin, decorated with white and fragrant flowers, and through this canopy are gently showered the typical waters of consecration, in which have been previously infused certain leaves and shrubs emblematic of purity, usefulness, and sweetness. While the princess is thus delicately sprinkled with compliments, the priests enumerate, with nice discrimination, the various graces of mind and person which henceforth she must study to acquire; and pray that she may prove a blessing to her lord, and herself be richly blessed. Then she is hailed queen, with a burst of exultant music. Now the sisters of the king conduct her by a screened passage to a chamber regally appointed, where she is divested of her dripping apparel, and arrayed in robes becoming her queenly state,--robes of silk, heavy with gold, and sparkling with diamonds and rubies. Then the king is ushered into her presence by the ladies of the court; and at the moment of his entrance she rises to throw herself at his feet, according to the universal custom. But he prevents her; and taking her right hand, and embracing her, seats her beside him, on his right. There she receives the formal congratulations of the court, with which the ceremonies of the day terminate. The evening is devoted to feasting and merriment. A Siamese king may have two queens at the same time; in which case the more favored lady is styled the "right hand," and the other the "left hand," of the throne. His late Majesty, Maha Mongkut, had two queens, but not "in conjunction." The first was of the right hand; the second, though chosen in the lifetime of the first, was not elevated to the throne until after the death of her predecessor. When the bride is a foreign princess, the ceremonies are more public, being conducted in the Hall of Audience, instead of the Ladies' Temple, or private chapel. The royal nuptial couch is consecrated with peculiar forms. The mystic thread of unspun cotton is wound around the bed seventy-seven times, and the ends held in the hands of priests, who, bowing over the sacred symbol, invoke blessings on the bridal pair. Then the nearest relatives of the bride are admitted, accompanied by a couple who, to use the obstetrical figure of the indispensable Mrs. Gamp, have their parental quiver "full of sich." These salute the bed, sprinkle it with the consecrated waters, festoon the crimson curtains with flowery garlands, and prepare the silken sheets, the pillows and cushions; which done, they lead in the bride, who has not presided at the entertainments, but waited with her ladies in a screened apartment. On entering the awful chamber, she first falls on her knees, and thrice salutes the royal couch with folded hands, and then invokes protection for herself, that she may be preserved from every deadly sin. Finally, she is disrobed, and left praying on the floor before the bed, while the king is conducted to her by his courtiers, who immediately retire. The same ceremony is observed in nearly all Siamese families of respectability, with, of course, certain omissions and variations adapted to the rank of the parties. After three days the bride visits her parents, bearing presents to them from the various members of her husband's family. Then she visits the parents of her husband, who greet her with costly gifts. In her next excursion of this kind her husband (unless a king) accompanies her, and valuable presents are mutually bestowed. A large sum of money, with jewels and other finery, is deposited with the father and mother of the bride. This is denominated _Zoon_, and at the birth of her first child it is restored to the young mother by the grandparents. The king visits his youthful queen just one month after the birth of a prince or princess. She present the babe to him, and he, in turn, places a costly ring on the third finger of her left hand. In like manner, most of the relatives, of both families, bring to the babe gifts of money, jewels, gold and silver ornaments, etc., which is termed _Tam Kwaan_. Even so early the infant's hair is shaved off, except the top-knot, which is permitted to grow until the child has arrived at the age of puberty. XIX. THE HEIR-APPARENT.--ROYAL HAIR-CUTTING. The Prince Somdetch Chowfa Chulalonkorn [Footnote: The present Supreme King.] was about ten years old when I was appointed to teach him. Being the eldest son of the queen consort, he held the first rank among the children of the king, as heir-apparent to the throne. For a Siamese, he was a handsome lad; of stature neither noticeably tall nor short; figure symmetrical and compact, and dark complexion. He was, moreover, modest and affectionate, eager to learn, and easy to influence. His mother dying when he was about nine years old, he, with his younger brothers, the Princes Chowfa Chaturont Rasmi and Chowfa Bhangurangsi Swang Wongse, and their lovely young sister, the Princess Somdetch Chowfa Chandrmondol ("Fâ-ying"), were left to the care of a grand-aunt, Somdetch Ying Noie, a princess by the father's side. This was a tranquil, cheerful old soul, attracted toward everything that was bright and pretty, and ever busy among flowers, poetry, and those darlings of her loving life, her niece's children. Of these the little Fâ-ying (whose sudden death by cholera I have described) was her favorite; and after her death the faithful creature turned her dimmed eyes and chastened pride to the young prince Chulalonkorn. Many an earnest talk had the venerable duchess and I, in which she did not hesitate to implore me to instil into the minds of her youthful wards--and especially this king that was to be--the purest principles of Christian faith and precept. Yet with all the freshness of the religious habit of her childhood she was most scrupulous in her attendance and devotions at the temple. Her grief for the death of her darling was deep and lasting, and by the simple force of her love she exerted a potent influence over the mind of the royal lad. [Illustration: THE HEIR-APPARENT.] A very stern thing is life to the children of royalty in Siam. To watch and be silent, when it has most need of confidence and freedom,--a horrible necessity for a child! The very babe in the cradle is taught mysterious and terrible things by the mother that bore it,--infantile experiences of distrust and terror, out of which a few come up noble, the many infamous. Here are baby heroes and heroines who do great deeds before our happier Western children have begun to think. There were actual, though unnoticed and unconscious, intrepidity and fortitude in the man�uvres and the stands with which those little ones, on their own ground, flanked or checked that fatal enemy, their father. Angelic indeed were the spiritual triumphs that no eye noted, nor any smile rewarded, save the anxious eye and the prayerful smile of that sleepless maternity that misery had bound with them. But even misery becomes tolerable by first becoming familiar, and out of the depths these royal children laughed and prattled and frolicked and were glad. As for the old duchess, she loved too well and too wisely not to be timid and troubled all her life long, first for the mother, then for the children. Such was the early training of the young prince, and for a time it availed to direct his thoughts to noble aspirations. From his studies, both in English and Pali, he derived an exalted ideal of life, and precocious and inexpressible yearnings. Once he said to me he envied the death of the venerable priest, his uncle; he would rather be poor, he said, and have to earn his living, than be a king. "'Tis true, a poor man must work hard for his daily bread; but then he is free. And his food is all he has to lose or win. He can possess all things in possessing Him who pervades all things,--earth, and sky, and stars, and flowers, and children. I can understand that I am great in that I am a part of the Infinite, and in that alone; and that all I see is mine, and I am in it and of it. How much of content and happiness should I not gain if I could but be a poor boy!" He was attentive to his studies, serene, and gentle, invariably affectionate to his old aunt and his younger brothers, and for the poor ever sympathetic, with a warm, generous heart. He pursued his studies assiduously, and seemed to overcome the difficulties and obstacles he encountered in the course of them with a resolution that gained strength as his mind gained ideas. As often as he effectually accomplished something, he indulged in ecstasies of rejoicing over the new thought, that was an inspiring discovery to him of his actual poverty of knowledge, his possibilities of intellectual opulence. But it was clear to me--and I saw it with sorrow--that for his ardent nature this was but a transitory condition, and that soon the shock must come, against the inevitable destiny in store for him, that would either confirm or crush all that seemed so fair in the promise of the royal boy. When the time came for the ceremony of hair-cutting, customary for young Siamese princes, the lad was gradually withdrawn, more and more, from my influence. The king had determined to celebrate the heir's majority with displays of unusual magnificence. To this end he explored the annals and records of Siam and Cambodia, and compiled from them a detailed description of a very curious procession that attended a certain prince of Siam centuries ago, on the occasion of his hair-cutting; and forthwith projected a similar show for his son, but on a more elaborate and costly scale. The programme, including the procession, provided for the representation of a sort of drama, borrowed partly from the Ramayana, and partly from the ancient observances of the kings of Cambodia. The whole royal establishment was set in motion. About nine thousand young women, among them the most beautiful of the concubines, were cast for parts in the mammoth play. Boys and girls were invited or hired from all quarters of the kingdom to "assist" in the performance. Every nation under the sun was represented in the grand procession. In our school the regular studies were abandoned, and in their place we had rehearsals of singing, dancing, recitation, and pantomime. An artificial hill, of great height, called Khoa-Kra-Lâât, was raised in the centre of the palace gardens. On its summit was erected a golden temple or pagoda of exquisite beauty, richly hung with tapestries, displaying on the east the rising sun, on the west a moon of silver. The cardinal points of the hill were guarded by the white elephant, the sacred ox, the horse, and the lion. These figures were so contrived that they could be brought close together and turned on a pivot; and thus the sacred waters, brought for that purpose from the Brahmapootra, were to be showered on the prince, after the solemn hair-cutting, and received in a noble basin of marble. The name given to the ceremony of hair-cutting varies according to the rank of the child. For commoners it is called "Khone Chook"; for the nobility and royalty, "Soh-Khan," probably from the Sanskrit _Sôh Sâhtha Kam_, "finding safe and sound." The custom is said to be extremely ancient, and to have originated with a certain Brahmin, whose only child, being sick unto death, was given over by the physicians as in the power of evil spirits. In his heart's trouble the father consulted a holy man, who had been among the earliest converts to Buddhism, if aught might yet be done to save his darling from torment and perdition. The venerable saint directed him to pray, and to have prayers offered, for the lad, and to cause that part of his hair which had never been touched with razor or shears since his birth to be shaved quite off. The result was a joyful rescue for the child; others pursued the same treatment in like cases with the same effect, and hence the custom of hair-cutting. The children of princes are forbidden to have the top-knot cut at all, until the time when they are about to pass into manhood or womanhood. Then valuable presents are made to them by all who are related to their families by blood, marriage, or friendship. When all the preparations necessary to the successful presentation of the dramatic entertainment were completed, the king, having taken counsel of his astrologers, sent heralds to the governors of all the provinces of Siam, to notify those dignitaries of the time appointed for the jubilee, and request their presence and co-operation. A similar summons was sent to all the priests of the kingdom, who, in bands or companies, were to serve alternately, on the several days of the festival. Early in the forenoon of the auspicious day the prince was borne in state, in a gorgeous chair of gold, to the Maha Phrasat, the order of the procession being as follows:-- First came the bearers of the gold umbrellas, fans, and great golden sunshades. Next, twelve gentlemen, superbly attired, selected from the first rank of the nobility, six on either side of the golden chair, as a body-guard to the prince. Then, four hundred Amazons arrayed in green and gold, and gleaming armor. These were followed by twelve maidens, attired in cloth of gold, with fantastic head-gear adorned with precious stones, who danced before the prince to the gentle monotonous movement of the _bandos_. In the centre of this group moved three lovely girls, of whom one held a superb peacock's tail, and the two others branches of gold and silver, sparkling with leaves and rare flowers. These damsels were guarded by two duennas on either side. After these stalked a stately body of Brahmins, bearing golden vases filled with _Khoa tôk_, or roasted rice, which they scattered on either side, as an emblem of plenty. Another troop of Brahmins with bandos, which they rattled as they moved along. Two young nobles, splendidly robed, who also bore gold vases, lotos-shaped, in which nestled the bird of paradise called Nok Kurraweèk, the sweetness of whose song is supposed to entrance even beasts of prey. A troop of lads, the rising nobility of Siam, fairly covered with gold collars and necklaces. The king's Japanese body-guard. Another line of boys, representing natives of Hindostan in costume. Malayan lads in costume. Chinese lads in costume. Siamese boys in English costume. The king's infantry, headed by pioneers, in European costume. Outside of this line marched about five thousand men in long rose-colored robes, with tall tapering caps. These represented guardian-angels attending on the different nations. Then came bands of musicians dressed in scarlet, imitating the cries of birds, the sound of falling fruit, and the murmur of distant waters, in the imaginary forest they were supposed to traverse on their way to the Sacred Mount. The order of the procession behind the golden sedan in which the prince was borne, was nearly as follows:-- Next after the chair of state came four young damsels of the highest rank, bearing the prince's betel-box, spittoon, fan, and swords. Then followed seventy other maidens, carrying reverently in both hands the vessels of pure gold, and all the insignia of rank and office proper to a prince of the blood royal; and yet more, holding over their right shoulders golden fans. In the train of these tripped troops of children, daughters of the nobility, dressed and decorated with fantastic splendor. Then the maids of honor, personal attendants, and concubines of the king, chastely dressed, though crowned with gold, and decorated with massive gold chains and rings of great price and beauty. A crowd of Siamese women, painted and rouged, in European costume. Troops of children in corresponding attire. Ladies in Chinese costume. Japanese ladies in rich robes. Malay women in their national dress. Women of Hindostan. Then the Kariens. And, last of all, the female slaves and dependants of the prince. At the foot of the hill a most extraordinary spectacle was presented. On the east appeared a number of hideous monsters, riding on gigantic eagles. These nondescripts, whose heads reached almost to their knees, and whose hands grasped indescribable weapons, are called Yâks. They are appointed to guard the Sacred Mount from all vulgar approach. A little farther on, around a pair of stuffed peacocks, were a number of youthful warriors, representing kings, governors, and chiefs of the several dependencies of Siam. Desirous of witnessing the sublime ceremony of hair-cutting, they cautiously approach the Yâks, performing a sort of war dance, and chanting in chorus:-- _Orah Pho, cha pai Kra Lâât_. "Let us go to the Sacred Mount!" Whereupon the Yâks, or evil angels, point their wonderful weapons at them, chanting in the same strain:-- _Orah Pho, salope thâng pooang_. "Let us slay them all!" They then make a show of striking and thrusting, and princes, rajahs, and governors drop as if wounded. The principal parts in the drama were assumed by his Majesty, and their excellencies the Prime Minister and the Minister of Foreign Affairs. The king was dressed for the character of P'hra Inn Suen, the Hindoo Indra, or Lord of the Sky, who has also the attributes of the Roman Genius; but most of his epithets in Sanskrit are identical with those of the Olympian Jove. He was attended by the Prime Minister, personating the Sanskrit Saché, but called in Siamese "Vis Summo Kâm," and the Minister of Foreign Affairs as his charioteer, Ma Talee. His imperial elephant, called Aisarat, caparisoned in velvet and gold, and bearing the supernatural weapons,--_Vagra_, the thunderbolts,--was led by allegorical personages, representing winds and showers, lightning and thunder. The hill, Khoa Kra Lâât, is the Sanskrit Meru, described as a mountain of gold and gems. His Majesty received the prince from the hands of his nobles, set him on his right hand, and presented him to the people, who offered homage. Afterward, two ladies of the court led him down the flight of marble steps, where two maidens washed his feet with pure water in a gold basin, and wiped them with fine linen. On his way to the Maha Phrasat he was met by a group of girls in charming attire, who held before him tufts of palm and branches of gold and silver. Thus he was conducted to an inner chamber of the temple, and seated on a costly carpet heavily fringed with gold, before an altar on which were lighted tapers and offerings of all descriptions. In his hand was placed a strip of palmyra leaf, on which were inscribed these mystic words: "Even I was, even from the first, and not any other thing: that which existed unperceived, supreme. Afterwards, I am that which is, and He that was, and He who must remain am I." "Know that except Me, who am the First Cause, nothing that appears or does not appear in the mind can be trusted; it is the mind's Maya or delusion,--as Light is to Darkness." On the reverse was inscribed this sentence:-- "Keep me still meditating on Thy infinite greatness and my own nothingness, so that all the questions of my life may be answered and my mind abundantly instructed in the path of Niphan!" In his hands was placed a ball of unspun thread, the ends of which were carried round the sacred hill, and thence round the temple, and into the inner chamber, where it was bound round the head of the young prince. Thence again nine threads were taken, which, after encircling the altar, were passed into the hands of the officiating priests. These latter threads, forming circles within circles, symbolize the mystic word _Om_, which may not escape the lips even of the purest, but must be meditated upon in silence. Early on the third day all the princes, nobles, and officers of government, together with the third company of priests, assembled to witness the ceremony of shaving the royal top-knot. The royal sire handed first the golden shears and then a gilded razor to the happy hair-cutter, who immediately addressed himself to his honorable function. Meanwhile the musicians, with the trumpeters and conch-blowers, exerted all their noisy faculties to beguile the patient heir. The tonsorial operation concluded, the prince was robed in white, and conducted to the marble basin at the foot of the Sacred Mount, where the white elephant, the ox, the horse, and the lion, guarding the cardinal points, were brought together, and from their mouths baptized him in the sacred waters. He was then arrayed in silk, still white, by women of rank, and escorted to a golden pagoda on the summit of the hill, where the king, in the character of P'hra Inn Suen, waited to bestow his blessing on the heir. With one hand raised to heaven, and the other on the bowed head of his son, he solemnly uttered words of Pali, which may be translated thus:-- "Thou who art come out of the pure waters, be thy offences washed away! Be thou relieved from other births! Bear thou in thy bosom the brightness of that light which shall lead thee, even as it led the sublime Buddha, to Niphan, at once and forever!" These rites ended, the priests were served with a princely banquet; and then the nobility and common people were also feasted. About midday, two standards, called _baisêe_, were set up within a circle of people. These are not unlike the _sawekra chât_, or royal umbrella, one of the five insignia of royalty in Siam. They are about five cubits high, and have from three to five canopies. The staff is fixed in a wooden pedestal. Each circle or canopy has a flat bottom, and within the receptacle thus formed custom requires that a little cooked rice, called _k'ow k'wan_, shall be placed, together with a few cakes, a little sweet-scented oil, a handful of fragrant flour, and some young cocoanuts and plantains. Other edibles of many kinds are brought and arranged about the _baisêe_, and a beautiful bouquet adorns the top of each of the umbrella-like canopies. Then a procession was formed, of princes, noblemen, and others, who marched around the standards nine times. As they went, seven golden candlesticks, with the candles lighted, were carried by princes, and passed from one to another; and as often as they came in front of the prince, who sat between the standards, they waved the light before him. This procession is but another form of the _Om_ symbol. Afterwards the eldest priest or brahmin took a portion of the rice from the _baisêe_, and, sprinkling it with cocoanut water, gave the lad a spoonful of it. Then dipping his finger, first in the scented oil and then in the fragrant flour, he touched the right foot of the prince, at the same time exhorting him to be manly and strong, and to bear himself bravely in "the conflict of feeling." Now presents of silver and gold were laid at the feet of the lad,--every prince not of the royal family, and every nobleman and high officer in the kingdom, being expected to appear with gifts. A chowfa might receive, in the aggregate, from five hundred thousand to a million ticals. [Footnote: A tical is equivalent to sixty cents.] It should be remarked in this connection, that the late king commanded that careful note be kept of all sums of money presented by officers of his government to his children at the time of Soh-Khan, that the full amount might be refunded with the next semi-annual payment of salary. But this decree does not relieve the more distinguished princes and endowed noblemen, who have acquired a sort of complimentary relationship to his Majesty through their daughters and nieces accepted as concubines. The children of plain citizens, who cannot afford the luxury of a public hair-cutting, are taken to a temple, where a priest shaves the tuft, with a brief religious ceremony. Hardly had the prince recovered his wonted frame of mind, after an event so pregnant with significance and agitation to him, when the time arrived for his induction into the priesthood. For this the rites, though simpler, were more solemn. The hair, which had been suffered to grow on the top of his young pate like an inverted brush, was now shorn close, and his eyebrows were shaven also. Arrayed in costly robes and ornaments, similar to those worn at a coronation, he was taken in charge by a body of priests at his father's palace, and by them conducted to the temple Watt P'hra Këau, his yellow-robed and barefooted escort chanting, on the way, hymns from the Buddhist liturgy. At the threshold of the temple another band of priests divested him of his fine robes and clad him in simple white, all the while still chanting. The circle being characteristic of a Buddhist ceremonial, as the cross is of their religious architecture, these priests formed a circle, standing, and holding lighted tapers in their folded palms, the high-priest in the centre. Then the prince advanced meekly, timidly, bowing low, to enter the holy ring. Here he was received by the high-priest, and with their hands mutually interfolded, one upon the other, he vowed to renounce, then and there, the world with all its cares and temptations, and to observe with obedience the doctrines of Buddha. This done, he was clad afresh in sackcloth, and led from the temple to the royal monastery, Watt Brahmanee Waid; with bare feet and eyes downcast he went, still chanting those weird hymns. Here he remained recluse for six months. When he returned to the world, and to the residence assigned him, he seemed no longer the impressible, ardent boy who was once my bright, ambitious scholar. Though still anxious to prosecute his English studies, he was pronounced too old to unite with his brothers and sisters in the school. For a year I taught him, from seven to ten in the evening, at his "Rose-planting House"; and even from this distant place and time I look back with comfort to those hours. XX. AMUSEMENTS OF THE COURT. Of all the diversions of the court the most polite, and at the same time the most engrossing, is the drama. In a great sala, or hall, which serves as a theatre, the actors and actresses assemble, their faces and bodies anointed with a creamy, maize-colored cosmetic. Fantastic extravagance of attire constitutes the great gun in their arsenal of attractions. Hence ear-rings, bracelets, massive chains and collars, tapering crowns with wings, spangled robes, curious finger-rings, and, strangest of all, long tapering nails of gold, are joined to complete their elaborate adornment. The play, in which are invariably enacted the adventures of gods, kings, heroes, genii, demons, and a multitude of characters mythical and fabulous, is often performed in lively pantomime, the interludes being filled by a strong chorus, with songs and instrumental accompaniment. At other times the players, in grotesque masks, give burlesque versions of the graver epics, to the great amusement of the audience. Chinese comedies, termed Ngiu, attract the Siamese in crowds; but the foreign is decidedly inferior to the native talent. "Nang," so called, is a sort of tableau, masked, representing characters from the Hindoo mythology. Parts of the popular epic, Ramayana, are admirably rendered in this style. In front of the royal palace an immense transparent screen, mounted on great poles, is drawn across the esplanade, and behind this, at a moderate distance, great fires are lighted. Between the screen and the fire masked figures, grotesquely costumed, enact the story of Rama and Sita and the giant Rawuna, with Hanuman and his army of apes bridging the Gulf of Manaar and piling up the Himalayas, while the bards, in measured story, describe the several exploits. A great variety of puppet-shows are contrived for the delectation of the children; and the Siamese are marvellously ingenious in the manufacture of toys and dolls, of porcelain, stone, wood, bark, and paper. They make pagodas, temples, boats, and floating houses, with miniature families to occupy them, and all true to the life in every apartment and occupation; watts, with idols and priests; palaces, with kings, queens, concubines, royal children, courtiers, and slaves, all complete in costume and attitude. The royal children observe with grave formalities the eventful custom of "hair-cutting" for their favorite dolls; and dramas, improvised for the occasion by ingenious slaves, are the crowning glory of those high holidays of toddling princes and princesses. The ladies of the harem amuse themselves in the early and late hours of the day by gathering flowers in the palace gardens, feeding the birds in the aviaries and the gold-fishes in the ponds, twining garlands to adorn the heads of their children, arranging bouquets, singing songs of love or glory, dancing to the music of the guitar, listening to their slaves' reading, strolling with their little ones through the parks and _parterres_, and especially in bathing. When the heat is least oppressive they plunge into the waters of the pretty retired lakes, swimming and diving like flocks of brown water-fowl. Chess and backgammon, Chinese cards and dice, afford a continual diversion to both sexes at the court, and there are many skilful players among them. The Chinese have established a sort of "lottery," of which they have the monopoly. It is little better than a "sweat-cloth," with thirteen figures, on which money is staked at the option of the gambler. The winning figure pays its stake thirty-fold, the rest is lost. Kite-flying, which in Europe and America is the amusement of children exclusively, is here, as in China and Birmah, the pastime of both sexes, and all ages and conditions of people. At the season when the south-wind prevails steadily, innumerable kites of diverse forms, many of them representing gigantic butterflies, may be seen sailing and darting over every quarter of the city, and most thickly over the palace and its appendages. Parties of young noblemen devote themselves with ardor to the sport, betting bravely on results of skill or luck; and it is most entertaining to observe how cleverly they manage the huge paper toys, entangling and capturing each other's kites, and dragging them disabled to the earth. Combats of bulls and elephants, though very popular, are not commonly exhibited at court. At certain seasons fairs are held, where exhibitions of wrestling, boxing, fencing, and dancing are given by professional competitors. The Siamese, naturally imaginative and gay, cultivate music with great zest. Every village has its orchestra, every prince and noble his band of musicians, and in every part of Bangkok the sound of strange instruments is heard continually. Their music is not in parts like ours, but there is always harmony with good expression, and an agreeable variety of movement and volume is derived from the diversity of instruments and the taste of the players. The principal instrument, the _khong-vong_, is composed of a series of hemispherical metallic bells or cups inverted and suspended by cords to a wooden frame. The performer strikes the bells with two little hammers covered with soft leather, producing an agreeable harmony. The hautboy player (who is usually a professional juggler and snake-charmer also) commonly leads the band. Kneeling and swaying his body forward and backward, and from side to side, he keeps time to the movement of the music. His instrument has six holes, but no keys, and may be either rough or smoothly finished. The _ranat_, or harmonicon, is a wooden instrument, with keys made of wood from the bashoo-nut tree. These, varying in size from six inches by one to fifteen by two, are connected by pieces of twine, and so fastened to a hollow case of wood about three feet in length and a foot high. The music is "conjured" by the aid of two small hammers corked with leather, like those of the khong-vong. The notes are clear and fine, and the instrument admits of much delicacy of touch. Beside these the Siamese have the guitar, the violin, the flute, the cymbals, the trumpet, and the conch-shell. There is the _luptima_ also, another very curious instrument, formed of a dozen long perforated reeds joined with bands and cemented at the joints with wax. The orifice at one end is applied to the lips, and a very moderate degree of skill produces notes so strong and sweet as to remind one of the swell of a church organ. The Laos people have organs and tambourines of different forms; their guitar is almost as agreeable as that of Europe; and of their flutes of several kinds, one is played with the nostril instead of the lips. Another instrument, resembling the banjo of the American negroes, is made from a large long-necked gourd, cut in halves while green, cleaned, dried in the sun, covered with parchment, and strung with from four to six strings. Its notes are pleasing. The _takhè_, a long guitar with metallic strings, is laid on the floor, and high-born ladies, with fingers armed with shields or nails of gold, draw from it the softest and sweetest sounds. In their funeral ceremonies the chanting of the priests is usually accompanied by the lugubrious wailing music of a sort of clarionet. The songs of Siam are either heroic or amatory; the former celebrating the martial exploits, the latter the more tender adventures, of heroes. Athletic games and the contests of the arena and the course form so conspicuous a feature in all ceremonies, solemn or festal, of this people, that a description of them may not with advantage be wholly omitted here. The Siamese are by nature warlike, and their government has thoughtfully and liberally fostered those manly sports and exercises which constitute the natural preparation for the profession of arms. Of these the most popular are wrestling, boxing (in which both sexes take part), throwing the discus or quoit, foot-shuttlecock, and racing on foot or horseback or in chariots; to which may be added vaulting and tumbling, throwing the dart, and leaping through wheels or circles of fire. The professional athletes and gymnasts are exercised at a tender age under male or female trainers, who employ the most approved methods of limbering and quickening and strengthening and toughening their incipient champions, to whom, though well fed, sleep is jealously allowanced and intoxicating drinks absolutely forbidden. Their bodies are rubbed with oils and unguents to render them supple; and a short langoutee with a belt forms the sum of their clothing. None but the children of Siamese or Laotians are admitted to the gymnasia. The code of laws for the government of the several classes is strictly enforced, and nothing is permitted contrary to the established order and regulations of the games. Excessive violence is mercifully forbidden, and those who enter to wrestle or box, race or leap, for the prize, draw lots for precedence and position. The Siamese practise wrestling in its rude simplicity, the advantage being with weight and strength, rather than skill and address. The wrestlers, before engaging, are rubbed and shampooed, the joints bent backward and all the muscles relaxed, and the body and limbs freely oiled; but after the latter operation they roll in the dust, or are sprinkled with earth, ground and sifted, that they may be grappled the more firmly. They are matched in pairs, and several couples contend at the same time. Their struggles afford superb displays of the anatomy of action, and the perfection of strength and skill and fierce grace in the trained animal. Though one be seized by the heel and thrown,--which the Siamese applaud as the climax of the wrestler's adroitness,--they still struggle grandly on the ground, a double Antæus of arms and legs, till one be turned upon his back and slapped upon the breast. That is the accepted signal of the victor. In boxing, the Siamese cover their hands with a kind of glove of ribbed leather, sometimes lined with brass. On their heads they wear a leather turban, to protect the temples and ears, the assault being directed mainly at the head and face. Besides the usual "getting away" of the British bruiser, blows are caught with surprising address and strength in the gloved hand. The boxer who by overreaching, or missing a blow he has put his weight into, throws himself, is beaten; or he may surrender by simply lowering his arms. The Siamese discus, or quoit, is round, and of wood, stone, or iron. Their manner of hurling it does not differ materially from that which all mighty players have practised since Caesar's soldiers pitched quoits for rations. Quite otherwise, in its curious novelty, is their spirited and picturesque sport of foot-shuttlecock,--a game which may be witnessed only in Asia, and in the perfection of its skill and agility only in Birmah and Siam. The shuttlecock is like our own, but the battledore is the sole of the foot. A number of young men form a circle on a clear plot of ground. One of them opens the game by throwing the feathered toy to the player opposite him, who, turning quickly and raising his leg, receives it on the sole of his foot, and sends it like a shot to another, and he to another; and so it is kept flying for an hour or more, without once falling to the ground. Speed, whether of two legs or four, is in high estimation among the Siamese. Their public festivals, however solemn, are usually begun with races, which they cultivate with ardor and enjoy with enthusiasm. They have the foot-race, the horse-race, and the chariot-race. In the first, the runners, having drawn lots for places, range themselves across the course, and, while waiting for the starting signal, excite themselves by leaping. At the word "Go," they make play with astonishing speed and spirit. The race of a single horse, "against time," with or without saddle, is a favorite sport. The rider, scorning stirrup or bridle, grips the sides of his steed with his knees, and, with his right arm and forefinger stretched eagerly toward the goal, flies alone,--an inspiring picture. Sometimes two horsemen ride abreast, and at full speed change horses by vaulting from one to the other. In the chariot-races from two to four horses are driven abreast, and the art consists in winning and keeping the advantage of ground without collision. This kind of racing is not so common as the others. The favorite pastime of the late Second King, who greatly delighted in equestrian exercises and feats, was Croquet on Horseback,--a sport in which he distinguished himself by his brilliant skill and style, as he did in racing and hunting. This unique equestrian game is played exclusively by princes and noblemen. There are a number of small balls which must be croqueted into two deep holes, with the aid of long slender mallets. The limits of the ground are marked by a line drawn around it; and the only conditions necessary to render the sport exciting and the skill remarkable are narrow bounds and restive steeds. The Siamese, like other Orientals, ride with loose rein and short stirrups. Their saddles are high and hard, and have two large circular flaps, gilded and otherwise adorned, according to the rank of the rider. Cavaliers of distinction usually dress expensively, in imported stuffs, elaborately embroidered with silk and gold thread. They wear a small cap, and sometimes a strip of red, like the fillet of the Greeks and Romans, bound round the brows. Prizes for the victors in the games and combats are of several kinds,--purses of gold and silver, suits of apparel, umbrellas, and, more rarely, a gold or silver cup. In concluding this imperfect sketch, I feel that a word of praise is due to the spirit of moderation and humanity which seems to govern such exhibitions in Siam. Even in their gravest festivals there is an element of cheerfulness and kindness, which tends to promote genial fellowship and foster friendships, and by bringing together all sorts of people, otherwise separated by diversity of custom, prejudice, and interest, unquestionably avails to weld the several small states and dependencies of Siam into one compact and stable nation. XXI. SIAMESE LITERATURE AND ART. At the head of the Siamese writers of profane history stands, I think, P'hra Alack, or rather Cheing Meing,--P'hra Alack being the generic term for all writers. In early life he was a priest, but was appointed historian to the court, and in that capacity wrote a history of the reign of his patron and king, P'hra Narai,--(contemporary with Louis XIV.)--and left a very curious though unfinished autobiography. Seri Manthara, celebrated as a military leader, wrote nine books of essays, on subjects relating to agriculture and the arts and sciences. Some of these, translated into the languages of Birmah and Pegu, are still extant. Among a host of dramatic writers, Phya Doong, better known as P'hra Khein Lakonlen, is entitled to the first rank. He composed about forty-nine books in lyric and dramatic verse, besides epigrams and elegies. Of his many poems, the few that remain afford passages of much elegance and sweetness, and even of sublimity,--almost sufficient to atone for the taint of grossness he derived from the licentious imagination of his land and time. While yet hardly out of his infancy, he was laid at the feet of the monarch, and reared in the palace at Lophaburee. Some dramatic pieces composed by the lad for his playmates to act attracted the notice of the king, who engaged teachers to instruct him thoroughly in the ancient literature of India and Persia. But he seems to have boldly opened a way for himself, instead of following (as modern Orientals, timid or servile, are so prone to do) the well-worn path of the old Hindoo writers. In his tragedy (which I saw acted) of _Manda-thi-Nung_, "The First Mother," there are passages of noble thought and true passion, expressed with a power and beauty peculiarly his own. The entertainments of the theatre are devoured by the Siamese with insatiable appetite, and the popular preference is awarded to those intellectual contests in which the tragic and comic poets compete for the prize. The laughter or the tears of the sympathetic groundlings are accepted as the expression of an infallible criticism, and by their verdict the play is crowned or damned. The common people, such is their passion for the drama, get whole tragedies or comedies "by heart." Every day in the year, and in every street of Bangkok, and all along the river, booths and floating salas may be seen, in which tragedy, comedy, and satirical burlesques, are enacted for the entertainment of great audiences, who are thrilled, delighted, or amused. In compositions strictly dramatic the characters, as with us, speak and act for themselves; but in the epic the poet recites the adventures of his heroes. Judges are appointed by the king to determine the merits of new plays before they are performed at court; and on the grand occasion of the hair-cutting of the heir-apparent (now king) his late Majesty caused the poem "Kraelasah" to be modernized and adapted to grace the ceremonies. P'hra Ramawsha, a writer highly esteemed, did wonders for the Siamese drama. He translated the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, and portions of the Cambodian lyrics into Siamese; introduced masks, with magnificence of costume and ornament; substituted theatres, or rather salas, for the temporary booth or the open plain; and elevated the matter and the style of dramatic compositions from the burlesque and buffoonery to the sentimental and majestic. He was also the first to impart spirit and variety to the dialogue, and to teach actors to express like artists, and not like mere animals, the strong _human_ passions of anger, love, and pity. The plays of P'hra Ramawsha are highly esteemed at court. In his management of amorous incidents and intrigues, he is, if not positively refined, at least less gross than other Siamese dramatists. [Illustration: SIAMESE ACTOR AND ACTRESS.] The dress of the players is always rich, and in the fashion of that worn at court. The actors and actresses attached to the royal establishment make a splendid display in this respect, large sums being expended annually on their costumes, jewels, and other adornings. The development of native genius and skill, in the direction of the fine arts, has greatly declined, if it has not been absolutely arrested, since the reign of P'hra Narai, the enlightened founder of Lophaburee; and almost all the vestiges of art, purely national, to be found in the country now, may be traced to that golden age of Siam. The Siamese, though intelligent, clever, facile, and in a notable degree susceptible to the influences of the beautiful in nature or in art, by no means slow or awkward in imitating the graceful products of European taste and industry, are yet fettered by a peculiar oppression in their efforts to express in visible forms their artistic inspirations. No Siamese subject is to be congratulated, who by his talent or his skill has won popular applause in any branch of industry. No such man, having extraordinary cleverness or taste, dare display it to the public in works of novel utility or beauty; because he and his inventions may alike be appropriated, without reward or thanks,--the former to serve the king, the latter to adorn the palace. Many ply in secret their dangerously graceful callings, and destroy their work when it is done, rather than see it wrested from them, and with it all that is left to them of freedom, to serve the whim of a covetous and cruel master. All that P'hra Narai did to foster the sciences and arts in his land has been undone by the ruinous selfishness of his successors; and of the few suicides recorded in the annals of Siam since his time, one of the most remarkable is that of a famous painter, who poisoned himself the day after his installation at court. Thus all natural ambition has been stupidly extinguished in the breasts of the artists of a land whose remaining monuments attest her ancient excellence in architecture, sculpture, and painting. The most remarkable examples of Siamese painting are presented in the cartoons to be found on the walls of the ancient temples, decorated with the brush before the introduction of wall-paper from Birmah. One that is still to be seen in the Watt Kheim Mah, or Mai, is especially noticeable. This temple was built by the grandmother of the late Maha Mongkut. The plant _kheim mai_ (indigenous to Siam), which bears a lovely little blossom, was one of her favorite flowers, and she called her temple by its name. Being a liberal patron of the arts, she employed a promising young painter named Nai Dang to decorate the Watt. The man would hardly be remembered now but for a poem he wrote and dedicated to the queen mother, in which her beauty and goodness are extolled. I could learn of him no more than that he was self-educated, and by unaided perseverance attained a respectable proficiency in drawing and design. He had also a fair knowledge of chemistry as it is practised in the East; but, aspiring to fame and fortune, he abandoned that study and devoted himself exclusively to painting. For years he struggled desperately against the discouragements of poverty in himself and ignorance in his neighbors, but found his reward at last in this engagement to embellish the walls of the Watt Kheim Mai. Nai Dang's must have been an original and independent mind, for his conceptions in this cartoon are as bold as his handling is vigorous and effective, while his colors are more true to nature than any that I have seen in Chinese or Japanese art. He has grandly chosen for his subject the Birth of Buddha. The mother of the divine teacher being on a journey, is overtaken with the pangs of childbirth. Her attendants and slaves have gathered about her; but she, as if conscious of the august nature of the babe she is about to bestow upon the world, retires alone to the shade of an orange grove, where, clinging to the friendly boughs, with a look of blended rapture and pain, she gives birth to the great reformer. A few steps farther on, a circle of light is seen glowing round the feet of the infant, as it attempts to rise and walk alone. Next we find the child in a rustic cradle; a branch of the tree under which he is sleeping bends low, to shield him from the fierce rays of the sun, and his royal parents, beholding the miracle, kneel and adore him. Now he is a youthful prince, beautiful and gentle, troubled with pity for the poor, the afflicted, and the aged, as they rest by the roadside. And finally, as a hermit, he sits in the shade of a boh-tree, rapt in divine contemplation. It is a great work, full of imagination, truth, and power, if justly contemplated by the light of a semi-barbaric age. Every figure is instinct with character and action, and the whole is rendered with infinite _naïveté_, as though it represented undisputed and familiar facts. On the opposite wall another great cartoon represents the Hell of the Buddhists, with demons whose hideous heads are those of fabulous beasts and creeping things. As a work of imagination and force this is worthy to be the companion of the Birth of Buddha. The roof is painted as a firmament,--stars in a blue ground; and here it is that the charm of pure feeling and noble treatment is most apparent. With five colors the artist has produced all the variety we see. No cast shadows are shown, the forms themselves are but partially shaded, yet wonderful harmony and beauty pervade the whole. All honor to Nai Dang! who alone, amid the national decay of art and culture, preserved this germ of glorious life and strength, wrapped in his own obscure, neglected life! The practice of decorating walls and ceilings with paintings may be traced to a remote period in the history of Siamese art. In an ancient temple at Lophaburee is a curious picture, of less merit than those of Nai Dang, representing the marriage of Buddha with the princess Thiwadi, beside many of the transmigrations of the Buddhas; and there are elsewhere one or two pictures well worthy of notice, by masters whose names have not been kept in remembrance. Thus art in Siam has degenerated for want of kind, fostering patrons, and faithful, sympathetic chroniclers, till it has become a thing of mere tools and technics. Nevertheless, they still paint with some cleverness on wood, cloth, parchment, ivory, and plastic material, as well as on gold and silver,--a sort of enamelling. They also retain a fair knowledge of effect in fresco, tracing the outline on the wet ground, and laying on the color in a thin glue; in some of their later work of this kind that I have seen, the idea of the designer is expressed with much vigor. Their mosaics, executed in colored porcelain of several varieties, glass of all kinds, mother-of-pearl, and colored marbles, represent chiefly flowers and sprays on a brilliant ground. The most remarkable work of this kind is, I imagine, that which is lavished on the temple Watt P'hra Këau,--the walls, pillars, windows, roofs, towers, and gates being everywhere overlaid with mother-of-pearl and ivory, and profusely gilded. The several façades are likewise inlaid with ivory, glass, and mother-of-pearl, fixed with cement in the mortar, which serves as a base. In all cases these works are characterized by a touching simplicity, which seems to struggle through much, that is obscure and illegible to get nearer to nature and truth. Most of the tiles employed in the roofing of temples and palaces are colored and gilt. [Illustration: SPIRE OF THE TEMPLE WATT-POH.] Among the older pictures, one in the Royal bedchamber of the abandoned palace deserves a parting glance. It is a cartoon (much defaced, and here and there re-touched by clumsy Chinese hands) of The First Sin. In the foreground a newly created world is rudely represented, and here are several illuminated figures, human but gigantic. One of these, discontented with his spiritual food, is seen tasting something, which we are told is "fragrant earth"; after which, in another figure, he appears to be electrified, and here his monstrous anatomy is depicted with ludicrous attempts at detail. No one could tell me by whom or when this cartoon was painted, and the painting itself is so little appreciated that I might never have seen or heard of it but for a happy chance. A characteristic effect in the few great works by Siamese painters appears in their management of shade. They impart to darkness a pervading inner light or clearness, and heighten the effect of the deeper shadows by permitting objects to be seen through them. In addition to the pictures I have described, one or two of some merit are to be found in the Watt Brahmanee Waid. The florid style of architecture seems to have been familiar to the Siamese from a very early period. Their palaces, temples, and pagodas afford innumerable examples of it, many of them not unworthy of European art. They build generally in brick, using a cement composed of sand, chalk, and molasses, in which the skin of the buffalo has been steeped. Their structures are the most solid and durable imaginable. When the masons building a wall round the new palace at Ayuthia found their bricks falling short, they tried in vain to detach a supply from the ruined temples and walls of that ancient city. In the art of sculpture the Siamese are in advance of their civilization. Not only in their palaces, temples, and pagodas, but in their shops and dwellings likewise, and even in their ships and boats, all sorts of figures are to be seen, modelled and finished with more or less delicacy. XXII. BUDDHIST DOCTRINE, PRIESTS, AND WORSHIP. "The world is old, and all things old within it." We plod a trodden path. No truth is new to-day, save only that one which as a mantle covers the face of God, lest we be blinded by the unveiled glory. How many of earth's departed great, buried out of remembrance, might have lived to-day in the love of the wise and just, had theirs but been that perfect quickening which is the breath of his Spirit upon the heart, the gift that "passeth understanding!" The world's helpers must first become borrowers of God. The world's teachers must first learn of him that only wisdom, which cometh not of books nor jealous cloister cells, but out of the heart of man as it opens yearningly to the cry of humanity,--the Wisdom of Love. This alone may challenge a superior mind, prizing truths not merely for their facts, but for their motives,--motives for which individuals or great communities either act or suffer,--to explore with a calm and kindly judgment the spirit of the religion of the Buddhists; and not its spirit only, but its every look and tone and motion as well, being so many complex expressions of the religious character in all its peculiar thoughts and feelings. "Who, of himself, can interpret the symbol expressed by the wings of the air-sylph forming within the case of the caterpillar? Only he who feels in his own soul the same instinct which impels the horned fly to leave room in its involucrum for antennae yet to come." Such a man knows and feels that the potential works in him even as the actual works on him. As all the organs of sense are framed for a correspondent world of sense, so all the organs of the spirit are framed for a correspondent world of spirit; and though these latter be not equally developed in us all, yet they surely exist in all; else how is it that even the ignorant, the depraved, and the cruel will contemplate the man of unselfish and exalted goodness with contradictory emotions of pity and respect? We are prone to ignore or to condemn that which we do not clearly understand; and thus it is, and on no better ground, that we deny that there are influences in the religions of the East to render their followers wiser, nobler, purer. And yet no one of respectable intelligence will question that there have been, in all ages, individual pagans who, by the simplicity of their doctrine and the purity of their practice, have approached very nearly to the perfection of the Christian graces; and that they were, if not so much the better for the religion they had, at least far, far better than if they had had no religion at all. It is not, however, in human nature to approve and admire any course of life without inquiring into the spirit of the law that regulates it. Nor may it suffice that the spirit is there, if not likewise the letter,--that is to say, the practice. The best doctrine may become the worst, if imperfectly understood, erroneously interpreted, or superstitiously followed. In Egypt, Palestine, Greece, and India, the metaphysical analysis of Mind had attained its noontide splendor, while as yet experimental research had hardly dawned. Those ancient mystics did much to promote intellectual emancipation, by insisting that Thought should not be imprisoned within the mere outlines of any single dogmatic system; and they likewise availed, in no feeble measure, to keep alive the heart in the head, by demanding an impartial reverence for every attribute of the mind, till, by converting these into symbols to impress the ignorant and stupid, they came at last to deify them. Thus, with the uninitiated, their system degenerated into an ignoble pantheism. The renascence of Buddhism sought to eliminate from the arrogant and impious pantheisms of Egypt, India, and Greece a simple and pure philosophy, upholding virtue as man's greatest good and highest reward. It taught that the only object worthy of his noblest aspirations was to render the soul (itself an emanation from God) fit to be absorbed back again into the Divine essence from which it sprang. The single aim, therefore, of pure Buddhism seems to have been to rouse men to an inward contemplation of the divinity of their own nature; to fix their thoughts on the spiritual life within as the only real and true life; to teach them to disregard all earthly distinctions, conditions, privileges, enjoyments, privations, sorrows, sufferings; and thus to incite them to continual efforts in the direction of the highest ideals of patience, purity, self-denial. Buddhism cannot be clearly defined by its visible results today. There are more things in that subtile, mystical enigma called in the Pali _Nirwana_, in the Birmese _Niban_, in the Siamese _Niphan_, than are dreamed of in our philosophy. With the idea of Niphan in his theology, it were absurdly false to say the Buddhist has no God. His Decalogue [FOOTNOTE: Translated from the Pali.] is as plain and imperative as the Christian's :-- I. From the meanest insect up to man thou shalt kill no animal whatsoever. II. Thou shalt not steal. III. Thou shalt not violate the wife of another, nor his concubine. IV. Thou shalt speak no word that is false. V. Thou shalt not drink wine, nor anything that may intoxicate. VI. Thou shalt avoid all anger, hatred, and bitter language. VII. Thou shalt not indulge in idle and vain talk. VIII. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods. IX. Thou shalt not harbor envy, nor pride, nor revenge, nor malice, nor the desire of thy neighbor's death or misfortune. X. Thou shalt not follow the doctrines of false gods. Whosoever abstains from these forbidden things is said to "observe Silah"; and whosoever shall faithfully observe Silah, in all his successive metempsychoses, shall continually increase in virtue and purity, until at length he shall become worthy to behold God, and hear his voice; and so he shall obtain Niphan. "Be assiduous in bestowing alms, in practising virtue, in observing Silah, in performing Bavana, prayer; and above all in adoring Guadama, the true God. Reverence likewise his laws and his priests." Many have missed seeing what is true and wise in the doctrine of Buddha because they preferred to observe it from the standpoint and in the attitude of an antagonist, rather than of an inquirer. To understand aright the earnest creed and hope of any man, one must be at least sympathetically _en rapport_ with him,--must be willing to feel, and to confess within one's self, the germs of those errors whose growth seems so rank in him. In the humble spirit of this fellowship of fallibility let us draw as near as we may to the hearts of these devotees and the heart of their mystery. My interesting pupil, the Lady Tâlâp, had invited me to accompany her to the royal private temple, Watt P'hra Këau, to witness the services held there on the Buddhist Sabâto, or One-thu-sin. Accordingly we repaired together to the temple on the day appointed. The day was young, and the air was cool and fresh; and as we approached the place of worship, the clustered bells of the pagodas made breezy gushes of music aloft. One of the court pages, meeting us, inquired our destination. "The Watt P'hra Këau," I replied. "To see or to hear?" "Both." And we entered. On a floor diamonded with polished brass sat a throng of women, the _élite_ of Siam. All were robed in pure white, with white silk scarfs drawn from the left shoulder in careful folds across the bust and back, and thrown gracefully over the right. A little apart sat their female slaves, of whom many were inferior to their mistresses only in social consideration and worldly gear, being their half-sisters,--children of the same father by a slave mother. The women sat in circles, and each displayed her vase of flowers and her lighted taper before her. In front of all were a number of my younger pupils, the royal children, in circles also. Close by the altar, on a low square stool, overlaid with a thin cushion of silk, sat the high-priest, Chow Khoon Sâh. In his hand he held a concave fan, lined with pale green silk, the back richly embroidered, jewelled, and gilt. [Footnote: The fan is used to cover the face. Jewelled fans are marks of distinction among the priesthood.] He was draped in a yellow robe, not unlike the Roman toga, a loose and flowing habit, closed below the waist, but open from the throat to the girdle, which was simply a band of yellow cloth, bound tightly. From the shoulders hung two narrow strips, also yellow, descending over the robe to the feet, and resembling the scapular worn by certain orders of the Roman Catholic clergy. At his side was an open watch of gold, the gift of his sovereign. At his feet sat seventeen disciples, shading their faces with fans less richly adorned. We put off our shoes,--my child and I,--having respect for the ancient prejudice against them; [Footnote: "Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground."] feeling not so much reverence for the place as for the hearts that worshipped there, caring to display not so much the love of wisdom as the wisdom of love; and well were we repaid by the grateful smile of recognition that greeted us as we entered. We sat down cross-legged. No need to hush my boy,--the silence there, so subduing, checked with its mysterious awe even his inquisitive young mind. The venerable high-priest sat with his face jealously covered, lest his eyes should tempt his thoughts to stray. I changed my position to catch a glimpse of his countenance; he drew his fan-veil more closely, giving me a quick but gentle half-glance of remonstrance. Then raising his eyes, with lids nearly closed, he chanted in an infantile, wailing tone. That was the opening prayer. At once the whole congregation raised themselves on their knees and, all together, prostrated themselves thrice profoundly, thrice touching the polished brass floor with their foreheads; and then, with heads bowed and palms folded and eyes closed, they delivered the responses after the priest, much in the manner of the English liturgy, first the priest, then the people, and finally all together. There was no singing, no standing up and sitting down, no changing of robes or places, no turning the face to the altar, nor north, nor south, nor east, nor west. All knelt _still_, with hands folded straight before them, and eyes strictly, tightly closed. Indeed, there were faces there that expressed devotion and piety, the humblest and the purest, as the lips murmured: "O Thou Eternal One, Thou perfection of Time, Thou truest Truth, Thou immutable essence of all Change, Thou most excellent radiance of Mercy, Thou infinite Compassion, Thou Pity, Thou Charity!" I lost some of the responses in the simultaneous repetition, and did but imperfectly comprehend the exhortation that followed, in which was inculcated the strictest practice of charity in a manner so pathetic and so gentle as might be wisely imitated by the most orthodox of Christian priests. There was majesty in the humility of those pagan worshippers, and in their shame of self they were sublime. I leave both the truth and the error to Him who alone can soar to the bright heights of the one and sound the dark depths of the other, and take to myself the lesson, to be read in the shrinking forms and hidden faces of those patient waiters for a far-off glimmering _Light_,--the lesson wherefrom I learn, in thanking God for the light of Christianity, to thank him for its shadow too, which is Buddhism. Around the porches and vestibules of the temple lounged the Amazonian guard, intent only on irreverent amusement, even in the form of a grotesque and grim flirtation here and there with the custodians of the temple, who have charge of the sacred fire that burns before the altar. About eighty-five years ago this fire went out. It was a calamity of direful presage, and thereupon all Siam went into a consternation of mourning. All public spectacles were forbidden until the crime could be expiated by the appropriate punishment of the wretch to whose sacrilegious carelessness it was due; nor was the sacred flame rekindled until the reign of P'hra-Pooti-Yaut-Fa, grandfather of his late Majesty, when the royal Hall of Audience was destroyed by lightning. From that fire of heaven it was relighted with joyful thanksgiving, and so has burned on to this day. The lofty throne, on which the priceless P'hra Këau (the Emerald Idol) blazed in its glory of gold and gems, shone resplendent in the forenoon light. Everything above, around it,--even the vases of flowers and the perfumed tapers on the floor,--was reflected as if by magic in its kaleidoscopic surface, now pensive, pale, and silvery as with moonlight, now flashing, fantastic, with the party-colored splendors of a thousand lamps. The ceiling was wholly covered with hieroglyphic devices,--luminous circles and triangles, globes, rings, stars, flowers, figures of animals, even parts of the human body,--mystic symbols, to be deciphered only by the initiated. Ah! could I but have read them as in a book, construing all their allegorical significance, how near might I not have come to the distracting secret of this people! Gazing upon them, my thought flew back a thousand years, and my feeble, foolish conjectures, like butterflies at sea, were lost in mists of old myth. Not that Buddhism has escaped the guessing and conceits of a multitude of writers, most trustworthy of whom are the early Christian Fathers, who, to the end that they might arouse the attention of the sleeping nations, yielded a reluctant, but impartial and graceful, tribute to the long-forgotten creeds of Chaldea, Phenicia, Assyria, and Egypt. Nevertheless, they would never have appealed to the doctrine of Buddha as being most like to Christianity in its rejection of the claims of race, had they not found in its simple ritual another and a stronger bond of brotherhood. Like Christianity, too, it was a religion catholic and apostolic, for the truth of which many faithful witnesses had laid down their lives. It was, besides, the creed of an ancient race; and the mystery that shrouded it had a charm to pique the vanity even of self-sufficient Greeks, and stir up curiosity even in Roman arrogance and indifference. The doctrines of Buddha were eminently fitted to elucidate the doctrines of Christ, and therefore worthy to engage the interest of Christian writers; accordingly, among the earliest of these mention is made of the Buddha or Phthah, though there were as yet few or none to appreciate all the religious significance of his teachings. Terebinthus declared there was nothing in the pagan world to be compared with his (Buddha's) _P'hra-ti-moksha_, or Code of Discipline, which in some respects resembled the rules that governed the lives of the monks of Christendom; Marco Polo says of Buddha, "Si fuisset Christianus, fuisset apud Deum maximus factus"; and later, Malcolm, the devoted missionary, said of his doctrine, "In almost every respect it seems to be the best religion which man has ever invented." Mark the "invented" of the wary Christian! But errors, that in time crept in, corrupted the pure doctrine, and disciples, ignorant or stupid, perverted its meaning and intent, and blind or treacherous guides led the simple astray, till at last the true and plain philosophy of Buddha became entangled with the Egyptian mythology. Over the portal on the eastern facade of the Watt P'hra Këau is a bass-relief representing the Last Judgment, in which are figures of a devil with a pig's head dragging the wicked to hell, and an angel weighing mankind in a pair of scales. Now we know that in the mythology of ancient Egypt the Pig was the emblem of the Evil Spirit, and this bass-relief of the Siamese watt could hardly fail to remind the Egyptologist of kindred compositions in old sculptures wherein the good and bad deeds of the dead are weighed by Anubis (the Siamese Anuman or Hanuman), and the souls of the wicked carried off by a pig. In the city of Arsinoe in Upper Egypt (formerly Crocodilopolis, now Medinet-el-Fayum), the crocodile is worshipped; and a sacred crocodile, kept in a pond, is perfectly tame and familiar with the priests. He is called Suchus, and they feed him with meat and corn and wine, the contributions of strangers. One of the Egyptian divinities, apparently that to whom the beast was consecrated, is invariably pictured with the head of a crocodile; and in hieroglyphic inscriptions is represented by that animal with the tail turned under the body. A similar figure is common in the temples of Siam; and a sacred crocodile, kept in a pond in the manner of the ancient Egyptians, is fed by Siamese priests, at whose call it comes to the surface to receive the rice, fruit, and wine that are brought to it daily. The Beetle, an insect peculiarly sacred to the Buddhists, was the Egyptian sign of Phthah, the Father of Gods; and in the hieroglyphics it stands for the name of that deity, whose head is either surmounted by a beetle, or is itself in the form of a beetle. Elsewhere in the hieroglyphics, where it does not represent Buddha, it evidently appears as the symbol of generation or reproduction, the meaning most anciently attached to it; whence Dr. Young, in his "Hieroglyphical Researches," inferred its relation to Buddha. Mrs. Hamilton Gray, in her work on the Sepulchres of Etruria, observes: "As scarabæi existed long before we had any account of idols, I do not doubt that they were originally the invention of some really devout mind; and they speak to us in strong language of the danger of making material symbols of immaterial things. First, the symbol came to be trusted in, instead of the being of whom it was the sign. Then came the bodily conception and manifestation of that being, or his attributes, in the form of idols. Next, the representation of all that belongs to spirits, good and bad. And finally, the deification of every imagination of the heart of man,--a written and accredited system of polytheism, and a monstrous and hydra-headed idolatry." Such is the religious history of the scarabæus, a creature that so early attracted the notice of man by its ingenious and industrious habits, that it was selected by him to symbolize the Creator; and cutting stones to represent it, [FOOTNOTE: Six rubies, exquisitely cut in the form of beetles, are worn as studs by the present King of Siam.] he wore them in token of his belief in a creator of all things, and in recognition of the Divine Presence, probably attaching to them at first no more mysterious import or virtue. There is sound reason for believing that in this form the symbol existed before Abraham, and that its fundamental signification of creation or generation was gradually overbuilt with arbitrary speculations and fantastic notions. In theory it degenerated into a crude egoism, a vaunting and hyper-stoic hostility to nature, which, though intellectually godless, was not without that universal instinct for divinity which, by countless ways, seeks with an ever-present and importunate longing for the one sublimated and eternal source from which it sprang. Through twenty-five million six hundred thousand Asongkhies, or metempsychoses,--according to the overpowering computation of his priests,--did Buddha struggle to attain the divine omniscience of Niphan, by virtue of which he remembers every form he ever entered, and beholds with the clear eyes of a god the endless diversities of transmigration in the animal, human, and angelic worlds, throughout the spaceless, timeless, numberless universe of visible and invisible life. According to Heraclides, Pythagoras used to say of himself, that he remembered "not only all the men, but all the animals and all the plants, his soul had passed through." That Pythagoras believed and taught the doctrine of transmigration may hardly be doubted, but that he originated it is very questionable. Herodotus intimates that both Orpheus and Pythagoras derived it from the Egyptians, but propounded it as their own, without acknowledgment. Nearly every male inhabitant of Siam enters the priesthood at least once in his lifetime. Instead of the more vexatious and scandalous forms of divorce, the party aggrieved may become a priest or a nun, and thus the matrimonial bond is at once dissolved; and with this advantage, that after three or four months of probation they may be reconciled and reunited, to live together in the world again. Chow Khoon Sâh, or "His Lordship the Lake," whose functions in the Watt P'hra Këau I have described, was the High-Priest of Siam, and in high favor with his Majesty. He had taken holy orders with the double motive of devoting himself to the study of Sanskrit literature, and of escaping the fate, that otherwise awaited him, of becoming the mere thrall of his more fortunate cousin, the king. In the palace it was whispered that he and the late queen consort had been tenderly attached to each other, but that the lady's parents, for prudential considerations, discountenanced the match; "and so," on the eve of her betrothal to his Majesty, her lover had sought seclusion and consolation in a Buddhist monastery. However that may be, it is certain that the king and the high-priest were now fast friends. The latter entertained great respect for his reverend cousin, whose title ("The Lake") described justly, as well as poetically, the graceful serenity and repose of his demeanor. Chow Khoon Sâh lived at some distance from the palace, at the Watt Brahmanee Waid. As the friendship between the cousins ripened, his Majesty considered that it would be well for him to have the contemplative student, prudent adviser, and able reasoner nearer to him. With this idea, and for a surprise to one to whom all surprises had long since become but vanities and vexations of spirit, he caused to be erected, about forty yards from the Grand Palace, on the eastern side of the Meinam, a temple which he named _Rajah-Bah-dit-Sang_, or "The King caused me to be built"; and at the same time, as an appendage to the temple, a monastery in mediaeval style, the workmanship in both structures being most substantial and elaborate. The sculptures and carvings on the pillars and façades--half-fabulous, half-historical figures, conveying ingenious allegories of the triumph of virtue over the passions--constituted a singular tribute to the exemplary fame of the high-priest. The grounds were planted with trees and shrubs, and the walks gravelled, thus inviting the contemplative recluse to tranquil, soothing strolls. These grounds were accessible by four gates, the principal one facing the east, and a private portal opening on the canal. The laying of the foundation of the temple and monastery of Rajah-Bah-dit-Sang was the occasion of extraordinary festivities, consisting of theatrical spectacles and performances, a carnival of dancing, mass around every corner-stone, banquets to priests, and distributions of clothing, food, and money to the poor. The king presided every morning and evening under a silken canopy; and even those favorites of the harem who were admitted to the royal confidence were provided with tents, whence they could witness the shows, and participate in the rejoicings in the midst of which the good work went on. After the several services of mass had been performed, and the corner-stones consecrated by the pouring on of oil and water, [Footnote: Oil is the emblem of life and love; water, of purity.] seven tall lamps were lighted to burn above them seven days and nights, and seventy priests in groups of seven, forming a perfect circle, prayed continually, holding in their hands the mystic web of seven threads, that weird circlet of life and death. Then the youngest and fairest virgins of the land brought offerings of corn and wine, milk, honey, and flowers, and poured them on the consecrated stones. And after that, they brought pottery of all kinds,--vases, urns, ewers, goglets, bowls, cups, and dishes,--and, flinging them into the foundations, united with zeal and rejoicing in the "meritorious" work of pounding them into fine dust; and while the instruments of music and the voices of the male and female singers of the court kept time to the measured crash and thud of the wooden clubs in those young and tender hands, the king cast into the foundation coins and ingots of gold and silver. "Do you understand the word 'charity,' or _maitrî_, as your apostle St. Paul explains it in the thirteenth chapter of his First Epistle to the Corinthians?" said his Majesty to me one morning, when he had been discussing the religion of Sakyamuni, the Buddha. "I believe I do, your Majesty," was my reply. "Then, tell me, what does St. Paul really mean, to what custom does he allude, when he says, 'Even if I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing'?" "Custom!" said I. "I do not know of any _custom_. The giving of the body to be burned is by him esteemed the highest act of devotion, the purest sacrifice man can make for man." "You have said well. It is the highest act of devotion that can be made, or performed, by man for man,--that giving of his body to be burned. But if it is done from a spirit of opposition, for the sake of fame, or popular applause, or for any other such motive, is it still to be regarded as the highest act of sacrifice?" "That is just what St. Paul means: the motive consecrates the deed." "But all men are not fortified with the self-control which should fit them to be great exemplars; and of the many who have appeared in that character, if strict inquiry were made, their virtue would be found to proceed from any other than the true and pure spirit. Sometimes it is indolence, sometimes restlessness, sometimes vanity impatient for its gratification, and rushing to assume the part of humility for the purpose of self-delusion." "Now" said the King, taking several of his long strides in the vestibule of his library, and declaiming with his habitual emphasis, "St Paul, in this chapter, evidently and strongly applies the Buddhist's word _maitrî_, or _maikree_, as pronounced by some Sanskrit scholars; and explains it through the Buddhist's custom of giving the body to be burned, which was practised centuries before the Christian era, and is found unchanged in parts of China, Ceylon, and Siam to this day. The giving of the body to be burned has ever been considered by devout Buddhists the most exalted act of self-abnegation. "To give all one's goods to feed the poor is common in this country, with princes and people,--who often keep back nothing (not even one _cowree_, the thousandth part of a cent) to provide for themselves a handful of rice. But then they stand in no fear of starvation; for death by hunger is unknown where Buddhism is preached and _practised_. "I know a man, of royal parentage, and once possessed of untold riches. In his youth he felt such pity for the poor, the old, the sick, and such as were troubled and sorrowful, that he became melancholy, and after spending several years in the continual relief of the needy and helpless, he, in a moment, gave all his goods,--in a word, ALL,--'to feed the poor.' This man has never heard of St. Paul or his writings; but he knows, and tries to comprehend in its fulness, the Buddhist word _maitrî_. "At thirty he became a priest. For five years he had toiled as a gardener; for that was the occupation he preferred, because in the pursuit of it he acquired much useful knowledge of the medicinal properties of plants, and so became a ready physician to those who could not pay for their healing. But he could not rest content with so imperfect a life, while the way to perfect knowledge of excellence, truth, and charity remained open to him; so he became a priest. "This happened sixty-five years ago. Now he is ninety-five years old; and, I fear, has not yet found the truth and excellence he has been in search of so long. But I know no greater man than he. He is great in the Christian sense,--loving, pitiful, forbearing, pure. "Once, when he was a gardener, he was robbed of his few poor tools by one whom he had befriended in many ways. Some time after that, the king met him, and inquired of his necessities. He said he needed tools for his gardening. A great abundance of such implements was sent to him; and immediately he shared them with his neighbors, taking care to send the most and best to the man who had robbed him. "Of the little that remained to him, he gave freely to all who lacked. Not his own, but another's wants, were his sole argument in asking or bestowing. Now, he is great in the Buddhist sense also,--not loving life nor fearing death, desiring nothing the world can give, beyond the peace of a beatified spirit. This man--who is now the High-Priest of Siam--would, without so much as a thought of shrinking, give his body, alive or dead, to be burned, if so he might obtain one glimpse of eternal truth, or save one soul from death or sorrow." More than eighteen months after the First King of Siam had entertained me with this essentially Buddhistic argument, and its simple and impressive illustration, a party of pages hurried me away with them, just as the setting sun was trailing his last long, lingering shadows through the porches of the palace. His Majesty required my presence; and his Majesty's commands were absolute and instant. "Find and fetch!" No delay was to be thought of, no question answered, no explanation afforded, no excuse entertained. So with resignation I followed my guides, who led the way to the monastery of Watt Rajah-Bah-dit-Sang. But having some experience of the moods and humors of his Majesty, my mind was not wholly free from uneasiness. Generally, such impetuous summoning foreboded an interview the reverse of agreeable. The sun had set in glory below the red horizon when I entered the extensive range of monastic buildings that adjoin the temple. Wide tracts of waving corn and avenues of oleanders screened from view the distant city, with its pagodas and palaces. The air was fresh and balmy, and seemed to sigh plaintively among the betel and cocoa palms that skirt the monastery. The pages left me seated on a stone step, and ran to announce my presence to the king. Long after the moon had come out clear and cool, and I had begun to wonder where all this would end, a young man, robed in pure white, and bearing in one hand a small lighted taper and a lily in the other, beckoned me to enter, and follow him; and as we traversed the long, low passages that separate the cells of the priests, the weird sound of voices, chanting the hymns of the Buddhist liturgy, fell upon my ear. The darkness, the loneliness, the measured monotone, distant and dreamy, all was most romantic and exciting, even to a matter-of-fact English woman like myself. As the page approached the threshold of one of the cells, he whispered to me, in a voice full of entreaty, to put off my shoes; at the same time prostrating himself with a movement and expression of the most abject humility before the door, where he remained, without changing his posture. I stooped involuntarily, and scanned curiously, anxiously, the scene within the cell. There sat the king; and at a sign from him I presently entered, and sat down beside him. On a rude pallet, about six and a half feet long, and not more than three feet wide, and with a bare block of wood for a pillow, lay a dying priest. A simple garment of faded yellow covered his person; his hands were folded on his breast; his head was bald, and the few blanched hairs that might have remained to fringe his sunken temples had been carefully shorn,--his eyebrows, too, were closely shaven; his feet were bare and exposed; his eyes were fixed, not in the vacant stare of death, but with solemn contemplation or scrutiny, upward. No sign of disquiet was there, no external suggestion of pain or trouble; I was at once startled and puzzled. Was he dying, or acting? In the attitude of his person, in the expression of his countenance, I beheld sublime reverence, repose, absorption. He seemed to be communing with some spiritual presence. My entrance and approach made no change in him. At his right side was a dim taper in a gold candlestick; on the left a dainty golden vase, filled with white lilies, freshly gathered: these were offerings from the king. One of the lilies had been laid on his breast, and contrasted touchingly with the dingy, faded yellow of his robe. Just over the region of the heart lay a coil of unspun cotton thread, which, being divided into seventy-seven filaments, was distributed to the hands of the priests, who, closely seated, quite filled the ell, so that none could have moved without difficulty. Before each priest were a lighted taper and a lily, symbols of faith and purity. From time to time one or other of that solemn company raised his voice, and chanted strangely; and all the choir responded in unison. These were the words, as they were afterward translated for me by the king. _First Voice._ Sâng-Khâng sârâ nang gâch' châ mi! (Thou Excellence, or Perfection! I take refuge in thee.) _All._ Nama Poothô sâng-Khâng sârâ nang gâch' châ mi! (Thou who art named Poot-tho!--either God, Buddha, or Mercy,--I take refuge in thee.) _First Voice._ Tuti âmpi sâng-Khâng sârâ nang gâch' cha mi! (Thou Holy One! I take refuge in thee.) _All._ Tè sâtiyâ sâng-Khâng sârâ nang gâch' châ mi! (Thou Truth, I take refuge in thee.) As the sound of the prayer fell on his ear, a nickering smile lit up the pale, sallow countenance of the dying man with a visible mild radiance, as though the charity and humility of his nature, in departing, left the light of their loveliness there. The absorbing rapture of that look, which seemed to overtake the invisible, was almost too holy to gaze upon. Riches, station, honors, kindred, he had resigned them all, more than half a century since, in his love for the poor and his longing after truth. Here was none of the wavering or vagueness or incoherence of a wandering, delirious death. He was going to his clear, eternal calm. With a smile of perfect peace he said: "To your Majesty I commend the poor; and this that remains of me I give to be burned." And that, his last gift, was indeed his all. I can imagine no spectacle more worthy to excite a compassionate emotion, to impart an abiding impression of reverence, than the tranquil dying of that good old "pagan." Gradually his breathing became more laborious; and presently, turning with a great effort toward the king, he said, _Chan cha pi dauni!_--"I will go now!" Instantly the priests joined in a loud psalm and chant, "P'hra Arahang sâng-Khâng sârâ nang gâch' châ mi!" (Thou Sacred One, I take refuge in thee.) A few minutes more, and the spirit of the High-Priest of Siam had calmly breathed itself away. The eyes were open and fixed; the hands still clasped; the expression sweetly content. My heart and eyes were full of tears, yet I was comforted. By what hope? I know not, for I dared not question it. On the afternoon of the next day I was again summoned by his Majesty to witness the burning of that body. It was carried to the cemetery Watt Sah Kâte; and there men, hired to do such dreadful offices upon the dead, cut off all the flesh and flung it to the hungry dogs that haunt that monstrous garbage-field of Buddhism. The bones, and all that remained upon them, were thoroughly burned; and the ashes, carefully gathered in an earthen pot, were scattered in the little gardens of wretches too poor to buy manure. All that was left now of the venerable devotee was the remembrance of a look. "This," said the King, as I turned away sickened and sorrowful, "is to give one's body to be burned. This is what your St. Paul had in his mind,--this custom of our Buddhist ancestors, this complete self-abnegation in life and in death,--when he said, 'Even if I give my body to be burned, and have not charity [maitrî], it profiteth me nothing.'" [Illustration: Priests at Breakfast.] COMMON MAXIMS OF THE PRIESTS OF SIAM. Glory not in thyself, but rather in thy neighbor. Dig not the earth, which is the source of life and the mother of all. Cause no tree to die. Kill no beast, nor insect, not even the smallest ant or fly. Eat nothing between meals. Regard not singers, dancers, nor players on instruments. Use no perfume but sweetness of thoughts. Neither sit nor sleep in high places. Be lowly in thy heart, that thou mayst be lowly in thy act. Hoard neither silver nor gold. Entertain not thy thoughts with worldly things. Do no work but the work of charity and truth. Give not flowers unto women, but rather prayers. Contract no friendship with the hope of gain. Borrow nothing, but rather deny thy want. Lend not unto usury. Keep neither lance, nor sword, nor any deadly weapon. Judge not thy neighbor. Bake not, nor burn. Wink not. Be not familiar nor contemptuous. Labor not for hire, but for charity. Look not upon women unchastely. Make no incisions that may draw blood or sap, which is the life of man and nature. Give no medicines which contain poison, but study to acquire the true art of healing, which is the highest of all arts, and pertains to the wise and benevolent. Love all men equally. Perform not thy meditations in public places. Make no idols of any kind. XXIII. CREMATION. As soon as his Majesty had recovered from his genuine convulsion of grief for the death of his sweet little princess, Somdetch Chow Fâ-ying, he proceeded, habited in white, with all his family, to visit the chamber of mourning. The grand-aunt of the dead child, who seemed the most profoundly afflicted of all that numerous household, still lay prostrate at the feet of her pale cold darling, and would not be comforted. As his Majesty entered, silently ushered, she moved, and mutely laid her head upon his feet, moaning, _Poot-tho! Poot-tho!_ There were tears and sighs and heart-wrung sobs around. Speechless, but with trembling lips, the royal father took gently in his arms the little corpse, and bathed it in the Siamese manner, by pouring cold water upon it. In this he was followed by other members of the royal family, the more distant relatives, and such ladies of the harem as chanced to be in waiting,--each advancing in the order of rank, and pouring pure cold water from a silver bowl over the slender body. Two sisters of the king then shrouded the corpse in a sitting posture, overlaid it with perfumes and odoriferous gums, frankincense and myrrh, and, lastly, swaddled it in a fine winding-sheet. Finally it was deposited in a golden urn, and this again in an-other of finer gold, richly adorned with precious stones. The inner urn has an iron grating in the bottom, and the outer an orifice at its most pendent point, through which by means of a tap or stop-cock, the fluids are drawn off daily, until the _cadavre_ has become quite dry. This double rim was borne on a gilt sedan, under a royal gilt umbrella, to the temple of the Maha Phrasat, where it was mounted on a graduated platform about six feet high. During this part of the ceremony, and while the trumpeters and the blowers of conch-shells performed their lugubrious parts, his Majesty sat apart, his face buried in his hands, confessing a keener anguish than had ever before cut his selfish heart. The urn being thus elevated, all the insignia pertaining to the rank of the little princess were disposed in formal order below it, as though at her feet. Then the musicians struck up a passionate passage, ending in a plaintive and truly solemn dirge; after which his Majesty and all the princely company retired, leaving the poor clod to await, in its pagan gauds and mockery, the last offices of friendship. But not always alone; for thrice daily--at early dawn, and noon, and gloaming--the musicians came to perform a requiem for the soul of the dead,--"that it may soar on high, from the naming, fragrant pyre for which it is reserved, and return to its foster parents, Ocean, Earth, Air, Sky." With these is joined a concert of mourning women, who bewail the early dead, extolling her beauty, graces, virtues; while in the intervals, four priests (who are relieved every fourth hour) chant the praises of Buddha, bidding the gentle spirit "Pass on! Pass on!" and boldly speed through the labyrinth before it, "through high, deep, and famous things, through good and evil things, through truth and error, through wisdom and folly, through sorrow, suffering, hope, life, joy, love, death, through endless mutability, into immutability!" These services are performed with religious care daily for six months; [Footnote: Twelve months for a king.] that is, until the time appointed for cremation. Meanwhile, in the obsequies of the Princess Fâ-ying, arrangements were made for the erection of the customary _P'hra-mène_,--a temporary structure of great splendor, where the body lies in state for several days, on a throne dazzling with gold and silver ornaments and precious stones. For the funeral honors of royalty it is imperative that the P'hra-mène be constructed of virgin timber. Trunks of teak, from two hundred to two hundred and fifty feet in length, and of proportionate girth, are felled in the forests of Myolonghee, and brought down the Meinam in rafts. These trunks, planted thirty feet deep, one at each corner of a square, serve as pillars, not less than a hundred and seventy feet high, to support a sixty-foot spire, an octagonal pyramid, covered with gold leaf. Attached to this pyramid are four wings, forty feet long, with handsome porches looking to the cardinal points of the compass; here also are four colossal figures of heroic myths, each with a lion couchant at its feet. On one side of the square reserved for the P'hra-mène, a vast hall is erected to accommodate the Supreme King and his family while attending the funeral ceremonies. The several roofs of this temporary edifice have peculiar horn-like projections at the ends, and are covered with crimson cloth, while golden draperies are suspended from the ceiling. The entire space around the P'hra-mène is matted with bamboo wicker-work, and decorated with innumerable standards peculiar to Siam. Here and there may be seen grotesque cartoons of the wars of gods and giants, and rude landscapes supposed to represent the Buddhist's heaven, with lakes and groves and gardens. Beyond these are playhouses for theatrical displays, puppet-shows, masquerades, posturing, somersaulting, leaping, wrestling, balancing on ropes and wires, and the tricks of professional buffoons. Here also are restaurants, or cook-shops, for all classes of people above the degree of boors; and these are open day and night during the period devoted to the funeral rites. The grand lodge erected for the Second King and his household, at the cremation of his little niece, resembled that of his brother, the Supreme King, in the regal style of its decorations. The centre of the P'hra-mène is a lofty octagon; and directly under the great spire is a gorgeous eight-sided pyramid, diminishing by right-angled gradations to a truncated top, its base being fifty or sixty feet in circumference, and higher by twenty feet than the surrounding buildings. On this pyramid stood the urn of gold containing the remains of the royal child. Above the urn a golden canopy hung from the lofty ceiling, and far above this again a circular white awning was spread, representing the firmament studded with silver stars. Under the canopy, and just over little Fâ-ying's urn, the whitest and most fragrant flowers, gathered and arranged by those who loved her best in life, formed a bright odoriferous bower. The pyramid itself was decorated with rare and beautiful gifts, of glass, porcelain, alabaster, silver, gold, and artificial flowers, with images of birds, beasts, men, women, children, and angels. Splendid chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, and lesser lights on the angles of the pyramid, illuminated the funeral hall. These showy preparations completed, the royal mourners only waited for the appointed time when the remains must be laid in state upon the consecrated pyre. At dawn of that day, all the princes, nobles, governors, and superior priests of the kingdom, with throngs of baser men, women, and children, in their holiday attire, came to grace the "fiery consummation" of little Fâ-ying. A royal barge conveyed me, with my boy, to the palace, whence we followed on foot. The gold urn, in an ivory chariot of antique fashion, richly gilt, was drawn by a pair of milk-white horses, and followed and attended by hundreds of men clad in pure white. It was preceded by two other chariots; in the first sat the high-priest, reading short, pithy aphorisms and precepts from the sacred books; in the other followed the full brothers of the deceased. A strip of silver cloth, six inches wide, attached to the urn, was loosely extended to the seats of the royal mourners in this second chariot, and thence to the chariot of the high- priest, on whose lap the ends were laid, symbolizing the mystic union between death, life, and the Buddha. Next after the urn came a chariot laden with the sacred sandal-wood, the aromatic gums, and the wax tapers. The wood was profusely carved with emblems of the indestructibility of matter; for though the fire apparently consumes the pile, and with it the body, the priests are careful to interpret the process as that by which both are endued with new vitality; thus everything consecrated to the religious observances of Buddhism is made to typify some latent truth. Then came a long procession of mythological figures, nondescripts drawn on small wooden wheels, and covered with offerings for the priests. These were followed by crowds of both sexes and all ages, bearing in their hands the mystic triform flower, emblematic of the sacred circle, _Om_, or Aum. To hold this mystic flower above the head, and describe with it endless circles in the air, is regarded as a performance of peculiar virtue and "merit," and one of the most signal acts of devotion possible to a Buddhist. And yet, as the symbol of One great Central Spirit, whose name it is profanation to utter, the symbol is strangely at variance with the doctrines of Buddhism. The moment the strange concourse, human and mythological, began to move, the conch-shells, horns, trumpets, sackbuts, pipes, dulcimers, flutes, and harps rent the air with wild wailing; but above the din rose the deep, booming, measured beat of the death-drums. Very subtile, and indescribably stirring is this ancient music, with its various weird and prolonged cadences, and that solemn thundering boom enhancing the peculiar sweetness of the dirge as it rises and falls. Under the spell of such sounds as these the procession moved slowly to the P'hra-mène. Here the urn was lifted by means of pulleys, and enthroned on the splendid pedestal prepared for it. The silver cloth from the chariot of the high-priest was laid upon it, the ends drooping on the eastern and western sides to the rich carpet of the floor. A hundred priests, fifty on either hand, rehearsed in concert, seated on the floor, long hymns in Pali from the sacred books, principally embodying melancholy reflections on the brevity and uncertainty of human life. After which, holding the silver cloth between the thumb and forefinger, they joined in silent prayer, thereby, as they suppose, communicating a saving virtue to the cloth, which conveys it to the dead within the urn. They continued thus engaged for about an hour, and then withdrew to give place to another hundred, and so on, until thousands of priests had taken part in the solemn exercises. Meanwhile the four already mentioned still prayed, day and night, at the Maha Phrasat. A service was likewise performed for the royal family twice a day, in an adjacent temporary chapel, where all the court attended,--including the noble ladies of the harem, who occupy private oratories, hung with golden draperies, behind which they can see and hear without being seen. As long as these funeral ceremonies last, the numerous concourse of priests is sumptuously entertained. At nightfall the P'hra-mène is brilliantly illuminated, within and without, and the people are entertained with dramatic spectacles derived from the Chinese, Hindoo, Malayan, and Persian classics. Effigies of the fabulous Hydra, or dragon with seven heads, illuminated, and animated by men concealed within, are seen endeavoring to swallow the moon, represented by a globe of fire. Another monster, probably the Chimæra, with the head and breast of a lion and the body of a goat, vomits flame and smoke. There are also figures of Echidna and Cerberus, the former represented as a beautiful nymph, but terminating below the waist in the coils of a dragon or python; and the latter as a triple-headed dog, evidently the canine bugaboo that is supposed to have guarded Pluto's dreadful gates. About nine o'clock fireworks were ignited by the king's own hand,--a very beautiful display, representing, among other graceful forms, a variety of shrubbery, which gradually blossomed with roses, dahlias, oleanders, and other flowers. The flinging of money and trinkets to the rabble is usually the most exciting of the pranks which diversify the funeral ceremonies of Siamese royalty; in this _mal à propos_ pastime his Majesty took a lively part. The personal effects of the deceased are divided into two or more equal portions, one of which is bestowed on the poor, another on the priests; memorials and complimentary tokens are presented to the princes and nobles, and the friends of the royal family. The more costly articles are ticketed and distributed by lottery; and smaller objects, such as rings and gold and silver coins, are put into lemons, which his Majesty, standing on the piazza of his temporary palace, flings among the sea of heads below. There is also at each of the four corners of the P'hra-mène, an artificial tree, bearing gold and silver fruit, which is plucked by officers of the court, and tossed to the poor on every side. Each throw is hailed by a wild shout from the multitude, and followed by a mad scramble. In this connection the following "notification" from the king's hand will be intelligible to the reader. "THE NOTIFICATION "In regard to the mourning distribution and donation in funeral service or ceremony of cremation of the remains of Her late Royal Highness celestial Princess Somdetch Chowfa Chandrmondol Sobhon Bhagiawati, [Footnote: Fâ-ying.] whose death took place on the 12th May, Anno Christi 1863. "This Part consisting of a glasscoverbox enclosing a idol of Chinese fabulousquadruped called 'sai' or Lion, covered with goldleaf ornamented with coined pieces of silver & rings a black bag of funeral balls enclosing some pieces of gold and silver coins &c., in funeral service of Her late Royal Highness the forenamed princess, the ninth daughter or sixteenth offspring of His Majesty the reigning Supreme King of Siam, which took place in ceremony continued from 16th to 21st day of February Anno Christi 1864. prepared ex-property of Her late lamented Royal Highness the deceased, and assistant funds from certain members of the Royal Family, designed from his Gracious Majesty Somdetch P'hra Paramendr Maha Mongkut, Her late Royal Highness' bereaved Royal father. Their Royal Highnesses celestial princes Somdetch Chowfa Chulalonkorn the full elder brother, Chowfa Chaturont Rasmi, and Chowfa Bhangurangsi Swang-wongse, the two younger full brothers, and His Royal Highness Prince Nobhawongs Krommun Maha-suarsivivalas the eldest half brother. Their Royal Highnesses twenty-five princes, Krita-bhinihar, Gaganang Yugol &c. the younger half-brothers, and their Royal Highnesses seven princesses, Yingyawlacks, Dacksinja, and Somawati, &c., the elder sisters, 18 princesses, Srinagswasti, &c., the younger half-sisters of Her late Royal Highness the deceased, for friendly acceptance of--who is one of His present Siamese Majesty's friends who either have ever been acquainted in person or through means of correspondence &c. certain of whom have ever seen Her late Royal Highness, and some have been acquainted with certain of her late Royal Highness the deceased's elder or younger brothers and sisters. "His Siamese Majesty, with his 29 sons, and 25 daughters above partly named, trusts that this part will be acceptable to every one of His Gracious Majesty's and their Royal Highnesses' friends who ever have been acquainted with his present Majesty, and certain of Their Royal Highnesses or Her late Royal Highness the deceased, either in person or by correspondence, or only by name through cards &c. for a token of remembrance of Her late Royal Highness the deceased and for feeling of Emotion that this path ought to be followed by every one of human beings after long or short time, as the lights of lives of all living beings are like flames of candles lighted in opening air without covering and Protecting on every side, so it shall be considered with great emotion by the readers. "Dated ROYAL FUNERAL PLACE. BANGKOK, 20th February, Anno Christi 1864." Thus twelve days were passed in feasting, drinking, praying, preaching, sporting, gambling and scrambling. On the thirteenth, the double urn, with its melancholy moral, was removed from the pyramid, and the inner one, with the grating, was laid on a bed of fragrant sandalwood, and aromatic gums, connected with a train of gunpowder, which the king ignited with a match from the sacred fire that burns continually in the temple Watt P'hra Këau. The Second King then lighted his candles from the same torch, and laid them on the pyre; and so on, in the order of rank, down to the meanest slave, until many hundreds of wax candles and boxes of precious spices and fragrant gums were cast into the flames. The funeral orchestra then played a wailing dirge, and the mourning women broke into a concerted and prolonged keen, of the most ear-piercing and heart-rending description. When the fire had quite burned itself out, all that remained of the bones, charred and blackened, was carefully gathered, deposited in a third and smaller urn of gold, and again conveyed in great state to the Maha Phrasat. The ashes were also collected with scrupulous pains in a pure cloth of white muslin, and laid in a gold dish; afterward, attended by all the mourning women and musicians, and escorted by a procession of barges, it was floated some miles down the river, and there committed to the waters. Nothing left of our lovely darling but a few charred bits of rubbish! But in memory I still catch glimpses of the sylph-like form, half veiled in the shroud of flame that wrapped her last, but with the innocent, questioning eyes still turned to me; and as I look back into their depths of purity and love, again and again I mourn, as at first, for that which made me feel, more and more by its sympathy, the peculiar desolation of my life in the palace. Immediately on the death of a Supreme King an order is issued for the universal shaving of the bristly tuft from the heads of all male subjects. Only those princes who are older than their deceased sovereign are exempt from the operation of this law. Upon his successor devolves the duty of providing for the erection of the royal P'hra-mène--as to the proportions and adornment of which he is supposed to be guided by regard for the august rank of the deceased, and the public estimation in which his name and fame are held. Royal despatches are forthwith sent to the governors of four different provinces in the extreme north, where the noblest timber abounds, commanding each of them to furnish one of the great pillars for the P'hra-mène. These must be of the finest wood, perfectly straight, from two hundred to two hundred and fifty feet long, and not less than twelve feet in circumference. At the same time twelve pillars, somewhat smaller, are required from the governors of twelve other provinces; besides much timber in other forms necessary to the construction of the grand funeral hall and its numerous supplementary buildings. As sacred custom will not tolerate the presence of pillars that have already been used for any purpose whatever, it is indispensable that fresh ones, "virgin trunks," be procured for every new occasion of the obsequies of royalty. These four great trunks are hard to find, and can be floated down the Meinam to the capital only at the seasons when that stream and its tributaries are high. This is perhaps the natural cause of the long interval that elapses--twelve months--between the death and the cremation of a Siamese king. The "giant boles" are dragged in primitive fashion to the banks of the stream by elephants and buffaloes, and shipped in rafts. Arrived at Bangkok, they are hauled on rollers inch by inch, by men working with a rude windlass and levers, to the site of the P'hra-mène. The following description of the cremation, at Bejrepuri, of a man "in the middle walks of life," is taken from the _Bangkok Recorder_ of May 24, 1866:--"The corpse was first to be offered to the vultures, a hundred or more. Before the coffin was opened the filthy and horrible gang had assembled, 'for wheresoever the carcass is, there will the eagles (vultures) be gathered together.' They were perched on the ridges of the temple, and even on small trees and bushes, within a few feet of the body; and so greedy were they that the sexton and his assistants had to beat them off many times before the coffin could be opened. They seemed to know that there would be but a mouthful for each, if divided among them all, and the pack of greedy dogs besides, that waited for their share. The body was taken from the coffin and laid on a pile of wood that had been prepared on a small temporary altar. Then the birds were allowed to descend upon the corpse and tear it as they liked. For a while it was quite hidden in the rush. But each bird, grabbing its part with bill and claws, spread its wings and mounted to some quiet place to eat. The sexton seemed to think that he too was 'making merit' by cutting off parts of the body and throwing them to the hungry dogs, as the dying man had done in bequeathing his body to those carrion-feeders. The birds, not satisfied with what they got from the altar, came down and quarrelled with the curs for their share. "While this was going on, the mourners stood waiting, with wax candles and incense sticks, to pay their last tribute of respect to the deceased by assisting in the burning of the bones after the vultures and dogs had stripped them. The sexton, with the assistance of another, gathered up the skeleton and put it back into the coffin, which was lifted by four men and carried around the funeral pile three times. It was then laid on the pile of wood, and a few sticks were put into the coffin to aid in burning the bones. Then a lighted torch was applied to the pile, and the relatives and other mourners advanced, and laid each a wax candle by the torch. Others brought incense and cast it on the pile. "The vultures, having had but a scanty breakfast, lingered around the place until the fire had left nothing more for them, when they shook their ugly heads, and hopping a few steps, to get up a momentum, flapped their harpy wings and flew away." XXIV. CERTAIN SUPERSTITIONS. MY friend Maha Mongkut used to maintain, with the doctors and sophists of his sect, that the Buddhist priesthood have no superstitions; that though they do not accept the Christian's "Providence," they do believe in a Creator (_P'hra-Tham_), at whose will all crude matter sprang into existence, but who exercises no further control over it; that man is but one of the endless mutations of matter,--was not created, but has existed from the beginning, and will continue to exist to all eternity; that though he was not born in sin, he is held by the secondary law of retribution accountable for offences committed in his person, and these he must expiate through subsequent transmigrations, until, by sublimation, he is absorbed again into the primal source of his being; and that mutability is an essential and absolute law of the universe. In like manner they protest that they are not idolaters, any more than the Roman Catholics are pagans; that the image of Buddha, their Teacher and High-Priest, is to them what the crucifix is to the Jesuit; neither more nor less. They scout the idea that they worship the white elephant, but acknowledge that they hold the beast sacred, as one of the incarnations of their great reformer. Nevertheless, no nation or tribe of all the human race has ever been more profoundly inoculated with a superstition the most depraving and malignant than the Siamese. They have peopled their spiritual world with grotesques, conceived in hallucination and brought forth in nightmare, the monstrous devices of mischief on the one hand and misery on the other,--gods, demons, genii, goblins, wraiths; and to flatter or propitiate these, especially to enlist their tutelary offices, they commit or connive at crimes of fantastic enormity. While residing within the walls of Bangkok, I learned of the existence of a custom having all the stability and force of a Medo-Persic law. Whenever a command has gone forth from the throne for the erection of a new fort or a new gate, or the reconstruction of an old one, this ancient custom demands, as the first step in the procedure, that three innocent men shall be immolated on the site selected by the court astrologers, and at their "auspicious" hour. In 1865, his Majesty and the French Consul at Bangkok had a grave misunderstanding about a proposed modification of a treaty relating to Cambodia. The consul demanded the removal of the prime minister from the commission appointed to arrange the terms of this treaty. The king replied that it was beyond his power to remove the Kralahome. Afterward, the consul, always irritable and insolent, having nursed his wrath to keep it warm, waylaid the king as he was returning from a temple, and threatened him with war, and what not, if he did not accede to his demands. Whereupon, the poor king, effectually intimidated, took refuge in his palace behind barred gates; and forthwith sent messengers to his astrologers, magicians, and soothsayers, to inquire what the situation prognosticated. The magi and the augurs, and all the seventh sons of seventh sons, having shrewedly pumped the officers, and made a solemn show of consulting their oracles, replied: "The times are full of omen. Danger approaches from afar. Let his Majesty erect a third gate, on the east and on the west." Next morning, betimes, pick and spade were busy, digging deep trenches outside the pair of gates that, on the east and west alike, already protected the palace. Meanwhile, the consul either quite forgot his threats, or cooled in the cuddling of them; yet day and night the king's people plied pick and spade and basket in the new foundations. When all was ready, the _San Luang_, or secret council of Royal Judges, met at midnight in the palace, and despatched twelve officers to lurk around the new gates until dawn. Two, stationed just within the entrance, assume the character of neighbors and friends, calling loudly to this or that passenger, and continually repeating familiar names. The peasants and market folk, who are always passing at that hour, hearing these calls, stop, and turn to see who is wanted. Instantly the myrmidons of the san luang rush from their hiding-places, and arrest, hap-hazard, six of them--three for each gate. From that moment the doom of these astonished, trembling wretches is sealed. No petitions, payments, prayers, can save them. In the centre of the gateway a deep fosse or ditch is dug, and over it is suspended by two cords an enormous beam. On the "auspicious" day for the sacrifice, the innocent, unresisting victims--"hinds and churls" perhaps, of the lowest degree in Bangkok--are mocked with a dainty and elaborate banquet, and then conducted in state to their fatal post of honor. The king and all the court make profound obeisance before them, his Majesty adjuring them earnestly "to guard with devotion the gate, now about to be intrusted to their keeping, from all dangers and calamities; and to come in season to forewarn him, if either traitors within or enemies without should conspire against the peace of his people or the safety of his throne." Even as the last word of this exhortation falls from the royal lips, the cords are cut, the ponderous engine "squelches" the heads of the distinguished wretches, and three Bangkok ragamuffins are metempsychosed into three guardian-angels (_Thevedah_). Siamese citizens of wealth and influence often bury treasure in the earth, to save it from arbitrary confiscation. In such cases a slave is generally immolated on the spot, to make a guardian genius. Among certain classes, not always the lowest, we find a greedy passion that expends itself in indefatigable digging for such precious _caches_, in the environs of abandoned temples, or among the ruins of the ancient capital, Ayudia. These treasure-seekers first pass a night near the supposed place of concealment, having offered at sunset to the genius of the spot oblations of candles, perfumed tapers, and roasted rice. They then betake themselves to slumber; and in their dreams the genie is expected to appear, and indicate precisely the hiding-place of his golden charge, at the same time offering to wink at its sacking in consideration of the regular perquisite,--"one pig's head and two bottles of arrack." On the other hand, the genie may appear in an angry aspect, flourishing the conventional club in a style that means business, and demanding by what right the intruders would tamper with his charge; whereat sudden waking and dishevelled flight. Another and more barbarous superstition relates to premature delivery. In such a case the embarrassed mother calls in a female magician, who declares that an evil spirit has practised a spiteful joke upon the married pair, with a design upon the life of the mother. So saying, she pops the still-born into an earthen pot, and with that in her left hand and a sword in her right, makes for the margin of a deep stream, where, with an approved imprecation upon the fiend and a savage slash at the manikin, she tosses the pot and its untimely contents into the flood. By such witches as this, sorceries of all kinds are practised for fee. They are likewise supposed to be skilled in the art of healing, and are notable compounders of love-philters and potions. The king supports a certain number of astrologers, whose duties consist in the prediction of events, whether great or small, from war or peace to rain or drought, and in indicating or determining future possibilities by the aspect and position of the stars. The people universally wear charms and talismans, to which they ascribe supernatural virtues. A patient in fever with delirium is said to be possessed of a devil; and should he grow frantic and unmanageable in the paroxysms, the one becomes a legion. At the close of each year, a thread of unspun cotton, of seven fibres, consecrated by priests, is reeled round all the walls of the palace; and from sunset until dawn a continuous cannonading is kept up from all the forts within hearing, to rout the evil spirits that have infested the departing year. XXV. THE SUBORDINATE KING A second or subordinate kingship is an anomalous device or provision of sovereignty peculiar to Siam, Cambodia, and Laos. Inferior in station to the Supreme King only, and apparently deriving from the throne of the Phra-batts, to which he may approach so near, a reflected majesty and prestige not clearly understood by his subjects nor easily defined by foreigners, the Second King seems to be, nevertheless, belittled by the very significance of the one exclusive privilege that should distinguish him,--that of exemption from the customary prostrations before the First King, whom he may salute by simply raising his hands and joining them above his head. Here his proper right of royalty begins and ends. The part that he may play in the drama of government is cast to him in the necessity, discretion, or caprice of his absolute chief next, and yet so far, above him; it may be important, insignificant, or wholly omitted. Like any lesser _ducus_ of the realm, he must appear before his lord twice a year to renew his oath of allegiance. In law, he is as mere a subject as the slave who bears his betel-box; or that other slave who, on his knees, and with averted face, presents his spittoon. In history, he shall be what circumstance or his own mind may make him: the shadow or the soul of sovereignty, even as the intellectual and moral weakness or strength may have been apportioned between him and his colleague. From his rank he derives no advantage but the _chance_. [Illustration: The Princess of Chiengmai.] Somdetch P'hra Pawarendr Ramesr Mahiswarer, the subordinate king of Siam, who died on the 29th of December, 1865, was the legitimate son of the supreme king, second of his dynasty, who reigned from 1809 to 1824. His father had been second king to his grandfather, "grand supreme" of Siam, and first of the reigning line. His mother was "lawful first queen consort"; and the late first or major king, Somdetch-P'hra Paramendr Maha Mongkut, was his elder full brother. Being alike legitimate offspring of the first queen, these two lads were styled _Somdetch Chowfas_, "Celestial Royal Princes"; and during the second and third reigns they were distinguished by the titles of courtesy pertaining to their royal status and relation, the elder as Chowfa Mongkut, the younger as Chowfa Chudha-Mani: _Mongkut_ signifying "Royal Crown," and _Chudha-Mani_ "Royal Hair-pin." On the death of their father (in 1824), and the accession, by intrigue, of their elder half-brother, the Chowfa Mongkut entered the Buddhist priesthood; but his brother, more ardent, inquisitive, and restless, took active service with the king, in the military as well as in the diplomatic department of government. He was appointed Superintendent of Artillery and Malayan Infantry on the one hand; and on the other, Translator of English Documents and Secretary for English Correspondence. In a cautious and verbose sketch of his character and services, written after his death by his jealous brother, the priest-king, wherein he is by turns meanly disparaged and damned with faint praise, we find this curious statement:-- "After that time (1821) he became acquainted with certain parties of English and East Indian merchants, who made their appearance or first commenced trading on late of second reign, after the former trade with Siam which had been stopped or postponed several years in consequence of some misunderstanding before. He became acquainted with certain parts of English language and literature, and certain parts of Hindoo or Bengali language, as sufficient for some unimportant conversation with English and Indian strangers who were visitors of Siam, upon the latter part of the reign of his royal father; but his royal father did not know that he possessed such knowledge of foreign language, which had been concealed to the native persons in republic affairs, whose jealousy seemed to be strong against strangers, so he was not employed in any terms with those strangers foreign affairs,"--that is, during the life of his father, at whose death he was just sixteen years old. Early in the third reign he was sent to Meeklong to superintend the construction of important works of defence near the mouth of the Meeklong River. He pushed this work with vigor, and completed it in 1835. In 1842 he commanded successfully an expedition against the Cochin-Chinese, and, in returning, brought with him to Siam many families of refugees from the eastern coast. Then he was commissioned by the king to reconstruct, "after Western models," the ancient fortifications at Paknam; and having to this end engaged a corps of European engineers and artisans, he eagerly seized the advantage the situation afforded him, by free and intelligent intercourse with his foreign assistants, to master the English language,--so that, at his death, he notably excelled the first king in the facility with which he spoke, read, and wrote it,--and to improve his acquaintance with the Western sciences and arts of navigation, naval construction and armament, coast and inland defence, engineering, transportation, and telegraphy, the working and casting of iron, etc. On the 26th of May, 1851, twelve days after the coronation of his elder brother, the student and priest Maha Mongkut, he was called by the unanimous voice of "the king and council" to be Second King; and throughout his subordinate reign his sagacious and alert inquiry, his quick apprehension, his energetic and liberal spirit of improvement, engaged the admiration of foreigners; whilst his handsome person, his generous temper, his gallant preference for the skilful and the brave, his enthusiasm and princely profusion in sports and shows, endeared him more and more to his people. Maha Mongkut--at no time inclined to praise him beyond his deserts, and least of all in the latter years of his life, imbittered to both by mutual jealousy and distrust--wrote almost handsomely of him under the pressure of this public opinion. "He made everything new and beautiful, and of curious appearance, and of a good style of architecture, and much stronger than they had formerly been constructed by his three predecessors, the second kings of the last three reigns, for the space of time that he was second king. He had introduced and collected many and many things, being articles of great curiosity, and things useful for various purposes of military acts and affairs, from Europe and America, China, and other states, and placed them in various departments and rooms or buildings suitable for those articles, and placed officers for maintaining and preserving the various things neatly and carefully. He has constructed several buildings in European fashion and Chinese fashion, and ornamented them with various useful ornaments for his pleasure, and has constructed two steamers in manner of men-of-war, and two steam-yachts, and several rowing state-boats in Siamese and Cochin-Chinese fashion, for his pleasure at sea and rivers of Siam; and caused several articles of gold and silver being vessels and various wares and weapons to be made up by the Siamese and Malayan goldsmiths, for employ and dress of himself and his family, by his direction and skilful contrivance and ability. He became celebrated and spread out more and more to various regions of the Siamese kingdom, adjacent States around, and far-famed to foreign countries, even at far distance, as he became acquainted with many and many foreigners, who came from various quarters of the world where his name became known to most as a very clever and bravest Prince of Siam.... "As he pleased mostly with firing of cannon and acts of Marine power and seamen, which he has imitated to his steamers which were made in manner of the man-of-war, after he has seen various things curious and useful, and learned Marine customs on board the foreign vessels of war, his steamers conveyed him to sea, where he has enjoyed playing of firing in cannon very often.... "He pleased very much in and was playful of almost everything, some important and some unimportant, as riding on Elephants and Horses and Ponies, racing of them and racing of rowing boats, firing on birds and beasts of prey, dancing and singing in various ways pleasantly, and various curiosity of almost everything, and music of every description, and in taming of dogs, monkeys, &c., &c., that is to say briefly that he has tested almost everything eatable except entirely testing of Opium and play. "Also he has visited regions of Northeastern Province of Sarapury and Gorath very often for enjoyment of pleasant riding on Elephants and Horses, at forests in chasing animals of prey, fowling, and playing music and singing with Laos people of that region and obtaining young wives from there." What follows is not more curious as to its form of expression than suspicious as to its meaning and motive. To all who know with what pusillanimity at times the First King shrank from the approach of Christian foreigners,--especially the French priests,--with what servility in his moody way he courted their favor, it will appear of very doubtful sincerity. To those who are familiar with the circumstances under which it was written, and to whom the attitude of jealous reserve that the brothers occupied toward each other at the time of the Second King's death was no secret, it may seem (even after due allowance is made for the prejudices or the obligations of the priest) to cover an insidious, though scarcely adroit, design to undermine the honorable reputation the younger enjoyed among the missionaries, and the cordial friendship with which he had been regarded by several of the purest of them. Certainly it is suspiciously "of a piece" with other passages, quoted further on, in which the king's purpose to disparage the merits of his brother, and damage the influence of his name abroad, is sufficiently transparent. In this connection the reader may derive a ray of light from the fact that on the birth of the Second King's first son, an American missionary, who was on terms of intimacy with the father, named the child "George Washington"; and that child, the Prince George Washington Krom Mu'n Pawarwijagan, is the present Second King of Siam. But to Maha Mongkut, and his "art of putting things":-- "He was rumored to be baptized or near to be baptized in Christianity, but the fact it is false. He was a Buddhist, but his faith and belief changed very often in favor of various sects of Buddhism by the association of his wives and various families and of persons who were believers in various sects of the established religion of the Siamese and Laos, Peguan and Burmese countries. Why should he become a Christian? when his pleasures consisted in polygamy and enjoyment, and with young women who were practised in pleasant dancing and singing, and who could not be easily given up at any time. "He was very desirous of having his sons to be English scholars and to be learned the art of speaking, reading and writing in English well like himself, but he said he cannot allow his sons to enter the Christian Missionary-School, as he feared his descendants might be induced to the Christianity in which he did not please to believe." Pawarendr Ramesr had ever been the favorite and darling of his mother, and it was in his infancy that the seeds of that ignoble jealousy were sown between the royal brothers, which nourished so rankly and bore such noxious fruit in their manhood. From his tenderest years the younger prince was remarkable for his personal beauty and his bright intelligence, and before his thirteenth birthday had already learned all that his several masters could teach him. From an old priest, named P'hra Naitt, I gathered many pleasant anecdotes of his childhood. For example, he related with peculiar pride how the young prince, then but twelve years old, being borne one day in state through the eastern gate of the city to visit his mother's lotos-gardens, observed an old man, half blind, resting by the roadside. Commanding his bearers to halt, he alighted from his sedan and kindly accosted the poor creature. Finding him destitute and helpless, a stranger and a wayfarer in the land, he caused him to be seated in his own sedan, and borne to the gardens, while he followed on foot. Here he had the old man bathed, clad in fresh linen, and entertained with a substantial meal; and afterward he took his astonished client into his service, as keeper of his cattle. Later in life the generous and romantic prince diverted himself with the adventurous beneficence of Haroun al Raschid, visiting the poor in disguise, listening to the recital of their sufferings and wrongs, and relieving them with ready largesse of charity and justice; and nothing so pleased and flattered him as to be called, in his assumed name of Nak Pratt, "the wise," to take part in their sports and fêtes. The affectionate enthusiasm with which the venerable poonghee remembered his royal pupil was inspiring; and to see his eyes sparkle and his face glow with sympathetic triumph, as he described the lad's exploits of strength or skill in riding, fencing, boxing, was a fine sight. But it was with saddened look and tone that he whispered to me, that, at the prince's birth, the astrologer who cast his horoscope had foretold for him an unnatural death. This, he said, was the secret of the watchful devotion and imprudent partiality his mother had always manifested for him. For such a prince to come into even the empty name of power was to become subject to the evil eye of his fraternal lord and rival, for whose favor officious friends and superserviceable lackeys contended in scandalous and treacherous spyings of the Second King's every action. Yet, meanly beset as he was, he contrived to find means and opportunity to enlarge his understanding and multiply his attainments; and in the end his proficiency in languages, European and Oriental, became as remarkable as it was laudable. It was by Mr. Hunter, secretary to the prime minister, that he was introduced to the study of the English language and literature, and by this gentleman's intelligent aid he procured the text-books which constituted the foundation of his educational course. In person he was handsome, for a Siamese; of medium stature, compact and symmetrical figure, and rather dark complexion. His conversation and deportment denoted the cultivation, delicacy, and graceful poise of an accomplished gentleman; and he delivered his English with a correctness and fluency very noticeably free from the peculiar spasmodic effort that marked his royal brother's exploits in the language of Shakespeare. In his palace, which, he had rebuilt after the model of an English nobleman's residence, he led the life of a healthy, practical, and systematic student. His library, more judiciously selected than that of his brother, abounded in works of science, embracing the latest discoveries. Here he passed many hours, cultivating a sound acquaintance with the results of investigation and experiment in the Western world. His partiality for English literature in all its branches was extreme. The freshest publications of London found their way to his tables, and he heartily enjoyed the creations of Dickens. For robust and exhilarating enjoyment, however, he had recourse to hunting expeditions, and martial exercises in the drilling of his private troops. Punctually at daybreak every morning he appeared on the parade-ground, and proceeded to review his little army with scrupulous precision, according to European tactics; after which he led his well-trained files to their barracks within the palace walls, where the soldiers exchanged their uniform for a working-dress. Then he marched them to the armory, where muskets, bayonets, and sabres were brought out and severely scoured. That done, the men were dismissed till the morrow. Among his courtiers were several gentlemen of Siam and Laos, who had acquired such a smattering of English as qualified them to assist the prince in his scientific diversions. Opposite the armory stood a pretty little cottage, quite English-looking, lighted with glass windows, and equipped with European furniture. Over the entrance to this quaint tenement hung a painted sign, in triumphant English, "WATCHES AND CLOCKS MADE AND REPAIRED HERE"; and hither came frequently the Second King and his favorites, to pursue assiduously their harmless occupation of _horlogerie_. Sometimes this eccentric entertainment was diversified with music, in which his Majesty took a leading part, playing with taste and skill on the flute, and several instruments of the Laos people. Such a prince should have been happy, in the innocence of his pastimes and the dignity of his pursuits. But the same accident of birth and station to which he owed his privileges and his opportunities imposed its peculiar disabilities and hindrances. His troubles were the troubles of a second king, who chanced to be also an ardent and aspiring man. Weary with disappointment, disheartened in his honorable longing for just appreciation, vexed with the caprice and suspicions of his elder brother; oppressed by the ever-present tyranny of the thought--so hard for such a man to bear--that the woman he loved best in the land he was inexorably forbidden to marry, because, being a princess of the first rank, she might be offered and accepted to grace the harem of his brother; a mere prisoner of state, watched by the baleful eye of jealousy, and traduced by the venal tongues of courtiers; dwelling in a torment of uncertainty as to the fate to which his brother's explosive temper and irresponsible power might devote him, hoping for no repose or safety but in his funeral-urn,--he began to grow hard and defiant, and that which, in the native freedom of his soul, should have been his noble steadfastness degenerated into ignoble obstinacy. Among the innumerable mean torments with which his pride was persecuted was the continual presence of a certain doctor, who, by the king's command, attended him at all times and places, compelling him to use remedies that were most distasteful to him. He was gallantly kind and courteous toward women; no act of cruelty to any woman was ever attributed to him. His children he ruled wisely, though somewhat sternly, rendering his occasional tenderness and indulgence so much the more precious and delightful to them. Never had Siam a more popular prince. He was the embodiment of the most hopeful qualities, moral and intellectual, of his nation; especially was he the exponent and promise of its most progressive tendencies; and his people regarded him with love and reverence, as their trusty stay and support. His talents as a statesman commanded the unqualified admiration of foreigners; and it was simply the jealous and tyrannical temper of Maha Mongkut that forced him to retire from all participation in the affairs of government. At last the mutual reserve and distrust of the royal brothers broke out in open quarrel, provoked by the refusal of the First King to permit the Second to borrow from the royal treasury a considerable sum of money. On the day after his order was dishonored, the prince set out with his congenial and confidential courtiers on a hunting expedition to the Laos province of Chiengmai, scornfully threatening to entrap one of the royal white elephants, and sell it to his Supreme Majesty for the sum he would not loan. At Chiengmai he was regally entertained by the tributary prince of that province; and no sooner was his grievance known, than the money he required was laid at his feet. Too manly to accept the entire sum, he borrowed but a portion of it; and instead of taking it out of the country, decided to sojourn there for a time, that he might spend it to the advantage of the people. To this end he selected a lovely spot in the vicinity of Chiengmai, called Saraburee, itself a city of some consideration, where bamboo houses line the banks of a beautiful river, that traverses teak forests alive with large game. On an elevation near at hand the Second King erected a palace substantially fortified, which he named Ban Sitha (the Home of the Goddess Sitha), and caused a canal to be cut to the eastern slope. Here he indulged freely, and on an imposing scale, in his favorite pastime of hunting, and privately took to wife the daughter of the king of Chiengmai, the Princess Sunartha Vismita. And here he was happy, only returning to Bangkok when called thither by affairs of state, or to take the semi-annual oath of allegiance. Among the prince's concubines at this time was a woman named Kliep, envious, intriguing, and ambitious, who by consummate arts had obtained control of his Majesty's _cuisine_,--an appointment of peculiar importance and trust in the household of an Oriental prince. Finding that by no feminine devices could she procure the influence she coveted over her master's mind and affections, she finally had recourse to an old and infamous sorcerer, styled Khoon Hâte-nah ("Lord of Future Events"), an adept of the black art much consulted by women of rank from all parts of the country; and he, in consideration of an extraordinary fee, prepared for her a variety of charms, incantations, philters, to be administered to the prince, in whose food daily, for years, she mixed the abominable nostrums. The poison did its work slowly but surely, and his sturdy life was gradually undermined. His strength quite gone, and his spirit broken, his despondency became so profound that he lost all taste for the occupations and diversions that had once delighted him, and sought relief in restless changing from one palace to another, and in consulting every physician he could find. It was during a visit to his favorite residence at Saraburee that the signs of approaching dissolution appeared, and the king's physician, fearing he might die there, took hurried steps to remove him to his palace at Bangkok. He was bound in a sedan, and lowered from his high chamber in the castle into his barge on the canal at the foot of the cliff; and so, with all his household in train, transported to the palace of Krom Hluang Wongse, physician to the king, and one of his half-brothers. Now miserably unnerved, the prince, once so patient, brave, and proud, threw his arms round his kinsman's neck, and, weeping bitterly, implored him to save him. But he was presently removed to his own palace, and laid in a chamber looking to the east. That night the prince expressed a wish to see his royal brother. The king hastened to his bedside in company with his Excellency Chow Phya Sri Sury-Wongse, the Kralahome, or prime minister; and then and there a silent and solemn reconciliation took place. No words were spoken; only the brothers embraced each other, and the elder wept bitterly. But from the facts brought to light in that impressive meeting and parting, it was made plain that the Second King died by slow poison, administered by the woman Kliep,--plain to all but the Second King himself, who died in ignorance of the means by which the tragic prophecy of his horoscope had been made good. In the very full account of his brother's death which Maha Mongkut thought it necessary to write, he was careful to conceal from the public the true cause of the calamity, fearing the foreign populace, and, most of all, the Laotians and Peguans, who were devoted to the prince, and might attach suspicion to himself, on the ground of his notorious jealousy of the Second King. The royal physicians and the Supreme Council were sworn to secrecy; and the woman Kliep, and her accomplice Khoon Hâte-nah, together with nine female slaves, were tortured and publicly paraded through the environs of Bangkok, though their crime was never openly named. Afterward they were thrown into an open boat, towed out on the Gulf of Siam, and there abandoned to the mercy of winds and waves, or death by starvation. Among the women of the palace the current report was, that celestial avengers had slain the murderous crew with arrows of lightning and spears of fire. In his Majesty's account of the last days of his royal brother, we have the characteristic queerness of his English, and a scarcely less characteristic passage of Pecksniffian cant:-- "The lamentable patient Second King ascertained himself that his approaching death was inevitable; it was great misfortune to him and his family indeed. His eldest son Prince George [Footnote: George Washington.] Krom Mu'n Pawarwijagan, aged 27 years on that time, became very sick of painful rheumatism by which he has his body almost steady on his seat and bed, immovable to and fro, himself, since the month of October, 1865, when his father was absent from Bangkok, being at Ban Sitha as aforesaid. When his royal father returned from Ban Sitha he arrived at his palace at Bangkok on 6th December. He can only being lifted by two or three men and placed in the presence of his father who was very ill, but the eldest son forenamed prince was little better, so before death of his father as he can be raised to be stood by two men and can cribble slowly on even or level surface, by securing and supporting of two men on both sides. "When his father became worse and approaching the point of death, upon that time his father can see him scarcely; wherefore the Second King, on his being worse, has said to his eldest and second daughters, the half sisters of the eldest son, distempered so as he cannot be in the presence of his father without difficulty, that he (the Second King) forenamed on that time was hopeless and that he could not live more than a few days. He did not wish to do his last will regarding his family and property, particularly as he was strengthless to speak much, and consider anything deeply and accurately: he beg'd to entreat all his sons, daughters, and wives that none should be sorry for his death, which comes by natural course, and should not fear for misery of difficulty after his demise. All should throw themselves under their faithful and affectionate uncle, the Supreme King of Siam, for protection, in whom he had heartfelt confidence that he will do well to his family after his death, as such the action or good protection to several families of other princes and princesses in the royalty, who deceased before. He beg'd only to recommend his sons and daughters, that they should be always honest and faithful to his elder full brother, the Supreme King of Siam, by the same affection as to himself, and that they should have much more affection and respect toward Paternal relative persons in royalty, than toward their maternal relative persons, who are not royal descendants of his ancestors.... "On the 29th December 1865, in the afternoon, the Second King invited His Majesty the Supreme King, his elder full brother, and his Excellency Chow Phya Sri Sury-wongse Samuha P'hra-Kralahome, the Prime Minister, who is the principal head of the Government and royal cousin, to seat themselves near to his side on his bedstead where he lay, and other principals of royalty and nobility, to seat themselves in that room where he was lying, that they might be able to ascertain his speech by hearing. Then he delivered his family and followers and the whole of his property to His Majesty and His Excellency for protection and good decision, according to consequences which they would well observe." Not a word of that royal reconcilement, of that remorseful passion of tears, of that mute mystery of humanity, the secret spell of a burdened mother's love working too late in the hearts, of her headstrong boys! Not a word of that crowning embrace, which made the subordinate king supreme, by the grace of dying and forgiving! XXVI. THE SUPREME KING: HIS CHARACTER AND ADMINISTRATION. OF Somdetch P'hra Paramendr Maha Mongkut, ate Supreme King of Siam, it may safely be said (for all his capricious provocations of temper and his snappish greed of power) that he was, in the best sense of the epithet, the most remarkable of the Oriental princes of the present century,--unquestionably the most progressive of all the supreme rulers of Siam, of whom the native historians enumerate not less than forty, reckoning from the founding of the ancient capital (Ayudia or Ayuo-deva, "the abode of gods") in A.D. 1350. He was the legitimate son of the king P'hra Chow-P'hra Pooti-lootlah, commonly known as Phen-den-Klang; and his mother, daughter of the youngest sister of the King Somdetch P'hra Bouromah Rajah P'hra Pooti Yout Fah, was one of the most admired princesses of her time, and is described as equally beautiful and virtuous. She devoted herself assiduously to the education of her sons, of whom the second, the subject of these notes, was born in 1804; and the youngest, her best beloved, was the late Second King of Siam. One of the first public acts of the King P'hra Pooti-lootlah was to elevate to the highest honors of the state his eldest son (the Chowfa Mongkut), and proclaim him heir-apparent to the throne. He then selected twelve noblemen, distinguished for their attainments, prudence, and virtue,--most conspicuous among them the venerable but energetic Duke Somdetch Ong Yai,--to be tutors and guardians to the lad. By these he was carefully taught in all the learning of his time; Sanskrit and Pali formed his chief study, and from the first he aspired to proficiency in Latin and English, for the pursuit of which he soon found opportunities among the missionaries. His translations from the Sanskrit, Pali, and Magadthi, mark him as an authority among Oriental linguists; and his knowledge of English, though never perfect, became at least extensive and varied; so that he could correspond, with credit to himself, with Englishmen of distinction, such as the Earl of Clarendon and Lords Stanley and Russell. In his eighteenth year he married a noble lady, descended from the Phya Tak Sinn, who bore him two sons. Two years later the throne became vacant by the death of his father; but (as the reader has already learned) his elder half-brother, who, through the intrigues of his mother, had secured a footing in the favor of the Senabawdee, was inducted by that "Royal Council" into power. Unequal to the exploit of unseating the usurper, and fearing his unscrupulous jealousy, the Chowfa Mongkut took refuge in a monastery, and entered the priesthood, leaving his wife and two sons to mourn him as one dead to them. In this self-imposed celibacy he lived throughout the long reign of his half-brother, which lasted twenty-seven years. In the calm retreat of his Buddhist cloister the contemplative tastes of the royal scholar found fresh entertainment, his intellectual aspirations a new incitement. He labored with enthusiasm for the diffusion of religion and enlightenment, and, above all, to promote a higher appreciation of the teachings of Buddha, to whose doctrines lie devoted himself with exemplary zeal throughout his sacerdotal career. From the Buddhist scriptures he compiled with reverent care an impressive liturgy for his own use. His private charities amounted annually to ten thousand ticals. All the fortune he accumulated, from the time of his quitting the court until his return to it to accept the diadem offered by the Senabawdee, he expended either in charitable distributions or in the purchase of books, sacred manuscripts, and relics for his monastery. [Footnote: "On the third reign he [himself] served his eldest royal half-brother, by superintending the construction and revision of royal sacred books in royal libraries: so he was appointed the principal superintendent of clergymen's acts and works of Buddhist religion, and selector of religious learned wise men in the country, during the third reign."--_From the pen of Maha Mongkut_.] It was during his retirement that he wrote that notable treatise in defence of the divinity of the revelations of Buddha, in which he essays to prove that it was the single aim of the great reformer to deliver man from all selfish and carnal passions, and in which he uses these words: "These are the only obstacles in the search for Truth. The most solid wisdom is to know this, and to apply one's self to the conquest of one's self. This it is to become the _enlightened_,--the Buddha!" And he concludes with the remark of Asoka, the Indian king: "That which has been delivered unto us by Buddha, that alone is well said, and worthy of our soul's profoundest homage." In the pursuit of his appointed ends Maha Mongkut was active and pertinacious; no labors wearied him nor pains deterred him. Before the arrival of the Protestant missionaries, in 1820, he had acquired some knowledge of Latin and the sciences from the Jesuits; but when the Protestants came he manifested a positive preference for their methods of instruction, inviting one or another of them daily to his temple, to aid him in the study of English. Finally he placed himself under the permanent tutorship of the Rev. Mr. Caswell, an American missionary; and, in order to encourage his preceptor to visit him frequently, he fitted up a convenient resting-place for him on the route to the temple, where that excellent man might teach the poorer people who gathered to hear him. Under Mr. Caswell he made extraordinary progress in advanced and liberal ideas of government, commerce, even religion. He never hesitated to express his respect for the fundamental principles of Christianity; but once, when pressed too closely by his reverend moonshee with what he regarded as the more pretentious and apocryphal portions of the Bible, he checked that gentleman's advance with the remark that has ever been remembered against him, "_I hate the Bible mostly!_" As High-Priest of Siam--the mystic and potential office to which he was in the end exalted--he became the head of a new school, professing strictly the pure philosophy inculcated by Buddha: "the law of Compensation, of Many Births, and of final Niphan," [Footnote: Attainment of beatitude.]--but not Nihilism, as the word and the idea are commonly defined. It is only to the idea of God as an _ever-active_ Creator that the new school of Buddhists is opposed,--not to the Deity as a primal source, from whose thought and pleasure sprang all forms of matter; nor can they be brought to admit the need of miraculous intervention in the order of nature. In this connection, it may not be out of place to mention a remark that the king (still speaking as a high-priest, having authority) once made to me, on the subject of the miracles recorded in the Bible: "You say that marriage is a holy institution; and I believe it is esteemed a sacrament by one of the principal branches of your sect. It is, of all the laws of the universe, the most wise and incontestable, pervading all forms of animal and vegetable life. Yet your God (meaning the Christian's God) has stigmatized it as unholy, in that he would not permit his Son to be born in the ordinary way; but must needs perform a miracle in order to give birth to one divinely inspired. Buddha was divinely inspired, but he was only _man_. Thus it seems to me he is the greater of the two, because out of his own heart he studied humanity, which is but another form of divinity; and, the carnal mind being by this contemplation subdued, he became the _Divinely Enlightened_." When his teacher had begun to entertain hopes that he would one day become a Christian, he came out openly against the idea, declaring that he entertained no thought of such a change. He admonished the missionaries not to deceive themselves, saying: "You must not imagine that any of my party will ever become Christians. We cannot embrace what we consider a foolish religion." In the beginning of the year 1851 his supreme Majesty, Prabat Somdetch P'hra Nang Klou, fell ill, and gradually declined until the 3d of April, when he expired, and the throne was again vacant. The dying sovereign, forgetting or disregarding his promise to his half-brother, the true heir, had urged with all his influence that the succession should fall to his eldest son; but in the assembly of the Senabawdee, Somdetch Ong Yai (father of the present prime minister of Siam), supported by Somdetch Ong Noi, vehemently declared himself in favor of the high-priest Chowfa Mongkut. This struck terror to the "illegitimates," and mainly availed to quell the rising storm of partisan conflict. Moreover, Ong Yai had taken the precaution to surround the persons of the princes with a formidable guard, and to distribute an overwhelming force of militia in all quarters of the city, ready for instant action at a signal from him. Thus the two royal brothers, with views more liberal, as to religion, education, foreign trade, and intercourse, than the most enlightened of their predecessors had entertained, were firmly seated on the throne as "first" and "second" kings; and every citizen, native or foreign, began to look with confidence for the dawn of better times. Nor did the newly crowned sovereign forget his friends and teachers, the American missionaries. He sent for them, and thanked them cordially for all that they had taught him, assuring them that it was his earnest desire to administer his government after the model of the limited monarchy of England; and to introduce schools, where the Siamese youth might be well taught in the English language and literature and the sciences of Europe. [Footnote: In this connection the Rev. Messrs. Bradley, Caswell, House, Matoon, and Dean are entitled to special mention. To their united influence Siam unquestionably owes much, if not all, of her present advancement and prosperity. Nor would I be thought to detract from the high praise that is due to their fellow-laborers in the cause of Christianity, the Roman Catholic missionaries, who are, and ever have been, indefatigable in their exertions for the good of the country. Especially will the name of the excellent bishop, Monseigneur Pallegoix, be held in honor and affection by people of all creeds and tongues in Siam, as that of a pure and devoted follower of our common Redeemer.] There can be no just doubt that, at the time, it was his sincere purpose to carry these generous impulses into practical effect; for certainly he was, in every moral and intellectual respect, nobly superior to his predecessor, and to his dying hour he was conspicuous for his attachment to a sound philosophy and the purest maxims of Buddha. Yet we find in him a deplorable example of the degrading influence on the human mind of the greed of possessions and power, and of the infelicities that attend it; for though he promptly set about the reforming of abuses in the several departments of his government, and invited the ladies of the American mission to teach in his new harem, nevertheless he soon began to indulge his avaricious and sensual propensities, and cast a jealous eye upon the influence of the prime minister, the son of his stanch old friend, the Duke Ong Yai, to whom he owed almost the crown itself, and of his younger brother, the Second King, and of the neighboring princes of Chiengmai and Cochin China. He presently offended those who, by their resolute display of loyalty in his hour of peril, had seated him safely on the throne of his ancestors. From this time he was continually exposed to disappointment, mortification, slights, from abroad, and conspiracy at home. Had it not been for the steadfast adherence of the Second King and the prime minister, the sceptre would have been wrested from his grasp and bestowed upon his more popular brother. Yet, notwithstanding all this, he appeared, to those who observed him only on the public stage of affairs, to rule with wisdom, to consult the welfare of his subjects, to be concerned for the integrity of justice and the purity of manners and conversation in his own court, and careful, by a prudent administration, to confirm his power at home and his prestige abroad. Considered apart from his domestic relations, he was, in many respects, an able and virtuous ruler. His foreign policy was liberal; he extended toleration to all religious sects; he expended a generous portion of his revenues in public improvements,-- monasteries, temples, bazaars, canals, bridges, arose at his bidding on every side; and though he fell short of his early promise, he did much to improve the condition of his subjects. For example, at the instance of her Britannic Majesty's Consul, the Honorable Thomas George Knox, he removed the heavy boat-tax that had so oppressed the poorer masses of the Siamese, and constructed good roads, and improved the international chambers of judicature. But as husband and kinsman his character assumes a most revolting aspect. Envious, revengeful, subtle, he was as fickle and petulant as he was suspicious and cruel. His brother, even the offspring of his brother, became to him objects of jealousy, if not of hatred. Their friends must, he thought, be his enemies, and applause bestowed upon them was odious to his soul. There were many horrid tragedies in his harem in which he enacted the part of a barbarian and a despot. Plainly, his conduct as the head of a great family to whom his will was a law of terror reflects abiding disgrace upon his name. Yet it had this redeeming feature, that he tenderly loved those of his children whose mothers had been agreeable to him. He never snubbed or slighted them; and for the little princess, Chow Fâ-ying, whose mother had been to him a most gentle and devoted wife, his affection was very strong and enduring. But to turn from the contemplation of his private traits, so contradictory and offensive, to the consideration of his public acts, so liberal and beneficent. Several commercial treaties of the first importance were concluded with foreign powers during his reign. In the first place, the Siamese government voluntarily reduced the measurement duties on foreign shipping from nineteen hundred to one thousand ticals per fathom of ship's beam. This was a brave stride in the direction of a sound commercial policy, and an earnest of greater inducements to enterprising traders from abroad. In 1855 a new treaty of commerce was negotiated with his Majesty's government by H.B.M.'s plenipotentiary, Sir John Bowring, which proved of very positive advantage to both parties. On the 29th of May, 1856, a new treaty, substantially like that with Great Britain, was procured by Townsend Harris, Esq., representing the United States; and later in the same year still another, in favor of France, through H. I. M.'s Envoy, M. Montigny. Before that time Portugal had been the only foreign government having a consul residing at Bangkok. Now the way was opened to admit a resident consul of each of the treaty powers; and shortly millions of dollars flowed into Siam annually by channels through which but a few tens of thousands had been drawn before. Foreign traders and merchants flocked to Bangkok and established rice-mills, factories for the production of sugar and oil, and warehouses for the importation of European fabrics. They found a ready market for their wares, and an aspect of thrift and comfort began to enliven the once neglected and cheerless land. A new and superb palace was erected, after the model of Windsor Castle, together with numerous royal residences in different parts of the country. The nobility began to emulate the activity and munificence of their sovereign, and to compete with each other in the grandeur of their dwellings and the splendor of their _cortéges_. So prosperous did the country become under the benign influence of foreign trade and civilization, that other treaties were speedily concluded with almost every nation under the sun, and his Majesty found it necessary to accredit Sir John Bowring as plenipotentiary for Siam abroad. Early in this reign the appointment of harbor-master at Bangkok was conferred upon an English gentleman, who proved so efficient in his functions that he was distinguished with the fifth title of a Siamese noble. Next came a French commander and a French band-master for the royal troops. Then a custom-house was established, and a "live Yankee" installed at the head of it, who was also glorified with a title of honor. Finally a police force was organized, composed of trusty Malays hired from Singapore, and commanded by one of the most energetic Englishmen to be found in the East,--a measure which has done more than all others to promote a comfortable sense of "law and order" throughout the city and outskirts of Bangkok. It is to be remembered, however, in justice to the British Consul-General in Siam, Mr. Thomas George Knox, that the sure though silent influence was his, whereby the minds of the king and the prime minister were led to appreciate the benefits that must accrue from these foreign innovations. The privilege of constructing, on liberal terms, a line of telegraph through Maulmain to Singapore, with a branch to Bangkok, has been granted to the Singapore Telegraph Company; and finally a sanitarium has been erected on the coast at Anghin, for the benefit of native and foreign residents needing the invigoration of sea-air. [Footnote: "His Excellency Chow Phya Bhibakrwongs Maha Kosa Dhipude, the P'hraklang, Minister for Foreign Affairs, has built a sanitarium at Anghin for the benefit of the public. It is for benefit of the Siamese, Europeans, or Americans, to go and occupy, when unwell, to restore their health. All are cordially invited to go there for a suitable length of time and be happy; but are requested not to remain month after month and year after year, and regard it as a place without an owner. To regard it in this way cannot be allowed, for it is public property, and others should go and stop there also."--_Advertisement, Siam Monitor_, August 29, 1868.] During his retirement in the monastery the king had a stroke of paralysis, from which he perfectly recovered; but it left its mark on his face, in the form of a peculiar falling of the under lip on the right side. In person he was of middle stature, slightly built, of regular features and fair complexion. In early life he lost most of his teeth, but he had had them replaced with a set made from sapan-wood,--a secret that he kept very sensitively to the day of his death. Capable at times of the noblest impulses, he was equally capable of the basest actions. Extremely accessible to praise, he indiscriminately entertained every form of flattery; but his fickleness was such that no courtier could cajole him long. Among his favorite women was the beautiful Princess Tongoo Soopia, sister to the unfortunate Sultan Mahmoud, ex-rajah of Pahang. Falling fiercely in love with her on her presentation at his court, he procured her for his harem against her will, and as a hostage for the good faith of her brother; but as she, being Mohammedan, ever maintained toward him a deportment of tranquil indifference, he soon tired of her, and finally dismissed her to a wretched life of obsoleteness and neglect within the palace walls. The only woman who ever managed him with acknowledged edged success was Khoon Chom Piem: hardly pretty, but well formed, and of versatile tact, totally uneducated, of barely respectable birth,--being Chinese on her father's side,--yet withal endowed with a nice intuitive appreciation of character. Once conscious of her growing influence over the king, she contrived to foster and exercise it for years, with but a slight rebuff now and then. Being modest to a fault, even at times obnoxious to the imputation of prudishness, she habitually feigned excuses for non-attendance in his Majesty's chambers,--such as delicate health, the nursing of her children, mourning for the death of this or that relative,--and voluntarily visited him only at rare intervals. In the course of six years she amassed considerable treasure, procured good places at court for members of her family, and was the means of bringing many Chinamen to the notice of the king. At the same time she lived in continual fear, was warily humble and conciliating toward her rival sisters, who pitied rather than envied her, and retained in her pay most of the female executive force in the palace. In his daily habits his Majesty was remarkably industrious and frugal. His devotion to the study of astronomy never abated, and he calculated with respectable accuracy the great solar eclipse of August, 1868. The French government, having sent a special commission, under command of the Baron Hugon le Tourneur, to observe the eclipse in Siam, the king erected, at a place called _Hua Wânn_ ("The Whale's Head"), a commodious observatory, besides numerous pavilions varying in size and magnificence, for his Majesty and retinue, the French commission, the Governor of Singapore (Colonel Ord) and suite, who had been invited to Bangkok by the king, and for ministers and nobles of Siam. Provision was made, at the cost of government, for the regal entertainment, in a town of booths and tabernacles, of the vast concourse of natives and Europeans who followed his Majesty from the capital to witness the sublime phenomenon; and a herd of fifty noble elephants were brought from the ancient city of Ayudia for service and display. The prospect becoming dubious and gloomy just at the time of first contact (ten o'clock), the prime minister archly invited the foreigners who believed in an overruling Providence to pray to him "that he may be pleased to disperse the clouds long enough to afford us a good view of the grandest of eclipses." Presently the clouds were partially withdrawn from the sun, and his Majesty observing that one twentieth of the disk was obscured, announced the fact to his own people by firing a cannon; and immediately pipes screamed and trumpets blared in the royal pavilion,--a tribute of reverence to the traditional fable about the Angel Rahoo swallowing the sun. Both the king and prime minister, scorning the restraints of dignity, were fairly boisterous in their demonstrations of triumph and delight; the latter skipping from point to point to squint through his long telescope. At the instant of absolute totality, when the very last ray of the sun had become extinct, his Excellency shouted, "Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!" and scientifically disgraced himself. Leaving his spyglass swinging, he ran through the gateway of his pavilion, and cried to his prostate wives, "Henceforth will you not believe the foreigner." But that other Excellency, Chow Phya Bhudharabhay, Minister for Northern Siam, more orthodox, sat in dumfoundered faith, and gaped at the awful deglutition of the Angel Rahoo. The government expended not less than a hundred thousand dollars on this scientific expedition, and a delegation from the foreign community of Bangkok approached his Majesty with an address of thanks for his indiscriminate hospitality. But the extraordinary excitement, and exposure to the noxious atmosphere of the jungle, proved inimical to the constitution of the king. On his return to Bangkok he complained of general weariness and prostration, which was the prelude to fever. Foreign physicians were consulted, but at no stage of the case was any European treatment employed. He rapidly grew worse, and was soon past saving. On the day before his death he called to his bedside his nearest relatives, and parted among them such of his personal effects as were most prized by him, saying, "I have no more need of these things. I must give up my life also." Buddhist priests were constant in attendance, and he seemed to derive much comfort from their prayers and exhortations. In the evening he wrote with his own hand a tender farewell to the mothers of his many children,--eighty-one in number. On the morning of his last day (October 1, 1868) he dictated in the Pali language a farewell address to the Buddhist priesthood, the spirit of which was admirable, and clearly manifested the faith of the dying man in the doctrines of the Reformer; for he hesitated not to say: "Farewell, ye faithful followers of Buddha, to whom death is nothing, even as all earthly existence is vain, all things mutable, and death inevitable. Presently I shall myself submit to that stern necessity. Farewell! for I go only a little before you." Feeling sure that he must die before midnight, he summoned his half-brother, H. R. H. Krom Hluang Wongse, his Excellency the prime minister, Chow Phya Kralahome, and others, and solemnly imposed upon them the care of his eldest son, the Chowfa Chulalonkorn, and of his kingdom; at the same time expressing his last earthly wish, that the Senabawdee, in electing his successor, would give their voices for one who should conciliate all parties, that the country might not be distracted by dissensions on that question. He then told them he was about to finish his course, and implored them not to give way to grief, "nor to any sudden surprise," that he should leave them thus; "'tis an event that must befall all creatures that come into this world, and may not be avoided." Then turning his gaze upon a small image of his adored teacher, he seemed for some time absorbed in awful contemplation. "Such is life!" Those were actually the last words of this most remarkable Buddhist king. He died like a philosopher, calmly and sententiously soliloquizing on death and its inevitability. At the final moment, no one being near save his adopted son, Phya Buroot, he raised his hands before his face, as in his accustomed posture of devotion; then suddenly his head dropped backward, and he was gone. That very night, without disorder or debate, the Senabawdee elected his eldest son, Somdetch Chowfa Chulalonkorn, to succeed him; and the Prince George Washington, eldest son of the late Second King, to succeed to his father's subordinate throne, under the title of Krom P'hra Raja Bowawn Shathan Mongkoon. The title of the present supreme king (my amiable and very promising scholar) is Prabat Somdetch P'hra Paramendr Maha Chulalonkorn Kate Klou Chow-yu-Hua. About a year after my first ill-omened interviews with Maha Mongkut, and when I had become permanently installed in my double office of teacher and scribe, I was one day busy with a letter from his Majesty to the Earl of Clarendon, and finding that any attempt at partial correction would but render his meaning more ambiguous, and impair the striking originality of his style, I had abandoned the effort, and set about copying it with literal exactness, only venturing to alter here and there a word, such as "I hasten with _wilful_ pleasure to write in reply to your Lordship's _well-wishing_ letter," etc. Whilst I was thus evolving from the depths of my inner consciousness a satisfactory solution to this conundrum in King's English, his Majesty's private secretary lolled in the sunniest corner of the room, stretching his dusky limbs and heavily nodding, in an ecstasy of ease-taking. Poor P'hra-Alâck! I never knew him to be otherwise than sleepy, and his sleep was always stolen. For his Majesty was the most capricious of kings as to his working moods,--busy when the average man should be sleeping, sleeping while letters, papers, despatches, messengers, mail-boats waited. More than once had we been aroused at dead of night by noisy female slaves, and dragged in hot haste and consternation to the Hall of Audience, only to find that his Majesty was, not at his last gasp, as we had feared, but simply bothered to find in Webster's Dictionary some word that was to be found nowhere but in his own fertile brain; or perhaps in excited chase of the classical term for some trifle he was on the point of ordering from London,--and that word was sure to be a stranger to my brain. Before my arrival in Bangkok it had been his not uncommon practice to send for a missionary at midnight, have him beguiled or abducted from his bed, and conveyed by boat to the palace, some miles up the river, to inquire if it would not be more elegant to write _murky_ instead of _obscure_, or _gloomily dark_ rather than _not clearly apparent_. And if the wretched man should venture to declare his honest preference for the ordinary over the extraordinary form of expression, he was forthwith dismissed with irony, arrogance, or even insult, and without a word of apology for the rude invasion of his rest. One night, a little after twelve o'clock, as he was on the point of going to bed like any plain citizen of regular habits, his Majesty fell to thinking how most accurately to render into English the troublesome Siamese word _phi_, which admits of a variety of interpretations. [Footnote: Ghost, spirit, soul, devil, evil angel.] After puzzling over it for more than an hour, getting himself possessed with the word as with the devil it stands for, and all to no purpose, he ordered one of his lesser state barges to be manned and despatched with all speed for the British Consul. That functionary, inspired with lively alarm by so startling a summons, dressed himself with unceremonious celerity, and hurried to the palace, conjecturing on the way all imaginable possibilities of politics and diplomacy, revolution or invasion. To his vexation, not less than his surprise, he found the king in dishabille, engaged with a Siamese-English vocabulary, and mentally divided between "deuce" and "devil," in the choice of an equivalent. His preposterous Majesty gravely laid the case before the consul, who, though inwardly chafing at what he termed "the confounded coolness" of the situation, had no choice but to decide with grace, and go back to bed with philosophy. No wonder, then, that P'hra-Alâck experienced an access of gratitude for the privilege of napping for two hours in a snuggery of sunshine. "Mam-kha," [Footnote: Kha, "your slave."] he murmured drowsily, "I hope that in the Chat-Nah [Footnote: The next state of existence.] I shall be a freed man." "I hope so sincerely, P'hra-Alâck," said I. "I hope you'll be an Englishman or an American, for then you'll be sure to be independent." It was impossible not to pity the poor old man,--stiff with continual stooping to his task, and so subdued!--liable not only to be called at any hour of the day or night, but to be threatened, cuffed, kicked, beaten on the head, [Footnote: The greatest indignity a Siamese can suffer.] every way abused and insulted, and the next moment to be taken into favor, confidence, bosom-friendship, even as his Majesty's mood might veer. Alack for P'hra-Alâck! though usually he bore with equal patience his greater and his lesser ills, there were occasions that sharply tried his meekness, when his weak and goaded nature revolted, and he rushed to a snug little home of his own, about forty yards from the Grand Palace, there to snatch a respite of rest and refreshment in the society of his young and lately wedded wife. Then the king would awake and send for him, whereupon he would be suddenly ill, or not at home, strategically hiding himself under a mountain of bedclothes, and detailing Mrs. P'hra-Alâck to reconnoitre and report. He had tried this primitive trick so often that its very staleness infuriated the king, who invariably sent officers to seize the trembling accomplice and lock her up in a dismal cell as a hostage for the scribe's appearance. At dusk the poor fellow would emerge, contrite and terrified, and prostrate himself at the gate of the palace. Then his Majesty (who, having spies posted in every quarter of the town, knew as well as P'hra-Alâck himself what the illness or the absence signified) leisurely strolled forth, and, finding the patient on the threshold, flew always into a genuine rage, and prescribed "decapitation on the spot," and "sixty lashes on the bare back," both in the same breath. And while the attendants flew right and left,--one for the blade, another for the thong,--the king, still raging, seized whatever came most handy, and belabored his bosom-friend on the head and shoulders. Having thus summarily relieved his mind, he despatched the royal secretary for his ink-horn and papyrus, and began inditing letters, orders, appointments, before scymitar or lash (which were ever tenderly slow on these occasions) had made its appearance. Perhaps in the very thick of his dictating he would remember the connubial accomplice, and order his people to "release her, and let her go." Slavery in Siam is the lot of men of a much finer intellectual type than any who have been its victims in modern times in societies farther west. P'hra-Alâck had been his Majesty's slave when they were boys together. Together they had played, studied, and entered the priesthood. At once bondman, comrade, classmate, and confidant, he was the very man to fill the office of private secretary to his royal crony. Virgil made a slave of his a poet, and Horace was the son of an emancipated slave. The Roman leech and chirurgeon were often slaves; so, too, the preceptor and the pedagogue, the reader and the player, the clerk and the amanuensis, the singer, the dancer, the wrestler, and the buffoon, the architect, the smith, the weaver, and the shoemaker; even the _armiger_ or squire was a slave. Educated slaves exercised their talents and pursued their callings for the emolument of their masters; and thus it is to-day in Siam. _Mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur_, P'hra-Alâck! The king's taste for English composition had, by much exercise, developed itself into a passion. In the pursuit of it he was indefatigable, rambling, and petulant. He had "Webster's Unabridged" on the brain,--an exasperating form of king's evil. The little dingy slips that emanated freely from the palace press were as indiscriminate as they were quaint. No topic was too sublime or too ignoble for them. All was "copy" that came to those cases,-from the glory of the heavenly bodies to the nuisance of the busybodies who scolded his Majesty through the columns of the Bangkok Recorder. I have before me, as I write, a circular from his pen, and in the type of his private press, which, being without caption or signature, may be supposed to be addressed "to all whom it may concern." The American missionaries had vexed his exact scholarship by their peculiar mode of representing in English letters the name of a native city (_Prippri_, or in Sanskrit _Bejrepuri_). Whence this droll circular, which begins with a dogmatic line:-- "None should write the name of city of Prippri thus--P'et cha poory." Then comes a pedantic demonstration of the derivation of the name from a compound Sanskrit word, signifying "Diamond City." And the document concludes with a characteristic explosion of impatience, at once critical, royal, and anecdotal: "Ah! what the Romanization of American system that P'etch' abury will be! Will whole human learned world become the pupil of their corrupted Siamese teachers? It is very far from correctness. Why they did not look in journal of Royal Asiatic Society, where several words of Sanskrit and Pali were published continually? Their Siamese priestly teachers considered all Europeans as very heathen; to them far from sacred tongue, and were glad to have American heathens to become their scholars or pupils; they thought they have taught sacred language to the part of heathen; in fact, they themselves are very far from sacred language, being sunk deeply in corruption of sacred and learned language, for tongue of their former Laos and Cambodian teachers, and very far from knowledge of Hindoostanee, Cinghalese, and Royal Asiatic Society's knowledge in Sanskrit, as they are considered by such the Siamese teachers as heathen; called by them Mit ch'a thi-thi, &c., &c., i.e. wrongly seer or spectator, &c., &c." In another slip, which is manifestly an outburst of the royal petulance, his Majesty demands, in a "displayed" paragraph:-- "Why name of Mr. Knox [Thomas George Knox, Esq., British Consul] was not published thus: Missa Nok or Nawk. If name of Chow Phya Bhudharabhay is to be thus: P'raya P'oo t'a ra P'ie. And why the London was not published thus: Lundun or Landan, if Bejrepuri is to be published P'etch' abury." In the same slip with the philological protest the following remarkable paragraphs appear:-- "What has been published in No. 25 of Bangkok Recorder thus:-- "'The king of Siam, on reading from some European paper that the Pope had lately suffered the loss of some precious jewels, in consequence of a thief having got possession of his Holiness' keys, exclaimed, "What a man! professing to keep the keys of Heaven, and cannot even keep his own keys!"' "The king on perusal thereof denied that it is false. He knows nothing about his Holiness the Pope's sustaining loss of gems, &c., and has said nothing about religious faith." This is curious, in that it exposes the king's unworthy fear of the French priesthood in Siam. The fact is that he did make the rather smart remark, in precisely these words: "Ah! what a man! professing to keep the keys of Heaven, and not able to guard those of his own bureau!" and he was quite proud of his hit. But when it appeared in the Recorder, he thought it prudent to bar it with a formal denial. Hence the politic little item which he sent to all the foreigners in Bangkok, and especially to the French priests. His Majesty's mode of dealing with newspaper strictures (not always just) and suggestions (not always pertinent) aimed at his administration of public affairs, or the constitution and discipline of his household, was characteristic. He snubbed them with sententious arrogance, leavened with sarcasm. When the Recorder recommended to the king the expediency of dispersing his Solomonic harem, and abolishing polygamy in the royal family, his Majesty retorted with a verbal message to the editor, to the purport that "when the Recorder shall have dissuaded princes and noblemen from offering their daughters to the king as concubines, the king will cease to receive contributions of women in that capacity." In August, 1865, an angry altercation occurred in the Royal Court of Equity (sometimes styled the International Court) between a French priest and Phya Wiset, a Siamese nobleman, of venerable years, but positive spirit and energy. The priest gave Phya Wiset the lie, and Phya Wiset gave it back to the priest, whereupon the priest became noisy. Afterward he reported the affair to his consul at Bangkok, with the embellishing statement that not only himself, but his religion, had been grossly insulted. The consul, one Monsieur Aubaret, a peppery and pugnacious Frenchman, immediately made a demand upon his Majesty for the removal of Phya Wiset from office. This despatch was sent late in the evening by the hand of Monsieur Lamarche, commanding the troops at the royal palace; and that officer had the consul's order to present it summarily. Lamarche managed to procure admittance to the penetralia, and presented the note at two o'clock in the morning, in violation of reason and courtesy as well as of rules, excusing himself on the ground that the despatch was important and his orders peremptory. His Majesty then read the despatch, and remarked that the matter should be disposed of "to-morrow." Lamarche replied, very presumptuously, that the affair required no investigation, as _he_ had heard the offensive language of Phya Wiset, and that person must be deposed without ceremony. Whereupon his Majesty ordered the offensive foreigner to leave the palace. Lamarche repaired forthwith to the consul, and reported that the king had spoken disrespectfully, not only of his Imperial Majesty's consul, but of the Emperor himself, besides outrageously insulting a French messenger. Then the fire-eating functionary addressed another despatch to his Majesty, the purport of which was, that, in expelling Lamarche from the palace, the King of Siam had been guilty of a political misdemeanor, and had rudely disturbed the friendly relations existing between France and Siam; that he should leave Bangkok for Paris, and in six weeks lay his grievance before the Emperor; but should first proceed to Saigon, and engage the French admiral there to attend to any emergency that might arise in Bangkok. His Majesty, who knew how to confront the uproar of vulgarity and folly with the repose of wisdom and dignity, sent his own cousin, the Prince Mom Rachoday, Chief Judge of the Royal Court of Equity, to M. Aubaret, to disabuse his mind, and impart to him all the truth of the case. But the "furious Frank" seized the imposing magnate by the hair, drove him from his door, and flung his betel-box after him,--a reckless impulse of outrage as monstrous as the most ingenious and deliberate brutality could have devised. Rudely to seize a Siamese by the hair is an indignity as grave as to spit in the face of a European; and the betel- box, beside being a royal present, was an essential part of the insignia of the prince's judicial office. On a later occasion this same Aubaret seized the opportunity a royal procession afforded to provoke the king to an ill-timed discussion of politics, and to prefer an intemperate complaint against the Kralahome, or prime minister. This characteristic flourish of ill temper and bad manners, from the representative of the politest of nations, naturally excited lively indignation and disgust among all respectable dwellers, native or foreign, near the court, and a serious disturbance was imminent. But a single dose of the King's English sufficed to soothe the spasmodic official, and reduce him to "a sense of his situation." "TO THE HON. THE MONSIEUR AUBARET, _the Consul for H.I.M._ "SIR:--The verbal insult or bad words without any step more over from lower or lowest person is considered very slight & inconsiderable. "The person standing on the surface of the ground or floor Cannot injure the heavenly bodies or any highly hanging Lamp or glope by ejecting his spit from his mouth upward it will only injure his own face without attempting of Heavenly bodies--&c. "The Siamese are knowing of being lower than heaven do not endeavor to injure heavenly bodies with their spit from mouth. "A person who is known to be powerless by every one, as they who have no arms or legs to move oppose or injure or deaf or blind &c. &c. cannot be considered and said that they are our enemies even for their madness in vain--it might be considered as easily agitation or uneasiness. "Persons under strong desires without any limit or acting under illimited anger sometimes cannot be believed at once without testimony or witness if they stated against any one verbally from such the statements of the most desirous or persons most illimitedly angry hesitation and mild enquiry is very prudent from persons of considerable rank." _No signature._ Never were simplicity with shrewdness, and unconscious humor with pathos, and candor with irony, and political economy with the sense of an awful bore, more quaintly blended than in the following extraordinary hint, written and printed by his Majesty, and freely distributed for the snubbing of visionary or speculative adventurers: "NOTICE. "When the general rumor was and is spread out from Siam, circulated among the foreigners to Siam, chiefly Europeans, Chinese, &c, in three points:-- "1. That Siam is under quite absolute Monarchy. Whatever her Supreme Sovereign commanded, allowed, &c all cannot be resisted by any one of his Subjects. "2. The Treasury of the Sovereign of Siam, was full for money, like a mountain of gold and silver; Her Sovereign most wealthy. "3. The present reigning Monarch of Siam is shallow minded and admirer of almost everything of curiosity, and most admirer of European usages, customs, sciences, arts and literature &c, without limit. He is fond of flattering term and ambitious of honor, so that there are now many opportunities and operations to be embraced for drawing great money from Royal Treasury of Siam, &c. "The most many foreigners being under belief of such general rumour, were endeavoring to draw money from him in various operations, as aiming him with valuable curiosities and expectations of interest, and flattering him, to be glad of them, and deceiving him in various ways; almost on every opportunity of Steamer coming to Siam, various foreigners partly known to him and acquainted with him, and generally unknown to him, boldly wrote to him in such the term of various application and treatment, so that he can conclude that the chief object of all letters written to him, is generally to draw money from him, even unreasonable. Several instances and testimonies can be shown for being example on this subject--the foreigners letters addressed to him, come by every one steamer of Siam, and of foreign steamers visiting Siam; 10 and 12 at least and 40 at highest number, urging him in various ways; so he concluded that foreigners must consider him only as a mad king of a wild land! "He now states that he cannot be so mad more, as he knows and observes the consideration of the foreigners towards him. Also he now became of old age,[Footnote: He was sixty-two at this time.] and was very sorry to lose his principal members of his family namely, his two Queens, twice, and his younger brother the late Second King, and his late second son and beloved daughter, and moreover now he fear of sickness of his eldest son, he is now unhappy and must solicit his friends in correspondence and others who please to write for the foresaid purpose, that they should know suitable reason in writing to him, and shall not urge him as they would urge a madman! And the general rumours forementioned are some exaggerated and some entirely false; they shall not believe such the rumours, deeply and ascertainedly. "ROYAL RESIDENCE GRAND PALACE BANGKOK 2nd July 1867." And now observe with, what gracious ease this most astute and discriminating prince could fit his tone to the sense of those who, familiar with his opinions, and reconciled to his temper and his ways, however peculiar, could reciprocate the catholicity of his sympathies, and appreciate his enlightened efforts to fling off that tenacious old-man-of-the-sea custom, and extricate himself from the predicament of conflicting responsibilities. To these, on the Christian New Year's day of 1867, he addressed this kindly greeting:-- "S.P.P.M. MONGKUT: "Called in Siamese 'P'hra-Chomklau chao-yuhua' in Magadhi or language of Pali 'Siamikanam Maha Rajah,' In Latin 'Rex Siamensium,' In French 'Le Roi de Siam,' In English 'The King of Siam' and in Malayan 'Rajah Maha Pasah' &c. "Begs to present his respectful and regardful compliments and congratulations in happy lives during immediately last year, and wishes the continuing thereof during the commencing New Year, and ensuing and succeeding many years, to his foreign friends, both now in Siam namely, the functionary and acting Consuls and consular officers of various distinguished nations in Treaty Power with Siam and certain foreign persons under our salary, in service in any manner here, and several Gentlemen and Ladies who are resident in Siam in various stations: namely, the Priests, Preachers of religion, Masters and Mistresses of Schools, Workmen and Merchants, &c, and now abroad in various foreign countries and ports, who are our noble and common friends, acquainted either by ever having had correspondences mutually with us some time, at any where and remaining in our friendly remembrance or mutual remembrance, and whosoever are in service to us as our Consuls, vice consuls and consular assistants, in various foreign ports. Let them know our remembrance and good wishes toward them all. * * * * * "Though we are not Christians, the forenamed King was glad to arrive this day in his valued life, as being the 22,720th day of his age, during which he was aged sixty-two years and three months, and being the 5,711th day of his reign, during which he reigned upon his kingdom 15 years and 8 months up to the current month. "In like manner he was very glad to see & know and hope for all his Royal Family, kindred and friends of both native and foreign, living near and far to him had arrived to this very remarkable anniversary of the commencement of Solar Year in Anno Christi 1867. "In their all being healthy and well living like himself, he begs to express his royal congratulation and respect and graceful regards to all his kindred friends both native and foreign, and hopes to receive such the congratulation and expression of good wishes toward him and members of his family in very like manner, as he trusts that the amity and grace to one another of every of human beings who are innocent, is a great merit, and is righteous and praiseworthy in religious system of all civil religion, and best civilized laws and morality, &c. "Given at the Royal Audience Hall, 'Anant Samagome' Grand Palace, Bangkok," etc., etc. * * * * * The remoter provinces of Siam constitute a source of continual anxiety and much expense to the government; and to his Majesty (who, very conscious of power, was proud to be able to say that the Malayan territories and rajahs--Cambodia, with her marvellous cities, palaces, and temples, once the stronghold of Siam's most formidable and implacable foes; the Laos country, with its warlike princes and chiefs--were alike dependencies and tributaries of his crown) it was intolerably irritating to find Cambodia rebellious. So long as his government could successfully maintain its supremacy there, that country formed a sort of neutral ground between his people and the Cochin-Chinese; a geographical condition which was not without its political advantages. But now the unscrupulous French had strutted upon the scene, and with a flourish of diplomacy and a stroke of the pen appropriated to themselves the fairest portion of that most fertile province. His Majesty, though secretly longing for the intervention and protection of England, was deterred by his almost superstitious fear of the French from complaining openly. But whenever he was more than commonly annoyed by the pretensions and aggressive epistles of his Imperial Majesty's consul he sent for me,--thinking, like all Orientals, that, being English, my sympathy for him, and my hatred of the French, were jointly a foregone conclusion. When I would have assured him that I was utterly powerless to help him, he cut me short with a wise whisper to "consult Mr. Thomas George Knox"; and when I protested that that gentleman was too honorable to engage in a secret intrigue against a colleague, even for the protection of British interests in Siam, he would rave at my indifference, the cupidity of the French, the apathy of the English, and the fatuity of all geographers in "setting down" the form of government in Siam as an "absolute monarchy." "_I_ an absolute monarch! For I have no power over French. Siam is like a mouse before an elephant! Am I an absolute monarch? What shall you consider me?" Now, as I considered him a particularly absolute and despotic king, that was a trying Question; so I discreetly held my peace, fearing less to be classed with those obnoxious savans who compile geographies than to provoke him afresh. "I have no power." he scolded; "I am not absolute! If I point the end of my walking-stick at a man whom, being my enemy, I wish to die, he does not die, but lives on, in spite of my 'absolute' will to the contrary. What does Geographies mean? How can I be an absolute monarchy?" Such a conversation we were having one day as he "assisted" at the founding of a temple; and while he reproached his fate that he was powerless to "point the end of his walking-stick" with absolute power at the peppery and presumptuous Monsieur Aubaret, he vacantly flung gold and silver coins among the work-women. In another moment he forgot all French encroachments, and the imbecility of geographers in general, as his glance chanced to fall upon a young woman of fresh and striking beauty, and delightful piquancy of ways and expression, who with a clumsy club was pounding fragments of pottery--urns, vases, and goglets--for the foundation of the _watt._ Very artless and happy she seemed, and free as she was lovely; but the instant she perceived she had attracted the notice of the king, she sank down and hid her face in the earth, forgetting or disregarding the falling vessels that threatened to crush or wound her. But the king merely diverted himself with inquiring her name and parentage; and some one answering for her, he turned away. Almost to the latest hour of his life his Majesty suffered, in his morbid egotism, various and keen annoyance, by reason of his sensitiveness to the opinions of foreigners, the encroachments of foreign officials, and the strictures of the foreign press. He was agitated by a restless craving for their sympathy on the one hand, and by a futile resentment of their criticisms or their claims on the other. An article in a Singapore paper had administered moral correction to his Majesty on the strength of a rumor that "the king has his eye upon another princess of the highest rank, with a view to constituting her a queen consort." And the Bangkok Recorder had said: "Now, considering that he is full threescore and three years of age, that he has already scores of concubines and about fourscore sons and daughters, with several Chowfas among them, and hence eligible to the highest posts of honor in the kingdom, this rumor seems too monstrous to be credited. But the truth is, there is scarcely anything too monstrous for the royal polygamy of Siam to bring forth." By the light of this explanation the meaning of the following extract from the postscript of a letter which the king wrote in April, 1866, will be clear to the reader, who, at the same time, in justice to me, will remember that by the death of his Majesty, on the 1st of October, 1868, the seal of secrecy was broken. "VERY PRIVATE POST SCRIPT. "There is a newspaper of Singapore entitled Daily News just published after last arrival of the steamer Chowphya in Singapore, in which paper, a correspondence from an Individual resident at Bangkok dated 16th March 1866 was shown, but I have none of that paper in my possession ... I did not noticed its number & date to state to you now, but I trust such the paper must be in hand of several foreigners in Bangkok, may you have read it perhaps--other wise you can obtain the same from any one or by order to obtain from Singapore; after perusal thereof you will not be able to deny my statement forementioned more over as general people both native & foreigners here seem to have less pleasure on me & my descendant, than their pleasure and hope on other amiable family to them until the present day. What was said there in for a princess considered by the Speaker or Writer as proper or suitable to be head on my _harem_ (a room or part for confinement of Women of Eastern monarch) [Footnote: A parenthetical drollery inspired by the dictionary.] there is no least intention occurred to me even once or in my dream indeed! I think if I do so, I will die soon perhaps! * * * * * "This my handwriting or content hereof shall be kept secretly. "I beg to remain "Your faithful & well-wisher "S. P. P. M. MONGKUT E. S. "on 5441th day of reign. "the writer here of beg to place his confidence on you alway." As a true friend to his Majesty, I deplore the weakness which betrayed him into so transparent a sham of virtuous indignation. The "princess of the highest rank," whom the writer of the article plainly meant, was the Princess of Chiengmai; but from lack of accurate information he was misled into confounding her with the Princess Tui Duang Prabha, his Majesty's niece. The king could honestly deny any such intention on his part with regard to his niece; but, at the same time, he well knew that the writer erred only as to the individual, and not as to the main fact of the case. The Princess of Chiengmai was the wife, and the Princess Tui Duang the daughter, of his full brother, the Second King, lately deceased. Much more agreeable is it--to the reader, I doubt not, not less than to the writer--to turn from the king, in the exercise of his slavish function of training honest words to play the hypocrite for ignoble thoughts, to the gentleman, the friend, the father, giving his heart a holiday in the relaxations of simple kindness and free affection,--as in the following note:-- "Dated RANCHAUPURY 34th February 1865. "To LADY L---- & HER SON LUISE, _Bangkok_. "We having very pleasant journey ... to be here which is a township called as above named by men of republick affairs in Siam, & called by common people as 'Parkphrieck' where we have our stay a few days & will take our departure from hence at dawn of next day. We thinking of you both regardfully & beg to send here with some wild aples & barries which are delicate for tasting & some tobacco which were and are principal product of this region for your kind acceptance hoping this wild present will be acceptable to you both. "We will be arrived at our home Bangkok on early part of March. "We beg to remain "Your faithful "S. P. P. M. MONGKUT E. S. "in 5035th day of reign. "And your affectionate pupils "YING YULACKS. MANEABHADAHORN. SOMDETCH CHOWFA CHULALONKORK [Footnote: The present king.] KRITAHINIHAR. PRABHASSOR. SOMAWATI." XXVII. MY RETIREMENT FROM THE PALACE. In 1864 I found that my labors had greatly increased; I had often to work till ten o'clock at night to accomplish the endless translations required of me. I also began to perceive how continually and closely I was watched, but how and by whom it seemed impossible to discover. Among the inducements to me to accept the position of teacher to the royal family was his Majesty's assurance, that, if I gave satisfaction, he would increase my salary after a year's trial. Nearly three years had passed when I first ventured to remind the king of this promise. To my astonishment he bluntly informed me that I had not given satisfaction, that I was "difficult" and unmanageable, "more careful about what was right and what was wrong than for the obedience and submission." And as to salary, he continued: "Why you should be poor? You come into my presence every day with some petition, some case of hardship or injustice, and you demand 'your Majesty shall most kindly investigate, and cause redress to be made'; and I have granted to you because you are important to me for translations, and so forth. And now you declare you must have increase of salary! Must you have everything in this world? Why you do not make _them_ pay you? If I grant you all your petition for the poor, you ought to be rich, or you have no wisdom." At a loss what answer to make to this very unsympathetic view of my conduct, I quietly returned to my duties, which, grew daily in variety and responsibility. What with translating, correcting, copying, dictating, reading, I had hardly a moment I could call my own; and if at any time I rebelled, I brought down swift vengeance on the head of the helpless native secretary. But it was my consolation to know that I could befriend the women and children of the palace, who, when they saw that I was not afraid to oppose the king in his more outrageous caprices of tyranny, imagined me endued with supernatural powers, and secretly came to me with their grievances, in full assurance that sooner or later I would see them redressed. And so, with no intention on my part, and almost without my own consent, I suffered myself to be set up between the oppressor and the oppressed. From that time I had no peace. Day after day I was called upon to resist the wanton cruelty of judges and magistrates, till at last I found myself at feud with the whole "San Luang." In cases of torture, imprisonment, extortion, I tried again and again to excuse myself from interfering, but still the mothers or sisters prevailed, and I had no choice left but to try to help them. Sometimes I sent Boy with my clients, sometimes I went myself; and in no single instance was justice granted from a sense of right, but always through fear of my supposed influence with the king. My Siamese and European friends said I was amassing a fortune. It seemed not worth my while to contradict them, though the inference was painful to me, for in truth my championship was not purely disinterested; I suffered from continual contact with the sufferings of others, and came to the rescue in self-defence and in pity for myself not less than for them. A Chinaman had been cruelly murdered and robbed by a favorite slave in the household of the prime minister's brother, leaving the brother, wife, and children of the victim in helpless poverty and terror. The murderer had screened himself and his accomplices by sharing the plunder with his master. The widow cried for redress in vain. The ears of magistrates were stopped against her, and she was too poor to pay her way; but still she went from one court to another, until her importunity irritated the judges, who, to intimidate her, seized her eldest son, on some monstrous pretext, and cast him into prison. This double cruelty completed the despair of the unhappy mother. She came to me fairly frenzied, and "commanded" me to go at once into the presence of the king and demand her stolen child; and then, in a sudden paroxysm of grief, she embraced my knees, wailing, and praying to me to help her. It was not in human nature to reject that maternal claim. With no little trouble I procured the liberation of her son; but to keep him out of harm's way I had to take him into my own home and change his name. I called him Timothy, which by a Chinese abbreviation became Ti. When I went with this woman and the brother of the murdered man to the palace of the premier, we found that distinguished personage half naked and playing chess. Seeing me enter, he ordered one of his slaves to bring him a jacket, into which he thrust his arms, and went on with the game; and not until that was finished did he attend to me. When I explained my errand he seemed vexed, but sent for his brother, had a long talk with him, and concluded by warning my unhappy _protégés_ that if he heard any more complaints from them they should be flogged. Then turning to me with a grim smile, he said: "Chinee too much bother. Good by, sir!" This surprised me exceedingly, for I had often known the premier to award justice in spite of the king. That same evening, as I sat alone in my drawing-room, making notes, as was my custom, I heard a slight noise, as of some one in the room. Looking round, I saw, to my amazement, one of the inferior judges of the prime minister's court crouching by the piano. I asked how he dared to enter my house unannounced. "Mam," said he, "your servants admitted me; they know from whom I come, and would not venture to refuse me. And now it is for you to know that I am here from his Excellency Chow Phya Kralahome, to request you to send in your resignation at the end of this month." "By what authority does he send me this message?" I asked. "I know not; but it were best that you obey." "Tell him," I replied, unable to control my anger at the cowardly trick to intimidate me, "I shall leave Siam when I please, and that no man shall set the time for me." The man departed, cringing and crouching, and excusing himself. This was the same wretch at whose instigation poor Moonshee had been so shamefully beaten. I did not close my eyes that night. Again and again prudence advised me to seek safety in flight, but the argument ended in my turning my back on the timid monitor, and resolving to stay. About three weeks after this occurrence, his Majesty was going on an excursion "up country," and as he wished me to accompany my pupils, the prime minister was required to prepare a cabin for me and my boy on his steamer, the Volant. Before we left the palace one of my anxious friends made me promise her that I would partake of no food nor taste a drop of wine on board the steamer,--an injunction in the sequel easy to fulfil, as our wants were amply provided for at the Grand Palace, where we spent the whole day. But I cite this incident to show the state of mind which led me to prolong my stay, hateful as it had become. After this, affairs in the royal household went smoothly enough for some time; but still my tasks increased, and my health began to fail. When I informed his Majesty that I needed at least a month of rest, and that I thought of making a trip to Singapore, he was so unwilling that I should rate highly the services I rendered him, that he was careful to assure me I had not "favored" him in any way, nor given him satisfaction; and that if I must be idle for a month, he certainly should not pay me for the time; and he kept his word. Nevertheless, while I was at Singapore he wrote to me most kindly, assuring me that his wives and children were anxious for my return. After the sad death of the dear little princess, Chow Fâ-ying, the king had become more cordial; but the labor he imposed upon me was in proportion to the confidence he reposed in me. At times he required of me services, in my capacity of secretary, not to be thought of by a European sovereign; and when I declined to perform them, he would curse me, close the gates of the palace against me, and even subject me to the insults and threats of the parasites and slaves who crawled about his feet. On two occasions--first for refusing to write a false letter to Sir John Bowring, now Plenipotentiary for the Court of Siam in England; and again for declining to address the Earl of Clarendon in relation to a certain British officer then in Siam--he threatened to have me tried at the British Consulate, and was so violent that I was in real fear for my life. For three days I waited, with doors and windows barred, for I knew not what explosion. After the death of the Second King, his Majesty behaved very disgracefully. It was well known that the ladies of the prince's harem were of the most beautiful of the women of Laos, Pegu, and Birmah; above all, the Princess of Chiengmai was famed for her manifold graces of person and character. Etiquette forbade the royal brothers to pry into the constitution of each other's _sérail_, but by means most unworthy of his station, and regardless of the privilege of his brother, Maha Mongkut had learned of the acquisition to the subordinate king's establishment of this celebrated and coveted beauty; and although she was now his legitimate sister-in-law, privately married to the prince, he was not restrained by any scruple of morality or delicacy from manifesting his jealousy and pique. [Footnote: See portrait, Chap. XXV.] Moreover, this disgraceful feeling was fostered by other considerations than those of mere sensuality or ostentation. Her father, the tributary ruler of Chiengmai, had on several occasions confronted his aggressive authority with a haughty and intrepid spirit; and once, when Maha Mongkut required that he should send his eldest son to Bangkok as a hostage for the father's loyalty, and good conduct, the unterrified chief replied that he would be his own hostage. On the summons being repeated in imperative terms, the young prince fled from his father's court and took refuge with the Second King in his stronghold of Ban Sitha, where he was most courteously received and entertained until he found it expedient to seek some securer or less compromising place of refuge. The friendship thus founded between two proud and daring princes soon became strong and enduring, and resulted in the marriage of the Princess Sunartha Vismita (very willingly on her part) to the Second King, about a year before his death. The son of the King of Chiengmai never made his appearance at the court of Siam; but the stout old chief, attended by trusty followers, boldly brought his own "hostage" thither; and Maha Mongkut, though secretly chafing, accepted the situation with a show of graciousness, and overlooked the absence of the younger vassal. With the remembrance of these floutings still galling him, the Supreme King frequently repaired to the Second King's palace on the pretext of arranging certain "family affairs" intrusted to him by his late brother, but in reality to acquaint himself with the charms of several female members of the prince's household; and, scandalous as it should have seemed even to Siamese notions of the divine right of kings, the most attractive and accomplished of those women were quietly transferred to his own harem. For some time I heard nothing more of the Princess of Chiengmai; but it was curious, even amusing, to observe the serene contempt with which the "interlopers" were received by the rival incumbents of the royal gynecium,--especially the Laotian women, who are of a finer type and much handsomer than their Siamese sisters. Meantime his Majesty took up his abode for a fortnight at the Second King's palace, thereby provoking dangerous gossip in his own establishment; so that his "head wife," the Lady Thieng, even made bold to hint that he might come to the fate of his brother, and die by slow poison. His harem was agitated and excited throughout,--some of the women abandoning themselves to unaccustomed and unnatural gayety, while others sent their confidential slaves to consult the astrologers and soothsayers of the court; and by the aid of significant glances and shrugging of shoulders, and interchange of signs and whispers, with feminine telegraphy and secret service, most of those interested arrived at the sage conclusion that their lord had fallen under the spells of a witch or enchantress. Such was the domestic situation when his Majesty suddenly and without warning returned to his palace, but in a mood so perplexing as to surpass all precedent and baffle all tact. I had for some time performed with surprising success a leading part in a pretty little court play, of which the well-meant plot had been devised by the Lady Thieng. Whenever the king should be dangerously enraged, and ready to let loose upon some tender culprit of the harem the monstrous lash or chain, I--at a secret cue from the head wife--was to enter upon his Majesty, book in hand, to consult his infallibility in a pressing predicament of translation into Sanskrit, Siamese, or English. Absurdly transparent as it was,--perhaps the happier for its very childishness,--under cover of this naive device from time to time a hapless girl escaped the fatal burst of his wrath. Midway in the rising storm of curses and abuse he would turn with comical abruptness to the attractive interruption with all the zest of a scholar. I often trembled lest he should see through the thinly covered trick, but he never did. On his return from the prince's palace, however, even this innocent stratagem failed us; and on one occasion of my having recourse to it he peremptorily ordered me away, and forbade my coming into his presence again unless sent for. Daily, after this, one or more of the women suffered from his petty tyranny, cruelty, and spite. On every hand I heard sighs and sobs from young and old; and not a woman there but believed he was bewitched and beside himself. I had struggled through many exacting tasks since I came to Siam, but never any that so taxed my powers of endurance as my duties at this time, in my double office of governess and private secretary to his Majesty. His moods were so fickle and unjust, his temper so tyrannical, that it seemed impossible to please him; from one hour to another I never knew what to expect. And yet he persevered in his studies, especially in his English correspondence, which was ever his solace, his pleasure, and his pride. To an interested observer it might have afforded rare entertainment to note how fluently, though oddly, he spoke and wrote in a foreign language, but for his caprices, which at times were so ridiculous, however, as to be scarcely disagreeable. He would indite letters, sign them, affix his seal, and despatch them in his own mail-bags to Europe, America, or elsewhere; and, months afterward, insist on my writing to the parties addressed, to say that the instructions they contained were _my_ mistake,--errors of translation, transcription, anything but his intention. In one or two instances, finding that the case really admitted of explanation or apology from his Majesty, I slyly so worded my letter, that, without compromising him, I yet managed to repair the mischief he had done. But I felt this could not continue long. Always, on foreign-mail days, I spent from eight to ten hours in this most delicate and vexatious work. At length the crash came. The king had promised to Sir John Bowring the appointment of Plenipotentiary to the Court of France, to negotiate, on behalf of Siam, new treaties concerning the Cambodian possessions. With characteristic irresolution he changed his mind, and decided to send a Siamese Embassy, headed by his Lordship P'hra Nan Why, now known as his Excellency Chow Phya Sri Sury-wongse. No sooner had he entertained this fancy than he sent for me, and coolly directed me to write and explain the matter to Sir John, if possible attributing his new views and purpose to the advice of her Britannic Majesty's Consul; or, if I had scruples on that head, I might say the advice was my own,--or "anything I liked," so that I justified his conduct. At this distance of time I cannot clearly recall all the effect upon my feelings of so outrageous a proposition; but I do remember that I found myself emphatically declining to do "anything of the kind." Then, warned by his gathering rage, I added that I would express to Sir John his Majesty's regrets, but to attribute the blame to those who had had no part in the matter, that I could never do. At this his fury was grotesque. His talent for invective was always formidable, and he tried to overpower me with threats. But a kindred spirit of resistance was aroused in me. I withdrew from the palace, and patiently abided the issue, resolved, in any event, to be firm. His Majesty's anger was without bounds; and in the interval so fraught with anxiety and apprehension to me, when I knew that a considerable party in the palace--judges, magistrates, and officers about the person of the king--regarded me as an eminently proper person to behead or drown, he condescended to accuse me of abstracting a book that he chanced just then to miss from his library, and also of honoring and favoring the British Consul at the expense of his American colleague, then resident at Bangkok. In support of the latter charge, he alleged that I had written the American Consul's name at the bottom of a royal circular, after carefully displaying my own and the British functionary's at the top of it. The circular in question, which had given just umbrage to the American official, was fortunately in the keeping of the Honorable [Footnote: Here the title is Siamese.] Mr. Bush, and was written by the king's own hand, as was well known to all whom it concerned. These charges, with others of a more frivolous nature,--such as disobeying, thwarting, scolding his Majesty, treating him with disrespect, as by standing while he was seated, thinking evil of him, slandering him, and calling him wicked,--the king caused to be reduced to writing and sent to me, with an intimation that I must forthwith acknowledge my ingratitude and guilt, and make atonement by prompt compliance with his wishes. The secretary who brought the document to my house was accompanied by a number of the female slaves of the palace, who besought me, in the name of their mistresses, the wives of the "Celestial Supreme," to yield, and do all that might be required of me. Seeing this shaft miss its mark, the secretary, being a man of resources, produced the other string to his bow. He offered to bribe me, and actually spent two hours in that respectable business; but finally departed in despair, convinced that the amount was inadequate to the cupidity of an insatiable European, and mourning for himself that he must return discomfited to the king. Next morning, my boy and I presented ourselves as usual at the inner gate of the palace leading to the school, and were confronted there by a party of rude fellows and soldiers, who thrust us back with threats, and even took up stones to throw at us. I dare not think what might have been our fate, but for the generous rescue of a crowd of the poorest slaves, who at that hour were waiting for the opening of the gate. These rallied round us, and guarded us back to our home. It was, indeed, a time of terror for us. I felt that my life was in great danger; and so difficult did I find it to prevent the continual intrusion of the rabble, both men and women, into my house, that I had at length to bar my doors and windows, and have double locks and fastenings added. I became nervous and excited as I had never been before. My first impulse was to write to the British Consul and invoke his protection; but that looked cowardly. Nevertheless, I did prepare the letter, ready to be despatched at the first attempt upon our lives or liberty. I wrote also to Mr. Bush, asking him to find without delay the obnoxious circular, and bring it to my house. He came that very evening, the paper in his hand. With infinite difficulty I persuaded the native secretary, whom I had again and again befriended in like extremities, to procure for him an audience with the king. On coming into the presence of his Majesty, Mr. Bush simply handed him the circular, saying, "Mam tells me you wish to see this." The moment the caption of the document met his eye, his Majesty's countenance assumed a blank, bewildered expression peculiar to it, and he seemed to look to my friend for an explanation; but that gentleman had none to offer, for I had made none to him. And to crown all, even as the king was pointing to his brow to signify that he had forgotten having written it, one of the little princesses came crouching and crawling into the room with the missing volume in her hand. It had been found in one of the numerous sleeping-apartments of the king, beside his pillow, just in time! Mr. Bush soon returned, bringing me assurances of his Majesty's cordial reconciliation; but I still doubted his sincerity, and for weeks did not offer to enter the palace. When, however, on the arrival of the Chow Phya steamer with the mail, I was formally summoned by the king to return to my duties, I quietly obeyed, making no allusion to my "bygones." As I sat at my familiar table, copying, his Majesty approached, and addressed me in these words:-- "Mam! you are one great difficulty. I have much pleasure and favor on you, but you are too obstinate. You are not wise. Wherefore are you so difficult? You are only a woman. It is very bad you can be so strong-headed. Will you now have any objection to write to Sir John, and tell him I am his very good friend?" "None whatever," I replied, "if it is to be simply a letter of good wishes on the part of your Majesty." I wrote the letter, and handed it to him for perusal. He was hardly satisfied, for with only a significant grunt he returned it to me, and left the apartment at once,--to vent his spite on some one who had nothing to do with the matter. In due time the following very considerate but significant reply (addressed to his Majesty's "one great difficulty ") was received from Sir John Bowring:-- CLAREMONT, EXETER, 30 June, 1867. DEAR MADAM:--Your letter of 12th May demands from me the attention of a courteous reply. I am quite sure the ancient friendship of the King of Siam would never allow a slight, or indeed an unkindness, to me; and I hope to have opportunities of showing his Majesty that I feel a deep interest in his welfare. As regards the diplomacy of European courts, it is but natural that those associated with them should be more at home, and better able to direct their course, than strangers from a distance, however personally estimable; and though, in the case in question, the mission of a Siamese Ambassador to Paris was no doubt well intended, and could never have been meant to give me annoyance, it was not to be expected he would be placed in that position of free and confidential intercourse which my long acquaintance with public life would enable me to occupy. In remote regions, people with little knowledge of official matters in high quarters often take upon themselves to give advice in great ignorance of facts, and speak very unadvisedly on topics on which their opinions are worthless and their influence valueless. As regards M. Aubaret's offensive proceedings, I doubt not he has received a caution [Footnote: Aubaret, French Consul at Bangkok, whose overbearing conduct has been described elsewhere.] on my representation, and that he, and others of his nation, would not be very willing that the Emperor--an old acquaintance of mine--should hear from my lips what I might have to say. The will of the Emperor is supreme, and I am afraid the Cambodian question is now referred back to Siam. It might have been better for me to have discussed it with his Imperial Majesty. However, the past is past. Personal influence, as you are aware, is not transferable; but when by the proper powers I am placed in a position to act, his Majesty may be assured--as I have assured himself--that his interests will not suffer in my hands. I am obliged to you for the manner in which you have conveyed to me his Majesty's gracious expressions. And you will believe me to be Yours very truly, JOHN BOWRING. No friend of mine knew at that time how hard it was for me to bear up, in the utter loneliness and forlornness of my life, under the load of cares and provocations and fears that gradually accumulated upon me. But ah! if any germ of love and truth fell from my heart into the heart of even the meanest of those wives and concubines and children of a king, if by any word of mine the least of them was won to look up, out of the depths of their miserable life, to a higher, clearer, brighter light than their Buddha casts upon their path, then indeed I did not labor in vain among them. In the summer of 1866 my health suddenly broke down, and for a time, it was thought that I must die. When good Dr. Campbell gave me the solemn warning all my trouble seemed to cease, and but for one sharp pang for my children,--one in England, the other in Siam,--I should have derived pure and perfect pleasure from the prospect of eternal rest, so weary was I of my tumultuous life in the East; and though in the end I regained my strength in a measure, I was no longer able to comply with the pitiless exactions of the king. And so, yielding to the urgent entreaties of my friends, I decided to return to England. It took me half a year to get his Majesty's consent; and it was not without tiresome accusations of ingratitude and idleness that he granted me leave of absence for six months. I had hardly courage to face the women and children the day I told them I was going away. It was hard to be with them; but it seemed cowardly to leave them. For some time most of them refused to believe that I was really going; but when they could doubt no longer, they displayed the most touching tenderness and thoughtfulness. Many sent me small sums of money to help me on the journey. The poorest and meanest slaves brought me rice cakes, dried beans, cocoanuts, and sugar. It was in vain that I assured them I could not carry such things away with me; still the supplies poured in. The king himself, who had been silent and sullen until the morning of my departure, relented when the time came to say good by. He embraced Boy with cordial kindness, and gave him a silver buckle, and a bag containing a hundred dollars to buy sweetmeats on the way. Then turning to me, he said (as if forgetting himself): "Mam! you much beloved by our common people, and all inhabitants of palace and royal children. Every one is in affliction of your departure; and even that opium-eating secretary, P'hra-Alâck, is very low down in his heart because you will go. It shall be because you must be a good and true lady. I am often angry on you, and lose my temper, though I have large respect for you. But nevertheless you ought to know you are difficult woman, and more difficult than generality. But you will forget, and come back to my service, for I have more confidence on you every day. Good by!" I could not reply; my eyes filled with tears. Then came the parting with my pupils, the women and the children. That was painful enough, even while the king was present; but when he abruptly withdrew, great was the uproar. What could I do, but stand still and submit to kisses, embraces, reproaches, from princesses and slaves? At last I rushed through the gate, the women screaming after me, "Come back!" and the children, "Don't go!" I hurried to the residence of the heir-apparent, to the most trying scene of all. His regret seemed too deep for words, and the few he did utter were very touching. Taking both my hands and laying his brow upon them, he said, after a long interval of silence, "_Mam cha klap ma thort!_"--"Mam dear, come back, please!" "Keep a brave and true heart, my prince!" was all that I could say; and my last "God bless _you!_" was addressed to the royal palace of Siam. To this young prince, Chowfa Chulalonkorn, I was strongly attached. He often deplored with me the cruelty with which the slaves were treated, and, young as he was, did much to inculcate kindness toward them among his immediate attendants. He was a conscientious lad, of pensive habit and gentle temper; many of my poor clients I bequeathed to his care, particularly the Chinese lad Ti. Speaking of slavery one day, he said to me: "These are not slaves, but nobles; they know how to bear. It is we, the princes, who have yet to learn which is the more noble, the oppressor or the oppressed." When I left the palace the king was fast failing in body and mind, and, in spite of his seeming vigor, there was no real health in his rule, while he had his own way. All the substantial success we find in his administration is due to the ability and energy of his accomplished premier, Phya Kralahome, and even his strength has been wasted. The native arts and literature have retrograded; in the mechanic arts much has been lost; and the whole nation is given up to gambling. The capacity of the Siamese race for improvement in any direction has been sufficiently demonstrated, and the government has made fair progress in political and moral reforms; but the condition of the slaves is such as to excite astonishment and horror. What may be the ultimate fate of Siam under this accursed system, whether she will ever emancipate herself while the world lasts, there is no guessing. The happy examples free intercourse affords, the influence of European ideas, and the compulsion of public opinion, may yet work wonders. On the 5th of July, 1867, we left Bangkok in the steamer Chow Phya. All our European friends accompanied us to the Gulf of Siam, where we parted, with much regret on my side; and of all those whose kindness had bravely cheered us during our long (I am tempted to write) _captivity_, the last to bid us God-speed was the good Captain Orton, to whom I here tender my heartfelt thanks. XXVIII. THE KINGDOM OF SIAM. With her despotic ruler, priest and king; her religion of contradictions, at once pure and corrupt, lovely and cruel, ennobling and debasing; her laws, wherein wisdom is so perversely blended with blindness, enlightenment with barbarism, strength with weakness, justice with oppression; her profound scrutiny into mystic forms of philosophy, her ancient culture of physics, borrowed from the primitive speculations of Brahminism;--Siam is, beyond a peradventure, one of the most remarkable and thought-compelling of the empires of the Orient; a fascinating and provoking enigma, alike to the theologian and the political economist. Like a troubled dream, delirious in contrast with the coherence and stability of Western life, the land and its people seem to be conjured out of a secret of darkness, a wonder to the senses and a mystery to the mind. And yet it is a strangely beautiful reality. The enchanting variety of its scenery, joined to the inexhaustible productiveness of its soil, constitutes a challenge to the charms of every other region, except, perhaps, the country watered by the great river of China. Through an immense, continuous level of unfailing fertility, the Meinam rolls slowly, reposefully, grandly, in its course receiving draughts from many a lesser stream, filling many a useful canal in its turn, and, from the abundance the generous rains bestow, distributing supplies of refreshment and fatness to innumerable acres. In a soil at once so rich and so well watered, the sun, with its vivifying heats, engenders a mighty vegetation, delighting the eye for more than half the year with endless undulations of grain and a great golden Eden of fruit. Its staples are solid blessings: rice, the Asiatic's staff of life; sugar, most popular of dietetic luxuries; indigo, most valuable of dyes; in the drier tracts, cotton, tobacco, coffee, a variety of palms (from one species of which sugar not unlike that of the maple is extracted), the wild olive, and the fig. Then there are vast forests of teak, that enduring monarch of the vegetable kingdom, ebony, satin-wood, eagle-wood; beside ivory, beeswax and honey, raw silk, and many aromatic gums and fragrant spices. And though the scenery is less various and picturesque than that of the regions of Gangetic India, where ranges of noble mountains make the land majestic, nevertheless nature riots here in bewildering luxuriances of vegetable forms and colors. Vast tracts, shady and cool with dense dark foliage; trees, tall and strong, spreading their giant arms abroad, with prickly, shining shrubs between, while parasites and creepers, wild, bright, and beautiful, trail from the highest boughs to the ground; the bamboo, shooting to the height of sixty feet and upward, with branches gracefully drooping; the generous, kind banana; fairy forests of ferns of a thousand forms; tall grasses, with their pale and plumy blossoms; the many-trunked and many-rooted banyan; the boh, sacred to Buddha,--all combine to form a garden that Adam might have dressed and kept, and only Eve could spoil. It is only when he approaches the borders of the land that the traveller is greeted by grand mountains, crowned with impenetrable forests, and forming an amphitheatre around the graceful plains. Along the coast the view is more diversified; islands, the most picturesque, and rich with diversified vegetation, make happy, striking contrasts, here and there, with the deep blue sea around them. The extent and boundaries of the kingdom and its dependencies have been variously described; but according to the statement of his Majesty Maha Mongkut, the dominion of his predecessors, before the possession of Malacca by the Portuguese, extended over the whole of the Malayan peninsula, including the islands of Singapore and Pinang, which at that time formed a part of the realm of the Rajah of Quedah, who still pays tribute to the crown of Siam. It was at the instigation of English settlers that the states of Johore, Singapore, Rambo, Talangore, Pahang, and Puah became subject to British rule; so that to-day the Siamese dominion, starting from the little kingdom of Tringamu, extends from the fourth to the twenty-second degree of north latitude, giving about 1,350 miles of length, while from east to west its greatest breadth is about 450 miles. On the north it is bounded by several provinces of Laos, tributaries of Ava and China; on the east by the empire of Anam; on the west by the sea and British possessions; on the south by the petty states of Pahang and Puah. Beyond Siam proper are the kingdom of Ligor and the four small states, Quedah, Patan, Calantan, and Yeingana; on the east a part of the kingdom of Cambodia, Muang Korat, and several provinces of Laos; on the north the kingdoms of Chiengmai, Laphun, Lakhon, Muang Phiëé, Muang Naun, Muang Loan, and Luang Phrabang. The great plain of Siam is bounded on the east by a spur of the Himalayan range, which breaks off in Cambodia, and is found again in the west, extending almost to the extremity of the Malayan states; on the north these two mountain ranges approach each other, and form that multitude of small hills which imparts so picturesque an aspect to the Laos country. This plain is watered by the river Meinam, [Footnote: "Mother of Waters,"--a common Siamese term for all large streams.] or Chow Phya, whose innumerable branches, great and small, and the many canals which, fed by it, intersect the capital in all directions, constitute it the high-road of the Empire. For many miles its banks are fringed with the graceful bamboo, the tamarind, the palm, and the peepul, the homes of myriads of birds of the land and of the water,--creatures of brilliant plumage and delightful song. Siam has some excellent harbors, though the principal one, on the gulf, is partially obstructed by great banks of sand that have accumulated at the mouth of the Chow Phya. Ships of ordinary burden, however, can cross these banks at high tide, and in a few hours cast anchor in the heart of the capital, in from sixty to seventy feet of water. Here they are snug and safe. Besides, the gulf itself is free from the typhoons so destructive to shipping on the China seas. In all the Malayan Islands there are numerous unimportant streams, which, though limited in their course, form excellent harbors at their debouchement on the coast. The eastern regions of Laos and Cambodia are watered by the river Meikhong, which has a course of nearly a thousand miles; but its navigation, like that of the Meinam at its mouth, is impeded by sand-banks. The smaller streams, Chantabun, Pet Rue, and Tha Chang, all run into the Meikhong, which, mingling its waters with those of the Meinam, flows through Chiengmai, receives the waters of Phitsalok, and then, diverging by many channels, inundates the great plain of Siam once every year, in the month of June. By the end of August this entire region has become one vast sheet of water, so that boats traverse it in every direction without injury to the young rice springing up beneath them. The climate of Siam is more or less hot according to the latitude; only continual bathing can render it endurable. There are but two seasons, the wet and the dry. As soon as the southwest monsoon sets in, masses of spongy _cumuli_ gather on the summits of the western mountains, giving rise to furious squalls about sunset, and dispersing in peals of thunder and torrents of refreshing rain. From the beginning to the end of the rainy season, this succession of phenomena is repeated every evening. The monsoon from the north brings an excess of rain, and the thermometer falls. With the return of the dry season the air becomes comparatively cool, and most favorable to health; this continues from October to January. The dews are extremely heavy in the months of March and April. At dawn the atmosphere is impregnated with a thick fog, which, as the sun rises, descends in dews so abundant that trees, plants, and grass drip as from a recent shower of rain. The population of Siam is still a matter of uncertainty; but it is officially estimated at from six to seven millions of souls, comprising Siamese or Thai-Malay, Laotians, Cambodians, Peguans, Kariens, Shans, and Loas. Siam produces enormous quantities of excellent rice, of which there are forty distinct varieties; and her sugar is esteemed the best in the world. Her rivers and lakes abound in fish, as well as in turtles and aquatic birds. The exports are rice, sugar, cotton, tobacco, hemp, cutch, fish (salted and dried), cocoanut oil, beeswax, dried fruits, gamboge, cardamoms, betel-nuts, pepper, various gums and barks, sapan-wood, eagle-wood, rosewood, krachee-wood, ebony, ivory, raw silk, buffalo-hides, tiger-skins, armadillo-skins, elephants' tusks and bones, rhinoceros bones, turtle-shells, peacocks' tails, bird's-nests, king-fishers' feathers, &c. The revenue arising from duties and tolls on imported and native produce being mostly collected in kind, only a small part is converted into specie; the rest is distributed in part payment of salaries to the dependants of the court, whose name is legion. Princes of the blood royal, high officers of state, provincial governors, and most of the judges, receive grants of provinces, districts, villages, and farms, to support their several dignities and reward their services; and the rents, fees, fines, bribes, and sops of these assignments are collected by them for their own behoof. Thus, to one man are given the fees, to another the fines or bribes, which custom has attached to his functions; to others are alloted offices, by virtue of which certain imposts are levied; to this man the land; to another the waters of rivers and canals; to a third the fruit-bearing trees. But money is distributed with a niggard hand, and only once a year. Every officer of revenue is permitted to pocket, and "charge to salary," a part of all that he collects in taxes, fines, extortions, bribes, gifts, and "testimonials." The rulers of Laos pay to the crown of Siam a tribute of gold and silver "trees," rings set with gems, and chains of solid gold. The trees, which appear to be composed entirely of the precious metals, are really nothing more than cylinders and tubes of tin, substantially gilt or plated, designed to represent the graceful clove-tree indigenous to that part of the country; the leaves and blossoms, however, are of solid gold and silver. Each tree is planted in an artificial gilt mound, and is worth from five hundred to seven hundred ticals, while the chains and rings are decorated with large and pure rubies. The raw silk, elephants' tusks, and other rare products of Siam, are highly prized by the Mohammedan traders, who compete one with another in shipping them for the Bombay markets. They are usually put up at auction; and, strange to say, the auctioneers are women of the royal harem, the favorite concubines of the First King. The shrewd Moslem broker, turning a longing eye upon the precious stores of the royal warehouses, employs his wife, or a trusty slave, to approach this Nourmahal or that Rose-in-bloom with presents, and promises of generous premium to her whose influence shall procure for the bidder the acceptance of his proposal. By a system of secret service peculiar to these traders, the amount of the last offer is easily discovered, and the new bidder "sees that" (if I may be permitted to amuse myself with the phraseology of the Mississippi bluff-player) and "goes" a few ticals "better." There are always several enterprising Stars of the Harem ready to vary the monotony by engaging in this unromantic business; and the agitation among the "sealed" sisterhood, though by no means boisterous, is lively, though all have tact to appear indifferent in the presence of their awful lord. The meagreness of the royal allowance of pin-money is the consideration that renders the prize important in the eyes of each of the competitors; and yet it is strange, in all the feminine vanity and vexation of spirit that the occasion engenders, how little of jealous bitterness and heartburning is directed against the lucky lady. The competitors agree upon a favorable opportunity to present the tenders of their respective clients to his Majesty. Each selecting the most costly and attractive of her bribes, and displaying them to advantage on a tray of gold, lays the written bid on the top; or with a shrewd device of the maternal instinct, so fertile in pretty tricks of artfulness, places it in the hands of a pet child, who is taught to present it winningly as the king descends to his midday meal. The attention of his Majesty is attracted by the display of showy toys; he deigns to inquire as to the donors; the "sealed proposals" are respectfully, and doubtless with more or less coquetry, pressed upon him; and the matter is then and there concluded, almost invariably in favor of the highest bidder. This semi-romantic mode of traffic was gravely encouraged by his late Majesty, for the benefit of his favorites of the harem; and great store of produce, of the finer varieties, was thus disposed of in the palace. The poll-tax on the Chinese, levied once in three years, is paid in bullion. The annual income of the public treasury rarely exceeds the outgo; but whatever the state of the exchequer, and of the funds reserved for the service of the state, the personal resources of the monarch are always most abundant. Nor do the great sums lavished upon his favorites and children deplete, in any respect, his vast treasures, because they are all supported by grants of land, monopolies of market, special taxes, tithes, _douceurs_, and other patrimonial or tributary provisions. A certain emolument is also derived from the valuable mines of the country, though, poorly worked as they are, but small importance has as yet been ascribed to these as a source of revenue; yet the gold of Bhangtaphan is esteemed the purest and most ductile in the world. Beside mines of iron, antimony, gold, and silver, there are quarries of white marble. The extraordinary number of idols and works of art cast in metal seems to indicate that these mines were once largely worked; and it is believed that the vast quantities of gold which for centuries has been consumed in the construction of images and the adornment of temples, pagodas, and palaces, were drawn from them. The country abounds in pits, bearing marks of great age; and there are also remains of many furnaces, which are said to have been abandoned in the wars with Pegu. Mineral springs--copious and, no doubt, valuable--are numerous in some parts of the country. The exports of Siam are various and profitable; and of the raw materials, teak timber is entitled to the first consideration. The domestic consumption of this most useful wood in the construction of dwellings, sacred edifices, ships, and boats, is enormous; yet the forests traversed by the great rivers seem inexhaustible, and the supply continues so abundant that the variations in the price are very slight. The advantage the country must derive from her extensive commerce in a commodity so valuable may hardly be overrated. Next in importance are the native sugars, rice, cotton, and silk, which find their way in large quantities to the markets of China and Hindostan. Among other articles of crude produce may be mentioned ivory [Footnote: In Siam reserved as a royal appropriation.] (a single fine tusk being often valued at five thousand dollars), wax, lead, copper, tin, amber, indigo, tobacco, honey, and bird's-nests. There are also precious stones of several varieties, and the famous gold of Bhangtaphan. Forty different kinds of rice are named, but these may properly be reduced to four classes, the Common or table, the Small-grained or mountain, the Glutinous, and the Vermilion rice. From the glutinous rice arrack is distilled. The areca, or pinang-nut, and the betel, are used almost universally, chewed with lime, the lime,--being dyed with turmeric, which imparts to it a rich vermilion tint; the areca-nut is also used in dying cotton thread. The characteristic traits of the Siamese Court are _hauteur_, insolent indifference, and ostentation, the natural features and expression of tyranny; and every artifice that power and opulence can devise is employed to inspire the minds of the common people with trembling awe and devout veneration for their sovereign master. Though the late Supreme King wisely reformed certain of the stunning customs of the court with more modest innovations, nevertheless he rarely went abroad without extravagant display, especially in his annual visitations to the temples. These were performed in a style studiously contrived to strike the beholder with astonishment and admiration. The royal state barge, one hundred cubits long, beside being elaborately carved, and inlaid with bits of crystal, porcelain, mother-of-pearl, and jade, is richly enamelled and gilt. The stem, which rises ten or eleven feet from the bows, represents the _nagha mustakha sapta_, the seven-headed serpent or alligator. A phrasat, or elevated throne (also termed _p'hra-the-nang_), occupies the centre, supported by four pillars. The extraordinary beauty of the inlaying of shells, mother-of-pearl, crystal, and precious stones of every color, the splendor of the gilding, and the elegance of the costly kinkob curtains with which it is hung, combine to render this one of the most striking and beautiful objects to be seen on the Meinam. The barge is usually manned by one hundred and fifty men, their paddles gilt and silver-tipped. [Illustration: A ROYAL BARGE] This government reproduces, in many of its shows of power, pride, and ostentation, a _tableau vivant_ of European rule in the darker ages, when, on the decline of Roman dominance, the principles of feudal dependence were established by barbarians from the North. Under such a system, it is impossible to ascertain, or to represent by any standards of currency, the amount of the royal revenues and treasures. But it is known that the riches of the Siamese monarch are immense, and that a magnificent share of the legal plunder drawn into the royal treasury is sunk there, and never returns into circulation again. The hoarding of money seems to be the cherished practice of all Oriental rulers, and even a maxim of state policy; and that the general diffusion of property among his subjects offers the only safe assurance of prosperity for himself and stability for his throne is the last precept of prudence an Asiatic monarch ever learns. The armies of Siam are raised on the spur of the moment, as it were, for any pressing emergency. When troops are to be called out, a royal command, addressed to all viceroys and governors, requires them to raise their respective quotas, and report to a commander-in-chief at a general rendezvous. These recruits are clothed, equipped with arms and ammunition, and "subsisted" with daily rations of rice, oil, etc., but are not otherwise paid. The small standing army, which serves as the nucleus upon which these irregulars are gathered and formed, consists of infantry, cavalry, elephant-riders, archers, and private body-guards, paid at the rate of from five to ten dollars a month, with clothing and rations. The infantry are armed with muskets and sabres; the cavalry, with bows and arrows as well as spears; but the spear, which is from six to seven feet long, is the favorite weapon of this arm of the service, and they handle it with astonishing dexterity. The king's private body-guards are well paid, clothed, and quartered, having their stations and barracks within the palace walls and near the most attractive streets and avenues, while other troops are lodged outside. It is customary to detain the families of conscripts in the districts to which they belong, as prisoners on parole,--hostages for the good conduct of their young men in the army; and for the desertion or treachery of the soldier, his wife or children, mother or sisters, as the case may be, are tortured, or even executed, without compunction or remorse. The long and peaceful reign of the late king, however, has almost effaced from the minds of the youth of Siam the remembrance of such monstrous oppressions. The Siamese are but indifferent sailors, their nautical excursions being mainly confined to short coasting trips, or boating in safe and familiar channels. The more adventurous export trade is carried on almost wholly by foreigners. About one thousand war-boats constitute the bulk of the navy. These are constructed from the solid bole of the teak-tree, excavated partly with fire, partly with the adze; and, while they are commonly from eighty to a hundred feet long, the breadth rarely exceeds eight or nine feet, though the apparent width is increased by the addition of a sort of light gallery. They are made to carry fifty or sixty rowers, with short oars working on a pivot. The prow, which is solid, has a flat terrace, on which, for the king's up-country excursions, they mount a small field-piece, a nine or a twelve pounder. There are also several men-of-war belonging to the government, built by European engineers. The number of vessels in the merchant marine cannot be great. Dwelling so long in peace and security at home, the tastes and the energies of the Siamese people have been confirmed, by their political circumstances, in that inclination toward agricultural rather than commercial pursuits which their geographical conditions naturally engender. The extreme fertility of the soil, watered by innumerable streams, and intersected in every direction by a network of capacious canals (of which the Klong Yai, Klong Bangkok-noi, and Klong P'hra- cha-dee, are the most remarkable); the generating heats of the climate; the teeming plains of the upper provinces, bulwarked by mighty mountains; and, above all, that magnificent mother, the Meinam, winding in her beauty and bounty through a vast and lovely vale to the sea, in her course subjecting all things to the enriching and adorning influence of her touch,--all combine by their irresistible inducements to determine the native to the tilling of the ground. Nothing can be more delightful than an excursion through the country immediately after the subsidence of the floods. Then nature is draped in hues as charming as they are various, from the palest olive to the liveliest green; broad fields wave with tall golden spires of grain, or are dotted with tufted sheaves heavy with generous crops; the refreshed air is perfumed with the fragrance of the orange, lemon, citron, and other tropical fruits and flowers; and on every side the landscape is a scene of lovely meadows, alive with flocks and herds, and busy with herdsmen, husbandmen, and gardeners. The most considerable of the many canals by which communication is maintained with all parts of the country is Klong Yai, the Great Canal, supposed to have been begun in the reign of Phya Tâk. It is nearly a hundred cubits deep, twenty Siamese fathoms broad, and forty miles long. Bangkok has been aptly styled "the Venice of the Orient"; for not only the villages thickly studding the banks of the Meinam, but the remoter hamlets as well, even to the confines of the kingdom, have each its own canals. In fact, the lands annually inundated by the Mother of Waters are so extensive, and for the most part lie so low, and the number of water-ducts, natural and artificial, is so great, that of all the torrents that descend upon the country in the months of June, July, and August (when the whole land is as a sea, in which towns and villages show like docks connected by drawbridges, with little islets between of groves and orchards, whose tops alone are visible), not a tithe ever returns to the ocean. The modern bridges of Siam, which are mostly of iron in the European style, are made to be drawn for the passage of the King's barge, since the royal head may not without desecration pass under anything trodden by the foot of man. The more ancient bridges, however, are of stone and brick; and here and there are strange artificial lakes, partly filled up with the debris of temples that once stood on their banks. Of roads there are but few that are good, and all are of comparatively recent construction. XXIX. THE RUINS OF CAMBODIA.--AN EXCURSION TO THE NAGHKON WATT. [Footnote: The Cambodian was, without doubt, in its day, one of the most powerful of the empires of the East. As to its antiquity, two opinions prevail,--one ascribing to it a duration of 1,300 years, the other of 2,400. The native historians reckon 2,400 years from the building of the Naghkon Watt, or Naghkon Ongkhoor; but this computation, not agreeing with the mythological traditions of the country, which date from the Year of the World 205, is not accepted as authentic by the more learned Cambodians.] Our journey from Bangkok to Kabin derived its memorable interest from those features and feelings which join to compose the characteristic romance of Eastern travel by unhackneyed ways,--the wild freedom of the plain, the tortuous, suspicious mountain track, the tangled jungle, the bewildering wastes and glooms of an unexplored region, with their suggestions of peril and adventure, and especially that glorious participation in the enlargement and liberty of an Eastern wanderer's life which these afford. Once you begin to feel that, you will be happy, whether on an elephant or in a buffalo-cart,--the very privations and perils including a charm of excitement all unknown to the formal European tourist. The rainbow mists of morning still lay low on the plain, as yet unlifted by the breeze that, laden with odor and song, gently rocked the higher branches in the forest, as our elephants pressed on, heavily but almost noiselessly, over a parti-colored carpet of wild-flowers. Strange birds darted from bough to bough among the wild myrtles and limes, and great green and golden lizards gleamed through the shrubbery as we approached Siemrâp. The more extensive and remarkable ruins of Cambodia seem concentrated in this part of the country, though they are by no means confined to it, but are found widely scattered over the neighboring territories. From Sisuphon we diverged in a northeasterly direction, and at evening found ourselves in the quaint, antique town of Phanomsôk, half ruined and deserted, where the remains of a magnificent palace can still be traced. The country between Cambodia and Siam is an inclined plane falling off to the sea, beginning from the Khoa Don Rèke, or highlands of Korat, which constitutes the first platform of the terraces that gradually ascend to the mountain chain of Laos, and thence to the stupendous Himalayas. Khoa Don Rèke ("the Mountain, which Bears on the Shoulders," the Cambodian Atlas) includes in its domain the Dong Phya Fai ("Forest of the Lord of Fire"), whence many tributary streams flow into the beautiful Pachim River. At sunrise next morning we resumed our journey, and after a long day of toiling through treacherous marshes and tangled brushwood came at sunset upon an object whose presence there was a wonder, and its past a puzzle,--a ridge or embankment of ten or twelve feet elevation, which, to our astonishment, ran high and dry through the swampy lowlands. In the heart of an interminable forest it stretches along one side of the tangled trail, in some places walling it in, at others crossing it at right angles; now suddenly diving into the depths of the forest, now reappearing afar off, as if to mock our cautious progress, and invite us to follow it. The eye, wistfully pursuing its eccentric sweep, suddenly loses it in impenetrable shadows. There is not a vestige of any other ruin near it, and the long lines it here and there shows, ghostly white in the moonlight, seem like spectral strands of sand. Our guides tell us this isolated ridge was once the great highway of ancient Cambodia, that it can be traced from the neighborhood of Nohk Burree to Naghkon Watt, and thence to the very heart of Cochin China; and one assures us that no man has ever seen the end of it. So on we went, winding our devious way over pathless ground, now diving into shady valleys, now mounting to sunny eminences where the breeze blew free and the eye could range far and wide, but not to find aught that was human. Gradually the flowering shrubs forsook us, and dark forest trees pressed grimly around, as we traversed the noble stone bridges that those grand old Cambodians loved to build over comparatively insignificant streams. The moon, touching with fantastic light the crumbling arches and imparting a charm of illusion to the scene, the clear spangled sky, the startling voices of the night, and the influence of the unknown, the mysterious, and the weird, overcame us like a dream. Truly there is naught of the commonplace or vulgar in this land of ruins and legends, and the foretaste of the wonders we were about to behold met our view in the great bridges. Taphan Hin ("the Stone Bridge") and the finer and more artistic Taphan Thevadah ("the Angel's Bridge") are both imposing works. Arches, still resting firmly on their foundations, buttressed by fifty great pillars of stone, sup-port a structure about five hundred feet long and eighty broad. The road-bed of these bridges is formed of immense blocks or beams of stone, laid one upon another, and so adjusted that their very weight serves to keep the arches firm. In a clearing in the forest, near a rivulet called by the Cambodians _Sthieng Sinn_ ("Sufficient to our Need"), we encamped; and, having rested and supped, again followed our guides over the foaming stream, and recrossed the Stone Bridge on foot, marvelling at the work of a race of whose existence the Western nations know nothing, who have no name in history, yet who builded in a style surpassing in boldness of conception, grandeur of proportions, and delicacy of design, the best works of the modern world,--stupendous, beautiful, enduring! The material is mostly freestone, but a flinty conglomerate appears wherever the work is exposed to the action of the water. Formerly a fine balustrade crowned the bridge on both sides, but it has been broken down. The ornamental parts of these massive structures seem to have been the only portions the invading vandals of the time could destroy. The remains of the balustrade show that it consisted of a series of long quarry stones, on the ridges of which caryatidian pillars, representing the seven-headed serpent, supported other slabs grooved along the rim to receive semi-convex stones with arabesque sculptures, affording a hint of ancient Cambodian art. On the left bank we found the remains of a staircase leading down to the water, not far from a spot where a temple formerly stood. Next morning we crossed the Taphan Teph, or Heavenly Bridge,--like the Taphan Hin and the Taphan Thevadah a work of almost superhuman magnitude and solidity. Leaving the bridges, our native pilots turned off from the ancient causeway to grope through narrow miry paths in the jungle. On the afternoon of the same day we arrived at another stone bridge, over the Paleng River. This, according to our guides, was abandoned by the builders, because the country was invaded by the hostile hordes who destroyed Naghkon Watt. Slowly crumbling among the wild plantains and the pagan lotoses and lilies, these bridges seem to constitute the sole memorial, in the midst of that enchanting desolation, of a once proud and populous capital. From the Paleng River, limpid and cheerful, a day's journey brought us to the town of Siemrâp; and, after an unnecessary delay of several hours, we started with lighter pockets for the ruins of Naghkon Watt. Naghkon, or Ongkoor, is supposed to have been the royal city of the ancient kingdom of Cambodia, or Khaimain, of which the only traditions that remain describe in wild extravagances its boundless territory; its princes without number who paid tribute in gold, silver, and precious stuffs; its army of seventy thousand war elephants, two hundred thousand horsemen, and nearly six millions of foot soldiers; and its royal treasure-houses covering "three hundred miles of ground." In the heart of this lonely region, in a district still bearing the name of Ongkoor, and quite apart from the ruined temples that abound hard by, we found architectural remains of such exceeding grandeur, with ruins of temples and palaces which must have been raised at so vast a cost of labor and treasure, that we were overwhelmed with astonishment and admiration. What manner of people were these? Whence came their civilization and their culture? And why and whither did they disappear from among the nations of the earth? The site of the city is in itself unique. Chosen originally for the strength of its position, it yet presents none of the features which should mark the metropolis of a powerful people. It seems to stand aloof from the world, exempt from its passions and aspirations, and shunning even its thrift. Confronting us with its towering portal, overlaid with colossal hieroglyphics, the majestic ruin, of the watt stands like a petrified dream of some Michael Angelo of the giants--more impressive in its loneliness, more elegant and animated in its grace, than aught that Greece and Home have left us, and addressing us with a significance all the sadder and more solemn for the desolation and barbarism which surround it. Unhappily, the shocks of war, seconding the slowly grinding mills of time, have left but few of these noble monuments; and slowly, but ruthlessly, the work of destruction and decay goes on. Vainly may we seek for any chronicle of the long line of monarchs who must have swayed the sceptre of the once powerful empire of Maha Naghkon. Only a vague tradition has come down, of a celestial prince to whom the fame of founding the great temple is supposed to belong; and of an Egyptian king, who, for his sacrilege, was changed into a leper. An interesting statue, representing the latter, still stands in one of the corridors,--somewhat mutilated, but sufficiently well preserved to display a marked contrast to the physical type of the present race of Cambodians. The inscriptions with which some of the columns are covered are illegible; and if you question the natives as to the origin of Naghkon Watt, they will tell you that it was the work of the Leper King, or of P'hra-Inn-Suen, King of Heaven, or of giants, or that "it made itself." These magnificent edifices seem to have been designed for places of worship rather than of royal habitation, for nearly all are Buddhist temples. The statues and sculptures on the walls of the outer corridor are in alto relievo, and generally life-size. The statue of the Leper King, set up in a sort of pavilion, is moderately colossal, and is seated in a tranquil and noble attitude; the head especially is a masterpiece, the features being classic and of manly beauty. Approaching the temple of Ongkoor, the most beautiful and best preserved of these glorious remains, the traveller is compensated with full measure of wonder and delight for all the fatigues and hardships of his journey. Complete as is the desolation, a strange air of luxury hangs over all, as though the golden glow of sunshine amid the refreshing gloom were for the glory and the ease of kings. At each angle of the temple are two enormous lions, hewn, pedestal and all, from a single block. A flight of stone steps leads up to the first platform of terraces. To reach the main entrance from the north staircase we traverse a noble causeway, which midway crosses a deep and wide moat that seems to surround the building. The main entrance is by a long gallery, having a superb central tower, with two others of less height on each side. The portico of each of the three principal towers is formed by four projecting columns, with a spacious staircase between. At either extremity are similar porticos, and beyond these is a very lofty door, or gateway, covered with gigantic hieroglyphs, where gods and warriors hang as if self-supported between earth and sky. Then come groves of columns that in girth and height might rival the noblest oaks. Every pillar and every part of the wall is so crowded with sculptures that the whole temple seems hung with petrified tapestry. On the west side, the long gallery is flanked by two rows of almost square columns. The blank windows are cut out of the wall, and finished with stone railings or balconies of curiously twisted columns; and the different compartments are equally covered with sculptures of subjects taken from the Ramayâna. Here are Lakshman and Hanuman leading their warriors against Rawana,--some with ten heads, others with many arms. The monkeys are building the stone bridge over the sea. Rama is seen imploring the aid of the celestial protector, who sits on high, in grand and dreamy contemplation. Rama's father is challenging the enemy, while Rawana is engaged in combat with the leader of the many-wheeled chariots. There are many other figures of eight-handed deities; and all are represented with marvellous skill in grouping and action. [Illustration: Ruins of the Naghkon Watt.] The entire structure is roofed with tiers of hewn stone, which is also sculptured; and remains of a ceiling may still be traced. The symmetrical wings terminate in three spacious pavilions and this imposing colonnade, which, by its great length, height, and harmonious proportions, is conspicuous from a great distance, and forms an appropriate vestibule to so grand a temple. Traversing the building, we cross another and finer causeway, formed of great blocks of stone carefully joined, and bordered with a handsome balustrade, partly in ruins, very massive, and covered with sculptures. On either side are six great platforms, with flights of steps; and on each we find remains of the seven-headed serpent,--in some parts mutilated, but on the whole sufficiently preserved to show distinctly the several heads, some erect as if guarding the entrance, others drawn back in a threatening attitude. A smaller specimen is nearly perfect and very beautiful. We passed into an adytum, wardered by gigantic effigies whose mystic forms we could hardly trace; above us that ponderous roof, tier on tier of solid stone, upheld by enormous columns, and incrusted with strange carvings. Everywhere we found fresh objects of wonder, and each new spot, as we explored it, seemed the greatest wonder of all. In the centre of the causeway are two elegant pavilions with porticos; and at the foot of the terrace we come upon two artificial lakes, which in the dry season must be supplied either by means of a subterranean aqueduct or by everlasting springs. A balustrade not unlike that of the causeway, erected upon a sculptured basement, starts from the foot of the terrace and runs quite round the temple, with arms, or branches, descending at regular intervals. The terrace opens into a grand court, crowded with a forest of magnificent columns with capitals, each hewn from a single block of stone. The basement, like every other part of the building, is ornamented in varied and animated styles; and every slab of the vast pile is covered with exquisite carvings representing the lotos, the lily, and the rose, with arabesques wrought with the chisel with astonishing taste and skill. The porticos are supported by sculptured columns; and the terraces, which form a cross, have three flights of steps, at each of which are four colossal lions, reclining upon pedestals. The temple is thus seen to consist of three distinct parts, raised in terraces one above the other. The central tower of the five within the inner circle forms an octagon, with four larger and four smaller sides. On each of the four larger faces is a colossal figure of Buddha, which overlooks from its eminence the surrounding country. This combination of four Buddhas occurs frequently among the ruins of Cambodia. The natives call it _P'hra Mook Bulu_ ("Lord of Four Faces"), though not only the face, but the whole body, is fourfold. A four-faced god of majestic proportions presides over the principal entrance to the temple, and is called Bhrama, or, by corruption, _Phrâm_, signifying divine protection. As the four cardinal points of the horizon naturally form a cross, called "phram," so we invariably find the cross in the plan of these religious monuments of ancient Cambodia, and even in the corridors, intersecting each other at right angles. [Footnote: The cross is the distinctive character and sign for the Doctors of Reason in the primitive Buddhism of Kasyapa.] These corridors are roofed with great blocks of stone, projecting over each other so as to form an arch, and, though laid without cement, so accurately adjusted as to leave scarcely a trace of the joinings. The galleries of the temple also form a rectangle. The ceilings are vaulted, and the roofs supported by double rows of columns, cut from a single block. There are five staircases on the west side, five on the east, and three on each of the remaining sides. Each of the porticos has three distinct roofs raised one above the other, thus nobly contributing to the monumental effect of the architecture. In some of the compartments the entire space is occupied with representations of the struggle between angels and giants for possession of the snake-god, Sarpa-deva, more commonly called _Phya Naghk_. The angels are seen dragging the seven-headed monster by the tail, while the giants hold fast by the heads. In the midst is Vishnu, riding on the world-supporting turtle. The most interesting of all the sculptures at Naghkon Watt are those that appear to represent a procession of warriors, some on foot, others mounted on horses, tigers, birds, and nondescript creatures, each chief on an elephant at the head of his followers. I counted more than a thousand figures in one compartment, and observed with admiration that the artist had succeeded in portraying the different races in all their physical characteristics, from the flat-nosed savage, and the short-haired and broad-faced Laotian, to the more classic profile of the Rajpoot, armed with sword and shield, and the bearded Moor. A panorama in life-size of the diverse nationalities, it yet displays, in the physical conformation of each race, a remarkable predominance of the Hellenic type--not in the features and profiles alone, but equally in the fine attitudes of the warriors and horsemen. The bass-reliefs of another peristyle represent a combat between the king of apes and the king of angels, and if not the death, at least the defeat, of the former. On an adjoining slab is a boat filled with stalwart rowers with long beards,--a group very admirable in attitude and expression. In fact, it is in these bass-reliefs that the greatest delicacy of touch and the finest finish are manifest. On the south side we found representations of an ancient military procession. The natives interpret these as three connected allegories, symbolizing heaven, earth, and hell; but it is more probable that they record the history of the methods by which the savage tribes were reclaimed by the colonizing foreigners, and that they have an intimate connection with the founding of these monuments. One compartment represents an ovation: certain personages are seen seated on a dais, surrounded by many women, with caskets and fans in their hands, while the men bring flowers and bear children in their arms. In another place, those who have rejected the new religion and its priests are precipitated into a pit of perdition, in the midst of which sits the judge, with his executioners, with swords in their hands, while the guilty are dragged before him by the hair and feet. In the distance is a furnace, and another crowd of "infidels" under punishment. But the converted (the "born again") are conducted into palaces, which are represented on the upper compartments. In these happier figures the features as well as the attitudes denote profound repose, and in the faces of many of the women and children one may trace lines of beauty and tender grace. [Illustration: Sculptures of the Naghkon Watt.] On the east side a number of men, in groups on either hand, are in the act of dragging in contrary directions the great seven-headed dragon. One mighty angel watches the struggle with interest, while many lesser angels float overhead. Below is a great lake or ocean, in which are fishes, aquatic animals, and sea-monsters. On another panel an angel is seated on a mountain (probably Mount Meru), and other angels, with several heads, assist or encourage those who are contending for possession of the serpent. To the right are another triumphal procession and a battle scene, with warriors mounted on elephants, unicorns, griffins, eagles with peacocks' tails, and other fabulous creatures, while winged dragons draw the chariots. On the north side is another battle-piece, the most conspicuous figure being that of a chief mounted on the shoulders of a giant, who holds in each hand the foot of another fighting giant. Near the middle of this peristyle is a noble effigy of a royal conqueror, with long flowing beard, attended by courtiers with hands clasped on their breasts. These figures are all in _alto relievo_, and well executed. The greater galleries are connected with two smaller ones, which in turn communicate with two colonnades in the form of a cross; the roofs of these are vaulted. Four rows of square columns, each still hewn from a single block, extend along the sides of the temple. These are covered with statues and bass-reliefs, many of the former being in a state of dilapidation which, considering the extreme hardness of the stone, indicates great age, while others are true _chefs-d'oeuvre_. The entire structure forms a square, and every part is admirable both in general effect and detail. There are twelve superb staircases, the four in the middle having from fifty to sixty steps, each step a single slab. At each angle is a tower. The central tower, larger and higher than the others, communicates with the lateral galleries by colonnades, covered, like the galleries themselves with a double roof. Opposite each of the twelve staircases is a portico with windows resembling in form and dimensions those described above. In front of each colonnade connected with the tower is a dark, narrow chapel, to which there is an ascent of eight steps; each of these chapels (which do not communicate with each other) contains a gigantic idol, carved in the solid wall, and at its feet another, of the same proportions, sleeping. This mighty pile, the wondrous Naghkon Watt, is nearly three miles in circumference; the walls are from seventy to eighty feet high, and twenty feet thick. We wandered in astonishment, and almost with awe, through labyrinths of courts, cloisters, and chambers, encountering at every turn some new marvel, unheard of, undreamed of, until then. Even the walls of the outer courts were sculptured with whole histories of wars and conquests, in forms that seemed to live and fight again. Prodigious in size and number are the blocks of stone piled in those walls and towers. We counted five thousand and three hundred _solid_ columns. What a mighty host of builders must that have been! And what could have been their engines and their means of transport, seeing that the mountains from which the stone was quarried are nearly two days' journey from the temple? All the mouldings, sculptures, and bass-reliefs seem to to have been executed after the walls and pillars were in their places; and everywhere the stones are fitted together in a manner so perfect that the joinings are not easy to find. There is neither mortar nor mark of the chisel; the surfaces are as smooth as polished marble. On a fallen column, under a lofty and most beautiful arch, we sat, and rested our weary, excited eyes on the wild but quiet landscape below; then slowly, reluctantly departed, feeling that the world contains no monument more impressive, more inspiring, than, in its desolation, and yet wondrous preservation, the temple of Maha Naghkon Watt. Next morning our elephants bore us back to Siemrâp through an avenue of colonnades similar to that by which we had come; and as we advanced we could still descry other gates and pillars far in the distance, marking the line of some ancient avenue to this amazing temple. XXX. THE LEGEND OF THE MAHA NAUGKON [Footnote: Translated from a MS. presented to the author by the Supreme King of Siam.] Many hundreds of thousands of years ago, when P'hra Atheitt, the Sun-god, was nearer to earth than he is now, and the city of the gods could be seen with mortal eyes,--when the celestial sovereigns, P'hra Indara and P'hra Insawara, came down from Meru, the sacred mountain, to hold high converse with mortal kings, sages, and heroes,--when the moon and the stars brought tidings of good-will to men, and wisdom flourished, love and happiness were spread abroad, and sorrow, suffering, disease, old age, and death were almost banished,--there lived in Thaisiampois a mighty monarch whose years could hardly be numbered, so many were they and so long. And yet he was not old; such were the warmth and strength and vigor imparted by the near glories of the P'hra Atheitt, that the span of human life was lengthened unto a thousand, and even fifteen hundred years. The days of the King Sudarsana had been prolonged beyond those of the oldest of his predecessors, for the sake of his exceeding wisdom and goodness. But yet this King was troubled; he had no son, and the thought of dying without leaving behind him one worthy to represent his name and race was grievous to him. So, by the advice of the wise men of his kingdom, he caused prayers and offerings to be made in all the temples, and took to wife the beautiful Princess Thawadee. At that very time P'hra Indara, ruler of the highest heaven, dreamed a dream; and behold! in his sleep a costly jewel fell from his mouth to the lower earth; whereat P'hra Indara was troubled. Assembling all the hosts of heaven, the angels, and the genii, he showed them his dream, but they could not interpret it. Last of all, he told it to his seven sons; but from them likewise its meaning was hidden. A second time P'hra Indara dreamed, and yet a third time, that a more and more costly jewel had fallen from his lips; and at last, when he awoke, the interpretation was revealed to his own thought,--that one of his sons should condescend to the form of humanity, and dwell on the earth, and be a great teacher of men. Then the King of Heaven imparted to the celestial princes the meaning of the threefold vision, and demanded which of them would consent to become man. The divine princes heard, and answered not a word; till the youngest and best-beloved of Heaven opened his lips and spake, saying: "Hear, O my Lord and Father! I have yearned toward the race thou hast created out of the fire and flame of thy breast and the smoke of thy nostrils. Let me go unto them, that I may teach them the wisdom of truth." Then P'hra Indara gave him leave to depart on his mission of love; and all the hosts of heaven, knowing that he should never more gladden their hearts with his presence, accompanied him, sorrowful, to the foot of Mount Meru; and immediately a blazing star shot from the mount, and burst over the palace of Thaisiampois. That night the gracious Princess Thawadee conceived and became with child, and the P'hra Somannass was no longer a prince of the highest heaven. The Princess Thawadee had been the only and darling daughter of a mighty king, and still mourned her separation from her beloved sire. Her only solace was to sit in the phrasat of the Grand Palace, and look with longing toward her early home. Here, day after day, she sat with her maidens, weaving flowers, and singing low the songs of her childhood. When this became known abroad among the multitude, they gathered from every side to behold one so famed for her goodness and beauty. Thus by degrees her interest was aroused. She became thoughtful for her people, and presently found happiness in dispensing food, raiment, and comfort to the poor who flocked to see her. One day, as she was reposing in the porch after her customary benefactions, a cloud of birds, flying eastward, fell dead as they passed over the phrasat. The sages and soothsayers of the court were terrified. What might the omen be? Long and anxious were their counsels, and grievous their perturbations one with another; until at last an aged warrior, who had conquered many armies and subjugated kingdoms, declaring that as faithful servants they should lay the weighty matter before their lord, bade all the court follow him, and approached his sovereign, saying:-- "Long live P'hra Chow P'hra Sudarsana, lord and king of our happy land, wherefrom sorrow and suffering and death are wellnigh banished! Let him investigate with a true spirit and a clear mind the matter we bring for judgment, even though it be to the tearing out of his own heart and casting it away from him." "Speak," said the King, "and fear not! Has it ever been thought that evil is dearer unto me than good? Even to the tearing out of my heart and casting it to dogs shall justice be rendered in the land." Then the sages, soothsayers, and warriors spake as with one voice: "It is well known unto the lord our King, that the Queen, our lovely lady Thawadee, is with child. "But what manner of birth, is this that she has conceived, in that it has already brought grief and death into the land? For as the Queen sat in the porch of the temple, a great flight of birds that hastened, thirsty, toward the valleys of the east, when they would have passed over the phrasat were struck dead, as by an unseen spirit of mischief. Let the King search this matter, and put away the strange thing of evil out of our land, lest it make a greater sorrow." When the King heard these words, he was sore smitten, and hung down his head, and knew not what to say; for the Queen, so gentle and beautiful, was very dear to him. But, remembering his royal word, he shook off his grief and took counsel with his astrologers, who had foretold that the unborn prince would prove either a glorious blessing or a dire curse to the land. And now, by the awful omen of the birds, they declared that the Queen had conceived the evil spirit Kala Mata, and that she must be put to death, she and the fiend with her. Then the King in council commanded that the sweet young Thawadee should be set upon a floating raft, and given to the mercy of winds and waves. But the brave chief who should have executed the sentence, overcome on beholding her beauty and innocence, interceded for her with the council; and it was finally decreed that, for pity's sake, and because the Queen was unconscious of any evil, she should not be slain, but "put away," after the dreadful birth. To this the stricken monarch thankfully agreed. In due time the Queen was delivered of a male child, so beautiful that it filled all beholders with delight. His eyes were as sunshine, his forehead like the glow of the full moon, his lips like clustered roses, and his cry like the melody of many instruments; and the Queen loved him, and comforted herself with his beauty. When the mother was strong again, the infant prince being then about a month old, the sentence of the council was carried into effect, and the poor princess and her child were banished forever from the beloved land of Thaisiampois. Clasping her baby to her breast, she went forth, terrified and stunned. On and on, not knowing whither, she wandered, pressing her sleeping babe to her bosom, and moaning to the great gods above. Then P'hra Indara, king of highest heaven, came down to earth, assumed the form and garb of a Bhramin, and followed her silently, shortening the miles and smoothing the rough places, until she reached the bank of a deep and rapid stream. Here, as she sat down, faint and foot-sore, to nurse her babe, there came to her a grave and venerable pilgrim, who gently questioned her sorrows and comforted her with thrilling words, saying her child was born to bring peace and happiness to earth, and not trouble and death. Quickly Thawadee dried her tears, and consented to be led by the good old man, who had come to her as if from heaven. From under his garment he produced a shell filled with food from paradise, of which she partook with ecstasy; and gave her to drink water from everlasting springs, that overflowed her soul with perfect peace. Then he led her to a mountain, and prepared in the cleft of a rock a hiding-place for her and her child, and left her with a promise of quick return. For fifty years she dwelt in the cave, knowing neither trouble nor weariness nor hunger, nor any of the ills of life. The young Somannass, as the good Bhramin had named him, grew to be a youth of wondrous beauty. The melody of his voice tamed the wild creatures of the forest, and charmed even the seven-headed dragons of the lake in which his mother bathed him every morning. Then again P'hra Indara appeared to them in the form and garb of the aged Bhramin; and he rejoiced in the strength and beauty of the young Somannass, and his heart yearned after his beloved son. But, hiding his emotion, he held pleasant converse with the Queen, and begged to be permitted to take the boy away with him for a season. She consented; and instantly, as in a flash of lightning, he transported the prince into the highest heaven, and Somannass found himself seated on a glorious throne by the side of P'hra Indara the Divine, before whom the hosts of heaven bowed in homage. Here he was initiated in all the mysteries of life and death, with all wisdom and foresight. His celestial royal father showed him the stars coursing hither and thither on their errands of love and mercy; showed him comets with tails of fire flashing and whizzing through the centuries, spreading confusion and havoc in their path; showed him the spirits of rebellion and crime transfixed by the spears of the Omnipotent. He heard the music of the spheres, he tasted heavenly food, and drank of the river that flows from the footstool of the Most Highest. And so he forgot the forlorn Queen, his mother, and desired to return to earth no more. Then P'hra Indara laid his hand upon the brow of the lad, and showed him the generations yet to come, rejoicing in his prayers and precepts; and Somannass, beholding, stretched his arms to the earth again. And P'hra Indara promised to build him a palace hardly less grand and fair than the heavenly abode, a temple which should be the wonder of the world, a stupendous and everlasting monument of his love to men. So Somannass returned to the Queen, his mother; and P'hra Indara sent down myriads of angels, with Phya Kralewana, chief of angels, to build a dwelling fit for the heavenly prince. In one night it was done, and the rising sun shone on domes like worlds and walls like armies. And because the seven-headed serpent, Phya Naghk, had shown the way to the mines of gold and silver and iron, and the quarries of marble and granite, the grateful builders laid the sign of the serpent on the foundations, terraces, and bridges; but on the walls they left the effigy of the Queen Thawadee, the beautiful and bountiful lady. Then swift-winged angels flew to heaven, and, returning, brought fruits and flowers the most curious and exquisite; and immediately there bloomed a garden there, of such ravishing loveliness and perfume that the gods themselves delighted to visit it. Also they filled the great stables with white elephants and chargers. And then the angels transported Thawadee and Somannass to their new abode, the fame of which was so spread abroad that the great King Sudarsana, with all his court, and followers without number, and all his army, came to see it. And great was their astonishment to find again the fair and gentle Thawadee, who thus was reunited to her husband; and he took up his abode with her, and they lived together in love. But the Prince Somannass built temples, and preached, and taught the people, and healed their infirmities, and led them in the paths of virtue and truth. And the fame of his wisdom and goodness flew through all the lands, so that many kings became willing vassals unto him; but there came from a far-off country, where the heavens drop no rain, but where one great river suddenly floods the plains and then shrinks back into itself like a living thing, a king of lofty stature and exceeding craft. And the Prince Somannass was gracious toward him, and showed him many favors. But his heart was black and bad, and he would have turned the pure heart of the prince to worship the dragon and other beasts; wherefore Somannass changed him into a leper, and cast him out of his palace, and caused a stone statue to be made of him, which stands to this day, a warning to all tempters and evil-doers. And he caused the face of the great P'hra Indara to be carved on the north and on the south and on the east and on the west--so that all men might know the true God, who is God alone in heaven, Sevarg-Savan! 
62295	----	available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/maryleeden00dennuoft MARY LEE * * * * * * _NEW BORZOI NOVELS FALL, 1922_ THE QUEST _Pio Baroja_ THE ROOM _G. B. Stern_ ONE OF OURS _Willa Cather_ A LOVELY DAY _Henry Céard_ MARY LEE _Geoffrey Dennis_ TUTORS' LANE _Wilmarth Lewis_ THE PROMISED ISLE _Laurids Bruun_ THE RETURN _Walter de la Mare_ THE BRIGHT SHAWL _Joseph Hergesheimer_ THE MOTH DECIDES _Edward Alden Jewell_ INDIAN SUMMER _Emily Grant Hutchings_ * * * * * * MARY LEE by GEOFFREY DENNIS [Illustration] New York Alfred A. Knopf MCMXXII Copyright, 1922, by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Published, August, 1922 Set up, electrotyped, and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y. Paper (Warren's) furnished by Henry Lindenmeyr & Sons, New York, N. Y. Bound by the Plimpton Press, Norwood, Mass. Manufactured in the United States of America CONTENTS PART ONE I I AM BORN 3 II BEAR LAWN 14 III CHILD OF PRIVILEGE 24 IV I GO TO MEETING 36 V I GO TO SCHOOL 55 VI CHEESE, LUMPS, CREWJOE, THE SCARLET WOMAN AND THE GREAT GOD BENAMUCKEE 73 VII THE END OF THE WORLD 87 VIII SATAN COMES TO TAWBOROUGH 95 IX AND SO DOES UNCLE SIMEON 101 X OLD LETTERS 120 XI EXTRAORDINARY MEETING FOR PRAYER, PRAISE AND PURGING 135 XII THE GREAT DISCLOSURE 144 XIII I GO TO TORRIBRIDGE 158 XIV I BECOME CURIOUS 172 XV WESTWARD HO! 179 XVI ROBBIE 192 XVII CHRISTMAS NIGHT 206 XVIII NEW YEAR'S NIGHT 223 XIX BEAR LAWN AGAIN 233 XX DIARY 243 XXI I AM BAPTIZED IN JORDAN 253 XXII THE RETURN OF THE STRANGER 265 XXIII WINE THAT MAKETH GLAD THE HEART OF WOMAN 282 XXIV PROSPECTS 301 XXV I SAY GOOD-BYE 312 PART TWO XXVI CHÂTEAU VILLEBECQ 319 XXVII MARY THE SECOND 327 XXVIII LAYING-ON OF HANDS 336 XXIX HAPPY FAMILY 340 XXX CARDBOARD 356 XXXI WAY OF AN EAGLE IN THE AIR 362 XXXII PAREE! 370 XXXIII I BECOME AN HEIRESS 377 XXXIV I BECOME A DAUGHTER 381 XXXV WAY OF A SERPENT UPON A ROCK 386 XXXVI THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 389 XXXVII WAY OF A SHIP IN THE MIDST OF THE SEA 393 XXXVIII DEATHBED 408 XXXIX END OF THREE VISIONS: THE STRANGER'S 412 XL END OF THREE VISIONS: NAPOLEON'S 420 XLI END OF THREE VISIONS: MINE 424 XLII TWIN DEATHBEDS 427 XLIII ONE LONG PRERCESSION O' DEATHBEDS 431 XLIV CHRISTMAS NIGHT 434 XLV WAY OF A MAN WITH A MAID 439 PART ONE CHAPTER I: I AM BORN I was born at Tawborough on March the Second, 1848. It seems to have been a great year in the history books. Fires of revolution sweeping over Europe; half the capitals aflame. From Prague to Palermo, from Paris to Pesth, the peoples rising against their rulers. Wars and rumours of wars; civil strife everywhere. Radicals in Prussia, revolutionaries in Italy, rebels in Austria, republicans in France. Even in old England we had our chartists. All such troubles failed to touch Tawborough. What did she know of it all, or care if she knew? She was a good old peaceful English country town, with her own day's work to do. The great world might go its way for all she cared--a wild and noisy way it seemed. She would go hers. Not that Tawborough had always been without a say in England's affairs. She had indeed a long and honourable history. At the dawn of time there was a settlement in the marshes where the little stream of Yeo empties itself into the Taw: a primitive village of wattled huts, known to the Britons as Artavia. The Phoenicians record the name for us, and describe the place as a great mart for their commerce. Here the tin of the western mines was bartered against the rich products of the East: camphire and calamus, spikenard and saffron, fine linen and purple silk. This was the origin of Tawborough market, which is the first in Devonshire to this day. Artavia seems to have been an important seat of the old British worship. The see of the Arch-Druid of the West was near at hand in the Valley of the Rocks at Lynton; from the sacred oak-groves above the Taw on a clear day the Druids could see the fires of the great altar on the Promontory of Hercules--Hartland Point they call it now. Religion, indeed, in one way or another, seems to have coloured most of the big events of the town's history. The next great fight was between pagans and Christian men. It was the foeman from the North, threatening the men of Wessex with desolation. One day the terrified townsfolk heard clanging in their ears the great ivory horns of the Northmen, and beheld the blood-red banners sailing up the Taw. One of the standards had upon it a Raven. Then the Englishmen knew their foe for the wild Hubba, King of the Vikings; since the Raven floated always at his mast. The banner was of crimson. It had been worked by the King's three sisters in a noontide and blessed by a strange Icelandic wizard, who endowed the Raven sewn upon it with this magical gift: that she clapped her wings to announce success to the Viking arms, and drooped them to presage failure. Never till this day had the black wings drooped; they drooped this winter's morning. So the English took heart. Odin, Earl of Devon, sallied forth from Kenwith Castle, defeated and slew King Hubba, and captured the magic banner. Then came peace for a while. King Alfred, full of piety, came to Tawborough and set up the great Mound by the Castle. King Athelstan gave the town a charter, and housed himself in a magnificent palace at Umberleigh hard by. In the wake of the Normans came the religious orders. The Cluniacs built a monastery in the town, the Benedictines another at Pilton just outside. With the monks came light and learning, better lives and milder ways. Tawborough became rich and prosperous. Her trade excelled that of Bristol. Her fair and market were famous "tyme out of mynde." For many years the Taw--that "greate, hugy, mighty, perylous and dredful water"--became a highway for the ships of all nations. When the New World was found, Englishmen sailed west for glory. Devon led the way, Tawborough men among the foremost, and Tawborough ships did valiant deeds against the Invincible Armada. Those were the great days of England. The townsfolk were all for the new religion. Spaniard and Papist were twin-children of the devil. A murrain on both! They favoured the Puritan party in the civil wars, stood out against the rest of the county, and shouted for the Parliament. Though when the Royalists took the town and gay Prince Charles made it his headquarters, the townspeople were charmed with His Merry Highness; and he, as he told Lord Clarendon, with them. All the courtiers were of the same mind. Lord Clarendon himself declared that Tawborough was "a very fine sweet town as ever I saw," while Lady Fanshawe thought that the cherry pies they made there "with their sort of cream" were the best things that man, or woman, could eat. Gay John Gay, who wrote the Beggar's Opera, showed to the world the fair and likeable character of his native town, which at heart, however, was always of the godly serious-minded quality, Puritan to the core. No town in England gave a warmer welcome to the poor Huguenots, who were flying from King Lewis. One Sunday morning as the townsfolk were coming forth from Church they saw against the sky--not this time the scarlet banners of the North--the brown sails of an old French schooner, bearing up the Taw a band of exiled French Puritans, weary and wretched after their voyage. Tawborough found every one of them a home. In return the grateful Frenchmen taught the natives new ways of cloth-weaving, which sent the fame of Tawborough Bays through all the land. Later came a change, a new century, the reign of King Coal; and Tawborough, like many another historic Western town, sank into comparative decay. What did the new industrial cities know of such as her, or care if they knew? For her part, she was indifferent to their ignorance or their indifference alike. She was a good old English country town with her own day's work to do. Troubles, invasions, vicissitudes had assailed her before. New blood, Saxon, Danish, Norman, Huguenot had coursed through her veins. Her dead had buried their dead. The people pass, the place alone is abiding.... Abiding, yet not eternal; for there comes the day when the old earth will fall into the sun.... Meanwhile, Town Tawborough had her daily life to live, her townsfolk had theirs. Two of them, indeed, were living theirs with plenty of zest, somewhere in the first quarter of the nineteenth century. Jael and Hannah Vickary were the daughters of an old sea-captain, Ebenezer Vickary of Torribridge. He and his brother had three or four vessels of their own, trading with the Indies in sugar and molasses, or with the Spanish Main, as it then still was, in logwood and mahogany. The brother died in Cuba of the yellow fever. Soon afterwards Ebenezer gave up the sea, settled down in Tawborough, and died in his time. He left his two daughters enough money to live upon in the quiet style of those days, together with a big dwelling house by the old North Gate. Here Jael and Hannah Vickary lived alone, with an old servant whose years were unknown and unnumbered, and whose wages were six pounds a year. They had a few friends and visitors, faithful women of the Parish Church, chief among whom were the Other Six of "the Seven Old Maids of Tawborough." By a strange coincidence seven female children had been born in Tawborough on August the First 1785, all of whom had risen to be devout handmaidens of the Lord in the work of the Parish Church, shining lights around the central figure of the Vicar, and all of whom had dwindled into a sure spinsterhood. "We are the wise virgins," said Jael Vickary, their leader and spiritual chief, in whom the scorn of all menfolk except the Vicar (who had a meek wife and twelve children) amounted to a prophet's passion. This passion was shared in various degrees by the Other Six, to wit: Miss Lucy Clarke, Miss Fanny Baker, Miss Keturah Crabb, Miss Sarah Tombstone, and last but not least the Heavenly Twins, the Misses Glory and Salvation Clinker. The Twins were the only regular visitors at Northgate House. There were a few others, no relatives among them. Jael and Hannah had indeed an elder brother, John: Ebenezer's only son. He had gone to London as a boy, worked his way up in a wholesale sugar house in the City, and become passing rich. His sisters were kept aware of his existence only by receiving occasional presents and more occasional letters. He never married. Thus it was that his death, if nothing so crude as a self-acknowledged source of financial hope to Miss Jael, would nevertheless have been borne by her with true Christian fortitude. If alike in a salt and shrewdness of personality unknown to our end of the century, in most ways the two sisters differed as much as two human beings can. Miss Jael was hard, Miss Hannah kindly; Miss Jael stern, Miss Hannah gentle; Miss Jael was feared, Miss Hannah loved. Though Hannah was less than eighteen months her sister's junior, this unbridgeable gulf enabled Miss Jael throughout life to refer to Miss Hannah as "a young woman," and to treat her accordingly. Then, behold, in the year 1822, when both were nearer forty than thirty, the Young Woman brazenly gave ear to the suit of one Edward Lee, an old sea-captain, who had sailed under her father, and was twenty years her senior. Jael mocked (Why did he choose her? asked her heart bitterly); yet stayed on at Northgate House, when Captain Lee came to live there, to bully and bludgeon the dear old man into his grave. This procedure took but five years. The old man died, leaving to his widow two little girls and a boy: Rachel, Martha and Christian. In the godlier activities of Tawborough life Jael and her widowed sister were leading lights, with the parish church as General Headquarters of their operations. Miss Jael was the vicar's right-hand _man_. She ran his poor club, his guild, his Dorcas-meeting, effacing completely the meek many-childrened little lady of the Rectory. He thought her a queen among women, a tower set upon a rock. All this was in the twenties and thirties of the century, ere yet the Church of England had taken her earliest step on the swift steep path to Rome. The same wave of evangelical fervour that had swelled Wesley's great following had strengthened also the Church from which they broke away. This fervour, whether Methodist or Established, did not however go nearly far enough for certain pious souls, especially in the West country, who formed themselves into little bodies for the Worship of God in the strictest and simplest Gospel fashion. "They continued steadfastly in the apostles' doctrine and fellowship, and in breaking of bread, and in prayer." They called themselves the Saints, or more modestly the Brethren. Outsiders called them the Plymouth Brethren--they flourished in the great seaport--or more profanely, the Plymouth Rocks. They were drawn from all communions and no communion, if principally from the Established Church; from all classes and conditions, the humbler trades-folk perhaps predominating. In Tawborough they were especially active. From the days of the primitive Druids away through the long story of missionaries and monks, seafaring Protestants and Huguenot exiles, here was a town that took her religion neat. She preferred the good Calvin flavouring, and thus it was that the Plymouth evangel sent up a savoury smell in her nostrils. There were literally hundreds of converts. The Parish Church lost some of its leading members. Arose the cry "The Church in danger!"; and of all who responded, most valiant was the Vicar's right-hand man. She stemmed the tide of deserters with loins girt for battle. Like St. Paul, she breathed out threatenings and slaughter against the new sect. She encouraged the faithful, visited the wavering, anathematized deserters. To crown her efforts she counselled the vicar to summon a great Church Defence Meeting in the Parish Room, to rally and re-affirm the confidence of the faithful. The Vicar agreed. The hour of commencement saw a right goodly and godly assembly foregathered together. On the platform sat a Canon of Exeter, the old Marquess of Exmoor, several county bigwigs, the Mayor and the Churchwardens. Seven o'clock struck, the Vicar was about to open the proceedings, everything was ready--except--except that two honoured places on the platform (in those days a place on a platform was for a woman an honour indeed) were not yet occupied. Miss Vickary and her sister were late. The Vicar hesitated. There was a distinguished company, true: but start the meeting without its guiding spirit--never! Give her five minutes.... Some one handed the Vicar an envelope. He opened it, read through the contents, and fainted then and there. How the reverend gentleman was brought round from his swoon by the joint endeavours of the Canon, the Marquess, two Churchwardens, nine ladies and a bottle of sal-volatile; how the great Church Defence Meeting fizzled to an inglorious end; and how Jael Vickary and Hannah Lee were baptized in the Taw in the presence of three thousand five hundred spectators, there is no need to relate here. The facts were well enough known to the older generation in the town. Some say that the Vicar made a last despairing effort to retain his apostate right-hand man; that, with tears in his eyes, he went down on his knees before her. If so, as Hannah wickedly said, he was the only man who ever did so, and in any case he achieved nothing. On the contrary The Great Betrayal encouraged wholesale desertions. The Other Six deserted _en masse_. Henceforward Jael Vickary's life was occupied with two main things: building up the new sect, and bringing up her sister's family. She filled the vacant post of father with thoroughness and vigour. Her method was the rod, or to be accurate the thorned stick, and a horrible weapon it was. Hannah approved the method in moderation, though she could never have applied it herself. Much of her life, indeed, was spent in protecting her children from her sister. Rachel, the eldest, was best beloved. She was a sweet, gentle child; bright, tender and gay. Martha was quieter, even morose. Christian was a peevish child, weak and ailing from birth. With no husband to help her, and her sister on the scold from morn till night, Hannah Lee's life was not an easy one. She gave her two daughters the best schooling in Devonshire, as schooling for girls went in those days; so that when they grew up they were able to take positions as governesses in the best families of the county. Rachel went to Woolthy Hall to teach Guy, the Lord Tawborough's five year old heir. Martha was employed by the Groves, of Grove House near Exeter, to begin the education of their daughter. The two girls' attainments and appearance explained their good fortune. Rachel in particular was a refined and attractive young woman, with bright eyes, a peerless skin, and a gentle winning expression. Dressed oftenest in a dove-coloured cotton robe, she had a Quakerish charm, simple yet sure. Hannah was left alone at Tawborough with Jael and young Christian. As the years passed, life turned greyer. When the Devon and Three Counties' Bank collapsed, nearly half the household income disappeared. Jael's imperiousness grew with her years, while her temper soured. Christian was in a decline, dying slowly before his mother's eyes. Then came Martha's marriage. She had fallen in with one Simeon Greeber, a retired chemist, who lived over at Torribridge--the Taw's twin-river's port, and Tawborough's immemorial rival. This Greeber was the local leader of the extreme wing of the Saints, the Close or Exclusive Brethren; a man twice Martha Lee's age, and one who filled her aunt and her mother with a special sense of dislike and mistrust. Against their will she married him, gave up her excellent post with the Grove family, and went to live at Torribridge. Hannah's consolation was always Rachel, whom she loved most dearly. Then, in its turn, came Rachel's marriage. At Woolthy Hall the young governess had come into contact with Lord Tawborough's cousin, Mr. Philip Traies, who was a frequent if not welcome guest. He had served in the Navy, but had left the service under doubtful circumstances. He had led a scandalous life and earned a reputation to match it. A clear-cut handsome mouth set in a proud aristocratic face, a fine bearing, a fine speech, and an honoured name, deluded many and were his own undoing. In ill odour with his family and his Maker, he decided to come to terms with the latter. At the age of forty, he joined the Plymouth Brethren. When the Devil turns saint he does a very sharp round-about, and no withered Anglo-Indian colonel who communed with the Saints in his dotage to ensure himself as gay a time in the next world as he had passed in this, ever excelled Mr. Philip Traies in fervour and piety. He worshipped occasionally with the Tawborough Saints, who were duly honoured. Sometimes here, and sometimes at his cousin's, he met Rachel Lee, at this time a girl of twenty-one. He bestowed upon her the favour of eager kindly patronage, as such men will; though if she were beneath him in station, and his equal in manners and good looks, she was far above him in everything else: goodness and purity and wholeness of heart. Quite how it happened nobody knew; but one day Rachel came home from Woolthy Hall, and said to her mother, "I am going to marry Mr. Philip Traies." Hannah entreated. A "good" match with a bad man had no attraction for her. She pleaded with Rachel. Aunt Jael would not stoop to plead; she gave her niece instead a plain outline of Mr. Philip Traies' past. "I know," said the girl, and murmured something about "reforming" him. Neither mother nor aunt achieved her surrender. Pleading and plain-speaking did nothing, nor ever do. The wedding took place at the registry office, as in those days the Brethren's Meeting Houses were not licensed for solemnization of marriages, and neither bride nor bridegroom would enter a church or chapel: temples of Antichrist. Hannah sat through the ceremony with a queer sense of foreboding, of sickness, and coming sorrow; an order of sentiment which, as a sensible Devon woman with no tomfool tombstone fancies ever in her head, in sixty years she had not known. Immediately after the ceremony, at the registry office door, the bridegroom suddenly loosened himself from the bride's arm, and walked sharply away without saying a word. Nobody knew why. Everybody stared. The wedding breakfast at Northgate House began without him. They waited; he did not come. After an hour the tension became unbearable. The guests whispered in groups; Rachel and her mother bore already on their brows the sorrow of the years to come. Aunt Jael's face was a gloomy triumphant "I told you so." Pastries were nibbled, wine was sipped; the joy-feast continued. After nearly two hours a bell rang, and the bridegroom appeared. "Your explanation?" asked Hannah. Rachel dared not look. "Oh, I had another woman to see. A glass of sherry please. Besides, it amused me." He took her away to his house at Torquay. Their married life was wretched from the start. Among many evil passions these two predominated in Mr. Philip Traies: desire and cruelty. Here was a lovely and gentle girl who would satisfy both. The first was soon appeased (shattering love in her heart once and for all), the second never. Cruelty is insatiable. With this man it was a devouring passion. It is doubtful perhaps if he was sane. Taunts, foulness, sneers.... He starved her sometimes, taunted her with her lowlier birth, engaged the servants on the condition of ill-treating their mistress, dismissed them if they wavered. All the time he talked religion. The knees of his elegant trousers were threadbare with prayer. He could fit a text to every taunt. Then a baby-boy came to cheer the sinking heart. A few hours after the child was born, when the young mother lay in the agony and weakness she alone can know, Mr. Philip Traies entered the room--with a gentler word to-day surely?--no, with this: "So this is how you keep your fine promises to make a good lady of the house, a busy housewife and the rest of it"--he raised his voice savagely--"idling in bed at four in the afternoon. _Get up, you idle bitch!_" Leaning over the end-rail, he spat in her face. The baby soon died. He taunted her with nursing it badly; and doubled every cruelty he knew save blows. "Strike me," she said once. Her patience was a fool's, a saint's, a loving woman's; her goodness, if not her spirits, unfailing. In writing home she made the best of things. But her heart was broken, her spirit wasting away. "Why did you marry me?" she asked. "To break your spirit," was the amused reply. "Then your marriage has fulfilled its purpose," she said wearily. "My spirit is broken. Now I can go home." That night she wrote to Hannah. The letter is faded, and stained with three women's tears, wife's, mother's, daughter's. "Dearest Mother," she wrote, "I am ill and weary. Another little child is coming, but I may not live for it to be born. I can leave him without failing in my wife's duty now, for the end is very near. I am coming home to die. Your loving broken-hearted Daughter." Next day she packed for home. "Deserting me, are you? Fine Jezebel ways! A good Christian wifely thing to do, I'm sure. I thought we were proud of doing our duty." His sneers did not move her now. She was going home to die. Northgate House was a dismal place to return to. It was a wet cheerless winter. Hannah was tired and heart-sore. Christian was dying. Jael was evil-tempered, scolding harshly: her comfort to her mother and daughter was still "I told you so." Rachel went straight to bed. In a few days Christian died, a sickly pitiful boy of twenty. "It is the Lord's will," said his mother. Hannah had everything to do, for Simeon Greeber would not let Martha come over from Torribridge, and Jael took to her bed with a convenient fit of the ague. Faith in the eternal love of God was Hannah's only stay. Always, ever, "It was the Lord's will." This sufficed her, though the times were bitter. The day after Christian's funeral was wet and wintry: March the Second 1848. Rachel was twenty-four. Three years ago she had been a happy healthy girl. Now she was a dying broken woman. The morning of that day she gave birth to a daughter. Then she was very weak. Her eyes closed, yet she seemed to see something. "What do you see, Rachel, my dear?" asked her mother. The spirit was already half away, looking through the golden gates of Heaven. "There is a little angel born. I see her in God's cradle. _My_ little angel, God's little angel. I shall be with her always--though far away. I see ... the King in His beauty ... I behold the land ... that is very far off." Her face was radiant as a lover's, yet sad as Love is. Hannah could not reply. The dying woman seemed to sleep. Her mother watched. An hour passed. Rachel opened her eyes. "Mother." "Yes, my dear." "Love my little baby for me; and--tell _him_--I forgive him." The eyes closed, this time for ever. My poor mother. CHAPTER II: BEAR LAWN My first memory in this life is of a moving. I am sitting in a high chair, kept in by a stick placed through a hole in each arm. I am surrounded by the utmost disarray. In front of me is an old sponge-bath, crammed full of knick-knacks and drawing-room ornaments. I stretch out my hands yearningly, acquisitively, and make signs of wrenching from its offensive gaolerlike position the stick which bars my way. My Grandmother coaxes me to keep it in, and uses the words she is to use so often later on--words which will punctuate my daily life in days to come: "Don't 'ee do it, my dear. Sit 'ee still and give no trouble. Ye'll tumble and hurt yourself, so leave the stick alone. Don't 'ee do it." "If she don't, I'll take it out myself and lay it about her," comes another voice, which is to punctuate as regularly and much more raucously my early doings. And Aunt Jael shakes her fist, and lowers at me. Perhaps I don't really remember the trifling incident. Most likely I only remember that I remember. It is a photograph of a photograph, smudged by the fingers of Time. Yet I see as clearly as ever the dark room in disarray, my Grandmother kind and coaxing, Aunt Jael threatening and harsh. The memory is clearer because Time has not blurred but rather sharpened it. I grew up the gauge of an unequal battle between Grandmother and Great-Aunt. Moving-day is merely the moment in which my infant intelligence first caught news of the struggle. At this time I must have been about three years old, for it was some three years after my mother's death that we moved from the High Street, at the time when--I think it was in 1852--the old North Gate was removed, and our house pulled down. Our new house was Number Eight, Bear Lawn. The Lawn was a biggish patch of grass with houses on both sides. At the far end from the road it merged into a steep grassy bank, crowned with poplars, which allowed no egress. At the near end a big iron gate barred us off from the plebeian houses of Bear Street, to which the Lawn mansions felt themselves notably superior. The Lawn lay to the right of the street some little way out of the town. In reality it was an old barrack-square, "converted." The houses on each side of it were barracks put up during the French Revolutionary Wars. When Boney was beaten and the soldiers sent away, an enterprising builder turned the barracks into two terraces of houses, and sowed the barrack-square with grass seed. Bear Lawn became one of the most elegant quarters of Tawborough, a quiet preserve of genteel habitation; though the houses never quite lost their barrack quality. They were too square and bare and big to be truly genteel. And too roomy. Number Eight was one of the squarest and barest. It was gloomy. How far the aspect it will always bear in my mind may be a reflection of the dark and unhappy days I spent there, and how far it was real, I cannot ever say. It was a house of big empty corridors, dark bare spaces, and an incommunicable dreariness that somehow stilled you as you crossed the doorstep. There was none of the cosy warmth that makes so many dark old houses a homely joy to the senses and a warm fragrance for the memory. It had the silence in it that only large empty spaces can create, did not seem inhabited, and smelt of coffins, I used to think. Even in summer there was a suggestion of damp and cold and bleakness, and always there was the silence which made me wait--and listen. Downstairs there were three big rooms: Aunt Jael's, the dining-room and the kitchen. Aunt Jael's was the front one. The door was always unlocked, yet the key was left on the outside of the door, and I was forbidden to enter. Like Mrs. Bluebeard (of whom I had never heard) or our first mother Eve (in the knowledge of whom I grew to understanding), I felt that prohibition made perfect; and the forbidden room attracted me beyond all others. I visited it usually in the afternoon, when the thunder and trumpets of Aunt Jael's after-dinner doze in the dining-room announced that the road was clear. The blinds were always drawn, winter and summer alike; and the windows closed. The room seemed filled with a dull yellowish kind of mist, the ochre-coloured blind toning the darkness, and just permitting you to see a yellowish carpet and dull yellowish furniture. A row of dismal plants, standing in saucers on the floor, filled the bay window. There was a great oak sideboard, stuffed with Aunt Jael's preserves and pickles; though it was long before I had the courage and the opportunity to ransack it thoroughly. The walls were covered with spears and daggers, trophies of the Gospel in distant lands. In a corner reposed the supreme trophy, a huge wooden god, sitting with arms akimbo. His votaries (until salvation, in the person of Brother Immanuel Greeber, had turned them from their ways) dwelt, I believe, in the Society Islands; though he looked for all the world like a Buddha, with his painless impenetrable eyes and his smile of changeless calm. In his dark unwholesome corner he dominated the room. The yellow mist was incense in his nostrils. The middle room we called the dining-room, though Aunt Jael favoured "back parlour." Here we lived and prayed and ate, and here a large part of this story took place. The window overlooked our small backyard, which being flanked by out-houses gave little light; so this room too was dark, though not as dark as Aunt Jael's, since the blinds were not usually drawn. It was more barely furnished. There was the table, a chiffonier, a side-board, a bookcase, and two principal chairs: a "gentleman's" armchair to the left of the fireplace, with two big arms; and a "lady's," armless, to the right. One was comfortable, the other was not. One was Aunt Jael's, the other was my Grandmother's. There were four bedrooms on the first floor, and I must note their strategic positions. Aunt Jael's was the first on the right, my own the second; we were over the dining-room and surveyed the backyard. My Grandmother's chamber, the first on the left, and the spare-room beyond it overlooked the Lawn. At the half-landing above was Mrs. Cheese's bedroom, while the top of the house consisted of an enormous whitewashed attic, lighted by an unwashed skylight and suffused by a cold bluish gloom that contrasted queerly with the foggy yellow of the front room downstairs yet excelled it in silent cheerlessness. Here I would spend hours, or whole days, either of my own free will, that I might moon and mope to my heart's content, and talk aloud to myself without fear of mocking audience; or perforce, banished by the frequent judgment of Aunt Jael. It was our moving into this house that supplies my first earthly memory. My first important--dramatic, historic--remembrance must date from several months later, when I was nearly four years old. The scene was our evening reading of the Word. We were sitting in our usual positions round the dining-room fire after supper. To the left of the chimney-piece, in the big black horsehair chair--the comfortable one, the one with sides and arms--sat my Great-Aunt Jael. This was her permanent post. From this coign of vantage she issued ukases, thundered commands, hurled anathemas and brandished her sceptre--that thorned stick of whose grim and governmental qualities I have the fullest knowledge of any soul (or body) on earth. She was a short, stout, stocky, strong-looking woman, yet bent; when walking, bent sometimes almost double. Leaning on her awful stick, she looked the old witch she was. Peaky black cap surmounting beetling black brows and bright black eyes, wrinkled swarthy skin, beaky nose, a hard mouth whiskered like a man's, and a harder chin: feature for feature, she was the witch of the picture-books. All her dresses, silk, serge or bombazine, were black. On the night I speak of, an ordinary week-night, she was dressed in her oldest serge. The great Holy Bible on her knees might have been some unholy wizard's tome. To the right of the chimney-piece sat my Grandmother. She resembled her sister in feature; the character of the face was as different as is heaven from hell. This indeed was the very quality of the difference, and I had a fancy that they were the _same_ face, one given to God, the other sold to Satan. My Grandmother had the same beaky nose and nut-cracker face. Her mouth and chin were firm, but kind instead of cruel. Her skin was milk-white instead of swarthy, her caps were of white lace. Her eyes were as bright as my Great-Aunt's, but bright with kindliness instead of menace. Her whole face spoke of goodwill to others and perfect peace. It was a sweet old face. I love it still. In the middle, facing the fire, sat Mrs. Cheese. She was a farmer's daughter and widow from near South Molton; and looked it. She was short, fat and ruddy; a few years younger than her mistresses, perhaps at this time a woman of sixty. I myself crouched on a little stool between Mrs. Cheese and Aunt Jael; but nearer the latter, that I might be watched, and cuffed, with ease. On this particular evening, my heart was hot with rage against Aunt Jael, who had flogged me and locked me in the attic: I don't remember what for. She ordered me more sternly than usual not to dare to move my eyes from her face as she read the nightly portion from the Word of God. To-night it was from her favourite Proverbs, the thirtieth chapter: the words of Agur the son of Jakeh, _even_ the prophecy; the words the man spake unto Ithiel, even unto Ithiel and Ucal. Aunt Jael read, or rather declaimed the Word, in a harsh staccato way; not without a certain power, especially in the dourer passages of Proverbs or the dismaller in Job or Lamentations. In one of her favourite Psalms, the eighteenth or the sixty-eighth, reeking with battle and revenge, and bespattered with the blood of the enemies of Jehovah, her voice would rise to a dark triumphal shout, terrible as an army with banners. This evening I looked sullenly at the floor as she boomed forth the words of Agur, determined _not_ to fix my eyes on her face at any rate until Stick coaxed me. Suddenly my eyes were transfixed to the floor. A gigantic cockroach was crawling about near my feet. I wanted to cry out but managed to contain myself until, behold, the creature crawled away from my left foot towards the leg of Aunt Jael's chair, reached the chair leg, began to climb it with resolution. I watched, half in fascination, half in fear. It reached the level of the horsehair upholstery. Aunt Jael had reached verse thirteen. "Their eyelids are lifted up." She looked meaningly at me. Fortunately my eyelids were by this time well lifted up, as the beetle was now half way up the chair, approaching the awful place where Aunt Jael's shoulder touched the upholstery. No--yes: it crawled on to the arm, and mounted her sleeve right up to the shoulder. Righteous revenge for her cruelty and harshness counselled silence. "Let her suffer," I said to myself, "let the cockroach do his worst." Fear of interrupting gave like counsel. On the other side spoke the prickings of conscience and pity, and above all a wild desire to scream. Aunt Jael read on, innocent of the unbidden guest upon her shoulder. "The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid--" "Ay, and the way of a beetle with a Great-Aunt," I could have shouted. The beast, after a moment's hesitation and survey, had now turned along the shoulder to the neck. The warm hairy flesh of Aunt Jael's neck was but six inches away. "The ants are a people not strong, yet they prepare their meat in the summer; The conies are but a feeble folk, yet they make their houses in the rocks; The locusts have no King, yet go they forth all of them by bands; The spider taketh hold with her hands--" "Yes," I shrieked--in a moment shot through with terror, joy, relief; suffused by a new beatific sense of speaking historic words--"and the beetle taketh hold with his claws!" As I uttered the words the insect crawled from her collar on to the very flesh of her neck. She understood, with Spartan calm took hold of him, squashed him carefully between her thumb and forefinger and threw him on the fire, where he sizzled sickeningly. "Surely the churning of milk bringeth forth butter, and the wringing of the nose bringeth forth blood: so the forcing of wrath bringeth forth strife." There the chapter ended. She slammed the book and turned on me. "You have forced wrath, Child. I shall bring forth strife." And despite my Grandmother's entreaties, she led me from the room by the nose, which she pulled unmercifully: though no blood was brought forth. Out in the passage she gave me a cruel beating with the thorned stick, till I screamed for mercy, and my Grandmother intervened. "'Tis cruel, Jael. The child cried out about the beetle for _your_ sake." "Sake or no sake, she cried out unseemly and irreverent. That's all I look at." I was sore in body and sorer in heart. I had screamed out to warn Aunt Jael of the insect's approach, and now I was flogged for my pains. I knew in my own heart that what Grandmother had pleaded was not in point of fact quite true, I knew I had been secretly glad to see the creature making for Aunt Jael's skin, and for this reason had kept silence for so long. The physical instinct to scream had merely been stronger in the end than my resolution to say nothing. In a dim sort of way I realized this, and saw that my Grandmother's plea was unwarranted. But I saw more clearly that the common-sense of the position was that I had done Aunt Jael a good turn, and that the flogging was--in the light of the facts as she (not the Lord or I) knew them--mean and undeserved. I brooded revenge, as always. Aunt Jael's beatings were always more or less cruel, always more or less unjust; this I knew with a child's instinct, distorted and exaggerated no doubt by wretchedness and pride. So always I planned revenge, which sooner or later brought on the next flogging. This time, however, my revenge was undetected. Next morning I came downstairs just as Mrs. Cheese was beginning to lay the table for breakfast. There were two separate sets of everything--breakfast-ware, dinner-services, tea-things, plate, knives and forks, even cruets--Grandmother's and Aunt Jael's, which the latter insisted on keeping rigorously separate. So, every day for breakfast or tea there would be two cups and saucers and plates with the gold pattern for my Grandmother and me, and one solitary cup and saucer and plate of Willow-pattern for my Great-Aunt. She had her own tea-pot too, a great fluted thing in old silver-plate, which could have held tea for a dozen; but never a taste of tea was poured forth from it for any one else, save on occasions so rare that I can number them on the fingers of my hand. So there was no mistaking the utensil with which, in which, from which, or out of which Aunt Jael would partake of nourishment. I was wandering round the table when I noticed, at first with fright, then, when I ascertained that it was dead, with interest and purpose, a large beetle much the same as its fumigated brother of the night before, lying on its back, claws heavenward. A divine idea possessed me. I picked it up, squashed it between my thumb and forefinger in the true Aunt Jaelian manner, and smeared the loathsome substance all over my Great-Aunt's teaspoon and the inside of her cup. It was an act of genius, that rare thing: the Revenge Perfect. "With the beetle hast thou slain," I said solemnly out loud, "by the beetle shalt thou perish." "Perish" was a poetic flight, as Aunt Jael entirely failed to notice the mess in her cup, which she filled with tea from her exclusive pot, or the mess on her spoon, with which she stirred lustily. She drank three cupfuls, and belched as blandly as usual. Now I saw the imperfection of my revenge perfect. In idea and execution it had been superb, and to see her guzzling down the embeetled tea was very sweet. But she did not _know_ she was drinking it--this was the eternal thorn that mars the everlasting rose. I had, however, the compensation of safety. All through breakfast, I looked meek and forgiving. Aunt Jael relented. "Here, child, have a drink of tea out of my cup; 'twill do 'ee more good than the milk-and-water stuff your Grandma always gives 'ee." "No, thank you, Aunt," I replied. And I triumphed in my heart. Fate was about to triumph over me. Beetle had led to beating, and I had used beetle (with tea-cup) for revenge. Now Fate used tea-cup for triumph. It befell at tea-time, I think the same day. My arm was on the table-cloth, and, before I knew what I was doing, it (and Fate) had swept Aunt Jael's own old blue exclusive willow-pattern cup on to the floor, where it lay in a thousand avenging fragments. A brutal cuff full in the face changed fear and remorse into rage. "Careless little slut!" she shouted. "What are 'ee biding there for staring like a half-daft sheep?--Say you're sorry, say you're sorry." "I was sorry," I faltered, "but I'm not now." This was the first brave thing I ever did, so brave that I hold my breath now to think of it. I shrank from some monstrous blow. No blow came; partly because my Grandmother looked warningly ready to interfere, partly because my Great-Aunt had decided on another punishment, the only one I feared worse than blows. "Oh, not sorry, eh, careless little slut?--" "Stop it, Jael, I tell 'ee," broke in my Grandmother. "The child must try to be more careful and handy, and she's to say she's sorry, but--" "Say she's sorry?" echoed Aunt Jael. "But she's just said she's not. 'I'm not sorry _now_' quoth she! Not sorry, not sorry, young huzzy, do 'ee know where Not-sorry goes? Do 'ee? I'll tell 'ee: straight to Hell. Obstinacy in sin is the worst sin, and its reward is Hell. Hell, child, where your body will be scorched with flames and racked with awful torments. Devils will twist and twease your flesh, and 'twill be for ever too. You've done a wrong thing, and your nasty proud soul is too wicked to say you're sorry. You spurn the chance of repentance, the free offer of God A'mighty, made through me His servant. You shall suffer eternal punishment." I quailed. At four the fear of that word had fallen on my soul. She knew it: the beady eyes gleamed. "No hope, no escape. Flames, pains, coals of fire, coals of fire! Ha, ha, ha!" (Here she cackled.) "Not sorry, eh? Very like you'll be sorry then, when you look across the gulf and see all your dear ones in Abraham's bosom. No hope of ever joining them. Torture for all eternity. Have you thought what the word Eternity means, child? You're young in your sins as yet, but you know that well enough, ha, ha, ha!" (She chuckled again, three hard little cackling noises they always were, cruel enough.) "It means that you will suffer the torments of the lake of fire that is burning with brimstone, not for a mere thousand thousand years, but for ever and ever and ever--" I was less than four years old, and I could bear it no longer. I flew to my Grandmother's arm for safety, sobbing brokenly, half-wild for fear. Aunt Jael leaned back, content, pleased with the success of her punishment, and sure of heaven. Though if there be the Hell she raved of, it is for such as her. My Grandmother comforted me. She was torn, I suppose, between two feelings. Her faith told her that what her sister said was true, her heart that it was cruel. I felt somehow even then that this was the nature of my Grandmother's struggle. The good heart turns away from cruelty, even when it speaks with all the authority of true religion, and so my Grandmother always turned away. She compromised: said nothing to Aunt Jael, while she comforted me; while soothing the victim, did not scold the scolder. "Don't cry my dearie, and don't 'ee be frightened. Nought can harm 'ee. Your good aunt is right. 'Tis true that Hell is terrible, 'tis true that you're a sinful child, and 'tis true that you'll be going to the cruel place, if you have no sorrow and repentance in your heart. You broke your Aunt's fine cup; run to her now, tell her you're sorry. Only then can you be saved from the wrath of Jehovah, freed by repentance, cleansed by love of Christ. And even as Hell is awful, so is Heaven good. Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, the things which God hath prepared for them that love Him. Run to your Aunt. Say: 'I'm sorry, Aunt.'" I hesitated. Like my Grandmother's, my four-year-old heart found it had to decide between two calls. The call of fear was, "Say you're sorry, and escape surely from Hell." The call of hate was "Why? She is a bad cruel woman; and you're not sorry at all, you're glad you've smashed her evil cup." "Besides," added the Tempter, "as you're not sorry, it would be lying to say you are." I hung doubtfully. At length I pouted, "I don't want to." "But true repentance," said my Grandmother, "means doing things you don't want to." I said nothing. "Mary, child--" my Grandmother paused a moment, "there is a bright angel in heaven who wants you to give way--your dear mother. I seem to hear her speaking to me now, and telling me so." It is hard for me to explain the power that word had over me from my earliest days. I had a dear angelic vision of kind eyes and two white shining wings. I would shut my eyes in bed at night and see her. Sometimes she seemed to come very near, sometimes she would seem to bend over me and kiss me. Now, as my Grandmother finished speaking, I seemed to see her near. I ran across the room to the old arm-chair. "I'm sorry, Great-Aunt," I said. CHAPTER III: CHILD OF PRIVILEGE Such a life and such a household encouraged unchildlike emotions. I was puzzled far too soon in life by the puzzle of all life. I could not reconcile the wrath of Jehovah with the love of Christ, or the harshness of my Great-Aunt with the kindness of my Grandmother, which was the near and earthly form of that discrepancy. The world was a mysterious battlefield between Wrath and Love, as No. 8 Bear Lawn was a nearer and more familiar battle-place between Aunt Jael and Grandmother. Hell versus Heaven was another aspect of the battle. These two words were part of our daily life. They helped to make the two battles seem but one; for all the innumerable struggles between Aunt Jael and my Grandmother were conducted in the words and in the ways of our religion. Our whole life was indeed our religion, or rather our religion was our life. From morn till night our daily life at Bear Lawn was an incessant preparation for our eternal life above. First we said our own private bedside prayers and read our "bedroom portions" of the Word. Then down in the dining-room after breakfast, Aunt Jael read the Word and prayed aloud for half-an-hour or more; the same after supper in the evening. Then, last thing at night, my Grandmother came to my room and prayed with me by my bedside. We lived in the world of our faith in a complete and intense way almost beyond the understanding of a modern household, however God-fearing. The promises of the faith, the unsearchable riches of Christ, the hope of God, the fear of Hell were our mealtime topics. Sin, as personified by me, was a fruitful subject. Both my Grandmother and Aunt Jael returned to it unwearied, the former mournfully because she loved me, the latter with a rough relish because she loved me not. The main principles of our faith may be summed up in a few capital-letter words. First, there was THE LORD: the God whom all men worship: Who is One. My child's difficulty was that He seemed to be Two. There was Aunt Jael's God, a Prince of battles, revenge and judgment, dipping His foot in the blood of enemies and the tongue of His dogs in the same; a King terrible in anger, dark as a thundercloud; Jehovah, the great I AM. There was my Grandmother's God, a loving Heavenly Father, slow to anger and plenteous in mercy, pitying His children like a Father, Whose mercy was from everlasting to everlasting, Whose loving kindness was for ever. "I will avenge," thundered Aunt Jael from her horsehair throne. "God is Love," replied my Grandmother. There was the WORLD, a comprehensive word which covered all concerts, entertainments, parties--whatever they might be, for I cannot say I knew--all merrymakings, junketings, outings, pleasures, joys; all books save _the_ Book; all affection save for things above; all finery, furbelows, feathers, frills; smart clothes, love of money, lollipops, light conversation and unheavenly thoughts. Everything was of this world worldly which did not savour strongly of the next. There was the FLESH or the World made manifest in our bodies. It existed to be "mortified," chiefly by dancing attendance on Aunt Jael. Not to be up and about, getting Aunt Jael's morning cup-of-tea was fleshly, though it does not seem to have been fleshly to drink the same. Then there was the DEVIL, styled Personal, whom Mrs. Cheese in a fit of regrettable blasphemy once identified with Some One Else, and though the blasphemy shocked, I cannot truly say it pained me. "She'm the very Dow'l hissel, th' ole biddy," said our bonds-woman one day after an encounter in the kitchen in which "th' ole biddy" had brandished big words, and had ended by brandishing the frying-pan also before leaving the beaten Mrs. Cheese to blaspheme, and later to be soothed by th' ole biddy's sister. Then there was the BEAST, the _so-called_ Pope of Rome: and his Mistress, that great WHORE that sitteth upon many waters, that Woman sitting upon a scarlet-coloured beast, full of names of blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns, that Strumpet arrayed in purple and scarlet, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations, upon whose forehead was her name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH--known also, in cravener circles, as the Roman Catholic Church. Beast and Whore were inextricably mixed up in my mind: an amorphous twin mass of scarlet and monstrous horror. I hated them with the passionate hate of ignorance, religion and mystery. There were the ELECT, the Saints, the Few, God's Chosen Ones. There was the ROOM they worshipped in, the BLOOD which redeemed them, the GRACE which sustained them, and the eternal Rest or REWARD on High they aspired to. There was the WAY they reached it, the PLAN of Salvation which shewed them the Way, and the BOOK in which the Plan was to be found. The Book! We read it aloud together twice a day, and privately many times. We delved into its pages early and late, in season and out of season. They say that the old Cromwellians were men of one book; No. 8 Bear Lawn was a house of one book with very vengeance, for Aunt Jael would suffer no trumpery sugar-tales such as "The Pilgrim's Progress"--a book which many even of the staunchest Puritans stooped, I have learnt later, to peruse. There were other books in the dining-room bookcase--works of devotion, exhortation and exposition that I shall speak of later--but until I was ten years old, my Grandmother and Aunt decided I should read no other word whatsoever save _The_ Book. Looking back, I do not regret their decision. Day and night we searched the Scriptures. Aunt Jael and Grandmother discussed them interminably, and sometimes I dared to join in. Our preferences varied, and were the best index of our characters. Aunt Jael's favourite book was without doubt the Proverbs. Its salt old wisdom found echo in her mind. Its continual exhortations to chasten and to correct, nor ever to spare the rod, because of the crying of the chastened one, appealed to her nearly. They were quoted at me daily; usually, alas, as the prelude to offensive action with the thorned stick. Job was another favourite, and the din and bloodshed of the Books of Kings. Jeremiah, prophesying vengeance and horror, was her best-loved Prophet. Parts of Isaiah found favour too, most of all the thirty-fourth chapter where the prophet sings of the wild terrors that shall fill the day of the Lord's vengeance, when the screech-owl shall make her resting place in Zion and the vultures be gathered together. Of the Psalms she read most the forty-sixth, "God is our refuge and strength!" and the sixty-eighth, "Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered." Ah, she was an Old Testament woman. "Eye for eye, tooth for tooth" was a dispensation she could follow better than "Love your enemies." The law of Moses was more acceptable in her sight than the Law of Christ, Jehovah's word from the mountain than the Sermon on the Mount. The Epistle to the Romans, where Saint Paul scolds and scourges the saints of the Imperial City, was her favourite New Testament book. She loved the whole Bible, however, and knew it better than any one I have ever met except my Grandmother. She kept all the commandments, except perhaps the tenth. For she coveted Miss Salvation Clinker's fine white teeth. Her own were few--and black. My Grandmother was a New Testament woman. She loved the Gospels best: the story of Jesus. She knew--and lived--better than any one the Sermon on the Mount, but came most often to St. John: the third chapter, "God so loved the world"; the tenth, "I am the Good Shepherd"; and the fifteenth, "I am the True Vine." She read through the Epistles every week, quoting most often from I Corinthians XIII--the Charity chapter--and the Epistles of John. In the Old Testament, she loved best the Psalms. She knew them of course by heart, as did I. The twenty-third and the hundred-and-third meant most to her. Aunt Jael's favourite, the savage sixty-eighth, was alien to her whole faith. She would not say she disliked it--to dislike a word or a letter of God's Word would have been sin. She obeyed the ten commandments that God gave to Moses and the two greater ones that Christ gave to the questioning scribe. She loved the Lord, and she loved her neighbours as herself. She was the only Christian I have ever met. My own early loves in the Book I can record faithfully. From the age of four to the age of twelve, I always used the same copy; a large musty old Bible that had belonged to my Mother, though not too large to hold comfortably in both hands. It was heavily marked. There were three different kinds of mark: in ordinary black lead pencil, to show chapters I was studying with Grandmother and Aunt Jael, or portions I had to learn by heart; in blue crayon to indicate well-liked places; in red crayon to mark the passages I loved best of all. That old Bible is open before me now as I write: the red marks are faded a little, but they still tell me what I liked best in those far-off days, and (nearly always) like best still. My preferences fell under three main heads. First, the bright-coloured stories of the beginning of the Bible, the wondrous lives of the men who began the world: Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, Abraham and Isaac, Jacob and Esau, Joseph and Benjamin; with Princes such as Chedorlaomer the King of Elam, Tidal King of nations, and Pharaoh, full of dreams. There were revengeful women and some who suffered revenge: Hagar turned forth by Sarah into the wilderness of Beersheba; Lot's wife on whom God took vengeance and turned into a pillar of salt, and Potiphar's, who took vengeance on Joseph. There were mysterious places: Eden and Egypt, Ur of the Chaldees, the Wilderness and the Cities of the Plain, the land of Canaan flowing with milk and honey, and the slime pits of Siddim into which the Kings of Sodom and Gomorrah fell. Wonders of earth and heaven: the Tower of Babel, the Serpent in the garden, the Tree of Knowledge; the Creation, the Plagues and the Flood; the Ark of refuge and the fugitive Dove. My second bent was for the mournful places of the Word; a morbid taste, but then so was I. The gloom of Job and the menace of Lamentations and the Woes of Matthew XXIV seemed to belong to our forbidding house. Up in the dim blueness of the attic I would declaim aloud the twenty-fourth chapter, where Christ spoke of the signs of His coming: wars and rumours of wars, famine and pestilence and earthquakes: "Wheresoever the carcase is, there the eagles will be gathered together." In my weak childish treble it must have sounded comic, though nobody ever laughed except, maybe, the God above the attic skylight. More even than gloom, I love pure sorrow: Ecclesiastes, where the Preacher talks of the sadness of all life, the eternal misery of Man; and the story of the Passion, the Son of Man Who tasted human bitterness and death. The subtlety of the Preacher may have been beyond me; it needs no wit but a child's understanding of English words to feel his unplumbable woe in her heart. Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities: all is vanity. While Gethsemane saw the whole world's sorrow in a night-time. My third, and chief, happiness was in the words. Passages there are of sounding wrath or matchless imagery. I did not understand them, for they pass all understanding. But I loved them, plastered them marginally with three thicknesses of red crayon, cried them aloud. I have counted, and the books with most markings are these four: The Psalms, the Song of Solomon, Isaiah, and The Revelation. In the last I revelled with a pure ecstasy of awe: in the sixth chapter, where the sun becomes black as sack-cloth of hair, and the moon as blood; in the twenty-first, which tells of the City of Heaven, a city of pure gold, like unto clear glass, the foundations of whose rocks are garnished with jasper and sapphire and chalcedony and emerald and sardonyx and sardius and chrysolyte and beryl and topaz and chrysoprasus and jacinth and amethyst, whose light is the Lamb; most of all in the seventh chapter: "What are these which are arrayed in white robes? And whence came they? _These are they which came out of great tribulation_ and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb." My Psalms, as I called them, as against Grandmother's or Aunt Jael's protégés, were the hundred-and-thirty-seventh, _By the waters of Babylon_, and the twenty-fourth, _Who is the King of glory?_ However much I might write about the Book, it would fail to fill the place in this record that it filled in our lives, of which it moulded the very moods. Aunt Jael as lover of the Mosaic law and student of the Proverbs, was herself stern lawgiver and sayer of dark sayings. She ruled. Ruled my Grandmother (nearly always and in nearly everything, though there were exceptions); ruled me (except in one or two awful occasions I shall tell of); ruled Mrs. Cheese (until the latter's Exodus); ruled the household, ruled the Meeting, and could have ruled the whole world with a due sense of her fitness for the post. The old armchair was her throne, the thorned stick her sceptre. As a woman she had, as I can see now, many high qualities. She did her duty as she saw it; was honourable and straightforward. She loved the truth, especially when it was unpalatable to other people. She had a deep fund of common-sense. She was a thrifty, hard-headed, sensible house-wife; and, as I said before, observed with zeal some nine of the Commandments. But of kinder or more endearing qualities I remember none. No doubt some of the child's bitterness and the child's bias remain with me still--perhaps it is merely vain to imagine that I hold the scales evenly and do not let prejudice weight memory--but I look across many years and see, as I believe the world saw, a hard bad old woman. Heaven, they say, forgives those who love much; maybe it forgives also those who are little loved, for they need forgiveness most. Aunt Jael started life hard, but I feel certain that the hardness was made a hundredfold harder because no love--no lover--had ever come her way. Bitter because she had no family of her own, she strove to embitter her sister's. Cheated of the two things we women need most--lordship and love--in revenge she lorded it over everybody, and loved not a soul in the world. Not but what she could have wedded many a time if she'd felt so inclined, including some as "others" didn't mind stooping to take though they were her leavings; not but what--in short, to all the tragical-comical backward boastings of the unchosen woman she would treat us at times. It was one of her few weaknesses, and I have since wondered if, failing to deceive six-year-old me, she succeeded in deceiving herself. During a tirade of this kind, I always fell a-musing what "Uncle Jael" would have been like. I decided he would wear smoked black glasses, like the man who came to tune our old piano; because I once fancied that Aunt Jael's eyes had rested upon the latter with a suspicion of unwonted coyness. This must have been a freak of my imagination, if not of Aunt Jael's after-dinner brandy. "For two good qualities," she used to say, "I thank and praise the Lord. That he has preserved me all my life from all wanton sentiment; and that it has pleased Him to make me the most fearless and outspoken woman in this town." What I have said about my Grandmother's pastures in the Bible shows what manner of woman she was. Yet not quite completely. She was gentle and forgiving, and the most unselfish human being I have ever met, or ever shall; but this and more. She was as shrewd a housewife as her sister; a woman of common-sense and plain seeing. Nor was she weak or meek. She gave in to Aunt Jael, certainly; but on principle, that is through strength rather than weakness. And whenever she chose to fight ungloved, she would usually beat her sister. I was the chief battle-ground. When Aunt Jael's abuse or ill-treatment of me became too outrageous, Grandmother would show fight, and on her day could leave Aunt Jael drubbed and apologetic upon the stricken field. But if my Grandmother thus defended me to Aunt Jael, she never had a good word to say of me to myself, or to the Lord. Every night at my bedside she poured out my wickedness before my Maker; and in all her life she only praised me once. With rare instinct she refused to water the plant of self-righteousness which she saw ready to flourish in me like the bay-tree. In her mild way she could be as outspoken as her sister; indeed what with the two of them and Mrs. Cheese, who "called a spade a spade, and a pasnip a pasnip," ours was a stark outspoken house, a dark palace of Plain Speaking. Despite all my Grandmother's loveliness of character, she lacked one thing. Demonstrative affection, warm clinging love, the encircling arm, the kiss, the gentle madness, the dear embrace,--things I did not know the existence of till a later unforgettable moment, though they were the mystery, the hunger, never perfectly visualized, never in the heart understood, that till that moment I was seeking always to solve, to satisfy; the thing I cried for passionately without knowing what thing it was--these had no meaning for her, no place ever in her life. The nearest she had known was in her love for my mother. Did they kiss? I wonder. In all the years of her love and goodness to me, she never once kissed me upon the mouth, nor hugged me, nor let me hug her; nor said the word for which my little wild heart was waiting. For so good and affectionate a woman she was strangely phlegmatic. As she did not embrace in love, nor did she weep in sorrow. Even when my mother died, her eyes, she told me, were dimmed for a moment only. It was the Lord's will: wherefore weep? Yet I have seen her shedding tears of joy over a missionary chronicle which told of the conversion of some African negro. She had tears, that is, for the Lord; as her strongest love was for Him. Humans mattered much; but less. Thus I was lonely. To give a picture of myself in those early days I find harder, though once again the Bible helps. I liked the imaginative old stories of Genesis, I liked the sad and gloomy books, I liked mysterious words; that is, I was imaginative, morbid, and fond of the unknown and the beautiful: much what any other child brought up under the same circumstances would have been. If not a remarkable, and certainly not a clever child, I was no less certainly out-of-the-ordinary. With my morbid environment it was inevitable. I was serious, solemn and sensitive beyond what any child should be. In fact my oddness really amounted to this, that I was unchildlike--chiefly because I was unhappy. If ever there were a moping miserable little guy, it was I. I had no companions of my own age whatever, nor up till just before the time I left Tawborough for Torribridge had I ever been alone with any other child for half an hour in my life. Aunt Jael forbade intercourse with worldly children, and my Grandmother agreed. They were an unknown race. All my companions were old women; the youngest, Mrs. Cheese, was sixty. I was never allowed to play with the Lawn children, indeed never allowed to play with anybody or "at" anything. I was kept indoors all day long to mope about in the gloomy house. The distractions allowed were two: searching the Scriptures, and plain sewing. At six in the morning I got up, and, from the age of five or six onwards, made my own bed and dusted my bedroom. Then I went into Aunt Jael's room, and helped her to dress. Aunt Jael was usually in an evil temper first thing, and the only coin in which she repaid my services was hard words and harder bangs. It was a painful half-hour passed in an atmosphere of laces and buttons, hooks and eyes, blows and maledictions. Sometimes if I failed to do her boots up quickly enough, she would kick me. The next duty was helping Mrs. Cheese and Grandmother with the breakfast, which was eaten at half past seven punctually. After breakfast, prayers; then I dusted the dining-room; then from nine to eleven, two wretched hours with Aunt Jael styled Lessons, a hotchpotch of Proverbs, pothooks and multiplication-tables, served up with the usual seasoning of cuffs and imprecations. Every day I cried wretchedly, though tears brought nothing but the stick--and tears again. From eleven to twelve I sewed with my Grandmother; at noon we had dinner. After dinner Grandmother usually studied the Word in her bedroom, while Aunt Jael snored in her chair: I was left to moon about the house alone, with no plaything, no books, no companions; no resources whatever but my own imagination. I would sit for hours in the great blue attic, talking to myself, inventing imaginary scenes in which I triumphed over Aunt Jael and humbled her before the world, or reciting from the Word, or often merely weeping. After supper, came prayers and reading the Word; then bedside prayers with my Grandmother; then bed, which was not a much happier place, as I dreamt often, usually nightmares of hell and eternity, Satan and Aunt Jael. It was a dreary life. I was a dreary little girl, and I must have looked it. No photograph was ever taken to perpetuate the prim, sulky, pale Quakerish little object I am told I was. My odd appearance was not helped by decent clothes. There was to be no indulgence of the Flesh, and I was dressed with due unbecomingness, always in the same way. I wore a dark green corduroy blouse and skirt, and a little corduroy bonnet to match, bedecked with a gaunt duck's feather. For winter I had an ugly black overcoat with a cape. I had black woollen mittens and square hobnailed boots. I had no martyr's idea of myself, however, no exquisite self-pity, and any trace of such that may appear here is to be laid at the door of the authoress aged fifty, not of her chrysalis aged five. All I knew was that I was miserable. I had a child's sure instinct for injustice. I knew it was unjust that Aunt Jael should beat and abuse me all day long. I hated her bitterly, and hate makes no one happier. Lovelessness is even worse than hate, and the two beset me. My Grandmother loved me tenderly no doubt, but her ways were not my ways. She had no understanding of what I longed for. I wanted somebody--I only half guessed this, not daring to believe the visualization when it suggested itself--in whose bosom I could bury my face and cry for pure happiness. I would whimper myself to sleep thinking of my mother. Sometimes I seemed to see her as an angel. She looked kind and radiant, and comforted me. When my Grandmother caught me crying for my mother, I would say it was because of Aunt Jael's latest flogging. Fear ruled me. The Devil and Hell frightened me terribly, and Eternity more. The thought of living for ever and ever and ever, the attempt of my child's mind to picture everlastingness, to visualize my own soul living through the pathless spaces of a billion years, and to be still no nearer the end than at the beginning,--this morbid unceasing trick of my imagination filled me with an ecstasy of fear, that froze and numbed my brain. I would sit up in bed too terrified to scream, voiceless with fear. My heart beat wildly. The realization that there was no hope, no way out--oh, heart, none ever--that because I was once born I must live for all eternity, seized my body and brain alike. I would jump out of bed, cry brokenly "God, God" in wild agony of soul, until, at last, the terror passed. Then, in a strange way, the blood rushed warmly back into my brain, and a languorous feeling of ease succeeded the terror of a moment before. Sometimes I was wicked and foolish enough to suffer the horror of thus "thinking Eternity out" for the sake of the luxurious backwash of comfort and physical peace which followed. But most often the terror came imperiously, and I could not escape it. I would be looking at the stars, I would think of their ineffable distances, then from eternity in space my mind would be dragged as by some devil to eternity in time, and I would have to live through the terror of the attempt--against my own will as it were--to think out, to live out, the meaning of living for ever. It is the worst agony the poor human soul can know; for a child, unnameable. There is no escape. The soul must go through the agony of the whole visualization--it may only be seconds, though it seems (perhaps is) Eternity Itself--right to the moment when the brain and body can abide the horror no longer, and from the very depths the soul cries out to "God." A happy healthy child would know nothing of such bogeys; but I was neither. I was puny and ailing; I rarely went out of doors. Market on a Friday morning, Meeting on Sundays, and an afternoon walk once in a long while constituted my record of outings. The only real advantage I gained from this unhappy and unhealthy life was the development of a quite unusual power of instinct and intuition. Shut up all day long with no companions but the same three faces, I could read every mood and movement of them with unerring skill. Like the savage, or any one else who lives in an abnormally narrow world, I felt things rather than knew them. And the thing I felt and knew most sorely was that I was wretched. And when Aunt Jael moralized and said, "You are a privileged child indeed," I felt and knew that she was lying. "Your holy kinsfolk, your saintly mother, your godly surroundings, your exceptional chances of grace, all show you to be a Child of Privilege." All this, from the earliest days that I could understand, was usual enough. One day, however, when I was about five, she paused here with an air of special importance that I scented at once, then proceeded, "Your Grandmother and I have come to a decision, Child. Everything points out that the Lord has chosen you for special privileges, and special works for Him. If you were a boy, Child, the way would be clear. We should train you for the Ministry of His Word. Yet the way has been made plain. Your Grandmother and I have decided, after much seeking of the Lord in prayer, that your lot is to be cast--(she looked towards my Grandmother for confirmation, and concluded majestically)--_in the field of foreign labour_. You will bear witness to the Lord among the heathen. 'Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel, for lo! I am with you alway'!" I looked appealingly towards my Grandmother. "Yes," she said, "I think it is the Lord's will." So that was my life work. I was to spend Eternity as a missionary. "You are indeed a Child of Privilege," Aunt Jael was booming. CHAPTER IV: I GO TO MEETING On Lord's Day, March the Sixth 1853, being the first Sabbath after my fifth birthday, I was taken to Meeting. Meeting!--one social sphere my Grandmother and Great-Aunt knew; their one earthly club, set, milieu; company of saints, little flock of the elect, assembling together of the chosen of God from Eternity! I awoke to find Grandmother standing by my bed; which was unusual, for I always woke myself. "'Tis a great and notable day, my dear; the day you are to join with the Lord's people in prayer and praise. I want to pray with 'ee." I got out of my bed, and when she had put around me the old red dressing gown, we knelt down together by the bedside, and the Lord was besought to vouchsafe that my first public acquaintance with His People might be abundantly blessed to me. After breakfast I was sent upstairs to my bedroom to meditate apart for an hour before Meeting; an exercise ordained henceforward every Sunday of my life. About a quarter-past-ten we sallied forth, Mary in green corduroy between Grandmother in her Sunday black and Aunt Jael with her go-to-Meeting blue-velvet-ribboned bonnet. I should now behold the inside of the Room, antechamber of Heaven; I should join in public worship with the Saints. Curiosity alone did not stir me; in some vague exalted way, I hoped to get nearer to the Lord. The Room was a bare little tabernacle in a side-street, built in the Noah's Ark style dear also to Methodism. Grandmother took my hand as we mounted the steps from the street; we passed into the Holy Place. I received at once the curious effect of a light bluish mist which, though brighter, reminded me of the thick blue gloom of my attic, and which was caused by the light blue distempered brick of the walls and ceiling. There were eight windows in the Room, which was many times larger than our parlour and by far the largest place I had ever entered; each consisted of twenty-four small square panes, six in the perpendicular by four breadthways, a source for years to come of endless countings and pattern-weavings and mystical mathematical tricks. There were two of these windows at each end of the room, and two down each side. All eight were set so high as almost to merge into the ceiling. The curious result was that while near the floor it was comparatively dark, the upper part of the room was very light. A symbol, I thought; for Earth is dark, but Heaven bright. Aunt Jael led the way up a druggeted sort of aisle to the front row where we alone sat: the family's immemorial place, though purchased by no worldly pew-rent. In the first rush of newness I but dimly apprehended the benches of black-clad figures we had passed. Immediately in front of us stood the Lord's Table, covered with spotless white damask, and laden with two tall bottles of wine, two great pewter tankards, and two cottage-loaves on plates. Beyond the Table was a low raised dais from which the Gospel was preached at the evening meetings for unbelievers; never used at the Breakings of Bread, for all Saints are equal, and none may stand above his fellows. On either side of the Table, however, respectively to our right and left were the (unofficial) seats of the mighty: Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge and Brother Brawn on one side, Brother Quappleworthy and Brother Browning on the other. On the wall at the far end was a clock, loudly audible in the abysmal silences of prayer. I did not absorb all the details at a first glance; nor do I really remember the particular texts, expositions and hymns of that initiatory day. What I do always retain and rehearse in my mind is rather one "Type" meeting, from first silence to final benediction; an ideal combination of many different Lord's Days, in which I have unconsciously fitted together Brothers, events, homilies, each in most typical essence. This morning meeting, the Breaking of Bread, was the meeting par excellence. The Breaking of the Bread and the drinking of wine were the central acts of a tense and devout program of prayer, of reading and exposition of the Word, and of hymn-singing, unaccompanied by any choir or instrument of music. Only Saints were bidden, i. e., those who had testified aloud to the saving grace of the body and the blood, and had taken up their Cross in public baptism. We were no ordinary Dissenting chapel, where "All are welcome":--the more the merrier, more grist to the mill, more pennies on the plate, more souls for the Kingdom. Only the Lord's own chosen testified people were deemed worthy of this solemn privilege of eating His sacred Body and drinking His sacred Blood; and only they were admitted. The only exceptions were a few children, like myself, who could not be left at home by their elders. A few non-privileged adults very occasionally came: old friends of the Meeting who for some reason of reluctance or uncertainty were untestified and unbaptized, or strangers, drawn by sympathy or curiosity; but earthen platter and pewter mug were zealously snatched away if such alien hands essayed to grasp them. (So too was the collecting-box. I have seen visitors with outstretched arm and generous shilling gasp with surprise as the money-box was drawn rudely out of their reach. Unlike worldlywise church or chapel, we would touch none but hallowed gold. The collection was as close a privilege as the communion.) On an average morning we were fifty or sixty strong; more women than men, more old than young, more wan than hale, more humble than high. With dough of small shopkeepers, masons, artisans, gardeners, old women with pathetic private incomes, washerwomen, charwomen, servants, we had leaven of more comfortable middle-class people like Grandmother and Aunt Jael, or "better" folk still like Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge, or best of all dear Brother Quappleworthy, our graduate of the University of Oxford, our cousin by marriage with a peer of England! Believers in the aristocratic principle would have noted with satisfaction that from this blue-blooded minority were drawn almost all the "Leading Saints." We were a community. The better-to-do helped the poor, and remembered that all were equal before God. Odd folk and sane folk, stupid folk and wise folk: with all their failings, a more gentle, worthy, sincere and trustful company of followers of Jesus of Nazareth could not have been found in this whole world or century. The fault they were farthest from is the one the fool most often imputes: hypocrisy. They were, of course, a varied company; it takes all sorts to make a Meeting. Our Leading Brothers were Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge, with Brothers Brawn, Browning, Briggs, Quappleworthy, Quick, and Quaint. The last was only included just to round things off and to justify Mr. Pentecost's holy pleasantry "The Lord is watching us: let us mind our B's and Q's," for he was really quite an obscure brother who rarely broke silence, and then to pray so pessimistically that he can never have expected his petitions to be heard, let alone answered. To be Leading Brother implied merely this: to stand out of the ruck of silent members, either in prayer or exposition of the Word. Many an obscure Brother, however, who would never have risked his hand at prayer or exposition occasionally blurted into a morning's modest fame by announcing a hymn. A stir of special interest was always felt in the Meeting on such occasions, and it was whispered that "the Lord was notably working in Brother So-and-So." Giving out a hymn was after all not so mean a performance. Every line of every verse was slowly enunciated by the chooser before we began to sing. The church and chapel habit of reading out only the first verse (or even line!) struck me as very odd and meagre when I first encountered it many years later. Prayer, however, was the favourite form of self-expression. All the Leading Saints were "powerful in prayer." Exposition either followed or accompanied the reading of a portion of the Word. It was our "sermon." Our five regular expounders were Mr. Pentecost, Brothers Quappleworthy (the chief), Brawn, Browning and Briggs. Though in theory we allowed no official ruler of the synagogue, in practice Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge was our Great High Priest. He alone was spoken of as Mister. He alone was immune from error and criticism. It is hard for me to reconstruct his personality now, when my own mentality is so different from when I knew him, when he prayed for me, blessed me, took me on his knees. It is still harder to convey to this generation the reverence in which his venerable white hairs were held. The world in which he ruled, the Saints' world, may have been small; but within its pale, through all England, he was revered as the holiest child of man. And we of the Tawborough Meeting possessed him for ourselves: in his old age he ceased to travel, and left us but little. We shone in the reflected glory of his presence; knew ourselves the Meeting of Meetings, called blessed of the Lord. He lived by prayer alone: the anonymous gifts of money on which he chiefly lived came to him whence he did not know, except that they came from God. In the old ancestral house another famous Pentecost Dodderidge had built he still lived; in one hallowed room he welcomed all who came to him for their souls' good; another was fitted as a workshop, and here till after his eightieth year he spent a portion of every day at the lathe. He could preach in eight languages, in five of them fluently. He never rose later than four and devoted the three hours before breakfast to "knee-drill," i. e., incessant prayer. He baptized believers in the river Taw till his eightieth year. One memorable immersion of which I shall speak later took place when he had turned eighty-four. His one kink was a trick of godly epigrams and holy repartees, cunningly led up to, of which he was as nearly vain as he could be. I remember Aunt Jael once saying to him in our dining-room at Bear Lawn: "Your 'Life' should be written, Mr. Pentecost." "But it is being written, dear sister," he replied. "It will be published in the morning." "Published? Where?" "Beyond the sky. The author is the Lord Jesus Christ. The ink is His precious Blood." Another day my Grandmother asked him if he would begin to remember me in his prayers. "I cannot," he replied gently. "Cannot?" faltered my Grandmother. "No, I cannot _begin_ to pray for her. I have begun already." For all his eminence Pentecost took no preponderating share in worship, nor ever made himself like the "Ministering Brothers" of some other meetings, who prayed almost all the prayers, chose almost all the hymns, gave one long sermon-like piece of exposition, and officiated alone at the Lord's Table--for all the world like a dissenting parson in his chapel or a priest in his church. Second in importance stood Brother Brawn, a fat, doddering, bleating, weak-at-the-knees old bachelor and Christian; the maid-of-all-work of the Meeting, who distributed the offertory, paid the caretaker, saw to the heating and cleaning of the room, and bought the bread and wine. With his white waggly little beard and gentle animal features he looked absurdly like a goat, and ba-a-a-d just like one too. He had two little homilies only, which he and we knew by heart; one on 'Ell and the other on Mysteries, often given one after the other to form a continuous whole. Some of the Saints, I fear, dared to think these holy discourses dull. Not so Miss Salvation Clinker, who declared that "ivry word wat falls from 'is blessed lips is a purl uv great price." Brother Quappleworthy, who stood equal in importance, was a striking contrast. He was our intellect, our light of learning, our peer's cousin-in-law. His erudition in real Hebrew and real Greek ranked with Brother Brawn's devotion, if a little lower than Pentecostal saintliness. Sneer we never so smugly at the filthiness of mere book knowledge, not one of us but was somehow elated to hear that favourite phrase: "Now in the original Greek--" His supplications, if acceptable to many, were perhaps too much of a muchness. It was all "Yea Lord, Nay Lord, Oh Lord, Ah Lord, If Lord...." After Brother Quappleworthy, Brother Browning was our most frequent speaker. He came to Meeting accompanied by his little boy Marcus, the most youthful person present save me, but not, alas, by his spouse, who belonged, alas, to that pernicious sect of Bible Christians whom he (seven times alas) did occasionally himself frequent. There was Brother Briggs, by vocation an oilman's handyman, whose face always shone with oil of happiness and hope, whose utterances were charged with an uncontrollable optimism and joy, a ringing, shouting, h-less content with the universe. The learned would call it cosmic expansiveness. Beside him Walt Whitman was a prophet of despair, Mark Tapley a misanthrope. His favourite word was "bewtivul" and he used it without mercy. There was Brother Quaint, the gloomy pray-er. There was Brother Lard, who emitted from his mouth periodic noises--signs of bad manners and digestion--which it is unusual to mention on paper: endemic endeavours that punctuated the subtlest exposition of Quappleworthy, the dreariest prayer of Quaint's, and added a spice of charm and unexpectedness to the whole service. I enjoyed them coarsely; with solemn face, pious unawareness. One joyous occasion I remember when Brother Quappleworthy was beginning the eighth chapter of the Revelation in his most impressive style. At the words "There was silence in heaven about the space of half-an-hour," he paused dramatically to illustrate, as it were, the meaning. Then, after five seconds of rapt silence, Brother Lard trumpeted forth: long, loud, luscious, lingering; a diapason of swaying sound and chronic indigestion. To the eternal credit of my Grandmother and Great-aunt, I record it that they smiled.... There was Brother Marks, a thin unhappy-looking man, wearing large black-rimmed spectacles, who mourned in a far corner apart, and never uttered a word or even joined in the hymns. I thought him a sinister figure; his goggles repelled me; I associated him by some vague but authentic impulse with the Personal Devil. The Sisters were of course less important than the Brothers. "Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak." Above all the others towered Sister Vickary and Sister Lee. My Grandmother was universally loved. Before Aunt Jael the whole meeting quailed. Brother Briggs grovelled. Brother Brawn obeyed, Brother Quappleworthy deferred. She herself deferred to Pentecost Dodderidge alone; indeed the veneration she felt for the venerable instrument of her conversion, her Ananias of Damascus, was touching in so masterful a soul. In the ledgers of the Lord, I make bold to guess, it stands to her credit. In the counsels of the elders she was supreme; she was the wise woman of the Proverbs. No decision affecting the welfare of the flock could be taken by Pentecost or Brawn without the assent of the Shepherdess, as the former called her, perhaps not unmindful of her crook. No meeting felt it had the right--or courage--to begin without her presence. When it was over, she walked out first, bowing to right and left like an Empress as she stalked the length of the Room. She had as much common-sense as any other three Saints added together. Not a soul of them loved her. * * * * * * * We arrived each Lord's day about twenty-five past ten. When all were assembled, there was a period of five or ten minutes' absolute silence, broken only by the strident ticking of the clock. Some pairs of eyes were closed in silent prayer, others stared straight before them at some heavenly object of reflection. Up rose Brother Browning. "Let us sing together to the glory of the Lord hymn number one-four-two: '_We praise Thee, O Jehovah!_'" There was a turning of leaves, for at this time most of us possessed hymn-books, though a few of the older generation, including Aunt Jael, viewed all hymn-books as snares of the Devil, and bore witness against the fleshly innovation by still singing always from memory. Brother Browning read aloud the whole hymn: We praise Thee, O Jehovah! We know, whate'er betide, Thy name, "_Jehovah Jireh_," Secures, "Thou wilt provide." We praise Thee, O Jehovah! Our banner gladly raise; "_Jehovah Nissi!_" rally us For conflict, victory, praise. We praise Thee, O Jehovah! In every trouble near; "_Jehovah Shalom_"--God is peace,-- Dispels each doubt and fear. We praise Thee, O Jehovah! And, clothed in righteousness, "_Jehovah_" great "_Tskidkenu_!" Complete, we gladly bless. We praise Thee, O Jehovah! Thou wilt for Israel care! "_Jehovah Shammah_," precious thought! Henceforth "The Lord is there." We sang sitting. Oh, inharmonious howl! Some Brother--usually Brother Schulz, who was fancied to possess musical talent--pitched the key and set the time as he fancied. The latter was always funereally slow, the former more often than not much too high or too low to be persevered with. Not that that mattered. Somebody would merely switch off into another key anything from a semitone to an octave higher or lower as the case might be: switching part of the way back again if the change proved too drastic. The consequence of this go-as-you-please policy was that a hymn would sometimes be sung in four different times and seven or eight different keys. Above all the holy din you could hear Brother Briggs bawling forth his joy in the Lord; higher still the awful metallic howl of Sister Yeo. When the hymn was done there was another space of complete silence till the spirit moved Brother Quappleworthy to utterance. Once on his feet, he found his two Bibles, English and Greek, rather difficult to wield, especially as his reading from the Word hardly ever consisted of one solid chapter read straight through, but of snippets of two or three verses each from half-a-dozen different books, connected only by their (imagined) relevance to the topic he had in mind: grace or trustfulness or hope or sin. We all followed him in our own Bibles: so that his Reading had orchestral accompaniment of zealous page-rustlings. "Let us read together in the Book of Genesis, that sixth chapter and those fifth, sixth and seventh verses ... and now let us turn to the Book of Job, the fifth chapter and the thirteenth verse ... and now a verse in that sweet Second Epistle of Peter, the second chapter and that fourth verse...." After we had rustled backwards and forwards for a few minutes, Brother Quappleworthy closed first one Bible and then the other with two emphatic snaps, and put them under his left arm, leaving his right hand free to gesticulate,--more especially the right forefinger, which ever and anon he brandished to exhort, to emphasize, to warn, to wheedle. "Well, brethren, the upshot and outcome of all that we have read is--ah--manifest. It is--ah--this. He alone saved us from the pit. He alone, not--ah--another. He saved _us_--miserable sinners, grovelling worms--us and none others. Far be it from us ever to think ourselves worthy of such grace and favour! Far otherwise!--but so He willed. Our souls--your soul, ah, my soul--would have gone into eternal darkness save for Him, the Lord,--[Greek: Kyrios]--how I love it in the old Greek! He alone, brethren, can--ah--renew our natures; and can--ah--shape better desires for our natures when renewed--can show us the more excellent way!..." After a new silence, the spirit would move Brother Brawn to clamber to his feet, and give us his changeless utterance on "'Ell" or "Mysteries." I give it with a word for word accuracy I cannot often vouch for. His _er-er_ was a bleating sort of stammer much less elegant than Brother Quappleworthy's _ah_. "My mind, brethren, 'as bin--er--er dwellin' much all through the mornin' on the subject of _'Ell_. On the torments and 'orrors that all the 'eathen and unsaved will taste down there below, yes, and are tastin' at this very minnit as we are praisin' the Lord 'ere in this Rume. Torments and--er--er--er--'orrors. You know. I know. And they torments are for _all_ the sinners an' unsaved: ivry wan uv them, not for _some_ jis', as I've 'eard folk say. No for all, _all_, _ALL_, _A L L_. You mark my words. _All_ the _'eathen_ shall be _'urled_ to _'Ell_, _whether_ they've _'eard_ or _whether_ they _'aven't_!" (This last sentence he sing-songed with violent emphasis, clapping his hands together at the syllables I have marked) "O Yes! I can imagine 'em wallering in the brimstone and sulphur. I know. _We_ shall be wi' Lazarus in Abraham's--er--er--bosom, and _they_ will be down the fiery gulf, down in the fiery pit. So, brethren, let us be ready for the Lord, let us make sure uv _our_ place in the bosom, not the pit. Bosom for us! BOSOM! We must watch and er--er--pray. We must. I'm sure we must." A pause. He shifted his feet clumsily. His thick lips moved stupidly as he made mental preparations for Part Two. "My mind, brethren, 'as been--er--er--dwellin' much on another subjict this mornin', the subjict of Mysteries. It has; I'm sure it has. There are two mysteries. There is the mystery of godliness, that's one; and the mystery of iniquity, that's two. It all 'appened at the Fall. The Fall was when the mystery of godliness became the mystery of iniquity; an' the mystery of iniquity became the mystery of godliness; all mixmuddled up together as you mid say. It became 'ard to-er--er--tell 'em apart. 'Tis only 'Is chosen ones as can do it--that's you and me, brethren--and 'tain't orwis easy for us. Let us try to know one from the other, and if we tries our 'ardest, the Lord will 'elp us to. Yes 'E will. I'm sure 'E will." After Brother Brawn, the beginning of the meeting was well over. We knew that the great moments were drawing near. A deeper silence filled the little room: the hush of pure holiness. There was a prayer or two, and then we sang the Bread hymn. Usually this one: Through Thy precious body broken _In_side the veil. Oh, what words to sinners spoken-- _In_side the veil. Precious, as the blood that bought us; Perfect, as the love that sought us; Holy, as the Lamb that brought us; _In_side the veil. When we see Thy love unshaken, _Out_side the camp. Scorn'd by man, by God forsaken, _Out_side the camp. Thy loved cross alone can charm us; Shame doth now no more alarm us; Glad we follow, nought can harm us; _Out_side the camp. Lamb of God! through Thee we enter _In_side the veil. Cleansed by Thee, we boldly venture _In_side the veil. Not a stain; a new creation; Ours is such a full salvation! Low we bow in adoration, _In_side the veil. Unto Thee, the homeless stranger, _Out_side the camp. Forth we hasten, fear no danger, _Out_side the camp. Thy reproach far richer treasure Than all Egypt's boasted pleasure; Drawn by love that knows no measure, _Out_side the camp. Soon Thy saints shall all be gathered, _In_side the veil. All at home, no more be scattered, _In_side the veil. Nought from Thee our hearts shall sever, We shall see Thee, grieve Thee never; "Praise the Lamb!" shall sound for ever _In_side the veil. We sang it to a slow drawling tune, incommunicably dreary. Pentecost arose, white and priestly. "Little children, every time I come to this Table, I come with a joy, a peace and a gratitude that are ever new. My heart is too full of love for my Saviour for any words of mine to tell you. Let us bear in mind, little children, rather His own precious words: This is my Body, which is given for you." As he ceased, Brother Brawn arose from his seat at the right of the Table, took each of the loaves, held them sacrificially aloft, broke them in twain. One plate he himself passed round among the Saints, Brother Browning the other. I watched with evergreen curiosity and reverence how each Saint broke off a piece of bread and with closed eyes slowly munched it away. Once in a way the impious thought seized me that 'twas all farce, mummery, tomfoolery: this chewing of dough. The next instant I would flush crimson to have let such wickedness find place for an instant in my mind: I would look and behold the rapture on the munching faces; and understand beyond all doubting that here was something mystical, magical, holy. I could see that those who took bread obtained thereby some supernal joy that I was too young or too sinful to share. It could not be tomfoolery if it gave you the rapture I could see on the faces around me. Besides, Jesus had ordained it. Another silence--the middle space of the double sacrifice--ere we sang the Wine hymn: It is the blood, it is the blood, Which has atonement made; It is the blood which once for all Our ransom price has paid. It was the blood, the mark of blood The people's houses bore; And when that mark by God was seen His angel passed the door. Not _water_, then, nor _water_ now, Has ever saved a soul; Not Jewish rites, but Jesus' stripes Can make the wounded whole. "I see the blood," "I see the blood," A voice from Heaven cries, The soul that owns this token true, And trusts it, never dies. For He who suffered once for all, That we might life obtain, Will never leave His Father's throne To shed that blood again. Brother Quick, in a low voice trembling with passion, prayed that God would make us worthy of this chief experience. There was a moment of the holiest and most breathless silence I have ever known. I have stood alone at midnight when no birds sang, no leaf stirred, and the autumn stars shone silently through the unwhispering roof of a dark Russian forest. I have stood on the summit of the Great Gable and gazed at the wild soundless mountains all around, in that wild soundless moment before the dawn arrives. But never except in the Romish Mass, at that multitudinous most sacred moment when the heart stops beating, have I tasted so awful a silence as this, when the Spirit of God moved in the hearts of our little company. I did not greet Him in mine--not yet. Brother Brawn uncorked the two bottles of wine and filled the tankards. The rapture on the faces round me was tenser than after the Bread: especially, I thought, in Pentecost's and my Grandmother's. The longing to share it possessed me more and more every day as I grew up. I hoped that at a very tender age I too might break the bread and drink the wine. The third and last stage of the Meeting usually began with an utterance from Brother Briggs. If everything before had led up to the communion, Brother Briggs led on from it. He bellowed so loud that at times the roof rang. "Aw, my dear brethering, after the cup us all 'ave tasted, there be only one thing I'ze goin' to zay--Praise the Lawd, O my Sowl! Praise ye the Lawd! I'm only a pore hignorrint zinner, but I knaws this yer: That Jesus zhed 'Is bled vur me, and that 'tis uv 'Is precious bled as I've bin a-privil'ged to drink this mornin'. 'E 'ath 'olpen hus! O 'ow I luv that word _hus_! O 'ow I luv that word _hus_! Turn wi' me to the gauspel accordin' to St. Matthew, chapter eight verse zeventeen: 'Imself took our infirmities and bare our zickness. Praise 'Im, zes I, praise 'Im! Let ivry thing that 'ath breath praise the Lawd! Bewtivul! Bewtivul! "Us shud orwis be praisin' 'Im, brethering, and us shud orwis be 'appy in 'Is love. Orwis 'appy! If us be un'appy, 'tis along of this yer--that us 'ave bin drinkin' of zum voul stream, instead uv they vountains uv 'Is love. And us _are_ 'appy, arn't us, brethering? As I luke round at 'ee, all brothers and zisters, and zee what triumphs and trophies of grace ye all be, I zes to missel', and I cries aloud to 'eaven: Praise ye the Lawd! Bewtivul! "'E 'ave dragged us up out of a _nor_ribull pit, a _nor_ribull pit, out o' the moiry clay, and shed 'Is blid that us may live wi' 'Im vur iver and ivermore. Turn wi' me to the blessid gauspel according to St. Jan, the sixth chapter and vivty-zixth verse, and 'earken to vat my Lawd zes there: 'E that eateth my flesh, 'e zes, an' drinketh my blid, dwelleth in me, 'e zes, an' I in 'im. O 'ow I luv that word _'Im_.' O 'ow I luv that word _'Im_! O the blessed thought: to dwell for iver in 'Im, an 'Im in us! Bewtivul! Bewtivul! Bewtivul!..." Then would he bellow forth and would we sing "He sitteth o'er the waterfloods" or "I hear the Accuser Roar":-- I hear the Accuser roar Of ills that I have done, I know them well, and thousands more-- Jehovah findeth none. Sin, Satan, Death, press near To harass and appal; Let but my risen Lord appear, Backward they go and fall. Before, behind, around, They set their fierce array, To fight and force me from my ground, Along Emmanuel's way. I meet them face to face, Through Jesus' conquest blest, March in the triumph of His grace, Right onward to my rest. There, in His Book, I bear A more than conqu'ror's name, A soldier, son, and fellow-heir Who fought and overcame. Bless, bless the Conqueror slain-- Slain in His victory; Who lived, Who died, Who lives again, For thee, dear Saint, for thee! Brother Brawn made the Announcements. On that first occasion, I remember, he made some reference to me ("One of tender years worshipping with us for the first time"), to my dedication to the Lord, and to his hopes that I might be made meet therefor. Everybody stared. I flushed, with infant conceit rather than pious ecstasy: it was my first appearance in public. After Announcements, the Offertory. This was taken in a large square box divided into four slit compartments labelled in white painted capitals: MINISTRY, FOREIGN FIELD, POOR, EXPENSES. My Grandmother was always much exercised in her giving. Her own inclinations were more towards Poor and Foreign Field, but she felt she ought not to neglect less showy and alluring Expenses nor coyer, more elusive Ministry. She would compromise between duty and pleasure by putting a sixpence in all four, with perhaps an extra copper or two in Poor; of her modest income giving half-a-crown to the Lord at this morning service alone. Aunt Jael with a rather larger income (and no Mary to support) never gave more than a shilling between all four compartments. She also had a _penchant_ for Expenses: I suppose it pleased her--waywardly--as the least human of the four. (This fourfold collecting-box allowed a pleasurable width of choice, but a quite different consideration had led to its introduction and the supersession of the cloth bag formerly in use. During a period of several years a lump of sugar had been put in the bag every Lord's day at Breaking of Bread, and though clouds of prayer were offered up to soften the heart of the sinner-Saint who played this weekly prank upon his Meeting and his Maker, they were all of no avail. He (or she) hardened his heart; every Lord's day the bag was found to contain yet another impious lump. Stare Brother Brawn never so stark at every giving hand, the sinner remained undetected in his sweet career. It was finally suggested by Aunt Jael that a new type of box, with but a narrow slit for the coins to pass through, would baffle the evil-doer. The choice-of-beneficiare partisans united with her, and they evolved between them this fourfold enormity, with its meat-dish dimensions and its four defensive slits. Vain precautions! Idle hopes! All the sugar-sinner did was to insert a much smaller piece than before; usually in Foreign Field. It was a marvel to the Saints how he squeezed it through; a tragedy how he persevered in his sin.) After the Offertory came perhaps another hymn and prayer; then the End. We all stood up and sang the following: When we will be Where we would be, When we shall be What we should be, Things that are not Now, nor could be, Then shall be--_ee_ _Our own!_ While we remained standing, Pentecost raised his hands in benediction. And so to dinner. * * * * * * * Breaking of Bread, though the principal service, was only one of five each Lord's Day at the Room, all of which I attended regularly before I was seven. There was but an hour at home for dinner ere I set forth for Lord's Day School at half past one, which lasted for an hour and was followed immediately by the Young Persons' Prayer-Meeting. I got home for tea, after which we all sallied forth to the Gospel Address for Unbelievers, usually delivered by Brother Browning, two hours long and dreary beyond belief, in a ghostly atmosphere of guttering candle-light. This was followed by another Prayer-Meeting, followed again, at least in the summer months, by the Street Testimony, when we all repaired to the Strand, and gathered together a mixed circle of friends and curious and scoffers--like the Salvation Army in the next generation. Even this was not the end; for at home there was Reading and prayers, just as on week-days. If I were more deadly-tired than usual after that awful Sunday, Aunt Jael would spin the prayer out and choose a specially long chapter. Most Sundays I went to bed half sick with fatigue, my head aching, hardly able to undress. Smiling was forbidden, and I had little reason to break the rule. Tears, however, were allowed, and I shed them in plenty. * * * * * * * If Breaking of Bread was not our only Meeting, nor was our Room the only Meeting in the town. I knew of four others. First, the Grosvenor Street Branch Meeting, offspring of ours, in the special care of Brother Quappleworthy, who preached there on Sunday evenings. Salvation always derided my Grandmother and Aunt for calling it Grow-vner Street. "I'm no scholard," she said, "but tidden common-sense to mispernounce like that. Gross-veener 'tis, and Gross-veener ollers 'twill be!" Second, there was the Close, Exclusive or Darbyite Meeting, ruled over by one Mr. Nicodemus Shufflebottom, a giant-tall man with a flat white face, who reminded me of a walking tombstone. The Exclusives or Darbyites regarded us, I suppose, much as we regarded the rest of Christendom; as walkers in darkness. We regarded them as wandering sheep, foolish perhaps, rather than sinful. "Those brethren," Mr. Pentecost described them, "whose consciences lead them to refuse my fellowship and to deprive me of theirs." I never went to their Tawborough Meeting while I was a child. Third, there was Brother Obadiah Tizzard's Upper Room for Celibate Saints, a kind of loft in which half-a-dozen old maids and two or three bachelors met together for meditation and breaking of bread. All were singular as all were single. Their service was one of silent hymnless worship interspersed by personal quarrels; silence broken by backchat. The last word as well as the first was with Salvation. Glory did duty for Brother Lard; less vulgar if more incessant. All were sustained by the conviction of their unique fidelity to scripture. "We break bread in an upper room," said Glory to my Grandmother time and again on Tuesday afternoons, "as did Jesus with the Twelve. We are poor an' 'umble: an' so was Jesus. We are not wed, an' no more was Jesus. We shall go to heaven pure: an' so did Jesus." Fourth, there was Ebenezer. The name was applied indifferently to the meeting-room itself or to the one gentleman who attended it. He was the Meeting, the whole Meeting, and nothing but the Meeting. He sat on a bench for silent prayer all alone by himself, got up and read the Word aloud to himself, mounted on a little dais and lengthily harangued himself, handed round the bread and wine to himself, and (for all I know) took the collection from and appropriated it to himself. Ebenezer had once belonged to our Meeting, but in some occult way we had displeased him, and he left us for Mr. Nicodemus Shufflebottom, leaving him also in turn for the straiter ways of Brother Obadiah Tizzard. Him even too he left finally, to worship God in his own way all alone. I doubt if he was really mad: odd only, and nearer to Heaven than Hanwell. His real name, if he had one, I never knew. * * * * * * * Perhaps I have said too much of the Meeting; for though the one great piece of the whole outer world I saw during many years, it was never more than that: something I saw. I was never _of_ it, as of Eight Bear Lawn. It never helped to fashion my child's life or longings, nor touched at any time the _inside_ life I led: the real Mary. One other thing stands clearly apart in my memory as taking place that first Lord's Day. Alone together at my bedside my Grandmother confirmed my dedication to the Lord's service. She told me of her vision, renewed that day as she had drunk the sacred wine, that I should serve Him as a Missionary in the foreign field with glory and honour. She told me of the trials and tribulations I should have to face; but that if a faithful steward, I should find my reward in heaven. Then she read aloud my favourite seventh Chapter of Revelation. When she came to the fourteenth verse, _These are they which came out of great tribulation_, I could keep silence no longer. I cried to her to stop. Words had already a magical effect on me, and could throw me into ecstasy. All through my childhood "tribulation" was big magic. Now it threw me into a trance of disordered emotion and delight. "O Grandmother," I cried, "I will! I will! I will serve Jesus for ever! I am longing to go through tribulation, through lovely lovely tribulation!" I broke into crying and laughing. I hungered to suffer, to embrace, kiss, adore, go mad, abase myself, throw myself on the floor before her feet, love, hold, possess, be possessed, mingle.... Why could she not put her arms around me, seize me, comfort me, crush me? For one imperceptible moment my child's soul _understood_. The moment passed; too swift to be retained, even remembered. Had I been dreaming? What was it all?... Yes, I had wanted something, something that Grandmother could not give, could not take. "You're overwrought and tired, my dear," she was saying. "What you want is a good sleep." CHAPTER V: I GO TO SCHOOL Next morning Grandmother and I sallied forth. It was a bright spring day, with a high wind blowing. We went down Bear Street and along Boutport Street to where it joins the High Street; and just beyond, on the far side of the road, saw the old ivy-coloured house whose door was to be my portal of worldly understanding. My future instructresses, the Misses Glory and Salvation Clinker, were our only regular visitors at Bear Lawn. They were third cousins of a sort, though a social grade or two lower than ourselves, I apprehended,--more Devonshirey, "commoner" than we. Tuesday after Tuesday they came to our house for a long-established weekly afternoon of tea and godly discoursing. Glory was a tall, thin, bony old woman, with a bleary far-away stare. She wore a faded black serge dress, whereon the only ornaments were dribble-marks in front, which spread fan-wise from her chin to her waist; and a tiny black bonnet, tied round her chin sometimes by a ribbon, oftener by a piece of string, at one whimsical period by a strip of carefully-prepared bacon-rind. She spoke little, chiefly of Death and the New Jerusalem, though a perpetual clicking noise--represented most nearly by er-er-er, and variously explained--always kept you aware of her presence. "_Life_," ran her favourite aphorism, "_is but one long prercession o' deathbeds_." She was quite mad, very gentle, wrapped in gloom, and beatifically happy. Er-er-er-er was unbroken and continuous. You could have used her for a metronome. Salvation was a saner, a coarser type: a noisy, aggressive woman, whose chief subject of conversation was herself; a pious shrew with a big appetite and a nagging tongue. She always ate an enormous tea, though Aunt Jael, of whom alone in the world she was frightened, would sometimes keep her hunger roughly in check. Glory, on the other hand, always brought special provisions of her own, and at tea-time made her own exclusive preparations. First she went into the far corner, where she had deposited a net-bag full of parcels. From this she abstracted a saucepan, a little spirit-lamp, a box of rusks shaped like half moons, a bottle of goat's milk, a porringer and a great wooden spoon. She put the lamp on the floor, lighted it, boiled the milk in the little saucepan, threw in six or eight of the rusks and stirred with the wooden spoon until she produced a steaming mush. She didn't eat this, nor yet did she drink it; neither word describes the fearful and wonderful fashion in which she imbibed, absorbed, inhaled, appropriated it. Of every spoonful she managed to acquire perhaps a quarter; the other three-quarters strolled gently down her chin. As she was short-sighted, and as when she ate she ignored her food and looked steadily ahead at the glories of the New Jerusalem, she often missed the spoon altogether. The noise she made was notable. Hence Aunt Jael always refused to allow her to eat at our table, and consigned her to "Glory's corner." Though I saw the Clinkers in our house Tuesday after Tuesday, I had never yet beheld them in their own. My eyes fastened on the brass door plate: The Misses Clinker ELEMENTARY EDUCATIONAL ESTABLISHMENT For the Daughters of Gentlemen. The top line was in elegant copy-book writing. "Look, Grandmother," I cried, "Misses is spelt wrong. Why do they put M-i-_f_-s-e-s? It's silly." I resented the absurd "s". My faith in the infallibility of the twin Gamaliels at whose feet I was to sit was dashed on their very doorstep. Could the blind lead the blind? "Why, 'tis often written that way," rejoined my Grandmother, "'tis an old way of writing a double S. You've plenty to learn, you see." If the first line was offensive to common-sense, the remainder of the notice challenged mere truth. Elementary you could not gainsay, but Educational Establishment for a description of that frowsy den and those two ignorant old maids was florid rather than faithful, while Gentlemen as a term to connote the male parents of the clientèle was--even in the most dim and democratic sense of that unpopular word--just false. Finally, there were sons as well as daughters: some three or four of the fifteen pupils who comprised the school. Salvation opened the door, grinning an aggressive welcome, but we were officially received by Glory. "Welcome! Welcome to this place!" she cried impressively. I saw that the sisters' rôles were here reversed. Glory was as unkempt as ever, the "black" serge she wore shades greener than her Tuesday afternoon one, and quite four inches higher one side than the other. As next-worldly and bleary-eyed as in our house, her part here was the part of a Principal: Principal of an Educational Establishment for the Daughters (yea and Sons) of Gentlemen. Salvation, screech she never so loudly, was in this schoolroom but second fiddle. * * * * * * * The schoolroom was an old-fashioned kitchen. The day's dinner was cooked before our eyes on a spit before the fire; the pupils acted as turnspits. The room was low, smoke-begrimed and dingy; the windows opaque with dirt. On the filthy walls were a print of the Duke of Wellington (?), all nose and sternness, an old Map of the World on Mercator's Projection with the possessions of the Spanish crown yellow, and the possessions of the British crown red, and many framed texts worked in white and blue wool. One huge text, worked in many colours, stood over the doorway: A ROD FOR THE FOOL'S BACK. Prov: xxvi. v. 3. There were two classes, on different sides of the room. I was put with the younger. They were all new faces, except one or two that I had seen the day before at the Room. They were, indeed, the first children I had ever spoken to. In grown-up parlance the pupils would have been dubbed lower-middle class, though Marcus Browning, whom I knew by sight because he lived in the Lawn in a house just opposite ours, was as middle-middle class as Aunt Jael and my Grandmother. I felt these distinctions perfectly, and regarded one Susan Durgles, a lank untidily-dressed fluffy-haired child of seven or eight, and the leading spirit in our class, with that feeling of quiet disdain which the sureness of higher caste can alone bestow: her father was a mere cobbler in Green Lane, and while I looked at her as though I knew it, she looked back lovingly as though she knew I did. Between Susan and myself sat a pale thin child, Seth Baker, who had St. Vitus' dance. I had never seen anything of the sort before, and stared more through curiosity than pity as his slate and slate-pencil shook in his hand. The first lesson was Rithmetick with Miss Glory called (vulgarly) by Miss Salvation Figurin'. With her best far-away look Miss Glory peered forth into eternity: "If eggs be twenty-eight a shilling" (they _were_ in those days, at any rate in Spring) "how many be you agwain to get for, er-er-er-one poun' three shillin' and vourpence ha' penny?" Up shot the grimy hand of little Seth Baker. "Please'm, please'm," appealingly. He was always first and always right, but the rest of us were not suffered to dodge the labour of calculation, as Miss Glory would oftenest ignore Seth and drop on weaker members of the flock, myself or Susan Durgles. "Now then, Susan Durgles. 'Ee heard the question. How many then-er-er-er-er-er-?" "Please'm, I-er-er-er-er-er-don't know." This shameless mockery was allowed to go unpunished. My mind strove to picture Aunt Jael coping with a like impertinence. I imagined the black wrath, the awful hand upon my shoulder. With what new weapon would she scourge me? Scorpions, perhaps, if obtainable. During our mental arithmetic lesson, the advanced students at the other end of the room were receiving combined instruction from the deputy-principal in crochet-work and carikter-formation. Miss Salvation was shouting technical advice of the stitch, slip, three treble, four chain, and draw-through-the-first-loop-on-the-hook order, together with more general instructions how to earn the joys of heaven and eschew the fires of hell. After a while the sisters changed places, and my efforts were transferred from high finance to handwriting, called (whimsically) by Miss Glory, Penmanship. Miss Salvation distributed dirty dog-eared copy books. I was set to work on the last page, the Z page, of an otherwise completed and wholly filthy book, to reproduce fourteen times in zealous copper-plate: "Zeal of Thy House hath eaten me up." Meanwhile Miss Salvation transferred to us her godly bawling as to the way we should, or chiefly, shouldn't go: interlarding this with fragments of more specialized holy information, which being entirely useless I have never forgotten; e. g., which was the longest verse in the Word of God, and which was the shortest; the number of books in the Old Testament, and in the New; that "straightway" was the private and particular word of St. Mark, while "That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophet" was the chosen cliché of St. Matthew. Miss Glory took turn with us again for the third lesson: Reading. Our book was of course _The_ Book. One mouldy old Bible was passed round, and we read in turn from its brown-spotted and damp-smelling pages. I think it was my first or second day that it fell to my turn to read from the eighteenth chapter of the Book of Genesis, where the Lord appeared unto Abraham in the plains of Mamre, and Abraham said unto the Lord concerning the destruction of Sodom, Wilt thou also destroy the righteous with the wicked? I knew the passage well, and read with relish and excitement the diminuendo Peradventures. "Good, my child, good. Your readin' is a credit to your dear Grannie and your dear Great-Aunt. You read it fine, as to the manner born." For the first time in my life the enchanting incense of praise filled my nostrils. I flushed, and while others read of Lot at the gate of Sodom and what-not else, I ceased to listen. My heart was beating to this refrain: You read it fine--as to the manner born. So I was good for something, for all Aunt Jael's daily blows and curses, my Grandmother's nightly She-is-weak-Lord-and-sinful petitions. I read fine! The first day Mrs. Cheese called for me; but afterwards I was entrusted to Marcus Browning as escort. He was two years older: "a good child, not like some I could name" (Aunt Jael), "Born of Saints" (Grandmother), and possessed of the more fleshly merit of also living on the Lawn. We spoke little together. The event I remember best of my first days at the Elementary Educational Establishment was a fight. Susan Durgles was for ever making fun of poor little Seth Baker's affliction. One day when Miss Glory and Miss Salvation were both out of the room Susan went a little too far. "Look to 'im, look to 'im!" she mocked. "He looks like wan o' thase yer weather-cocks what wag and wobble about on the church steeple. Goes like this, do he? Ha, ha. Can't help hisself, can't he, palaverin' li'l wretch?" She flapped her hands in Seth's walrus way, and nodded her head convulsively in mocking imitation of poor little St. Vitus. He was a meek child, but this time he could stand it no longer. "Dirty cobbler's lass!" he cried, and banged Susan full in the face with his small clenched fist. A regular fight began. My sympathies were wholly pro-Seth. Was not Susan the sneerer, the tormenter, the tyrant, the Aunt Jael, and Seth the harried one, the oppressed one, the victim, the _me_? Seth punched and lunged and butted with his head. Susan slapped and shoved and scratched. The boy kicked in payment for the scratching, and the girl tore at his hair to get even for the kicks. Fair play and fair-weather methods went by the board. Rules are for the ring; when ultimate things are at stake, a child's sneer at her schoolfellow's deformity to be repaid, a nation's existence to be lost or won in war, then red tooth and claw tear the paper conventions of sport asunder, and each side fights to win. Miss Glory returned to witness a bleeding and bedraggled pair still scuffling savagely. Not one of the rest of us had dared or wished to intervene. Very properly Miss Glory decided that we were the guiltier ones, and while the two principals amid tears of gradual forgiveness were hustled away to soap and water, we lookers-on had to stand up on our forms for one solemn hour with our hands behind our backs while Miss Glory preached us a sermon; the text being Matthew five, nine. A brighter feature of school-life was the frequent sweetmeats brought, passed round and devoured. There were chocolate drops, sticks of Spanish, peppermint humbugs, jujubes, lollipops and toffees. I had never tasted such dainties before. "Wude 'ee like a sweetie?" asked Susan Durgles one day. "Yes please," said I. "Quite sure, are 'ee?" "Yes please. Please give me one." "Nit likely, nit likely," she sneered. "But why?" I flushed, not understanding. "Why? And a very gude raison fer why. 'Cause 'ee gobble up other volks' sweeties fast enough, but you'm not so slippy about bringin' any of yer own fer _me_ to eat, are 'ee? Nit likely." I felt as though she had struck me in the face. All the other children were looking and listening. It was not that I ever had any sweets of my own which I consumed in greed and secret, it was not that I had any money, or hope of money, for buying any. The sting of Susan's words lay in this: that I ought to have seen and pondered on the fact that while I took all that was offered me I offered nothing in return. I was in the wrong, and therefore all the angrier. "You wait!" I cried. My tone was not too confident, for in a second's rapid survey I could not see the how or the wherewithal of obtaining sweets to fling at Susan. It must however have been confident enough to inspire her with a lively sense of joys to come. "I didn't mean nort. Only my li'l joke. Have a lollipop--or two." On the way home I left Marcus Browning in silence, and evolved plans. Suppose I were to ask Aunt Jael to give me a penny! My heart beat at the thought. I rehearsed to myself my opening "Please Aunt Jael" a score of times. Such rehearsings, inspired by my timidity, served always to increase it. Then I remembered a bottle of acid-drops in the medicine cupboard in the bedroom. Dare I beg a few? Or _take_ a few? suggested the Tempter, take being His pretty word for steal. This was the easier plan, but I shunned its dishonesty. I would ask her _first_. Or ask even for the penny, I decided, if at the moment I found courage enough. All the way through dinner I put off making my appeal. Several times I moistened my lips and came to the very brink, where the glimpsed precipice of Aunt Jael's wrath drove me back. Yet brave the precipice I must, or tumble into the abyss of Susan's scorn on the morrow. At last I blundered in, heart beating and face flushed: "Please may I have a penny?" "A penny?" "To buy some sweets." "Highty-tighty! Don't you get enough to eat here? Never heard of such a thing. Your Grandmother and I never had pence for sweetmeats and such trash. Be off with you." "But--" "No buts here." The thorned stick stamped the floor. Grandmother concurred. Fair means had failed. I would try foul. By her meanness she had forced me to help myself to her acid-drops. My guilt be on her head. I waited until she was well away into her after-dinner doze, and Grandmother safely closeted for her afternoon's study of the Word. Then I stole softly up to Aunt Jael's bedroom. Her physic-cupboard was on the far side of the bed. It had a sliding door; inside there were four shelves, the bottom shelf dedicated to Aunt Jael's night-needs. At every watch she fed. Once or twice I had slept with her, and discovered that though she had rusks and beef-tea just before getting into bed (soon after a heavy supper) and rusks and a cup of green tea while she was dressing (just before a heavy breakfast), yet she got out of bed twice during the night to brew herself a potion and chew old crusts or gingerbread-nuts or rusks. The bottom shelf was complete with every accessory of these four bedroom feasts: spirit lamp, matches, saucepan, cups; green tea, Ceylon tea, beef-tea, meat extract, herbs of divers properties and powers; gin, cowslip wine, elderberry wine, brandy; with many tins devoted to gingerbreads, half-moon rusks (bought at the same baker's as Miss Glory's), seed-cake, Abernethy biscuits, and old crusts rebaked in the oven. The upper shelves bristled with medicine bottles and jars. These were grouped methodically according to the ills they combated. There was a cough-and-colds corner. For burns scalds and chaps, bruises weals and wens, there was poor-man's-friend, a great jar of goose grease, and a small white pot of mixed whitening, most drastic of all; often my Grandmother used it on my body after a bad beating, fitly borrowing Aunt Jael's whiting to ease the marks of Aunt Jael's stick. The particular galaxy of bottles from which Grandmother had oftenest to beg and borrow for me consisted of various telling encouragements and exhortations to those like myself whose mills ground slowly and withal exceedingly small. Castor oil, Epsom salts, senna pods, fennel seeds and roots of jalep: I knew them all. It was to King Senna I answered swiftliest (five pods to be soaked in a tumbler of water for a few hours, and drunk last thing before retiring to bed); to replenish this jar meant frequent visits to the druggist's, for which my Grandmother paid. To pods she added prayers. Whenever the last thing before retiring chanced to be the tepid tumblerful, the last thing but one was always a supplication to Heaven to speed the parting dose. "O Lord," pleaded my Grandmother on her knees, "Bless the means! Bless the means, Lord; and if it be Thy will grant her relief!" But Aunt Jael relied on worldly remedies exclusively. Her medicine cupboard was her shield and buckler, and like the cupboard in the front room downstairs, ministered to her pride of possession also. And the night-life made possible by that festive bottom shelf! O 'twas a Prince of Cupboards, a vineyard planted with bottles. Today I had eyes for one bottle only. I reached it down, and regarded the precious objects which would confound the sneers of Susan. Thief! said a voice within, as I tipped the bottle up and curved my other hand to receive. Susan's sneers! urged the Tempter. How just they are, and how they wound you! I hung doubtfully; the acid-drops' fate and my own trembled in the balance. I remembered how Aunt Jael counted everything. For a certainty every acid drop was counted; she would miss the meanest couple, and then the sequel! No, I dare not. The moment my indecision was over, I was braver. Once I had decided I dare not eat any, I dared to reflect how pleasant they _would have been_ to eat. It was the bravery of cowardice, that valour that is the better part of discretion. I smelt the bottle's mouth long and longingly. Suddenly the fair odour inspired in me a new idea. I would just suck the drops, and then put them back. They were of the shiny sort, which judicious sucking would hardly change; not your dangerous powdery acid drops, which merest touch of the tongue transforms. I set to sucking as evenly as possible, so that none would look smaller than the rest. They were delicious, and I enjoyed recompense for my noble decision not to steal. Suddenly my heart stood still. The door-handle turned. To fling the bottle into its place in the cupboard, and slide the cupboard door to, was the work of a fevered moment. Aunt Jael entered. She must surely have seen. My guilt was clear, for all the look of meekness I sought to wear. She had her suspicions too of what the guilt was: she seized my arm and ducked her nose down to my mouth to confirm them. Acid-drops have a tell-tale odour, unique, unmistakable. My smell bewrayed me. Out of my own mouth I stood convicted. "I thought as much,"--even for her the words came grimly--"how many have you stolen?" "None, Aunt Jael." There coursed through my veins the perverse exultant delight of her who utters a great white lie. Not for anything would I have told a downright falsehood. Here was an answer true as Truth herself--sucking is not stealing--yet by the look (and smell) of things plainly false. Aunt Jael darkened. "I-have-not-stolen-one. I-have-not-eaten-one," I repeated, noddingly. "Liar, black little liar!" she shouted. "The rope-end at last; you'll taste it now." She rummaged under the bed. As she barred the egress by the foot of the bedstead, I scrambled over the bed, gained the door, and fled to the attic. She was after me at once, wielding the famous weapon, a good yard of stout old ship's rope, a relic of Grandfather Lee or maybe Great-Grandfather Vickary. In the middle of the attic stood a large elliptical table. Round and round it she chased me. It was a defiance I had never shown before. She was appalled. I was appalled. Defiance was a quality she never encountered, and now for meek miserable little me to show it! Her features were a livid blue-black. She lashed out with the rope frequently; I dodged and ducked. The attic was wide enough for me to elude her reach. In a corner I should have had no chance; so Knight of the Round Table was the part I played. Once the rope grazed my shoulder. After ten minutes perhaps, the part of slasher at emptiness had become so undignified that Aunt Jael suddenly stopped. A ruse? A minute's rest before a last wild spring for victory? No; for she could hardly breathe. Then she gave me a long cruel stare, eyes saying _I Will Repay_: for all my defiance I cowered. She went out, slammed the door behind her, and stumped heavily down the uncarpeted attic-stairs. The heat of battle over, my spirits sank. Why had I defied her? There was no ultimate escape. For every gesture of defiance, every moment of that round-the-table chase, she would repay me a hundredfold. Yet what else could I have done? If I had owned up to _stealing_ her sweets and thus (perhaps) incurred a lesser wrath, I should have owned up to something I had not done. I should have lied. I had told the truth instead, and my only reward was a clear conscience. (I was staring, as so often, at the great blue picture on the wall, whose deep violet blue seemed to be toned down by the cold grey-blue of the room; an old print of some tropical sea with a volcano belching forth fire, smoke and lava in the background,--the Caribbean Sea perhaps, with one of the Mexican craters, or the Mediterranean with Vesuvius; a gaudy gorgeous thing such as sailors buy on their travels.) I waited over an hour before risking a descent. When I turned the half-landing by Mrs. Cheese's bedroom door, I sprang back. There beneath me, sitting on the stairs, her feet on the main landing just outside her bedroom door, was Aunt Jael. A small table was drawn up to the foot of the stairs. A good tea was spread thereon; she was eating and drinking heartily. I spied the rope by her side; she heard my footsteps above her, and her hand closed on it. I went back. She meant grim business. Still, she could not stay there all night. I sat down outside the attic door and listened. Mrs. Cheese cleared away her tea things, grumbling; Grandmother came up to her, gently remonstrating. She stayed on. Darkness set in. I heard her stamp the floor for Mrs. Cheese to bring her supper. After all, she might stay there for the night: knowing her will to be not weaker than mine, I put my self in her place, and I felt almost sure she would. I was hungry, and there would be no escape. Escape I must. How? My first plan was that Mrs. Cheese--Aunt Jael would have to get up to let her pass, I reflected, since either one of them was as broad as the attic staircase--should bring me something to eat when she came upstairs to bed. Then I could survive till the morrow, sleep on the attic floor, and confound Aunt Jael. I would show her who had the stronger will. The weak point of this notion was that I could not shout instructions to Mrs. Cheese to bring me something to eat, nor rely on her doing it unprompted. A more desperate plan suggested itself, and before I had time to shrink back, I put it into action. I slid down the banisters and took a flying vault safely over Aunt Jael's head and the little supper table in front of her. If there had been a big open space beyond, all might have been well. Unfortunately the banister that surrounded the sort of well in which you saw the ground floor began only a yard beyond Aunt Jael's door; my flying feet knocked against it, and I fell; I was hurt badly, and could not get up. In a second Aunt Jael was up, and at me with the rope, savagely. She saw I was in pain and helpless, so lammed the more brutally. I screamed. Grandmother came running upstairs, and with a strength and daring she rarely used wrenched the rope from her sister's hands. I limped downstairs. "Before you eat, child, confess your lie, and apologize to your aunt for telling it." Grandmother was unwontedly stern. "What lie?" I did not flinch. "Smell her! Smell her!" shouted Aunt Jael. "Mary, in all her life your mother told not one single lie." "It's not a lie," feebly. "I swear it," pitiably. At last Grandmother succeeded where Aunt Jael had failed (this was a little sub-triumph in my defeat). I told the true version and for all the Tempter's hints I knew that my Grandmother was right that evening when in our bedside prayer she pleaded, "Forgive her, Lord; in her heart she lied!" Next day, I learnt from Mrs. Cheese that the bottle of acid drops had been flung by Aunt Jael into the ashpit. I rescued it, and pocketed the contents, which were stuck together like a coarse hard sponge, emerald bright. There were thirty-seven in all. By the distribution of this lordly largesse I rose high in the esteem of the school. A pocket full of acid drops: my position was assured. None doubted their virginity, all consumed them with zest. Thus did I triumph over Susan Durgles, who sucked humbly; humblier, had she known that another had sucked before her. * * * * * * * School took but a small place in my life. The music-lessons I began to take at home were much more to me: for piano-playing was a worldly luxury some generous whim of Aunt Jael's supplied. Her reward was her own loud announcement, whenever topics even remotely musical were mentioned, "_I_ pay for the child's music." These lessons, and a very occasional dress and hat--once a pair of mittens--were all she contributed to my upkeep in all those years. I am glad it was never more. She had no call to do it, she often explained. Well and good: I had no call to be beholden to her. All my expenses, nothing heavy, but heavy enough for a light purse, were borne by my Grandmother: and thus at the end of their lives, Aunt Jael had three times as much to bequeath as her sister. Grandmother accepted five pounds a year from my great-uncle John on my behalf, refusing his offer of more, and taking nothing of what my father's relatives had proposed from the beginning. Yet she would have laughed, and the mirthless Saints would have laughed, if you had called her proud. Meanwhile, because of these music lessons, Aunt Jael cried her generosity from the house-tops. I little cared: I was grateful. I could soon play all the simpler tunes in Hoyle's Anthems. My life was still entirely spent in the Bear Lawn household; I was never allowed to see anything of the other schoolchildren, Saints or no Saints, beyond school hours. None ever crossed our threshold, nor I theirs. I watched the daily struggle between the two old women, Grandmother and Great-aunt. I read the Word. I prayed, and I lived wild lives within myself. I was for ever visualizing, thinking out dramas in which I and those I knew would figure, living in a self-fashioned self-fancied future, deciding on lines of conduct in innumerable situations I invented. At this time my imaginings did not run, as with megalomaniac little boys, to ambitious futures for myself: great sounding deeds done before admiring multitudes. My castle building was conditioned by the narrow humble life I knew. The stuff of my dreams was my own hates and loves. At this early time my surest emotions were I think three: hate of my tyrant aunt; longing for some one to love and some one to love me; fear of eternity and hell. I would play with these terrible ideas sometimes with the cheerfulness natural to six-years-old, more often with the despondency more natural to myself. Hate achieved no triumph of hate even, would eat itself out miserably and everlastingly in my visions as hate always. Longing was never appeased; love would never come to me. Fear was justified of her child. A cheerful vision I conjured up was Aunt Jael on bended knee before me, making a hoarse and humble appeal to be forgiven for her wrong-doings, to be shriven of her many sins. I revelled in the delightful picture. How I dealt with it depended on my mood. If it was soon after a beating (a real-life beating) my conduct would be just, stern, inexorable. "Go to, thou vixen, thy judgment awaits thee!"; and I would deliver her over to the tormentors. If beatings of late had been few or frail, and a sentimental rather than revengeful mood held me, then I would act with a high Olympian generosity, imagination's sweetest revenge, and lifting her gently to her feet would say "Thy sins are forgiven thee--Go, and sin no more!" I often tried to create an imaginary person to love, some one I could embrace and be embraced by. Once I got as far as picturing a face for perfect loving, but I found that it was the spirit, the soul, the person who gave you love, and my perfect face (a dark young girl's) though I named it Ruth Isabel, remained a face and a name only. There was no real Ruth Isabel behind the face; so she faded away. I had one success, one consolation. By a hard effort--closed eyes, clenched fists and fervid prayer to God--I could sometimes picture my dead mother so vividly, that I could literally feel and return her embraces. She was clad always in white; her face was warm, and glowed. "Kiss me, Mary," I could make the vision say, though whensoever I put out my hungry arms to draw her closer to my breast, the vision fled. Of my chief fears, hell and eternity, the first was always terrible--I pictured it in all the luxurious completeness of horror Brother Brawn described--yet I had this comfort: I believed in the Lord, and He could save me. But save me for what? He rescued me from hell to grant me eternity in heaven, and from His boon there was none to rescue me. _Eternal life!_ Once my brain attempted to grapple with everlastingness and to think out the full frightful meaning of _living for ever_, I sickened with fear. There was no escape: ever: anywhere. A terror, unanswerable, unpitying, controlled me. One way out of it, one mad child's trick to cheat Infinity was to convince myself I had never been born. "You're not real!" I would say to myself, "You're only dreaming you're alive. You're a dream of God's. You have never really lived, so you can never really die. So you escape eternity. You cannot live for ever, if you are not alive at all!" This belief I helped by staring into my own eyes in the glass, my face close up to its reflection. After a minute or two, a tense expectancy would seize me. I was elated, exhilarated. "Mary, what are you, who are you?" I cried to the face in the mirror. My own voice sounded strange and far away, belonged to some one else, proved that _I_ had no voice, that there was no real me, that I was Another's dream. "What are you? What are you?" The exhilaration and the expectancy grew. I was on the brink of solving the mystery of all life: my child's mind would find what the universe was, what _I_ was.... The exaltation was almost more than I could bear. I kissed wildly the reflection of my own mouth in the mirror. Suddenly, imperceptibly, elusively, the great hope vanished. There was a swift reaction in my mind and body, and I half swooned away on to a chair. In other moods my picturings were completely black. I saw my future as an unbroken series of savage triumphs for Aunt Jael. She discovered new and horrible beatings. I should be left quite alone with her: Grandmother would die. She would flog me from morn till night, always brutally, always unjustly. Or I would think of love as a thing I should never, never know. I pictured myself a lonely old woman, loved by none, loving none. Or, if I thought of hell, I doubted my salvation, and suffered in imagination all its pains. Or, with eternity, the fiction that I was not alive failed me dismally. I pictured myself sitting for ever on a throne near God, bearded and omnipotent. A billion years rolled away, I was still no nearer the end, no nearer escape from my soul, from life, from me. Sometimes I shrieked. My cries rent heaven. God motioned the golden harps to cease and consigned me to the torments of hell. I was borne downwards at incredible speed by two bright angels who, as we got lower and lower, took on the shape of devils. They cast me shrieking into the lake of fire and brimstone. Sometimes in heaven I could keep my agony mute. This was no better. Amid the angels' psalmody there rang in my heart like a beaten bell: _For ever, for ever, for ever!_--taunting me into a supreme feverish effort to think _For ever_ out. Then came the last moment, the crisis of hypnotized fear, as my finite mind flung itself against the iron door of the Infinite. The struggle lasted but a few seconds, or I should have gone mad. Then the warm back-rush of physical relief as the blood poured back into my brain. I came to believe there were two persons in myself, two distinct souls in my body. It was my way of accounting for the two strangely different manners of thought I experienced. I thought and felt things in an ordinary, conscious, methodical way--the self-argumentative, cunning, careful little girl that most often I was. At other times, ideas, promptings, wishes, beliefs came to me in quite different fashion--or not so much to me as from within me, from some inner source of my being. They coursed through my blood and stormed my brain; they were blind, warm, intuitive; supernatural, sudden. There is no one word in my vocabulary, still less was there in those seven-year-old days, to define or explain this distinction. It was no matter of Reason with Common-sense on the one hand, and Conscience or Instinct on the other. Conscience--"God knocking at your heart's door," Grandmother called it--is a very incomplete description; at most it could apply only to the good promptings of the other Self. For the reverse reason Instinct will not suffice. It was no question of two modes of thought or feeling, but of two persons inhabiting my body. The Mary Lee every one saw and knew was the two of them taken together. I called them Me and the Other Me. I felt the difference between them in a physical way. With the more usual self, my blood flowed gently, my pulse was normal. The other self marched through my flesh like an army with banners; the hand of this more mysterious me literally knocked at my heart; she came from some deep inmost place and vanished as swiftly as she came. She went; my pulse flagged. My loneliness too encouraged the sociable idea that there were two people inside me--Two's company, one's none! In bed or blue attic, duologues were better than monologues: but as a rule I could not arrange these, because Other Me blew where she listed; I could never fix her for a talk as I chose. She came with some sudden word or warning, prompting or precept--and was gone. When I was bent on some moment's peccadillo, she--he?--would come, whisper "It is wrong"; for one moment the whispering voice was my voice, the voice of another Me, a new person and soul whose being seemed to flood my veins. She fled, and I was alone again. The way I tried to formulate the experience was this: One is my normal human sinful Self, is Me, Mary; Two is the Spirit of God possessing me, the movement in me of the divine, the indwelling spirit, the Holy Ghost made manifest in my flesh. I saw it all as a special privilege, a new proof that the Lord had set me apart. Sometimes the two selves battled for mastery. I thought that one thing was the right course to follow, and felt that another was. I knew it was the _feeling_ I ought to obey, though sometimes I was not positive of its divine, Other Me, Apostolic quality. In such cases my plan was to count thirty-seven--aloud as a rule--and if at the end of my count the impulse was still in me, I obeyed it. The test itself was of course of _Other_ origin. "In cases of doubt, count thirty-seven" came to me one day with a warm lilt of authority I did not question. I adopted it as my sacred number for all emergencies. When Aunt Jael was flogging me--I remember well how it helped me in that rope-end beating after I had sucked the sweets--I would shut my eyes and see if I could count thirty-seven between each stroke. Success depended on my rate--and hers; in any case the mere endeavour seemed to lessen the pain. Note, too, that there were thirty-seven acid drops in the fatal bottle, and that my favourite psalm, number 137, was on page 537 of my old Bible:--Heavenly proofs of the pure metal of my golden number. (Note: This chapter in my notes fills exactly 37 pages!-M. L.) CHAPTER VI: CHEESE, LUMPS, CREWJOE, THE SCARLET WOMAN AND THE GREAT GOD BENAMUCKEE That rope-end beating was a bad one, but I can remember worse. The worst one of all came a year or so later, when I was about seven years old, and formed part of a series of events that stands out with peculiar clearness in my memory. It all began with porridge lumps. One morning Aunt Jael went into the kitchen before breakfast, and began stirring at the porridge pan and looking for something to grumble at. "Lumps!" she cried angrily. "Lumps! What's this mean? 'Tis a pity if a woman of sixty don't know how to cook a panful of porridge. Or too idle to stir it, most likely. Lumps! Lumps!" Mrs. Cheese lost her temper: the end desired. "What d'ye expect? Do 'ee think I cude see to the stuff while I'm trapsing up and downstairs to yer bedrume all the time waiting on 'ee 'and an' foot, an' you thumpin' and bangin' away wi' yer stick ivry blissid minute? I can't be in two places at once, and I ain't agwain ter try. Lumps indade! I've 'ad enuff o'n. You do'n yersell, ol' lady." Whereupon did Aunt Jael aim the lid of the pan at Mrs. Cheese's head, which it just managed to miss. A frying-pan full of half-cooked potatoes lay to the wronged one's hand for retort perfect. She mastered the dear temptation when she saw my Grandmother quietly edging up toward Aunt Jael; found vent instead in bitter irony. Sarcasm hits surer than sauce-pan-lids, and harder. "Behavin' like a true Brethering, aren't us? Like a meek bleatin' Christyun lamb as doesn't know it's weaned? I tells yer straight, Miss Vickary, I crosses your doorstep this same day. Ye'll be done wi' yer lumps termorrer." Grandmother contrived to calm her down till she consented to stay after all; and, with more difficulty, to close her sister's mouth. Mrs. Cheese, however, was not the one to sit down under a saucepan lid, and I think it was revenge, joining forces with a long-repressed love for a good "tell," which prompted her to close the kitchen door that afternoon when the dinner things were put away, and to sit down to tell me a story. She had once begun to speak to me of fairies, and Aunt Jael's reproof was too violent and too recent for her to have forgotten. Rather it was that she remembered it, and rejoiced, as she posed me the unfamiliar sweet question: "Wude 'ee like me to tell 'ee a story?" "Yes, please, Mrs. Cheese." I cocked my ear. Far away in the dining-room the dread one snored. "Wall then. This tale is all about what a sailor-man did. Even '_er_" (she jerked her finger in the proper direction) "cude say nothin' agin it, for 'tis all true. 'Tis true gospel, I'll be blummed if tidn': tho', Dear Lawr, some o' the things is that wunnerful that if a body had told me, and I did'n _knaw_ fer certain that 'twas all true, and all written 'pon a buke that the party wrote hisself, I shude 'a zed they was lyin', I shude railly. 'Tis'n everybody, you knaws, as lives a life like we, always quiet and peaceful like, always the same ol' place. There's many volk, sailor chaps and sich like fer the bettermos' part, that has middlin' excitin' times in these yer vorrin parts, and zees the most wunnerful things. Wall, this one chap in partic'lar lived for thirty year all alone on a desert island with not another soul to pass the time o' day with, thirty years I tell 'ee if 'twas a day. Robinson Crewjoe 'is name was--" "Why?" "'Cos fer why? 'Cos that's what 'e were caaled, o' course, silly mump'ead! Anyway, there 'twas. Some say 'e 'ad 'is wife and childer to the island with 'im, and they talks of the Zwiss Vamily Robinson, but 'tisn't true anyway; first 'cos 'e weren't alone in an island if there was other folk with 'im, second 'cos he wasn't a Zwiss, or any sort o' them vurriners, third because 'e 'adn't got no vamily, 'cept for 'is ol' vamily at 'ome that is, as tried to stop'n runnin' away to sea, 'is ol' father and 'is ol' mother--" "What did his father do?" "Didn't _du_ nort." "I mean like Brother Briggs is an oilman and Brother Quaint keeps a baker's shop--" "Oh I don't know thikky. 'Tis some 'undreds o' years agone since it all first 'appened, you knows. 'Owsomever--" And so on: the whole imperial tale. When in later years I read the book for myself I found how accurately she had stressed the salient points. The father of young Robinson, always growlin' and scoldin' like some others she cude mention; the young raskel himself with whom these methods were not entirely displaced; the flight to sea; the ship doing battle with Turks and Portugeeses and Vrenchies and Spanyerds; the wreck on the desert island, young Robinson alone being saved; his infinite resource, practical, mechanical, architectural, culinary, dietetic; his ills, moral and physical.--Every known pain of the body he suffered, finding some slight alleviation, it is true, in the miniature Aunt Jaelian physic-cupboard from the all providing Wreck. His worst affliction was a malady--the Blues or Deliverums--at once moral and physical, a kind of soul's nightmare accompanied by sharp "abdominable pains." All around him, as he writhed in agony, roared an islandful of wild beasts; tigers and jeraffs and hullyfints and camyels and drumming-dairies-- "What's that?" I remember asking. "Wull, either 'tis camyels wi' one 'ump to the back, or else 'tis camyels what 'ave one 'ump and drummy-dairies two; 'tis one or 'tother--and bears and munkeys and girt sarpints what they caal boy-constructors, I don't knaw fer why:--a regler munadgery like Tobbery Vair--and birds too. The pore chap 'ad one particler parrit or cocky-two as they caals 'un, what 'e taught to 'oller out: 'Pore ol' Robinson Crewjoe! pore ol' Robinson Crewjoe!' 'Tis true what I tell 'ee, my dear, 'tis true's I zit yer." Nor did I doubt it. The notion of an invented story was one I could not have conceived. The narrative came particularly near home with the arrival of the savages, and the domestication and conversion of Man Vriday--"or Man Zaturday maybe--I know 'tis one o' the days o' the wake." Robinson saw that he could atone for his own unholy past by snatching this black-skinned brand from the burning. I listened eagerly, with conscious professional interest; the snatching of black-skinned brands was the very work for which the Lord had set me apart. "And so he praiched the Gospel to 'im, and shewed 'im all the mercies o' God A'mighty." "But _could_ he, Mrs. Cheese? Was he a Saint, was he one of the Elect?" "I don't knaw fer certin'. Don't rekellect it ackshilly zaying 'pon the buke that 'e was a Plymith Brethering in so many worrds as the sayin' is. A Methody maybe. But that's neither 'ere nor there." "But it is, it's _very_ important," I cried, "it's everything!" "'Owsomever, 'e taught this yer Man Vriday ter pray ter the Lord. That's gude nuff. 'You goes down on yer knees, and you prays to Im,' 'e zes. 'Why that's jis' what we do too,' zes Man Vriday, to _our_ God'--meanin' a girt idol set up on a hill in the other island 'e com'd from, zummat like the girt idol o' Miss Vickary's in the corner there in that ol' front-room uv 'ern. 'Us valls vlat on our vaces before un,' 'e zes, 'and us 'owls out O-o-o-o Benamuckee! O-o-o-o Benamuckee!' that bein' the god's name, as yer mid say. Tis a fac', I'll ait vire an smoke if tid'n." "Did he convert him?" anxiously. "Zome zay 'e did, but I shudn' 'ardly think 'tis true, fer Man Vriday turns to ol' Robinson Crewjoe--'e was an ol' chap now, you knaws, 'aving been there the bettermos' part o' thirty years--and 'e zes to 'im, zes 'e, 'I don't zee much odds to't, master. You prays to your God up i' the sky, and you zes 'O God' and we prays to our god up i' the mountain, and we zes 'O Benamuckee.' He'm a great god too, a mighty great god like yourn; I don't zee much odds to't, master,' 'e zes. So if 'e did convert 'im, it was a middlin' stiff job, I reck'n. And I ain't afraid ter zay that ol' Robinson was a middlin' big fule ter try. If a vorrin savage is so big a fule as to lay down flat on 'is stummick and 'oller out 'O-o-o-o Benamuckee' and sich like jibberish, 'e's a bigger fule still as tries to make 'im mend 'is ways. Missyunaries can't du much gude wi' such fules as they--" Blasphemy supreme. The listener behind the door could restrain herself no longer. Aunt Jael stumped in. "Well?" "Wull?" said the _raconteuse_, bold and unabashed. She had the morning's score to settle. "Well? Well this: '_ee_ talked about notice this morning, madam. Now I give 'ee notice." "Du yer, Miss Vickary, du yer? Wull, I don't take it then. I'm Missis Lee's servant as much as I'm yourn. You only pays 'alf my money, tho' you may du six-vivths o' the mistressin'. An' 'tis no lies I've been tellin'; 'tis all true gauspel--" "Order!" stamped the thorned stick. "'Ee leave a week to-day. Silence!" (For repartee was ready.) "And for you, Child, there's no excuse. None. You knew. You knew your sin sitting listening all through that pack of lies--" "'Tiz _not_ lies!" cried Mrs. Cheese. "'Tis true's I stand yer," for she had risen to face the adversary. "Can't the poor lil chil' listen to a trew story? Thank the Lawr there aren't many little children in Tobbry cooped up like 'er is, as can't move her lil finger wi'out gettin' cussed and banged; I ain't got no patience wi't, and there's plenty uv other volks as I cude mention as 'ave passed a few remarks too--" "Silence!" shouted Aunt Jael, furiously stamping the stone floor two-to-the-second with her stick. In came my Grandmother, drawn by the tumult. At once both Aunt Jael and Mrs. Cheese began defending themselves: the first word with neutrals counts for much. To Mrs. Cheese: "Miss Vickary first"; to Aunt Jael: "Speak, sister." "I've caught her telling the child a long lying rigmarole about savages and idolatry--" "'Tis not lies! 'Tis truth!" blazed the other, "and don't yer let the pore chil' be punished for listenin', Missis Lee." Grandmother apportioned blame: for me "You knew you ought not to have listened"; for Mrs. Cheese "Be more careful in what you talk about, and don't forget your manners with Miss Vickary"; for Aunt Jael "There's not much harm been done, Sister; no need whatever to carry on so." Aunt Jael was infuriated. The balance of Grandmother's judgment was obviously against her; the fact that her younger sister was judging at all was against the first principles of the household, a slight to her position--and to all those sixty-nine years' of an eighteen-months' seniority. "There!" looked Mrs. Cheese and I, and though neither of us smiled nor spoke, Victory sang in our eyes. My triumph was short. She struck me with her clenched fist; my shoulder received all she owed to Mrs. Cheese and Grandmother as well. So brutal and unexpected was the blow that it stirred me to a spontaneous and venomous cry: "Ugh, I _hate_ you." Fear and forethought which shrouded and bowdlerized most of my remarks when angry had no time to give me pause. "I hate you!" I repeated savagely. Silence, Sensation, Crisis. Who would resolve it? How? Grandmother spoke first: "Hush, child, hush. Your Aunt is angry, but you are beside yourself. Jael, I'm ashamed; to strike like that! But 'hate,' child: the Devil speaks in you. Think, do you mean it?" "Not quite, no, not--not so bad as that," I faltered convincingly, not from contrition, but to ward off, if might be, another blow, which in the logic of things lay near ahead. "H'm. 'Tis as well as not. It all comes to this, young minx: You're bad all through; the Devil's in 'ee all the time. Your Grandmother and I have always forbidden 'ee tales of fairies and such like. 'Ee knew, and 'ee listened. Were 'ee wrong--or were 'ee not? I correct 'ee, and all I get for years of care is that 'ee spit out hate. Are 'ee sinful--or are 'ee not?" I looked at Grandmother: I must take care not to alienate supporters. I looked at Aunt Jael: that blow must be exorcised. "Yes." She thirsted for super-victory. "Repeat: 'Yes, Aunt Jael, I was sinful and wrong.'" "Yes, Aunt Jael, I was sinful and wrong." "And so when I reproved 'ee for being wrong and gave 'ee a well deserved blow, I was right?" No reply. Her brow darkened. Blow nearer again. "Come now, quick about it: 'ee were wrong?" "Yes, Aunt Jael." "And I was right." No reply. She half raised her stick--not fist this time--but noting Grandmother's eye, restrained herself with an effort. Both belligerents played still for neutral sympathy. She must be moderate, as Salvation said of her scholastic fees. "Now, child, I'll give 'ee five minutes. If by that time 'ee haven't looked me in the face and repeated twice ''Ee were right, Aunt Jael, and I'm very sorry,' then I'll bang 'ee till 'ee won't be able to sit down. Now then." She leaned against the table, eyeing the clock. Mrs. Cheese sat silent, but ready I could see for intervention. That was Grandmother's look too. Both were ready to ward off the soon-to-be-uplifted stick. Aunt Jael feared this, and was uneasy. She broke the silence after about two minutes. "I warn 'ee. For your own good, mark. 'Tis no odds to me: I'd as lief thrash you. Don't 'ee know your Proverbs, child: 'Chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy rod spare for his crying.' _I'll_ not spare for your crying. And 'ee'll be free from me for a spell, for 'ee'll dwell up in the attic for a few days all alone to give 'ee time to think over your sins. Now then. What d'ye say to that?" "What do I say?" I shouted. "I say this: '_It is better to dwell in a corner of the housetop than with a brawling woman in a wide house!_' Don't 'ee know your Proverbs, Aunt Jael?" The supreme defiance of my childhood; the aptest quotation of my life. Never before nor after was I so great. There was no hope now, the beating would equal my deserts, and I had doubtless alienated my best ally. Even so, there mingled with my fear delight in my retort-perfect. It was worth living to have said that; I must be brave and show that it was worth dying for. For a moment my boldness had staggered her; for a moment only. Then she brought down the great stick with a crash on my shoulder that sent me reeling against the dresser. Grandmother snatched at the stick; she flung her roughly aside, and sent her tottering against the flour-bin with a savage shove. "How dare you? How dare you knock my Grandmother about? You bad, cruel old woman!" "There's perlice in this town, Miss Vick'ry, you'm forgetting." "Jael!" For answer to the three of us, she struck me brutally twice, once on the leg, and once on my ear, which began to bleed. The two others made a joint rush for the stick. "Jael, you're beside yourself." "'Old 'ard, ol' biddy." I had one idea: flight. There was a nightmare sort of struggle now in progress, swaying first toward one side of the kitchen, then toward another: three black-bodiced old ladies in a Rugby football scrum, Aunt Jael and Mrs. Cheese, as far as one could see, scuffling for the stick, and Grandmother half-scuffling for the stick also, scuffling also to prevent the other two from scuffling each other to death: at once participant and peacemaker, and certainly not blessed. Past this black swaying mass I dashed, along the hall, hatless out on to the Lawn, and on into the forbidden street outside the Lawn gates. I ran blindly; where, I did not know. It was a sultry day; my aches and bruises began to tell, and I had to slow down before my rage was worked away. I was wild and rebellious, not only against Aunt Jael, but against God Who allowed her to treat me so. I was walking slowly now. I looked about me; stared at a new brick building on the other side of the road, crossed to read the notice-board outside. "Roman Catholic Church!" Aunt Jael had spoken of this;--this monster we had weakly allowed to be erected in our midst, this Popish temple, this Satan's Synagogue. "Go in!" said Instinct. This was puzzling: the suggestion was clearly sinful, yet here it came with the authority of my trusted better self. Well, I would commit the sin, the sin deadlier than the seven, the sin crying to heaven for vengeance, the sin against the Holy Ghost! No modern mind could grasp the sense of supreme ultimate wickedness with which my deliberate contact with the Scarlet Woman filled me, for there is no live anti-Popery left among us today. As I pushed open the red baize door, my heart beat fast. Here indeed was defiance to Aunt Jael and to God Who permitted her. I was making a personal call on the Devil in his own private residence. I should have been much less surprised than frightened to find him inside the chapel, seated on a throne of fire; tail, hoofs and all. What should I find? I trembled with emotion. My first impressions were of the darkness and the smell. This curious odour was doubtless the "insects" against which Miss Salvation thundered; that burnt-offering which cunningly combined cruelty with idolatry. It was an interesting smell; I thought of the paint-and-Bibles odour of our Room. Much of the character of churches, as of books, is discovered in their smell: it is by my nose rather than my mind that I can best recall the rich doctrinal differences between Calvinistic Methodists, and (say) Particular Baptists. You may smell out a Tipper--or a Bunker--or a Believer in the Divine Revelation of Joanna Southcote--with blindfold eyes; and the odour of an English Roman Catholic Church is, I think, the most distinctive of them all. So too its darkness. How unlike the bare lightness of the Room. This Papistry reminded me of Aunt Jael's front parlour with its perpetual yellow darkness, its little heathen images and its great wooden god. Everywhere there were images and idols, though I was disappointed--and surprised--not to see more sensational symbols of evil. I dared not begin to _think_ so, though I _felt_ already that this mysterious place gave (somehow) pleasure. "Habitation of devils and cage of every unclean and hateful bird": our phrases did not fit here,--but perhaps I should soon behold a Sign. A young man came in and knelt before one of the idols: a mother and baby-boy, the Mary Mother and the Son of God. I watched him on his knees before the graven image, Man Vriday on his knees before God Benamuckee. I had a wild notion of crying aloud; I would then and there testify to the true God. But I could not--something held me back--the incense, the holiness, the young man's face, pale and kind and pure.... I looked away. In the side aisle were two or three old women in prayer. How like our old-lady Saints were these Papist women! However different their souls, how alike their clothes and faces! The one nearest me reminded me at once of my Grandmother. Kneeling with her eyes closed and her lips moving in prayer, she looked strangely like the dear devout face I watched each night at bedside prayers. Said Reason: this is an old Papist sinner, a lost soul, an eldest beautiful daughter of Antichrist, who hath glorified herself and lived deliciously, whose sins have reached unto heaven, whose iniquities God hath remembered. Said Instinct, which came from the Lord: "She is good." (Perhaps she was one of those two or three Papists who were going to heaven, as Grandmother said, despite all.) The kind old face, rapt, adoring, the lips praying as my Grandmother prayed; the pale clean sorrowful young man too; above all, the rich sacramental stillness--these things _of course_ were wrong. In the swifter more intuitive way I knew that they were right, and that _I_ was wrong. I was baffled; and frightened. These impressions come back to me dimmed maybe, or rather, over-clarified by the notions of later years; but however vaguely and childishly, they are what I surely felt. I had come into this place to commit sin: I knew now that I was committing sin by having come here in such a spirit. I had known it was sacrilege to hold communion with the evil thing; now the sacrilege seemed to be in the mood in which I had come here. For Papist temple or no, God was somewhere here. The dark incensed holiness of this unholy place was sapping my faith and will. I must fly. And my revenge? I had forgotten that. I slunk out feebly, fleeing from the church and fleeing too from new thoughts I dare not think. I ran to stop myself thinking. There was no alternative but home. They must be wondering where I was, searching perhaps. They would be anxious; Aunt Jael's conscience, I hoped, would be smiting her. It was already near dusk when I slipped through the Lawn gates. When I reached the door my fear grew again; but I was too tired to wander further. Beatings or no beatings, I would go into Aunt Jael's own front room, curl myself up in the armchair; the place was so strictly forbidden that she would never dream of searching for me there. The key, as always, stood in the door; mean and purposeful temptation. It was not far from supper-time, and with the blind drawn the room was pretty well dark. I lay back in the armchair and looked around me at the yellow darkness, at the great oak cupboard, the blanched plants in their row of saucers on the floor, the walls covered with spears and clubs, the mantelpiece littered with gods. There straight ahead, high on his walnut whatnot, the great idol blinked down at me. Here, here was my revenge! The notion stormed me. Dare I? Dare I go down on my knees and worship the graven image? 'Twas a fine way of getting even: to kneel on the floor of her sacred room, and there perform that idolatry which was for her the nameless sin, through even talking of which today's trouble had begun. It would be getting even with God too. If He allowed cruelty and injustice to go on, if He let me be treated as I was, if He failed to deal fairly and faithfully between Aunt Jael and me, if He came short in His duty to Himself and myself; then in my turn I would fail in my duty to Him, I would break His commandments. From the second the notion came, I knew I should obey; though it puzzled me to hear what seemed to be the Tempter's voice speaking for the second time today with the voice of God. To give the Right every chance, and as a sop to fear, I would count a slow and impartial thirty-seven. If at the end of my count the desire to sin was still there, I should have no choice but to obey: the deed must have been predestined, foreordained. Slowly I counted, trying desperately not to influence the decision, and keeping an even balance between wickedness and fear: ... thirty-five ... thirty-six ... thirty-seven. Yes. The idol still leered invitation; worship him I must. Yet fear numbed me as I sank on my knees; so I made this pitiful pretence, that I was only pretending to do it, not really performing idolatry, but just making believe that I was. (In a way this was true.) Aloud I piped feebly in faint shameful voice: "O-o-o-o Benamuckee," but dare not face the idol yet. In my heart I screamed, "O God, God, I'm not doing this _really_. Strike me not dead, show no vengeance, spare me, O Lord. 'Tis all make-believe, that I'm worshiping this idol. Thou knowest it. Spare me, spare me!" Every second I expected some dread sign, waited God's stroke. Surely it must come. Here was I--a Christian child, Saint of Saints, dedicated to preach the gospel to the heathen, who in their blindness bowed down to wood and stone--doing the self-same thing, and with no blindness for an excuse. Jehovah would bare His terrible right arm in one swift gesture of supreme revenge--lightning, thunder-bolt, death--only let the stroke come quickly! I waited through a moment of abject fear. Nothing happened; nothing. Was God--? I dare not ask myself the question I dared not formulate. The first moment passed. I grew less fearful. I grew bold. I felt confident in the instinct that had prompted me, morbidly delighted with the quality of my sin, mighty in its importance and in my own. I felt I was the central spot in the universe: all the worlds were standing still to gaze upon my wickedness. God did nothing. He gave no sign. I took courage; I abandoned all pretence that I was pretending, and flung myself prostrate on the carpet. "O-o-o-o-Benamuckee! O-o-o-o-Benamuckee!" with all the fervour of true prayer. Still no sign. By now I was not afraid, but rather disappointed. Why had the Omniscient and Omnipotent left me unpunished, unreproved, unscathed? Swiftly the answer rushed to my brain--I counted a desperate thirty-seven, but the notion stuck--He gave no heed because He so utterly despised me. He saw nothing in me but a miserable play-acting little worm, too mean even for punishment. It was true, and in the same moment I despised myself. "O-o-o-o" died lamely on my lips. As I got up from my knees I dared not look around me for fear some one was watching my folly and shame. Had anybody seen? And what harm had I done to Aunt Jael, the source of all my misery, the real author of all my folly? None. First by going into a house of idolatry, and now by performing it myself, I was wreaking no hurt on her, while imperilling my own eternal soul. I was a fool. Then came the day's third notion. Cupboard, cupboard!--rifle it! Open, look, steal! This massive piece of oak excelled the physic cupboard in mystery, while equalling it in Aunt Jael's affections. Its contents were largely unknown: I knew it housed a jar of ginger, and in benignant mood Aunt Jael would make it yield a box of Smyrna figs, from which she doled me one or two for senna's sake--as dainty supplement or shy substitute. Like the door of the room itself, the door of the rich cupboard stood always key in lock. Once before I had reached this point of handling the key; today, the day of many sins, I took the one step further, and opened to my gaze a new world of jars, pots, boxes and bags. I opened my campaign on a jar of French plums, the jar massive stone and broad-necked, the plums large black and luscious. I had eaten perhaps my sixth (one of my unlucky numbers), when--a sound--and I half dropped the jar in fright. The door, there was a noise at the door; the handle turned, it was opening. An opening door is the thief's nightmare; I dared not get up from my knees. The noise ceased; I peered through the darkness. Then the atoms of _seen_ atmosphere that sometimes fill a half-darkened room played me a cruel trick. They shaped into a great leering face--half Aunt Jael, half Benamuckee;--it peered round the door, it mocked, it sneered. I was petrified with fear, and for something to hold clutched fiercely at the stone jar. Was the face real? Look, it was fading away. Then, without any manner of doubt, the door softly shut. So the face was real, and I knew its owner. What new tortures would she find to meet the score I was running up? Why had she withdrawn? Ah, she had gone for the ship's rope, was coming back to give me the last flogging of all, the one that would kill me. A few minutes passed. As in the Papist chapel, and again during my idol-worship, I waited for a great something to happen. Nothing happened. I attended a sign. No sign came. I must venture forth; sooner or later I had to face the music. I had no stomach left for plums. I put the jar back, locked the cupboard door, and stole softly out into the hall. Far away along the passage I could see Mrs. Cheese bustling about in the kitchen; it must be supper-time. She was still in the house therefore; she had ignored her notice and survived the _mêlée_ in which I had seen her last. I turned the key softly behind me, then stole to the house front-door, which I noisily opened and shut, to pretend I had just come in. I walked straight into the dining-room. Aunt Jael _smiled_. I had foreseen many things, but not this. She said nothing. This proved that the face at the door was hers. A grim smile. "At last!" said my Grandmother. "It was wrong to run away and scare us like this. I'll talk to you afterwards upstairs. Have your supper now, as you've had no tea. Then to bed." I ate. Aunt Jael sat and smiled. A grim smile. Upstairs in my bedroom Grandmother asked me where I had been. "I walked about the town" satisfied her. She rebuked my initial sin in encouraging Mrs. Cheese, my second in insulting Aunt Jael, my third in running away; she anointed my sores, first on the ear, second on the calf, third on the shoulder where the first ruffianly stroke had fallen; she prayed with me, and said good-night. * * * * * * * Alone in bed I went over the day's events: from porridge pan to plums, from lumps to Aunt Jael's smile. Suddenly, causelessly in the way one finds in a dream lost objects whose hiding place is long forgotten--I saw the stone cover of the plum jar lying in the middle of the front-room carpet. Remembrance followed vision, and I knew I had hastily put the jar away without it. At all events the cover must be restored; if by any wild chance the face at the door had not been Aunt Jael's this tell-tale object would anyhow give me away if she should find it; if the face _were_ hers the cover would be fine "evidence." I got up. I always lay awake till after midnight; Aunt Jael and Grandmother were long ago in bed. The day's horrible excitements had made me more cowardly than usual. The darkness frightened me, the creaking stairs frightened me, my conscience frightened me. Shapes loomed everywhere. The pillar at the foot of the banisters towered down on me like some avenging ghost. At last I reached the front-room door; I turned the key slowly and carefully; it clanged unpiteously in the silence. I peeped in. The moonlight piercing through the drawn blind lit up ghoulishly the god's evil face. I stared a moment; his features _moved_; and I fled in frantic terror. Though the object I sought was but a couple of yards away, I could not for all the world have dared a single step nearer. I shut the door and, praying fervently all the way, crept up to bed again. I would go and pick up the cover of the jar first thing in the morning; Aunt Jael never went in till after breakfast; the daylight I could dare. CHAPTER VII: THE END OF THE WORLD All night I did not sleep. Conscience busy with the day past and fear anxious for the day ahead gave me quite enough to think about, and I was feverish and overwrought. As soon after daylight as I dared I set forth downstairs. It was early enough for me to retrieve the tell-tale object before Aunt Jael was astir and light enough for me to brave Lord Benamuckee. At the foot of the stairs I met Aunt Jael, fully dressed, nearly two hours before ordinary time; smiling. "Good morning, child. You're up betimes." I did not dare a _tu quoque_, but uttered a feeble tale about helping Mrs. Cheese to clean the boots, Friday being her busiest day. Aunt Jael, by a singular coincidence, had risen in the same helping spirit, and the two of us burst upon the astonished Mrs. Cheese in the midst of her first matutinal movements. Though I was by now quite certain that the face at the door had been Aunt Jael's, this did not prevent my wishing to restore the jar-cover to its place. It was preparing for the best, so to speak, on the faint off-chance that I was deluded. Meanwhile her smile prepared me for the worst. It was more complex than a blow, for it portended blows to come and added to their evil charm by heralding them afar off. Aunt Jael's floggings had at least this merit, that as a rule they came suddenly; the stick was across my back before I knew where I was. I walked out of the kitchen, straight through to the front room door. Before touching the handle, I took a glance down the length of the hall. Yes, there she stood at the kitchen door, watching me like a hawk. At breakfast, hope pointed out one more chance. I would gobble down my food, and essay a dash for my objective just as I was leaving for school. I ate as fast as I could; she at once ate faster. I got up, she got up too. There was no chance, and she even saw me to the house-door as I set out for school. In the game we were playing, no word was spoken. Her weapon was her smile, which was the proof too that she was winning. On my way to school, as I thought now of this latest menace, now of yesterday's deeds, I admitted that here at last was a case when I _deserved_ punishment. "I hate you"--entering a House of Sin, and approving it almost--breach of the third commandment--common theft--a white lie to Grandmother as to where I had been--what an awful record for one day! Truly I was a queen of sinners. Perhaps God saw fit to humble me in the exaltation of my sin by scorning direct vengeance Himself (three times I had waited for the sign), and had chosen as the vehicle of His vengeance Aunt Jael, my every-day inglamorous tyrant. In any case vengeance was certain; the sultry thunder-weather of the new day seemed to announce it. Soon after I got to school, it began to grow dark, then very dark. It was one of those rare occasions when the pitch-black of utter darkness falls in the day-time; I only remember one other in nearly fifty years. Miss Glory wondered; Miss Salvation exclaimed; we children cowered. I alone had an inkling of what the portent really betokened. It was the Sign. Now that I felt certain once again that the moment of my doom was at hand, all the exquisite extreme fear of yesterday came back. It was swiftly too dark to read. Panic set in. All the children, from both classes, clustered round Glory. She, not Salvation, was the refuge and strength which instinct pointed out on this Last Day. The situation was worthy of her prophet's soul: to her was assigned the awful honour of ushering in Eternity, and announcing the sure signs of the beginning of the end. She stood up, gaunt, prophetic, towering far above the children who clustered round her, waved one hand towards the heavens, and chanted forth: "The End, little children, is here! Fear not! Repent! 'And the fourth angel sounded and the third part o' the sun was smitten, and the third part o' the moon and the third part o' the stars; so as the third part o' them was darkened, and the day shone not for a third part uv it, and the night likewise.' The End is here! The bottomless pit is opened, then cometh forth smoke out o' the pit, and the sun and the air are darkened. Out o' the smoke come great locusts upon the earth, great locusts--" Some of the children shrieked. Now at one stride came utter darkness. Salvation fell on her knees in a corner apart, yelling and howling to the Lord to save her. "O Lord, Lord, remember us as is chosen, remember, Lord. Smite the ungodly, Lord, smite 'em all, but spare the righteous, spare the righteous! Strike the goats with thy angur, but zave the pore sheep; smite the zinners, but zave Thy own Zaints! Oh, aw, ow! Zave, Lord, zave!" While this pitiable object yelled away, and the children cried, Miss Glory's solemn voice chanted on, awaiting God's stroke. I the Papist, the idolater, the liar, the thief--this visitation was for _me_. And if it was the end of the whole world too, as I believed, I was the cause, and I should be the first victim. "Plagues, locusts, scorpions, the pit, the great tribulation! Life is death, me children: _'tis one long prercession o' death beds_. Listen, hearken. First the darkness, now 'tis the thunders and lightin's that is at hand. Watch, oh, my children, watch; pray and fear not. 'Tis the end o' the Worrld, I tell 'ee, the end o' the Worrld." And all the children clutched at her in a frightened desperate ring, so that they should all go to heaven or hell together. I could just distinguish the group a few feet away; it looked in the darkness like a swarm of giant insects. Miss Salvation was pleading and howling away for a heaven to herself, and hell for all folk else. Still I waited; the slowness of God's stroke was half its terror. It was too hard to bear. Then, far more suddenly than it came, the darkness lifted. With returning light came confidence. I breathed freely. Once again respite. Fear, prime instigator of goodness, lost his hold as the shadows faded. I began to _expect_ escape; to think, after so many favours, that I was privileged, and could take the risk of wrongdoing. I was a chartered libertine. When I got back to Bear Lawn before dinner, no sign of Aunt Jael. There was still a chance then to put things right if it was not too late. I stole into the front room. There, in the middle of the floor, just as I had seemed to see it in bed, lay the stone jar-cover. Good fortune once again. After all Aunt Jael could know nothing. Those smiles were innocent; their menace must have been born of my disordered mind. Anyway, here was yet another stroke of luck. But, alas, these perpetual escapes emboldened me. Fear is the guardian of virtue, safety the guide to sin. God's repeated forgivenesses for my sins inspired in me security rather than gratitude: a feeling that I could sin safely. So why not another French plum? Only just one,--or two. Before fixing the cover on the jar, it was natural enough just to taste. I knelt down to open the cupboard. I tilted the heavy jar to look down into it and make my choice. In a second I dropped it with a wild frenzied shriek, wrung from the depths of my heart. Staring at me from inside the jar, painted there in great letters of shining fire, lay the Sign: THOU GOD SEEST ME. The King of Terrors had got hold of me, and I shrieked and shrieked again. I writhed on the floor like a wild thing, clasping now my side, now my knees and again my forehead in all the pitiful gestures of terror. I cut my hand against the broken fragments of the jar that lay scattered on the floor. I licked at the blood. Now the air seemed filled with those awful letters, in blood-red capitals everywhere. I shut my eyes: against the blackness the letters stood forth more bright and terrible than ever: THOU GOD SEEST ME. He saw, the Almighty saw. God had given me rope and I had hanged myself. It had needed this miracle to bring me to a sense of my sins: this Sign whereby the Lord God wrote with His own finger in letters of fire in the plum-jar; the earthen vessel of my sin. This was but the beginning of terrors. "Tis the End o' the World, I tell 'ee, the End o' the World," rang my brain. I waited the next sign: a stealthy sound--the door, the door!--then again that face, leering, mocking, horrible. It was Aunt Jael--no, it was Benamuckee--it changed again, it was the Devil himself! I fainted away. In the "mental illness" that followed I came near to losing my life and nearer still to losing my reason. For many days I was unconscious, and then for long weeks I lay in bed under my Grandmother's loving care. In my delirium I must have told her everything. Sometimes I can recall that fevered time; it comes back to me in the swift evanescent way that one remembers a dream long afterwards, and it is one long hideous nightmare. I live again those dark delirious days when I knew myself for a lost soul flying in terror from God, the Devil, the Pope, Aunt Jael, Benamuckee and Eternity, who menaced me in turn with their various and particular terrors, in all the formless frightfulness of dreams. The pursuit was everlasting. An evil black shadow prowled close at my heels with pitiless, unbroken stride. The face, which kept forcing me against my will to turn round to look at it as I ran, changed from time to time. First I thought my pursuer was Aunt Jael, brandishing a huge stick studded with thorns and spikes of inhuman size. As I looked, hate of the coarse old face rose within me: then the face changed, I thought, into God's; stern, just and terrible, seeking me out to stifle the wicked hate in my heart. Now again it was the Pope, horned and horrible, seeking to avenge my sacrilege in his temple, and now Benamuckee, hastening to devour me for having repented of my idolatry and deserted his shrine. I ran, it seemed, for ever. I had no strength left, and fear alone worked my weary limbs. Now the face was formless: a black shapeless mass without limbs or features was pursuing me. He was the grimmest of them all, and followed for ever and ever. I knew the formless face; it was the last worst terror, Eternity Himself! Sometimes, as my Grandmother told me long afterwards, I shrieked in my delirium till my voice failed me and I could shriek no more. Perhaps it was at such moments that the dream changed. I thought that I was God, with all the labour and responsibility of creation upon my soul. Every clod of earth that went to make the world I had to go and fetch from some far-away corner in utmost Space; I staggered with them, in it seemed a million journeys, to the central place where with infinite labour I had to piece them all together one by one. When I came to making the first man, my conscience--God's conscience--smote me: "Think and ponder well: if you fashion but one man, it is you who must bear the guilt for all the awful sorrows and wretchedness of the millions of men who will come after, it is you who will be responsible for all the agony of eternal life you are conferring upon a new race." I shut my ears to the voice (Who is God's conscience?--the Devil?), hardened my heart, and created mankind. Then as I beheld his fall, and all the unhurrying centuries of woe and pain and cruelty and sorrow that followed, and knew that every one of those creatures I had called forth was damned into everlastingness without hope of happiness or death; suddenly on me too, on me the Lord God, there fell the terror of the Everlasting. All the fear I knew so well as Mary Lee was now a hundred times intensified when I was God. I too, the Almighty, was a victim on the wheel of Space and Time; and as my brain pictured the awful horrible loneliness that would face me for ever watching the birth and death of all the stars and half-a-million worlds, and knowing there was no escape, I made a wild despairing attempt to fling myself headlong over the edge of Space and commit soul-murder if I could. I flung myself over what seemed to be the margin of the universe; I was falling, falling--then arms restored me;--and Grandmother saved me just in time, and put poor delirious brain-sick little God back into bed. I was in bed for many weeks; it was three or four months before I went back to school. The permanent effect of my illness was an increased nervousness I have never shaken off. To this day, whenever a door opens suddenly without warning, my heart stands still, and try as I may not to see it, the vision of a cruel mocking face comes back. The most immediate effect was that I became a "better" child. My Grandmother's daily gentleness and sacrifice during those long long days, made me resolve to be more like her; and I prayed God fervently to make me so. I saw too, for all Aunt Jael's provocations and harsh treatment, that I had been wrong and wicked. I numbered my sins one by one and repented of each and all. A miracle had been wrought to save me: the finger of the Almighty had sketched in letters of flame the reminder that _HE SAW ME_. He had intervened miraculously and directly, to secure my spiritual state. I determined to be worthy of this signal proof of God's special favour. By a sacrifice not easy to exaggerate I managed to see that Aunt Jael might have been God's "instrument" throughout: perhaps the idea was more possible since now, during my recovery, she treated me far better than at any time before: kept a sharp hold on her tongue, indulged in no recriminations or abuse, and bought me a bottle of barley-sugar. I saw nothing more of that curious mocking smile that had helped to haunt me into delirium. Once or twice I thought she had a guilty look, especially once when Grandmother made some reference to the plum-jar. Was it possible? Never. For if so, _how_? No; it was the Lord's doing. Mrs. Cheese had left. I gathered from Grandmother that there had been a stormy scene, Mrs. Cheese accusing Aunt Jael of directly and deliberately causing my illness, and Aunt Jael ordering Mrs. Cheese out of the house then and there. She refused to go till she had helped my Grandmother to see me through the worst days. In the stead of Mrs. Cheese arose a dim unapostolic succession of fickle and fleeting bondswomen. Most of them were Saints. All of them quarrelled with Aunt Jael. Their average sojourn with us was perhaps ten months, which in those stable and old-fashioned days would equal (say) two weeks in this era of quick-change kitchen-maids and kaleidoscopic cooks. There was Prudence, rightly so-called, for although she skimmed each morning the milk the dairyman had left overnight, she cautiously concealed her jugful of cream in the remotest corner of the least-used scullery cupboard. Aunt Jael, however, was on the watch. She thought the milk woefully thin, and Prudence's explanations still thinner. Then one morning she found the prudent one busy at early dawn, spoon in hand, her little jug half-full; caught in the very act. There were Charlotte, Annie, Miriam, Ethel, May, Jane, Sarah, Bessie, Ann, Mary, the Elizas (two), Kate, Keturah, Deborah, Selina, and Sukie: I am not sure of their strict order of precedence. Nor do I remember their life with us half so well as the manner of their leaving it. The climax came variously. Charlotte told me what I now know to have been dirty stories. Annie told Aunt Jael herself a very dirty story indeed--precisely what she thought of her (Aunt Jael); Miriam spat in her (Aunt Jael's) porridge, Kate when attacked with a shovel hit back with a floury rolling-pin, Bessie stole a shilling, Ann (Anglican) giggled during prayers, Jane--or may be this was Sarah--brought unsaved "followers" into the house, Selina did no work; one of the Elizas swore and the other was a Baptist. May and Keturah were fetched away by indignant parents. Deborah disappeared. One only died a natural death--Mary, my namesake, who left us to get married. CHAPTER VIII: SATAN COMES TO TAWBOROUGH "Yes," said Miss Glory shaking her head gravely one Tuesday afternoon. "I fear 'tis true. Satan hisself is coming to this town." "Oh," said Aunt Jael, "I should have thought he was here already." "The ole Devil hisself," continued Glory, staring far into space and ignoring Aunt Jael. "Now what do you think you mean?" snapped my Great-Aunt. "She means the ole Devil hisself, which is what she said," interposed Salvation, hoping to raise ill feeling. "Peace, sister! All I means is this 'ere. God A'mighty meant us to travel on our two legs or by the four legs of four-footed beasts. 'Tis only the Devil as can want to go any other way. We know 'ausses, an' donkeys, and mules too for the matter o' that, but when it comes to carriages and truck loads o' folk being pulled along as quick as a flash of lightning by an ole artifishul animal belchin' up steam and fire, like the n'orrible pit it is, 'tis some'at a thought too queer for an ole Christian woman like myself and for God A'mighty too I should think. No wonder there are orwis actsodents--act o' God, _I_ calls 'un. I've heard tell of these 'ere railway trains in vorrin parts, but I never did think we should see 'un in North Devun. But 'tis true I fear; Salvation went across the bridge to see with 'er own two eyes, and saw a pair o' lines as the wicked thing runs along on, and bills and notices all braggin' about it. There didn't used to be no sich things, and there didn't ought to be now; 'tis all the Devil's works and there'll be a judgment on them as 'elps 'em, a swift an' n'orrible judgment, you mark my words." "Stuff and nonsense!" cried my Aunt. "'Ee may both like to know that I sold that field o' mine, down beyond the meadow, to this railway company. There! Got a middling good price for it too, as all the Meeting will soon learn from yer two wagging tongues. Judgment indeed! Poor ignorant old fool. 'Tis a sensible invention, and the Lord permits it. Be you daft? 'Ee just show me a scripture that's against railway trains!" "An' 'ee just show me one that's _for_ 'un!" cried Salvation. "I'm sorry, Jael," said Glory, ignoring her sister as always, "but I assure 'ee I didn't know when I spake they solemn words. 'Tis a very seldom thing for me to speak out, but I feels deep. Even if 'tissen the spirit of Satan that's moving in these 'ere railway trains, what's the _good_ of 'un anyway? Will the worrld be any happier, will there be a single sinner the more as repenteth? Will there be less poor folk in the worrld and less souls going to 'Ell? You wake up in a hundred years and see if these 'ere railway trains 'ave brought the kingdom 'o God on earth! There's no two ways about it, the worrld is getting wickeder, and these new invenshuns a sign. Things bain't what they used to be, and they'm gettin' worse." "That field, Sister Jael," added Salvation, with gleaming teeth, "that field you sold was a field of blood. Alcedama! There'll be a judgment, a n'orrible judgment, you mark my words." * * * * * * * A few weeks later Aunt Jael heaped coals of fire by asking the Sisters to accompany us to the official ceremony of the Devil's arrival in Tawborough. All, I suppose, who had sold land to the Company were invited to this function. Aunt Jael had a white ticket giving right of admission to the uncovered platform at which the Devil would draw up--"the Company's railway station" as the ticket grandly called it. It was a preliminary trip from Crediton to Tawborough, before the general opening for traffic: a kind of dress rehearsal. The day, July 12th, 1854, stands clear in my memory. It was the chief purely secular event of my childhood, the only time before I was a grown woman that I went to any assembling together of people other than the Lord's. I marvelled to see how numerous they were, and I remember the dim suspicion that haunted me throughout the day, and never completely left me afterwards, that perhaps, despite Brother Brawn, not quite _all_ of them were being 'urld to 'Ell. They did not seem aware of it, and the moments when I did not doubt their fate were filled with pity. The day was to be treated as a holiday. Glory was persuaded by Aunt Jael to announce that there would be no school. I was up betimes, wakened by the bells of the parish church, which rang a merry peal, and by the firing of guns. It was one of those fresh glorious summer mornings which promise delight, and do not leave the memory. Soon after breakfast the Clinkers arrived in a carriage. Glory with brand new bacon-rind strings to her bonnet, Salvation ominously cheerful, confident of some awful disaster. Grandmother, Aunt Jael and I were ready waiting, and the five of us drove to the scene of action. I felt elated and important, perched up on the box, as we drove slowly along streets thronged with crowds in their Sunday best. Every one appeared in high spirits; I conjectured that those who shared Miss Glory's gloomy views must all have stayed at home. The crowds became denser as we approached the railway station, a kind of long wooden platform with a high covering. It looked like a very odd top-heavy sort of shed. A few feet below the platform and close beside it ran two parallel metal lines on which the Thing would arrive. A high triumphal arch covered with green-stuff and laurel leaves and bedecked with flags, the first I had ever seen, English, French and Turkish ("Our Allies": There was a war, said some one), spanned the line. The platform was crowded with people, and very gay and worldly they looked. Our little company of Saints tried to cling together, and I held tight to my Grandmother's hand, but the crowd was too close all round for us to look as separate as we tried to feel. Quite near was a body of gentlemen dressed in ermine and rich surprising costumes and furs and wigs and cocked hats, and holding mysterious gold and silver weapons. Some, said my Grandmother, were the Mayor and Corporation, others were Oddfellows and Freemasons. I had not the least idea what these words might mean, and was too busy staring to ask which were which. My heart was filled with envy of those portly gentlemen and their gorgeous robes; a hankering envy as real as any sentiment I have ever felt. As the time of arrival drew near the excitement and jostling on the platform increased. One lady fainted; "A jidgment," commented Miss Salvation. I overheard some saying the train would never arrive, others that It would be hours or even days late; others again that It would arrive to time and confound all doubters. Excitement rose to a pitch of frenzy when two galloping horsemen drew up at the platform and announced that within five minutes It would be here. Only half of It however would arrive, as the back portion had somehow got detached and left behind at Umberleigh: "The Devil losing his tail," said Miss Salvation. When about two minutes later a tall gentleman near us shouted excitedly that he sighted It afar off, there was such a tiptoeing and straining and squashing and peering that I could have cried with vexation at being so small. My Grandmother lifted me for a moment, and I had a perfect view of the monstrous beast as it drew near. The first carriage was belching fire and smoke from a funnel--just as Glory had said--and the carriages behind it, brown scaly looking things, were like the links in a hell-dragon's tail. The fear seized me for a swift moment that perhaps after all she was right. Then the people broke into deafening cheers and hurrahs, and waved handkerchiefs and funny little flags. Aunt Jael and Grandmother stood impassive, but excited a little in spite of themselves. Glory and Salvation set their mouths, and determined to hold out. As the great engine puffed past us I was trembling with excitement. It was the purest magic. When the Thing stopped we were about in the middle of its length, opposite the second carriage, or link of the tail. We were all pressed back to make room for the great people who were emerging. The majority were gentlemen, a few grandly and mysteriously dressed like ours, more Corporations and Oddfellows and Freemasons I supposed, but most of them, including some very angry-looking gentlemen, whispered to be His Worship the Mayor of Exeter and the Aldermen of that ancient city, in plain clothes. Alas, all their toggery had been left behind in the back half of the train which had been shed at Umberleigh. A very stylish gentleman dressed in black came forward in front of everybody else: Chairman of the Company, I heard whispered--whatever that might mean. He shook hands with several of our dressed-up gentlemen, and then one of the latter, a fat man with a wig and white curls, read to the stylish gentleman from a long roll of paper a very long and very dry speech congratulating him on bringing the railway train to Tawborough and describing his person in very flattering terms. The stylish gentleman made a speech (without roll of paper) in response; it was much shorter, but about as dry. Then some of the dressed-up members of our side came forward in a body and poured out corn and oil and wine, very solemnly. When the wine had been spilled, a solemn man dressed like a high priest (the Provincial Grand Chaplain of the Order of Freemasons, I discover forty years later from the files of a local paper) lifted up his hands and prayed over the Oblation. So people who were not Saints prayed! The next thing I remember was our dressed-up people and the visitors moving off the platform to form themselves into a procession to march round the town, and all the rest of us repairing to witness it. In the stampede that ensued Aunt Jael tripped over a beam that was lying on the platform, and went flying. "A jidgment," began Salvation, triumphant at last; when she tripped on the beam and went flying too--which _was_ a "jidgment." We were only just in time to get a good view of the procession, as it took Aunt Jael and Miss Salvation some time to limp along. All the Mayors and Oddfellows and Corporations and Freemasons were there, carrying symbols and rods and devices; there were soldiers, Mounted Rifles and officers gay with swords; shipwrights in white trousers, and clergymen in black; uninteresting looking people in ordinary clothes who had no more right to be there, I thought, than I had; and at least four bands of music. The glamour of martial music and brilliant costumes raised me to a pitch of ecstasy and envy; from that moment blare and pomp filled a great place in my hankerings and hopes. After the procession we took a walk round the streets, which were crowded with people from all North Devon. There were flags at nearly every window. A great triumphal arch was erected in the middle of the bridge inscribed "Success to the North Devon Railway." The High Street was one series of festoons, from upper storey windows of one side to upper storey windows of the other. One said "God Save the Queen," another "Prosperity to our Town," and another which puzzled me a good deal, hanging from the windows of what I now know to have been the local newspaper office, declared in huge red bunting capitals THE PRESS, THE RAILROAD OF CIVILIZATION. We got home to dinner tired and excited. Glory and Salvation left to attend a Tea in the North Walk given by the tradespeople to six hundred poor people, amongst whom the Clinkers had hastened to number themselves. "It may be the Lord's way after all," said Miss Glory. "God moves in a mysterious way." Aunt Jael and Grandmother had been asked to take tickets (not gratis) to a great banquet in the Corn Market, but whether for economy's or godliness' sake, decided not to go. I gather from the old local paper before me that they did not miss much; for despite the giant "railway cake," a wonderful affair covered with viaducts and trains and bridges all made of icing sugar, and despite the vicar who ably "performed the devotions of the table," the dinner is candidly described as "poor" and the caterer roundly trounced for her failure. Soon the railway passed into the realm of ordinary accepted things. The Meeting was at first a little exercised about its attitude. A few, including Brother Brawn, agreed with Glory and Salvation that it was the Devil's works. The majority, including my Grandmother, took the pious and common-sense view that since the Lord permitted the thing it must be His Will, and prayed that he would bless and sanctify it to His own use and glory. CHAPTER IX: AND SO DOES UNCLE SIMEON August the First, 1855, was the seventieth birthday of Aunt Jael. Moreover, as the Old Maids of Tawborough were seven, six other ladies completed their seventieth year on this self-same day, to wit: Miss Sarah Tombstone, Miss Keturah Crabb, Miss Lucy Clarke, Miss Fanny Baker, with the Misses Glory and Salvation Clinker. When Aunt Jael decided on the astonishing plan of a great dinner party to celebrate the day, by the very nature of things the Other Six figured at the head of her list of prospective guests. Who else should be invited? This question was lengthily discussed with Grandmother, discussed of course in Aunt Jael's way; i. e. she decreed, Grandmother agreed. The party was to be a representative one, with a worldly element and a spiritual element, a rich element and a poor element, a this-world element and a next-world element. There were four main divisions: first, the Other Six; second The Saints (selected); third, old friends; and fourth--a grudging fourth--relations. Of the Saints, Aunt Jael invited Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge, the Lord's instrument for her own spiritual regeneration forty years before; Brother Brawn and Brother and Mrs. Quappleworthy; and Brother Quick, he who had once proposed to young Jael Vickary, then the Belle of Tawborough--though Grandmother always averred that his shot at Aunt Jael was at best a ricochet. After much discussion and more prayer, the Lord guided Aunt Jael's mind to but one solitary Old Friend; a Mr. Royle, churchwarden at the Parish Church, the only friend dating from Jael Vickary's young unsaved days with whom she had kept up, if indeed decorous chats in the market when they chanced to meet might be so considered; for he never came to the house. Relations were a simpler problem. There were no close ones except the elder brother of my Great-Aunt and Grandmother, my unknown Uncle John, who was too rheumaticky to travel down from London even if Aunt Jael had had a mind to invite him or he to accept her invitation; and my mother's sister and Grandmother's only surviving child, Aunt Martha of Torribridge, with her husband, Uncle Simeon Greeber, whom I had never seen; there was some feud between Aunt Jael and Uncle Simeon, dating from before I can remember, sufficiently formidable to prevent his crossing our threshold for many years, although he lived but eight miles away. Aunt Martha, however, paid us fairly frequent visits. She was a pale thin, indeterminate-looking woman, who impressed me so little that I was often unable to conjure up her face in my imagination; a vague, tired face, in which Grandmother's gentleness had run to feebleness. When her husband was unpleasant with her, which according to Aunt Jael was pretty often, she submitted feebly; when Aunt Jael spent the whole of one of her afternoon visits to Bear Lawn abusing her, she listened feebly. For this one occasion, however, Aunt Jael decided to sacrifice her dislikes to that ancient law by which the family must be represented at all major festivals and feeds. For some time, too, Aunt Martha had been insisting, with all the feebleness of which she was capable, on Mr. Greeber's longing for a reconciliation with his revered aunt by marriage. So he too was invited. The only other askable relative was a niece-in-law of my Grandmother's, the daughter of old Captain Lee's only sister, now a fat widow of forty-five, Mrs. Paradine Pratt. She lived over at Croyde, on three hundred pounds a year of her own; was a Congregationalist, and fond of cats. The final list thus comprised: Old Maids of Tawborough (including the hostess), seven; Saints, five; Old Friend, one; Relations, three. Total with Grandmother and myself, eighteen. Never before had such a multitude assembled within our doors. The problems of space and food were next envisaged. The sacred front-room was to be thrown open; there the guests would be entertained before and after the meal. Dinner would of course be served in the back-parlour; by putting the two spare leaves into the table and tacking a smaller table on at one end, Aunt Jael calculated that there would be adequate eating-space and breathing-space for all. "'Twill be a tight fit though. You, child, will have your meal in the kitchen." "Then so will I," said my Grandmother. Aunt Jael was taken aback. She was silent for a moment, casting about for another unreasonable suggestion with which Grandmother would have to disagree; the old trick by which she always strove to pretend that the guilt of cantankerousness was my Grandmother's. "Glory, of course, will be in her usual stool in the corner." "Now, sister, don't be foolish--" "There you go! Disagreeing with everything I say. Whose party is it, mine or yours?..." Miriam--Miriam who used the Great One's porridge plate as spittoon--was our cook at the time. Sister Briggs, humble little Brother Briggs' humbler little wife, was called in for the day itself as extra hand. "Proud to do it, I know," said Aunt Jael, "and glad of the meal she'll get and the pickings she'll carry away." Aunt Jael held with no nonsense of class-equality, no "all women-are-equal" twaddle. Spiritually the Briggses ranked far above unsaved emperors, or kings who broke not bread. Spiritually, but not socially. So while Brother Brawn and Sister Quappleworthy were summoned to the seats of the mighty in the parlour, Sister Briggs, their co-heiress in salvation, came to the scullery to wash-up at the price of her dinner, a silver shilling and pickings. Vast preparations went forward: a record Friday's marketing, a record scrubbing and cleaning, a record bustle and fuss. The great day dawned. Both armchairs had been removed from the back-parlour to the front-parlour to increase the table-space in one and the sitting accommodation in the other. In her familiar chair, therefore, though in an unfamiliar setting, my Great-Aunt sat enthroned: robed in her best black silk, crowned with a splendid cap all of white lace and blue velvet ribbon that I had not seen before, and armed with that stout sceptre I had seen (and felt) from my youth up. The first arrivals were Aunt Martha and her husband. They came over early from Torribridge, and had arranged to spend the whole day and stay the night with us. I was curious to see Mr. Greeber, as I had never seen an uncle before. Aunt Jael's dislike of him whetted my curiosity, and also of course prejudiced me in his favour. Any such preconceived sympathy fled from me the moment I set eyes on him. Can I have foreseen, half-consciously, that this was the creature to be responsible for the wretchedest moments and the worst emotions of my life? Anyhow, I remember with photographic accuracy every look, every gesture, as he minced through the doorway behind Aunt Martha, springing softly up and down on the ball of the toe, moving quite noiselessly. He was a thin little man, narrow shouldered, small-made in every limb. His face was pallid, without a trace of blood showing in the cheeks. He had a mass of curious honey-coloured hair, that you would have thought picturesque, if it had crowned the head of a pretty woman or a lovely boy. Of the same hue was his pointed little beard. His mouth I did not specially notice till he began speaking, when he moistened his lips with his tongue between every few words and showed how pale and thin and absolutely bloodless they were. His eyes changed a good deal. For a moment, as when they rested on mine and read there my instant dislike, they answered with a moment's stare of hard cruelty, such as blue eyes alone can give; most of the time they rolled shiftily about, chiefly heavenward. His gestures were exaggerated; he bent his head forward, poked it absurdly to one side, and gave a sickly smile--intended to be winning--whenever he spoke. With his soft overdone politeness, his pointed little beard, his gestures, he looked like the traditional Frenchman of caricature; except for his eyes, which whether for the moment cruel or pious, had nothing in common with that amiable creature. He was unhealthy and unpleasant in some undefined way new to my experience. Aunt Jael had a sound judgment after all. He advanced to greet her, oozingly. "Good day, good day, dear Miss Vickary. One rejoices that the Lord has watched over you these three-score years and ten; one is thankful, thankful indeed. M'yes. Your kindness, too, in extending one your invitation--believe me, one will not readily forget it! And you too, dear Mrs. Lee, one is pleased to see you, to be sure. So this is the little one! One is well pleased to meet one's little niece." He chucked me under the chin, saw the expression in my eyes, and never tried the playful experiment again. It was hate at first sight, and he knew it. Aunt Jael's voice sounded gruff--and honest--enough after the unctuous flow. "Well, good day to 'ee, Simeon Greeber, and make yourself welcome." (Meaning: "You know I dislike you and always shall. Still, now that for once in a way you are in my house, I shall try to put up with you.") A slight pause, while his eyes wandered piously round the room, encountering everywhere spears, clubs, tomahawks, idols, charms. "What interesting objects! Trophies of the Gospel, one may surmise! Why, surely not, surely not, can that great heathen image in the corner be the same, the selfsame one, as was brought back by one's dear late cousin, Immanuel Greeber, Immanuel Greeber of Tiverton, one's well-loved cousin Immanuel?" Benamuckee stared impassively. "Yes," said Aunt Jael. "It is the same." "Ah, what a symbol of folly, what a sign of darkness! The field of foreign labour is, of course, your own special interest in the Lord's work, both yours and dear Mrs. Lee's, is it not? That is _well_ known." "Yes," replied my Grandmother, "as you know, the child here is dedicated to the Lord's work among the heathen." I puffed inwardly. "What an honour, ah, what an honour! For oneself, one confesses, the home field comes nearest to one's heart; to one's earnest, if humble endeavours. M'yes. There is sad darkness far away, in the heathen continents and pagan isles, one knows, one knows: but here in England among one's nominal Christians, there is, alas, greater darkness still. Ah, these half-believers, these almost-persuaded Christians!--Once one was one oneself. So one knows. One was a Baptist, as you know, dear Sisters; one hardened one's heart against the ministrations of the Saints. Then one blessed day, the scales fell from one's eyes--one saw the error of one's ways--and one joined the one true flock." I disliked him curiously as he murmured and whispered away in a soft treacly flow punctuated only by sticky lip-moistenings and heavenward sniffs; this miracle-man who never ever used the best beloved pronoun of all the human race. His utterance was cut short by new arrivals. Grandmother received them in the hall, saw to the hat and coat doffing, and ushered them into the throne-room. I noted the slight variations in my Great-Aunt's manner as she motioned the different guests to chairs and accepted their congratulations and good wishes. With Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge she was regal. "Thank 'ee, we are old friends, you and I. Yes, thanks be to the Lord. I'm well enough. And you? How are 'ee?" "I am burdened this morning," he said, with that kingly glance all round him to see that all his subjects were attentive, which we knew to herald some pearl of godly epigram. "Yes, I am burdened this morning." "Burdened?" echoed Aunt Jael. "Burdened?" echoed my Grandmother. "Yes, dear sisters. 'He daily _loadeth_ us with benefits.' Psalm sixty-eight, nineteen." This was the old patriarch's immemorial trick: to make some statement that was certain to provoke query, and then to explain its apparent paradox by swift quotation from the word of God. A later generation might think his method crude, his texts subtly irrelevant; but there is no question that the Saints, including my Grandmother and Great-Aunt, admired the godly wit and treasured all the texts. So when "the pilgrim patriarch of Tawborough" came up to me in the corner from which I was staring at him, I felt a high sense of pleasure and importance. "Well, well, and how is this little sapling in the Lord's vineyard?" Paternally, pontifically, he patted my head. "Well enough, thank 'ee," replied my Grandmother for me, "but not always a good little handmaiden for Him. She likes better to waste her time sitting and doing nothing than mending her socks or studying the Word. She could testify by a happier frame of mind and busier fingers in the house and by speaking more freely of the things of the Lord. Would you not urge her, Brother, even at this tender age to do _something_ for the Master?" "No, I would not." Query invited, epigram looming ahead. "Then what would you do?" asked my Grandmother. "I would recommend her to do '_all things_' for the Master. Titus, two, nine." Mr. Royle stumped in, a fat short old man, with a cheerful unsaintly countenance and a general air of wealth and prosperity that I could put down to nothing definite except a heavy gold watch chain which spanned the upper slopes of his enormous stomach. His only rival in this particular quarter of the body was Mrs. Paradine Pratt. These two alone, who wandered wearily outside the fold in the darkness of Congregationalism and the Church of England, had contrived to put on plenteous flesh. Was there some subtle hostility, I recollect asking myself, between corpulence and conversion? The before-dinner conversation was preoccupied and scanty. Brother Quappleworthy came alone, as Sister Quappleworthy was "not--ah--too well." The company repaired to the dining-room. Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge pronounced the Blessing, and we all sat down to do justice to that mighty meal. How odd this great assembly seemed in our austere room, now for once looking reasonably well filled; I could see that the experience was as odd to most of the guests as it was to me. Great feasts were not within the ordered course of their spare and godly lives. There was a certain constraint around the table, quite unmistakable, marked by loud and sudden silences. This is how we sat: Aunt Jael +---------+ Pentecost Dodderidge| |Mr. Royle Lucy Clarke | |Fanny Baker Brother Quick | |Brother Quappleworthy Aunt Martha | |Keturah Crabb Uncle Simeon | |Brother Brawn Salvation | |Sarah Tombstone Glory | |Mrs. Paradine Pratt +---------+ Grandmother Mary (Note that the masculine element was stronger, both in quality and quantity, at Aunt Jael's end of the table than at ours. I was put on the music stool, by my Grandmother's side at the doorway end of the table, flanked by Glory on the left. Salvation had pleaded for a place by dear beloved Brother Brawn; Aunt Jael condescended so far as to place them nearly opposite each other, but Brother Brawn was too nervous of his exposed right flank to allow his utterances to be a feast of good things. He could not forget the piece Miss Crabb had--long ago--bitten out of his beard.) It was a royal spread. In the old West Country fashion, of course--no new-fangled foreign nonsense or London messes. First appeared a great roast goose, a very queen of geese, turning the scale at fifteen pounds if an ounce. Her entourage included green peas, a vegetable marrow with white sauce, gravy, and an onion stuffing beyond the power of my poor pen to praise. Aunt Jael carved the monster, apportioning of course the choicest tit-bits to herself, the next choicest to Mr. Royle and Pentecost Dodderidge, the next choicest to Brother Quappleworthy, and so on; the quality of your portion varying with your position in Aunt Jael's esteem. Thus I had a rather gristly piece of leg, and Miss Salvation some scraggy side-issues with that part more politely imagined in the mind's eye than mentioned on paper. The second course was a great squab pie, made on Aunt Jael's own recipe: slices of apple and second-cooked mutton alternately, six layers deep, a sprinkling of shredded onion, with plenty of salt and Demerara sugar, pepper and cloves, a covering of delicious pie-crust. The third meat course (cold) comprised a fine ham and one of Mrs. Cheese's special beef and ham rolls covered with bread crumbs and as big as a large polony: with pickled onions (Aunt Jael's) and pickled plums (Grandmother's), to help them down. For Sweets, which honest folk call pudding, you could choose between dear little cherry tartlets, made in our best shell-shaped patty-pans, all crinkled-edged; or stewed raspberries and black currants with junket and Devonshire cream, this fourfold alternative being my choice and (to this day) my own private notion of what they eat in heaven. On, on the banquet rolled: Cheddar cheese, biscuits, nuts, pomegranates, and home-made apple ginger. In contrast with Aunt Jael's closeness and our every-day plain living, this sardanapalan spread was the more sensational. The drinks were sherry, raspberry vinegar and water. My Great-Aunt was in a rarely serene mood, enthroned far away at the head of the table, with white-haired Pentecost on her right hand and bald-headed Mr. Royle on her left. Salvation chewed enjoyingly; the fork method of picking your teeth at table struck me, uninstructed as I was, as somehow unsuitable for an important social gathering. She remarked in a noisy whisper to Glory that it was just as well we'd begun at last as she was feeling "turrible leer."[1] Mrs. Paradine panted as she ate; her damp and diminutive handkerchief was applied incessantly, often only just in time to prevent a trickling on to her immense bombazine bosom. I spied Uncle Simeon with a higher quality of curiosity. He knew I was watching him. In return he began craftily eyeing me when I was looking elsewhere: I pretended I was unaware of his scrutiny. In this specially feminine habit I was already an adept; and I feel sure I deceived Uncle Simeon, who stared his fill. When, however, I took my turn at staring, and he tried the same pretence, he failed utterly to deceive me, for I could see his eyelids twitch, while the faintest flush came to his pallid cheeks. I cannot pretend to remember much of the conversation, though I could invent it and be near enough the truth. The awkward silences were still apparent. My explanation of it is this: that everybody present (for all but two were Saints) was quite unused to meet together except for godly discoursings. Though it was the creed they believed (and practised) to testify of holy things in season and out of season, yet all dimly felt that today was somehow exceptional, that it was neither necessary nor suitable to preach to each other over roast goose and squab pie Christ and Him crucified. Yet what other topics had they? Hence the uneasy quiet, which the clatter of knives and forks and the orchestration accompanying Miss Glory's curious methods of absorbing nourishment only seemed to heighten. What a slobbering and sipping and a spluttering and a splashing! The liquid mush consisting of tiny morsels of goose-meat (chopped up by Grandmother) and scraps of soft bread mixed with stuffing and sauce and soaked in gravy, which she was now administering to herself with her wooden spoon, offered good scope for her talent; though being of a greater consistency than her usual goat's milk and rusks, it did not allow her to display her supreme effects. Even so, she made herself heard by her far-away hostess. A warning look shot from the table-head:--"Quieter there, or to the corner yer go!" it said. For a moment Glory subsided, but this made the general silence only more obvious and painful. Aunt Jael realized that though good eating is the object of a dinner, good talk is the condition of a successful one. She stooped to conquer, broke the last canon of hostship, and as the great squab pie was placed before her, praised it blatantly. The success was instantaneous. Echoes of praise rang up the table. "Ay indeed!--a fine one that!--you're right, Sister Vickary!"--and what not. Two tributes distinguished themselves, as you might expect. "There's squab pie _and_ squab pie," said Miss Salvation. "This _is_ squab pie," and, last of all, when every one else had tired of eulogy, the still small voice: "One wonders if one ever tasted anything one liked so well." Tongues were at last set wagging. Different recipes were discussed and their respective merits compared. Some thought the mutton should be fresh, others that second-cooked gave the best flavour; some that moist white sugar cooked better than Demerara, others that you should use hardly any sugar at all, as a squab pie wasn't a sweet pie after all, now was it? Some thought it was, however: the idea of cooking apples without sugar, mutton or no mutton! Then the puff-paste issue was raised, and here the gentlemen joined in, as this was a question of taste rather than technique. Gradually the conversation veered to the wider topic of food in general; and before long every one present was exchanging tender confidences in that most intimate form of self-revelation: "one's" favourite things to eat. Even Grandmother joined in. I alone said nothing, being under strictest orders "to be seen and not heard." (I felt the restraint keenly, for I was proud of my own catalogue, viz:--Devonshire cream, whortleberry jam, mussels, tripe and treacle; then pancakes, potato-pie (the browned part), sage stuffing, seed-cake, junket, crab, apple-dumpling, bread-and-butter-pudding, especially the "outside," brawn, cockles, and black-currant jam.) I must have been reflecting on my own pets rather than hearkening to the praise of other people's, for the conversation had changed, and they were discussing "degrees." One of my favourite psalms, the 121st, _I will lift up mine eyes to the hills_, was described in the Bible as "A Song of Degrees," and I had always wondered what they were. "Degrees, degrees? That means puttin' letters after yer name, does it? Wull, then"--Salvation fumbled in her reticule, always a veritable mine of papers, letters, photographs of herself, and other _pièces d'identité_ (as though she lived under the fear of perpetual arrest) and produced triumphantly an addressed envelope--"There now!" It was passed round that all might read this legend: Miss Salvation Clinker, Sinner Saved by Grace, High Street, Tawborough, N. Devon. "What _splendid_ testimony for the postman, zes I, what _splendid_ testimony for the postman!" "But--" Brother Quappleworthy alone dared a "but," for had not he alone among the Saints achieved the honour of putting real letters after your name? He smiled; with maybe a dash of quiet superiority, with just a seasoning of annoyance, just a nice Christian seasoning, mark you, nothing more. "But--is that a _real_ degree, sister?" "Rale degree? 'Course 'tis: S.S.G.--_Sinner Saved by Grace_. None o' yer cheap truck: S.S.G.!" "Yes, yes; but like B.A. for instance, dear sister?" "B.A.? I'm a B.A. too." "_You_ a B.A.?" echoed voices. "Yes: Born Again!" shouting. "Quite so, quite so, please God so are we all. But I am talking of earthly degrees." "Are yer? Wull, I'm a-talking uv 'eavenly ones!" "There's B.B. too," put in little Lucy Clarke, nervously seeking to pour oil on troubled waters, "two B's arter your name, I think it is, tho' mebbe I'm wrong." "Two B's or not two B's!" observed Mr. Royle, and laughed loudly when he found that no one else did. I wondered why. I doubt if any one present saw the point except my Great-Aunt and Grandmother and Brother Quappleworthy. It was many years before I did. "Good, sir, good," said the latter worldlily, "a quotation from the works of Shakespeare, if I mistake not." "Shakespeare!" shrieked Miss Salvation, as though uttering some lewd word, "I'm surprised at 'ee, 'avin' the chick to mention such a sinner's name in a Christian 'ouse; an 'eathen play-actin' sinner, now wallerin' in everlastin' torment for his sins." "How do _you_ know he is?" asked my Grandmother quietly. "And 'ow du 'ee know 'e isn't? A Papis' too." Blessed are the peacemakers, so Lucy Clarke tried again. "I don't think 'tis B.B. at all after all; 'tis D.D., two D's arter your name in a manner o' spaikin'." "Yes, it's D.D.," said Aunt Jael. "All the big preachers in the Establishment print it after their names; not but what their preaching is poor enough. Letters after your name don't put either a tongue into your head or the knowledge of God into your heart. I've no patience with D.D.'s." "None," echoed the table. "Not so," corrected Mr. Pentecost Dodderidge. "It is a great pity there are so few D.D.'s." "Surely not!" exclaimed the table, awaiting pearls. "Yes, we want more _D_own in the _D_ust. Psalm one hundred and nineteen, verse twenty-five. Then we would also have more 'quickened according to Thy Word.'" A pause, forced by the awkward finality of the patriarch's utterance. "Er--let me see," said Mr. Royle to Brother Quappleworthy, "you are an M.A. of the University of Oxford, are you not, sir?" "Yes," was the reply, spoken with just a seasoning of pardonable pride, just a Christian seasoning, mark you, nothing more. "Yes" (confidentially) "as a matter of fact I am. I took my degree, second-class honours, in the classics: 'Greats' as we say--" "Did yer?" interrogated Salvation (for pride is a deadly sin and a weed that must be checked, lest it grow apace). "Wull, _I_ took _my_ degree in summat greater, in God's great Scheme o' Salvation, and _I_ passed with first-class honners, glory be! Unuvursity uv Oxvurrd eh? My schoolin' 'as been in the Unuvursity uv _God_!" * * * * * * * After that I recollect nothing clearly till all the guests, save Uncle Simeon and Aunt Martha, were gone, and late in the evening we sat talking in the unfamiliar idol-haunted dusk of the front parlour. I can feel again as I write the heat of that stuffy August night, and hear Aunt Jael's and Uncle Simeon's voices engaged in the talk that is stamped indelibly on my mind. I recall the scene most intimately when the same external circumstances recur. The heavy-laden atmosphere of a hot August evening, at that still murmurous moment when twilight is yielding to night--the smell, the touch, the impalpable _feel_ of the atmosphere--always brings back to me every phase and pulse of my feelings as I sat listening to the warfare of deep raucous voice and soft honeyed one. The memory of the senses far transcends the memory of the mind. Memory in its most intimate possessions is physical. Though mental too. In this particular instance, quite apart from any physical aid to memory that atmosphere brings, I remember, verbally, almost all that was said. It is odd that while for stretches of whole months I can often fill in but the dimmest background of my early days, at other times I retain the fullest details of a long and intricate conversation, with the gestures of the speakers and the very words they used. The explanation is to be found partly, I think, in the extreme monotony of my life and the uncommonly vivid impression which any break in the monotony always made; so that this record tends to be a stringing-together of the odd and outstanding events rather than an even and continuous narration of my "early life"; for it was a life of landmarks. But the chief explanation of the uncanny degree to which I remember certain particular scenes lies in my nightly "rehearsals." If there had been any scene or words of special interest in the day's round--if I had observed a new phenomenon (such as a Madonna or a gold watch-chain)--if I had heard a new word (like University) or had new light shed on an old one (like Degrees)--if in short the day had yielded any new fact or idea, the same night saw it deliberately stored in my mind; a treasure-house--a lumber-room--which stood open to all comers. Every night, as soon as I was in bed and my Grandmother had blown out the candle and closed the door behind her, I began. I thought my way through the day, from the moment I had risen onwards. Every new notion or notable event, I recalled, re-lived, and received into the fellowship of things I knew, felt and remembered; into myself. I had also weekly, monthly and yearly revisions. This seventieth birthday of Aunt Jael's was a red-letter day. My emotions as I lay awake watching with memory's eye that curious dinner party, with its wealth of new food, new faces, new situations, new sensations and new talk, were of the same order as those of a playgoer who lives over in his mind the pleasures of a new and brilliant drama he has witnessed. New persons and new conversations were my favourite acquisitions; these were in the strict sense dramatic, and they approached most nearly the other habit of my inner life--my visualizings and imaginings--of which indeed they furnished the raw material. I would only memorize conversations from the point at which they began to interest me; hence, even when I remember them best, they begin suddenly, and causelessly. So it was with the conversation on that memorable evening. I fancy Aunt Jael and Uncle Simeon had already been talking for some time--probably on the things of the Lord, which were not new and not dramatic--but I recall nothing until Uncle Simeon was well set in a review of his life; his holy, if humble life. "M'yes, ah yes, the Lord found it good to try one's faith; from the very day on which one saw the error of one's ways, and the scales fell from one's eyes, and one closed with God's gracious offer, from that very day the Lord found it good to extend His hand in chastisement and to visit one with trials and afflictions. One bowed one's head: but it was a sore trial for one's faith, one's earnest, if humble, faith. First one's sister passed away, one's dear sister Rosa. Then came one's business troubles, one's ill health, one's grave illness. Last of all one's dear old father went before--" "Your brother too," interrupted my Great-Aunt. "You don't mention him; and he was the best of the Greebers, from all accounts." "Ah, surely not, surely not?" ignoring the main point of the interruption, "what of Immanuel Greeber, who gave you these glorious trophies of the field of missionary labour, one's well-loved cousin Immanuel?" "There was some mystery about his death," pursued she, ignoring red-herring missionaries. "They never really knew how he died. Immanuel told _me_. He went to lie down in his bed one afternoon, saying he felt sick, and within the hour he was dead." "Ah, yes," sighed Uncle Simeon, passing his hand over his brow in anguish, "one had not spoken of him; one could not; one's love was too tender. Heart-failure, one thought oneself. M'yes." His head m'yessed sadly to and fro. "More like something he'd been eating," suggested my Grandmother. "Too sudden for that," objected Aunt Jael. "No bad food could kill you so sudden. 'Twas something a deal quicker than bad food; more mysterious, folk said." "Poison," said I. I was staggered at the sound of my own voice. All day I had been mute, observing so obediently Aunt Jael's "To be seen and not heard" mandate that she had been almost annoyed. Listening was more remunerative than talking; it yielded the wealth for my lonely talks with myself. I think it was that in my interest in this mysterious death I forgot I was not alone; and so uttered aloud the word "Poison" that leapt absurdly to my mind. The effect on Uncle Simeon's face amazed me. His look of meek head-nodding sorrow gave place to one of such unmistakable _guilt_ that the most monstrous suspicions seized me; nor did they disappear when guilt changed to fear, then fear to hate; still less when hate in its turn gave place to the meek accustomed mask. Mask it was, for I had seen him deliberately twitch the muscles of his face back into position. From that moment, and with no other evidence than a few seconds' change of expression, in which my eyes might have been deceiving me, I believed him a murderer. Grandmother and Aunt Jael saw nothing of this. The first was too short-sighted--the room was nearly dark, and no candle had been lighted--the second was too busy for the moment rating me for breaking laws and talking "outrageous nonsense" to keep her eyes on him. This gave him time to twitch the muscles of his brain and tongue back into position also. "Anyway, whatever the sad cause of his earthly death, one may rejoice that he went to be with the Lord." "Yes, and that he left all his money to you. Leastways there was no will found, and you were next of kin. That helped to console you a little, maybe." "Miss Vickary!" "Yes, more than a little, too. It left you enough to close your shop in Bristol and do nothing ever since." "Nothing, Miss Vickary, nothing? All one's years of hard, if humble, toil in the Lord's vineyard, one's ministrations to the Saints--nothing? And poor Joseph's wealth, it was but a modest sum--" "So modest no one's ever heard. It's mock poverty yours, and you know it." "But one's humble manner of life should show--" "Folk as are mean aren't always poor." "Aunt!" pleaded Martha feebly. "Mean; dear Miss Vickary, may you one day regret that unjust word. Far be it from one to speak of all that one has given to the gospel work in Torribridge, of all that one has lent to the Lord. Yet what are worldly riches? One cares only for the unsearchable riches of Christ. What are the earthly gifts one may have given away? One has given to many a greater gift far. Not only the knowledge of Salvation, but a Christian deed here, a helping hand there--" "Open sepulchre! Helping hand--like when Rachel and Christian lay dying, and you forbade Martha to leave Torribridge even for a few hours to come and help her mother. Let your wife's mother half kill herself, and her brother and sister crawl into their graves before you'd let her move. 'Couldn't spare her' from the side of yer 'dear little son'--ugly little brat, I'm glad you've not brought him here today." Now there was a spice of righteous protest in the meek voice. "Pray what has one's poor little son done to be so spoken of? Or one's dear wife to hear him so spoken of?" Martha was silently wiping her eyes. Aunt Jael, struggling with temper, made no reply. "Or oneself to see one's wife so wounded? One has never forgiven oneself for not realizing till alas too late how near the end dear Rachel and dear Christian were; but at the time one's little baby-boy was ailing, and Martha none too strong. One was selfish, perhaps." "Ay." Temper rising. "One failed in one's duty to dear Mrs. Lee, because of one's jealous care of one's dear child and wife." "Fiddlesticks! I know some of your goings-on. Poor Martha!" "Poor Martha? One fails to understand. _If_ Martha had been treated as poor Rachel's husband treated her; _if_ she had suffered cruelty--adultery--vileness--sin; _if_ one were hounding her to her grave as he hounded poor Rachel; _if_ one had killed her and broken her heart, and then sneered that one could not pay to bury her--" "The brute," cried Aunt Jael, sidetracked. His crude attempt to transfer her rising wrath on to the head of another had succeeded. He knew the quality of the memories he evoked. "The brute; the cruel, fleshly scoundrel!" "Hush, Aunt," whispered Aunt Martha, "after all it is the Child's father." I coloured violently, and my heart beat fast. The unfamiliar phrase "Rachel's husband" had conveyed nothing. Now I was throbbing with excitement, curiosity and shame. "Well, let her know the truth." "O Mother, plead with Aunt not to talk so!" Aunt Martha was trying to stifle the topic on to which her husband had so successfully emptied the vials of Aunt Jael's wrath. He gave her a "you wait till afterwards" glance that told me a good deal, concentrated though I was on this other overshadowing thing. "I don't know," said my Grandmother, "leave your Aunt be. The child will have to know it some day; and 'tis the truth." She sighed. "There you are! If a child has the wickedest beast of a man on earth for her father, the sooner she knows it the better, so that she may mend her ways and turn out a bit different herself. She has more than a spice of his ways about her already. She'd best be told every jot and tittle of the whole story. No one's too young to hear the truth. 'Tis your task though, Hannah. You tell her, if you think fit. But not tonight, it's past the child's bed-time. Be off now! To bed!" I undressed feverishly, that I might be the sooner in bed to go through all I had heard. I recited hymns rapidly to myself so that I should not think at all till I could do so properly and at peace. Grandmother came in for her nightly prayer. "Grandmother, is it true? My father. Who is he? What did he do? Tell me, is it true?" "Yes, my dear." "Did he do--all those wicked things?" "Yes, my dear." "Will you tell me everything?" "Yes, my dear, if the Lord so wills. Let us approach the throne of grace and discover His good pleasure." Down on my knees by her side I watched her as she asked the Almighty whether He willed that the story of my father and mother should be told me. Grandmother was always fair. She did not try to influence the Lord's decision, as Aunt Jael might have done, by giving undue weight in her supplications to the arguments either for or against. "Dost Thou will that at this tender age she should learn of these sorrows, that they may be sanctified to her for Thy name's sake; or dost Thou ordain that I should wait yet awhile before I speak?" We waited the Answer. I knew it would be "Yes," I knew it with the sudden instinct that so often served me. Prayer and intuition were indeed sharply commingled in my mind. One was your speaking to God, the other God speaking to you. God is swifter; instinct is swifter than prayer; answer than question. "Tell the child now? So be it, Lord; since such is the answer that Thou hast vouchsafed." Then she prayed that the story might be richly blessed to me, and that he whom it chiefly concerned might be given, despite all, contrite heart and true forgiveness. When she left me to myself and darkness, I was repeating to myself the stinging words I had heard. Cruelty, adultery, vileness, sin--the fleshly scoundrel--he had hounded my mother to her grave, broken her heart--killed her. _He my father._ I had a father then. It is proof of the gaps in my many-sided visualizings day after day and night after night that I had never thought of this, never even wondered whether I had a father or not. I did not know how to wait till the morrow. Perhaps they were talking about it downstairs; I jumped out of bed, crept halfway down the stairs, and listened. The front-room door was shut, and though I soon heard that a duologue between Aunt Jael and Uncle Simeon was in progress, I could make out only a few words here and there. My imagination constructed a conversation connected with myself, and somehow too at the same time with Torribridge and Aunt Martha and studies. I did not think much of it at the time, as my ears were hungry for "father" and "mother" only--"Rachel" and "Rachel's husband." I went back to bed. Early next day Uncle Simeon and Aunt Martha returned to Torribridge. FOOTNOTE: [1] Empty. CHAPTER X: OLD LETTERS Next day after dinner, when Aunt Jael had settled down for her doze, Grandmother called me upstairs to her bedroom, pulled out an old brown tin box from under the bed, unlocked it, and drew forth a large brown paper packet. We sat down, and she told me my mother's story. "Your father belonged to a different class from us, my dear, quite to the gentlefolk of the county. Your mother met him at his cousin's, Lord Tawborough's, when she was governess there. "This Lord Tawborough died a few years ago. The boy who now bears that name is a lad of maybe seventeen or eighteen, who I expect knows nothing about it at all, although he was very fond of your mother when she taught him as a little boy." "Shall I ever see him?" "No, my dear, no. You are in a different walk of life. Young squires don't come to visit us. Not that his father ever had any false pride; I know he was always very kind to me. He came to Rachel's funeral, and never had his cousin--your father, that is--inside his house after the trouble. He wanted to help us too in educating you, but I said No. I would not touch money belonging in any way to _him_, though I've forgiven him long ago, as I trust the Lord has. He thought I was too independent, but maybe he understood all the same. I've heard that the young boy is as good-hearted as his father. He lives at the family house over near Torribridge; he's just going up to Oxford, I believe, like his father, or maybe 'tis Cambridge--" "What is Oxford-and-Cambridge? Brother Quappleworthy was there." "They're two big colleges, or universities as they call them, where the gentlefolk go. Anyway, his father was always kind to us and ashamed of his cousin. He said to me when he called to see us after your dear mother's death that he felt guilty because Rachel met her husband in his house. However, there 'tis, they were married. I never took to him and your Aunt Jael could never abide the sight of him. 'Twas a cruel time. I can't tell you all now, my dearie, though one day you may know. But I'm going to read you some of the letters she wrote. Here they all are, I've not had the heart to touch this package since they were tied up ten years ago. She wasn't happy from the start, though she wrote brave letters home. We first got to know how it was with her through your great-uncle, her uncle John. She'd stayed once or twice with him in London, as a little girl, and he loved her dearly. We have never seen much of him since he first went away over fifty years ago. He and Jael don't get on together; he's an invalid too, and not able to take a journey. After your dear mother died he let me see all her letters to him, and I copied them out. Here is one of the first, written just three or four months after she was married, the 'long letter' I call it:" THE WHITE HOUSE. TORQUAY, August 14th, 1845. Dear Uncle John,-- Thank you for you kind letter of sympathy. Yes, I am an unhappy woman, and unhappy for life. Perhaps it will simplify matters for me to say that he is in a very precarious mental condition. The doctor tells me he has every symptom of softening of the brain. Though the disease may not culminate for several years. He says my one object must be to keep him quiet and not oppose or excite him in any way, as that would always tend to hasten the climax, and would make things very trying for myself, especially just now; for I must tell you that something will be happening to me, about next February I think. Last week he had a dreadful turn, and said the most cruel things, shouting and sneering at me like one demented. I went off then to the doctor, really thinking myself he was there and then going or gone out of his mind. He told me what I have said, and through all subsequent improvement adheres to the same opinion; he is very kind and sympathizing to me, calls it, "a painful and extraordinary case," and tells me not to be upset when he gets into this state with me--that it is an almost invariable symptom of the disease for the patient to set upon his wife and bring against her outrageous accusations of every sort, that I must not contradict him in whatever he says, but rather "assume contrition for faults you have not committed, regarding him as an invalid that cannot be dealt with by ordinary rules." I must tell you that I have begun to doubt all this, I don't mean the doctor but my husband. He has a nervous weakness, it is true, but exaggerates this when he goes to see the doctor by getting himself into a state, then the doctor says he has softening of the brain and that will excuse all his ill-treatment to me. That is not all, the two youths, Maurice and Trevor who are living in the house and whom he calls his "cousins," are really _his illegitimate sons_, he told me so outright and mocked at me when I blushed. They swear and shout at me, and he encourages them. With all this he is the leader at the Room, the meeting of the Close Brethren we go to. The Saints don't seem to like him very much. I think they know something of his goings on. My dear uncle, I charge you not to speak of all this; I should not on _any_ account like mother to know it, it could do no good for her to worry. He may keep like this for years, or perhaps I might be taken away to the Lord first. I was glad of your loving letter; had begun to think there must be one awaiting me (from the style of your previous one) before yesterday morning confirmed it. They raise objection however at the Post Office, saying it is against the rules for residents to have them left there, so I suppose you must address to me here. Philip seems never to expect me to show him my letters. I did one a few weeks ago, in which there was some business message or statement. So you will always be safe in writing direct. It is one of his peculiarities that though he has often thrown at me my depth, "keeping matters to myself," "telling him nothing," etc. etc., yet from the very first he declined to see my letters. I used even to press him to do so but he replied one day, "I take no interest in letters from people I don't know, still less from common people" (among whom my relations are included). Then if I tried reading him any specially interesting extracts he would say it wearied him or would assure me I had read or told him all that before. Since he said one day, "Dear me, what shopkeeper's talk!" I have quite given up intruding my correspondence on him. At rock bottom it is a sort of jealousy. Some husbands seem to have the idea that their wives should throw to the winds all old ties and relationships. As to my going home now; it is utterly out of the question. All other objections apart, I could not now take the journey. Then as to having Mother here, as things are (even if he would allow it), the worry of it would do me more harm than her presence could do me good. There might be an actual outbreak on his part, and Maurice and Trevor would give her an experience such as I would spare her at all costs. What could she do for me? Later on, I should have a nurse and of course a doctor, the kind one I spoke of, the one Philip consults. You rather mistake me as to the possible _end_ these matters may bring. I don't mean that I should be more likely to die from what has been taking place, simply that from natural causes it is a thing that has to be faced at such a time. Many women _do_, who have all the love and devotion they can require, and I have all along felt (not forebodingly or morbidly, but as a matter of fact) that such an event might be of more than ordinary risk in my case. I am not very strong, and always lacking in power of endurance, and then I am so wretchedly unhappy and lonely. All my trouble and despondency will lessen the natural clinging to life and give me instead a longing to be at rest beyond it all, as far as self only is concerned. But on the other hand if the baby lives, that will be sufficient counteractive against my giving-away tendency. I shall feel more than a mother in ordinary case could do that I _must_ try to live for its sake. Any other issue I am content to leave in God's hands but cannot face the thought of leaving the child behind me--_with him_. So if I should be taken, don't trouble yourself with the thought that my end has been hastened by these things that ought not to have been. For the Lord, I believe, has taken special care of me and given me more health of body than I could under ordinary circumstances have expected, to meet the extra strain laid on mind and spirit. So we may trust surely by what has gone before that He will uphold me all through with special health and strength. "He setteth His rough wind in the day of His east wind" has been constantly before me of late. I shall not leave my husband as long as it can anyhow be avoided. Death is to me a far more welcome thought to face than being a trouble or a burden for my friends. There are troubles in which sympathy makes all the difference, but between husband and wife it is different, and the quieter one can keep things the better. Uncle, dear, don't you see that the sting and real heart-bitterness a woman must feel at wrong and unkindness from the one from whom she has expected only love and protection, can never be healed or soothed by proclaiming it to the world at large or by leaving him? It may be pride or self-respect that makes me shrink from the thought of such a thing, but have no scruples as to your responsibility in keeping it quiet, since I told you I have no _bodily_ fear of him, and he knows it. Suppose you tell mother or any one else, if they share your view they can but repeat the same arguments, and if repeated twenty times my feelings and instincts remain the same. Say nothing, uncle, for my sake if not for his--for mother's too. It is true if I came away he could not rail at me but still that is only the outward expression of what is within and which distance would not alter, and with the baby it will be easier to bear. I shall have something to live for and comfort myself with, and considering his condition I cannot see that it would be _right_ to leave him unless I am in danger of my life. It is a wife's duty to endure. I have thought of speaking to Mr. Frean, a leading Brother at the meetings and a very kind man. I think a fear of exposure in this quarter would have more weight with him. While he can afford to set at nought the opinions of my friends and relatives at a safe distance, he clings very tenaciously to his religious position. I should have sympathy there. I think they know I have something to put up with and they show me great kindness and would show more if I availed myself of it. Philip remarked one day it was strange that "his wife should be popular at the Room while _he_ never had been!" On one point your anxiety is needless. I have what I wish for in the shape of nourishment. Was never a large or extravagant eater, but what I want I have. Was reflecting only a day or two ago that this is the _one_ point on which he uniformly shows me consideration. In fact, I think he does this on purpose to salve his conscience, and to have something to throw back at me. Once when I said "Oh, Philip, don't be so unkind to me," he replied, "Unkind? Damn you, I don't see what you have to complain of, you're living on the fat of the land, better than with your shopkeeper friends." Sometimes, you know, I believe he imagines he loves me; perhaps he does as much as he would any wife, but I have told him he does not know what love is. Love! The only thing which sometimes nearly drives me to the breaking point is this; he praises my amiability, meekness, wifeliness, obedience, and says "you are different from most women who are always either nagging and answering back or gloomy and sulky." I am "so much better than he ever expected." When he talks like that I feel stirred up to say some pretty plain things to him, and clear my mind at all costs, but then if I do I might excite him and bring on a fit of apoplexy or paralysis as the doctor said. If I say the least little word he holds this over my head. I wonder now, after only a few short months, why I ever married him. I have spoilt my whole life. Two years ago, I was a happy young woman; and now-- Don't write to him, don't threaten him, and don't come near here, it can do no good. Good-bye, Uncle dear. Your ever loving RACHEL. My Grandmother paused. I know what I thought--I can live my feelings again at this moment, forty years later. "At the time," said my Grandmother, "Rachel said very little to me. I knew it was difficult, but not as unhappy as it was. In the March of the next year a baby boy was born. You're not old enough, my dear, to know what it is to be a mother when her baby comes; a man should be good and kind to his wife more than at any time, and thank the Lord most of 'em are. _He_ was wicked. May the Lord in his mercy forgive him. Still, the baby made her happier. Here is a letter she wrote to me a month or two after it was born." THE WHITE HOUSE. TORQUAY, May 20th, 1846. My Dearest Mother,-- Thank you for all the loving sympathy from all. Am getting on well, though the heat has been trying me greatly. I came downstairs yesterday. I cannot stand a minute without help, as the lying in bed has made me so weak. Baby is doing first-rate, grows more engaging every day. It was rather too bad of you to rejoice in my disappointment, especially as the little girl was to have been named after my dear mother. What is the supposed advantage you see in a boy? Why is a boy thought more of than a girl? Perhaps you are proud of having a grandson; I certainly have centred all my ideas on a girl; I have always had an idea that the child I should have that would be most like me, and _who would do what I might have done if I had been happier_, would be a girl. I feel so still; though I can't tell you why. But this is a dear little man and I should not like to spare him now he has come. He never squeals but stares the whole time; the doctor says he is big enough for five or six months old. After the miserable state I've been in, I rather wondered whether his brain would be right, but he is certainly "all there," and a bit over, if it comes to that. He is very sharp. But he is very good at night and has slept seven hours right off for five nights past. He notices everything, his little eyes will dance round after any one who notices him and when the door one day suddenly rattled with the wind he turned his eyes towards it with a look of inquiry and astonishment. Some wagging ends on Nurse's cap are a source of unfailing interest. He has not a flaw or even a sore upon him, has a nice little round, comfortable, sensible face, just plump enough to be well conditioned but not coarse. I think he is something like Martha. He has nice eyes, dark blue, which when closed take rather a Japanese curve, the Traies' snub nose, a pretty little mouth, large hands, very long fingers with pretty little filbert nails. He is more like his father than anybody in face. He is full of pretty little antics, will clasp his hands as if in prayer, or shade one over his eyes with a thumb extended, exactly like "saying grace." Will labour hard sometimes to stuff both fists into his mouth at once, it is amusing to see his wriggles and struggles, getting quite angry, till at last he gets hold of some knuckle or thumb and settles down to enjoy it. He wants his milk very irregularly, but so far I've kept pace with him.... We have not yet decided on his name. Not Philip, I think, for I don't like the "big Bessie, little Bessie, old George, young George" plan. I should like Harold or Edgar, or perhaps Christian--by the way I'm sorry to hear that Chrissie is still so weak, give him my best love. Do you know that baby's birth made me _want_ to like Philip more than ever? I told him so the other day, he just _sneered_. It's hard, mother, isn't it? But I must not worry you, or make you think he is really treating me so very badly, he sees that I get all the food and nourishment I need. Don't believe all Uncle John says! Here I must conclude as I'm not yet strong enough to write more. Give my love to Aunt Jael, and to Hannah, and my respects to Mr. Greeber, when you write. With my dearest love to you mother, I remain Your loving RACHEL. "Here is one she wrote to her Uncle about the same time:" THE WHITE HOUSE. TORQUAY, June 24th, 1846. My dearest Uncle John,-- Many thanks for your kind and prompt reply to my note. My reason for requiring a promise was that I feared that on knowing how things stood you might be unwilling still to do nothing, as I know you have even as much of the outspoken Vickary disposition as Aunt Jael! You will be sorry if not surprised when I tell you that my husband leads me a more trying life than ever. I cannot repeat or write the words he uses or the things he abuses his position as a husband to do. My little boy is the only earthly comfort I have, and but for him and the dear Lord I don't think I could have borne up at all. I have kept it carefully from my own family all along, it is not my fault that mother knows as much as she does. I hate her to have to hear my troubles. Then, too, I've excused things on the ground of disease, for his mind is disordered, but still he is nothing like so far gone but that he could behave better if he chose. I am surer than ever that he deceives the doctor so that he can use the bad view of his health which the doctor takes, as a cloak for all his cruelty. 'Tis very good of you to assure me of your help but I will still try to stay with him, and so far he has not used actual bodily violence. He has gone the length of threatening it, of lifting up his foot as though to kick me and shaking his fist in my face but stopped short each time, saying he was "not such a ---- fool as to give me a chance of getting the law for him!" I will promise this: to make your silence conditioned on his behaviour not getting worse. That may have some effect on him. But mother _must_ not be worried. In any case it would not be worth while to try to come here to see him, he has threatened he will set the dogs on them if he finds any of my relatives "prowling about the place." Don't worry about me. Now that I have my little boy to kiss and comfort me I can put up with everything. Your loving niece, RACHEL. "And here is another to me:" THE WHITE HOUSE. TORQUAY, Aug. 20th, 1846. My dear Mother,-- Many thanks for kindly sending on the vests, they are (both sizes) a nice easy fit, and I'm very pleased with them. I am feeling better, though Torquay is very relaxing and in the summer, at times, unbearable. Now that Uncle John seems to have told you all it is no good pretending any longer that I am anything but absolutely wretched. Believe me, mother, it was not dishonesty but for your sake only that I said so little. Now it is getting so bad that I should not have been able to keep it from you longer. They are all behaving disgracefully, worse than ever. Not only all the family, the two boys Maurice and Trevor, I mean, but all the servants too, and the very errand lads who come to the house are encouraged to be insulting. I'm really afraid to go about the house and when keeping in my own immediate quarters am shouted at and annoyed from stairs and windows. He and Maurice attacked me together last week, or rather he called Maurice to join in, and the two called forth the most unprovoked and outrageous insolence while the scullery maid shrieked with delight and clapped her hands at the fun. Another day, the cook threw a cabbage root at me when I went into the kitchen, hitting me on the neck. Mr. Traies' only redress when I turned to him was "That's nothing, you shouldn't go into quarters where you're not wanted. A wife in her kitchen, indeed! what _are_ we coming to?" It is something sickening the whole time; I know I shall go mad before long. Have run right out of the house twice lately but the poor child drags me back. I don't know that you can do anything beyond plainly speaking your mind, or threatening to expose him right and left if that would do any good. There certainly ought to be some law to prevent a woman being hounded out of her life by the very servants in the house. If I say the least word or attempt to expostulate he puts his hand up to his forehead, begins to moan and say "the doctor said I was on no account to have opposition, he said it might bring on a fit, indeed I think it is coming." The wretched man--is there no law in England to save a woman from cruelty far worse than the things for which she can get the courts for her? Last week, he actually laughed in my face, "Your heart is breaking I suppose," he sneered. I said "Yes," looking him straight in the face. "It's a damned long time about it," he said. Yet I can do nothing; _that_ is not cruelty! I do wish he would do me some real bodily harm that would give me a hold over him as long as he didn't permanently incapacitate me. I have thought of asking Brother Frean at the Meeting to find me a safe temporary lodging where I could go, and say I would not return until he dismissed these insolent maids. That would be at least one point gained. But until he sent Maurice away there would be no real improvement. You cannot imagine, mother the filthy things he says, and _does_ before me. They have made a complete tool of the new servant too. She has been very unsatisfactory in every way, refusing to get up in the morning and shouting at me. However she kept within bounds till I gave her a week's notice last Wednesday. Immediately he came and raved and sneered at me: "Come, come, the mistress of the house dismissing a housemaid, surely this is going a little _too_ far," and he ordered her to stay. Since then she has behaved shamefully, they all of course upholding and cheering her, making her presents, etc. Today I have proved her having stolen some silk handkerchiefs of mine, in even this he upholds her. "Freely ye have received, freely give," he said! Yesterday it reached the climax. The whole pack were howling at me, he, looking on and mocking and encouraging them. Then Maurice tripped me up as I was going out of the room, and I went full length on the floor. In my weak state, I nearly fainted. _He laughed._ I still want to hold out; I will never leave him unless it is to come home and die. All I have to comfort me is your sympathy, my little baby and the love of Christ. In haste, your loving daughter, RACHEL. My throat was very dry, I could not trust myself to speak. "Soon after," went on my Grandmother, "the little baby boy died, and then we persuaded her to take a holiday. At least we put it to her that we thought we hoped it might be bringing her away from him for good. She came home, spending November and December of 1846 with us at home in the old house in the High Street, and then went to her Uncle John's in London for the first few weeks of '47. When your mother left her uncle, she came to us again for a few days and then decided to go back to her husband. Jael was against it, but she was sure it was her duty to the Lord, and I would not persuade her though my heart sank when she left us. He behaved worse than before. The last few months at Torquay were beyond her endurance and she began to sink away. Now here is a letter your great-uncle wrote me just before she left him, when things had reached their worst." Messrs Vibart & Vickary, MINCING LANE, LONDON. Jan. 3rd, 1848. Dear Hannah,-- I have been out of patience with you as you will know. Since last March when she stayed with you and you allowed her to go back to the fellow. If I don't hear definitely that she has left him within the next ten days, infirm though I am, I shall take the coach to Exeter and on to Torquay taking a friend with me, and if we have any trouble whatever with Traies he will get such a thrashing that he will not be able to appear in public for some time. If ever there was a cruel, damned scoundrel who deserved shooting he does, and should not in the least mind putting a few bullets into him. What annoys me more than anything is that you should encourage the poor girl, agreeing with her that it is her Christian duty to remain there all this time and put up with such diabolical cruelty; worst of all now that there is another child on the way. Let me know at once that she has left him or I shall act without delay. Your affectionate brother John. "And here is the last letter she ever wrote me herself. It was snowing the day it reached me:" THE WHITE HOUSE. TORQUAY, Jany 7th, 1848. My dearest Mother,-- Your kind and loving letter came yesterday. Well, mother dear, I have given in. I have decided to go away. I am weaker now, broken in body and spirit, and if I stay here with his taunts and ill-treatment _I shall go mad or die_. In any case I think it is the latter; but now that there is a child coming, for its sake I must go where I shall have more peace. My life is a broken failure. Four short years ago what a happy girl I was at the Hall with kind people around me, a loving little boy as my daily companion, and I was a credit and pride to you all. I know you never wanted me to marry him. I chose my way and I have failed utterly. Yes I know, mother, I know with a positive assurance that I could have loved a good and loving husband as much as any woman in the world; it was _in_ me. Well, it is no good talking of that now, for I have not very long before me now. Today I told him I was leaving him for the last time. He mocked in his usual sort of way, but I am beyond minding that. He is too much of a coward, I have come to know, to prevent my leaving by physical force. I hope to get away tomorrow, and am already halfway through my packing, so expect me very soon. Your loving RACHEL. My Grandmother spoke in a calm way, much sadder than any sobbing or crying. Here for the only time she put her handkerchief to her eyes for a moment. "Just at the time your dear mother came back to us to die, my little boy Christian was dying too. The day after we buried him you were born, then seven days later your mother died. Your Great-Aunt was a good sister to me, she took turns at sitting with your mother every night; saw the friends who called and wrote all the letters. Here is a copy of what she wrote to your Great-Uncle: NORTHGATE HOUSE, HIGH STREET, TAWBOROUGH. March 2nd, 1848. Dear Brother,-- You will be glad of a line to tell you a fine girl was born this morning at half past five; the baby is doing splendidly, but Rachel is very weak. Nurse and doctor are in constant attendance. Hannah stays with her all the time and doesn't go downstairs. With young Christian just buried the Lord is trying us hard. We are truly passing through the waters of affliction. Hannah is too busy to write herself or I should not be writing to you, the first time I think for nearly thirty years. Your affectionate sister, JAEL VICKARY. "Here is your Great-Uncle's reply, addressed to me:" LONDON. _In haste._ Dear Hannah,-- Do everything possible for dear Rachel as regards nursing and doctors that money can command. I pay everything. JOHN. "And two more letters your Great-Aunt wrote to your Great-Uncle will tell how your dear mother died:" NORTHGATE HOUSE, HIGH STREET, TAWBOROUGH. March 8th, 1848. Dear Brother,-- I write again to give you news of Rachel. Upon receiving your kind note we decided on calling in Doctor Little but I don't think he can do more than Dr. Le Mesurier has, he has been unremitting in attention but there will be nothing to regret in having had further advice. Nurse Baker looks after the baby, she is a very nice child and is doing well. Hannah is wonderfully sustained, she sat with Rachel last night, I was with her the night before. It would make things very much easier if Martha would come over from Torribridge but Mr. Greeber, her husband, will not allow it, pleading their own child who is as healthy as he is ugly and now quite a year old. Rachel has been wandering today, sewing and arranging garments for the child. She suffers badly. The doctor thinks it is peritonitis. I fear it will be but a few days more, it wrings my heart to write it. I have just taken the liberty of writing a note to Lord Tawborough to ask him to use his influence with his cousin that the child may remain to be brought up by us in case of Rachel being removed from this world. He replies he will insist on it. It has comforted Rachel greatly. I wrote to Mr. Traies a few lines on the day she was confined to state the fact of a girl being born and that his wife was not doing too well, commencing "Dear Sir" (being civil). I am glad it was done, although he did not respond; we have done our part and shall not write to him again until she ceases to be his wife. Oh brother, when I think of how the wretched man has hounded her and brought her down in health and strength to an early grave (for the doctor says she had not the strength to go through her confinement because of the harass and ill-treatment that preceded) I feel he will have a recompense even in this world for his cruelty ... God's vengeance is sure, and He will avenge. The doctor now says twenty-four hours will decide. We give her Valentine's extract of milk and ice which she takes every half hour ... nothing has been left undone. May God bless the means and give us grace to bear His will. Regret you are not well enough to travel. If you had been well enough to come I need not say that for Hannah's and Rachel's sake I would have let by gones be by gones, so with our united love, I remain, Your affectionate sister, JAEL VICKARY. NORTHGATE HOUSE, HIGH STREET, TAWBOROUGH. March 9th, 1848:. Dear Brother,-- Dear Rachel was unconscious all the night but didn't seem to suffer. She gradually sank and peacefully departed at a quarter past ten. I know you will not be able to come to the funeral but we know all your love to your beloved niece during her life. Hannah scarcely realizes it as yet. Dear Rachel wished the baby to be called Mary. She gave a few directions most calmly and quietly, and wished the text, if we had cards, to be "Made meet to be partakers of the inheritance of the Saints in light," or else "These are they which came out of great tribulation." Hannah is hearing up well, sustained by the Lord's grace. _Thy will be done._ With our united love, Your affectionate sister, JAEL VICKARY. * * * * * * * "And so she died," concluded my Grandmother, "and left you to me." I wanted to hear more. "And the man?" "What man?" "My--father." It was one of the hardest things I ever did to utter that word. I felt foolish, flushed, and somehow wicked. The word was unfamiliar, and it was vile. "Well, I wrote him a letter saying I forgave him for everything--" "Forgave him, Grandmother!" I cried. "That was wicked!" "I forgave him as I hoped the Lord would too. I just told him in the letter about her funeral and how it had passed off." "Did he write back?" "Yes, and in all his life there was nothing so cruel as the reply he sent me. Here it is. I know the foreign note-paper; for he went abroad straight away to avoid the scandal and trouble, though the Saints at Torquay publicly expelled him from their Meeting when they knew the facts. Listen:-- HOTEL MEURICE, PARIS. March 31st, 1848. _Madam_,-- Your letter apprehending me of my late wife's funeral has been forwarded to me. If you imagine this thinly veiled hint that I should bear the funeral expenses will succeed, you are singularly mistaken. For such a wife, nominally Christian, who deserted her husband, I propose to do nothing of the kind. You may sue me at law, of course; but pause for a moment: _would your dead daughter have wished you to?_ Yours truly, PHILIP A. G. TRAIES. "May God in His mercy forgive him for writing that. It took me years to be able to. I have never heard from him since. I heard he sold the house in Torquay and lives mostly abroad. That, my dearie, is the end of a long story. Always love the memory of your dear, good mother and try if you can to forgive your father, for whatever he has done, he is your father." "I will never forgive him, it would be wrong to forgive people who have done things to you like that. Never!" "It's the only true forgiveness, my dear, to forgive those who wrong you cruelly." "I shall forgive every one in the world; but him, never." * * * * * * * I don't think these events are told out of their place. It was at this stage of my life that all these past doings entered _my_ life; it is here they should be told. For me they took place now; from now onwards they influenced my life and thoughts. Of the impressions I received, pity and love for my mother, and hate and loathing for my father ranked equally. I thought of her still as an angel, but her eyes were sadder. As for him, I vowed to myself that afternoon, that some day in some way I would avenge my mother. How I kept that vow is another story; till then this resolve had a constant place in my life and imagination. It did a good deal to embitter a view of the world already gloomy enough for ten years old. These were not the only emotions rushing through my heart that afternoon. There was admiration and love of my Grandmother; how greatly she had suffered, how little she complained, how heroically she forgave. There was a new reluctant respect for Aunt Jael; and a quickening affection for all who had been good to my mother, chiefly for Great-Uncle John, who in two short hours had been transformed for me from a shadowy name into a warm and noble reality; for others also who took a lesser part, such as the kind people where she had been governess and the little boy who loved her; for Brother Frean and the sympathetic Saints at Torquay. While I sat biting my nails and thinking a hundred new things, some kind, some sad, some hideous and bitter, Grandmother was still rummaging among the letters. "Why, here's a bundle of those she wrote when she was at Woolthy Hall, in her first happy days there. Listen, my dear, I'll read you the first she wrote:"-- Woolthy Hall, North Devon. Friday. Dearest Mother,-- I hope you got my first note saying I had arrived safely. I am very happy here, I have a nice little room to myself commanding a lovely view of the Park. I went to see Lord Tawborough in his study the same night that I arrived, and he was very kind. There will be no invidious treatment here, of the kind you hear governesses sometimes have to put up with. The work will be pleasant, the little boy took to me at once. He has brown eyes and a frank little face, rather solemn for his age, indeed I think he likes reading books too much and not too little. The meals are of course very good and I never felt better. Yesterday we went a carriage drive to Northbury, and picked primroses in the woods there, five huge bunches. The spring is a lovely time. It makes me happy because it is the beginning of the year and promises so much, just as I am at a new beginning of my life here, feeling sure I shall have a very happy time. Send the cotton blouses and straw hat, for there's a fine summer ahead! With love to Aunt Jael and very much to your dear self from Your loving RACHEL. As Grandmother finished reading, I sobbed as though my heart would break, for that happy letter was the saddest of them all. I have read somewhere that with old letters, the happier they are, the more full of hope and life the writers, the more vivid and intense and joyful the sense of the present time the more melancholy they are to read in later years. The hopes then so warm and fresh seem now so far away. Men and women who when they wrote were hoping and planning are now but hollow-eyed and rotting dust. Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, all is vanity. CHAPTER XI: EXTRAORDINARY MEETING FOR PRAYER, PRAISE AND PURGING For some time all had not been well among the Saints. There was evidence of worldliness, backsliding, apostasy and sin. The Devil was active in our midst. Certain Saints, after tasting for years the privilege of fellowship, had left us: for chapel, or church, or nowhere. Others were becoming irregular in their attendance or took part in our devotions without fervour. There was moral backsliding too: chambering and wantonness. Blind Joe Packe had been discovered by Brother Quappleworthy in a drunken stupor on the floor of the attic in which he lived, when the latter was paying him one of his customary visits of Bible-reading and exhortation. There walked abroad also a vaguer, darker sin than drink that I did not clearly apprehend, of which certain of the younger Brothers who were "keeping company" with certain of the younger Sisters were whispered to be guilty. The most flagrant example, I gathered from a shrouded conversation between Grandmother and Aunt Jael, was Sister Lucy Fry, who had a baby, but no husband. I thought this a curiosity rather than a crime. For whatever reason, it aroused a sharp difference of opinion; Aunt Jael denounced the awfulness of Lucy's sin, Grandmother urged that she was more sinned against than sinning. Then Sister Prideaux had been to some concert or "theatre" during a holiday at Exeter. The precise nature of the godless entertainment was not ascertained. Nor was it clear how the news had reached us, though most thought it was wormed out of Sister Quappleworthy by Sister Yeo. The latter openly taxed Miss Prideaux with it. "So you went to the theayter did you, over to Exeter? Next time you're there I suppose you'll be a-going to the _Cathedril_!" Then there were the parliamentary elections in which some of the Saints had been taking an unsaintly interest, voting for and championing this candidate or that; a form of meddling with this world's affairs which Pentecost regarded with special disfavour. Indeed Rumour had it that one or two of the younger Brethren took part in the famous polling-day brawl in the vegetable market. Several of even the most prominent Saints expressed preferences. Brother Browning being a draper was Radical, Brother Quappleworthy being an intellectual was Whig, Brother Briggs being an oilman was Tory. Aunt Jael was an unbenevolent neutral. "They're all much of a muchness and none of 'em any good to folk, neither in the next world nor in this either. In our family, _if_ we had been anything at all, we'd always have been Whig--except the child's mother. She was Tory, or liked to think she was. All the gentlefolk belonged to the Tories, and that was always enough for Rachel." I was henceforward a fanatical Tory, though I had not the dimmest notion what it meant, except that it was somehow connected with London and the Parliament. Aunt Jael refused to explain; Grandmother said it was not worth explaining. Brother Brawn related how on the occasion of a visit from some canvassers he had struck a blow for righteousness. "They knocked at my front door," he told Aunt Jael, "folk as I'd never spoken to avore, nor so much as seen; 'Good mornin' sir,' said one of them, a tall, thin man with spectacles he was, 'whose side are you on? Davie and Potts[2] I trust.' 'No,' I said, 'I'm on the side of the Laur Jesus Christ,' and I slammed the door in their faces. 'Twas a word in season." About this time there was an epidemic of minor illnesses, which Grandmother said could only be the hand of the Lord extended in chastisement for sins which the suffering ones had committed. More modern folk would have sought explanation in low vitality, indoor habits or bad drainage, but point was given to my Grandmother's contention by the fact that Sister Prideaux and Lucy Fry, prominent among the sinners, were about this time laid low with illness--the latter not unnaturally. Her own attack of bronchitis, she attributed to the selfish indulgence she had shown of late in perpetually studying her own favourite portions of the Word and neglecting (comparatively) those she favoured less. Worst of all, that piece of sugar which for nineteen years--the period is always the same in my memory--had been placed in our offertory as an insult to the Lord had now for two Sundays past become _four_ pieces, one in each of the four partitions, a little bit of sugar for Expenses, a little bit of sugar for Foreign Field, a little bit of sugar for Ministry, a little bit of sugar for Poor. It had been serious enough years ago when the box with the narrow slits had been substituted for the bag, and the sinner had merely retaliated by putting a small piece through one of the slits instead of a large lump down the gaping abyss of the bag. But now--four pieces, one in each partition,--what deftness in utter sin! What zeal in ill-doing! Who was this wolf in sheep's clothing, this sinner who could sit at the Lord's table for nineteen years and harden his heart Lord's day after Lord's day by offering this mockery of an oblation to his Saviour? Who was this evil spirit slim-fingered enough to perform this fourfold naughtiness, and yet remain undetected, unguessed? We all peered at our neighbours. Brother Brawn even began following the box in its voyage round the Meeting, instead of merely handing it to the first giver and taking it from the last; for all his spying he could find nothing. Was _he_ the man? Thus in devious ways was the Devil active in our midst. He must be exorcised. Sister Yeo's idea of a Special Extraordinary Meeting to chase him out was finally adopted. All the Saints should assemble on a week night to pray for help, and for the discovery, confession and true repentance of all the various sinners; to purge the repentant of their sins and to praise the Lord for pardoning them; to purge the Meeting itself of the stubborn and unrepentant--to cast them into the outer darkness. There should be weeping and gnashing of teeth. A preliminary meeting to decide on procedure and agenda was held in our dining-room. The committee which assembled was chosen by Aunt Jael and consisted of herself, Grandmother, Pentecost, Brothers Quappleworthy (despite theatre-going sister-in-law and known electioneering lapses), Brawn and Browning. Also, at Pentecost's special plea--"'Twill be a sacrifice of self, I know, dear Sister Vickary; that is why I urge it"--Sister Yeo was admitted. As soon as all the committee had arrived I was bundled out of the room, so I knew nothing of what was to happen except what I gathered from ear-straining on the staircase, and chance conversation between Grandmother and Aunt Jael afterwards. I gathered this much: that the Extraordinary Meeting was to be preceded by a Tea. To this same Tea on a memorable Saturday afternoon we proceeded; Grandmother, Aunt Jael, Mrs. Cheese and I. It is the only single occasion in my memory when the Saints met together for public eating. In nothing did we differ more from the general body of nonconformists with their socials, bun-fights, feastings, reunions, conversazioni and congregational guzzles. The Room presented an unusual sight. There were four long trestle tables covered with white cloths and laden with food, with forms drawn up beside them. The Saints, dressed in their Sunday best, were standing about in groups when we arrived. Aunt Jael, puffed with the energies of her walk, sat down at once on the end of a bench. Her weight sent the other end soaring gaily into the air while she landed on the floor with a most notable thud. The form banged back, not into position, but with a swirling movement on to a plate of bread and butter. There is proof of the awful respect in which Aunt Jael was held in this: that not a soul dared to smile as she sat there on her broad posterior. For a moment or two no one even dared to help her to her feet, fearing an outburst, for people like Aunt Jael are most dangerous when you try to help them out of a predicament. Then by a sudden gregarious instinct every one ran forward together in a sheep-like mass, and bore Aunt Jael--red, antagonistic and threatening--to her feet. After a blessing had been asked by Pentecost, we sat down to tea. I recall ham, bath-buns and potted-meat sandwiches. After tea the tables were cleared, the trestles packed away and the crockery and cutlery, all of which had been lent, were put back uncleansed in clothes-baskets in which they had been brought by the owners; for the Room possessed no washing-up facilities. The forms were then rearranged as for Breaking of Bread. Pentecost sat in his accustomed place at the right of the Table as you faced it; we in our usual front row; Brother Briggs to the right, Brother Quick to the left, Brother Marks, the old Personal Devil of my imagination, far away in his goggled corner. In the pulpit or dais, which was only used for the evening gospel meeting, were ranged Brother Quappleworthy--in the centre, in charge of proceedings--Brother Brawn on the right and Brother Browning on the left. Precedence and position had been arranged at the committee meeting in our dining-room, when Brother Quappleworthy had been chosen as chairman. The whole staging was as for a meeting in the secular meaning of the word. Indeed I remember feeling that the whole affair was a sort of excitement or entertainment rather than a religious service. This feeling vanished like dew with the dawn when Pentecost stood up and in a short prayer of exceeding solemnity craved the Lord's blessing on our proceedings. The keynote was SIN, its detection, confession, atonement; "and Sin, Lord, is a terrible thing." Brother Quappleworthy rose to deal with the business before the house. "First now, brethren, there's the question of those Saints who have absented themselves from our--ah--mutual ministrations, those backsliders who have left the Lord's table for other so-called Christian bodies or the walks of open indifference and--er--infidelity." Brawn and Browning murmured agreement. Sister Yeo's voice rang out accusing and metallic: "You're a fine one, Brother Browning, to um-um-er, and to sit in judgment on others. First cast out the beam from thine own eye! What of your own wedded wife who goes openly to the Bible Christian chapel, and 'as done these fifteen years; a source of stumbling and error to all the weaker brethren." (Sensation.) "Silence, Sister," cried Brother Quappleworthy, "none may speak here to accuse others, only to accuse self." "True," murmured the Meeting, and the Chairman resumed his discourse. "A list has been--ah--prayerfully prepared of all the Saints who have withheld themselves from fellowship for a space of time. Do all our Brothers and Sisters agree that they be struck off our roll of grace? Shall we say 'Ay' as we call each name? Brother Mogridge." "Ay," arose murmurously. "Sister Mogridge." "Ay." "Sister Polly Mogridge." "Ay." "Brother Richardson." "Ay." "Sister Petter." This time our tongues (I say "our" because I had joined unctuously in the Ay's) stopped short just in time as we remembered that Sister Petter was present. We all turned towards her. Her hand was over her eyes, and she was weeping. "Sister Petter," called Brother Quappleworthy in a solemn voice. "You who scoffed to unbelievers of the ministrations of the Saints, _You_, I say!..." "Lord forgive me," she moaned. "Oh Lord forgive me." Pentecost arose with beaming face. "There's joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth." He went over to her and put his hand on her shoulder saying, "Sister, be of good cheer, the Lord hath forgiven thy sin." "Amen," said we all. Drink and theatre-going and elections and illnesses were all dealt with then in their turn; I remember them hazily. When the denouncing voice uttered the name Lucy Fry, I woke up into the most wide-awake interest, for a _visible_ hush descended on the Meeting. Brother Quappleworthy had lost his usual urbanity: "Sin of sins, abomination of abominations." His face was hard and fanatical. My eyes kept straying to the place where Lucy sat. She was a young fresh-faced country girl. Tonight her rosy cheeks were pale, her eyes drawn and she sobbed quietly but continually as her shame was exposed before us. "Sister, repentest thou? Stand up, I say! Repent!" It was too much. The poor girl fainted. They bore her out insensible. "Her first time out of doors," I heard it whispered, "since the child was born." A feeling of pity was evident among the Saints. Brother Quappleworthy realized this and was determined to crush it. "Remember, brethren, it is a sin too grave, too vile for God to wink at. No dallying with sin! I put it to you that Sister Fry be excluded from fellowship. A fleshly sinner must not pollute the Lord's table." "Chase her out, Lord," cried Brother Brawn, "this adulterous woman!" "No," said Brother Browning, nervously, bravely. "She repents; the Lord will be for mercy." The three Brothers fell to disputing on the dais, and the discussion spread to the whole body of the Saints till there was a veritable hubbub in the Room. Brother Quappleworthy quelled it by calling out in a loud voice: "The Lord will show His will by means of a vote. Now those brethren who think it right that Sister Lucy Fry, the self-confessed sinner, be excluded from the Lord's table put up their hands." Thirty-six hands were counted. "Now those brethren who think that she, the sinning woman, should remain in fellowship." Twenty hands only were shown. Thus by sixteen votes the Lord, who is merciful, voted against poor Lucy. Then a surprising thing happened. My Grandmother, for the only time in my experience, stood up: "I have one question, brethren. Who is the man?" No one had thought of that. No one does. There was a whispering. It was confirmed that Lucy's guilty partner--whatever that might mean--was not a Saint and that nothing could therefore be done. Brother Quappleworthy with sure dramatic instinct had reserved till the last the super-sin: Sugar. "This work of Satan persevered in over so long a period in a human heart ... For nineteen years ..." and so on. He wound up by conjuring the sinner to confess, to repent ere it was too late. There was no response to his appeal, and a flat and rather foolish silence ensued. Then Pentecost Dodderidge prayed lengthily and earnestly that the sinner might be moved to reveal himself. Then another long fruitless silence. Pentecost arose again, solemn and determined: "Brethren, we must slay the Evil One working in one poor sinner's heart, now, this evening--now or never. No one shall leave this room until the guilty one has confessed, not if we stay here for forty days and forty nights. Let us pray silently that he may be moved." A new silence followed, but this time I was somehow expectant. The minutes, however, dragged on, five, ten, fifteen; I watched the crawling clock. Surely it could not last for ever, surely the patience of the sinner must be worn out by our unending vigil. There was a noise of some one moving. Every one opened their eyes and looked up. It was only Pentecost Dodderidge on his feet again. "The Lord hath made it plain to me. He saith 'I will send a sign and then the sinner will confess.'" Hardly had he sat down than there was a great pelting of hail on the roof which continued for two or three minutes. With the noise no one heard Brother Marks, my spectacled Personal Devil, until he stood in front of the Lord's Table facing us all with a countenance of ghost-like white. What followed I could never have believed had I not seen it with my own eyes. He took a dark blue paper package from one pocket and emptied it on one side of the Lord's Table; a shower of sugar came forth: little white lumps, the sort with which he had fooled us--preserving sugar the grocers call it, the sort with which jam is made. Then he took out from his other pocket a little cloth bag and poured out into a separate heap on the other side of the Lord's Table a shining heap of golden coins. Then he knelt down in front of us all and sobbed and groaned and rocked himself to and fro in an extreme agony that was terrible to see. No one knew what to do, no one except Pentecost, who went up to him and lifted him to his feet; "Jesus forgives thee," he said, "let all of us praise His Holy Name." The whole Meeting sprang to its feet, and burst forth into a hymn of praise. A solemn fast was declared for seven days, and we sang the Good-night Hymn: Good night, dear saints, adieu! adieu! Still in God's way delight; May grace and truth abide with you-- Good night, dear saints, good night. When we ascend to realms above, And view the glorious sight, We'll sing of His redeeming love, And never say Good night. Good night, dear saints, adieu! adieu! Still in God's way delight; May grace and truth abide with you-- Good night, dear saints, good night. FOOTNOTE: [2] Colonel Ferguson-Davie of Crediton and Mr. George Potts of Trafalgar Lawn, Tawborough, the two candidates successfully returned for the Borough at the Election of 1859. CHAPTER XII: THE GREAT DISCLOSURE Soon after this, somewhere about my tenth birthday, in the early spring of 1858, an important relaxation in my rule of life was made. I was allowed, under strict limitations, to go out on the Lawn for a certain period every afternoon, and to mix with the children there. In view of my Great-Aunt's principle, namely, to make my life as harsh and pleasureless as possible, and of my Grandmother's steadfast prayers and endeavours to keep me pure and unspotted from the world, this was a big concession. The reason was my health. Grandmother saw that I never got out of doors half enough, and that a couple of hours' play with other children in the open air would be likely to make me brighter in spirit and to bring colour to my cheeks. One Lord's Day, as we were walking home from Breaking of Bread, I overheard Brother Browning: "If you don't take care she will not be long for this world,"--nodding his head sadly, sagely and surreptitiously in my direction. Anyway, the amazing happened, and with stern negative injunctions from Aunt Jael not to abuse the new privilege, nor to play "monkey tricks," for which I should be well "warmed," and with more positive and more terrible instructions from my Grandmother to use my opportunity among the other children to "testify to my Lord," I was launched on the sea of secular society, the world of the Great Unsaved. Except for what little I saw of them at the Misses Clinkers' I had no acquaintance with other children, nor any knowledge of their "play." While in the obedient orbit of my own imagination, I was bold, none bolder, in the situations I created, the climaxes I achieved, the high astounding terms with which I threatened the attic walls; face to face with flesh-and-blood children of my own age, I soon found I was shy to a degree, until they were out of my sight, and I was alone again, when they joined the ever-lengthening cast of my puppet show, and, like everybody else, did as they were bid. Not that I was shy of grown-ups; it was the fruit of my upbringing that I was at ease with any one but my equals. It was a horrible ordeal, that first afternoon, when I stepped through our garden gate on to the Lawn. I walked unsteadily, not daring to look towards the grass slope at the higher end, where all the Lawn children were assembled in a group. "Waiting for you! Staring at you!" said self-consciousness; and fear echoed. I flushed crimson. I was half sick with shyness. It seemed to my imagination that every child was staring at me with a hundred eyes--they knew, they knew! Marcus had heralded the fact, had played Baptist to my coming--they were all assembled here to stare, to flout, to mock. How I wished the earth would open and swallow me up or that the Lord would carry me away in a great cloud to Heaven. I dared not fly back into our garden: that way lay eternal derision. Yet my legs would not carry me forward to the group of children who stood there staring at me without mercy, without pity, with the callous fixity of stars. I was filled with blind confusion, and prayed feverishly for a miraculous escape. Miracle, in the body of Marcus, saved me. He came forward from the group. "Hello, Mary Lee, we've been talking about you." (Of course they had.) "I've told everybody you're allowed to play on the Lawn now, but we don't know which League you ought to belong to." "What do you mean? What's a League?" "Well, all Lawn children are in two sides for games and everything. Leagues means that. If your father and mother go to Church, you belong to the Church League, if they go to Chapel, you belong to the Chapel League." "I see." Secular distinction based on religious ones was a principle I understood. "Yes, but you're not one or the other. Brethren aren't Church, are they? And they aren't _really_ Chapel." "You're a Brethren too." "Not like you are. Mother goes to the Bible Christian Chapel, and father really belongs there too, for all he goes to your meeting. So I count as Chapel." "What do Papists count as?" "There aren't any. If there were any and if they were allowed to go about, they'd be like you, neither one thing nor the other." "Like me indeed! Papists like Brethren! Saints like sinners!" "Not really, not like that; Brethren are more like Chapel, I know. Besides _I_ want you to belong to our League, but--Joe Jones says you're not to. There's a meeting about it tomorrow. All our rules and sports and everything are decided at the meeting we have--not like Brethren meetings--usually up at the top of the bank, near the big poplar. Joe Jones sits on the wall, and he's our president. I'll let you know what happens about you afterwards. Till then I don't think you'd better play with us. _I_ don't mind, but the others say you'd better not. If Joe Jones caught you! _I_ don't like Joe Jones,--don't you ever whisper that, it's a terrible secret--but he doesn't like you, and he's the top dog." Joe Jones, topmost of dogs, Autocrat of the Lawn, pimpled despot against whose evil pleasure little could prevail, was a good deal older than the rest of the children, by whom he was obeyed and feared. From what Marcus said his heavy hand was against me from the start. I knew why. He lived next door to us at Number Six, with an invalid, widowed mother (whom I had only seen once or twice in my life, as she was kept indoors by some mysterious infirmity which some described as grief and others drink) and his sister Lena, a big freckled flaxen girl about a year younger than himself. We rarely saw any of the three, and our household of course had nothing to do with theirs (Church of England, strict). But one morning as I was walking up the Lawn path on my way from school, Lena had called out to me over the privet hedge. "Hello, you!"--and then something else, including a word I did not know, though instinct told me it was bad. The obscenity of the traditional filth words lies as much in their sound as in their signification. She repeated the words several times, combining artistic pleasure of mouthing the abomination with sheer joy of wickedness in shocking me and staining my imagination. I went straight indoors and appealed to the dictionary. No help there; Lena Jones had wider verbal resources than Doctor Johnson. Grandmother would be sure to know. I went to that dear blameless old soul with the foul word on my lips. "What does ---- mean?" "Nothing good, my dear," she replied calmly, imperturbably, without a trace of the flush that would have appeared in the cheeks of ninety-nine parents out of a hundred. "Nothing good, my dear. Where did you hear it?" "Lena Jones--just now." Grandmother walked out of the house and rang the next-door bell. What passed between her and the grief- (or gin-) stricken Mrs. Jones I do not know, but the results were, first, that Lena was sent away to a boarding-school, where I have no doubt she added suitably to the virgin vocabulary of her companions; second, that Joe, taking up the cudgels for his sister's honour, became suddenly and most unfavourably aware of my existence. He would threaten me if I passed him on my way to school, when I would cower to Marcus for protection. Once he chased me with a cricket bat. And now that at last I was near to gaining the status of "one of the Lawn children," he was going to revenge himself by standing in my way. With the Lawn community a word from Joe Jones could make or mar. If he forbade the others to speak to me, they would not dare to; if he ordered them to persecute or tease me, they would obey. He was the typical bully ruling with the rod of fear by the right of size. He was the typical plague-spot too, polluting the whole life of the little community. For the Lawn was, in the true sense, a community. The well-defined bournes that were set to the oblong patch of greensward--the steep, poplar-crowned grass bank at one end, surmounted by a wall over which you looked down into a back lane and a stable some twenty feet below you; at the opposite end that marched with the street the high brick wall with one ceremonious gate in the middle for only egress to the outside world; then the two rows of houses the full length of both sides--gave to it a separate and self-contained character; the charm and magical selfishness of an island. All the children who lived in the Lawn houses played there, and played nowhere else. Though divided into two mutually hostile leagues, they felt themselves to be one blood and one people as against the strange world without the gates. Of this community Joe Jones was the uncrowned King. Like the early Teutonic monarchs he was limited in power by the folk-moot, or primitive parliament of all his subjects. Questions of Lawn politics were decided at democratic meetings under the poplars at the top of the grass bank. There were equal suffrage, decisions by majorities, and the feminine vote. Unfortunately Joe Jones had the casting vote, and as there prevailed the show-of-hands instead of the secret ballot, a look from his awful eye influenced a good many other votes as well. In short, the Lawn, like all other democracies, was, as wise old Aristotle saw, always near the verge of tyranny. At the tribal meetings were discussed and decided sports and competitions, penalties and punishments, ostracisms and taboos; unpopular proposals were consigned to Limbo, unpopular persons to Coventry. In all doings that allowed of "sides"--cricket, nuts-in-May, most ball games, tug of war, tick, Red Indians, clumps (what were they, these mysteries?)--the two leagues, Marcus told me, were arrayed in battle against each other. The Church League was of course led by Joe Jones, seconded, until her departure for wider spheres of maleficence, by his devoted sister Lena. Then there were Kitty and Molly Prince, also fatherless. Their late parent was a "Rural Dean," and they were thus our social élite (Mr. Jones, Senior, had been a mere butcher;--nay, pork-butcher even, said the slanderers, with a fine feeling for social shades). Kitty and Molly were dull, stupid girls. Molly was as sallow as a dried apple; Kitty lisped; they were always dressed in brown, with large brown velvet bows in their hats. There was a dim George Smith; a loud-voiced Ted King, Joe Jones' principal ally, with his two sisters Cissie and Trixie. I hate them vaguely to this day, that silly giggling pair with their silly giggling names. I do not forget or forgive that they wore nice clothes, and mocked cruelly at mine. About this time, Aunt Jael had my hair shorn--it was my one good feature, and Aunt Jael knew that I knew it, and decreed that I must "mortify the flesh" accordingly--and sent me out into a mocking world in school and Lawn, with my face full of shame and my hair clipped to the head like a boy's. How those King girls sneered and giggled, and how I loathed them. Finally there was little John Blackmore, of whom it was whispered abroad that "his father died before he was born." The import of this fact was dimly apprehended, but Lawn opinion was unanimous in regarding it as something unique and special, something sufficient to endow little Johnny Blackmore with an air of quite exotic velvet-trousered mystery. He was a gentle, dark-eyed, olive-skinned child, and the only member of the Establishment party I could abide. He shared the fatherlessness which was common to his League--the Kings were an exception--and which probably accounted for their eminence in ill-behaviour. Another coincidence was that all the members of the Church League, except George Smith, lived on our side of the Lawn, i. e. the same side as my Grandmother's house. In defiance of Number Eight, Fort of Plymouth, halting-place for heaven, they called it "the Church side!" The leader of the Chapel League was Laurie Prideaux, whose father kept the big grocer's shop in High Street; a tall, pretty, picture-book boy with golden curls, a Wesleyan Methodist, and I think the nicest of all the Lawn children, with whom his influence was second to Joe Jones' only, and for good instead of evil. The power of one was because he was liked, of the other because he was feared: those two forms of power that hold sway everywhere--Aunt Jael and Grandmother, Old Testament God and New Testament Christ; fear and love. If there was any weeping, Laurie was there to comfort it; any injustice, Laurie would champion it. Against Joe Jones he was my rod and my staff. His second-in-command was Marcus, Marcus who hovered on the marge between Bible Christianhood, which qualified him for admission to the Lawn, and Plymouth Brethrenism, which qualified him for admission to Heaven only. He was a nice boy, Marcus, for all the uncertainty of his theological position, and I remember him as one of the few bright faces of my early life. The strength of Lawn Dissent lay in the unnumbered Boldero family, a seething brood of Congregationalists, who lived over the way in the corner house opposite Number Eight. Only five of them were of appropriate age to possess present membership of the Lawn--Sam, Dora, Daisy, Bill and Zoë--but on either side of the five stretched fading vistas of babes and grown-ups. Dora was clever, Daisy good-natured, fat, dull and bow-legged, Zoë fat only, Sam and Bill rough, stupid and friendly. Finally there were Cyril and Eva Tompkins--twins; Baptists: a spiteful couple who vied with the Kings in mocking me. To sum up. On the whole, despite Joe Jones, the boys were kinder than the girls; a first impression which life, in the lump, has borne out; and on the whole, despite the Tompkinses, the Chapel League was the nicer of the two; the brainier also, despite the Boldero boys, and Johnny Blackmore, who was the shining intellect of the Establishment. Though I have no longer the faintest hostility to the Anglican Communion, I find inside me a dim ineradicable notion of some moral superiority, some higher worth, however slight, which I concede to the Nonconformists; and I trace it back to my first experience of the two. If I bow my head in reverent humility before the Dissenters of England, I know that the real reason is because Laurie and Marcus and the happy Bolderos were such, while Joe and Lena and the Kings and the Princes--Beware of Kings! Put not your trust in Princes!--were not. Church League and Chapel League, and I could belong to neither! My first feeling should have been sorrow that among that score of young souls there was not one single sure inheritor of glory; I fear it was pride instead; in my heart I rejoiced as the Pharisee, that I was not as other children, and that in me alone had the light shined forth. Yet at the same moment, parallel but contradictory, I found this question in my heart: why am I not as other children? Why cannot I mix with them as one of them, and belong to their Leagues and joys? After all, my right to belong to the Church League was about as good as Marcus' Chapel pretensions: had not Grandmother and Aunt Jael both been Churchwomen once? Or again, if Marcus, who was at least half a Saint, was allowed to belong to the Chapel League, then why not I, who was only half a Saint more? I had for a moment a rebellious notion of forming a new League of my own, a Saints' League, a Plymouth League, a League of the Elect; but reflection soon showed me that one member was barely enough. Could I convert others though? The notion warmed my heart, the more luxuriously because though at root ambitious, it seemed so virtuous and noble. Missionary zeal would further personal ambition. In testifying to the Lord, I would raise up unto Him followers who should be _my_ followers too; forming at one and the same time the Lord's League and _my_ League. There burned together in me for a queer exalted moment the red flame of ambition and the pure white fire of faith; burning together in Mary as in Mahomet; as in the souls of the great captains of religion. The fires died down; till there burned within me just the candle flicker of this humble hope: that the morrow's meeting would suffer me to join the Lawn at all, as the lowliest novice in whichever League would take me. Next day after tea, I watched from afar the deliberations of the assembly that was handling my fate. Some one shouted my name; I approached and appeared before the tribe. On the wall that surmounted the mound of justice sat Joseph Jones, surrounded by his earls and churls. I observed his pimples, his ginger hair, his fish-like bulging eyes. "Come here. Stand straight. Look at me." I obeyed. He faced me. The tribe surrounded me. "Your name?" "Mary Lee." "You're allowed now to come out and play on the Lawn?" "Yes." "You can't just play and do as you like, you know. There are Laws of the Lawn. And there are two Leagues, and you must belong to one of them." This sounded encouraging; he was not going to stand in my way after all. "I know," I said. "Which shall I belong to?" "We'll see. Let me see, which are you, Church or Chapel?" He was too dull to conceal the wolf in the sheep-like blandness of his voice. Well, I would fight for my footing. "Neither. You know that." "Neither?" incredulously. "How do you mean?" "I belong to the Brethren, the Saints. That's neither Church nor Chapel." "Well then, you can't belong to the Church League or the Chapel League, can you, if you aren't either? Of course you can't. We're _sorry_, but you can't belong to the Lawn at all. Still" (generously) "we'll let you walk about." He dismissed me with a nod. I did not move. "But--" "Now shut up. No damned chatter. You should belong to a decent religion." "It is a decent religion," I cried. "Don't you talk so; it is my Grandmother's. 'Tis as good as any of yours, and a lot better. And 'tis not a good enough reason for keeping me out." The Lord of the Lawn was not accustomed to being addressed thus. He darkened--or rather flushed; gingerheads cannot darken. "If you want another reason, 'tis because you are a dirty little tell-tale sneak." "Hear, hear! Sneak, Sneak!" Chorus of Kings and Princes. "I'm _not_ a sneak. I'm _not_ a sneak, and I don't want to belong to your miserable Lawn. I'm a Saint anyway, and better than you churches and chapels." I turned and moved away. "Saint, Saint, look at the Saint! The sneaking Saint, the saintly sneak. The Brethering kid. Plymouth Brethering, good old Plymouth Rocks. Three cheers for the Plymouth Rocks!" Church and Dissent mingled in this hostile chorus that pursued me to our gate. "Look at the corduroy skirt, he, he, he!--just like workman's trousers," was the last thing I heard. My cheeks burned with rage and shame. I ran up to the attic to sob and mope in peace. I was Hagar once again, turned out into the wilderness alone. Every child's hand was against me. I sobbed away, until at last the luxury of extreme grief brought its comfort. Mine was the chief sorrow under the heavens, it was unique in its injustice; I was the unhappiest little girl in all the world. I regained a measure of happiness. After this experience, I went out on to the Lawn as little as possible; which achieved the result of Aunt Jael driving me there. I could take no part in games, but after a while I became a kind of furtive hanger-on in the outskirts at the frequent "Meetings" of the Lawn, at which the division into Leagues did not usually persist. I only dared approach the company when Joe Jones was absent, which, however, inclined to be more and more usual as he became absorbed in gay adult adventures in the world outside the Lawn gates. The moment Joe was gone, and Laurie Prideaux had stepped without question into the shoes of leadership, the bullies who, under Joe's encouraging eye, would have driven me off, were silent and left me alone, obeying with slavish care the whim of the new Autocrat. So I stood away, just a little outside the ring of children, and listened. Under Laurie's influence, the meetings were more concerned with affairs of universal moment and abstract truth than with the intrigues and vendettas so dear to Joseph Jones. Is the moon bigger than the sun? How far away are the stars? Does it really hurt the jelly-fish like the big yellow ones you see at Ilfracombe and Croyde, if you cut them in two with your spade? Do fish feel pain? Is the donkey the same as an ass, or is ass the female of donkey? What is the earliest date in the year you can have raspberries in the garden, or thrush's--or black-bird's--or cuckoo's eggs out in the country? What is the farthest a cricket-ball has ever been thrown? and will there be a war between England and the French Empire? With any insoluble question, i. e. a question to which nobody brought an answer which the meeting regarded as final, the procedure adopted was for every one present to refer it to his or her father or mother, and to report the result at the next meeting. Much valuable information was gleaned by this means. The final decision was by a majority of votes. Then if five parents said the moon was bigger than the sun, and only four that the sun was bigger than the moon, then the moon _was_ bigger than the sun. Voting was by parents. Thus the Bolderos counted as one vote only; which was not unjust, for the brood, who were inclined, under Dora's orders, to stand or fall together, would otherwise have swamped the meetings; as indeed they frequently did when the question was not one which had been referred back to parental omniscience. One day the supreme problem was raised. Joe Jones was not present, but perhaps he had inspired the discussion. It came breathlessly, with the swift tornado-strength of great ideas. Every one of us knew at once that we were face to face with something bigger than we had ever encountered before. Into our camp of innocence it fell like a bursting bombshell, scattering wonder in all directions. Of the innocence I feel pretty sure; I do not believe a single child knew. "They are _born_, of course," said one, sagely. "Yes; but _how_?" "Storks bring them," said little Ethel Prideaux. "On my panorama, there is a picture of a big white stork carrying a baby in its beak, and it puts it down the chimney." "Where does it get it?" objected Marcus. "Besides storks are only in Holland and places abroad; there aren't any left in England, and there are babies in England just the same." "I think it has something to do with gooseberry bushes," said Trixie King. "I overheard my Auntie saying so." "Well, we have nothing but flowers in our garden," said Billy Boldero, "and there are twelve in our family, and no gooseberry bushes." "It is neither storks nor gooseberries," said Dora Boldero, aged thirteen, importantly. "These are only fairy tales for children. The real reason" (she lowered her voice impressively) "is this. Doctors bring them. Whenever we have a baby born" (at least an annual event in the Boldero ménage) "the doctor comes. He always brings with him a Black Bag. _That's it!_" (Sensation.) Marcus was the first to recover. Even Black Bag was inadequate as First Cause. "Yes, but where does he get the baby first, before he puts it in the bag to bring? He must get it somewhere." "From the gooseberry bush, of course," said Trixie King, in a bold effort to recover her position. "I expect there is a special garden behind doctors' houses where they grow." "But if there isn't?" objected Marcus pitilessly. "Doctor Le Mesurier has no garden at all, neither has Doctor Hale." "No," said Laurie Prideaux. "And I don't believe the Black Bag story one bit. Because if it were that, the doctor could take the bag anywhere, and give whoever he liked a baby, just whenever he liked. And he can't, I know. Anybody can't have a baby just when they like. Mother says Mrs. Pile at Number Three has wanted one for years. Besides, any one can't have one. Only mothers have babies." "_And_ fathers," said some one. "Fathers and mothers together; there must be both. At least there always _is_ both." "Except--" We all looked awkwardly at Johnny Blackmore, the posthumous one. He flushed slightly under his olive skin. "No, I had a father too; he _was_ my father, though he died before I was born." "Well, if your father can die before you are born, what makes him your father? What does 'being your father' mean?" We were getting to fundamentals. "Can a mother die too before her baby is born?" Nobody could answer this. Somehow it _seemed_ more improbable. Besides, we had no motherless counterpart of Johnny Blackmore to support the notion. "Whether they die or whether they don't," said Laurie, summing up, "all that we've found out so far is that there must be a father and there must be a mother; a gentleman and a lady, that is, who are married. They must be married." "No, they needn't be," I cried eagerly. "Sister Lucy Fry at our Meeting is not married, and she has a baby four months old!" The sensational character of my information allowed my first utterance in a Lawn assembly to pass unreproved. There was an impressed silence. Everybody waited for more. "It is not often, I don't think," I went on. "It was a mistake of some kind, and a sin too. Much prayer was offered up, and Aunt Jael nearly had her turned out of fellowship. It is _wrong_ to have a baby if you are not married. Wrong, but not impossible." "That's important," said Marcus, "but we've really found nothing out. How are they made? What makes them come?" "The Lord," said I, sententiously. This was a falling off. "I know. But _how_?" Marcus was final. "This is a thing that has got to be asked at home. Tomorrow evening at half-past-five you will all report what you have found out. It is a thing we ought to know. We shall have to have children ourselves one day." "I don't like to athk," simpered Kitty Prince. "Mother'd not like me to I'm thure." Perhaps she really knew, though more likely vague instinct coloured her reluctance. It was a reluctance I did not share. The meeting was about to disperse, and I was resolving in my mind the words I should use when asking my Grandmother, wondering what her answer might be, when "There's Joe coming in at the gate," was shouted, "let's ask him." We crowded round him as he approached. "Well, what is it, kids?" he said, in his royal cocksure way. Laurie told him. He smiled: an evil important smile. "And nobody knows anything," concluded Laurie. "Don't they?" leered Joe, looking around to see that all the Lawn children were listening, and no one else. "Don't they. _I_ know." He told us. He told us with a detail that left no room for doubt and a foulness that smote our cheeks with shame. "It is not true." I kept whispering to myself. My cheeks burned, and I was shaking all over. Against myself, I believed him. It was horrible enough to be true. He gave us fatherhood as it appeared to him. When he came to the mother's sacrifice of pain, and desecrated it with filthy leering words, I could bear it no longer, and eluding all attempts to stop me, I fled wildly into the house, and upstairs to my Grandmother. She looked up from the Word, surprised in her calm fashion. "What is it, my dear?" I told her. "O Grandmother, it is not as cruel as that, is it? It is not true? Tell me it is not true!" "It is true, my dear." "And does it hurt like that?" "Yes, my dear." "Why--why isn't there some easier way? So horrible the first part, and then so cruel. It is wrong." "It's the Lord's will, my dear. It always has been and always will be. Meanwhile, you are not to go on the Lawn again till I have spoken to your Aunt. I must seek the Lord's guidance. Leave me to lay it before Him." The look on Aunt Jael's face at supper-time soon banished the far terrors of motherhood: Grandmother had clearly told her all. It was unjust, of course: it was no crime on my part to have heard something--and something true--to which I could not help listening, which I had not sought to hear, and which terrified me now that I had heard it. It was unjust that she was angry. But there 'twas. All through supper she said nothing. I feared to receive her wrath, yet I could not bear that visit should be delayed till the morrow, which would mean a sleepless night of visualizing. As we rose from our knees after evening worship, Aunt Jael turned a grim eye on me and spoke. "I shall write to Simeon Greeber tomorrow." CHAPTER XIII: I GO TO TORRIBRIDGE I knew what that meant. It had been hinted at on several occasions since the birthday party. I was to go to Torribridge to live with Uncle Simeon. I disliked Uncle Simeon, and did not want to leave my Grandmother. On the other hand I longed to see the world, and to get away from Aunt Jael. I must show her how glad I was at the prospect. "You mean you're going to write to him about my going to live there?" I said it in a cool pleased fashion, then at once regretted I had done so, for I knew Aunt Jael well enough to see that the pain the punishment she proposed would cause me was a more important thing than saving me from baneful Lawn influence; if I showed her too plainly I was glad to go to Torribridge, which on the whole I fancied I was, she might cancel the plan without more ado. So I repeated: "You mean you're going to write to him about my going to live there?"--but this time my voice had a note of mournfulness; Aunt Jael sat up and stared. She failed to see through me, however; could not probe the depths of my cunning, as I the depths of her ill-will. Grandmother comforted me: "'Twill be a change, my dear. Your Aunt and I think 'twill be a good and useful change for you. Your Aunt Martha will teach you many new things. Don't 'ee be tearful, my child: the Lord will watch over you." Two days later Uncle Simeon arrived to take me. Pasty faced, white-livered, cringing little wretch, with his honeyed smile and honey-coloured hair. He sniffed as always. "Good day, dear Miss Vickary. Good morning, dear Mrs. Lee. You too, dear little one. One is well pleased to see all one's kinsfolk looking so well in mind and body, well pleased indeed! One scarce knows how to express oneself. But one can give thanks, ah yes, one can give thanks." We sat down to dinner. Food punctuated but did not check his flow of eloquence. He got the food on to his fork, but did not lift it. Instead he ducked his head and snatched, tearing the food from the fork as a wolf warm flesh from a bone. His eyes glistened as Mrs. Cheese placed a steaming mutton-pie before Aunt Jael. "Your daughter, dear Mrs. Lee? Yes, dear Martha was well, when one left her this morning, and--D. V.--still is. She sends her fond greeting to you both. One took leave of her with a heavy heart, though 'tis only for a day, for one's love is so jealous, one's absences so rare. One took the eleven o'clock railway-train from Torribridge.... There were two ladies in the compartment with one. One was glad, ay glad indeed, to observe that ere the train started, they both whipped out their Bibles. One entered into earnest conversation with them. One was overjoyed, if surprised, to find that, although they were Baptists, they were good Christians." "There are many such," interposed my Grandmother. "Don't 'ee be narrow, Simeon Greeber." "Maybe, maybe, dear Mrs. Lee. God gives grace in unlikely places. Be that as it may, however, at Instow both ladies got out, and a gentleman entered the carriage, a man of means from his appearance, one would say. One remembered that he was but a sinner. One remembered the heavenly injunction: In season and out of season. One spoke a quiet word to him as to the Gospel plan. One was polite, if earnest. Alas, the poor sinner answered roughly. The Devil spoke in him. He used an evil word one's modesty forbids one to repeat. But in the Lord's service one must endure much. One suffered, but one forgave. Tonight he will be remembered in one's prayers. One was pained, hurt, wounded, grieved--but angry,--no! Anger is not the sin which doth most easily beset one." (What was? I wondered. Gluttony perhaps, I thought, as I watched his staccato snatches at a big second helping of the mutton-pie.) "One looked again at the face of the handsome sinner opposite. A voice spoke within one: 'Be not weary in well doing,' but a second effort at godly conversation yielded, alas, no better result. One had done one's duty, and for the rest of the journey one reflected on the different Eternities facing the poor sinner's soul and one's own. The railway train reached Tawborough in the Lord's good time, and here one is, rejoiced to see all one's dear relatives ... rejoiced indeed...." The moment Mrs. Cheese had cleared away the table-cloth, Aunt Jael was curt: "To business, to business!" And to me, "You're not wanted. Make yourself scarce." I went upstairs to the spare bedroom, meaning to sit on a settee by the window and daydream away the time. I opened the window. The dining-room downstairs must have been open too, for I could hear Aunt Jael's voice booming away. "Eight shillings" and "Child" I heard. I should never have tried to overhear, but now I found I could hear without trying--by the window here, whither I had come quite by accident. I could not help hearing if I tried--perhaps I had been _led_ to the window-seat by the Lord, perhaps it was providential, perhaps I _ought_ to listen. Besides, Mrs. Cheese did it: I caught her red-handed listening outside the door one day when Aunt Jael and Grandmother were discussing a rise in her wages. And eavesdropping was not a _sin_. There was no commandment, "Thou shalt not eavesdrop"--Our Lord had never forbidden it--there was nothing in the Word against it. And what harm would be done? As they were discussing my future, I should know soon enough in any case what they decided, so why not know at once?... No deceivers in the world are so easily deceived as self-deceivers. I leaned right out of the window. "Agreed then, Simeon Greeber. You will take her for twelve months, treat her as your own boy, and have the same lessons taught her by Martha. And eight shillings a week for the board." "Eight shillings?" queried a treacly voice, yet pained as well as treacly. "_Eight_ shillings?" It is impossible to describe the sweet sad stress he laid on the numeral, or the wealth of poignant sentiment that stress conveyed. Not of greed or graspingness, oh dear no! Rather of pained sorrow at the greed and graspingness of Aunt Jael. "Eight? One fears 'twill be difficult. If it were _nine_, one might hope, one might struggle, one might endeavour--" "Stuff and nonsense. A child of nine years old, eating little; and your table don't _groan_ with good things. Eight is enough and to spare. Not one ha'penny-piece more. Yea or nay?" A pause, ere Christian meekness gave in to unchristian ultimatum. "Well then, dear Miss Vickary, one will try, one will hope--" "Call the child," she cut him short. I fled from the window guiltily. "Yes, Grandmother, I'm coming," I called back. Uncle Simeon stayed the night: my last at Tawborough. Grandmother was kind. I did not know how I loved her till I felt I was going to lose her. This was my first big step in life. I was losing my old moorings, and sailing off to a new world. My mouth was dry, as it is when the heart is sick and apprehensive. Aunt Jael was adamant against my spending even occasional Lord's Days at Tawborough. I was to visit Bear Lawn but once during the year, though 'twas but nine miles away. There was no appeal against this: Aunt Jael had decided it. Grandmother came to my bedroom. We read the twenty-third psalm together. Then she prayed for me, and we sang an old hymn together. At "Good-night, my dearie" I clung to her more than usual. "There's only you in the world that really likes me." "No, my dear, there is your good aunt. And there is God. Don't 'ee say nobody loves you when _He_ is there. Don't 'ee think all the time of yourself. Think of making others happy. There'll be your little cousin Albert to befriend. Your Aunt Martha is kind, and will treat you well. That is why I'm letting 'ee go. Your Uncle Simeon too--" "_He's_ not kind," daringly. "Hush, my dear, don't 'ee say so. He's a godly man, and fears the Lord exceedingly. He will treat you in a Christian way. And God will always be near you. Pray to Him every night, read in His word, sing to Him a joyful song of praise. Never forget that threefold duty and joy. Never forget, my dear. You will promise your Grandmother?" "Yes, Grandmother, but 'twill be lonely." "Your mother--my little Rachel--had worse trials than you, please God, will ever know; yet she praised God always. Will you be brave like her?" "Yes, Grandmother," huskily, and I kissed her twice. Next day, after an early dinner, we left Bear Lawn. I had a grim godspeed from the old armchair. "No highty-tighty, no monkey tricks, no stubborn ways. Fear the Lord at all times,"--and a swift formal peck which was not swift enough to conceal perhaps a faint tinge of regret. * * * * * * * We left by rail. Uncle Simeon read his Bible the whole way to Torribridge, and never spoke a word. It was only my second journey by railway, and I had enough to interest me in looking out of the window. The country-side was bright with spring. Little did I foresee the different circumstances of my return journey. I well remember our arrival. There was a tea-supper on the table, so meagre that my heart sank at the outset. There was my Aunt Martha. She seemed like a weak tired edition of my Grandmother. She looked miserable and underfed; I soon came to know that she was both. I regarded Albert, a dull heavy-faced boy with a big mouth and thick lips. The latter soon opened. "Don't stare, _you_! Father, she's staring at me." "It's not true. I'm not staring. I was just looking at him." "Come, there, no answerings back in this house, learn that once for all." There was still a good deal of honey about Uncle Simeon's, still small voice, but it was flavoured with aloes now and other bitter things, whose presence he had kept hidden at Bear Lawn. The honeyed whine was now very near a snarl, as he showed his shiny white teeth and repeated, "Once for all." The Tawborough mask was being put aside already. A clock outside struck the hour. I looked at the time-piece, which registered eight o'clock. So did he. "She knows her bedroom, Martha? Yes. At eight she goes to bed, and eight in the morning we take our humble breakfast. Come now, to bed!" I was faced with the Good-night difficulty. Albert I ignored, and he me. Aunt Martha was plain sailing. She looked kind, if weak and blurred. We kissed each other listlessly on the cheek. But from Uncle Simeon I shrank instinctively as I came near him. He saw my feelings, I saw he hated me for them, he saw that I felt his hate. That refusal to kiss was a silent declaration of inevitable war. He took the offensive that very night, as the clock hands showed next morning. I went upstairs with my candle, and sat down on a chair in the middle of the room. There was an unused smell about everything which seemed to add to my homesickness and sense of lost bearings. Bear Lawn had never been a gay and festive place, but it was home, and here in the dreary room the first-night-away-from-home feeling overcame me badly with all its disconsolate accompaniments of damp eyes and dry throat. The old injustice burned in my heart, the old bitterness came back. Why had I had to leave my Grandmother, the only one in the world who cared for me? Why was there nobody who loved me even more than that, in whose bosom I could hide my face and cry, whose love to me was wonderful? Why had the Lord left me no Mother who would have loved me best of all? The same old questions reduced me to the same old tears ... I pulled myself together and remembered my three-fold duty: to say my prayers, to read my psalm, to sing my hymn. I decided, with a true Saint's whim, to choose my nightly psalm by opening my Bible at random--I could gauge the whereabouts of the Psalms well enough, if only by the used look on the edge--and reading always the first psalm that caught my eye. Whether the Lord guided me to a choice of His own, or whether it was that my Bible opened naturally at so familiar a place, I do not know: anyway, there before me was the dirty, well-loved, well-thumbed page (page 537 I remember), and in the middle of it, plastered around with affectionate red crayon, stood my favourite 137th Psalm. I read aloud: _By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion._ At once the appropriateness of the words came to me. Never had I felt till now what I had been told a hundred times, that the Bible was written for _me_. Here was a psalm which expressed my identical sorrow: _We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof._ _For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted as required of us mirth, saying,_ _Sing us one of the songs of Zion._ _How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?_ I finished the psalm and then tried to sing my hymn as I had promised my Grandmother, but I could not. My heart and my voice failed me: _How could I sing the Lord's song in a strange land?_ I awoke next morning, refreshed, to see the bright sun shining in. I did not know the time, as nobody had called me, and I had no watch. Just as I had finished dressing, a clock outside struck, the same clock as the night before. I counted; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven--on the eighth stroke I went downstairs. I'll be punctual, I said to myself. Uncle Simeon, Aunt Martha and Albert were already at the table. I looked at the timepiece; it marked nearly a quarter after the hour! Yet last evening it had tallied with the chime outside. Aunt Martha and I exchanged a brief matutinal peck; I found it easier, after the first effort the night before, to keep away from Uncle Simeon. "Good morning, Uncle," was all I said. "Good morning," he replied, with a new touch of spite and venom in his whispering honeyed voice. "Not a good start, young woman. One said eight punctual for breakfast. 'Tis now fourteen minutes past." "I came down the second the clock outside struck the hour. Last night it was the same time exactly. One of them must have gone wrong all of a sudden, or been altered perhaps." "Altered? So you hint that this clock has been deliberately changed?" (I never thought of this till he suggested it, but then I knew; his shifty eyes betrayed him.) "One is not used to that sort of hint, and one has a way of dealing with it, a certain way." I began my bowl of porridge. Meanwhile Uncle Simeon and Albert were beginning their eggs, and as soon as I had emptied my porringer, I looked around for mine. There was no egg within sight. I waited; none appeared. I plucked up my courage to ask. "When is my egg coming, Aunt Martha?" There was a dead silence. Aunt Martha went red in the face, and looked uncomfortable. Uncle Simeon broke the silence. He looked hard at me, though never into my eyes. "When is your egg coming? It is _not_ coming. In one's house little girls are not pampered. They do not live on rich, unhealthy foods, nor wear sumptuous apparel. They do not lie upon beds of ivory, and stretch themselves upon their couches until a late hour, nor eat the lambs out of the flock, nor the calves out of the midst of the stall. They do not live in kings' houses; they live at Number One the Quay, Torribridge; under this Christian, if humble, roof. They eat humble Christian fare, and thank our Lord for it in a humble Christian way. If a fine generous bowl of porridge does not suffice, there is always plenty of good, plain bread. Your Aunt will give you as many crusts as you can wisely eat." So I was to be starved, and preached at in my starvation! He was going to make sure of his eight shillings' worth. I felt red with anger, but held my tongue, schooled to silence by ten years of Aunt Jael. Aunt Martha looked ashamed of his meanness, but was far too weak to fight it. What will she ever had was stamped out of her on her wedding-day, poor wretch. Albert, dull, greedy little beast, gloated coarsely over my discomfiture, his tongue (all yellow with egg) hanging out of his mouth. Uncle Simeon tried to disguise his triumph under his usual loathsome mask of meekness, or perhaps he felt that he had gone too far too soon. "Come, come! One is forgiving, one can be generous, merciful," and handed me the little top of his egg slit off by his breakfast knife. This was adding insult to injury. Tears of anger stood in my eyes, but I managed to get out a calm "No, thank you," which enabled him to write to my Grandmother, I afterwards found, that "the little one refuses even part of an egg for her breakfast." After breakfast came prayers. He whined where Aunt Jael thundered. Then came lessons with Albert and Aunt Martha. The former was stupid to a degree; the latter was very interesting to me, after my years of Miss Glory, especially in the French, to which I took at once. Dinner consisted of an interminable grace, three times as long as Grandmother's longest, and a tiny portion of hash. For "afters" there was a roly-poly pudding, quite plain, with no lovely hot jam worked in between the folds. Uncle Simeon and Albert had cold raspberry jam with theirs, out of a jar on the table. Aunt Martha and I did not. Manifestly the womenfolk at Number One the Quay did not live in Kings' houses, if the males did. Uncle Simeon was the King and Albert the King's son. My slice, the nasty dry bit at the end, was not four mouthfuls. He served everything. After dinner Albert and I were sent out for a walk together. "Where are we going to?" I asked. "Where I like," was the reply, in a sulky voice, ruder than he dared use before his father. "And look here you, learn at the start, when you go walks with me you'll do what I tell you. And if you see me doing aught as I choose to, and there's any sneaking--I've got a fist you know." The little brute lowered. I wondered what the dark things he hinted at might be; pitch-and-toss with boon companions of a like age, I afterwards discovered. Anyway, his hand too was against me: I was a young Hagar. For tea I had a bit of plain bread and a mug of hot milk and water, though Uncle Simeon and Albert had butter and whortleberry jam with their bread, and tea to drink. Afterwards I worked at the morning's lessons, sums and grammar and _je donne, tu donnes, il donne_. Then knitting--grey woollen socks for Brethren missionaries--evening prayers--my own bedside devotions--and bed. All days were much like the first one, when not worse. It was the most miserable period of my life. Soon the daily round at Bear Lawn became almost cheerful in my memory. I was wretchedly underfed; though I sometimes lost appetite, and could not even eat the scanty fare he allowed me. When I left food on my plate, unlike Aunt Jael he did not force me. Rather he made it a good excuse for saying I had more to eat than I needed. My morning porridge was what I liked best, and one day I said so. "Ah, gluttony!" he cried, and snatched my porringer, pouring off the milk and scraping the brown sugar on to his own plate; "Whosoever lusteth after her victuals, the same is lost. Ah, to make one's belly one's God, 'tis a sin before the Most High!" A starvation day in the attic was a favourite punishment, as it combined economy with cruelty. At times I should have fainted away half-famished but for what Aunt Martha privily conveyed me. Three evil passions, I soon found, held pride of place in Uncle Simeon; meanness, greed and cruelty. Sometimes, if at a meal-time Aunt Martha went into the kitchen for a moment, he would get up with a cat-like speed, scrape all the butter off her slice of bread-and-butter, and spread it on his own piece. Aunt Martha said nothing, to such depths of fear and obedience can women sink; though she flushed the first time she saw that _I_ saw this husbandly deed. He was too mean to keep a servant; helped once a week by a charwoman, a tall funereal Exclusive Sister named Miss Woe. Aunt Martha did all the work of a house twice the size of Bear Lawn. Cruelty came nearest to his heart. He flogged me brutally. The first time the trouble began over a letter, a few days only after I arrived at Torribridge. He came into the dining-room, sniffing spitefully. I knew something was afoot by the look of mean anticipated triumph in his eyes. He held out a letter for my inspection, placing his thumb over the name of the person to whom it was addressed. I could read "1, The Quay, Torribridge"; the handwriting was my Grandmother's. "_'Tis_ a letter from my Grandmother," I cried, "a letter for me." "A letter from your dear Grannie, true, true; but who said it was for you? Who said that? ha! ha!" "It is, I know it is. Give it me, please." Sniffing and sneering, he handed it across. There was "Miss Mary Lee" true enough; but the envelope had been opened. "_'Tis_ mine then; who opened it?" "Who opened it? One who will open every letter that comes if one chooses, in accordance with your dear Great-Aunt's wishes." "It's not true. I'm ten years old. Can't I open my own letters from my own Grandmother? She's my only friend in the world. It's not true." "Have a care what you say, young miss, have a care. There is another little friend for you in the drawing-room. You shall be introduced at once." I followed him upstairs, rabbit-like, not knowing what to expect. He locked the door. "Here is the Little Friend," he said, fetching from a corner a ribbed yellow cane. He gave me a cruel thrashing, clawing my left shoulder and whirling me round and round. The room was enormous; a spacious thrashing place. He hurt me as much as Aunt Jael on a field-day with the ship's rope, but I bawled less; no pain could draw from me the shrieks I knew he longed to hear. Never more than four or five days passed without his thrashing me. I could review impartially the modes and methods of the two tyrants I knew: Aunt Jael with her stout thorned stick, Uncle Simeon with his lithe ribbed cane. Aunt Jael dealt hard brutal blows, Uncle Simeon sly mean strokes. She hit and banged and bruised. He swished and stung and cut. Hers was the Thud and his the Whirr. Both of them would have been prosecuted nowadays; there was no N.S.P.C.C. then to violate the sacred right of the individual to maltreat his human chattels. Both Great-Aunt and Uncle always left me bruised, and sometimes-bleeding. Yet of the two I dreaded his canings more; because he seemed so much the viler. Not that the dust of the Torribridge beatings formed as it were a halo round the Tawborough ones, not that Aunt Jael's grim masterpieces were becoming a winsome memory, not that a safe distance lent any enchantment to my mental view of her strong right arm. But with a child's instinctive perspicuity, I felt, though I could not have put my feelings into words, that there was some notion with my Great-Aunt beyond mere brutality; some sense of duty, of loyalty to her own Draconian creed. Her Proverbs counselled her thus. Chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying--little she spared for mine;--I found it needed loud houseful of crying for briefest moment of sparing. He that spareth his rod hateth his son, but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes--then indeed was her love for me exceeding great, out-measuring far the love of Paris for Helen for whose sake terrific war was made and Ilion's plains shook with thunder of armed hosts and Troy town fell, or King Solomon's for his Beloved in the garden of lilies and pomegranates. She thought she was doing her duty. I knew that Uncle Simeon had no such excuse, and that he was something much worse than Aunt Jael: a coward. He was craven, creeping, caddish. He liked to flog me because I was weak and small and defenceless. His pale face sweated, his eyes lit up with a loathsome triumph, his lips were wet with joy. His cold clammy hands--like wet claws--gripped my shoulder. As evil breeds always evil, his hate bred hate in me: a physical, unhealthy hate I feel to this day, though he is long since gone to his judgment. I had no friend, no affection, to protect me from this creature or compensate me for his presence. Aunt Martha, in whom her mother's gentleness ran to feebleness, was sometimes petulant, often kind (if she dared), and always null. With Albert, except on walks, I had little to do. Sometimes he bullied me, or spat or cursed at me, when there was nobody about. At times he was bearable, because too idle to be anything else. I missed my Grandmother terribly, whom I saw through this dark atmosphere as a very angel of kindness. Life was even now more monotonous than at Bear Lawn, except for the daily walks: there were no changes, no variety, no visitors. Once indeed Mr. Nicodemus Shufflebottom, who had been ministering on Lord's Day to the Torribridge Exclusive Saints, and had missed the last conveyance back to Tawborough, was reluctantly put up for the night by Uncle Simeon. The ill-concealed tortures the latter endured at beholding the egg and bacon Aunt Martha had the temerity to put before Mr. Nicodemus for his breakfast, was a delight that stands fresh in my memory today. On Sundays the week's monotony was hardly broken by the Meeting, a dull funereal affair, with none of the godly enthusiasm of our Great Meeting. Some ten dull or consumptive-looking creatures attended. Uncle Simeon was the one High Priest: he did fifty per cent of the praying, seventy-five per cent of the exposition, chose and called out almost all the hymns, and always took and "apportioned" the offertory. Nobody else counted for anything. I can just recall one Brother Atonement Gelder, who sniffled richly throughout the service in away that reminded me of oysters. I see, vaguely, a Brother Berry; and, more vaguely, a Brother Smith. They are shadows; the Meeting never filled a place in my life as at Tawborough. I remember more clearly Uncle Simeon's long sticky half-whispered supplications to the Lord, and one particular hymn we droned out every Lord's Day: _Come to the ark! come to the ark!_ Oh come, oh come away! The pestilence walks forth by night The arrow flies by day. _Come to the ark!_ the waters rise, The seas their billows rear: While darkness gathers o'er the skies Behold a refuge near. _Come to the ark!_ all--all that weep Beneath the sense of sin; Without, deep calleth unto deep, But all is peace within. _Come to the ark!_ ere yet the flood Your lingering steps oppose! Come, for the door which open stood, Is now about to close. Most of the hymns were in the old London Hymn Book we used at Tawborough, so I could join in the singing from the very first. It pained me to hear the thin peevish rendering the Torribridge Exclusives gave of _He sitteth o'er the water-floods_, or their pale piping of Brother Briggs' stentorian favourite _I hear the Accuser Roar_. Aunt Martha and I squeaked feebly, Brother Atonement Gelder sniffled in tune, and Uncle Simeon whispered the words to himself with his eye in godly thankfulness turned heavenward. We stood up for the hymns; it is the only Meeting--but one--at which I have known this done. We worshipped in a dark stuffy little room behind a baker's shop. Aunt Martha scarcely spoke to the other Saints or they to her. My one idea was to get back to Bear Lawn. Aunt Jael said I was to live here for at least one year, and for three if it proved satisfactory--satisfactory to her. I was to have one holiday in Tawborough each year; but not till the first year was out. Grandmother had said she would come over sometimes; I knew that Uncle Simeon was not eager to have her and would find excuses for delaying her visits. Could I abide it for a year? Fear and ill-usage and hunger were worrying me into a state of all-the-time nervousness and wretchedness beyond what I had ever experienced. How could I tell Grandmother this, and how much I wanted to come back to her? He read all my letters, and I knew she would disapprove if I tried to write without his knowing. What should I do? Counting the days and crossing them off each night on the wall-almanac in my bedroom might help to make them pass more quickly. After all Aunt Jael was no magnet drawing me back to Tawborough. If life was worse here with him, it was bad enough there with her. Life was a wretched business altogether. Still, Uncle Simeon was worse than Aunt Jael, and if the walks and fresh air I got here compensated for the better food at Bear Lawn, my Grandmother weighed down the balance overwhelmingly in favour of the latter. I _must_ get back. But how? I was ignorant and inexperienced beyond belief. I first thought of just leaving the house one day, and running back to Tawborough. I could manage the nine miles from one door to the other,--but the doors! I already felt Uncle Simeon's claws dragging me in as I sought to cross his threshold, and Aunt Jael's heavy hand on my shoulder at the other end if ever I should reach it. If I dared to run away, even if not sent back to worse days here, I could see a bad time of punishment and wrath ahead at Bear Lawn. It would be jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire, bandying myself between the thorned stick and the ribbed cane, escaping from unhappiness to unhappiness. It was hell here, and near it there--hell everywhere. If my face was as disagreeable as my heart was bitter and wretched, I must have looked a dismal little fright. Albert assured me that I did. CHAPTER XIV: I BECOME CURIOUS Uncle Simeon did not improve on closer acquaintance; nor on closer reflection did my chance of foregoing that acquaintance improve. Just as he abandoned all pretence of being kind and affable, so I began to abandon all hope of getting back to Tawborough for the present. How could I escape him? gave place to: How could I harm him? I soon came to see that he was in constant fear of something. Slight sounds and movements would make him start. Sometimes when we were talking he would slink away suddenly as though to reassure himself that all was well in some other part of the house. Could I somehow expose him, triumph over him? In those days Torribridge Quay, though much decayed, was far livelier than it is today; the river-side was dark with masts, and you could still see the serried line of brown sails: trading ships that plied the routes to the Indies and the two Americas. Number One was a substantial square-looking house hard by the bridge. It was dark, darker even than No. 8 Bear Lawn and very much bigger. The house had belonged to Uncle Simeon's brother, and came to him when the brother died. On the ground floor were three big living rooms--in only one of which we lived. The first floor contained a gloomy sort of drawing-room of enormous dimensions, known to me as the thrashing-room, and five bedrooms. Three of these were large, one being occupied by Uncle Simeon and Aunt Martha, and the other two permanently untenanted. Two smaller bedrooms were used respectively by Albert and myself. Two narrow staircases led to the garrets, the front one to "my" attic (I call it such because I was locked therein not less than three times a week), a small bare apartment with one window, so high in the wall that I could barely see out of it even when standing on tip-toe; the back one to Uncle Simeon's "study." Here he concocted potions if any of us were ill, and here for long hours at a stretch he studied the Word of God. Sometimes he spent whole days there, descending only for meals. This back staircase to the second storey was from the first forbidden to me, forbidden in so marked and threatening a manner as to arouse my curiosity. It was on my second or third day that he found me loitering about near the foot of it. He came upon me suddenly in his carpet-slipper way. I started. He started too. "_If_ one were to find you where one forbids you to go"--he looked expressively up the narrow staircase--"_if_--well, one thinks it would be better not." His words had, of course, the opposite effect to that he intended. I determined to risk a rush up this staircase. There were difficulties. I was never alone in the house, and the creaky uncarpeted floor would be sure to give me away. My strong impulse towards obedience, whether the fruits of a nine-year-long régime of thorned stick, or of natural instinct, or both, also counselled leaving well alone. Again, fear was a deterrent, especially when I found that he was watching me; though this stimulated curiosity as well as fear. For some days the battle, Curiosity versus Fear, raged within me: a passion of curiosity as to the mystery of the forbidden room, a lively sense of what Uncle Simeon's mood and methods would be like if he caught me there. One day I plucked up courage for an attempt. I took off my shoes and tip-toed upstairs. The old stairs creaked villainously. To every creak corresponded a twinge of fear in my heart; I waited each time to see if anything had been heard. At last I reached the top in safety. The key was in the lock inside the door, so I could see nothing. It was some seconds before I realized the fact that the key was inside proved that Uncle Simeon was probably there! For a moment I stood petrified with fear. As he did not seem to have heard me, however, a swift descent was my best policy. It was some days before I recovered enough spirit to make a second attempt: one afternoon, after tea, when Uncle Simeon was out. This time there was no key in the door, but it was too dark to see much. All I could make out was a big square box, painted dark green, straight ahead of the key-hole--a safe, though I did not know it--and, by peering up, a dark thing which looked like a big hole in the top of the wall. This was disappointing; next day I seized an opportunity of going up earlier. I could see the big green box quite clearly, and could confirm my idea that the black thing was a large square hole in the wall. There was nothing more to be seen, and I returned for a cautious descent. But my feet refused to move. There at the foot of the narrow staircase was the white leering face. I was caught, without escape or excuse. I stood still with fright, waiting for him to say something, to come up to the little landing on which I stood, to touch me, maul me, strike me. He slunk up the stairs. While he came along, smiling, smiling, I stood numbed and helpless. We were the cowering hypnotized rabbit and the sure triumphant serpent. But no, as he came nearer I saw that his face bespoke anything but triumph. There was the same fear and anxiety I had noticed on the first day, and in addition a queerer look I seemed to remember in some more poignant though less definite way. That half-hunted half-hunter look, sneer of triumph distorted by fear, what was it? What string of my memory did it touch? As he reached the top I saw he was sweating with fright, and his fear assuaged mine. I was by now excited rather than frightened, and puzzled even more. He peered into my face. It was an unpleasant moment, quite alone with him on that tiny lonely landing at the top of the house. I feared I did not know what. He clawed my shoulder. "Trapped, young miss, trapped. One will bear with much, but with disobedience never" (a sniff). "If this should happen again,--but ha! ha! one has something, something very sure, that will prevent that. Something that stings and cuts and curls, ha! ha! Something worse than one's poor mere cane." "What?" I said faintly. "A whip," he whispered. As my fear grew, so his lessened. Then the queer unremembered look came to his face again, and he changed his tone completely. His grasp of my shoulder was transformed from a menace into a coax. "Well, well, we will say no more about it, we will say no more about. _We_," he repeated meaningly. (With anybody else I should not have noticed the word, which fell strangely from his lips. "_One_ will say no more," was his natural phrase.) "If you hold your tongue and don't tell your Aunt Martha I found you here--there'll be no flogging." It was a tacit pact. He descended the staircase, and I followed him. I thought perhaps I might learn something by pumping Albert. "What is there in your father's study?" I asked him casually on a walk. "Oh, some old bottles and books; nothing much, father lets me go in sometimes, but there's nothing special to see." This was a genuinely casual reply. It puzzled me. If the room was so mysterious, why did Uncle Simeon take Albert there, yet forbid me entrance with such obvious fear? "He thinks I'm sharper," I flattered myself. This was true, but it explained very little. My curiosity grew. I rehearsed every detail: the green box, the hole in the wall, Uncle Simeon's original veto, and his extreme fear the day he caught me. And that look? Where had I seen it? I racked my brains without success. Then one night in bed, with a mad suddenness it flashed into my mind as these things do. It was the self-same look I had noticed at Bear Lawn on Aunt Jael's seventieth birthday when we were talking about his brother and how he died and I had said artlessly: "Perhaps it was Poison?" The expression on his face that day was the same as when he clutched me on the staircase. The dead brother was part of the same mystery as the attic. Wild ideas coursed through my head. The so-called study was one vast poison-den. The dead brother's skeleton was lying there, the bones were strewn about the floor. Or he had been pushed through the strange black hole in the wall--where did that hole lead to? or his body had been squashed into the green box. I resolved to raise the poison topic in front of him, and to watch the effect. I would mention it as though quite by accident, and look as artless as I could. Necessity which sharpens all things, had equipped me with a special cunning to achieve the chief aim of my existence: the smallest possible number of beatings. But all my cunning never reduced the least little bit in the world my extreme timidity. Thus while I was quite equal to preparing beforehand a seemingly offhand question for Uncle Simeon as to Poison, I quailed at the thought of actually putting it. I simply dared not talk to him direct, nor should I be able to look at him so closely if I did. I decided to introduce the topic to Aunt Martha one day when he should also be present. Should I begin talking about the dead brother, or more specifically about poisoning? The latter was more difficult to introduce, but a more crucial test. How could I begin a conversation about poison? I prepared a hundred openings, none of which seemed natural. As usual the opportunity came unexpectedly. Thanks to my scheming I was not quite unprepared. One evening Uncle Simeon was sitting at the dining-room table reading the Word, while Aunt Martha was discoursing to me on God's Plan of Salvation, exhorting me to repentance while it was not yet too late. "Ah, how great is the likelihood of hell for every one of us! For you, my child, it is woefully great. You, who have been brought up in the glory of the Light, who have communed from your earliest days with the Saints--" "The Saints, my dear?" sniffed Uncle Simeon, "one would hardly say _the_ Saints. To be sure there are many true and earnest believers like your dear mother and dear Miss Vickary amongst them; yet the Open Brethren are for the most part but weak vessels. Only we of the Inner Flock are truly entitled to be called _the_ Brethren, _the_ Saints. But proceed, my dear." "Well, my dear, though your uncle is of course right, none will deny that you have had more light shed upon your path than many poor little children. Think of the little black children out in Africa and India, think even of the little ones in England who have Methodist or Churchgoing or Romanish fathers and mothers. Unless you are saved, what will you do if the Lord takes you suddenly? Are you ready to face Him? Are you ready to die? There are many, you know, whom the Lord calls away very, very suddenly. Today they are, tomorrow they are not. One moment healthy and strong, the next white and stark. The Lord takes them in an instant--" "Like Uncle Simeon's brother," I broke in. "Didn't the Lord take him very suddenly?" I managed to keep my voice steady and to watch him while pretending I was not. He tried to pretend he was not watching me. Whether I betrayed my excitement I do not know. _He_ was certainly uneasy. "Yes, my child, the Lord took him in a moment. It was never known of what disease he went." She spoke in her usual lifeless way. She suspected nothing. "Perhaps his heart?" I said learnedly. It was a favourite ailment of Miss Salvation Clinker's; 'er 'eart. "Or perhaps he had eaten something that was not good for him, too much laver or some mussels or periwinkles, maybe?" Here again my dietetic insight was based on Miss Salvation's lore. I was killing time while I summoned up courage for the crucial word--"or--or--took something that poisoned him?" The word was out and it had gone home. He did not scold me as he ordinarily would have done for talking so much. I saw him looking sickly and frightened by the glare of the lamp by which he was pretending to read. Then he got up hurriedly and left the room. I began to rack my brains for some more ordinary remarks to cover my retreat. Aunt Martha saved me the trouble. "Poison," she said, "nonsense, most likely heart failure." "Yes," I replied, "Miss Salvation Clinker says all sudden deaths come from heart failure." "All sudden deaths come because the Lord calls," she corrected. "The Lord called him, that was all. If He calls _you_, be ready." What I had so far discovered came to this: first, that talk of his brother's death brought a queer look to Uncle Simeon's face; second, that if you spoke of poison there was the same look; third, that it was one and the same with the expression on his face the day he caught me outside his study door. In my heart I had already charged him with the worst of all crimes. I was determined by hook or crook to get into that study; to solve that mystery, which had the shadow of death--and of Uncle Simeon--upon it. This was about the end of August 1859. Then for a few weeks a happier interest came into my life. But here again the shadow of Uncle Simeon interposed, and darkened the happy dream. CHAPTER XV: WESTWARD HO! Uncle Simeon did not allow me to go for walks alone. Albert, however, who was my usual companion, got into the habit of leaving me as soon as we were away from the Quay, with a curt intimation to clear off in another direction and to meet him later at a given place and time so that we might return to the house together. One fine day in early Autumn, I climbed to the top of one of the hills that looks down on Torribridge: a picture made up of white houses, shining river, old bridge, green bosomy hills sloping down to the stream, and over them all the sun. The scene was pleasing, yet it meant very little to me. There was the sun in my blood, and a young creature's delight in the fine bright day, and in the feeling of space and power that you may feel in high clear places; no more than that. There was no conscious enjoyment of the loveliness beneath me. The joy that beautiful scenery can give to the soul I did not know. Children, like animals, do not feel it. This emotion comes from books, pictures and art generally. As to romantic little boys who draw, or say they draw, their deepest emotions from Nature's well--if so, it must be because they are learned little boys who, taught by the magical words of fine books that Nature is beautiful, have turned to her to find it true. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye ... a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Wordsworth (that lost soul) felt those things and described them in authentic terms. He could do this because he was not an ordinary, but a very extraordinary, child of the mountains. How many shepherd boys sallying forth at dawn with their flocks up the Stye or along the Little Langdale are haunted "like a passion" by the natural beauties they see? They do not share the poet's emotions because they know nothing of the lovely words and pictures and ideas that can invest poor Nature with romance. In any case, I was neither a romantic nor a learned little boy, but a very ignorant and unromantic little girl. It was only when I became suddenly a little less ignorant of books, history and ideas, that I came to see--where before there was at most a vague unconscious sense of pleasure--that Torribridge town seen from the hills was a fair prospect. This is how it happened. I was leaning on a stile, idly looking down towards the far-away bridge and trying to count the arches. "Fine!" said a quiet voice behind me. I started, turned round, and beheld a stranger looking down at me. He was a tall young man of perhaps twenty; his face pale and rather thin. His eyes peered. A proud mouth contrasted with earnest eyes. He wore breeches and carried a gun. Half squire, half scholar; something of the studious, the aristocratic and sporting all combined. All I was sure of just then was a pair of kind brown eyes which I immediately and favourably contrasted with the steel-blue glitter of Uncle Simeon's, and something exquisite and somehow superior to myself in their owner. I had an unerring instinct of class inferiority: I knew my betters. "Fine, isn't it?" repeated the Stranger. "Ye-es," I said. I thought him a bit silly, and felt sillier myself. "It's a fine sight," he said, leaning against the stile by my side. "Isn't it, little girl? Come, say Yes." The enthusiasm I failed to understand made me combative. "What's the good of it?" I said tartly. "It hasn't a soul." The Stranger stared. He was surprised--or amused--I was not sure which. "Hasn't a soul! This little town that has nestled there for a thousand years, from the days when the Vikings first sailed up the Torridge till the days when the New World was found, when ships sailed forth to the Indies from that quay there and came back laden with gold and wonderful spices? This little town we're looking at now that sent many ships to the Armada and hundreds more to harry the Spaniards on all the seas? Hasn't a soul, little girl! Are you sure?" "I didn't know all that; I have never heard of all those things and people. There's Robinson Crewjoe, who sailed away to the Indies and lived on an island, that Aunt Jael wouldn't let Mrs. Cheese finish telling me about. Did he sail from here?" "I'm not sure, but plenty of people like him did." "And what's the Vikings and the Great Armada? I've heard of the Great Leviathan. Is that the same?" "Not quite. Most little girls have heard of these things. It's very strange you know nothing about them. Don't you go to school?" "I did when I lived in Tawborough with my Grandmother and Aunt Jael: I went to Miss Glory Clinker's. But now I'm in Torribridge I do lessons at home with Aunt Martha." "Well, hasn't either the lady with the peculiar name or your aunt ever taught you any history?" "History? All about Saul and David and Solomon and Ahab?" "Yes, but there's other history; the history of Torribridge for instance, and of England; the History of the Armada we have just been talking about." "Why: did _you_ learn about those things at school?" "Yes. I do still." "But you don't go to school still?" "I do." "But you're grown up." "Well, I go to a school for grown-ups, don't you see?" "I've never heard of one. Where is it?" "In an old city a long way from here called Oxford." "Oxford! Why I've heard of some one who's there. Do you know Lord Tawborough?" The Stranger started. "I do--well; very well. What do _you_ know about him?" "I know he was there at Oxford, that's all; I heard my Grandmother say so. What's he like?" "That's rather a hard question, young woman." "Well, is he like you?" The Stranger smiled. "Something like me perhaps; about the same age." "Does he know about the Armada and all these wonderful things you've told me about?" "Yes, I expect so, I expect he does, and"--he switched away from Lord Tawborough--"you must learn about them too. You shall read about them in a book I'm going to give you." "A book? What do you mean? My Grandmother would not let me read any book but the Word, nor would Uncle Simeon. Torribridge doesn't come into the Bible, nor do the Vikings nor the Armada, because I've read it all through five times and I would remember the names." He smiled; it was a kind smile, yet quizzical. I liked him, but was not quite sure of him. I went on a little less confidingly. "All other books except the Bible are full of lies. Aunt Jael says so." This was final. How loyally I quoted Aunt Jael! Sure weapon with which to combat error. I knew I was a little boorish; perhaps I meant to be. "Well," said the Stranger, "your Grandmother and Uncle Simeon would let you read this book, I know, and as it's all quite true, Aunt Jael won't mind either. We will go down into the town and buy it." I was proud of his company, proud of his voice, his face, his breeches, his gun, which conferred distinction upon me. I apprehended that there was something odd or special about me that amused him. He liked me and I liked him. He was from a kinder handsomer world than mine. His face was a new treasure in my heart. I refused to go into the book-shop with him, partly through fear of being seen by Uncle Simeon, partly as a concession to Conscience. If I was going to read a worldly book at least I would not go into the evil place where it was sold. He came out and thrust a parcel into my hand. "Good-bye. Meet me on the hill some other day and tell me if you are still quite sure." "Thank you, Sir. Sure of what?" "That Torribridge hasn't a soul!" I stuffed the book into my blouse and rushed to the meeting-place Albert had fixed. I was half an hour late and he swore at me. When we got home, I put the parcel still unwrapped under the mattress. This was a safe place, as I made my own bed; I must wait to begin reading till the morning. If I were to begin tonight Uncle Simeon would see the light under the door and come in to complain of the waste of candles. So I resolved to wake early. Next morning I woke at five o'clock and undid my parcel. The book was a dark red one. On the cover was printed in gold letters "WESTWARD HO!" It was as big as an average Bible, but not so thick. The moment I opened it, I was struck by the scent of the new pages. All smells are indescribable, though smell aids the memory and quickens the imagination as much as any other sense. To this day, it is by digging my nose between those pages that I can best recall the sentiment of forty years ago: the pleasure of talking with the Stranger, the first wild rapture of reading. I began to read. Here was Torribridge, a place I knew and lived in, described in print. I had read no other book but the Bible, which was so familiar as to have become part of myself, part of my life, something more than any book. Then, too, its glamour was of far-away folk and lands, holy places and holy people. The fact that now for the first time I saw printed words about seen and homely places--that I read of Torridge instead of Jordan, of Torribridge instead of Nineveh, of little oak ships that sailed from Tawborough Bay instead of great arks of cedar wood that went forth from Tyre and Sidon--gave me a new and exciting sensation very hard to describe. In the degree that the little Devonshire town was less sacred than the Holy City of Mount Zion, so it seemed to my eager eyes more wonderful to read about. "All who have travelled through the delicious scenery of North Devon, must needs know the little white town of Torribridge, which slopes upwards from its broad tide-river paved with yellow sands, and many-arched old bridge where salmon wait for autumn floods, towards the pleasant upland on the west. Above the town the hills close in, cushioned with deep oak woods, through which juts here and there a crag of fern-fringed slate; below they lower, and open more and more in softly-rounded knolls, and fertile squares of red and green, till they sink into the wide expanse of hazy flats, rich salt marshes, and rolling sand-hills, where Torridge joins her sister Taw, and both together flow quickly toward the broad surges of the bar, and the everlasting thunder of the long Atlantic swell. Pleasantly the old town stands there, beneath its soft Italian sky, fanned day and night by the fresh ocean breeze which forbids alike the keen winter frosts, and the fierce thunder heats of the midland; and pleasantly it has stood there for now, perhaps, eight hundred years since the first Grenville cousin of the Conqueror, returning from the conquest of South Wales, drew round him trusty Saxon serfs, and free Norse rovers with their golden curls, and dark Silurian Britons from the Swansea shore...." That afternoon I climbed the hill again, and saw for the first time something of the romance of the little white town; the bright roofs, the line of masts and great brown sails in the harbour, the old bridge, the yellow sands, the fields green golden or red with pasture harvest or loam, the dark velvet forests, deep blue sky and quiet silver river. I could imagine now the fierce Atlantic not far away, to which the gentle stream was flowing. I saw that it was beautiful, in the same way that the lilies and roses in Solomon's Song are beautiful; or Heaven in Revelation, the city of jasper and pure gold, that has set in its midst the great white throne. This change was wrought by a book. My Grandmother's oft-repeated words that the salvation of God could only have been revealed in the Book came into my mind. When I came to the story proper of men who sailed _Westward Ho! with a rumbelow,_ _And hurra for the Spanish Main O!_ I was enthralled. The idea of a story, of a narrative of doings that never took place, of invented events, had never entered my head. Goldilocks, Rumplestiltskin and Little Red Riding Hood were not of my world. I had never begged "Tell me a story," nor heard the magical antiphone "Once upon a time." Had Grandmother ever heard of Westward Ho!? Did she know there were books like this; true, yet about familiar places? Surely she must. Would she approve? I doubted for a moment, remembering the picture-book Uncle John had once sent to me, which Aunt Jael destroyed while my Grandmother looked on consenting; but was reassured by the godly sentiments which I found everywhere: by familiar phrases, even on the second page, such as "heathen Roman and Popish tyranny." Were there other books like this? If so, I should like to read them. Were they about the Indies too? A world of ideas possessed me, a new planet had swum into my skies. I read hard, wildly. I woke up at four that I might have a good long read before getting up; I went to my bedroom at odd hours of the day to snatch a few moments' delight. One day just after dinner Uncle Simeon came in in his usual noiseless cat-like way. I just had time to stuff the book under the mattress and to begin pretending to do my hair. He did not seem to have seen anything. I began to compare or contrast everything I read with myself or my own experiences. Flogging, for instance,--as practised by Sir Vindex Brimblecombe, whilom servitor of Exeter College, Oxford, and master of the Grammar School of Torribridge. I read with interest that flogging is the "best of all punishments" (I inclined to doubt this), "being not only the shortest" (indeed!) "but also a mere bodily and animal punishment" (why _mere_?), "though for the punisher himself pretty certain to eradicate from all but the noblest spirits every trace of chivalry and tenderness for the weak, as well as all self-control and command of temper." How true! How Aunt Jael's chivalry had waned! How Uncle Simeon's tenderness for the weak had withered and wilted away! Surely this book too was inspired. I enjoyed Amyas' encounter with Sir Vindex Brimblecombe. I loved to read how Sir Vindex jumped up, ferula in hand, and exhorted Amyas to "come hither, sirrah, and be flayed alive"; how the latter "with a serene and cheerful countenance" took up his slate, and brought it down on the skull of Sir Vindex "with so shrewd a blow" that slate and pate cracked on the same instant, and Sir Vindex dropped down upon the floor and "lay for dead." Oh vicarious joy, oh borrowed plumes of valour that I wore for that incident! I shut my eyes and visualized Aunt Jael in the stead of Sir Vindex Brimblecombe. "Minx!" she said (not sirrah), as she advanced upon me "stick in hand," for although I did not know what a ferula was, I felt it was somewhat too light and lissom a description of thorned stick or ship's rope. How I envied Amyas' "serene and cheerful countenance" and revelled in the crash. I rehearsed the scene also with Uncle Simeon in the villain's part and with an even dearer joy brought down the avenging slate on his honey-coloured coxcomb. To every character in the book I tried to give a face. Amyas, the hero, was my difficulty; I had met no heroes. Don Guzman I pictured as Uncle Simeon, though statelier and nobler. Mrs. Leigh was naturally Mrs. Lee, my Grandmother; in name and character alike. Salvation Yeo I pictured as Brother Brawn, Frank Leigh,--tall, pale and distinguished--was of course the Stranger. I did not care very much for the Rose of Torridge herself, and had little interest in any of the ladies' doings. Theirs was a secondary part. They did not do things themselves; they stayed at home in Torribridge to think about and wait for and be loved by the men who did the valiant deeds. Love affairs, so-called, failed to interest me at all, though the passionate affection between Mrs. Leigh and her sons made me husky and envious. It never occurred to me to visualize myself as Rose; if I took any part it was Amyas'. I was much interested in the description of Christmas Day. "It was the blessed Christmas afternoon. The light was fading down; the even-song was done; and the good folks of Torribridge were trooping home in merry groups, the father with his children, the lover with his sweetheart, to cakes and ale, and flap-dragons and mummers' plays, and all the happy sports of Christmas night." Why _blessed_ Christmas afternoon, I wondered? Was the word used in Mrs. Cheese's naughty sense or Miss Glory Clinker's noble one? In either case I didn't see how it applied to the hideous 25th of December at Bear Lawn. I was pleased with the sound views on Popery, described as frantic, filthy, wily, false, cruel. Papists were skulkers, dogs, slanderers, murderers, devils. To be brought up by Catholics was to be taught the science of villany on the motive of superstition, to learn that "all love was lust" and all goodness foul. A Romanist was not a man, but a thing, a tool, a Jesuit. I did not understand it all, but I approved highly. That bigotry which mars the book in the eyes of fair-minded men was the quality that sealed it with the mark of virtue in my zealot eyes. Critics (I have since learnt) forgive the slanderous religious hate of this book for the sake of the fresh spirit and the fine story: I excused these dangerous delights to my conscience and to my Grandmother's conscience by the author's pious attitude towards Rome and error. I felt that the book, in spite of the wild pleasure it gave me, must nevertheless be godly, because of the pious plenitude with which it anathematized the Bad Old Man of the Seven Hills, the Scarlet Woman, the Great Whore of Babylon, the Blatant Beast, the great HIM-HER. There was self-deceiving here. The story was the thing: the most chivalrous adventure of the good ship "Rose"; how they came to Barbados, and found no men therein; how they took the pearls at Margarita; what befell at La Guayra; Spanish Bloodhounds and English Mastiffs; how they took the Communion under the tree at Higuerote; the Inquisition in the Indies; the banks of the Meta; how Amyas was tempted of the devil; how they took the gold train. I lived in a world of gold and silver, ships and swords, Dons and Devils. I saw the great Cordillera covered with gigantic ferns, and the foamless blue Pacific. I caught my breath as I stumbled on the dim ruins of dead Indian Empires; and I wiped my eyes when I read of Salvation Yeo and his little maid. I liked to read of the Queen of England, of Drake, Raleigh and Sir Richard Grenville, Devon men all, and John Oxenham swaggering along Torribridge Quay. I was interested most of all by Don Guzman, with his sweet sonorous voice, his woman's grace and his golden hair, as of a god. He had been everywhere and seen all. He knew the two Americas, the East Indies and the West, Old Spain, the seven cities of Italy, the twilight-coloured Levant and the multitudinous East.... I skimmed through each chapter quickly, and then read it slowly to drink in every word. Excitement of another kind was added by the difficulties of reading; I had to stop sometimes in the middle of an exciting passage and hide the book hastily away, when I heard Uncle Simeon on the staircase. However, I managed to get three-quarters way through without mishap: as far as the attack on the gold train. Amyas and his men were hiding in the forest. The long awaited Spaniards and their treasure were just in sight. "Suddenly"--my heart beat fast, then stood still at the sound of a stealthy foot-fall. The door opened and Uncle Simeon came in. I had no time to stuff the book under the mattress properly. I leaned against the place where the clothes were ruffled and pretended to be making my bed. This, I thought bitterly, was the only sort of excitement my life afforded: not splendid bravery and adventure in South American forests but mere feeble cunning to save myself from this whey-faced cringing wretch. He smiled blandly. "Your aunt wants you to go for a walk with her," he said. He tried to appear unconcerned, but I feared he had seen something. The moment he had gone I hid the book carefully under the mattress, right in the very middle of the bed. When I came back from the walk with Aunt Martha I went straight up to my room. _The book was not there._ My first rage at losing my treasure gave place, upon reflection, to fear. What would he do? At tea he smiled in a sneering way and said "What is worrying you, little one? You are pale." His manner frightened me. The very fact that he said nothing about the matter was unusual and presaged something exceptionally bad. Would he use the whip, or make the worst of it to Aunt Jael and Grandmother? And what had he done with the book? The answer to these questions, though I did not know it till much later, is lying before me as I write. It is written on faded yellow paper, in a neat hand, with old-fashioned pointed characters. NO 1, THE QUAY, TORRIBRIDGE, Sept. 17th 1858. Dear Kinswomen and Sisters in the Lord,-- One hopes the fine weather the Lord is sending finds both of you as well in body and mind and as thankful in spirit for our manifold blessings from above as I rejoice to say it finds dear Martha and one's own poor self. Dear little Mary too is well: the happy result of the good air of Torribridge and of the plenteous, if plainly, fare one's table affords. But the little one is not, alas, so thankful in spirit as her Aunt and oneself could wish. She has just done a deed which displays but poor gratitude, dear sisters, for your loving spiritual training of her early years and for one's own godly, if humble, care. She has, alas, committed a grievous sin; though it pains one to speak thus, one had best speak openly. A grievous sin--one shrinks from writing the words, but there is one's duty to you, to the child, to her aunt and to one's own afflicted self. The facts are these. Yesterday one found her in her bedchamber--a homely if humble apartment to which one has always trusted her to retire at will--one found her in the act of reading a _vile and worldly book_. She hid it craftily under the bed-clothes when she heard one coming into the room as one chanced to do the other day. One let her see plainly one had detected all, looking at her sadly, as though to say "Ah, if Miss Vickary and dear Mrs. Lee knew what a viper they have nourished in their respective bosoms!", and gave her one more chance to conquer her sin by herself and destroy the noisome thing. But no! "As a dog returneth to his vomit so a fool to his folly" (Prov. xxvi, II--your own favourite Proverbs, dear Miss Vickary)--and yesterday once again found her flushed with the carnal pleasure of those evil pages. One opened the book, not without a silent prayer that the Lord would cleanse one from its touch. Feeling it one's plain, if painful, duty to see more clearly the nature of the evil thing, one perused a few pages. One found it to be a _licentious novel_, treating of haughty women "with stretched-forth necks and wanton eyes" (Isaiah iii, 16), of men who spend their days "in rioting and drunkenness, chambering and wantonness" (Romans xiii, 13) and of drunkards, roisterers, sinners and blasphemers. Here and there the writer, who is, one is told, a Church of England minister in this town--so what could one hope?--strives to beguile the unwary by striking a godly attitude towards Rome. Sounding brass and tinkling cymbals--wolfish pretence to lead poor sheep astray. There is even worse than this; foul and wanton language abounds. A bad word on page 74 pained one much. Nothing has been said to the child yet, awaiting your wishes. One hopes you will not wish her to be punished _too_ severely. "Whom the Lord loveth he correcteth!" (Prov. iii, 12). One knows! one knows! Yet forgiveness may do much. One's heart shrinks from blows; nothing but the direst sin ever drives one to bodily correction. No! One will simply burn the book before her, add a few godly words and read a Psalm together. Apart from this, the child's spiritual state is not without hope, but she is a tree that needs careful pruning, if she is to take up her cross, as one hopes, in the foreign field. She holds special place in our hearts (dear Martha's and one's own), nor do we cease to pray for her. God has blessed her in the past, and bestowed many gifts and advantages, but one longs to know that she has received better things than this poor world can give, even joy and peace, the result of sin forgiven and the assurance of eternal life by faith in God's Son as revealed in His Word. You will bear with one in speaking thus. One's love for her is great, and one dares to hope, dear Mrs. Lee, that your regard for one's self is considerable too, when you compare one with that other son-in-law, whose evil qualities, alas, seem to be showing in his little daughter despite her Christian environment. Our Meetings lately have been very helpful. A new sister has been won from Error; formerly a Wesleyan Methodist, a Miss Towl. Am deriving great consolation from a careful study of the prophet Joel. Forgive the length of this letter; one would have come to Tawborough had not the Lord's work detained one. Accept Martha's loving greetings and believe me in the Brotherhood of the Lord, One who is less than the least of all the Saints, SIMEON GREEBER. P.S. The poor wayward child refuses to tell _how_ she came by the abomination. It was new, so she must have bought it in a shop where such things are sold. Her money should be watched. Little though she is so wisely allowed, would it not be better for one to take charge of it, to ensure that it be not spent in sin? P.P.S. Hoping that the Lord is granting you both the best of health and strength. Dear little Albert has a slight touch of quinsy, but this is yielding to treatment and prayer. The flattering creeping hound! His letter describes him better than any words of mine. At the time I knew nothing of it; I was merely uneasy and wondered why nothing was happening. A few days later, just as we had finished evening prayers, he called me over to the fireside and said, "There's a duty to the Lord, little one, and to your dear Great-Aunt and Grandmother that has to be fulfilled. One has their orders and one's Lord's to obey." He rummaged in his cupboard and brought forth my dear book. He looked at me, the lowest meanest triumph in his eyes, then flung the book savagely into the midst of the flames. In the fire-light he looked livid with spite. "So shall they burn who go a-whoring after strange gods," he hissed. How I hated him. Yet for a moment as the dear book burned, I did not think of him. I was wondering how Amyas captured the Gold Train, and if Salvation Yeo found his little maid, and what the Stranger would say if I met him again. CHAPTER XVI: ROBBIE More than ever I lived in the world of my own imagination. Every day and a good part of every night--for I rarely fell asleep till one or two o'clock--I was thinking, worrying, brooding, planning, dreaming. I too would sail to the Indies and the lands of hidden gold, gleaning fame which would help me to bear Aunt Jael's taunts with silent scorn, and wealth which I could fling in her face as clanging and triumphant rejoinder to "_I_ pay for the child's music." I would succour the oppressed Indians, free the slaves, overthrow the Inquisition, and bring each and all into the Brethren fold; baldly unaware that these things belonged to centuries past. To right the wrong was important; the all-important was that _I_ should do it. But was it possible to a girl? Could even a grown woman do such things? Sailors were always men, shipwrecked mariners were always men, adventurers were always men. Bright deeds were the monopoly of breaches. It was not fair. I would think of Mrs. Cheese's friend, poor old Robinson Crewjoe. I invented many desert islands of my own on which I was duly shipwrecked, was for ever drawing new maps of them, showing streams, creeks, bays and hills, position of my principal residence, summer bower, landing-spot of savages, position of wreck, etc., etc. I devised walks, expeditions, explorations; I varied my menu with a feminine skill unknown to old Robinson; and always, as befitted our morally-minded race, I would do good in my islands. I would justify my joy by works. I would convert the savages, and build a Meeting Room of clay and wattles. I would raid their Great God Benamuckee in his mountain fastness, burn him with ceremonial state, and thus atone for my own memorable blasphemy. But the chief joy, alas, of my twenty years' sojourning was never so much in what I did as in announcing to the world that I had done it; not in the good I wrought, but in the praise I should earn. Those twenty years of playing the shipwrecked sea-woman must be lit up by the glare of fame with which I should burst upon the world when at last some well-timed passing schooner restored me to the world. Horrible thought: suppose I, died there? It was not, for the moment, the idea of death that chilled me--for He chills everywhere--but the thought of the glory I should lose by dying before my adventures had astonished the world. And the sex trouble again. Would trousers (if I wore them) however masculine, however bifurcative, enable me to build huts, to shoot, fish, hunt and to fight savages as well as a man? My inability to do these manly things, however, deterred me little in my dreams. The castle-in-the-air-builder may build beyond her bricks. At this time Uncle Simeon was naturally my most frequent actor. I fashioned a dozen different things I should discover about him and his attic, and a dozen different ways I should discover them. Sweetest of all were visions of revenge. He was a papist in disguise; I had him handed over to a kind of Protestant Holy Office, set up for his own peculiar benefit, of which I was Grand Inquisitress; I was not stingy with my bolts and nuts and prongs and screws; my soul spared not for his crying. A great pitched battle between Aunt Jael and Uncle Simeon was my _pièce de résistance_. Their hatred for each other was the fiery basis of the vision, my hatred for both of them the fuel. He would swish and she would bang. I let both of them be hurt, while I grudged to each of them the joy of hurting. If anybody won the battle it would be Aunt Jael; for my hatred of her was comparatively a mild thing, a healthy human thing, just as she was a healthy, cruel, humanly bad old woman, a mere wild beast in comparison to this Greeber reptile. I preferred a long long struggle of evenly matched sneers, retorts, cuts and blows, which went on hour after hour until both were bleeding, bruised and utterly exhausted: grimmest of drawn battles. Then I would step in as lofty mediator with the blessed aureole of peace-maker about my head, the pain and weakening of both my enemies for reward. (The same dream the Third Napoleon dreamt a few years later with Austria and Prussia in the rôles of Uncle Simeon and Aunt Jael: rudely shattered, was it not, by that swift Sadowa? But the Saviour of Society could not work his dream figures at will.) In most of my picturings either I was alone, or dealing with enemies, some of whom, like Eternity, got the better of me, and others, like Uncle Simeon and Aunt Jael, over whom I triumphed. I shared no castle with a friend. A friend! Aunt Martha, Albert, Uncle Simeon?--I saw no one else. No visitor ever came to the house. I was astonished therefore when the portents announced one. One afternoon I heard a noise of shifting in one of the unoccupied bedrooms. I looked in, and saw all the disarray of cleaning, with Aunt Martha and the charwoman, Miss Woe, getting the room into order. Was it merely an autumn spring-cleaning, or was somebody coming to stay? I peeped in again next morning. There were clean sheets, the bed was turned down, there was water in the ewer. Grandmother or Aunt Jael? No; I heard from Tawborough every week. Prolonged visit of Mr. Nicodemus Shufflebottom? No: it would wring Uncle Simeon's heart to revive the possibility of that nightmare breakfast of egg _and_ bacon Aunt Martha had dared to put before him. After the day's walk, I looked in at the bedroom again on my way down to tea. Oh mystery, there was a long black trunk, studded with brass nails and bearing in new white paint the superscription: R.P.G. A small cap and overcoat thrown on the bed revealed the age and sex of the new comer. I went down to the dining-room, and found him seated at the tea-table. "Master Robert," said Uncle Simeon; introducing us in the honeyed voice he used before you knew him, "this is Mary. You may come forward, little one. This is Master Robert." Handshake was followed by the furtive silence during which children stare at each other while vainly pretending to look elsewhere. Master Robert being the shyer, pretended more than he stared: I, being even more curious than shy, stared more than I pretended. I saw a healthy boy's face with big brown eyes, a head of chestnut coloured hair and a brown velvet suit, the last very impressive. I guessed he was about my own age, though he was taller and bigger. All through tea I stared at him with merest snatches of polite pretence. This was the first time I had ever sat at the same table with any boy, except Albert. The latter did not appear to share his father's obsequious delight in the new-comer, over whom Uncle Simeon sat fawning. I know now that he was a handsome little boy, but doubt if I thought so then. If I did, I was too jealous to admit it to myself. I felt I was an odd drab little object by the side of this healthy, well-dressed and superior being, as far above me as I above Susan Durgles. His rich velvet suit, my old grey merino; his laughing, tan-coloured face and brown happy eyes; my pinched white face and cat-green eyes: he was something better and richer and finer and happier than I was, and I did not like him. Little girls, they say, are never never jealous of little boys' good looks, and the only people whose looks they envy are the other little girls with whom they are competing for the favour of the good-looking little boys. It may be so. I was pitiably ignorant of the proper sentiments. My world was divided not into sexes but into two classes divided far more deeply: myself and other people. The second class was mostly cruel and unkind, so every new-comer was suspect. Master Robert's fine poise, his colour, his health, the curve of his mouth, the velvet suit (I could not take my eyes from it, what wealth, what prestige, it betokened!) were all against him, and more so the favour with which he was regarded by Uncle Simeon. He was shy; I could stare him out easily. I fell to wondering who he was and why he was here. Robert Grove was the younger brother of Aunt Martha's old pupil (who had died some years back) and the orphan heir to a fine house and estate the other side of Tiverton. Nearly all his relatives were dead except a bachelor uncle, Vivian Grove, Esquire, with whom he lived at the latter's house near Exeter. Uncle Vivian was travelling abroad for a few months and had put Robert here in his absence. Aunt Martha was known to and respected by Mr. Grove as the old governess of his elder nephew, though if he had known the kind of house she lived in now he would have hardly sent Master Robert there with so light a heart. The arrangements must have been made through friends or by correspondence, as Mr. Grove never entered our house and Aunt Martha never went away to see him. Robert did lessons with Albert and me, and the three of us went our walks together. Uncle Simeon fawned on the new-comer and was by comparison sharper than ever with me; until, seeing that Robert did not like this, he pretended to treat me better. He did not want to offend Robert, who might write to his Uncle Vivian, and ask to be sent somewhere else. To make sure of keeping Robert's board money, he had to curb somewhat his dislike for me. Greed vanquished spite, or rather, while profit was a thing it must be his present endeavour to retain, spite would wait. For greed's sake he fawned sickeningly upon the boy; a few kicks in dark corners and pinches as he passed me on the stairs sufficed for the present as tribute to spite. Albert and Robert were on bad terms from the start; Albert disliked him as I did, for his better clothes and superior ways, and more bitterly, "for sneaking up to father." Robert despised Albert. Albert tried to win my alliance against him by treating me better. I accepted his advances while knowing their motive and value. Master Robert and I had not much to say to each other. Despite my jealousy, I could see how much better and kinder-faced he was than Albert, but I could not like him, as he was "in" with Uncle Simeon. The very fact that his face was good made me despise him the more for liking Uncle Simeon; I felt he was a traitor. He could not be "very much of it" or he would show much more plainly than he did what he thought of Uncle Simeon's treatment of me. This I could see upset him, but he was too cowardly to say so. On the other hand, he knew nothing of the sly slaps and dark-corner kicks with which his dear friend favoured me. Jealousy was kept alive by the better treatment he got in the way of food and everything else, which he seemed to take for granted. Yet if the facts of the case were against him, instinct spoke on the other side. I knew that any one whose eyes looked at you in the same kind way as my Grandmother's must, like her, be kind and good. I argued that he was horrid, I felt that he was kind. I was as sure he did not treat me well as I was that I would like it if he did. Once he made friendly advances. I shied off; toady to a toady of Uncle Simeon's? Never! When I had rebuffed him, I began to reproach him with not making further efforts at friendliness. If he really wanted to, he would try again. If I had been a jolly little girl with fine clothes, curly hair and dark bright eyes, he would be trying all day long. Why were these allurements denied me, why had I no single attractive quality? Now if ever in all recorded history there was a little girl ignorant of the bare existence of boy and girl sentiment and of all the normal notions that ordinary books, playmates and surroundings give to children, I was that little girl. Yet here at my first contact with a presentable young male of the human species, I was a-sighing for charms to lure him. This struggle over the pros and cons of Master Robert raged within. We had little to say to each other. Uncle Simeon never left us alone together; watched us and made a careful third when Albert and Aunt Martha were not about. The first time we spoke to each other alone must have been two or three weeks after he came. Aunt and Uncle were both going out. "Albert," he said, "don't you leave your cousin and Robert alone. Entertain them, you know, while one is out, you--ha ha!--are the master of the house." As soon as Albert, leaning out of the window, had seen his father safely round the corner, he went out too, for communion I suppose with his unsaved friends. "No sneaky tricks, mind!" he said to me, and looked the same injunction at Robert. "Why does he talk like that?" said the latter, as soon as he was gone. We looked at each other. "Do--do you _really_ like him?" The implied tribute flattered me. I flung my new ally to the dogs. "Not very much," I said. "At all?" "No, not at all--really." "And--Mr. Greeber, do you like him?" "Do you _think_ I do? You know all right. Do _you_?" "No." He paused. "You don't like it here at all, do you?" "Why?" "Because you don't look as though you liked it": awkwardly. "I know I don't look as though I liked it," I snapped. "I know I don't look anything nice! We can't _all_ look lovely. _You_ don't look like I do, so what does it matter to you? _You_ haven't much to abide. _You_ don't get it all day long." Starving for sympathy I pushed it away. "No--o. I know. But I'm sorry." "_Why_ are you sorry?" I would hold out in the grim fortress of my loneliness, or I would taunt him to say something so plain, to attack so boldly, that he would force me to give in. I was holding out for a more complete surrender. "Why?" "Oh well, I don't know, because--I mean--I think--I like you. You are not really like he said you were. I never thought it." I pounced. "_He_ said I was? What about him? What did he say? Tell me." Aunt Martha came in and cut us short. That night in bed, in my usual Think I found how much happier I was. I placed him high; excelling Miss Glory Clinker, equalling Brother Briggs and much nicer looking, nearing the Stranger, and falling short of my Grandmother only. That was my complete catalogue of friendly people. Yet why did he never take my part? Why had he not made it clearer to Uncle Simeon that he disliked him as he had told me he did, and disliked him most of all for ill-treating me? Over and above all, how could he sit at meals gorging himself on dainties and look calmly across the table at me with never enough to eat? Since his arrival food had improved, but not for me. The contrast was the more marked. At breakfast for instance, Robert began with porridge, of course with sugar and milk, then he had an egg, usually poached on a piece of buttered toast; or a rasher of bacon with lovely bread fried in the fat, and laver; or perhaps mackerel done in butter. Then he had as many slices of bread and butter as he wanted, spread with some of Aunt Martha's home-made jam, whortleberry, raspberry or black currant (by what he was allowed to eat I gauged the mighty sum Uncle Vivian must be paying for board: I had no idea of money values but the sum must be vast, infinite). Uncle Simeon had much the same, less the jam. Albert was not only docked the jam, but his egg was merely boiled instead of poached and served on toast, or if it were bacon he had no laver and a much smaller piece of bread fried in the fat. There was a heavy drop to Aunt Martha, who had porridge, and bread and butter with jam. I came last of all with porridge and jamless bread and butter; very often not even the latter because of punishments or "mortifyings." Note the careful grading. Robert got the most: there was a purse behind him. Uncle Simeon's lavishness here was dictated by meanness: "If I feed the boy well, he stays; if he stays he pays." For himself he was torn as always between meanness and greed. He compromised shrewdly by foregoing his jam, which he did not care for overmuch. Meanness alone governed Albert's ration, so the King's son got less than the King. Aunt Martha received what her husband chose to allow her, as a good wife should. Spite as well as meanness apportioned to me, Hagar, least of all; though if my bigger portion of porridge were counted against her jam, Aunt Martha really fared no better than I did; and thin and pale she looked. Robert riled me most. It was natural for Uncle Simeon to be mean, greedy, vile. In Robert I felt it was wrong; like Methodies, _he knew better_. Kind brown eyes were all very well, but a poor set-off to a greedy little belly. One morning therefore when in the middle of breakfast, just as he was beginning his poached egg, Robert said he felt sick, I neither felt sorry nor pretended to. Justice at last! I hoped he would be very, _very_ sick. Uncle Simeon followed him out, fawning. "Look here child, eat this," said Aunt Martha passing me Robert's poached egg, "'twill do you good." Kindly but fearfully: her usual struggle. She declined to share it with me, so I accepted. I was just munching the last delicious yellow mouthful, when Robert came back, looking still pale, but better. He saw what had happened, and flushed crimson. He saw what I thought of him and flushed deeper. That afternoon, when I was in my bedroom putting on my hat, there was a timid knocking. He walked in. I hardened my heart. "I'm sorry about breakfast, Mary," he faltered. I knew his heart was beating fast. "Breakfast? What do you mean, _Master_ Robert?" "You know. The egg. I'm sorry--" "Of course you are. Sorry I ate it." He flushed. I developed a meticulous interest in a pincushion. "No; sorry to see you eating it so hungrily. You know that's what I meant. Now I know it's all lies when he says eggs are bad for you and that you don't like them and you refuse them when he offers them and that you mustn't eat much of anything. It's all a lie, because he doesn't want you to eat things, because he hates you or because he's mean. I always thought it funny you never had nice things. I asked him three times and he said you were always taking medicine, and the doctor said you must eat very little and always very plain. You must have thought me horrid." "I did. I'm sorry. Oh, the liar, the mean wretch, he dare tell you all that? Look here, we've begun now, haven't we, so I'm going to tell you what I know of him; everything. First you must answer a question. Do you just not like Uncle, or do you really hate him, hate him like this?" I clenched my fists and ground my teeth together. "Yes, _now_ I do; he's never done anything to me, but I've liked him a bit less every day I've been here. Now I hate him, like you do." "Well, I'll tell you, he's a mean, cruel, wicked man. He beats and cuffs and pinches me when you're not looking. He canes me till I bleed. He starves me so as to make as much money as he can out of what my Grandmother pays him. The first morning I came I said No, when he offered me one miserable spoonful of his egg. I've never touched one since, and he's told you all this about my not liking eggs at all. I do take medicine, but it's because I'm ill and don't get enough to eat. He's mean and he hates me, that's why he starves me: one as much as the other. He's nice to you because you're rich and important and have friends and relations. Do they pay a lot of money for you?" "I don't know." "They must do or you wouldn't get so much to eat. Oh, the beast, he's always talking as though he was so good and then he starves me and gives me sneakish blows in the dark. He praises the Lord with his lips and he's got the devil in his heart. He flatters with his tongue, but his inward part is very wickedness--" I stopped short, fancying I heard a noise outside, and looked out into the passage. There he was, skulking as usual, making pretence to rummage in a cupboard just outside the door. "What are you doing, Uncle?" I asked weakly, very weakly. "What are _you_ doing, one asks." "I just--opened the door...." "_Ah_," he said, slipping away. "Has he heard?" asked Robert fearfully. "Every word. I don't care. He knows the truth now; he can't treat me worse than he has done. I hate him. Everything is hateful. All the world is against me always; 'tis all beating and starving and meanness and misery; and nobody loves me. I wish I'd never been born, I do, I do." I broke down and sat on the bed, sobbing bitterly. "Don't, Mary," huskily, "everybody doesn't hate you, I don't." He sat beside me and put his arm on my shoulder. That was the beginning of happiness. I cried more than ever, but they were other tears. "Don't cry, Mary, don't cry, please. I like you. Tell me you know I do. I'm going to do something, I'm going to help you somehow. I'll never touch another egg unless you do too, and if he stops mine, I'll write to Uncle Vivian and tell him why. I shall ask Uncle Vivian to let me go somewhere else as soon as I can; but you must get away first, you must ask your Grandmother to have you back with her right away. Mary dear, don't cry." He was on the border line himself. He screwed a dirty little handkerchief into his eyes. The other arm was still on my shoulder. He was crying too. Then I comforted him, and found it a joy greater even than being comforted. "We must go now," I said, getting up. "Come on, _Master_ Robert," smiling; smiling being a thing I achieved perhaps once a year. "No, and don't say Robert either. Say Robbie. Uncle Vivian and all the people I like call me that." There were two pairs of red eyes at the tea table that night, and one pair of steel blue ones which observed them. From that moment, the political situation of No. 1 the Quay was entirely transformed. In the field of domestic economy there was a more striking change still. Next morning, I almost reeled when a boiled egg was set before me, though as the porridge was cut down by nearly half, my Uncle spiced his defeat with triumph. Openly he treated me no worse, though he gave me a savage kick in the hall that night. I knew he was saving up for something dreadful. Once the mood of passion and defiance had passed away, I was more afraid of him than ever. He hated Robbie now, while striving not to show it. Robbie showed his feelings sometimes and was openly surly. The short-lived Albert-Mary _entente_ collapsed once for all, shattered by the Mary-Robert alliance. The new friendship caused a veritable revolution in all my ideas. Now, whenever I was brooding or thinking away in my usual bitter fashion, I would say to myself, "Think of it, quickly, quickly," and I would feel again his hand on my shoulder; he would comfort me and I him. I re-lived it over and over again. It was the first purely happy vision I had ever conjured up. To Robbie it meant much less. I decided he was a nice little boy, kind and decent-hearted; he had been sorry to see me unhappy and he had been glad to comfort me. It was an impulse; not more. He liked me, he _pitied_ me, but the whole thing meant very little to him. One day a letter came from his Uncle Vivian. He came to me joyfully. "Hurrah! Hurrah! I shall be going away soon. I'm ever so glad." "In every way?" with a sneer; hungrily. He flushed crimson, as we do when any one surprises us in thoughtless egotism; when another lays bare to us a selfishness we were too selfish to have seen. Or else it was the cruel injustice of what I said, or both: the good reason and the bad. "You know I didn't mean that. When I get to Uncle Vivian I'll tell him to write to your Grandmother and tell her all about it and have you taken away. She'd listen to my uncle. But wait, you must get away from here before that. It would be dreadful if you were here alone for a bit between my going and the time you'd be able to get away, if we waited for Uncle Vivian to write--" "He'd kill me if he dared. Can't you write to Uncle Vivian now, so that he could write to my Grandmother at once? I can't write. Uncle Simeon reads all my letters to her." "A letter of mine mightn't reach Uncle Vivian. The last time he wrote to me was from Paris in France; he said he was going further south for Christmas, that's somewhere much further away, and said I need not write again as he would be back for the New Year. We're quite near Christmas now, so it's too late. I'll tell you my plan. Now, the day I go away, Mr. Greeber is sure to be at the railway station to see me off. The minute we've left the house you must be dressed and ready to run away and walk back to Tawborough; your Grandmother couldn't be angry if you told her all about him. Then Uncle Vivian will write as soon as I see him, and you won't have been alone with Mr. Greeber in the house for a minute." "'Tisn't Grandmother, 'tis Aunt Jael. And suppose only Uncle Simeon goes with you to the station to see you off. What about Albert and Aunt Martha? Besides, he'll make me come too. He'd do it to please you, knowing you'd like it, though out of spite he'd want me not to, because he knows I'd like to. It all depends whether he wants to be nice to you more than to be nasty to me. Nice to you, I think, most of the two, because he can be nasty enough to me the second you're gone." "You could say you felt sick." "That's a lie. Besides, that might make him want to make me come all the more, if he thought it would pain me or make me feel worse to come. I don't tell lies, if he does. Unless of course, I _really_ felt sick. I could take something and make myself sick, and then 'twould be true. But then Aunt Martha would say she'd stay with me while the rest of you went to the railway station. No, the best thing is to pretend very much I'd like to come, which of course I would, and then he won't let me. You might pretend to quarrel with me the last day; that would help. The real trouble is Aunt Jael; she'd get into a frightful rage and send me back; and when I came back, 'twould be a hundred times worse. He'd kill me." "You said your Aunt Jael hated Mr. Greeber. If she knew he'd like it, are you sure she'd send you back; when she knew too that you'd run away for fear of your life? I'm sure she wouldn't do that." "You don't know her. No, my plan is this: to write a letter somehow to Grandmother, who'd talk to Aunt Jael and sort of prepare her for my running away. I'll write it in bed tonight, it's the only place I can where he's not watching me; and we'll post it tomorrow afternoon, sometime on the walk when Albert isn't looking. I'll tell my Grandmother about the canings, and how he half starves me. Aunt Jael hates him so much that I think there's a chance. Then I needn't run away at all. Grandmother would come to fetch me herself." The letter was duly written that night. I jumped out of bed and hid it in the bottom of my chest of drawers, in a far corner of the drawer between two white cotton Chemises. It would be safe there till the next afternoon. After dinner next day I came up to put on my hat and to get the letter. I put my hand in the corner underneath the Chemises. The letter was not there! I pulled the top chemise right out. There the letter was after all, but at the other end of the chemise. It had been moved. The garment was only eighteen or twenty inches long, but I remembered perfectly I had put the letter at the outside-end of the drawer and now it was right at the other end of the chemise, near the middle of the drawer. Yet there was my handwriting, there was the envelope: no one had tampered with it. It must be my over-suspicious mind. Aunt Martha had been tidying my clothes, or putting the clean washing away and so had moved the letter without seeing anything.... We posted it that afternoon. In a couple of days came my Grandmother's reply. The first sentence made my heart sick. "Your uncle writes me--tells me he has destroyed an untruthful letter, full of untruthful complaints that you had written me without his knowledge--how grieved he and your Aunt Martha are--how they do everything to make you happy--your Aunt Jael is grievously annoyed--your loving Grandmother is disappointed--Always come to me, my dear, for help, but don't give way to discontent so easily. Reflect always what your dear mother had to put up with. Take up thy cross and walk!" This letter Uncle Simeon never asked to see, but he had had one for himself from my Grandmother by the same post. He said nothing, but looked at me from time to time with malicious triumph, meaning "Revenge is near; it will be sweet. Wait till this fine young friend of yours is out of the way. One has a whip, you remember, ha, ha, one has a whip!" A few days later Robbie had a letter from his Uncle Vivian announcing his return to England for December 30th and arranging for Robbie to leave Torribridge on New Year's Eve, now only three weeks away. New Year's Eve then was the day, and though I did eventually fly from Torribridge to Tawborough within a few hours of the time we fixed, it befell very differently from anything we had planned or foreseen. Heaven was dark; yet the clouds at last had begun to break. For always, eternally, I could re-make the moments that had been, and live and cry and laugh and love it over again. I pretended his arm was round me each night as I fell asleep. CHAPTER XVII: CHRISTMAS NIGHT "What do you do for Christmas?" asked Robbie a day or two later. "It's only a week tomorrow." "What do you mean--_do_ for Christmas?" "Why, people coming to stay, and a party perhaps. You know." "What do you mean? The only party we ever had was on Aunt Jael's seventieth birthday and that's in August." "It must be different at your house from anywhere else. People have a jolly sort of time, a lot of people in the house and that kind of thing." "There was something about it in Westward Ho! the book _he_ stole from me and burned just before you came. It said something about 'happy sports and mummers' plays,' and cakes and ale and some word like flapdragons. It's what worldly people do, I suppose, and sinners, but not us; I've never heard of it with the Saints." Robbie was too wise to attack priggery-piety in the open. "I don't know about all that. You do talk funnily; your Grandmother seems to be different from other people. You _must_ know all the special things you do at Christmas, all the special things you eat--" "I don't. What are they?" "Oh, roast goose and turkey and plum-pudding and mince pies. Then for tea the big Christmas cake, crammed with raisins and covered with almond paste and icing sugar with crystallized fruit on top and those little green bits like candied peel--not really candied peel, it's some name I forget, anyway it's nice. If you're a little boy you're allowed to stay in the dining-room all the same and eat all the walnuts and dates you want and drink a little port or madeira! What do _you_ have for Christmas dinner?" "Hash," I replied enviously, "and a roly-poly pudding with no jam, or hardly any, for afterwards." Incredulity seemed to struggle with pity in his mind. "I'm sorry. It sounds so funny. I didn't know there were people like that. The villagers are just the same. Mrs. Richards down at the Blue Dragon makes the biggest Christmas cake I've ever seen, lovely bluey-looking icing with preserved cherries in it, those big red ones, and almond paste an inch thick. Everywhere it's the great day in the year for feasting." "Why?" I asked. "Why should Christmas Day be the great day for feasting? It's the day Jesus was born; why should that make people guzzle? A funny way of keeping His birthday, eating and drinking. I know what it is, it's what the Papists do: eat all day. That's it, it's Popish." My voice rose combatively in the good cause of plain and Protestant living, hash and heaven. Weakly or wisely, he skirted the theological issue. "Don't be silly. Besides it's not only what you eat yourself. At Christmas time you always give a lot away to the poor people. Uncle Vivian gives heaps of logs and firewood and coal all round the village, and gives geese to the tenants and heaps of other things; giving things away is a good enough way of keeping Christmas, isn't it? There are presents. You get presents, don't you?" "Never." Here I was wrong, for on Christmas morning a parcel came addressed to Miss Mary Lee. It was the first I had ever received, except some new winter underclothes Grandma had sent me from Tawborough, and I undid it eagerly. Inside was a box of colours. I found from a little note inside the cover of the box that Great-Uncle John had sent me this in addition to his usual half-sovereign. This made me ponder. I had heard vaguely of his half-sovereign at long intervals of time, but had never thought of it in the light of a Christmas present. I had never seen or touched it; it was "put by" or otherwise dimly dealt with by Grandmother and Aunt Jael. This box of colours was the finest thing I had yet possessed. No doubt the art of mixing paint was then in its infancy, and this box provided me with but a few of the simplest colours; no doubt a mere half crown box of today is superior both in number of colours and quality of paint. No doubt, but ignorance was bliss; no such odious comparisons came to cloud my joy. I had never seen a paint box before except through a shop window; and now I had one in my own hands and was gloating with all the joy of proprietorship over the twelve little pans before me and the high adventurous names with which each was labelled. Gamboge, yellow-ochre; cobalt, Prussian blue; green-bice, Hooker's green; carmine, crimson-lake; raw-sienna, burnt-sienna; sepia and ivory black. There was also a mysterious little tube tucked away in a niche at one end and labelled Chinese white, the contents of which oozed out when pressed, like a white tape-worm. These names were a delight. Carmine: the colour which Brother Quappleworthy painted his sins in discourse. Crimson-lake: which called up a vision of a great sea of Precious Blood with wave-crests of scarlet-foam. Robbie had several presents: a box of soldiers, a picture book, some sweetmeats and money. "That's much less than usual," he said, not too kindly. "I expect there's more waiting for me at Uncle Vivian's." Albert was bare and giftless, for his half sovereign from Great-Uncle John meant no more to him than to me, being instantly put (or not put) into "the bank" by Uncle Simeon. He was naturally jealous, envied Robbie's wealth and luck, cursed his father's meanness in giving him nothing, reviled Uncle John for sending me the paint-box as well as the half sovereign, and to himself no corresponding extra. All this well distributed hostility he could vent on me alone. The means of his vengeance should be my solitary ewe-lamb. He waited his opportunity. Robbie went out to dinner, invited by some friends of his uncle's. So Uncle Simeon brought a cane in to dinner, lodged it on the edge of the table, and allowed me to taste it now and then. I espied neither goose nor turkey, cakes nor ale, port nor madeira; though there was a much better pudding than usual, a suet one made in a basin with sultanas and citron peel which bore--alas!--an awful and edible likeness to the genuine popish article. After dinner Aunt Martha, who said she had a headache, retired to her bedroom to lie down, and later on Uncle Simeon went out, his big Bible under one arm and his big umbrella under the other, to expound the former to a bedridden old female Saint he visited twice a week, a second cousin of Brother Atonement Gelder's. Albert and I were left alone together in the dining-room. It was perhaps not more than three o'clock, but it was a cold, dark day and the room was already dusk. Uncle Simeon was hardly out of the house before Albert came up to the table at which I was just settling down to begin using my treasure, snatched the box away, dipped the biggest brush into my cup of water and began roughly digging it into the pans of colour. Then he splashed water over all the pans and made great wasteful daubs on the palette. "Don't, Albert," I pleaded, "please don't." "I shall, I shall--ugh" (his usual grunt), "nothing will happen to me if I do. It's no good your whining, I'm going to spoil it, out of spite! because I want to! Try sneaking to father if you dare. Ha, ha, I know what you told Robert Grove about father, nasty little sneaks and liars both of you. Father's on my side now, so you won't get much by going to him; and if you did I'd bang you afterwards." He took up the cup and poured water into the box, smearing all the colours together with the brush. The little brute was ruining my treasure before my eyes. Appeal was useless, so I made a deft attempt to snatch. For reply he struck me heavily with his fist over the ear. I screamed out half in pain, half in rage, and made another snatch. This time, throwing the box on to the ground, he struck me on the shoulder with the full force of his fist and sent me flying. I fell down, half stunned for a moment, when another voice broke into the room. "You beast, you brute," I heard--and saw Robbie, back sooner than we expected. He slammed the door behind him, went straight across the room to Albert, and tried to seize his arm. "Here, you leave me alone. She hit me first, when I wanted to use her filthy paint box, and the mean cat said I shouldn't, and started snatching and scratching so I had to push her away." "Oh, you liar!" I cried. "Then she banged her paint box on the floor in her rage, and came for me again, then I punched her, and serve her right." "'Tis all lies, lies, lies." "Believe her, do you?" sneered Albert, lowering at Robbie, "she's a nice one to believe. Do you know what her father did? I do; ugh, ugh, she's a nice one like he was. Look here, just keep your hands off me." Albert struck a first blow and the two boys were soon fighting like savages. My head was still aching from the two blows that Albert had given me; I forgot them and everything else in the excitement of the struggle. Blows on head, face and shoulders were exchanged. With every stout one Albert received I exulted; every one of Albert's that hurt Robbie hurt me too. Albert was sturdy and strong and even broader than Robbie; on the whole he was getting the best of it; I felt sick and apprehensive. I prayed fervently to God for Robbie to win, promising lordly penances and impossible virtues in return. I would give all my life and health to comforting the heathen if Robbie might win. I would be burnt or eaten alive--if Robbie might win. I employed all the magic I knew, and counted frenzied thirty-sevens between each blow--for luck to Robbie. Prayer is not always answered by return, and Albert's right fist now landed a heavy blow on Robbie's left ear, which nearly felled him; he tottered and paled. So did I as I resolved to intervene. I would fight till I fainted--to prevent Robbie being beaten. I clenched my teeth and hovered awkwardly nearer, wondering how to get in my first blow (or scratch)--when Robbie recovered suddenly and crashed with his fist between Albert's eyes. Now it was the latter's turn to stagger. My spirits rose. Now Albert picked himself up again. Both were battered. Robbie had a bleeding ear (to match my own), Albert a black eye and broken nose. The fight went on. Robbie began to get the upper hand; I could see the loser's look on Albert's face. "Robbie will win! Robbie will win!" said Instinct exulting. I thought for a moment of that tame fixture, Susan Durgles versus Seth Baker, when my main emotion was mere pity for Seth: water to the wine of joy now coursing through my veins as I watched Robbie pound Albert more victoriously every moment. Albert was now desperate, came closer, tried to grip Robbie and push him to the ground. For a moment prize fight turned to wrestling bout. The harmony of a choir, singing carols on the Quay outside, fell suddenly on our ears. It may have been the Parish Church choir, or a glee party from the Wesleyan Chapel: sinners, in any case, as Miss Glory would have said. They were singing a carol with a friendly wave-like tune, merry, yet sad too, as Christmas songs should be: _It came upon the midnight clear_--though I did not know the words. The tune revived the fighting. The boys got free from each other's grip; blows were resumed. The end came at last with a swift, terrific stroke on Albert's shoulder, which knocked him flat. In a second Robbie was kneeling on his body and had pinioned his arms. The victim scowled, the victor showed modest pride, the spectator exulted like a savage. "There now," said Robbie, "that's what you get for striking a girl. Worse another time. Say you're sorry you hit Mary. Say you were a brute." Albert scowled, growled, made efforts to get free, failed. "No good, you'll stay here till you say it; 'I'm sorry I hit Mary and I was a brute.'" Albert wriggled again, perceived that all endeavours would be fruitless, and surrendered. "Well, then, you great bully. Sorry--hit--Mary--and--was--brute. There you are, now let me go." "Not until you've made one more promise, 'I'll never hit Mary again.'" For some reason Albert obeyed with alacrity this time. "I'll never strike Mary again." Robbie released him, and walked towards the door saying shyly to me: "Come to my bedroom, and help bathe my face; it's awful." I followed him upstairs. Just as we reached the landing Albert came out and shouted. "Ugh, you nasty beasts. I promised I'd never strike Mary again and I won't--never want to see her ugly face again--but I'll see that father does all right. This very night too, as soon as ever he comes in. He'll make you cringe and bleed; he'll make the flesh fly. You too, you bully, you overdressed flashy big--" We went into Robbie's bedroom and stopped to hear no more. "It's not much good," said Robbie, smiling mournfully, as he washed the blood from his ears and face, "because I shall get hurt much more when Mr. Greeber comes in. That beast downstairs is sure to set him on. I think he would dare to flog me this time, because he'd be able to say to Uncle Vivian that I'd half killed Albert." "Yes, he'd say 'one felt it one's painful duty after young Master Robert's brutal attack on one's own dear son,' and that you had really hurt Albert. Which you have," I concluded with satisfaction. "Still, it'll be nothing to what he'll do to _you_ if he gets you alone; so you must get away the same day as me; or sooner would be best." "No, sooner wouldn't do, because then he'd flog _you_ worse; he'd be sure to know you'd helped me get away." "Yes, my first plan is best; while they're at the station seeing me off you must run away to Tawborough or take the coach, because we've enough money for that now. Here's the half-sovereign, my present, you know; the half-crown mightn't be enough and I've nothing in between--" The door, opening softly, cut him short. Uncle Simeon, very pale and slimy and cat-like--himself at his worst--was followed by Albert, also at his worst, with an ugly black eye and an uglier leer. "No, father," he whined, "not one; both. Flog 'em both, father, both of 'em." Albert's disappointed whine seemed to mean that his father might not dare to touch Robbie. I was glad for Robbie's sake; what my own fate would be I hardly dared to think. I shrank from him into the seat of the window sill. He took a long coil of cord out of his pocket, and came towards--not me--but Robbie. What, would you dare? Was Robbie, after all, the victim, and I, if only for the moment, the one to escape? I must do myself the justice of noting that for once in my life at any rate I was sorry to bear the easier part: I would gladly have chosen to take the beating for Robbie, would bravely have played the Royal Prince's whipping-girl. He bound Robbie with the cord hand and foot to the bedpost, his own bedpost of course; for it all took place in his bedroom, where Uncle Simeon had surprised us. Uncle Simeon went out of the room for a moment, leaving Albert to watch us. There was two minutes absolute silence. The three children looked at each other. We waited. He came back, in his right hand the long heralded whip; a kind of cat-o'-nine-tails for domestic use, with five tails only instead of nine; these were made of cord, with three knots each at intervals, and were fastened to a piece of thick rope, which Uncle Simeon wielded. An evil-looking thing. Robbie did not wince. He would not while I was by. But I lost all control of myself, and, for the first time, burst out openly against Uncle Simeon. I flew up to him, and with fierce feebleness clutched his wrist. "Don't you dare touch him," I cried, in a treble shriek. "I dare you to whip him. You cruel, horrible man." "Cruel horrible man," he sneered. "Bah! A fine one you are to call one that; you, your father's daughter every inch of you. Cruel horrible man, forsooth!--Go and call _him_ that, your own dear, kind, loving father who drove your dear mother into an early grave and mocked her when she was lying there; a heartless whoremongering beast who spent all the time he spared from stews and brothels in hounding her to death with his cruelties; unfit to untie the shoe of a humble Christian like oneself, frail and sinful though one doubtless is. You're like him, body and soul. Come, loose hold!" The vile words stung me for a moment, but when he wrenched my hand from his wrist, scratching at it savagely with his nails, I cried with redoubled fury: "Don't you dare to whip him, don't you dare." "Whip him? Whip him?" he purred with bland enquiry, "Who can be meant by 'him'? Not Master Robert surely? One would not dream of punishing one whose only sin is to be led into evil paths by another. One must tie him up, to be sure, lest he should be led into the evil path of interfering with a certain little duty one owes to one's Lord, one's little son, and one's own poor self. Quick, off with your blouse and skirt!" He gnashed his teeth. Even at that moment it fascinated me to watch how curiously the muscles under his cheek twitched when he was on cruelty bent. There must be a cruelty muscle. I stood before him in vest and petticoat, pale and limp with fright, a pitiable, cowering object: the sort of rabbit the serpent loves. I had felt and seen hard blows that same day; now too Aunt Jael's masterpieces flitted in dour procession through my mind: the rope end, the day I sucked the acid drops, the three blows of the thorned stick after Robinson Crewjoe, the great flogging with the butt end of her stick when I said that Proverbs was the nastiest book in the Bible. These were as nothing to what was coming now. I lifted my eyes and for one second looked into his. I shall never again, please God, see a look so cruel, so craven, so cad-like. There was spite in it, and hate, and fear. Yet his fear was as nothing to mine. Whip in hand he came towards me to catch hold. There could be no hope. Aunt Martha was not to be seen; in any case what could she have done? Albert was kneeling hopefully on the bed, Robbie's bed, to get a better view of the sport. Robbie was bound hand and foot, looking hate at Uncle Simeon; wretchedness, sympathy and encouragement at me. His lips were tight together so that he should not cry. Here was Simeon Greeber approaching me. He looked like the devil; the idea seized me, he _was_ the devil, the Personal Devil himself; now I knew. But here lay hope: through the devil's enemy, the Lord God Almighty. Moved by an insane impulse, I went down on my knees on the bare floor. "Oh, God," I cried, "save me from him, now, somehow! Save me, and if it be Thy will, strike him dead!" I was cut rudely short. He clutched my shoulder, his claw striking cold and damp through my vest, and pulled me roughly to my feet. "My Lord, my Lord, how she blasphemes! One will avenge it, Lord, one will avenge." He dragged me into the middle of the room. In that moment a strange thing happened. The sudden sweetness of an old Christmas hymn smote our ears. It was the carollers again: they must have moved up the Quay, for now they were singing just outside the house: Hark the herald angels si-ing Glory to the new-born King-- For an instant he was unnerved, but for an instant only, and with Peace on earth and mercy mi-ild the first stroke of the whip fell across my back. The memory comes back to me in nightmare. I see the honey-yellow face ghastly against the growing darkness of the room. I see the coarse little brute gloating on the bed. I see the young prisoner at the bed-post flushed with rage and pity, biting his lips manfully. I hear the voices of the singers out on the Quay mocking me with merry Christmas hymns. To this day I can never hear the opening notes of The Herald Angels without starting back, and living over again for a moment all the horror. For all my fear and bodily agony, I would not cry out. I would not give Robbie the pain nor Uncle Simeon the pleasure. The whip tore my legs and body and back. I bled all over. He thrashed me till I was faint with pain; till he could thrash no longer. Then he kicked me and I fell half-dazed to the ground, where as a final tribute from his humble if Christian person he spat in my face. As I lay I heard vaguely the singers outside. The voices now seemed dreamlike and far-away in their last triumphant unison: Mild he lays His glory by-y, Born that man no more may di-ie, Born to raise the sons of earth, Born to-o give them second birth. Hark, the Herald Angels sing, Glory-y to the new-born-king! In the following silence I heard his voice, far away too it seemed. "Yes, you'd better go at once; dear Mr. Vivian Fortescue would not have you stay another day to be so corrupted." I felt another kick. "Come, up with you now to bed." I rose painfully, but was too weak to stand, and tumbled. Albert guffawed. At last I got up and crept to the door. "Good night," he smiled. "Bid us good night, if you please. Let there be no malice, no evil rage in your heart, for this little _foretaste_ of correction. Let there be no evil spirit of revenge. One harbours none oneself. One forgives, forgives freely. Later on when Master Robert is gone away one may _begin_ to think of the just punishment that is due. One must not shrink, grievously though it pains one. It is the Lord's will, and His will be done. One forgives you, my child, forgives you freely, despite all the wickedness and trouble you have brought into the house. One forgives, yet one must punish." I crawled upstairs to my bedroom. I had only my vest to take off--or tear off, for it was stuck to me with blood. When I was naked I looked at myself by the candle-light in the long wardrobe mirror. My white breastless little body was covered with blood and dark strokes and great weals. I bathed the worst places with the ice-cold water in my basin and then rubbed in plenty of the mixed whitening with which Grandmother had supplied me. It relieved me a little, and I got into bed. Soon the door opened. My heart beat fast. It was only Aunt Martha, bringing my Christmas supper. Not flap-dragons, nor raisins nor almond paste; just a small basin of mutton gruel. "I'm sorry you've been so naughty, child, and have had to be corrected." She produced two apples craftily from her pocket, put them on the bedside pedestal with the gruel, and went out. I did not touch them. I was too sick and wretched to eat. Nor could I sleep. The long night began; pain, hate and wretchedness possessed me, first one more than another, and each in turn. My rough woollen nightgown chafed my sores; the bed, which was never a soft one, hurt me everywhere. My whole body smarted and ached. Why had I to suffer such pain? Why was I starved and bullied and abused and beaten and half-killed? Why had a man, professing to be one of the Lord's own people, the right to flog me so? Oh, the tyrant, I could only hear to think of him by picturing to myself a glorious day when my turn would come, when I would cat-o'-nine-tail him till he fainted and bang his face against a stone wall till his pale features were one red indistinguishable mush. Hate, hate, a bitter ointment, had eased my pain; hate for him, hate for the world, and by silly bitter moments the Devil's temptation to hate God. From hate for the tyrant I came to pity for the victim, which was self-pity, so sweet a misery that it drove away all other trouble. I was the wretchedest of all God's creatures, the wretchedest being since Creation. For me all things were unjust. Robbie and Albert were never treated as I was; in this alone were they alike, and all children save me alike. Every little child I saw in the street was happy, free, well-treated. Every one else had brothers and sisters, and friends--and a mother. The old new bitterness returned; why had my mother been taken away? She would have protected me and cherished me. I tried to think more clearly than ever before what she would have looked like if still alive; like Grandmother, I fancied, with the same kind gentle face, but taller and younger and warmer. I should have nestled to her bosom, she would have taken me in her arms. I should have comforted her. She would have loved me. The agony of the thought was torture. I needed her to madness. I could lie down no longer. I knelt up in bed and my soul cried out for her. Involuntarily my voice was crying too, "Mother, mother!" I uttered the words without knowing, as it were, that I spoke; they were wrung from me without my consent; it was my soul not my mind which spoke. And I knew this time that the prayer would be answered; I had the sure supernatural instinct that my mother was coming to me. She had been mouldering in Tawborough graveyard for ten years now, yet I knew she was coming. I did not call again, but waited in intense expectation. I clasped my hands in an agony of hope. She came. Right up to the bedside she moved in a white robe. She spoke. Her voice seemed nearer to me than if it had been at the bedside; inside me, in my very soul. Mother was with me, in me, around me. "I am here, Mary, I love you. You want to know that I love you, and I have come to show you that I do." The darkness was made radiant by the white figure before me. I was bathed in a new presence, and I knew that it was love. I was still kneeling on the bed and my face was on a level with my mother's. I bent forward to fulfil my supreme need; I went nearer, my arms were closing round her--and she was gone. My arms closed round empty space. I came back to reality. I was kneeling on the cold bed. And she was gone. The feeling of her presence faded away; the sense of love and comfort was abiding. It abides with me still. I was sad, forlorn, but happy to think she had gone back to heaven, and that she loved me enough to come ten million miles to comfort me. She had shown me the truth of the resurrection, of the immortality of the soul; and something far greater, the truth of love. Hate, pain and weariness were forgotten in the joy of my mother's love, I nestled in it, sheltered in it, clasped it to me, and soon it was wooing me to sleep. Then--a soft tread in the room--and I was wide awake in a flash. The moon did not light the corner of the room by the door, but I seemed to see a white figure standing there. Was it my angel mother again? "Mother," I cried faintly. I did not feel the divine sureness of her presence I had known before. It could not be. Yet I heard the soft tread again. The white form moved nearer. Uncle Simeon! Pity, pity, he had come to flog me naked, torture me in the darkness, rub salt into my wounds as he had threatened; to kill me. I hid my face under the bedclothes in terror, then withdrew as quickly for fear he would stifle me beneath them. His ghostlike figure was still there. "Mother--God--Jesus!" "Mary, don't be frightened." It was Robbie. Reaction from fear was so strong and overwhelming that for a moment I could not think. The first words I could speak were prompted by the fear that had fled, just as the life that has gone enables a tiger still to spring, though shot through the heart a second before. "Hush, hush," I whispered. "Don't make a sound. What is it? Why are you here? Think, if he found us! Oh, you frightened me. First, I thought it was Mother, then that it was _him_." "Mother?" said Robbie. "Are you dreaming, Mary? Are you awake properly? I've got bare feet, and he can't hear whispering. Besides he's snoring. I listened outside his door and it's nearly midnight." "Why have you come?" "To tell you I'm going away either tomorrow or the day after. He has written to Uncle Vivian's housekeeper, Mrs. Venn, telling her to expect me back straight away; and he has forbidden me to try to see you before I go; dared me to.... This is our only chance, Mary. I overheard him saying that tomorrow morning very early, before breakfast, he's going to lock you in the attic and keep you locked there till after I'm gone away. Well--I came to tell you that--and--to say good-bye." He paused and took courage. "And to tell you that when I'm a man I've made up my mind to come back and beat him till he bleeds as he has made you bleed." He stopped and waited. I knew what he was waiting for. I trembled, shook like an aspen leaf; my heart, soul, brain, were all aflood with what he longed for me to say. "Why don't you come nearer?" huskily. He came a little nearer and waited again, pretending, for all the world like a grown human being, that he did not see the invitation he longed for. "You are cold," I said (truth ready to my hand for use). "Come and lie under the coverlet." The first word over, it was easier. "It must be hurting you horribly," he said. He stood by the bedside in a last moment of hesitation. "_Come_," I repeated. He climbed on the bed beside me. "Yes, it hurts badly. Robbie, come nearer." Then he put his arms round me; I was half out of the bedclothes; but we were warm together under the coverlet. His curly head touched mine, his soft boyish cheek gently rubbed against my own. This was what he had come to do. This was what I had waited to know. Here was love again. It was true. It was sweet beyond belief. That is many years ago. Since then I have known many glorious things. I say still that this moment, when he placed his boyish arms around me, was the holiest and happiest of my life. I was crying new tears, not of hate nor misery, but joy. Love opens the floodgates; and I was surrounded with love, bathed in it; love in heaven and love on earth; angel mother and human boy. The two little night-gowned bodies lay close together, the two children's hearts beat. In one there was affectionate pity, in the other a wild joy; in both the high happiness of love. This is a joy so pure, that when older we can never know it again. We kissed each other again and again; eagerly, tenderly, wildly. The pent-up passion of my bitter heart poured forth; I strained him tenderly in my arms, he strained me in his. We were happy, far too happy to speak. His eyes were bright and tender, his dear face transfigured. We forgot everything, except that we loved each other. The church clock sounded midnight. Robbie broke the silence nervously. "I must go--soon. We shall have to say good-bye, shan't we? It mayn't be safe much longer. Don't forget you must escape from the attic somehow; break the door open or anything. Find out from Mrs. Greeber exactly when I'm going. I thought of your going tonight when I was still here to help you, but you can't; he has bolted all the doors and locked them and taken away the keys. He knew we might try. Oh, how I'll flog him when I grow up." "He'll be old then, and yellower and wrinkled instead of smooth." "I don't care. I'll flog him all the same.... Get a screw-driver or something and hide it when you are up in the attic. Then when we're at the station you must break the lock and fly. I'll leave the money under your bedroom carpet in the corner next to the door, let's say four inches in--" There was a sound; Robbie started up. "Oh, that's only the floor creaking. Still, it's late." "Don't go, Robbie." "You know I don't want to, but I'll have to. When I'm older I'm not going to forget. We mayn't meet for years and years, but we shall see each other again somewhere, I know we shall. We must try to remember each other ever so clearly. Isn't there anything we can do to make it seem we're near together when we're really far apart?" "I know. Every year exactly at this minute, a few minutes after midnight on Christmas night, we'll think hard of each other, shut our eyes, clench our fists, and think terribly hard. Then it will seem that we're really right by each other; you'll believe I'm in the room with you, and I'll believe you are. I shall wait till just after midnight, then try to think of nothing else in all the world but you. I shall think of you now as you are this minute--kiss me, it will be better to remember by--yes, hard, like that--and then I'll pray 'God, oh God, make Robbie be with me.' He will help it to happen. People who are away from you can be with you like that, even dead people. My mother came tonight. I saw her and she spoke to me. I called out knowing she would come, and she came. You will too. But you must believe with all your heart that it's going to happen; then it will. I shall think you are with me; then you will be. Of course I shall think of you other times, every day I expect, and always when I'm not happy, but only Christmas night in this special way. It's too special to do often. Will you too? Remember, every Christmas night, just after midnight, when you're lying in bed, however far away you are, and every year, always, think with all your soul of me and of our being together just as we are tonight. Then we shall be together again really, so that we shall always know one another whatever happens; always love each other, always be able to kiss. Promise, will you try?" "Yes, Mary," he whispered. For another few minutes we lay quietly in each other's arms. We were together that night perhaps one hour in all; an hour in which my whole soul changed. At last he had to go. Though he only whispered, I could hear that the whisper was husky. His little body trembled in my arms. "Good-night, Mary." "Oh, my dear, my dear, my dear." I hugged him harder than ever to me. I would not let him go. Then the good-bye kiss, sweetest of all, too sad for tears. His soft boy's lips brushed mine; it seemed too that they touched the tendrils of my heart and made it blossom like the garden of lilies you read of in Solomon's Song. A spirit of loveliness filled me. He got up; now it was last good-bye. I saw his face for a moment in the beam of moonlight that came slantwise through my window. For many years that vision was the chief treasure I had: a little boy in a long white nightgown, a head of tousled curls, a bright face flushed with joy and tears, radiant with my embrace, radiant with love for me. "Good-night, Mary, good-night. I'll never forget you; I'll always love you." "Good-night, Robbie." CHAPTER XVIII: NEW YEAR'S NIGHT I awoke next morning to see Aunt Martha standing by my bedside. "You're to get up at once. Your uncle says you are to spend a week in the attic for your naughtiness, so get up and dress quickly. I'll come back to take you in a few minutes. Your uncle says you're to go before breakfast, now, at once, so that you can speak to nobody." Robbie had heard aright. I was still very sore; my nightgown stuck to me here and there with dry blood, and hurt me as I tore it off. I dressed, and was ready when Aunt Martha returned. In the grey of a damp winter dawn I followed her upstairs. No one else was stirring. The unused, airless smell of the attic seemed more unpleasant than usual in the cold: an atmosphere at once frozen and stuffy. A mattress had been put on the floor; there were no bedclothes or coverlets. The room was bare except for a few boxes and old picture frames in one corner, the rusty old fender that always stood end upwards against the wall, and one rickety backless old chair. "Here's a cloak to wrap round you in the night. Your uncle said I wasn't to leave one." She went away. All day I was left alone. Twice Aunt Martha came up with a bowl of gruel and a dry crust, but (evidently under orders) she said nothing. It was so cold that the cloak could not prevent my getting numbed. I lay huddled up on the mattress all through the day, thinking, thinking, thinking.... Now that the first glow of the Wonder Night had passed away, there came a reaction, and I was gnawing away once more at all my bitter memories and hates. Pain, too, was governing me; my aching body was half numbed with cold, especially my legs and feet, which the cloak was not long enough to cover, huddle as I might. I kept my soul warm--and body too to some degree--by hugging to me the loves that now were mine. I lived the time spent with my mother and with Robbie over and over and over again: every gesture, every kindness, every kiss. For all my unhappiness and physical misery I could never again be so blankly, harbourlessly miserable as before. In my darkest moments I now knew that there were places of comfort to which I could fly. I wondered what was going on in the house downstairs. It was night-time now; tomorrow morning Robbie would be going and I should be alone with Uncle Simeon. Escape I must. I climbed on to the rickety old chair and opened the skylight window. I looked out and observed that the skylight was of a level piece with the sloping roof. I could see nothing beyond the edge of the roof; the sense of the great drop beyond that edge came to me, and as I pictured myself falling, I shuddered. That way there was no escape. Then, for one second, as I looked down the sloping roof, came a sudden notion to throw myself over. It was a physical impulse only, and passed as quickly as it came. It would have stayed longer had I been the least bit tempted. But I could never see the sense of suicide. I saw no good in killing myself, because I believed in immortality. By killing myself I should only be ensuring an Eternity in hell instead of an Eternity in heaven. The little boy in one of the new novels makes away with himself because he believes that there is nothing beyond death, and that by killing himself in this world he has killed his soul for ever. If I had believed that I too might have been tempted. But my creed was in immortality, from which there is no escape. Nor had I the physical courage which suicide requires. And it would steal my chance of meeting my mother in the next world and Robbie in this. I lay down on my mattress, seeking vainly, like a mouse in a trap, some new way of escape. During the first night in that cold dreary attic I slept hardly at all. The rats frightened me; I could not sleep for fear they would crawl over my face once it was still. Surely Robbie would send some sign, some message. None came. Later I must have slept; for again it was Aunt Martha who woke me when she came to bring my "breakfast." She was startled to see how starved with cold I was, and came back with a big warm blanket. It was a brave thing for her to do. "Robert Grove is going, isn't he?" I asked casually, steadying my voice. "Your Uncle thought he was going today, but it has been put off till next Tuesday, New Year's Day, when his uncle returns from abroad. Till then your uncle says you must stay here." There I stayed. Four walls, locked door, and precipitous roof baffled all my notions of escape. The best thing I could think of was a rush for the door when Aunt Martha came with my food; but I saw this would not be much good. She would raise the alarm, and he would catch me before I could get clear of the house. Five days passed, long, cold and wretched; though with the big blanket, and the forbidden extras Aunt Martha contrived sometimes to convey me with my meals, I managed to keep alive, and kept, in my fashion of health, reasonably well. No message came from Robbie. No doubt Uncle Simeon was watching him day and night. But still--. I was not sure of the passage of time, but I reckoned one night that it was New Year's Eve. The last night, and still no message. Tomorrow he was going: this time for certain, and for ever; I should be left alone with my tormentor. Half in terror (of Uncle Simeon when he should get me alone), half in hope (of a sign from Robbie), I lay awake through the whole of that night. It struck midnight. The bells rang out; merrily, mockingly. It was New Year's night as I had thought. All over the town people, even Saints, were wishing each other a Happy New Year. The bells were still. I lay awake waiting for something to happen, for I knew it would. All the night-time sounds of an old house were around me. Boards creaked, roof shook, rats scampered. Sometimes I was startled by a metallic sound as a rat scampered over the tin plate on which Aunt Martha brought my bread. There--that was a new sound! That tapping noise at the door was never a rat. It seemed low down just where a rat might scratch, but that was the rap of human knuckles, faint but unmistakable. Who? Why? I crawled out of the blanket, lay down on the bare boards and whispered under the door. "Robbie, is that you, Robbie?" There was no reply except the stealthy sound of something being pushed under the door. I saw a white thing that looked like a small envelope. I touched it and felt inside the paper a hard round thing. It was the half-sovereign he had promised me. "Robbie, Robbie, thank you! Are you there? Robbie, Robbie." There was no reply. I heard cautious footsteps, with a long interval between each, going down the creaky old stairs. How I wished he had whispered one word, one word. He had thought I was asleep and had not dared to speak loud enough to wake me. Never mind, it was better that the last thing was Christmas Night's perfect good-bye. I clutched the envelope and mourned the weary hours of waiting until I could read it, for I had no candle. I kept my eyes staring wide open to prevent myself falling asleep. I could feel that there was a letter as well as money inside the envelope. I knew it would help me; I was impatient to know how. So much did it raise my hopes, that I fell to thinking of the coach-ride to Tawborough, of what Grandmother would say and how Aunt Jael would receive me. As I stared through the darkness I became gradually aware of a ray of light along the ceiling. It did not come from the skylight, for there was no moon; and it ran horizontally along the ceiling, not down into the room. I got up and climbed on to the chair to investigate. Then I guessed. I had often noticed in a corner in the top of the wall (the corner farthest from the door) a little wooden door a foot or more square; it did not exactly fit the space in the wall and there was a thin aperture between the bottom of this little door and where the wall began. It was through this slit, not more than half an inch wide, that the strip of light came. I pulled at the handle and the little door opened. Ten yards or so away, on a level with my eyes, I saw a square patch of brightness. In a flash, I understood; the light from which it came was in Uncle Simeon's attic. There was a hole in the corner of the top of the wall there too, the selfsame square space I had seen when peeping through the keyhole. What the holes were for I did not know; most likely to ventilate the room in between. The space mystery which had so often puzzled me was now explained. There was, in between the two attics which I knew, mine and Uncle Simeon's, another intermediate garret twice as large as either. Instantly, I formed the resolution of squeezing my way through the hole, traversing the long dark attic in between, clambering up the other aperture through which the ray of light was streaming, and seeing--just what I was too excited to guess, except that I knew that _he_ was there. The hole was about eighteen inches square; it was a tight squeeze, but thanks to his dieting I managed it. Clambering down the other side was awkward work; I held on to the wall part of the hole to prepare for a jump. I knew it was a longish drop; there was no convenient chair on this side, and as I had left my slippers behind so as to make as little noise as possible, I hoped the ground was not too hard. My feet alighted unevenly; the left foot on the corner of a beam stuck edgeways, the right on the level of the floor, which was of course lower by the width of the beam. I hurt my toe badly. The ray of light was only sufficient to show up very dimly the big garret in which I now stood; I could make out that the floor was traversed by long beams laid edgeways, parallel with the front of the house and thus leading from my attic to his. Along one of these I walked; for although it was awkwardly narrow, it was better for my stockinged feet than the floor, which I made out to be strewn with pieces of wood, stone and plaster. When I got to the other end I found that my objective was too high; my fingers only just reached the edge of the hole. By standing on tiptoe, however, and clutching for all I was worth I managed to lever myself up. Then I looked into the mysterious room. What I saw was unforgettable. On a high cupboard flared a lamp, nearly on a level with the space through which I was looking. This explained how it was that the light carried right through to the corresponding hole in the wall of my attic. In the full glare of the lamp sat Simeon Greeber, leaning over a table covered with papers and documents, at which he peered. He gloated over them, fondled them, sometimes he laughed and breathed hard, and his eyes shone. Then he would stop, cock his head on one side for a moment, and listen anxiously. I watched him, fascinated. Round him, on the floor and the table, were many envelopes and papers. The wall was some inches thick; to see as much as I could I peered further in, so far indeed that if he stood up and looked my way he could hardly fail to see me. I noticed the big green box I had observed from the key-hole months before; a heavy door on hinges stood wide open; inside were more papers. His face, in the moments when he lifted it up, was of a greenish yellow hue in the lamp-light; and his eyes shone. In my interest I had forgotten the awkwardness of my posture; supported by my elbows and wrists on the wall part of the hole, with my feet hanging in mid-air, my toes perhaps barely touching the wall. Once I lost my hold, and clutched convulsively so as not to fall. He heard the noise, lifted his face from the pile in which he was wallowing, and looked round anxiously. I had scared him. "No, no, it can't be, it can't be," he whispered, endeavouring to assure himself of something. He returned to his love. Now he rubbed his face sideways against the papers, gently, like a friendly cat against your leg. I resolved to make a noise deliberately, keeping myself far enough back not to be seen, and to listen to what he might say. In silence, at night, alone, a sigh is the most awful noise that can strike the human ear. I waited till his face was lifted again for a moment, held myself far enough back so as not to be seen easily, while still seeing him, and uttered a long-drawn agonized sigh. He started up with a cry. His cowardly face was a livid green. "Brother, brother"--it was a terrified whine--"twelve years ago, twelve years ago." "Twelve years ago, twelve years ago," echoed the watching whisperer. He gave a horrible frightened cry, something between a beast's whine and howl, dropped on his knees, clasped his hands, turned his terrified eyes upward, and broke into delirious prayer. His face streamed with sweat. "Oh, God, God, visit not Thy servant thus. 'Twas all done for Thee, all for Thee, Thou knowest. The gold is all Thine. For Thy name's sake, Oh Lord, pity Thy faithful, humble servant. _He_, Lord, was a sinner, it was meet that he should go, and that one of Thine own people should hold his wealth. He was spending all in sin; it was one's duty, Lord, one's duty. It was Thou who guidedst one's hand that night, and was he not dying already from the illness with which Thou hadst stricken him? For Thy sake, oh Lord, it was done. Thou knowest it. Not the meanest penny has been spent on worldly pleasures nor evil ways nor self, as he, oh Lord, would have spent it. Thou knowest, Thou knowest; the meetings, the missionaries, the work in Thy vineyard amongst Thy people; all that has been spent has been spent in Thy service, and when Thou callest me to Thee, all will be left for Thy work on earth below. All, oh Lord, all. Thou knowest, Thou knowest. Grant then that he trouble me not thus, grant--" "Twelve years ago, twelve years ago," I whispered, more boldly, tasting dear revenge, anxious to see to what length of terror and blasphemy this snivelling Thing could go. I overshot my mark; I whispered a little too loud. He looked quickly up to the hole in the wall, and though I shrank back like a flash, for a fraction of a second our eyes met. Then he rushed for the door. I dropped myself down and ran for dear life back across the beamed room to my attic. Feverishly I reviewed the position. He had quite certainly seen me and was now rushing to my attic to cut off my retreat. I sped across, sprang up to the aperture, squeezed my way wildly through, calculating all the while, as the quarry does, the number of seconds it will take the huntsman to finish him. He would have to fly down the stairs from his attic, along the landing, and up the stairs to mine. Thank God, he had to fetch the key, which I knew was kept somewhere downstairs. This delay saved me. I just had time to squeeze through, shut the little door, drop on to the chair, move the chair from beneath, fly to my mattress, and throw the cape around me, before I heard the key turning. He came in stealthily and stood listening for a second near the door. Then he struck a match and lighted the candle he held in his hand. I dropped my eyelids so that I could just see him, and affected as far as I could a quiet and regular breathing. He looked first at me, then round the room, evidently baffled. If he had found my mattress empty, if I had not flown back on the wings of terror, he would have had the pleasure of trapping me like a rat in the dark roof-room, the relief of a natural explanation of the strange whisperings, and at last a genuine excuse for beating me sick. But here I was, sleeping peacefully. I could feel him looking at me with intense hate. He hated me almost as much for bringing him here on a fool's errand as if he had thought I was really guilty. He bent down and peered more closely at my face. Instinctively my hand was clasped against my heart. The door opened and Aunt Martha came in, shivering slightly in her nightdress. "You here, Simeon? I thought I heard the child cry out." "So did oneself. One came to see if anything were the matter; but she sleeps calmly enough." The lie saved him. "Come, Martha, my dear," he said, as he closed the door, "one will deal with her tomorrow." There, however, he was wrong. The sights of the past half hour had of course excited me beyond measure, but I already reflected that they could be put to use; a very handy lever to turn Aunt Jael's wrath from me to him. Once again, _how_ was I to get to Aunt Jael? I reckoned that hours must still pass before it was light enough for me to read Robbie's letter. I got up again from the mattress to sit on the chair and await the dawn. My feet crunched against something; it was a box of matches Uncle Simeon must have dropped in his excitement. By striking these one after another I read: DEAR DEAR MARY: Here is the money for the coach. I am going tomorrow morning. The door is bolted, it is no good that way, but I have found a way. You wait till eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, that will be the morning you find this, then get out by the little window in the roof, it is quite safe I have made sure. There is a drain pipe begins at the very top where the sloping part of the roof stops, you must climb down that, it gets you down into the back yard, and the back yard door is not locked, I've taken the key. Then take the coach or run or anything to Tawborough. Get away from here, that's all, you must. There is _no_ danger, it will be quite easy to climb down, you'll not hurt. I am always, always going to think of you and next Christmas we will meet properly like you said. Your loving ROBBIE. P. S. Happy New Year. I kissed the letter. There was no time to be lost. I wrapped Aunt Martha's cape round me and put on my shoes,--indoor slippers without a strap, poor enough footwear for an eight mile walk. I clambered on to the chair and lifted the heavy handle of the sky-light window. The damp air of a raw winter's night crept into the room. How I ever got to the ground, I do not know. Somehow I slithered down the sloping roof till my feet touched the ledge Robbie had spoken of; somehow I found the drain pipe, and somehow I clambered down. The yard door was open as he had said, and I walked through it into the deathly silent street, breathing a sigh of intense relief that I remember to this day. I broke immediately into a run, that I might put between me and that accursed house as much distance with as small delay as possible; when I was halfway across the old bridge I looked back at it, dimly silhouetted against the winter's night. "Good-bye Robbie!" I called. I crossed the bridge and climbed the hill. Very soon I was foot-sore; the toe that had caught on the beam in the roof-room began to bleed, and my shoes kept slipping off. I was cold, hungry, sore, cramped and faint. The cold slow rain, somewhere between drizzle and sleet, beat upon my face. By all the tenets of melodrama my escape should have been through deep crisp snow with the valiant horned moon astride the sky. There was no moon, and sleet is crueller than snow. After a while, I lost one of my shoes, turned back, peered about for it, was unable to find it; kicked away the other and ran along in my stockinged feet. Both feet were soon bleeding. After a mile or so, when I could run no further, I trudged or rather hobbled along, keeping to the middle of the road, which was the easiest and least muddy part. At moments the temptation to sit down was almost irresistible; sleep more than half possessed me. I clenched my teeth and kept on, will power eking out what little physical force was left. I prayed continuously. After perhaps three or four hours, though it seemed unending years, I saw ahead of me the first roofs of Tawborough. I limped through the wet silent streets of the town, up Bear Street on to the Lawn, and through our garden gate. I pulled the bell, and then with a wretchedness and weariness I could not resist now that my goal was reached, sank down upon the doorstep. Immediately I must have fallen asleep, for it seemed that I awoke from far away to see my Grandmother in her red dressing-gown and funny nightcap standing before me. "It's me--Mary. I've come back, Grandmother, because he would have killed me. I've walked all night, and I'm so tired." I rose to my feet, and fainted in her arms. Then I remember no more. CHAPTER XIX: BEAR LAWN AGAIN I awoke to find myself in my Grandmother's bed. Evening was darkening the room. Uncle Simeon had already come--and gone. Precisely what had taken place I was not told, but according to Mrs. Cheese neither my Grandmother nor my Great-Aunt had minced their words. Aunt Jael, particularly, must have been in awful form. Though I had not yet told my tale, my condition must have spoken for itself; and if Aunt Jael's sympathy for me was not alone sufficient to pitch her to the highest key of scorn, the sight of her old enemy made good the deficiency. Even for him he must have cringed and whined exceptionally, being quite in the dark as to how much I had told. Whether the flagellative heart of my Great-Aunt was filled with professional jealousy or whether the new rôle of Tender and Merciful appealed to her for the moment, all that is certain is this: that she drove Master Simeon Greeber with words and scorpions over the doorstep, adding that he was never required to cross it again. Nor did he. I was many years older when next we met: under what circumstances the sequel will shew. When I regained my health, which under my Grandmother's care and feeding was speedily enough, I was surprised to find how little Grandmother and Aunt Jael pressed me for details of my life at Torribridge. This incuriousness puzzled me: chiefly by contrast with what my own interest would have been in their place. Details of other people's doings and sayings were to become one of the absorbing passions of my life: I was born with my mind at a keyhole. Hence Tuesday afternoons, when they could be diverted from godly generalities to piquant personalities were more welcome than of old; and now that I was occasionally allowed to speak a word at Clinkerian ceremonies, I became quite deft in sidetracking Miss Salvation down the pathways of scandal, where Aunt Jael, not too reluctantly, would sometimes follow her. Aunt Jael, to do her justice, was not much of a gossip: she was too selfish, just as my Grandmother was too unselfish, too deeply absorbed in Aunt Jael ever to feel deep interest, even a scandal-mongering interest, in other people: while her suspicion that her own efforts were capable of similar sacrilegious discussion would not allow her to allow me to talk of Uncle Simeon's beatings and persecutions. She felt that however objectionable Uncle Simeon might be, she would not permit me--a child, a subject, a slave--to discuss him. Authority must be upheld, in whatever unpleasant quarters. In the Tacit Alliance and Trade Union for Cruelty to Children there must be no blacklegs. My Grandmother was the most incurious woman I have ever known: partly because of her inherent good nature, which made her regard all chatter about others as unkindly; partly because of her religion, which enabled her to see, though I think to exaggerate, the unimportance of earthly things. To every question, every trouble, every accusation, every wrong, she would everlastingly reply: "What will it matter in a hundred years?" and then, "Anyhow, 'tis the Lord's will." With a character thus compounded of kindness, unworldliness and fatalism, Grandmother was never born to pry. It quite irritated me how little she asked me about my life at Uncle Simeon's. I had believed myself the centre of the universe, the victim of the cruellest wrongs in human story; and here was my Grandmother thinking it friendly and loving and sympathetic to say "Don't 'ee brood over it, my dear. Forget it all. 'Twill seem little in a hundred years from now!" Apart however from this pique that my miseries should be denied the glory of posthumous fame, I was glad that I was left alone with the past eight months of my life. I could hide without subterfuge my friendship with Robbie. Naturally, and artfully, I mentioned him sometimes. "_Such_ a nice little boy, Grandmother; he was really! We liked each other--ever so!" Always my favourite form of insincerity: to tell the literal truth, while conveying by the context or my manner something much less--i. e. morally speaking, not the truth at all. I loved him; I told Grandmother I liked him. It was the truth, and a lie. I also kept hidden in my own breast the chief events of New Year's Night. * * * * * * * Within a few weeks the eight months of Torribridge seemed infinitely far away: as though it were some one else's life I was contemplating from a distant mountain-peak. I have always found that the more complete my change of surroundings, the more distant does my previous life immediately become; until some sudden messenger from the earlier days brings it back with a vivid rush. I never lived again the present-moment horror, as it were, of that life with Uncle Simeon until one day, far ahead, when I realized with frightening suddenness, as I gazed at a certain face beside me, that those eyes, that smile, that gesture--were his. I fell back almost insensibly into the old groove of Bear Lawn life: the bare empty-seeming silent house, the long days of loneliness and godliness, pinings and prayers, the two familiar black-clad figures in the old familiar horse-hair chairs, the harsh staccato jobations proceeding from one side of the fireplace, and the gentler but no less continual "Don't 'ee do it's!" from the other. Torribridge was soon a nightmare episode shot through with glad dreams more episodal still. This life in this house that had sheltered my first memories was, after all, my real life; was Life. It seemed as though I had never known any other; I often cannot remember whether certain things happened before or after Torribridge: my Bear Lawn life was all one. Nevertheless a few notable changes marked my return. First of all, I was received as a full member of the Lawn confraternity. Aunt Jael allowed me to go out and play: ay, with this selfsame famous tribe through whose frankness in grappling with fundamentals I had been disgraced and sent away. "No filth, mind! No low talk. No abominations." Nor were there. Filth, low talk and abominations had departed with Joseph Jones to his draper's apprenticeship in a big city--this was one of the large events of my absence--and what Bristol gained, Tawborough lost. Under the new rule of Laurie Prideaux I heard no more of the talk to which my six weeks under Joe had been accustoming me. The change of chieftainship meant a change in the tone of the whole community. Joe bullied and sneered if you wouldn't use his words; Laurie thrashed Ted King for using them. One boy changed the moral outlook of a Lawn; a generation, a town, a world! Under Laurie's patronage I was received into full membership. Under which flag? After a moving discussion, in which arguments charged with the nicest theological insight jostled with mere vulgar prejudice against my clothes (this was the Tompkins girl, over-dressed and under-witted little cat that she was), it was decided that the Chapel League was best fitted to receive me to its nonconformist bosom. I could not help feeling it a come-down that a Saint should be classed, as it were officially, with mere Dissenters: it was, however, the lesser of two evils, for the Church of England, after all, was something worse than "mere." I was never much good at the various games, tig, French cricket, rounders and the like, which occupied so large a part of Lawn life. The amorous ones--Kiss in the Ring and Shy Widow--I shunned altogether. I was too serious, or too sensitive, or high-minded, or morbid, to be able to regard touch as a plaything sentiment. Laurie and Marcus were nice boys, and I liked them, quite definitely; but I refused to respond when they "chose" me for their lady. In these games of sentiment and shy surrender, the challenge of choice must be accepted without flush or murmur: I could not, so refused to take part. Kissing was too precious a privilege. I cherished it for three people only: my Mother when I sought the gates of Heaven; myself when on my own lips in the looking-glass I tried to discover the mystery of this world; Robbie, when I needed Love. I acquired, however, a certain position of my own in Lawn esteem: the teller of stories. My subject was Aunt Jael; her ways, words and deeds; her rods and ropes; her food and medicine cupboards, her winsome underclothing, awful wrath, and appetite diurnal and nocturnal. I told of the beetle and of the Great God; and of far beatings. The Lawn listened, admired and applauded; admitted in me something they did not possess; the power to interest and to amuse. Thus they decided my fate for me, in showing me the thing in which I was different from and better than others; and Mary Lee, silent and morose by instinct, by upbringing and by environment, set up for life as an amateur-professional _raconteuse_. That way lay success, and success is what we seek. In forcing myself to talk that I might bask in the amusement of the other children, I gradually lost some of the moodiness and glumness of my earlier days; later on in life, in still more favourable surroundings, I lost them altogether: that is, in the face I showed to the world. The simple need of status with the Lawn children drove me to do the one thing I could do: to talk, and so to discover my talent and overlay my original nature. Thus it is ambition that transforms character, rather than character ambition. Thus it was that Aunt Jael provided me with the capital for my new venture, and paid handsomely for all her oppressions. An eye for an eye, a Lawn laugh for every blow! The Elementary Educational Establishment was now beneath my needs, so I was transferred from the Misses Clinker (who, while far above vile pecuniary jealousy, prophesied ill) to the seminary of the Misses Primp. The latter were Saints, obscure but regular at the Great Meeting, and socially above the ruck. "Reg'lar standoffish, wi' the pride ur the flesh in their 'earts," declared Miss Salvation, who saw clearly from her altitude far above vile pecuniary jealousy. They held their school in a bleak house with a big bare garden, to the north of the town, ten minutes or so from the Lawn. The curriculum embraced Arithmetic to the Rule of Three, Composition, Grammar, French, Literature (Sacred and Profane), Needlework (Plain and Fancy), Drawing (Freehand and Design); Botany and Brushwork; together with "a thorough grounding in the principles of Salvation." Not to put too fine a point upon it, this last pretension was a lie. A Bible-reading, usually Kings or Chronicles, read with parrot-quickness round the class, one verse to each pupil; a long dry prayer offered up, with eyes gimletted not on heaven but on us, by Miss Prudence Primp; and a longer and still drier homily by Miss Obedience Primp, a gaunt old lady with a gigantic crinoline and a parched soul and throat--in a later, more worldly age, this allowance of heavenly fare may not seem so niggardly; to me, bred as it were in the imperial purple of Grace, the whole performance appeared perfunctory and tepid, and the Primpian acquaintance with the principles of salvation positively sketchy. My studies were remarkable only for their unevenness. The net result of my inequalities was that I occupied a steady middle-place in the weekly marks. I reflected with pride, however, that it was no ordinary middle-place, the result of humdrum averageness in everything: and I was vainer of being bad at my bad subjects than good at my good ones. Were they not stupid subjects in which a quite special unique set-apart Chosen little girl like myself would not stoop to shine? Tots indeed! Brushwork! I do not recall many events in my school life. Those that recur to me are chiefly unpleasant; how some of the girls cribbed and copied and cheated and lied; how others giggled sickeningly at the word "boys," or mocked shamefully at their mothers and fathers. They were red-letter days when Cissie King, my Lawn enemy, had a fit, foamed at the mouth, went green in the face, was obdurate under basinsful of water, and only came round at the third dose of brandy; or when Miss Obedience quarrelled openly with Miss Prudence in front of the whole school, and cried "Leave me, woman!" Nor can I forget my first day, when Miss Obedience, as we were leaving after the morning school, asked two of the older girls who lived my way to accompany me home, and I overheard them say to each other "Not likely! We'll leave her at the school gate; wouldn't be seen with her, with her frock all darned and nasty common clothes and boots, would you? If anybody should think she belonged to us!" How my cheeks burned, how I hated and loathed those two giggling little snobs, and still more my own uncomely person and garments. How I brooded for days and gnawed at the shame. These are the real events of a child's life; they sound the depths of human passion: shame, jealousy and hate. One other major event followed close upon my return. Wedding Bells! For five and forty years had Miss Salvation Clinker been pursuing Brother Brawn; now the long chase was ended, and the quarry at last secured. She was seventy-seven, he but seventy-one. How on a secret visit one morning she broke the news to Grandmother, postponing vainly the Jaelian wrath to come; how later that wrath fell ("Bold woman of Proverbs seven-twelve, who lieth in wait at every corner," said Denouncer; "I shall do more than _some_ as I know, and go to 'Eaven a wedded wife," answered Denounced, brazen in vanishing-maidenhood)--while scorn and pity were showered upon the victim; how Aunt Jael's ban went forth, and the banns despite it; how they became man and wife; how she had her Triumph, and dragged him through the streets of Tawborough in an open carriage ... this and much more I might portray. The mild scandal in our Meeting was as nothing to the rage and horror in the Upper Room for Celibate Saints. At a solemn mass-meeting of the survivors, nigh half a dozen strong, Doctor Obadiah Tizzard decreed: that Glory Clinker, aider and abetter in evil, be then and thenceforward struck from the sacred roll and flung into outer darkness; that against Salvation, née Clinker, sinner of sinners, be pronounced the Major Excommunication. The "Upper's" gain was our loss. Henceforward the Clinkers were always with us. (Nobody favoured Salvation with her new surname.) But the chief loser by her change of state was, alas, poor Brother Brawn. The sisters let the High Street Mansion, the aforetime E.E.E., and moved, inseparably, into the White House. There, sandwiched between a gentle _détraquée_ and a scolding shrew, our bleating leader found repentance, if no leisure more. "I told 'ee so," said Aunt Jael. "'E've done it now. There is _no_ hope." The husband certainly had none, though his spouse, dreamily quoting Luke-one-thirteen, declared that _she_ had, and the good sister-in-law er-er-er'd and plied her unsteady needle on swaddling-clothes, while muttering always to herself "John! Thou shalt call his name John!" ... Neither school nor Lawn nor Clinkers, however, seemed anything but incidental to my life in the big house at Number Eight, always for me the first of external things. Here too there were changes. Mrs. Cheese had come back. Servant after servant had passed away like that grass which in the morning groweth up and in the evening withereth away. Stability reigned in the kitchen once more. Relations with Aunt Jael partook of the nature of an armed truce. Both restrained themselves, Mrs. Cheese because she wanted to stay, Aunt Jael because she wanted her to; though the former was a bit too fond of making it clear that she had come back to us for my Grandmother's sake only, "and not to plaize zome others I cude mention." Despite her loyal affection for my Grandmother, the real person for whose sake she had come back was herself. At sixty she was too old to break with old habits, such as our kitchen and her routine therein, or with Aunt Jael, who was a habit also, if a bad one. From this time Grandmother occupies a larger place in my memories than Aunt Jael. Why, I am somewhat puzzled to say; for their life, and my life with them, went on just as of old. Perhaps now that beatings became rarer, it was natural that she whose skill therein had been the terror of my earlier childhood should loom less large. Perhaps it was that Aunt Jael, my bad angel, appeared tame in her badness by the side of Uncle Simeon (but then should Grandmother, my good angel, have become faint in my affections besides Robbie; whereas I liked her better and thought of her more). Perhaps it was that Grandmother's gentler qualities would naturally have made less impression on a little child than Aunt Jael's harsh ones, or anybody's good qualities than anybody's bad ones. Further, I now saw more of Grandmother, as Aunt Jael developed the habit of confining herself to her bedroom for days at a stretch, only emerging on to the landing to rain curses over the banisters on Mrs. Cheese for a useless, shiftless idler, unfit to wait on a suffering bedridden old martyr, or on Grandmother for a selfish, ungrateful sister always absent from her elder's bed of pain; or (oftenest) on me. With outdoor exercise and good food, which now for the first time I enjoyed together, I became healthier and I think happier. Though I still lived for my daydreams, I had less time on my hands. What with dusting and bed-making and cooking, what with homework and meals and prayers and ceaseless reading of the Word in public and private, and Aunt Jael's and Grandmother's expositions, I found my days too full to yield the time I needed for thinking and talking to myself: for living. I got into the habit of stealing odd quarters-of-an-hour in the attic. Aunt Jael was on my scent in a moment. How I loathed her when a luxurious heart-to-heart talk between Mary and Myself was interrupted by her hoarse scolding voice. "Child! Child! Now then. Down from the garret, now. No monkey tricks." Perhaps as an attraction to hold me downstairs, the portals of the dining-room bookcase were at last thrown open to me. The wealth therein would have seemed meagre, perhaps, to worldlier spirits; to me, for whom all books save One (and one other) had always been closed, it was a gold mine. Of unequal yield. With some of the more desiccated devotional works I saw at once that I could make no headway. Such were Aunt Jael's beloved "Thoughts on the Apocalypse" and a row of funereally-bound tomes devoted to the exposition of prophecy. Laid sideways on the bottom shelf was that musty fusty giant, our celebrated copy of the "Trowsers Bible." I liked Matthew Henry's great Commentary in three huge black volumes, with the dates at the top of every page, from which I learnt that this world was made in the year B.C. 4004 (six thousand years ago: a brief poor moment lost in the facing-both-ways Eternity that haunted me), and that Christ was born four years Before Christ. Certain books demolishing the Darbyites or Close Brethren and their fellow-sinners at the other pole of Error pleased me by their hairsplitting arguments and vituperative abuse. Then there was "Grace abounding to the Chief of Sinners" by Master John Bunyan. * * * * * * * The record of this period of my life is perforce wearisome and undramatic. There are no events. More than ever my real life was inside me, was make-believe; that is, real. Change of residence was but a change of stage. The same comedy-tragedy--ME--was for ever on the boards. Not that the change of stage meant nothing. Houses, rooms, weathers, smells, all affected and were somehow a part of my thoughts. The two towns, I knew, were intimately mixed up with my feelings about all that had happened to me in them. Torribridge was the more romantic: little white town made magical by the word-sorcery of Westward Ho! Quay that harboured brown-sailed ships from the Indies, memories of the Rose of Torribridge and that salmon-coloured hostelry called by her name; then Number One, house of gold and murder and mystery. Tawborough was more real. Graced by no Rose of Torridge, she held instead the rose of merchandise. The busy, countrified, unimaginably English character of her market and her streets seemed to make her more genuine, more actual--the right word eludes me--than Torribridge: Torribridge, that eight months' rainbow-circled nightmare, mere invention of Mr. Kingsley and Robbie and Uncle Simeon. Act Three was back in the first setting again; and here, in dining-room, in bed, in attic, the play went on. The principal character was Mary Lee. The audience was Mary Lee. I was player, producer, public all in one. "Mary," I would say, as soon as I was alone. "Listen, I will tell you what I think." "Yes, Mary; do!" This sense of two selves, one of whom could confide in the other, was ever more vivid. Some one else inside me was pleased, surprised, angered, grieved; shared my sorrows and triumphs. Thus it was that in weeping for myself after some cruelty of Aunt Jael's or some more spiritual grief, I felt I was not selfish, because I was sharing trouble with _some one else_, who lived in the same body. Such impressions are at once too rudimentary and too subtle to be well conveyed in words. When I called out "Mary," and "_I_" answered "Yes" the reality of question and answer between two different, though curiously intimate persons, was physical, overwhelming. Soon after my return to my Grandmother's this sense of dual personality began, in its most physical manifestations, to fade somewhat; in its more spiritual quality, to grow more intense: the first when I began my Diary, the second at the miraculous moment of my Baptism. CHAPTER XX: DIARY The notion came to me one warm autumn afternoon, as I was reading "Grace Abounding." From the first page I struck up a living friendship with the Bedford tinker, though he had been in heaven for near two hundred years. I understood him as he talked aloud to himself and peered within to discover who and what was this John Bunyan inside him. I liked too--the more so as it was so new in print and from the mind of some-one-else--the careful detail with which he told of his earthly outward life: his descent, his lowly parentage, his school, his early days, though I could have wished for details of his Aunt Jaels and Uncle Simeons. These did not lack when he talked of his "inside" life, and told me (who knew) of his childhood's "fearful dreams" and "dreadful visions" and "thoughts of the fearful Torments of Hell fire," because of which "in the midst of my many Sports and Childish Vanities, amidst my vain Companions, I was often much cast down and afflicted." Why should not I tell a like story of my soul day by day, detail by detail? The notion rolled through me like a tide. I closed the book, sprang up, shut my eyes, and walked round and round the room in my excitement. Today, this moment, I would begin. Then as I turned my mind to practical details--the book I should write it in, the hiding-place for the book--hesitations appeared. Wasn't it a bit funny? Did other people do it? Why, yes: John Bunyan was "other people" right enough, and a good Christian too. And I remembered that I had heard somewhere before of a man who wrote down the story of his life. In a few seconds I placed my man. Poor old Robinson Crewjoe. I ran into the kitchen. "Mrs. Cheese, you know Robinson Crewjoe you told me about, didn't you say you could read about it all in a book he'd written himself?" "'E wrote it pon a bit buke 'e vound on the Wreck, so's 'e shidden virget it, I reckon, or so's ither volk cude rade it arterwards--" "Yes, but _when_ did he write it?" "Ivry day, avore goin' to bed nights. Ivrythin' 'e'd been doin' that day. Leastways that's what my ol' Uncle Zam ollers did, who kep' a buke of the zame zort." "What was it like? Please tell me about Uncle Sam's book." "Wull, my Uncle Zam, over to Exmoor, was very aiddicayted he was, a turrable 'and vur raidin' and writin'. So long as 'twas a buke 'e'd love'n and spell over'n vur hours and as 'appy as a king, as the zayin' is, but 'e liked best writin' down in this lil buke uv 'is own--a _dairy_ they caals un. Why fer I don't knaw, 'cause tizzen much to do wi' the milk, so far as I can see, and I ain't blind neither. Wull, in this lil buke, and there was eight or nine uv them avore 'e died, 'e put down ivry blimmin' thing 'e did, 'tis true's I zit yer. Wull, when the funeral was over and all the cryin', 'is widder--my ol' Aunty Sary that was, bein' curyus like bein' a lil bit like you--thought she'd be findin' zummat tasty in these ol' dairies, and tuke it into 'er 'ead to try to rade all the eight bukesful, or mebbe 'twas nine. But 'er cud'n 'ardly du it, not bein' aiddicayted like 'im, and when 'er vound it tuke 'er 'alf the day to spell over 'alf wan page, 'er got 'erself into a turrable upset, an threw un all pon the vire, 'ollern' out 'Burn un all, burn un all, burn un all! Then 'er bangs out uv the rume. I was up vrom me zeat avore you cude say Bo, and rescued the bettermos' part uv them avore they was burnt. Aw my dear days, I niver did rade zuch stuff. 'E'd put 'pon they bukes ivry drimpy lil thing e'd done and zeen and zed they vorty years: 'ow many calves the ol' cow 'ad 'ad, how much butter an' crame 'e zold to Markit, all mixed up wi' stuff about the pixies 'e zaw, or _thort_ 'e zeed, top uv Exmoor o' nights; and a lot o' religyus writin,' for 'e was a gude Christyen for all 'is pixies and goblins, wi' plenty 'o sound stuff 'bout 'Eaven and 'Ell, and a middlin' gude dale about 'is sowl...." These were valuable hints. My resolve was confirmed. I would follow in the footsteps of John Bunyan and Robinson Crewjoe and Uncle Zam. That day, October the Twelfth 1860 (thirty-seven years ago come Tuesday), in the unused half of an old blue-covered exercise book, I began. With what a sense of pride, of importance, of creativeness, of high adventure, I scrawled in great flourishing capitals my heading: THE LIFE OF MARY LEE Written By Herself. My opening sentence was this: "I was born at Tawborough on March the Second, 1848." I have put it also on the first page of this present record, which from now, my thirteenth year onwards, is but a matured, shortened and bowdlerized version of the diary, eked out--more often for atmosphere than detail--by memory. The keeping of the diary, however, weakened my memory; which, though of its old photographic accuracy in what it held, yet held far less. I did not need to remember things, I said to myself: I could always find them in the book. Certainly for the first few years, I could have found there everything that was worth reading, as well as everything that wasn't; in later years, alas, I have succumbed to the fatal habit of compact little paragraphs epitomizing whole weeks, and even months, as fatal as the Sundries habit in a household account-book. Indeed, despite the pathetic leniency we show towards the trivial when it is the trivial in our own life, I find the earlier pages of my diary tiresomely full; far too fond of "What we had for dinner" or "Aunt Jael's scripture at this evening's worship." As I told my diary everything, it began to take the place of my other self, and it is in this sense that I mean that the feeling of dual personality was weakened. The self-to-self talks became fewer; the sense of a person telling and a person told was blurred. Unspoken notes in a grimy exercise book took their place; although at first, and always in exciting passages, I would talk aloud, and take down, so to say, from my own dictation. This early diary is morbid, precocious, shrewd, petty, priggish, and comically, pitifully sincere. Religion looms large, with food a bad second. This is natural enough. John Bunyan's whole aim was A Brief Revelation of the Exceeding Mercy of God in Christ to his poor Servant, John Bunyan; Robinson Crewjoe was not the man to let slip any opportunity for a pious ejaculation, a moral reflection or a godly aside; while Uncle Zam, according to his niece, took a middlin' gude deal of interest in his "Sowl." These great exemplars helped to increase what would have been in any case a heavy disproportion of holy matter. This kind of thing is typical of the earlier years:-- FEB. 13. Woke still worried by the problems of Infinity in Time and Space, tho' less despairing and appalled than the day before. I pray, _pray_, PRAY; but all the time at the back of my soul, the fear is still there:--Eternity faces me tho' I dare not face Him, and _Where_ may my Eternity not be spent? Perhaps "One Day at a Time" is the only way. A wet day. Read Exodus this afternoon. Aunt Jael rough; so held forth to the Lawn children this evening. They are _too_ appreciative; roar with laughter at everything I say; it does me good, though this is set off by the harm done me by encouragement in self-esteem. But no, no, no--I have a good and great ideal for this Mary, that I must strive to fulfil; and petty ministerings to her (my) vanity must be quashed and that right sternly. Laurie Prideaux gave me some chocolate cream. He is an obliging, kind, childlike, good, conceited boy. Polony for supper. _Sunday._ Meeting. Bro. Quappleworthy on the Personal God. Saw Joe Jones, I think in Bear Street: must be on holiday from Bristol. Mrs. Cheese thought he was back. He did not see me; as he never looked towards or acknowledged me, I assumed did not. To Lord's Day School, two prayer-meetings, and Gospel-Service this evening. _Very_ weary. Like Uncle Zam on Aunt Sary, I indulged in a good deal of "plain-spaikin" on Aunt Jael. The diary thus became invested with a halo of danger. Suppose she found it in one of its many (and changing) hiding-places! She would beat me utterly, burn the diary, and mock cruelly at its contents. Yet it was from my Grandmother that I hid it with my most ardent cunning. She would neither beat, nor burn, nor mock, but I knew she would condemn it as "morbid" (the word is a later acquisition), and search me with her kind common-sense eyes; and I should be covered with shame. Not guilty shame, rather the shame a man feels when his naked soul is shown to the world; the shame I always felt when caught red-handed in one of my self-to-self declarations in the attic. What if other eyes should read this for instance? 1860. Sept. 25. There are three months just to Christmas. _Then I shall kiss Robbie._ All through my life these books of revelation have dogged me with the daily fear that through them _I should be found out_; now that they have served their purpose in helping me to compile this more permanent record, I have decided, like Aunt Sary, to "burn un all." (Or nearly decided; it is hard for a woman to destroy memorials of the past.) The precautions I took, beyond subtle hiding, were: prayer, magic, and the etching in red ink on each exercise-book-cover of this Device:-- PRIVATE SHAME! ON WHOEVER MAY THINK EVEN OF READING THIS BOOK. SHAME! Whether in the worst of us, e. g. Aunt Jael, curiosity is not a stronger passion than fear, and whether therefore this curiosity-tempting cover might not do more harm than good, was a problem and a worry that continually assailed me. In connection with the diary, I must speak of the Resolves or Resolutions I began to make. These were a result, on one side of my growing sense of sin (egotism, ambition, triumph, revenge, hate, greed, dirt, doubt), and on another side of an exactly opposite desire to realize my imagined ambitions by equipping myself to achieve them (wide knowledge, better health, nicer looks). They were written on half-sheets of note-paper, which I immediately put in an envelope. This was sealed and hidden in between the pages of that day in the diary on which the resolution was formed. The moment the least part of the current resolve was broken--I knew it always by heart--I had to break open the envelope and begin afresh. The old unkept resolve I placed in the page of the day on which it was broken. Thus an enveloped, sealed, still-in-action Resolve was kept with the day in which it was formed, a discarded one on the day on which I fell. I usually began again on a day that would give me a clean start, such as the first of the month, or a magic date, or some special anniversary. Here is one that had a pretty long run:-- March 9th, 1861. _My Mother died thirteen years ago today_--Therefore from now onwards I DO RESOLVE:-- I. EVERY DAY To drink a glass of cold water before breakfast and } To help at night (better than senna) } me be To go for a walk } healthy To brush my hair well } To help To clean my teeth hard } me be } pretty To learn at least seven new verses of the Word by } To help heart and revise seventeen old ones } me be } good } To help To tell the Lord everything in prayer } me be } Him II. NEVER To steal oatmeal from the larder (as I did three times last week) To think dirty things (as I did last Wednesday when I laughed when Mrs. Cheese said Aunt Jael's drawers were like two red bladders). III. ALWAYS To eat slowly (37 bites to each mouthful) To be like God would like. RESOLVED, with Mother's help Mary Lee. 20 minutes past 6. March 9th, 1861. For any one to whom this absurd document is absurd only, comment would be but adding insult to injury. Here is another:-- _New Year's Day_, 1862. (Beginning of a new year and third anniversary of my Flight from Torribridge) For this year I am going to make no special resolutions put out in a list but at EVERY moment I shall ask myself this question: WHAT WOULD THE LORD DO IF HE WERE ME? Then I shall never do wrong, and I shall be fitted and worthy for His service. So with His help I sign Mary Lee. Jan. 1st, 1862. 10.30 (a.m.) This magnificent resolve seems not to have been specific enough, alas, for my frail endeavours; under a date but six or seven weeks later I find this:-- 1862. THIS YEAR'S RESOLVE. (New Version) WHAT WOULD THE LORD DO IF HE WERE ME? _EVERY DAY_ (1) He would pray, _hiding nothing_. (2) He would learn a new piece of the Word, and _more_ than Aunt Jael made Him. (3) He would be clean (ears, face, nails, teeth, hands, _heart_). (4) He would go a nice long walk (instead of "poking indoors" as _She_ calls it) _AND HE WOULD NEVER_ (5) Have sinful thoughts like Spite Vengeance Vileness Pride (6) Say sinful words, like ---- ---- (7) Like sinful things, like Praise Riches Eating The Pleasure I have whenever the worst part of the "For Ever" Fear is over Flattery Fame (Signed) MARY. Feb. 19th, 1862. If this era of diaries and resolutions saw the two-persons idea for a while less distinct, all the other mysteries of my earlier days remained. I still, for instance, put everything I did to the test of reason and instinct, obeying always the latter. I believed more than ever in my private magic and was persuaded that there were special acts, gestures and words which would enable me to perform miracles, if only I could discover them. Dreaming away during Breaking of Bread at the Room, I would be assailed by the desire to turn the wine in the two glass decanters into water; Lord's Day after Lord's Day I sought the magic gesture in vain. I knew there was a word that, if cried aloud, just once, would enable me to soar upward to the sky and fly about angel-like among the stars. I never found it, though a hundred times it was on the tip of my tongue, till I was half wild with hope. Another well-cherished notion was this: that if my mother came to me again, and we could achieve a complete embrace, she would be able to take me away with her to heaven for a space, till a moment when she kissed me again, before the very face of God, and I would swiftly return to earth. The only magic with which I actually succeeded, or believed I did (which is the same) was Numbers. 1, 10, 17, 437, 777 were magic: 7 and 237 were big magic; 37 was arch-magic, the Holy Number. In every need I called upon them. If Aunt Jael were flogging me, what I had to do was to count a perfectly even 37, timing it to finish at the same moment as her last stroke. I believed positively that it eased my hurt, and I believe so still, for my attention was concentrated not on Aunt Jael's blows but on my magic: so far, if no farther, is faith-healing a fact. Or I would jump out of bed in the morning, and begin to count, always evenly. If when I finished dressing, I was at a magic number (the correct moment was when I shut the bedroom door behind me, though for a second chance I allowed reaching the bottom stair) then the whole day would be lucky. Or out in the street, the amount of house frontage I could cover in thirty-seven strides I believed positively would be the same as the frontage of the big house I should one day possess. So, like the peasant in Count Tolstoi's tale, I strode mightily. A big house was one of my few material ambitions at this time, with money to spend on grand furniture for it ("Riches," vide Resolution of 19|2|62). Even here my need was chiefly a spiritual one. I thought that in a vast house, utterly alone, I should have a perfect place for practising echoes, one of the means by which I hoped to solve the riddle of my existence. In the midst of a deathly silence I should stand in the great marble hall and shout. "Mary Lee, what are you? What are you?" A hundred echoes would swiftly call back through the silence, and I was on the brink of understanding---- A different method of solving the haunting riddle was to whisper my own name quite suddenly in a silent room, when alone with myself. Sometimes the physical effect was so curious that I was certain of success. Fervent praying to the point of ecstasy, more often to the point of exhaustion, was another way. Sometimes I was able, it seemed, to disembody myself; my soul left my body (at which it could look back as though it belonged to some one else) and wandered nowhere, everywhere, becoming in some half-realized fashion a part of everything in space, and an inhabitant of all periods of time. I remembered, in the fleeting fashion of dreams, things I had done before I was born, in some hitherto unremembered life. Then, again, things I had done still earlier, in distant lives and far-away centuries; till, at last, I remembered myself for ever and for ever in the past, and my soul fled back into my body to hide from the new terror: Eternity behind as well as before me, the unpitying everlastingness of the past as of the future. The latter was still the unappeasable fear which hung like an evil menace over every moment of my life. If I thought it out and lived through the mad blinding moment of terror as my brain battered itself against Infinity, I gained nothing; the terror flung me back. If I was wise, and refused to think of it, I knew myself for an ostrich with my head in the sand. If I dared not face it, it was there beholding me just the same, unconquered, unconquerable. Was there no escape? The only notion I could conceive, and which I cherished with most desperate hope, was that Love, if ever it could possess my whole soul and being, would slay the King of Terrors once for all. How could Love so come to me? Sometimes I thought it would be God. I knew that my Grandmother had a joy, a serene and fearless delight in the love of the Lord, which I did not share. I prayed fervently for this: that I might know the peace of God, which is perfect understanding; that I might possess this divine love, which I could see in her but did not feel in myself; that it might free me from the Fear which darkened my soul. And sometimes I thought it would be Robbie. In his kind embrace, not in foolish echoes or magical tricks, might I find a perfect happiness which would transform and transfigure me, till I could turn a laughing face upon the Terror. Then would I long for Eternity; an Eternity of Love. And my body and soul would fly back to Christmas Night. Ah tender arms around me, ah dear little boy beside me, ah tears, ah joy, ah Robbie! CHAPTER XXI: I AM BAPTIZED IN JORDAN "Do 'ee love the Lord?" my Grandmother was for ever asking. "Yes, Grandmother," I always replied. Down in my heart I knew it was not true. There was belief in me, and awe; but of that passion for God which I envied in her, no semblance. If it were really love I felt for Him (I put it to myself) "my heart would warm within me whenever I think of Him, as it does when I think of Robbie: or of Mother." When I tried to conjure Him up, all I could ever see was a blurred bearded man on a high grey throne; and if I peered harder for face and features, a dark mist like a rain-cloud always filled the space where they should be. I knew I could never love Any One Whose face I could never see. "You do not love Him as you do Robbie," kept saying the accusing voice within. It is true, and the thought horrified me. Until I could feel this greater love, I knew I had not "got religion." For all my godly upbringing, for all my pious ways, I was no more privileged than ninety-nine of a hundred mere averagely religious grown-ups. Like theirs, my religion was but an affair of education, habit, intellect, morality. The Rapture was withheld. I had not got religion. I knew my Bible as well as any child in England, and I loved it as well. I believed in all the doctrines of the Saints, not vaguely either, like a normal unreflecting child: but had pondered on them, and within my capabilities thought them out and personally accepted them. No atheist doubts oppressed me. The Tempter had not assailed me, as he had assailed my friend John Bunyan, with "Is Christianity no better than other religions, just one religion among many?" and other such wicked doubts. But I had not got religion. And fear beset me: fear of other people, of the Devil, of Eternity, and, now as I grew older, of myself. The glimpses I had of the evil natures in me affrighted me. Sometimes in brooding over some wrong done me, my imagination ran riot in fantastic excesses of cruelty and revenge till I drew back appalled at the horrors of which, in thought at any rate, I was capable. I would brood over the unhappiness of my life and the injustice meted out to me every day, till my soul was a dark seething mass of revengefulness and hate. Not till I found myself visualizing the very act of murder did I draw back affrighted. With the change in my nature that came as I grew into girlhood, a new series of evil visions possessed me. I found myself picturing fleshly and disgraceful things, things I had never heard of nor known to be possible, thrown up from the wells of original sin within. Pleasurable sensations lured me on till I drew back appalled at the sickening deeds that I, godly little Plymouth Sister, conceived myself as doing. Of course they were things I never _should_ really do--oh dear no! that was foul, unimaginable!--but Conscience quoted Matthew five, twenty-eight, and though I stuffed my fingers in my ears she kept dinning it. _You have committed it already in your heart._ I had no sense of proportion, and believed myself a very monster of vileness: a vileness, I feared, which would cling and canker till it deformed my soul and body and face; and I saw myself, a loathsome shape, living on for ever with increasing self-loathing through all the pitiless eternal years. My blood froze with fear as my mind's eye stared fascinated at the shameful shape. I screamed as madmen scream. Madness I often feared. In my imaginings of Eternity, let me one day go but a single step too far, let me suffer the awful ecstasy of fear to hold me but a second too long, and I knew my reason would be fled. So about this time I added to my prayers: "God, save me from going mad." But fear, though never far away, and the sense of wickedness, though always near the surface, were not masters of every moment. The one thing that never left me was a feeling of unsatisfiedness, incompleteness. The world seemed an empty place, my soul an empty vessel. I had a melancholy sureness that something, the chief thing, the secret of happiness, was lacking me. I believed that this secret could only be discovered in the love of God: that there only could I find, as my Grandmother had found, the peace and delight which pass all understanding. That alone was religion, and I had it not. "Do 'ee love the Lord?" my Grandmother was for ever asking. To possess the love of God became the aim of all my prayers and hopes. It alone could save me from my evil self, quell my bad desires, dispel my fears, and fill the aching void. How could I possess it? The conviction seized me one day, how or why I do not know, that I should obtain it in the moment at which I was baptized; not before, and in no other way. Once the idea had come, it would not leave me; to hasten on my public immersion became the chief endeavour of my life. Grandmother was nothing loth, for it was her own dearest wish. My age, she said, might be raised in objection: I was not yet thirteen. Had I surely faith?--I gave her passionate proofs--then God's requirements were fulfilled. She spoke to Aunt Jael, and both of them to Pentecost Dodderidge, who agreed ardently. The Brethren do not of course practise infant baptism. However, children of about my age could be, and very occasionally were, baptized, provided they gave surpassing proofs of holiness. Faith, not age, as the Bible shows, is the only test of fitness. But certain of the Saints in our Meeting, influenced whether by "common-sense," or by the rankling notion that none of their children ever had been or ever would be admitted to baptism at such a tender age, began to murmur, and spoke privily to Pentecost against the project. Brother Browning took the bolder course of taking my Grandmother herself to task. Dark doubts beset him, he declared, scriptural doubts; though his real motive was jealousy for Marcus. "Unscriptural?" said my Grandmother in amaze. "Have you read your acts of the Apostles, Brother Browning? Faith, not years or rank or race is what the Scripture requires. Think of Crispus, Cornelius, the jailor of Philippi, Lydia seller of purple! Turn to your eighth chapter: Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch: 'See, here is water, what doth hinder us to be baptized?' Does Philip answer 'But tell me first your age?' No, he answers: 'If thou believest with all thine heart, thou mayest.'" She turned to me. "Child, do you believe with all your heart?" "Yes, Grandmother." Turning in triumph to Brother Browning: "The Scripture is satisfied. And," she added, "Mr. Pentecost approves." Brother Browning was confounded. Nevertheless, but for the affection in which Grandmother was held, and Aunt Jael's prestige, both backed by the insurmountable authority of Pentecost, I am pretty sure that some of the Saints would have resisted further. In face of that Trinity, they were dumb. So it was settled, and I began a term of "preparation." Grandmother enjoined that I turn my mind wholly on heavenly things. She held devotions with me at all hours, praying sometimes far into the night. Pentecost himself came in to pray with me, while those who had raised objections were invited specially to test my faith. Brother Browning came,--like the Queen of Sheba, to prove me with hard questions. Like Solomon, I emerged triumphant. As the time drew near, sometimes my excitement could hardly contain itself. My visions of the Moment became more detailed, more delirious, more intense. At the very moment of immersion the old Wicked Me would instantly die and a New Self come into being: in a second, Eve would be driven out and Christ implanted for ever in my soul. At one magical stroke I should possess happiness and be freed from all fear and wickedness and emptiness of heart. The love of God would not enter me slowly, gradually; but would storm me like a victorious army, swallow me like the sea. As part of my preparation, I was taken by Grandmother to one or two baptisms. Ceremonies were held from time to time, according as there were sufficient candidates. Our Meeting baptized not only for ourselves but also for the Branch Meeting and all the villages around. The number of persons immersed ranged from two or three to a dozen. The ceremony took place in the Taw, following Scripture example; at a spot just beyond the quay and the ships, a few yards from where the Town railway-station for Ilfracombe now stands. Here the river was shallow; you could wade nearly into mid-stream. Robing and re-robing took place at White House, Brother Brawn's tumble-down residence near by. Now that Pentecost was too old, Brother Brawn was our Baptist. The usual time was Lord's Day morning; very early, to avoid a jeering crowd. At the second of these ceremonies that I was taken to see, a strange incident occurred. Despite the day and hour, we were never quite without a few scoffers, who would stand on the shore a little way away from our company, and shout and mock at the proceedings in the water. On this particular occasion two men who looked like labourers appeared, not on shore, but in a small boat in mid-stream; where they remained cat-calling and jeering while we held our preliminary service on the river bank. Brother Brawn waded out with the convert--a fair-haired young man whose name I do not remember--till the water was about up to their middles. The two men in the boat rowed nearer till they were within a few yards only; but farther out, and therefore in a deeper place. The river was at high tide. "Look 'ee at the dippers, the sheep dippers!" they cried; then to Brother Brawn, "'Tis too early yet for the dippin', master, 'tis a'most winter still." They used foul words and sneered blasphemously, taking God's name in vain. We on the shore had noticed a dog with them in the boat, a little terrier, shaggy and brown. When Brother Brawn began the actual act of immersion and dipped the fair-haired young Brother's head under water, one of the men in the boat began a blasphemous imitation. He took the dog by the scruff of the neck, held it over the edge of the boat, and kept dipping its head under the water. After each word of Brother Brawn's he cried out: "I baptize thee, O Brother Dog, i' the name o' the Vather, o' the Zun--" We were too horrified to speak or move. I know my face was scarlet with shame; and I prayed within: "O God, stop him, strike him low. Stop his mouth. Punish him now." I saw Grandmother was saying a like prayer. God replied before our eyes. The mocking man, in a misjudged movement, bent over too far with the dog. In a second the boat was overturned, and men and dog were in the water together, struggling and splashing. (Brother Brawn's back was turned; I do not think he knew what was happening.) Where the boat had overturned it was clearly much deeper, as neither of the men could stand. One managed to swim in safety to the opposite bank. The other, the chief mocker, struggled, rose, disappeared, rose again, and finally disappeared, gurgling and gesticulating horribly. Those of us on shore were purged with awe and terror. "God is not mocked!" cried Pentecost. After the service, the dead body was washed ashore; I gazed in dumb horror (thinking too of God's power) at the staring wide-open eyes, the blue face contorted with fear, the soft white foam issuing from the mouth. The dog was saved. Brother Brawn took it away with him and had it poisoned. This incident served to tinge with apprehension the hopes with which I looked forward to my own immersion, now very near. Suppose I were drowned: in my own way I was wicked as the labourer, with better chances and less excuse. God could drown me if He wished. The mere physical horror of cold water was another fleck. Nor was Mrs. Cheese behindhand with tales that troubled. She recalled the young woman in a rapid decline who had been baptized one winter morning in the Exe, had been dragged out unconscious, and had died within the hour. She knew of Sisters who had fainted through nervousness or collapsed with the cold. Then there was the Christian wife who was stripped naked and horsewhipped by her infidel husband, a country squire over Chittlehampton way, because she had received public baptism. He flogged her till she was a mass of blood and wounds, till she fell to the ground as one dead; then dragged her up again and dashed her head against a stone wall. She died from ill-usage, a true "gauspel martyr." My day was fixed: our next baptism, a Sunday in April, a few weeks after my thirteenth birthday. Clothes were a problem. Female candidates usually donned for the occasion an old cast-off skirt which they could afford to let the water ruin. Pieces of lead were sewn at intervals to the inside of the bottom of the skirt, so that when in the water the air would not get into and blow it upwards. According to Aunt Jael, the pieces of lead should weigh about four ounces each: just sufficient to keep the skirt pendant and modest. All very well, said my Grandmother, but what good were weights--four ounces or forty ounces--when the skirt, like the child's, reached down to the knees only? There was only one way out of the difficulty: "The child must wear a long skirt for the occasion." A faded black serge of my Grandmother's was unearthed. It fitted me--more or less--though a good couple of inches higher in front than behind; and, helped out by an old black blouse and cape, produced the most grotesque and unlovely Mary the mirror had ever shewn me. "Changing" was at Brother Brawn's, the White House, near the quay. On the Saturday night preceding the event Grandmother took me down there with my ordinary Lord's Day clothes wrapped up in a paper parcel and laid them out in the back kitchen (the immemorial after-the-event robing room) ready for the morrow. Mistress Brawn, née Clinker, received us with an infantile affectation of patronage: as though we didn't know that Brother Brawn's had been the garmenting-house for forty years and more. The morrow dawned fine and cold. With Grandmother on my left hand and Aunt Jael on my right, I sallied forth down Bear Street, in full baptismal kit of faded black. What the few early risers we met on our way thought of me I do not know. Nor, I expect, did they. Though he had relinquished the office of Baptist for several years, Pentecost Dodderidge decided to resume it for this one occasion. It was a supreme honour for me, a high compliment to Aunt Jael and Grandmother, and a real risk and sacrifice on his part: for he was in frail health, and nearing his eighty-fourth year. At the riverside we found him waiting, clad in the black surplice he had always used, his white beard flowing free. Around him the Saints stood clustered; every man and woman in the Meeting must have been there. All there, whispered the Devil, to see _you_. You the child-Saint, you the youthful trophy of God's grace. There were other candidates, I knew, mere everyday grown-ups; but I was the "star turn," and I first should enter the water. The moment was very near: "Be ready," whispered Grandmother. My heart beat wildly. The air was sharp and a cold breeze was stirring. How much colder would the water not be! Cold dark water, suppose it should engulph me for ever? How blue the mocking labourer had been. But God would not treat me so: my heart was aching to receive Him. He would come to me, not cast my body to death. How all the Saints were staring. Vanity swelled again. I was the youngest who had ever been baptized in Taw (I heard it whispered near me), the youngest ever privileged to break bread! Were not all the people gazing on me, admiring my piety, specialness, distinction? Ah, publicity, glory! I would walk into the water in the view of all the multitude, like an empress on her way. "Crush that vile vanity!" the Better Me cried savagely: "Chase forth that paltry pride. Only to a clean and humble heart can the Lord of Heaven come. Quick, away with it!" Ere the voice had done speaking, all the pride had fled away. My heart stood empty, sure of its emptiness, hungering for the Holy Spirit, waiting with intense expectation and a hope almost too hard to bear. "Come, Lord Jesus," I whispered. Meanwhile around me they had sung a hymn and prayed a prayer; I hardly knew it. Pentecost took my hand. The moment was here: should I die of hope?--my heart was beating so. We waded out together in the cold stream. I must have been looking eastwards for I remember the bright morning sun was in my eyes. I can see again the green fields opposite. I remember too how frail and tiny I felt as Mr. Pentecost's hand held mine, and as he towered above me in the water. A long way out we halted: I was up to my shoulder nearly, he to his middle. He grasped me, placing his right hand under my left armpit, and the palm of his left hand flat in the middle of my back. He looked to heaven, holding me still upright, and called in a loud voice: "I do baptize thee, my sister, in the name of the Father and of the Son and the Holy Ghost." On the last word he flung me backwards until for a moment I was wholly under the water. Now the miracle took place. As I came up again the water streaming from my face was no longer cold, but warm and luminous; not water at all, but light itself. Light suffused me, covered me, poured into me, filled me; a blinding, lilting joy and brightness throbbed and shone through all my body and soul. I shut my eyes in sheer rapture; my ordinary senses faded away; sight and hearing were of another world from this beatific Presence. It seemed as though another person, luminous and divine, had entered into my body. It was God. I knew everything; and everything was well. I remembered all I had ever done, and far away things I had done in distant centuries in other lives I had not known until now. I seemed to remember the future too; for in that moment Time had no meaning; that moment was all Eternity. I understood, with a perfectness of comprehension beside which all my life before seemed darkness that there was no beginning and no end, no time and no space, nothing but God Who transcended them all, and who now possessed me utterly. I thought my heart would burst. The holy exaltation was too hard and beautiful to bear. All round and in me was light and love: the sun and God and I, all the same soul and body, all merged together, all within each other, all One. For that one glorious moment I _was_ God. A transcendent experience transcends all verbal description: even now I cannot think of it: only feel it, _live_ it again. Nor can explanation impart its quality to others. It is my soul's own mystery, indescribable, incommunicable, in the most literal sense ineffable. I rail at words that they can do so little, then at my own folly that I should seek to describe in finite language the Infinite Mystery of God. The ecstasy lasted perhaps, in the world's time, a minute: though, in reality, for ever. Then I remember, as I woke to finite experience, a gradual ebbing sensation as the Holy Spirit departed from me. The warmth and radiance faded; the streaming fluid of light was dripping water only. I was conscious of Pentecost again, clasping my hand and leading me ashore. I heard the voices of the Saints raised aloft in a song of triumphal thanks. Then--Grandmother's welcoming arms, benignant Saints, the White House, garment-changing, loud Salvation, dear warm breakfast; all part of a waking dream. * * * * * * * The results of Jordan morning were chiefly four. First, I was left with a certainty of belief in God, a sense of authority in my knowledge of Him, and an ever-present memory of His nearness and reality, that faith without experience could never have furnished. I apprehended once and for all the folly and futility of all intellectual reasoning about God, all attempts to bolster Him up by argument; to prove Him. Vain beatings about the bush! You do not beat about the Burning Bush: you enter within, and there is God. Second, from that day onwards I could never again be sure that life was real. After the blinding reality of my moment with God, all things around me seemed faded and unsubstantial; they were the shadows of a dream, of the dream that I was, alive. After a while, as my soul travelled back to the habits of normal experience, the notion haunted me less; but it has never completely left me. Third, having received the knowledge of God, I knew that it was the one thing worth living for. I knew I must show myself worthy of possessing Him, and fit to receive Him again. The sense of perfect holiness I had experienced filled me with a yearning for goodness and purity that was almost morbidly intense. I tried every moment of the day to make myself more like the Holy Spirit, more capable of feeling within me the holiness I had for one moment felt. Conscience was ever at hand: for a long space I obeyed her every bidding. The fact that I was happier put spite and revenge and morbid broodings under better control. Heredity and habit, the taint within and the harsh surroundings without, kept me dismal-Jenny enough: but from the day of my baptism my bouts of misery were less frequent, less prolonged, and less cruel. I had always the memory of that tender triumphant ineffable moment with God. Fourth, and most curious, I found myself farther away from my Grandmother. We had the same religion, yet different religions; knew the One God, yet different Gods. Or rather the difference was not in Him, but in our two selves, in the two temperaments with which we experienced Him. All my life I had envied my Grandmother's joy and serenity in the Lord; I had obtained a joy as perfect, yet I knew that it was another joy; not greater nor less, but different. Her chief delight was in contemplating the salvation of all souls achieved through the sacrifice on Calvary; mine was the Spirit of God filling and irradiating the heart. Not that I ever doubted that it was through and because of the Cross that the knowledge of the Lord had been vouchsafed me so miraculously; but the emotional result interested me, not the theological cause. In all my earnest strivings to be good it was never the sacrifice of Jesus that spurred me on; but always the memory of the Holy Spirit. I must be clean and good and holy like Him, and worthy to welcome Him again. I have put the distinction between Aunt Jael and Grandmother as this: Aunt Jael was an Old Testament woman, Grandmother a New Testament one. But the real distinction between the three of us was this. God is Triune and One: Aunt Jael revered the First Person, Grandmother loved the Second, and I adored the Third. Trouble began in this way. Unlike Grandmother, now that I had got religion I took a strong dislike to talking of it. To her "Do 'ee love the Lord?" I could only reply with passionate truth, "Yes, Grandmother"; but I found that (where before my baptism it was the sense of insincerity in my reply that had troubled me) now it was a certain indelicacy in the question itself that offended. "If in my heart"--this is approximately what I felt--"I have the mystery of the love of the Lord, that is a private and sacred bond between Him and me. Whose business is it else? What right have they to pry?" I felt a curious shame, resembling the shame of nakedness, but more intense and spiritual; as the soul is more sensitive than the body. "Do you contemplate _hourly_ the Cross of Christ?" "Is the Means of Salvation your _only_ joy?" "Do you think _always_ of the blessed Gospel plan?" "Is the Atonement _everything_ to 'ee, my dear?" No worldlyhead, no scoffer could have hated these searching questions as did I. My Grandmother perceived the distaste, and was profoundly puzzled and pained. Her own answer to these questions would have been "Yes," in the weeks after her baptism (she must have said to herself), a fervent triumphant Yes. One day an incident showed how wide the spiritual breach was becoming, and widened it still further. It was a Saturday morning: I was sitting on the bottom stair of the staircase, pulling on my boots to go for a walk. My Grandmother, coming from the little pantry at the head of the cellar steps, stooped down as she passed, and asked in a loud whisper of intense earnestness: "The Cross, my dear: is it giving you joy _now_?" She bent and peered, poking her face right into mine. It was so sudden, the irritation and distaste so powerful, that I drew back sharply with a quick gesture of annoyance. There had been no time for dissimulation, and the look on my face was unmistakable. So was the look on hers--pain, and a rare and terrible thing, anger. "You _dare_ draw back like that? What is it? _Du my breath smell bad?_" * * * * * * * The real crisis, I saw, was yet to come. Now that I had got religion (in my fashion, in God's fashion, for me) I knew that I was never destined to fulfil my Grandmother's purpose: to devote my life to preaching the Gospel in heathen lands. The first moment I thought of this after my baptism I realized with a shivering aversion how much more distasteful my long-decided future was than it had ever appeared before; I realized too in the old authentic way, that it was not God's will or purpose for me; and but for this, I was far too honest, in my new frame of mind, to have let my own distaste count for anything. I reflected how odd it was that through the great central act of my dedication, I had become unable to fulfil its ultimate purpose. But so it was. The same answer came to all my prayers, unspoken and afoot, or cried out on bended knees: His purpose for me was no missionary one, but my best endeavours in an ordinary life in the everyday workaday world. The conflict to come was not with Him, but with Grandmother. What would she say when the day of decision came, and plans and details of my apostolic career could no longer be evaded or postponed? What would she say? How would she feel? And I, how should I face her scornful accusing eyes? The more I pictured the inevitable instant, the more I feared it. And the everyday workaday life, where and what would it be? I had still the vaguest ideas on such matters, though I knew I should have to earn money and provide myself with bread: I, the mere dependent, the Charity Child as Aunt Jael so often described me. The question turned itself over and over in my brain. It was from an unexpected quarter that the answer came. CHAPTER XXII: THE RETURN OF THE STRANGER I used to visit my mother's grave. Any one not knowing my Grandmother might have thought she would be glad. But no--"Don't 'ee do it, my dear. Once in a way 'tis right enough may be. But don't 'ee be getting too fond of graveyards." So I would gather flowers and put them on my mother's grave without saying a word to any one. One Saturday morning in April, about a year after my baptism, I had picked primroses in the lanes, two great bunches, and was on my way back to the cemetery, which lay in Bear Road on the outskirts of the town, not very far above the Lawn. I was absorbed in my thoughts, talking away as usual to myself. But when I saw a horse coming up the road towards me I stepped aside almost into the ditch that ran along under the hedgerow, and stared as one does at whatever inspires fear. Horses came in my mind only second to cows as objects of prowling terror. As the horse came nearer I looked up at its rider. My heart beat violently. I inordinately wanted him to recognize me. He glanced at me as he approached as any horseman might at a strange child on the roadside; there was no recognition in the deep-set eyes. He was sharper featured and less handsome than in my memory; but the friendliness and aristocratic distinction of the face were as I had retained them. Set on his horse, he looked something far above the world I knew. Recognize me he must; I would make him. "Sir! Sir!" I cried eagerly, shrilly, feebly, with an awkward appealing gesture. He put his hand in his pocket and threw me a shilling. So he thought I was a beggar girl. I was filled with a burning shame of my lowly appearance and shabby clothes, though truth to tell they were hardly as bad as I thought them. I let the coin roll into the gutter. Now he was passing me. My determination to make him know me became desperate: the joy of being recognized must be mine. My heart was throbbing as I came out into the middle of the road. I looked at him appealingly and cried out: "Westward Ho! Westward Ho!" He stared. "I'm not a beggar; I'm the little girl you gave the book to in Torribridge. Don't you remember?" He jumped from his horse. "I do." "Are you sure? Are you really sure?" "Really! How is Aunt Jael?" "Yes, yes, you do, you do!" "And is it still so very silly to say that a certain little white town looks glorious from the hills--?" "Oh yes--" "And did Uncle Simon--" "Simeon," I corrected. "--Let you read the book after all? Now do you believe I remember, little Miss Doubting Thomas?" I was radiant in the light of the kind quizzical smile. "Of course I do. He burned it in the fire and said it was a wicked swearing book just when I was at the best point where they attack the Gold Train. That was when he began to treat me crueller, till at last I ran away and came back to Grandmother and Aunt Jael." "They live here--in Tawborough?" "In Bear Lawn, do you know it? Number Eight." "May I be inquisitive? What is your name, little girl?" "Mary Lee. May I be inquisitive, please? What is _your_ name?" "Ah, I don't think it would interest you if you heard it." "That's not fair. Names are very important, they help you to know what people are like. I'm Mary, you can see that to look at me, I see that myself when I look in the glass. Any one like Aunt Jael could only be called Aunt Jael, it belongs to her just as much as her stick. I like names, especially fine names of people and places: like Ur of the Chaldees. Say it over slowly, in a grand way like this--Urr--of--the--Chal--dees! Penzance is another nice one, and Marazion: I like all places with a 'z' in them, a 'z' looks so rare and special. People's names are better still. The man we beat in the Armada--do you remember it was you who told me about the Armada first, and I thought it was an animal, but I know all about it now--the Spanish commander was called the Duke of Medina Sidonia. Roll it over on your tongue. If there is a Duke of Medina Sidonia alive now, I should like to marry him. Fancy being called the Duchess of Medina Sidonia!" I half closed my eyes in rapture. "Yes," he said twitching just a little at the corners of his mouth, "you're the same little girl." I liked this observation, as I was intended to. I could see he was laughing at me, but liked me. I forgave the first for the second. "You have not told me your name yet. I think it must be a good one." "If it is _very_ good will you do the same for me as for the Duke of Medina Sidonia?" "What do you mean? Oh"--colouring--"I will see. Tell me your name first." "No, you must promise first." "Very well then, if you won't! I can't promise to marry you. I shall never marry at all." There was a quick vision of Robbie. "At least I don't think so, and anyway it would be some one else. Good-bye, sir, now." We were at the cemetery gates: "Unless you would wait? These primroses are for my mother. I come here to put them on her grave." "You wouldn't like me to come?" "Yes, you may. I want you to." "Why?" "Because I like you. That's a proper reason; and _she_ wouldn't mind." "Who? Your Grandmother you mean, or your aunt?" "No, my mother. So come, will you please? What will you do with your horse?" The horse was not to be a stumbling block. "Here, hi!" he called to a farmer's lad who was passing. "Hold the mare for a few minutes." I led the way through the gate and across the familiar daisied turf. We stopped at a simple grave, kerbless, grass-grown and unpretending. On a plain upright slab of stone was inscribed RACHEL TRAIES _These are they which came out of great tribulation._ "Here we are." "Which one?" "This." I pointed. "But, but--Traies? You told me your name was Lee." "Yes, they call me Lee because my mother was called that before she was married, and it's my Grandmother's name. Traies is my father's; people don't use their father's name unless they live with him." "I suppose not." "What--why do you speak like that? You know him! You know my father!" "No." "You've heard of him I can see." "Well, perhaps." "How? When? What does he do? Where is he?" I waved the primroses. "I don't know any of the things you ask me, and I don't know him. Honour bright. But I think I've heard of him, though of course the Mr. Traies I've heard of is quite likely a different person altogether, for the name is not so rare in Devonshire." "Is the one you've heard of a wicked man?" "Not a very good man, perhaps." "Oh, it's the same! Say wicked, it's what you mean. A vile wicked man. He cruelly treated my mother and put her in this grave. There, I was forgetting her. Mother dear, here are the primroses." I knelt down and said a prayer, half aloud, more to my mother than to her Maker and mine. Only for a moment, and then very slightly, was I shy of the Stranger. Nor was there anything self-conscious and melodramatic in me, no enjoyment in performing a striking and sentimental act in front of another person, such as would have been experienced by most people, and by myself too a few years later. (I had less sense of pose and acting when some one else was watching me than if alone, for I myself was the only person I performed in front of. On the day when I hurled "Brawling woman in a wide house" at Aunt Jael, it was somebody else inside me looking on and listening who exulted in Mary's wit. Not for some years yet did I begin in the more usual manner to make life a performance before other people.) I was silent for perhaps three minutes. As I rose I wiped my eyes. So I think did the Stranger. He said: "Would you mind if I put some flowers there too--wipe your knees, the grass is damp--Would you mind?" "Why? No, it would be very kind. But you haven't got any." "Some other time I shall bring them, when next I'm passing through Tawborough." "Why?" "Because I like you. That's a proper reason; and--maybe--_she_ wouldn't mind." "Well, you may. We must go, it is dinner-time." We reached the gate and he took his horse. Both of us knew we did not accept this meeting as final, each of us was waiting for the other to speak. I knew I could outwait him. "Little girl, we shall see each other again? May I write and ask your Grandmother or Aunt to let you come and see me?" "Grandmother, not Aunt Jael. They might be angry though. What are you--a Saint?" "A what?" "A Saint." "No, a sinner. At least I think so. Not that I know quite what you mean. Still I shall risk it." "When?" "One day. Don't worry; not far ahead. Now good-bye." His foot was in the stirrup. "Good-bye." He was soon away up the hill. I stared him out of sight. He turned round once. I turned home, pleased and excited at the new life given to an old player in the drama of Me. He was a kind and interesting looking human-being, with this rare and all-important merit that he liked me. I felt this keenly every time he looked at me. I turned over in my mind whether I should tell Grandmother and decided not to. After all the Stranger had said he would write to her: was it not better that she should learn of it from him? For this letter I waited. Another letter received by my Grandmother soon put all thought of the Stranger at the back of my head. One day at breakfast she read us a letter from no less a person than the sixth Lord Tawborough, lord of Woolthy Hall. The writer stated that his love for his old governess, reinforced by the wishes of his late revered father, induced him (now that he had come back to Devonshire to live) to hope to make the acquaintance of her mother; the more especially as she had been wronged by one connected by kinship with the family and whom she had first met in his father's house--his house. Would Mrs. Lee be courteous enough to name a day on which it would be convenient for him to call? I was all attention. Now I should meet a person who had played a part in my mother's life, the little boy who had been kind to her. There was a debt to be paid here, as much as to any one who had been kind to my own self. How I should pay back I could not yet decide. A lord! Mary recompense a lord! As I thus reflected Aunt Jael was weighing up whether she would accord permission to His Lordship to enter _her_ house. "Wull, let him come. Maybe he thinks he's honouring us. Let him know a day on which he may call? The Lord's Day! He can come to Meeting and learn that there's a bit of difference between his high position before men and his wretched position before his Maker. Let him come. I approve." So did my Grandmother, whom natural instinct, religion, and the sobering experience of seventy years' sisterhood had combined to teach that it was not worth while pointing out that it was to her that Lord Tawborough had written, or that the house too was equally hers, inasmuch as one seventeen-pounds-ten-shillings is quite as good as another. "Very well, Lord's Day after next. I will ask him to come about ten o'clock. If he wants to, he will make the time suit." He made it suit, arriving at a bare four minutes past the hour on the Lord's Day after next. It was a big day to look forward to: except perhaps for my Grandmother, with her curious indifference to persons and events worldly. Aunt Jael pretended a scornful superiority which deceived nobody. That a lord, and Lord Tawborough, one of the great ones of the earth (and the county) was paying a visit to Miss Vickary--for so of course the visit was announced--was soon all round the Meeting. On the Tuesday preceding, the Misses Clinker discussed it all the afternoon. "I don't 'old wi' these lords," said Miss Salvation, "the Lord God A'mighty is good enough for me. They 'ave pride in their sinful 'earts, and they imparts pride to them as receives 'em." "_You_ jealous, ha, ha! Don't you know your place?" The old stick thumped. "I du; and well enough not to go inviting under my 'umble roof folks of another station in life." "In this life," corrected Glory. Salvation agreed. "If you was to give 'im a plain talk about 'is sowl, maybe the Lord would forgive the sinful pride in yer 'eart and render the visit fruitful and a blessing to 'ee both. But you won't dare. You'll remember 'e's a lord, and fearing to offend 'im ye'll offend yer 'eavenly Lord instead--" She was ruder than she usually dared, fortified by the knowledge that what she said was getting home. "Silence, woman!" shouted Aunt Jael. "Every one of your foolish words is false. The young man won't leave my house till he has confessed his sin and been shown the plan of escape. I've asked 'im on a Lord's Day so that he goes to Meeting with us, and hears the gospel. I've no doubt for the first time in his life. He'll be there at 'Breaking of Bread.'" "Aw, will 'ee?" Salvation reviewed rapidly what chance she would have on that occasion of attracting his lordship's special notice. "I beg your pardon, Sister Jael, I'm sure I do. Sorry I spoke in 'aste; I was forgetting to jidge not so I be not jidged. Maybe you're asking a few old friends up to meet him?" "Maybe fiddlesticks." Miss Salvation groaned aloud with envy and disappointment. If one considers the disproportionate pleasure an invitation would have given, Aunt Jael may be judged mean in her refusal. On the other hand, poor Lord Tawborough! My interest in the visitor was greater than Aunt Jael's, less snobbish and more dramatic. He would be the first of my father's relatives I had ever met: he figured in the sacred story of my mother. I pictured a hundred times what he would be like; young, grand and impressive. He would wear a coronet and carry a golden pole with ribbons floating from the top. At the last moment my chief attention shifted from the visitor to myself: from considering what he would look like to what I should look like to him. He was to arrive by carriage, he said. Aunt Jael was to bow him into the famous front-room, swept and garnished for the occasion, offer him a chair, a glass of sherry and a biscuit, and hustle him off to Meeting. This was Aunt Jael's program. Mine was quite as carefully worked out. I decided to stay upstairs in my bedroom till he came, watching his arrival from my window, retiring so that he could not catch a glimpse of me, and not descending till Aunt Jael began to shout for me. Then I would go downstairs, ready dressed for Meeting. The advantages were: first I looked best with my bonnet on, as it concealed my scraggy and unalluring hair; second, I should have seen him before he saw me, always a strategic advantage; third, he would see me last, after he had had time to absorb the lesser charms of Grandmother and Aunt Jael--even so does the leading lady fail to appear till you have made the acquaintance of the lesser stars. I made one eleventh-hour alteration. As I heard carriage-wheels coming up the Lawn path, I decided, with impulsive generosity, not to peep at him. It would be taking an unfair advantage: I would let him burst on me at the same moment as I on him. To avoid temptation I ran away from the window. I was specially excited. Now for some of Aunt Jael's snobbery. A lord! Grandmother was calling me, "Child, child!" Begloved, bonnetted, Bibled, I went downstairs. As I approached the half-open parlour door, I heard Aunt Jael expounding my "usual" unpunctuality (a lie). My heart beat fast. I went in to greet our visitor. It was the stranger. "Good morning, little girl. So you got home all right that day." He rose, smiling. The advantage was his with a vengeance: poor reward for my self-sacrifice in allowing him a simultaneous first-sight, when I might have peeped from my window, discovered who he was and got through my first excitement alone. "You!" I gasped, "you're Lord Tawborough?" My amazement was shot through with enjoyment of Aunt Jael's. "Yes, that's the grand name I told you of. I'm not a duke, you see, only a humble lord. I'm so sorry; Tawborough hasn't got quite the swing of Medin-a Sidon-ia, I must admit. I'm sorry, Your Grace." "You," I echoed, doubting if all this were not a dream. I clutched for a moment to see if I could feel the side of my bed. "Come now, child, explanations are due. What's this mean? There's been concealment here." "'Tis time to be off, Jael," whispered Grandmother, "twenty past." "You must explain on the way; your lordship is ready too?" The first sentence was spoken with usual harshness slightly modified for the hearing of visitors, the second with an interesting mixture of deference and command. We sallied forth. Lord Tawborough on the outside, then Aunt Jael, then Grandmother, then myself. On the way, he related briefly his encounters with me, omitting with admirable reticence his purchase of Westward Ho! and our visit to my mother's grave. Our entry into the Room was stately, triumphant and restrained. In the Book of Judgment there is a big black mark against Aunt Jael in that she did forget she was entering the Lord's house, in her majestic obsession that she was entering it with a lord. A biggish black mark against my name too. Grandmother alone of the four of us has a clean white space. For the Stranger too was proud--proud that he was not too proud to mind entering a Brethren meeting-house with humble folk, the pride of having no pride, the last pride of all--a huge mark his, black as night. Marks against all the Saints' names too, even in that gathering of devout souls I could see that there were none, excepting always my Grandmother, who did not turn from holy thought for an odd moment now and then to note their noble visitor: to feel a worldly interest in his presence. More appropriately I could see them observing with regret that he did not Break Bread (though of course he could not--it would have been wicked if he had) and with pleasure that he was not allowed to give to the box. Despite the glint of a gold guinea, Brother Brawn snatched our four-mouthed monster proudly away from his outstretched hand; we would not take gold from a sinner, albeit a peer. In almost all the prayers that morning sorrowful reference was made to his lordship: it was hoped that in His own good time the Lord might turn him to Himself. After every such reference came "Ay-men! Ay-men!", Salvation bellowing loudest. I was too preoccupied pondering on the extraordinary fact that the Stranger, my mother's little friend, and the sixth Lord Tawborough, were one and the same person, to pay much heed to the service. One feature, however, stands in my memory: an eloquent utterance by Brother Briggs, who on this occasion outshone himself: shining face (remember he was an oilman) and shining words alike. His voice roared through the Room. "There's zummat we've 'eard a powerful lot about jis' lately: Princes. Princes dyin' an' marryin' and givin' in marridge.[3] Princes this an' Princes that." (He took a deep breath, threw back his head, puffed out his chest, slapped it heartily again and again, beamed supernally, and shouted like a multitude.) "I'm a prince! You stares, brethrin, you stares in wonderment, an' I repeats it to 'ee all; I'm a royull prince. Why vor? Reflect a minute. What _is_ a prince?--Why, 'tis a King's son, _an' I'm the son uv a King, I'm the son uv a King, I'm the son uv a King_!" (He slapped his breast resoundingly three times.) "Ay, an' a son uv the King of Kings; so I'm a Prince uv Princes! Turn wi' me to the twenty-second chapter of the Gauspel accordin' to St. Luke, and the twenty-ninth verse: 'I appoint unto you a kingdom.' _You_: that's you and me, brethrin, that's our title and patent, or whatever 'tis they caals un, to be princes royal uv the kingdom uv 'Eaven. Not as we oughtn't ter respect the princes uv this earth: I knaws ma betters, an' I ain't got no pashence wi' they as don't. 'Owsomever, they are but mighty for 'a little space,' while us shan't never be anythin' but lords an' princes, all thru the rollin' glorious years uv Eternity: vur iver, an iver, an iver! "An' _Who_ did it all? _'E_ did, _'E_, the same Chris' Jesus. 'E as brought me up out uv a norribull pit, out uv the _moiry_ clay an' set my feet upon a rock: the rock uv salvation. An' 'ere I am, a glorious triumph an' trophy of 'eavenly Grace. An' so are all uv 'ee: triumphs and trophies of Grace! It du my ol' eyesight good to look around this blissid rume. My pore 'eart is nigh to bustin' this very minnit as I speaks, wi' 'Is amazin' love fullin' ivry pore an' makin' me shout vur joy. Praise ye the Lawr! Praise the Lawr, O My sowl! Praise 'Im in the 'eavens; praise 'Im in the 'eights! Praise 'Im on earth till us all praises 'Im together in the sky! Bewtivul. Bewtivul. Bewtivul." He clumped to his seat: a common dirty little man, faint with shouting and radiant with God. The moment the last prayer was over, Aunt Jael rose and stumped swiftly for the door, our procession following: the Stranger, Grandmother, Mary. This hint that she intended to escape without introducing "my late niece's kinsman" to all and sundry was understood by sundry and by all save one. Miss Salvation Clinker flew to the door and essayed to bar our exit with ingratiating smile. "Good mornin', good mornin' to 'ee, Sister Jael." Looked longingly beyond to the Stranger. Aunt Jael lifted her stick with threatening gesture, did not return the greeting and gave no sign of recognition, thrusting past her through the door. Miss Salvation stifled a murderous and most unsaintly look, twisted her enormous mouth into what she conceived to be a winsome smile--lips wide apart, tiger-teeth gleaming--pulled out her black serge skirt with both hands in the approved fashion of a courtesy, and ducked. The Stranger slightly bowed--triumph after all!--and we escaped. For dinner there was roast beef and sprouts followed by rhubarb pie. Aunt Jael, republicanly, had decreed that there should be nothing better than usual for dinner because a lord was coming. Nor, as far as actual food went, was there. But there was a very special show of best damask and our modest best silver, for no other reason (that I could see) than that a lord was coming. Worse than this: Aunt Jael instructed Mrs. Cheese to wait at table, as they do in grand houses. Instead of my Great-Aunt just passing the plates along, Mrs. Cheese bore them, laden with meat only, to our respective places, plumped them in front of us, and then stood beside us in turn with the sprouts and potatoes. Similarly for the pudding-course, with the cream and the sugar. Unfortunately, when Mrs. Cheese waited at Lord Tawborough's side with these, he was deep in converse and did not observe her. Mrs. Cheese gave his lordship a hearty nudge. He flushed, and as flimsy covering for his fault (in not observing her) said "No," to the sugar and cream, thereby depriving himself, for the rhubarb was sour; and annoying Aunt Jael, whose temper was sourer. As soon as we were all served, Aunt Jael set upon our visitor. Her fists tightened round her knife and fork, her brows were in battle trim. "Wull, how did you like the service?" Staccato: opening shot. He scented battle; realized that he was to be landed in a heart-to-heart talk on the plain issues of religion: a thing he feared, disliked and shirked. (He was a member of the Church of England.) "Oh, very much, very much, thank you." A trifle evasively. "Wull, what particular testimony helped you most? Whose utterance did you find of most value?" "Oh--er--they were all very sincere." "But you found no special message? For instance, Brother Briggs?" "Brother Briggs? Let me see, which was he?" "The one over to the right who spoke last." "Oh, that odd little man in the corner! His accent was a little difficult in places: I've been away from Devonshire so long that I'm afraid here and there I didn't quite follow what he said." There was no intention of sarcasm; he realized the dangers too well. But a certain "superiority" of manner--half-amused, half-irritated, and altogether natural--enraged her. There was a moment's dead silence. The storm broke tempestuously. She was at the head of the table; the Stranger was sitting on her right. She leaned across the intervening corner, banged the table with her knife-encircling right fist, and howled into his face, with a withering contempt it is impossible to convey, this one phrase: "_'E's got what you ain't got!_" He dropped his knife with a clatter on his plate in sheer fright, starting back as far as he could as she leered into his face. It was a moment before he could recover sufficiently to reply in a rather quavery un-lord-like way, "Oh, er, what is it then?" Thunderously: "_Eturrnal Life._" The Stranger kept his temper, an irritating thing to do. "How do you _know_, Miss Vickary, that I have no chance of eternal life?" On such mild opposition anger feeds. She raised her voice to a kind of bass shriek, dropping her aitches generously. "_'Ow_ do I know young man, 'ow do I know? If you 'ad eternal life, if you _'ad_ accepted the Lord, you'd talk about 'Is grace and goodness a little more bravely, and not look like a silly sheep when 'eavenly things are spoken of. Ugh, I know you shame-faced professin' Christians, who blush when you 'ear the word Jesus, and never dare to roll the 'oly word on your tongue, I know 'ee! _'Ow_ do I know?-- If you _'ad_ eternal life you'd not be mocking at a poor lowly Brother who 'as a 'undredfold better chances of it than you, with yer 'oh-er-ah-excellent little fellow in the corner with a difficult accent doncherknow.' _Ow_ do I know? If you 'ad the Lord you'd be a bit readier to talk about Him and testify to 'Is grace. Don't tell me!"--she poked her head into his face for a final thunderous shout,--"_By their fruits ye shall know them!_" Grandmother looked troubled, seeking a chance to intervene. The Stranger set his face like flint and determined to keep his temper, though she should scalp him with the knife she was brandishing in his face. He spoke very quietly. "Miss Vickary, one moment please, what do _you_ know of my fruits? After all we have met for the first time today." His calm, his common-sense, were fuel to the fire. She thumped the table with the butt end of her knife till it shook. "Silence, youth, silence! Am I not seventy-two years of age, and ye but twenty-one? In my young days youth respected age, rank or no rank. I tell 'ee plainly: you're a miserable sinner. Learn to mind your manners with those who're older than yourself; learn not to mock at them of humbler station--" "Miss Vickary, I--" he protested. "Jael," pleaded my Grandmother. "Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Lee. I don't mind, I don't really." He looked across the table in a bee-line at my Grandmother, as though Aunt Jael did not exist: the proper punishment for people who lose their temper, the most pleasant revenge for those who keep theirs. "No, no, don't worry; of course I don't mind. To be sure, I didn't come here to discuss my own life in the next world but your little granddaughter's in this. I can never forget her mother's kindness to me, I want you to let me do something for her." Aunt Jael recommenced eating, tired with shouting, beaten after all. He had so swiftly but irrevocably changed the subject that she could not easily go back to Brother Briggs and Eternal Life. My opinion of the Stranger rose every moment. As a loyal Saint I had not liked his slight note of superiority when he spoke of Brother Briggs, but the moment Aunt Jael attacked him I was of course of his party through thick and thin. And I realized the every-day worldly point of view just enough to see that a peer of England is not accustomed to being railed and shouted at by an old woman he hardly knows, least of all when he is paying a courtesy visit to her in her own house, and decided that the way he kept his temper was wonderful, as well as the shrewdest for getting equal with Aunt Jael. With every reply, modelled on my own method, my opinion of the Stranger rose. And now that he spoke with reverence of my mother and of "doing things" for me my admiration knew no bounds. He was perfect. Grandmother was replying to him. "Thank you kindly; we need no help. The child needs nothing but the love and mercy of the Lord." "Quite so, but worldly advantages--" "I need no worldly advantages for her, they could do nothing for her if she had them. She is dedicated to the Lord's service in foreign parts, and her whole life will be spent among the heathen." Now or never I must strike for freedom. "Oh, no, no, _NO_," I burst out. There was an amazed silence. I was amazed myself. The words came from my heart before I knew what I was saying. My Grandmother's voice quavered; there was a bitter disappointment in her face I had never seen there before. "Are you ill, child, are you?--" "No, Grandmother, no, I will always love and serve the Lord. But not as a missionary among the heathen, I cannot, I cannot, I have never dared tell you about it before, but I will now. I often prayed about it, for I wanted to please you and please Him, and months ago now soon after my baptism He answered No. He told me He needed me in other ways, to go about in England like an ordinary person and testify to Him there. Grandmother dear, don't be sorrowful; 'tis true, it isn't because I want to get out of going to the heathen, 'tis because I know the Lord doesn't mean me to. Oh, if you knew how certain I was--" She had no answer to this supreme plea. "Very well, my dear. If my dream and your mother's is not to be fulfilled, if your dedication is not to lead you to the fields of sacrifice I have prayed for, you can still remain lowly and far above worldly graces and achievements. Thank you, your lordship. Mary needs nothing." "Mrs. Lee, I beg you. All I want to do is whatever a little money or influence can, to give your grand-daughter certain advantages it might not be easy for you--forgive me--to afford. I hardly know that I intend anything special. The child is musical, I believe. Some good music lessons, perhaps, with a first class master? Some tuition in French or Italian, so that she might travel or take perhaps a really good governess-post? I'm sure you will forgive me for thinking that her mother would have wished it. It is in her name that I plead." "And in the name of common-sense." To get a bit of her own back on my Grandmother (for not having been rude to the Stranger) Aunt Jael entered the new battle on my side. "If Lord Tawborough is good enough to offer the child advantages we can't afford, we'd be fools not to take them, and as for the child being a missionary, look at her! I don't hold much with the governess idea, but she has to earn her living somehow, and may as well take advantage of anything she can. Yes, Lord Tawborough, _I_ accept." My Grandmother offered some further resistance, but at last it was decided that I was to have lessons in riding, music and French, each with the best instructors in the town. Riding! Music! French! Vistas spread before me. Imperial futures. "Thank you, sir," I said rather primly, though I would have clasped his hand if I had dared. When we had finished dinner Aunt Jael settled down as usual for her doze and Grandmother went upstairs to her bedroom to study the Word. At our visitor's request I was excused Lord's Day's school and permitted to go for a walk with him. We went out of the town along by the river to the woods. I was tongue-tied, waiting for him to speak. I was proud a little, confused a little, shy a little, yet down in my heart quite at ease. Above every other sentiment I was happy. Partly because of the new prospects he had opened for me, partly because of the extraordinary coincidence by which the Stranger and my mother's little boy were one and the same person, chiefly because I liked him, and he liked me. After a while he began to talk, and so did I. I was too naïvely egotistical to see it then, but he made me talk, led me on all unconscious to most garrulous self-expression. I grievously broke my ancient rule of listening to other people, of absorbing things rather than imparting them. I told him all about our life at Bear Lawn, about Aunt Jael and Grandmother, about Uncle Simeon also and Torribridge, with discreet omissions as to Christmas and New Year's Nights. Nor did I tell him, for I could have told no one, a word about my own inner life; it was too sacred, too ridiculous. What was his inner life? I fell to wondering. In my bedroom, on the evening of this wonderful Lord's Day a long and tearful vigil. I had just got into my nightgown, when my Grandmother came in. She closed the door more quietly, yet more decisively, than usual. I knew what was going to happen. She came to me, took my arm, and looked straight into my eyes. "Child," she said, "you've taken away the brightest hope of my old age. The light is gone out of my life." With any one else there would have been a catch in the voice. In that moment I understood and admired and pitied her more than in all the years before. I felt the poignancy of her sorrow, and the measure of my own shallowness and shame. I was her child, more than her child, her daughter's gift to be given to the service of God; my dedication to His Service was her supreme offering to Him Whom she loved with a love beyond my understanding. We knelt down together for the longest prayer that I remember.... Now that I had forsworn my holy dedication and chosen the worldly path, God grant that I might still walk as in His sight. I had confessed in baptism that I had been raised with the Lord Jesus, and now I had preferred a worldly future to the unsearchable riches of Christ. Might the Lord in His mercy vouchsafe that my salvation might still be secured and that she, the old pilgrim, whose call was very near--and I, whose call might be nearer than I thought (ye know not the day nor the hour)--and one other, called already, whom both of us loved the best--might all three be united in tender love and everlasting sisterhood around the throne of God.... I was sobbing. She broke short, I remember, without finishing the prayer. "Forgive me, my dear, 'tis I who am wrong. I admonish the Lord in vain. What He has willed He has willed. 'Tis a great sorrow. _His will be done._" FOOTNOTE: [3] Albert, Prince Consort, died December 14th, 1861: Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, married March 10th, 1863. The allusion must have been to these events. CHAPTER XXIII: WINE THAT MAKETH GLAD THE HEART OF WOMAN The Stranger's return was a landmark. First of all there was a vivid addition to my stock of rehearsable memories. Second, there was the interest of my new accomplishments. I went for my music lessons to one Monsieur Petrowski, a Polish refugee, who had just fled from his native land and was settling down in Tawborough. I made great progress with my music, and if he gave me a goodly share of scales and studies beyond the needs of discipline he had for plea the direct instruction of Aunt Jael. Now that her time-honoured boast "I pay for the child's music" was crumbling about her ears she solaced herself by instructing Monsieur Petrowski very plainly. "Now not too much fine showy music." "Very well, Mademoiselle." "No infidel trash." "?" A slight bow, vaguely affirmative. "Always plenty of what she doesn't like": Aunt Jael's ideal of education. "Make it a task, sir, make it a task. Plenty of scales, chromatics, or whatever 'tis." "Very well, Mademoiselle." Monsieur Petrowski obeyed reasonably well, but he forgot to break my will, and I suspect much of the music I learned of open infidelity. My talent and taste developed, and by eighteen years of age I played the piano better than (say) ninety-five embryo governesses out of a hundred. I loved Chopin best. With French I made equal progress. Here again Aunt Jael appointed herself the intermediary of the Stranger's bounty. She selected to instruct me Miss le Mesurier. This lady was half French by parentage, had lived abroad the best part of her life, and had now come back to spend her declining old-maidhood in her native town, and keep house for her bachelor brother Doctor le Mesurier,--the same who had attended my mother when I was born. She became a regular member of our Meeting. Aunt Jael's instructions were explicit. "Make the work a task, a trial, a tribulation. Pander not to her pleasure loving tastes. No romances for her study, no trash, no infidel works." These restrictions, gladly acquiesced in by my teacher (who about this time followed my example and took up her Cross in public) cut out all fiction, plays and poetry; leaving us with the devotional writings of French Protestants, and history; the former of an epic dullness, the latter an imperishable fountain of excitement and romance. We read a Monsieur Michelet's History of the Revolution. My appetite for history grew as it was fed. For my third accomplishment, my instructor was neither Pole nor French, but red-faced broad-breeched Mr. Samuel Prickett of Prickett's "Mews" (sic). In this quarter even Aunt Jael jibbed at bestowing admonitions, nor were they needed. It was a trial and tribulation for me after her heart. No sooner did I approach the fragrant riding-school and behold the feats I should have to emulate than I found myself in a shocking condition of fear, while for the first few minutes in the saddle I was verily purged with terror--in the good (and accurate) old Bible sense of the word. I would hunch my back, my limbs would grow rigid with funk, and when Mr. Samuel Prickett for the first time tickled Rose Queen into the gentlest of trots I clung with frenzy to the scanty mane of that poor mare. The first time she galloped I screamed aloud, rolled incontinently out of the saddle, and clung for dear life to her neck. Every Tuesday and Friday I approached the mews with set teeth and inward prayer for courage, with a supreme "Help me O God!" as I put my foot into the stirrup; after a year or two of prayer and perseverance I was a fair if never a fearless horsewoman. (Even at the beginning there was this set-off to fear: pride.) I knew that my riding-habit became me; if a few of the bolder spirits on the Lawn mocked and jeered, I inwardly mocked and jeered back because I knew that really they were impressed: their sneers were but a natural tribute to their jealousy of me and respect for themselves. More than the costume, the fact of riding gave me a delicious sense of importance. It may be argued that the connection between horsemanship and aristocracy is merely the result of distant historical origins, far-away reflection of a world where the knight alone went horseback and the common man trudged humbly through the centuries. All I am sure of is this: that in the country lanes I felt myself a very fine young lady, i. e. at such moments as I did not feel a shocking coward. In the middle of pleasant reviews as to the lordliness of riding a horse, I would be seized with a pained and concentrated interest in my reins, a perspiring anxiety not to lose the stirrups, a most unaristocratic readiness to snatch the mane. (Pride qualified by fear: man's natural state.) The aim of all these proceedings was to obtain, by the Stranger's help, a governess' post in a good family. Meagre and melancholy ambition this would seem to worldly spirits nowadays. To me the prospect was fame, freedom, adventure, _la Vie_! Lord Tawborough I rarely saw. Grandmother stood out against Aunt Jael in refusing to let me stay at Woolthy Hall. I wrote him a report of progress every three months, a soulless jellyfish document, heavily censored by both Grandmother and Great-Aunt. The former always said I was not grateful enough, the latter that I was not humble enough. The final product was an unpleasing mixture of grovelling gratitude, hateful humility, and perfect grammar. My Grandmother persisted in her old plan of keeping me meek and lowly by never speaking well of me to my face, nor allowing any word of praise to escape her lips, yet I know she was proud of such progress as I made alike in these special pursuits and at the Misses Primps'. I read often in her eyes how deeply she felt it that I had not chosen the Better Way, and I realized how unselfish was her interest in my progress. I began to appreciate my Grandmother's unselfishness at its true worth. In it lay all her charm, her goodness, her difference from other people. It was through her that I first came to see that unselfishness is the one virtue, as it was Aunt Jael who helped to teach me that selfishness is the one vice. I would think out every evil act I could imagine and find that at bottom it was Self. I would think out every good deed and discover that its essence was always unselfishness. In one of those flashes in which I saw and felt things I had before only vaguely believed, I grasped the meaning of the Cross. I saw suddenly how utterly selfish I was myself, full of hopes for myself, weaving futures for myself; always self, self, self; and a voice inside me asked: "Now what hopes has Grandmother for _herself_?" and though I was alone I coloured at the sudden discovery of self-accused shame. "She has nothing; the one great hope left to her was you, and you have disappointed her." I began to understand the sorrow and loneliness of an old woman's lot, the vacancy, the lack of hope and lookings-forward. No doubt when Grandmother had been a little girl she too had said to herself: "Wait, Hannah, wait till you're grown up; then things will be happier. Wait for love, marriage; then you will be happy." Married love faded, husband died. "There are your children." But the children went away; Christian into a consumptive's grave, Martha unhappily wed, Rachel slowly tortured to death. Hope still ahead: "You will find comfort in your children's children." What comfort did they hold for her: Albert!--and Mary who had betrayed the last great hope. What had my Grandmother to live for? The daily round of Aunt Jael's nagging: old age with sorrow behind and only Heaven ahead. Aunt Jael, I reflected, had been denied even the pleasures of sorrow, the regret for good things gone away; neither love, nor husband, nor children. Should I have been better in her case? Perhaps there were excuses for Aunt Jael. I had to say this to myself very hard and very often in these days. As my Great-Aunt grew older she grew noisier, more evil-tempered, more shrewish; her evil and domineering nature was having a final bout before the ebb tide of a maudlin dotage. As I remember her during my sixteenth and seventeenth years she well nigh baffles description. A hooked-nose wicked old witch, scolding, snarling, imprecating, hurling texts and threats about her. She would sit back in her old armchair and nag and shout from morn till eve, cursing my Grandmother for an idle selfish ingrate if not always at her beck and call to button or unbutton her boots, to dress or undress her, to help her up- or downstairs. "Why shouldn't she do a bit for me, that's what I want to know? Hannah is younger, Hannah is sprightlier, not an old woman like me!": you would have thought the eighteen months were eighteen centuries. Mrs. Cheese stood up to the old bully, and giving what she got, got rather less. I came in for the most consistent cursing, and the worst outbreaks. She would stand up with eyes blazing and howl at me at the top of her voice (that bass shout impossible to convey in print which I called her "yell-growl"): "Ugh, yer father's child, every inch of 'ee; you feature him and yer character's as evil. Vicious little slut, pert wench, vile little sinner, adulterer's daughter, spawn of Beelzebub!" She would lash out as of old with her stick; more than once after I had passed sixteen she flogged me till I was black with bruises. By training and by character--and following my Grandmother's example and for her sake--I could take it all with apparent meekness. But some outlet for the Beast in me was provided by her increasing deafness. Given Grandmother's absence from the room and a suitable modulation of mouth and voice, I could give her all that she gave in the way of abuse. As she sat back exhausted, with her eyes half closed in some passing lull, I would look up from my sewing, and with lips barely moving give her my views. "Oh, you wicked old woman; you cruel selfish beastly hag; you shrew; you enemy of all righteousness! How I loathe you, hate you, spit at you!" Often Conscience smote me. "Where is your 'do unto others'?" So I would make allowances; she had been lonely, always unloved. She was old, unhappy. I could not help feeling that these were not excuses so much as explanations: she was just what an old maid who had domineered and been deferred to all her life would naturally be. She was herself carried to her logical conclusion. Her habits changed. She only went to the morning Meeting, and that not always. On weekdays she got up late. Our mornings would have appeared to outsiders a roaring and improbable farce. At eight o'clock Grandmother and I would sit down to the breakfast table. No Aunt Jael. "Is Miss Vickary coming down this morning, do you know, Mrs. Cheese?" The latter grunted. "Please go and see, will you, so that we can have her breakfast right for her." Mrs. Cheese went upstairs, leaving the dining-room door open behind her. Just before we heard her knocking at Aunt Jael's door, we heard a more sinister noise in the bedroom above, a spring and a thud: Aunt Jael bounding out of bed to lock the door against her, usually managing to turn the key in the lock just as Mrs. Cheese began knocking. "Lem'me in! Zich games wi' an ole body." She knocked and thumped. No success. The silence of death. "Go wi'out yer breakfast then!" A final thump or kick, and she waddled downstairs to the dining-room. "No good, Mrs. Lee. 'Er's up to 'er tantrums, 'er's banged the door and turned the key." Immediately the floor-thumping overhead began again. Aunt Jael was leaning out of bed and prodding the floor with her stick. Blows rained thunderously, monotonously; it was no good pretending they were not there, as I sometimes could for a few moments, relying on Grandmother's deafness. Then the noise would cease. We heard the bound and spring. She was out of bed, had opened the door and was howling downstairs over the banisters, "Hannah! Cheese! Child! Food, Food! I'm a-starvin', I'm a-starvin'!" "Will you try once again, Mrs. Cheese, please?" said my Grandmother. "Or I will," she would add, seeing reluctance. This always decided the old lady. To save Grandmother she puffed her way once more upstairs. Aunt Jael went on screaming from the landing, "Food, food!" till Mrs. Cheese was nearly up the stairs. Then she scuttled into her bedroom, and swiftly locked the door again. "Starve away, ye old biddy, starve till ye die for all I care, an' I 'ope 'tis middlin' quick." She descended, calling in at the dining-room door as she paused, "I've done wi' the 'ole biddy fer iver." In a few moments it all began again. Grandmother would have a journey, and then I. By the time our peaceful breakfast was over Aunt Jael had usually tired of her fun and was prepared to give in: another lengthy process. The first great step was when she got as far as leaving the door open. Usually if Grandmother or Mrs. Cheese took in her breakfast-tray she refused to have it near her and declared that the Child alone should bring her breakfast to her, the reason being that it was time for school and that I, therefore, was the most inconvenient person she could select. So they left the tray on the brass-nailed box outside her door, and I went in with it. Meanwhile she would close her eyes and moan: "I'm a-sinkin', I'm a-sinkin' for the want of food! A poor lonely woman left to starve! A-sinkin', a-sinkin', a-sinkin'--" her voice sank to a tragic whisper. Next, of course, the egg was too soft or too hard boiled, according as we had been pessimists or optimists in gauging the duration of my lady's mood that morning. Dressing her was the next trial. I escaped it except in the holidays. Grandmother had to see to every button and lace and hook, and be railed at the whole time. And so on, throughout the day, morning, afternoon, evening, week in, week out, till life was a misery. My nerves were on edge, and if I kept my temper it was at the expense of my soul, which was filled with a devouring hate. There was one person, however, whose temper would not and did not hold out, and that was Mrs. Cheese. On that last day when my Great-Aunt sat up in bed and threw the whole breakfast-tray at her--a notable feat--she picked up the metal tea-pot, the only whole article in the wreckage, poured hot tea on the aggressor's face, and within a few hours had left the house. "I've warmed the ole biddy's nose, and this time I goes for iver." * * * * * * * Then, somewhere in the summer of 1864, came Maud. She brought no references, this being her first place, nor in our dire need could we insist on the usual requirements as to grace and salvation. She was not more than seventeen or eighteen, hardly a year or so older than I was; though with her hair up and her smart womanly attractive appearance she looked several years my senior. I had gathered from the Bible and from the talk at school that our sex was considered the more attractive, the better-looking, the more sought-after for its pleasingness. Neither the many female Saints of my acquaintance nor any member of our humble gallery of housemaids had helped me to understand. Maud was an explanation of much. Looking at her head of fine chestnut hair, gay pretty mouth and sparkling eyes, I began to apprehend why so many worthy folk--King David, King Solomon, Adam our first forefather--had gone astray. Her capacity for hard work equalled her good looks; her patience, good temper and self-sacrifice with Aunt Jael excelled them both. Here was the first servant we had ever taken without certificate of godliness; and she was the best. From the beginning she devoted herself to Aunt Jael, who of course shouted at her, and told her she was a bold mincing hussy. She smiled. She just went on cooking, dusting, laying the tea table, hooking the blouse, or whatever it might be, always with the same patient smile. After a while her absolute imperviousness to abuse and her excellence as a lady's maid began to mollify my Great-Aunt, who came to treat her quite passably to her face, and sing loud her praises as soon as she left the room. "There's a good girl, if you like, something like a girl. Do something for her, Hannah! Give her five pounds and a new suit of clothes." This last remark became a mania, and half a dozen times a day as the door closed upon Maud, Aunt Jael would shout at my Grandmother, "Five pounds, I say, five pounds, and a new suit of clothes!" Neither did she produce, however. To my surprise Grandmother did not care very much for our new servant. "Isn't she good, Grandmother?" I asked one day. She nodded her head and did not reply. "You don't like her, Grandmother?" No reply. "Why now, because she's not a Christian?" "No-o, my dear, I can't tell 'ee why. I don't like her: why, I don't even know myself; but there 'tis." "But she's so good with aunt, and so patient." "Yes--" "Well, why then?" "There 'tis, and that's all there is about it." I was puzzled, as Grandmother was always so generous. There must be some mystery about Maud. Her beauty, a strange and new and troubling thing in my imagination. Her inhuman patience, equalling even my Grandmother's. And her carpet-slippers. She moved absolutely without sound. Soon after her arrival there was a new development. Aunt Jael's indigestion and sleeplessness and ill temper had been getting steadily worse till at last Grandmother had called in Doctor le Mesurier. He prescribed a stimulant: my Great-Aunt was to take a small dose of brandy two or three times every twenty-four hours. Say a small dose at one of her nocturnal repasts and a sip in a wine-glass after dinner. It became one of my duties to go up to her bedroom after dinner, obtain the bottle from the secret cupboard, and pour out the measure. I brought it down and laid it on the corner of the table near her fireside perch. After a few days, I noticed that more of the brandy seemed to disappear each day than two or even three doses in the night could explain. It was a tall bottle of Cognac, the dose was less than an inch in a wine glass taken not more than twice each day, and yet in under a week the bottle was empty. The fierce teetotalism of the later-nineteenth-century Americanized Protestantism was unknown among the Brethren, who followed more faithfully the old Puritan tradition and deemed a bottle of liquor a good thing if used and not abused. But though drink had never loomed large in my imagination, I associated it vaguely with the snares of this world. Between Maud the worldly one with her unfamiliar female beauty (snare of snares) and the vanishing brandy the connection was so obvious that I need not have felt so pleased with myself as I did when I first divined it. It was clear as noonday. Maud was the thief. She had access to the cupboard at all hours, she was led into temptation, and had fallen. When I stared at her she would turn a little pale. Aunt Jael was not yet aware of the theft. Clearly she was in her dotage, as the Cognac cost six shillings a bottle. Was it my duty, my duty before the Lord, to speak out? I inclined to think so. Theft was theft, and theft was sin, and sin should always be exposed for righteousness' sake and the sinner's too. On the other hand, a voice inside me told me that it would be mean and cowardly to sneak on Maud. The feeling of pleasure that Aunt Jael was being thieved from also urged silence. If both these notions weighed against my exposing Maud, yet one seemed in a sense to balance the other in my conscience, for I tried to justify my delight in seeing Aunt Jael robbed by pretending to myself that the generous impulse of shielding Maud was my real reason for keeping silence. As one bottle and then another disappeared with unmistakable speed, and the inroads on Aunt Jael's purse became more extensive and gratifying, my piece of self-deception began to wear hollow. Conscience pricked: "_You_ know the real reason you are not telling. You know it is to spite Aunt Jael and not to shield Maud. _You_ know." One night I prayed for guidance. The answer was clear. My evil delight in Aunt Jael being robbed was a sin which I could only atone for by repentance and by stopping the robbery, while to avoid having Maud exposed and dismissed (this had been in one way an argument for and not against telling, because the inevitable dismissal of so helpful a girl would inconvenience Aunt Jael; though here again it cut both ways, as Grandmother and I would be inconvenienced and harried still more when she was gone) it was my duty to speak to her privately. Thus she would be spared, Aunt Jael protected, my sin atoned for, and justice done. I obeyed instantly, got out of bed, lit my candle and crept up to Maud's bedroom. I knocked timidly. There was a faint scuffling inside: she was getting out of bed. She opened the door a few inches and her face appeared. It was sheet white. She was trembling violently. "I am sorry, Maud, to wake you up, but I had to." I spoke hurriedly, a bit shamefacedly. "If you won't do it again, I'll not tell." "Miss--" she gasped. "Don't worry," I said frightened by her frightened appearance, "I'll promise never to say a word." "Thank you, Miss Mary, I'm sure," she said shakily, "but oh, oh, you did give me a start!" As she spoke she came right out of the room in her nightgown, shut the door behind her, and stood up against me on the half-landing, still trembling. "Why did you shut the door like that?" I asked. Her extreme fear puzzled me. She hesitated for a second. "Oh, I must see you back to bed or you'll be getting your death of cold." "Good night, miss," she said. Before she blew out the candle I noticed that her face was as white as ever. Somehow she had seemed _too_ frightened. After all, was stealing brandy so terrible? Was dismissal from Aunt Jael's service so hideous a blow? Then there was the way she had closed the door behind her. I heard her creep her way upstairs. My heart stood still as I heard another door open quite near me; Grandmother's by the sound of it. No doubt she had been awakened and had heard our going to and fro on the stairs. I sat up in bed so as to hear better. I fancied she was standing at her door as though listening. Then a voice spoke, sounding strangely in the silence. It was my Grandmother's. "Child, what are you doing? Is that you, child? What are you doing?" I jumped out of bed and opened my door. "What is it, Grandmother? I'm here, what is it?" An odd expression came into her eyes. "Then who was it going downstairs just now? Somebody crouched when I called out, then seemed to wriggle their way further down; somebody in white, like your nightgown. I thought you were sleepwalking." Some one in white wriggling downstairs! Was not Grandmother herself sleepwalking? It could not be Maud, for I had heard her close her door. "Maud!" called my Grandmother. "Yes'm," replied a voice with amazing quickness. She had been listening. But she spoke from _upstairs_. "Yes'm, did you call me, m'm?" At this moment the front door of the house was unmistakably opened and then closed again. Some one had gone out. My Grandmother, an odd little figure in her nightcap and gown, looked very grave. "Get to bed, Maud," she called, "and you too, child." After pondering a certain terrible suspicion in my mind for a few minutes, I fell asleep. Next morning I shirked seeing Maud. I felt shamefaced for what I had said to her in the night and far more for the thing I had hardly dared to think. I got downstairs later than usual. The dining-room was dark, the blinds had not been drawn. I went into the kitchen; there were no signs of life, the fire had not been lit. I rushed upstairs to her bedroom and burst in without knocking; she was not there, the drawers of the bedroom chest were pulled out and emptied, her box had gone. She had run away. Months later, I saw a well-dressed young woman in the street. The face was familiar. She was wheeling a baby's perambulator. She looked the other way. Nothing was said to Aunt Jael, who theorized on Maud's mysterious departure, and declared that my Grandmother's cruel treatment had forced her to flee for her life. She cursed at Maud for an ingrate, though still fitfully maintaining that she was well worth five pounds, not to mention a new suit of clothes. Maud's departure marked the beginning of a still more miserable period at Bear Lawn. We were unable for some time to get another servant, and though Sister Briggs came in twice a week to help, there was more than enough work for Grandmother and me, especially as it was term-time. I had to get up at half past five, light the kitchen fire, sweep the rooms, and help Grandmother with the breakfast. I had to cook, sew, dust, do my homework, and dance continual attendance on Aunt Jael. I was wretched, but too hard driven to mope overmuch. Grandmother and I worked early and late, earning nothing but abuse from Aunt Jael, who now ceased to do any work whatever, even to help with the cooking or to carve at table. Her temper became more ungovernable, her abuse more outrageous. All her life she had had a certain dignity--harsh, unlovely, but still dignity--an august presence, a majesty in evil. There was little trace of majesty or dignity in the nagging old shrew she was becoming now. If you get into a pet because the sprouts are undercooked, hurl the vegetable-dish on the floor, tread the sprouts into the carpet, cry "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" ("Brussels to Brussels" would have been apter), wave the spoon with rage, and gurgle like a stuck pig, you may be many many things, but dignified, no. This was an almost daily experience. In the middle of this period came her eightieth birthday. There was no jubilee. My chief Cross was my resolve of absolute evenness of temper. Evenness rather than serenity was the word: I could never take my Grandmother's quiet delight in sitting down under insult and injustice, as though they were flattering temptations sent me by the Lord, tokens of heavenly privilege. I could always turn the other cheek, but never as though I enjoyed it. Once when I had waited on Aunt Jael hand and foot all day; taking up her breakfast (after three or four attempts and plenty of frolic with the door), dressing her ("no one else would do"), making her bed and tidying her room (while she sat in a chair carping), cooking her a special dinner and arranging it on a little table by the armchair (she felt too ill to sit up to table), doing her sewing ("Clumsy little slut with the needle!"), and reading to her aloud from the Word (her eyes were too tired to read herself); when after tea I had begun and finished the last chapter of Proverbs--"Many daughters have done virtuously but Thou excellest them all"--and she had no further behest; I thought that at last I was free for a few moments. I sat down at the piano and began playing my new piece: Polish Dance in A Minor. I had not played more than a few bars when I heard her get up from her chair. Without warning I received a violent box on the ears, with "That for idling away without my permission on this ungodly trash" as she snatched the music and crumpled it up into a paper ball. The blow was dealt with such force that I fell off the stool on to the floor, where she began belabouring me with her stick. Struggling to my feet, I began in my intensest manner, bitterer than any rage: "Oh may the Lord punish you, may He visit you with pain and illness and agony in this world--" I do not know how far I had got but the door opened and my Grandmother came in. "My dear, you are beside yourself." "Grandmother, hear me. I have toiled for her all day long, and now when I've sat down for a minute to practise she came behind me unawares and gave me a blow that knocked me on to the floor and then began flogging me with her stick." "Sister--" began my Grandmother. "None of your 'sister,' if you please!" She went up to Grandmother, who was near the bookcase, and pushed her roughly against it. "No interfering, d'yer see? When the child does what I don't like, I do what I like to her. See?" She clutched Grandmother by the shoulders, and began banging her viciously against the bookcase. "You brute!" I cried, and with a strength I should not have found in self-defence tore her away from Grandmother. Loosing hold, she turned on me; I ran for safety to the other side of my guardian-angel table. She hesitated for a moment, remembering perhaps her ancient dignity, and then stalked out of the room. Which was after all the most dignified thing to do. The fact was, her health and self-control were failing together; but if more of a shrew, she was less shrewd than of old. She never noticed, for instance, how the brandy was disappearing. The odd thing about this brandy was that after Maud's departure it had been disappearing more quickly and mysteriously than ever. A new suspicion entered my mind. Sister Briggs never went upstairs. It could not be Grandmother. It was not magic. It was not me.... One day just before dinner, Aunt Jael had not yet appeared in the dining room. This was surprising; on her latest and worst days she usually descended by eleven o'clock. "I've heard her moving about," said Grandmother. "Dinner is ready, give her a call." Before I had time to obey, however, I heard her bedroom door open. We sat down to table. The dining-room door was open, and I fancied there was something odd and shuffling in the way she was coming downstairs. Then I was startled by a series of thuds; it sounded as though she had lost her footing, and fallen down the last two or three stairs. We ran out, for Grandmother had heard too. "Are you hurt, Jael?" She was lying full length on the bottom stair, her face was dark and flushed, her eyes odd and bleary. She appeared stunned, though it surprised me that to fall two or three stairs should have had so serious an effect. She did not answer Grandmother, but began slavering and hiccoughing. "Give her five poundsh an' a new shuit of clothes." The sentence was broken by hiccoughs. My nostrils caught the sudden reek of spirits. Aunt Jael was drunk. I looked at Grandmother and Grandmother looked at me. She spoke in a low voice, and there were tears in her eyes. "'Tis hard, my dear. Your aunt has lived a godly sober life these eighty years--and now, look! We must take it as His will." Resolves are weak, and pity is stronger than hate. I had been looking forward all my life and during the past few weeks more venomously than ever to the day when I should see my hated Aunt the victim of some supreme humiliation. The day was here. There she lay: drunken, shameful, loathsome. Surely this was humiliation enough. I should have exulted in her shame; I was indeed wicked enough to have done so, but that some one different in me, the Other Me (at such moments of extreme alternative between good and evil I always felt the Second Presence), had only pity and sorrow. My cheeks burned as I thought of how I had been looking forward to a triumph like this. I saw in a flash the shamefulness of spite, the folly of all revenge. We tried to lift her up. She was too heavy, especially as she resisted, at first dully and then with vigour. I stepped over her body on to the second stair. When I knelt down and began pulling at her shoulder she struck me with her fist and set up a shriek of "Murder!" The sudden noise deterred us. With tipsy cunning she noticed this, and followed up her success; shrieking "Murder!" again and again like a thing demented. In the middle of pandemonium the front door knocker sounded. Grandmother was on the other side of Aunt Jael, and went to see who it might be. It was the curate from the Parish Church, who had recently come to live next door, No. 6 The Lawn. We had never spoken to him and hardly knew his name. "Er--umph--Madam, I trust you will excuse me; but we--er--fancied there was some trouble in your house. We _heard_ something, Mrs. White and I, and I wondered if I could--er--perhaps _help_ in any way." "Yes, sir, you could," said my Grandmother. "Come in. My sister has had a seizure. She's not herself at all. My grandchild and I haven't the strength between us to lift her upstairs to bed. You'll kindly help us? Come along the hall to the foot of the stairs. This way, will you?" I prayed inwardly that he would not discover the truth, but as he bent down to take Aunt Jael's shoulder I noticed the slightest twitch of his nostrils followed immediately by an involuntary I-thought-as-much expression which he instantly concealed. It was a memorable journey upstairs. How she writhed and punched and struck and spat and shrieked. Somehow we got her there and somehow we laid her on the bed. We went downstairs to show the Reverend Mr. White out. "I shall be discretion itself," he volunteered meaningly. I saw a shade of annoyance on Grandmother's face; she had not noticed that he had noticed. When we returned upstairs after the Reverend Mr. White had gone we found her bedroom door locked. For no entreaty would she let us in. Later on my Grandmother pleaded earnestly to let her take her in some food. There was no reply. All through the night her door remained locked; I tried it half a dozen times. Next morning we could do no better. With the infinite resources of her cupboard she had of course enough to eat; but--this was our anxiety--she had far too much to drink also. There was a bottle of sherry, but as far as I remembered not more than an inch or two of brandy in the current bottle. Still our fears were of the darkest. By Tuesday dinner-time our anxiety had reached a climax. In a few minutes the Clinkers would arrive. Grandmother had half a mind to send me round to tell them not to come; decided that this would be likelier to excite suspicion than letting them come in the ordinary way, and telling them that Jael was not well enough to appear. At half-past one sounded the immemorial rat-tat-tat. Salvation was first. She rushed in and flung her arms round my Grandmother's neck. "Oh, my pore 'Annah, what a trial! Pore dear Jael. Who'd 'a' thought it?" Her teeth shone. She wheezed unwelcome sympathy. "Salvation," asked my Grandmother sternly, "who told you?" "Aw my dear, 'tis the talk uv th' town. Brother Obadiah Tizzard came to see Glory this mornin' as 'e sometimes does uv a mornin' to discourse on 'oly things, an' 'e told _us_ jis what 'is servant, ole Jenny Fippe, 'ad to'd _'im_. 'Er 'ad it from 'er young niece who's friendly like with a young man who sings in the choir, or whatever 'tis they caals' it, at the parish church, 'im havin' been to'd by the passon 'imself, who lives next door to you, who say 'e were called in 'ere by most _'orrible_ shrieks, so Brother Obadiah says Jenny says, and 'e see'd pore dear Jael in a _turrible_ way, wavin' a bottle o' brandy in one 'and an' poundin' 'is face till 'twere all a pulp of blood with the other. 'You've got a wrong story this time, Brother Obadiah Tizzard,' I says, 'Jael Vickary is my oldest friend and the soberest woman in North Devon. 'Tis all a passel O' lies, Brother Obadiah, you mark my words,' says I, didn't I, Glory, says I? Aw my pore dear Jael, she's in bed maybe. Take me to 'er, 'Annah." "No," said my Grandmother very firmly. "What you heard is very much more than the truth, and you'll please me to keep a quiet tongue in your head about it a bit better than the parson did. But she's not well, and you're not to see her." It was a constrained gathering that afternoon; our godly discussion halted lamely at times. We were all relieved when Grandmother went into the kitchen rather earlier than usual to prepare tea. While she was out of the room, I heard Aunt Jael's door open: Grandmother had left the dining-room door open. I did not know for a moment what to do, whether to rush upstairs to prevent Aunt Jael descending, or fly into the kitchen to warn Grandmother, when it might be too late. I did nothing. The three of us sat in breathless silence as she stumped downstairs, and watched with open mouths and breathless excitement till a horrible bird-like apparition in night-cap and gown came in. Her eyes were still bloodshot, but she was different from yesterday; merry-maudlin, not vicious drunk. Fortunately, as I had judged, there had been very little more brandy, and she had had recourse to wine. She pranced up to her visitors, chuckling idiotically. "Good day to 'ee Salvation, Good day to 'ee Glory!" She chucked them under the chin, dug them slyly in the ribs, tweaked their solemn ears. She had a look of beatific idiocy on her red beaky old face, and a tipsy laugh broken by stalwart hiccoughs. "You'm thinkin'--hic--I'm tipsy. Nothin'--hic--of the kin'--'Tis a very goo'--hic--imitashun, a very goo'--hic--imitashun." She seized a couple of forks from the table, which I had just finished laying for tea, took one in each fist and began to perform a series of dumb-bell exercises, alternating one movement up with both arms, one forward, and one to the sides, giggling and chuckling inanely the while. She looked like a performing parrot dressed in white. For a few moments Glory, Salvation and I had been undecided whether to take the performance as tragedy or farce. Suddenly we all began laughing together, and were soon giggling as uncontrollably as Aunt Jael herself. She tired of the dumb-bell exercises, threw down the forks and cried out "Come on now, letsh have a game." Before we knew where we were the four of us were whirling round and round in the space between the table and the fireplace, singing "Ring a ring of roses," like the four lunatics and godly Plymouth Sisters that we were. Three of us were eighty years old and the fourth not yet eighteen. At the high tide of the bacchanal we became suddenly and stupidly aware that Grandmother was at the door; sane, inexorable, watching us. We parted hands lamely. Aunt Jael, dizzy and without support, tottered back against the firegrate and would have fallen headlong had I not rushed forward just in time to save her. "She's a good li'l girl, Hannah, after all; she's a good li'l girl. Give her something, give her--" "Give her what then?" said my Grandmother, wishing to humour her. "Five poundsh, my dear, and a new shuit of clothes!" The Aunt Jael that rose months later from her sick bed was not the demented wretch of that tipsy summer; rather the old one I knew, but with memory and will and voice and authority all weaker. The great domineerer had passed into her dotage; was but the valiant wreck of an autocrat. CHAPTER XXIV: PROSPECTS I left the Misses Primps' at the end of the summer term of 1865; I was in my eighteenth year. My Grandmother told me that Lord Tawborough was looking around for "a good opening" for me. The interval of waiting was to be spent perfecting my French and music, and I was to begin Italian with Miss le Mesurier. Uncertainty sent my fancies and ambitions in disorderly riot through the whole gamut of possibilities and impossibilities; transported me to every county in turn, from Cornwall to Caithness, to every manner of dwelling, from palaces to pagodas. Sometimes I saw myself with a tyrant for taskmistress--Aunt Jael to the _n_th--sometimes employed by Fairy Godmother or Lady Bountiful. Somewhere about New Year of 1866, Lord Tawborough wrote. He had obtained, he thought, an excellent opening for me, and would visit us at once to communicate it. This news brought me to a high pitch of excitement, which culminated on the day he came. I was to go to France!--as companion rather than governess to a French girl a year or two younger than myself; to perfect her English, and talk English also with an elder sister who was about my own age. The two girls lived with their widowed mother in a big château in Normandy, though part of the year was spent in the family house in Paris. Lord Tawborough and his father before him had had friendly relations with the family, which was old, illustrious and wealthy. I should meet the best type of French people, and have the opportunity of perfecting my own French. I should be kept, of course, and receive a salary of four hundred francs (sixteen pounds) a year. As he unfolded this gorgeous prospect I was ravished with delight. Foreign Lands! Normandy! Châteaux! Paris! But Grandmother--why was she looking doubtful, unmoved? "Papists?" she asked him, keenly. "They are Roman Catholics." This as though somehow a palliative. My heart stopped. I scented battle. Lord Tawborough counter-attacked before the forces of objection could muster. "Yes, Mrs. Lee: Papists, of course, like nearly all French people. But what an opportunity for Mary! If she could help them to a better way, it would be achieving more than to convert a hundred heathen!" His tongue was in his cheek. Conscience called: Denounce his lies! Ambition urged furiously: Keep silence! My heart was throbbing, as the battle of selves raged within. I saw that Grandmother took his false words in good faith: Ambition was the winning-side and stifled Conscience utterly. "True," said my Grandmother, and accepted with sober gratitude. Aunt Jael grunted warmer approval. I thanked him with tears of pleasure. Details were arranged. I was to go in April, a few weeks after my eighteenth birthday. There was never any direct correspondence; Lord Tawborough made all arrangements. Towards my expenses he gave five pounds, which Grandmother most furiously spent in "a new shuit of clothes." In all I had three new dresses, the finest I had ever possessed; I had no suspicion of how dowdy they might look in my new surroundings. Lord Tawborough, however, to whom Aunt Jael proudly displayed them, must have had the gravest suspicions, for in spite of resistance he sent me to the best dressmaker in the town for a white silk "evening" dress, and to the ladies' tailor in Boutport Street for a smart new riding-habit. For parting-present Aunt Jael gave me a set of bone-backed hair-brushes; Glory and Salvation a pair of kid gloves and a silk scarf; Pentecost Dodderidge a New Testament with an original hymn inscribed in the title page; Mrs. Cheese a plain gold brooch and green parasol, the Meeting a magnificent French Bible in limp red morocco, which was presented to me publicly at my last Breaking of Bread; Brother Browning a Scotch travelling rug; my Grandmother a photograph of my mother I had often begged for and cried over and kissed. * * * * * * * Let me put down what I was like at this moment of leaving the old life. I was of average height, but slight build: a frail inconspicuous figure, with small limbs, neatly made perhaps, if too thin for shapeliness. I looked so young for my age that when only a day or two before my departure I first put my hair up, there was a ridiculous contrast between the adult austere bun--Victorian fashion, at the back, lumpy, far-protruding--and the fifteen-year-old face. Or so I thought, laughing into the mirror. My appearance was one of the few things I was not vain of--not yet--or I should have wept rather than laughed: ugly straight rebellious hair; eyes between green and grey-green, weak and often sore; a short pointed and unpleasant nose. On the other hand, a shapely well-cut mouth, and my mother's delicate complexion. When not tearful and sulky, my habitual expression was one of Quakerish meekness and demureness, wholly natural and wholly unconscious: at any rate now, and until the Serpent showed me that in this quakerishness lay a species of attraction. On the whole I kept a silent tongue in my head; was voluble only before an audience: Lord Tawborough, or the girls at school whom I regaled with Aunt Jael, or (most important) myself, my oldest audience. My manners were of a piece with my appearance: meek, nervous, old-fashioned, though very "grown-up," in odd contrast with my appearance. Here also I discovered later there lurked an asset, an attracting quality. Perhaps I was clever. It was a woman's cleverness, sureness not of intellect but of intuition, coupled with an uncanny judgment in matters where my own emotions were at stake or in the motives and actions of others. No. 8 Bear Lawn and No. 1 The Quay were my forcing-beds. I was incapable of connected thought as opposed to connected emotion, and I had no haziest notion of science or logic or business affairs. My two possessions were an imagination so vivid that I saw, at once, _physically_ and with a perfect clearness of outline, whatever I thought of, and a memory so retentive, alike for facts and faces, that I can fairly describe it as one of the two or three best I have ever known. There was a good deal of knowledge in my head: a lob-sided mass. What I knew, if usual for my age, was much less remarkable than what I did not know. My three special acquirements were: first, an intimate acquaintance with the Word of God that is hardly conceivable today and was rare even fifty years ago. Second, excellent French: the new life would give me the practice to make perfect. Third, the knowledge of history I had picked up in my French reading. Novels, romances, poetry, were all forbidden; except therefore for Huguenot works, devotional and doctrinal, with which Miss le Mesurier had bravely persevered, we were forced to fall back exclusively on history. I re-produced the drama of history on a gigantic stage, as wide as Time, and cast myself for all the leading rôles. Here again the old handicap of sex enraged me: even though it was all make-believe, yet for me, a woman, to live again the deeds of _men_, was but make-believe. Almost all the best parts had been taken by men; women were slaves, nobodies; unwanted, oppressed; man's victim--or audience. I delighted all the more to read of those few women who, at moments throughout the centuries, had held the stage: Joan of Arc, Isabella of Castile, Elizabeth Tudor, Elizabeth Farnese. I took a pleasure no man could understand in reflecting that among the monarchs of England, no less than five were queens-regnant. The most extreme delight lay in the deeds of tyrant women. When I read of Queen Cleopatra or Empress Catherine lording it over their subjects--_men_--dealing out sensual cruelties and senseless barbarities to _men_--riding roughshod over the pride and power of _men_--I exulted, breathed hard for joy. It was an instinct stronger than will, some atavistic legacy; against my own tastes, too, for in my experience--wide in imagination if pitifully narrow in fact--I liked men better than women; against my religion also. This I discovered at the Misses Primps', when we were doing English history. I found that the great Marian burnings of the Protestants, with whom alike as Plymouth Sister and human being I sympathized, gave me at one and the same time a feeling of evil exaltation, inasmuch as it was a _woman_, albeit Bloody Mary, who had the power to send hundreds of _men_ to the stake. In the great Malagasy persecution of my own day, my burning sympathy with the Christian martyrs hurled over the vulture-haunted rock of Ambohipotsy was stifled by a brutal lilting pleasure that the persecutor was a queen, a woman. Cleopatra, Catherine, Mary Tudor, Ranavalona, all these, however bad and cruel, had striven to redress the balance of wrong which was at all times weighted against their sex and mine. The Bible, Brethren Theology, French, some history; that was the sum-total of what I knew. What I did not know was much more remarkable. Nothing of art, fiction, poetry, romance; never a word of Shakespeare, Scott, Milton; nothing of contemporary books or events or persons; not even the names of Palmerston, Bright, Disraeli, Dickens, Thackeray, Tennyson. I did just know that the Duke of Wellington was dead, that a war somehow concerned with negro slaves was raging across the Atlantic, and that a new Napoleon reigned in France. I had never been to any form of lecture, concert, or entertainment, nor into any normal household of healthy young people. Fireside games, the ordinary interests of girlhood, the hundred happinesses of family life were all unknown. I had never seen a newspaper, touched a pack of cards, nor smelt tobacco. My character was what these twenty-three chapters should have displayed. If it had not shown the steady development of a normal life, still less of a novelist's creation, it was because my circumstances and surroundings did not change or enlarge in ordinarily gradual fashion. My life was a stringing-together of certain special events and outstanding memories--Beetle, Benamuckee, fear that the world would end, knowledge of how life began, the terrible epoch of Torribridge, Baptism, Brandy--each of which had brought suddenly a new series of emotions. Fundamentally I changed little. At eighteen I was as at eight, only "more so"; my hates and hopes were vivider. On the whole I was less unhappy than in my early childhood. The reason was that I had come to visualize and daydream more in the future than in the past; to hope more than to regret. But always I was lonely. The experience of divine companionship had not made me want human love less. Self-absorbed to mania, I yet wanted nothing so much as to merge my individuality and dissolve my self in a loved being. Loving myself, my supreme hope was some one I could love more. The some one was ordained unalterably, and day and night alike my thoughts were of Robbie--my Robbie; i. e., the real Robbie up to seven years ago, and a creation of my own fashioning since. On Christmas Nights, I had him about as near and as physical as ever, though never near nor real enough for my need, never the comfort of flesh and blood and of perfect spiritual contact for which I hungered and waited. I feared the waiting might be long. Instinct left no doubt that one day we should meet, and mate, and marry; but forbade that I should try to force the event or seek to discover where he might be or how I might come upon him. Temptation overcame me during one rare visit of Aunt Martha's; she knew, however, nothing. Yet why need I worry? As sure as heaven or hell he would come to me. I had earned love; for all my long unhappy motherless young life Robbie was my requital. So much did I believe also in the complementary doctrine of an Envious Power that I was half-frightened at the success and pleasure the new life abroad seemed to promise. Surely I should have to pay for it, perhaps by losing Robbie. God gets even. Other doubts assailed. Might it not all be a mad vision? Did Robbie still remember me as I him, live for me as I for him? Was it he himself--in his own bed, wherever it was--who came to me, to be with me, on the anniversaries of our embrace; or was it my own intense longing and imagination that created the appearance of his presence, which might exist in my mind only and not in his? No! the experience was too magical not to be real. He remembered me, visited me, and one day in plain reality would come to claim me. But again--when he came--would love be a complete and perfect thing? Was perfect love possible? Should I be able to mingle my tired and fearful soul for ever and utterly in his, confide in him the utmost secret of my being, lose myself--my Self--in him; and, one soul in two bodies, affront together the terrors of Eternity? "It is not possible," leered Doubt. "Your soul must stand alone; no love can break down the barrier of its eternal isolation. _You are alone for ever._" Then Doubt gave place to Hope, and I fell to enjoying the security and peace of giving myself to him, all my love, my fears: one soul in two bodies, clasped in each other's arms. Pride would second Hope. Robbie would be great, famous, honoured: a warrior, poet, statesman--I favoured each in turn. I would shine in his reflected glory. I felt no discontent at this secondary rôle, and reverting to the true type of a woman's megalomania, built not for myself but for my boy a hundred splendid futures. I had other ambitions: to see the world, live in new houses, meet wonderful people; to do well in life, become powerful, famous; somehow, anyhow--through fame as Robbie's wife, as ambassadress perhaps or, in madder moments, queen. Then there was the old desert-island business, in which as a female Robinson Crewjoe I was to burst with _panache_ of ostrich feathers and panoply of fame on an astonished world. Or I would see myself Tzarina--Mary the Great, Empress and Autocrat of All the Russias, Queen of Poland, Grand Duchess of Finland, etc., etc., etc.; or Queen of Spain; or Anywhere. Never, mind you, the mere idle castle-in-the-air builder! Every detail of the steps by which I was to scale these megalomanic heights was worked out in my mind; every moment of agony, labour, deception, experienced in my heart. My first gesture in success--I sometimes tried to deceive myself it was my chief object--was to do good, succour the poor, spread the Gospel, lead poor darkened Russia or poor heathen Spain from the false gods of Byzantium or Rome to my own true God of Plymouth--and the Taw. A sop to God for letting me succeed. If I could not change this natural bent of egotism in my imaginings, I was able by prayer and Resolutions to curb my selfishness in the things of daily life. My Grandmother's example helped. Whenever she did an unselfish deed I should have thought to do myself, I flushed quickly with shame, and was readier for the next occasion. In every written Resolution "Do unto others" came to figure first. Nor did Ambition fill all my visualizings. As often as creating these mad fantastic events that _might_ happen, I was creating the exact shape and setting of various events that _had_ to happen. My arrival at the Château, how Madame la Comtesse and her daughter would greet me, my bedroom, the details of my daily work: all these were envisaged a hundred times with a hundred variations. Aunt Jael's death; when, how, why?--Should I be summoned from France for the funeral, if it happened while I was abroad?--My feelings, my anticipated sentimental looking-back as though she was dead already: "Poor Aunt Jael, she was hard and cruel at times, _but still_--" My softening towards her for a few days. (It is no bad plan, indeed, always to treat our fellow-beings with the same respect living as we should give them dead.) Or Grandmother's death: and my far-off return to England; or my own death, and the first few moments after death. The three things I pictured and lived through more often than any others were three meetings that I knew lay somewhere before me in the path of real life. Two would be meetings-again, the other a first encounter. Robbie. Uncle Simeon. My Father. Dramatic scenes of these three encounters I worked out a hundred times with the fullest details of time, place and setting: the luxury of first moments, the splendour or scorn of the respective dénouements. I knew what I should say first. I framed every word of the conversation that followed, experienced every phase of joy, melodrama and hate. How far the realities resembled the anticipations; and how far Instinct was right in telling me--against all appearance--that I was approaching these three inevitable events by going to France, the sequel will show. * * * * * * * I have called myself worldly. It is true, except that the one reality to which through all agonies I held was not of this world at all. At moments when my mood could summon no happiness from the past nor hope from the future, I had always a last refuge-place in the ineffable Love of God, as I had felt it once and for all in one miraculous instant. I knew it was more real than the world around me or than the fears of my own mind; as the supernatural was more real than the natural, the thing intuitively felt than the fact ascertained, magic than reason. I could seek refuge from trouble in a state of magical divine consciousness, in which, at perfect moments, I lost all sense of time and space and self, all physical sensation, all power to think--everything but Love. I was a soul only, the soul of all the world. I ceased to be anything. I was everything. I was God and God was I. I attained this state chiefly by passionate prayer. Sometimes, however, the trance came upon me quite involuntarily. Some notion or idea or word threw me before I knew into a transport of delight. Chalcedony, Jerusalem, rosemary, tribulation: the sound of these words filled me with exquisite and supernatural sensations. I would clasp my breasts, close my eyes, and open my heart passionately to the presence of God. On a lower plane were my trick-methods of attaining mystical sensation: staring at myself or kissing myself in the mirror, crooning an everlasting "I--I--I" or calling aloud my own name for echoes. Different again--a superstitious offshoot of intuition--were my signs, omens, fetishes, lucky numbers. If I could walk to Meeting in exactly a lucky number of paces, I knew the service would be specially blessed to me; and inevitably it was. The distance I could cover in running across a field and counting say seventy-seven was the exact measure, thus magically conveyed to me, of a property or estate which would one day be mine. If a lucky number came my way of its own initiative, it was an omen of unusual import. Thus when I learnt that the Paris house of my French family was No. 77 Rue St. Eloy, I was certain of high times thereat. In all Mrs. Cheese's superstitions, ranging from West Country witchcraft to the happiness of horseshoes or lucklessness of ladders, I believed without reserve. I practised Bible-opening, which was about the only superstition of my Grandmother's. The first verse that caught the eye--or, in my rite, the most heavily red-chalked passage, or, failing that, a verse seven or thirty-seven--had a special God-sent message for the moment's need. Having discovered the (for me) supernatural nature of the world, my mistake was to press my discovery too far. I was in danger of believing that I could do anything, however omnipotent or divine, if I only knew the trick; conjure up any supreme sensation, open the door of all power and mystery and pleasure, if I but found the Open Sesame. I sought for the catchword which would destroy all Existence; am seeking it still. * * * * * * * Real things that happened did not approach the reality of my supernatural experience until they had been brooded upon a while in my heart, until my thoughts and passions had imbued them with life. At the actual moment of great occurrences--Uncle Simeon's threats, Aunt Jael's curses, Lord Tawborough's great proposal--I deliberately prevented myself receiving the full emotional effect. Later, alone with myself, I re-lived the scene, and took my fill of rage, bitterness, pride, delight. Thus any event affected me much more after it had happened than at the time. The instant anger with which Aunt Jael's blow filled me was nothing to the brooding rage and revengefulness of the next day. The pang of unavoidable shame with which Conscience smote me when I did a mean or cowardly deed was as nothing to the agony of self-scorn I underwent when some long-past meanness of mine returned to my memory--as new and naked as the meanness of some one else. This whole childhood of mine is more vivid than when I lived it. If past events were more real than present ones, future ones were the most vivid of all. The past is imagination and memory working together. The future is imagination pure. The past was Aunt Jael, floggings, dreariness, tears; Uncle Simeon, terror, cruelty; a childhood cowering, loveless. The future was joy, in a hundred wonderful shapes--Robbie, somehow, some time; noble ladies, châteaux of France; visions of history, splendour and romance; a fairy land of fame, pleasure and glory--peopled, permeated, queened by Mary Lee. For the last few weeks at home my soul lived at Bear Lawn no longer. Morning, noon and night, sleeping and waking, I dwelt in the imaginary land. Four days before I left I closed my diary and handed it, a sealing-waxed parcel of exercise-books, to my Grandmother. This was the last entry:-- During the past year or two the Lord has been exceeding good to me. Fortune has been unusual--for any one. When I started this volume of my Diary, I was at the Misses Primps', with no prospects at all of anything _high_; no hope. And now, I am becoming a lady (almost); and I am going to France, la belle France! Life is mysterious, and God is good.... In my inward life, too, I started this book in the throes of the fiercest fear I have even known. Terror, appallment, awe of the Lord God and His eternal years; all these assailed me so that I thought I should never stand free. Am happier now: slowly yet surely, the fullness of earthly life, the new hopes springing in my heart, the final though hard acceptance of the truth that it is useless for me (finite Mary) to measure the length and breadth and age of God, and most of all that precious memory of His Holy Spirit, that I can ever invoke in all sorrowful times,--all these have brought me to be able to do what my Grandmother does, and to _Trust in the Lord_. Life moves mysteriously. It is that walk near Torribridge years ago, when I met the Stranger, that is taking me to France now. And somehow, some time--I don't know how, but I _know_--France will take me back to Torribridge--to R. Shall I meet him in the foreign land? I do not know. But he is coming. All my love is poured out on the only boy-image that has ever interested me; all my passion I have bestowed on one shape only, on my Image, my R.--tenderness and tears, and meeting lips and bodies; and he takes me in his arms. How I long to see him! that I may know his identity with my Image of him, to know for always and ever that the Robbie I live with and live for is the real eighteen-year-old Robbie who--God make it so!--lives for me. Now Bear Lawn is behind me, and all is new and wonderful ahead: _happiness is coming_. Good bye Grandmother dear! This is the end of my girlhood's book; one day I may find joy--and sadness--in reading it. MARY LEE. April, 1865. CHAPTER XXV: I SAY GOOD-BYE The last day arrived, a bright showery Sunday in April. I was to leave early next morning. Lord Tawborough would see me as far as Southampton. At my last Breaking of Bread many allusions were made in prayer to my departure for foreign lands. If I was not going there avowedly in His service, none the less let His service be my chief aim and effort. I worshipped devoutly. This might be the last Lord's Supper of which I should ever partake. The Lord's People in France were the merest handful; there were not more than four Meetings in all the Empire, of which not one, Grandmother had ascertained, was in Paris or the north or any part I was likely to be near. And I might be abroad three or four years without a holiday in England. Now that at last my hopes and ambitions were being fulfilled, sadness and regret were uppermost. The old life I knew so well, the present in which I had still one day to live, already seemed far behind me. I looked back in the anticipatorily retrospective fashion of all who live in the future; and to whom, living in the future, the present is always already the past. Already Bear Lawn was the past, decked with a pathos that as the present it had never worn. The last dinner was a goodly spread: a roast fowl, a hog's pudding, and apple dumplings with clotted cream. Glory and Salvation were invited. The latter slobbered noisily of how she would miss me; I realized with a sudden sentimental pang that, after all, it might be true. Glory wept till the tears streamed down her cheeks on to her untidy bodice; I watched with a feeling of guilt for her sorrow and the increasing shamefulness of her blouse. The last night was full of odd pauses and silences. Aunt Jael kept looking at me and looking away quickly when I looked back. She tried to keep up an appearance of stoicism and sternness, and knew that she was failing. At the last moment she gave up all pretence. In my emotional mood, she seemed to atone for years of hardness when she turned sharply away from the Book of Proverbs at which her Bible opened--it was real sacrifice--and chose for the nightly portion my 137th Psalm. I thought of that dismal first night at Torribridge so many years ago. Later on, at my bedside, my Grandmother prayed a long devoted prayer. "Oh Lord Jesus! How my old heart aches when I am sometimes tempted to fear that she may be unworthy of that Saint who sits with Thee, her dear dear mother. Grant that in foreign lands and the cities of the plain she may shun the ungodly and flee from all worldliness and evil. Grant, Oh Lord, that we three may meet together in Thine Own everlasting arms. For Jesus' sake." Next morning I was up betimes. Mrs. Cheese, red-eyed and tearful, helped me cord my box. "I daun knaw what we shall do without 'ee, my dear. Even the ol' biddy is sorrowful, though she's not enough of a Christian to fancy showin' it." The last moment came. We had finished breakfast. I was dressed for the journey, and my brass-nailed box was ready in the hall. We awaited the sound of Lord Tawborough's carriage. Aunt Jael epitomized. "Well, child, you're at your eighteenth year and you're doing well in life. I'm sure I don't grudge it 'ee. Your poor mother would have been a proud woman to see you going off like this to a good post among fine folk; but don't think as much of folk being fine and grand as she did, poor soul. All is vanity. Keep lowly. Don't let your head be turned because a fine lord is seeing you on your way to a life amid foreign lords and ladies: they're no better than humbler folk before the Lord and not often as good. Profit all you can. Never be ashamed of those who brought you up. Maybe 'twill be three or four years before we see you. A long time when we're old and within sight of the grave. Maybe you'll never see us again." "Oh no, Aunt Jael!" "Why not?" said my Grandmother, "'tis as likely as not true. Ye know not the day nor the hour." (The door knocker sounded.) "Come kiss me good-bye and remember I shall tell her you're following after. Love the Lord always." I hold in my mind the last vision of Bear Lawn: Aunt Jael and my Grandmother standing at the gate of Number Eight, Mrs. Cheese behind weeping in the doorway. I turned round in the carriage and waved my hand. I got a last glimpse of my Grandmother and Great-Aunt and saw them turn round and begin to walk back along the garden path. I saw them after they had ceased to see me. That was the real instant of parting. On the long journey I said little to my companion; wrapped up in myself and my own thoughts. Some of the way I slept. When we got to Southampton docks, and my last Good-bye in England was but a few minutes ahead I remembered with the greater shame and vividness (that throughout the long journey I had forgotten it) to whom it was I owed all the bright prospects before me, how needlessly good and generous he had always been, and how utterly unworthy of his goodness and generosity I was. "Sir," I said, and my voice was shaky, "I don't know how to thank you for all you have done for me. I've no money, no power, no anything. But if there's anything I can make or send you to remember me by--if there's anything at all I can do--Is there anything?" "Yes: Kiss me." He spoke in a low voice. I trembled with sudden emotion and surprise. Then I kissed him on the cheeks, and he kissed me. There were two old ladies standing near by; "Brother and sister," we overheard one of them say. "That's it, isn't it?" I said. He did not reply. There was one more moment before I had to go on to the boat. I noticed with a new interest--reviewing with staring inquisition every detail of his face--how good and clever and refined and aristocratic he was; how more than all he seemed sad and hankering and lonely. I could not help apprehending after what had happened--but then, no, that was too absurd. It was but a natural thing to have asked at a parting. "Au revoir," he said in a last handshake, "but not Adieu." It was dusk as we sailed out of Southampton Water. England was a fading piece of purple sky, lying low upon the sea; sprinkled with stars, for the harbour lights were showing. As she faded away I knew that she too belonged to the past. I went to sleep in my bunk, and awoke in the bright sunshine of France and the future. PART TWO CHAPTER XXVI: CHATEAU VILLEBECQ There came into view a shining white mansion, massive, square-looking, three-storied, pierced with high windows and covered like a mosaic with newly-painted white Venetian shutters. A dream-house, gleaming against a background of fresh greensward and dark yew-trees. "It is not real," I said half-aloud, and mystery banished disappointment. For I had pictured battlements, towers, drawbridges: had thought that "château" meant "castle." Nothing that day had been quite real. Perhaps it was the hot spring weather. Or the over-wideawakeness that followed a sleepless night--ah, Channel steamboat, stirrings of body and soul, desperate illness creating more desperate resolves to be good, prayers of "Not _this_ time, God, and I'll be pure, holy!" renewed with each sickening lurch. Or the inevitable first-day mystery of the foreign land. I had been met at Havre quay-side by a silent crafty little man in black, with a face like Punch and a head (when with un-English gesture he removed his hat) as smooth and bald as an egg. "I am François," was all he vouchsafed. I addressed him in French; he did not seem to understand, shook his head vaguely and made no reply. A ridiculous fear seized me that I did not know French at all, that Miss le Mesurier's lessons had been one mighty sham, false lessons in some goblin tongue. Or was I dreaming? All the way along the busy quay, amid clamouring porters, gesticulating cabmen, and marionette-like crowds, through unfamiliar streets, and in an unbelievable railway train, a sense of dreaming had persisted. The carriage drew up in front of the great doorway. François, by signs, explained that he was entrusted with my luggage. A little woman came out on to the steps of the porch to greet me, smiling ingratiatingly. She was a tiny, shrivelled thing, with bulgy eyes and a high receding forehead ridged with careworn lines, the whole dominated by an enormous nose: a human dormouse dressed in black. Despite its harassed air, the face was kind; her age might be fifty. The housekeeper, I surmised. She shook hands effusively. "Good day, Mademoiselle, so you are here." "Yes, Madame." "You are tired. Come upstairs. I will show you your room." My relief at finding that the French I had learnt was real after all, was less strong than a sudden feeling of fright--religious fright, for God speaks only English--before the blasphemous oddness of the thing. After all, my conversations with Miss le Mesurier had only been for conversation's sake: by way of learning the trick. But this real talking, this conducting of life's actual business in the foreign jargon!--(I prayed swiftly to know. "Little fool," replied God, _in French_.) I followed the little old lady into a lofty hall, very cool after the heat outside, a cold and stately place. Doors opened out of it on every side, surmounted with antlers. On the walls I saw armour, old swords, banners. We mounted a broad staircase with walls covered in tapestries. A mighty staircase. Majesty filled me. "Here is your bedroom," said the little lady, "and this door leads through to your study or boudoir, call it what you like. I hope you will like them both." "They are beautiful!" I cried, and my heart beat faster as I surveyed the bright bedchamber, the bed-hangings in rose-coloured chintz, the elegant boudoir with book-case and writing-desk and walls covered with portraits and miniatures and little racks for cups and vases--all for me. My heart exulted in contrasts. Oh, now I was a lady! "You will want to wash your hands. I shall wait for you. I am so glad you have come. Your presence--that is your arrival--it gives me pleasure.... Now come downstairs to luncheon to be introduced to us all. They will be so delighted to see you, dear Mademoiselle, my daughters--" "Then you are--" "Madame de Florian." "The Countess! Oh a thousand pardons!" What an un-Brethren-like phrase. And what a bad beginning. She sniggered, was immensely tickled. "Ha! Ha! You thought I was a servant." "Oh no! Not really--" "Oh yes you did. And that does not surprise me. My daughters have always told me I look like an old family servant: this will amuse them so. Now come along to luncheon. One thing," she whispered confidentially as she opened the bedroom door, "before you begin with my daughters we must have a little talk together about them both, and what each had best read with you. Ah, they are so different, Elise and Suzanne: one would not think them sisters. What anxiety it all gives me!" And she knitted her brows and half closed her eyes in an expression of exaggerated care I thought more comical than sad. The Countess led the way down the great staircase. In place of a door the dining-room had high hanging curtains. We passed through them into by far the largest room I had ever seen. The floor was of polished wood; there were no rugs or carpets. In each distant corner was a complete suit of armour; all along the walls stood massive and stately pieces of furniture. In the middle of this huge apartment, like an island surrounded by an ocean of bare floor, was a table at which were seated four persons: two young ladies, a gentleman and a little old woman. All four stared at me with unconcealed interest. Introductions left me in a maze; I was too self-conscious to hear names, far too full of the fact that I was being introduced to them to concentrate on their being introduced to me. Then for the next few minutes I was too busy trying to eat and drink aristocratically, acquiring slyly the new ritual of forks and spoons, posing modestly for five pairs of eyes, to hazard my own stare-round. Of the conversation, which was conducted almost exclusively by the Countess and her younger daughter Suzanne, and which concerned some peasant marriage in the district, I found after the first few moments that I understood almost everything. The food was as delicious as it was unfamiliar. There was an omelette with rich little crusts in it, and a venison-stew with olives. Towards the end of the meal I found courage to take the offensive and look round. With pretence of unawareness that was pitiful to see, all immediately arranged themselves to be gazed at: except the elder girl Elise, who faced me with equal eye. At the head of the table sat the Countess, full of asides to the butler, and peering remorselessly at everybody's plate. When you took a portion of a dish she watched anxiously, to appraise quantity. On her right, nearly opposite me, sat a tall dark gentleman. With his pointed little beard, suave voice and exaggerated manners, I decided he was a villain: a true French villain. I disliked him at once: his eyes told me he knew it, and they reciprocated. His hard eyes (though dark instead of blue), identical beard (though black instead of yellow), treacly eyes and cat-like gesture, all reminded me of Uncle Simeon. I soon learnt that his name was de Fouquier; he was a cousin of the late Count's and steward for the family estates. Like the Count, he had played some part in the coup d'état which had placed the reigning Emperor on the throne. He spent most of the year at the Château, living as one of the family. Next to him, and immediately opposite me was my principal charge, Mademoiselle Suzanne: a big healthy young woman, a few months younger than myself, but a year or two older in appearance. She was fair-haired, big-featured and bright-eyed. A large mouth with full red lips proclaimed her sister to Maud--and daughter to Eve. She was lively, kind and perhaps stupid. She was always laughing. At the end of the table, facing the Countess and immediately on my left, sat Mademoiselle Elise, the elder daughter. She was unhealthily pale; her eyes were fixed-looking, with dark rims underneath, as though she hardly slept. The oddest feature was the forehead, high and of a marble whiteness that made the blue veins stand out. There was something cross and soured in her expression: also something miserable that reminded me of myself--the first condition of sympathy. Finally, beside me, and on the Countess' left, sat a wizened little woman, a tinier edition of the tiny Countess, but sallower, uglier and sharper-featured: ferret rather than dormouse. A pair of enormous blue spectacles enabled her to observe without being observed. She was the Countess' lady-companion. Her name, absurdly enough, was Mademoiselle Gros. The plainness and ordinariness of them all was what struck me most. I had pictured stately and distinguished persons--grand, noble, French--and here was a company quite as ugly and plebeian as the Meeting. No one fulfilled my notion of aristocrats! No one resembled the Stranger. After luncheon, Mademoiselle Suzanne came up to my rooms to help me unpack. She prattled ceaselessly, in English, which she spoke well, though I found reason to correct her every few moments and thus to begin my duties. "I shall like you, I know. I hated Miss Jayne: that's our governess when we were little: she was very ugly and severe. I teased her all I dared. Once I kicked her, but I was only nine. Mademoiselle Soyer, who taught us last, was really French, though her mother was English, so she doesn't count. Our other governesses were all French; but" (quickly) "you are not a governess of course; you are to be a friend. I am sure you will like it with us: You can do whatever you want: ride--you do ride?--go to picnics and excursions; there are very pretty places near here. I am so glad you are not what I feared. Your cousin[!] Lord Tawborough told Mamma you were so clever. And some English women, you know--you know what I mean. But we shall be friends, real friends, I know it." "Do you?" thought I. "You are friendly and kind, but not at all like that unknown thing I hoped so hard to find, a real friend of my own age and sex, whom I could be free with, confide in--not love, for that there is only Robbie--who could sometimes take the place of the Other Me in my talks and visions, who could end the loneliness." She paused in her babyish fiddling with my possessions. "What are you thinking about? You are not listening." "Oh nothing," I said, a shade guiltily, for I was taken with one of my intuitive panics: Suppose she had guessed my thoughts? But the big eyes were staring at me with nothing beyond vague curiosity. To make amends, I set to and tattled in the liveliest and worldliest fashion I knew. "Oh how droll you are, and what good times we shall have together." Dinner (no Supper now: I was a lady!) found me already much more at ease. I corrected some mistake in Mlle. Suzanne's pronunciation, and that set the table going. While Weather is the conversational shield and buckler of the English or of the French against themselves, against each other it is the oddness and madness of the other's tongue. "Heavens!" cried Suzanne. "That makes five ways I know of to pronounce _ough_ in English. It is mad, absurd." "There are seven ways at least," I boasted. "There's nothing like that in our language. French is so simple." "Oh? What about the irregular verbs?" "You've got them too, quite as many." "But they're not so irregular as yours: in fact, most of them aren't really irregular at all!" "Oh, not really irregular at all! _Am_, _be_, _is_, _are_: or _go_, _went_, _been_; aren't they irregular enough for you?" "And the spelling, oh dear!" put in the Countess.... This sort of thing is as gay and unfailing as a fountain. Thanks to the good oddities of my mother-tongue, on my very first evening in this strange land I was beginning to feel at home. Certainly I talked more than at any meal in the eighteen years before. Everywhere else I had been a child, a chattel: a thing to be bullied and silenced (Aunt Jael), tortured (Uncle Simeon), exhorted (the Saints), prayed for (Grandmother). The new unconstraint exhilarated me; my natural bent for talking came into its own. Here I was listened to, expected to shine, deferred to. I was clever: I was amusing: I was a lady! Alone in my cosy bedroom, with the lamp lit, I reviewed my first impressions. How good it all was: comfort, ease, dainty food, fine surroundings; kindliness, deference; freedom, importance. Luxurious liberty filled me: after eighteen years of prison I had escaped. But would things continue as well as they had begun? Or were there new perils ahead? Then Conscience pricked. Is it right, this life of ease, this new atmosphere of careless liberty: is it of the Lord? What place has religion here? Where is God? Has any one of these fine folk spoken, or even thought, of holy things during one moment of this day? HAVE YOU? It was late. I opened my Bible, and turned, involuntarily, inevitably, to the one hundred and thirty-seventh psalm. I read it through aloud. None of the old emotion, none of the old misery returned; as I read I tried almost to force it back. Where had fled the wretchedness of that other first night of a new life, in the dreary chamber at Torribridge? Where was the desperate luxurious loneliness of that time? Had the fatal atmosphere of France, the Papist Babylon, already in an hour magically completed a change that the easier times of the past few years had begun? Was I deprived of my oldest privilege, my misery? Had I become unworthy of unhappiness? I contrasted myself bitterly with the unhappy Mary of seven years back. Ease was poisoning my soul. I dwelt with perverse envy on the wretched little girl of that other night, and then fell to picturing all the unhappiness that had framed my life, from the long agony of my mother before she bore me to the daily oppression of the years that followed. Soon I was shedding tears of pity for my unhappy past self: weeping, if not for Zion. (More and more, as the contrasts of my new life developed, I indulged in this glad unhappiness of sentimental backward-looking, mimicked and dramatized the sincerity of my old child's misery, wallowed in retrospective self-pity, cried amid present ease: "Ah, what a sad life _was_ mine!") That I could weep for it as past showed me how wide and sudden was the gulf between the new life and the old. I resolved to widen it. Already a new person--an empty, a surface Mary, of whose existence within me I had sometimes had half-realized and swiftly-vanishing notions--seemed to have sapped the fortress of my soul, to have assumed command of "Me": a person with the same brain, the same will, the same body, but another soul, or no soul. My brain decided to stifle for a while the old Mary, to let this emptier, ease-fuller personality be all myself. Then at the end of a space of time, I should know which was the stronger, which was the realler Me. I never doubted but that I should be free to make my choice. I chose my Resolutions carefully, prayed them aloud, put them on paper, sealed them in time-honoured envelope:-- (1) I will cease all visions and daydreams. (2) I will abandon all magic tricks, numbers and hopes. (3) I will play with none of my Terrors: Hell, Satan, Eternity. (4) I will not brood. I will fight my distrust of happiness, my evil instinct that for every moment of pleasure the Lord will make me pay to the uttermost farthing. (5) I will seek none of the ecstasies of religion; not try to experience the Rapture, nor dwell overmuch on holy things. Resting from a too great pleasure in God, at the end of the period I am setting myself I may find myself nearer to Him. (A wise experiment, whispered a Voice: perhaps God's, perhaps the Devil's.) (6) _Only_, I will read His Word daily, and have for every moment the motto "What would He do?" (7) Except at Christmas only, I will not think of Robbie. If at the end of the time, he is as clear and close as ever, I shall know myself and him better, just as with God (5). ALL THESE THINGS, for the rest of this year 1866, eight months and more [precisely thirty-seven weeks I noticed with a twinge of emotion which was itself an involuntary breach of (2)], I do, with God's help, here and now RESOLVE. M. L. On the envelope I wrote in capitals "Very Private" in English and "Personnel" in French, added "April 17th, 1866" and signed "M. L."--the death-warrant of Mary I, proclamation from the throne of Mary II. And I undressed, and slept like a lady. CHAPTER XXVII: MARY THE SECOND The Countess cornered me next morning for her "little talk," conducting me to her own particular apartment. Mademoiselle Gros was present. She always was, I soon found: a familiar spirit rather than a companion. She sat on a low chair knitting, and if her eyes, or rather goggles, were never raised, I could see that her ears were drinking everything in. The Countess, who spoke in a kind of loud whisper, seemed almost oblivious of me, as one repeating her thoughts aloud to herself: I was merely a good atmosphere in which to recite her woes. Suzanne, you know. A mere child, good-natured, impulsive--like her father--not clever, but with a will of her own and at times a hot temper--like her father. She gave no real trouble: yet caused her mother many anxieties: how, was not stated. Elise; ah that was a different matter! She was intelligent, fond of study, with a practical head for affairs and money. But so self-centred, so secretive; and so sharp-tongued, so undaughterly when reproved! And in her sullen way, far more obstinate even than her sister. She could never be _made_ to do anything: one had given up trying long ago.... "Ah Mademoiselle, if you but knew. It is not easy, to be an old woman alone in the world with two young daughters. They are all I have. I hope they will marry well, but rich husbands are not easy to find, when the girls are poor. We are poor, you know." "Poor, Madame?" I cried, "with this great château?" "_Because_ of this great château, Mademoiselle. You cannot know how expensive it is to keep up. Expenses are always going up, and rents and farms are always going down. Things are not what they were. Elise will succeed to this place, and to the little money we have. It is not enough; the only thing is for her to find a husband rich enough to spend money on the estate. But she is so strange, so difficult; mocks at the idea of marrying; declares she hates all men--is it not horrible? Says that if, by any impossible chance, she ever did marry, it would be just whom she fancies, rich as a king or poor as a rat. There is no other girl in France like her. It is unbelievable. For Suzanne, too, a good marriage is important: but I fear the _dot_ I can give her is not big enough to secure the sort of husband I want. You see, Mademoiselle, what anxieties a mother has." Suddenly she woke up and seemed to become aware I was a conscious being. "You are surprised I talk to you so freely? You are young, I know, but so grave, so English, so wise; I feel you will influence my children for the good. You will help me, dear young Mademoiselle, will you not? You will be my ally?" (This word with a snigger, as though trying to pretend she did not mean it.) "And then English is such a sensible thing to study, so useful an accomplishment in Society. Perhaps I will look through the books you read together--though I know you would choose nothing unsuitable--if ever I get time. Oh dear! We are so glad you are here. Our first impression is delightful. Remember you are not a governess but a friend." "You are too kind, Madame. You are all very good to me. I always knew I should like the French, I have always said so to myself." "Now really? I cannot truthfully return the compliment--promise me you will not take offence--though I have always liked individual English people I have met. My family have always been fighting your countrymen. Oh dear, I am always interrupted." This was in response to a few suggestive throat-clearings from Mademoiselle Gros. "Time for you to go into Caudebec for the shopping, is it? Why, it is barely nine o'clock: don't worry me so, you have plenty of time. No, no" (looking at her watch), "It is gone half-past, you must hurry off at once. Why couldn't you remind me sooner? Here is the list--don't lose it--and here are fifty francs--No, you will need sixty. And don't go forgetting again to call at Lebrun's and pay him his account. I will write about the other matter, so say nothing. No, you had better just say--no, after all, say nothing. Here are the three hundred francs; three hundred francs--it is terrible." "Now," as the dwarf-like creature slunk away, "where was I, dear Mademoiselle? Oh yes: my father was in the Navy, and fought with Villeneuve at Trafalgar, while my husband and his relatives were all in the Army; his father, the famous Count de Florian--the girls' grandfather--was at Waterloo, serving as a general under the great Emperor himself. Trafalgar, Waterloo: what more would you have? But then English is so useful, it is spoken everywhere: there is England with all her colonies, and the Americans speak English too, don't they? The Court Ladies all talk it, and our best families. So when the girls were quite tiny, I got them an English governess, a Miss Jayne; sensible, but very harsh, and not _quite_ a lady. When they were older, I looked about for a young English lady to perfect them. Then our good English friend, Lord Tawborough, told me of a young cousin of his, who would suit perfectly. 'Protestant?' I asked him, for after all religion is important, is it not? 'Yes,' he replied, 'as you know nearly all of us are; and a devout one too. But of course she would never dream of trying to influence your daughters!' You wouldn't, Mademoiselle, would you?" "Oh, no! Madame," I replied, breaking a lifetime's vows. "Naturally not. You are a good Protestant, we are good Catholics. But there is tolerance, is there not?" "Yes," huskily. The new philosophy affected my voice. "I knew you would think like that. The best way is for you never to refer to religion at all, don't you agree?" "Yes, Madame," denying for the third time. And immediately in the ears of my spirits, the cock crew. I flushed. Madame stared, wondered, and said nothing. I sought to turn the subject. "How did you first meet Lord Tawborough?" I enquired. "I should be much interested to hear." "Has he never told you? Well, he was introduced to us by one of my dear husband's friends, another Englishman, a cousin of his; a much older man, whom my husband knew through friends of the family in Paris. So distinguished too, with a head of perfectly white hair, and so well-groomed; the perfect type of English gentleman. He lived in France. I think he didn't get on very well with Lord Tawborough, had quarrelled with the latter's father or something like that. The last time I saw Lord Tawborough, he hadn't seen him for years; I think he still lives somewhere or other in France. So distinguished, though pious with it: a Protestant, of course, but a perfect gentleman." "Which cousin, I wonder? Was he married?" "He had been, I believe, but his wife was dead. She had treated him shamefully, I heard, and finally ran away. I never quite found out, you know; these things are sometimes hard to discover, aren't they? One day we may meet again; like all my dear husband's friends, he has a standing invitation to the Château. Poor Monsieur Traies, I wonder what has become of him." I could not hide my extreme emotion, and for a second my brain was too numb to invent a pretext. "Oh Madame," I cried faintly, "I feel ill all of a sudden," and I rushed from the room, and upstairs to my bedroom. _He_ was in France. I might meet him in this very house. It was not the coincidence which affected me, but the suddenness with which an old vision had become a near possibility. Nature and habit were stronger than last night's Resolution, and pacing about my room I rehearsed in hectic detail all the mad alternative ways in which the meeting would take place, the long-planned dénouement be achieved. By luncheon I had calmed down and could pass the sudden sickness off as a turn I often had when tired. "Fatigues of the journey," sympathized the Countess. Next day I began my duties. The program was an hour or two's Conversation with Suzanne, followed by Reading with Elise. From the first day the former was nothing more (or less) than a chat, sometimes slanderous, mostly frivolous, always friendly: developing my golden talent for tattle, and in the idlest and surest fashion perfecting Suzanne's English. We became the best of companions. Elise began by giving me a fright. "I love your poets," she said in her precise plaintive English, "Shakespeare best of all, though" (proudly) "very few French people do. We will read his plays together. I have read most of them, but you will know them far better. I should like to begin with either Macbeth or Othello, my two favourites. Which do you advise?" I had never heard of either. "You see me colouring," I laughed nervously. "You have guessed: I am a bit ashamed of not knowing my Shakespeare as well as I can see you do." The half-lie saved me. It most intimately flattered her vanity: that she, the French girl, should be thought to know an English poet better than I. No variety of self-content is more delicious than that which fills a foreigner when she can soar over the natives in knowledge of their own land. "You are too modest," said Elise. "Now which of those two plays shall we begin with?" I had clean forgotten one title, and was not sure of repeating the other correctly. "Which do _you_ think? It is you who should choose," I returned generously. At all costs she must repeat one of the names. "Macbeth then. I think it is the finer." "Yes, Macbaith," I agreed, imitating her pronunciation as closely as I could. "Perhaps you would lend me your copy. Reading it through would"--I recoiled from "refresh my memory"--"would be useful. I'll read it over tonight. The Countess won't mind my reading in my room?" "Your room is yours to do what you like in. We all do what we like here; I hope you'll do the same." So that night the bedroom of a French Château saw me make the acquaintance of the greatest of my fellow-countrymen, of multitudinous seas and perfumes of Araby, and of a theme new in print only: a woman's vaulting ambition. Reading, in fact, by myself or with Elise, became my chief distraction. Elise's sour face held no sour looks for me. I would watch the high blue-veined forehead and the sad white face as we were reading together. For the first time--with the one exception of Lord Tawborough, in whom also intelligence and purity, in their manlier setting, were the qualities that attracted me--I found myself admiring some one, acknowledging frankly to myself that here was something better than I. Her kindness, her sadness, her literary enthusiasm all heightened the effect; and in the ardour of books and discussion sprang up my first real friendship. It ripened slowly, for she was as proud as I. We did not wallow in confidences, knowing that at the right moment they could come. My private reading was voracious, sharpened by years of unconscious hunger. I read novels, poetry and travel, chiefly in French: one subject became an enthusiasm, the history of France, and one part of that subject a mania. Of the glory of this world I knew nothing. It burst on me now in one vision, one shape, one glad triumphant name: the name and shape and vision of France. I devoured every map, every picture, every book of geography or history the library contained. I learnt to know the living soul and lilting name of each river and city and province, from this Normandy of Châteaux and cider-orchards and Vikings and churches to Provence loved of the sun and limned by the Midland Sea; from fervid Gascony to brave Lorraine. I loved the victorious shape: that stands firm on the straight Pyrenees, turns a proud Breton shoulder to the wide Atlantic, and bears on the breast of old Alsace the swing and swerve of the whole eastward Continent. Best of all I loved the story: Gauls and Romans, Troubadours and Crusaders, Kings and Dauphins, Huguenots and Leaguers, lilies and eagles, laughter and war. I see them always as from some hilltop, a tented and bannered multitude spread on a vast twilight plain beneath me, reaching to the utmost horizon of history. Above them all, in the highest heaven, there shines a Star. It is Napoleon. I lived every moment from the island-birth to the island death, from Ajaccio to the Rock; knew the emotion of each time so well that I believed I could have been Napoleon, came to feel _I had been_ Napoleon, and could revel in retrospective megalomania with no betrayal of Resolution: for I was weaving no futures for myself, but living another's past. Another's, yet mine. For as I read I found that I _remembered_ the lonely childhood, the sour school-days; the hopes of '96, the springtide of Italy; the summertide of glory; Austerlitz, Notre Dame, the crown of battles and the crown of gold; with God's revenge for good days gone:--the wintertime of Russia; the defeat, the disaster, the desertion; the giant self-pity of Longwood. Ah, those were great days. And now I was Mary. For a long time I thought the Nephew ridiculous. The pictures I saw everywhere portrayed a kind of sleepy Uncle Simeon, bloated, heavier, stupider, but not less crafty. But I kept my thoughts to myself. For the family were staunch adherents of the reigning Emperor. Then, one day, Elise gave me a book describing his younger days. Again I found that I remembered. I was Louis-Napoleon too. _He_ was the great Napoleon. We were all one. In the world there was only one Person. Every one was every one else. My heart--God--once more I had nearly reached the Mystery.... He was a real Napoleon, this living King, who, when as a little child they tore him away from the Tuileries (when the uncle fell and was abandoned), cried out aloud in rage prophetic: "I shall come back," and through madness and mockery and passion and prison--came back. If books were my most personal pleasure, I settled down to enjoy every phase of the new easeful life: fine bedroom and boudoir (I would exult aloud that they were mine); perfect servants who spared you cleaning your own boots, making your bed and folding your clothes; bright days in the park with Suzanne and her chatter; rides, drives, picnics; excursions to Jumièges, to Caudebec, to neighbouring mansions, to old Rouen, jewelled with wonderful papist churches. A "No English after dinner" rule of the Countess' enabled me to improve my French almost to perfection, and this acquisition of another tongue contributed to the change in my character: words make thoughts rather than thoughts words: language is the lord of life. Soon this new insouciant way of treating life, which but a few weeks earlier would have been incomprehensible, appeared the natural one. I forgot love, and God, and misery. Mary II had won. Bear Lawn became distant and half-real. A thin bridge of memory, which Resolution forbade me to traverse, spanned the widening gulf between the two lives. The very intenseness of the old days was the reason they so soon became unreal. I had learnt to live each instant in over-intense and concentrated fashion: I could not do it in the present and past as well. None of my minor fears were realized. I had thought my humble upbringing might make itself seen; but no, to all and sundry I was announced as "the cousin of a Lord" (lusciously pronounced _laurrr_ by the Countess) and taken for granted as a young English gentlewoman of orthodox antecedents. I justified my pleasure by the reflection that it was all literally true, though in my heart I knew that the _true_ Me was poor middle-class go-to-Meeting Mary. All my ways were found "so English, so quaint, so Puritan, so clever, so charming." Well-chosen hints of the oddness and rigour of Bear Lawn excited interest, amusement, pity, each in their turn delectable: how it pleased, flattered, touched me! The Clinkers and Aunt Jael became victims in a repertoire, butchered to make a Norman holiday. Nor need I have feared for my table-manners with these French aristocrats who wiped their plates with their bread and supped and squelched and chewed in almost Glorian fashion; while Aunt Jael in hawkiest mood never rivalled the mesmeric stare which Madame la Comtesse de Florian bestowed on other people's plates. The eternal visualizing was the one habit of old days which I could not completely shake off. My Napoleonizing was one outlet; for the rest, the intrigues and excitements that the next few months were to furnish brusquely stemmed the tide. Stage-manager of a real drama, I had less need to act imaginary ones. I had soon divined, beneath the lightness, an odd constraint around me. At table there were unpleasant silences, when I could feel that my companions were hostile to each other. I noticed that the Countess, Elise and Suzanne only spoke to me on intimate or serious topics when we were alone. Every talk worth remembering had been _à deux_; they were not, I thought, ashamed of me but of themselves, not shy of me but of each other. Of love as I, who had not known it, felt it should be between mother and daughter and sister and sister, the great house held little. Elise alone, I was beginning to discover, had a jealous and passionate regard for her sister, inadequately returned. The Countess' feeling for her daughters, worldly solicitude or whatever it was, contained I believe no particle of real love; she mistrusted them, feared them, and avoided close contact with them, especially with Elise. In return Suzanne ignored while Elise almost despised the mother. Monsieur de Fouquier's position puzzled me. He seemed to be valued as a steward, honoured as a relation, and disliked as a man. Elise mistrusted him. The Countess was frightened of him. Suzanne--I did not know. He was excessively polite to me, but spoke little. At table Ferret-Blue-goggles was silence itself, though alone with the Countess I think she had a good deal to say. All the family showed me uniform kindness, genuine and spontaneous, though after a time I detected method in it too. I felt that each one of them separately--Elise over books, Suzanne during our walks and talks, the Countess in her "as one woman to another" confidences--was bidding for the chief place in my affections; seeking me, as the Countess had put it, as an ally. I was a valuable piece on the Villebecq chessboard. A hand was stretched forth, and played the opening move. CHAPTER XXVIII: LAYING-ON OF HANDS We were sitting at luncheon one day about the end of the summer. Suddenly the Countess arose from her seat, erect, pale with fury, pointing at Suzanne. "Leave the table, wretched vicious girl! Go to your room! And you, Sir"--to Monsieur de Fouquier--"will leave my house without delay." There was a moment's intense silence. No one moved. All stared. "Madame--" began de Fouquier suavely. "Not a syllable! It is not required. Business can be wound up in a few hours; and I do not doubt I shall find a successor who will serve me _not less well_ than you. Gentlemanly conduct indeed!--handling and embracing my daughter--" "Mother"--it was Elise who spoke--"are you _quite_ demented?" For one who was not a principal she was inexplicably white and hard. "Quite, I think," rejoined her sister, not at all as though the chief person concerned, but relieved to have a word to echo. "Wretched girl. You dare deny--?" Here Mademoiselle Gros nudged and whispered. The Countess walked swiftly round the table to her daughter, and snatched at her left arm. "Deny now, will you? Ha! Ha! Look at your wrists; deny if you can." We all stared. The white finger-pressure of another hand was unmistakable. "Deny?" cried Suzanne scornfully, "of course I do. He holding my hand under the table! What an idiotic idea, just the sort of idea you would have. Dear me, how horrible if he had! That's what your filthy little spy thinks she saw through her filthy smoked glasses. The liar!" "Those marks, then, Mademoiselle, if you please"--her mother sneered confidently--"Be so very kind as to explain." "Those marks, then, Madame, if you please! I suppose you're not my mother, Madame, if you please, and know nothing of the little habit I've always had of sitting with my hands in my lap, with my left wrist clasped in my right hand, my own amorous right hand? I had finished my dessert, and--yes, I admit it--was sitting in that wicked position. And I will again. And, what is more, I won't have you and your accusations. I'm not a baby in long clothes, and I won't be spied on and shrieked at in that mad way. And I'll squeeze my wrist till it bleeds if I choose to." Too confident, too explanatory. Lying was not in her line. But de Fouquier preserved an unruffled silence. I was not sure. The Countess too was wavering. Ferret whispered again. "Not true." We all heard. "Listen, Madame," said Elise, very hard and pale, "there is one person who will leave this house without delay: that little spy. Order her to go at once: _Now!_", savagely. "I won't," piped the Countess, "I am mistress in my own house." "Then I will," and turning to Mademoiselle Gros, "You have just two minutes to leave this table of your own free will, and till tomorrow to relieve the Château of your presence. If not, I'll drag you from the room myself, or ring for the servants to help me." They all cowered (except de Fouquier) before Elise. "Yes, go I will, my poor Countess," squeaked the creature, trying to make valour appear the better part of discretion. "I can hear your daughters' insults no longer." Out she skedaddled, tap-tap-tapping across the wooden floor in the midst of a momentous silence. Then Elise turned sharply to her mother. "All you have to do is to apologize humbly to Suzanne and Emile. The whole thing is a mare's nest. Have you ever seen anything before to make you suspect anything of the sort? No, and you know you have not. It is utterly unlike my sister. As to Emile, I know him a good deal better than you do--" "Evidently"; sneering feebly. "There's a stupid muddle-headed sneer. You can't have it both ways. If it is me you suspect of love-making with our cousin, say so openly and withdraw it about Suzanne. Is it proofs you want? Oh, I can produce authentic marks of loving pressure soon enough." She clutched savagely at her own wrist, scratching it with her nails. "There, mother, dear, there is a spot of blood: now you are convinced. I admit all, all. You may shriek 'Wretched, vicious girl' at me till your voice fails you. But one thing you may not, shall not, do. You shall not talk to my sister like that, not if you were my mother ten times over. That is an order. And for a piece of advice only, don't talk quite so preposterously to Emile." "You are grown very fond of our cousin all of a sudden; with your 'Emile' this and your 'Emile' that. It is rather sudden." "Oh, no, my dear mamma: it has been a very gradual affair on the contrary: a passion that has been eating my heart out month by month, day by day, hour by hour. Oh Love, Love. I live in it, it is my joy, my life! Oh God, it is cruel!" With a laugh (or sob) she ran from the table, and hurriedly left the room. Four of us were left. There was a new unpleasant pause. No sign or look passed between Suzanne and de Fouquier. I was moved by the display of raging hate in this peaceful family, and bewildered to know what it might all mean. The Countess was sniffing tearfully, mopping her eyes with a tiny cambric handkerchief. "No need for that," cried Suzanne sharply. "You have not yet apologized to Emile." He broke his discreet silence at last, suavely, full of forgiveness. "No, my dear cousin, pray do not talk to your mother like that. 'Tis I who am sorry. It is not Madame's own fault; I have always felt that Mademoiselle Gros was putting false ideas into her mind, poisoning her outlook, playing treacherously on her maternal fears, slandering each one of us. Now she is going, and we shall breathe a purer atmosphere." Madame continued to sniffle. "Don't-know-what-to-believe." Neither Suzanne nor Monsieur de Fouquier gave her any enlightenment, though she looked furtively up first at one and then the other. Then with an appealing "Help me" glance she turned in my direction. So, instantly, did the others. "Remember, dear Mademoiselle, that we're friends," was the burden of one look: "Beware, young lady, or we'll be enemies" of the other. "I think it must all be an unfortunate misunderstanding, Madame," I said. "Personally, I noticed nothing." (Judicial, judicious.) Here François entered; bald-headed, Punch-faced, beaky-eyed. He looked completely incognizant of the storm that had been raging: exactly as though he had been listening outside the whole time. The united-front-before-servants which we hastened to display would have failed to deceive the dullard which François certainly was not. Both Suzanne and her mother began eye-signalling "See you after" to me, the more emphatically when each perceived the other. Suzanne first, I decided: she was my friend, and with her I should get nearer the truth of it all. But as we rose from the table, the Countess laid her hand affectionately on my shoulder, and led me, unavoidably, to her boudoir. CHAPTER XXIX: HAPPY FAMILY Here we found Mademoiselle Gros, already bonneted and shawled. I went over to the window, where my ears drank in a little comedy of pathetic explanation and injured silence; humiliating apology and continued silence, generous proposal of one month's salary, hinted acceptance of three. From the three months' minimum Ferret would not budge; in the Countess' soul fear of a new scene fought an attacking battle against long-entrenched parsimony; fear won--and money passed. "I will see you have the carriage for the station. The Havre train: you are returning to your relatives there? Good, I will see you again at the moment of departure." "Thank you, Madame la Comtesse. I will take leave now of my _successor_." And she held out her wizened claw to me. "Well, I hope she will be," said the Countess. "You will, dear Mademoiselle, will you not?" she asked, as the door closed upon the other. "How, Madame? Mademoiselle Gros' successor?" "Oh, I don't mean as lady's companion, of course, not as her _official_ successor." (Nervous snigger.) "For that post I must try to find some one else. It will be difficult: they are all so exacting nowadays, so unreliable. Oh, it will be difficult. I meant, would you succeed poor little Gros as my friendly adviser, my confidante?" "But, Madame, I am so young. A young foreign girl, who knows very little of the world! I hope always to be your friend; but a confidante, like Mademoiselle Gros--I don't think I should like to--" "Mademoiselle, there are many things _I_ do not like, also. Do you think that I like to be spoken to by my own children as I was in front of 'a young foreign girl' this morning? I come of an ancient family: there is still pride in France. The new generation of young girls is terrible. I would never have dared to speak to my dear mother as Suzanne and Elise do to theirs; I would have died first--" "Madame," I interrupted, "do you love your daughters?" "Love them? of course I do! _At the same time_--" She shrugged her shoulders and resumed her plaint. "Ah, it is hard; I fly from trouble, and it comes always my way. I need peace, and there is always strife. I am so unhappy, so worried, so alone; I trust no one, I believe nothing they tell me. If our relatives were to hear of this! But they shall not; not for worlds would I confide in them. But one must confide in somebody, mustn't one? You, Mademoiselle, you have seen now the kind of thing I have to bear--I am only surprised that you have been so long here without seeing an exhibition like today's. You know now how my daughters treat their mother--" "Madame," I interposed, "I know nothing. The whole scene at luncheon leaves me bewildered. What did happen?" "Something, I'm sure. Gros must have seen something: not that at bottom she was reliable, but she could not have invented the whole thing like that, could she? And I was beginning to have a kind of suspicion myself, too. But when Suzanne explained, it _seemed_ true, didn't it? She was never a child for falsehoods. And then I remembered how Gros hated Monsieur de Fouquier--" "Why?" "Oh, she always hated him ever since she's been here. She was always trying to poison my mind against him: as if she needed to! And as if a poor creature like that was able to influence me. She hated him so because he wanted me to part with her, and she knew it. He was always hoping she would leave." "Why?" again. "Because she was always talking against him to me: a vicious circle is it not? So perhaps what Gros said today was merely out of spite against him. Still, the very idea is terrible." "Why--if I may--if you will forgive my asking--why is the idea of Mademoiselle Suzanne and Monsieur de Fouquier so terrible?" "I will tell you in a moment. But Elise's manner? What did that mean? She frightened me; she was so hard and bitter. I do not understand. Ah, that would be infinitely worse: the idea of him and Elise. Fouquier one day master of this château, ruler in my house,--ah no, no, there are limits to what I could endure. Yet there is something with one of the two: I feel there is something. But which?" "Why either, Madame? If Mademoiselle Gros' story about Suzanne is all a lie--" "It might be a lie. It never does to be too hopeful; I am always nursing false hopes." "Well, assume it's a lie, which after what you have told me about Mademoiselle Gros' spite sounds likely; well, that disposes of Suzanne; while as to Elise, except for her wild talk, which means nothing except that she was angry, have you the tiniest reason for suspecting anything of her?" "How comforting to hear you talk so! Somehow I feel there may be nothing in it after all. But if there were, how terrible!" "Why, Madame?" "Ah, you don't know. It is de Fouquier." "He is a cousin--" "Only a second cousin." "Because he is poor?" "There is that, of course: but listen, I will tell you all." She looked nervously towards the door, and dropped her voice to a melodramatic whisper. "Listen, Mademoiselle: he is an enemy. There are other bad points, of course: for instance, he is vicious; you are an English girl and understand what I mean. That is not important; all men are more or less like that. Then he is a thief and a cheat. Since my dear husband died, he has managed all my business affairs; all about the estates, you know. He has what we call a power-of-attorney, signs all documents to do with the property, collects all rents and dues, sees to the leases and the farms and all investments and improvements. Well, he is a robber. He takes commissions and bribes from the tenants and dealers; when he invests in the funds he makes a profit for himself; he falsifies all the documents he puts before me. Do you want evidence, proof? The tenants all come to me on the sly and tell me of his tricks. It was long before I discovered, and still longer before I took my courage in both hands and braved him with his treachery. Oh, I was prostrate with fear, but I worked myself into a temper and that helped me, and I told him in one word--Go!" "And then?" "Then the worst thing happened, the thing that had always held me back. He said that if I forced him to leave the château, he would publish abroad things he knew about my husband, would hold up the family name to ignominy and scorn, would prove to all the world that my husband possessed neither honesty nor honour. It was all false, or nearly all; but I was frightened lest he did know something really dishonourable. Anyway, I knew he would pretend he did, and so carry out his threat. Finally I gave in, though he saw the hate in my eyes, he saw that! So he stayed on. He goes more carefully, that is, he contents himself with stealing less. It is only because of this hold over me, through my affection for my dear husband's memory, that he stays. I hate him, and he hates me." "Will he always stay?" "Ah," she replied vaguely, "that's just it. I hope he will die. It is wicked of me, and I trust that the good God will pardon me. However, now you understand." "I am beginning to understand. One thing, though. Surely, Madame, if he _were_ to marry in the family, then he could have no reason to injure the family name--" "Mademoiselle, for a man who has so spoken to enter our family would be the foulest dishonour." She drew herself up proudly; there was a touch of real majesty in her poor heroics. Then, subsiding into the customary worried-dormouse manner, puckering her brows, and poking forward her anxious nose: "If there is any danger, it must be stopped now--Oh, what a nightmare! We could easily manage Suzanne, but Elise would be terrible. We must find out for certain. Neither of them would tell me anything: I am only their mother! But you, that is different. They will talk freely to you about today, I feel sure they will, Suzanne for certain. You will tell me what they say?" "Oh Madame, it would be unkind to make me promise that. I could not break their confidences any more than I could yours, could I?" (Much less so, I realized, as I liked the girls better; knowing that in the last resort I should be guided by preference rather than reason or even interest.) "Then you'll not help me! You will leave me alone after all? Without husband, or friend, or companion, untrusted by my children" (whimper), "alone, alone? In the short time since you have come I have tried to make you happy in your life with us, and you will not do me this least service? Why even poor Gros, whom I never really liked, told me all--all she could see." The last phrase turned me from pity to pertness. "Madame," I said, "I am not Mademoiselle Gros. I am a friend, not a spy." "Spy," she repeated, a cold glint in her eyes; and I shrank away from her, not so much through fear of her anger as through shame at my own cruelty. "No, no, Madame," I cried, "I did not really mean that. I only meant that I am so much friendlier with the girls than Mademoiselle Gros was, that it will be harder for me to be fair to them as well as to you. But I sympathize truly with all your troubles and anxieties. I do really, dear Madame, I do not say it to be polite--and I will always try to help you, I will help you however I can, I want to repay your many kindnesses." "Ah, thank you, thank you," and she squeezed my hand affectionately, with tears in her eyes. "Now I must see Mademoiselle Gros off." I followed her out, and went upstairs to my bedroom. Suzanne was ensconced in my window-seat. "So you've escaped at last. I ask pardon for installing myself here, but I knew it was the only place where I should have you to myself. What has the old dear been saying?" "A good many things." "I know. Begging you to be 'on my side, dear Mademoiselle.' Oh, don't worry, I've not been listening at the door; I've always left that to Gros, who never got anything but earache for her pains. I know it all by heart, though. In brief, she wound up by asking you precisely what I am here to ask you myself: in this delightful family circle of the aristocracy of France, will you be on _my_ side? You hesitate: did you hesitate when she asked you?" "No, I said 'No' straight out. I said it wouldn't be fair to you two for me to promise that." "Well, you haven't said 'No' straight out to me. Which means you like me better." "You know it. But everybody has been so kind, I would rather not take a side at all." "You'll have to, my poor Mademoiselle! You have seen too much. You have already become more like one of the family in your few months here than any outsider before. And you are too good a friend not to be worth trying for." "Too useful an ally." "I mean that. Don't be cynical. Because I like you--and I do enormously--it is not wrong for me to want you to help me, is it? Suppose there were a bad quarrel between Mamma and me, and you became mixed up in it, so that you had to choose to side with one or the other of us, which would it be?" "I don't think anything like that would arise, and I don't see what I could _do_ anyway; but my sympathies would be with you." "Thank you, I am so happy. I didn't want to make you promise. You would help me, wouldn't you?" "Perhaps. On one condition, that you told me everything." "I promise that. But just for fun, I'd like you to tell me beforehand what you have already guessed on your own: what, for instance, you thought of the pleasant little incidents at luncheon today. Just for fun." "I might say something that would offend you." "Say whatever you think, I shall like it better." "It was the suddenness of what happened that took my breath away; I hadn't time to ask myself what I thought. Then Mademoiselle Gros seemed so natural that I thought she must be telling the truth: I'm sorry, but it was difficult to think otherwise, wasn't it?" "Go on." "Then you denied it; but even if true I could not understand why your mother was so tragical. Then, when Elise became so wild and strange, I had a new doubt--that perhaps it was Elise, and not you, who was fond of Monsieur de Fouquier--" Suzanne interrupted with a shriek of laughter: "Oh, no, no, no! that is a bit too good." "Why was she so strange in the way she spoke about him, then?", piqued. "Oh, that is just like her. I forgot of course that before today you have never seen her as she really is. Why did she speak so wildly? Simply and solely to shield and protect me; to muddle old Mother, and to turn her suspicions and anger away from me. She cannot bear to see Mamma rave at me; it gives her pain, physical pain. It is the way she loves me. I am not worthy of her, sometimes I wish I was. I let her kiss me and sacrifice herself for me; but I can't give her what she wants; I like her, of course, but only as an ordinary sister does. What happened today was a sham to save me." "I am glad. Now I know how much she loves you, there can never be any danger of my going against her because of my promise just now to you. That is the reason I hesitated--" "I see. There are gradations. You like Mamma, but would throw her over for me, whom you like better. You like me, but at a pinch would throw me over for Elise." "It is not like that." (It was.) "Anyway, I've done what you asked and told you what I thought. Now you tell me. Before I can help you, the first thing I have to know is,--well, the chief thing. Did you--was what Mademoiselle Gros said true?" "Perfectly. Poor dear Mamma! It is the hundredth time Emile has held my hand at table, though the first time we were caught. We embrace each other whenever we have the opportunity; in his office downstairs, in the grounds, anywhere. Listen. He loves me. I love him. That is all that matters. Ah, he is so smart, so _chic_, so courteous, so perfect a lover! He adores me, worships me, would do anything to please me. Perhaps I don't love him quite as much as he does me, though that will come: oh, soon, soon! He buys me presents, beautiful bracelets and things. I cannot wear them, though, because of Mamma. Oh, but I love him. The joy of meeting alone in the park, being near together, embracing, hearing his declarations, loving each other. Oh love! There is only love! Ah, I see you understand--" I flushed, chiefly in anger: that she should dare, even unwittingly, to put de Fouquier in the same place as Robbie. "What is it?" she asked sharply, "there is something." ("O Lord," I prayed, "send me a lie to tell her, send swiftly!") To gain time: "Unless you promise, solemnly, not to be offended. I cannot tell you." "I promise." (God gracious; lie to hand.) "Well, if what I am going to say is not nice--in comparison--for your friend, it is because it is especially nice for you. I like you very very much, but I don't think Monsieur de Fouquier is worthy of you." "Why?" with a touch of curtness which in loyalty to her promise she strove to hide. "It is hard to give the reason--" "Yes, I know, very hard! Because Mother made you promise not to. She has told you Emile is a thief and a cheat because rents are going down owing to bad times, accused him of muddling accounts which she doesn't vaguely comprehend, not any more than I should. She's been repeating to you all the lies told her by dealers and farmers he doesn't buy carts and ploughs and stock from, who say he has been bribed by those he does buy them from. I know all the stories. How dare she poison your mind with lying slanders!" "My reason for thinking him unworthy of you is something quite different. Is he a _good_ man?" She looked puzzled. Then she gave a vague little laugh. "As good as any one else, I suppose. What do you mean by 'good?'" "Clean-living. Is he a pure man?" Now she laughed uproariously: her voice jarred on me. "Is he a pure man? My dear Mademoiselle, of course he's not. That's a what-d'ye-call-it, a contradiction in terms, like saying a white nigger. Emile is like the others: keeps mistresses, goes to actress' dressing-rooms, sees cocottes." "Sees them?" I repeated the silly euphemism mechanically. "Sleeps with them, possesses them then, if you prefer. Why look so wretched about it? It doesn't worry me. It is the world." Her candid pleasure in shocking me, and the more refined delight of superior worldly-wisdom both failed to annoy me as they should have done: I could only think of the nightmare foulness itself. "You say--it doesn't worry you? You can love a man like that?" "Naturally. Better than any other kind, if there were another kind. The more women he has loved, the greater is the compliment in choosing me. If a man is a better schoolmaster the more experience he has had and the more children he has taught, then a man is a better lover the more experience he has had and the more women he has loved. That's logic. Besides, I prefer the man of the world." "Suzanne!" I cried, calling her by her Christian name for the first time--a twinkle in her eyes acknowledged the fact; I was too deadly earnest for her to dare to smile--"Suzanne, is it true? You are not exaggerating for fun, or to shock me? Do most young girls of our age believe that? Does your mother know you think like that? Do you realize how sick and wretched you are making me? Tell me it is not true!" "It is true, Mary. I suppose there is still a pretence kept up by mothers, and curés, that young girls don't know how men live; it may have been so once, but now, my dear, we are in the Second Empire! Maybe Mamma fondly imagines Elise and I are still in our cradles, and daren't look at a pair of trousers: she can imagine just what she pleases for all I care. But I am really sorry I have made you miserable. What is the good of worrying about it? The world is like that, you must take it so--" "I refuse to." "You'll have to, or else become a nun. A Protestant nun, how funny! Because all men are the same." "They are not!" I cried with fury, visualizing Robbie and the Stranger. "You shall not say it." "Very well, then, I grant you I know one exception, priests apart, of course. He is a cousin of ours, on Mother's side, living down in the Gard, and a Protestant. A ridiculous creature--I don't mean because he's a Protestant--so ugly and gauche, and overgrown and lanky, with a pale face all covered with pimples. He blushes whenever you look at him, and can't look a girl straight in the face. _He_ has never seen a woman, oh dear no! Does something else though, I expect. At any rate, all _nice_ men are the same. If it is a fault at all, it is Nature's, not theirs. It is hardly a reason for hating Emile, that he is normal." "It would be with me." "Are you so sure? Suppose you loved a man, passionately, as _you_ would--ah, you colour--and found out that he saw cocottes, would you fling him over for that?" "It is a horrible, ridiculous supposition, so I refuse to discuss it. Englishmen are not like that." "_Vraiment?_ Your men know how to amuse themselves in Paris, I fancy." "It is no good your insisting; I will not believe it. But it will haunt me, I shall never be able to cleanse my mind. Stop." "Certainly. But as to Emile. Now then, Mary, forget the last ten minutes' talk, and believe me when I say this: I love him. As much as you would love a man, for all your different ideas on the other thing. You accept that?" "You say so. That is enough for me. My not thinking him worthy of you makes no difference to what you feel." "Good. And if a man and a girl love each other, you agree that it is wrong for any one else to come in between them?" "Yes, if they truly love." "Well, we do; passionately. I want nobody to come in between me and him, and I want your sympathy. I ask for nothing but to be left in peace. For the present, till I think the right moment has come, you must help me to keep my secret from Mamma. She will make a lot of fuss at first, then reconcile herself quickly to the idea, and finally approve our betrothal. That is, if no one else interferes--" "Who? Mademoiselle Gros is going, or is gone by now. Some relation, perhaps, that I haven't met?" "No-o. There is nobody really. I only said _if_. If--Elise, you know--she won't exactly take to the idea at first." Suddenly she was nervous. The moment she spoke of her sister, optimism and boldness seemed to leave her. "But you told me she was taking your side in the matter--" "Yes, because she loves me: but for that very same reason she might--just at first--be a little jealous of my love for Emile. She guessed it, but I don't think she was ever quite certain we were lovers till today: that is why it was so nice of her to defend me as she did, and that is why she was so bitter. It is funny, I know, for a sister to be jealous of her sister's lover. At this very moment, for instance, she is probably locked in her bedroom, lying on the bed, crying her heart out--" Crying her heart out. "However, she will get over that. Poor Elise, my dear good sister!" She moved to the door. "I am so glad we have had this long talk. You are a good friend, Mary: you see I have dropped 'Mademoiselle' too. It will be fun at dinner tonight. Mother will have a face as long as a pole!" * * * * * * * "Crying her heart out" was my burden all the evening. At dinner I had a whole side of the table to myself, facing a gay over-talkative Suzanne and an unruffled de Fouquier. The Countess wore an even more harried expression than usual. Elise's place was empty. "I do not understand, Madame," reported Gabrielle, her devoted chambermaid, "but Mademoiselle refuses to come down to dinner, refuses food, refuses to unlock her door." François confirmed. From the moment Suzanne had left me I had been prompted to go and knock at her sister's door, to comfort her if she would let me. But I was unsure of my reception: she was proud enough to repulse me, to wish to enjoy her misery alone. As soon as I could slip away after dinner, I got back to my bedroom. There I tried "Not your business" and "Meddlesome Mary" and "She doesn't want you" and "You are only the foreign governess" and "You only want to wallow in her grief." Conscience was not convinced; instinct triumphed over sophistry and took me trembling to her door. Here I wavered. Pride shrank anew from a repulse. "Mademoiselle," called her voice from within: I knocked, disingenuously. "Was that you calling?" "It's six hours I have been waiting for you. Sit down, that settee is the most comfortable." She was lying in bed, half-dressed: sore-eyed, haggard. In comparison, Suzanne had been hilarious, the Countess merely peevish. I knew with whom I "sided." "Well," she began, "I suppose they have all been at you. Has Fouquier?" "No." "The other two then. Suzanne has confided to you that she loves that brute?" "But you knew it?" "Oh, I guessed, I guessed; but till today like a fool I hoped against hope. Now it is over. She loves him. She cannot ever again love me, save in a puny second place. Second place! I do not want it. I will not have it, I despise it, I trample on it! Love is a game for two, Mademoiselle; a tragedy for three. There is only love in the world, and it can never ever be mine. I cannot love or be loved if there is another." "But she is your sister! How can you love her as you are saying? You cannot have the true passion of love for your sister." "But if I have it, and know I have it, what then? Listen: There is no woman in the history of the world who ever loved any man more than I love Suzanne. 'Cannot' so love her, indeed: but I _do_! Every book I have ever read, every notion that has ever come to me from external things tells me that love is a passion a woman should feel for a man only; I look into my heart and find it is not so. I do not explain, or defend, or even understand. I suppose God fashions us in different moulds, makes some of us to love one way and some another. Why not? And why should He, Who, as your Bible says, is Himself Love, why should He limit this chief thing in His universe to the one narrow relationship of man and woman? A woman can love her friend more purely, more nobly than ever any man can; and with the bond of blood in addition, her heart can hold a love more intimate, more tender than you will find in all the stories of the sexes. Am I mad to talk so? It is the truth. Do you understand? Do you see?" I was slowly learning to accept as true for others emotions my heart could never feel, my mind with difficulty comprehend. "I think I see. But how many other sisters are there who feel as you do? Does she?" "Ah no! She has never cared, never conceived how I love her. She is careless, indifferent, does not come to me when I need her: an ordinary sister. Sometimes the contrast between her insouciance of what I have felt and my passionate love for her has maddened me. Yet indifference, coldness, I could have borne for ever, but not that she should love some one else. Ah, no, no, no! Oh, my little sister, thou art the only creature I have ever known to love, and thou hast killed me. God made me to be loveless. He decided this cruelty from the Beginning. I had to lose her. I keep saying over and over to myself: it had to be, it had to be--" "Had it to be _him_?" I was crying, but had to stop her somehow. "No," with sudden fury. "If she is to have a man, it shall be some one less vile than he. Have you any conception, Mademoiselle, of what this man is?" "No," I replied, which after hearing the Countess' version and then Suzanne's, was near the truth. "First of all, he is a scoundrel, who for years has been using his position here to rob my mother; he must have pocketed hundreds of thousands of francs of ours. Later we will talk of my plans to get rid of him, in which I want you to help me: for I am determined to drive him out of this house. I have known all this, more or less, since I was twelve, but for different reasons I have never thought it worth a storm till now--" "Till he is taking Suzanne from you." "True. I know his thefts are not the reason, but they are my best weapon, and at the least a sufficient excuse for his having no handling of _my_ affairs: I am nearly twenty-one, and his power-of-attorney for Mamma shall not hold for me. Then, he insults my father's memory and threatens mother he will make public things to my father's discredit." "What kind of things?" "Oh, money-matters, politics; his private life too. Mother is frightened, whimpers to herself 'I dare not.' Then I happen to know a few details about this brute's habits, and that even for a man--even for a man, mark you--he is foul. Not for my own sake, but for her own, she shall not be sacrificed to this beast. I shall stop it. And you will help me, because you are fond of Suzanne." "No, because I am fond of you." "For both of us, then. Before you came just now I had made up my mind, crying it out alone, that if ever a man the least bit worthy should want her, I would stifle my jealousy, sacrifice myself, and wish her well." "But, Mademoiselle--you being you, and your love for your sister being what it is--would you ever admit that any man was the least bit worthy? I don't think you believe there is any such man in the world." "Nor is there." "That is foolishness. There are as many good men in the world as good women; probably more." "The foolishness, my poor little English girl, is yours. You simply do not know. You simply do not know what men are. They are our masters, and we are their slaves. They gorge themselves on the pleasures of life, and leave to us the sorrows. With the bourgeoisie and the peasants it is the same. The girl brings her little _dot_, for him to spend in the cafés and on gaming and vice; she brings her health for him to ruin, her self-respect for him to steal, her body for him to befoul. Her father will sell her to any filthy jaundiced old roué whom he thinks a good enough 'party'--he would be a good deal more careful in matching his mares and sows. If there is poverty to be faced or shame to be suffered, who bears the burden? When in one of the villages there is an unwedded peasant girl who gives birth to a baby, which of them ought to suffer, and which does? The girl is turned away from every honest door, trampled under: the man, who will naturally have a poor wife of his own, laughs, pays nothing, forgets, and seduces another. That is the law of the Empire, that is justice, that is 'the way of the world.' Once when I helped a poor drab out of my own pocket--'Remember your position,' said dear Mamma. Bah! position. Why, in our class it is worse: we must sit at home and simper and embroider and maintain the great traditions of the lady of France, while Monsieur obeys only his pleasure, squanders our wealth, gambles, haunts Paris, and keeps his woman. We smirk and say nothing. 'Such a happy marriage,' they say. Ah, their filthy politeness, their ducking and bowing and fawning, picking up fans, opening doors, kissing our hands:--every time mine is kissed, which isn't often I assure you, I feel there is a hole burned in my flesh. Ah their beautiful woman, their adorable sex! The moment our backs are turned, at once their voices become low and greasy, they are all winks and leers and sniggers and bawdy tales. It makes me vomit--" "Elise!" "Don't stop me, don't dare! No other French girls are as I am: till now I never found any human soul whom I could tell what I feel: I must have my way, and you must listen. Do you deny it--the injustice, the cruelty and the foulness? Oh why is the world so cruelly made that while women know how to love, men only know how to lust?" All through this tirade I was conscious of an instinct within me that answered to its bitterness, an instinct of sex-hatred for men as men, a savage half-sadistic hope that women would one day get even, would triumph, would trample! But as her bitterness waxed, mine waned, and the remembered male faces of my heart put this evil instinct to flight. "It is not true. I hate this wickedness with the selfsame horror as you, but though I know nothing of the world, I know down in my own soul--I know as I know God, I know as I know myself--that they are not all like that. God did not make one sex all good, the other all bad. I know there are men who love as-purely and passionately as we do. You would believe it if there was one such who loved you. Suppose a man _did_ love you, then what?" "Ah, suppose, suppose!" She savagely ripped open her blouse and vest, caught my hands and placed them on her bare body, on a poor flat cold bosom. "Ha, ha, ha!" She laughed like a madwoman. Such is the egotism of the human heart that even in that moment of purest pity, when I would have given my right hand to help her and ease her sorrow, even in that moment, and against my will and against a loathing for myself and my selfishness that accompanied (but could not stifle) the joy, there coursed through my veins a high triumphal joy that I was not as she. In an involuntary gesture I threw back my head, and _my_ bosom heaved with pride; a hundred half-glimpsed notions of delight tore through my soul. "Ah, suppose, suppose!" she was mocking, "how I pine for that dear supposed one.--No, dear, I had but one love, my little sister, and a man has taken her away. She was not worthy, but I loved her. Now I have no one, and no one will ever love me. It is cruel and all the universe is cruel. God is cruel to let the world be so:--oh, I forgot, He is a Man, and had no daughter, but a Son. Oh my little Suzanne that I loved--oh no, no, I cannot hear it!" She broke down utterly, and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. My arms were around her. Very long I held her, till she had sobbed some of the misery away. After a long while she sprang free, dried her eyes, and said in her calmest every-day voice: "I am hungry." "Shall I go downstairs and tell them, or ring?" "Ring; Gabrielle will come. I don't want the others. Before you ring--" "Yes?" "Kiss me." CHAPTER XXX: CARDBOARD It was odd to see normal relations resumed next day at table. Abnormally normal indeed, for we were all a little too much at our ease, a trifle too friendly and natural. There was a chatting and a smiling, and a veritable phrensy of cruet-courtesy. It was "Do have another pancake, Mamma, they are so good today:" "now finish up the gateau, Suzanne, I don't think Louise ever made a better." On the Countess' part there was little dissimulation, for her anxieties had calmed down with surprising ease. She had cornered me again, first thing in the morning, for "just one word." "They have been talking to you, I know. How late you stayed with Elise! Not for the world would I try to learn their confidences, but one thing as their mother it is my duty and right to know. Tell me that my worst fears are without foundation." "Absolutely." I looked her full in the face with a confidence-inspiring false honesty. After all, it was the truth; her worst fears, she had said plainly, were for Elise. Elise alone could not dissimulate her yesterday. Red eyes no craft, no cosmetics, can conjure away. Suzanne was boisterously at ease; de Fouquier suave, unchanging. Suzanne's ease did not seem artificial. There had been a fright and a fuss yesterday, and trouble would no doubt break out again--one of these days. Meanwhile, she would eat, drink and be merry. How I envied her "meanwhile" temperament. I had a bewildering mass of new impressions to digest, all of one day's serving. That mother and two daughters, from their different angles, all saw menfolk in the same light was a testimony that overbore my passionate resistance. Many men, at least, must be as evil as they said. Frenchmen perhaps. I idealized my own men only the more. Similarly, while the lack of all friendship between mother and daughters sank into my mind as a fact that was probably general, I idealized my own mother all the more. Perhaps the Fifth Commandment is only ever perfectly obeyed by children whose parents are dead. Above all, I could now visualize to my heart's content without any breach of Resolution. I melo-dramatized the intrigues and troubles of this family, casting myself (of course) for the leading part. I had a friend to rescue from a villain, a family to rid of its foe; secrets and papers with which this man threatened my friends to discover and to use for his own dramatic undoing: here was a rôle I had been destined for from birth.... And here for the first time in this record I shall deviate from the plan of absolute completeness at which I have aimed, and shall pass by much in silence. The whirlpool of petty melodramatic intrigues into which I was now plunged--though no doubt more violent in my imagination than in sober fact--might yet form the subject of an exciting tale. But it has no place in this narrative, which deals with MARY LEE. The person who took her full share in these doings, in absorbing (or, if need be, in worming out) still more intimate confidences from the three Frenchwomen, in gracefully raiding M. de Fouquier's quarters and hunting among his papers, in discovering the prattlings and preferences of the servants, in establishing that Gabrielle was for _us_ and that François was for _him_, in discovering that while the villainy and vileness of Fouquier had probably been exaggerated by two of his friends his noble passionate character had certainly been overstated by the third, in taking a leading part in all the plans and jealousies and intrigues, which from Countess to Kitchen filled every person and place in this Norman mansion--this person was not the Mary I am chiefly concerned with, but that phantom-personality with brain and with appetites but without fears and without hopes, without love and without God, who, foisted upon me by the real Me's foolish plan of self-effacement, for this year or two ruled within my body, while the real Mary, lulled by the ease and emptiness of that time, lay dormant and almost for dead. Thus it is that although across forty years the Bear Lawn days are as vivid in my heart as today's noontide, the years in France I can but vaguely reconstruct. Only my brain's memory, the one thing that all the Marys have shared in common, retains them; and what the brain but not the heart remembers is lifeless bones, dimensionless phantoms, as unreal as other people. Château Villebecq, the house, the park, the people, stand before my eyes--now, as I strive to conjure them up--like the cardboard scenes of a stage. When, years later, I first went to the play, the resemblance at once assailed me. Hardly at all during this period, except at moments in my friendship with Elise, and except in prayer--and then I was no longer in France--was my soul awake. Not until the series of events in which voices from Tawborough and my soul's native surroundings spoke to me again. To be sure, some of the escapades of that other person are clearer in my memory than others. The most foolish and fantastic is the one I remember best. Diary, rather than my heart, supplies the silly details. One day I took the opportunity offered by Monsieur de Fouquier's absence on some distant farms to inspect the little downstairs office where he kept his records, received tenants and did business; also his bedroom, where the one object of interest--shades of Torribridge and keyhole-spied green box!--was the safe Elise had told me of. Its solid sides discouraged me. A fine rôle I had set myself, rescuer of noble families from scheming villains. How fantastic we were, I and my plans. Then, by a stroke of luck, though at first sight it seemed the very reverse, de Fouquier fell ill. It was a kind of hay-fever which, while not serious enough (at any rate in France) for doctor's aid, kept him confined to his bed. The Countess meanwhile was debating a day in Rouen for purchases and visits. "I ought to, you know. We may be away in Paris for months, and these things must be done. It is all so tiresome: the train tries me so, and I cannot travel alone. Oh, dear! And Elise and Suzanne both away, and Gabrielle or Pelagie are worse than I am on a journey, so flurried and silly. We have only a day or two left. I must go to Rouen tomorrow; but alone--" I refused to take the laboured hint. "Wouldn't you like to come, dear Mademoiselle?" after a while, pitifully. "I should, Madame: very much! I love Rouen. But this headache"--I half-closed my eyes in approved shammer's fashion--"I mean I feel that if I don't take a little rest I shall be quite unfit for the journey to Paris: I should be a burden to you rather than a help. Of course tomorrow I _may_ feel better--stay, is it not François who sometimes accompanies you?" "At the worst he will have to do, though between ourselves I never really trust him." "Though"--martyr-like resignation now that my point was won--"if you especially want me, Madame, of course--" "Would not hear of it." Thus I killed two birds with one lie, freeing the house for a whole day of its nosy proprietor and its chief spy. Next morning I waited impatiently for their departure. From my window I watched the carriage out of sight, staring with superstitious zeal till the last inch of the last wheel had disappeared round the turn in the drive. Then I rang for Gabrielle. "Mademoiselle requires?" "To ask you a question. You would do anything for Mademoiselle Elise?" "Anything, Mademoiselle. And for Mademoiselle also." "Thank you, Gabrielle. In the matter I am going to talk about it is all one: Whatever I ask, you may take it as from your mistress. She sleeps badly, I think?" "I don't see--" "Wait. You take her up a _tisane_, a sleeping potion, sometimes at night when she is in bed? How strong is it?" "As strong as Mademoiselle Elise requires. It is not well for it to be too strong. She sleeps half-an-hour later: with me it would be two little minutes. Once I could not sleep, and I took a little cupful: I slept for nine hours, and could not wake next morning. I was up late and Madame the Countess scolded. Perhaps Mademoiselle remembers?" "So I do. Now listen, Gabrielle. François is away today with Madame. Who is taking Monsieur de Fouquier's meals to his bedroom?" "I understand! It is I, Mademoiselle. I take him a tisane too, for his headaches. How much does Mademoiselle desire me to give?" "As strong and as sure as you can without his guessing or noticing any after-effects. Ask me no questions. Let him have no suspicions. I want you to give it him now, this morning." "Good, Mademoiselle. I take him a little meal between ten and eleven, and I will give it him soon after." "Come and tell me the moment he has drunk it." About eleven she returned. "Monsieur has drunk the tisane. I said it was good for the headache." "Now wait a few minutes, then go into his room again to see if he is sleeping--you can pretend you left something--and come straight back and tell me. On your way back make sure that none of the other servants are about. I trust you. Mademoiselle Elise trusts you." Ten minutes later. "He sleeps with open mouth: as soundly as a dormouse." My heart was beating high as I slipped through his bedroom door, thoughtfully left ajar by Gabrielle. I had been hunting some pretext for my presence if he should wake and find me: I could invent none, and knew it would be useless if I could. For the first moment I dared not look at him. I stared craftily at the lower end of the bedclothes, then at the little mound made by his feet, then, very gradually, as though my neck (and courage) were turning on a clockwork spring, up the shape of his body under the quilt till at last I reached the open mouth of Gabrielle's report. He was in a deep sleep: I gave way for a moment to the curious pleasure of possessing another human being utterly unconscious beneath my gaze. Small clever head, black eyebrows, sensual lips, cruel little beard: I absorbed them all with a photographic sureness not possible before. It was the first time I had seen a man asleep in bed, and I added the fact with zest to my collections of first-times: first Meeting, first marketing, first omelette, first venison; first embrace, first Rapture. But the quest, the keys. I had visualized all the probabilities, and prepared my scheme of search. Dressing-table and chest-of-drawers-top yielded nothing: I did not expect them to. I searched his clothes next, hoping to succeed before I should reach the most dangerous possibility: under the pillow. Coat was barren, waistcoat sterile. Then to breeches: some wifely atavism must explain the lithe speed with which I rummaged these, undeterred by a passing pang of modesty. Tobacco, coins, knife, handkerchief: sorry yield. As I threw the breeches back in disappointment on the chair, something metallic clicked: not, I fancied, either knife or money. Was there another pocket? Quickly I learnt a point in male sartorics, and the unsuspected hip-pocket gave up--yes, keys! In fumbling feverish haste I tried each one on the bunch; the safe was obdurate with all. Ill-success made me desperate. Panic seized me. He was awake, staring at me, ready to spring and strangle. He moved, he moved--yes, turned in his sleep, you shivering fool! Thank God no one saw my face in that moment of beastly fear. Calm again, I tried the keys elsewhere. At last, in a little pink soap-box in the cupboard of the dressing-table, I discovered what I knew was the Treasure. One large key and one very fine and small. It was hard breathing as the one opened the safe, then the other a deed-box I found at the back within. Greedy trembling hands snatched packets neatly tied with red tape and endorsed with a description in Italian, with which I knew he was familiar and--God bless Miss de Mesurier and Lord Tawborough her paymaster--I also. Packets of letters, incriminating documents, tell-tale scrolls! It was the trove, the triumph! What villainous secrets might they not hold? But when Elise and I, with a rich sense of the historic importance of the occasion, set to, behind locked doors, to investigate our treasure, what did we discover? Long and affectionate letters from M. de Fouquier's mother to her well-loved son, friendly letters from his dead sister: what a meek, pathetic, uncriminal yield! I was moved almost to tears. It was _we_ who were the criminals. And for a while our plots wilted.... I shall pass by much of this kind, as well as the whole diary-remembered general life of the Villebecq days: the excursions, the games, the visits, the chatterings, the mighty meals; the comfortable daily round in which we tasted everything--except everything, except love and God. CHAPTER XXXI: WAY OF AN EAGLE IN THE AIR The one happening of that time which was able to summon the Mary of this record from her torpor was outwardly the most vainglorious of all. I can see now that this was natural. For if the Villebecq puppet had a greater love of empty ease as of empty excitement, it was the first Mary who, from the dawn of consciousness, in those Bear Lawn days when the Holy Bible shaped her earliest consciousness, had best loved pomp: the pomp of words, the pomp of hate, the pomp of misery, the pomp of God. And here now came the pomp of rulers, the peculiar treasure of kings. Not indeed till later years did I fully realize what a unique event our Imperial visit was. Whether it is that parvenu sovereigns have to be more careful of their dignity, and cannot, like monarchs of ancient line, honour the hospitality of their subjects' roofs; the fact is that throughout their reign Louis-Napoleon and Eugenie seem never to have made a sojourn in any private mansion of their realm. Very occasionally during their progress in the provinces, some château might be used as a halting-place for luncheon or the night in place of the customary palace or prefecture. _Ours_ was one such case. The Countess did not hide (at any rate from us) that she had taken the liberty of addressing herself to the Emperor, begging him on his tour through Normandy to use her house as a halting-place: her humble excuse to His Majesty for her presumption was her dear father's humble share in defending the First Empire, and her dear husband's in founding the Second. She knew she was touching the right chord. To help and to repay those who had befriended him or his House was with the Emperor a principle, nay a mania: if ingratitude be the hall-mark of princes, then was Louis-Napoleon most spurious and unprincely metal. The privilege of a day and a night at Villebecq was graciously accorded. If I did not appreciate to the full the exceptional character of the event, I none the less looked forward to it with disproportionate excitement. On the great day I should, I knew, be the least of the nobodies; but the idea of merely sleeping under the same roof with a sovereign lord and lady, seeing them, hearing them, filled me with servile delight. I rehearsed, anticipated, literally cried aloud in my bedroom with the high joy of flunkeydom. Monarchs were sacred in my eyes. They were the Lord's Anointed. Divinity hedged them about. It was a sublimated snobbery that partook of both ecstasy and awe. Kings went to my head like wine. The Château was all astir with preparations. The musty state-bedroom and neighbouring apartments in the unused wing were made fit for the visitors and their suite; rescued from moths--for moths. Workmen arrived from the villages, decorators from Caudebec and Rouen. Stable, kitchen and larder girded themselves for the fray. The Countess was in parlous state between the two conflicting voices of family pride and family thrift: desire to shine and desire to pare. "Oh dear, the expense" trod hard on "Of course we must do this." In point of fact all arrangements were taken out of her hands by Elise and de Fouquier, who, working in alliance--for the family honour Elise would have worked in alliance with the Devil--were irresistible. There being no gentleman in the house, nor any male relative on good enough terms with the Countess to be imported for the occasion for certain duties, Monsieur de Fouquier almost inevitably assumed the rôle of master: he saw to the stables and carriages, arranged for the disposition of the men-servants and the arrival at the station, prepared a shoot for the Emperor. Elise's department was the Empress and her suite, the furniture and the food. I, too, made my preparations: in the library. All I could pick up in anecdotes from the Countess or Elise, and all that books could tell me about our illustrious guests, I greedily devoured: something in the spirit of the Baedekered tourist, who learns up his *cathedrals and **magnificent views in advance, equipping himself to understand what he is to enjoy. Wider reading made the Emperor Napoleon III dearer to me, as the perfect type of Another Person who was precisely what I should have been if I had been he: the Compleat Mary. He was a visionary whose most outrageous splendours had come true, a Mary whose madness had won. Till now the Empress had interested me less. I began to learn that she too was a Woman of Destiny. --On the day of her birth a great cataclysm burst over Granada, lightning and thunder such as Spain had never seen or heard. --Above her cradle appeared that mystic sign which tells that: To be a Queen, you need not be born a Princess. That sign, shown once in many centuries, was earnest to the proud child that God had destined her for a crown. Folly?--but faith is folly come true. Dreams of greatness absorbed her. Leading lady was the one part she could play on the world's stage: the part for which the Playwright had cast her. --One day, on a Spanish roadside, she gave charity and comfort to an old blind cripple. "It is you," he cried, "you, whom God will reward above all other women!" "How? Oh tell me!" "He will make you a Queen." --A woman, she came with her mother and sister to France. It befell one day that they were invited to an official dinner at Cognac. Among the guests was an old Abbot, skilled in reading ladies' hands (and hearts); one who, though he honestly believed in his art, took care that it inspired him with none but pleasing prognostications. When came the young Eugenie's turn to hold out her hand, the old man started back, half in amazement, half in fear. The guests who were watching started too, since they knew him for a sophisticated worldling, immune from all surprise. "What is it?" cried Eugenie. "Señora--I see in your hand--" "What then, Abbot? Quick, tell me." "A--crown." (Now the great Duke of Ossuna, Grandee of Spain, His Most Catholic Majesty's Ambassador to the French Republic, was rumoured to have longings, to nourish intentions.... It would be a magnificent marriage for her, friends said.) "A Duchess' crown?" she cried. "No. One more brilliant and resplendent." "Oh speak, sir, speak! What crown is it you see? It cannot be a Queen's." "No, señora, _an Empress's_." --Folly! Austria and Russia were the world's toll of Emperors: portents were mocking her. Still, suppose Destiny were reserving her some faery fate? Suppose--and she said "No" to the Duke of Ossuna. Suppose this comic "Prince-President" of the new French Republic, this poor parrot-faced Louis-Napoleon, this parody of his great uncle--suppose he carried the parody just one act further? (One never knows.) Once introduced to Sick Poll-Parrot through friends in Paris, she lost no single opportunity of meeting him--especially by chance. Ambition is no idler, and toils at all his plans. She used humility and gave admiring glances, employed her unmatchable beauty and gave alluring ones; listened attractively to his every word, wrote devoted letters of support. Soon whisperings reached her: the nation too was beginning to say Suppose? After all, should not a Bonaparte don royaller headgear than republican top hat? (Mad hopes grew bolder.) Yet the step was no easy one: to re-establish Empire in Republican France was still a conspirator's dream. On December the Second the dream came true: multitudes acclaimed the Third Napoleon. Not least Eugenie, for he had now that crown to bestow. Soon she triumphed, and forced her way into his heart. He loved her. An Emperor loved her. But love is little and marriage much. There, on the very threshold of glory, lay a new danger. She faced it boldly. Desperate in his amorous intent--one night that they chanced to be spending under the same roof as Imperial host and humble guest--he made seen his wish. "Señora," in a voice plaintive with passion, "which is the way to your bedroom?" "Sire," she replied, "it lies through a well-lighted church." What vice and ambition had achieved, virtue thus completed. Her purity won the crown, the crown won her purity. Through the bannered luminous nave of Notre Dame de Paris he made his way to her bedchamber, and she hers to the girl's wild dream that had come true. Together they scaled the highest peaks of human glory. The morning of the arrival our Villebecq party assembled in good time on the little wayside platform. The Countess was fussy, full of absurd anxieties; Suzanne in the gayest spirits, Elise calm, de Fouquier debonair. There were guests from neighbouring houses, François with assistants to cope with the Imperial luggage, and a crowd of peasants outside the barrier. During a long wait we kept straining ears and eyes for a sign of the expected train: I could not help thinking of Tawborough on the far-off day when Satan Came. "Here it is!" cried Suzanne. The Countess had a last convulsive movement of agony: "I do pray that nothing may go wrong." A stumpy little gentleman in tight-fitting clothes and an enormous top-hat waddled awkwardly out of the carriage, and turned to help down a showy and beautiful lady. Short fat legs, a long highly-tailored body; a sallow leaden complexion with two rouged-looking spots in the middle of each cheek; an aquiline nose, with waxen surface; a goatee of hair on the chin looking like an artificial tuft gummed to the skin; heavy drooping eyelids, and glassy eyes through which he stared as through a window. This was my Man of Destiny. This marionette in wax. The Thing had movement but no life. I started when I heard the Countess saying: "This is our English friend, Miss Lee." I bowed low, confused with self-consciousness, and with guilt for the thoughts I had been thinking. "Good-day, Miss Lee," I heard him saying in slow measured English, "you do not get such glorious weather in your country!" At the moment of shaking hands he looked me straight in the eyes with a smile of dumbfounding charm. The grey eyes lit up, solved the riddle, showed that Waxworks had a human heart. Except in my Grandmother, I never saw such infectious kindliness in a look. "No," he was saying, "I know your London fogs." "I don't know London, Sir--" I was beginning, by way of exculpation. "Calumny!" cried the fine lady. "Why up in Scotland we used to get week after week of glorious weather. It is all calumny, our French talk about the English climate." Active, supple, fresh, full of pride and health, she was an extreme contrast to the man. Her eyes, unlike his, were frank and honest: unlike his, they were hard. Instead of dreamy dishonest kindness, I saw greedy consciousness of her beauty and prestige. Her nostrils quivered as she drank in our homage. She loved nothing save herself and her pleasures. She was gorgeously dressed. She was bold, beautiful, forthright, hard: the complete incarnation of our Brethren "worldly." She possessed the Empire of France, but not the Kingdom of Heaven. What glory--not vicarious only--to be taking part in that informal procession along the country roads! In the old coronetted family coach sat the sovereigns, with the Countess and Monsieur de Fouquier; the suite, the guests, the two girls and I followed in four other carriages. Dinner that night was a Sardanapalan affair: gay lights and gorgeous dresses, wealth and wine, power and pride. The menu was imperial; my diary, always an amply dietetic diary, records it in full. Once or twice I thought of Aunt Jael's birthday banquet, and of Jesus Christ on Calvary, who died to save these dolls. When my eyes were not on my plate, they were chiefly on the Emperor. Half the time he was lost in dreams, dead to the physical world around him, infinities away. When the Countess or another addressed him, for a moment the leaden eyes lit up, and a gentle, almost womanly smile played on the slow lips; he spoke a few pointed yet diffident words, then relapsed abruptly into his dreams. Not that the Countess noticed this abruptness, which resembled her own. She had her own absorbing reflections as hostess of this triumphant evening--this expensive evening. Every new dish filled her with an exquisite conflict of emotions. The guests were dominated by the laughing Empress; her majestic beauty and her sparkling talk. I remember no single word of her conversation, I only remember that it glittered. Nothing in her really attracted me. I admired the beauty and the brilliance, but they seemed to be separate entities, having nothing to do with her as a woman, as a soul. Had she a soul? One odd thing I noticed: the Emperor's coldness towards de Fouquier. Knowing the imperial gratitude towards all who had helped him I marvelled accordingly, and fell to seeking a reason. Perhaps in reality de Fouquier never had helped Napoleon's cause, perhaps his game during the Coup d'Etat had been a double one, running with the Bonapartist hare and hunting with the Burgrave or Republican hounds? At a later date I discovered that my surmise was exact. And Napoleon knew. Fouquier, noting his manner, knew that he knew, and hated him accordingly. I fancied I saw plans of revenge forming in the smooth obsequious face. Once again Reason, who mocked at Fancy, was in the wrong. Next morning, while the gentlemen went shooting, the four of us accompanied Eugenie and the ladies of her suite on a drive to neighbouring scenes. Elise had said, "Jumièges looks best in the very early morning." "Good!" cried the Empress, "we will go before the dew has vanished. You are sure it will not inconvenience you, my dear Countess?" A rhetorical question, and a selfish one. The whole household rose perforce at an unearthly hour of the night. I partly forgave her for the reward our early visit earned. In the brightening mist that follows dawn, in the fragrant expectant silence, the majestic ruin loomed in a mystery that noontide could never have lent. All day I kept as near the Empress as I could, learning that the queenly principle is to do exactly what you like: to be haughty and indifferent to your ladies one moment, gushing and over-familiar the next: to demand servile trembling and unseemly giggling turn by turn: to allow all whims to yourself and none to others. Was not her whole career compounded of similar contrasts? Her dream of becoming an Empress was wild romantic folly: the steps she took to make it come true were calculating, of the earth earthy. "Such another as you," propounded Conscience. Loyal smiles and humble gratitude gave godspeed to the illustrious pair. Among the servants the gratitude varied: where Napoleon had passed--the Countess quizzed them all--tips were imperial. The one or two Eugenie had given were almost as small as I (not yet an Empress) would have bestowed. "Five francs for Antoinette," repeated the Countess unwearyingly: "it overcomes me. Five francs from an Empress! If it had been but ten--" CHAPTER XXXII: PAREE! Except for the cab-drives between quay and station at Southampton and Havre, and three half-days in Rouen, I had seen no town whatsoever outside North Devon. Par_ee_! Par_ee_! my heart kept crying. Now "Pariss" was a poor flat word, and "Pary" too, as the French pronounce it; but by dropping the English S while Englishifying the French vowel I formed a darling word which my heart could caress and unwearyingly repeat, thus giving fullest vent to the delight it anticipated. It was Paree! Paree! all the way in the train and on the magical twilight drive from St. Lazare Station (gloomy hole enough) down the great boulevards, past the looming Madeleine, along the Rue Royale, across the great Concord Place, and over the sheeny river to the family "hotel" in the Faubourg. Such a glorious city, such princely streets and monuments I had never pictured, never been able to picture. Paree! Paree! There were walks and drives with Elise and Suzanne, visits to museums, galleries, churches; though from all theatres and concerts, following the solemn promise to my Grandmother, I was debarred. The brilliant new boulevards were my chief interest. It was often a morbid interest: to see the crowds, laughing or careworn, hideous deformities, vile pockmarked faces, hunger jostling with gluttony; everywhere hurrying gesticulating Mammon. I hated them, loathed them with a physical loathing that held something of puritanism and patriotism combined: I longed for England, for goodness, for the ugly unworldliness and cleanness of the Saints. Now and then a gentle-faced little boy (for the little girls were for the most part precocious over-dressed apers of the women they would become) lit up my heart with a moment's delight: I would turn round and stare as he passed, hoping he too would turn and stare. Our most frequent pilgrimage was to the Great Exhibition, a faery wilderness of gardens and fountains, of pavilions, pagodas and pinnacles. We witnessed the Imperial distribution of the prizes in the Great Hall. On a dais sat the Emperor--my Emperor: Man of Destiny, Parrot-Face, Waxworks, Long-Body, the prince of the kings of the earth--surrounded by kings, with the Sultan on his right hand, and pride everywhere. When the little Prince Imperial advanced to his father with the prize for workmen's dwellings, wild applause searched the very roof of the glass palace of Industry. The Emperor smiled, smiled dismally I thought, for the eyes were sad, wretched. ("Queretaro, Queretaro." His brain rang like a beaten bell. He had learnt the news today, though none of his subjects yet knew. While we saw a Sovereign adulated by the world, he saw another Sovereign--his client king--and a Mexican court-yard, and a firing party. Did he see also the selfsame day three years ahead: himself, and the preening Sultan at his right hand, prisoners both in exile and disgrace?) Kings, everywhere Kings. For this was the year, more truly than Talleyrand's, when your carriage could not move through the streets of Paris because they were _blocked with Kings_. I do not think I missed a single royal visit--except the King of the Belgians', as I was seedy that day. The girls, even the Countess, made fun of my courtly mania: I did not care, I studied the newspapers, and made sure of the best view-points in each procession. Then I would stand for hours, in patient royalism, fully rewarded by the instant's pomp and the dear glance at the Lord's Anointed. There was the barbarous Tsar, with the Cæsarevitch and the young Grand Duke, his brother. Old Prussia with his big minister, one Count von Bismarck-Schoenhausen, who liked France--so well that he visited it again. Austrian Franz-Josef and the ill-fated Empress. Our own hearty Prince of Wales. Lesser truck: Sweden, Wurtemberg, Portugal, Greece; with the two Louis of Bavaria, the one that loved Lola Montes and the other that loved Wagner. So the quick scenes shifted, with the actors princes all: till my mind was raced through by glittering equipages and the remembered faces of the great. Greatest of all were their Hosts, Eagle and his Wife, though not too great to remember friends, or to invite our Villebecq household (with dependent) to a Tuileries dance. It was not a state-ball, but one of the Empress's "Mondays," an intimate little function for some thirty or forty guests. My orgilous delight was chilled by a swift reflection: I could not dance. "Well," said the Countess, "you must learn." I saw Grandmother's gentle eyes, appealing, mute in horror. My Mother came to me with a pleading No. Poor kept-in-his-place Resolution dared: _What would Jesus do?_ I sent them packing, closed my eyes, barred up my heart. "Yes, Madame, and at once; there is no time to lose." I spoke so sharply that the poor lady started back in amaze. Not that I danced very much at the ball, or cared to; I was the guest of an Empress, and that sufficed me. In a wide hall, the Salon of the First Consul, we stood ranged in double row. Eugenie, in a lovely robe of blue satin, of pure simplicity, without pattern or frill, swept into the room, preceded by sumptuous Officers of the Household, and followed by her ladies. Like the Emperor his soldiers, she passed us in review. To each a few gracious words. Yet what right had she to be so condescending? Who was she, anyway? Why should a few words from her lips be deemed our highest earthly privilege? It was vulgar resentment that some woman else was in a lordlier position than I; it was envy; it was democracy. I was ashamed of my unguestly thoughts when she stopped at me and said in beautiful English: "This is not worth Jumièges, do you think?" The ball began. Most of the ladies were dressed far more gorgeously than the Empress. I remember a tall woman (a duchess, confided the Countess), gowned in shimmering black velvet flounced with gold guipure; another in crimson velvet sewn with great silver daffodils; another in white satin-tulle covered by a light overwork of golden feathers. Everywhere lace, fans, tiaras, jewels. How plain I was beside them! I despised their half-revealed bosoms, their selfish painted faces, their sensual lips. The old ways and the Meeting would keep appearing before me, and Grandmother, and the Lord: I knew that they were right, and these things wrong. Here was I, a saved young woman, one of the Lord's elected children--tricked out like a Jezebel, with flowers in my hair. The old hymn I had so often repeated to Aunt Jael forced its way into my memory, compelled me to repeat it to myself, verse by remorseless verse: Shall the Christian maiden wear Flowers or jewels in her hair, When the blood-stained crown of thorn On her Saviour's brow was borne? Here in this King's palace I revelled, my bosom swelling with vanity,-- Shall the Christian maiden's breast Swell beneath the broidered vest, When the scarlet robe of shame Girt her Saviour's tortured frame? And I was dancing. The first moments showed me that our Brethren-hatred was good hatred, and Elise's description of men a just description. They pressed insinuatingly, their contact sickened me. O Lord, Lord, to what fleshliness was I sinking?-- Shall the Christian maiden's feet Earth's unhallowed measures beat, While beneath the Cross's load Sank the suffering Son of God? It was nightmare. Hatred of all this luxury and glare and godlessness flooded me in so physical and overwhelming a fashion that I was near to fainting. I turned from the fleshly men, the hard horrible women: Vanity, Vanity. There was more Resolution in that night's distaste than a thousand sealed envelopes. I pleaded headache, and refused to dance again. Elise was no comfort: she was indifferent tonight, not rebellious like me. "What did I tell you?" was the best she could do. I could watch them no longer, and suddenly left the ballroom, to wander about the palace rooms, deliberately turning my thoughts to the old history of this place that I might forget the present loathing. Whether or no much reading be a weariness to the flesh, to me it was a resource unfailing: I could take refuge from the day's trouble in reviewing the glory of yesterday. As for the Tuileries Palace, I would wager that no other living English girl could have told herself its tale much more fully: summoned more surely the long procession of its grey and glittering dead.... Catherine de Medici, first builder of the palace, warned by an astrologer that it would end in tragedy and flames. Louis XIV, the Sun King, lording it in Carrousel fêtes. Marie-Antoinette, Austrian woman, brought here with her poor husband from Versailles, brought back again a prisoner after Varennes. June '92, first invasion of the palace by the mob: threats, insults and obscene shouts. September '92, when the vile mob invaded, sent Louis and Marie to Conciergerie prison, came here to yell, steal, sack, blaspheme, and murder, hacking to pieces the old faithful servants of the crown, slashing with knives the dying and the doctors attending to the dying: prostitutes ransacked the Queen's wardrobes and wallowed, loathsomely, in her bed, kicking up their legs in democratic glee. Revolutionaries, Girondins, Mountainists, with Prince Robespierre--mean, savage and pure. The flat-haired Corsican youth. From here he went forth to be crowned, from here the Pope of Rome went forth to crown him. Here reigned the pomp and splendour of the Empire; hither entered Josephine in triumph and hence slunk out in disgrace; hither came Marie-Louise (Austrian woman too) in pomp processional, hence she fled a fugitive. These walls stared at the coming and going of the Hundred Days; at bellied Eighteenth Louis and Charles the Tenth his brother, last king of Ancient France; at Louis-Philippe of pear-shaped head and Brethering umbrella; at the wild mobs of '48 (my birth year), pillaging anew. Phrensy of peoples, folly of Kings: change and change about. Each new monarch had sagely wagged his head: "The others, ha ha!--I know the mistakes they made--I will profit by their example--my sojourn here is eternal--these barns are big, but I will build greater." With my Emperor permanence had come at last. Him no fears could shake: not by divine right nor mere parliaments nor yet by plebiscite alone had he reached the palace, but by dreams, which alone come true. Here he had entered in a state which mocked his poor predecessors; here on the balcony he had stood, while the crowd in the gardens madly acclaimed him, and the Marshal St. Arnaud proclaimed the Second Empire. Here in a pomp and luxury before unknown he had reigned and gloried. From these doors, at the Depart for Italy, he had sallied forth; to sally forth again to Notre-Dame, for the Te-Deum for Solferino, through roads strewn with flowers and adoration. He had made Paris the capital of capitals, himself the King of Kings, this Palace the centre of the universe.... One morning a letter reached the Countess from Lord Tawborough. He was at an hotel in Paris; might he take the liberty of calling? My heart beat fast with joyful expectation. He came, once and again. We went out together, sometimes with the others, oftenmost alone--on long walks in the Paris streets or excursions to Versailles and the environs. He was an oasis in this city-wilderness of evil faces: the sight of this Englishman, the clean-featured noble face, the fairy godfather to whom I owed all the rich experiences of the past year, Rachel's little boy, gave me a peaceful pleasure which after my hectic ambitions and intrigues was like dew after rain. The interest of his conversation, the sense of worth and superiority (to me) he imparted cleared my foolish brain and cooled my insane pride. "You'd call this gush if it were Suzanne who thought it!" whispered Satan. "Yes Sir," I replied, "but Tawborough is not Fouquier"--Everywoman's reply. Intellect, character, kindness, purity, race--it was a banquet of pure delight. I tried to analyse for myself the reasons for the exhilaration which filled me in his presence, and in no other presence; not in Grandmother's, though I had loved her always: not in Elise's, though I loved her now. I could unravel no reasons, only ponder on the facts: (1) that his was the only face I knew which gave me a positive, physical joy, which filled me with tenderness and wonder. I would have fed on his face unceasingly if I had dared; (2) that in his presence alone the consciousness of self, of omnipresent Mary, left me, and I felt free, unconscious, unburdened, happy: if when he was at hand I stopped suddenly and asked myself "And Eternity?" I could laugh, and flout the bogey; (3) I apprehended that these emotions were reciprocal, and this was the chief delight of all. Yet, I argued, this was not Love. Love was Robbie. Love was Christmas-Night, one day to be renewed. Still, what lesser word than love could describe the admiration, the gratitude, the fluttering tenderness, the pure exultant affection I felt? So in my diary I called it love (with a small l) and kept the capital for Robbie. CHAPTER XXXIII: I BECOME AN HEIRESS Soon after our return to Normandy I found on my breakfast-plate an envelope in my Grandmother's handwriting. As a rule her letters came in small square envelopes of the ordinary English shape and size. This one was long, plastered with extra stamps, notable-looking, parchmenty. Perhaps a consignment of tracts. I found inside a heavy parchment document, covered with impressive copper-plate, together with a letter from my Grandmother, written not on her usual cream-coloured note-paper, but on whiter sheets with a thick black edging. Could it be Aunt Jael? The first line reassured (?) me. It was Great-Uncle John, so rarely heard of, though known to me for ever as my Mother's "dear Uncle" and good man. It did not need my special greed and cunning to surmise rightly why his Will was sent to me. Inordinate hope--changing, as I rushed through my Grandmother's letter, into radiant certainty--stifled regret. (Regret would have been affectation, whispered Satan.) Without reading through the letter I stuffed the papers into the envelope and devoured my breakfast; preventing myself thinking till it should be over. Suzanne had been watching me. "You have had good news I think?" "Yes," I replied, unawares. "I'm glad, because I noticed a black-rimmed envelope, and thought perhaps it might be bad." In my boudoir I settled down at my leisure, luxuriously to learn the best. Grandmother's letter was one of the longest I ever had from her. As I read she came near me, became suddenly a part of the present. For an instant I saw her face, _in the flesh_. But the self that saw her was another Mary--Mary of Bear Lawn, full of fear and floggings, surrounded by God and Aunt Jael; not that Villebecq puppet. I could feel the selves changing place within me--and changing back.... All the old prayers, the immemorial pleadings. Love the Lord only, and His service. Dedicate this wealth to Him. Lay it not up where moth and rust do corrupt. His love is the only true riches. There is only His love, my dearie.... Grandmother dear! Noblest of all the Saints, now high among the Saints in Heaven. _How much?_ I wondered. I found a little summary made by the lawyer on half a sheet of notepaper, which spared my wading through the uncommaed intricacies of the Will itself. Briefly: there was £400 for Grandmother, £200 for Aunt Jael, £100 each for Aunt Martha, Albert, and certain charities. All the rest--some £10,000, or about £500 a year--was left to me: me, Mary. At first I could only think in exultant exclamation marks. Ten thousand Pounds! Five-hun-dred-pounds-a-year! (Sonorously mouthed.) Wealth, freedom, power! I was my own mistress now. I could do any defiance, yet have my bread. Aunt Jael, urged the feeble voice of some-far-away Self. "Who is Aunt Jael?" asked Villebecq Mary: "Ah yes, to be sure, I remember." "I pay for the Child's music"--cry that two years ago could have rallied me to any revenge--"I" now stifled with a bland _Pourquoi_? How silly it seemed, how silly Revenge always is. No, I would buy a house of my own--the ambition which life in the Château, and other dreamings, had made my chief one now--and I would live there with Robbie for ever. The hunger, the longing possessed me more mournfully, more passionately than for long months. I flung myself on the bed and covered the pillow with kisses.... I would help the Saints, play Lady Bountiful to the Lord, send much money for the heathen, succour more than one needy labourer in the Lord's vineyard abroad. "Sops," sneered Conscience. "Go and work in the Lord's vineyard yourself. All that thou hast--" How furious Uncle Simeon would be, I reflected pleasurably. The Will provided that if I died all my share was to go (after use by Grandmother during the remainder of her lifetime) to Aunt Martha and Albert. So my life, which he loathed, was all that stood between Simeon Greeber and the money that he so much loved. Unkindest cut: I had plentiful cuts to repay. And for him alone, of Child Mary's enemies my present self nourished hatred: for I knew he was an enemy still. Could he _do_ anything? Next morning's post brought the only letter he ever wrote me:-- No. 1, The Quay, TORRIBRIDGE, N. DEVON. November 7th, 1867 A. D. Dear Young Niece,-- Often though one asks for your news--seeks to learn of your material and spiritual state--it has never before been one's sad pleasure to address you a letter in person. Two reasons have guided me today, after much prayer, to take this step. One is to express our sympathy--Martha's and one's own--with you in the loss of your Great-Uncle, who, though you never saw him in the flesh, must yet have been very near to you because of your knowledge of his goodness to your poor suffering Mother, now a saint in Heaven! Martha would have written herself, but she is not too well just now: the Lord is visiting her with bodily affliction. The other reason is to give oneself the opportunity of saying how glad one is to learn of the worldly good fortune poor dear Mr. Vickary's death has brought you. May you use it to _His_ glory! If--one will be frank--one had any pangs of husbandly and fatherly jealousy at the _lesser_ good fortune of one's dear wife and son, they were quickly o'ercome. Prayer has won one's heart from worship of the Golden Calf, and made one able to be with you in spirit in this new privilege and _duty_ the Lord has conferred upon you. May you live long to use it in His Service is one's humble prayer! One hears of you often thro' Martha and your dear Grandmother. One rejoices to know that, in that Papist land, you still find the reading of His Word the chief of all your joys. One hears that you appreciate most that "_Book_ of the heart, and _heart_ of the book," viz, the Psalms. Yes, one can find there words of succour for any circumstances, any frame of mind. The Psalms are prophetic of _His_ sufferings and glory, notably the 22nd, opening with His cup of agony when abandoned for _our_ sins; like Isaiah 53 they point only to Christ (how one loves verses 5 and 6 for the peace they have brought one)--Christ revealed by His Word and Spirit! Poor dear Mr. Vickary, how quickly gone! One knew him not at all, but one felt it keenly. One believes he was naturally a good and lovable character--but how one longed to know something much more than that! One's own little son is giving one great hope and comfort. Though cursed with many faults, alas, of both character and temper; and humble as intellectually he may be; yet he reads the Word continually, and speaks to one freely on the subject, so that one can form a fair opinion of his spiritual state. Dear Martha and Albert send their love, in which one is glad, with prayerful sincerity, to join. One has been dwelling much lately on Philippians iv, 8. Accept one's best Wishes, SIMEON GREEBER. P.S. LAY NOT UP FOR YOURSELVES TREASURES UPON EARTH. (St. Matt. vi, 19.) I was uneasy, but what could he _do_? The family learned my good news, hoped only it did not mean my leaving them. To do so had indeed never crossed my mind; for my plans, house-dreamings and the rest were, as always, watertight: in the compartment of daydreams, and having no connection with my immediate doings. Even had I wanted to go away, I was as penniless as before until my twenty-first birthday should arrive. The first two or three days after the Windfall I gave only these surface-thinkings a hearing. All the time--even from the very second the news entered my brain--Other Self was murmuring, though for a foolish day or two I fought her down. Then, one silent night, she broke loose, crashed through the silly web of pride, greed, and heathen-helping, and rained at Snob-Mary (whom "I" loathed this night till I could have spat in my loathing) the hard questions that only the fools who dare not face them say are not worth facing. Are you not commoner, meaner, lower, since this money? Is not the Safety you now possess utterly undeserved, selfish, fatal to your soul? You have your wealth: how will God get even? £500 is a goodly treasure: but what will it serve you 500 years from now? Will gold protect you from Eternity? Are you happier, any happier at all? Life was a search for the happiness that is the secret of the world. The key was not of Gold. CHAPTER XXXIV: I BECOME A DAUGHTER We had arranged to spend a certain day in Rouen, but when the day came I did not feel well: I was tired and inclined to be feverish. The first sign of a coming illness, to which bad dreams and bad conscience (Money) were each contributing. I asked to be left at home. The Countess and the two girls went away by the early train; de Fouquier also was to be absent for a whole day, visiting some distant farms. I was alone. I was restless, and could not settle down to read or even to think. A ride might cheer me up, I decided, so I went down to the stables and ordered the horse I always rode. Then I went upstairs and put on my riding-habit. By the time I was downstairs again, I felt tired and disinclined. I sent the horse away, and threw myself down in a chair in the great dining-room, without changing back into my ordinary clothes. I still had the whip in my hand. I cannot have been more than half awake, for though I had a dim notion of Gabrielle retreating through the curtains and depositing a gentleman in the room, I remember nothing in the way of announcement or explanation. Some one was there: who or how or why I did not know. I took in that he was tall, dressed like a gentleman, and silver-haired; but at his face, for some vaguely-felt reason of half-awakeness or self-consciousness or fear, I could not look. "Good day, Sir," I said, shunning his eyes, "pray won't you sit down." Naturally I spoke in French. "Thank you, perhaps I will," he replied in languid and exquisite English, utterly ignoring the fact that I had spoken in French. "I am happy to meet a fellow-countrywoman in this Papist land." The ancient familiar jargon flung at me so unexpectedly, and in a voice that matched it so ill, roused me to immediate hostility. And was my French so bad that he must needs assume I was English? Or did he know? But it was my own annoyance at his Christian phrasing that annoyed me most. Though, to be sure, the voice was not a Christian's. Who could he be? I looked more boldly, though still avoiding his eyes. It was impossible to guess his age. The fresh skin and beardless chin were a boy's, the carriage suggested a man in the prime of life, the headful of silvery-white denoted venerable age. The features were small, patrician, womanish; the mouth especially being too small for a man's, while full of pride and authority and race. A lordly and effeminate _grand seigneur_. The eyes, I knew, were the key to the mysterious face, and at these I dared not look. All these impressions must have been gathered in a second of time, for he seemed to be still in the same sentence. "--Yes, I am happy to meet you, for I feel you are the Lord's." The languid voice fashioned such a mockery of our Brethren speech that for a moment I could have railed at him for Antichrist. Then I felt quickly that I was foolish, and let him go on. "Assure me that you are His, Mademoiselle, pray assure me." "I may be," I said sharply, "but plain 'Miss' is good enough for me, s'il vous plait, _monsieur_." "May-be, may-be!" he sneered, for I had roused his spite. "'May-be' is the cry of souls in torment, the watchword of the damned. Beware, young woman, of your woman's filthy pride. It is the snare of men, the source of all wickedness. Woman, subtle of heart and impudent of face, who hath cast down many wounded, whose house is the way to Hell--" It was a madman. He had forgotten me, he had forgotten himself. He was hypnotizing himself with his own words; his eyes were wild and unseeing. I looked into them now. God, they were not his eyes, but _my own_, just as I saw them when I stared in a mirror. I was bewitched, and could only go on staring, staring. The mystical excitement seized me, the sense of physical existence departed, more surely than ever before the imminent immanent moment was upon me, I had discovered the World, I was kissing the eyes, my soul moved forward to reach him--. I found myself stumbling up from my chair in his direction, and with my ordinary eyes saw him still standing there, still intoning away, still almost unconscious of everything--but not completely, for he knew his power over me. Suddenly, in the middle of a phrase, he stopped. I broke in quickly, in sanest worldliest fashion. "I should be glad to know, Sir," I said coldly, "why in an ordinary sensible house, which is neither yours nor mine, you are favouring me with these extraordinary speeches. You have not the advantage of my acquaintance, nor I of yours. Is it Madame the Countess de Florian you called to see?" "Ah true, true!"--there was no change of voice or manner, but a change (I felt) of person inside him--"Yes: I am an old friend of the family; I came over from Rouen, through which I was passing, and learn from the servant that by a piece of ill-fortune the family are in Rouen today. Here is my card." I took it, without looking at it. "I am an English friend who lives here," I said, "a kind of companion to the girls." "Indeed, indeed! As I was saying"--and impatient of the length of this irrelevant interruption of his ravings, he half-closed his eyes again and resumed the tirade of piety and denunciation and woman-hating and hell-fire. He was mad. He was not mad. All the world was mad. _It was not happening._ I was working myself up to face again the experience of his eyes, when my glance lighted accidentally on the visiting card in my hand. The news entered my soul before my brain. It was not news; I had known it all the time. I stared at the printed letters one by one, not able to understand them, understanding them all too well. They stood up from the card, assumed hideous shapes. It was a nightmare. It was not true. I clutched at the side of the bed--no, it was the dining-room table against which I was leaning. There were the chair, the sideboards, the armour; there was _he_. In my visions of this meeting I had always taken him unawares and now it was I who had been surprised. The second part of my dreams at any rate should not fail. I gripped the whip more tightly. In crowding tumult every word of my Grandmother's old narration filled my heart and brain. I was ten years old again. She called me upstairs to her bedroom, pulled out the brown tin box from under the bed, drew forth the packet. Each phrase of each pitiful letter was marshalled by my inhuman memory before my eyes. Bitch, Bitch, he called her Bitch. As I looked at the white halo-crowned vile beautiful face before me, as he raved away, I did not listen: one by one I went over the ill-deeds and the cruel words I had to his account, feverishly I visualized my mother's suffering and sorrow till I was at the white heat for avenging them. The hardest part was to keep calm, sane: to keep my will in control of my emotions, which were bursting through all the ancient bonds of self-restraint, urging me tempestuously to await no perfectly planned moment, but to wound him _now_. Somehow I kept my voice steady. I interrupted; and, following my plan, veered him back into his maniacal misogyny. "You have a poor opinion of our sex indeed. What, Sir, if you have a daughter of your own?" "I busy myself not with my children of the flesh, but only with my children of the spirit." He was impossibly real, impossibly like Grandmother's story. He meant what he said; there was no hypocrisy. I was proud of the handsome face, had a lunatic longing for the eyes. I could kiss him, kill him. "I had a child once, they tell me--at least her mother said it was mine--" _Now!_ cried Melodrama, _Now!_ cried the Plan, and the Mary I had always visualized for this moment achieved herself as--suddenly, savagely--I cut him across the face with my whip. He was an old man now, and fell to the ground helplessly. I lashed at him in a blind fury of revenge and righteousness, shouting horrible words of which I hardly knew the meaning. He tried to rise, but I struck him down again. "Bitch, Bitch, you called her Bitch. You swine, God is paying you back." I knelt down suddenly beside him: "Father, will you kiss me?" I have a distant notion of de Fouquier somewhere near me, of fading away into a world vaguer and colder than dreams.... There is a door that leads to happiness. Revenge cannot force the lock. CHAPTER XXXV: WAY OF A SERPENT UPON A ROCK Everywhere there was a cold and mistlike darkness. Shapes emerged. Billows of whiter mist loomed nearer through the darkness, came from every corner of utmost space. The dark heaven departed as a scroll when it is rolled together; the white billows poured in on every side, engulphed me, choked me with icy fumes. Was I dead, and awake in cold Eternity? The mists turned into molten suns who scorched my body till only the soul was left, naked against the burning heat. I died again, to wake once more in a new causeless Eternity of terror. Always there was a menace, everywhere a fear. I knew I was dreaming, in a dream within a dream; this gave me no ease, as I knew that dreams were true. Rather were the pain, the terror, the pursuit, more real, more awful, than waking ills. My agony of soul was unsearchable; there was no God even to cry to, for soon I was God, in His loneliness without help or escape, without beginning and without end. Human shapes, with a horror and a power to do me evil far beyond their real stature in my past, pursued, reached, assailed, slew me. Always I died, and always I woke to a new universe of more sickening fear. Aunt Jael, Benamuckee--every evil face and evil fact from the old days of the life I had once dreamt on the earth, invested now with infinite power and unimaginable horror--menaced me, dogged my piteous flight along the unending pathway of Eternity. Uncle Simeon was there. The most horrible fear of my childhood, he was the most horrible now: an Evil more ghastly than human memory or imagination. "Twelve years ago, twelve years ago!" I whispered. He saw, rushed to the door, while I rushed madlier across the roof-room to my attic. This time he would outrun me. No, I was in time. I tore through the aperture and just had time, shivering in fright, to huddle down upon the floor before the key turned and he was in upon me, over me, peering at me with unpitying cruelty and hate, I lay numbly staring at the yellow-pale face, the savage blue eyes, the wet thin lips, the honey-coloured beard--now tinged with grey--just as it would be now in "real" life, I had enough reason in my dream to be able (in a frightening lapse from feeling to thought) to reflect. The face came nearer, gleamed physically its hate, seemed to breathe at me. "Oh, God!" I prayed wildly, "Where am I? Tell me, oh tell me! If a dream, of thy pity awaken me: if life after death, slay me for ever!" Now he was Simeon Greeber the poisoner; he was pouring something into a phial, he took a tiny white tablet--fear made my dream-eyes keen--and dissolved it in the liquid. Some one was propping me up, his eyes were gleaming with hope, he lifted the glass to my lips-- "Poisoner!" I shrieked and dashed the glass away. I put my hands swiftly to my eyes, and they were _open_. My bed, the Château Villebecq bedroom, half-drawn blinds, a hundred impressions instantaneously reached me. I was awake again, and in this world; my chin and neck were wet with the spilled liquid, and he was there, the this-world Uncle Simeon, hastily picking up bits of glass. He was real, and I knew it; he looked up and knew that I knew. Could I sham him into doubting it? My senses had not properly returned, and flog my brain as I would, in a frantic second of endeavour, she could not tell me how or why I was here in bed, how or why Uncle Simeon was here beside me. I smiled, assumed my frankest stare, and shammed that I was dreaming again. (Unless it was, after all, a dream unnameably real, a dream within a dream.) Staring at him fixedly as though I did not see him--and for a half-moment I saw doubt in his eyes--"_Madam_," I cried, "some one has tried to poison me. Find him, find him!" Deceived or no, he was not losing his chance. "One will find him soon, one will find him," he whispered soothingly, the while preparing another potion below the level of the bed: "Meanwhile, dearie, drink something to make you better." Swiftly he seized me, grasped my neck as in a vice, and forced the glass against my lips. Somehow I got my mouth away, somehow I managed to shriek, to shriek till I seemed to be losing my senses again. In dream-fashion shapes crowded round me once more: Elise and Suzanne--and the Stranger. Whether real shapes or not, they were Friends. I was saved. All would be well. And I fell into a dreamless sleep. To this day I do not know with absolute sureness whether these moments were dream or waking life. Little is the difference, for is not the one as real, or as unreal, as the other? CHAPTER XXXVI: THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES I awoke to find Lord Tawborough by my bedside, with Elise for chaperone. The latter soon pieced things together for me. Gabrielle had found me in a feverish half-unconscious state on the dining-room floor. She had got me upstairs, and hastily sent to Caudebec for the doctor, who pronounced me to be in a dangerous fever. Nobody seemed to connect my illness in any way with Monsieur Traies' visit. In the anxiety and fuss upon the family's return, Gabrielle had indeed forgotten even to mention it--till next morning, when his crumpled visiting card was found on the dining-room floor. Nor had any one seen him leave the house or grounds. (Mauled and aching, his hands before his scarred and kissed and bleeding face; crawling, slinking away.) My illness had soon become dangerous; it was doubted whether I could live, and Elise had sent urgent word to England. My Grandmother had written that she was, alas, too frail and old to come, but that she was sending her son-in-law, my Uncle, instead; she prayed the Lord in His mercy to spare me. Monsieur Greeber had arrived--an odd little man, very grateful for his reception--and had sat with me devotedly, all day and half the night, through the worst days, days when I was racked by the wildest fever, torn by ravings and prayers, nightmare cries and supplications, and had indeed been with me alone, in a brief period when the doctor and nurse were absent, at the moment in which I reached the turning-point and for the first time recovered consciousness. I had railed at Monsieur Greeber like a madwoman, suddenly become conscious, and then as suddenly fallen into a calm unfevered sleep. He had hoped to have stayed to see me well on the road to recovery, but word reaching him the very same day that his own son in England was taken ill, he had left hurriedly. The same critical day Lord Tawborough had reached the house, summoned by the news Elise had urgently sent him. Meanwhile, in Cardboard-World, big events had ripened. Elise talked feverishly. I listened with mild interest. Who was Fouquier, anyway, and what did it all matter? I learnt how the Countess had had a mighty quarrel with him, and how at last, after so many years, she had screwed up her courage to the point of deciding to dispense with him, though not yet to the point of telling him of her decision. "And Suzanne?" I asked. "If she loves him as she did before, she may take it ill." "I don't know. For months I have seen nothing to make me think so. Anyway, so far we have told her nothing. She knows nothing." "And when the thunderbolt descends?" "I am hopeful. The honour of the family...." The days of my convalescence held a pleasure that banished the nightmare past. Almost the whole day the Stranger was at my bedside. Hour after hour I lay gazing at the dear distinguished face. I soon found that they all thought me less wide-awake and nimble-minded than I was, so I stared with impunity, imparting a touch of vacancy to my stare: a shield-and-buckler vacancy. I lay bathed in a new delicious sentimentality, worshipping him, drinking him in, idealizing him. He was my Mother's little boy; he had loved her; he had given me the first novel I had ever read, had shaped my first apprehension of nature's beauty. To him I owed my education, my social raising, my life of splendour here. For England he had kissed me Good-bye in the moment I had left her. It was a tender exultant joy to watch his face. He was hardly older than the Stranger of the Torribridge hillside morning ten years ago; though his hair was turning grey, a proud and princely grey. There was the same beloved countenance, manly yet gentle, clean, clear-cut, slightly sharp-featured; the same eyes, quizzical-whimsical, yet holding the kindness of all the world; the same intelligence, culture, race; the same maddening purity and nobleness; the same Call to Worship. With something added, not in him, but in me who regarded him: a knowledge that he was a man, that he was dear and desirable beyond other men, that nearness would be very beautiful. Sometimes, swiftly, sentimentality would flood and transfigure my normal consciousness. My heart would pass through the last Gate of Tenderness, approach the portals of Love. Then in a crowding mystical moment the Vision changed, and it was Robbie: Robbie and I, we were kissing each other, radiantly; Christmas Night of long ago had become the present once again. The Vision would fade, and leave me staring at the Stranger, liking him, needing him, yet with my heart too full of the Vision to be able to wonder what _loving_ him might mean. Love, in its only and ultimate meaning, in the sense of the mystery of this world, of Jordan morning, of the Holy Ghost, could only reach me, I saw once again, through one human being on earth, Robbie of Christmas Night. Who, where, how, what was he now? My spirit would flag a little, and sink from the uttermost heights. Once below the level of that very highest heaven of all, Love the Madness passed, and the saner, warmer adoration for the Stranger returned. What were his feelings? I was not sure. The kindness of his eyes, what was it? A kindness like that must be for every one, must hold a universal message. No, must be for one person alone, could be lighted only by the human soul he loved. Who? Had _he_ his Robbie-girl? There were moments when I knew he loved me. More often and more surely, I felt there was a sentiment and a sympathy akin to my own, but quieter, nearer earth, less likely to stray up the steep Robbie-closed path to LOVE. Yet I would play with fire, and, on the level where Robbie was not remembered, visualize myself loved by, wooed by, married by the Stranger. Swiftly I was on a lower level still, where Snob-Mary could wallow. To become a Peeress! "Not so very absurd," others might think. "After all, they were cousins, his mother and her father were first cousins, you know--though she was, of course, brought up rather differently, with some Nonconformist (sic) relations on her mother's side. However, blood will tell!" I knew better, knew that common Bear Lawn Mary was the real Me. Or was it? Except for the kinship of memory, how was she me at all? She was but a poor remembered Mary: what the I of today would be to the person inhabiting this body ten years ahead. There was no such thing as permanence of personality, there was no such thing as anybody. Ever-different souls inhabit the same body; memory alone connects them with their predecessors, instinct alone makes them work for their successors. I must work for mine. I must try to deserve well of the coming Marys, seek to marry them well. Lady Tawborough! His talk, far beyond Elise's even, was a high delight. He spoke of life, books, travels; of the South, which he knew the best, of the seven cities of Italy, the seven hills of Rome. Of his plans and hopes: how he would soon end his wandering and go back to Devonshire for good. Of his schemes for his estates, the work he hoped to do in the country, the book he might write, the position he might win for himself in the House of Lords. Always there was something he did not say, seemed to shrink from saying. Was it that he thought I was fond of him and did not like to wound me by telling me there was some one else: his girl-Robbie? Or was it--? Those convalescent weeks rank among the gentlest memories of my life. My French friends were kind to me beyond deserts or hopes. I was restored to health in the daily companionship of a Vision of goodness and delight. My chief Revenge had been achieved. The nightmare life was away beyond the nightmare illness. Hate was now for ever behind me. I was a tenderer Mary. CHAPTER XXXVII: WAY OF A SHIP IN THE MIDST OF THE SEA Villebecq Mademoiselle, who would play melodrama, was achieving much less in her chosen way of business than still slumbering Bear Lawn Mary, who had played at life. And now, in these last days (as they were to prove) of the Villebecq existence as I had known it, she was to shew herself quite unequal to a rôle of garish prominence she was suddenly called upon to play. She quitted the stage, unaccompanied by plaudits or pity, and died of an empty heart. The circumstances were these. The first day or so after I left my bedroom I spent in writing up my Diary: making the notes on which the last three chapters are based. The Countess' arrangements as to de Fouquier's successor were completed; the gentleman in question, a Monsieur de Beaurepaire, was ready to take up his duties in three days' time. De Fouquier knew nothing. The day before the morning fixed upon for his dismissal I was sitting alone in the library, writing in my Diary. The door opened, I drew the blotting-paper protectively over the page. It was Monsieur de Fouquier, and he knew: knew everything. There was a look in his eyes--a look I have only seen once besides, many years later, on the face of a Russian nobleman, the night before he shot himself in the bedroom of a St. Petersburgh hotel--of wolfish desperation; desperate and wolfish as only the eyes of a selfish luxurious well-fed man can become. His voice, however, was still suave, unpleasantly suave. "Ah, good day, Mademoiselle. I have come to say Good-bye. I am glad to have had the pleasure of knowing you so well." "I am sorry," I replied (I think sincerely), "though, despite the long time I have been here, I could hardly agree with you that we have known each other well. We have so little to do with each other." "_Directly_, perhaps," he said meaningly. "_De vive voix_, it is true, you have given me but sparingly of your thoughts and views. I have been able to learn to appreciate them, nevertheless, thanks to an occasional perusal of that charming book before you now. Oh, I read your language if I do not speak it. _Vot vud Jesus do? Vot vud Jesus do?_"--in mocking horrible English. Shame flooded me, and hate. This monster, who for months had been peering into the secret places of my soul! "Vat vud Jesus do?" he was repeating, with a sneer again and again. "Stop!" I cried. "I will not listen to blasphemy." "You will listen awhile to me," and he stood against the door, barring possible egress. "You have had a large share in the filthy campaign of lies and intrigues which has at last succeeded in turning me out of this house. I shall at least make sure that you are bundled out yourself. Before I go, this very day, I am going to supply this amiable and grateful family with a brief account of yourself and who you really are,--your dirty little shopkeeper relations in England, your common sailor of a grandfather, your vulgar canting old grandmother, your boozing aunt. Then a few words about your dear father, and your frankness with Madame la Comtesse on the subject of his recent visit: how odd that he did not live with your mother, how odd the little hints Monsieur Greeber was so good as to give me as to whether he was your dear father at all, how odd the charm of bastardy--" "Monsieur," I broke in, "if ever I have a husband, he shall exact full payment for this. Go on insulting me, however. It will achieve nothing, it leaves me cold." "A husband, ah yes--dear 'R'! How tender your many references to him. Strange though it should seem, this world is small, and suppose so seemingly irrelevant an event as my forced departure from this house in France should have some effect on dear 'R' in England? There is my dear friend Monsieur Greeber. Don't alarm yourself, there's a brave girl--" "Get out!" I cried. "When I have done. There are still other results of your handiwork to consider. The family's name, for instance? It will benefit, you think, from my departure? Monsieur le Comte--his honourable doings. Mademoiselle Elise--her passion for her sister--so pure, so natural, so sisterly--" "Ten seconds, and if you're not gone, I shall shriek for help." I rose, pale with anger. He came forward, seized me, glued his mouth to mine. It was no stage-play now. In a strange flooding moment Mary the lover of Robbie reconquered the fortress of my soul. Thirty years later I can summon the odd physical-spiritual sensation as the selves did battle within me. Mine eyes beheld love, and this nightmare moment was its negation. I only record the moment, shutting the spirit's memory as I write; think of it I will not, cannot. I struggled, for a second or two, without avail, wild with a nameless sickening fear; prayed in shame and desperation "Lord, deliver me: Robbie, forgive!" Then with a desperate movement I freed my face from the foul impact, and gave as heartrending a shriek as was ever achieved by virgin in distress. He made swiftly to free himself, but now I held him tight, clipped him to me with such a new savagery and strength that although he knee'd and wriggled brutally he could not struggle free. Footsteps were approaching--I knew whose--and I managed, during one more second of supreme endeavour and complex anticipatory delight, to hold on. Lord Tawborough entered, took him by the scruff of the neck, wrenched him away from me, and flung him out of the room. I liked Lord Tawborough. "_Les hommes!_" commented Elise. "So that's the end of friend Fouquier." It was. That same day he disappeared from the Château for ever. It seemed as though the house had been cleansed of a foul atmosphere. The Countess, though already worrying about troubles and dangers ahead, seemed for the first time mistress in her own house. "Let him do his worst," said Elise, "it isn't very much." Only Suzanne was nowhere about, seen by none of us. At dinner that night she was not present. Her bedroom door was locked, and she would reply to no one, admit no one. Next day we burst open the door, found the room empty. Suzanne had fled. * * * * * * * It was the end. It was the end of the Château Villebecq I had known, the end of the easeful days of bright comfort shot through with gay melodrama, the end of the Interlude. For two other women, mother and sister, it was the end for ever of this world's happiness; for the other herself too, as I learned long afterwards. Madame de Florian crumpled up under the blow. All she had lived for--the honour of her name, the worldly success of her daughters--was lost. All her employment--the day-to-day strivings towards these two ends--was gone. In one night she seemed to shrivel up; to become at a stroke five times more wizened, more futile, more plaintive than before. Life, perhaps, had never had much to give her; now it held nothing. Her days were divided between regrets and self-reproachings, complaints, servant-scoldings and tears. To me alone she confided her woe. I was the one kind soul she had ever known; Heaven had meant me to be her daughter! I gave her nothing from my soul--except pity, poor pity, and even this soon lost its first spontaneity; became conscious, conscientious--yet always I could see she was getting what I did not give: a sense of boundless sympathy and affection. In every mood and every mope she came to me for comfort, and--though I knew full well in my actress-heart that I was giving her nothing at all, no real love, no healing sympathy, only the shams and simulacra of these, served up with pity, luxurious self-comforting pity--always I saw that my shadow was her substance. She returned me a boundless gratitude; pathetic, delicious to my palate, cruelly undeserved. "Ah Mademoiselle, there are not many like you! My life is over. I am a poor old woman alone. Only you understand. Stay with me, dear Mademoiselle." And I did. Elise took to her room, asked no comfort, refused what I proffered, railed at me for being the real cause of her losing her dear one, spent long days alone in her bedroom weeping, and would not be comforted. After a few weeks, when no news came of Suzanne, she took really ill. When sufficiently recovered to travel, she went for a long stay in the South of France, Gabrielle accompanying her. At leaving she refused to see me, even to say Good-bye. The new steward did not live in the house, now a deserted place, damp and cold in the long winter that followed, inhabited by memories, haunted by fugitive joys. Through the long days and nights, echoes of happiness would ring aloud through the emptiness, and sometimes I heard Suzanne's laugh on the staircase or the quick feet of friendly approaches in the corridor. Now that joy had taken flight, the great house became, like Bear Lawn of old, an atmosphere I understood and responded to. It is thus that I have chiefly remembered it ever since, it is thus that I remember it now. I had no plans except--vaguely "soon"--to go back to Devonshire for good. When I mooted this to the Countess, her pleadings were so pitiful, so flattering, that I registered then and there the vow that I would stay as long as she wanted me. It was the one return I could give for the kindness I had received, the one way I could display loyalty to the good past of yesterday: quite a good way also, maybe, of laying up for myself treasure in Heaven. So for many long and lonely months I stayed. Except the Countess I saw no one. I was as lonely as in the far-away days of my childhood, and soon it was to my childhood that I returned. Imperceptibly, just as a year or two back the Bear Lawn life had vanished, the present glory of Villebecq taking its place, so now it was Villebecq (though my body remained there) that vanished, and Bear Lawn again that took its place. In bed at night, if my soul was thinking of Mary, the old dining-room or the cold blue attic formed the physical setting in which, as a person detached, I always saw her. In the darkness my bed would always revert to the Bear Lawn position, with the wall facing me as I lay on my right side, although in reality in the Villebecq room it was behind me. Even awake and in the day-time, the articles of furniture in my boudoir often changed as I watched them to the furniture of the old dining-room, the sense came over me that Villebecq was but a dream I had dreamt one night at Tawborough, a dream from which I was at this moment waking up, a dream that already I could not properly remember.... But--Bear Lawn too was a dream--I had only dreamt that I was Mary. Who was I? Was I any one? Oh, terror, was I God Himself? With a cry I fell on to my knees.... The fear passed, it was the Villebecq boudoir, I was rising awkwardly to my feet. (Had anybody seen?) Even in normal and placid moods, the first two years of my life in France soon appeared as a faded memory, the remembrance of something I had been told rather than something I had lived myself. The whole mosaic of new glittering impressions, storm and stage-play, ease and luxury and chatter and intrigue, seemed something insubstantial and unlived: something very distant, too, for--by a puzzling experience not usual in the young--I could only see clearly the days that lay farther away. The Villebecq life had been a thin shadow of life, the Villebecq drama a puppet drama, the Villebecq Me a pale and partial Me. There was a slow battle spread over weeks in which Bear-Lawn Mary fought her way back to chief place within me. I remember the odd physical moment--sitting on my bed at three o'clock one morning, still undressed--in which she won the victory and in which Mary the gossiper, Mary the worldling, Mary the Fouquier-fighter faded like a wraith into the tomb of my sub-conscious self. The older habits of mind returned. Now that there was no one to talk to, I talked, as of old, to myself. There was no present to occupy me, so I returned to my pasts and my futures. There were differences, of course, and developments: I was older, a little farther away from madness (which is sanity), a little nearer the world, a little farther from the Lord. My past was seen in worldlier, if not truer, perspective; my ambitions were more concrete. The old habits were fainter, and the old fears. Hope had gained appreciably on Despair. At ten I had dwelt morbidly on my few happinesses, knowing that they would be paid for: God gets even. Now, at twenty, happier days had tilted the balance; I dwelt cheerfully on the manifold unhappinesses of my life, feeling sure they would all be recompensed me: Christ gets even. Not but what Gloom made a good fight for his old supremacy. After all, _Eternity was on his side_. And the Rapture never returned. I would pray sometimes for hours, beg for one instant's flowing through my heart of Taw-water and the Holy Ghost. HE did not come. There was a reason. I knew the reason, though for a long time I dared not formulate it, even in prayer, even alone with myself, or more utterly alone--with God. Coming from the innermost place of my being, gaining at last my conscious brain and soul, and soon possessing them utterly, was the knowledge that my only way to ultimate happiness lay not through religion, but through ROBBIE. For many days and nights the agonized struggle fought itself out within me: God's love revealing Itself directly, God Immanent, versus God's Love revealing itself in human shape, God-in-Robbie: memories of Jordan Morning, my honeymoon with God, versus hopes of earthly ecstacy, my honeymoon with _him_. I have never wished, even if I were able, to fit in this story of my life with wise men's theories of human conduct and development. But the psychologist or the modern novelist would I think label this struggle in my soul as the turning-battle between Environment and Heredity, in which the massed beliefs of my holy upbringing contended against the call of my woman's blood and the needs of my woman's heart. At last--when I had given God His last chance, telling Him in an agony of passionate prayer that if He would send me but once again the perfect miracle-moment of Jordan it would quench for ever within me all need of human love--and when no answer came--I knew that the battle was over. Robbie had won. Had won in my heart. But what were the chances that I should taste the fruits of his victory, that the love I had declared for would, in this actual physical world, one day be mine? I faced the whole question, "dispassionately." What were the facts? Years ago, a sentimental and unhappy child had, in a moment of crude (though not contemptible) romantic fervour, grown morbidly fond of another child, and he of her. They had vowed together to seek to perpetuate their experience when away from each other by mutual self-suggestion, especially on that particular night of every year when the childish emotion had culminated. It was all very pretty, quite pathetic too in its way, but what else? What else? Everything. These were the cowardly picturings of Common-Sense: Heart put them swiftly to flight. The only realities are the realities of the spirit, and Robbie in the visions I now had, not only every Christmas, but every day--near every hour--was a warm divine reality in my soul. He was with me, kissing my face. Where the human body of the living twenty-one-year-old Robbie might be I did not know--though I constructed for myself a hundred different stories as to his whereabouts and doings--but that his spirit was with me whenever mine was with him I knew in the authentic uttermost way, beyond all knowledge and reason, in which I had once known God. Sometimes the whole night through his Presence enveloped me, his face was mirrored in my soul. Yet always the ultimate Rapture evaded me; I would reach the mystical moment when the lips of the vision-Robbie upon mine were changing into the dear desired lips of the real-life Robbie, when vision-reality and this-world-reality were merging magically into one--then always, on the threshold of realization, the Vision faded, and I was left empty and desolate and cold. The mere physical longing, though less intense than the spiritual, was newer and more baffling: for I understood my body much less well than my soul. Oh for him to put his arms around me, crush me tenderly to him, while I should clasp him to my breast and pour out my heart upon him! I would kiss the miserable pillow (and say it was his throat) and clasp it and cover it with tears. When bearing-point was passed, I would burst into half-hysterical prayer: Send him now, oh Lord Jesus, or banish the tormenting vision from my eyes!--the while I would savagely stop the eyes and ears of my spirit, until God's answer came, and for a space the hunger passed away. Doubt trod hard upon Desire. Fool-Mary as always! You loved the little boy then, and he you. It was a child's moment, gracious for the child's sorrow that it eased, but over at once and for ever. Love comes not back again. All the rest, all these fantastic years of mystical repeatal are but the wraiths of your own disordered imagination. The Presence is a phantom presence of your own creating. "It is no phantom," I replied. "If anything in God's universe is real, that is real." "Real to him? For if not, the presence is not real at all." "It is real to him." "Are you so sure? You are quite, quite certain: that at the same moment in which you possess his Presence, he is possessing yours?" "Yes, I know it. God tells me so." "But where is real Robbie? Why does he not come to you?" "He is coming soon." And with valiant words I chased Doubt away, knowing him for the destroyer of everything that he encompasses, who can make things that are true untrue, just as Faith, his enemy, can make of things that are not things that are. Faith makes facts, not facts faith. If you believe that Robbie is with you, he is with you. If you doubt his presence, you destroy it. If the Sun and Moon should doubt They'd immediately go out. Balked of his actual physical presence in one way I would seek it in another. Memory would essay where Visualization had at the ultimate instant always failed, and would guide me moment by moment through the whole of the old Torribridge time, from the first glimpse, and Uncle Simeon's introduction, through egg-day and fight-day to the supreme midnight hour; at last I found I could reconstruct our happiness together so vividly that _it was actually happening again_. Eternity had turned backwards, the past had become the living present, I was sore from the cruel flogging, I was twelve-year-old Mary again, and Robbie's arms were around me. Then Memory in his turn failed me; in a swift physical way I felt inside me the years scuttling back into their place: it was the old eternal present, and the ideal unconsummated, and the loneliness. Then doubt and fear and need would all together assail me, pressing in unison the chief question. When he is real to you, are you as real to him? The answer was always Yes, and the answer was always No. In either case I fell to sorrowing for him: if he wanted me, because of his need; if he did not know he wanted me, because of his need also. And I would forget myself altogether, and think only of his need of love. How could I give him most, give myself to him most? How could I discover and lay at his feet the wild unimagined sacrifices for which my heart was aching? I knew I could give him everything, live for him only, destroy my own happiness for him, give him my heart, my life, my hope of everlasting death. Ah, for his sake I would take God's nameless gift of immortality, if He would but set Robbie free, grant him the eternal sleep. I would do the far greater thing than die for him; for him I would live for ever. Ah, no, no, no!--Robbie asleep for ever, and me for ever alive. Ah, no, oh loving Heavenly Father, that alone I could not bear. In two months I filled three large new volumes of Diary: all with Robbie. Much of it was in the form of a series of letters between us. The first letter was addressed from me to him: a tremulous self-conscious composition, asking him to excuse my taking the liberty of writing, feeling certain that he would doubtless remember who I was, recalling that we had been rather good friends, _n'est-ce-pas_?, in that short period when we had been together as children, etc., etc. I tortured myself for a whole fortnight awaiting, in fear and delicious hope, his reply. This I composed--as I wanted to compose it: friendly, enthusiastically reminiscent, but not (being his first letter) so affectionate as to damage my scheme of a long _crescendo_ of ever more affectionate letters to come. Then my reply, and his reply, till soon the floodgates were opened. "Oh, Robbie (at last I wrote), Tell me you are the same Robbie; that now, as a man, you are not some strange man I should not know, but that you have the same loving heart, only more passionate and tender than before; the same loving arms, only manlier and even more ready to embrace me; the same loving boy's face, only transfigured, developed, ennobled by the long lonely years of the love you have given me. Tell me that in body as well as spirit you are coming soon, to love me for ever as I do you." He replied: "Post haste I write, because I must speak back to you. I got your letter this morning, and ever since then have been full of it, and full of joy. Never in all the letters you have written me have I felt so much of you in it, never have I felt you so near, so completely in sympathy and understanding, so exquisitely, so utterly in love. (I cannot restrain myself from uttering this.) As I read and re-read your letter, I feel, at this very moment as I write, that we are alone, alone and together; I can hear you crying out and I send back the echo; but it is no echo now, for we are so near: only distances echo, my Mary dear. Tonight I am fuller than I have ever been before, full because of your inspiration, of your influence; but not this alone, because I am my own influence, and it is this which sways me now. The outer world is a great silence, a mere waste of towns and cities, empty and desolate as a city of the dead, a place of graves. All the people around me are shadows, are only for themselves, but we are for each other, and all all else is dead. "The Christmas promise has come true for ever. Now it is a great joy to live, and not to live has no terrors. Everything is at the highest point of its change; all is changed by this thing we know, this secret we have discovered, and I am glad. We alone are its guardian, but it needs no guardian, because Mary and Robbie before discovered it, and have guarded it ever since. "I shall come very soon now. But do not fret: this long absence in form has meant a more palpable presence in spirit. For the soul needs space: it flies, like a kite, and you hold the line; the line is of interminable distance, the kite of immeasurable power. It flies happy, among the life-giving, high breezes; and it makes you happy, a child at the other end, a child with a kite--the child whom I loved that night long ago and who loved me, the dear Mary whom I will love and who will love me for ever. She is the child who has not changed--it is the same face, though a woman's now, and it is with me by day and by night...." "Robin," I answered, "your letter is the goodliest yet: it has given me a day and a waking night of celestial happiness--for I had it yesterday only, and like you I reply 'post-haste.' You bring me to the house of happiness, and your banner over me is Love: but when will your left hand be under my head and your right hand embrace me? My letters bring you happiness too: but when will you read them with the eyes of the flesh as well as the eyes of the spirit? You say you will come to me 'very soon:' but you will come before the ink on these pages has faded? (If it can ever fade, for it is the blood of my aching heart.) "Now dear, I kiss your brow, your dear eyes, your mouth; I place my lips upon your dear glorious little heart. All the love that was in the beginning of the world, that is in the universe now, that will people Paradise through all the everlasting years, is in me now; I assemble and concentrate it into this moment, into the kiss that I am giving you at this moment as I write. From face to feet, my heart's beloved, Good-night!" At last, after two or three months of these imaginary letters, I wrote the real one which was the necessary condition of their ever becoming real: I wrote to Aunt Martha. I always wrote to her on her birthday: it was near birthday-time, so no other pretext was needed. I made my letter rather longer than usual, introducing the one thing that mattered with appropriately naïve and casual abruptness. "By-the-way," I asked, as careful after-thought, "do you ever hear anything now of Robert Grove. He was a nice boy, and I have often wondered what became of him?" And I made a Special Temporary Resolution to shut the door of my spirit as far as possible (weak proviso) till Aunt Martha should have given me some news. It was only a day or two after writing this letter that a letter I received--from Lord Tawborough, now back in England--ushered in a new phase of spiritual trouble. Robbie had vanquished Almighty God: was he to be vanquished now by a mere peer of England? Very vividly the Stranger re-entered my imagination. He had thought it discreet and kinder to leave the Château almost immediately after the Fouquier crisis and Suzanne's flight, and in the turmoil of those days and of Elise's bitterness and then in the long loneliness and the following period of return to religion and to Robbie, he had been very little in my thoughts. This letter brought him gladly, warmly back. My heart brightened as I mused upon the well-loved features, the manifold gentleness, the secret sympathy, the goodness he had shown me, the delight I knew he found when near me. And this was no kindly benefactor's letter, no tenderest of distant cousin's letter, no 7th of the Title's letter. It was but a Best Friend's letter. For a moment my heart recoiled from immediate irrepressible "Is it a Lover's letter?" Some one said "No": it was the Mary who wrote the mad missives to Robbie and the mad missives from Robbie to herself. Some one else said "Yes": it was the this-world Mary whom every one (save Mary) knew. At that instant of time, I think, more surely and more strangely than at any other time in my life, I knew and in spiritual-physical fashion felt and understood that there was no such thing as "I": that there were many living and disparate beings inside me. As I mused pleasurably and lovingly on Tawborough (Quick! What was his Christian name?--I had never heard it, I must learn it, or invent it, find swiftly some endearing name to give him in my thoughts), not only Robbie, but the Mary who loved him beyond all heaven and earth, was some one far away, some one I had been, should be yet again, but was not now; some one else whom the present-moment "I" could contemplate from the outside, but from the inside not at all. Thus there was no sense of conflict or contradiction. Simple souls say: You cannot love two people at once. Shrewder souls add: Not in the same way. Both miss the point, ignore the real mystery: that _you_ is two folks and not one, a divine self and a human self: with two loves accordingly, a human love and a divine love. At the selfsame moment of time the two selves cannot both be in possession, and the two loves cannot be felt together. There is no clash and no conflict. I reasoned out my hope. That the real Robbie, when I met him, would conquer utterly the human me, win all my liking, answer all my needs. Real Robbie and Dream Robbie would become one: real Mary and dream Mary would become one. Love would be everywhere, the two selves would mingle and make at last one Mary, the world would be revealed--God was in me, around me--I am the Universe--. There are no words.... But if chance--I dared not say Death--decreed that in this world I should never see Robbie? Then the human liking and earthly possibility could never merge into the divine romance. The quest my soul was created for would be over: Eternity would not be Love. Yet, I was a woman--and I loved the word "marry"--and the Stranger was my chief human liking and earthly possibility--and this world's happiness was worth possessing even though emptiness lay beyond. So if Robbie is not given to you, said Reason, the Stranger will be a glorious second-best. "Glorious Second-Best." dinned Reason in my heart, and a whole crowd took up the echo: snobbery and sanity, and pride and probability, and intellectual sympathy and physical delight. But first I would search the world for Robbie. * * * * * * * Suddenly my heart learned that Robbie, wherever he was, knew that I was musing thus: knew that I was toying with notions of Tawborough, and over _his_ deathbed was meditating eventual treason. Suddenly my heart understood how his own was aching. The magnitude of my vileness sickened me. I could find no sleep, nor heart to sleep. All night I heard him crying out, saw his dear face wistful with doubt. I told him it was not true, that I loved him and him only. He did not hear me; I could not make him hear me; I knew that his heart was still aching. I got out of bed, wrapped my dressing-gown around me, went through into the boudoir, and wrote in my Diary this following letter. (The inkpot was empty, and even if I had had the courage to take my candle and to go through the long dark corridor and down the stairs in search of ink, I should not have gone. For time was precious. I knew that, magically, each word as I wrote it would bring ease and comfort to Robbie somewhere far away, and my heart could not abide that his own should suffer for one moment longer. So I snatched a pencil, glad for Robbie's sake to mar the neat inky well-beloved uniformity of my eight years' diaries, and scrawled feverishly at the frantic dictation of my passionate heart. Today, as I copy, the pencil is faded, and the page the hardest to decipher in all the record): _To Robert Grove_, _Wheresoever You Are, my Dear!_-- How sorrowful you are tonight, how evil am I since I am the cause! But I write post-haste to send you tidings of comfort, to tell you there is no other in my heart but you, to send you my everlasting love. You came to me Christmas Night, and you came for ever. There has been no other, nor ever can. _What can the man do that cometh after the king?_ My friend who is causing you such grief, you know who he is--tho' 'tis nine years now since the moment I knew you--tho' you have never seen him nor (in earthly way) even heard his name--I know that you know. He is Lord Tawborough, my cousin and my benefactor, and my very dear friend, tho' much older and cleverer than I. But do understand, dear Robbie, that the respect and affection in which I hold him are _only_ the reflection of his generosity and loving kindness to me. It is he who gave me my education, gave me my good fortune, who has always been far, far too kind to me. And now that, here in this land, I have met with him again, I like him better than ever. How could I not? There is "like" for him and for you my whole girl's aching LOVE. Even when I am looking at my kind friend's face, suddenly I will stop the working of my mind and will turn to look for you, trying to grope out where in this world at the exact moment you are; and God always helps me to make a picture which I know is near reality. At this moment I can see you--vaguely--dreamily--in a bright city whose name I do not know, but where often I have sojourned in dreams. I cannot actually _touch_ you now: for our meeting-place is not in cities or houses or streets or fields; rather we go to meet each other in the skies and oh! Robbie! my spirit! my soul! what a meeting we have, how happy, how jubilant, how full of the glory which is not of the earth, unutterable, something I cannot speak, or say, or write; something only which tears my heart into a thousand particles of agony, which is the divinest, wildest, fiercest, holiest, sweetest joy of all. The agony of love, Robbie, how it wounds! The moments when, in vision, I cannot invoke your face, how cruelly long they seem! Then betimes your dear face forms among the mists of all my wildness and restlessness and smiles upon me in a peace that is infinite, and passeth all men's understanding. Now, Robbie, know that this is no earthly thing I have, you have, but a thing entirely of the soul, a gift entirely of God. It should leave us tolerant and truthful, ever knowing that no other friends (however dear) can ever endanger it, even conceive of its meaning; and ever waiting for its supreme fulfilment. Can I have this for any but you? Can any but you have this for me? Why, my Robbie, can you ask? I stretch out my arms through the unknown to reach you. I would comfort you, cover you with eternal kisses. Stretch your dear arms out too, put them around me, crush me against your breast. Come to me now, and come to me soon for the time that will be for ever. Mary of Christmas Night. CHAPTER XXXVIII: DEATHBED For over a year I was alone in the great empty château with my dreams. I ate and slept, and took walks in the park and the country-lanes; I comforted the ever-shrivelling Countess; I read incessantly. But I did not live. The life of my soul was sometimes in the past, chiefly in the future, in the present not at all. By deliberate endeavour I made the present even less than it would have been, by encouraging myself to experience no emotion except in my dreamings, to take no interest in the small daily happenings (they were very small) of my Villebecq daily life, to remember that for me Life would begin at the moment when Vision and Reality became one. Till then the years were wasting. Time marked time. (Perhaps the real horror of Eternity--Time marking time for ever, with no Love beyond?) In her reply to my birthday-letter Aunt Martha had omitted any reference to Robbie. It was a cruel disappointment. Probably she knew nothing, or had ignored or forgotten my query, thinking the postscript merely the casual after-thought it pretended to be, hardly calling for answer? Or perhaps, in a moment of intuition, such as might come even to Aunt Martha once in a way, she had divined the truth, and had deliberately omitted to reply? After a while, the longing to get on the track of Robbie's this-world whereabouts--to hasten his Second Coming--became unbearable, and on Christmas Day 1869, being the Tenth Anniversary, I wrote to Aunt Martha again. I made the most of "A Happy New Year," and of the anxiety which I had for some months been beginning to feel as to my Grandmother's health and as to whether I ought not soon to be coming back to Devonshire once for all. Again, with beating heart, I penned the carefully thought-out afterthought. "By-the-way, I fancy I asked you once before, tho' can't remember your telling me anything on the point. Do you ever have news of Robert Grove who lived with you ten years ago, when I did? I sometimes think about him--he was a nice boy--and sometimes wonder where he is or what he may be doing?" Was it by malice or accident that she consigned her barren response to the cry of my aching heart to a P.S. also? "You ask about Robert Grove: I have heard nothing of him for years. He must be a young man of 21 now." Wretched woman! Well, I could wait no longer, I would go home and find him for myself. The main news in Aunt Martha's letter urged me to a like resolve:--"Mother and Aunt," she said, "are both ageing. Although Mother would never let you know it herself; also for fear of bringing to an end your life abroad, which she knows has been abundantly blessed to you--yet I know she would like you back." I made up my mind at once--need for Robbie made the duty-call to my Grandmother's side clear and insistent--and told the weeping Countess within the hour. Though her health was no better, Elise de Florian had at last decided to come home. When I wrote and told her I was returning to England, she replied that she would forward her plans and come back to Normandy at once. For the first few months after her departure she had ignored my existence except for formal courtesies in her infrequent letters to her mother. Then, suddenly, she had begun to write, and soon the letters were as friendly, as unhappy, and as passionate as the long talks in the old days together. I forgave her before I was half-way through the first letter, and had for some time been doing battle with Pride as to whether I should tell her how much I wanted to see her again. She returned with Gabrielle one bitter January morning. I kissed her blue-pale forehead, and, as I gazed at the drawn ever-unloved face, felt for a moment bitterly ashamed of Love's triumphant futures that I hoped to garner in my own heart. That night I prayed God in His mercy to send her what her heart cried out for, knowing all the while that somehow God Himself could not grant my petition. I knew--understood physically--that Elise was a woman damned into the world to excite no supreme love in any heart; knew that if I were a man I could not love her, knew that God had given her life without power to win the one good this life can give. Next morning she was too frail to rise. At first we were hopeful, and put everything down to the fatigues of the long journey. As day succeeded day, however, and she was each day wearier, neither we nor she could elude the truth the doctor was whispering: that Mademoiselle was in the last and rapid stages of a decline. One night I was lying in bed reading by candle-light. The door softly opened. My heart stopped. She stood there in a long white night-gown, trembling in the cold air, bare-footed, ghastly pale. There was something in the eyes that awed me. "I am dying now," she said. Her voice was low, melodious, and as though from far-away; from another place, another body, another soul. "Some one must kiss me once--love me once, properly, before I go. Will you, Mary?" I had jumped out of bed. I wrapped my dressing-gown round her, and supporting her cold and tottering body led her back to her own room, and comforting her all the while got her back into bed, and slipped down gently beside her. I pressed her tenderly to me and told her a dozen foolish times that she would soon be better. "No"--she spoke in English as I did--"it is over. I wish it had been over long ago. I had a heart that could have loved the world, but no one loved me in return. I shall die a good Catholic, but religion has never given me comfort--never what it has given you. I loved my little sister: but it was all one-sided, and that is not Love at all. Love is when the getting and the giving are equal, when the two bodies change souls. There is only love. Poor little Suzanne, she could not help it. I could never have seen in her eyes what I longed for her to see in mine. Oh, the need for some one to love me; sometimes my poor heart could have burst. I was not wanted in the world. I was--not--wanted." The sentences came oddly, disjointedly, further and further apart. For some moments she had not spoken. Then, suddenly, her arms tightened round me in supreme yearning; she placed her lips hard upon mine in an embrace of ultimate passionate sadness; her body trembled violently, and then, in a swift second, was still. The lips were cold. My arms were round a corpse. I freed myself, got up, lit a candle. The old misery had for ever left her eyes, which were happy, and full of love. I closed them reverently, kissed each lid as I closed it, and went out to awaken the household. CHAPTER XXXIX: END OF THREE VISIONS: THE STRANGER'S Immediately after the funeral, I left the desolate Château, the desolate Countess, the country of France soon to be made desolate, and, after nearly four years' absence, returned to my native land. On Southampton Quay Lord Tawborough awaited me. I saw him from the boat before I landed, and he saw me. I braved myself for the greeting: I would be pleasant, natural, would look him frankly in the eyes. I came down the little landing-bridge, we shook hands, for one half-instant of time I looked into his eyes; then self-consciousness and joy rolled through me like a tide, my heart beat unreasonably, I forgot who or where I was. When I got over the worst of it, I was conscious of how foolish I had been, and I flushed to think what he might be thinking. I still dared not look. He was busying himself with my luggage. We got into a cab, into a train.... If it was not love that filled me, what was it? If it was not love that I had seen for that swift second in his eyes, what was its name? Or was I once more judging others by my romantic self-conscious self, lending them looks and emotions they had never sought to borrow? Yet had he made this journey to Southampton for cousinship's sake, or through courtesy to my Grandmother, or for my mother's sake--or for any sake but mine? I knew that he had not. Then I must tell him I was "another's." How--without absurdity, immodesty? For I did not know, by any solid sign or certain token, that he loved me at all. He sat in the corner of the carriage reading his newspaper. I sat in my corner reading mine--the first English newspaper I had ever touched. It was the last stage of our journey; we had changed at Exeter on to the North Devon line. He suddenly threw his newspaper aside and looked me bravely in the face, though he could not completely master his trembling eyes. "Well, Miss Traies" (my name since my twenty-first birthday, when the lawyers had slain Miss Lee), "what are your plans? What are you going to do with your life? What is the program?" Would-be banteringly. "You know," I replied. "I am coming home to help and look after my Grandmother and my Great-Aunt." "They are old." "So will you be one day." "Perhaps I am old already. Do not mock at my poor grey hairs! But I wonder if I want to wait until I am as old as your Great-Aunt for some one to look after me. Young men want looking after, Miss Traies, as well as old women. Old age is lonely, but youth is lonelier. Perhaps there are younger folk than your good Grandmother and Great-Aunt whom you could help. There are men in the world too." "I know," I said, realizing that in speaking aloud of my love of Robbie for the first time in all the years I should be doing the kindest thing to my dear friend the Stranger, and should at the same time be bringing that love magically nearer reality. For if I spoke of him, he was real: to utter his name to another human being made him suddenly part of this visible world. From this uttering of his name to meeting him was but a matter of hours--days. Devon was a little place: green fields and red loam flashed quickly past: as I spoke of him I saw him coming nearer. "I know--maybe there _is_ a man in the world I shall help--help him for all his life." I could not look. "Do I know him?" he asked. His voice was odd, toneless: steadied by supernatural effort: nearest despair, though still caressing hope. "No," I replied shortly. In the silence that followed I could see nothing, think nothing; hear nothing but my own negation ringing in my ears, harsher and more brutal as each second passed. My cruelty filled me with exquisite pity: the insolent eternal offering from the soul that is not suffering to the soul that is. Poor heart, it could not be! My eyes were my chief difficulty: but the carriage window held resources. He went back to his _Times_. Odd, crowding sensations overcame me as the train drew up in Tawborough station, the same to which, once upon a time, Satan Had Come--and the North Devon odour (western, immemorial, unmistakable: the smell of broad tidal rivers that are the sea, yet not the sea) filled my nostrils. We drove across the bridge: for the first moment the bright town spread out before me across the river wore the cardboard strangeness of a foreign land. There was an almost imperceptible instant of confusion, while my senses adjusted themselves to the changed physical world, and then the buildings around me--we had crossed the bridge by now--seemed normal, inevitable; and France was a dream I had to struggle to remember. The same odd moment of physically-felt spiritual adjustment was repeated at the house, where my Grandmother stood at the gate of Number Eight to greet me. It was not so much that she was frailer, thinner, older, it was that she was a different person, or rather that the I who now beheld her was a different person from the I who had known her before, and to the new me she was a new creature. As I kissed her the years rolled back, my own self changed, and she was Grandmother of old. Inside the house the strangeness and the same return were again repeated, this time less perceptibly. On the morrow I went very slowly over the whole house, remaining for some time in each room and staring at every corner and every article of furniture, while I summoned back to me all the ancient happenings that connected me with each. Here was Aunt Jael's front parlour, a little yellower, a little darker, a little dingier than of old. There on the floor by the window was the row of dismal etiolated plants, each in its earth-begrimed saucer. There was her bluebeard cupboard; I opened it, and a smell of decayed fruits and stale sweetmeats escaped; probably no one had been near it for months. There was a jar of ginger, and a French-plum jar. I got as far as handling the lids, but no further: what new flaming letters might not be writ within? Besides, the plums were probably bad, while I never _really_ cared for ginger. There too was the door that once had opened, through which a face of nameless horror once had peeped. There was Lord Benamuckee. Here was the dining-room, with horsehair furniture and Axminster carpet perhaps shabbier than I remembered them, this room which all through my childhood, even too through my year in France, and in all my life since, has always,--in those moments when I behold myself from outside, when my soul flies away from my body and looks down upon it from afar--been the visual setting and earthly ambience of Mary. Here was the kitchen where Mrs. Cheese had lived, where Robinson Crewjoe had stealthily been born, where my love for scrubbing floors had for ever died. Here was the blue attic, cold, barren, airless; heavy with memories--of misery and cruelty and tears. After a few nights' dreams in my old bedroom--confused visions of the Château and Fouquier and Elise and Napoleon--the four years of France became literally no more than a dream in my memory. I remembered them rather from the morning's impressions of these nightly visions than from the actual happenings themselves. If indeed they were actual happenings. For frequently I could not be sure, and would fancy that all the complex visions of the life in France had come to me in sleep: until Calendar and Common-Sense convinced me. Aunt Jael seemed to share my illusions. She would ask me sometimes where I had been, and rail at me for "stopping out" so long, treating my absence as one of hours rather than years. Never, at any rate after the first day or two, did she treat me as though my life at Bear Lawn had been anything but continuous. I treated her likewise, swiftly forgetting the first moment of contact when (as with my Grandmother) she had seemed to me so much smaller, swarthier, dryer, older than in my memory: a stranger who immediately, imperceptibly, became familiar once again. She rarely got out of bed now, and her voice was huskier and less authoritative than of old. But she cursed and railed and threatened almost as bravely as ever. I alone had really changed, and wondered sometimes at the earlier Mary who had taken this bad old woman's imprecations so bitterly to heart. My new heart was too full of the hopes of love to feed on the broodings of hate. Moreover, though the faithful thorned stick lay on the coverlet ready to hand for use it never struck out at me now, and the poor villainous veteran saw no service reminiscent of his ancient glory save floor-thumpings to summon meals--or Mary. I neither feared her nor hated her. I pitied her. Some weeks before, Mrs. Cheese had been taken ill and had gone back to her friends in the country. About the same time Aunt Jael had taken permanently to her bed, and my Grandmother, who was herself rapidly failing, had had to attend to her sister and do the household work. Sister Briggs came to help in the kitchen in the mornings, and Simeon Greeber charitably allowed Aunt Martha to come over for the day on one or two occasions; but the two old women--the two dying old women--were virtually alone in the big house, with my Grandmother, probably the weaker of the two, struggling against pain, and against the fatigue which marks the journey's end, to keep on her feet for her sister's sake. I realized how selfish I had been not to have come sooner: except that in France another old woman had needed me almost as much. "I'm glad 'eo've come, my dearie," said my Grandmother on the night of my return. "God has dealt very lovingly with me; but I am full of years, and 'tis time for me to go. I have finished the work He gave me to do. I was waiting for 'ee to come back, my dearie: now I can go Home." I was sobbing. "Don't 'ee," she reproved gently. "There is no place for sorrow. Heaven is near, and the peace of God which passeth all understanding." One strange day I remember: the last valiant effort of Aunt Jael to revive the splendour of her stark imperial days. Glory and Salvation were old and frail now, especially Glory, and for a year and more, the Empress' famous Tuesdays had been abandoned. "There'll be a last one," declared Aunt Jael, and one Tuesday morning when she felt stronger than usual, decreed a Final Feast. After dinner, which in the regular way I had taken to her in her bed, I helped her to dress, and got her down into the old armchair. Then, as bidden, I sallied forth, hired a cab, drove to Brother Brawn's (robing-house for Jordan) upon the Quay, and after infinite delay, while Glory made minutest traditional preparations with goat's milk, rusks and bags, haled those two mad old Christian women to Number Eight. "Our last foregathering on earth," chuckled my Great-Aunt brightly throughout the afternoon. Death was discussed till tea-time: with dogmatic satisfaction by Aunt Jael, with vulgar self-assurance by Salvation, with mystical hope by Glory, with reverent delight by my Grandmother. "Though Death, mind 'ee, is a pain," said Salvation; wagging her head sagely. "Nay, 'tis a portal," corrected Glory. "Yes," said my Grandmother, "a portal to the Life Everlasting." The Life Everlasting. _Yet I looked and saw joy in the four old faces._ Glory was absolved her corner penitence for this Last Tea, and the five of us sat down when I had laid the table and got the meal ready. Immediately a row began. Now saying grace was a strictly regulated detail of the Tuesday ritual. Decades of dispute had not enabled Aunt Jael to oust my Grandmother from an equal share in this privilege in our ordinary daily life alone, and a compromise had obtained through all the years I remember whereby Aunt Jael asked the blessing before breakfast and dinner, and Grandmother before tea and supper. But on Tuesdays, with two guests to be reckoned with, both of whom were as eager in pre-prandial "testimony" as their hostesses, the position was more complicated. Though sometimes challenged, the rule of taking turns Tuesday by Tuesday in saying grace, had gradually become established: a childish and democratic arrangement which can have been little to Aunt Jael's taste, but which, despite occasional bickerings, was accepted as early as I can remember. It was for the privilege of asking the blessing at this Last Tea, this ultimate spread, that the dispute now arose. Grandmother and Glory took no part, but Aunt Jael and Salvation each swore it was her turn. "We'll all ask a blessing," finally proposed my Grandmother. The suggestion was accepted, and in turn the Four Graces were solemnly declaimed. Aunt Jael (stentorian, staccato): "Oh Lord. Thou hast promised grace and glory to Thy Saints. Oh Lord. Change these husks to the fruitful meats of the spirit before our eyes. Support our footsteps to the Table of Thy bounties spread in the wilderness; where true believers may feast among the bones of those who sought Thee to their own destruction. Aymen." My Grandmother (in a whisper, soft, sibilant): "Behold us, O Lord of seedtime and harvest, set free from earthly care for a season that we may dwell on the bounties which Thy hand has provided. Thou preparest a table before us in the presence of our enemies (sic). Thy dear mercies now spread before us are many: sanctify them, we beg Thee, to our use, and us to Thy service. Make us ever grateful, and nourish us with the meat of Thy Word. For Jee-sus' sake." Salvation (noisily; with sticky report, sound of spoon in treacle-jar sharply withdrawn): "For what us are about to receive, may the Laur make we trewly thankful." Glory (gauntly): "Bless er-er-er these er-er-er meats!" And we set to. Grandmother prayed with me continually. She was too old to kneel. Propped up on her pillows, she would take my head upon her heart as I half-lay half-leant upon her bed. My vanity, my worldliness, my imperilled soul were the unvarying theme. One night she stopped sharply in the middle of her prayer. "Your soul, my dear, is not praying with me. The Lord tells me that at this moment your mind is on fleshly things. Look at the eyes of 'ee! You're hankering after earthly glory, after high station in this worldly life." Then, after a moment's pause, shrewdly: "Has any one ever proposed to 'ee to give 'ee another station in life?" "No. What do you mean, Grandmother? Who?" "Nothing. Maybe no one." And she resumed her prayer. I was more careful in pretending to listen, but ceased to listen at all. I was trying--with the conscientious, artificially lashed-up desperation of the egotistical soul that sees for a moment its own nakedness--to visualize what the Stranger's misery and hunger must be like if by some wild chance ("It is so," God shouted in my heart) he loved me, not as I loved him, but as I loved Robbie. Ah no, it could not be. There is never a love like our own. " ... Send her _Thy_ love. For _Jee_-sus' sake. Aymen." CHAPTER XL: END OF THREE VISIONS: NAPOLEON'S Soon Grandmother followed Aunt Jael, and took to her bed permanently. One Lord's Day evening I helped her upstairs for the last time. My life was now spent in the two bedrooms where my Great-Aunt and Grandmother lay, and in crossing the corridor from one to the other as Aunt Jael's voice or my own sense of Grandmother's need alternatively summoned me. In the one room I was chiefly cursed at, in the other principally prayed for. Sister Briggs came in most days to give me help in the kitchen; even so I found it a heavy task to do the whole work of the big house and to feed and mind and minister to two bedridden old women. But I preferred it to the heavy idleness of Villebecq: found waiting upon others more natural, more agreeable, more self-righteously satisfactory, than being waited upon. There was the pride of humility, the unctuous flattery of fatigue. I never went out of doors except to Market and (for Breaking of Bread only) to Meeting. I had the lonely livelong day in which to work and to think of Robbie. Here I was back in Devon, the Devon where I had met him, the Devon where he lived: was I any whit the nearer finding him? My brain revolved in a futile circle of planlessness and hope: as usual, my imperial imagination failed cravenly when face to face with need for practical endeavour. The only plan I could decide upon was to broach the subject to Aunt Martha next time she should come over from Torribridge, to ask her brazenly for the address of the family in South Devon and the surname of Uncle Vivian, and then to write direct for news of my Beloved. It was high time Aunt Martha came over again--she had not been near her mother's bedside for a fortnight and more. When would she come? My only other interest during these days was in the tremendous drama being enacted in the country I had just left. Unknown to my Grandmother I took in the _Times_ newspaper daily, and had French ones specially sent to me. I followed every stage of the war and the political story with a passion that seemed sometimes incongruous in this bare Christian English house. What had Bear Lawn to do with this war?--or any other war? (I forgot that it had been built for barracks in the other Napoleon's day; that maybe redcoats who had seen and smashed Boney had slept and sworn in each familiar room.) "Shall I tell you anything about the war?" I asked my Grandmother one evening. "There is only one war," she replied, "God's war with evil." I was so infinitely more interested in persons than things, in the players than in the play, that never at any stage of these events across the Channel did I much reflect on their mighty political significance: how the Ruler of Europe who, through centuries, had lived in Paris, would live from this time onwards in Berlin; or how, together with the sword the last French Emperor handed to the first German Emperor at Sedan, he was handing also the secular leadership of civilization. I could only think of the hunch-shouldered suffering wretch who proffered the sword. His lady, too, was an object-lesson for would-be empresses. Though if her fate was unambiguous, as the Lord's lessons are, the fashion in which she faced it was more doubtful, as History is. Some accounts spoke of her bravery: how calm and queenly she was while the savage mob in the Tuileries garden shrieked "Dethronement!" and would have torn her limb from limb--others of her cowardice: how cravenly she scuttled away at the first approach of realities, where a Maria Theresa would have driven hardily through the streets and by courage effected a revulsion of the people's feeling. Her Good-bye, how touching!--the last sad glance at the well-loved rooms in which for seventeen imperial years she had reigned, the thought for others, the dignified tears, the bitter "In France no one has the right to be unfortunate!" wrung from her anguished soul--_or_--the stealthy selfish escape under the protection of foreigners, the abandonment of others, the skulking anxiety for her own skin only, the well-filled purse. The candid selfishness: "Do not think of me, think only of France"--_or_--the uneasy self-righteousness: "Have I not done my duty to the end?" "Yes, Madam": "I am on your arm" (to the Italian Ambassador): "Am I trembling?" "No, Madam, you are not trembling." "What more could I have done?": "Nothing, Madam." How loving a wife she had been in the dark preceding weeks! In an agony of fear for her beloved husband's life if he should return to Paris, how she had sent him hourly telegrams, messages of aching anxiety and forethought and tenderness, to dissuade him from the project,--_or_--to keep him away from the Capital at all costs, since his return would put an end to her power, her Regency, the wreaking of her spites and vendettas, her even darker ambitions. How many hours of unrecorded prayer had she not spent with God!--praying for the sweet Emperor's safety--_or_--for the stray bullet that would achieve her ends. France was ungrateful, France who had paid for her food and her follies for seventeen squandering years. And the journals were indiscriminating, to print such varying tales. And events were unkind, to give the poor later historian so embarrassing a choice between black and white and every colour between. But Fate was just, to turn his wheel abruptly against this over-fortunate woman; or unjust, maybe, to visit with spite so calamitous one who was no eviller or vainer than almost any other woman of us would have been in her place--no worse than _you_, Mary Lee. No worse than me: granted. But in what way different from me, then, to have deserved those incomparable years? Ah, well, she would pay for them now: God gets even. The place of pity is where Fate turns upon a nobler soul. I suffered with this gentle unscrupulous Man who had woo'd Ambition through the last dismal stages on the road where Ambition ends. A Bonaparte at the back of his armies, slinking from defeat to defeat. Bodily pain so monstrous that it could only be borne with the help of morphia injected every few hours by the sombre-faced young doctor who did duty for glittering aide-de-camp. A rudderless wretch, dragged at the heels of "his" army like so much tawdry baggage, a crowned camp-follower, a commander without a command; flaunted by his officers, mocked by his soldiers, cajoled, disowned and threatened by his wife; not daring to return to his capital, not daring to show himself to his troops: shrinking back in the gorgeous Imperial carriage from the hisses of the townspeople in the cities of France he was abandoning to the foe, and the lewd and horrible insults of the troops. A hunchback haggard doll. For Sedan he rouged himself. Why not? The play had lasted for eighteen years, and the hollow cheeks needed new cosmetics for the final scene. He quitted the stage with excruciating agony of soul and body, with painted dignity, with eternal inseparable calm. Nothing in his reign became him like the leaving it. Vanity seeks ambition, and the end of ambition is Vanity. There is only love. CHAPTER XLI: END OF THREE VISIONS: MINE Before writing to Aunt Martha I waited for the moment in my aged kinswomen's increasing weakness when Conscience told me it was for their sakes only I was summoning her, and not for my own. It was the second night after she had come. The hour was late, as Grandmother and Aunt Jael had been long in getting to sleep. Aunt Martha and I were sitting down to a bite of supper in the lamp-lit dining-room. All day I had been praying for boldness of heart and steadiness of voice that I might ask her my question. I stared now at her listless faded face. I was already moistening my lips for my introductory "I say, Aunt Martha--" or "By the way--." Telepathy is true, or Coincidence longer-armed than Fate. I had not spoken the words; she took them out of my mouth. "Oh, young Robert Grove: I forgot. Simeon heard he was dead--died nine years ago, I believe. Poor young fellow, how soon gone! How one longs to know that all was well with him before he died--." I sat, staring. For moments maybe. For Eternity perhaps. I do not know. My heart was cold, my brain numb. My body and mind were gripped as in a vice; I could not move my head to one side or the other, I could not remove my unseeing eyes from a fixed point in emptiness straight before me; my brain could not work, could seek no details of where or when or why, could not move from one cramped corner of agony, in which it must listen ceaselessly to a far-away voice repeating "Robbie is dead. Robbie is dead. Robbie is dead." I was nearly unconscious: there was no me left to be conscious. As in a dream I remember Aunt Martha being kind, being fussy, pleading, advising, exhorting, appealing. I would not, could not move. I sat in the same chair, in the same posture, staring, staring at nothing; speaking, speaking to no one. "Robbie is dead. Robbie is dead." After a while Aunt Martha seemed to have gone. The lamp was still burning. Very slowly, through the hours of that eternal night, the meaning of what had happened entered my heart; broke my heart. Grey morning light was entering the room. I got up from the chair, stiff and cramped after my long unmoving vigil, went up to my bedroom, discovered my diary in its secret haunt, brought the _Times_-wrapped exercise-book downstairs again with me, blew out the lamp, and in the dim light of the autumn dawn, sat down amid the uncleared supper things to pen my last entry:-- "I am writing this at five o'clock on Lord's Day morning at the most miserable moment of my life. I have been up all night. I have not slept. I don't know how it happened: unless God, in His cruelty, heard the unspoken question in my heart and answered it through Aunt Martha's witless mouth. 'Oh, young Robert' she began--my heart stopped beating--'I forgot'! I could not have guessed what was coming, have guessed that his presence all these years was a lie, a vanity of my own creating. _Dead._ It was so terrible that I could not feel it soon, did not understand for a long time what it meant. My heart was broken; but did not understand. It is here, alone in the long night, that I have found out what it is. I can hardly see to write for my tears. What I feel, I cannot write. It is the cruellest thing (save creating me) that God has done to me; God who damned me into the world, hated, loveless. I have lived a life such as few girls--cowering, haunted, passionate; utterly unloving, unloved utterly. Then I loved this dark-haired boy on that Christmas Night when--more surely even than on Thy Jordan morning with me, O Lord God!--in tears and happiness I was BORN AGAIN. And ever since, in endless vision, with my soul and brain and body, I have been faint with loving him, and memory has kindled hope and hope excelled memory, and I have thanked the Lord God even for His nameless gift of immortality,--for it would be immortality with Robbie. God, I thought, had paid me for the unhappiness in which He had created me: He had given me Robbie. Year after year his heart was with me. I was gladder and more radiant than the ordinary happy woman could be. My heart sang aloud with my love. "And now it is gone. It burns my heart as salt tears are burning my lashes. I understand. Love was never meant for me. I was conceived in hate. I shall die in hate. God gave me the wildest-loving soul He could fashion, and I kept it for my dear one only. And now my beloved is gone, gone to his long home, and the light is gone out of my life. For him there is no immortality: immortality is only for the damned. Sorrow is older than laughter, and sorrow alone lives. My lovely boy is dead for ever; I thank God only for this, that he has spared him Eternity. And I, who loved him, must live on for ever alone: alone through all the merciless eternal years--oh, Christ Jesus on the Cross, strike me dead now, abolish the universe, abolish Thyself--ah Robbie, Robbie, come back. "No, it is no good. A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance. For me it shall be weeping-time and mourning-time for ever. Joy and laughter are for other folk. I shall go, as I knew I must, the way of all my people, the way of bitterness and loneliness, the way of my Mother. (Mother dear, will God strive to keep us apart in Eternity?) I shall find no happiness under the sun; nor in heaven--nor hell--afterwards. The visions of the past can comfort me no more; for they were but phantoms of my own creating. This past year when night after night he has come to my body and soul, it was not he who came at all--his bright body was rotting in the grave (where? since when?)--but a cruel sham of Christ's, a silly clockwork presence born of my own love and hunger, a cowardly trick God played upon me. "My beloved, there is Eternity and the grave between us. I cannot, dare not, conjure up your vision. In memory only, I will go back once, for the last time, to Christmas of long ago, feel your gentle dead arms around me, and kiss you Good-night and Good-bye. MARY LEE." CHAPTER XLII: TWIN DEATHBEDS Grandmother and Aunt Jael were failing every hour. On the afternoon of the morrow of my misery old Doctor le Mesurier took me aside--I was the mistress now--and told me that for both of them it was only a matter of days. "Which will be the first?" I asked him, between tears. "I should not like to say." "'Tis a close race, my dearie," was the way my Grandmother put it when, a few minutes later, I went upstairs to cry my heart out by her side: "a close race to glory, and the odds are even." She smiled, with a tender frivolity that was new to me. New too was this form and manner of speech. Both she and Aunt Jael knew that the end was near. I got a nurse the same evening, who took turns with me throughout the night, crossing from one bedroom to the other. I could not forget my own grief, but had little time to remember it. I was so dead-tired when I got to my bed that, almost for the first time in my life, there was no long waking-time: the breeding-time of misery and fear. Aunt Jael developed jaundice, also a bronchial cough. She was soon too weak and suffering to be her own unpleasant self. The Devil, however, as late as four days before the end, made a last desperate struggle for the soul that had so long been His. It was one evening; I had brought the last beef-tea for the night, changed the hot-water jar, straightened her pillows and put everything right. Suddenly, without warning, she dashed the cup, full of the steaming liquid, into my face, which it cut and scalded; screaming the while like a mad thing. She was a vile, a repulsive sight. With her toothless hairy face distorted with rage, foul also with the dark-yellowish taint of the jaundice; with her beady black eyes gleaming savagely, her immense nose, her crested nightcap, she looked like some obscene monster, half-bird, half-witch. She clutched the ancient stick, slashed out at me savagely-feebly; her failure to hurt me bringing her to the last livid agony of rage. She screamed, grimaced, dribbled: "Ingrate, minx, harlot--oh, I'll kill 'ee, you and yer wicked idle Grandmother. I'll--." She was cut short by a fit of violent coughing. She lay back sweating with pain, almost unconscious with hate, her face too loathsome to behold. She was possessed of the Devil. Drawn by the noise, the nurse came hurriedly from my Grandmother's room. But already Satan was cast out; now she was sobbing, grunting, wailing, in a maudlin pitiful way. For a moment our eyes met. I saw shame there, and my heart quickened towards her. "Never mind, Aunt. You had a nightmare. It is over now." In the opposite bedroom, the end drew gentlier near. In her less painful hours, my Grandmother was livelier than I had ever known her. With the scent of Death's nostrils in the room, she grew skittish, gay, worldly. She gave me droll winks and knowing smiles, as she recounted pranks of eighty years ago: mighty jam-stealing forays, ginger _battues_, historic bell-ringing expeditions; tremendous truantries, twelve-year-old amours. "Grandmother," I said gravely (I was the godly parent now and she the child) "you've waited a long time to tell me this!" For a moment genuine priggery, and sour remembrance of the blows meted out for my own lean escapades, hindered my joining in her brazen glee. Then we laughed together till we cried. "Ah, they were happy days," she said, wiping her eyes. "My unsaved days," she added, the holy familiar tone coming into her voice, "the days before I found the Lord." Then she fell to talking of the Faith, and for the first and last time in her life spoke critically of the ways of the Lord's People. "They do too much for them that are saved already, and too little to bring in them that are lost. 'Tain't the Lord's precept at all. 'Remember the ninety-and-nine.'" As in everything, my Grandmother was right. Apart from the Foreign Field, our people make small stir to rescue the perishing. That, they feel, is not the business of religion: which is not so much to reclaim sinners as to edify saints, not to fight the Devil but to worship God. Thus they are in sharpest contrast with the later nineteenth-century evangelism, with its hordes of professional missioners--mountebanks, gipsies, Jews--its Transatlantic sensationalism and sentimentalism, its hysterical appeals to the spiritual egotism of the individual, its sinner hunts, its spectacular war with Satan. Though they are not always free from the danger of spiritual pride, it may at least be said of our people that they worship the Lord in a quieter holier way, that they practise the fast-vanishing art of personal religion. Yet my Grandmother was right: "It is the sinners that Christ came to save. 'Remember the ninety-and-nine!'" One morning I found Aunt Jael greatly changed. Her eyes were gentler than ever before, her face more peaceful. I could see she had been waiting for me. "Child," she said quickly, "is your Grandmother awake?" Her voice was soft. "I haven't been in yet. I always come to you first. The nurse is with her." "Go and see. I must speak to her." "Speak to her, Aunt? You mean you want me to give her a message." "No, Child. I must speak to her with my own voice. Go first and find whether she is awake." "Yes," I reported. "Now then. Open the door wide. Yes--now put that chair against it, so it can't swing to. Now go and do likewise with your Grandmother's door. First move me right to the edge of the bed--thank 'ee! There!" I propped her up amid her pillows. Then with Grandmother and her door I did the same. (The nurse was downstairs.) Though the two old women could not see each other, despite the width of the passage their faces cannot have been more than seven yards apart. Grandmother's deafness had increased with her years, but today, helped out now and then with a word from me, she heard everything. I stood just inside Grandmother's room, watching her face, and listening to Aunt Jael, whose voice was calm and clear. "Can you hear me, Hannah?" "Yes, Jael." "Well, sister, I haven't many hours to go. The Lord is calling, but I've this to say to 'ee first. These eighty years we've been together I've been a hard sister to 'ee. These eighty years I've been a sinner. 'Ee 've been a loving forgiving woman, and I've been a bad and selfish one: full o' pride and wickedness. Before I go, I want to hear 'ee with your own lips say as 'ee forgive me, as maybe the Lord in His mercy will too--" A fit of coughing cut her short. Her pride she had torn into shreds. Grandmother was sobbing with joy. "Don't 'ee talk so, my dear! I've nothing to forgive 'ee." "Hannah woman, 'tis not so. Come, oh say 'ee forgive me." The old woman was eager, desperate: pleading against time, against Eternity. "I forgive 'ee," said my Grandmother. The same evening Aunt Jael died in her sleep. The face was not ugly in death; the mouth was still hard and proud, but the eyes were serene. She won the glory-race by just seven days. After this brief space of time--the same span as between my birth and my mother's death--my Grandmother followed. It was the day after Aunt Jael's funeral. Towards the end she called me Rachel. At the very last she sat up in bed, gazed at me with a tenderness already radiant with the glory of the City of Heaven. "I'm journeying away, Rachel,--up yonder. Mary is there. Can't 'ee see her, Rachel? What is the veil between 'ee?--I can see 'ee both. Look! There is New Jerusalem. The King in His Glory. Her words. Come--" She fell back. I caught her in my arms. My soul could not follow. CHAPTER XLIII: ONE LONG PRERCESSION O' DEATHBEDS About this time, indeed, persons in the play of Mary Lee were dying Hamletwise. One after another, swiftly, bodies were being trundled off the stage. Aunt Jael's leadership of the Seven Old Maids of Tawborough was maintained in death. It was edifying to note that just as sixty years ago they had briskly emulated her Conversion, now with equal alacrity they followed her to her Home above. Within three months Miss Glory Clinker departed. One February morning she went away; wide-eyed, stuttering, triumphant. I heard her last words. "The night is far spent, the day is at hand--er-er-er." Her eyes lit up; a beatific happiness brightened the kind foolish old face. "Er-er-er--." She was stammering before the Throne. Of the Seven, Salvation alone survived for long: till her one hundred and fourth year, a few years only before the time at which I write, almost into the new century that is at hand. Her last words were incoherent. I could not catch them, though I tried to. Pentecost Dodderidge outlived his most famous convert by seven months only. He was in his one hundredth year. A stroke of paralysis came suddenly, followed by a restless ten days, in which he suffered intense pain and displayed eternal patience, and which he filled with edifying epigrams and godly saws and instances, all reverently collected by the faithful ones around his bed and embodied in his _Choice Sayings_. (The volume is before me as I write.) As the last saved soul to whom he had stood Baptist, and as the grand-niece and grandchild of "those two eminent bright jewels in our Saviour's crown," I was specially in request at the old man's bedside. His last words, spoken clearly and solemnly, with all the actor-like sincerity of his greatest days, were these, each utterance coming a clear moment or two after the other: "Peace within and rest." "I have peace with God." "The Peace of God which passeth all understanding--" This, his last utterance, was given at about a quarter past eight. Some forty minutes later he passed away: voyaging peacefully to Heaven. Of another death I knew only by hearsay. It was a Bonapartist intriguer who, just before the dynasty's disaster, had ratted to the Republicans, and in the struggle with the Red Commune of Paris became a spy for the Versaillais. I first saw the name and the bare fact in the French newspapers, but a fuller story reached me in another way. Of the Grand Rouquette, Red gaolers, a cage. A name on a list. One word at the foot: Condemned. A yard, a high wall covered with vines and creepers. A May morning, six priests who died like heroes, filthy insults, levelled rifles. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. _Fire!_ an explosion. A curled-up corpse upon the ground. His former employer lived a few years longer, keeping Death at bay by sheer fussiness. Her last gesture, Gabrielle wrote me, was a deprecatory shrug of the shoulder; her last (recorded) utterance "Enfin--" In another, an uglier death than any, the human creature gave way to the passion of extreme sickening fear, to fawning appeals for God's mercy, to every last licence--except the use of the first person singular. I stood outside; Aunt Martha would not let me enter the room for very shame, though I peeped in once and saw the pale face livid with fear, streaming with sweat, contorted with agony of body and soul. "Forgive, Lord, forgive!" he was whining, "all has been done for Thy sake. One sees one's filthy sinfulness, one sees the error of one's ways--" Not in such cowardly supplication, but in arrogant prayer, prayer as to an equal, prayer to his young friend God, died a braver, wickeder old man. They found him kneeling against his bed: heart-failure, said the doctor. His face was insolent, beautiful, serene. His soul had strolled disdainfully into Heaven, as a gentleman's should. Among his papers were found two worn photographs; one of my mother, the only one she had ever had taken, showing her in all the innocent beauty of her maidenhood, the other of myself, taken in France, which, against my will Grandmother had managed to convey to him. On the back of each of them was written, in his hand-writing:--"I have kissed this picture to shreds. They do not know. God knows." For me, those are his Last Words. CHAPTER XLIV: CHRISTMAS NIGHT In the slow weeks that followed my Grandmother's death I never came face to face with my own sorrow. My brain told me the sorrow was there, but my will, reinforced by a numbness that possessed my spirit, forbade my facing or feeling it. Never did I dare to summon the vision. It was mockery. It had been a mockery all through. But the soul lives on, leaves death behind, is the same for ever: can we not be together still, Robbie on the other side of death, Mary on this? The notion came fearfully at first, then boldlier. Dare I try to discover? Does God permit us to love across the grave?--Even so, in my innermost heart, I knew that a love which could bridge the gulf would still be a love not quite completed, since not completed and perfected between us both together here on earth.--Could I then bring him back to life? Instinct intimated and Prayer confirmed. On Christmas Night, now two or three weeks ahead, I would seek him just as before. Till then I must possess my soul in emptiness. The literal loneliness of the dead house helped to hush my spirit. There were still some years of the lease of Number Eight to run; I decided for the present to live on there, absolutely alone. With Grandmother's and Aunt Jael's income--all of which save a small legacy to Aunt Martha from the former came to me--added to the little fortune that Great-Uncle John had left me, I was now a young woman of independent means. How different was realization from anticipation. Money could buy me everything, save the only thing in heaven or earth I wanted. Independence liberated me to roam throughout the world, and I remained desolate in this mournful forbidding house, the slave of my sick heart's memories and desires. Sister Briggs continued to come in for the mornings, to help me with the housework and in the kitchen. I had no plans, and, if Christmas failed me, no hopes. I was in a kind of spiritual stupor; I was but half alive. I had nothing to live for, and no hope to seek from death. Death, and then some other existence: but always life--always a Me. There was, however, at moments, a certain mystical freedom of spirit in this cloistral utter loneliness. After about half-past one, when she had washed up the dinner things, I knew that I was rid of Sister Briggs until the morrow, and I could fill the desolate house with myself. I would wander from empty room to empty room, sit for half-an-hour here, half-an-hour there, pray, read, talk to myself, meditate, most often do nothing at all. Aunt Jael's front parlour I still shunned, except when the blinds were up and in the broadest daylight, for Benamuckee's eyes could still move, his face still leer. A heathen image, which men in savage forests have worshipped and sacrificed to, can never be quite inanimate wood or stone. The Devil is alive in his likenesses on earth. The sound of my own voice in the silent echoing rooms brought me time after time to the verge of the old Expectation. I would shout, cry aloud; till the mystery of self was almost discovered, and I ceased praying to God. He was too near. One day the noise of shouts and supplications brought the next-door neighbour--that same clergyman who that far-off vinous day had been drawn by Aunt Jael's agonies--knocking at the door. "Er--excuse me. Is any one ill? I fancied I heard cries--" "Thank you. I am not ill. I am crying to God. Thank you all the same. Good-morning." The healing power of the Church of England as by law established stops short at saner souls than mine. He skedaddled with Pilate gesture down the garden path. He had flushed when I used the word God. Thus in prayer and madness and reading of the Word I panned out the weeks till Christmas. Once or twice I sought to recover the ancient Rapture of the Lord's Presence. But at the approaching moment a voice always intervened: The Great Happiness is coming back to you, but _in some other way_. He that loveth not knoweth not God: for God is Love. No man hath seen God at any time. But when perfect love for another human soul shall be perfected in you, then God, more rapturously than at Jordan, will enter your soul, and dwell within you for ever. What other way? It could only be Christmas. Christmas came, announced by the calendar but by no other outward sign, unless it was that Sister Briggs left before instead of after dinner. The silence was stranger, more complete than ever. Through all the afternoon and evening I read, to prevent myself hoping. As I turned over pages of print, staring uncomprehendingly, one question absorbed all my being: I did not consciously think of it, for it was myself, all of myself, and the brain cannot think of the soul: _Can love then bridge the grave?_ Suddenly, late in the afternoon, as dusk was turning to darkness, an insane notion stormed my brain, which woke at once to feverish activity. I had only Aunt Martha's word for it. Her information came certainly from Uncle Simeon, Uncle Simeon was a liar, a cur, a cruel scoundrel. He had invented that Robbie was dead, had lied to Aunt Martha, knowing that she would convey the lie to me, knowing how it would afflict me. Robbie was alive, alive! Why had it not struck me before? My heart fainted with hope. I prayed God that he would make me unconscious till midnight, for I did not know how I could live through those waiting hours. Live somehow I did. There was even time for Doubt to raise his unwearying head. He was dead after all: what reason had Uncle Simeon had to lie, who could never have really divined what Robbie was to me? And if he were dead, Oh Christ, was it possible he could come to me? After supper I went upstairs to bed. There was a bright moon. I pulled the curtains wide from the window that the room might be filled with moonlight as the Torribridge room eleven years before. I sat up in bed and prayed God passionately to be merciful, to deal with me lovingly: to send me Robbie, whether from this world or the next. Imperceptibly, in the luminous silence, the spiritual sluggishness of the latter days disappeared; physical being fell from me like a cloak; my mind became clear and radiant, my heart breathless with hope. Faith possessed me, and as I prayed, I waited. There was a soft tread in the room: I knew whose, should know it at the end of Eternity. There was no terror in me this time, no dreadful thought that it might be Uncle Simeon. Nor was there any soul's illusion, as in the hundred other times the need of my heart and the power of my imagination had created his presence. For the little white nightgowned figure standing at the door was there, _in plain reality_, as he had been at the Torribridge door eleven years before. And now, in this moment when the actual physical presence I had for ever prayed and longed for was achieved, the whole structure of my love collapsed. A disappointment too sudden, too infinite to bear, filled my heart, from which the life seemed to be ebbing away. I understood the difference between the child I had loved on the Torribridge night, and the vision I had built with my love. One was dead and returned to earth for a moment, the other had never lived except in my heart. I was a woman, this was a little boy. At the supernatural fact of his resurrection for this night I never stopped to marvel: only at my own folly in not having paused to think that the physical shape of Robbie returning to earth must needs be the physical shape in which he had left it. I was a woman, this was a little boy. The vision had been real, but it was not Robbie. My heart still loved the darling of its dreams, but my darling was not Robbie. "I cannot come nearer, Mary," he said softly, and at the sound of his remembered voice my pulse beat faster, and life flowed back into my heart, and my child's love in its first simplicity, without the added passion of the years, came back to me again. "I have returned for a moment only. Do not grieve because God did not let me grow to be a man on earth below. I loved you that happy once, and I love you still. Do not think, dear, that because I had gone to Heaven, all the times you have called for me since, and when I have come to you, have not been true. Each time you have called I have answered you in Heaven. Each time my spirit has been with you. But God never meant me for this world: He never meant me to be His this-world's love for you. Your happiness is coming." "When, Robbie? How?" "Very soon. You will see. You will be very happy." "Come nearer, and kiss me Good-bye." "No, Mary; you are a living woman, and I am a little boy whose life was long ago. _He_ will kiss you." I watched the white form dissolve in the moonlight. I knew the room was empty. The crystal clearness of my heart was suddenly dimmed. The cloak of physical existence once more enveloped my soul. I was back in the world. CHAPTER XLV: WAY OF A MAN WITH A MAID At my Grandmother's funeral Lord Tawborough had said: "Miss Traies, if ever you need any advice or service of any kind, write and let me know, will you? It is the only kindness I would presume to ask." On the morrow of Christmas Night I thought often--only--of these words. I did not write. Something told me that I had no need to. The whole of that wintry morrow I was alone in the cold house. Even for Sister Briggs it was Boxing-Day: I had told her to take advantage of a day that even for oilmen (and Christians) should be a holiday, and to stay at home with her husband, as I could very well fend for myself. I waited. It was foolish, impossible, one more Maryish notion of magic, madness, moonshine. It was possible, probable, inevitable, immediate. The bell rang; with clamant heart and hurrying feet I sped to the door. There were preliminary embarrassments and explanations. Trivial matters, to which we both gave grateful over-measure of zeal and zest, filled the awkwardest first moments, tided them capably over. "The snow on your coat: I must dry it"--"May the coachman come in and wait? The weather is bad"--"Certainly, there is the kitchen fire: for coat and coachman too"--"Thank you"--"I will get you a cup of tea." We did not look at each other. In the dining-room we continued to speak of trifles, pouncing with eager dexterity and emulous speed upon any sudden silence that showed its head. Covertly once or twice I dared to look at the well-remembered face: fed swiftly on the manliness, the gentleness; the proud grey hair, the noble forehead, the charitable eyes; the mouth. My heart beat tempestuously. Then God, in His Goodness, performed a miracle within me. The mystical delight seized me. As on Jordan morning, I knew I should reach the Rapture. All love was one, and the Stranger was my Robbie. His face was the face of my visions, the face I had called Robbie's, that was not Robbie's. I knew that all the torrential affection which in dream and diary I had poured forth upon my vision, had been for my Love who stood before me now. The magical moment for which I had been born was at last upon me--oh, hope too hard to bear--but he must speak the word. He alone could complete the miracle, fulfil the hope, carry love's banners to their ultimate victory in my heart. The silences grew longer and more shameless. My heart throbbed, my body trembled, my spirit was faint with expectation. He got up from his chair and began pacing up and down the room, talking of something, talking of nothing, moistening his parched lips, seeking through moments of unbearable longing for the words that would not come. At this moment of time, which is present in my heart more clearly than any other of the memorable moments I have tried to describe in this record of twenty-two years, I was sitting on the old horsehair Chesterfield couch against the window; around me were the familiar objects of this chiefly familiar room--Aunt Jael's traditional chair, and my Grandmother's; the faded rosewood piano, the ancient chiffonièr, the odour of my childhood, the taste of religion and many meals, the all-pervading gloom. God was everywhere around me, the God of my childhood, the God of Beatings. He stopped in his pacing up and down. I knew that his heart had stopped. His voice was husky, faint with passion and hope and fear. "Miss Traies, may I ask you a question?" I could not look up. My heart was near breaking point. I could not speak. Perhaps I nodded. "Will you--promise me this? That if the answer to the question is 'No,' you will forgive me for having asked it, and like and respect me not less well than now?" This longer sentence came a little more easily: words gave courage to each other. The first question had been harder; though the hardest was yet to come. "What-is-the-question?" I still looked downwards. My voice was as husky as his, my heart as hungry. "You know it." "What-is-the-question?" repeated obstinately, mechanically, and because--for one-millionth part--I was not sure. I knew the question, my heart had answered it already; but I was a woman, and my mouth could not speak for my heart till the man had achieved his task--found _his_ mouth courage to speak for his heart. I knew, my heart knew; but my brain waited for the serene absolute certainty which his words alone could give. To complete the miracle this word was needed. "What-is-the-question?" I repeated mechanically. His heart stopped again for the last effort, the ultimate moment of life. "Will you--once--one time only--before you go abroad again--before I am old--one single time--" (how fondly each poor broken conciliatory qualification seemed to ease his task, break his amorous fall, make easier my way to the answer his soul sought)--"_kiss me?_" A spasm of spiritual joy went through me from head to foot. His soul was mine, and mine was his: we were one soul, one double-soul inhabiting each body. The winter was past, the rain was over and gone. "Yes," I whispered. My voice was unsure, my eyes were filled with tears of happiness, my heart was fondling the two flawless words with which he had transformed me. More bravely, easily, surely: "When?" "Soon." "Very soon?" "Now." He came swiftly to me, his arms were round me, our mouths were together in a tender infinite embrace. My soul and body were singing. Love, garlanded with lilies, marched with God's paradisal banner of Perfect Happiness through all my heart. He was kneeling by my side. His head was against my breast. I was kissing his hair, brushing my lips across his eyes. After a very long while I spoke. My voice fell strangely and softly upon my own ears. My new heart had fashioned me a new voice worthy to do its bidding. "Oh my dear, unhappiness is gone for ever. Now I am full of joy. You are near, you are completely in understanding. Look me in the eyes, dear; tell me it is not a dream." "Mary, it is a dream. Today I have passed out of a land of unreality into one of wonderful dreams. Now I am part of another, my soul is part of hers, and can never be torn away. Time cannot do it, and what is more powerful than time?" "Eternity," I said. And I found as I uttered that word, that for the first time it held no terror. +-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+